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.