muddlyjames

Equal parts documentary and drama, the film succeeds brilliantly at the former. We really do get a sense of how this harsh, flinty landscape shapes the people who live in it and how the customs and structures of modern (city) life would feel so foreign to them. The use of chiarscuro lighting in darker scenes, figures set amidst the cathedral lighting of the forest, and the imposing presence of Michele filmed looking upward as he is framed against harsh, white, rocky hillsides and the bottomless gray sky, give a sense of the inherent drama that lies in these people's day to day survival. Unfortunately the drama of the simple, predictable, and yet intrusive plot can't match that of the landscape and the film's pace is occasionally plodding (we literally spend a third of the film watching sheep being driven up and down hillsides). My review: a shrug. But worth a look if you want to learn something about this out-of-the-way corner of the world. 6/10.

A mesmerizing, devastating study of grief, Sokurov's film definitely shows the influence of Tarkovsky, but Rembrandt's presence looms as well. The film is shot in EXTREME high contrast with colors so muted it often appears a bronzed black-and-white. People and surroundings just tenuously emerge into light suggesting the 'thinness" of everyday reality and the insubstantiality of life (images are given a two-dimensional quality) when we are suddenly placed in the omni-presence of death. As our experience of the stability and certainty of life is distanced so too our connection to its movement and flow is lost. Certainty of purpose and even of identity slip from our hands. We lose the "why" of any action. We are transfixed by inertia. This is transcendently illustrated in the scene where the young man stares into his dead father's eyes. Perhaps the character, while trying to incorporate the reality of this death, is also searching for who he NOW is since he is no longer the son of THIS man. What I am trying to say in more basic terms is that this film expresses the sense of everlasting loss and the sudden awareness of our own mortality and evanescence, brought on by a death of someone we love (or are tied to), in a more profound way than almost any work of art I have encountered.

As another commentator stated, the vision here is crystal clear. No action here SIGNIFIES anything else. Each is given its own substantive weight (how can a man folding up his dead father's bedding signify anything larger or more resonate than that experience itself, if it is presented in its fullness?). Sokurov's effort is to find the moments of immutable truth glimpsed within an ever-shifting human context and consciousness. His work is a lyrical extension of Tarkovsky's effort to capture elemental truths into by eliminating or minimizing context. Thus sound, in particular, is tightly controlled; limited solely to those effects which accent the character's (and our) experience. Idiosyncrasies of buildings and landscapes are virtually eliminated. Individual characteristics and peculiarities of personality are lost in the shadows. The effect is to give us the singular and universal experience of human grief and loss (if that makes any sense). It is interesting to note that the slightest play with the dream-scapes or grotesqueries that this situation could easily conjure would put us squarely in the land of David Lynch's ERASERHEAD, which this film resembles in the materials used its construction (photography, sound, pacing, etc.). Sokhurov, however, is more formally disciplined, and appears more focused on illuminating the waking truths that shape our dreams than animating the dream truths that color our consciousness.

Sorry about the purple (film school) prose but it's very difficult to discuss this film in other terms.

Visually and dramatically this is the dullest film I have seen in quite some time. As a typical example, one scene in a dining room, which runs over thirty minutes, consists of exactly three shots: one medium close-up of our lead character, one medium close up of the female he is infatuated with, and, I kid you not, over 15 minutes of footage from a camera placed ACROSS THE ROOM featuring one character with her back to us and another occasionally blocked from view. The majority of the film is in medium to long shot with (yeah, I'm still not kidding) endless voice-overs from the lead character describing his self-loathing and the pointlessness of existence. As you might guess pacing is not considered a major part of the cinematic art by Panfilov and Co. but if a somber, reverent study of self-pity (er, the sufferings of the artist) set against a frozen landscape (oh, the symbolism!) is your cup of borscht, hey ... (actually I wouldn't wright anything at all about this movie but I consider it my public service for the month to warn whatever other foreign film adventurers that might stumble upon this iceberg).

While initially appearing to be a study of the eternal conflict between individual needs and the demands of tradition, HARAKIRI is actually a clear-eyed and savage indictment of human (particularly male) vanity.

To me there are two key scenes in the film. First, the enforced ritual suicide of the young samurai early in the film. This has got to be one of the most brutal, toe-curling scenes ever put on film (although there is no gore). What is particularly striking is the juxtaposition of the twisting, writhing, screaming man against the silent, immobile, formally arranged background. This has the effect of giving the environment, or tradition/society/law, increased weight and making the individual appear weaker, transient, more mutable, and thus more subject to error. In other words Kobayashi appears to pay all due deference to the culture and belief system that have created the horror we have just witnessed. He consciously uses the the techniques of classic formalist Japanese cinema (static shots, formal spatial design, exactly replicated point of view shots, etc.) to give us a sense of the weight and power of custom bearing on the individual.

The second scene comes at the end of the middle section of the film during which time we have been given a detailed examination of the relationships between the members of the small family and the increasing sense of desperation and despair that has entered the home with the deadening encroachment of poverty. When the temple officials tell the tale of the "honorable death" of the young father in this setting (they are somewhat more brightly lit - "cleaner" than their surroundings) THEY are now what appears mutable or insubstantial and their talk of fame, honor, and tradition is perceived as pompous, empty cant. In short they are shown as posturing, bullying members of some "boys club" whose membership is based on vanity and who are totally divorced from the realities of existence. These realities would include, most prominently, our duties to our family and friends, not just our personal honor (ego?). At this point in the film the young father's begging now appears an act of courage and virtue, his suicide would have been one of cowardice and vanity. The film suggests that suicide may be the easier of the choices faced by those placed in the position of this father in this culture. Death provides social approval, lasting fame, and freedom from the grind of responsibility. Continuing to be a husband and father would here only bring disgrace. This could be seen as a powerful indictment of what can occur when women are not accorded a place of respect and/or authority within a culture.

This is a passionate, clear-eyed, stringently crafted film that is marred only very slightly by occasional use of that addiction of 60's filmakers: the zoom lens, and an (admittedly exciting) action ending that somewhat distracts from the film's main themes (love the toppling of that idol though). 9.5/10.

This most powerful of escape stories is a wonderful exposition of the most basic human qualities, ingenuity and cooperation, and the innate drive toward freedom that brings these qualities into being.

While the theme of transcendence is certainly present (although not be-labored) as in A MAN ESCAPED, it is interesting that, in direct contrast to Bresson's work, transcendence is here achieved through work WITH others on a task. The inmates form a unique brotherhood through their joint reliance. This allows them to be IN the prison while not OF it and is quietly visible from the early moments of the film. We see this group bond deepened through each risk taken, each chisel blow against a concrete wall, and we become emotionally tied to the characters' quest simply through observing their effort (it is amazing how dramatic hammering away at a concrete wall can be). No verbal exposition is necessary, no creation of characters and their pasts intrudes to distract us from their task, which IS the drama.

Indeed Becker's film is as notable for what is left out as for what is included. There are no prison "types" created, his style is restrained to the point of being transparent, not to the point of calling attention to itself as "bare" or "ascetic" as Bresson's is. We get no exposition of the horrors of prison life; just enough detailing of the regimentation, drabness of environment, and lack of personal space to make us aware of the institution's suffocating presence. There are no sudden surprises or plot shifts. Well, maybe one. The shot in the mirror near the end of the film is so surprising that I literally couldn't take it in for a few seconds, I thought it had to be a dream: that's how involved with the characters I was! Finally, there is no use of music to pump up the suspense. There IS, however, a powerful and unique use of sound. We hear, in an almost hallucinatory fashion, every thump, clang, and wail within the prison walls and, during the digging scenes, Becker apparently uses a dual soundtrack combining naturalistic sound with heightened effects of the digger's grunts, heavy breathing, and THUMPS of metal against rock. Again this serves to effectively involve us with physical/emotional effort of their task. The cacophony the end of the film harshly accents our sense of disturbance and loss.

It is also worth noting that the apparent "innocent" in the film is the only one who does not achieve transcendence. While he may legitimately gain his freedom, he remains locked within the bounds of his own ego ("poor Pierre" says the leader of the break). Another interesting contrast (reply?) to Bresson.

Altogether a powerful statement that humans at work can be intrinsically dramatic subject matter, that the most simple of subjects can be the most visually entrancing (and emotionally resonant) and a grand illustration of the maxim that "God (and/or art) is in the details". 10/10

Ponderous, though well-meaning, socialist propaganda piece. Features lots of "let's all get together and form a collective!" speechifying, creaky romantic complications, and wooden characterizations by non-professionals acting very self-consciously (the "pros" aren't any better). However, in the final section of the film (the digging of the irrigation canal), things spring gloriously to life, and the joy and drama of collective effort, that the movie has been preaching to us for over an hour, is simply SHOWN (to great dramatic effect). Would have made a terrific short. 5/10

Really not much to keep you locked to the screen here. Cassin is not exactly charismatic or intense enough for you to believe his role in that twist (or is it wrench?) of an ending and the supporting cast is as two dimensional as the "French countryside" backdrop. The only thing of interest is how Lewis attempts, somewhat perversely, to employ noir conventions and build suspense in a sun-dappled bucolic landscape. Hey, at least the guy was always mixin' it up! 5/10.

In most ways unremarkable due to its "social issue" focus, predictable plotting and indifferent acting. But man does Karlson get a sense of atmosphere! The sense of moral decay in this town is made almost palpable by the grimy, run-down locations, harsh high-contrast black and white photography, and (uncomfortably) close-ups of sweaty (alternately leering or fearful) faces. Karlson's hyper-realistic, cynical style was an obvious influence on many crime films that came out 15-20 years later.

Stock company of the usual soldier types with a standard extraneous female in tow (and the standard complications that brings). Rarely get the sense that you are in a Philippian jungle - or in any real danger. Siegel at least doesn't let things drag, however, and there are a couple of good action scenes - particularly the ending. Interactions with, and between, the natives are also (a little) more sophisticated than is usually pictured. 5/10.

I must say I have some admiration for the commentators who saw just how ludicrous this thing is and still found something intriguing about it. To me it was a stultifying combination of overheated direction (the visual equivalent of Fuller's purple prose), ridiculous plotting, hyperventilating non-actors, and a garishly cartoonish view of the mentally ill (how about those nymphomaniacs! - only Fuller, and maybe Ed Wood, could try to play this scene with a straight face). The only redeeming quality in this mess is just how blithely unaware Fuller is of the "hard boiled reality" of the situation he is portraying. And to what absurd lengths he will go to to try to convince us of the veracity of this "world of madness" (one gets the idea he never felt he was going "too far"). Then again maybe that's what people admire about this picture in the first place. 4/10.

Definitely a mixed bag. While, for once, we are given a Pasolini character with some charisma and emotions we can identify with, it is also true Magnani's "grande dame" performance seriously unbalances the picture. Her regularly timed eruptions of gasping,clutching-her-sides belly laughter (no doubt signifiers of her "earthiness") often seem as disconcerting and mystifying to her co-stars as they do to the viewer. On the other hand, her quieter scenes expressing her alternate anxiety and grasping love for her son are quite convincing. Most impressive of all are the two nightime set-pieces where Magnani walks, in extended takes, down seemingly desolate Roman streets (almost nothing aside from street lamps is visible) and is in turn joined and then abandoned by various other creatures of the night. All these people - mainly prostitutes and their clients and various other partiers - are plainly familiar with "Mamma Ro" and it is here that Magnani's operatic performance style actually fits the situation; showing her behavior as a defense against personal entanglements and the impingeing emptiness of the night. Pasolini is able to comunicate not only her ease and familiarity with this world and her alternate sense of cosmic "aloneness" in it, but a resonate sense of the moral disruption and decay he saw as prominent in that society. Pasolini makes powerful use of his settings throughout the movie. The ancient (and fragile) ruins giving a sense both of our increasingly tenuous connection with the past and the impermanence of the current structure of things. The use of wide, often abandoned, streets with the camera tracking backward - in front of - or forward - also in front of - the characters. We thus get the feeling of a force pulling the characters from one place and/or pushing them to another. A sense of the operation of fate perhaps? The cluster of apartment buildings also effectively communicates a sense of Rome (or the modern city) as a prison - especially in the final shot.

A couple of other notes: Ettore Garofalo is entirely believable as the sullen, swaggering, sometimes awkward son. As for Pasolini's intrusive and heavy-handed religious symbolism: it doesn't overwhelm the inherent drama of the story, or our involvement, until the final 10-15 minutes. This in stark contrast to all of his films after THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ST. MATTHEW. In short this most dated of 60's experimentalists seems pretty fresh here. 7/10.

This is "realism"? If Rivette was seeking to give us a ground-level study of a woman in a certain place and time and how she was able to influence (and was influenced by) the world around her, he has failed miserably. Most prominently because we never get a clue as to why thousands of men would have followed her into battle. There is certainly not enough exposition of the cultural/historical context to define the country's need for such a savior and, god knows, there is nothing particularly charismatic about Joan as she is presented here. Unless Bonnaire's wooden posturing and flat line readings are supposed to indicate transcendent faith and determination. The use of landscape is particularly uninspired - we never lose the feeling we are watching twentieth century actors wandering in a supposedly medieval landscape. And as for the battle scenes (which, in contrast to some commentors claims, do take up a good 15% of screentime)- they look like look like some some History Club from your local high school recreating a medieval siege, although the kids would no doubt put more passion into it. I will give Rivette credit, however, for picturing a side of Joan left out by other movies: that of a petulant, naive, and narcissistic adolescent (played by a woman all too clearly at least twice the age of the character she is supposed to portray) obviously unable to understand her place within the movement she is helping to create or the world existing outside her own passions. Joan's outrage at her own soldiers swearing and astonishment at the enemy for their lack of respect and obedience to her are jarringly spontaneous and believable notes (you suddenly realize such moments must naturally have occurred)in an otherwise uninvolving historical "representation". Unfortunately they also serve to point out precisely what is not addressed on screen -what made Joan SPECIAL? I must say I also continued to be puzzled and frustrated by certain foreign film lovers who equate tedium and lack of dramatic involvement with "artistry" and "seriousness". Does this film really increase our understanding or involvement with the subject? Or with anything for that matter? 4/10.

MIDAQ ALLEY's fatal flaw is that is that it totally lacks a sense of place. Because we get no feel for the (presumably) confining, suffocating, sometimes brutal environment they live in we, get no sense of the characters' desperation and thus little understanding of their motivations. Seriously, in the first segment I found myself literally asking if I was supposed to find this believable as the father obliviously parades his new love interest to anyone who cares to look. MILD SPOILER: We also get no real idea of why Alma would make the decision to turn to a life of prostitution - we have to assume her feelings of deprivation and lack of hope. This lack of intrinsic believability has to be laid heavily on the shoulders of director Pons who lights each scene as if it were literally on a stage, shows no eye for composition, obviously believes broad gestures are the height of dramatic art, and loves to end scenes with wailing, faces contorted in agony, and poignant swells of the soundtrack. However, the screenplay is obviously thin on its own: many secondary characters are nothing more than cardboard cutouts (the Artist, the drug dealer, even Rutilio). Hell, none of the male characters are remotely lifelike (this also attributable to consistently poor performances by the male cast members). The tale also relies too heavily on colorful/quirky incident and characterization, and melodramatic (as well as predictable) plot developments. The only thing the film gets right is that it manages to capture the female characters' yearning for some specialness to enter their humdrum lives. This is particularly true for Alma's mother and Susanita; the only two characters that seem have any dramatic weight and consistent psychology to them. In short this an attempt to capture a poignant slice of Mexican life that never finds its way to the street, and so remains trapped in the studio. More Peyton Place than Callego de los Milagros. 5 out of 10

To paraphrase David Letterman on Madonna: I have a theory about Mr. Ozon - he wants to SHOCK us.

Ozon gives us a nice set-up - domesticated housewife meets her suddenly (re)emerged anarchist-vagabond shadow on a remote isle - and allows his own inner rampaging adolescent to trash the whole business.

Rather than simply follow out the ominous dance initiated between these two characters, Ozon decides to step in every few minutes and punch the viewer in the face: the plate-licking scene, the bit with the tooth-brush (I think its a measure of Ozon's juvenality just how quickly it winds up in our heroine's mouth), the sex scene in the conveniently located Forest of Men. No doubt this is to jar the viewer out of his/her "bourgeois complacency". However, I think the presence of this aggression more truthfully reflects Mr. Ozon's discomfort with his own un-exorcized spirit of domesticity. As with most pseudo-rebels (or posturing enfants-terribles) art becomes a game of projecting into others, and then attacking, what we can't tolerate in ourselves. Thus the inability of Mr. Ozon to let the story play itself out and the quite apparent intrusiveness of the scenes I mentioned. And if this lack of continuity (or eruption of absurdity) is to be justified as a play of surrealism - PLEEEASE! As every director from Clair to Bunuel to Lynch to the Coen bros. who has worked with this palatte has known, such a world must maintain its own inner consistency (whether this is done through lighting, gesture/stylized movement, dialog, what have you). Ozon does not even make such an attempt, therefore his "imaginative leaps" appear merely arbitrary GESTURES of artistic abandon rather than the real deal. Clearly Ozon has some growing up to do before he can sail with those who truly chart a course on unknown seas (rather than play pirate in their own bathtubs). 4 out of 10.

Wow! I wasn't expecting this - a sober, detailed, semi-documentary study of police investigation and tactics from, of all people, Bo Widerberg?!

I am astonished to say that this is a remarkably realistic and believable film and, as another viewer suggested, should be viewed by current filmakers as a prime reference for how films in this genre can be successfully approached. This truly ranks with the best American crime/police films of the 70's (and soars above all their pale French imitations), though it may lack the visceral impact of DIRTY HARRY or a character as indelible as Popeye Doyle. But character development is not really the film's focus; it is getting the details right - which it does - of the methodical police investigation of a murder and then their forced tactical response to a sniper. In doing this Widerberg and co. avoid a number of cliches and dramatic pitfalls that have plagued other films and television dramas working this turf over the last 40 years. These include cowboy heroics by "rogue" cops, an over-reliance on police jargon (that supposedly lets us know we are "inside the world" of police work), allowing interpersonal melodramas between characters to blur the focus of the story (i.e. catching the criminal), and, of course, the now ritual abuse of explosions, car chases, and machine-gun editing (to supposedly heighten our excitement). There are also no cartoonish twisted-genius serial killers masterminding absurd plot twists. Here the killer is as unspectacular, and as understandable (although we never meet him) as the men pursuing him. It is also remarkable how characters casually enter into the film as they enter the investigation - no one emerges as THE hero - everyone just does his job. And Widerberg is so effective at focusing us on the quiet, "routine" details of how the case develops that when violence erupts in the later part of the film it is truly startling. The scenes of panicking crowds have an unsettling documentary feel. The police response to this threat is, again, restrained, unspectacular (all right the helicopter attack may be pushing it a bit) and intensely dramatic for just that reason (no bells or whistles required). When the criminal is finally stopped it is almost anti-climatic (no drawn-out battles to the death, no swelling music) and this is as it should be for the world remains the same, evil still exists, and the job goes on. Can't wait to see MAN FROM MALLORCA. 9 out of 10.

It seems entirely appropriate that the film opens with the metaphor of birds being snared as this seems to apply not only to Mouchette's life, but to Bresson's approach to the viewer as well.

For what, after all, is the director attempting to do here? Are we really to regard this as an unblinking gaze into the life of an abused, outcast girl? If so, why is Bresson so intent on excluding even the most fleeting moments of joy (or at least humor) that enter even the darkest of lives (I believe a philosopher once said "alas, joy too must have its day")? It is pretty telling that the one scene involving happiness for Mouchette is the most monotonous and lifeless in the picture (the bumper cars). Not only are we not allowed to experience her joy, but Bresson is careful to distance us from the real experience of her pain as well. This is done by the use of "gestures" (particularly prominent in Bresson's later films) that "signify" a character's experience rather than giving us the person's individualized emotional and visceral reactions to events. Thus the assault on Mouchette is shown in a distant, almost pantomimed manner, her relationship with her father is suggested by dropping coins in his hand, a disembodied hand slapping her face, etc. So, are we really to identify with Mouchette, to feel her pain, seeing how her experience of life intersects with our own in only the most symbolic, muted fashion? Is this really "compassion" and is this really Bresson's purpose?

Or is Mouchette a figure that Bresson uses (and dehumanizes), as literally every character in the movie uses her, to achieve other purposes? In this case the selling of a particular view of the world. One which sees the world as a snare, both in its joy and its pain, that is "saved" only by the (symbolic) suffering of the innocent, and transcended/transformed only by death. In other words a viewpoint that that advocates looking beyond (or turning away from)life to find "transcendent" truths. A view based on judgement rather than acceptance. And if this is "the truth" why must so much of what we experience as truth (such as joy, intimacy, occasional feelings of "oneness" with the world) be so forcibly excluded? Are these all really illusions, the world simply a snare? And without acceptance of ALL of Mouchette's reality can she,or any of us, really be redeemed?

Yes, Bresson is a meticulous, incisive, and occasionally powerful filmaker. But is he really honest? Are there some TRUTHS that he can't face (and so desperately restricts his view). In MOUCHETTE we are a little more aware of the puppeteer's strings than usual. 7 out of 10.