The Meandering Observations of Jacques Tati

            With the American release of the upcoming film The Illusionist, there has been a lot of talk about French film director Jacques Tati. Having written the script for the upcoming animated feature, film lovers will get another chance to witness the stunning creative genius present in all of Tati’s work.

            Tati has been compared to many different directors. His brand of visual comedy draws comparisons to Chaplin and Keaton, his meticulous use of sound and his elliptical visual style recall Bresson, and his biting critiques of modern society are Godard-esque. While he may have drawn from these directors, Tati’s cinema is one of undoubted originality and uniqueness.

            Tati’s cinema begins with M. Hulot, the quiet, ambling wanderer. Hulot provides Tati’s films with hilarity, pity, and poignancy. More than a character, Hulot is the embodiment of the audience's interaction with the film. Hulot wanders, observes, and accepts his surroundings. He rarely, if ever, gets angry. In Mon Oncle he is blamed for the pranks of children, falsely accused of standing atop a desk during a job interview, and is the constant object of criticism and rage. Rather than acting out against his accusers, he accepts the blame they place on him and humbly deals with the situation. He is quiet and comfortable with where he is. Audiences are able to observe the world of the film through the innocent eyes of Hulot.

            All of Tati’s works act in one way or another as poignant social critiques. M. Hulot’s Holiday dismantles the excess of upper-class society, Mon Oncle exposes the ridiculousness of modern technology and the arbitrary nature of class separation, and Playtime depicts the empty, modern society, reveling in hilarious confusion. While they do carry the gravitas of a Godard or an Antonioni, there’s something very different about a Tati film. First of all, his work is brilliantly funny, favoring satire over calculated, abstract modernism. Secondly, Tati merely exposes rather than condemns. Sure, he satirizes and exaggerates, but, like his meandering protagonist, he never judges. Tati shows viewers these exaggerated behaviors from fixed visual perspective. The camera stands still, allowing viewers’ eyes to read the frame and make judgments for themselves. He shows his often-immobile subjects in long shots over multiple visual planes. Tati is presenting information, Hulot and the audience observe it, and it is up to them to synthesize it and draw conclusions of their own. Finally, unlike Godard and Antonioni, Tati’s subjects are ridiculous, rather than existential and empty. The bourgeois classes in all of his films seem un-anguished and unaware of their ludicrous behavior. The audience draws their own conclusions; Tati doesn’t force them upon you.

            Jacques Tati is a master of mood. His drawn out visual gags, his light-hearted score, his over-the-top sound design, and his masterful use of silence all contribute to the unmistakable feeling he creates. The mood in his films is embodied by the movements of M. Hulot. Hulot moves slowly about the frame, pausing as he pleases. He is on a constant stroll through his surroundings. That’s exactly how the films operate. Viewers feel as if they’re strolling through the environment shown on the film. Occasionally they will pause and laugh at some ridiculousness or absurdity, but then the film will eventually move ahead, not lingering anywhere too long. This unmistakable strolling sense permeates Tati’s work, reminding viewers not to take anything too seriously. We’re all on a stroll, constantly moving, occasionally stopping, but some humor can be found in just about anything.

            While the world waits for the late Tati’s latest contribution to the art form, it’s worth pausing and reminding ourselves why he is considered to be one of the masters of cinema. His body of work is small, but important. His messages are hilarious and poignant. Though he has passed away, Tati’s unique blend of the silent art cinema with modernist themes and excellent sound design will live on much beyond his years. After observing the world depicted in his films, I think we can all take a page from Hulot’s book and go for an ambling stroll. Our heightened sense of observation will certainly enable us to find something ridiculous, absurd, hilarious, and above all, poignant in our everyday lives. Tati has shown us that it’s there, now he asks us to pause and find it for ourselves.

Films watched this week: Season of the Witch, A Day at the Races, Inception, Through a Glass Darkly, M. Hulot’s Holiday, Mon Oncle, Hail the Conquering Hero, At the Circus, Winter Light

Top Ten List pt. 2

I’ll state again here that making lists like this can often be an arbitrary exercise. Too many films have impacted me too greatly for me to be able to boil them all down in a convenient list of ten. Because of the limits that I have imposed on myself, many fine films fell by the wayside. You won’t find any Chaplin, Truffaut, Bertolucci, Pasolini, Wilder, Lumet, Kurosawa, Cassavettes, Bresson, Scorsese, Kubrick, or Sturges, although I consider them all to be among my favorite directors.

I consider these next five films to be my five favorites of all time. After making the list, I looked back and tried to notice any patterns or commonalities within the list. They all come from different directors, they all deal with different subjects, and they all have drastically different tones. Some have outright funny moments, and others leave no room for laughter. Thematically, they all deal with different things: the disintegration of relationships in modern society, the common humanity that all people share, and the angst of the creative process.

            I’ve done my best to write something of substance about each of the films, but found myself unable to separate myself from my attachment to them. These next five films are my favorite of all time, and I consider them to be the most brilliant and moving works of art that I’ve ever seen. So without further adieu, my five favorite movies of all time.

5. L’eclisse (1962)

            L’eclisse is one of the most complicated, difficult films I’ve ever seen. I’ll never forget the first time I watched it, sitting alone in my bedroom, becoming more and more pessimistic with each passing frame. The final sequence of the film is my favorite moment in any film ever. After spending two hours following a couple’s dysfunctional relationship, Antonioni focuses his camera on arbitrary objects for the final seven minutes of the film. These objects are buildings, plants, streets, and people. None of them have anything to do with the story we have just watched; yet it leaves viewers grappling for some semblance of significance. The relationship is never resolved. We are left with a portrait of random objects, forced to piece together the meaning of the tattered relationship.

            More than any other director, I believe Antonioni has made a truly unique art out of the cinema. Since its beginning, film has held roots in the theater, still photography, and literature. Antonioni makes films so unique, so abstract, and so stirring, that he breaks completely with any ties to existing art forms. His cinema is cinema, exploring the boundaries of communication with the blending of sound and the moving image.

            L’eclisse is a perfect example of his work. The relationship at the center of the film is detached and doomed, the imagery is abstract and in your face, and the final sequence is one of the most breathtaking in all of cinema. Those final seven minutes opened my eyes to a new way of communication and storytelling. After finishing the film for the first time, I watched that sequence five more times, trying to assign it meaning. I think that’s what Antonioni was going for, which is what makes this film so astoundingly perfect.

4. Persona (1966)

            Self-reflexivity is incredibly important in watching and understanding the work of modernist filmmakers. The beginning of Ingmar Bergman’s Persona depicts a young boy watching a projected image of a woman’s face, trying desperately to reach out and touch it. The middle of Persona finds the reel of film we’ve been watching ripping in half and burning up. We are constantly reminded that we’re watching false images captured on celluloid. Even though we are aware that we’re watching a film, it doesn’t prevent anyone from being completely sucked into the story and the psychology of the characters.

            The film centers around two women who retreat to a secluded cabin surrounded by nature. One woman is sick and refuses to speak. The other is her nurse. Over time, the nurse starts to feel comfortable opening up to her mute companion. As time passes, the two women’s personalities begin to blend into one. Their personas are coming together. The film is handled with such poise that the transition is gradual. A thing of demented beauty, it’s impossible to look away.

            Bergman once said, “Our work in film begins with the face,” and this film follows that rule with no exception. The faces of Liv Ullmann and Bibi Andersson are larger than life, making every small facial tick and gesture explode with meaning and significance. Never have I seen filmmaking that is so subtle, yet so obvious and resounding at the same time.

Towards the end of the film, the question “is this even real?” arises. My answer would be a resounding “no.” Bergman has shown us in the beginning and the middle that we are watching a film, yet we fall into it anyway. This is one that I’ll fall into again and again.

3. Grand Illusion (1939)

            I first came to Grand Illusion after reading a “greatest films of all time” list. It was towards the beginning of my foray into classic and world cinema, so I figured I’d start out with a “best of” list in order to get a good feel for it.

            Renoir’s film was the first one that I watched from this list, and I couldn’t have asked for a better film to open up my journey through the past. The deep focus cinematography, the humanistic themes, the subtle, floating camera movements all struck me immediately. Admittedly, much of the complex structure flew straight over my head and necessitated repeated viewings. I have never watched the film without seeing something new, appreciating something different, or being incredibly moved by the beauty of the story.

            And that’s just what the movie is. Beautiful. Every scene flows in an incredibly awe-inspiring way. There are scenes of pain, of joy, of harsh realization, and of unbridled hilarity. Everything meshes together in such a way that it defies analysis. Watching the film is like reading a poem or listening to a song. It exists and provokes emotion, and that’s just about all we can ask of the cinema.

2. 8 ½ (1963)

            8 ½ is not an easy movie to understand. In fact, it took me four viewings of the film to be able to understand what was going on with any clarity. The structure is fragmented, the line between reality and fantasy is blurred, and the characters are hard to pin down. Understanding the film is definitely an undertaking, but when you have that moment where something clicks in your head, you realize exactly why it’s considered to be one of the greatest of all time.

            8 ½ is an intensely autobiographical film about Italian director Federico Fellini. Following the success of La Dolce Vita, Fellini was under immense pressure to produce another masterpiece. In his angst and strife, he decided to make a film about his specific situation: A director basking in the wake of success, struggling to create again. It is because of this autobiographical, intensely personal approach that the film succeeds. Fellini knows his character, because his character is himself. This hits on one of the key elements in successful, universal filmmaking. By making something so intensely personal, so utterly situation-specific, Fellini has transcended his situation into the universal. By knowing himself so well, he begs the audience to know themselves just as well. He boils his film down to the core wishes, hopes, and desires of his basic, human character. You would be hard pressed to find somebody who doesn’t relate to the film in one way or another.

Marcello Mastriani plays Guido (the Fellini character) with incredible depth and understanding. The actor disappears and we’re left with Fellini and his psyche. He lays himself bare, allowing us to peek into his thoughts, feelings, and his memories. I have never seen film that so thoroughly depicts a character.

One of the film’s greatest strengths is that it defies intellectual interpretation. It serves up an emotional impact, and allows for reflection. No amount of reading or discussing helped me to understand it. I simply had to watch it again and again. Eventually it clicked, in the most rewarding way imaginable.

Stylistically, this film is incredibly entertaining. Swooping camera movements abound, Nino Rota’s circus-like score pulses in the background, and the characters all seem to be dancing as they move. It’s incredibly fun to watch. Simply put, the film is perfect. By the end of it all, I was dancing along with Fellini and his psyche in the beautiful confusion that is life.

1. Manhattan (1979)

            Woody Allen’s Manhattan is an important film to me for many reasons. First and foremost, it marks the beginning of my love of film. The minute the opening sequence kicked in, displaying the magnificent, romantic, pulsing New York City, I knew that I was watching something special. I spent the next 90 minutes completely transfixed, unable to control myself from laughing, crying, and just being thoroughly entertained.

            There’s not much I can say intellectually about Manhattan, because I’m so in love with the film that I can’t remove myself at all. Each time I watch it I’m completely immersed. The sharp dialogue, the beautiful cinematography, the simple story, the hilarious characters, it’s all there.

            This film taught me that films could be something more. It forced me to think about camera placement, lighting, dramatic structure, and acting. All of the aforementioned elements work together perfectly in Manhattan, creating the most astounding film I’ve ever seen.

            In one of Allen’s other films, Crimes and Misdemeanors, Woody Allen’s character gives his niece a picture book of old New York. While he’s giving it to her, he’s describing the old buildings, the posh parties, and the fine clothes that made up his romantic view of old New York. Manhattan achieves the same goal of the picture book, showing us a city that he clearly loves with all of his heart.

            I don’t think Woody Allen touches on anything all that deep in this film. Sure, he’s dissecting human relationships (as he always does), but there isn’t much here to analyze or discuss. To me, it’s simply engrossing and entertaining. Allen asks us to immerse ourselves in New York. Not the real New York, but a romantic, imagined place. You don’t have to over think or over analyze anything while you’re watching it. You simply have to sit back, and let it take you away.

The film starts off with Woody Allen’s voice over talking about New York. The first line is “He loved New York, he romanticized it all out of proportion.”

That, to me, is how I feel about the film. I love it, cherish it, and romanticize it all out of proportion.

Films watched this week: The King’s Speech, A Night at the Opera, Jules and Jim, Making a Living, Nino Rota: Between Cinema and Concert, Hannah and Her Sisters, 2001: A Space Odyssey, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Making of a Myth