Cinema Talk

It may sound a little bit too harsh, but I have a feeling Rivette didn’t quite know what he was doing with this project. That’s not to say that The Nun is an embarrassingly bad effort, but it is at its most interesting when one takes it into account within the context of Rivette’s career. To his credit, he does obtain a very spontaneous style that echoes throughout most of his future and there doesn’t seem to be signs of over-bearing symbolism. With that said, this is also, by far, his least cinematic film. Perhaps the sterile and bland visuals underscore the boredom of convent life, but the absence of Rivette’s usual visual wizardry is great step back. If one takes this as simply a filmed theatrical production, than it would probably be easier to enjoy.

At the age of 18, Suzanne, is forced by her parents to enter into convent life. Her siblings have all had successful marriages, at least in the eyes of their parents. But it turns out that Suzanne is not really part of the family and that her inception came from an affair her mother had. Life in the congregation is not easy for Suzanne, but she learns to adapt, mostly thanks to her superior, Madame de Moni. However, Suzanne soon becomes the responsibility of Sister Sainte-Christine, who treats her poorly, to say the least. As a result, Suzanne transfers to a different congregation, where Madame de Chelles is her superior. Their relationship begins to take on a more lustful route as Chelles’ desire for Suzanne grows.

Seeing as how I’ve never read the source material, I’m not sure how much is Rivette’s and how much is Diderot’s but many scenes have a very improvised sensibility to them, which is no question, the best thing the film seems to have going for it. It’s not even that Anna Karina pulls off a particularly great performance, but rather, just what seems to be a lack of editing on Rivette’s part. This could be read as a criticism, but I see it as one of his more endearing cinematic quirks and it is probably what saves a film like this from just being a simple, straight-forward drama. It’s enjoyable enough as simply that, but indeed, nothing special.

A wonderful and fitting conclusion to Tati’s “M. Hulot” saga but in all honesty, not that different from Play Time. Calling it an outright rehash might be a bit too critical, but there’s no doubt, at least not in my mind, that it plays heavily off of the success of Tati’s previous effort. Perhaps it ultimately depends on which film one sees first, but having seen Play Time first and by result, being such a big fan of it, this seems along the lines of Tati’s last-ditch effort to recapture the magic of his greatest feature. Trafic does have its share of inspired moments but not quite enough.

Monsieur Hulot has designed a camper vehicle for the Altra car company. The vehicle, filled with plenty of bizarre gadgets and accessories is set to debut at a car show in Amsterdam. There’s a big problem, though: the vehicle is in Paris and it doesn’t seem to be making any progress. With the camper on the back of the company’s truck, Hulot, a truckdriver named Marcel, and Alrta’s Public Relations representative, Maria, attempt to transport Hulot’s vehicle to Amsterdam in time to present it.

Trafic may have the upper-hand on Play Time in a few categories. For one, there’s not nearly as much “social message” material as in Play Time. Tati does give a nod to his previous film towards the end with a window-related joke, but he never goes to the lengths of banging the audience’s head with his views on society’s progression. He never really does this in Play Time either, but he still wears his views on his sleeve, as opposed to, here, he just subtly plugs in a few jokes expressing his concerns.

Another unique point for Trafic is the visual style that has a very downplayed/faded yet sort of saturated style that reminds me even a little bit of Hiroshi Ishikawa. I’ll admit that I feel a little silly equating the visual style of a French film from the early 70s to a twenty-first century Japanese film, but I suppose that shows that Tati did really know what the hell he was doing. It sounds a little naive, but I’ve always suspected Play Time to be a case of an accidental genius. This film shows that he wasn’t, but, at the same time, it doesn’t really provide anything particularly new. Of course, it has its fair share of funny sequences, but its just not really special enough, if that makes sense.

Without a doubt, this is one of the most formally unique films of the decade. That isn’t to say it is one of the best films in the past couple of years, or that it is even the most technically impressive. It probably comes close to filling the title of the latter, but I feel much more confident calling it simply unique. Perhaps equating Sorrentino’s aesthetic to some sort of weird mix of Buñuel and Ho-Cheung Pang would begin to give one an impression of his truly distinct style, but the film is certainly “must see to believe” sort of things. It’s not a perfect film, if only because of its flimsy, but equally unorthodox, narrative. Still, it is definitely one of the more interesting cinematic experiences of recent memory.

Geremia is an aging money lender and lives in a tiny apartment with his obese mother, who spends all day watching zoological specials on TV. Geremia’s repulsive physical appearance combined with his obsessive affection for money makes him a rather off-putting character, to say the least. However, he slowly works his way into the life of all of his clients, becoming a “family friend.” He asked for a loan by a man financing the wedding of his daughter, Rosalba. Geremia falls for Rosalba, but she is understandably, turned off by his advances. Geremia is consistent, though, and eventually becomes disgustingly irresistible to Rosalba.

The previous Buñuel comparison essentially has more to do with Sorrentino’s themes and how he playfully deals with them, than with the director’s unique formalism. The seemingly random opening sequence of a nun, buried up to her neck in sand, is the same sort of cynical surrealism that dominated much of Buñuel later work in France. The misogynist overtones certainly don’t hurt, either. Complaining about a lack of “development” in the characters seems sort of silly in this case, as I’m pretty sure the “flatness” is an intentional trademark. Still, there’s something particularly interesting about Sorrentino’s protagonist as he is unlike any I’ve ever seen.

Such a plot-driven approach in not my favorite in cinema, but considering how much focus Sorrentino places on the technical, I wouldn’t be surprised if little thought was put into the actual content. This is not a problem, actually. Perhaps my wording makes the film out to be one-dimensionally “intellectual” in the sense that its only qualities lie in its form. That’s not true, necessarily, despite how bizarre much of the story is, it is oddly poignant at times. Of course, such poignancy is heighten by Sorrentino’s dazzling camera work that presents tremendously lush visuals. As cynical as misogynistic as the film may or may not be, it does pack a powerful and perhaps amusing punch. Not a great film, but a wonderfully confusing one.

After viewing a trio of rather atypical Naruse films in Stranger Within a Woman (difference in the noir-ness), Untamed (more slapsticky than usual for Naruse), and Apart from You (silent, completely different aesthetics), it was quite nice to watch Summer Clouds, which puts Naruse back in the territory (thematic and aesthetic) that his fans know and love. Perhaps it can be argue that this film is so “Narusian” that it begins to lapse into self-parody but one needs only to look at Stranger Within a Woman to see how uncomfortable Naruse was outside of his usual stories.

Despite having Naruse’s personality written all over it, the film tells a story that is perhaps a bit more akin to Ozu’s of the same time period. I mean this in the sense that Summer Clouds is a sprawling, multi-character melodrama and without some proper exposition (which Naruse thankfully skips) it can be quite a headache. The principle character here is Yae, a mother and a war widow who is looking to remarry. She has a (seemingly) much older brother, Watsuke, who has three sons, one of whom, Hatsu, is about to be married. Unfortunately, his wife to be, Michiko, is a stepdaughter from one of Watsuke’s previous marriages.

All of this is quite hard to keep up but in all honesty, it is not entirely necessary. The film begins to branch off to other characters, which branch off to even more characters, and so on. Somehow, the narrative always finds its base in Yae, fully realized by Chikage Awashima, one of Japan’s most stable performers in the 1950s. She’s not as amazing as Hideko Takamine, but then again, who is? The rest of the cast plays out like a “who’s who” in the roster of Toho performers in the 1950s. While the presence of certain actors and actresses (Ganjiro Nakamura and Haruko Sugimura immediately pop up in my mind) is initially charming, it does end up feeling slightly gimmicky in this case. It’s merely a theory but perhaps Toho agreed to grant Naruse color film stock under the obligation that he would show off the company’s greatest stars.

Speaking of which, this is the first case (at least in my knowledge) of Naruse using color and the results aren’t completely flawless. It may not be visible in the screenshots I’ve taken, but there is an unavoidable blue/green-ish tint present for almost the entire running time. This is admirable on Naruse’s part, if one assumes it was his intention, because it can be seen somewhat of a forerunner to the blue-saturation so popular in modern cinema. Even so, it is far from being pulled off successfully as an odd glow seems to be emitted by every character. On the other hand, this could just be a bad transfer from Wild Side. Anyway, this is standard, but great, Naruse fare.

If there were any doubts (and in my mind, there weren’t) in Ulrich Kohler being one of the best directors working right now, then they can surely be tossed aside. His second film and first masterpiece, Bungalow, manages to contain everything that would make his follow-up Windows on Monday so great but such elements are presented in a slightly different way. This film ends up being too short to really match the greatness of Ulrich’s later film, but it really is just as great. Bruno Dumont and Michael Haneke make similar films, but I would go as far as to say that Kohler tops both of them. He’s making the warmest and most humane films within the whole “cold European minimalism” spectrum of cinema.

A reserved and alienated youth by the name of Paul decides to run away from his duties in the army. He returns home to find that since his departure, some things have changed. Immediately, we notice his girlfriend, Kerstin and her very odd behavior. She tells him that “things are no longer the same” before leaving on her motorbike. Meanwhile, Paul notices the arrival of his brother Max who has brought along his girlfriend, Lene. Unaffected by his break-up with Kerstin, Paul begins to show signs of an interest in Lene. This stirs up more problems with his brother, who he has never really gotten along with and to make matters worse, the military police is on the search to find and then arrest the recently escaped soldier.

Oddly enough, I’ve heard Bungalow described as being a “political” film, which seems pretty silly, not to mention completely false. If one were to group the film under any sort of category, it would probably be the “bored, angsty, and alienated teens” genre, which certainly covers a wide variety of aesthetics. In particular, Bungalow features the thematic and visual grace of Dumont’s Life of Jesus and Flandres. The latter should probably only be mentioned to provide an example of another film that depicts the army in such a formalistic fashion. Unlike Dumont’s film, Kohler never shows any missions nor does he show any signs that Paul has ever been in danger. In fact, the protagonist’s decision to run (actually just stay behind at a Burger King) seems to come from sheer boredom. So yeah this is not as intense as a Dumont film, nor is it as cynical but that’s probably why I like it so much more.

One of the biggest reasons why Kohler’s sensibility is so less heavy than his peers is the humor, a weapon also used by Tsai Ming-Liang to avoid the depths of truly cynical cinema. Like Tsai, Kohler’s humor comes from very subtle moments, in which the audience is forced to observe the absurdity of a situation, but also comes to term with the emotional repercussions. The laughs here do not sugarcoat the situation, but never does one feel an arrogant sense of “seriousness” that is possibly present in the films of Michael Haneke. This is not to slam Haneke and other misanthropic filmmakers, but instead, proves what is so fantastic about Kohler’s cinematic world. There is real heartbreak here and real people feel it, but these people are fully realized and not chess pieces in a sadistic game. That might sound a little hyperbolic (as well as cliché) but it goes to show just how much of a humanist Kohler is and thus, an amazing director.