Cinema Talk

I must admit feeling that I feel somewhat silly and naive whenever I go about reviewing any film that fits into the mold of ahem, “mumblecore” since the movement itself has eventually become the butt of most Ray Carney-related jokes. However, lumping every low-budget American film of a the past five years into one category seems a little counter-productive. No doubt, the generalization has hurt the movement (if you can even call it that) in the long run. Again and again, we see films about white, middle-class twenty-somethings struggling to find themselves, or something equally abstract. Quiet City falls into this category, but someone, it is also one of the best movies of the century.

Jamie arrives in New York City one night to meet a friend at a local coffee shop. Lost, she asks Charlie for directions, but he seems equally clueless. When Jamie’s friend never shows up, she decides to continue hanging out with Charlie who naturally offers her shelter for the night. The next day, Jamie finds her friends address, but she still cannot make contact. As a result, she continues to hang out with Charlie – in the park, at an art exhibition, and finally, at a party. Their relationship grows, but never reaches any sort of conclusion.

The most immediately noticeable aspect of Katz’s first two films, this and Dance Party USA, is how much more attention he seems to place on the visuals than his peers. Unfortunately, both of Katz’s films are filmed on digital video but somehow, both films are bursting with moments of poetic beauty. It seems that Katz has actually upgraded his camera here, but only slightly. Whatever the case, Quiet City is filled with visuals that unquestionably the most beautiful ones captured on digital video. There’s a more conscious effort here than in Dance Party to find lush images. Not unlike Ozu’s “pillow shots” these images provide the break, so to speak, from the action. Oddly enough, despite the bulk of the film being filmed in the usual DIY shakycam style, the “pillow shots” are photographed with complete stillness. Needless to say, they also look quite beautiful.

On a similar note, Katz also seems willing to let silence intrude on his story, which is another stylistic device that puts him above his peers. The first four minutes or so actually have no dialogue, at all! Of course, it eventually stumbles into a predictable talky sensibility but it is not like that stuff is inherently bad. After all, it is these that make up a majority of the film and it is not as though I was expecting something that wasn’t completely based around small talk. Even within these sequences, Katz manages to bring interesting visuals to the tables as opposed to using the simple shot/reverse shot technique that makes up a majority of these shoestring-budget American films. More proof that Katz is not merely a name to drop in a passing fad, but a legitimately great director. To top it all off, the film is inspiring and not in the way of some phony sports production. It is inspiring because it proves that it is possible to make truly amazing cinema even with such a restricted budget. One can only hope that some day, Katz will get the finances that he so clearly deserves.

It’s almost mind-blowing that Robert Rossen was able to make this within the 1960s Hollywood system. The only other Hollywood film I can think of that is as audacious is John Frankenheimer’s Seconds and even that was masked under the whole “sci-fi thriller” surface. Lilith, however, is, for the most part, free of any genre classification. At its worst moments, Rossen tries to disguise it under some genre conventions, but his attempts pretty much fail. On a similar note, there’s also plenty of typical Hollywood manipulation techniques, but even then, the very Antonioni-esque sensibility shines through. It is perplexing to think that Rossen somehow convinced a studio to give him money for such a gracefully nuanced work, not to mention, that he was actually capable of such a drama.

Vincent Bruce has returned home from his military service and life is not how he left it. His former lover, Laura, has moved into a comfortable suburban marriage. In other words, he has been completely abandoned but he looks to cure his loneliness by applying for a job at the local insane asylum. It is there that meets Lilith, a patient who has been in the asylum since she was a teenager. The asylum’s other workers have rather unpleasant stories about Lilith to share with Vincent, but his experiences with her have been almost completely positive. It turns out that she is desperately in love with Vincent.

The first fifteen minutes or so are particularly note-worthy as it perfectly and almost silently, builds enough alienation to be within the same ballpark as any Tsai Ming-liang film. Unsurprisingly, Lilith falls far short of such standards, but that is perfectly understandable when one takes into the consideration when the film was made. Not all is lost after the opening, though, as there is still a very nice and quiet manner in which the story, of what little there is, unfolds. The sparseness of both the story and the technique really go a long way to make the film as great as it is.

Eventually, things start to pick up, and not necessarily in a positive way. Once Jean Seberg’s character is introduced, the film becomes a bit more lively and a lot less impressive, too. That isn’t to say it is her fault entirely, but her introduction also marks the start of more conventional musical manipulation. She actually is responsible for the best scene in the film, where, at a fair, she talks to two little boys about blood. These are the odd sequences that, if anything, the film needed a lot more of, especially considering that the faux-psychological thriller crap begins to sneak its way into the film’s sub-conscious. Still, it is pretty remarkable to think that general audiences could go to any major theater and see this. The experience of watching Lilith is bizarre due to how many “big stars” participated in such a Antonioni-esque drama. It’s almost surreal to see Warren Beatty successfully pull off the whole “alienation” vibe. Equally odd is the small cameo made by Ben Carruthers from John Cassavetes’ Shadows.

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.