Archive for ‘Cinema’

Jarman on Education and Selfhood

Tuesday, February 4th, 2014

Culture begins at school and is completed at university, by which time all aspiration to selfhood is stifled, and the mind is colonized by dead wood.

(D. Jarman – Dancing Ledge, 1984)

Untitled (Bertolucci)

Tuesday, January 28th, 2014


Italian Neo-Realism

Thursday, February 2nd, 2012

GreenCine | Italian Neo-Realism.

Italian Neo-Realism
by Megan Ratner

Roma: città aperta (Open City, 1946)


Before the indies and even before the French New Wave, Italian neo-realism staked out new cinematic territory. One of those blanket terms that mean all things to all people, neo-realism has few absolutes, though there are elements that set the Italian version distinctly apart. Screenwriter and poet Cesare Zavattini wrote an actual manifesto to guide these films, but their creation was just as much a result of timing, chance and fluke. Unquestionably, their greatest single influence was the anti-Fascism that marked World War II’s immediate postwar period. Key elements are an emphasis on real lives (close to but not quite documentary style), an entirely or largely non-professional cast, and a focus on collectivity rather than the individual. Solidarity is important, along with an implicit criticism of the status quo. Plot and story come about organically from these episodes and often turn on quite tiny moments. Cinematically, neo-realism pushed filmmakers out of the studio and on to the streets, the camera freed-up and more vernacular, the emphasis away from fantasy and towards reality. Despite the rather short run – 1943 to 1952 – the heavyweight films of the period and the principles that guided them put Italian cinema on the map at the time and continue to shape contemporary global filmmaking.


A little history goes a long way toward understanding Italian neo-realism. By the outbreak of World War II, the country had been under Benito Mussolini’s hefty thumb since 1924. In the regime’s 1930s heydays, swank productions set in big hotels, tony nightclubs and ocean liners made up the “white telephone” movies, the shorthand term for their decadent Deco interiors. The protagonists always found a resolution to their insipid dilemmas, the prevailing Italian style as unchallenging as blowing bubbles. There were also plenty of American imports, equally unreflective of Italian realities. Describing this time, Federico Fellini said, “For my generation, born in the 20s, movies were essentially American. American movies were more effective, more seductive. They really showed a paradise on earth, a paradise in a country they called America.”

Whether they were being shown the glories of their Roman past, their fascist future or of l’America, a country unreal outside the movie-house, what Italians rarely saw were images that reflected their lives. As early as 1935, anti-Fascist journalist Leo Longanesi urged directors to “go into the streets, into the barracks, into the train stations; only in this way can an Italian cinema be born.”

Aside from the political realities, it’s worth remembering that Italy was still in the first stages of a huge transition from agriculture to manufacturing. People struggled; the economic miracle was still more than a decade away. Yet few films showed this, the exceptions being Treno popolare (1933) by Rafaello Matarazzo and, paradoxically, in documentaries produced by LUCE institute, under complete control of the regime.

For many Italians, neo-realist films put images to the ideas of the Resistance. In the film journals Cinema and Bianco e Nero, writers called for a cinema that resembled the verismo (realism) of literature. This had begun as a 19th century literary movement which was expanded by Alberto Moravia, Italo Calvino, Cesare Pavese and Pier Paolo Pasolini, most of whom wrote for – or about – the movies as well. Although philosophical ideas informed Italian neo-realism, it is very much a cinematic creation. As Calvino pointed out, “neo-realists knew too well that what counted was the music and not the libretto.” The aim was not to record the social problems but to express them in an entirely new way.

Jean Renoir‘s Toni (1935) and Alessandro Blassetti‘s 1860 (1934) influenced neo-realism, but the movement was to a great extent a matter of 1940s practicalities: with Cinécittà (Rome’s studio complex) relegated to refugees, films had to be shot outside. Surrounded by the shambolic ruins of World War II, human and structural, filmmakers had ready-made drama even in their backdrop, the atmosphere anxiety-charged and utterly uncertain. After twenty-one years under Mussolini, all bets were off as to what direction Italy would take. In the war’s aftermath, members of the Resistance (including several of the neo-realist directors) had to come to terms those who collaborated. Though unstated, this almost civil war-like tension fuels neo-realist cinema.

So what is neo-realism? André Bazin called it a cinema of “fact” and “reconstituted reportage,” its antecedents in the anti-Fascist movement with which these directors identified. Although they owed a debt to Renoir (with whom both Luchino Visconti and Michelangelo Antonioni had worked), the neo-realists “respected” the entirety of the reality they filmed. This meant occasionally showing scenes in real-time and always resisting the temptation to manipulate by editing. Scenes are shot on location, with no professional extras and often a largely unprofessional cast. Set in rural areas or working-class neighborhoods, the stories focus on everyday people, often children, with an emphasis on the unexceptional routines of ordinary life.

Cesare Zavattini, who functions as a kind of godfather of the movement, stated: “This powerful desire of the [neo-realist] cinema to see and to analyze, this hunger for reality, for truth, is a kind of concrete homage to other people, that is, to all who exist.” The aim, method and philosophy was fundamentally humanist: to show Italian life without embellishment and without artifice. Breezy fare this is not, but it did significantly alter European filmmaking and eventually cinema around the world. Neo-realism reflected a new freedom in Italy and the willingness to pose provocative questions about what movies could do. As director Giuseppe Bertolucci (Bernardo‘s brother) noted: “The cinema was born with neo-realism.”

Unexpected American Influences

It’s no accident that Michael Tolkin chose neo-realism’s classic Ladri di biciclette (Bicycle Thieves, 1948) to rock his studio exec’s world in The Player. Though it’s in some ways anti-Hollywood, neo-realism drew a great deal from American noir writing and films. Luchino Visconti based Ossessione (Obsession, 1942) on James M. Cain‘s The Postman Always Rings Twice. Visconti used long takes and complex shots to convey the dismal and ridiculous world of the three protagonists, the lovers (played by Massimo Girotti and Clara Calamai) and the husband they bump off (played by Juan De Landa). Visconti’s neo-realism heightens the interplay between characters and surroundings, the bleak, unforgiving interiors and street shots reflective of the lousy hand these no-hopers have been dealt.

Ossessione (Obsession, 1942)

Visconti described his own style as “anthropomorphic cinema,” declaring, “I could make a film in front of a wall if I knew how to find the data of man’s true humanity and how to express it.” Although Mussolini himself approved of the film, his son Vittorio (who ran the film journal Cinema) had a fit about its bleak Italian landscapes, the natural light, and all the shooting on location in the Po Valley.

Roberto Rossellini‘s Roma: città aperta (Open City, 1946) shows most clearly neo-realism’s link with the Resistance movement. Set during the Nazi occupation of Rome, it mines the tensions of the foreign presence and the divisions among those who abetted and those who opposed. Made under duress (black market film stock, little studio shooting, rushes unexamined, sound synchronized in post-production, and, no surprise, a tiny budget), Open City has an eyewitness immediacy tempered with operatic emotion. Pragmatic realities drove the film as much as the script, co-written by Sergio Amedei and Federico Fellini. The hybrid of melodrama and actual footage was the result of Rossellini’s populist, episodic approach, the story told in bursts, intense and unsparing details of ordinary lives undone by the trauma of occupation. Veracity rather than comfort informed the narrative. As the Gestapo search for and find a key member of the Resistance, Rossellini keeps his primary focus on Pina (Anna Magnani), engaged to marry an unassuming but Partisan typesetter by whom she is already pregnant. Open City may be most cited for two unforgettable scenes – a torture scene, to which Reservoir Dogs‘s lopped-ear scene bears a marked resemblance; and a sudden and dramatic death scene, a final posture evocative of painterly renditions of Christian martyrs. It also emphasizes the futility of war, its senselessness, a theme Rossellini struck throughout his war trilogy.

In Paisà (Paisan, 1946), Rossellini directly engaged the effects of the American presence in Italy, complicated by the Yankee shift from enemy to ally. In each of the six episodes, he examines the expectations and disappointments inherent in the crossing of two such different cultures and the inevitable – sometimes fatal – misapprehensions. Newsreel footage separates the vignettes and, throughout, Rossellini plays with the stereotypical images held by each side, his overall theme being that war is an equal-opportunity brutalizer.

Germania anno zero (Germany Year Zero, 1947) has a more personal feeling, influenced, no doubt, by the death of Rossellini’s eldest son in 1946. Set in the rubble of Berlin, the film has a young protagonist (rare for Rossellini), a 15-year-old who lives with his father and sister, who falls under the spell of a pedophile, eeking cash from the sale of this scammer’s Third Reich memorabilia. Potent and unbearable images make the desperation of the city clear; early on, for example, a horse lies dead in the street, hit perhaps by a tram, as people matter-of-factly carve-and-carry its meat away. Corrupted on all sides, the boy eventually resorts to the most desperate of measures.

As in Obsession, the cityscape is here used to reflect the anomie and disconnection. Open City ends horribly but with a glimmer of hope as young chidren witness an execution yet, together, return to the city; in Germany Year Zero, life is as stony as the razed city. It completes Rossellini’s World War II trilogy, strikingly ending his work from the German perspective, the devastations occasioned by Third Reich policies no easier on its own people.

La Terra Trema (The Earth Trembles, 1948)

Labor Intensive

La Terra Trema (The Earth Trembles, 1948) took Luchino Visconti to Aci Trezza on Sicily. Far more documentary in style than the other neo-realist films, The Earth Trembles relies on a completely nonprofessional cast. Visconti explained the day’s shooting to the villagers and used ambient sound, allowing the people to speak their dialect (necessitating subtitles even for the rest of Italy). The film is loosely based on Giovanni Verga‘s novel, I Malavoglia (The House of the Medlar Tree). When an island family risks their savings to buy a boat and fish for themselves, they struggle to pay it off, fishing in bad weather until a storm destroys their boat. Classically organized – Visconti was a veteran of opera – the film allowed him to linger on a cyclical life on the verge of disappearance (Orson Welles once noted that Visconti photographed fishermen as if they were Vogue models.) He used deep focus shots, lighting only the nighttime fishing scenes, showing their lives as an organic whole, with each aspect accorded value. The extremely spare soundtrack comprises few words, several silences, sometimes only the peal of bells and little music. And yet there’s a timeless and deeply mythic quality to the film, its emphasis on the honor and dignity that had been attached to a life earned from the unpredictable sea.

Sciuscià (Shoeshine, 1946)

Vittorio De Sica‘s Sciuscià (Shoeshine, 1946) begins outside Rome, in a kind of idyll of the countryside. Two shoeshine boys set aside what they’ve earned to buy a horse. Back in the narrow and unforgiving streets of Rome, they’re roped into a blackmarket deal that goes sour. Nabbed by the authorities, they’re sent to a juvenile prison, their friendship strained nearly to breaking. After an escape, one of them accidentally dies, his death blamed on his friend. De Sica kept his exposition short, detailing the boys’ existences through carefully composed scenes such as their neighboring prison cells, each one headed for a different fate. Opening and closing with the horse, De Sica shows the freedom that’s denied these two boys. His use of nonprofessionals allowed him to draw natural, seemingly improvised performances from his actors and remain, in his term, “faithful to the character.”

This is especially true of his next feature, Ladri di biciclette (Bicycle Thieves, 1948), the leading roles of father and son occupied by two nonprofessionals. (David O. Selznick was willing to back the film, but only with Cary Grant as lead, an offer De Sica fortunately had the confidence to refuse.) When the bicycle he needs to do his job is stolen, the young father and son scour Rome to find it; the father is finally driven to steal a ride of his own.

De Sica orchestrated the film carefully, shooting some scenes with multiple cameras and drawing attention to its existence as fiction, not a documentary. Bazin termed it the “only valid Communist film of the whole past decade” and the film was often seen as simply a criticism of working conditions in Italy at the time, when unemployment stood at 25 percent. But unlike the clearcut moralizing of Rossellini’s films, De Sica’s works focus on a humanist sense of individual and mass. Bicycle Thieves has a mythic feel, the father ultimately forced into thievery, each moral quandary no sooner solved than De Sica poses yet another, the father sympathetic but flawed.

Ladri di biciclette (Bicycle Thieves, 1948)

Italian audiences hardly embraced these new films. To be shown their country in such stark terms made the majority very unhappy. It even became part of the law: the Andreotti Law (1949), named for its author Giullio Andreotti, offered subsidies for those who followed the neo-realist style in a manner “suitable… to the best interests of Italy,” but with the proviso that they avoid the blemishes on Italian life.

Legislation had little immediate effect on what was made, though the stories began to reflect the scramble for work and stability that defined this period. Visconti’s terrific Bellissima (1951) centers on a daughter and fanatic stage-mamma, the inimitable Magnani, eager to get her modestly talented daughter a spot in a movie. To her husband’s dismay, she squeezes every extra penny into lessons and cosmetic improvements for the little girl. Ultimately, the mother all but puts herself on the market to get the recognition she’s convinced will make life worth living. Set in a working-class Roman neighborhood, Bellissima gives rare insight into how provincial big-city life could be, each neighborhood a virtual small town, the neighbors sometimes helpful, often petty and jealous of any advantage. Though not traditionally considered a neo-realist film, Bellissima did focus on people’s lives in the wake of war, the sense of wanting to better oneself and the struggle to find a way out of the grind of poverty. It becomes yet more poignant in this context.

Umberto D.

This sense of Rome as a small town is especially acute in Umberto D. (1951), which was De Sica’s favorite film and is in many ways the masterpiece of neo-realism, an overall superb piece of work. The crisis-filled days of a pensioner, Umberto Domenico Ferrari (Carlo Battisti), and the complications of his relationship with his dog and a young maid in his apartment building become a study in the difficult drama that constitutes an ordinary life. As played by a dignified nonprofessional – a professor, who, in the event, was often subsequently taken for his character on the street – Umberto D. is stodgy, fussy, irritating and curiously sympathetic. Unlike other films of the era, this was shot nearly entirely in the Cinécittà studios. The indignities of the family-less and indigent old-age are laid out with sensitivity but not sentimentality. Umberto is vulnerable and all but invisible, barely distinguishing himself in a crowd of protesting pensioners, desperately trying to maintain his independence and self-respect. There is no real plot other than the minuscule and life-shaping crises of late-life impoverishment. Even the end strikes a melancholy note of ambiguity.

And Suddenly It Was Over

Giuseppe De Santis‘s Riso amaro (Bitter Rice, 1949) was described at the time as the “last gasp of the neo-realist movement.” Like Obsession, its strongest overt influences are American films – noir and westerns and even a hint of musicals). It introduced audiences to a smoldering Sylvana Mangano, who played a rice weeder. By the hundreds they descended on the Piemonte region in the postwar years and into the 1960s. The brutally exhausting work demanded precision, suited, as the voice-over states, to the delicate “hand that rocks the cradle or threads the needle.” Mangano’s characters long to go to America, where she’s sure “everything is electric.”

In Miracolo a Milano (Miracle in Milan, 1951), De Sica kept to neo-realism’s focus on the marginalized mass, but his approach marked a break with just about every other neo-realist premise. Miracle in Milan is a kind of neo-fantasy. He showed postwar conditions and real locations – in this case, the run-down outskirts of Milan – the dreariness leavened with make-believe. When his foster mother (Emma Grammatica) gives him a white dove, Toto (Francesco Golisano) can suddenly grant the wishes of his neighbors in the periferia or shantytown where they live. De Sica jettisoned chronological time, replacing logic with magic. And yet, this has some of the grittiest urban landscapes of any of its contemporaries, the long shots of the shantytowns conveying a sense of how imprisoned the characters are. De Sica termed it a “fairy story and only intended as such,” yet the film had the unintended effect of essentially signalling neo-realism’s official end.

A Long Shadow

In general, people look backwards when talking about neo-realism, acknowledging its roots, according it artifact status. But the films stand on their own even without the movement they’ve come to represent. More important, they pointed out new directions for filmmakers in Italy and elsewhere. Both Fellini and Antonioni worked on neo-realist films and even in Fellini’s later, extremely fanciful work and Antonioni’s brooding studies of men and women, there’s a similar urge to document Italy’s social realities.

Among the filmmakers influenced by Italian neo-realism are the French New Wave, Dogme 95 and, as Images writer Chris Norton points out, the Los Angeles School of Black Independent Filmmakers (known as the L.A. School). The latter include directors such as Charles Burnett, Billy Woodberry, Haile Gerima and Julie Dash, all of whom have at some level addressed the working-class experience in America with methods borrowed or inspired by neo-realism.

Even such apparent non neo-realists as Bernardo Bertolucci, Pier Paolo Pasolini, Ermanno Olmi, Paolo and Vittorio Taviani, Gianni Amelio and Lina Wertmüller carry over the ideas of neo-realism with their emphasis on class conflicts (the eternal north/south tension) and use of non-professional actors, particularly children, to great effect.

The last word on this goes to Fellini. He agreed in principle, he said, with the neo-realist idea of taking films from life but he redefined it for himself as “looking at reality with an honest eye – but any kind of reality; not just social reality, but also spiritual reality, metaphysical reality, anything man has inside him.” Fellini taps into the essence of neo-realism, the reason the films of that particular era still appeal and the reason they continue to inspire: they address the human condition which, despite technological advances and special effects, remains very much what it was when these filmmakers took to the streets and captured what surrounded them.

Megan Ratner is an Associate Editor at Bright Lights Film Journal. Her work has appeared in Black Book, Filmmaker, The New York Times, Senses of Cinema, and Frieze.

The Architectural Vision of Michelangelo Antonioni – The Eclipse (1962)

Saturday, January 21st, 2012

dvisible magazine | Exploring our Creative World » Archive » The Architectural Vision of Michelangelo Antonioni’s The Eclipse (1962).


When a film by the late Italian master Michelangelo Antonioni comes to mind, I think of a quiet, contemplative place full of bold, mysterious, almost overwhelming images. Not since the silent era has a director placed such dependence on the image to convey his vision. His films, in fact, indicate a clear lack of faith in words and dramaturgy, which he felt only served to conceal the truths he sought to discover. If he failed then as a “conventional” dramatist, he succeeded in so many other ways: as a photographer for his exquisite fragmented compositions, a poet for his dedication to divulging the essence of a moment, and a painter for his feeling for light and texture. But perhaps, above all else, Antonioni’s vision, like Jacque Tati, is that of an architect.

Antonioni once said, “The subject of my films is always born of a landscape, of a site, of a place I want to explore.” This sounds more like the words of an architect than a filmmaker, but then Antonioni is both. In the third film of his so-called alienation trilogy, he created his boldest and most architectural work, The Eclipse or L’Eclisse, which focuses on the Roman suburb of Esposizione Universale Roma (EUR).

EUR came as result of Italy’s miraculous economic boom in the post-WWII period when the country’s landscape was forever changed as man-made structures began to dominate, cities expanded and rural areas became suburbs. Although EUR was commissioned by Benito Mussolini in 1935, it was not completed until the 1950s. Italians found its rather odd geometric shapes and sterile surfaces inconsistent with the sensuousness of their culture. Antonioni, on the other hand, was inspired. He was curious about what psychological effects this environment could have on people.

In The Eclipse, Antonioni transforms EUR into a sci-fi-esque backdrop for the existential anguish of Vittoria (Monica Vitti), a young bourgeoisie woman and translator. For much of the film, Vittoria wanders around EUR puzzled by its apathetic residents and bland modernist architectural design. It’s as if she is living on a distant alien planet at odds with human feeling. After her miserable break-up with Riccardo (Francisco Rabal), she becomes reluctant to start a new relationship with Piero (Alain Delon), a materialistic stockbroker. She doubts whether genuine love is even possible in a place like EUR.


To address this issue, Antonioni creates a mise en scène in the form of a maze that confines and constricts the feelings of his characters. He separates Vittoria and Piero through various man-made barriers, like a large marble pillar at the stock exchange when they first meet, and, when Piero calls on Vittoria at her apartment, a steel balustrade near the sidewalk and a wooden balcony fence, which creates a large empty gap between them. They couldn’t reach each other with a ten foot pole. Furthermore, bars are utilized to signal doomed or lost love. As Riccardo tries to rekindle his relationship with Vittoria, he is framed through the bars of her apartment window. Later on after she promises to see Piero again, we now see Vittoria imprisoned through diagonally crossing bars, foreshadowing the end of their relationship.

Antonioni also isolates his characters within the geometric lines of doorways, crosswalks, curbs, and rails. This further complicates his mise en scène and, metaphorically speaking, leaves the characters emotionally dazed. It is during these instances when the future of Vittoria and Piero’s relationship is at its most uncertain. On the other hand, even when the characters are freed from these constrictions in spacious wide shots, the modernist structures of EUR overwhelm them, so that by comparison they look like little toy figures. Here Antonioni emphasizes how man has been outsized by his own creations.


The Eclipse concludes with a chilling seven minute abstract sequence that brings the incompatible relationship between Vittoria and Piero and to their surroundings full circle. After they make love and promise to see each other again that night at their meeting place, Antonioni’s camera lingers on the iconography of EUR, which he had established in the first two acts of the film – the rows of housing complexes, the mushroom-shaped water tower, the white lines of the crosswalk, a wooden stick that Vittoria put in a barrel of water, a horse-drawn carriage passing by, etc. He intersperses these images with varying angles of Vittoria and Piero’s meeting place – both from ones we have seen before and newer ones, including wide shots connecting the half-built housing project, a metaphor for the incompleteness of their relationship, with the contours of the intersection.

The difference this time is that Antonioni almost completely vacates the environment. Our focus instead turns toward its geometric lines, spaces and objects, while we contemplate the glaring absence of Vittoria and Piero, who, for some reason, have not showed up at their agreed upon time and place. In this way, Antonioni metamorphoses EUR into an architectural model to re-examine and investigate how its architectural and spatial design serves the characters. Although it may conform with Piero’s unfeeling material existence, its cold modernist rationality conspires against the earthier Vittoria. So when night falls and the blinding light of the street lamp fills the screen and fades to black, human feeling and Vittoria and Piero’s relationship have been obliterated.


Coupled with the mushroom-shaped water tower, the nuclear imagery here is quite frightening yet appropriate. The astounding advances of scientific man (i.e. the A-bomb and, in general, his modern designs) have been so great that his capacity to work out his problems on a moral level (i.e. the US and Soviet Union conflict during the Cold War) cannot measure up. Antonioni, thus, foregrounds The Eclipse’s undertones of science fiction and presents a nightmare scenario. The problem lies not with man’s designs, but with moral man. Moral man must somehow adjust to the modern environment and advance forward or he will cease to be human or, in the worst case scenario, face extinction.

>Written by d/visible contributor Kevin Hogan.

Chantal Akerman – La Captive

Monday, September 12th, 2011

The fifth volume of Marcel Proust’s legendary novel REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST is the source for veteran French feminist filmmaker Chantal Akerman’s remarkable film LA CAPTIVE. Following a theme common in her past films–the impossibility of true knowledge of the other, Akerman crafts a severe and stilted chamber drama out of Proust’s evocative and poetic text. Simon (Stansilas Merhar) is a wealthy and sensitive French man living in a posh, if cloistered, life in Paris. Ariane (Sylvie Testud) is Simon’s lover and constant companion, as well as the subject of his irritated obsessions. Not satisfied with merely loving Ariane, Simon aches to have absolute knowledge of her– her past, her present, her thoughts, and her deeds. When having her accompanied at every moment does not satisfy him, Simon begins to follow her everywhere she goes, questioning acquaintances, and constructing elaborate fictions around her every action. Suspecting her of a secret life filled with love for other women and a true happiness to which he is not privileged, Simon attempts to penetrate Ariane’s aloof and opaque façade, only to bring their impossible love to a breaking point. Akerman’s tight and constrained style, assisted by stylized acting, creates a complex and compelling portrait of the tragedy inherent in love.

Chantal Akerman – Hotel Monterey / News from Home

Tuesday, October 26th, 2010

Media Art Net | Akerman, Chantal.

Hotel Monterey

Chantal Akerman «Hotel Monterey»

In the first of Akerman’s longer feature films the camera becomes the ‹actress› who, with extended takes and tracking-shots, is moved through the empty spaces of the New York hotel of the same name—creating an architectural study likewise a psychic space.
In Hotel Monterey and News from Home (1976), two of Akerman’s films made in New York under the influence of structural filmmaking, a fixed shot of an empty corridor, or of a crowded subway car (human absence, human presence), maps the range of possibilities of structural film. When the elevator door opens onto an empty corridor in Hotel Monterey, the image can be considered as a set of lines, colors, perspectival illusions. When the [camera] opens into a hall full of people, this moment of mutual acknowledgment intimates a register of performance for documentary structural film.


News From Home

Chantal Akerman «News from Home»

In «Hotel Monterey» and «News from Home» (1976), two of Akerman’s films made in New York under the influence of structural filmmaking, a fixed shot of an empty corridor, or of a crowded subway car (human absence, human presence), maps the range of possibilities of structural film.

Bruno Dumont – La Vie de Jésus

Friday, October 22nd, 2010

Bruno Dumont – La Vie de Jésus AKA The Life of Jesus (1997)-Cinema of the World.

One of the great debut films of recent times, Bruno Dumont’s La vie de Jésus [The Life of Jesus] presents life’s brutality and exhilaration played out by turns within the quarters of a tiny Flemish country town. Here, positioned in relative isolation from the rest of so-called cultural Europe, the connections between individuals will take on a physical power inflected by boredom, by desperation, and by urges as raw as the earth.

Freddy and Marie (played by David Douche and Marjorie Cottreel in astonishing performances) are two teenagers with their futures uncertain and their present undefined. They ride motorbikes, they have sex — communication like any other sort. But in their hometown of Bailleul in Flanders, where news from the world-at-large disappears just as quickly as it drifts in, death proves to be inescapable, and decidedly permanent. As the film’s powerful climax unfolds, the viewer will come away with his or her own interpretation of how the life of Christ has figured into the story of Freddy and Marie — a contemplation on the magnitude of mercy.

With its frank, honest depictions of the body in the course of the sexual act, La vie de Jésus announced the emergence of a powerful philosophical intelligence — and a master of dramatic control — onto the scene of world cinema. Winner of the prestigious BFI Sutherland Trophy, Camera d’Or at Cannes, the Prix Jean Vigo, European Discovery of the Year at the European Film Awards, amongst many others, (Masters of Cinema)

Harmony-Korine: Julien Donkey-Boy

Friday, October 22nd, 2010 | julien donkey-boy.

julien donkey-boy is a 1999 film written and directed by Harmony Korine. It tells the story of the schizophrenic Julien, his pregnant sister Pearl, brother Chris, and their manical father. It is Korine’s second feature film and the first US film to be certified by the filmmaking collective Dogme 95. julien donkey-boy premiered at the 56th Venice Film Festival on October 7, 1999, and began it’s theatrical run in the US on October 15, 1999.

The character of Julien in the film is based on Korine’s uncle Eddie, brother of his father. An image of Eddie appears at the end of the film along with a note that the film is dedicated to him.

Pablo Larrain – Tony Manero

Wednesday, October 20th, 2010

Tony Manero

How many actual laughs are there in Tony Manero, a Chilean black comedy about one man’s obsession with Saturday Night Fever? Probably not that many – unless one counts the scene in which our hero defecates on the pristine white suit of a rival, or the one in which he becomes so enraged by a screening of Grease that he opts to break into the booth and club the projectionist to death. And yet a comedy this is – and one that perversely becomes more hilarious in hindsight, when the initial horror has had time to subside. Watching Tony Manero is like being accosted by a disturbed loner on a late-night bus. Assuming we survive, we may one day find it funny.

  1. Tony Manero
  2. Production year: 2008
  3. Country: Rest of the world
  4. Cert (UK): 18
  5. Runtime: 95 mins
  6. Directors: Pablo Larrain
  7. Cast: Alfredo Castro, Amparo Noguera, Hector Morales
  8. More on this film

Alfredo Castro plays Raul, a 52-year-old nobody who models himself on John Travolta’s disco idol, ineptly mouthing movie dialogue and essaying dance moves with a frowning, joyless concentration. Chances are that you could put a jacket on a dog and teach it to walk on its hind legs and it would make a more convincing Manero. But no matter, because Raul’s monomania is enough to draw a gaggle of adoring disciples. His harassed lover dotes on him, as does her nubile daughter and the elderly owner of the local ballroom. All of them want Raul, but Raul just wants to dance. Specifically, he wants to dance, as Tony Manero, in a TV talent contest. First prize is a blender, second prize is a poncho. And “no political talk” please, for this is 1978, the darkest days of the Pinochet regime, when loose talk can get you shot.

Tony Manero, the second film from writer-director Pablo Larrain, makes for a brilliantly clammy and unnerving piece of work. The action unfolds in a shiver of handheld camerawork and grainy, overcast colours. There is sex and larceny and random acts of violence. Some scenes literally lose their focus as the fog of madness blows in from the wings. You might file this as an acid satire of 1970s Chile, a time when imported escapism served to distract the masses from the real business of political oppression.

Alternatively, it can be viewed as a broadside against globalisation as a whole, spotlighting a sub-continent hopelesly hard-wired to US culture and stumbling blindly in search of an identity. This point is driven home in a brief but telling exchange between Raul and his girlfriend. “Manero is an American,” she tells him gently. “You’re not. You belong here.”

Except that Raul, true to form, has no desire to ponder this statement. He’s too busy killing people, too intent on rehearsing his routine or fashioning a makeshift glitterball from shards of broken glass. So off he goes, this shambling bulk of articulated body parts and crudely firing synapses, slouching towards the TV studio to be born.

What a terrific performance Castro gives us here: funny, scary and pathetic by turns. When Raul Peralta finally slithers on stage, it’s a wonder the audience doesn’t run for the exit. Perhaps they recognise one of their own. A round of applause for Dr Frankenstein’s movie star; the sharp-suited mascot of a zombie nation. Wind him up and watch him dance.

via Film review: Tony Manero | Film | The Guardian.

Encounters at the End of the World by W.Herzog

Sunday, May 10th, 2009

The set of Herzog’s latest movie, the Oscar-nominated documentary Encounters at the End of the World, was one of the most inhospitable locations he has worked on. Previously, he has scaled volcanoes, suffered calamities in jungles on three continents and filmed in war zones; even so, there was something elementally terrifying about the reality of a working day in Antarctica.

He was invited to film on the southern icecap by the US agency the National Science Foundation, which offers a limited number of grants to artists. Herzog proposed using a two-man crew – a cinematographer, plus himself as soundman – which meant he saw off a rival proposal from Titanic director James Cameron, who wanted to take a crew of 36. “You have to understand that to maintain one person for one single day in Antarctica costs roughly $10,000,” Herzog says. “Every drop of water requires desalination. One leaf of salad has to be flown eight hours from New Zealand. Cameron would have absorbed so many resources that he was not invited.”

Herzog’s Encounters is an alternately mordant and ecstatic portrait of a harsh environment and the people who live there; not oddballs, Herzog insists, but research scientists, philosophers and vulcanologists, who we see peering into viciously active lava fields. There are the expert divers who drill 30ft vertical holes through the icecap to access its frigid, sci-fi underside, and then dive below to film. “These people only seem odd because when you look at the media and magazines, there is this kind of uniformity of people. Down there, you have characters who do not fit into magazines.”

Full article @