Just Watch.

Merry Christmas

A Christmas Tale (Arnaud Desplechin, 2008)

You can read it here.

I'm really pleased with this one. Just a couple of things to add.

Someone wrote a great piece a few years back -- it was in the LA Times, I think -- about how it's becoming impossible to ignore plastic surgery because it's adversely affecting actresses' ability to emote. Of course, it helps that she started off as one of the most gorgeous women in the world, but she's an excellent example of how to age gracefully. If she's had work done it's very good work, and it keeps all her artistic faculties in tact. She's always played the ice queen, but she's filled out a bit, and that's given her a softness that works well with the vulnerability she has to convey here.

It's lovely to watch Mathieu Amalric and Emanuelle Devos together in this film. They played embattled exes in Desplechin's KInhs and QUeen, so it's nice to watch them share some tenderness. They hace a wonderful kind of jouking, foxhole camaraderie.

Amalric (who I"m kind of in love with, but that's another story for another post) said in the making-of that, when he and Deneuve first did the "I Don't love you" scene they served it straight up. with lots of vitriol.But Desplechin corrected them until it became what we see now. He said this was because Desplechin plays every argument scene like it's a love scene, because that's how people love each other, by fighting. What a wonderful way to approach both film and life. 

Oldboy

Chan-wook Park, 2003

I don't have a whole helluva lot to say about this one; in fact, color me a bit disappointed, which is a bummer, since I now own it. Believe me, I didn't think I'd be saying this, but... Well, it wasn't so much that I wanted more violence, but that I wanted more out of the violence, do you know what I mean? I either wanted it to be more operatically gory, like Korean films can often be, or more balletically choreographed, like other Asian films often are.  It's not that teeth extraction doesn't do it for me, I just wanted a little more.

There are lots of films about revenge, and about the unique dynamics that are in play in any vengeance scenario, but this movie is about double, simultaneous revenge, which becomes a much more intriguing story. The question of who possesses who runs much deeper. And it's rare to find a movie that has real plot innovation, but boy does this one deliver it with a wallop. The revelation of information occurs masterfully; we figure things out about two awful seconds before the hero does.

 

I think I was also expecting a little more visually out of this film. There's a dingy, poorly lit palette in play that contributes to a pretty great sense of atmosphere. Transitions between scenes are really economical and elegant, particularly one shot where a train runs through one scene and into the next. 

I found myself puzzling over Mi-do and her, shall we say, proclivities. I like to think there's room under the cinematic sun for ever kind of perversity, but what do we make of the woman who feigns (I'm assuming?) pain during sex? It must be fairly common, as kinks go, but does it illuminate anything in terms of her character, especially given what we learn about her later? Or is it only there to titillate/gross people out?

Sans Soleil

Chris Marker, 1983

This movie sort of defies easy categorization or description. Part travelogue, part curio cabinet of quirky and odd human behavior, Sans Soleil meditates on time, memory and ritual, The film exhibits a knowledge of and fascination with Japanese culture that is particularly entertaining and enlightening. 

 

Marker's other famous film is La Jetee, which is notably mostly composed of still photographs following each other in quick succession. It reveals Marker to be a master of manipulating images, a talent which is very much on display in Sans Soleil. He has a special talent for juxtaposing them in unique ways. I was particularly struck by one sequence where images from Japanese television are intercut with the faces of commuters on a subway car, creating a whole that makes its own kind of dreamy, poetic sense.

The voice over (read in English by Alexandra Stewart) has an almost literary complexity and density; the images usually move too fast for you to keep up, so you sort of have to let it wash over you, picking up what pieces go along. This is especially true of the famous sequence analyzing Vertigo, which is so apt, but simultaneously dense and fraught with meaning. I've watched it four times now and still feel that I've only scratched the surface. 

The Heretics

Joan Braderman, 2009

Read it here.

Twilight

Catherine Hardwicke, 2008

New Moon opens tomorrow, so I'm only, what, a year late on this? Awesome.

I can't say I'm entirely on board the vampire train (though fellas: there's an important lesson to be learned here re: the importance of the neck) and to be honest I'm not sure why the fascination endures. (Obvious penetration metaphor, in this liberated age, why not just watch porn?)

But that's the whole point isn't it? "Why not just watch porn?" is what you could say about any number of genres, that doesn't make them any less valid or interesting. And infighting among nerds is stupid and wrong. Nerdery is always nerdery, no matter how you paint it or slice it, it always functions the exact same way, regardless of the object of fixation. As someone whose nerd object is mystery novels -- a genre totally untouched by the redeeming light of hipster affectation -- I know what I'm talking about. Be it comic books or Jane Austen, we all are the village green preservation society, y'know?

So this movie has the look of a crappy '90s music video. Now that I think about it, Hardwicke's Thirteen had the same look about it. That's not meant to be a denigration; I think it's a smart stylistic choice here, as that's probably how a lot of teenagers envision romance.

I'm officially an old lady, because the whole time I was watching this I kept saying, "stay away from that boy! He's isolating you! Go make some nice friends." I wasn't getting a huge Heathcliff and Cathy, all-consuming passion vibe off of it, it just seemed like a really accurate portrayal of two teenagers falling in love. Which, again, I think is smart given the target demographic.

My best friend, who I watched this with, really liked that we had an awkward, gangly tomboyish heroine. I agreed, but I did feel that Kristen Stewart came across as a bit flat and robotic at times. And, again because I'm an old lady, I kept wanting her to stand up straight.

Tomorrow: werewolves! I'm ridiculously excited.

Vertigo

Alfred Hitchcock, 1958

A warning: I'm writing this on the train, so it might be a little slapdash. Also, spoilers!

But everyone's seen this already, right? I've seen it so many times I think I'm begining to underrate it. It's also easy to do that because the film is so ripe for analysis on a very blatant Freudian, Oedipal drama level.

Watching it this time, I tried to focus on the difference between Madeline in the first half of the film and Judy turned into Madeline in the second half, and why the latter still seems so unsatisfactory even after her transformation. Part of it has to do with the spectral halo that surrounds Madeline. (It's echoed by the green light outside Judy's hotel room.) But it also has to do with diction, mannerisms, and carriage and I don't think Kim Novak usually gets enough credit for her work here.

Everytime I watch this movie I get something new out of it, and this time (not that this is particularly earth-shattering) it was the incredible power of nostalgia, more specifically nostalgia for something never experienced or for something that never existed. Is there a word for that? There should be.

It's hard to think of a better example of cinematic visual poetry than this film, and I noticed two visual motifs that I couldn't fully process. The first was the use of color -- red and green. The second was the preponderance of profile shots.

And finally, the thing I take away every time I watch this film, is that it's far scarier than any horror film ever could be. Because this is the dark perverse underbelly of adult desire, and boy is it bone chilling.

Jesus (kinda): Intolerance

D.W. Griffith, 1916

I don't know if I can in good conscience recommend this; it's just so badly in need of editing. According to IMDB it runs to either 163 or 197 minutes and no matter how you slice it, that's just fippin' long. There's the argument that silent movies are generally longer because viewers, who were less accustomed to watching movie images, needed more time to process things. But really, that's no excuse because lots of silent movies are a) not this long and b) still plenty interesting to the modern viewer. The other problem I have is that I absolutely loathe Griffith's portrayal of women; they're cloying, simpering, treacly sweet characters who are horribly overacted. Somehow, even though they're not saying anything, you want to smack them till they shut the hell up. (To be fair, I should note that I have yet to see his work with the Gish sisters, for which he is most well known.) You can also argue that Griffith's movies are historically important, but that doesn't cut it with me. If you can't watch it on its own merits, there's no point. To quote Patton Oswalt: "I don't give a shit where the stuff I love comes from, I just love the stuff I love."

The argument for, in case you still even care, is that Griffith was a master of epic filmmaking, and the grand stuff here is too good to miss, even if the other stuff is kind of a snoozefest. And that I almost sorta buy. A bit. So if you don't have the patience for this one, here's one film snob who won't judge you. 

If...

Lindsay Anderson, 1968

Everyone loves stories of youthful rebellion. That's probably why so many of them aren't very good; the plot points too cliched, the victories too easy. If... probably succeeds is because it takes a very spirited film to a very dark place at the end, and yet makes you feel like this is the only logical conclusion to what you've seen.

The most interesting stylistic thing that goes on here is that the film is shot on both black and white and color film. Anderson was adamant that the transitions were completely meaningless, but you can make a pretty good case that the change often indicates a shift from repression to liberation, from upstairs to downstairs. At any rate, the transitions, where we are suddenly swept from a monochrome world into vibrant color, are often breathtakingly beautiful.

A very young Malcolm McDowell stars here, and it's only natural to compare this to his role in Clockwork Orange, even though this precedes the Kubrick film. Ultimately, this is a horse of a different color; Alex is hardened to violence, jaded by it in fact, while for Mick Travis it holds an innocent appeal. Mick's like a Christian martyr or flagellant, fascinated by and attracted to violence for its power to purify. His wonder after he's injured in a bit of fencing -- "Look! Real blood!" -- is still untainted.

Jesus: The King of Kings

Cecil B. DeMille, 1927

First a warning: I'm in the midst of writing an article, so there are probably going to be a lot of posts like this. Secondly, for the sake of transparency: the Criterion DVD offers two different cuts, the 1928 general release (which clocks in at 112 minutes) and the original cut (155 minutes). I took the shorter route; I have to get through a lot of these. The box says that there are two soundtracks for the short version. I have no idea which one I listened to, but it was notable for its incorporation of some choice sound effects as well as some hymns that I recognize from church. 

I don't believe I'd ever seen a DeMille picture in is entirety before, and looking at this you immediately get why he was the king of the epic. No one tells story as boldly and on such a large scale. Some of the scenes look like David's history paintings; they're just as large and detailed and have the same incredible depth of field. Casts of thousands, opulence up to your eyeballs, zebra-drawn carriages: this film's got it all. The sheer awesomeness of scope is reason enough to watch.

Whether King of Kings succeeds on a theological or narrative level is a different story. DeMille makes a very smart decision to use quotations from the various gospels as intertitles; it lends the proceedings a certain gravitas while ratcheting up some good old-fashioned dramatic tension. Part of the problem is that he starts off so strong, in the glorious extravagance of Mary Magdalene's bordello, that we want to stay in that world rather than getting dragged into the more dour sphere of faith and righteousness. The portrayal of Jesus' miracles pales a bit in comparison. Perhaps using other stories -- the raising of Lazarus is the only real show-stopper -- would have made things more compelling. You have to work overtime to keep your audience with this material, because, like Titanic, everybody already knows the ending.

Which isn't to say that the whole thing just goes downhill. Never count out the big man in the sky. God's wrath after the crucifixion is something to behold; looking at it I am -- much like one might observe a miracle -- dumbstruck and unable to figure out how it was accomplished.

Ugetsu

Kenji Mizoguchi, 1953

 This movie teaches us three lessons:

1. Don't be greedy!

2. Men, you should listen to women.

3. Women, don't bother: even if you warn men not to stupid things, they're going to go out and do them anyway.

All kidding aside, Mizoguchi is known for his female characters and his sympathy with their plight. We have very complex, fully realized women in this film. All three actresses turn in incredible performance, but the film belongs to Machiko Kyo as Lady Wakasa. She gives us a lot, being simultaneously creepily ingratiating and vaguely otherworldly, yet consumed by human passion.

Mizoguchi is also known for his exquisite lighting, and that's most assuredly at play here. (Credit is also due to DP Kazuo Miyagawa. The lighting style is by no means chiaroscuro, but there's a lot of contrast achieved by working with shades of grey. The boundaries between these contrast are soft and fluid, creating a misty effect. This story is a fairy tale, and this misty quality beautifully complements the supernatural element of the story. There's one scene, set on the water, that executes a subtle yet breathtaking play between fog and light.

I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't tell you that it takes a while to get to the main thrust of the story. But it's not at all like Repulsion, where the first 40 minutes are like watching paint dry. The setup is interesting, and these subplots return in the rest of the film, adding depth and richness.