Cinema Talk

The last of  Miklós Jancsó’s black-and-white, cinemascope films and probably, in overall terms, my favorite film of his. It goes without saying that he makes some of the most technically accomplished films. Through all of the films I’ve managed to see from him, I’ve been amazed with his use of space, the long tracking shots, and overall just how he crafts his films in a way that is completely unique. At the same time, I find his films, all of which (with a few exceptions) focus on Hungary’s political history, to be emotionally unremarkable. There’s no denying that an aesthetic can build into something that deeply affects a person, but Jancsó’s content is so boring, for lack of a better. Despite claiming Antonioni as an influence, he seems to have no deep interest in human emotions, but in Silence and Cry, he comes pretty close.

A love triangle (or perhaps square) of some sorts taking place in post-World War I Hungary, the film tells the story of a fleeing soldier who is sheltered in a farm run by two women. The previously mentioned love triangle isn’t deeply explored and perhaps it’s a misreading on my part, but in any case, the film functions on a collection of sequences that range from poetic and heartbreaking to Herzog-esque surrealism, all relating to these relationships.

The shoddy reading on my part pretty much points to my few, minor problems with the film. Certainly this is all-around, the best film I’ve seen from Jancsó, but the narrative is still inaccessible. Michael Brooke (thankfully) makes a far more knowledgeable reading of the film on his blog but perhaps time needs to be taken to appreciate this type of brevity. As I seem to mention countless times on this site, I do indeed like plotless, slow films but I think Jancsó’s narratives fall under a different category: confusing, to make matters simple. Not in a self-consciously “surreal” type of way a la Lynch, but I feel something is missing. Not a “plot-arch” but a “character-arch.” As much as I want to praise Jancsó for his beautiful, unorthodox style, I can’t help but wanting to know something more about his characters.

With all that said, Silence and Cry tries quite admirably to correct all these faults. It’s definitely Jancsó’s most humanistic work. For once we seem to have characters that are more than just mouthpieces or visual props. In fact, there’s even a few cases of arguing and yelling! It’s to the film’s credit that it seems to be filled with some extremely touching moments. Even if they don’t completely work in context, they certainly are breathtaking outside of context. I think at this very moment, that’s generally how I feel about Jancsó. I can admire his filmmaking just by how innovative it is, even if there is nothing (from what I’ve experienced) that is fully-formed and competent enough to provide some resonance. Certainly, there was no one in 1967 doing the things he was doing. Even now, his films seem somewhat different to Angelopolous and Tarr, both of whom are usually considered his stylistic disciples. Whatever the case, he’s brilliant with the camera.

For whatever reason, I’ve unfairly put off Satyajit Ray’s work up until now. With only one film in, I’ve already become overwhelmed with anticipation to explore the rest of his filmography. There are very few films that make me feel the way this one does, and that’s why it is so very difficult to articulate everything one can feel in a film such as this one. Simply put, it embodies everything great about cinema as well as everything great about life.

The film opens with an introduction to the family. Durga is the family daughter and we first see her stealing fruit from the neighbors to give to her aging great aunt, Indir. The neighbors complain and Durga’s mother, Sarbajaya, scolds Indir for encouraging Durga’s behavior. Indir, tired of be nagged, moves to a nearby household, but quickly returns once Sarbajaya gives birth to Apu, and thus the story begins. Many years later (somewhere around 6 or 7) Apu is now older, but the family’s living conditions are pretty much the same. Their father’s dreams of becoming a poet are dashed as he drifts from one hopeless job to another.

Move eventually happens in the “story” (if you want to call it that) but there is no need to give much more away. The plot of Ray’s film is not it’s drive. Instead, his attention is focused to the intricacy of daily life and the textures of the things involved. To make things simple, poetic, but not in the simpleminded modern way of grass shots with voiceovers. There’s plenty of that, sure, but the film provides much more than superficial “elegance.” Feelings of nostalgia frame every image, establishing what could very well be the first of these “lost childhood” films a la George Washington or Stand By Me. Afterall, one of the greatest motifs in the film is Durga and Apu’s deep desire to see a train. There is an amazing sequence in which the children, obscured by the tall blades of grain, run for a meeting with a train. As bleak as the film eventually gets, it is the moments such as this that make Pather Panchali so much more than a simple story about deaths in a family. Ray’s interest is not in their lowest points, but rather in the few, fleeting moments that form what we categorize as childhood memories. Such sequences are bookended by Pandit Ravi Shankar’s fantastic score that not only support the film’s near-perfect pacing, but magnify the emotional resonance in places that seem irrelevant. When I think of this film, I do not see all the plot points, instead I see Durga and Apu running through the fields, or I see Aunt Indir clumsily attempting to leave the household, or one of the hundred others images that Ray has created while simulationesly presenting one of cinema’s great character studies.

That is to say, for all the technical sublimity that lies within the film, there is also one of the most honest meditations on the human conditions. That’s a lot of big overblown words to choose for simply one sentence, but it makes sense considering just how much of this rings true. It seems as though Ray is as much of an Ozu junkie as I am, or at the very least, he just makes films that are thematically similar to Ozu’s. This most likely plays a large role in how easy it is for a person such as myself to immediately latch onto Ray’s film. It’s easy to get familiar with his way of doing things, in other words, it’s quite accessible. Still, it would be a lie to say that the film drifts along on surface level to appreciable as that, it’s not but it’s the impeccable psychological depth that helps form the film into the masterpiece that is.

Perhaps not the best Cinema Novo film, but undoubtedly the most striking. It plays out sort of like the missing link between Ozu and Herzog, even though it doesn’t contain everything that is great about them. Understandably, the characters are never quite as fleshed out as they are in an Ozu film, and the visceral, sponteanous energy of Herzog’s work is never quite present, either. Still, this is pretty impressive company to place Nelson Pereira dos Santos with, especially after only one viewing. The film is far from perfect, but considering it’s ambitions, some flaws are expected.

A family of four drifts into a small town in 1940s Brazil. The father makes his living as a cowhand, his wife works around their “house” and the two children run around chasing sheep and other various things. They continue to existence day in and day out but with many conflicts, never coming close to being secure or as the mother puts it “like real people.” Instead, their lives are constant struggles involving nature, the police, and themselves.

It’s hard to watch this and not think of the similarly barren landscapes found in Herzog’s Even Dwarfs Started Small. Because of the visual similarities, it’s a bit of letdown when the film begins to drag towards the middle. Ironically enough, the early sequences of the family just walking are riveting but some of the forced drama just feels dull. Really, there was no way for the film to live up to its dialogue-less 15 minute opening, which begins with a five minute static shot of the family walking from a fairly large distance. Going off the strength of the first section, though, is enough for me to pretty much love the rest. It never quite feels as spontaneous but it is still very interesting to watch, if one is the type that is interested in this type of Herzogian cinema.

Where the visuals do reflect what Herzog would eventually do, it also feels like the family-driven character drama of Ozu. This doesn’t work out quite as great for the film, though, as it never really decides on it’s intentions. This leaves a lot of room for sequences that are meant to be visceral but also reveal a lot of insight and for the most part, they come off rather stagey. A perfect example of this is when one of the brothers goes outside and repeatedly says “hell” as he plays with his dog. On paper it’s easy to see why I’ve used the Herzog comparison so many times, but on film, it comes off as being an attempt to inject insight into the character. Yes, this “attempt” is admirable but it seems that the film Santos wanted to make is more grounded in the visceral, he should have realized this and focus on more scenes like the one when they brand cows. Still, this is a very impressive film, especially since Herzog had not even begun making full-length features. A huge step in the right direction with only some minor drawbacks.

The first Jean Gabin-Marcel Carne, and just as great as Daybreak, the only other one I’ve seen so far. Again, there’s a certain set of inherent flaws that just goes along with the style of filmmaking at that time period. The fades and dissolves, along with that “glowing” look, remain, but so does Carné and Prévert’s exceptionally deep characterization. The writing still seems insightful 70 years later and at the same time, it is cleverly worked in to a conventional “noir” plot, which explains why it was still somewhat accessible to moviegoers in the thirties.

Jean runs away from his Army life, and finds himself in Panama’s, a shack located in the middle of nowhere. There, he plans to begin a new life but the conditions aren’t so ideal. Almost immediately, he meets Nelly and falls in love. She has retreated to Panama’s to get away from her overbearing guardian, Zabel. Jean and Nelly (and a dog) have another obstacle, though: Lucien, a gangster and friend of Nelly’s missing ex-lover Maurice. Ultimately, Jean is forced to leave town and head towards Venezula, without Nelly, but this plan is prevented by Zabel and Lucien, as well as by the lovers’ own feelings for each other.

From the start, the film casts a perfectly fit sense of dread. The moments of happiness are plenty, but still seem to be missing something, but this is intentional as the film is essentially a would-be romance, not unlike David Lean’s Brief Encounter or Wong Kar-Wai’s Happy Together. Much of the film’s emotional thrust comes from the short time Jean and Nelly spend together, doomed for sure, but engaging as hell to watch unfold. Their seems to be a reoccurring “predictability” criticism that this film is tagged with, but that makes no sense. To assess this film for it’s narrative is to completely miss the point. If it were merely a plot-driven film, then what would be Carné’s point in making what is essentially a pulpy film noir? The thing is, he wouldn’t and the film isn’t. The characters are exaggerated, sure, but that doesn’t make their feelings untrue, or their trials any less painful. It is actually quite an accomplishment that Carné and Prévert could work in so much substance into a genre that relies so little on it. Really, this is only film noir from a completely superficial viewpoint, beneath it is one of those lost souls finding each other-type films that I love so much.

As Masahiro Shinoda’s career progressed, he seemed to further and further away from his New Wave peers. Where as, Oshima and company began more socially and politically conscious filmmakers, Shinoda focused his attention towards Japan’s historical events to place the country’s current events into some sort of context. He started this with Assassination in 1964, and continued with Double Suicide in 1969. Silence, made in 1971, is perhaps the most extreme representation of his historical interests. An adaptation of Shusaku Endo’s acclaimed novel, highlighted with wonderful visuals brought down by an overbearing but understandable ponderous sensibility.

Two Portuguese priests travel to Japan in an attempt to spread the gospel and also find a colleague, who had ventured to Japan years prior but never returned. It’s important to mention that Christianity is illegal in Japan so the priests build their congregation on the outskirts of town, but eventually word of their settlement gets around, which leads to their persecution. However, through these events, they begin to probe deeper and deeper into the whereabouts of their lost brethern.

Ponderous, gloomy, melodramatic, and made with the laziest excuse for sound design I’ve ever heard, Silence‘s only saving grace is its beautiful and the admirable, albeit unsuccessful, attempts at being poetic and profound. Perhaps a story about two Jesuit missonaries should have been a warning sign that I was in for something too philosophical, but it still the film takes itself way too seriously. It comes off even worse when the characters not only articulate their thoughts far clearly, but also seem to be dubbed when they do so. Not to mention, the completely random decision to have characters hold conversations in two different languages. Oddly enough, it’s only when the American actors speak in English that they sound like they are being dubbed. The Japanese people speaking English is more convincing, but most of the time it’s hard to understand them anyway. Obviously, I can’t discredit the film based on the incomprehensible dialogue, but it is another very basic cinematic factor that seems to drag the film down. Like I said, the visuals are more than enough to make up for the mess, but it seems like if Shinoda spent as much time developing characters, he’d have a much more engaging film. Truth be told, the final hour and the half is really just people being tortured and it’s not like in a character-driven purpose like in say, Life of Oharu. Instead, the torture just demonstration in the most unsubtle of ways, just how evil the Japanese government was three-hundred years ago. The problem is, why is this relevant at all? Call me naive, or uneducated but the injustice being depicted occurred in another lifetime and it’s not like the characters are fleshed out beyond superficial stereotypes to actually make them worthy of the audience’s concern. That said, it really is quite nice to look at, enough so that I can genuinely say that I enjoyed once I got use to fact that basically it’s built around the most didactic and uninteresting of stories.