My Top Films Of The 2010s - Part Seven

We've entered the portion of my list where I think each film could have made my top slot. It doesn't matter, but you already knew that. Today, I bring you two films by quite possible the two greatest European directors of the past half-century, which I figure is a decent place to start.

Here's a link to Part Six, in case you're curious.

8. GOODBYE TO LANGUAGE 3D (Godard, 2014)

No filmmaker has declared cinema to be dead more often and with more schadenfreude than Jean-Luc Godard. With the help of a half-dozen digital cameras shooting at multiple frame rates, Godard proved with “Goodbye To language 3D” that his multiple eulogies for the medium were, as we always suspected, complete bullshit.

I was certainly jolted out of my film festival ennui after I trudged through a rainy, chilly evening to a dreary theater and slipped on my 3D glasses to watch the adventures of Roxy the dog and some humans I only vaguely remember. Tthere's an unhappy couple or maybe two of them – someone gets killed, I think. The story hardly matters. Godard distorts the 2D image almost beyond recognition and then severs the 3D field to present stereoscopic thrills to delight even the most jaded viewer. Close your left eye and you see one movie, close your right eye and you see another one. And now they're both united again. My God, movies really can still be magic!

Godard understands that the optimal use of 3D is not a futile effort to draw viewers deeper into the illusory world of a seamless narrative, but to make them conscious every second of the act of seeing (comparisons to Stan Brakhage are obvious, but overblown). Look what images cinema can bring to you. Really look, and savor the sensual experience for its own sake, not because it can whisk you like a tourist through the museum of a narrative. And let every discontinuity, every abrupt rupture (augmented by the typically jarring JLG soundtrack) jolt you out of your complacency and make you feel alert and alive the whole time. Forgive my histrionics, but this movie really did inspire an excitement about the medium I hadn't felt since the first time I watched “Last Year At Marienbad” many years ago and thought, “Woah, I didn't realize movies could do that.”

Godard's relentless experimentation with image and the unstable (and untrustworthy) relationship between image and sound has always excited me, but I can't deny that he can be tiresomely pedantic at times and that his movies require a lot of work to decipher.“Goodbye To Language 3D”, however, proves that a JLG movie can simply be a total blast to watch.

Of course, you probably won't ever get to watch it. A 2D version exists and is readily available, but I can't recommend it. The 3D isn't a luxury viewing option in this case, but the core of the project. So unless you get to see this at a 3D repertory screening (is there such a thing?) or unless you're one of the eight people in the world with a 3D HDTV, you won't get to see “Goodbye To Language 3D.” Which only makes it that much more special in the era of ubiquitous content.

7. NO HOME MOVIE (Akerman, 2015)

When I selected “No Home Movie” as my top film of 2015, I kept my comments brief: “Chantal Akerman is gone and this deeply personal documentary will be her last movie. 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.” Four years later, I'm still tempted to leave it at that, but I suppose I'm ready to say just a bit more.

Chantal Akerman began publicly documenting her relationship with her mother at least as far back as her brilliant “News From Home” (1976) which makes “No Home Movie” feel like a partial career summation for more than just the fact that it was her final movie. In an early scene, Chantal Akerman speaks with her mother Natalia in her mother's cramped Brussels apartment. Natalia's back faces the camera and her body often eclipses Chantal, seated on the other side of the table. The framing is deceptively simple and naturalistic, but evokes the challenges in getting her mother, an Auschwitz survivor, to open up about her past, and the struggle for control of the narrative. For the moment, they limit the discussion to food: potatoes are better with the skin on because that's where the vitamins are stored. You have to start with potatoes before you get to the family history and the flight from Poland and the mistaken belief that Belgium provided a safe refuge.

Like many Akerman films, the documentary features numerous frames within frames – shots through windows and doorways and also on computer screens. Chantal also speaks with her mother by Skype and when her mother asks why, the director replies: “Because I want to show you there is no distance in the world.” Mom is both touched and proud: “You always have such ideas don't you, sweetheart?... When I see you like that, I want to squeeze you in my arms!” Even four years later, I can barely write that without tearing up. In fact, I can't.

I'm relying on notes I took on my first viewing since I don't have a copy of the film right now, so forgive me if I'm paraphrasing without realizing it. I have another note that reads as follows: Chantal to mom: “I'm in a very, very good mood. Let's enjoy it. It's not that common.” And now I find that I'm still not ready to say much more. Except that “No Home Movie” features Chantal Akerman at her peak. Of course peak Akerman was also the only Akerman.

Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles

JEANNE DIELMAN, 23 QUAI DU COMMERCE, 1080 BRUXELLES (Akerman, 1975)

Criterion Collection, DVD, Release Date August 25, 2009
Blu-ray Released on May 9, 2017

Review by Christopher S. Long

(This review of Chantal Akerman's masterpiece was written for the 2009 DVD release by the Criterion Collection. Sections below have been updated to discuss the 2017 Blu-ray re-release of the film.)

I have to dispel the rumor that Chantal Akerman's brilliant "Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles" (1975) consists of three hours of a woman doing housework. That's nonsense. It's three hours and twenty minutes. And she also goes shopping.

Each room in Jeanne's cramped Belgian apartment is filmed from one or two fixed camera set-ups, always the same ones (at least for the first half of the movie; it opens up a bit later on). The camera, placed about waist high, never moves and the action in each shot is filmed in real time with no analytical editing. When Jeanne prepares dinner, we watch the entire process from when she spreads flour on the table, whips the eggs, breads the cutlets and so on.

In some ways, “Jeanne Dielman” feels like the first spycam movie ever made. Usually Jeanne is in the shot but sometimes she wanders in and out as she completes her chores. The camera doesn't budge. It's almost as if the cameras in each room are rolling 24/7 and simply waiting for Jeanne to enter their field of vision, and for viewers to switch channels to watch the next room. When Jeanne's not there, we stare at the sink or the tureen on the dining room table or the bedroom closet. The film provides an uncomfortably intimate exploration of this tiny, titular space that almost completely defines Jeanne Dielman's claustrophobic world.

"Jeanne Dielman" traces three days in the life of its title character, a widow and homemaker who receives male “clients" once a day to pay the bills. Each day is rigidly segmented, a series of domestic tasks and rituals performed at the same time every day, a comfortable tedium which protects Jeanne from the horror of having free time to contemplate her life. At least until something goes wrong on the second day and disrupts her delicate, hard-earned stasis. Then she leaves the lid off the tureen, fumbles with the silverware, overcooks the potatoes, and wakes up a little earlier than usual. Chaos theory style, these minor variations eventually lead to major consequences, and the potential energy built up by three-plus hours of this rigorously structured study of a body (often not) in motion erupts into an unexpectedly kinetic final sequence.

Chantal Akerman was only 25 when she made "Jeanne Dielman." It's hard to believe someone so young could have such a clear and unique vision and the ability to realize it so well, but it's best not to fall into the trap of lauding her as a solitary genius. She had many collaborators on this film, crewed mostly by women, chief among them cinematographer Babette Mangolte and leading actress Delphine Seyrig.

Mangolte teamed up with Akerman to produce this "spycam" film, adapting a shooting style to fit the restricted space of the real apartment the film was shot in (some scenes were re-staged in a studio, but this footage wasn't used). Unable to knock out walls or remove ceilings, Mangolte and Akerman devised a way to cover each room with just a few set-ups and still create an asphyxiating immediacy.

Delphine Seyrig was a huge star by the time she agreed to work with this young and relatively unknown director. There was little chance for money or glory in the role, but she believed in the project. Jeanne Dielman in her dowdy sweaters is almost the polar opposite of the glamorous fashion icon Seyrig played in "Last Year at Marienbad" (1961), but in both films Seyrig is asked to "behave" more than she is to act. In "Marienbad" she was mostly a shape situated in her environment. Jeanne Dielman is a relatively expressionless woman, a robo-mom who performs her chores mechanically and, at least on the first go round, with total efficiency. It's hard to imagine that Seyrig had much fun with the role (and we see evidence of this on one of the DVD features) but she inhabits the body of Jeanne Dielman with a stolid blankness that would be anathema to many actresses. By gradual accumulation and uncomfortably close observation, Jeanne becomes one of the most tangible presences the cinema has ever witnessed. For my money, she's the greatest film character of all-time.

"Jeanne Dielman" is a transfixing experience that inspires a kind of solemn awe on an initial viewing, but upon reflection it also yields its fair share of humor. There's that painfully awkward scene where Jeanne wanders around the apartment with her pot of overcooked potatoes and winds up in the bathroom for some reason. And her wimpy, dependent son (Jan Decorte) who barely speaks and never once says thank you, the little bastard, when mom clears off each course. And the most enduring image of all, both creepy and funny, is that of the frugal Jeanne obsessively clicking the lights on and off as she exits one room and enters another. Has anyone counted the number of times we see her flick a light switch? Dozens for sure, possibly in the hundreds.

Did I mention the baby scene? No? Well let's just say it's not funny at all. In fact it's one of the saddest, most gut-wrenching scenes ever put on film. Just another of many remarkable moments from a remarkable film.

Spycams indulge voyeuristic impulses, of course. "Jeanne Dielman" is certainly not intended to appeal to prurient interests. Even a scene in which Jeanne bathes (waist-level camera unmoving, of course) isn't the least bit erotic. But the film does provide viewers the opportunity to see images (or "images between the images" in Akerman's terms) that they would not otherwise get a chance to see. More specifically, the film provides images of the domestic space previously deemed unfit for cinematic treatment, at least in such detail and clarity. Akerman relocates the traditional epic to the kitchen, the bedroom, and the dining room, turning the camera on a world known to hundreds of millions of women throughout the world but seldom the subject of cinema. I'd say that's the greatest accomplishment of "Jeanne Dielman," but there's a long list of accomplishments to choose from.

"Jeanne Dielman" is on the short list of films that changed the way I understood film. Every bit as much as Kubrick's “2001,” this domestic odyssey is the ultimate trip.

Video:

The film is presented in a 1.66:1 widescreen (anamorphic) ratio. The progressive transfer was digitally restored under Akerman's supervision. The grainy, textured image looks great. Sharp contrast, everything you expect from Criterion. Except that it's not high-def. But maybe someday soon...

Update for 2017 Blu-ray release: ...and maybe eight years isn't soon, but now it's here in glorious Blu-ray. Sure, sure, the jokes are easy. Man, you can really see Jeanne work that veal cutlet now! Watch those potatoes boil! But one of the greatest films ever made deserves the best presentation possible, and this high-def upgrade from Criterion renders 23, quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles in vivid detail. From the Criterion booklet, this 1080p transfer is sourced from a “new 2K digital restoration” and was “supervised by director Chantal Akerman and cinematographer Babette Mangolte.” In addition to the improved detail evident throughout, the colors look a bit warmer overall than the prior SD transfer. The frame also shows more a bit more information around the edges – more of the room is visible on each side of the frame. You see just a smidge more of the cabinets overhead, etc. All in all, it looks pretty great.

Audio:

The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital Mono. Optional English subtitles support the French audio.

Update for 2017 Blu-ray release: I sure wasn't too wordy when I wrote this before. That's because the sound design on "Jeanne Dielman" is pretty spare and straightforward. This linear PCM mono track is still a welcome improvement even if said improvement isn't particularly noticeable.

Extras:

This two-disc package is absolutely loaded.

Update for 2017 Blu-ray release: Criterion has imported all of the extras, including the insert booklet, from the 2009 release. The only difference is that they are now rendered in high-def, and are all included on a single Blu-ray rather than on the two discs from before.

"Autour de ‘Jeanne Dielman'" (69 min.) is the best on-set feature I have ever seen. Filmed by actor Sami Frey, this feature shows Chantal Akerman and Delphine Seyrig at work on set, and demonstrates the degree to which collaboration can also be a battle of wills. Seyrig struggles to understand what Akerman wants while Akerman strives to communicate as little as possible. Just enough to give the actress what she needs but not so much that she runs the risk of introducing too much psychology into the project. The back-and-forth conversations between them are fascinating. Seyrig is frustrated but always cordial. Akerman obviously has a crystal clear vision in her mind of what she wants, but some difficulty (and reluctance) in verbalizing it. It's an amazing feature, and deserves to be a staple on film school curricula.

"Saute ma ville" (1968) is Akerman's first short film. The 18-year-old Akerman stars as (does this sound familiar?) a woman in a kitchen who tends to a few chores and quickly falls apart. This is much more playful than "Jeanne Dielman" and has a lovely soundtrack which consists of (I presume) Akerman humming. It's wonderful to have an opportunity to see the first film by such a great director.

"Chantal Akerman on Filmmaking" is excerpted from a 1997 episode of "Cinéma, de notre temps" in which Akerman directs an episode about herself. It is basically a monologue in which she shares some fairly personal reflections on her craft.

The collection includes several interviews: Chantal Akerman (20 min, recorded in April 2009 for Criterion), cinematographer Babette Mangolte (23 min, April 2009), and a 2007 interview in which Akerman interrogates her mother Natalia (28 min.)

A brief interview with Akerman and Seyrig is excerpted from the February 15, 1976 episode of "Les rendez-vous du dimanche" (7 min.)

The insert booklet features an essay by Ivone Margulies, author of "Nothing Happens: Chantal Akerman's Hyperrealist Everyday."

Final Thoughts:

Chantal Akerman is a much celebrated figure in cinephilic and academic circles, but largely unknown even to many fans of Francophone cinema. Criterion's release of "Jeanne Dielman" will, I hope, begin to remedy the situation. "Jeanne Dielman" is indisputably one of the greatest and most important films of the past half century. Though it is probably Akerman's greatest achievement, it's hardly the only highlight on her resume. "Je, tu, il, elle" (1974) is an intensely personal film that can be just as harrowing as "Jeanne Dielman." "News From Home" (1977) and "From The East" (1993) are exceptional as well. And “La chambre” (1972). And “Hotel Monterey” (1972). Well, you get the picture.

Update for 2017 Blu-ray release: And now Chantal Akerman is gone, and her loss still stings nearly two years later. I wrote "probably" before just to emphasize that Akerman made many great films, but I am confident that "Jeanne Dielman" is her masterpiece, as well as one of the masterpieces of world cinema. In fact, I wouldn't argue too strongly with anyone who claimed it was the greatest film ever made. And that makes this Blu-ray update, even without any new features, one of the most significant and welcome home theater releases of 2017.

Chantal Akerman in the Seventies: Eclipse Series 19

La chambre

CHANTAL AKERMAN IN THE SEVENTIES (Akerman x5, 1972-1978)

Criterion Collection (Eclipse Series), DVD, Release Date January 19, 2010

Review by Christopher S. Long

(An Akerman A Day continues with... five Akermans in one day. How can you beat that kind of value?)

From the lonely confines of a sparsely furnished room to the wide open spaces of the bustling streets of New York, Chantal Akerman’s films of the '70s comprise a unified body of work of remarkable variety. Her films, reasonably labeled as structuralist and characterized by long takes, may rhyme with one another but they seldom repeat.

Both the short film “La Chambre” (1972, 11 min.) and the first half hour of the feature “Je, tu, il, elle” (1975) feature a woman (played by Akerman) alone in a room but they provide strikingly different treatments of cramped domestic spaces. In the silent “La Chambre” a camera (operated by frequent Akerman collaborator Babette Mangolte) pans slowly around a cluttered room. It reveals a red dining chair, a carefully arranged still life with fruit on a table, a chest of drawers and then Akerman lying in bed gazing at the camera and bathed in a soft painterly light streaming from the window. The camera keeps panning, Akerman receiving the same attention as the décor, and completes three full circles. Each time we see Akerman, she is behaving somewhat differently. Just when the rhythm seems to be set, it is broken as the camera suddenly stops and pivots back left then right again, placing our star more at the center of the arc, setting a new rhythm which is broken yet again by one final move.

Sugar, Sugar

In “Je, tu, il, elle,” Julie (Akerman) lives in self-imposed isolation in a Spartan ground-level apartment. In one shot, she lies on the bed facing the camera in a pose that directly references “La Chambre,” but Akerman has a completely different scheme in mind here. The room starts out cluttered like “La Chambre,” but Julie clears out everything (“An empty room feels larger”) except for a mattress which she sets on the floor. Though there are several camera movements, the enduring image from this sequence is a flat, static composition of Akerman, sometimes naked, sometimes partially clothed, lying or sitting on the mattress. She writes letters (to whom?) which she reads in voice-over while spoon-feeding herself pure white sugar from a brown paper bag. The lighting scheme here is much harsher, heightening the sense of claustrophobia. “La Chambre” was a panorama; the room in “Je, tu, il, elle” is part sanctuary, part prison. 

Hotel

In “Hotel Monterey” (1972), the camera explores the spaces of a run-down Upper West Side hotel, tracking down hallways or standing inside a moving elevator, following it up and down, and surprising a few would be riders in the process. There aren’t many people in the hotel, however, which is part of its sad story, but even the non-descript hallways and rows of identical doors acquire a dignified beauty as the camera roams ever deeper and higher. Just when we think we’re sealed in this hermetic space, Akerman has a surprise in store for the end. Suddenly, the camera reaches the roof, emerges into daylight and then breaks out into the city itself to provide an outside perspective on the hotel and situate it in the city.

This unexpected movement feels like a transition to the gorgeous feature-length“News from Home” (1976) which takes us to the streets of New York. Images of the city are accompanied on the soundtrack by Akerman reading letters written by her mother. Another rhyme now. In “La Chambre” the story took place in between camera movements, as it panned back to see Akerman in different poses. In “News from Home” the story occurs in between letters which mostly mention minor events or offer pleas for Akerman to write home more often. The letters, not always read in chronological order, indicate changes and invite us to fill in the gaps.

Stylistically, “News from Home” is a tour-de-force. It begins with a series of static shots of alleyways and parked cars before introducing a few short, sharp pans then eventually longer more fluid 360-degree movements. Akerman films above ground and below ground (some of the subway scenes are magnificent), during the day and in the blurry orange-red night. After the camera has been fixed for an hour, it is abruptly set loose. Most of the final half hour of the movie consists of several long tracking shots taken from different vehicles: a street level shot from a car, a higher perspective from an elevated train and a final movement filmed from a boat or ferry. And here’s another rhyming moment, one that resonates with the end of “Hotel Monterey.” After exploring the city so rigorously, the camera breaks free from its urban confines to turn back and record a broader view from the river. As the camera gradually sails away, we see more and more of the retreating city skyline. If you don’t feel a twinge when the World Trade Center finally comes into view, there’s something wrong with you.

These abrupt ruptures are a common feature for Akerman. Her magnum opus “Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai de Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles” (1975) meticulously traces the daily chores of its title character but ends with a sudden plot development that completely ruptures what seemed to be a rigid structure. Likewise, these explosions into open space in “Hotel Monterey” and “News from Home” as well the final camera movement in “La Chambre” refuse the easy comfort of strict rules.

And, rhyme time again, Akerman pulls off a similar, but not identical, trick in “Je, tu, il, elle.” After spending a half hour watching Julie alone in her room we expect the entire film to unspool there but suddenly we see a shot of the apartment door and, next thing you know, Julie’s out and about. The film is built around two more discrete segments. The first is a sexual encounter with a trucker who spends nearly ten minutes talking about his penis, and the second a sexual encounter with her ex-girlfriend. The latter is filmed in several long, frank shots of lovemaking that capture the heat and intimacy of the moment yet are shot with such a flat affect (typical of Akerman) that they don’t feel voyeuristic. 

Anna

Shot in wide-screen and featuring a more conventional narrative as well as a cast of professional actors, “Les rendez-vous d’Anna” (1978) appears to be the odd duckling in this grouping but it still shares much in common with the other films in the set. Anna (Aurore Clement) is a director who travels from city to city in Europe to help promote her newest film. It’s a damned strange press junket though. We never see the film or hear anything about it, and Anna appears to be the only one making the rounds. The film is a travelogue almost devoid of any sight-seeing features. With the exception of a trip to a not-quite suburb, Anna’s trip consists almost entirely of a series of hotel rooms or public spaces (trains, train stations, etc.). She not only travels alone but seems to wind up in the same place each time. Kind of like “Up in the Air.” Except good. A series of encounters (with a lover, with her mother, with an old family friend) do little to break up the monotony.

Some might think of Akerman’s formalist cinema as stringent, but I’m struck by her sly sense of humor which, curiously enough, frequently centers on food. Poor Jeanne Dielman unable to figure out where to put that pot of cooked potatoes. Akerman in goddess pose in “La Chambre” munching on an apple. Julie shoveling sugar down her throat. A deadpan scene where Julie and the trucker share a meal at a diner and listen to a gaudy American TV show (“Cannon,” I think) that consists mostly of gunshots, sirens and revving motors.

I find Chantal Akerman’s films warm, playful, vital, and thoroughly compelling. The movies in this set offer the very best of her work (aside from the previously released “Jeanne Dielman”) and it’s hard to believe she hadn’t even turned 28 by the time she wrapped shooting on the last film in the set. Akerman is an electric talent like no other.

Video:

“Les rendez-vous D’Anna” is presented in its original 1.66:1 aspect ratio. All other films are presented in their original 1.33:1 full-screen ratios. “Je, tu, il, elle” is in black-and-white, everything else in color. Though the Eclipse series does not provide restored transfers, the films here look quite good. I was very pleasantly surprised by the quality of “Je, tu, il, elle” which I have previously only seen on a miserable VHS copy. The harsh lighting scheme and the sharp shadows on the walls stand out vividly here. Some of the darkest shots from inside the truck are lacking, but that’s my only complaint.Overall, I’m thrilled with the transfers here.

Audio:

“La Chambre” and “Hotel Monterey” are silent. The other films are presented in Dolby Digital Mono, and there’s not much to say abut the audio design. I wonder if we’re missing some of the richness of the original ambient soundtrack in “News from Home” but I have no way to make that judgment. Optional English subtitles are provided for the sound films.

Extras:

As with all Eclipse release, no extras are offered with this set. However, as usual, the brief liner notes are very informative.

There are three discs in the set.

Disc One, titled “The New York Films” contains “La Chambre,” “Hotel Monterey,” and “News from Home.” Disc Two has “Je, tu, il, elle” and Disc Three has “Les rendez-vous d’Anna.”

Final Thoughts:

“Jeanne Dielman” is Akerman’s indisputable masterpiece and Criterion’s release of the film was probably the DVD highlight of 2009. “Chantal Akerman in the Seventies” is a marvelous companion offering that shows how deep and rich Akerman's body of work is.

I’m not shy about using the m-word and I’m going to do so again. “Je, tu, il, elle” is a masterpiece that would be the crowning achievement for many directors, and I won’t argue with anyone who applies the same term to “News from Home” or “La Chambre.” I don’t think “Hotel Monterey” is quite in a class with those films but it’s still mesmerizing. “Les rendez-vous d’Anna” is a mild disappointment after her earlier work in the decade, but that’s one hell of a standard to hold someone to. Most filmmakers never dream of making something the caliber of “Anna” and if that’s your “weakest” film of the decade then I’m going to guess that your name is Chantal Akerman.

This is a phenomenal set, perhaps the best the Eclipse series has offered.

From the Other Side/South

FROM THE OTHER SIDE and SOUTH (Akerman, 2002 and 1999)

Icarus Films, DVD, Release Date April 17, 2012

Review by Christopher S. Long

(Chantal Akerman celebrates a birthday on June 6. I'm celebrating her work with an Akerman A Day the rest of this week.)

In her documentary “From the Other Side” (2002), Chantal Akerman tweaks the old saw “Show, don't tell” to “Show OR tell.”

She keeps the two distinct. In show mode, Akerman's camera glides gracefully along the dusty streets of a Mexican town, or sits implacably still as children play baseball in an open field, with only ambient sounds as accompaniment. In tell mode, the Belgian auteur turns her attention exclusively to her subjects who are framed in modest, static shots as they relate their unadorned stories about the perils of crossing the border into America. No further illustration (save for wisps of a classical score in an opening interview) is either allowed or necessary; testimony is a cinematic event unto itself.

The film begins on the Mexican side of the border as a young man talks about his older brother who was abandoned by coyotes (paid “guides” who smuggle immigrants across the border) to fend for himself in the Arizona desert. Later, a woman speaks about her son and grandson who died during a crossing. 

In this latter shot, Akerman and her crew are visible in the reflection of a television screen, and an off-screen voice asks a few questions in Spanish, but for the most part, the director cedes the stage to her subjects. Combined with the tracking shots through town (one virtuoso shot trails a long line of traffic at a border checkpoint, then peels off at the last second to remain in Mexico), Akerman assumes the persona of a visitor who is probing the surface with the keen eye of a trained observer, but also with the humility of a stranger who cannot claim any sense of authority over complex matters or the subjects who know their stories best.

The film provides eloquent witness to the perils of turn-of-the-century U.S. Immigration policy which made it more difficult for immigrants to get into cities like San Diego, with the side-effect of forcing them into far more dangerous crossings in the Southwestern desert. But Akerman isn't presumptuous enough to offer solutions to intransigent issues that have vexed locals for decades. She is there to record, with a sense of melancholy and compassion, the attitudes of people on both sides of the border. Later in the film, she hops over to Douglas, AZ, speaking first to the Mexican consul, then later to a sheriff who at least provides the impression of a balanced attitude towards “the problem” though whether he's playing nice for the camera is harder to say.

Akerman could take the opportunity to underscore the parochialism of an Arizona couple who expresses some outsized paranoia about the immigrant population, but the choice to let them speak for themselves is eloquent enough in its own right. I've read some complaints about Akerman not providing enough “facts” for an in-depth analysis, but I'm not sure how the first-hand testimony of bereaved relatives and Arizona residents doesn't qualify as “fact.” The director isn't out to shoot a “60 Minutes” segment. What she has provided instead is a sober, stately and respectful portrait, and if she resists overt commentary, the somber tone suggests that she most certainly has an opinion on the subject – just no cheap “click on my website” style solutions to offer.

Akerman is even more self-effacing in the documentary “South” (1999), provided as a bonus on the second disc of this set from Icarus Films. She planned a “meditation” on the South, but the film changed its focus when James Byrd Jr., an African-American man, was chained to the back of a pick-up truck and dragged to his death by three men claimed to be white supremacists. The murder shook the small town of Jasper, TX and, far too briefly, the rest of the nation.

Akerman uses a similar strategy as in “From the Other Side,” employing tracking shots through town (including one that may be a retracing of the pick-up truck's route) and no-frills interviews with locals, as well as a lengthy sequence filmed at Byrd's funeral service. The facts are shocking enough, but I let out a gasp when one African-American woman noted quite matter-of-factly that there “isn't as much lynching” as in the old days. Not as much, mind you, but still some. 

Video:

Both films are presented in 1.78:1 anamorphic transfers. “South” is the weaker of the two transfers, suffering from mediocre image detail throughout, something visible even in the first shot as the lettering on a church sign isn't in sharp resolution. However, the transfer is acceptable enough that it doesn't interfere with the viewing experience. “From the Other Side” fares better. Image detail isn't exactly razor sharp and the colors are a bit wan at times, but overall the picture is solid enough to do justice to the director's painterly compositions.

Audio:

The Dolby Digital Stereo tracks aren't particularly dynamic, but the ambient sound on the tracking shots in “From the Other Side” is deep enough to convey the desired effect. I had a problem with the volume level on “South.” No subtitles are provided and I needed to crank the volume to double the normal level to make out all of the dialogue. However, that's a minor enough issue. English subtitles are provided (and are non-optional) for the Spanish dialogue (but not the English) in “From the Other Side.”

Extras:

The films are housed on separate discs in this two-disc collection. The disc with “From the Other Side” includes a five-minute clip from Akerman's magnificent film “From The East” (1993), also released by Icarus a few years ago. Otherwise, there are no extras.

Final Thoughts:

While we might all hope for more souped-up releases with restored transfers and piles of extras, it's fantastic that Icarus has now released three of Chantal Akerman's recent and lesser-seen documentaries. I wouldn't rank either of these with her phenomenal “From the East,” but that's a tough standard. “From the Other Side” and “South” are excellent additions to anyone's library.

From The East

FROM THE EAST, AKA D'EST (Akerman, 1993)

Icarus Films, DVD, Release Date October 6, 2009

Review by Christopher S. Long

(Chantal Akerman, one of the greatest filmmakers of the past half century, turns 65 on June 6. I will be celebrating her work by re-posting an "Akerman A Day" the rest of this week.)

An empty train platform at night – a car whizzes by in the background.

A window opens out onto a country road – more cars glide past, barely glimpsed.

A man sits on a bench staring at the camera and waiting for… something.

An older woman walks along the street, the camera tracking her journey.

Tourists luxuriate on an isolated beach as an off-screen singer carries a tune.

It’s tempting to review Chantal Akerman’s “From the East” (“D’est,” 1993) by providing a catalog of its sounds and images because that’s precisely what the film is, an intimate record of what Akerman saw and heard on her trip through post-Wall Eastern Europe in the early '90s.

“From the East” is not a traditional documentary, not that there is any such thing. Akerman provides no voice-over, no on-screen titles to indicate place or time, no narrative through-line. Instead she (re)constructs her travelogue as a full sensory immersion into her journey through East Germany, Poland (where Akerman's parents were born), Moscow and points in-between. Ambient soundscapes are every bit as important as what the camera shows and may, at times, provide only the impression of having been recorded in synch with the image.

In an essay included with this disc, Akerman writes, “I’d like to shoot everything. Everything that moves me.” And she is moved by people, landscapes, public spaces, objects, music, movement, summer, winter, day, night and even the most banal chores, the latter of which is no surprise to anyone who has seen her magisterial “Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles” (1975). 

The film is an exercise in variations, a balancing act between opposite or complementary elements: interior/exterior, domestic/public, stasis/motion, noise/silence, city/rural, people/objects, crowds/individuals. In many scenes, she shoots people who are unaware of the camera, filming spontaneously as they go about their business. In other shots, individuals are carefully arranged like models as they stare at the camera. I wouldn't be surprised if some of the crowd shots were partially staged as well. 

The two major motifs of the film are travel and performance. Trains, buses and cars are major players in the film, cues that remind us of Akerman’s journey. They also provide evidence of fellow travelers, people waiting (there is so much waiting in this movie) in line at the station, their route briefly intersecting hers. As for performance, most of the audible dialogue (none of which is subtitled, and shouldn’t be) comes from singers, some heard off-screen, some on. In the film’s penultimate scene, a woman (Natalia Chakhovskaia) plays cello for an enthralled audience (never seen, only heard later) and accepts congratulatory flowers. Perhaps she’s a stand-in for Akerman the performer or, more likely, another person who moves the director.

With its long, deliberately-paced shots (both stationary and tracking), “From the East” begs to be looked at and listened to (don't ignore this, Akerman has seldom been one to let sound play second fiddle to image) with great care. In this regard the film serves a “documentary” function, providing audio-visual evidence of specific times and places even if they aren’t indicated in the film. I’m sure they elicit different responses (nostalgia perhaps) from people familiar with them than they do for viewers whose life experience is exclusively “From the West.”

“From the East” is a truly beautiful film, mysterious, absorbing and mesmerizing. Not to be missed.

Video:

The film is presented in a 1.33:1 full-screen ratio. The interlaced transfer is not restored and it shows some of the damage from the source print, some scratches and debris but not enough to be a distraction. More problematic is a rather hazy image quality throughout, a shortcoming that is visible in the screencaps interspersed throughout this review. It would be nice to see a pristine restoration to showcase the gorgeous cinematography, but we'll take this serviceable copy of a difficult-to-find and essential film.

Audio:

The DVD is presented in Dolby Digital Stereo. No subtitles are provided even for the limited dialogue (mostly sung) that is heard in the film. They’re not supposed to be subtitled.

Extras:

There are no extras on the DVD but the liner notes include a very helpful essay/statement of purpose by Chantal Akerman.

Final Thoughts:

“From The East” is a film that defies easy categorization. It’s a documentary in the same way the Werner Herzog’s desert travelogue “Fata Morgana”(1970) is a documentary which is to say that it depends on your definition of the term. Forget categories. Let’s just say it has an ineffable quality that makes it as much an experience as a movie. “Jeanne Dielman” is indisputably Akerman’s masterpiece, but “From the East” is one of her finest achievements. Thanks to Icarus for bringing this to a home audience.