Il Gattopardo (The Leopard)

This 1963 epic and classic, based on the Lampedusa novel and directed by Luchino Visconti, is indeed a fine piece of work, showing excellent control of material, visual interest, and moments of flair throughout.
From the wonderful first scene we have our stall laid out. We have the camera almost acting as a voyeur, as an evesdropper on the family. We also have another motif; how a huge amount of the action actually takes place off stage, and how what we are to focus on is rather the assimilation and re-action to the actions that the aristocratic family are no longer a master of. We also have the firt glance on the characters, we are drawn to Visconti's visual style which allows them to act. A nice reticence on the actors part is made throughout. The panning camera also helps this, giving a literal sweep and a slowness that speaks of us as universal, as the God, now looking on these monuments of humanity with an eye that is able to make their once great statures rather small. Everything crumbles. Special attention should be made to the pan across the family with dust on their faces in church, audacious, beautiful, nearly humourous in its panache.
The way this film looks is riveting. Not only the large Italian landscapes, so beautifully given, but the framing techniques. It is very reminiscent of Fellini, almost like a Renaissance painter, the camera moving (generally not cutting) to reframe well choreographed and spacial tableaus. This gives the feel of a dusty classicism to the family, and the lingering nature also allows us to understand them better- when we stick to an image, see what happens when the family leaves, we have a notion of how this family's comfort does indeed depend on a machine of other actual humans behind them (note especially the picnic scene, where we stay to watch the retainers clear up).
Burt Lancaster in the lead is terrific, a great screen portrayal (also of special note are his wife and the priest). At first Lancaster seems rather unsympathetic; literally running away from the camera. But his character comes to develop, and we come to develop, an understanding and a sympathy for his situation. This film actually contains very little peril, perhaps even one could say little great drama, but it remains intense and fascinating as we see a man come to an understanding of his place in the world. For perhaps an hour he has his days of summer, and then, near the end, when the autumn comes we are fully on his side. He is too tired to change, of course he should, but it is understandable.
The last scene, in the ballroom, is extremely famous. It has its moments, some wondeful pathos of a tiring Lancaster having last glories and quiet epiphanies, before stepping away. In a film (this version) that generally more than justifies its three hour plus runtime, perhaps more of a mxing up of pace would have helped at the end, it becomes rather monotomous structurally (though each moment remains wonderful, perhaps indispensable) in this last ballroom sequence. An extra ten minutes, somehow breaking up our time in the ballroom, could even have helped.
This is obviously a film of a novel, the story seems like one and dictates that it is a certan type of film. As far as this constrain goes, Visconti succeeded in still rendering a piece of art that is at times wonderous. Highly, highly reccommended.

Mother

This South Korean thriller, arthouse movie, family and psychoanalytic horror, comes from Bong Joon-Ho.
It is a terrific film in some respects, if a little disjointed and very, very peripatetic. It starts off rather lazily, a bit unfocussed in its narrative stance but with some arresting images (golf course, wheat field, threshing) and a nice line in deadpan camerawork. The appreciation of inanimate objects, the takes of camera movement rather than cutting, and some long shots of characters framed against a wall all give it a very art house feel.
The film never drags though as it suddenly turns itself into a thriller, a complex plot led one, which still finds time for some lovely visual touches but does rather let them take a backseat to the plot. At times the tone of this section reminded us of the (better film, though that is no criticism of 'Mother') 'Hana-bi', the hard violence, almost comic book, mixed with a certain grittiness. This section is good, but as it unwinds towards the end the film settles back into more of a formalist piece, with the wonderful long ending shot capping it off.
Thematically, this is a smart film. It is probably a cynical one to, taking in its wierdness, violence, the hiding and discovery of blood, a negative view of what can happen in the process of motherhood.
This is a film to relish, endlessly layered thematically and formally fascinating in parts. It meanders along a bit, with some nice pointlessness showing a certain sense of humour, and is the kind of film that will be appreciated more as it flowers in the caverns of our memories. Terrific stuff.

The Illusionist

This much anticipated Sylvain Chomet adaption of a Jaques Tati script, set largely in Edinburgh, is a truly excellent piece of cinema, so different from the vast majority of other films.
Chomet would be a good director whether or not he used animation. The long shots of the whole body (Tati's animated body, really), the respect for an image and the slight changes that occur, is marvellous. Chomet has an unbelievable, unrivalled eye for the small details, the little things. The turning of a light on and off, the smoothing of fabric, these all add a realism, almost a grittiness, to an otherwise (excuse us) magical tale, light as a feather. This focus on domesticity involves repitition, a key technique Chomet uses to emphasise the upstanding futility of the Illusionist's act. He never directly mocks, but we have more of a sense of time and character through repetitive minor failure than through direct exposition.
Whether or not Chomet directs as he does due to the wish to frame in a certain way, due to the demands of animation, is a question impossible to answer until Chomet explores live action. Elsewhere, it does not seem at all that Chomet limits himself, rather he is able to imbue his locations with a lovely hazy metallic grey, a silence and a blankness to the colours that evoke a bygone world in a city that is always remembering, quietly, its own past. He succesfully shows both the claustrophobia of the streets and the suggestions of openness, of greenery, that appear to loom over rather than open up Edinburgh.
The use of sound is also excellent, nominally this film is perhaps in French but not a single subtitle seems to be used, this film is really silent. Thus we are required a few extra scenes and shots that otherwise, but largely it makes the piece, along with a nicely restrained but very pretty piano score (composed by Chomet), flow to a wonderful rythm as the viewer puts the pieces together. It also frees up the sound for some nice affects, of creaks and cars, that do a huge amount to evoke the time.
As to the story, Chomet is at once slightly cynical about the possibilities of this world, obviously mourning a bygone age. From this negative base he tells us that magic can exist, somewhere, somehow, brought on by others. The themes are complex, of age and care and flowering, but they are addressed nice and ambiguously and not forced down the throat. Perhaps they can wander for ten minutes, but overall this is a film not afraid to ask (this is the Tati part) about what it means to nurture, to sacrifice, to be dis-illusioned with the world.
This is a wonderful film, with fantastic mis-en-scene, mis-en-shot, and premise. It takes us on a floating journey through images and scenes of power and melancholy charm. Excellent, excellent cinema.

Went The Day Well?

This bit of wartime propoganda from the Brazilian Cavalcanti, hugely influential in the Ealing studios, is a good enough diversion for a while, and maybe it is even a little more.
The framing device and surrounding atmosphere comes across now as almost a parody of stiff upper lip England, with throwaway sexism and some nearly absurd accents. This is fun enough, but the general aesthetic in general does a good job of creating the particular time. The black and white photography is largely a technical excercise, but a few images, notably of the forest, the graveyard, and the lightening, stick out of the generally serviceable rather than interesting direction.
Thematically we have a pretty obvious tale of plucky British heroism, the story it is based on being an excellent one. The most interesting aspect of this film is perhaps the violence, which gives it an almost league of gentleman-ey edge. When we see a housewive smash in a Nazi with an axe we are at once shown how eager the propogandists were to bring the danger very much home, and also straight up given a view on what happens when ordinary people turn to violence, in a non moralising way. Interesting. The violence and death of central characters is also a refreshing and new element; probably only possible to do in wartime.
The pace is rather slow, over deliberate, and there are some dodgy plotholes. Despite these, this film is a decent way to spend the time if one is a conneiseur of such things.

La Dolce Vita

This Fellini movie from 1960 (our first Fellinin) is often regarded, along with his '81/2', as one of the greatest film of all time. That sounds about right.
The movie is long and lacks a coherent, tight, or linear narrative structure. This mirrors beautifully what is happening in the film; our lead lives this life of disparate women, disparate charms, moments of moments of pleasure, happiness and sadness. What is really going on? This film will not reveal all on first viewing, perhaps ever, all the better for it. We are taken in by the exuberance of the peripatetic plot to emphasis the lead's own life, following him and identifying through both this narrative structure and partly through the frequent, slight aslant, shots of him. He trys to evade the viewer but we see him.
The themes, of the beauty and joys of hedonism, are wonderfully explored but actually making the fun parties fun. Fellini is a master at creating rythm within a scene, drawing the viewer in and making them laugh, feel sumptuous, see and feel beauty along with our characters. It is, after all very good film (a harder trick than many to pull off, making a three hour film generally fun to watch insofaras rich people wanderinga round parties).
Our lead plays well, shot well by Fellini. In fact the way this film is shot fascinates; we are still not quite sure what Fellini is up to. A large proportion of the film does not seem much more than 'techincally' shot, i.e. to get the people and the incidents in frame. He doesn't like cuts, though this isn't taken to extremes, and for whatever reason has a habit of moving the camera along dollys, to follow Marcello largely, rather than keeping it still. And then we have these wonderful, wide tableaus that reming one almost of a great renaissance painting. The mixture of greys takes used to, but once that is in place in these long shots we appreicate the expert blocking, lounging, effortless form and balance of Fellini's images. Is there a 'point' to these wonderful photgraphs (Greenaway has been taking notes)? Then again, is there a point to any beauty, as this film asks?
The film becomes a deeply powerful, disturbing, intellectually crushing and monumental piece, that is almost a morality tale and almost a study of existential despair. We have no clear routes, what is this 'original nature', who is the girl on the beach? What is going on with the fish? The scene of the final party, the orgy of destruction, is incredibly uncomfortable, on a tightrope between so many things. It almost reminds one of the that despair distilled in a moment at the end of 'Vertigo', but here drawn over the last two hours.
This is a film that is both very fun to watch, contains beautiful photography, and is profound regarding questions that other filmaker (and all artisits) would unconsciously deem to 'personal', inaccesible to art. Fellini manages to go there, on what a journey. Stunning.

2001: A Space Odyssey

Stanley Kubrick's hands-down masterpiece, probably the greatest science fiction film we have seen (Tarkovsky's 'Solaris'?), that was released in 1968.
This is a sublimely beautiful, most un-Hollywood, monster of a film. Let us first simply mention the technical skill and panache; the shots and the effects have really not dated at all. It looks much more spectacular, the ships and so on, than, for example, 'Star Wars'. This is because Kubrick is a great capturer of images, and these just happen top be spaceships. He understands shadows, lights, camera movement, hiding, duration of shot.
The slow, mechanical-ish camera speeds beautifully mirror the central aesthetic of the film. This is the deliberate, cold, clean, harsh and tight mechanics of high technology in an outer space where there are no germs. Kubrick has created a world, and the mis-en-shot mirroring the pod doors opening does just that.
As does the music, or rather the sound. This is perhaps the most interesting aspect of the film, Kubrick being, to throw this out there, perhaps the most advanced and indeed greatest user of sound in cinematic history. First we have the music, which is shocking and charming. The non-diagetic sound would usually be looked down upon by us, but here it is part of the artistic achievement; it is not a narrative device, but rather a complement to the images. The even more impressive use of sound though is when the music isn't there; in the silences. It is almost like the sound of a faraway vacuum, the deafening silence, the cold clipped sounds that can interrupt. It is all about atmosphere, and space has never sounded so evocative.
The lack of dialogue gives the piece a wonderful sharp clarity, and makes it such an arresting, confident, artisticly fascinating and wonderful diversion from classic narrative fare. Speed and linear structure are not really necessary, this is a film whose themes become the narrative itself (especially towards the end). This is specially noticeable when we consider the start of the film, which though pointless in a traditional narrative sense expertly frames our thematic structure.
For the plot that there is, the clipped tones make for a short parable that strikes directly to the bone. The performance of Keir Dullea is wonderful, incredibly directed by Kubrick without words; the looks, the tiny flickering eyes, the intensity of expression and cleanliness of movement.
This is an exotic film that takes as its locale the most incredibly realised mis-en-scene, perhaps, in cinema history. Sound and images come together to create this masterwork. That, we suppose, is what film is.

Man With A Movie Camera

It's the montage that gets us really excited here; the questions are, is there a pattern, is there a narrative structure?
There may indeed be some kind of deliberate rythm, of some shot returned to after four (say) other shots, or a longer more relaist shot deliberately put in at a certain proportional point. Or it may all be down to the eye, subjective, of Vertov and his editor. There is an obvious structure of narrative in parts, and the wider one of the day in the life of the city, the city symphony, is clearly in place. It seems doubtful though that the 'man with the movie camera' himself actually follows a coherent structure.
Sopmetimes the montage really does get so fast as to confuse the eyes. This is a film that sucks you towards it, time does not pass at all. This is what montage cinema does, takes you outside of yourself, frankly reduces you to a sivering ball. A good thing or a bad thing? A great film.

Casablanca

Widely regarded as one of the greatest films ever, and perhaps the greatest romance. Curtiz's 1942 piece is indeed a fine picture, and any criticism of it is a little bit churlish.
The direction isn't completely absent, we have a few nice pan ins and pan outs. These are used to bring home the plot and the characterisation as a part of that, so, like nearly all Hollywood, it is the plot and the acting we focus on.
The plot can be read thousands of different ways. It is most refreshing to finally have a Hollwood film not entirely in a thrall to the relationship dynamics, indeed the whole film can be seen as nearly a struggle within Hollywood itself as to whether or not the constant reduction to individual's affairs has a purpose. Saying all this, masses of psychonanlytic and various other eadings can be made of the piece, in attempts to explain the often ambiguous actions. We can read it as a homosexiual piece, an Oedipal piece, a sublime object piece. Take yor pick.
The ambiguities give it very much a noirish feel, though the narrative stance and wartime propoganda elements mean it is not a fully fledged noir. What it does well is conjure up the atmosphere of stasis (the kind of atmosphere perhaps developed further in a Checkhov or an O'Neill), with almost comic amounts of drinking.
The dramatisation of the individual versus the whole is well made, though perhaps 'La Grande Illusion' by Renoir does everything this does and more (compare the two movies' 'Marseilles' scenes; both hugely moving, but we'd give the edge to Renoir's work).
The acting is of course impeccable, Bogie the star turn, giving a subtle variation on his Chandler characters/ The quietly fascinating French prefect also deserves a mention.
This is then a finely exectuted piece of filmaking, with a beautifully paced and engaging scipt (so ubiquitous as it now can nearly seem that they quote lines back and forth to each other). An interesting message expertly told. We won't go overboard, but this is obviously a very fine film.

Nosferatu

FW Murnau's famous and genre defining vampire tale.
This film is very beautiful, and has some interesting thematic elements. Undoubtedly it has dated in so far as the narrative structure and the acting, but it retains a charm of its own, and seen at night in a deserted cinema still would have the possibility to terrifying. A very interesting part of this movie is the use of shadows and colour. Murnau uses a palate that includes blinding, harsh lights that often backlight, partly giving the impressions that the actor's hair is on fire. This gives a kind of eerie phosphoresence. This is specially noticeable in his use of negative for the forests; it is more than striking, it is shocking and still immensely disconserting to this day to see the blazing whites of the uncaring, untouchable forest.
The lack of expressionist sets (which too much has perhaps been made of this as placing the action in reality, that effect is rather through Schreck's central performance) is made up for by the use of framing devices of coffin-like arches. We love German, Caligari-esque expressionist mis-en-scene, but this dissapointment is made up for by the mis-en-shot, with its looming shadows.
Schreck's performance is nicely understated and almost earthy, avoiding pantomime camp and instead giving us a creature that, if anything, looks rather fearful. The plotting is rather dodgily paced (especially the last half hour) and there's not a great sense of momentum or direction, but perhaps the other strengths should let this be forgiven.
Murnau was famous for his use of space, for cameras now able to move about. This isn't really noticeable on first viewing, now that everyone presumably uses a bit of depth, but at least we can appreciate that the man could frame a wonderful scene, usually using either a full shot or occasionally a mid.
This is an important film and, though not always a complete joy to watch, still one that contains an eerie atmosphere and rigid beauty.

Man With A Movie Camera

A man named Vertov, in 1929, uses the medium of film in ways not used before, but to be aped constantly over the next century. He not only uses manipulations and techniques that startle at the time, but uses them in such a way as to create an enduring, non-narrative, masterpiece.
How far through a film does one realise that one is watching one of the greatest pieces of cinematic art one has ever seen? It is perhaps when Vertov really cranks up the use of montage, the wonderful, sometimes head spinningly fast, juxtapositions of shots. Vertov is enough to convince even the most straight-edged realist of the great, special opportunities cinema offers in the field of formalism. The various techniques do indeed create something far beyond what perhaps the single image viewed quickly could convey. It is a matter of economy, the montage showing more with less.
This is a difficult film to use words about, as it is so articulate visually. We have mentioned the sensational use of montage, which does not so much follow a narrative line as go on visual riffs, like some jazz/classical mash up of image. The split screen and fade ins are on paper now cliches, but Vertov uses them in such a way as to seem exciting, audacious. Indeed, so much of this film is just that, audacious. The tracking shots of horses, the train tracks the train tracks. One gasps.
The images themselves are too spectacular, emphasised always by the way they are used. Fascinating as is 1929 revolutionary Russia, with its otherwordly streets and humming greys, the frame speed and even the freeze frames give it a poetry near impossible to capture otherwise.
A word also on the music; we heard Nyman's soundtrack, and though admittedly repititive it is also hugely powerful, stirring, a work of art in itself, though not intrusive on the image. The strings of power, balance and constancy complement the grandeur of the factories and the montage of machinery particularly well.
All we can really say about this film is that it must be seen, as many times as possible. It is always a little silly to say 'the greatest', but we are scratching around to find a documentary (or indeed any piece) that can use film as this does. It is a masterwork.

Five Easy Pieces

This Bob Rafaelson movie from 1970 is one of the high points of Hollywood cinema, well directed, thoughful, and with an excellent central performance from Jack Nicholson.
The camera at the start is smart, showing a nice physicality of Nicholson and emphasising his isolation through largely static shots and wide angles. This is then nicely counterpointed with montage sequences of driving sound and close ups of machinery, where Nicholson is moved to the edges of the screen. Patterns like this are repeated through the rest of the film, whenever Nicholson settles on what seems to make him happy we go in among the action, only for his full body and static camera to reassert themselves and pressage his growing dissilusionment and unhomeliness. It should also be noticed that the desert shots, the use of angles among various locations, and the simple static long shots of highways etc (see the final scene) are in themselves simply very beautiful.
Thematically, this film is a Hollywood film. It is the story of a lone wolf, it is an existentialist film of a floating consciousness unable to connect with anything. This particular American trait, frequently in Hollywood, is at least dealt with explicitly, rather than in the corners of generally boring other narratives that permeate Hollywood. The focus on character, the narrative follow of Nicholson and the psychological acuity of the portrayal make this the best you can do from this slightly limited and oft repeated (perhaps in homage) material.
Nicholson's performance thus holds the film together, the camera letting him act in reframing, swooping, and holding without cuts. He does not go overboard, using instead little ticks. Even in moments of supposed 'madness' he is non self indulgently playing an actors role, but rather showing the repressed petulance of a child, the wild ravings of someone more inhibited than any. The use of his whole body is well done, and Nicholson keeps the intensity of character and concentration well in his slow walk and standing gait.
Hollywood around and about his best, if Americans must make films then here is one of the finer examples to learn from.

El Secreto De Sus Ojos (The Secret In Their Eyes)

The winner of the 2009 foreign language Oscar, surprisingly beaing both 'A Prophet' and 'The White Ribbon'. This is a good film, maybe a very good one. It perhaps does not have quite the consistency and swagger of 'A Prophet' or the visual and thematic audacity of 'The White Ribbon' (and vice versa), but it has its moments.
This film is about what we see, what we hide, and how this comes to haunt and define us. The use of focus is the most important aspect of this film; deep focus is deliberately not used, we have the central character failing to see most things as more than background. Except, of course, the women. She comes into his focus, and once their he both makes too much of her and tries to pretend she isn't their at all.
This film is at its best when we have the repressed psychoses of the central relationship, well done when filtered through the central criminal investigation plot that is otherwise diverting rather than fascinating. The lead's belief that his focus can singularly decide on how is innocent and who is guilty tells us much, nearly more about his relations with the women than about himself.
The acting is excellent, the faces of the leads matching well and conveying through posture their different psychologies and the social structure of the piece.
The framing device works well at the start, and then it all gets a bit wierd. It is a smart move to question the neat, wrapped up train-chasing ending, whether or not the idioticy of this moment could have been expressed otherwise than direct comment on an imaginary novel. The last ten minutes of the film does go a bit mental, and rather does down the rest of the film. This kind of hysterical plotting really isn't necessary in what is really a fascinating character study.
Well worth acclaim, though flawed this film has a part of it that can rank in the higher echelons of world cinema.

Alexander Nevsky

Eisenstein's 1938 war epic. It contains some arresting images and a beautiful stately manner, if some aspects do strike as frankly bizarre to the modern cinematic sensibility (it is a question we will leave open whether these shortcomings lie in the viewer or in the work itself).
The opening is frankly not promising, we have an odd acting style of archetypes, we have some pretty blatant Stalinist rewriting of doctrine (note the new found emphasis on heroic individuals, nationalism, and history in comparison to 'Potemkin').
The film surges on though, and we start to develop greater interest. The whole thing is photographed beautifully, the steppes, the wide flat lands. Eisenstein has calmed down on the montage (with latermentioned exceptions) and largely portrays this film is a panorama of the land. He has a technique of the wider shot, and then a close up to whoever was the centre of that wider shot, that is often repeated but barely bettered in the elegance of its editing.
The battle scenes are of particular interest. The first one is perhaps the most bizarre we have ever seen, where just as the action is about to take place we cut to the steppes, long duration shots, hearing the action off stage. This is most un-Eisenstein Russian Montage-esque, but is damn interesting and rather effective. Then we have the hugely famous final battle, which is where Eisenstein returns to the montage with baby killing, drowning knights, and all round excitment and beauty in juztaposition.
The arresting images mentioned earlier are of Alexander's wonderful square face, the foreign agent serpent (an obvious political nod, as is the trial), and most obviously of the German knights. The use of white to show their evil, the covering of faces, has been repeated thousands of times across movie history.
A film with layers in its use of the camera and edit that can be picked apart on rewatching, as a first go we found this film, a little stilted and banal narratively as it is, a good watch.

The Battleship Potemkin

1925 Soviet film from Sergei Eisenstein, recognised as one of the most important and influential films in the history of the cinema.
The development and use of montage is indeed still innovative today. Eisenstein is at his best when he uses montage, in fact out of time, on scenes such as a hand going back to strike something ('out of time' in so far as it does not make strict chronological sense). When montage is used to create an atmosphere it is most stirring, though perhaps would have been more so were the music surrounding it different (maybe 'Strike' achieves this balance better, even if it does not display the same tightness in its mastery of the image, cut, and edit.
Of course we have the famous Odessa steps sequence, which remains perfectly timed, exciting, and capable of doing things with the form of film that excites even today.
As far as the rest of the film is concerned, Eisenstein does his best to tell a story that is near impossible to convey through the silent means. We have the result of not being quite without ambiguity, but Eisenstein through his cue cards just about keeps us up to date. The lack of characterisation (beyond tropes) is actually rather refreshing.
This is a hugely important film, and the use of montage is really the whole thing. This is great, and the film should be watched for that.

Modern Times

Another Chaplin great, with the tramp, from 1936. Chaplin's film about the depression, about work, about leisure, about dreams.
What we have is an episodic structure, hiding a strong thematic content that is at once a harsh satire on capitalism and a realisation that there is no other way. This is a curious ambivalence; it would be interesting to know exactly where Chaplin's politics lay. There are obvious criticisms of the Fordian production line, yet our hero dreams of work and the perfect bourgeois life.
As a film, we lie slightly by categorising it as silent, due to the sound affects and occasions where dialogue is indeed spoken (or nonsense sung, in the tramp's case). But again we have a transcendent performance from Chaplin, his frame more slight, flexible and fluid than ever. It would be a shame to pick out any one scene above others; but we surely must mention the roller skating on the precipice; this is just stunning. Chaplin was physically gifted beyond measure. We hate to think of the outtakes.
Chaplin directed himself wonderfully; he gives space to use not only his own wonderful physicality (a thousand mannerisms and tics, but at once understated) but also the whole figures of those around him. The narrative structure of following the tramp, but without the P.O.V. shots common nowadays, give lie to the fact that Hollywood cinema has been a narrative led form; this is very much charatcer led (not so much psychologically as physically, an interesting philosophical turn in itself).
'Modern Times' may not be quite as great as 'City Lights' (a couple too many repititions, and what can match the emotional heft and straightforward acuity of 'City Light'?) but is still a masterpiece. The final scene one of the defining images of cinema, Chaplin as the man of the movies.

City Lights

1931, Chaplin. The great silent feature with 'The Tramp', the blind flowergirl. It is a genuinely affecting, precise, beautiful, at times funny film. A masterwork.
The tramp may not quite have the physical fluidity of Keaton, but his peculiar gait, if taking some getting used to, is eventually able to carry an unmatched emotional weight. Chaplin in genuinely able to act out numerous different styles, being at once small and absurd before, quick as a flash, suprising us by pulling on the heartstrings. The common line about Chaplin is an accusation of sentimentality, and he undoubtedly piles it on. However, the largely merely comic nature of the tramp balances this characteristic out, and his message, if a little syrupy, remains true all the same.
This is a spectacularly beautiful film. The use of shades, Chaplin's always on guard use of his whole body, is done with such intensity and grace as to be a pleasure. Even without deep focus the use of foreground and background is startling, telling a story elegantly. The boxing scene is near perfection, the use of the body, the quietening of the music, the pitch perfect choreography.
This is one of the great works of the cinema. Chaplin has won us over with aplomb.

Ma Nuit Chez Maud (My Night At Maud's)

1929 black and white work from one of the last French new wave directors, the celebrated Eric Rohmer. This is the third of his series of six 'Moral Tales'. It is a genuinely intelligent, well shot film.
It goes in between periods with no dialogue at all, and some of the talkiest moments in cinema, where the script drives everything (what Rohmer is perhaps most known for). Let us deal with these two aspects seperately.
The dialogue; this is a genuinely intelligent film, one that the viewer can meet on equal terms and engage with. We know we have an intellect able to challenge and consider, a refreshing change. The complexities of the script are of course difficult to digest all in one, opening up opportunities for rewatching.
Of course part of this intelligence is how the script interacts with the looks, the acting, with the choice of editing in the montage.
Rohmer has a camera that we like very much. Though we do follow the lead we do so with a small amount of reticence, a camera that lingers on images for a little longer than usual. We especially enjoyed his technique of staying on only one half of the couple talking, which he uses at times. This style (also used by Kiarostami) gives the actors a chance to act, and really imporves characterisation, adding the abovementioned intelligence to the script. It is as though all are being lightly interrogated.
The sharp black and white lines lead to some nice (not spectacular, but with interest) images. The greys and blank surfaces, combined with the understated aesthetic choices of actor and mis-en-scene, conjure up an almost Bressonian atmosphere to the film, always a plus.
This is an intelligent, perceptive, and at times subtle meditation on a number of well thought out themes. It is shot in a fine manner, with respect for the image and the characters. This is are first experience of Rohmer, and we very much look forward to seeing his other films. A fine piece of work.

Steamboat Bill, Jnr

1928 feature length silent piece from Buster Keaton.
Heralded as one of the great silent films, Keaton certainly lives up to his reputation for slapstick. With some incredible flexibility, pratfalling and bending he manages to time his leaps and steps to perfection. Keaton understands how to use his whole body (which remains in shot) and how to time his big steps. He is almost like a doll, throwing himself around in fluid motions.
This is all helped by wonderful choreography that knows exactly the direction of the scene; where the blocking will start, and where it will finish. Thanks to this minimal camera movement is required, and we have a wonderful fluidity of entrance and exit.
The comedy has a few giggles, though largely the slapstick is impressive rather than truly funny. The characicatures work well in not being too overdone, though it does remain never knowingly over subtle.
A fine example of a great physical performer at his best.

The Boat

This 1921 27 minute long silent piece from Buster Keaton showcases some incredible virtuouso tricks, and remains genuinely funny.
Keaton's face is, in itself, funny (or on the flipside a little sinister), and the nonchalanche of the family (using the child as a suitcase like holdall) is a joy. The comedy is pretty basic slapstick, but the way it is done becomes on occassion spectacular.
We have the wonderful scene inside the cabin of the water flying through holes, where Keaton almost becomes obscured in the blazes. His control is outstanding (as is the discipline of his family). We have absolutely no idea what editing/set design/ stuntmanship enabled him to crawl 360 degrees around the tossing boat, but whatever it was, it remains outstanding.
The repition of the shots works nicely to give us some continuity to the images, and we have excellent small camera movement to reframe when necessary.
A nice little short, not uproariously funny but with its moments.

Black Narcissus

Genuine classic from 1947, technicolour movie by Powell and Pressburger, cinematographer Jack Cardiff.
And it is Cardiff who is really the star here. We don't know enough about the production to say his exact input in the shots, but this is a film of place, of precipices and of backdrops. The Himalyan peaks and snowtops dominate the actors, the characters, nearly every scene. Characters are portrayed as being overawed, overcome by what is around them.
This applies to the central theme of repression. This is well shown by colour, where the deathly whites of the nuns are eventually overome by the surroundings of rich, deep, sensuous reds (even mirrored in the colour of the lens, in a particularly electrifying moment).
This film is slightly oddly paced and the script does not spark, but it is a film of images and for that it is hugely succesful. Could they have been exploited a little better? Impossible to say. Powell and Pressburger's near zero degree of direction style (save a few tricks in 'Hoffman', 'The Red Shoes', and this) is a style of filmaking that leaves one rather unfulfilled, wondering about the worth of the art as more than just a narrative. Rarely do they innovate on the mis-en-shot side, which leaves them open only to wonderful backdrops to choke off boredom and ennui. Luckily, at their best, they do this.
An excellent, beautiful film, which will stand up to rewatching (thanks to a stronger visual look than narrative approach) than most.

The Tales Of Hoffmann

Powell and Pressburger screen treatment of the Offenbach opera. An innovative use of various art forms and production design, it is a fascinating and very pleasant watch.
It looks very fine; the colour schemes and costumes fit well. Overall, this production can occasionally dissappear into confusion, but largely it remains well anchored in its Faust-esque story and with its high-faluttin' tales.
The actor playing Hoffman is excellent, and the singing (nearly all dubbed) certainly up to standard. As ever, Moira Shearer is excellent.
Taking up their own mantle from the great 'The Red Shoes', there is a smart use of montage and kaleidoscopic reptition. Largely, the camera does watch the ballet rather than become part of it. This film is at its best when the camera starts dancing too.
A difficult challenge, to have an opera and ballet on screen, but this comes out as a success.

They're A Weird Mob

Slightly dodgy Powell and Pressburger immigration tale. It hops along the narrative with a nice lightness, even if it is far from being actually funny. The lead is endearing enough.
It is cliche ridden but just about avoids becoming offensive. It is massively predictable. Not really worth the time, but reasonable enough.

The Battle Of The River Plate

Decent enough Powell and Pressburger, about the war.
It takes a rather dull while for there to be any story at all, but once one does come along there are some decent moments. Not a complete waste of time.

The Room

Another look at perhaps the worst film ever made.
Still great fun, great audience participation. We still remain undecided on whether it is deliberate, though the moments of non-humour suggests more and more it may be.
If you see a screening of this, get along, as it can only be really appreciated among others. In that situation, it's a great night out.

49th Parallel

Rather good bit of wartime propoganda from Powell and Pressburger.
As the Germans are knocked off we have nice scenes, with excellent performances from the greats like Olivier and Walbrook.
The narrative stance is really rather odd, following those we are meant to hate. Our attention in each scene is though drawn to our interlocurs rather than them (except as listeners). It is an interesting move to read the ideologies in everyday practices, and we would love to see such narrative structures repeated more.
The German characters don't particularly, with maybe three exceptions, stand out from one another, but the action, after a bit of a slow start, is kept moving well. It doesn't become too predicatble, throwing up a few surprises.
Good propoganda, good film.

A Matter Of Life And Death

Classic 1946 piece from Powell and Pressburger. Well told, with an impressive storyline, top notch performances and some interesting visuals and set dressing.
The story rattles along at a decent enough pace. The dual nature of it is nicely kept in the air. David Niven is particularly excellent, there are a few double-take bizarre scenes which suggests a kind of psychosexual underlay, but this all adds to the fun.
The scenes in 'heaven' really set the tone for much of how 'heaven' has been filmed, and are a fun change (as are the chats Niven has with the messenger). It's all a bit obvious, but reasonably moving all the same, especially the wonderful switching/shadow opening scene.
A fine watch.