Gett: The Trial of Viviane Amsalem
(Ronit Elkabetz, Shlomi Elkabetz)
Also Liked: Spotlight, Tales of the
Grim Sleeper, Mountains May Depart, In Transit, Cartel Land, Mad
Max: Fury Road, The Big Short
Some Movies I Haven't Seen Yet: In
Jackson Heights, The Assassin, The Revenant, Hard To Be A God, Son
of Saul, Right Now Wrong Then
Every year at this time, critics wax
rhapsodic about the unprecedented bevy of riches the last twelve
months have showered upon us cinephiles fortunate enough to live in
this age of miracles. That reminds me - you still have time to
contribute to my long-gestating book project: “Every Movie's A
Masterpiece (And Every TV Show Too): The Story of Modern Criticism.”
As usual, I have no idea what they're
talking about, but I'm glad they're having fun. I could fill a list
twice this length with movies rated over 90% on the Tomato Meter that
I either walked out on or deeply regret not walking out on, even the
ones I watched at home. I won't name any. Except for “Room.” And
“Sicario.” But no more. OK, “The Martian.”
But this is the time to focus on the
positive, including the year's pleasant surprises, of which there
were two.
I thought “Unbroken” (2014) was a
serious misfire and after reading the critical savaging of Angelina
Jolie's vanity project “By the Sea” I was tempted to push this
one to the end of the viewing queue or pass on it altogether.
Enthusiastic endorsements from go-to critics Kim Morgan and Sheila
O'Malley persuaded me otherwise, and I thank them both for it. Vanity
project? I guess that's what an achingly sincere story torn right
from an artist's heart gets called when she happens to be a glamorous
international celebrity. Hey, guess what, just because a famous
married couple plays a married couple in a movie doesn't mean it's
about the famous married couple. If this slow burn isn't your cup of
tea I understand, but calling it “indulgent” just makes you look
silly. Besides, you know what I want uniquely talented artists to do?
Indulge!
I didn't really get Rick Alverson's
2012 film “The Comedy,” perhaps because I prefer my Tim Heidecker
in 12-minute doses. But “Entertainment” blew me away, and I'm not
ashamed to admit it's because it felt like a movie made specifically
for me. This is a movie made by (and for) people who don't think that
anything about this culture is OK and are baffled and frustrated that
other people don't see it the same way. I've always liked Gregg
Turkington's stand-up comic alter ego Neil Hamburger, but setting him
on an American journey consisting entirely of crappy hotel rooms and
even crappier clubs en route to the crappiest destination of all, the
Hollywood celebrity scene, is absolutely inspired. Most films that
set out to be provocations wind up somewhere between tedious and
asinine (call it “Fight Club” syndrome). This is the rare
provocation that succeed in being genuinely unsettling. I can't stop
thinking about it.
I got “Gett” from the get-go, one
of the more exasperating entries in the burgeoning field of “Religion
sure can make us stupid” studies. Ronit Elkabetz knocks it out of
the park in the title role, but the supporting cast of Men With
Punchable Faces really makes it an infuriating viewing experience. In
the best way possible.
Most of the rest of my favorites are
from reliable filmmakers who delivered yet again. I voted for Jafar
Panahi of “Taxi” (AKA "Jafar Panahi''s Taxi", AKA "Tehran Taxi") as best actor in the OFCS poll and didn't do it
to be a smartass. Panahi's interpretation of himself as a pleasant if
slightly incompetent cab driver in Tehran is brilliant, employing
fastidious politeness to express rage at institutionalized injustice.
Sylvester Stallone also plays himself (playing Rocky) in “Creed”
for less subversive reasons than Panahi but still to great effect,
the best effect being the way he sets the stage for Michael B.
Jordan's star-solidifying performance in the title role. One of my
favorite oddities in cinema this year – Jordan's Adonis Creed
doesn't want to fight under a name that reminds people of someone
famous. So he boxes as Don Johnson.
Guy Maddin can do no wrong for me, but
“Keyhole” (2011) was slightly less right than his other movies.
“The Forbidden Room,” which Maddin co-directs with Evan Johnson,
is all kinds of right, embodying Maddin's beloved amnesia trope in
its very structure. This movie is designed to make you forget what
happened before – somewhere between the volcano and the dead father
who won't go away, you briefly think, “Hey, weren't we on a
submarine?” But then you forget all over again. Also, greatest
credits ever. Ever ever ever. I demand that every filmmaker shoot
credits this way from here on out.
“Horse Money” isn't quite as good
as any of Costa's unofficial Fontainhas trilogy, but Ventura is a
spectacular performer and there's plenty of room below “Colossal
Youth” (2006) to still be great, and I bet this one gets even
better on a second viewing. Similar story with “The Pearl Button”
which isn't quite on the level of Patricio Guzman's magisterial
“Nostalgia for the Light” (2011) but spins a contemplation of the
relationship between Chilean society and the ocean (via the universe)
into a moving and damning historical survey. It also preserves
Kawesqar language on film. Joshua Oppenheimer's “The Look of
Silence” also isn't quite as great as its prequel “The Act of
Killing” but it seems to be designed to answer the complaints the
dissenting minority had about that previous film. It's still
unforgettable.
Saving the best for last. “No Home
Movie” will count as a 2016 release for “official” purposes but
I'm not really official. Chantal Akerman is gone and this deeply
personal documentary will be her last movie and that's a terrible
thought but it's another great movie from one of the greatest
filmmakers of all time. I'm not ready to say anything more about it
except that Chantal Akerman is irreplaceable and I will always miss
her.
LADY SNOWBLOOD and LADY SNOWBLOOD: LOVE SONG OF VENGEANCE
(Fujita, 1973-1974)
Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date Jan 5, 2016
Review by Christopher S. Long
Forget auteur cinema, this is arterial
cinema. When Lady Snowblood strikes with her umbrella sword, blood
spurts out in high-pressure streams, arcing majestically as it
splatters faces, clothing and, most artfully, previously virginal
snow. She didn't choose her name at random, after all.
Adapted from the original manga comic
written by Kazuo Koike (perhaps best known for “Lone Wolf and Cub”)
and penciled by Kazuo Kamimura, “Lady Snowblood” (1973) tells the
tale of its appropriately one-dimensional character who is born for
vengeance. Literally. The film begins with the sound of a crying baby
(who keeps on crying for a long time) born in prison to a mother who
vows that newborn daughter Yuki will carry on her vendetta, then
promptly dies.
The origin story unfolds with relative
efficiency. ' Round about 1870, Yuki's father was murdered by a gang
of petty crooks who also gang-raped her mother. Mom waits patiently
to administer justice to one of her attackers, but the rest remain
free when she is arrested for the murder. After the traumatic birth,
another inmate adopts Yuki and oversees her brutal training at the
hands of a pitiless priest. Told she is an asura (a kind of demon),
Yuki is molded through trial and terror into the relentless killing
machine known as Lady Snowblood and finally set loose on her parents'
tormentors some time in the 1890s.
Actress Meiko Kaji had already made her
mark in “delinquent youth” films such as “Stray Cat Rock: Sex
Hunter” and similarly lurid fare like “Female Convict Scorpion
Jailhouse 41” making her both an obvious and perfect choice for the
title role. Kaji compensates for a lack of apparent martial arts
skill with a calm, commanding presence most forcefully conveyed
through her steely stare – the film features many beautifully
composed images but returns most frequently to a simple closeup of
her piercing eyes and arched eyebrows. Snowblood is a column of
stillness who erupts into controlled lightning strikes, a strategy
that may only be effective when her half-witted opponents oblige by
waiting patiently to be exsanguinated, but, hey, it works, and Kaji
is integral to the success. She also sings the movie's theme song.
Director Toshiya Fujita may not be
known as one of Japan's greatest stylists, but he exploits his
widescreen frame fully, arranging bodies on all sides of the deadly
assassin and letting viewers relish her finely-honed ability to hack
her way through overwhelming odds. The action scenes are heavy on art
direction and careful choreography and low on plausibility, but
you're mostly watching for those geysers of blood.
Snowblood methodically tracks down her
victims in predictable enough fashion, but the story takes a
surprising turn when she encounters a roguish journalist (Toshio
Kurosawa) who, after meeting her, is inspired to publish a story
titled... “Lady Snowblood.” Don't expect the movie to get too
meta, but at least it's the first sign of humor in a story that often
wallows in sadism for its own sake – oh by the way, “Snowblood”
is a Quentin Tarantino favorite and an acknowledged heavy influence
on his “Kill Bill” movies. He even “paid homage” to the theme
song.
“Lady Snowblood” was followed up
quickly by “Lady Snowblood: Love Song of Vengeance” (1974). It
lacks the simple-minded purity of the first film's revenge plot, but
the more free-form narrative takes our deadly heroine in a slightly
different direction. After a decade on the lam as a fugitive,
Snowblood finally tires of fighting (though not before tallying a
double-digit body count in the first five minutes) and surrenders to
the authorities. She is sentenced to die, recruited by the secret
police, and then won over to the cause of her intended mark, a
radical played by Juzo Itami, perhaps best known to Western audiences
today as the director of “Tampopo” (1985).
More hacking, more slashing, though the
arterial sprays are mostly saved for the denouement. An early
two-minute tracking shot may be the stylistic highlight of both
films: Lady Snowblood walks methodically towards the retreating
camera as would-be assassins mass both behind and in front of her,
each eventually lunging to inevitable death by her casual sword
stroke.
Oddly, Lady Snowblood recedes into the
background for most of the sequel as a story of government corruption
and resistance by the disenfranchised people takes center stage. Both
films are set during the Meiji era as Japan transitioned from
feudalism to the beginnings of a 20th century global
empire. Economic miracles benefited only a few, providing Lady
Snowblood the opportunity to serve as a champion of the people,
though neither film explores this aspect of her mission in much
detail. The “people” aren't exactly presented in the most
flattering light either. A grotesque gang of commoners in the first
film prepares to “pass around” Lady Snowblood, and the ersatz
heroes of “Love Song” are more concerned with their own
well-being than with social justice. But, hey, nobody's perfect.
Video:
Both films are presented in their
original 2.35:1 aspect ratios. From Criterion: “These new digital
transfers were created in 2K resolution on a Scanity film scanner
from new 35 mm low-contrast prints struck from the original camera
negatives.” Level of detail isn't as sharp as in many Criterion
high-def transfers and the most notable quality is how pale some of
the skin colors. Checking a few other online sources, Lady Snowblood
doesn't look quite so alabaster from other sources, but it's possible
this is a truer representation of the original – it would make
sense. Unfortunately, I have no way to know. The blackest images (or
parts thereof) look a bit blocky to me, perhaps as a result of some
contrast boosting.
However, while these two transfer may
not be among the elite Criterion 1080p efforts, they are still very
strong overall and with the vivid reds I'm sure its ardent fans
appreciate the most. That ruby red Karo syrup – I mean blood –
sure stands out.
Audio:
Both films have LPCM Mono audio mixes.
The lossless audio is clean throughout though the audio sounds fairly
flat with no real sense of depth – but this may be a product of the
original source as well. Music sounds pretty good. Optional English
subtitles support the Japanese audio.
Extras:
Alas, Criterion has only included a few
interviews and trailers along with the two “Snowblood” films,
both of which are on the same Blu-ray disc.
Under the menu for the first “Lady
Snowblood” you can access the two newly recorded interviews. The
first is with Kazuo Koike (10 min.), writer of the manga from which
the film was adapted. He talks about his inspiration for creating
what was, at the time, an unusual character: a female assassin. The
second interview features screenwriter (Noro Osada) who scripted both
films, the second in collaboration with writer Kiyohide Ohara. Osada
discusses the challenges of adaptation in general and specifically
the challenge in adapting manga, something he had never attempted
prior to “Lady Snowblood.”
You can also watch the original
theatrical trailer (3 min.) for “Lady Snowblood.” The only extra
accessible from the menu for “Lady Snowblood: Love Song of
Vengeance” is also a theatrical trailer (2 min.)
The slim fold-out insert booklet
features an essay by critic Howard Hampton.
Final Thoughts:
I usually find revenge stories tedious
and sometimes outright repellent. I didn't always find the
“Snowblood” films compelling, but the bloody charms mostly exceed
the limitations, in large part thanks to Kaji's serene, iconic lead
performance and an array of lovely widescreen compositions. The
extras are pretty skimpy here, but the high-def transfers are solid.
With two movies on one Blu-ray, this release makes for a pretty solid
deal.
According to his son Jeff, Haskell
Wexler died peacefully in his sleep yesterday at the age of 93. Like
Alain Resnais and Manoel De Oliveira, Wexler had entered the pantheon
of venerable presences whose shadow loomed so large over the world of
cinema for such a long time that everyone had become accustomed to
assuming he would be around forever. They had always been making
movies, after all. As with Resnais and Oliveira, it comes as a shock
to learn that was only a fantasy.
After serving in the U.S. Merchant
Marine during World War II, Wexler began working as an assistant
cameraman in the late '40s. It was the first step on a path that
would cross virtually every aspect of American cinema during the last
half of the 20th century and into the 21st.
By the '60s, Wexler established himself
as one of the preeminent cinematographers of his or any other
generation. After serving as director of photography on Elia Kazan's
“America, America” (1963) and Tony Richardson's “The Loved One”
(1965), Wexler netted his first Oscar for Mike Nichols' “Who's
Afraid of Virginia Woolf?” (1966). He would win another in 1976 for
his pioneering Steadicam work on Hal Ashby's “Bound for Glory”
after settling for a mere nomination on a little film called “One
Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” the year before.
Lensing many of the landmark
achievements of the '60s and '70s wasn't enough to keep the
politically engaged Wexler fully occupied, however. He would direct
numerous activist documentaries, including “Introduction To The
Enemy” (1974) with Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden, a film potent enough
to get boycotted by The American Legion, a distinction that put
Wexler in the same admirable company as Charlie Chaplin. He remained
almost supernaturally active in recent years, directing “Four Days
In Chicago” (2012), a film about the Occupy Moment's protests at
the 2012 NATO summit, and working tirelessly as cinematographer on
numerous documentaries by other directors.
Wexler's influence extended from
Hollywoood feature film to independent documentary, but cinephiles
may know him best for his visit to one of the points in-between. The
remarkable fiction-documentary hybrid “Medium Cool” (1969) not
only became one of Wexler's primary calling cards, but was also
swiftly embraced as one of the defining films of late-'60s America.
Below, you will find my review of the Criterion Collection's 2013
release of Wexler's masterpiece.
I cannot offhand think of a figure
analogous to Wexler in American cinema. He was a true original, a
force of nature whose legacy we are only just beginning to process.
MEDIUM COOL (Wexler, 1969)
Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date May 21, 2013
Review by Christopher S. Long
To anyone who describes “Medium Cool”
(1969) as feeling dated, my response is, “I know! Isn't it great?”
John (Robert Forster) is a
Chicago-based television news cameraman who loves his job, until he
is forced to confront the reality of it. That's exceedingly difficult
because John has come to rely on the lens as an intermediary agent, a
distorting shield that transforms the world into shots meant to be
captured rather than life meant to be experienced. He wants to
approach his job like his sound man Gus (Peter Bonerz) who views
himself as just “an elongation of a tape recorder” - detachment
as the defining mark of a professional. But it's 1968, and the
bullets that ended the lives of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert
Kennedy have shattered any illusions of journalistic impartiality,
rendered it impossible, or at least profoundly irresponsible, to
remain aloof.
Cinematographer Haskell Wexler (fresh
off an Oscar for “Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”) had no qualms
about diving right into the political and social muck as he prepared
to direct his first feature. Wexler was initially hired by Paramount
to adapt a novel about a boy who found wildlife in New York City
(Jack Couffer's “The Concrete Wilderness”) but scrapped the story
entirely for a film that engaged with more immediate concerns. Wexler
had already worked on a few documentaries and integrated so-called
non-fiction techniques with his fictional material. If there's a
fight between the two, non-fiction wins by a knockout.
John quits his job after finding out
the studio has been giving his footage to the FBI (be vewy quiet,
they're hunting for wadicals) and falls in with relocated West
Virginia war widow Eileen (Verna Bloom) and her ten-year-old son
Harold (Harold Blankenship), both struggling to adjust to life in the
big, bad city. John bonds with Harold; John and Eileen wind up at the
obligatory late '60s psychedelic rock show; they groove at the roller
derby. I last watched “Medium Cool” about fifteen years ago and I
admit I had forgotten almost everything about these parts of the
film. What I remembered was the yellow dress.
As various plot threads unravel, Eileen
winds up searching for Harold in the midst of the protests
surrounding the 1968 Democratic National Convention while John covers
the event from inside the cocoon of the Chicago Amphitheatre. Wexler
and other crew members follow Verna Bloom, decked out in her now
famous yellow dress and staying gamely in character, as she winds her
way through the chanting protesters and the police and National Guard
decked out in riot gear. Narrative concerns recede as the camera
simply tries to track the yellow dress that flits in and out of sight
as the blood begins to flow and tear gas envelops the crowd as well
as the crew, producing the much-discussed shout of “Look out,
Haskell, it's real!” This legendary fourth-wall-shattering warning,
by the way, was not real, but was added in post-production.
Wexler's camera (along with camera
operator Mike Margulies) might not have shaped the events of 1968
(the film wouldn't reach theaters until 1969 – no instant YouTube
uploads), but it has shaped the way the events have been remembered.
As seen in the film, TV news crews, encumbered by their
vehicle-mounted film fortresses, captured only the faintest sense of
what was happening in the crowd as police and guardsmen waged war on
American citizens. Wexler's sprier band of outsiders brought viewers
into the heart and the heat of a shameful moment that now looks like
a rehearsal for Kent State. And as the phrase “brave performance”
is carelessly overapplied by film critics, let's take a moment to
acknowledge that Verna Bloom showed true grit here.
“Medium Cool” deserves a better
fate than to be reduced only to this climactic sequence. There are
other great moments like when a group of black activists wrest
control of an interview from John, the cinephilic name dropping from
Godard to “Mondo Cane,” and Peter Boyle in his first credited
role. But the vibrancy of the actuality footage (including scenes
from National Guard training exercises shown earlier in the movie)
eclipses most of the more traditionally scripted dramatic sequences,
and compensates for a heavy-handed bracketing device that suggests a
sense of closure somewhat out of place in a film defined by ruptures
and chaos.
In a world where camera phones are
ubiquitous and few filmmakers still cling to notions of objectivity
in documentary, perhaps “Medium Cool” really does look dated.
That is if, by dated, we mean pioneering, perceptive, and a vital
capsule of an extraordinary moment in American history. We wouldn't
still be talking about it if it wasn't.
Video:
The film is presented in its original
1.85:1 aspect ratio. The new digital transfer has “been approved by
Haskell Wexler” and this high-def treatment looks fantastic.
There's no mention of a restored print, but the source is obviously
in excellent condition because there is very little damage evident. A
well-preserved thick grain structure gives the film an appropriately
gritty look. When you see just how bad the clips in the Cronin
documentary (an extra on the disc) look you can appreciate this
version all the more.
Audio:
The LPCM Mono track is solid if not
dynamic. Most dialogue is clearly mixed. I believe that much of the
sound in the street scenes was recorded separately from the image or
added in post-production, but the mix still provides the impression
of really being immersed in the moment. Optional English subtitles
support the English audio.
Extras:
Criterion has stacked the deck,
starting with two commentary tracks. The first was recorded in 2001
and features Haskell Wexler, editorial consultant Paul Golding, and
actress Marianna Hill. The second is newly recorded (2013) for this
release and features film historian Paul Cronin.
The disc also includes excerpts from
two Cronin documentaries.
“Look Out, Haskell, It's Real!”
(2002, 53 min.) feels like a complete documentary but is described as
consisting of “extended excerpts.” The documentary includes
interviews with Wexler, author Studs Terkel (a consultant for the
film credited as “Our Man in Chicago”), actors Robert Forster,
Verna Bloom and Peter Bonerz as well as others. Extensive clips from
“Medium Cool” are interspersed with the interviews, and the clips
are badly washed out, but the interviews look fine and provide plenty
of substantive content. Second is a collection of excerpts from
Cronin's 2007 documentary “Sooner or Later” (16 min.), in which
he catches up with Harold Blankenship. Blankenship was a child actor
from West Virginia who never appeared in another movie. He was long
considered “lost” to film history until Cronin found him. This
portrait is vivid and engaging; film fame did not lead to personal or
financial fortune for Mr. Blankenship.
Criterion has also included a new
(2013) interview with Wexler. The interview covers much of the same
ground as seen in Cronin's documentary, but at 15 minutes it's still
worth watching.
“'Medium Cool' Revisited” (33 min.)
is a 2012 documentary in which Wexler returns to Chicago, and also
many of the locations from “Medium Cool,” in order to record
Occupy's protest at the May 2012 NATO summit. I can't say it's as
riveting as “Medium Cool,” but it's a nice addition.
A Trailer (3 min.) rounds out the
collection.
The 16-page insert booklet features an
essay by film critic and programmer Thomas Beard.
Final Thoughts:
Rest in peace, Haskell Wexler, a true
titan of cinema.
(Originally posted in 2008. Re-posted
in 2015 with substantial revisions.)
Albert Serra’s “Birdsong” (2008)
has been described as the best Spanish film of the past thirty years.
Specifically, Albert Serra has described it as the best Spanish film
of the past thirty years.
I don't know whether Serra's bravado is
sincere or merely part of a very convincing performance act. It also
doesn’t matter one whit. (2015 Update: Seven years later, I'm
pretty sure it's sincere.)
From the first scene of this unique and
extraordinary movie, shot in high-contrast black-and-white digital
video, you know that you are in the hands of a director who has
complete confidence in his mastery of the audio-visual medium.
Serra’s vision is so singular and so intrinsically cinematic it’s
a challenge to describe it in words. To borrow a phrase from the
Hollywood publicity machine, “Birdsong” is a movie event, a full
immersion in the moment, a daredevil plunge into a world that is
simultaneously abstract and so tangibly dense that it can hardly be
penetrated.
If we can’t penetrate it, we can
still talk about it, or at least dance around it. The plot summary is
the easiest part: The Three Wise Men wander through the desert
looking for baby Jesus. Eventually, they find him. Sorry about the
spoiler. It’s the “eventually” that’s the catch, of course.
These three kings of dis-orient have traveled from afar, and they
don’t really know their way around these parts. They aren’t sure
whether or not they should climb a mountain. They change directions
and stop for rest frequently. Fortunately, they aren't in any
particular hurry. Neither is the director.
Serra is fond of the long take. Really
fond of the really long take. The film’s most bravura scene is a
nine-minute long static shot in which the Wise Men trudge off into
the distance, disappear over a ridge, reappear over the next one, and
then begin to walk back towards camera. Or at least they appear to;
it’s difficult to tell. The longer the shot is held, the more
difficult it becomes to suss out what’s going on which is what
makes it so mesmerizing. The desert mirage becomes more hallucinatory
the longer you look at it.
“Birdsong” is also a surprisingly
funny movie. I have no idea whether or not Albert Serra is a Three
Stooges fan, but I couldn’t help make the comparison, especially
because one of them (Lluis Serrat) happens to possess a Curly-esque
figure. In yet another long take, the Magi jockey for comfortable
position as they sleep in close quarters. After debating whether to
move a bit to the left or a bit to the right, our hefty friend shouts
“Spread out!” Nyuk nyuk.
And did you ever think about what the
Magi did after they delivered their gifts to the Christ child? Here,
they just hang around until Joseph is finally forced to resort to the
Biblical equivalent of flicking off the lights. Listen guys, an angel
told me I need to escape to Egypt so, um, could you get going now?
And oh by the way, Joseph is played by Canadian film critic Mark
Peranson who speaks Hebrew while everyone else in the casts speaks
Catalan. Why? Because Peranson doesn’t speak Catalan, silly!
“Birdsong” generates an endless
stream of breathtaking images and each viewer will have his or her
favorites. I keep thinking about a shadowy shot filmed at dawn in
which one of the Wise Men, visibly only as a silhouette, breathes the
chill morning air in and out in little puffs. He almost seems to be
biting at the air. Perhaps he’s praying quietly, or maybe he just
likes seeing his breath evaporate. It doesn’t matter. What matters
is the sheer pleasure afforded by this strange and evocative image.
And pleasure is what “Birdsong” is
all about, specifically visual pleasure. This is for the cinephilic
junky who likes to look and keep on looking. Set free from the
demands of a taditiaonlly suspenseful narrative, viewers don't need
to anticipate the next plot development, the next shot, or ever to
ask the question “Why?” You look for the sheer pleasure of
looking at something pretty and taking the time (a lot of time) to
enjoy it, wallowing in the thrill of witnessing images seldom seen.
These are pictures to be scanned from left to right, top to bottom,
and then back again. In this sense, Serra’s film harks back to the
earliest days of cinema in which, as scholar Tom Gunning has written,
the real power of cinema was not in the telling of a story but rather
the power of “making images seen” entirely for their own sake.
Cinema then was a new way of seeing, which seems relevant to a story
of these proto-Christians, pioneers who were the first to look at the
world through a whole new lens.
Serra’s sublime slapstick won’t
suit everyone’s taste but what worthwhile film does? I have no idea
if “Birdsong” is the best Spanish film of the past thirty years,
but it is certainly the best film I have seen in quite some time and
one that I have not been able to stop thinking about since I saw it
six months ago. I watch movies precisely because every now and then
something like “Birdsong” comes along.
(2015 Update: Seven years later and I'm
still thinking about “Birdsong.” And really disappointed that it
still hasn't gotten a home theater release in North America. I can't
help but think this is the “purest” of all Christmas movies, or
at least in a tie with “A Charlie Brown Christmas.)
Criterion Collection, DVD, Release Date Apr 15, 2008
Review by Christopher S. Long
(Looking for something a little different to watch this Christmas season? Try this grim holiday treat from Allen Baron.)
Not too many films begin with a
point-of-view shot of the protagonist’s birth, but that’s only
one of many unusual things about Allen Baron’s “Blast of Silence”
(1961).
The opening shot of Allen Baron's
“Blast of Silence” (1961) depicts two births. A distant dot of
light hovers in a pool of inky blackness as the narrator speaks:
“Remembering out of the black silence, you were born in pain.” A
woman screams, a baby cries. The second-person narration, written by
Waldo Salt and delivered by an uncredited Lionel Stander (both
blacklisted at the time), continues, sharing the soundtrack with the
mounting rumble of a train. The distant light grows steadily, tracks
become visible, and as the train bursts out of the tunnel, our
protagonist is “born”again, entering the story as an adult who
now keeps the screams inside.
That protagonist is a plain vanilla hit
man named Frankie Bono (played by director Barron) though the
narrator, constantly haranguing poor Frankie in that gravelly Lionel
Stander voice, probably deserves co-billing. Frankie’s riding the
train into New York for his next job, a straightforward hit on a
mid-level mobster as unremarkable as Frankie. It's just another job
and Frankie has no interest in why he's been asked to do it.
The story, however, is not really about
the hit at all, but how Frankie kills time all alone in the big city,
where most New Yorkers are busily preparing for Christmas, while
waiting for an opportune moment to complete his job. Through the
narrator, we can guess that Frankie has a rich and tormented internal
life, but he seems sadly unaware of it. For Frankie, life’s just a
whole lot of waiting and trying your best not to think about it. “It”
being anything at all.
Arriving three years after Orson
Welles’s “Touch of Evil,” Baron’s film is either a straggler
at the end of the classic film noir period, or one of the earlier
neo-noirs. Film noir was a term applied many years after the noir
cycle began, so it’s unsurprising that critics can’t agree on the
precise timing of each of the noir cycles or even how to define the
genre. Like most noirs, the film’s universe is one that is severed
from any sense of a higher being (at least a benevolent one), a world
covered by only a thin veneer of civilization where even the
slightest mistake, a stumble or a wrong turn, leads inevitably to
tragedy. Frankie was “born in pain” and he lives in pain, always
trying to drown out the scream that heralded his entry into this
cruel world.
For Frankie, the wrong turn comes when
he picks the wrong place to have dinner; an old friend meets him and
insists he attend a Christmas party. At the party, Frankie meets his
old flame Lorrie (Molly McCarthy). This unfortunate encounter stirs
Frankie from his life-long stupor, and prompts him to wonder, for the
first time as an adult, if there’s a way to make meaning out of
this meaningless world. Sorry, Frankie, you’re in a film noir.
Allen Baron was a graphic designer (he
was a comic book artist for a while) who shot his first feature film
entirely on location, then an unusual thing to do though hardly
unprecedented. Baron scraped together financing in various stages
and shot the film piece-meal over two years. His friend Peter Falk
was originally slated for the title role but got a better offer (i.e.
one that paid) so Baron was forced to step into the role. Baron
appears ill-suited to be in front of the camera, which works just
fine since Frankie is ill-suited to be anywhere. Frankie’s very
birth was a mistake, and his continued existence only compounds the
error. He’s a man out of place in every place he goes.
The film takes great advantage of its
New York locations as well as the contrast between Frankie’s
isolation and the communal nature of the Christmas season. Frankie
walks past brightly lit Christmas trees and wanders through crowds of
shoppers, severed from any connection to the people or to the holiday
season. No joy to his world. “Blast of Silence” could just as
easily have been titled with a different oxymoron, “Alone in a
Crowd.”
Another highlight of the film is the
performance by Larry Tucker as the sleazy, obese gun dealer Big
Ralph. Tucker’s massive enough to have his own gravity well, yet so
mousy and insubstantial he could sneak up on you without warning.
Tucker later focused on a writing career (he was nominated for an
Oscar as the co-writer of “Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice”)
but he turned in one more memorable role, as Pagliacci in Sam
Fuller’s madhouse flick “Shock Corridor.”
No matter how many noirs you’ve
watched, I guarantee you’ve never seen anything quite like this
one.
Video:
The film is presented in its original
1.33:1 full-screen aspect ratio. The image is not picture-boxed. The
black-and-white photography looks sharp and beautiful in this
restored transfer. Some evidence of wear and tear from the source is
still visible, but it’s not even the slightest bit of a
distraction.
Audio:
The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital
Mono. Optional English subtitles support the English audio. Stander's
pervasive narration comes through loud and clear and the sound design
has an appropriately hollow quality to it.
Extras:
“Requiem for a Killer” is a
60-minute documentary featuring Baron as he revisits the filming
locations of “Blast of Silence.” This feature is a 2006
assemblage by film historian Robert Fischer who uses footage from a
1990 West German TV documentary about Baron combined with new
interview material.
“Locations Revisited” is a series
of still photos that, well, revisit NYC locations. It’s a bit of a
repeat of the material in “Requiem.”
The disc also includes a fairly
extensive collection of on-set Polaroids (about 40 in all) with
captions from Baron’s own descriptions written on the back of the
photos.
The slim eight page insert booklet
features an essay by film critic Terrence Rafferty. Criterion has
also included an additional insert, a 4-page mini comic book by
artist Sean Phillips (artist of the recent smash-hit Marvel
mini-series “Marvel Zombies.”)
Final Thoughts:
After a promising film debut, Allen
Baron went on to a career in television, directing episodes of a host
of well-known 60s and 70s shows, including “Kolchak: The Night
Stalker,” “The Dukes of Hazzard,” and even “Charlie’s
Angels.” That only makes “Blast of Silence” even more of an
anomaly, a bizarre one-off that is quintessentially noir while not
particularly resembling many other noirs. It’s not a masterpiece,
but it’s damned interesting and even an under-the-radar Christmas
film if you're not too wedded to the “Merry” part of “Merry Christmas.”
JULIEN DUVIVIER IN THE THIRTIES (Duvivier, 1930-1937)
Eclipse Series From Criterion, DVD, Release Date Nov 3, 2015
Review by Christopher S. Long
If director Julien Duvivier's star
dimmed in the post-war years, the 1930s witnessed him a the height of
his prowess. Few directors would make the transition from silent
cinema to talkies as seamlessly as Duvivier even if, like most
directors, he made the change only with great reluctance.
Following a successful run of more than
twenty silent pictures, Duvivier's talkie debut was an absolute
stunner. “David Golder” (1930) isn't exactly a cheerful
pick-me-up. The film's opening montage film shows a shouting crowd;
characters super-imposed over the masses warn us that the film's
title character is both a “scoundrel” and “a great man.” The
paunchy, aging Golder (Harry Baur, who stars in all four films on
this Eclipse set) backs up both claims in a difficult financial
negotiation set in a smoky room lit mostly by the glare reflecting
off sweaty, balding foreheads. This is a business man who means
business.
It's reasonable to be concerned about
the ultimate purpose of a film centered on a greedy Jewish banker and
his equally greedy wife and daughter. But the film, based on the
debut novel of Russian-born Jewish writer Irene Nemirovsky, paints a
vivid portrait of wealthy European Jews at the onset of the worldwide
economic depression, filled with the intrigues and scheming of any insular group of power brokers, and any family corrupted by easy money.
In a truly harrowing sequence, Golder,
recovering from a recent heart attack, argues with his wife Gloria
(Paule Andral) while bed-ridden. After Gloria accuses him of being
“the same little Jew” who sold scraps, he almost literally chokes
her to death by grabbing her extravagantly jeweled necklace. He
strikes another damaging blow when he reminds Gloria that she once
was known as Havke. It's one of the most bilious displays I can
recall seeing in any film, genuine, seething hatred from two fully
invested actors.
Duvivier and his team of
cinematographers balance grotesque imagery (David wanders in on a
sweaty obese man toweling himself off while wearing only underpants)
with many immaculate compositions, including a remarkable shot that
allows separate actions to unfold in different rooms, each cordoned
off in opposite halves of the frame. Duvivier is a big fan of
parallel action; when not peering into two rooms at once, he cuts
back and forth aggressively between simultaneous sequences, one of
which ends with a suicide on a night-time street. The camera also
lingers on the faces of impassive butlers while their “masters”
discuss their various schemes, showing that Duvivier had no problems
taking advantage of the new opportunities afforded by sound
technology.
“David Golder” is so relentlessly
gloomy that the next film in the set feels positively upbeat by
comparison. After all the title character of “Poil De Carotte”
(“Carrot Top”, 1932) is just a ten-year-old boy who contemplates
suicide due to the cruelty of his mother and the benign neglect of
his father (Baur). Carrot Top (Robert Lynen) does his best to endure
a family situation in which he feels so disenfranchised he refers to
his parents as Mr. and Mrs. Lepic. Mother openly despises him,
perhaps because he arrived late in life as an unexpected gift, while
doting on her feckless oldest son. Father is primarily concerned with
escaping his wife and running for mayor of their small town.
The film was a huge commercial success
for Duvivier in no small part due to the plucky performance delivered
by young Lynen. Carrot Top has a rich imagination which both allows
him to survive and also produces frightening manifestations such as
the circle of phantoms who swirl about him as he makes a nighttime
dash to feed the livestock. He is, unfortunately, too perceptive to
deny his situation and his prayers for mother to “forget I exist”
give way to voices in his head (also filmed as ghostly apparitions)
urging him to end his problems for good. A last-minute reconciliation
between father and son comes as an immense relief even if there's
little reason to believe the boy will live happily ever after.
“La Tete D'un Homme” (1933) sees
Duvivier try his hand at the detective story, this time casting Baur
as Georges Simenon's world-famous Inspector Maigret. Duvivier and
co-screenwriters Louis Delapree and Pierre Calmann remove all
suspense from the story, providing viewers access to the planning and
execution of the murder of an elderly American widow that kicks off
the action. The tension builds slowly in the unraveling, first when a
hapless schmuck of a thief (Alexandre Rignault, whose giant hatchet
face pegs him as a born patsy) is framed for the crime and later as
the supernaturally patient Maigret zeroes in on the real killer.
Rignault's flight into the nighttime Paris is a sequence of moody
perfection capped off by a thin, elongated shadow seemingly copied
directly from “Nosferatu.”
Since the crime itself is a bit of a
bore, the movie wouldn't work without an intriguing killer.
Fortunately the film delivers in the form of the tormented Czech
medical student Radek, a character seemingly plucked from a
Dostoevsky novel. Thinking himself superior and the unfair victim of
a terminal malady, he exhibits little guilt, preferring to taunt the
police instead. Russian import Valery Inkijinoff adds another
indelible face to the film's rogue gallery, his remarkably expressive
features practically an open window to a shriveled soul. Baur is
almost overshadowed in the process, but turns in a fine performance
as a calm, implacable investigator whose secret weapon is the ability
to listen.
The final film in the set provides at
least intermittent respite from the misery of the first three
entries. “Un Carnet Du Bal” (“Dance Card”, 1937) is an
episodic feature that may play to some viewers like an early Max
Ophuls film and is surely the most elegant feature in the set.
Christine (Marie Bell) is recently widowed and hopes to alleviate her
grief, or at least come to terms with it, by reconnecting with the
male suitors who danced with her at her coming-out ball on her 16th
birthday, nearly two decades ago.
Her adventures take her from Italy to
France and through a varied series of encounters that prove that the
past is irretrievable and the future entirely unforeseeable. Many of
the men have fallen on hard times, a few because Christine did not
entertain their advances back at the ball. Unsurprisingly, Harry Baur
delivers the most memorable performance. His disappointment with
Christine's rejection, as well as another great personal loss, drove
him to the priesthood where he feels he does great good, but not
enough to overcome his lingering heartache. In another vivid
encounter, she meets with a former lover whose life has taken him
from lawyer to petty crook. The two hours he spends talking with her
may be the last he spends as a free man, but the opportunity to see
himself through her eyes might make it all bearable.
Other men have adjusted to
post-Christine life more happily, including a heroic but lonely
mountain guide, a small-town mayor about to remarry, and an ebullient
hairdresser with a penchant for dopey card tricks. Christine's
travels are initiated by her memory of the ball, rendered by Duvivier
and team as a carefully choreographed phantasmagoria reminiscent of
Carrot Top's swirling ghosts, and her journey inevitably takes her
back to the beginning, to another ball and then back home to the
Italian villa she had shared with her husband. “Un Carnet Du Bal”
was yet another big hit for Duvivier, released the same year as
perhaps his best-remember film today, “Pepe Le Moko.”
The success of “Pepe” and, to a
lesser degree, “Carnet Du Bal” brought Duvivier to Hollywood
before he returned to France, with a few detours to the UK, after the
war. While he still directed some fine films during the post-war
period, his critical reputation would suffer once the “Cahiers Du
Cinema” critics lumped him unfairly in with their despised
purveyors of “the tradition of quality.” Duvivier has since been
embraced once again by critics, but still remains eclipsed by the
shadows of his contemporary stars like Marcel Carne and Jean Renoir,
the latter of whom rated Duvivier as one of the greatest filmmakers
of any era.
Video:
All four films are shot in
black-and-white. “David Golder” is presented in its original
1.19:1 aspect ratio, a ratio used only in the first few years of
sound film. The other three films are presented in their original
1.33:1 aspect ratios. As usual with Eclipse releases, the films have
not been restored for this release and they vary in quality. “La
Tete D'Un Homme” shows the most damage with several short shots
badly warped around the edges, but most of it still looks fine. “Poil
De Carotte” probably looks the best. Overall, while the film's all
show some instances of damage with the occasional skipped frame
evident, they are still sharp enough to show a pleasing grain and a
satisfying black-and-white contrast. Considering the age of the
films, these “no frills” restorations look quite solid.
Each film is on its own DVD housed in a
separate slim keep case. All four slim cases tuck into the cardboard
packaging for the set.
Audio:
All four films are presented in Dolby
Digital Mono sound mixes. Voices sometimes sound a little tinny and
the music a bit warbly, but overall the quality is acceptable if far
from spectacular. Optional English subtitles support the French
audio.
Extras:
As with most Eclipse releases, no
extras are provided aside from liner notes on each of the four discs
by Michael Koresky who, as usual, does a fabulous job.
Final Thoughts:
I think “David Golder” is a
flat-out masterpiece and “Un Carnet Du Bal” is so rich I expect
to enjoy it even more on repeat viewings; the other two films are
damned fine as well. Yet as marvelous as the movies in this four-disc
Eclipse set are, they also provide a sobering reminder of the tragedy
of history. Thanks to the success of “Poil De Carotte,” Robert
Lynen became one of France's pre-eminent child stars in the '30s. By
the age of 20, he joined the French Resistance and was executed by
the Nazis in 1944. The great Harry Baur, nearly omnipresent in this
set, appeared in several other films for Duvivier, enjoying his own
stardom. Baur would also die at the hands of the Nazis in 1943.
Novelist Irene Nemirovsky was killed in Auschwitz in 1942.
Criterion Collection, Blu-ray, Release Date Nov 17, 2015
Review by Christopher S. Long
The scope of Satyajit Ray's “The Apu
Trilogy,” adapted from the popular Bengali novels of Bibhutibhusan
Banerjee, is nothing less than the life of its title protagonist from
birth to adulthood, from an impoverished childhood in a rural Indian
village to a university education in Calcutta and then to points
beyond that. Any effort to encapsulate the entire series in a mere
review is doomed to seem superficial and incomplete.
Better to recount only the moments that
linger most vividly, though even they are so numerous as to cram a
short-form essay to bursting, in the hopes of creating an impression
for the reader of just how monumental Ray's achievement is, one of
the most monumental in the history of cinema.
For starters, Apu is nowhere near the
most interesting character in the first film in the series. The stars
of “Pather Panchali” (1955) are three remarkable women. Mother
Sarbajaya (Karuna Banerjee) shines in the first two films of the
trilogy. In her debut, she provides the pragmatic ballast to her
idealist husband Harihar (Kanu Banerjee), which leaves her to do the
literal dirty work of the household as well as putting her in charge
of discipline. The latter duty generally involves daughter Durga
(Runki Banerjee as a little girl, Uma Das Gupta when older), the
unrepentant petty thief so full of energy and joy that the confines
of the crumbling family abode cannot contain her. She dashes through
the countryside, dances in the rain, and cagily evades prying eyes to
spend time with her beloved Auntie.
I am confident that nobody who has ever
seen “Pather Panchali” will forget Auntie, played by 80-year-old
veteran stage actress Chunibala Devi, coaxed out of a lengthy
retirement by Ray. Auntie is an unspecified family relation so bent
over by time her body forms a near-perfect right angle as she
shuffles through the dirt, defiantly stealing one more day and still
another, all with a quiet dignity and scrappy resourcefulness that
inspires Durga, even as the burden of Auntie's upkeep frustrates
Sarbajaya whose own dreams die each day she shoulders the role of
universal caretaker.
All three women are so mesmerizing that
little Apu (Subir Banerjee) can hardly make an impression by
comparison. Yet his first appearance still provides one of the
series' high points. Durga wakes up her sleepy-head brother who hides
under a blanket until a single eye is visible peering out at his
sister and at the audience. Both mother and sister dote on Apu to the
point of ignoring their own needs, a testament to a patriarchal
society but also to genuine love, which also conveniently sets us up
for the next chapter when Apu will finally take center stage in his
own trilogy.
The family home, a dirt courtyard and a
few small rooms partially ringed by collapsing stone walls, is almost
as memorable as the women of the film. Shots of the surrounding
countryside further showcase the evocative power of effective
location shooting, lending the film the sense of naturalism that
earned instant comparisons to Italian neo-realism. Rendered in
subdued black-and-white by cinematographer Subrata Mitra, this poor
rural village is a defining element inextricable from the characters
that populate it.
In “Aparajito” (1956) the family
has moved to the holy city of Benares (now Varanasi) where Apu's
father plies his trade as a local priest. Early shots of hundreds of
people gathered along the Ganges, just about everyone dressed in a
white that fills the visual field (occasionally making subtitles
difficult to read) immerse viewers inthe new location. Apu (now
played by Pinaki Sengupta) is a bit older, but still young enough to
spend most of his day playing and wandering. This produces some
dreamy interludes such as when he watches a muscle-bound man on the
docks swinging a weighted rod, or when Apu feeds a cluster of monkeys
who chatter and ring bells, performing a chorus just for the young
boy.
Apu's idle adventures fire his
imagination and lead to perhaps the most inspiring sequence in the
trilogy. After Apu enrolls in school, his connection to a broader
world of ideas yields a seismic effect. He explains the orbital
mechanics of an eclipse to his wide-eyed mother and is transformed so
completely that, without warning, in the space of a single cut, Apu
has suddenly become a teenager (Smaran Ghosal) who is now the star
pupil of his school.
If I have made the series out to be a
childlike wonderland so far, let me disabuse you of the notion.
Satyajit Ray is a cruel taskmaster. Death is a constant presence in
the trilogy, but tragedy manifests by many other means as well. Apu's
education is a personal liberation, but also drives a permanent wedge
between him and his mother, who knows how bleak life will be if her
pride and joy dashes off to Calcutta to continue his studies. Cinema
has offered many a mother who tugs on the viewer's heartstrings, but
I cannot offhand recall a more brutal moment in filmic mother-son
relations than when the loving, hard-working, self-sacrificing
Sarbajaya asks Apu “Am I to be cast aside?” and he, in effect
ultimately answers, “Yes.”
By “Apur Sansar” (1959), the adult
Apu (Soumitra Chatterjee, who would star in over a dozen Ray films)
is alone in Calcutta and forced to abandon university studies, though
hopefully not his burgeoning writing career, due to a lack of funds.
After he unexpectedly finds himself pinch-hitting for the groom at a
wedding, he embarks on a new chapter of his life as a married man. It
is only after the marriage that he falls wildly in love with his
young bride Aparna (Sharmila Tagore, just 13 at the time) and ready
to enjoy life once again. In one of the most-quoted shots in the
trilogy, Aparna rises from bed to conduct her morning chores, only to
find that the mischievous Apu has tied her voluminous sari to his own
clothing; she must pry it away before she can escape his tender
clutches. Staying consistent with the pattern of the series, Ray
doesn't allow happiness to last long, and Apu spends much of the film
lost in the labyrinth his own grief, with no promise he will ever
find his way back out.
The special place “The Apu Trilogy”
occupies in the canon of world cinema is justified solely by its
artistic achievements, but is buttressed in no small part because its
story of the emergence and maturation of Apu mirrors that of its
writer/director/producer. Satyajit Ray was no country bumpkin when he
began shooting. A member of a proud artistic and literary family, Ray
was an accomplished commercial artist whose book illustrations
(including those for an abridged version of “Pather Panchali”
adapted for children) were both well-known and respected. But Ray had
nurtured a passion for cinema for years, co-founding the Calcutta
Film Society in 1947, writing criticism (including an influential
essay critiquing Indian commercial cinema), and participating in
location scouting for Jean Renoir's 1950 film “The River.”
In the fall of 1952, Ray decided to
start filming his screenplay of “Pather Panchali” with no prior
directing experience. His severely underbudgeted crew was similarly
inexperienced, including cinematographer Subrata Mitra, an
accomplished still photographer now working with a motion-picture
camera for the first time. With virtually no money, Ray's initial
plan was to shoot a few scenes on location in rural Bengal, in hopes
of using it to secure government funding to complete the film. His
audacious gambit succeeded, though the shoot would proceed in fits
and starts, taking about two years to complete due to multiple
prolonged stoppages necessitated by the lack of cash flow.
“Pather Panchali” was a success in
Indian theaters, a pleasant surprise in a country defined by lavish
musical productions far removed from Ray's gritty, naturalistic, and
sometimes depressing vision. When it hit the festival circuit, the
film not only introduced Satyajit Ray to the world, but was largely
credited with introducing the category of Indian cinema to
international audiences. Ray would often be seen as the global
representative of all Indian film, an unfair burden for the director
and an equally unfair dismissal of one of the world's most prolific
national cinemas.
“Aparajito” wasn't nearly as
successful commercially in India, but it still earned positive
festival attention and convinced Ray to complete the trilogy, which
was not at all his idea from the start. By the time the world got to
see Apu as an adult in “Apur Sansar,” the neophyte who took the
world by storm had become an established star both at home and
abroad. He had already snuck in another masterpiece, “The Music
Room” (1958), before completing the trilogy and would waste no time
in proving that he was no flash in the pan, churning out, seemingly
effortlessly, equally great films such as “The Big City” (1963)
and “Charulata” (1964). “The Apu Trilogy” was an achievement
sufficient to secure an lifelong legacy - for Ray, it was merely the
opening salvo in one of the most remarkable careers of the 20th
century.
And, yeah, I swear, even here just past
the 1,500 word mark, I really did just touch on a few of the
highlights. And I didn't even talk about the trains. Or mention Ravi
Shankar.
Video:
Most of us have become accustomed to
seeing lesser-quality versions of “The Apu Trilogy.” This is due
in part to a 1993 laboratory fire in London which badly damaged the
original negatives to several of Ray's films, including “The Apu
Trilogy.” Sony Pictures Classics released the trilogy on DVD back
in 2003 and though they'd had some restoration, the picture quality
was disappointing even if it was “best possible” at the time.
The extensive restoration project
undertaken by Criterion and L'Immagine Ritrovata in Bologna, Italy
for this Blu-ray release involved salvaging whatever of the burned
negatives could still be restored (through rehydration, recreating
sprocket holes, etc.) and scouring the globe for other sources to
restore the rest of the material. A feature on disc three explains
part of the laborious process.
The net result can only be described as
a revelation for viewers. With multiple sources there is inevitably
some variation with damage more noticeable in a handful of scenes,
but so much of the trilogy looks outright luminous with sharp detail
visible in scenes I had only seen in blurry, badly compromised
versions before. The films generally look much brighter than in
previous DVD releases which means the prominent whites can sometimes
be a bit overwhelming (though seldom “blown out”) in these
black-and-white images, but compared to the dingy, drab look before
this is still a vast improvement. “Apur Sansar” is the most even
in quality but this is probably due to the fact that none of the
original negative could be used and the whole film “was restored
from a fine-grain master and a duplicate negative.”
Considering how close we were to losing
Ray's original negatives, it's simply extraordinary to have the
opportunity to see them restored to this condition.
Audio:
The audio required extensive
restoration as well. Dropoffs in audio quality are usually more
noticeable and jarring than, say, a slightly softer image might be.
Considering how much damage was present and how many sources were
used for these transfers, the consistent quality of the audio is
nothing short of amazing. The voices in “Pather Panchali” may
sound a bit tinnier than in the other two films, but that's likely
attributable to Ray's low-budget approach in his debut film. The most
important aspect of the sound mix is the Ravi Shankar score, heavy on
sitar on flute, that helps to define the trilogy almost as much as
the image, acting, and writing. In a word, it sounds great. I'm
really not qualified to attest to how true to the original it is, but
I can't imagine it's far off. Optional English subtitles support the
Bengali dialogue.
Extras:
There are no commentary tracks offered
on this three-disc set, but Criterion has included an ample array of
supporting extras on each disc.
Disc One (“Pather Panchali”) kicks
off with “A Long Time On The Little Road” (14 min.) This is an
audio-only extra that features Satyajit Ray reading from his 1957
“Sight & Sound” article about the making of “Pather
Panchali.” The audio was recorded by film critic Gideon Bachmann.
In addition to his seemingly endless artistic gifts, Ray had a
magnificent speaking voice, rich and smooth and utterly mesmerizing.
The disc also includes several
interviews recently recorded by Criterion. Soumitra Chatterjee (7
min.) does not appear in “Pather Panchali” but talks about how
the film and his appreciation for Ray's early work prepared him for
his film debut as the adult Apu in “Apur Sansar.” Shampa
Srivastava (16 min.) played young Durga (credited as Runki Banerjee)
and discusses what it was like to be a six-year-old actress on set
with Ray, who she describes as tall and handsome, both imposing and
awe-inspiring. Soumendu Roy (12 min.) was an assistant cameraman on
“Pather Panchali” and later become one of Ray's regular camera
operators. He discusses the challenges of location shooting in Boral
Village and how the shoot felt very much like a family experience.
The disc also includes a short feature
with the great musician Ravi Shankar (6 min.) who composed the music
for all three films. This mildly disappointing feature consists of
brief excerpts from a 2003 documentary titled “The Song Of The
Little Road.”
Disc Two (“Aparajito”) begins with
“The Small Details” (11 min.), a recent interview with film
writer Ujjal Chakraborty who touches on Ray's career as a commercial
illustrator while also providing some details about the shift in
locations in “Aparajito.”
We also get another audio recording by
Gideon Bachmann, this time of Ray speaking at the 1958 Robert
Flaherty Film Seminar in Vermont in conjunction with the official
U.S. release of “Pather Panchali.” This 14-minute audio-only
feature sees Ray specifying his work as Bengali rather than Indian
and touching on other details about the trilogy's release. Ray's
voice – my goodness.
“Making 'The Apu Trilogy': Satyajit
Ray's Epic Debut” (38 min.) is a new video essay written and
narrated by Ray biographer Andrew Robinson. He describes the
trilogy's impact as nothing less than a “radical re-orientation of
the world's view of India” and provides plenty of information about
Ray's career and insightful analysis of the trilogy.
“The Creative Person: Satyajit Ray”
(29 min.) is a 1967 episode of the Canadian TV series “The Creative
Person” directed by documentarian James Beveridge. Beveridge went
to Calcutta to film Ray at work and this episode consists of
interviews with Ray, Soumitra Chaterjee, Karuna Banerjee, and other
cast and crew.
Disc Three (“Apur Sansar') offers a
feature (15 min,) that combines new interviews with actor Soumitra
Chaterjee and actress Sharmila Tagore. I was particularly interested
in Tagore's account of being a schoolgirl thrown into a major shoot
and discovering a previously unknown love of acting that would shape
her life. She describes how heavily directed her performance was at
this early stage of her career and how Ray didn't shoot many takes or
conduct lengthy rehearsals.
“'The Apu Trilogy': A Closer Look”
(43 min.) is a lengthy interview with Mamoun Hassan, filmmaker,
producer and former head of production at the British Film Institute.
Hassan provides a close reading of several motifs in the films with
special attention to some of its more ominous aspects. And he talks a
lot about trains.
The disc also includes a feature on the
restoration of the trilogy, directed by filmmaker::kogonada and is
offered both in a Shorter Version (3 min.) and a Longer Version (12
min.). For Criterion fans, the longer version will let you see and
hear from several Criterion employees as well as from the diligent
preservationists at L'Immagine Ritrovato in Bologna. Many of The
amount of restoration that went into this project was nothing short
of heroic.
The final feature is a 3-minute video
of Ray's acceptance speech when he was awarded an honorary Oscar in
1992, shortly before his death. Even gravely ill in his hospital bed,
he has a commanding presence and even gets a few good laughs.
The insert booklet includes essays by
film critics Terrence Rafferty and Girish Shambu, whose blog at
girishshambu.blogspot.com should be on every cinephile's reading
list, as well as several of Ray's storyboards for “Pather Panchali”
and a few pages discussing the films' restoration.
Final Thoughts:
Sorry, “Star Wars” fans, this is
the greatest trilogy of all time. And this epic three-disc set from
Criterion, restoring Ray's masterpiece to its audiovisual glory, is
going to be hard to beat as the besst Blu-ray release of 2015.
(On Nov 12, 2015, TCM will be celebrating the 25th anniversary of the great independent distributor Milestone Films with a marathon of five of the great titles they've released during their impressive quarter-century run. Kent Mackenzie's "The Exiles" is one of the films in the program and, like all of them, is more than worth your while. I originally posted this review in 2009 - now re-posted with significant revisions - when Milestone released their meticulously curated DVD. If you click on the Milestone tab at the bottom of the review, you'll find that my reviews of their titles repeatedly gush over the care they lavish on their projects. If anything, I may not be doing them justice. You can also find my reviews for other films in the TCM tribute to Milestone, including Shirley Clarke's "The Connection,"Lionel Rogosin's "Come Back, Africa," and Edward S. Curtis's "In The Land of the Head Hunters.")
In the great book “Movie Mutations,”
critic Alexander Horwath discusses his concerns about “film-cultural
globalization” and the tendency of the art-house circuit to focus
disproportionately on “a few masters who can transcend all national
borders and dance on all markets.” Films that “travel well” are
celebrated for their universality, presumably the most laudable goal
of art under this globalization model.
Horwath argues in favor of an
alternative: “I am much more interested in filmmakers who speak in
concrete words and voices, from a concrete place, about concrete
plans and characters.” Specificity is the key here. Horwath values
the films that depict the nuances and details of a singular time and
place, irreducible qualities that would be lost if they were subsumed
into a generic global culture in the pursuit of universality.
“The Exiles” (1961) is a sterling
example of a film that speaks in “concrete words and voices, from a
concrete place.” The words and voices in this case belong to
several young Native American men and women who have moved from the
reservation into the (now non-existent) Bunker Hill section of Los
Angeles circa 1958-1959. The cast consists of non-professional actors
who portray slightly fictionalized versions of themselves as they
spend twelve hours roaming at night through the neighborhood.
Writer/director Kent Mackenzie goes to
great pains to distinguish his characters from the depictions of
Indians in American cinema and mainstream culture. The film begins
with a montage of photographs by (in)famous photographer Edward S.
Curtis whose Native American subjects are terribly serious and
dignified. They’ve learned, a la “Smoke Signals,” to “get
stoic.” Mackenzie then cuts directly to his modern characters with
their blue jeans and slicked-back hair as Native chants are replaced
with a bopping rock ‘n roll track by the Revels. Now it's time to
“get down.”
Expectant mother Yvonne (Yvonne
Williams) struggles gamely to maintain a household on limited means
and keep up her spirits in the process. Her husband Homer (Homer
Nish) and his friend Tommy (Tom Reynolds) shoulder their burdens as
well, but enjoy more freedom to shirk their responsibilities and blow
off some steam. Homer dumps th harried Yvonne at the movies so he can
hang out with his buddies and knock back more than a few cold ones,
while slick-talking Tommy chases any skirt that wanders into his line
of vision. All the while that great Revels music permeates the film,
providing everyone a good excuse to dance and have a good time.
“The Exiles” is not a documentary,
but it has documentary elements. Mackenzie constructed a narrative
based on interviews and conversations with his actors (who he got to
know well before shooting) and gives them a chance to speak about
their own concerns in voice-over. Yvonne talks about her fears for
her baby and her wavering faith. Homer relates an anecdote from his
childhood on the Arizona reservation. The goal is to capture a
twelve-hour slice of their lives, one that is true of their
experiences but, as the narrator at the beginning of the film says,
one that “is not true of all Indians today.” Only true of these
young men and women (“concrete characters”) as well as many of
their friends who are also seen in the movie, chilling, rocking, and
living just enough for the city.
Mackenzie’s film played a few
festivals and then, failing to secure distribution, was all but
forgotten by most viewers for nearly four decades until filmmaker
Thom Anderson brought it back to the attention of both audiences and
critics in his 2003 documentary “Los Angeles Plays Itself,”
praising it as the best Bunker Hill film. The badly faded clips he
showed rekindled interest in this “lost” film. Happily the UCLA
Film and Television Archive and Milestone Films were eager and
willing to pick up the project. UCLA’s restored print is a
luminescent miracle and looks like it was struck from the original
negative yesterday. Milestone’s extraordinary contributions to the
project are discussed in the sections below.
Mackenzie worked on several short films
but only completed only one other feature, “Saturday Morning”
(1971), before his death in 1980 at the age of 50. “The Exiles”
alone is enough to secure his place in history as a great American
independent filmmaker. It is a history from which he has been all but
erased until now. Thanks to Thom Anderson, UCLA, Milestone, the
Mackenzie Family, and many others, his name is back in the books and
his film, no doubt, will be back on film school curricula where it
belongs. This DVD set from Milestone is as much a tribute to the
director as it is to his signature film. Read on for more of the
juicy details.
Video:
The film is presented in its original
1.33:1 aspect ratio. As mentioned above, the film has been
laboriously restored by the UCLA Film and Television Archive and it
is breathtaking. The film clips seen in “Los Angeles Plays Itself”
(perhaps taken from a badly-worn VCR copy) show how much work has
been put into this project. The black-and-white photography is sharp
both in resolution and contrast. The transfer by Milestone is very
strong as we would expect from them.
Audio:
The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital
2.0. Mackenzie did not film with synch sound for budgetary reasons,
and had his actors record their lines later. The dialogue has a
strange, hollow quality to it that makes it sound like it’s coming
from an off-screen space. Everyone sounds like they’re speaking in
this same space, no matter how they’re arranged in the frame. It
can be little distancing if you're not used to it but it works just
fine.
No subtitles are provided.
Extras:
There are many passionate distributors
who put a lot of effort into their DVD releases, but when Milestone
assembles a package it brings a level of passion and dedication to
the project that nobody else can beat. Their DVDs are lovingly
produced with tremendous respect for the material at end. That was
the case with last year’s magnificent “Killer of Sheep” release
and it’s just as true of “The Exiles.”
Disc One features the restored film and
allows the option of playing with a commentary track with author and
filmmaker Sherman Alexie and critic Sean Axmaker. I enjoyed this
commentary enough to watch the film twice in a row, once without
commentary and once with.
Disc One also includes Mackenzie’s
USC graduate film,“Bunker Hill 1956” (17 min.), which shows the
neighborhood from a different perspective than seen in “The
Exiles.” Even by 1956, the residents of Bunker Hill knew that the
city was planning to move them out to make way for “progress.”
Milestone has also included a three
minute clip from Thom Anderson’s “Los Angeles Plays Itself.”
Actually, it’s two separate clips that reference “The Exiles.”
It’s great to have any footage from Anderson’s brilliant movie
available, but what a cruel tease. “Los Angeles Plays Itself” has
not been released on DVD because of the numerous copyright problems
involved with the hundreds of film clips it uses but, please please
please, can somebody work a miracle and get this movie out to a home
audience? (Update: Cinema Guild stepped up to the plate in 2014 and
answered my plea with a DVD and Blu-ray release of Anderson's great
film.)
Disc One also offers an Audio Recording
(51 min.) of the film’s Los Angeles Opening Night at UCLA and
features several speakers involved with the restoration project.
That would be enough for many DVD
packages but we haven’t even gotten to Disc Two yet.
The second disc features three short
films by Kent Mackenzie.
“A Skill for Molina” (16 min.) is
an educational short about an unemployed family man who is learning
how to become a welder in a government sponsored training program.
“Story of a Rodeo Cowboy” (25 min.)
is a beautiful short documentary about three men who try to scrape up
a living on the rodeo circuit, hauling halfway across the country to
try to win enough prize money to pay their entry fees and travel
expenses to the next rodeo. A slow motion shot of one of the men on a
bucking bronco is quite lovely.
“Ivan and His Father” (13 min.)
records a group therapy session with teenagers and older counselors.
Ivan is a young man working out problems with his father, and other
members of the group help him play-act an imagined confrontation.
Mackenzie steps out from behind the camera to role-play the father.
It gets pretty heated and doesn’t end with an easy resolution.
Milestone’s box set is not only a
tribute to the filmmaker, but also to the Bunker Hill section of Los
Angeles which essentially no longer exists. Two short films provide
glimpses of the area.
“Robert Kirste’s Last Day of Angels
Flight” (2 min.) provides video footage of the final day of
operation of the Angels Flight, a funicular railcar that carried
riders up a steep slope. It was a major landmark in Bunker Hill and
features prominently at the beginning of “The Exiles.” It closed
in 1969.
“Bunker Hill: A Tale of Urban
Renewal” (23 min.) is a short film by Greg Kimble who details the
rise and fall of Bunker Hill. It’s not just a historical
documentary but an angry indictment of shortsighted urban renewal
plans in a city whose planners have never had much of a plan. Los
Angeles is not a city that cares much about its non-Hollywood
history.
One last film is a real treasure for
cinema history buffs. “White Fawn’s Devotion” (1910), directed
by James Youngdeer, is described in its opening title card as “A
Play Acted By A Tribe of Red Indians in America.” It has been
credited here as the first Native American film though film
historians know the perils of attributing the distinction of “first”
to any film. Nobody would confuse this with a masterpiece, but it’s
a film of historical significance that was added to the Library of
Congress’ National Film Registry in 2008.
Disc Two also includes two Audio
Features. First up is a second interview with Sherman Alexie and Sean
Axmaker (38 min.) which sounds like it precedes the commentary track
included on Disc One. Next is an episode of “The Leonard Lopate”
radio show (18 min.) on WNYC. Lopate interviews Sherman Alexie and
filmmaker Charles Burnett, who are both credited as presenting “The
Exiles,” along with Dennis Doros of Milestone Films. All of these
features are wonderful but you will wind up listening three separate
times to Alexie’s story of where and when he first watched “The
Exiles.”
Are you still with me? There’s even
more.
You can access an extraordinary number
of files from your DVD-Rom drive, including (but not limited to) six
different scripts for The Exiles, the funding proposal for the film,
promotional materials, and even Kent Mackenzie’s final resume.
But no liner notes. Geez, put a little
effort into it, Milestone!
Film Value:
I think it’s fair to say that
Milestone has pulled out all the stops for this all-encompassing
boxed set. Simply making “The Exiles” available to a home
audience would have been contribution enough, but this exhaustive
compilation is a work of scholarship and a labor of love. What more
could anyone ask for? Not only has Milestone never disappointed, they
exceed themselves with each new release. I can’t imagine how they
could top this one, but I’m sure they’ll find a way.
“The Exiles” is indisputably one of
the best DVD releases of 2009.
*Trivia: The comic book with the gaudy
title “The Terrible Toy!” is Issue 63 of “Astonishing”on
stands in August 1957.
