Le Quattro Volte

Le Quattro Volte, the latest effort from Italian filmmaker Michelangelo Frammartino, is a film of quiet ambition and subtle execution. With this lovingly composed film, Frammartino slowly develops his ideas and asks audiences to consider large concepts through small events.

Le Quattro Volte (translated to “the four stages”) is divided up into four different segments. The first chronicles the lives (or perhaps the singular life) of an elderly goatherd, a newborn goat, a mighty tree, and the ashes and dust as a result of the tree’s burning. Each segment is given equal weight and equal treatment, positing that the life of the old man is no more or less important than the life of the goat, the tree, or the resultant ash. Each life (or stage of life) is equally beautiful and profound; giving audiences something to ponder long after the curtain has closed

These four segments clearly defined, but numerous visual clues communicate a belief in an overall connectedness of these differing life forms. Immediately after the old man’s body and coffin are slowly slid into the crematorium oven, the film shows the birth of the young goat. The old man and his death have been abandoned, reborn in the life of the animal. Similarly, the focus shifts from the goat to the tree upon the tragic passing of the newborn bleater. Finally, we directly see the ash pour from the ground as the mighty oak has been chopped and burned. This “circle-of-life” attitude may seem clumsy or trite on paper, but the film treats the material with such tact that the concept achieves a fresh beauty for audiences to silently consider.

All four stages of the film occur in an archaic, rural Italian village mired in tradition and slowly accepting modernity. The inhabitants of the town (the humans and the animals) move together in packs and processions. There’s a sense of community throughout, pointing to the circular nature of life. The subjects of each stage treat the subjects of the other stages with a certain respect. The elderly man cares for the goats, the goats seek shelter in the wilderness, the people of the town celebrate the life of the tree, and the ash stands in as the final link between the four.

The film meanders and wanders throughout these four different segments; all told artfully and poetically. The camera rarely moves, allowing the action to unfold and providing greater understanding of the naturalistic subject matter. Rather than brashly dictating, it assumes a status of quiet observation. Each shot is compositionally beautiful and is given due time to unfold and mature.

The film’s greatest strength is its decidedly slow pace. Not only is each shot given time to blossom, but each idea is presented with an allowance of time for digestion.

The film’s thematic content slowly builds and enhances – never shocking or deceiving. It’s a refreshing break to see something so obviously designed for internal contemplation and consideration.

Le Quattro Volte may not be for everyone. The complete omission of understandable spoken word, the static camera, and the unconventional subject matter may elicit complaints of boredom or restlessness. It is in those frustrated states that the film does its best work. Quiet contemplation is necessary throughout, and those willing to engage with the film’s slow pace and austere beauty will be amply rewarded.

Midnight in Paris

Woody Allen has always had a refreshing relationship with art. He seems to synthesize and pay constant homage to his cinematic and artistic influences. He also seems to have a strenuous relationship with the intellectual crowd that publicly absorbs the art he adores. It is rare that you find a Woody Allen film that doesn’t rake the pseudo-intellectual elite through the coals and satirize their attempts to intellectualize art. The “academy of the overrated” scene in Manhattan comes to mind. Diane Keaton lists the artists that she feels are overrated, and Allen replies with, “They’re all great. Every one of them. Everyone you just mentioned.” He’s a man who loves a lot of varying art, never too cool or afraid to admit that he unrepentantly adores something.

Woody Allen wears his artistic heart on his sleeve in his latest, Midnight in Paris, which again finds Allen bashing pseudo-intellectuals with a classically witty script.  Through his lead character Gil Pender (played tactfully by Owen Wilson), Allen peers through the façade of his cool, intellectual, insufferable characters and lets audiences know that it’s ok to feel emotional about an artist or a piece of art without intellectualizing and analyzing.

Gil Pender is an American writer on vacation in Paris. He’s engaged to an awful, pretentious intellectual named Inez (Rachel McAdams), and spends much of his time in Paris alone – wandering the streets in search of inspiration for a novel that he’s writing. On such a stroll, he happens upon a magic car that transports him to the Paris of the 1920’s (an era that he considers to be the golden age of artistic output). Here he hobnobs with the likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Luis Bunuel, Salvador Dali, and many more. The wide-eyed Wilson hilariously fawns over his artistic idols, unashamedly praising their work and asking their advice.

This world is contrasted with modern-day Paris, a place he occupies by day. His horribly stuffy fiancé, her friends, and her parents all constantly jab and annoy him to a point of insanity, forcing him to escape to the Paris of the 20’s by night.

As with any Allen film, Midnight in Paris feels autobiographical. Pender’s fear of death, veneration of artists, occupation as a scriptwriter and attempted novelist, and need for escape all clearly point to the widely known psychology of Allen himself. In a way, the escape in time functions for Pender as the movie theater functions for Allen. In many an interview, Allen has spoken romantically about the old movie-houses, and of the escape from real life that they give an audience member. Just as Gil escapes the “pedantic” facades of his reality through his time travel, Allen escapes through the cinema. Other curious similarities reveal Midnight in Paris to be a labor of something personal and close to home. Just as his best work in the lat 70’s and early 80’s, Woody Allen has made a film about what he knows – and it succeeds for it.

Ruminating about love, art, nostalgia, and death, Midnight in Paris is thematically classic Woody Allen fare. Stylistically, too, he draws from what has worked for him in the past: witty dialogue, simple cinematography, a jazzy soundtrack, and a well-cast group of fine actors. More importantly though, Midnight in Paris is a filmic recognition of the importance of his artistic loves and influences. The writers that influence Pender could just as well be the artists that influence Allen. He’s not afraid to reveal his influences; he’s refreshingly up-front about it. In the art world, pretention can oftentimes be the dominant characteristic. Having a discerning artistic pallet can seem to be more important than your actual relationship with the piece of art. With Midnight in Paris, Allen reminds us not to take ourselves to seriously, and that it’s acceptable, even admirable, to admit that we love a piece of art. There’s a lot to love about Midnight in Paris. The superb acting, hilarious script, and thematic touches all contribute to making it his best film since Husbands and Wives.

The Tree of Life

Tree of Life (2011) is a film that has garnered polarizing reactions. Equally cheered and booed at the Cannes Film Festival, the film seems to have been getting similar response upon its American theatrical release. After a viewing, it’s easy to see why audiences align themselves with each camp. While the film offers up a lot to consider, viewers must pick through overt attempts at depicting the totality of the universe in order to find the small grains of brilliance peppered throughout.

Tree of Life is a film of magnificent proportions, and it makes that clear from the opening title. Beginning with a humbling quote from the book of Job about the creation of man, Malick attempts to probe the universe with big questions. He does this with equal parts metaphysical montage of world pre-consciousness and familial Texas drama about childhood, loss, and regret.

Disappointingly, the montages of the natural world fail to live up to their own lofty expectations. The whispered dialogue, dramatic classical music, and sweeping zooms of vast landscapes all culminate in being a touch overblown. These segments seem to be trying too hard, taking on too much, and failing while doing so. While these montages do contain stunning images and subtle, masterful camera movement, the contrived, self-aware attitude present throughout force them into the realm of the ridiculous and the unnecessary.

Malick seems to have overlooked the fact that he’s touched on universality with the smaller, quieter moments in the life of the Texas family. Tighter and more focused than the sweeping grandiosity of the previous segments; the trials and tribulations of the family play with an aura of quiet beauty. A boy listening to his father play the organ, the tense family dinner table, brothers experimenting with trust, and the green lawns of endlessly wide-angled Waco Texas -- these are the images and scenarios that occupy the world of the O’Brien family. The psyche of the eldest son, Jack, is carefully revealed as the film progresses, illuminating the negative effects of an overly patriarchal household and constantly weighing the influence of each parent. Malick has created something truly spectacular here: characters that are both archetypical and honestly believable. The universal questions asked and explored at the beginning of the film are asked and explored here – but with much more tact and subtlety. Aside from the occasional banal whispered voice-over explaining the events depicted, this section contains almost none of the pretention that plagued the first portion.

Unfortunately, Malick returns to his natural mysticism late in the film, as well as more heavily employing some unnecessary business with a middle-aged Jack (Sean Penn).  The final moments of the film find the characters interacting in a kind of spiritual reconciliatory version of the afterlife. Perhaps a fitting ending when the first portion is considered, it feels a bit flat and forced following the stunning drama of the O’Brien family.

For all its faults, there’s a lot of stunning beauty in The Tree of Life. Any person who grew up with a brother will be astonished by the honest accuracy of Jack and R.L.’s relationship. Pitt’s acting is superb and subtle, conveying a lot of emotion with little dialogue or explanation. Malick also lays to rest any myths about child actors, coaxing a fine performance out of all the children present in the film. The natural light of the cinematography is exquisite, depicting every moment with a certain soft beauty.

There are some fine things going on here, but the grandiose style dominant in much of the film simply doesn’t do it any favors There’s a stunning film wrapped up inside this theatrical edit, but parts have to be ignored for it to seem natural and fluid rather than forced. If nothing else, it’s a good thing that such a polarizing, non-linear narrative is getting such wide theatrical release. There’s enough truly great material in The Tree of Life to merit a viewing and a discussion, and the debate is sure to continue on for years to come. Perhaps time will reveal this to be Malick’s masterpiece, and I imagine that the film will age well. For now, though, the exhausting scope of the film’s ambition seems a bit much, and active extraction of brilliant moments is required of audiences everywhere.

Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives: A Review

            Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, the latest from Thai avant-garde filmmaker Apichatpong Weerasethakul, opens modestly. A water buffalo is shown breaking free from his chain and wandering deep into the heart of a dense forest. The sequence is quiet, beautiful, and visually breathtaking. It is from here that Weerasethakul’s exploration of spirituality, nature, and modernity can begin.

            The film chronicles the final few days of Uncle Boonmee. Suffering from kidney failure, the titular character is forced to have in-home dialysis while his sister, her son, and a male nurse watch over him. While he carries out his final days, the ghosts of his deceased wife and son appear before everyone. While the wife materializes out of this air, his son (who has taken the form of a Monkey-Ghost) slowly walks out of the darkness. The characters talk casually with the ghosts, almost as if there’s no surprise that they’re there. This kind of natural interaction with the spirit world is commonplace for the characters that inhabit the film.

There’s no denying that Uncle Boonmee is a bit of a challenge to watch. Breaking from conventionally formed narrative cinema, Weerasethakul creates a methodic, melancholic pace through the use of long takes, sparing camera movement, and infrequent editing. From the opening sequence (a few well-designed tracking shots following a bull in a forest) the audience is aware that they’re about to witness something that tugs and pulls at the status quo.

            The most often used phrase in reviewing this 2010 Palme d’Or winner is “dream-like.” The long takes, slow movement, rare camera movement, and spiritual content all lend themselves to dreamlike interpretations. The images fall into one another, oftentimes seeming to be juxtaposed because of compositional content rather than narrative coherence. The movements of the actors are slow and methodical. In fact, many of the lines seem to be delivered with Brechtian detachment. Contrary to the title, Uncle Boonmee isn’t a character-driven film. Rather than using the concepts of spirituality, the afterlife, and reincarnation to explore the internal psyche of a single character, Weerasethakul uses the characters to achieve loftier goals. Modernity, spirituality, and the natural world are all given adequate exploration without anything becoming heavy handed or pretentious.

            The film’s most striking moments come during and after a visually stunning journey deep inside of a cave. Like the water buffalo that occupied the opening sequence, the characters travel into the bosom of a forest. On this journey to confront death and meditate on life, they confront immense natural beauty, encounter monkey-ghosts with red, glowing eyes, and reflect on the womb-like nature of the natural world.

            Immediately following this dream-like journey, Boonmee delivers a stirring monologue about the future. He warns that, in the years to come, the past will begin to disappear as agents of the future modernize the world. His point here is punctuated much later by the final shot of the film, showing three characters (one of them, a Buddhist monk) staring blankly at a television screen. The modern world is forcing us to forget the past, and our connection to the spiritual world along with it. While this message (and much of the film) may seem steeped in unattainable Thai philosophy, the core of the film – its images, story, and emotions – are universal.

Sam Flancher

Films watched recently: The Bird With the Crystal Plumage, Bulworth, Goodfellas, Scarface, Sullivan's Travels, The Notebook,  Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives, Antichrist, Shadows and Fog, Les Mistons, Boyz n' the Hood, Love on the Run

Carlos and Che: A Revolutionary Comparison

Comparing Steven Soderbergh’s Che with Olivier Assayas’s Carlos is an interesting task. Both films have violent, charismatic central figures. Both characters have been labeled “dangerous revolutionaries” by the United States, and both films deal heavily with guerilla warfare and terrorism. Holding these films up against one another exposes the contrasting elements of both the films and their central characters.

To begin with: Carlos, released this past year to generally favorable reviews. The 330-minute sprawling epic tells the story of a delusional terrorist-for-hire. Carlos (aka ‘Carlos the Jackal’) is a man supposedly full of noble ideas and high-minded convictions. The film begins by showing his involvement in the PLPF (Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine), fighting admirably for the cause of an oppressed people. He talks in cafés, shouts political rhetoric, and asserts, “Behind every bullet, there is an idea.” As the film continues, we see his convictions waver in the face of danger and find him acting on his own behalf as he jumps from cause to cause. His high-mindedness devolves into a kind of self-serving madness of tragic proportions.

Carlos’s few successful acts of political terrorism lead him to believe in his own self-constructed hype. More often than not, his operations fail miserably. When he’s forced to make decisions for himself, he acts selfishly and allows his operations to fail. All throughout the film he claims that there’s a “high price” on his head. Even when the CIA has deemed him merely a “historical curiosity,” he maintains his statements about his dominance over global terrorism.

Assayas’s treatment of the material is fitting. Though the film is 5 hours long, the pace never slackens. Audiences are sucked into the psychosexual, delusional vortex that Carlos has created for himself. The film contains much more action than exposition, just as Carlos the man was much more inclined to act than to explain. We see him bomb buildings, take hostages, have affairs, expound empty rhetoric, and eventually become cripplingly paranoid.

Assayas heavily sexualizes weapons in violence in painting his psychotic portrait of this notorious terrorist. In one of the most stirring scenes, Carlos forces his mate to sexually suck on the pin of a grenade while he moves his pistol up and down her thigh. He’s a sexually self conscious person, and Assayas often shows him examining his naked body in the mirror or lamenting his degenerating physical condition. Towards the end of the film, he becomes incapacitated for a few days because of undergoing liposuction surgery. His eventual demise is largely aided because he’s forced to have testicular surgery. Here he is emasculated and ill, and that is when the French authorities swoop in and arrest him for his various crimes.

Carlos is a tragic figure for a few reasons. First, his delusional self-importance is almost hard to watch. His conviction that he’s a force to be reckoned with in the world feeds his paranoia. This directly corresponds to his own conception of his fate. He mentions multiple times throughout the film that he firmly believes that he will die at the hand of a political assassin. He arrogantly asserts that somebody will finally cash in for the “high price” that’s been put on his head. His demise doesn’t end in death, but arrest. To this day he wallows in a French prison, unable to fulfill his self-conceptualized tragic destiny.

Carlos is, on the surface, an action film. There are chase scenes, explosions, graphic sexual moments, fast-paced editing, and numerous gunfights. Underneath the surface, however, lies a historical character study of one of the most intriguing figures of geopolitical terrorism the world has ever seen.

In contrast to Carlos, Che deals with a man who holds his convictions firmly. He never wavers in his belief in a collective struggle wherever the dominant force of imperialism oppresses those who are less powerful. Where Carlos’s downfall came from his self-serving, paranoid delusions of grandeur, Guevara’s seemingly comes from his strict adherence to his cause and convictions.

Steven Soderbergh’s Che is a film that can be defined for what it’s not. It isn’t a biopic, it’s not a psychological study, it doesn’t attempt to explain any of Che’s motivations for his actions, it doesn’t martyr him as a hero or a champion, and it isn’t aesthetically formed like a traditional war film. Che is a presentation of events in the life of a man who believed passionately in a cause. It chronicles those events in an attempt to humanize an icon.

The first of the two parts are framed through an interview and a UN address in 1964. This was when Guevara was riding at the height of his iconic image, and allows for Soderbergh to overtly insert some of Che’s political thoughts and ideas. This 1964 portion of the film is all shot in black and white, 16mm film, and offers up the only close-ups of Che that we see in the entire first film. An interviewer asks “What is the most important quality for a revolutionary to posses?” After a brief pause, Che replies “Love. Love of humanity.” This reveals the essence of the film, a portrait of a flawed man who loves humanity and is willing to fight for that love.

The first film The Argentine is the more conventional of the two. Formally, Soderbergh refused to use any hand-held camera techniques. While not conforming to the aesthetic norms of most Hollywood war films, it visually reads much more smoothly than the second part The Guerilla, which is shot exclusively hand-held.

Where The Argentine follows the success of a revolution-of-love, The Guerilla chronicles Che’s demise in a foreign land. More frightening than its companion, The Guerilla adopts tragic proportions. Guevara is in Bolivia, trying to organize a band of guerilla fighters to overthrow their current military dictatorship. Issues of national identity arise, as Guevara and his soldiers are not Bolivian. He finds his operations going awry, the army foiling his plans, and his refusal to abandon the cause ultimately ends in his capture and execution. Where Carlos assumes tragedy through his inability to carry out his self-defined fate, Che embodies tragedy through his stubborn belief in a doomed revolution.

Unlike Carlos, the mood and pace of both parts of Che is much more meditative. Rather than fast-paced action over any sort of exposition, there is intense focus on the principles behind Guevara’s revolutionary violence. There are many shots of Che reading, writing, talking, and thinking as opposed to the constant, violent, sexual desire that Assayas encapsulates with Carlos.

There’s much to be gained from looking at these films side-by-side. While the central figures aren’t exactly the same, it’s worth it to take a look at how different filmmakers handle the idea of the violent, international figure. Assayas dabbles in psychoanalysis in an adrenaline-fueled attempt at explaining and understanding Carlos. Soderbergh opts for a more meditative relation of a story – an attempt to somewhat humanize Che’s iconic image and allow his story to assume tragic proportions.

The two films are important studies on how modern cinema portrays violent, global, iconic revolutionaries. It seems as if cinema has taken a step away from revering such figures, and is now more interested in humanizing them (whether that be through psychosexual explanation or historical presentation). In an era wrought with political unrest and rebellious uprisings, Carlos and Che ring with and aura of profundity, begging us to humanize the larger-than-life characters that occupy our current geo-political landscape.

Sam Flancher

For Lack of a Topic....

For lack of anything else to write about, I thought I’d offer up a short paragraph or two reviewing some of the films I’ve seen lately. Sorry if this seems like a jumbled mess. Enjoy!

High Sierra (1941)

            I watched this film for my gangster film class. From what I’ve read, it marked a turning point for Humphrey Bogart’s career. He plays a ruthlessly loyal gangster, fresh out of prison and willing to do anything for the game. As a genre piece, the film turns a few of the core elements upside down, and is very conscious of its effort. An extremely entertaining and exciting film. I recommend it to anyone who is interested in the gangster genre, film noir, or Bogart.

Drive Angry (2011)

            I’ve always told people that the most fun I’ve ever had in a theater was the midnight premier of Snakes on a Plane. Everyone in the theater was excited, overtired, and ready to have a good time. It was that exact atmosphere I was expecting for Nicholas Cage’s latest treatise on awful career decisions, Drive Angry. I didn’t exactly get what I wanted. Don’t get me wrong, the film itself was phenomenal. All you need to know is that there is a scene where Nikki Cage kills 8 people while still having sex with a stranger (fully clothed, of course). What I was disappointed in was the crowd. There were only about a dozen people in the theater, it should have been full. Shame on you, Chicago.

High School (1968)

            This was my first foray into the documentary art of Frederick Wiseman. One of the most compelling documentaries I’ve ever seen, this film merely shows what is going on in a Philadelphia high school. There are no interviews, no title cards, and no talking heads. Wiseman films for months in a single location, and then spends a year editing. What High School gives us is a portrait in time. By observing for long enough, Wiseman is able to find profundity in seemingly mundane situations. There’s a beautiful moment in the film where a teacher plays the Simon and Garfunkel song The Dangling Conversation over a tape deck for her students. First she speaks the lyrics, then she asks the students to listen to the song. Is it a poem? What defines a poem? Wiseman is asking the same questions of his film.

The Postman Always Rings Twice (1981)

            I saw this film in class, and we looked at it in search of the authorship of cinematographer Sven Nykvist. The film as a whole wasn’t anything special to me. The hyper-sexual atmosphere was well done, and it had some solid acting, but all in all something seemed to be missing. The strongest element of the film was its cinematography. Nykvist achieves some amazing, highly stylized noir lighting while making it look incredibly natural. He’s the master of soft, naturalistic lighting, and it was incredible to see how that could be translated into a genre with very well established aesthetic conventions. Worth a watch for the cinematography, but I wouldn’t go out of my way to see it again.

Miller’s Crossing (1990)

            Having been studying the gangster film as a genre for the past couple of weeks, Miller’s Crossing was a real treat to take in. It was my second or third time seeing the film, and I have to say it gets better with every viewing. As a genre piece, it’s interesting to look at in terms of gangster conventions. There are certain moments where it diverts drastically, and it is in those moments that the film holds the greatest impact.

The Exterminating Angel (1962)

            This was my introduction to Bunuel, and I couldn’t have been more pleased. I came to realize that my film watching was extremely lacking in terms of Spanish movies, so I got this from Netflix in order to right that wrong. It was stunning in a most unexplainable way. There’s a hidden magic to it, much like when you’re watching a Fellini film. The Exterminating Angel is about a group of upper-class people having a dinner party. At one point during the evening, they realize that they can’t leave the room in the house that they’re in. The force causing their paralysis is never explained. People die, animals run loose in the house, and the upper crust is given a thorough lashing. I recommend it highly and I can’t wait to watch more of his work.

The Battleship Potemkin (1925)

            The Music Box Theater in Chicago was playing a restored print of Potemkin and I knew that I couldn’t miss it. I had seen the film once in its entirety, and had been given instruction on sequences from the film on multiple occasions in class. I had always appreciated the film for its place in film history, but never considered it among my favorites.

            After seeing the restored 35mm print on the big screen, I can now count it among the best films I’ve ever seen. There’s no other way to see that film. The gigantic images, the pulsing score, the hyperactive editing, it all comes together in a gigantic, Russian spectacle on the big screen.

            Most often lauded for its editing, the thing that struck me this time around was how visually beautiful the film is. The father of modern editing certainly knew a thing or two about how to compose an image.

            Potemkin is an exhausting experience. In no other film have I seen such a culmination of ideas and theories. Hegel feeds into Marx feeds into Eisenstein. Ideas are clashing together just as images are. Simply breathtaking.

 The Great McGinty (1940)

            I’ve been on a Sturges kick lately. His haphazard screwball comedies have been hitting me perfectly, and I just can’t stop watching them. They’re all of the utmost quality. Tightly written, directed superbly, and completely ridiculous. There isn’t much more I can say about it. The man is a master.

Trafic (1971)

            And so continues my love affair with Jacques Tati. Again we find our bumbling friend M. Hulot in a biting, hilarious satire about automobile culture. True to form, the film is as hilarious as it is profound. It contains my now all-time favorite Tati bit, where we find Hulot trying to explain to a woman that her dog is not dead. It might not sound like much here, but I suggest you watch the film to see what I’m talking about.

            While I did like the film a lot, there was something lacking about it. I can’t quite put my finger on what was missing, but the heir of meandering contentment that is so prevalent in his other films seemed to be toned down. Not up to par with M. Hulot’s Holiday, Mon Oncle, and Playtime, Trafic is still a must-see for Tati fans and comedy fans in general.

Blue Velvet (1986)

            Yes, this was my first time seeing David Lynch’s cult classic. No, I did not particularly care for it. But I’m not sure that the film was the problem, it was the atmosphere.

            I saw the film at midnight, a time when usually only die-hard fans will show up to revel in how much they love it. Seeing a film for the first time among devotees is a difficult thing to do. These people had seen it again and again. They laughed during parts I didn’t think were funny, they whispered to each other throughout, and there was an aura of expectancy during every scene. For example, people were laughing when Dennis Hopper first entered the frame. Perhaps they were laughing uncomfortably at the moment; maybe it was out of appreciation for the role. Either way it was distracting. This is the last time I’ll see a “cult” film at midnight for the first time. It didn’t sit right with me, but I look forward to revisiting it on my own.

What’s Eating Gilbert Grape? (1993)

            I haven’t disliked a film so much in a long time. There was something about it that rubbed me completely the wrong way. The characters were unsympathetic (which isn’t always a bad thing, but here it is), the plot was predictable, and the whole thing was steeped in clichéd sentimentality that I frankly don’t have any time for. I don’t have much else to say about it. A big thumbs down from me.

Night and Fog (1955)

            One of the first attempts to deal with the Holocaust post-WWII, Night and Fog is incredibly affecting. As with any piece of Holocaust art, the challenge is to shed new light without being exploitive of the subject. Night and Fog does this very well.

            Night and Fog doesn’t attempt to explain. It doesn’t attempt to accuse, it attempts to silently, solemnly reflect. The film recognizes that much of the Holocaust will never be explained. One shot in the film finds the camera passing by a building, the voice over claiming, “it’s useless to describe what went on in these cells.”

            The film does its best not to aestheticize and exploit the human tragedy of the Holocaust. The only ‘new’ footage that Resnais filmed was of the haunting, empty concentration camps. The camera glides through them, accompanied by voice over written by Jean Cayrol, a Holocaust survivor. Cayrol’s beautifully somber words filled with doubt. How could we let this happen? It could happen again.

The Dark Knight (2008)

            I hadn’t seen this film since its midnight release, so it had been a few years since I had first seen it. During that time I had heard a lot about it, about the acting, the nihilistic themes, and the symbolic characters. I have to say, upon revisiting it, the film holds up. It lives up to the three years of chatter that followed its release. It’s exciting, entertaining, and a key to tracking the trajectory of Nolan’s now recurring “intelligent blockbusters.”

Bonnie and Clyde (1967)

            It’s hard to separate this film from the impact it had on American film history. It brought the New Wave to America, savagely depicted violence, and its central characters were young and restless. This was all new for our country in 1967, and it sparked what is now known as the ‘Second Golden Age of Hollywood.’ Incredibly fun, very entertaining, and unabashedly profound, Bonnie and Clyde gets better with every viewing.

Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959)

            My second step into the world of Alan Resnais, Hiroshima Mon Amour is unlike anything I’ve been watching recently. Through a series of conversations, the film meditates on the impact of the atomic bomb in Hiroshima and Europe alike. It also offers some interesting explanations of place, and the effect that a particular place can have on shaping a person. The film combines documentary footage reminiscent of Night and Fog along with the narrative piece. A challenging, rewarding watch.

Biutiful (2010)

            Biutiful is a film that works on some levels, but completely falls apart on many more. The heavy-handed script provides for one of the most emotionally exhausting films that I’ve seen in a long time (and not in a good way). The film brims with intensity, asking the audience to assign emotional significance to every single frame, every single second. There’s simply too much going on here, and the stakes are too high. Javier Bardem delivers a fine performance, and it looks very nice, but the finished product is less than the sum of its parts. Simply put, it should be about half as long and deal with half as much.

The Conformist (1970)

            One of my favorite films, I always relish an opportunity to see it again. Every single aspect of this film works on a higher level.

            The film is an attempt to hold Italy morally responsible for its Fascist period. By examining the psychology of a fascist “conformer,” Bertolucci boils down the psychological motivations and the political refusal of admittance of his fascist protagonist. Using a fractured structure, pitch-perfect cinematography (honestly some of the best this world has ever seen), and superb acting, this film displays a perfect marriage of form and function. Anyone who hasn’t seen this already should do themselves a favor and watch it, read up on it, and watch it again. What seems confusing at first becomes clear with multiple viewings.

Ivan’s Childhood (1962)

            Tarkovsky has gone on record saying that he made this film in order to learn if he “had what it took to become a director.” I think it’s safe to say that he all that it took and more. This is probably the best first film that I’ve ever seen, and I can count it among the best I’ve ever seen. It’s stirring, beautiful, and tragic all at once.

            Ivan’s Childhood tells the story of a young Russian boy whose parents have been murdered as a result of WWII. He ends up joining the army, gaining intelligence through harrowing missions much beyond his years. All the while he is executing his role in the war, he dreams. While his regular life is tarnished and war-torn, his dreams remain untainted gems of childhood yearning. Ivan’s Childhood stands alongside 400 Blows as one of the best films ever made about childhood, and along Grand Illusion as one of the best films made about war.

So there you have it. I’ve done my best to sum them up quickly and quaintly, but I do recognize that this post has run a little bit long. I’ll do my best never to come to a post like this again, as it’s exhausting to write, and I’m sure exhausting to read. From now on this blog will have a little bit more focus and regularity, I promise.

This week I plan to watch both Carlos and Che for a revolutionary-themed comparison. Should be fun. And long.

Let's Ignore the Oscars!

Let’s ignore the Oscars. Let’s all turn off our television sets, unplug our internet-boxes, and remain blissfully unaware of awards season’s most excruciating night. It’ll be great. We won’t have to argue over the fact that our favorite film didn’t win. We won’t have to shout about our favorite film that didn’t get nominated. It’ll be time better spent actually watching a movie! We could also go for a run. Or stare at the ceiling. There are so many things we could be doing with our time.

Listen. If we turn off the TV we don’t have to hear them explain what cinematography is! We won’t have to sit through the painful, condescending speech about why editors are “just as important as actors.” We can skip all of the parts where Hollywood’s most glamorous stars pretend that they think documentaries are valuable, but ultimately exclude them from getting anywhere near the night’s top award.

Just think about it. We won’t have to talk about Oscar ceremonies past. Citizen Kane not winning the top prize won’t be discussed. Neither will the fact that no foreign-language film has ever won Best Picture. Imagine a world in which we can forget that hundreds of people decided that Crash was the best film of the year, or that Eddie Murphy’s Norbit might be worthy of a golden statuette. Doesn’t that sound like just the best? We can forget about it all and move on with our lives!

If our televisions aren’t on and the Internet is completely shut off, we won’t have to hold back vomit as we watch America’s economic elite give each other awards and then proceed to cry about them. It won’t be like every other year, where wince in pain as we watch wealthy people who are completely detached from reality make superficial inside jokes about how much money they have. We’d even be able to get to bed at a decent hour!

I know I’m a dreamer, but MAN what a place. It’s hard to imagine the insurmountable joy that would come over all of us when we decidedly turn away in a brilliant act of corporate defiance and artistic solidarity! What a rush!

Utopia. Alas. A perfect place which is no place. Oh well. I hope everyone enjoys the awards. Hopefully Mickey Rourke will flip off the camera at some point during the night.

 Sam Flancher

Films watched in the past few weeks: Wayne’s World, Wet Hot American Summer (twice), The Limey, Little Caesar, Public Enemies, Angels with Dirty Faces, Underworld, The Illusionist, Cedar Rapids, Go West, Dogtooth, F is for Fake, Scarface, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Cries and Whispers, Crimes and Misdemeanors, Persona, Pretty Baby, Dumber and Dumber, The Silence, Through a Glass Darkly, The Girlfriend Experience, Exit Through the Gift Shop, The Musketeers of Pig Alley, Raising Arizona, Room Service