Cinema Talk

Even by the standards of early Fassbinder, this film is remarkably cold and austere. At times, it almost becomes ridiculous just how mechanically certain events unfold. Normally, it would be easy to write the film off on the prospect of it being so close to self-parody alone, but the final fifteen minutes represent Fassbinder at his most heartbreaking. He’s working towards this for the film’s entire running time but only towards the end, does it all seem to mesh into one of the strangest yet tragic endings in all of cinema. Undeniably frustrating to those unwilling to participate in something new, but extremely rewarding for those that get over the initial uncomfortable feelings brought on by Fassbinder’s very detached style.

Ricky, a contract killer, returns to Germany after a stay in America, where he most likely served in the Vietnam War. The cops begin to use him as a hitman to take care of local criminals. In between these errands, Ricky returns to the locations of his childhood with his old buddy Franz Walsch, revisits his mother and his emotional perplexed brother. He still has plenty of free time, though, not to mention very sad and lonely. He calls up the front desk of the hotel he is residing at and asks for a woman. The cops send Rosa, who falls in love with Ricky but there’s many people standing in their way of a new life.

One needs only to look at the IMDB comments to see just frustrating the style of early Fassbinder be for an audience. Of course, anyone who expects a straight-forward gangster and/or noir flick will be tremendously disappointed and perhaps, infuriated. But even those who are conscious of the film’s artiness may end up befuddled by the mechanical performances. It’s completely reasonable to be turned off just on the acting alone, but it is important to realize that the acting isn’t mechanical and unnatural because the characters are symbols or metaphors, or anything like that. No, it’s clear that Fassbinder took more than a few (fictitious) courses on Bresson’s acting ideas. If you can’t see just how heartbreaking and painful the final fifteen minutes of this film is, then there’s a good chance you don’t have a pulse.

On the surface, this is probably the single most straightforward and conventional of all of Shimizu’s films. The story is a bit too simple and melodramatic, but aesthetically speaking, this probably Shimizu’s most radical feature. It seems that his financial and cinematic limitations gave him a free-reign to try different things. I’ve never seen a director make such playful use of intertitles as Shimizu does here. At times, they seem closer to the intertitles in a late 60s/early 70s Godard film than the ones in a conventional silent film. I suppose I couldn’t become as absorbed by this as I was in Shimizu’s other features but that’s mostly has to do with the disconnection my brain has with silent films. Otherwise, this is just as great as anything else he’s ever done.

Teenage schoolgirls Dora and Sunako are the best of friends but their relationship is thrown into question when Sunako begins donating her time to Henry. He seems to be more interested in Yoko, though. Bitter, Sunako acts on her impulses and shoots Yoko. Several years later, Sunako is now a prostitute following an artist, Miura. She feels she is destined to wander around forever, but her friend, Masumi, suggests that she begins a new life in her hometown. Striped from more ideal options, she follows Masumi’s recommendation, but must conjure up her dark(er) past in the process.

There’s no doubt in my mind that this film lacks the emotional power of Shimizu’s later features but as I mentioned earlier, this does have a more experimental aesthetic. That isn’t to say its some sort of Stan Brakhage-esque “avant-garde” film, but rather just a showcase for some of Shimizu’s more unorthodox techniques. The repetition of intertitles, though eventually abandoned, does seem like something one would find in the silent film version of Fassbinder’s Katzlmacher. Even though it is a bit silly, there is one sequence where the font grows in correlation to the rapid-fire cutting. Such a concept is hard to explain in words but it makes sense in motion. Not the greatest of Shimizu’s films, but definitely one worthy of being seen on its own terms.

My first Rivette experience and I liked it a great deal. There’s more than enough elements to turn me off, such as the abundance of dialogue and the self-consciously “high-brow” attitude, but I think that Rivette rises above all of that. In a way, it is actually not completely unlike Assayas’ Late August, Early September. They share the same intellectual, coffee-talk type of characters who seem to never have to work. Again though, Rivette is above this and fleshes his characters out in spite of their over-talkative nature, not because of it.

Camille, an itinerant actress, and her theater director boyfriend, Ugo reach a rough patch in their relationship – artistically and romantically. Their tour stops in Paris, where Camille lived with her one-time lover, Pierre. She goes by for a visit only to find that he has moved on to Sonia. Ugo, on the other hand, is starting new relationships, as opposed to revisiting old ones. While searching for a lost play by Goldoni, he meets the much younger Dominique, whose half-brother is spending time with Sonia but only to snatch her jewels.

The above description does create implications that the film is one of these “full circle” connection stories along the lines of Magnolia, Short Cuts, and so on. Thankfully, it is not. Instead, the drama derives from the surrounding of our two principle characters, Camille and Ugo. The film is light enough in tone (in a good way) that the connections are never dramatic revelations, but rather unobtrusive progressions in certain relationships. Needless to say, it is a joy to watch the film unfold not only because the characters are portrayed so honestly but also because they are realized perfectly. To avoid a gush-fest, I’ll just say that Jeanne Balibar is definitely one of the best performers working in France right now, and leave it at that.

The cinematography, one of my biggest concern with Rivette, is actually quite fantastic. It’s not revolutionary or anything, but it is very impressive and yet somehow subdued. The very formal camera work does evoke somewhat of an Antonioni feel, though of course there is far too much dialogue in this film to make a straightforward comparison. Perhaps one could say it’s a bit like a screwball comedy envisioned by Antonioni. In fact, yeah that sounds quite good. It points out the two greatest strengths in Rivette’s characterization: honest and truthful even if it means being a little silly.

It was quite funny to watch this, a film completely unorthodox and (seemingly) free of influence after watching Assayas’ great but not so original Late August, Early September. I am not quite sure if this so much a compliment to Dumont as it is a statement of being totally blown away by this anti-investigation film. You’d think one could anticipate such craziness having already seen Twentynine Palms but apparently not. As fascinating and bizarre at this film is, it is also sort of too cynical in a way. It has a very heightened sense of mockery that does indeed taint an otherwise perfect film. Whether they be positive or negative, I can’t see anyone not having a strong response to his. It has infuriated countless filmgoers already but there are some (such as myself) that have been witness to a film that will easily outlive its more conservative peers.

The film starts unassumingly (but still brilliantly) enough. A long, wide static shot of a seemingly healthy landscape. The colors saturate to the point of appearing alien to the audience, which is fitting since Dumont himself believes that all film lovers are aliens. The principle character, Pharon de Winter, is introduced and done so rather dramatically. He runs, trips, and lands face down in the mud. He gets up, and enters his car rather methodically. It is clear at this point, that he has been deeply disturbed by something. The camera quickly cuts to a mutilated young girl whose rape and death serves as the launching point for the protagonist’s descent into madness. Perhaps the word “descent” gives a false impression as there is no dramatic lapse into stress. It also important to note that the rape of this eleven year old girl does not inspire a relentless detective persona in Pharon. Quite the opposite in fact, as the investigation itself plays little to no role in the film’s overall scope. Unsurprisingly, many people expecting some sort of Claude Chabrol thriller will end up disappointed, if not completely enraged.

Then, we are introduced to Pharon’s next door neighbors, Domino and Joseph, a sex-fueled couple who seem to be struggling. They invite Pharon along for their dates, probably due to his unobtrusive nature. Joseph tends to make a mockery of him, constantly pushes Pharon into awkward situations while Domino is more friendly and open towards Pharon. Tensions increase between parties in almost all of their meetings while the investigation itself is going poorly.

The above description is generally the case for almost all of the film as we do rarely find new “breaks” in the case, or developments and so on. Even when there is a significant occurrence pertaining to the investigation, it is downplayed and made little note of. On the other hand, Dumont studies the condition of Pharon, who clearly cannot only be traumatized by the rape and death of an 11 year old that he did not know. Along the way, we get “clues” offered as explanation for his state such as the fact that he still lives with his mother, or that wife and daughter died. Perhaps the latter is the definitive explanation for some but again, we are never given clear answers and more importantly, we don’t need them.

Dumont’s film is unquestionably a difficult one. Even those who considered themselves “veterans” in minimalistic cinema can have a hard with L’Humanite; I certainly did. The film clocks in just under two and a half hours composed mostly of long static shots of painful yet uneventful vignettes. From time to time, the camera appears aimless, following around Pharon as he drifts from location to location. It will be perplexing to some as to why Dumont approaches filmmaking in such a way. He is more alienating to audiences than even the forces of Bresson, Pasolini, and (early) Fassbinder put together. The reward is great for those who stick with the film, though, as it delivers one of the biggest emotional punches in cinematic history and has almost nothing to do with the fact that the criminal is revealed. Even after the film ends, the experience is not over. When I finished my initial viewing of L’Humanite I resided in a feeling that the film is enormously accomplished but too aware of its eventual impact on general audiences. I thought, perhaps, that it was even too slow for someone with such a high tolerance for this stuff as myself. Only today, the morning after, do I realize that has overpowered my thoughts to the point that I have to consider it a masterpiece. It is not an immediately rewarding experience like the work of fellow minimalists Tsai Ming-Liang, or Semih Kaplanoglu but rather one that is so perplexing and bizarre that it begs to be pondered over.

Easily Assayas’ most emotional accessible film but probably one of his least accomplished as well. For once he finally centers his focus is on people and their relationships with no genre “subverting” or pandering to confine himself. On the other hand, it lacks the technical confidence of his later films. While he does seem to be doing the handheld tracking stuff quite well, it is nowhere near as seamless as it is in, say Clean. In addition, this does come quite close to being cliche French coffee-talk cinema. A problem subdued thanks mostly to a wonderful cast. While Assayas had yet to develop some of his better tendencies, he also had yet to develop some of his lesser ones. A mixed experience, but one that is undoubtedly from Assayas’ mind.

Gabriel, an aspiring novelist, is transitioning from one relationship to another. He and his presumed ex-girlfriend, Jeanne, are selling their apartment. In the mean time, he and Anne are discussing the concept of getting their own apartment together but Gabriel feels he needs some time alone. This doesn’t happen, though, as his friend Adrien falls ill. They discuss and meditate on the state of their relationships, as well as the inevitability of becoming middle age. As Adrien’s health lays in a balance, Gabriel begins to reevaluate the state of things to try to prevent himself from losing what he really wants.

All the characters here seem a bit too conscious of their place in society, which may or may not have been Assayas’ intention. Though they all appear smart, witty, and well-read, they are also terribly misguided, not to mention very confused. Perhaps it is a sad irony, a critique on Assayas’ part, on how silly some of the people that fall into this super-chatty crowd can be. Make no mistake, though, this is no condescending misanthropic look at the world but rather a very warm and perceptive look at a small group of people. It probably helps a great deal that the film boasts one of the best cast ever assembled in recent history. Once again, Jeanne Balibar is completely captivating, even if her screen time is somewhat limited. Mathieu Amalric probably plays this type of a role a bit too much (someone generally out-of-touch with the world) but he’s great as always.

The film’s only major drawback is the fact that the grainy film stock doesn’t particularly compliment the usual Assayas style. Perhaps budget restrictions left limited options but it is hard not to think that this film wasn’t suppose to look so grainy, even though Assayas himself has said otherwise in interviews. He is still very confident with the camera using the usual long handheld take aesthetic that has become somewhat of his own. It’s really quite a shame that this there isn’t more of his earlier films out on DVD because one can’t help but be interested in seeing the man’s complete line of progression. Even if this isn’t up to par with Assayas’ usual cinematic beauty, it does have a humanistic edge that tends to be lacking in his cleaner (no pun intended) efforts.