Ten (or so) recent reviews

Desistfilm, Wedlock House: An Intercourse, Cat's Cradle, Window Water Baby Moving, Mothlight (dir. Stan Brakhage, 1954, 1959, 1959, 1962) -

The four films by Stan Brakhage that are part of the By Brakhage Criterion set that precede Dog Star Man.

Desistfilm - Stan and buddies hanging out, and if at first it feels like a drunken Beat home movie, it starts - via some clever camerawork - to evolve into something slightly more than a first person view of their party. Maybe it doesn't go quite as far as Scorpio Rising and maybe it was never meant to, but it's an influence that makes me think of Kenneth Anger's later film regardless. But it still kinda feels like a home movie with cool shots.

Wedlock House - Stan and Jane moodily lit in kitchen and other rooms, in something I'd call sexually explicit in intent, if not execution. It's not meant merely to arouse though, so maybe not. I guess it more sends out a mood of love and marriage, complete with not too heavy meanings, a lot of light and shadow, some pensive glances, some naughty parts - in short, a quick take on the ups and downs of a young person's marriage.

Cat's Cradle - I can't remember this as much, probably because of the abstraction level. While the previous two are certainly more emotive than plot-driven, this one goes further out. Stan and Jane again, plus two friends. They discuss, they move around the room and the frame. They get intercut with shots of the cat. Sound may also have been an element, though again I'm not drawing it to mind. Not my favorite of the early works.

Window Water Baby Moving - The big famous one - or one of them, anyway. Stan is there to document Jane's experiences (and his own) during the late stages of pregnancy. It gives more measure to her experience and joy though it does not exclude his own happiness and willingness to work through the labor with her. It's a really beautiful thing. I'd say everyone should see this to get a sense of the joy and wonder that's possible with a couple having a child, but I'm sure some people would find that idea in itself polemic.

Mothlight - And abstraction goes to its ultimate point. But even so, there's an intelligence behind the design. If you think of it like a moth, flitting from green grasses to colorful flowers to light and shadow and back, you get a sense of what the film's doing. Drink it in and don't worry about the details like that. And if you choose to view it frame by frame, you'll be treated to some lovely stills. But it really was designed to flow beginning to end and it does. Loverly.

Salo or the 120 Days of Sodom (dir. Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1975) -

And here is the absolute opposite of loverly. Hmmm... what to say about this film? Let me tread carefully here, because I've never seen a film as polarizing as this, ever. I've seen it four times now and I think I'm still not quite getting to the heart of the film. I can read a lot about the politics of fascism as it relates to this film and still not think it's necessarily a good idea to watch it as a cautionary tale. Yet I read the reactions of people who think it's vile, worthless garbage with nothing to say and I know they're wrong, because there is absolutely nothing to titillate or excite a viewer here, and those seeking it out simply as an "extreme" experience are bound to be disappointed by its slow pace, its programmatic stretches of dialogue, etc. There just won't be enough shit-eating, tongue-severing and eye-gouging to satisfy them. But the surface of the film - the dialogue, its relentless cruelty, its invariably serious and somber tone - is so difficult to see past to touch the ideas powering it that some viewers may never get there, which is why I don't know how successful it can be considered on its own terms. Coming from whatever side of how one views the atrocities on screen, you may never see past them to Pasolini's intentions to be able to fairly assess them (the intentions). I feel like my fourth time out I'm just starting to be able to watch the film without getting caught up in its powerful visceral draw - it's tough not to - and experience what he's going for. And is it the critique of fascism that everyone says? Yes, I guess so - it only takes a cursory look at the history of Nazi atrocities to see that this shit was not made up and that the brutality on screen is a mere fraction of a fraction of what actually happened to people in WWII. And its relationship to deSade seems nearly as cursory - I haven't read the novel in question, but its main power seems to lie not in any specific imagery deSade sought out, but in the power of his unbroken imagination to run freely over the page, even while incarcerated with the intent of breaking his spirit. No wonder the surrealists enjoyed his writings so much. But how does it translate to this? While I understand that the novel lent a rough structure to the film, the ideas here are all Pasolini. But where his other films take a gritty and realistic tone, there are moments (however few or far between) of levity and even joy to offset the tone, even when he's playing it downbeat. Here it's all grim pessimism - none of the lightness of Arabian Nights or The Hawks and the Sparrows enters into the proceedings to counter the rape, physical and psychological torture, and ultimately murder that you'll bear witness to. To see the crushing reality of what being on the bad side of a fascist state is - again, these are not extremes Pasolini or deSade dreamed up; maybe in the specifics, but not the generalities - there's no more complete vision that I've ever seen. If you're looking for proof that art can go too far, you're sniffing around the wrong place here - the world can go too far and art can hold up a mirror to see it with. If you're looking for the most challengingly difficult film you'll ever see, this may or may not be it, but you'll be going in to it for all the wrong reasons.

The Whole Wide World (dir. Dan Ireland, 1996) -
Listen, I rent tripe sometimes, I admit it. This has a good reputation and co-stars the very handsome Vincent D'Onofrio - the only reason to watch the film. He's good (and handsome) and still isn't able to unburden this film from the concepts it applies to its secondary story of a small town writer (Robert E. Howard) longing for a more bohemian lifestyle than his tight relationship with his sick mother would permit. So his fantasy worlds are externalized on the soundtrack as he acts them out, talks in concepts that begin in capital letters and has an on-and-off relationship with Novelyne Price (played in typically so-so fashion by Renee Zellwegger) - and this constitutes the main story of the film. The basis of a good film is here, based on Price's own account of the pair's relationship, but the central focus on Price (and thus, Zellweger), the overall inability to follow its most interesting character or make its central character more interesting and its tendency to corny old-fashioned-isms makes it just annoying. All I could think was how much better a film this might have been if it were told from Howard's point of view, without the sound effects, the capital letter ideas, and without Zellweger. I'll say this - it's not your typical rom-com, though it's surely Romantic with a capital R, and I still wish they'd done more with it.


The Fall of the House of Usher (dir. Jean Epstein, 1928) -
Of course I wanted to see what Bunuel did on this, but it's really Jean Epstein's film all the way. Poe's story is shifted around a bit to meet his needs and an incestuous vibe radiates from the film that I don't recall from the story (though it's been forever since I read it). Anyway... the visuals are exceptionally striking here - the grand room with almost no furnishings, the painting that's sometimes portrait, sometimes model, and constantly changing regardless, the unrealistic (and I'd say deliberately so) image of the house in the foggy moor, the long hallway full of blowing curtains and leaves; they all go to engender the same kind of doomy atmosphere that Poe created, even if specifics of plot vary between the two versions. But as an adaptation it's quite good, at once honoring the story and making its own vision known. Poe fans ought to be able to overlook the minor story variances in favor of the major success at capturing the dread and horror that Poe sought so often.


Rio Bravo (dir. Howard Hawks, 1959) -
Spectacularly entertaining - so much so, and so well made that I didn't ever stop to think about politics, which fall into a typical "average folks of town vs. rich land/cattle/whatever baron," or to put it more bluntly, the common American theme of capital power and privilege vs. the underclass, represented here by the aged, the young, and sheriff John Wayne, representing the law. But also, interestingly, by Dean Martin (excellent here) who's a recovering alcoholic (from before that term even had any meaning in the public sphere of consciousness), a strong woman in Angie Dickinson, a woman whose past may be tainted but it's not held against her by any of the characters, and a Mexican who works with the Anglos and pays with his life for the transgression. But the siege on the jail where the thoroughly corrupt baron's utterly lawless brother is being held is terrific - a sustained set piece of rising and falling action that Hawks plays masterfully. And the baron himself is a terrific villain in a long line of bad Western characters who pay lip service to the law when it serves them but have no intention of actually following it if it impedes their progress. The more I see this the more I'm convinced it's a masterwork.


Early Spring (dir. Yasujiro Ozu, 1956) -

The only Ozu film I've yet seen that keeps the primary conflict within the same generation. No wait, I guess there's A Story of Floating Weeds too, though there you have a significant story of a father trying (and failing) to get to know the son who isn't aware of the his true paternity. Here a husband and wife fall prey to infidelity and it tears them apart - seemingly none too soon since they spent quite a bit of screen time bickering before it happened and they separate quickly, cleanly, and without too much fuss. Then again, putting the fuss on-screen is never Ozu's modus operandi - he's all about having the big moments happen when you're not looking and then watching the aftermath. The wife understandably heads out and the husband begins to build a new life, made none too easy by the fact that his friends pick on him about the office romance he's engaged in and quickly realizes was a fling (and probably a mistake). If there's one thing I didn't like about this otherwise very cold-eyed look at how to move on from what could be a shattering event, it's that the film seems to push toward the individuals of the marriage dealing with their situation, but in the final act the film reverses all the movement it has made in that direction and reunites the couple, presumably having learnt a lesson. Doesn't seem to jibe with the tone of the rest of the film, but I guess it's just as likely to happen as the path they were following. Anyway, another fine film from Ozu, as usual.

He Walked By Night (dir. Alfred L. Werker, 1948) -
A bit stiff for my tastes though two things really stand out as superb - Richard Basehart's performance as the sociopathic thief/killer and the big chase through the sewers at the end. Basehart is marvelous, predating the modern cold-blooded killers of any film I can think of by at least two decades. Maybe if I give it some thought... But still - his disinterest in how his actions affect others is chilling and his calculating methods point a line right to Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, to a way less glamorized Hannibal Lecter (like Brian Cox's Lecter, not Anthony Hopkins's), etc. There's no big flashy neon arrow pointing at him to say "Evil!" he's just ruthless in his pursuit of what he wants. And the sewer chase - terrific, and predating the famous Third Man chase by a year. My friend Josh suggests that Jacques Tourneur (or was it Jules Dassin? Sam Fuller maybe?) actually shot those scenes, and I'd buy that for sure - the visual flair of the climactic ending goes against the flat, documentary-type style of much of the police procedural that leads up to it. Anyway, an interesting and grim bit of noir with a couple touches that set it apart. I guess in that it's like most noirs that have a couple great ideas and then a lot of shadowy shots of L.A. to fill in the requisite moodiness. No sleazy private dick here though, and no femme fatale. Just a chilling sociopath who uses the sewers.

The Earrings of Madame de... (dir. Max Ophuls, 1953) -

The title's not being coy, I swear. OK, maybe it is - a touch of playfulness in a film that starts out light and breezy and slowly piles on complicated social issues until it turns tragic. Madame de... and Count de... seem happily married. They go to all the balls, know all the right people, and hardly speak to each other from their separate bedrooms. Madame de... shops to fulfill herself and flirts mercilessly and meaninglessly at the balls they attend. Count de... keeps a mistress in good standing. Madame de... runs up some debts - or claims to, anyway - and sells off the elaborate diamond earrings that her husband gave her on their wedding day and thus sets in motion a chain of events that leads to the aforementioned tragedy - the earrings themselves don't really lead to them, but they accompany the events. The earrings go from her to jeweler to her husband to his mistress to a lovestruck observer back to Madame de... and to her husband and on and on, each time accumulating a new dimension of meaning as they change hands, signifying something different each round for both giver and receiver. Like Rules of the Game the whole thing seems affected at first and slowly turns into something far greater by the end of the film as more and more connections are made, as the spare dialogue acquires depth relating to previous actions. Am I circling around the same ideas too much here? The film does something similar, but I hate to give away one of the primary pleasures of it, which is watching just how it increases the density of meaning, of emotion as it goes on, and I'd hate to rob anyone of seeing it in action. The camerawork and lighting I have to assume you've already heard about. They're spectacular, equal in fluidity and daring to Welles, to Kalatozov, to anything I've ever seen. Script, acting - all superb, and watching the three central characters play their public roles only to slowly have them dissolve as their private passions overtake their need for appearances is just one more of the joys of this film. I get why people call this one of the greatest (or THE greatest) films of all time and though I'm not yet ready to make that kind of statement (and also not big on those types of hierarchal rankings anyway), I would be more than willing to hear out someone who made such a claim.

Control (dir. Anton Corbjin, 2007) -

More marital infidelity - this time not from a bored couple who maybe ought to think about parting anyway, but from a couple that formed way too young, before they knew what they were doing. I didn't love the film, but I liked it. It hews very closely to the Joy Division/Ian Curtis story and leans heavily on making out Deborah to be a majorly sympathetic character (no surprise since it's taken from her (auto)biography of Ian Curtis and she helped fund the film). And therein lies my main problem. It's rendered nicely in B&W by photographer/video guy Anton Corbijn, but sorta like the first Harry Potter movie he had no room to maneuver with the story, seeing as its primary author was on hand to make sure that the truth (as she saw it) got told. As much license as he got was to also add in relationship details from Annik Honoré's point of view (she claims, for example, that she and Ian never slept together, which may or may not have been true - he did seem like a dedicated guy). And really I doubt Corbijn had much interest in going outside the box, so to speak. He's such a geek for iconic music imagery that he wants to put up on screen the legend that people know, not to challenge anyone's idea of Ian Curtis the person or Joy Division the band (in which case he might not have gotten cooperation or funding from Mrs. Curtis - or anything but a lawsuit from her, for that matter). Whatever - the story that's told is all facts - again, as the authors saw them - banged into a workable screenplay by Matt Greenhalgh and then brought to life by the actors, which is where the film is at its best. Even if we've seen this troubled artist story before, we haven't seen Sam Riley telling it, and he really lives in this character for the duration of the film, especially when he and his film band-mates are given the task of performing Joy Division's material in a better-sounding setting than any JD bootleg you'll be able to lay your hands on. That's good shit. Samantha Morton is also great as Deborah and the rest of the cast each hits their part fine, though nobody else is required to give as much to their role as either of these two. It's pretty good overall, but nothing here breaks up and out of the hero worship that Corbijn is engaged in to make this film a great one.

Kiss Me, Stupid (dir. Billy Wilder, 1964) -
And still more infidelity on parade, this time offered up cheerfully and with a good ultimate purpose - wife and husband both fulfill a fantasy and strengthen their marriage by sleeping with other people. How's that for a charming family comedy? This film gets away with murder, metaphorically speaking. Not only do husband and wife sleep with others and have their marriage not just intact but improved by the experience, on the way from point A to point B we get: tons of very physical humor that borders on the outright sexually provocative (gasp!); even more verbal humor and double entendres that do the same; a known prostitute as our main heroine and a wife who's happy to trade places with her (temporarily of course, but still...); Dean Martin playing a downright unflattering caricature of himself as a sex maniac unable to go one night "without it." And there's surely more I'm forgetting. Oh, like the insanely jealous husband assaulting the 14-year old piano student he's supposed to be teaching and accusing the kid of sleeping with his wife. I mean, this really pushes some heavy buttons for its time. My friend suggested that this film may single-handedly have been responsible for our modern rating system and though I don't think this was tit-for-tat responsible for giving us the "R," it'd be hard to argue that between the image of Dean Martin drinking out of Kim Novak's shoe and then feeling her up and the bawdy dialogue throughout that it provided some heavy ammunition for those who'd push for a more child-restricted theater environment. It's funny, yes, but it a really sly and tense way. Ray Walston's performance is a little on the creepy side and I'm sure it's 100% intentional from Wilder. Script is fantastic - good plotting and great dialogue throughout. Billy Wilder is sure to be someone I obsess about soon (though not like Walston's character, I hope).