Cinema Talk

A wonderful, Tati-tinged comedy that hopefully announces one of the future greats of cinematic minimalism in director Eran Kolirin. If the film has any downfaults on the technical side of things, than it’s that the first time director feels slightly uncomfortable holding his shots for a certain amount of time as he often retreats to conventional shot/reverse-shot conversation compositions. One could complain that the story itself is far too inconsequential since very little drama actually occurs, but it perfectly compliments the overall tone. It’s not the sort of film to make a striking impact on someone, but it is wonderful none the less.

A police brass band from Egypt arrives in Israel for a performance, but due to miscommunication, they take the wrong bus. They wind up in a town far from where they intended to be. The lost group wanders around the desert before stumbling upon a small diner. The diner’s owner, Dina, invites the entire group to stay at the her home. The night proceeds awkwardly, as expected, but connections are made and all of the band’s members begin to settle in to their respective temporary shelters.

The deadpan tone is sometimes at risk, here, with slight intrusions coming from the sometimes sappy scores and juxtaposition of far-away static shots with extreme close-ups. I have to admit, I didn’t expect this to be remotely unique. I figured it would have been mostly long static shots of nothing happening, which are indeed present, but with plenty of shot/reverse shot sequences of conversation that go against the restrained approach. On the other hand, most of the talking is handled quite well with a pitch-perfect sense of tension that is always present, regardless of who is speaking. Even if the conversations go on for too long, there’s always a very subtle yet bold saturated visual style for the film to fall back on. A nice little slice-of-life sort of movie, but it seems destined to be forgotten.

A vast improvement for Peter Watkins from The Gladiators, but still not some amazing masterpiece, or anything. It does take many of the same stylistic techniques from that film, which is a positive, and transplants them into a rather uneven narrative spanning topics from dystopia to commercialism to the religious right. The cynical humor with which Watkins handles all these topics is brilliant, sharp, and thankfully, never too obvious. For as charming and quirky as the film is, it never seems to maintain a focus on its protagonist, Steven Shorter. He is moved around somewhat like a chess piece by Watkins, which is fairly ironic considering that is also what Steven’s advisers do.

In the not too distant future, Britain has become overrun by the popularity of Steven Shorter. As the film’s narrator mentions, he is not a politician but rather, a pop musician. The whole country listens to him, and because of such popularity, his “staff” encourages (and forces) him to participate in projects that deal with key issues gripping society. He appears in an apple commercial, which is meant to inform the public that they need to eat six apples a day for the apple industry to stay afloat. He also becomes a promotional tool for the church, which results in a rock version of “Onward Christian Soldiers” as well as Nazi-esque stadium performance. This all begins to get under his skin, though as artist and love interest, Vanessa Ritchie begins to make him more aware of how much people are manipulating him.

Many of the stylistic devices from The Gladiators are carried over, of course to correspond with Watkin’s faux-documentary aesthetic. The employment of freeze-frame, voiceover, and interviews creates a unique “scrap-book” sensibility. Easily, the single most astonishing aspect of the film is the confidence Watkins displays in his cinematic craftsmanship. The same can be said about The Gladiators as well, but the actual content here is much more accessible. The most obvious reason being the fact that there is plenty of witty satire. For all its possible downfalls, I certainly have to give Watkins credit for making one of more outrightly comedic films I’ve seen in quite some time.

With the comedy comes plenty of problems, unfortunately. For as personal and insightful as Watkins’ cinematic technique is meant to be, the film itself is rather impersonal and remains cold and distant in the most captivating moments of Mr. Shorter’s life. Perhaps this was the intention, to merely observe the mental and emotional crumbling of a major public figure, but the way in which Watkins does so is not like Tati, Tsai, Ozu, or whoever else you want to throw in. While the distant portraits that those artists offer actually enhance the emotional resonance, it is lessened here. Maybe the problem is the greater interest in being wacky and funny, than in the subject matter. There seems to be something profound going through Steven Shorter, but such stuff takes a back seat to the satire. Sure, it is funny and relevant, especially in modern times, but the manner seems too cynical, or maybe not cynical enough.

At its best, a sub-Wong Kar Wai love story with too many stylistic devices to be a fluently great film. The whole lost souls find each other plot line is welcomed as always, but the unique aspects of the film are generally, quite silly. Perhaps that is the point, since the protagonist perform in what is basically a magic show, but even then, a bit more relationship-related events would have helped things out. In addition to the whole magic show thing, Leconte sprinkles plenty of bloated symbolism to make things even more laughable. And yet, the film somehow works as a whole and it is largely due to the wonderful visuals and the captivating beauty of its lead actress, Vanessa Paradis.

A young women, Adéle, has lived a life devoid of any luck and thus, any happiness. She decides to throw herself off a bridge one night, but in the process of doing so, meets Gabor, a knife-thrower. He befriends Adéle and invites her to be his new assistant, which means he plans to throw knives at her. The couple’s luck on the magic show circuit crosses over into the casino, but when the two drift apart, they become as unlucky as they were before their chance meeting.

Most of the thematic material, such as that of “luck” is pretty silly, and at times, woefully metaphorical. Essentially, the film attempts to be built around the concept of the two lovers needing each other …to be lucky, which is a problematic theory in and of itself. What kind of messed up world do these people live in where a life goal is to consistently display signs of luck. This is one of the many things that clouds the principal relationship, and keeps the film from reaching its true potential.

Another cinematic roadblock is the overly-flash aesthetic approach, more akin to Terry Gilliam than Wong Kar-Wai. Considering the achingly romantic tone the film tries to achieve, it would have been preferably to show signs of influence from the latter. It’s funny, considering how the whole “Wong Kar-Wai type romance” has almost become an entirely new genre itself and most of the time, cinephiles will roll their eyes at another attempt at recapturing the spirit of Hong Kong’s most acclaimed auteur. But in a film like this, it becomes so clear just how difficult it is to obtain a similar sensibility. Leconte seems to have all the “right” things present, but he decides to indulge in goofy dutch angles, a surefire way to destroy the power of the otherwise gorgeous black and white visuals. Still, despite it’s many blemishes, I did enjoy this a great deal, but perhaps only for it could have been, rather than what is actually is.

Considering the condition in which the film itself is in, it is rather difficult to enjoy this, at least in the conventional sense. Still one can appreciate, at the very least, how great the film could be if only it were given some legitimate restoration. For what it is in it’s current state, Taipei Story is a wonderful bit of Antonioni type drama. The whole nature of depicting a very quiet and complicated relationship within the marvels of modern society will inevitably remind one of Antonioni’s trilogy. In a similar vein, this does seem to anticipate the stripped-down narratives fueled by romantic relationships in Tsai’s most recent efforts.

Lung, a former member of Taiwan’s little league baseball team, has now grown up and become the operator of a fabric business. He lives with his childhood love Ah-chin, a perfect example of a “modern” girl in Taiwan, albeit one that comes from a very traditional background. The young couple have hopes of getting on the right track (one may assume they have only recently graduated from college) but things don’t go as planned. Ah-chin is bothered by Lung’s previous relationships, and this irritations leads her to retreat to her gang of equally modernized (and westernized) friends.

The themes of alienation and displacement brought on by the evolution of society and technology is not all too original. It isn’t exactly a problem for me, but it doesn’t really help out what is already borderline unwatchable, but only because of the source print. It is a true tragedy that this film’s life on digital home video seems so far away, because it ideally fits into a sub-genre (of sorts) that is so wildly popular, at least among arthouse nerds. Of course, people have been craving more of Yang’s work on DVD for a long time, but this one seems as far away as Yi Yi as Yang would get. Basically, this all just to say that the film lacks the overly-gentle approach of Yang’s later film, as well as the sprawling scope. This is much more intimate and personal (again closer to Tsai’s recent films) but just as exquisitely crafted.

Now, here’s my ideal my ideal type of Rivette film. Very much in the same vein as the great Merry-Go-Round, which is still my favorite of his. This comes in a pretty close second place tie with Histoire de Marie et Julien, which seems as far away removed, stylistically and thematically, from the other two mentioned titles. This and Merry-Go-Round are by far, the most playful Rivette features I’ve seen so far, and said playfulness plays a huge factor in making both films as enjoyable as they are. Like most of Rivette’s productions, the film is mess, but it is also one an incredibly fascinating one.

A nightclub magician named Celine is befriended by a librarian named Julie. In a short amount of time, Celine moves in with Julie, and their lives begin to intertwine. They both begin to devote a large part of their time to participating, or perhaps simply viewing a story that can only be projected by swallowing a mysterious type of candy. They’re transported to a country house setting, in which the death of a young girl engages both women. The two begin visiting the house featured in this “program” and participating in smaller parts, but for what reason exactly?

To answer the question phased in the previous paragraph: no reason, whatsoever! But it is this exact attitude that is present in Celine and Julie and the attitude that makes it such a joy to watch. While there are some possibly symbolic touches, as well as convincing “deep” moments, the film doesn’t ever drag into a puddle of ponderousness. For a three hour film that revolves around magic, one might expect things to be a bit heavy, especially taking into account some of Rivette’s more “serious” efforts.

The one place where the films of the more mature Rivette have the upper hand is clearly the visual department. In all honesty, there aren’t any of the lovely flourishes of Duelle and Noroit, both of which came only two years later. It might sound a little bit harsh, but the cinematography here is not all that exciting, but in Rivette’s defense, the film (at least a majority of it) doesn’t exactly call for too many stylistic touches. The not-so-great visuals fit well with the shaky, documentary nature of the camera’s movements, which works perfectly fine considering how authentic and spontaneous the film is. This is really Rivette’s greatest strength as a filmmaker. When it comes to making films that are purely visceral, he is probably the best, and this film is a perfect representation of such talents.