Again, the 1934 wonder, by Jean Vigo
At the start of this film, I can barely remember a black and white film being so dark; so many different shades of black. The whole thing seems to have been shot just before or just after a rainfall. The white comes out translucent. Vigo has a wonderfully busy mis-en-scene (I'll try forwith to compare this to von Sternberg), usually still, just collections of, at least in Pere Jules' cabin, shades on junk, weird non-transparent shapes. Vigo also uses height, the vertical axis of the screen, in an interesting way. How this interacts with his high and low views gives a very distinctive direction.
To clear up; it is stupid to call Vigo post-humanist. Vigo is simply not 'humanist' in the classical cinema sense, because he doesn't find interest in when people have posed, the segmented view of humanity, 'sentimental moments'. Vigo films the lead up and conclusions of the these extremely brief moments. He films the in-between. They happen quickly, unconsciously, half-conversations that the audience meets half-way through happening. Half-arguments that don't boil up, conversations about the washing that just are, or have just, said everything. This is naturalism; taking humans as organic, as living without thinking beyond impulse. But not at all in a nihilistic way, or even in a detached analytical way, like Bunuel's (if one believes Deleuze). The music, the dress, the smiles, the water; there is a dirty romanticism to this picture.
Tuesday 31 May 2011
Toute La Memoire Du Monde
Short documentary on the Biblioteque Nationale, directed by Alain Resnais - 1956
We have our Resnais tracks, vertical, horizontal, keening, smooth, insistent, urgent (different paces, in fact). The avoids the images turning into gawping as, though one could argue it is a 'trick', it is as though the camera is on some kind of search, always analysing, almost literally looking for a way in. We also have tracks around busts, very close to the faces, emphasizing monumentality.
I'm not sure I would describe Resnais though as montumental, despite his straight lines (or tubes) being limitless, infinite, terrifying sources of intelligence and memory to the inquisitve thing, the human kind. Unlike classical Hollywood, perhaps, Resnias depth (a very deep and sharp field) converges in on itself, meeting, though it is infinite. A strange contradiction.
The humans are shot, or tracked, from above, busy worker ants, the books from below, again monumental. This is except for a few low shots where we work up the side of a face.
Resnais' voiceover (not him) is deeply intelligent, not over-serious all the time. It doesn't tell what the image makes obvious. We move from philosophy, to practical matters, and back to an almost eschatological conclusion, grounded in the activities of a library. Surely inspired by Borges, Resnais seems to have immediately tapped into the crucial 'secret' of the place.
We have our Resnais tracks, vertical, horizontal, keening, smooth, insistent, urgent (different paces, in fact). The avoids the images turning into gawping as, though one could argue it is a 'trick', it is as though the camera is on some kind of search, always analysing, almost literally looking for a way in. We also have tracks around busts, very close to the faces, emphasizing monumentality.
I'm not sure I would describe Resnais though as montumental, despite his straight lines (or tubes) being limitless, infinite, terrifying sources of intelligence and memory to the inquisitve thing, the human kind. Unlike classical Hollywood, perhaps, Resnias depth (a very deep and sharp field) converges in on itself, meeting, though it is infinite. A strange contradiction.
The humans are shot, or tracked, from above, busy worker ants, the books from below, again monumental. This is except for a few low shots where we work up the side of a face.
Resnais' voiceover (not him) is deeply intelligent, not over-serious all the time. It doesn't tell what the image makes obvious. We move from philosophy, to practical matters, and back to an almost eschatological conclusion, grounded in the activities of a library. Surely inspired by Borges, Resnais seems to have immediately tapped into the crucial 'secret' of the place.
Monday 30 May 2011
Celin et Julie Vont en Bateau
Again, Jaques Rivette - 1974
Still a masterpiece. Adding to what I wrote before, a couple of things. Firstly, it's difficult to tell exactly what the 'purposiveness without a purpose' of the film is. The characters act in a direction, or rather with a direction. The actions are simple; happiness, sadness, trepidation, mockery, and so on. As their is no unifying psychology behind it, we can't really 'understand' it in the usual way. But is it a 'pure' action? No, because we infer motivations, though they are only immanent to that one sequence (or even shot; we had forgotten how long Rivette can go without cutting).
What we were surprised by this time was the depth of critique of this film, how it is a hrash criticism of a certain kind of filmmaking and, with that, living. We have a clear critique of the contemporary 'art crowd', in all their guises, without it straying into naivete. Rivette's own film is able to justify what it argues against, because it has found the talent and bravery to do things differently. Then we have the central critique of the well made film. 'Celine and Julie' is, among thousands of other things, a lesson in how to watch cinema. We learn how to analyse, be estranged from, be able to mock, the everyday 'quality' cinema. Maybe that's why I have hardly ever felt closer to two characters than Celine and Julie. But even our place watching this film isn't free; the head on shots of Celine and Julie, while they watch, has them watching us.
But it's more than watching; then they go and actively change the cinema, make it something different. Destabilise, make it new. I wish it could go on forever.
This film isn't great in a 'transcendent image' way, like 'The Last Laugh', or 'The Lady From Shanghai' just throws shivers down the spine. It is simply about pleasure, and fighting for real pleasure, against what we normally take us such. A kind of pacification, living without desperation, ultimately non-coercive. It is great because it makes that demand against everyday life.
Still a masterpiece. Adding to what I wrote before, a couple of things. Firstly, it's difficult to tell exactly what the 'purposiveness without a purpose' of the film is. The characters act in a direction, or rather with a direction. The actions are simple; happiness, sadness, trepidation, mockery, and so on. As their is no unifying psychology behind it, we can't really 'understand' it in the usual way. But is it a 'pure' action? No, because we infer motivations, though they are only immanent to that one sequence (or even shot; we had forgotten how long Rivette can go without cutting).
What we were surprised by this time was the depth of critique of this film, how it is a hrash criticism of a certain kind of filmmaking and, with that, living. We have a clear critique of the contemporary 'art crowd', in all their guises, without it straying into naivete. Rivette's own film is able to justify what it argues against, because it has found the talent and bravery to do things differently. Then we have the central critique of the well made film. 'Celine and Julie' is, among thousands of other things, a lesson in how to watch cinema. We learn how to analyse, be estranged from, be able to mock, the everyday 'quality' cinema. Maybe that's why I have hardly ever felt closer to two characters than Celine and Julie. But even our place watching this film isn't free; the head on shots of Celine and Julie, while they watch, has them watching us.
But it's more than watching; then they go and actively change the cinema, make it something different. Destabilise, make it new. I wish it could go on forever.
This film isn't great in a 'transcendent image' way, like 'The Last Laugh', or 'The Lady From Shanghai' just throws shivers down the spine. It is simply about pleasure, and fighting for real pleasure, against what we normally take us such. A kind of pacification, living without desperation, ultimately non-coercive. It is great because it makes that demand against everyday life.
A Farewell To Arms
Frank Borzage - 1932 (Source material the Ernest Hemmingway novel)
This film is marvellous. Borzage's direction is restrained, elegant, affecting, above all simple. He favours two shots. His close-ups of Helen Hayes, and indeed Gary Cooper, are not there for emoting, but as a dramatic punctuation mark. In this, they are an example of the autonomy of Borzage's camera. He often tracks with cameras, in some remarkable sequences trailing unbroken for long periods. But his tracks also can leave any single character, and simply tell the story itself.
I say simple because that is what the sets, acting, and general mis-en-scene is. The story progresses at a quick quick pace. It is a simple story; a man loves a woman, but they cannot be together. The settings are there, but there is no dwelling on that, because it is not what is important. What matters is that we see the two of them together, just living with each other, for those snatched periods. We don't need it rammer home by editing; it is just there, the images tell us. And what images they are; a great range of shades, but strong blacks, indeed extremely strong shadows, hard backlighting. This film is shot in the soft style.
Along with the abovementioned autonomous camera, Borzage's style has other reasons for its rise above simple conservatism. There are some extremely high and low framings. Abstractions of shapes, especially in the sequences where we have Cooper's eye-view, and his insitent, yet not over-strained, voiceover 'where is she, where is she'? Another special scene is the original accident; a fixed camera, so dark, just a few sillouhetted shapes in the distance, and someone, and something, is hurt.
Perhaps the most remarkable is the long, silent but for music, montage sequence, where I supose there is a lot of plot. We have close-ups of parts of bodies, small actions, a story told in images, which is what narrative cinema is. Each one is just part of the world; and for that, it is everything this cinema needs.
This film is marvellous. Borzage's direction is restrained, elegant, affecting, above all simple. He favours two shots. His close-ups of Helen Hayes, and indeed Gary Cooper, are not there for emoting, but as a dramatic punctuation mark. In this, they are an example of the autonomy of Borzage's camera. He often tracks with cameras, in some remarkable sequences trailing unbroken for long periods. But his tracks also can leave any single character, and simply tell the story itself.
I say simple because that is what the sets, acting, and general mis-en-scene is. The story progresses at a quick quick pace. It is a simple story; a man loves a woman, but they cannot be together. The settings are there, but there is no dwelling on that, because it is not what is important. What matters is that we see the two of them together, just living with each other, for those snatched periods. We don't need it rammer home by editing; it is just there, the images tell us. And what images they are; a great range of shades, but strong blacks, indeed extremely strong shadows, hard backlighting. This film is shot in the soft style.
Along with the abovementioned autonomous camera, Borzage's style has other reasons for its rise above simple conservatism. There are some extremely high and low framings. Abstractions of shapes, especially in the sequences where we have Cooper's eye-view, and his insitent, yet not over-strained, voiceover 'where is she, where is she'? Another special scene is the original accident; a fixed camera, so dark, just a few sillouhetted shapes in the distance, and someone, and something, is hurt.
Perhaps the most remarkable is the long, silent but for music, montage sequence, where I supose there is a lot of plot. We have close-ups of parts of bodies, small actions, a story told in images, which is what narrative cinema is. Each one is just part of the world; and for that, it is everything this cinema needs.
Objective, Burma!
Raoul Walsh, wartime movie, 1945
Their isn't really a per se bad take here. The editing pace, which moves between a certain restraint (not going in for SRS, just the original move-in from establishing) and pretty quick stuff. The dappled lighting can be excellent, most effective when shooting with the 'jungle' obscuring, or when the camera angle is high and the men, the gradations of their face, become part of it. Walsh uses, lightly, an empty front of the depth field that is then used, to add a lttle dynamism.
The most recurrent motif used is the move along the men, a camera pan horizontal and smooth, lingering on each for just enough time to register an expression or half a line. This is also done with cuts. In this move, the men are usually all doing the same thing, looking or crawling or reacting, in minimally different ways. Apart from Errol Flynn, there isn't a great amount of differentiation. Could this be the way to shoot a collective subject?
The film is really pretty low key. There are a few moments of suspense at the start (a nice one on the aeroplane, with a little frenzied camera track and a quick cut), but largely there isn't an over-reaction or sentimentalisation. The violence is harsh on a couple of occassions (squishing sounds), but generally not edited too quick and kept at a distance. There is no gore. Perhaps the most compelling moment is when we are refused a look (obviously for censorship too) at the mutilated face of Jacobs, instead he is seen only legs around a door, as they talk.
So, a pretty quiet film all said and done, that goes on a bit, but with sporadically interesting editing and a few nice shots.
Their isn't really a per se bad take here. The editing pace, which moves between a certain restraint (not going in for SRS, just the original move-in from establishing) and pretty quick stuff. The dappled lighting can be excellent, most effective when shooting with the 'jungle' obscuring, or when the camera angle is high and the men, the gradations of their face, become part of it. Walsh uses, lightly, an empty front of the depth field that is then used, to add a lttle dynamism.
The most recurrent motif used is the move along the men, a camera pan horizontal and smooth, lingering on each for just enough time to register an expression or half a line. This is also done with cuts. In this move, the men are usually all doing the same thing, looking or crawling or reacting, in minimally different ways. Apart from Errol Flynn, there isn't a great amount of differentiation. Could this be the way to shoot a collective subject?
The film is really pretty low key. There are a few moments of suspense at the start (a nice one on the aeroplane, with a little frenzied camera track and a quick cut), but largely there isn't an over-reaction or sentimentalisation. The violence is harsh on a couple of occassions (squishing sounds), but generally not edited too quick and kept at a distance. There is no gore. Perhaps the most compelling moment is when we are refused a look (obviously for censorship too) at the mutilated face of Jacobs, instead he is seen only legs around a door, as they talk.
So, a pretty quiet film all said and done, that goes on a bit, but with sporadically interesting editing and a few nice shots.
Sunday 29 May 2011
Friday 27 May 2011
The Face Of Another
Hiroshi Teshigahara - 1966
Again, a difficult film to talk about. Perhaps a little easier than 'Pitfall'. We have the great variety of shots, perhaps constructed in a slightly less ecletic way. What Teshigahara seems to be doing is breaking up space, by constantly disorientating us; going from overhead, to close-ups, varying angles. The use of false frames, mirrors, cutting up perspectives with screens and glass boards, takes us into this modernism. Perhaps not quite as systematic as Antonioni's incredible stock-market scene in 'L'Eclisse', is is though more varied. It is also extremely effective and conveying some of our Antnioni-like themes.
These are enhanced by the slow pace, the low key acting, the way people fail to connect up, and the idea of the kind of floating mass, obviously here without an identity. The story again jumps, with the side non-story of the girl seemingly taking us out of the diegetic world. The actual make up of the images is very hard to generalise about, but it is certainly modernist before classical. Backs of heads, disembodied body parts are often used.
Teshigahara uses zooms and other techniques to also mark out the constant alterity from our expectations. His use of freeze-frames, often in montage, creates some startling sequences. This film deserves to be called fascinating, and deeply enigmatic. I look forward to being able to have another look at it.
Again, a difficult film to talk about. Perhaps a little easier than 'Pitfall'. We have the great variety of shots, perhaps constructed in a slightly less ecletic way. What Teshigahara seems to be doing is breaking up space, by constantly disorientating us; going from overhead, to close-ups, varying angles. The use of false frames, mirrors, cutting up perspectives with screens and glass boards, takes us into this modernism. Perhaps not quite as systematic as Antonioni's incredible stock-market scene in 'L'Eclisse', is is though more varied. It is also extremely effective and conveying some of our Antnioni-like themes.
These are enhanced by the slow pace, the low key acting, the way people fail to connect up, and the idea of the kind of floating mass, obviously here without an identity. The story again jumps, with the side non-story of the girl seemingly taking us out of the diegetic world. The actual make up of the images is very hard to generalise about, but it is certainly modernist before classical. Backs of heads, disembodied body parts are often used.
Teshigahara uses zooms and other techniques to also mark out the constant alterity from our expectations. His use of freeze-frames, often in montage, creates some startling sequences. This film deserves to be called fascinating, and deeply enigmatic. I look forward to being able to have another look at it.
Pitfall
1962 - Hiroshi Teshigahara
This is an extremely difficult film to get a grip on, as their is, quite deliberately, no stability, no single scheme run through. We have very long shots, and some very close ones, but quite a few medium shots as well. There is a little SRS, but some scenes prefer to be kept as twos. There is a notable number of pan and scan sequences, usually pretty close, sometimes using nearly swish pans. Dialogue from off screen is often used as well.
The editing is interesting; disruptive, abrasive, in time with the music. There are also a number of jump cuts, of continuity broken within an individual scene. We also skip from part of the story to another.
Indeed, the story itself jumps, moving into dislocated worlds. We think we know where we are, then there is a turn, not hyper dramatic. The characters are completely caught in this. From this kind of determinism, we have a strong sense of place. Not of literal geography, but of an atmosphere, an overweeing kind of precise dirt.
The music, by Toru Takemitsu, is extremely famous. It is more than atonal, and clahing with the image; it also provides a message for the image, discomfitting.
This is clearly a film with a very strict social message, the need for union solidarity against the creeping owners, conveyed through this fractured lens, and supernatural jars. For this, we have documentary footage, again reminding us of modernist masters. The non-realist element is completely subordinated to this theme, bringing out a very disruptive mixture. An extremely curious picture.
This is an extremely difficult film to get a grip on, as their is, quite deliberately, no stability, no single scheme run through. We have very long shots, and some very close ones, but quite a few medium shots as well. There is a little SRS, but some scenes prefer to be kept as twos. There is a notable number of pan and scan sequences, usually pretty close, sometimes using nearly swish pans. Dialogue from off screen is often used as well.
The editing is interesting; disruptive, abrasive, in time with the music. There are also a number of jump cuts, of continuity broken within an individual scene. We also skip from part of the story to another.
Indeed, the story itself jumps, moving into dislocated worlds. We think we know where we are, then there is a turn, not hyper dramatic. The characters are completely caught in this. From this kind of determinism, we have a strong sense of place. Not of literal geography, but of an atmosphere, an overweeing kind of precise dirt.
The music, by Toru Takemitsu, is extremely famous. It is more than atonal, and clahing with the image; it also provides a message for the image, discomfitting.
This is clearly a film with a very strict social message, the need for union solidarity against the creeping owners, conveyed through this fractured lens, and supernatural jars. For this, we have documentary footage, again reminding us of modernist masters. The non-realist element is completely subordinated to this theme, bringing out a very disruptive mixture. An extremely curious picture.
Thursday 26 May 2011
Humanity and Paper Balloons
1937, a wonderful movie, by Sadao Yamanaka
The touching, unsentimental heart of this movie lies in a number of features. Let us though concentrate in the remarkable space of the film. Yamanaka has used a visual that I can't remember seeing before; his scenes are built around thin passageways that strech from the camera into the distance, either directly away or at a little angle. This means that there is a huge amount of depth. We have characters piled close together, allowing for wonderful expressiveness as they interact in turn. The camera is extremely still, with very long takes, allowing a neighbourhood to come to life for us, not be snatched.
Within this schema, Yamanaka still though uses, in fact uses to a great degree, the entire frame. I, again, can't think of a film where the use of non-centered compositions is less self-conscious. This is partly as a result of the depth, which naturally runs away from the usual centering (low angles helps here), and partly as a result of constant movement of the actors. The wonderful stagin, sometimes communicated in just a little rock forward or back, half a step, directs our gaze from one plane or part of the enclosed area to another. We are never stuck in one part of the frame for too long, so central balance never seems like an 'obvious' issue. On the outsides of the passageway created, the edges of the screen, we still have an active zone. People look at those in the passageway, for moments becoming themselves centres of attention. Tjis film also, in its long takes, allows characters, or rather just people, who are not a 'main' part of the action to leave the frame (obviously be these edges), or just be involved, be part of the place. This is the Bazinian dream, not achieved by depth of focus, but by the wondrous framing.
Among the movment, when stillness comes, it cuts through like the knife. Partly as, when the charcter and camera is still, the rain continues to fall, or a non-narrative passerby crosses. This is the world as a monad, enclosed, but mirroring the entire world.
Yet Yamanaka is not sweet; his narrative is hard and harsh, surprisingly so, tightly focussed on the neglected milleu, with their coarseness, nastiness, and the conditions of existence. There is no holds barred in the depiction of what they can do. And yet, this film is about humans.
The touching, unsentimental heart of this movie lies in a number of features. Let us though concentrate in the remarkable space of the film. Yamanaka has used a visual that I can't remember seeing before; his scenes are built around thin passageways that strech from the camera into the distance, either directly away or at a little angle. This means that there is a huge amount of depth. We have characters piled close together, allowing for wonderful expressiveness as they interact in turn. The camera is extremely still, with very long takes, allowing a neighbourhood to come to life for us, not be snatched.
Within this schema, Yamanaka still though uses, in fact uses to a great degree, the entire frame. I, again, can't think of a film where the use of non-centered compositions is less self-conscious. This is partly as a result of the depth, which naturally runs away from the usual centering (low angles helps here), and partly as a result of constant movement of the actors. The wonderful stagin, sometimes communicated in just a little rock forward or back, half a step, directs our gaze from one plane or part of the enclosed area to another. We are never stuck in one part of the frame for too long, so central balance never seems like an 'obvious' issue. On the outsides of the passageway created, the edges of the screen, we still have an active zone. People look at those in the passageway, for moments becoming themselves centres of attention. Tjis film also, in its long takes, allows characters, or rather just people, who are not a 'main' part of the action to leave the frame (obviously be these edges), or just be involved, be part of the place. This is the Bazinian dream, not achieved by depth of focus, but by the wondrous framing.
Among the movment, when stillness comes, it cuts through like the knife. Partly as, when the charcter and camera is still, the rain continues to fall, or a non-narrative passerby crosses. This is the world as a monad, enclosed, but mirroring the entire world.
Yet Yamanaka is not sweet; his narrative is hard and harsh, surprisingly so, tightly focussed on the neglected milleu, with their coarseness, nastiness, and the conditions of existence. There is no holds barred in the depiction of what they can do. And yet, this film is about humans.
Onibaba
1964 - Kaneto Shindo
Evan as Shindo shows some flesh and even horror, he does not really adopt a sensationalist style. Throughout, he never uses two shots when he could use one. These long takes that result, often from high angles above that wonderful grass, have a similar sense of landscpae as 'The Naked Island', as the grass blows, as it rains, there is a certain slowness. Even the moments of 'shock' aren't thrown at the audience, but come about in a validecotry manner, more of a haunting than a fright. That is why this film remains deeply beautiful.
There is one key difference from 'The Naked Island', and that is the much increased use of the close-up, pretty dynamically, being an extreme close-up.
The lighting throughout this feature also deserves a mention. Usually we have a pretty dark atmosphere, a touch of fill maybe, but then with a patch of hard light, perhaps only on one cheek. It often comes from below, sometimes high above, to give this film the haunted aesthetic it looks for. The sudden patch of light idea is further emphasised by the elderly woman's hair.
The story touches on a number of areas, though always firmly rooted around its own concrete circumstances. There is a mix of humanism in the generally degraded atmosphere, as the women, first unsympathetic for the murder thing, and then for specific actions, are shown to have reasons outside of their control; capital, and again capital, this time in the form of the demon.
Evan as Shindo shows some flesh and even horror, he does not really adopt a sensationalist style. Throughout, he never uses two shots when he could use one. These long takes that result, often from high angles above that wonderful grass, have a similar sense of landscpae as 'The Naked Island', as the grass blows, as it rains, there is a certain slowness. Even the moments of 'shock' aren't thrown at the audience, but come about in a validecotry manner, more of a haunting than a fright. That is why this film remains deeply beautiful.
There is one key difference from 'The Naked Island', and that is the much increased use of the close-up, pretty dynamically, being an extreme close-up.
The lighting throughout this feature also deserves a mention. Usually we have a pretty dark atmosphere, a touch of fill maybe, but then with a patch of hard light, perhaps only on one cheek. It often comes from below, sometimes high above, to give this film the haunted aesthetic it looks for. The sudden patch of light idea is further emphasised by the elderly woman's hair.
The story touches on a number of areas, though always firmly rooted around its own concrete circumstances. There is a mix of humanism in the generally degraded atmosphere, as the women, first unsympathetic for the murder thing, and then for specific actions, are shown to have reasons outside of their control; capital, and again capital, this time in the form of the demon.
The Naked Island
Kaneto Shindo - 1960
Visually and narratively simple, this is a fine movie. We have slow, long (though not too), meditative takes of the gently moving sea and the environs, with pans calmly reframing. Thematic links are made as much as narrative ones. The whites and blakcs come out sharply in a fine-grained print, with contrast further gained by low-angle framings of characters against the sky.
This film has no dialogue, just a little singing, but wonderful sounds. Along with literal correspondences, sound, especially of water, bleeds from scene to scene across non-contiguos locales. A smooth pace adds to this very much 'poetic' cinema, whatever that means.
As in 'Man Of Aran' (visually different as that is, in respects), nature is at once beautiful but hard, tough, deadly, with possibilities of danger. So is the whole of life; the shocking husband's reaction. This, combined with the crossing with the modern, make the film more than a simple paen. Sentimental as it can be, it looks both charming and true.
Visually and narratively simple, this is a fine movie. We have slow, long (though not too), meditative takes of the gently moving sea and the environs, with pans calmly reframing. Thematic links are made as much as narrative ones. The whites and blakcs come out sharply in a fine-grained print, with contrast further gained by low-angle framings of characters against the sky.
This film has no dialogue, just a little singing, but wonderful sounds. Along with literal correspondences, sound, especially of water, bleeds from scene to scene across non-contiguos locales. A smooth pace adds to this very much 'poetic' cinema, whatever that means.
As in 'Man Of Aran' (visually different as that is, in respects), nature is at once beautiful but hard, tough, deadly, with possibilities of danger. So is the whole of life; the shocking husband's reaction. This, combined with the crossing with the modern, make the film more than a simple paen. Sentimental as it can be, it looks both charming and true.
Assassination
Masahiro Shinoda - 1964
Similar, stylistically, in many ways, to 'Silence', this film uses long takes with a still camera quite a bit. This is except on a few occassions when we have some very fast scanning, quite a difference. Again we have quite an agressive SRS, usually on quite ahrd, perhaps 150' line or so, a 'thin' SRS, let us say. This seperation of characters is used when the dialogue is agressive, in clamer or more informational scenes we have more of the still long shots. Also note the staging in depth, though the long lens (for zooms) means the other is often out of focus. This lens is clear in scenes of running towards us, as though on the spot.
We have a few nice overheads here, especially above the big hats, which obscure identity and help in the overall noirish tone. Their is the construction of identity through flashback (hints of 'Kane' style), building up tension. There is obsession, indicated by the P.O.V. joggly camera we get near the end. It is also in the two seperate main characters.
Ultimately a hardboiled film, where the mass are shown to change sides quickly, with outbreaks of violence coming, along with some of the mentioned agressive camera work, to jolt us.
Similar, stylistically, in many ways, to 'Silence', this film uses long takes with a still camera quite a bit. This is except on a few occassions when we have some very fast scanning, quite a difference. Again we have quite an agressive SRS, usually on quite ahrd, perhaps 150' line or so, a 'thin' SRS, let us say. This seperation of characters is used when the dialogue is agressive, in clamer or more informational scenes we have more of the still long shots. Also note the staging in depth, though the long lens (for zooms) means the other is often out of focus. This lens is clear in scenes of running towards us, as though on the spot.
We have a few nice overheads here, especially above the big hats, which obscure identity and help in the overall noirish tone. Their is the construction of identity through flashback (hints of 'Kane' style), building up tension. There is obsession, indicated by the P.O.V. joggly camera we get near the end. It is also in the two seperate main characters.
Ultimately a hardboiled film, where the mass are shown to change sides quickly, with outbreaks of violence coming, along with some of the mentioned agressive camera work, to jolt us.
Wednesday 25 May 2011
Norwegian Wood
2011 - Anh Hung Tran
Shot in HD, the contrast is really quite low; combined with not much depth, we have a lack of any kind of colour saturation. The HD makes the skin tones come to life, we have great detail there, but there is nothing hyperreal about the colours, which would perhaps have suited the film's system better. Indeed, at times it can look almost washed out, and especially when the film, as it is for periods, is enabled by the HD to get pretty dark.
Despite this, different scenes often have cooridnated colour schemes, radically different from the previous and next. Hung Tran seems to enjoy cutting between these for maximum discombobulation. Indeed, his editing, and general direction, seems to be fighting against the flat tone of the scenario by introducing figures leering over each other, and some editing that seems almost as a jump by its use of agressively new compostions (saying this, there are a few graphic matches).
The floating, moving camera, that can't stay still but steadily comes in or out, quite close, can be used in a number of ways (i.e., Hitchcock for dramatic irony). Here it is used in a lasivious manner, almost prurient (in a good way) to let us have a look at all the dirt, all the details (again, going against the scenario). Tracking slowly up the hosepipe, for example, seems to be a dirty little act, rather than any kind of embrace or stroking (a la Claire Denis' use of similar movements).
The film can play out in long shots, half plan-sequences, with the camera moving around to reframe and take on this smooth but un-tight life of its own. It closes in as the film progresses.
This film can be flat as it attempts to squeeze the novel out, scenes that simply don't work as not enough time is (or could be) spent on characterisation. Hung Tran seems to sense this, his SRS flicking around almost contemptuously, asking these people, who haven't been invested with the full depth of their words, to pull themselves together. The depth of the characterisation of the novel would require a seven hour film; the squeezing it in here leads to inadequate material, and a jumpy narrative. Hung Tran can only toy with us.
And yet he directs as well as he can, allowed to pick things up from this flat tone with the addition of jarring carnal dialogue, and with the above-mentioned cutting and certain compositonal decisions. Indeed, the composition throughout is excellent, using a very wide screen to let us nicely into a landscape. This film had real problems on its own, but led me to look forward to seeing more of Hung Tran's work.
Shot in HD, the contrast is really quite low; combined with not much depth, we have a lack of any kind of colour saturation. The HD makes the skin tones come to life, we have great detail there, but there is nothing hyperreal about the colours, which would perhaps have suited the film's system better. Indeed, at times it can look almost washed out, and especially when the film, as it is for periods, is enabled by the HD to get pretty dark.
Despite this, different scenes often have cooridnated colour schemes, radically different from the previous and next. Hung Tran seems to enjoy cutting between these for maximum discombobulation. Indeed, his editing, and general direction, seems to be fighting against the flat tone of the scenario by introducing figures leering over each other, and some editing that seems almost as a jump by its use of agressively new compostions (saying this, there are a few graphic matches).
The floating, moving camera, that can't stay still but steadily comes in or out, quite close, can be used in a number of ways (i.e., Hitchcock for dramatic irony). Here it is used in a lasivious manner, almost prurient (in a good way) to let us have a look at all the dirt, all the details (again, going against the scenario). Tracking slowly up the hosepipe, for example, seems to be a dirty little act, rather than any kind of embrace or stroking (a la Claire Denis' use of similar movements).
The film can play out in long shots, half plan-sequences, with the camera moving around to reframe and take on this smooth but un-tight life of its own. It closes in as the film progresses.
This film can be flat as it attempts to squeeze the novel out, scenes that simply don't work as not enough time is (or could be) spent on characterisation. Hung Tran seems to sense this, his SRS flicking around almost contemptuously, asking these people, who haven't been invested with the full depth of their words, to pull themselves together. The depth of the characterisation of the novel would require a seven hour film; the squeezing it in here leads to inadequate material, and a jumpy narrative. Hung Tran can only toy with us.
And yet he directs as well as he can, allowed to pick things up from this flat tone with the addition of jarring carnal dialogue, and with the above-mentioned cutting and certain compositonal decisions. Indeed, the composition throughout is excellent, using a very wide screen to let us nicely into a landscape. This film had real problems on its own, but led me to look forward to seeing more of Hung Tran's work.
Silence
Masashiro Shonida - 1971
Shinoda's frame employs agressive foregrounds, objects often close to the camera, realy pointing out at the audience. This is conveyed in his almost literally powerful, large face in his shot-reverse sequences. Full faces fill up the frame. His camera is more often than not (though not exclusively) a long lens one, with a lot of little zooms. Their is quite a bit of racking focus. For scenes of more excitement, just a couple, we have fast scanning, close in. When Shinoda is not close, his long shots are often quite high, with beams, trees or other paraphenalia closer to the camera obscuring a full view.
The colour, or rather the contrast, is distinctive here. This is because of how dull it is, a real lack of contrast. Their are just patches of very diffused light, little seems direct. We have this in the dark for the opening sequences, seemingly shot at 330 in the morning. Even when sunlight comes, the contrast remains very low, as though their is a haar. The tones are kept the same, across rocks, costumes, even the different ethnicities' skin tones. The colours can be different, but a kind of smudgy mauve predominates.
The narrative, though built around a central tale (with opening and closing authorial voiceover) which moves along, seems more like episodes, most obviously some kind of stations of the cross. We have phases, tests, sufferings, trials of different kinds. This is largely kept pretty low key.
Their are clear Conrad references here ('Heart of Darkness'), and a smart ambiguity is who is really the 'hero', certainly the story and the man we are meant to care about, also being the face of colonialism and imperialism, who some good and intellgient arguments are made against. Ultimately, the film does go back to him; but we're not sure if we really should respect his ideals, or simply his body. As these themes come out in the second half, the film certainly draws one in.
Shinoda's frame employs agressive foregrounds, objects often close to the camera, realy pointing out at the audience. This is conveyed in his almost literally powerful, large face in his shot-reverse sequences. Full faces fill up the frame. His camera is more often than not (though not exclusively) a long lens one, with a lot of little zooms. Their is quite a bit of racking focus. For scenes of more excitement, just a couple, we have fast scanning, close in. When Shinoda is not close, his long shots are often quite high, with beams, trees or other paraphenalia closer to the camera obscuring a full view.
The colour, or rather the contrast, is distinctive here. This is because of how dull it is, a real lack of contrast. Their are just patches of very diffused light, little seems direct. We have this in the dark for the opening sequences, seemingly shot at 330 in the morning. Even when sunlight comes, the contrast remains very low, as though their is a haar. The tones are kept the same, across rocks, costumes, even the different ethnicities' skin tones. The colours can be different, but a kind of smudgy mauve predominates.
The narrative, though built around a central tale (with opening and closing authorial voiceover) which moves along, seems more like episodes, most obviously some kind of stations of the cross. We have phases, tests, sufferings, trials of different kinds. This is largely kept pretty low key.
Their are clear Conrad references here ('Heart of Darkness'), and a smart ambiguity is who is really the 'hero', certainly the story and the man we are meant to care about, also being the face of colonialism and imperialism, who some good and intellgient arguments are made against. Ultimately, the film does go back to him; but we're not sure if we really should respect his ideals, or simply his body. As these themes come out in the second half, the film certainly draws one in.
Tuesday 24 May 2011
Vampyr
Another look at the Carl T. Dreyer , 1932, film
Dreyer's camera movements are remarkable; tiny little, slightly jerky ones, with a remakably free camera (it feels almost 'Regle Du Jeu; like at times...) pushing us around. We seem to never have a full establishing shot, so people, or even just hands, pop into the frame out of nowhere. The lighting is also distinct; with a, for significant parts, without dominant key lights. In fact, the head is sometimes the darkest part of the room. The space of the film surely can't quite make sense; we don't get jump cuts, but I am sure that the geography doesn't quite work. It is too elliptical... and perfect for the film. The confusion is what takes place off screen, something is happened, not quite right.
I can barely remember conciously noticing so many eyeline matches in a film. This moves questions of subjectivity, of mystery again, and the overall thematics of the film.
Dreyer's actual graphics are often mildly, not radically, decentered. Within his shots, Dreyer still finds time for his close-ups, the still, wonderfully naturalistic, compelx skin shades that he was famous for. Let us notice the shadows too; the flesh, the substantial is again not there, we only have the strange trace, but this takes on an autonomy and life of its own. As too do the clear black sillouhettes, so simple, but at the same time taking on a bizarre difference from their surroundings.
The sound further enhances the deliberate decentered nature, the creep outside the camera. The sound, the dialogue when we can't see the speaker, is precicely this.
The exterior shots are most reminscent of other Dreyer work, notably 'Day Of Wrath'. The soft, bright, perhaps overexposed, with presumably gauzes, long shots of people going through scrtachy long grass, diffused lighting twinkling sleepily from every point.
The acting, indeed every element, adds to this theme; another example of form following content. The actors appear purposeful, but we have no idea why. They do strange things, the world does strange things. The candles are lit in the daytime, and seem to give off no light.
This film operates with outside and inside, the house itself a coffin. We don't just look through glass in that one famous sequence; but also throughout, at Gray at the start, and often in the background. Stark, but rich.
Dreyer's camera movements are remarkable; tiny little, slightly jerky ones, with a remakably free camera (it feels almost 'Regle Du Jeu; like at times...) pushing us around. We seem to never have a full establishing shot, so people, or even just hands, pop into the frame out of nowhere. The lighting is also distinct; with a, for significant parts, without dominant key lights. In fact, the head is sometimes the darkest part of the room. The space of the film surely can't quite make sense; we don't get jump cuts, but I am sure that the geography doesn't quite work. It is too elliptical... and perfect for the film. The confusion is what takes place off screen, something is happened, not quite right.
I can barely remember conciously noticing so many eyeline matches in a film. This moves questions of subjectivity, of mystery again, and the overall thematics of the film.
Dreyer's actual graphics are often mildly, not radically, decentered. Within his shots, Dreyer still finds time for his close-ups, the still, wonderfully naturalistic, compelx skin shades that he was famous for. Let us notice the shadows too; the flesh, the substantial is again not there, we only have the strange trace, but this takes on an autonomy and life of its own. As too do the clear black sillouhettes, so simple, but at the same time taking on a bizarre difference from their surroundings.
The sound further enhances the deliberate decentered nature, the creep outside the camera. The sound, the dialogue when we can't see the speaker, is precicely this.
The exterior shots are most reminscent of other Dreyer work, notably 'Day Of Wrath'. The soft, bright, perhaps overexposed, with presumably gauzes, long shots of people going through scrtachy long grass, diffused lighting twinkling sleepily from every point.
The acting, indeed every element, adds to this theme; another example of form following content. The actors appear purposeful, but we have no idea why. They do strange things, the world does strange things. The candles are lit in the daytime, and seem to give off no light.
This film operates with outside and inside, the house itself a coffin. We don't just look through glass in that one famous sequence; but also throughout, at Gray at the start, and often in the background. Stark, but rich.
Monday 23 May 2011
Kwaidan
Masaki Kobayashi, 1964,
This visually wondrous film is shot in Tohoscope, and uses this among other particularly distinctive devices. In long shots (though it moves more into close work) we have wonderful floating tracks, along and often in, though sometimes out. In fact this entire film has a sort of floating, slow, deliberate but elegant quality to it. A high angle is often used, often about 12 feet high, though mixing it up. The blocking of the actors often works in diagonals to get the most out of this.
The characters seem to float around, as though in water, the lack of sharp movement enhanced by the body-covering costumes. I cannot remember a film to the extent that the air seems to be filmed; it is thick, it is in the weather, the wind, objects being blown, how the action wades through it.
One of the most impressive things about this film is how the various devices used serve a common purpose, this kind of 'floating' that is formally and thematically the film. It can be noticed in the lighting, which is high key, with barely a moment when any part of the set is utterly obscured by shadows. It looks, and is surely intended to, very much like a studio, a fake world where these episodes play out. It is the usual rule; head-on key-lights are creepy, and this film is uncanny.
The colours further enhance this. Started by the wonderful, nonrealistic paintings of the backdrops, we have heavy saturation, even for the dull colours, in tightly worked out colour schemes, with a maximum number of colours at each moment. These are strong and clear. We move from sun, to snow, to autumn, to rain, through night, through fog, and all around. The remarkable mis-en-scene can change in a cut, or even mid-take, the lighting and make-up changing dramatically, in a way that is startling, but also slightly fateful; this film is much too slow burning to try to make you jump.
Indeed, the sound is wonderfully used to further all the above elements. With the normal sounds as sharp music or screen noises, always crisp, no unnecessary covering background, in the moments of faster movement or stronger action the notion of direct sound completely goes; presumably to add to this 'floatiness', the translucent depth, I keep harping on about. As near silence, or stylised slow tones warm us, the action becomes very different, the man in pain looks different. The voiceover contributes to this. As well as set-up, it lets us know, in its authoritative way, that here we see tales, and distances us, making us consider and be not quite sure of which world we enter. Also notice how evaluative judgements are made by the voiceover on the action.
Thematically, each of the four episodes is circular, ending where it began. There are clear connections across them, in individual objects (sandals, writing) and in themes (trust, a betrayed love). We have here the indeterminability and indefatigability of the past; its capacity to creep up and deconstruct the present; the ghosts of this film are always there. Visually compelling, with indivdual sequences and scenes of great originality, power and beauty.
This visually wondrous film is shot in Tohoscope, and uses this among other particularly distinctive devices. In long shots (though it moves more into close work) we have wonderful floating tracks, along and often in, though sometimes out. In fact this entire film has a sort of floating, slow, deliberate but elegant quality to it. A high angle is often used, often about 12 feet high, though mixing it up. The blocking of the actors often works in diagonals to get the most out of this.
The characters seem to float around, as though in water, the lack of sharp movement enhanced by the body-covering costumes. I cannot remember a film to the extent that the air seems to be filmed; it is thick, it is in the weather, the wind, objects being blown, how the action wades through it.
One of the most impressive things about this film is how the various devices used serve a common purpose, this kind of 'floating' that is formally and thematically the film. It can be noticed in the lighting, which is high key, with barely a moment when any part of the set is utterly obscured by shadows. It looks, and is surely intended to, very much like a studio, a fake world where these episodes play out. It is the usual rule; head-on key-lights are creepy, and this film is uncanny.
The colours further enhance this. Started by the wonderful, nonrealistic paintings of the backdrops, we have heavy saturation, even for the dull colours, in tightly worked out colour schemes, with a maximum number of colours at each moment. These are strong and clear. We move from sun, to snow, to autumn, to rain, through night, through fog, and all around. The remarkable mis-en-scene can change in a cut, or even mid-take, the lighting and make-up changing dramatically, in a way that is startling, but also slightly fateful; this film is much too slow burning to try to make you jump.
Indeed, the sound is wonderfully used to further all the above elements. With the normal sounds as sharp music or screen noises, always crisp, no unnecessary covering background, in the moments of faster movement or stronger action the notion of direct sound completely goes; presumably to add to this 'floatiness', the translucent depth, I keep harping on about. As near silence, or stylised slow tones warm us, the action becomes very different, the man in pain looks different. The voiceover contributes to this. As well as set-up, it lets us know, in its authoritative way, that here we see tales, and distances us, making us consider and be not quite sure of which world we enter. Also notice how evaluative judgements are made by the voiceover on the action.
Thematically, each of the four episodes is circular, ending where it began. There are clear connections across them, in individual objects (sandals, writing) and in themes (trust, a betrayed love). We have here the indeterminability and indefatigability of the past; its capacity to creep up and deconstruct the present; the ghosts of this film are always there. Visually compelling, with indivdual sequences and scenes of great originality, power and beauty.
Twenty-Four Eyes
Keisuke Kinoshita, 1954
Kinoshita favours the very long shot with his largely still frame, even the very very long (whole mountains), to really establish a place. This is different from establishing a space; he usually doesn't cut around enough to need to do that. His establishing shots rather let us into the locale, the enviroment, the rythms of the place. His dissolves, not necessarilly elliptically, in between these long shots at the start. When it comes to the human scenes, we often have full body, single shots. There is no urgent need to cut in, and often he does without this entirely. When he does cut in, it is to close-ups, often from a low angle, and is usually of the children.
The lack of backlighting means the characters don't have halos, so snuggle into rather than pop out of the environment. A typical shot is often straight on, looking from one room to the next, with screen doors just peeking in on either side of the frame, to act as another frame. Often behind there are doors or windows, though rarely are these used as dramatic space. Oddly, he does uses depth for dramatic purposes (relating situations on both planes), but that is usually outside the house.
This is a drama of situation, most importantly. There are not motivations, excpet the want to live, but all dramatic actions takes place as a result of outside forces, those beyond the screen's control. Perhaps most notably, these forces are nearly entirely unseen. What would be the dramatic moments in most cinema simply doesn't happen on screen here; it is referred to after the event (a common, almost cliched trope of classical Japanese cinema, but correct here). With the drama of the locale, the children form an almost collective subject, not exhaustively indiduated. Even the teacher is quite a distance from us for long periods, despite a couple of priveliged glimpses into her subjectivity (and one into the children's, too be fair).
This film is clearly trying to redeem something, to rpject a certain image. There is the resistance to authority, which we don't see as violent, but as rather stifling, stupefying conformity. All the systems of control are really chucked in here; capitalism, sexism, nationalist militarism, warmongering are all condemned here, perhaps as a result of this film's engagement with a very specific period in Japan's history.
The rather chaste nature of the film (it's a shock when the husband is lying next to his wife) gives way to melancholy that is certainly piled on, and surely affecting to a degree in what is indeed a superbly rendered classical film. It also clearly wants to say something, to blame one side rather than another. I'm not really qualified to comment, but it can't be that easy, can it?
Kinoshita favours the very long shot with his largely still frame, even the very very long (whole mountains), to really establish a place. This is different from establishing a space; he usually doesn't cut around enough to need to do that. His establishing shots rather let us into the locale, the enviroment, the rythms of the place. His dissolves, not necessarilly elliptically, in between these long shots at the start. When it comes to the human scenes, we often have full body, single shots. There is no urgent need to cut in, and often he does without this entirely. When he does cut in, it is to close-ups, often from a low angle, and is usually of the children.
The lack of backlighting means the characters don't have halos, so snuggle into rather than pop out of the environment. A typical shot is often straight on, looking from one room to the next, with screen doors just peeking in on either side of the frame, to act as another frame. Often behind there are doors or windows, though rarely are these used as dramatic space. Oddly, he does uses depth for dramatic purposes (relating situations on both planes), but that is usually outside the house.
This is a drama of situation, most importantly. There are not motivations, excpet the want to live, but all dramatic actions takes place as a result of outside forces, those beyond the screen's control. Perhaps most notably, these forces are nearly entirely unseen. What would be the dramatic moments in most cinema simply doesn't happen on screen here; it is referred to after the event (a common, almost cliched trope of classical Japanese cinema, but correct here). With the drama of the locale, the children form an almost collective subject, not exhaustively indiduated. Even the teacher is quite a distance from us for long periods, despite a couple of priveliged glimpses into her subjectivity (and one into the children's, too be fair).
This film is clearly trying to redeem something, to rpject a certain image. There is the resistance to authority, which we don't see as violent, but as rather stifling, stupefying conformity. All the systems of control are really chucked in here; capitalism, sexism, nationalist militarism, warmongering are all condemned here, perhaps as a result of this film's engagement with a very specific period in Japan's history.
The rather chaste nature of the film (it's a shock when the husband is lying next to his wife) gives way to melancholy that is certainly piled on, and surely affecting to a degree in what is indeed a superbly rendered classical film. It also clearly wants to say something, to blame one side rather than another. I'm not really qualified to comment, but it can't be that easy, can it?
Sunday 22 May 2011
Jeanne Dielman, Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles
Seminal work from Chantal Akerman, 1975
This is.... gosh. From the start we know what sign we are under; prositution is shown immeditely. Thus we have this to cloud the film, with frequent passages of no reference. The end does the same thing, something to set the whole film off against, but in reverse. Perhaps we always knew it was going to happen; the first scene had told us.
Akerman's takes, extremely long (though I wouldn't get too excited about this; much of the time it does cut without a huge fuss) seems at first to emphasise space, with Jeanne's head cut off, her leaving the room, the still camera. I would argue that this film does not have space first; it has character first. We do, after all, follow her around the house, pick her up rather than the son. The mis-en-scene of the everyday is subtly enhanced by the prison bars of the tiles and teatowels, just a little hint. The camera has a little, though not much depth, largely cancelled out by the lack of layering in the medium-height view. The editing is elliptical, quite radically so at times; of course, it is 3 days in three hours, which I suppose is quite slow, compared to some films....
Frontality is changed around here; some angles seem designed to promote it, though we also have quite a bit of the back of the head. The repeition of certain shots gives a poerful sense of recurrence; nothing has changed, each day after the other
This film really calls for the viewer. And what was I thinking? One comes to know her gait, and hugely admire her control, her stillness, her patience. Yet she remains thoroughly enigmatic; what is she thinking? Is she thinking? Is she having the kinds of thoughts I am having? The time that is allowed to pass seems to take us at once closer to her, but at the same time, we see more and more that we only have the surface. Sounds take on extra importance; in the near silence, a scratched world or the crumple of fabric contains a kind of cry. Or is this just our projection?
Akermam's primary position is, quite rightly, 'If she's going to damn well do it then we are going to damn well watch her'. Is the labour stupid? Perhaps it is, but we respect her hugely.
The vortex of the house is monstrous, it seems to suck the whole world up. The outside seems strange, unnatural. And what is that remarkable flashing and scrolling blue light. It's almost like a police surveillance unit. Jeanne seems to lose humanity, to drop away, she doesn't care about the baby, she is blank. But can we really talk about humanity, in this overpowering, terrible, yet pathetic life? The abstract idea of 'humanity' seems deeply insignificant.
Akerman has deeply drawn out the content; seemingly not a single formal feature exists except as arises naturally from the content. There is no showiness, no stylisation (to use Sontag's terms). This is, I suppose, when cinema is art; when it is different from other artforms, not adhering to painterly traditions, say, but its form arising from its content, if that distinction really makes any sense.
A remarkable scene develops, first noticed as Jeanne peels potatoes. An expectation, a wish, in the audience (for me at least) has been created for montomy. We don't want her life to change; we want her to keep doing exactly what she has, not change, get angry, make her life livable, becuase it's not what we know. This is a truly remarkable narrative move, making precisely the opposite of the traditonal viewer response occur.
Is she devoted? Is she insane? The ending is at once inevtiable, and a deep shock. We know what we've been seeing, we can't be surprised, we can assent to it all we like, but have we really accepted it? Powerful, to correctly use a usually debased word, 'sublime'.
This is.... gosh. From the start we know what sign we are under; prositution is shown immeditely. Thus we have this to cloud the film, with frequent passages of no reference. The end does the same thing, something to set the whole film off against, but in reverse. Perhaps we always knew it was going to happen; the first scene had told us.
Akerman's takes, extremely long (though I wouldn't get too excited about this; much of the time it does cut without a huge fuss) seems at first to emphasise space, with Jeanne's head cut off, her leaving the room, the still camera. I would argue that this film does not have space first; it has character first. We do, after all, follow her around the house, pick her up rather than the son. The mis-en-scene of the everyday is subtly enhanced by the prison bars of the tiles and teatowels, just a little hint. The camera has a little, though not much depth, largely cancelled out by the lack of layering in the medium-height view. The editing is elliptical, quite radically so at times; of course, it is 3 days in three hours, which I suppose is quite slow, compared to some films....
Frontality is changed around here; some angles seem designed to promote it, though we also have quite a bit of the back of the head. The repeition of certain shots gives a poerful sense of recurrence; nothing has changed, each day after the other
This film really calls for the viewer. And what was I thinking? One comes to know her gait, and hugely admire her control, her stillness, her patience. Yet she remains thoroughly enigmatic; what is she thinking? Is she thinking? Is she having the kinds of thoughts I am having? The time that is allowed to pass seems to take us at once closer to her, but at the same time, we see more and more that we only have the surface. Sounds take on extra importance; in the near silence, a scratched world or the crumple of fabric contains a kind of cry. Or is this just our projection?
Akermam's primary position is, quite rightly, 'If she's going to damn well do it then we are going to damn well watch her'. Is the labour stupid? Perhaps it is, but we respect her hugely.
The vortex of the house is monstrous, it seems to suck the whole world up. The outside seems strange, unnatural. And what is that remarkable flashing and scrolling blue light. It's almost like a police surveillance unit. Jeanne seems to lose humanity, to drop away, she doesn't care about the baby, she is blank. But can we really talk about humanity, in this overpowering, terrible, yet pathetic life? The abstract idea of 'humanity' seems deeply insignificant.
Akerman has deeply drawn out the content; seemingly not a single formal feature exists except as arises naturally from the content. There is no showiness, no stylisation (to use Sontag's terms). This is, I suppose, when cinema is art; when it is different from other artforms, not adhering to painterly traditions, say, but its form arising from its content, if that distinction really makes any sense.
A remarkable scene develops, first noticed as Jeanne peels potatoes. An expectation, a wish, in the audience (for me at least) has been created for montomy. We don't want her life to change; we want her to keep doing exactly what she has, not change, get angry, make her life livable, becuase it's not what we know. This is a truly remarkable narrative move, making precisely the opposite of the traditonal viewer response occur.
Is she devoted? Is she insane? The ending is at once inevtiable, and a deep shock. We know what we've been seeing, we can't be surprised, we can assent to it all we like, but have we really accepted it? Powerful, to correctly use a usually debased word, 'sublime'.
Drifters
John Grierson's 1929 documentary
We have constant movement; if not of the camera, then of the action on screen. We complain now about headaches from movement, but there's an equal degree of seasickness here. This idea, the constant flux, is further enhanced by the cutting about and the dissolves. The objects focussed in on are as though alive in this constant stream.
The monatge is thematic, almost associative at times, strangely enhanced by one series at the end where the throughout impeccable spatial continuity seems to be broken.
Grierson creates a narrative, with the posit of an omniscient camera, going to the sea, flying to the air, seeing the men get dressed in the morning without their being any self-awareness (though I doubt they really stand close enough usually to be in one frame). The camera can be, and seemingly is, everywhere.
We have constant movement; if not of the camera, then of the action on screen. We complain now about headaches from movement, but there's an equal degree of seasickness here. This idea, the constant flux, is further enhanced by the cutting about and the dissolves. The objects focussed in on are as though alive in this constant stream.
The monatge is thematic, almost associative at times, strangely enhanced by one series at the end where the throughout impeccable spatial continuity seems to be broken.
Grierson creates a narrative, with the posit of an omniscient camera, going to the sea, flying to the air, seeing the men get dressed in the morning without their being any self-awareness (though I doubt they really stand close enough usually to be in one frame). The camera can be, and seemingly is, everywhere.
Je Tu Il Elle
Chantal Akerman, 1975
Akerman doesn't overload her images, indeed her still camera (with a few exceptions) demands attention in as much as their is, in a flashing lights way, not a huge amount to see. That means that, what there is, one must truly consider. Her straight-on shots are full of verticals and horizontals, holding relations to the figure(s), often by imitating that images angle, though also on occassion opposing it. These verticals and horizontals mark the degrees of shade in Akerman's wonderfully photographed black and white; on a straightforward level, she has a spectacular eye for the image and lighting conditions.
The fade-outs turn out not to be fade-outs, and this picture really takes you into its time-frame; it is rythmic in a way where nothing outside of the change and stillness of the images really exists. The dialogue comes across as extremely 'pure' here, perhaps due to the lack of interference. Their is a strange autonomy to the sound, even out of character's mouths, enhanced in the earlier sections where actions follow their exact description in voiceover.
Akermnan's long takes seem more about the 'integrity' (if that is the right word) of the locale than of the image per se. For all the individual and challenging formal elements, this isn't the work of a formalist; it's all content, and beautiful at that.
Akerman doesn't overload her images, indeed her still camera (with a few exceptions) demands attention in as much as their is, in a flashing lights way, not a huge amount to see. That means that, what there is, one must truly consider. Her straight-on shots are full of verticals and horizontals, holding relations to the figure(s), often by imitating that images angle, though also on occassion opposing it. These verticals and horizontals mark the degrees of shade in Akerman's wonderfully photographed black and white; on a straightforward level, she has a spectacular eye for the image and lighting conditions.
The fade-outs turn out not to be fade-outs, and this picture really takes you into its time-frame; it is rythmic in a way where nothing outside of the change and stillness of the images really exists. The dialogue comes across as extremely 'pure' here, perhaps due to the lack of interference. Their is a strange autonomy to the sound, even out of character's mouths, enhanced in the earlier sections where actions follow their exact description in voiceover.
Akermnan's long takes seem more about the 'integrity' (if that is the right word) of the locale than of the image per se. For all the individual and challenging formal elements, this isn't the work of a formalist; it's all content, and beautiful at that.
Saturday 21 May 2011
Clean
Olivier Assayas, 2004
This film is typically Assayas, note perhaps a slight leverage to focus on straightforward 'beauty', landscapes. Also perhaps slightly more muted long shots, as suitable for the film's tone. Not that his images aren't always excellently composed. The landscapes are industrial, dull with harsh electronic lights, metal, plastic, glass, grey with bursts of red or blue or anything else still shocking, but absorbed in what is around it. Assayas often shoots at night (or in harsh daylight), and some of the scenes I found here most distinctive were in a kind of half-dark, certainly street lamps on, but not pitch black sky.
Music is clearly important for Assayas, and, when we have examples like some of the electronics in 'demonlover', can really do something with the image. Perhaps, though, it too often can feel more like an appendage, at worst a touch mawkish.
On paper, this is a slightly lame story, and does threaten to fall over at times (some cast memeber's acting seems a bit melodramtic, or just downright odd), and there's a slight lack of self-awareness. Yet Assayas Gives such a look, full of the ephemera, the busrts of colour (literally and rythm-wise), of the modern that it always rises far above. Assayas shades with so many tones; of emotion, of character, nothing is simple, yet there is a kinf of clearness. Each character is shown in context, in sympathy, on their comfortable grounds, and away. We don't realise that any one point is in a line inteersecting with every other, die to the interest alone on each strand, but they are.
Motivation is really not the game for Assayas; characters, in his full and busy (quite literally; the transport hubs, the impersonal streets full of people) cities, are just deperately trying to live. The physical affects, alienated, cries for self-preservation. Apart from perhaps Kiarostami, I'm not sure I know a director who can tell a Western European more about what it feels like to live, in a realist manner, away from the artworld, right now.
This film is typically Assayas, note perhaps a slight leverage to focus on straightforward 'beauty', landscapes. Also perhaps slightly more muted long shots, as suitable for the film's tone. Not that his images aren't always excellently composed. The landscapes are industrial, dull with harsh electronic lights, metal, plastic, glass, grey with bursts of red or blue or anything else still shocking, but absorbed in what is around it. Assayas often shoots at night (or in harsh daylight), and some of the scenes I found here most distinctive were in a kind of half-dark, certainly street lamps on, but not pitch black sky.
Music is clearly important for Assayas, and, when we have examples like some of the electronics in 'demonlover', can really do something with the image. Perhaps, though, it too often can feel more like an appendage, at worst a touch mawkish.
On paper, this is a slightly lame story, and does threaten to fall over at times (some cast memeber's acting seems a bit melodramtic, or just downright odd), and there's a slight lack of self-awareness. Yet Assayas Gives such a look, full of the ephemera, the busrts of colour (literally and rythm-wise), of the modern that it always rises far above. Assayas shades with so many tones; of emotion, of character, nothing is simple, yet there is a kinf of clearness. Each character is shown in context, in sympathy, on their comfortable grounds, and away. We don't realise that any one point is in a line inteersecting with every other, die to the interest alone on each strand, but they are.
Motivation is really not the game for Assayas; characters, in his full and busy (quite literally; the transport hubs, the impersonal streets full of people) cities, are just deperately trying to live. The physical affects, alienated, cries for self-preservation. Apart from perhaps Kiarostami, I'm not sure I know a director who can tell a Western European more about what it feels like to live, in a realist manner, away from the artworld, right now.
demonlover
Olivier Assayas, 2002
We have Assayas’ usual floating camera, breaking every now and again for SRS. It goes in and out, often close, floating quickly forward to frame, then missing something, then coming back. It is rarely overtly obtrusive, but always there, a signature style. Their are long takes, much much longer than with most handhelds; but Assayas in the scheme of things still cuts pretty quickly, often unnoticeably because it is in the middle of a movement. There is in fact quite a lot of elliptical editing, but the quite deliberate confusion of the moving frame can make this difficult to detect.
This film really struck us, it is a view of the world; to try and thematise it, we could talk about perceptions, affects, almost free-floating. This means colours, blocks of colours, as well as sounds, disconnected but material, striking us. They arent chucked at the viewer, but their, always their, always dispersed among others. Levels of saturation and contrast change between scenes, almost within scenes. The content is the style, a kind of airtight world, where at once everything breathes, is natural in that sense but is really plastic, artificial; it is a lived in world, an our world, in the twenty-first century. Is this what's left of nature?
It's difficult to talk about the content really. Here are some thoughts I had, passing through my mind; Assayas mixing art and commerce, the former soiled, but it's not that simple. Nothing is. Assayas comes back time and again to translation, communication, people who don't want to be together stuck together, passing on things that get caught in between. There is the mix of obscenity, violence, turning to paranoia, with an innocence (the babysitter!), nothing can be too serious, yet it is. This is a thriller, but there's no real abstraction, no distance kept; that would be impossible, when everyone is already distanced, watching themsleves being told who they are, trying to be someone else when non one can really be anything.
I'm not sure I agree with every move Assayas makes, if it's the 'right' one, but this film is really quite stunning, shocking. There are so few films I've seen that seem like they were made... now.
There's an interesting question as to how commercial this film is. Assayas' style and topic seem to fit modern norms of popularity (fast, twisty, obscene, joggly camera, anti-aesthetic at times), but is this a coincidence more than anything? Frankly, the plot is completely baffling, but this is important... but why?
As an idea of the dark heart' of suburbia, I have to say the end is a lot more concrete and, for me, powerful, than Lynch's abstract fantasies, though Assayas does not, and does not try to, have the nearly classical framing etc that Lynch has. I couldn't call it beauty (though there is undoubtedly some in the images). This seems more like an investigation of perception, of what it's like to live now. In that sense, it's Godard influenced, all the more so as, forty years after the period of Godard I'm thinking of, it looks so different (the world has changed). This film is experienced; and as quite something.
We have Assayas’ usual floating camera, breaking every now and again for SRS. It goes in and out, often close, floating quickly forward to frame, then missing something, then coming back. It is rarely overtly obtrusive, but always there, a signature style. Their are long takes, much much longer than with most handhelds; but Assayas in the scheme of things still cuts pretty quickly, often unnoticeably because it is in the middle of a movement. There is in fact quite a lot of elliptical editing, but the quite deliberate confusion of the moving frame can make this difficult to detect.
This film really struck us, it is a view of the world; to try and thematise it, we could talk about perceptions, affects, almost free-floating. This means colours, blocks of colours, as well as sounds, disconnected but material, striking us. They arent chucked at the viewer, but their, always their, always dispersed among others. Levels of saturation and contrast change between scenes, almost within scenes. The content is the style, a kind of airtight world, where at once everything breathes, is natural in that sense but is really plastic, artificial; it is a lived in world, an our world, in the twenty-first century. Is this what's left of nature?
It's difficult to talk about the content really. Here are some thoughts I had, passing through my mind; Assayas mixing art and commerce, the former soiled, but it's not that simple. Nothing is. Assayas comes back time and again to translation, communication, people who don't want to be together stuck together, passing on things that get caught in between. There is the mix of obscenity, violence, turning to paranoia, with an innocence (the babysitter!), nothing can be too serious, yet it is. This is a thriller, but there's no real abstraction, no distance kept; that would be impossible, when everyone is already distanced, watching themsleves being told who they are, trying to be someone else when non one can really be anything.
I'm not sure I agree with every move Assayas makes, if it's the 'right' one, but this film is really quite stunning, shocking. There are so few films I've seen that seem like they were made... now.
There's an interesting question as to how commercial this film is. Assayas' style and topic seem to fit modern norms of popularity (fast, twisty, obscene, joggly camera, anti-aesthetic at times), but is this a coincidence more than anything? Frankly, the plot is completely baffling, but this is important... but why?
As an idea of the dark heart' of suburbia, I have to say the end is a lot more concrete and, for me, powerful, than Lynch's abstract fantasies, though Assayas does not, and does not try to, have the nearly classical framing etc that Lynch has. I couldn't call it beauty (though there is undoubtedly some in the images). This seems more like an investigation of perception, of what it's like to live now. In that sense, it's Godard influenced, all the more so as, forty years after the period of Godard I'm thinking of, it looks so different (the world has changed). This film is experienced; and as quite something.
Peau d'Ane
One of a kind Jaques Demy film, starring Deneuve, adapted from a Perrault tale. 1970.
Colours! Costumes! Lights! Helicopters? It is difficult what to know what to make of the animals (Franju? Cocteau in various ways), the painted horses and faces. Surrealism? Not really. More like fantasy, obviously deeply Freudian, on at least the surface. Or 'just' a fairytale, which is always more, but don't look too hard. It all looks esecially weird beacuse the sets aren't actually too grand; there's not a ceiling in site.
Any easy free camera keeps well back to give us full bodies in the costumes, and a good look at the surrounding mis-en-scene. We also keep a distance from Deneuve, lit softly, as she too changes surprising us in being human. The two very different stories here are the gamut of the fairytale.
Demy makes both sides, in his attempt, of the Melies/ Lumiere distinction. The ordinary in the extraordinary, the extraordinary in the ordinary. One is still rather uncertain what on earth he is up to, if he is up to anything.
Colours! Costumes! Lights! Helicopters? It is difficult what to know what to make of the animals (Franju? Cocteau in various ways), the painted horses and faces. Surrealism? Not really. More like fantasy, obviously deeply Freudian, on at least the surface. Or 'just' a fairytale, which is always more, but don't look too hard. It all looks esecially weird beacuse the sets aren't actually too grand; there's not a ceiling in site.
Any easy free camera keeps well back to give us full bodies in the costumes, and a good look at the surrounding mis-en-scene. We also keep a distance from Deneuve, lit softly, as she too changes surprising us in being human. The two very different stories here are the gamut of the fairytale.
Demy makes both sides, in his attempt, of the Melies/ Lumiere distinction. The ordinary in the extraordinary, the extraordinary in the ordinary. One is still rather uncertain what on earth he is up to, if he is up to anything.
Lola
Jaques Demy, 1960
We have Demy's usual wide, widescreen shots, arcing crane shots and pans. The camera moves around easily, occasionally speedily under the ever brilliant freedom of Raoul Coutard, here harnessed to a large but graceful sensiblity.
Demy mixes in 2's and 3's with singles, suiting the editing and precise framing for the dramatic mood. Coutard also overexposes the film, with powerful effects of light through windows. There is a fine moment when there is a change of place at the table solely to give us some great dramatic backlighting, a sillouhette.
With the music and camera we have a smooth flow of plot and development, with non-diegtic breaks into dances, and diversions from the plot in little conversations and references here and there. There isn't a plot so much established; there are few goals or motivations for a while, and we don't have a key piece of dramatic information until half way through. After that it does sort itself out, with deadlines.
Demy's world is dramatic and small, chaarcters meeting by 'chance', and being in the same locations. With classical stautues around, he gives grace and dignity to lives and stories often portrayed grimly.
My favourite aspect of this film was the casual mention of gangsters, the other world, of the movies, that is there. This ties in with the end, where melodrama and absurdity reference the movies, that classic Hollywood fiction. It would nearly wonder if Demy had not realised he had been subverting this all along; and then we have the last shot, a small piece of pathos, powerful for its miniscule nature.
We have Demy's usual wide, widescreen shots, arcing crane shots and pans. The camera moves around easily, occasionally speedily under the ever brilliant freedom of Raoul Coutard, here harnessed to a large but graceful sensiblity.
Demy mixes in 2's and 3's with singles, suiting the editing and precise framing for the dramatic mood. Coutard also overexposes the film, with powerful effects of light through windows. There is a fine moment when there is a change of place at the table solely to give us some great dramatic backlighting, a sillouhette.
With the music and camera we have a smooth flow of plot and development, with non-diegtic breaks into dances, and diversions from the plot in little conversations and references here and there. There isn't a plot so much established; there are few goals or motivations for a while, and we don't have a key piece of dramatic information until half way through. After that it does sort itself out, with deadlines.
Demy's world is dramatic and small, chaarcters meeting by 'chance', and being in the same locations. With classical stautues around, he gives grace and dignity to lives and stories often portrayed grimly.
My favourite aspect of this film was the casual mention of gangsters, the other world, of the movies, that is there. This ties in with the end, where melodrama and absurdity reference the movies, that classic Hollywood fiction. It would nearly wonder if Demy had not realised he had been subverting this all along; and then we have the last shot, a small piece of pathos, powerful for its miniscule nature.
Friday 20 May 2011
All These Women
Ingmar Bergman, 1964
Again, like the church of 'Winter Light', we have the geometric opening shot, which one could mistake for a theatre venue. Bergman's style is much like 'Winter Light', for a completely different subject; though his shots are longer, he still doesn't go for mastershots, and has a lot of close work. The visuals are on occassion lovely, with a nice firework sequence being unexpected; it even looked a bit Greenaway-ish, planametric compositions and all.
The sets here comes a quite a suprise; a sort of deliberately vulgar classicism, not overly fiddly but home of neat sclupture and clear colours. This gives it a very particular flavour, combined with the Clousseau-esque (though maybe the coat is meant to be Hulot-esque) pranks of the critic.
This is clearly Bergman playful (as he can be), self-reflexive (direct adress, intertitles, various winks and nods, literally), with low culture bursting through. The serious centre of high culture remains, though seen from the lowlands, rather than Bergman's usual seriousness. The attitude remians the same though; sincere reverence.
Bergman clearly wanted to have a go at critics while not being accused of being po-faced. There is a high degree of charicature, though usually rescued from the brink by Bergman's intuitive sensibility of when things are really becoming too dismal.
Again, like the church of 'Winter Light', we have the geometric opening shot, which one could mistake for a theatre venue. Bergman's style is much like 'Winter Light', for a completely different subject; though his shots are longer, he still doesn't go for mastershots, and has a lot of close work. The visuals are on occassion lovely, with a nice firework sequence being unexpected; it even looked a bit Greenaway-ish, planametric compositions and all.
The sets here comes a quite a suprise; a sort of deliberately vulgar classicism, not overly fiddly but home of neat sclupture and clear colours. This gives it a very particular flavour, combined with the Clousseau-esque (though maybe the coat is meant to be Hulot-esque) pranks of the critic.
This is clearly Bergman playful (as he can be), self-reflexive (direct adress, intertitles, various winks and nods, literally), with low culture bursting through. The serious centre of high culture remains, though seen from the lowlands, rather than Bergman's usual seriousness. The attitude remians the same though; sincere reverence.
Bergman clearly wanted to have a go at critics while not being accused of being po-faced. There is a high degree of charicature, though usually rescued from the brink by Bergman's intuitive sensibility of when things are really becoming too dismal.
Winter Light
Ingmar Bergman, 1963
Simple, economically directed power is of the essence here. We have geometrical framings of the church and faces (Ordet?), which gradually give way to more side on. Bergamn is indeed the artist of the close-up; he often builds his space from these framings, with the camera even creeping forward to get tighter. This is never disorientating though, due to Bergman's static frames and long takes. The lack of show, of frills, in the mis-en-scene also prevents our gaze being overwhelmed.
There is reasonable depth, with the interior scenes allowing a couple of planes of action. Indeed, many of the close-ups use a distorted wide angle with on the other half of the screen a more distant figure.
The cinematography is generally a beautiful dappling, allowing a great range in the band of its contrasts in the method perfected in 'Wild Strawberries'. Into this bursts occasional hard light. Nykvist's work is deeply beautiful, but always delicate and, again, simple.
Bergaman also deploys more specific devices; a reticence in the long takes, with backs of heads. The 'letter', breaking the diagesis with the audience directly confronted, is the most viscerally powerful moment, for me, of the affecting movie.
The sound also deserves a mention; it is remarkably ascetic, with hardly anything except the dialogue and the clock. The clock provides a steady rythm, then breaks into spurts and inconsitencies, marking the stages of the film.
From the establishing church, with its deliberately montomous pace, we have breakdowns and disruptions. Each 'episode', or location, is shot differently (inside close, outside long, letter head-on) that gives the general impression of no space being close to any other; no contiguity.
The spiritual themes of the film are marked out by these formal devices. The simple, ascetic mis-en-scene, stripped of the usual frills, is the home of not dramatic tragedy, but of a suffering that is not even 'important' enough, for each character, to be shown. This is about as downbeat as it gets, but it displays and intelligence and a formal precision that carry it.
Simple, economically directed power is of the essence here. We have geometrical framings of the church and faces (Ordet?), which gradually give way to more side on. Bergamn is indeed the artist of the close-up; he often builds his space from these framings, with the camera even creeping forward to get tighter. This is never disorientating though, due to Bergman's static frames and long takes. The lack of show, of frills, in the mis-en-scene also prevents our gaze being overwhelmed.
There is reasonable depth, with the interior scenes allowing a couple of planes of action. Indeed, many of the close-ups use a distorted wide angle with on the other half of the screen a more distant figure.
The cinematography is generally a beautiful dappling, allowing a great range in the band of its contrasts in the method perfected in 'Wild Strawberries'. Into this bursts occasional hard light. Nykvist's work is deeply beautiful, but always delicate and, again, simple.
Bergaman also deploys more specific devices; a reticence in the long takes, with backs of heads. The 'letter', breaking the diagesis with the audience directly confronted, is the most viscerally powerful moment, for me, of the affecting movie.
The sound also deserves a mention; it is remarkably ascetic, with hardly anything except the dialogue and the clock. The clock provides a steady rythm, then breaks into spurts and inconsitencies, marking the stages of the film.
From the establishing church, with its deliberately montomous pace, we have breakdowns and disruptions. Each 'episode', or location, is shot differently (inside close, outside long, letter head-on) that gives the general impression of no space being close to any other; no contiguity.
The spiritual themes of the film are marked out by these formal devices. The simple, ascetic mis-en-scene, stripped of the usual frills, is the home of not dramatic tragedy, but of a suffering that is not even 'important' enough, for each character, to be shown. This is about as downbeat as it gets, but it displays and intelligence and a formal precision that carry it.
Thursday 19 May 2011
Diary Of A Lost Girl
Pabst, with Brooks, again 1929
Since the six months ago 'Pandora's Box', Pabst has started moving his camera (but not compromising on his idiosyncratic framing). He incorporates his style with a good few tracks and some very fast pans. We also noted here how often in his SRS schema's Pabst breaks the line; though this isn't disorientating, as the usual stillness and over-the-shoulder bring in a lot of redundancy. The soft style is also occasionally mixed in with some harder depth.
Visually, the squares of colour are again evident, often blocks of all one shade. Pabst should also not be considered unexpressive; misty shadows, shapes and startling compostions are a feature of the heavily stylised institution Brooks ends up at.
Again, we have a speedy opening narrative and shot length-wise, which settles down, spurting again on a few occassions. All of this is within reasonably classical norms, excepting that Brooks is usually controlled from the outside, not motivating herself. She is chucked about constantly, though we wish their wasn't the subtext (which may be my fault) that she's to blame. Brooks again transforms constantly. She often has paler sotumes than the others (or all black), and really exposes out in these scenes.
We have deep eroticism and mania within the stuff, inclosed bourgeois interiors, indeed all the interiors and institutions (the freest is the brothel). This is editing through editing speed, move to closer shots, and some straight symbolism. The places are all either male or female dominated; no relation between the sexes seems possbile except sexually, and manically at that (indeed, one could say between anyone). Pabst's direction, and his characters, look deeply uncomfortable on the occasional move outside; Pabst's world is too eaxct, their is little contingency or the possbility of a cow wandering off.
This is at times a powerful scene; Pabst has some remarkable closse-ups, timed wonderfully, coming very, very close. I would argue it is better executed, while sharing much visually, than 'Pandora's Box'.
Since the six months ago 'Pandora's Box', Pabst has started moving his camera (but not compromising on his idiosyncratic framing). He incorporates his style with a good few tracks and some very fast pans. We also noted here how often in his SRS schema's Pabst breaks the line; though this isn't disorientating, as the usual stillness and over-the-shoulder bring in a lot of redundancy. The soft style is also occasionally mixed in with some harder depth.
Visually, the squares of colour are again evident, often blocks of all one shade. Pabst should also not be considered unexpressive; misty shadows, shapes and startling compostions are a feature of the heavily stylised institution Brooks ends up at.
Again, we have a speedy opening narrative and shot length-wise, which settles down, spurting again on a few occassions. All of this is within reasonably classical norms, excepting that Brooks is usually controlled from the outside, not motivating herself. She is chucked about constantly, though we wish their wasn't the subtext (which may be my fault) that she's to blame. Brooks again transforms constantly. She often has paler sotumes than the others (or all black), and really exposes out in these scenes.
We have deep eroticism and mania within the stuff, inclosed bourgeois interiors, indeed all the interiors and institutions (the freest is the brothel). This is editing through editing speed, move to closer shots, and some straight symbolism. The places are all either male or female dominated; no relation between the sexes seems possbile except sexually, and manically at that (indeed, one could say between anyone). Pabst's direction, and his characters, look deeply uncomfortable on the occasional move outside; Pabst's world is too eaxct, their is little contingency or the possbility of a cow wandering off.
This is at times a powerful scene; Pabst has some remarkable closse-ups, timed wonderfully, coming very, very close. I would argue it is better executed, while sharing much visually, than 'Pandora's Box'.
Pandora's Box
1929 G.W. Pabst film, starring Louise Brooks
What do I make, as an intial impression, of Pabst's direction? Lost of tightly framed one shots vut together fast, ranging from medium/close to extra close. These are switched with master shots, often inside out; building the space from eyeline matches within, only giving us the master at the end. There are frequently scenes of interaction where two are never in the same shot. Saying all this, it's not like their arene't some medium twos and threes. Notice that, with some exceptions, the camera is usually waist height or below.
Pabst's mis-en-scene looks remarkably exact. Their are very precise shapes, geometric verticals and horizontals. He films objects like this too. And movement of the frame is very much an exception. This gives rise to some fascinating framing decisions; movement leaves to arms disembodied, even heads cut off (Straub-Huillet like, nearly...). The people leave the camera, rather than the camera them. They are objects for the static camera, not really controlling it. This construction, when mirrored for a few wider takes, gives a nice impression of a world milling around, people easily leaving the frame in all directions.
As for the lighting, their is a lot of harilighting, a lot of backlighting too. The really noticeable thing is the softness of the lighting, partly from hazy focus. Their is also some kind of gauze or filter work; we have the classic 'soft-style' tinkle of whites. This I shall try to examine more closely. The question of rythm always seems important; apart from a basic long-short for tension or emphasis, I couldn't pick up any patterns, but Pabst or his editor seem, intuitively, to pick the right 'beat'. This rythm in a wider sense is evident from the very fast early plot giving rise to the story really slowing down, narrative wise especially, but also perhpas in shot length (full length shots also perhaps come more often).
Of course Brooks is special. The audience is even teased with this, short scenes always threatening to see her on stage, dressed in a new costume. The film at times seems constrcutued around getting views of her in as many different posses and costumes as possible, becoming nearly non-diegetic with some fooling around (and comedy). Of course the ideology is vile; it's about her as an object, to dance for and be pictured, but why has she got to be puniches like this. As the noir-smoke filled scenes of London come in, deep shadows, it becomes an obvious precursor. The other film we though of was 'The Blue Angel', thematically at least; though I have to say von Sternberg is, after this quick look, far and away our favourite; 'The Blue Angel' is composed, directed, narrated and thought out on quite a remarkable level...
Their is something slightly cartoonish about the set up, constant of Brooks' face, the interiors everywhere (for the first two hours their is seemingly no 'outside'). Pabst's direction looks quite American to my eyes; with Brooks and some framing decisions adding a significant amount. It is brutally unfair that this has to be compared with Murnau and Lang, thus suffer; but their you are, I know no better.
What do I make, as an intial impression, of Pabst's direction? Lost of tightly framed one shots vut together fast, ranging from medium/close to extra close. These are switched with master shots, often inside out; building the space from eyeline matches within, only giving us the master at the end. There are frequently scenes of interaction where two are never in the same shot. Saying all this, it's not like their arene't some medium twos and threes. Notice that, with some exceptions, the camera is usually waist height or below.
Pabst's mis-en-scene looks remarkably exact. Their are very precise shapes, geometric verticals and horizontals. He films objects like this too. And movement of the frame is very much an exception. This gives rise to some fascinating framing decisions; movement leaves to arms disembodied, even heads cut off (Straub-Huillet like, nearly...). The people leave the camera, rather than the camera them. They are objects for the static camera, not really controlling it. This construction, when mirrored for a few wider takes, gives a nice impression of a world milling around, people easily leaving the frame in all directions.
As for the lighting, their is a lot of harilighting, a lot of backlighting too. The really noticeable thing is the softness of the lighting, partly from hazy focus. Their is also some kind of gauze or filter work; we have the classic 'soft-style' tinkle of whites. This I shall try to examine more closely. The question of rythm always seems important; apart from a basic long-short for tension or emphasis, I couldn't pick up any patterns, but Pabst or his editor seem, intuitively, to pick the right 'beat'. This rythm in a wider sense is evident from the very fast early plot giving rise to the story really slowing down, narrative wise especially, but also perhpas in shot length (full length shots also perhaps come more often).
Of course Brooks is special. The audience is even teased with this, short scenes always threatening to see her on stage, dressed in a new costume. The film at times seems constrcutued around getting views of her in as many different posses and costumes as possible, becoming nearly non-diegetic with some fooling around (and comedy). Of course the ideology is vile; it's about her as an object, to dance for and be pictured, but why has she got to be puniches like this. As the noir-smoke filled scenes of London come in, deep shadows, it becomes an obvious precursor. The other film we though of was 'The Blue Angel', thematically at least; though I have to say von Sternberg is, after this quick look, far and away our favourite; 'The Blue Angel' is composed, directed, narrated and thought out on quite a remarkable level...
Their is something slightly cartoonish about the set up, constant of Brooks' face, the interiors everywhere (for the first two hours their is seemingly no 'outside'). Pabst's direction looks quite American to my eyes; with Brooks and some framing decisions adding a significant amount. It is brutally unfair that this has to be compared with Murnau and Lang, thus suffer; but their you are, I know no better.
Tuesday 17 May 2011
Rocco And His Brothers
Wide-ranging family epic from Luchino Visconti, 1960
A before, we have Visconti's wide, deep takes. There is a reticence to these, we do not cut in too often in the longe takes, though do change angle. The images are deep, complicated, full of contrasts. The cinematography is deeply, specially beautiful in this film; panoramas of a city with a wonderful soft transfer from Eureka, as always. The diffusion of the light, even in night scenes, means the blank walls themselves become part of a wonderfully judged, wide, mis-en-scene. As in 'Bellissima', as the film progresses, the emotions ramp up, the camera moves in, to close-ups, by the end. This movement of stages is not immediately noticeable, but fits the dynamic of the piece. One other interesting camera piece is the boxing scene9s); though largely kept still and from a distance, there is some movement in to some very modern, presumably handheld in some way, tight tracking.
Visconti's cinema, here and for us, is a nocelistic cinema. Here we have the nineteenth century realist novel of the family saga (though all close in time). Thomas Mann, who of course Visconti went on to make 'Death in Venice' from, springs to mind. Whay novelistic? The deep, rich stories of each brother, the crossing of points of view, the sheer time and scale of how we get to know each. This is done quite classically, with establishing, often a kind of love interest, develoment and twists, interconnections, climax, and truly epic series of stories coming together. Each series we have, like chapters in a novel, is quite a long one; there is hardly any crosscutting until the big climax (for thematic's sake) very near the end. Also notice the elipses that cover months, even years, between the chronologically contiguent chapters.
This thought of the great social novel is there in the themes, which here I can no more than indicate to. There are themes of class, of country and the city, an economic determinism in place again reminiscent of Mann. Again, it is hard not to go auterist and examine Visconti's attitude. We have the condemnation, anger, of the idiocy of some actions, and yet a deep, deep something, almost a veneration of Delon and other's pure goodness, at times. As in the great realist novels, there is a distance often absent from more subjective traditions. This film is really hugely ambitious in the themes it tackles, and it has universal aspirations (for my mind, largely achieved) for its analysis of a society, a generation even.
At a closer level, we have Delon and Giradot as two centres, who are allotted close-ups even at the start. Their beauty seems to suck the camera in. The case of Giradot in this film is fascinating. Again, I worry about Visconti's treatment; she seems to be seen through the eyes of the men almost exclusively, there is a nasty tendency to blame her, and the one act that is the toughest moment of this film is surely passed over with far too much ease. Giradot's performance and character seems though to burst out of this reduction; her laight, her charisma over the viewer's and the brothers, make her far more than she should, on paper, be. She is perhaps the most interesting character here; one wonders if Visconti could account for this.
The focus on the men though is the structuring element, and one slowly reads the aggression, the frustration, the moments of comreadeship, of these deeply complex and rendered creations. Their is a fatalism, with the shining sheer goodness, and the impossbility, that leads to at once tragedy and melodrama at the end. Not here the calm final sequence of 'The Leopard'. Visconti's scenes can look like the cliches of Italian cinema, but the underlying richness means they can't really be laughed at or dismissed. In thematic and narrative ambition, this film shoots for the moon. It achieves a world, and a deeply powerful one, with its fine images and warm characters.
A before, we have Visconti's wide, deep takes. There is a reticence to these, we do not cut in too often in the longe takes, though do change angle. The images are deep, complicated, full of contrasts. The cinematography is deeply, specially beautiful in this film; panoramas of a city with a wonderful soft transfer from Eureka, as always. The diffusion of the light, even in night scenes, means the blank walls themselves become part of a wonderfully judged, wide, mis-en-scene. As in 'Bellissima', as the film progresses, the emotions ramp up, the camera moves in, to close-ups, by the end. This movement of stages is not immediately noticeable, but fits the dynamic of the piece. One other interesting camera piece is the boxing scene9s); though largely kept still and from a distance, there is some movement in to some very modern, presumably handheld in some way, tight tracking.
Visconti's cinema, here and for us, is a nocelistic cinema. Here we have the nineteenth century realist novel of the family saga (though all close in time). Thomas Mann, who of course Visconti went on to make 'Death in Venice' from, springs to mind. Whay novelistic? The deep, rich stories of each brother, the crossing of points of view, the sheer time and scale of how we get to know each. This is done quite classically, with establishing, often a kind of love interest, develoment and twists, interconnections, climax, and truly epic series of stories coming together. Each series we have, like chapters in a novel, is quite a long one; there is hardly any crosscutting until the big climax (for thematic's sake) very near the end. Also notice the elipses that cover months, even years, between the chronologically contiguent chapters.
This thought of the great social novel is there in the themes, which here I can no more than indicate to. There are themes of class, of country and the city, an economic determinism in place again reminiscent of Mann. Again, it is hard not to go auterist and examine Visconti's attitude. We have the condemnation, anger, of the idiocy of some actions, and yet a deep, deep something, almost a veneration of Delon and other's pure goodness, at times. As in the great realist novels, there is a distance often absent from more subjective traditions. This film is really hugely ambitious in the themes it tackles, and it has universal aspirations (for my mind, largely achieved) for its analysis of a society, a generation even.
At a closer level, we have Delon and Giradot as two centres, who are allotted close-ups even at the start. Their beauty seems to suck the camera in. The case of Giradot in this film is fascinating. Again, I worry about Visconti's treatment; she seems to be seen through the eyes of the men almost exclusively, there is a nasty tendency to blame her, and the one act that is the toughest moment of this film is surely passed over with far too much ease. Giradot's performance and character seems though to burst out of this reduction; her laight, her charisma over the viewer's and the brothers, make her far more than she should, on paper, be. She is perhaps the most interesting character here; one wonders if Visconti could account for this.
The focus on the men though is the structuring element, and one slowly reads the aggression, the frustration, the moments of comreadeship, of these deeply complex and rendered creations. Their is a fatalism, with the shining sheer goodness, and the impossbility, that leads to at once tragedy and melodrama at the end. Not here the calm final sequence of 'The Leopard'. Visconti's scenes can look like the cliches of Italian cinema, but the underlying richness means they can't really be laughed at or dismissed. In thematic and narrative ambition, this film shoots for the moon. It achieves a world, and a deeply powerful one, with its fine images and warm characters.
Monday 16 May 2011
Bellissima
Luchino Visconti, 1951
Visconti has a wide mis-en-scene of complex and even complicated images. These long shots (full bodies), often long takes, have multiple areas active at once. The multiple points of interest mean that it isn't a necessity (in fact, relatively rare) to have a single figure centered; but the scene as a whole is centered, to balance off the various charatcers in the mis-en-scene all at once. The staging is also in depth, with the first plane often close to the camera, adding to the richness. The frame is still much of the time, but when it does move we have smooth, elegant pans. This style in fact becomes less and less explicit aas the film goes, and by the end we are getting quite close (as satire gives way to affect), even to almost close-ups, though the off-balance remains.
The plot quickly establishes the location, psychology, and goals. In fact, this piece is a pretty conventional establishment-development-climax, this is classical filmaking (with a key exception, top be mentioned. There is even a deadline at the end. The narratve develops slowly, bit by little bit, with lots of side scenes shading in character and locale. This film is clearly an offshoot of the neorealist tradition in setting and emotional valence.
What struck us most in this scene is the near constant dialogue kept up, largely by Magnani. She appears to be addressing the audience in a near constant narration on events, tiring and even annoying, quite deliberately, a little endearing too. The speech is fast, all are shouting over each other, and this film is about as hysterical, one could even say stereotypical of Italian matriarchs and domestic life, as one can get.
This turns to one factor, which is the initial worry, perhaps with some truth, that Visconti is mocking his characters and their class (also, why is editing a failure?). This isn't really correct; Viconti is really showing more of an ambivalence, which includes a negative look (which, sadly, strays into contemtpt occassionally) at certain aspects of his (presumably) people and culture. This may be a class analysis; Visconti holds this attitude towards the class. I must confess I was rather worried for a large proportion in the middle of this film. The woman are insane, while the men are either the caring father or the not overly condemned, though deeply cynical, studio underling.
What Visconti does though is turn this; deep sympathy is shown. This doesn't cancel out the earlier criticism, but it has to be seen as part of a wider story. The Sympathy for Magnani is acheived through some quite startling, and abrupt, character changes, which you would not see in the classical tradition. Magnani carries this off, and Visconti just about does, by it turning out that we have effectively had relevent information withheld (in a non-classical manner); 'The usual four slaps' is a startling, electric line. Magnani reveals herself in a new light, emotion streaks through our contempt, as we see the other side of the story (the screening room) we suddenly see Magnani in a new light (a great close-up with hard lighting, being so rare in this film extra powerful).
One can't, still, quite escape the idea that Visconti is still slightly ambivalent, unwilling to really embrace the Magnani character; the men can't really be that bad, the film almost says, the domestic violence is gestured at rather than investigated, and slightly washed over, which isn't very acceptable. We can see Visconti's struggle taking place on the screen, to give a real auterist reading.
The child, the high emotion, the opressed exploited, and the ending, along with the location, again demonstrate neo-realist roots. This is though not a neo-realist film; the attitude is more detached, analytical for all the hysteria (we look at, rather than feel, the atmosphere), and more personal.
Visconti has a wide mis-en-scene of complex and even complicated images. These long shots (full bodies), often long takes, have multiple areas active at once. The multiple points of interest mean that it isn't a necessity (in fact, relatively rare) to have a single figure centered; but the scene as a whole is centered, to balance off the various charatcers in the mis-en-scene all at once. The staging is also in depth, with the first plane often close to the camera, adding to the richness. The frame is still much of the time, but when it does move we have smooth, elegant pans. This style in fact becomes less and less explicit aas the film goes, and by the end we are getting quite close (as satire gives way to affect), even to almost close-ups, though the off-balance remains.
The plot quickly establishes the location, psychology, and goals. In fact, this piece is a pretty conventional establishment-development-climax, this is classical filmaking (with a key exception, top be mentioned. There is even a deadline at the end. The narratve develops slowly, bit by little bit, with lots of side scenes shading in character and locale. This film is clearly an offshoot of the neorealist tradition in setting and emotional valence.
What struck us most in this scene is the near constant dialogue kept up, largely by Magnani. She appears to be addressing the audience in a near constant narration on events, tiring and even annoying, quite deliberately, a little endearing too. The speech is fast, all are shouting over each other, and this film is about as hysterical, one could even say stereotypical of Italian matriarchs and domestic life, as one can get.
This turns to one factor, which is the initial worry, perhaps with some truth, that Visconti is mocking his characters and their class (also, why is editing a failure?). This isn't really correct; Viconti is really showing more of an ambivalence, which includes a negative look (which, sadly, strays into contemtpt occassionally) at certain aspects of his (presumably) people and culture. This may be a class analysis; Visconti holds this attitude towards the class. I must confess I was rather worried for a large proportion in the middle of this film. The woman are insane, while the men are either the caring father or the not overly condemned, though deeply cynical, studio underling.
What Visconti does though is turn this; deep sympathy is shown. This doesn't cancel out the earlier criticism, but it has to be seen as part of a wider story. The Sympathy for Magnani is acheived through some quite startling, and abrupt, character changes, which you would not see in the classical tradition. Magnani carries this off, and Visconti just about does, by it turning out that we have effectively had relevent information withheld (in a non-classical manner); 'The usual four slaps' is a startling, electric line. Magnani reveals herself in a new light, emotion streaks through our contempt, as we see the other side of the story (the screening room) we suddenly see Magnani in a new light (a great close-up with hard lighting, being so rare in this film extra powerful).
One can't, still, quite escape the idea that Visconti is still slightly ambivalent, unwilling to really embrace the Magnani character; the men can't really be that bad, the film almost says, the domestic violence is gestured at rather than investigated, and slightly washed over, which isn't very acceptable. We can see Visconti's struggle taking place on the screen, to give a real auterist reading.
The child, the high emotion, the opressed exploited, and the ending, along with the location, again demonstrate neo-realist roots. This is though not a neo-realist film; the attitude is more detached, analytical for all the hysteria (we look at, rather than feel, the atmosphere), and more personal.
Francesco, Giullare di Dio (Francis, God’s Jester)
Roberto Rossellini, 1950
It would be fair to say Rossellini made a film that was deliberately, visually, quite rough; beautiful, but with friction in the images, rejecting classical exact framings. The issue of space here is very interesting. We move between groups, speakers, who are separated. This separation is not done for SRS reasons (though it is SRS), but is a thematic choice, as shown by the seemingly deliberate lack of continuity in some of the back and forths. These, often high angles, mean our focus is on the image, that is the message, as we are forced to concentrate as we are (due to the non-continuity).
The story, as there is, of the film is fascinating. We have at the beginning and a little of the way in a voiceover, with subtitles the rest of the time, that pre-empt an action (though not the only action) of a scene, a practice obviously Brechtian, though it would be too simple to say Rossellini uses it for Brecht’s purposes. A parable structure? Not quite. Life is too complicated for that.
What we have are long episodes, the sections, broken down to lots of short actions in a contiguous space, following one another internally, but the episodes not really relating to each other otherwise. It would be fair to say this isn’t really narrative cinema, in any traditional way.
Rossellini works with the poles, to start with, of the ridiculous and of grace. But this is complicated. On one side we have the world of dirt, the rain and the mud. We have the ascetic stupidity, the petty organisation and world denial (politically, sensually) of the order, the pettiness (the dichotomy is really too simple to understand the complex; it is really a web rather than a dualism). We have idiocy, and what is key, the scene with the leper. The fools and the freaks, what St Francis could appear to the cynical viewer. The outcasts, the defamed. What they turn into, without losing their original character, is a kind of grace. Or at least a hope of salvation, represented of course in Francis. However much we hit, or test, they do not flinch, they come back. They are idiots. The understanding is that this cannot come without the dirt. Stuck in the metal armour (a remarkable, beautiful, itself clunky but also defamiliarising costume). There is undoubtedly also suggestions of a natural/ unnatural divide; the former contains the dirt and the truth.
For all these reasons, this film could be said to be simple, and it does have a simple/non-existent narrative, but it is not pious. In fact, whatever Rossellini may think, I wouldn’t call it simple; it shows truth, salvation, in its social and concrete complexity. In this way it differs from Bresson; the minimalist mis-en-scene, non-actors, and theme of salvation would otherwise conflate the two (there are parallels, but I would argue this is not Bressonian transcendence). This film is not pure, unless purity is always compromised, and dirty, caught in the mud and rain.
It would be fair to say Rossellini made a film that was deliberately, visually, quite rough; beautiful, but with friction in the images, rejecting classical exact framings. The issue of space here is very interesting. We move between groups, speakers, who are separated. This separation is not done for SRS reasons (though it is SRS), but is a thematic choice, as shown by the seemingly deliberate lack of continuity in some of the back and forths. These, often high angles, mean our focus is on the image, that is the message, as we are forced to concentrate as we are (due to the non-continuity).
The story, as there is, of the film is fascinating. We have at the beginning and a little of the way in a voiceover, with subtitles the rest of the time, that pre-empt an action (though not the only action) of a scene, a practice obviously Brechtian, though it would be too simple to say Rossellini uses it for Brecht’s purposes. A parable structure? Not quite. Life is too complicated for that.
What we have are long episodes, the sections, broken down to lots of short actions in a contiguous space, following one another internally, but the episodes not really relating to each other otherwise. It would be fair to say this isn’t really narrative cinema, in any traditional way.
Rossellini works with the poles, to start with, of the ridiculous and of grace. But this is complicated. On one side we have the world of dirt, the rain and the mud. We have the ascetic stupidity, the petty organisation and world denial (politically, sensually) of the order, the pettiness (the dichotomy is really too simple to understand the complex; it is really a web rather than a dualism). We have idiocy, and what is key, the scene with the leper. The fools and the freaks, what St Francis could appear to the cynical viewer. The outcasts, the defamed. What they turn into, without losing their original character, is a kind of grace. Or at least a hope of salvation, represented of course in Francis. However much we hit, or test, they do not flinch, they come back. They are idiots. The understanding is that this cannot come without the dirt. Stuck in the metal armour (a remarkable, beautiful, itself clunky but also defamiliarising costume). There is undoubtedly also suggestions of a natural/ unnatural divide; the former contains the dirt and the truth.
For all these reasons, this film could be said to be simple, and it does have a simple/non-existent narrative, but it is not pious. In fact, whatever Rossellini may think, I wouldn’t call it simple; it shows truth, salvation, in its social and concrete complexity. In this way it differs from Bresson; the minimalist mis-en-scene, non-actors, and theme of salvation would otherwise conflate the two (there are parallels, but I would argue this is not Bressonian transcendence). This film is not pure, unless purity is always compromised, and dirty, caught in the mud and rain.
Sunday 15 May 2011
Nightmare Alley
Pretty filthy noir, directed by Edmund Goulding and starring Tyrone Power. 1947.
We have our opening that establishes, clear as day, the location, the psychologies, and the mystery. The figure of the Geek is primed for us throughout, and it doesn't take a genius to work out what will inevitably happen.
The visual style, with some not excessive hard cross-lighting, is for generally tighter framings, tracking before pans, and long takes with a moving frame.
The interesting formal point here is the way the narrative develops. We have long scenes, with a quick hanging cause plotline usually put to bed near the start, and then it gets strange. Their is a development of another strand (this isn't every scene, but the middle ones), often supernatural, mindreading, fated, uncanny, that mysteriously folds out. And then we return, at the very end, to a more romantic/ straightforward line, that often, perhaps accounting for this film's slightly slow pace, ties something up rather than leaving it hanging to rush into the next scene. Note here that the supernatural development is really secondary to the more traditional narrative; it seems almost non-diegetic at times, coming, unconnected, from a different world, stuffed into a film that is really organised by more usual cause-effect.
The general effect is a deeplt uncomfortable one. Pretty much every character, especially Power, is repellent, disgusting, immoral in more than just a Hollywood way. The tricks they play, the downright nasty undermining and mockery (that is the really nasty part) makes one uncomfortable, as intended. It gives the film a strange air; perhaps heightened by the costumes, the mannish woman psychiatrist, the out of place feel of heaviness.
As we near the end the scenes connect more obviously, leaving the threads of one to be knotted in the next. The clearly absurd ending, rushed even before the very last surely deeply sarcastic 'happy ending' (we've seen that reform doesn't really happen...), which is perhaps the most obviously inadequate we can remember seeing. A dirty funeral march, an intriguing film.
We have our opening that establishes, clear as day, the location, the psychologies, and the mystery. The figure of the Geek is primed for us throughout, and it doesn't take a genius to work out what will inevitably happen.
The visual style, with some not excessive hard cross-lighting, is for generally tighter framings, tracking before pans, and long takes with a moving frame.
The interesting formal point here is the way the narrative develops. We have long scenes, with a quick hanging cause plotline usually put to bed near the start, and then it gets strange. Their is a development of another strand (this isn't every scene, but the middle ones), often supernatural, mindreading, fated, uncanny, that mysteriously folds out. And then we return, at the very end, to a more romantic/ straightforward line, that often, perhaps accounting for this film's slightly slow pace, ties something up rather than leaving it hanging to rush into the next scene. Note here that the supernatural development is really secondary to the more traditional narrative; it seems almost non-diegetic at times, coming, unconnected, from a different world, stuffed into a film that is really organised by more usual cause-effect.
The general effect is a deeplt uncomfortable one. Pretty much every character, especially Power, is repellent, disgusting, immoral in more than just a Hollywood way. The tricks they play, the downright nasty undermining and mockery (that is the really nasty part) makes one uncomfortable, as intended. It gives the film a strange air; perhaps heightened by the costumes, the mannish woman psychiatrist, the out of place feel of heaviness.
As we near the end the scenes connect more obviously, leaving the threads of one to be knotted in the next. The clearly absurd ending, rushed even before the very last surely deeply sarcastic 'happy ending' (we've seen that reform doesn't really happen...), which is perhaps the most obviously inadequate we can remember seeing. A dirty funeral march, an intriguing film.
Shoeshine
One of the great neo-realist pictures, De Sica, 1946
This is a classic neo-realist work; lots of medium and long shots with multiple characters, with long takes, in a simple direction and a simple, easy, development of space. It is throughout well lit. Notice that the direction does notably change once; the court scene uses close-ups with a lot of cutting. Technically, the most memorable scenes are the 'Rome, Open City' reminiscent shots of leaving the girl, and looking out of the back of the prison vehicle.
It is, as is neo-realism, the narrative, or lack of it, that really makes this what it is. The story is vague, changing. There are digressions; paths are picked off (horse leacing, returning), one scene takes on a different perspective (the warders look at the boys, not vice versa). The multiple lines opening chanllenge the traditional model of the clear linear narrative.
Remarkable too is the way the story is in no way guided, taken time through, by character motivation. Psychologies are not clear, or what they want they don't get. The scene where the police first enter is remarkable; from no volition of the characters, their world changes, with no preparation, no motivation. The story then (seems) to leave as quickly as it came; the tone abruptly shifts. Quite a moment. This sense of the arbitrary, the chance nature, is freeing, on the open city it is filmed in; a movie can be anything....
This engages in social critique, with the key message, perhaps, being 'Blame The Parents'. The sytem of brutalisation is, as de Sica so succesfully is able to do, through repetition immensely powerful (and with the charn, and the hair, of our very physically close leads. This is a sensual film. Note also the torture scene, so reminiscent of 'Open City', but with such a different result.
Neo-realism is a tragic genre, earning that right. The end could be construed as melodratic, sentimental (like 'Umberto D'), but, if this isn't untrue, it should be noted that de Sica adopts a certain uncanniness in the studio set and the horse, a strangeness, even a reticent return to a medium shot. One can do anything in the cinema.
This is a classic neo-realist work; lots of medium and long shots with multiple characters, with long takes, in a simple direction and a simple, easy, development of space. It is throughout well lit. Notice that the direction does notably change once; the court scene uses close-ups with a lot of cutting. Technically, the most memorable scenes are the 'Rome, Open City' reminiscent shots of leaving the girl, and looking out of the back of the prison vehicle.
It is, as is neo-realism, the narrative, or lack of it, that really makes this what it is. The story is vague, changing. There are digressions; paths are picked off (horse leacing, returning), one scene takes on a different perspective (the warders look at the boys, not vice versa). The multiple lines opening chanllenge the traditional model of the clear linear narrative.
Remarkable too is the way the story is in no way guided, taken time through, by character motivation. Psychologies are not clear, or what they want they don't get. The scene where the police first enter is remarkable; from no volition of the characters, their world changes, with no preparation, no motivation. The story then (seems) to leave as quickly as it came; the tone abruptly shifts. Quite a moment. This sense of the arbitrary, the chance nature, is freeing, on the open city it is filmed in; a movie can be anything....
This engages in social critique, with the key message, perhaps, being 'Blame The Parents'. The sytem of brutalisation is, as de Sica so succesfully is able to do, through repetition immensely powerful (and with the charn, and the hair, of our very physically close leads. This is a sensual film. Note also the torture scene, so reminiscent of 'Open City', but with such a different result.
Neo-realism is a tragic genre, earning that right. The end could be construed as melodratic, sentimental (like 'Umberto D'), but, if this isn't untrue, it should be noted that de Sica adopts a certain uncanniness in the studio set and the horse, a strangeness, even a reticent return to a medium shot. One can do anything in the cinema.
Saturday 14 May 2011
The Idiot
Akira Kurosawa's 1951 adaption of the Dostoevsky novel. It's a stunning film; every Kurosawa I watch seems to be better, his world extends. Also, for whatever reason I hold his modern films as highly as his generally more appreciated historical work.
Kurosawa uses deep framings and sharp depth photography. He packs characters into busy, tight, often low framings. Kurosawa moves between these with some quite shocking 180', and other non-continuity cuts. Each composition strikes us, one could also give a 'humanist' reading here; seeing things from both angles. The large compostions also mean that much of the 'action' takes place off-centre of the frames. There are often multiple characters in the busy mis-en-scene, Kurosawa's non-main characters who look on, who add something. It also allows wonderful possibilities for low-key acting. Also note that much of the SRS is enhanced continuity; those dynamic frames with heads tight on the onlookers (often back turned, even if their emotional is central) in the frame.
Kurosawa uses close-ups here more than usual. Often to start a scene then moving out, but also frequently after establishings, or just within scenes. He cuts in for emphasis, or generally for an affect. A wondeful rythm cutting between these extends time in scenes a quarter, 3 quarters, at the end (romantic), and the end of part one, to create Kurosawa's time.
So Kurosawa moves between these shots of high emotion, but rarely to never overdoes it; with crosscutting to the bar, to the crowd, suddenly restraining to a medium shot after a series of closes, breaks what could have been too much. This slow-fast rythm is that of the whole film. We have some long, incredibly complex scenes (in fact they're really multiple scenes in one location), then very quick flurries, with chaarcters almost hurrying to finish off what they're saying, get to the next point. These can even be scenes where in the classical narrative they would have major importancce; but Kurosawa is about the affect here.
These montages, the very beginning, the end of part one being the clearest examples, are fast cuts of expressive imagery that are simply stunning. There is movement in them, darkness, matchings on action across locations, time is compressed.
The acting deserves mention; Mori, the lead, has a wonderful clearness, directness without courseness, gentleness to his performance. His soft voice courses through his body. The real surprise is Setsuko Hara playing such a complicated, and dark, character. Almost Lady MacBeth like (i.e. Throne of Blood), her non-realist costume and intensity, a different acting style from the other performers, creates the aura required.
As far as the narrative, the non-suspense, as mentioned interest in affect before narrative, is also clear as the ending is given away at the start. This intrusion of narration doesn't yield a morality play, but there is a kind of fatefulness. The metronymic way that others' pettiness comes out, the impossible choice they give the 'Idiot', how they play with him. Is Kurosawa moralistic? Yes. Is he, ultimately, completely right? Yes.
Kurosawa uses deep framings and sharp depth photography. He packs characters into busy, tight, often low framings. Kurosawa moves between these with some quite shocking 180', and other non-continuity cuts. Each composition strikes us, one could also give a 'humanist' reading here; seeing things from both angles. The large compostions also mean that much of the 'action' takes place off-centre of the frames. There are often multiple characters in the busy mis-en-scene, Kurosawa's non-main characters who look on, who add something. It also allows wonderful possibilities for low-key acting. Also note that much of the SRS is enhanced continuity; those dynamic frames with heads tight on the onlookers (often back turned, even if their emotional is central) in the frame.
Kurosawa uses close-ups here more than usual. Often to start a scene then moving out, but also frequently after establishings, or just within scenes. He cuts in for emphasis, or generally for an affect. A wondeful rythm cutting between these extends time in scenes a quarter, 3 quarters, at the end (romantic), and the end of part one, to create Kurosawa's time.
So Kurosawa moves between these shots of high emotion, but rarely to never overdoes it; with crosscutting to the bar, to the crowd, suddenly restraining to a medium shot after a series of closes, breaks what could have been too much. This slow-fast rythm is that of the whole film. We have some long, incredibly complex scenes (in fact they're really multiple scenes in one location), then very quick flurries, with chaarcters almost hurrying to finish off what they're saying, get to the next point. These can even be scenes where in the classical narrative they would have major importancce; but Kurosawa is about the affect here.
These montages, the very beginning, the end of part one being the clearest examples, are fast cuts of expressive imagery that are simply stunning. There is movement in them, darkness, matchings on action across locations, time is compressed.
The acting deserves mention; Mori, the lead, has a wonderful clearness, directness without courseness, gentleness to his performance. His soft voice courses through his body. The real surprise is Setsuko Hara playing such a complicated, and dark, character. Almost Lady MacBeth like (i.e. Throne of Blood), her non-realist costume and intensity, a different acting style from the other performers, creates the aura required.
As far as the narrative, the non-suspense, as mentioned interest in affect before narrative, is also clear as the ending is given away at the start. This intrusion of narration doesn't yield a morality play, but there is a kind of fatefulness. The metronymic way that others' pettiness comes out, the impossible choice they give the 'Idiot', how they play with him. Is Kurosawa moralistic? Yes. Is he, ultimately, completely right? Yes.
The Wonderful, Horrible Life Of Leni Riefenstahl
1993 documentary from Ray Muller about the titular subject
To the form of the documentary; we have a montage, often of particularly stunning examples of Riefenstahl’s work, with quiet music, and of course interview footage and so on. There are track-ins to pieces, though nothing too overt. The one slight misstep is the announcing that it has no preconceptions; of course it does. It does though do its best; with a strong element of self-reflexivity, the process of the documentary is very much evident, with Muller on screen a decent amount. We can always question what is going on; the intention is not to hide. This film obviously focuses on the one, important aspect of Riefenstahl’s life, the movies, especially the 1930’s ones, in great detail. By omission, it achieves comprehension. It is a deeply impressive piece, asking the right questions.
The film starts off pretty clearly, and stays linear throughout, but it becomes obvious there are a number of levels. This is because Riefenstahl, as we see from the non-main camera footage, is a lot more than how she wants to present herself. It is suggested, with firm evidence, that she is in some way or another lying. The von Sternberg example seems particularly damning. This means the whole film is an effort of engagement by the viewer, to try and balance at once the insight Riefenstahl can offer, to not unthinkingly condemn, but to hold in deep, deep, suspicion, and often disgust.
Riefenstahl has some interesting things to say about her undoubted genius; especially on her musical editing of tones of colour, and the move to small climaxes, moments of attention. Composition and editing are her forte.
Frankly, how can we know what is or was in her head? She comes across as surely deeply naive, blind, but where do we reach the stage of ‘evil’. She will occasionally admit suddenly more than we expect; then a gross falsity. Her self-absorption is quite astonishing, more than just an obsession with art. Her views on art and politics are utterly vile and misguided.
Ultimately though, as is implied, the question remains; what do we want from her? It seems too late. But why won’t she say the words asked? She seems to accept something, and yet she still refuses. Of course, it would be too little to apologise; but why not do so? Her final question; ‘where does my guilt lie?’, is again self-obsessed. It stopped being about her a long, long time ago.
To the form of the documentary; we have a montage, often of particularly stunning examples of Riefenstahl’s work, with quiet music, and of course interview footage and so on. There are track-ins to pieces, though nothing too overt. The one slight misstep is the announcing that it has no preconceptions; of course it does. It does though do its best; with a strong element of self-reflexivity, the process of the documentary is very much evident, with Muller on screen a decent amount. We can always question what is going on; the intention is not to hide. This film obviously focuses on the one, important aspect of Riefenstahl’s life, the movies, especially the 1930’s ones, in great detail. By omission, it achieves comprehension. It is a deeply impressive piece, asking the right questions.
The film starts off pretty clearly, and stays linear throughout, but it becomes obvious there are a number of levels. This is because Riefenstahl, as we see from the non-main camera footage, is a lot more than how she wants to present herself. It is suggested, with firm evidence, that she is in some way or another lying. The von Sternberg example seems particularly damning. This means the whole film is an effort of engagement by the viewer, to try and balance at once the insight Riefenstahl can offer, to not unthinkingly condemn, but to hold in deep, deep, suspicion, and often disgust.
Riefenstahl has some interesting things to say about her undoubted genius; especially on her musical editing of tones of colour, and the move to small climaxes, moments of attention. Composition and editing are her forte.
Frankly, how can we know what is or was in her head? She comes across as surely deeply naive, blind, but where do we reach the stage of ‘evil’. She will occasionally admit suddenly more than we expect; then a gross falsity. Her self-absorption is quite astonishing, more than just an obsession with art. Her views on art and politics are utterly vile and misguided.
Ultimately though, as is implied, the question remains; what do we want from her? It seems too late. But why won’t she say the words asked? She seems to accept something, and yet she still refuses. Of course, it would be too little to apologise; but why not do so? Her final question; ‘where does my guilt lie?’, is again self-obsessed. It stopped being about her a long, long time ago.
Wednesday 11 May 2011
Olympia (Festival Of The Nations & Festival Of Beauty)
Leni Riefenstahl's 2-part film of the 1936 Berlin Olympics.
The opening (and the closing) of this piece are really the most interesting elements visually. Youhave your dissolves and superimpostions of bodies, mixed in with the consistent smooth horizontal tracks among the classical architecture. The superimpositon connecting the classical ideal body onto the modern day, the return of that myth. With the slow motion and the martial framings, the bodies are decontrxtualised; there is no nature, even the 'fire' is essentially fake.
Admitting being hypersenstive to finding fascist ideologies in the imagery is necessary. As in 'Triumph of The Will', we have the descent from the clouds, and the framings of the crowd from above. They are referred to, but not for long periods. Generally we have pretty straightforward 'narrative', a record of the events. Note that Riefenstahl is not afraid to cut out props, legs, and even heads as she frames the movements. The centre of attention is usually the torso, even the thighs, rather than the head. It is difficult to escape the thought that, in a few years, everyone here will be murdering each other.
Riefenstahl is obviously more interested in the msucles, for the throwing events, and generally in the bodies, than the sports. The cataloguing of events is indeed rather dull, and we would be better with more of Riefenstahl's whims. The editing is simply very smooth, each image is taken with care and simply a great eye for beauty, with no overriding style, except for the body-fetish. This body fetish, testing it, putting the flesh under pressure.
The final diving scene is indeed remarkable; and another example of a dynamic camera position. We have a fast montage of silloihetted figures, slow-motion, low framing against the sky. As though flying, we don't see the fall. Riefenstahl was a fine filmmaker, with each image, and the conjunction. Then it cuts to the balcony, and we feel mildly ashamed of ourselves. It is always worth repeating; the ideology, body-worship and all, is abhorent.
The opening (and the closing) of this piece are really the most interesting elements visually. Youhave your dissolves and superimpostions of bodies, mixed in with the consistent smooth horizontal tracks among the classical architecture. The superimpositon connecting the classical ideal body onto the modern day, the return of that myth. With the slow motion and the martial framings, the bodies are decontrxtualised; there is no nature, even the 'fire' is essentially fake.
Admitting being hypersenstive to finding fascist ideologies in the imagery is necessary. As in 'Triumph of The Will', we have the descent from the clouds, and the framings of the crowd from above. They are referred to, but not for long periods. Generally we have pretty straightforward 'narrative', a record of the events. Note that Riefenstahl is not afraid to cut out props, legs, and even heads as she frames the movements. The centre of attention is usually the torso, even the thighs, rather than the head. It is difficult to escape the thought that, in a few years, everyone here will be murdering each other.
Riefenstahl is obviously more interested in the msucles, for the throwing events, and generally in the bodies, than the sports. The cataloguing of events is indeed rather dull, and we would be better with more of Riefenstahl's whims. The editing is simply very smooth, each image is taken with care and simply a great eye for beauty, with no overriding style, except for the body-fetish. This body fetish, testing it, putting the flesh under pressure.
The final diving scene is indeed remarkable; and another example of a dynamic camera position. We have a fast montage of silloihetted figures, slow-motion, low framing against the sky. As though flying, we don't see the fall. Riefenstahl was a fine filmmaker, with each image, and the conjunction. Then it cuts to the balcony, and we feel mildly ashamed of ourselves. It is always worth repeating; the ideology, body-worship and all, is abhorent.
Tuesday 10 May 2011
The Holy Mountain
1926 'Mountain Film' by Arnold Frank, starring Leni Riefenstahl
The cutting here is cheerfully fast, pretty rough. We can go right in, out a bit (notice the European rather than plan Americain medium-Long shot), and some very distant views. It really is cut pretty quickly, with not a lot of dwelling. Nevertheless, it, along with the title-cards, is self consciously poetic. With a narrative that isn't interested in itself until most of the way in, we have some wonderful Kuleshov-esque work in between the dancing and the oceans. The montage could have been a little more rythmic, but there's a certin poetry here.
This film trades hugely on backlighting, forming rims around characters (enhanced by plae costume around the head) , making sillouhettes in the long shots. It is all part of a texturally complex piece, with a cluttered array not so much of mis-en-scene, but, as said, textures.
The framing of the film is what gives this its particularly rough and ready style though. For reasons, perhaps of necessity, there is little central framing. When climbing, when anything pretty much, our characters appear in different parts of the frame, all except the centre. Lower down, we have that great sense of earth. Small figures against the great backdrop. Perhaps the finest shots though are the off-necessity low angle ones, where we have out characters on peaks, in the top left corner of the frame. Original, and the angle gives a real sense of height. This is how to shoot nature; not making it part of a centralised human space, but itself the 'subject' of the frame.
The film rather works against this positive usage in its intent on making the mountain a symbol rather than, well, a mountain (it really vacillates between the two). No doubt the sexual politics, save one rather satisfying call to the mountain-top, aren't great, with an emphasis on idiotic 'loyalty' and the woman getting in the way. This film isn't a masterpiece, but, well, it's nice to see some skiing, and with the weather and the clearly very real locations, some great uses of light, there are some craggedly beautiful images.
The cutting here is cheerfully fast, pretty rough. We can go right in, out a bit (notice the European rather than plan Americain medium-Long shot), and some very distant views. It really is cut pretty quickly, with not a lot of dwelling. Nevertheless, it, along with the title-cards, is self consciously poetic. With a narrative that isn't interested in itself until most of the way in, we have some wonderful Kuleshov-esque work in between the dancing and the oceans. The montage could have been a little more rythmic, but there's a certin poetry here.
This film trades hugely on backlighting, forming rims around characters (enhanced by plae costume around the head) , making sillouhettes in the long shots. It is all part of a texturally complex piece, with a cluttered array not so much of mis-en-scene, but, as said, textures.
The framing of the film is what gives this its particularly rough and ready style though. For reasons, perhaps of necessity, there is little central framing. When climbing, when anything pretty much, our characters appear in different parts of the frame, all except the centre. Lower down, we have that great sense of earth. Small figures against the great backdrop. Perhaps the finest shots though are the off-necessity low angle ones, where we have out characters on peaks, in the top left corner of the frame. Original, and the angle gives a real sense of height. This is how to shoot nature; not making it part of a centralised human space, but itself the 'subject' of the frame.
The film rather works against this positive usage in its intent on making the mountain a symbol rather than, well, a mountain (it really vacillates between the two). No doubt the sexual politics, save one rather satisfying call to the mountain-top, aren't great, with an emphasis on idiotic 'loyalty' and the woman getting in the way. This film isn't a masterpiece, but, well, it's nice to see some skiing, and with the weather and the clearly very real locations, some great uses of light, there are some craggedly beautiful images.
A Succesful Man
Humberto Solas, 1986
This doesn't mess around with our space, but still works generally on closer shots, which is Solas' style. Many close-ups, though quite a few mediums as well, not always concerned with classical framing. This film resembles, in image and content, 'Il Conformista'. We here have nice balancing throughout, with gloomy fascist imagery countering the main character. Indeed, Solas' has a nice visual eye; using a bit of depth, angled cameras, and, generally, every shot is visually nicely balanced (not too much character centering also) and generally well composed.
After a slightly episodic beginning the narrative slots in nicely, and we have a fitfully well observed, if not over-complex, portrait of the penpusher/ fascist/ pragmist, or however you want to see him. It all makes for not a bad picture at all.
This doesn't mess around with our space, but still works generally on closer shots, which is Solas' style. Many close-ups, though quite a few mediums as well, not always concerned with classical framing. This film resembles, in image and content, 'Il Conformista'. We here have nice balancing throughout, with gloomy fascist imagery countering the main character. Indeed, Solas' has a nice visual eye; using a bit of depth, angled cameras, and, generally, every shot is visually nicely balanced (not too much character centering also) and generally well composed.
After a slightly episodic beginning the narrative slots in nicely, and we have a fitfully well observed, if not over-complex, portrait of the penpusher/ fascist/ pragmist, or however you want to see him. It all makes for not a bad picture at all.
Monday 9 May 2011
Amada
Humberto Solas melodrama, 1982
A wham-bam melodrama, one story, straight up cause-effect scene to scene, runs through various permuations. More classic also visually, with more of a wish for establishing shots. Depth isn't the main issue here, but a few examples. Note again the hints of gothic stylisings, the melodrama of the fearsomely dramatic woman, going completely nuts in the end. Put into a political framework as well, adding an edge certainly not there in the standard (if such a thing exists) Hollywood melodrama. Not exactly riveting viewing, but nothing too awful
A wham-bam melodrama, one story, straight up cause-effect scene to scene, runs through various permuations. More classic also visually, with more of a wish for establishing shots. Depth isn't the main issue here, but a few examples. Note again the hints of gothic stylisings, the melodrama of the fearsomely dramatic woman, going completely nuts in the end. Put into a political framework as well, adding an edge certainly not there in the standard (if such a thing exists) Hollywood melodrama. Not exactly riveting viewing, but nothing too awful
Cecilia
1981 melodrama from Humberto Solas
One gets the impression that Solas would rather do without establishing shots; not that he doesn't use them, but there is always the wish to go straight in to the face, often framed hapzardly (not a negative evaluation), as quickly as possible. This is straightforward affect-images, creating space (if any created) off of these, which is fine, his way of filmmaking. Combined with some distance tracking, and objects often coming in between us and the action, various rackings of focus, it is slightly reminiscent of Bertolucci.
The most immediately apparent feature here is the make-up; pale as death, partly down to the period, partly to do with the bourgeois who look like they are to be heroised at times, but are of course ultimately dead inside. Combined with high keylighting, with the key light really shining out, we have a reflective look that brings out all the crevices of the complexions.
The narratives run on two strands, neither particularly quickly. Along with our central slow-moving melodrama we have our politicial tale, which is rather confusingly told, though does allow some nice lines. The main melodrama really cranks it up at the end, and frankly the piece does fall apart a little, trying to connect the lines. It really becomes very overheated, with some very of-its-time dramatic stylisation. The end, where the fatal love, the gothic romance, comes to the fore, seems to be what Solas would really have liked to have done all along and is, of course, completely ridiculous. But there you go.
One gets the impression that Solas would rather do without establishing shots; not that he doesn't use them, but there is always the wish to go straight in to the face, often framed hapzardly (not a negative evaluation), as quickly as possible. This is straightforward affect-images, creating space (if any created) off of these, which is fine, his way of filmmaking. Combined with some distance tracking, and objects often coming in between us and the action, various rackings of focus, it is slightly reminiscent of Bertolucci.
The most immediately apparent feature here is the make-up; pale as death, partly down to the period, partly to do with the bourgeois who look like they are to be heroised at times, but are of course ultimately dead inside. Combined with high keylighting, with the key light really shining out, we have a reflective look that brings out all the crevices of the complexions.
The narratives run on two strands, neither particularly quickly. Along with our central slow-moving melodrama we have our politicial tale, which is rather confusingly told, though does allow some nice lines. The main melodrama really cranks it up at the end, and frankly the piece does fall apart a little, trying to connect the lines. It really becomes very overheated, with some very of-its-time dramatic stylisation. The end, where the fatal love, the gothic romance, comes to the fore, seems to be what Solas would really have liked to have done all along and is, of course, completely ridiculous. But there you go.
Sunday 8 May 2011
The Adventures of Juan Quin Quin
Julio Garcia Espinosa, 1967
Shot in very much widescreen, this uses pretty high contrasts, and a lot of shoulder length framings. The camera moves around at a sharp pace, always though keen to keep quite a wide balance. It cuts quite fast, occassionally extremely fast (as in; you don't have time to adjust between cuts).
The interesting thing about this film is the narrative. It's discontinous, though I at least didn't realise this for the opening. It is a collection of episodes, and we eventually have the situation where we 'ultimately' know what is going to happen. This is, with the disconnection of the epsidoes even were thought taken linearally, perhaps not too far away from the 'montage of attractions'; the circus, the bullfight, the revoltuionaries, the instruction manual; there is certainly a comment here.
The film is also particularly notable for certain alienation devices. As well as in a sense knowing what is going to happen, the narration is self-conscious with some sarcastic intertitles and voiceover, with direct address to camera, and in the deliberate ridiculousness, and dissonance of action, of its 'hero'. The classic action, coming of age film is in a sense being mocked; being totally unsuited for the path to revolutionary consciousness. It also rather mocks Juan Quin Quin, which is more of a surprise.
Not every episode quite holds, but there are a number of interesting aspects, and surprising punches, in this film.
Shot in very much widescreen, this uses pretty high contrasts, and a lot of shoulder length framings. The camera moves around at a sharp pace, always though keen to keep quite a wide balance. It cuts quite fast, occassionally extremely fast (as in; you don't have time to adjust between cuts).
The interesting thing about this film is the narrative. It's discontinous, though I at least didn't realise this for the opening. It is a collection of episodes, and we eventually have the situation where we 'ultimately' know what is going to happen. This is, with the disconnection of the epsidoes even were thought taken linearally, perhaps not too far away from the 'montage of attractions'; the circus, the bullfight, the revoltuionaries, the instruction manual; there is certainly a comment here.
The film is also particularly notable for certain alienation devices. As well as in a sense knowing what is going to happen, the narration is self-conscious with some sarcastic intertitles and voiceover, with direct address to camera, and in the deliberate ridiculousness, and dissonance of action, of its 'hero'. The classic action, coming of age film is in a sense being mocked; being totally unsuited for the path to revolutionary consciousness. It also rather mocks Juan Quin Quin, which is more of a surprise.
Not every episode quite holds, but there are a number of interesting aspects, and surprising punches, in this film.
The Twelve Chairs
Tomas Gutierrez Alea, a comedy from 1962
Shot usually with a slowly tracking camera, often moving in. It establishes a space, or at least makes sures to do so, even when starting quite close. Their is a couple of nice gags from the background. It has rather long takes, which gives it a nice ar of classicism. All told, it looks decent enough; with quite a bit of shooting from a high angle, always reasonably balanced, and some nice long shots, especially at the end.
What we have here is a straightforward plot, with a few diversions, running through. But this is really very loose. Quite a few takes really have really little to do with the main story, or why they do is only revealed later. As I said, there is a goal at the end of this, but it is very much peripheral. This is also in that the characters are much more than this one goal. This is a fine character study; not overplayed, but with a clear general message, we don't have distinctive traits so much as a nice slow-brun of the atmosphere, as the two characters deal with socialism in their own way. Not outstanding, but an interesting and pleasurable film.
Shot usually with a slowly tracking camera, often moving in. It establishes a space, or at least makes sures to do so, even when starting quite close. Their is a couple of nice gags from the background. It has rather long takes, which gives it a nice ar of classicism. All told, it looks decent enough; with quite a bit of shooting from a high angle, always reasonably balanced, and some nice long shots, especially at the end.
What we have here is a straightforward plot, with a few diversions, running through. But this is really very loose. Quite a few takes really have really little to do with the main story, or why they do is only revealed later. As I said, there is a goal at the end of this, but it is very much peripheral. This is also in that the characters are much more than this one goal. This is a fine character study; not overplayed, but with a clear general message, we don't have distinctive traits so much as a nice slow-brun of the atmosphere, as the two characters deal with socialism in their own way. Not outstanding, but an interesting and pleasurable film.
Friday 6 May 2011
Soy Cuba
1964 Mikhail Kalatozov
This is pretty wild stuff formally. Where to begin? Probably with the massively, beyond what I have seen before (well, Welles), 'distortion' of the image with the wide-angle lens. This is enhanced by having stuff chucked at us, careering into things, having a lot in the foreground. Oddly enough, depth isn't really the issue here; often there are only two planes, very distant and very far away, with not enough overlap, stuff in between, or lighting changes. So it can look quite flat, adding to the otherwordly appeal.
This wide-angle stuff is shot with extremely low angles, very high ones, nearly always canted, very much noticeably. What really stands out (what really really really stands out) is the mobility of the camera. Huge long takes, seemingly influenced heavily by Murnau (there is a real silent feel to this film) take us down buildings, throuhg swimming pools, flying through the air, somehow. The constant movements, sometimes very fast, means heads chopped off, bits of bodies and faces flying into the screen and dissappearing... it is all quite much.
Also note the sound; not really diagetic, clearly dubbed, with subjective breaks, and the level of the musuc gives it a dominating tone.
Narrative wise, here we have four parables connected more by theme than anything. The viewer only has very loose expectations, but even these are genuinely surprised. The formal elements foreground the air of the time, the passion, the way we are being shown around, perhaps as outsiders (the parable structure confirms this; are these more 'types' than actual people? The piece starts off nearly like a documentary). The scenes often start close and, in the general in and out, constant moving, establish a wider area, with more of a look at daily life than standard 'actions'. Most of the causation is good old economics.
A pretty remarable techinical achievement, with a rousing revolutionary message.
This is pretty wild stuff formally. Where to begin? Probably with the massively, beyond what I have seen before (well, Welles), 'distortion' of the image with the wide-angle lens. This is enhanced by having stuff chucked at us, careering into things, having a lot in the foreground. Oddly enough, depth isn't really the issue here; often there are only two planes, very distant and very far away, with not enough overlap, stuff in between, or lighting changes. So it can look quite flat, adding to the otherwordly appeal.
This wide-angle stuff is shot with extremely low angles, very high ones, nearly always canted, very much noticeably. What really stands out (what really really really stands out) is the mobility of the camera. Huge long takes, seemingly influenced heavily by Murnau (there is a real silent feel to this film) take us down buildings, throuhg swimming pools, flying through the air, somehow. The constant movements, sometimes very fast, means heads chopped off, bits of bodies and faces flying into the screen and dissappearing... it is all quite much.
Also note the sound; not really diagetic, clearly dubbed, with subjective breaks, and the level of the musuc gives it a dominating tone.
Narrative wise, here we have four parables connected more by theme than anything. The viewer only has very loose expectations, but even these are genuinely surprised. The formal elements foreground the air of the time, the passion, the way we are being shown around, perhaps as outsiders (the parable structure confirms this; are these more 'types' than actual people? The piece starts off nearly like a documentary). The scenes often start close and, in the general in and out, constant moving, establish a wider area, with more of a look at daily life than standard 'actions'. Most of the causation is good old economics.
A pretty remarable techinical achievement, with a rousing revolutionary message.
Thursday 5 May 2011
The Sacrifice
Andrey Tarkovsky's last film, 1986
A few visual notes; Tarkovsky is still really not a 'stylist', for all his distinctiveness; the form is very much a means to an end. That means some remarkably long takes here, and also very long shots. The film starts off with these long shots, and progressively moves in. This pattern, of out then in, is sometimes repeated in scenes. He seems to go further out towards the end.
On his use of the screen; with exceptions, Tarkovsky sticks to the classical 'T', using the whole horizontal high and sticking to the central for the centre and low. Much of his camera movements can be defined as a reframing to keep this in place. His long shots also do this, which is perhaps a little less usual, often (though not always) taking up quite a bit of the screen with earth.
This is Tarkovsky's most 'narrative' film, though it's not like we have much of a causal projection into the future, it is more that we see time has actively passed. There is a hell of a lot more dialgoue than usual, in the portmanteau scenes. This parable form means this could, perhaps, be Tarkovsky's most opaque film; that may sound surprising, but I would argue that is because he uses symbols here, more perhaps than his usual 'images' (i.e. constumes and actions that surely point beyond the 'pure' images). Note that Sven Nykvist photographed this. It is also worth saying that Tarkovsky's treatment of women, though there is a bit of variety here, can begin to verge on the difficult; one scene here particularly.
This film reminded us, in many ways, of 'Ordet'. Especially in the long, dialgoue of the indoor scenes, shot long and reframings. The square backdrop, pretty austere, the distance wasn't quite the same, but some of the camera movements were. The themes aren't really the same, but the central event, of religion, the act (the word), the miracle, all have the same content. Though it is really the look, the slightly flat indoors, we intend (not depth flat; that only implies to Dreyer).
Tarkovsky here brings out his themes, of responsibility and the spiritual act, of transcendence in art, pretty clearly within the framework of a locale that seems to be bleached of life, a grass that is barren, a word that is dry and promises destruction. The shots are never less than exact, often beautiful, occassionally reaching the heights of a 'Mirror' or 'Andrei', that is, remarkable.
A few visual notes; Tarkovsky is still really not a 'stylist', for all his distinctiveness; the form is very much a means to an end. That means some remarkably long takes here, and also very long shots. The film starts off with these long shots, and progressively moves in. This pattern, of out then in, is sometimes repeated in scenes. He seems to go further out towards the end.
On his use of the screen; with exceptions, Tarkovsky sticks to the classical 'T', using the whole horizontal high and sticking to the central for the centre and low. Much of his camera movements can be defined as a reframing to keep this in place. His long shots also do this, which is perhaps a little less usual, often (though not always) taking up quite a bit of the screen with earth.
This is Tarkovsky's most 'narrative' film, though it's not like we have much of a causal projection into the future, it is more that we see time has actively passed. There is a hell of a lot more dialgoue than usual, in the portmanteau scenes. This parable form means this could, perhaps, be Tarkovsky's most opaque film; that may sound surprising, but I would argue that is because he uses symbols here, more perhaps than his usual 'images' (i.e. constumes and actions that surely point beyond the 'pure' images). Note that Sven Nykvist photographed this. It is also worth saying that Tarkovsky's treatment of women, though there is a bit of variety here, can begin to verge on the difficult; one scene here particularly.
This film reminded us, in many ways, of 'Ordet'. Especially in the long, dialgoue of the indoor scenes, shot long and reframings. The square backdrop, pretty austere, the distance wasn't quite the same, but some of the camera movements were. The themes aren't really the same, but the central event, of religion, the act (the word), the miracle, all have the same content. Though it is really the look, the slightly flat indoors, we intend (not depth flat; that only implies to Dreyer).
Tarkovsky here brings out his themes, of responsibility and the spiritual act, of transcendence in art, pretty clearly within the framework of a locale that seems to be bleached of life, a grass that is barren, a word that is dry and promises destruction. The shots are never less than exact, often beautiful, occassionally reaching the heights of a 'Mirror' or 'Andrei', that is, remarkable.
Wednesday 4 May 2011
Nostalgia
1983, Andrey Tarkovsky
Stylistically, there with all the usual long takes, dispersed lighting, and rarely anything but spectacular images. The black and white ones here seem to have a yellow tint, and we can start to understand Tarkovsky’s antagonism to colour (it does take something away (this film is mostly in colour)).
A couple of points; Tarkovsky, when he gets close, is getting closer and closer, pretty much just head shots here, and we have characters coming right up to a perhaps slightly stiller than usual camera. Also very noticeable is how perpendicular, how straight the lines are. Frames within frames, and the camera here moves or zooms, extra slowly, along these parallel or vertical lines.
Their are two themes to this work, and, noting that the images are really so simple, perhaps few more. The artistic soul trying to right the world, responisbiltiy and all that. The second is, of course, Nostalgia. This film reminded us, quite considerably, of Angelopoulos’ ‘Ulysses’ Gaze’.
Stylistically, there with all the usual long takes, dispersed lighting, and rarely anything but spectacular images. The black and white ones here seem to have a yellow tint, and we can start to understand Tarkovsky’s antagonism to colour (it does take something away (this film is mostly in colour)).
A couple of points; Tarkovsky, when he gets close, is getting closer and closer, pretty much just head shots here, and we have characters coming right up to a perhaps slightly stiller than usual camera. Also very noticeable is how perpendicular, how straight the lines are. Frames within frames, and the camera here moves or zooms, extra slowly, along these parallel or vertical lines.
Their are two themes to this work, and, noting that the images are really so simple, perhaps few more. The artistic soul trying to right the world, responisbiltiy and all that. The second is, of course, Nostalgia. This film reminded us, quite considerably, of Angelopoulos’ ‘Ulysses’ Gaze’.
Tuesday 3 May 2011
Stalker
1979, Andrey Tarkovsky
Tarkovsky's use of the camera ir really not the point; we have of course the long takes, but what is important is his photography; the incredible beauty of each and every image, each and every framing. This is true in a manner where each os unique; it is nearly impossible to make generalisations except to say that they are all powerful, all important. If one can say anything, it is that, in a wish to avoid the everyday, many shots are very long, and that many are a quite close portrait.
Perhaps, for me, Tarkovsky's finest images are in black and white (looking forward to Tarr's 'Satantango'. This is largely down to the lighting, but also partly down to the incredibly precise depth of field, incredibly sharp that is, with a nuanced contrast that still allows great changes.
This is all about the lighting. In the colour scenes the same rules apply; it is just easier to work it out for the black and white. Sidelighting allows a great feeling if texture. Important is the dispersal of lighting, through fog, smoke, mist. There is, for all this, also powerful uses of hard lighting, often itself reflected, in water or on a wall.
An interesting aspect of the mis-en-scene here is how disamringly simple it is. This is not a film with extraneous ornamentation; there is the centre of each scene, the action or more precisely the idea, it is centered around. This sense of narrowness, of focus, is exemplified by how often the actors are almost in alignment with each other, blocking each other, and also in how the set narrows the framing, so we see the characters through doorways, or all within the confines of a clour that makes the frame 'smaller', so to speak.
This simplicity carries to the story, at least to the search part, with Tarkovsky's insistence on the great continuity of time. He says it should all seem like one take; indeed no time seems to pass from shot to shot, there are no breaks. We do have a sense of time passing. It can be (also with the simplicity) monotomous; we did drift in and out here, which made it difficult to really reach the heights that are aimed for closer to the end.
Also Tarkovsky's exacting use of sound should be mentioned; picking out the pertinent ones, otherwise letting the ears take in silence, or rather create their own sounds from the images. The sounds we do have are inventive; an insect almost out of the range of hearing, a strainge buzz. Not over-noticeable, but unfamiliar.
The zone is a remarkably realized place. The idea of not just nature, but human history, slowly rotting, being shown to age, all is in time, is a remarkably important philosophical concept, and here in a matter of fact manner. Again, what this film is 'about' does not have to be made too complicated intellectually (though Tarkovsky would have it as an infinite spiritually). The Professor and Writer unable to overcome society, the Stalker, the slightly crazed tortured artist-style figure, going through the horrors; and love, the one infinite.
The incredibly low-key atmosphere here also allows the monologues to flow in well.
Whatever is one's view of the thought here, this film is about the (not really seperable) image. Each one stands on its own as remarkable, a whole world. Not flashy or showy, just... an image. That is this film's miracle.
Tarkovsky's use of the camera ir really not the point; we have of course the long takes, but what is important is his photography; the incredible beauty of each and every image, each and every framing. This is true in a manner where each os unique; it is nearly impossible to make generalisations except to say that they are all powerful, all important. If one can say anything, it is that, in a wish to avoid the everyday, many shots are very long, and that many are a quite close portrait.
Perhaps, for me, Tarkovsky's finest images are in black and white (looking forward to Tarr's 'Satantango'. This is largely down to the lighting, but also partly down to the incredibly precise depth of field, incredibly sharp that is, with a nuanced contrast that still allows great changes.
This is all about the lighting. In the colour scenes the same rules apply; it is just easier to work it out for the black and white. Sidelighting allows a great feeling if texture. Important is the dispersal of lighting, through fog, smoke, mist. There is, for all this, also powerful uses of hard lighting, often itself reflected, in water or on a wall.
An interesting aspect of the mis-en-scene here is how disamringly simple it is. This is not a film with extraneous ornamentation; there is the centre of each scene, the action or more precisely the idea, it is centered around. This sense of narrowness, of focus, is exemplified by how often the actors are almost in alignment with each other, blocking each other, and also in how the set narrows the framing, so we see the characters through doorways, or all within the confines of a clour that makes the frame 'smaller', so to speak.
This simplicity carries to the story, at least to the search part, with Tarkovsky's insistence on the great continuity of time. He says it should all seem like one take; indeed no time seems to pass from shot to shot, there are no breaks. We do have a sense of time passing. It can be (also with the simplicity) monotomous; we did drift in and out here, which made it difficult to really reach the heights that are aimed for closer to the end.
Also Tarkovsky's exacting use of sound should be mentioned; picking out the pertinent ones, otherwise letting the ears take in silence, or rather create their own sounds from the images. The sounds we do have are inventive; an insect almost out of the range of hearing, a strainge buzz. Not over-noticeable, but unfamiliar.
The zone is a remarkably realized place. The idea of not just nature, but human history, slowly rotting, being shown to age, all is in time, is a remarkably important philosophical concept, and here in a matter of fact manner. Again, what this film is 'about' does not have to be made too complicated intellectually (though Tarkovsky would have it as an infinite spiritually). The Professor and Writer unable to overcome society, the Stalker, the slightly crazed tortured artist-style figure, going through the horrors; and love, the one infinite.
The incredibly low-key atmosphere here also allows the monologues to flow in well.
Whatever is one's view of the thought here, this film is about the (not really seperable) image. Each one stands on its own as remarkable, a whole world. Not flashy or showy, just... an image. That is this film's miracle.
Monday 2 May 2011
Solaris
It had been a while since I had seen Andrei Tarkovsky's 1972 masterpiece
Tarkovsky has his famous long, long takes, often with long shots, though there is no single schema; much is also shot in portrait framings. This mixture is down to the (nearly always stately) pan and scan technique, with a great willingness to rack focus and zoom, never ostenatiously, but with a kinf of quiet majesty. The colour pallette used is reduced, often going into black and white.
Tarkovsky is, as he tells us, sculpting in time, and the rythm here is indeed increibly observed. Always proceeding from the content, there are the long meditative takes on a face, the incredible swirling surface of the Solaris. There is also the slightly more jerky uses, when that is appropriate, and indeed some relatively jarring cuts, to create usually the image of the mind of Chris Kelvin, but equally the general atmosphere of the spaceship. This is helped by the sound; more of a natural silence than the airlessness of '2001', with music rare (though powerful, not dominating, when it comes).
The settings are evoked with a light simplicity that is not out to confuse you. The mixture of pale messiness, and the darker tunnel, of the spaceship, compares to the interiors of the library and the homestead, not overdone, but projecting an image quite different from the outside.
What must be said about Tarkovsky first; he is not trying to complicate. The subject may be beyond what we can say; but the film itself is not opaque. Indeed, there is pretty mcu ni mucking about. It could even be said to move rather quickly, and it certainly does in a straight line, following, with no digressions, the central idea.
The film is of the uniqueness of memory, its return. How neither cold science, or the slightly staid humanism, can encompass this kind of communion with a transcendence Tarkovsky is after. This is a transcendence in naturel this is key. To my mind Tarkovsky's finest moments come with his evocations of nature. Tarkovsky's meditation is on nature, the process of how nature changes. The moistness of it, the wrenching tragedy of it, the feel of it. One can taste and smell the green plants slowly changing, even in the station, trying to escape, the body does so (blood, burns, sweat). This is time passing; from the dacha and first nature, to the human, the body, passing of the station. How does this remain? In the memory. Tarkovsky is a high metaphysician, but this isn't some abstract 'Being'; it is the history of nature.
The end is remarkable; as mentioned, Tarkovsky is not trying to confuse, but the idea of the memory of nature, of its passing, the deliberate ambiguity, creates an astounding image. In what is, indeed, an astounding picture.
Tarkovsky has his famous long, long takes, often with long shots, though there is no single schema; much is also shot in portrait framings. This mixture is down to the (nearly always stately) pan and scan technique, with a great willingness to rack focus and zoom, never ostenatiously, but with a kinf of quiet majesty. The colour pallette used is reduced, often going into black and white.
Tarkovsky is, as he tells us, sculpting in time, and the rythm here is indeed increibly observed. Always proceeding from the content, there are the long meditative takes on a face, the incredible swirling surface of the Solaris. There is also the slightly more jerky uses, when that is appropriate, and indeed some relatively jarring cuts, to create usually the image of the mind of Chris Kelvin, but equally the general atmosphere of the spaceship. This is helped by the sound; more of a natural silence than the airlessness of '2001', with music rare (though powerful, not dominating, when it comes).
The settings are evoked with a light simplicity that is not out to confuse you. The mixture of pale messiness, and the darker tunnel, of the spaceship, compares to the interiors of the library and the homestead, not overdone, but projecting an image quite different from the outside.
What must be said about Tarkovsky first; he is not trying to complicate. The subject may be beyond what we can say; but the film itself is not opaque. Indeed, there is pretty mcu ni mucking about. It could even be said to move rather quickly, and it certainly does in a straight line, following, with no digressions, the central idea.
The film is of the uniqueness of memory, its return. How neither cold science, or the slightly staid humanism, can encompass this kind of communion with a transcendence Tarkovsky is after. This is a transcendence in naturel this is key. To my mind Tarkovsky's finest moments come with his evocations of nature. Tarkovsky's meditation is on nature, the process of how nature changes. The moistness of it, the wrenching tragedy of it, the feel of it. One can taste and smell the green plants slowly changing, even in the station, trying to escape, the body does so (blood, burns, sweat). This is time passing; from the dacha and first nature, to the human, the body, passing of the station. How does this remain? In the memory. Tarkovsky is a high metaphysician, but this isn't some abstract 'Being'; it is the history of nature.
The end is remarkable; as mentioned, Tarkovsky is not trying to confuse, but the idea of the memory of nature, of its passing, the deliberate ambiguity, creates an astounding image. In what is, indeed, an astounding picture.
Sunday 1 May 2011
Moolaade
2004 work from Ousmane Sembene
The storytelling here is simple, perhaps deceptively so. Much of a time we have a long plan sequence with a wide screen, and a long shot, with many characters set out in an almost theatrical array. It is coming across as very simple, but even here we have some movement in the staging, and the location comes to life. Small bric a brac at the shop, the looks of the mosque and other things, slowly come to alert us to a wider life. Sembene usually works (here) with his longer shots, but also has quite neutral close-ups some of the time.
The formal interest with this film is the build up. We have a wide picture at first, sometimes even quite cheery, with an atmosphere almost light, except for some hushed mentions of some kind of ceremony. The film then zeroes in, piece by piece cutting out anything extraneous, almost like a metronome speeding up and speeding up. I can't speak of shot-length, but that is certain the impression given by the concentration of the narrative. Each thing we saw before is slowly revealed in a new way; their is pain, ome system of domination, in what looked before relatively harmless.
This kind of unfolding horror becomes truly terrible; this film is clearly a political film, with a clear message, and it, for this, does certain affirmative things that could appear a little strange if one did not appreciate this. As a piece of propoganda, it is effective, beautifully made, powerful, and above all, important.
The storytelling here is simple, perhaps deceptively so. Much of a time we have a long plan sequence with a wide screen, and a long shot, with many characters set out in an almost theatrical array. It is coming across as very simple, but even here we have some movement in the staging, and the location comes to life. Small bric a brac at the shop, the looks of the mosque and other things, slowly come to alert us to a wider life. Sembene usually works (here) with his longer shots, but also has quite neutral close-ups some of the time.
The formal interest with this film is the build up. We have a wide picture at first, sometimes even quite cheery, with an atmosphere almost light, except for some hushed mentions of some kind of ceremony. The film then zeroes in, piece by piece cutting out anything extraneous, almost like a metronome speeding up and speeding up. I can't speak of shot-length, but that is certain the impression given by the concentration of the narrative. Each thing we saw before is slowly revealed in a new way; their is pain, ome system of domination, in what looked before relatively harmless.
This kind of unfolding horror becomes truly terrible; this film is clearly a political film, with a clear message, and it, for this, does certain affirmative things that could appear a little strange if one did not appreciate this. As a piece of propoganda, it is effective, beautifully made, powerful, and above all, important.
Touki Bouki / Contras' City
A feature and a short from Djibril Diop Mambety
Touki Bouki, 1973: There is a variety of different techniques used here, all skillfully, giving this film a wonderful, slow, spaced out atmosphere. We have long shots, staying on landscapes. The director is not scared, to an almost Tati-esque degree, to use every aspect of the frame. Set ups let the top corner, the side, every part, become active at one point or another. Even though their is a leisurely pace, with (at most) one thing at a time, we still then have a sense of a kind of teeming arena. There is also some handheld work, and things 'thrown', close to the camera. Low angles are used for some iconic framing, but a high angle is probably used most often here, with a scene not quite centered (sometimes even canted) playing out. Yet this rarely feels overly ostentatious; nothing is too overdone, and the slow pace, long takes and little story, let it all flow...
The editing in this film is terrific. We have very much a circular structure to the narrative, with certains scenes even repeated at one point near the start. Many shots have nothing to do with the main story, we pick up one person for a moment, take on their little moment in the sun (while the policeman walks past), before move back, with a few directions, to some shots of our leads walking about.
The sound/ image disjunction is an important part of this, with interior monlogue from perhaps anywhere, and a general kind of running commentary.
One can be unsure which parts are the dream, which parts are real, in this certainly absurdist, verging on surrelist, piece. Yet each of the images is invoked with a concrete significance; the blood and the madwoman are not only extreme, they invoke a kind of ancient pull on the characters, a lack of escape. This film shares a lot with 'Breathless' certainly, perhaps also 'Easy Rider', in its slightly wasted leads, messing around, dreaming silly dreams, never escaping. That every person they meet, anyone with any kind of power at least, is sinister, self-interested, grasping, also lends a certain paranoid atmosphere redolent of 'Paris Nous Appartient'; like that film, it is not overdone.
Repetition and digression is used, staying on some people dancing for quite a long time, having a look at the beach, the constant use of some great music. If a film can be said to summon a 'mood', even a 'time', this does it. Very good.
Contras' City, 1969: I'm pretty sure no one in this film gave permission to appear; and all the better. This reminds one of Marker, or perhaps vice versa. It is really like a friend showing you around. The narrator talks to his friend, makes a few jokes, explains a few things, and just shows us around, usually with long takes, focussing in otherwise. Nothing is kept too long, because a point is being made. This is because we have the best kind of guide; for all the showing done, what it comes down to is that we are not being guided, but just given the opportunity to have a look.
Touki Bouki, 1973: There is a variety of different techniques used here, all skillfully, giving this film a wonderful, slow, spaced out atmosphere. We have long shots, staying on landscapes. The director is not scared, to an almost Tati-esque degree, to use every aspect of the frame. Set ups let the top corner, the side, every part, become active at one point or another. Even though their is a leisurely pace, with (at most) one thing at a time, we still then have a sense of a kind of teeming arena. There is also some handheld work, and things 'thrown', close to the camera. Low angles are used for some iconic framing, but a high angle is probably used most often here, with a scene not quite centered (sometimes even canted) playing out. Yet this rarely feels overly ostentatious; nothing is too overdone, and the slow pace, long takes and little story, let it all flow...
The editing in this film is terrific. We have very much a circular structure to the narrative, with certains scenes even repeated at one point near the start. Many shots have nothing to do with the main story, we pick up one person for a moment, take on their little moment in the sun (while the policeman walks past), before move back, with a few directions, to some shots of our leads walking about.
The sound/ image disjunction is an important part of this, with interior monlogue from perhaps anywhere, and a general kind of running commentary.
One can be unsure which parts are the dream, which parts are real, in this certainly absurdist, verging on surrelist, piece. Yet each of the images is invoked with a concrete significance; the blood and the madwoman are not only extreme, they invoke a kind of ancient pull on the characters, a lack of escape. This film shares a lot with 'Breathless' certainly, perhaps also 'Easy Rider', in its slightly wasted leads, messing around, dreaming silly dreams, never escaping. That every person they meet, anyone with any kind of power at least, is sinister, self-interested, grasping, also lends a certain paranoid atmosphere redolent of 'Paris Nous Appartient'; like that film, it is not overdone.
Repetition and digression is used, staying on some people dancing for quite a long time, having a look at the beach, the constant use of some great music. If a film can be said to summon a 'mood', even a 'time', this does it. Very good.
Contras' City, 1969: I'm pretty sure no one in this film gave permission to appear; and all the better. This reminds one of Marker, or perhaps vice versa. It is really like a friend showing you around. The narrator talks to his friend, makes a few jokes, explains a few things, and just shows us around, usually with long takes, focussing in otherwise. Nothing is kept too long, because a point is being made. This is because we have the best kind of guide; for all the showing done, what it comes down to is that we are not being guided, but just given the opportunity to have a look.
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