Cinema Talk

More proof here that Anthony Mann really is a fantastic filmmaker. I absolutely loved The Tin Star but still felt more than a little skeptical going in to this one. While there are obviously some inherently bad signs of classic Hollywood filmmaking, this is still a very personal and accomplished work. Its very likely that Mann would have preferred to do something completely removed from the boundaries of a genre, but would never get such financing. Is this film melodramatic? Certainly, but it never bothers taking itself down a serious, dreary, and bleak path that so many modern “serious dramas” tend to do.

To explain the plot of The Furies would be somewhat of an insult to the movie. There’s an unintentionally hilarious “review” from TVGuide which quickly pieces together the main thrust of the narrative. By doing so, however, is to give a very false impression of the film. It is to Mann’s credit that these events all happen rather slowly, and the “plot points” are all patched by “pointless” scenes. Of course, these “pointless” scenes are one of Mann’s strongest points. He is certainly not on the same level of the character portraits by Yasujiro Ozu, or Mikio Naruse but he is fairly close. Plus, it should go without saying that there is the irresistible influence of classic Hollywoodisms.

Even more credit should go to the very strong visual sense, which is more often than not, overlooked in films of this type. Interestingly enough, this was actually shot by Victor Milner and not Mann’s frequent collaborator, John Alton. As this is one of Mann’s very first westerns, it marks the turning point in his career when he went from a steady string of film noirs (most of which were shot by Alton) to his now famous “psychological” westerns. The visual style is reflective of this transition, as, if anything, it still feels grounded in the shadowy cinematography of his earlier films but with a new location. In other words, totally brilliant. Some will be turned off by the melodramatic trapping from the era, but those that sit through it will be greatly rewarded.

More of the same from Miklós Jancsó. That is to say, an exquisitely crafted film that never rises above its all too simple premise. While it is captivating to watch his camera float around and observe fantastic and bizarre events, it never goes beyond being just a textbook example of how to make a film. In all of his films, Jancsó shows a complete understanding of the mechanical aspects of filmmaking. He knows how to elaborately stage layers and layers of events in a frame, as well as how to observe these events without a sign of intrusion. But still, this seems like nothing more that just an opportunity to make other filmmakers drool with envy.

As it almost always is with Jancsó, the narrative is built around a (relatively) obscure event in Hungarian history. Unlike his other films, this one attempts to give a a little exposition before diving head-first into a situation that most viewers (myself included) are unfamiliar with. A (Hungarian) national movement lead by Kossuth has been defeated and the Austrian government has taken over. The army rounds up a group of suspects and placing them in a secluded fort at the hope that the guerrillas will break down and confess. Essentially, it just turns in to a “witch hunt / paranoia” type of story.

I’ll give Jancsó some credit for attempting to explain the usual historical specifics that make up the content for most of his films. The very straight-forward style of exposition is sort of irritating as well as conventional, but in this case, it is legitimately helpful. In my opinion, it seems important for one to worry as little as possible about what exactly is going on Jancsó’s films and instead, focus primarily on the ravishing cinematography, which I’ll praise to the heavens in a moment here. The narrative, to no surprise, consists of very little emotional involvement. This is clearly the intention as the story follows a rather unpredictable route in establishing characters, and then disposing of them. This fickle sensibility does keep things interesting for awhile, but never enhances the characters beyond chess pieces.

For all the shortcomings, though, one cannot deny the confident compitence with which the film is crafted. Yes, the characters are still just chess piece that Jancsó moves according to his interests but he does so in the most elegant of fashions. As a purely visual experience, it is extraordinary. Personally, I cannot think of any other film in which cinema scope is used so expertly. There’s always little things going on in the background or to the sides, which provides more proof of Jancsó’s clear knowledge of the medium in general. Still, it is hard to not want something more personal out of such an accomplished filmmaker.

Not only Naruse’s best silent film, but also one of the very best silent Japanese films overall, perhaps only surpassed by Ozu’s amazing An Inn in Tokyo. While the film is a bit on the over-stylized side (as most of the early Naruse films I’ve seen are) it still provides plenty of very tender and delicate moments of truth, all captured with the utmost amount of beauty by the always brilliant Suketaro Inokai. In addition, there’s also a wonderful performance by Sumiko Mizukubo, who unfortunately disappeared from the world of cinema after a quick run with some of Japan’s A-list directors. Her presence combined with a poignant tale of disaffected youth results in Naruse at his best form.

Kikue, reluctantly works as a geisha to support not herself but her teenager son, Yoshio, who has begun to show many signs of teenage angst. He is ashamed of his mother’s profession and protests by skipping school and hanging out with the “tough” gang. Things at work also take a turn for the worst when Kikue’s most reliable patron begins to seek a much more younger partner. He specifically notices Terugiku, who is around Yoshio’s age, and maintains a friendly relationship with Kikue. Terugiku also acts somewhat of a sister for Yoshio, though indications of a deeper love are implied, they are never acted upon. Terugiku invites Yoshio to her house. Surprisingly, her household is far more dysfunctional. Yoshio decides to make a greater effort to help his mother back home, but things don’t quite turn out as planned.

In addition to painting a portrait of alienated youth that is vivid even 75 years after the fact, Naruse also blends in his trademark comedic stylings. There’s a joke early on, in which Kikue plucks out a gray hair, that bears an uncanny resemblance to a similar situation in Flowing. Even in the least likely of places, Naruse manages to interject the sadness found in the element of an aging geisha, a “motif” (if one would call it that) that he would re-use in almost all of his films from the 1950s. In contrast to those films, this is a much more stylistic effort, which is pretty much the only particularly noticeable problem I have with the film. Considering just how beautiful Suketaro Inokai’s cinematography can be, something a bit more formalistic would have been preferred. Otherwise, a perfect film and (possibly) Naruse’s first really great artistic success.

A perfect example of that “epic plotlessness” that I love so dearly. This is (more or less) three hours of two guys riding in a truck and then walking around wherever they stop. On occasion, Wenders indulges in a bit too much dialogue, which seems to either be contrived attempts at poetry or minor exposition. Otherwise, this is a an fully realized masterpiece. Almost like an Antonioni film filtered through Wenders’ own vision of loneliness, isolation, and ennui. The events proceed so relaxed and effortlessly but provide revelations so profound and important. Despite the length, this proves to be a perfect introduction into the cinematic world of Wim Wenders.

Bruno drives cross-country as a repairman for projection equipment. He picks up a (unintentional) hitchhiker named Robert Lander, who we soon learn has recently separated himself from his wife. The two rarely talk, but they seem to share a mutual respect for one another. As they drift from town to town, they meet a select cast of eccentric personalities, almost all of which embody the same quiet, poetic sadness as themselves. Robert returns to his childhood home and visits his father, and Bruno attempts a romance with a concession stand worker at a theater. These moments, though fleeting, provide the basis for the narrative.

One of the most immediately noticeable technical aspects here is the gorgeous black and white cinematography courtesy of Robby Müller. Its fitting that it is so similar to Antonioni’s features from the early 60s since Antonioni rather reluctantly had Wenders co-direct Beyond the Clouds. Anyway, the visuals here are stunning regardless of the similarities to other films. The music, though not without its intrusive moments, seems to perfectly compliment the visual strengths. While it has a very “America ’70s” vibe, it still feels somewhat timeless and universal feel as well. There are some pieces that come close to interrupting the power of the images, but, for the most part, the music seems to come up at almost the exactly right time. It tends to come in during these rather odd transition sequences, almost widescreen “pillow shots” which reflect Wenders’ admiration of Yasujiro Ozu. Though, even Ozu, perhaps the greatest of all directors, never got to work with music as good as Improved Sound Limited’s “9 Feet Over the Tarmac.”

As pitch-perfect as all the technical things are here, it is more impressive how depth of the emotional core. The performances here seem to greatly anticipate the performances of Denis Lavant in Leos Carax’s films as well as Lee Kang-sheng in Tsai Ming-Liang’s films. While this “style” of acting (if it can even be called that) has deeper roots with Bresson and (again) Antonioni, it seems come closer to full realization in this film. It probably helps that the principle characters here have a similar type of masculine sensitivity – a very downplayed quiet sadness that is present in both Tsai and Carax’s films. While Wenders never goes as far as to make a romantic relationship the main focus, he does capture the same type of fleeting beauty found in such interactions. That almost in and of itself is enough to proclaim this film as a masterpiece. Of course, the decision is made easier by plenty of other fantastic elements. Pretty much one of the best movies ever.

A very good film, but I’m afraid that much of its details were ultimately lost on me. While it is easy to appreciate the very fragmented / elliptical way in which the story is presented, it is similarly difficult to follow along with so many characters, all of whom seem to look the same. There’s also a fair share of overly-specific plot messyness that does essentially nothing to enhance the real purpose: the up and downs (of which there are many here) of a very complicated relationship. It does provide plenty of pathos and moments of emotional truth, but compared to its thematic brethren, it comes off as a bit too one-note.

Bekir works at the family carpet store as a salesman. Despite his profession, he is incredibly shy. One day, he meets Ugur – a carefree, outgoing girl. In other words, everything he is not. Nonetheless, he still falls for her, but quickly discovers that her bubbly personality is hiding plenty of emotional baggage. She is in love with Zagor, who is imprisoned. He is constantly relocated from one institution to another, but no matter how far it is, Ugur always follows. In the mean time, Bekir fulfills the wishes of his parents and participates in an arranged marriage. He begins to build a family, but he cannot forget Ugur, which leads him to scenarios where both he and his wife experience great amount of personal suffering.

Quickly, the film perfectly sets itself up to be a somewhat light (and/or cute) story about long-time crushes, and the pain and frustration that goes along with it. This is thrown away quite rapidly, and then the film begins to take on its much more “dark” material. While Bekir’s undying love for Ugur is endearing, it also only that. His actions after nervously proclaiming his love for her are completely over the top and uncharacteristic. Perhaps many people like this sort of “character arc” nonsense, but it does seem the least bit realistic. In a way, this is sort of like Citizen Kane in its very conventional rise and fall (and in this case, repeat) sensibility. The problem here is that the filmmakers have obvious aspirations to make this a very profound meditation on human relationships.

Look, all human relationships are complicated beyond our comprehension but they aren’t complicated in the way they are portrayed here. It seems that the very specifics of the plot are the causes of emotional conflicts, which would explain why they are presented so fragmented. It might be somewhat of an exaggeration but this is the sort of like the “complicated relationship” films that Hollywood tries so hard to make but always fails. Don’t get me wrong, this conventional in the least, but whoever wrote it seemed to have a very skewed idea of what causes problems in relationships to begin with. On the other hand, this does make many sequence really great, if one is to take them out of their context. Still, I’d say that Nuri Bilge Ceylan and Semih Kaplanoglu are miles above Zeki Demirkubuz.