Amidst the squalor of the South American town Las Piedras, four desperate men are elected to deliver two trucks of nitroglycerine across an arid and mountainous terrain to an oil rig 300 miles away. The pay is alluring, the task impossible, and the journey to deploy the unstable liquid journey unimaginable.
The Homeric excursion undertaken by the four men, a flamboyant Italian, a reticent German, a conniving old Frenchman, and an overly-poised young Frenchman, would not be successfully poignant without the necessary yet brief background of their lives. Henri-Georges Clouzot rounds the characters through sly conversations and depositions disclosing wisdom that summarize their lives in a sentence or two: “You get to b a hundred [years old] very quickly. If you are in the right place and the right time” confesses the German tortured in a Nazi camp. We are aware of their finitude the moment Clouzot introduces them. The humble town, the uncompassionate xenophobia of the bar owner, the deleterious labor they engage, and the involuntary sedation are components which assemble their lives. They sustain a living that is not merciful or kind; a living that supports dreams but somehow never amounts to hope. The wages of fear are those for men like them who have nothing and lose nothing. Henri-Georges Clouzot’s injection of political commentary can be easily misconstrued. The oil rig is on fire. The executives consider the methodology to solve their oil problem. Transporting explosives in an unsafe truck is not a task for the insured drivers of the company. The illegal immigrants, without Clouzot hinting to any political topic just alluding to the urgency and need of money, are available to perform any perilous undertaking for money. This is their trade. The executive resolve to recruit the best drivers out of this pile of rotting men.
The movie concentrates on the struggle of two French men. Jo (Charles Vanel) and Mario (Yves Montand) clearly separated by a generation and fame but fused in their fervent memory and awaited return to their country. Both will test death’s wits by driving an old truck filled with explosive material. Jo, portraying by Charles Vanel, visibly reveals a character struggling to recover from his lofty past. Thus, Jo’s old wits gradually become predictable to Mario, the young man who attains infallibility through brute strength. Mario, performed by Yves Montand, represents the unusual type of patriot. The superimposition of this two character on the screen initiates by a striking father-son relationship. Mario and Jo fend off any opposition while at Las Piedras. As the trucks speed-up to precarious landscapes, Jo’s impervious aura begins to transmute. The change culminates in a scene of inimitable acting courage by Charles Vanel. The old man, with the untouchable presence of the first sequences, is now the mirror of a frustrated boy meeting impotency to counteract the hollow will of Mario. Jo’s reaction resembles a kid responding perturbed by the abuse of his elder. The scene is so dramatic – seeing an old man quiver and sob – that emotions flip from animosity to sympathy to empathy for Jo as Mario remains merciless. This determination to go through with the mission forces Mario to run over Jo’s leg when he gets stuck in an oil pit. The acting in the movie is compelling and attractive because the actors breathe life into characters that alter as they reveal their naked souls and move forwards into depths of tension unknown to men.
The passage through the landscape is not only a test to their connections but also a testament to their will, or lack thereof, to live. The job, as suicidal as they come, is composed of terrains that evaluate the level of friendship, loyalty, and care by contending the essence held within each. To achieve this exploration into the human psyche, H.G. Clouzot creates a journey revolving in emotional burden rather than the typical cruise across a taxing landscape. The landscape poses a challenge but the obstacle they fear is the load they carry. Their wits and the nitroglycerin can explode at any moment. Yet despite the certainty of death, they control their own destiny no matter how eviscerating the baggage could be.
The day of labor will bring each a handful of money to almost retire if it’s well spent. The caveat, we forget about during their daunting mission is the return. If they are to reach their destination they most travel back to the town. This is idea does not come until the end when we consider the return. “They have to return. Of course.” was my outright reaction when the truck, light, free and speedy, sliders down the hill driven by a gleeful, almost unblemished, conductor.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Undertow
The plot of this film is as pedestrian as it could be. It is a film that could well turn out to be an unkind disappointment due to the replicating storyline obscene family feuds. The movie follows the dismantlement of the Munn family and their hike to tragedy. John Munn is a father of two children, Chris and Tim, and drags a criminal past. Chris is an incorrigible juvenile delinquent and Tim, the younger, more curious, more imaginative brother is perennially sick. The uncle, Deel Munn, recently released from prison, appears at the doorstep with inchoate rancor. His thirst for revenge is fed by his brother’s prudence. Deel seeks a treasure that has stained the family with greed and violence for two generations.
The story is presented to us coated only by few, well-balanced artistic layers. The fluid narrative Gordon Green accomplishes is transparent due to his keen eye for troubled adolescence and decaying landscapes of the south (See “George Washington”, his first feature length film). The plot is never hidden from the story. The scenic ambition and the artistic vein from which Gordon Green commandeers images – freezing frames – is a testament to his talent. The film calcifies the directorial status of Gordon Green as a young genius. To transform the grimy story, where an abnormal family is plagued by misfortune, into a filmic experience augments the value of the technique and the fresh judgment behind the camera describing it.
The squalor of the south is the backdrop of the film. Gordon Green’s fascination with bucolic decomposition pervades into almost every shot of the film: the derelict hippie commune, the hopeless architecture of the Munn house, the shelter in the landfill, the frail gas stations, and the street walls decorated with slovenly graffiti. The purity of the shots and the precise sense of photography are not abased by the casual presentation of violence and severe dementia within the story. The disturbing blamelessness of the younger brother, Tim Munn, as he swallows toxic paint conveys parental abandonment. The close-ups of this secretive activity, sucking lead paint from his finger, isolate the character from other except the viewer who cannot avoid a slight alarm as Tim laboriously swallows the poisoned paint.
The solitude of the children is counterpoised with the development of their independence. After witnessing the murder of John Munn, their father, a cat-mouse wild chase ensues. In their escape they bond. I reveled in delight when the boys had the opportunity to be boys for the first time, and wrestle each other under the refreshing rain. The visuals translate the joy within the boys but Gordon Green doesn’t want us to forget the hard-to-swallow reality. He quickly levels our delight by reminding us of the quotidian tragedy of the Munn kids. Tim digs out a pile of wet soil and chews it. I could almost taste the wet specks of soil exploding in my teeth. Such calibrated delivery by the editing of the movie permits emotions to leap from inexplicable pleasure to acute distress. The brief respite of the Munn boys reaches an end. They are on the run again.
The beautiful scenery, endowed with poetry, blends with the story’s treacherous end. The wild chase must end. The murderous uncle Deel finds the boys in the forests and requests, rather politely, for his gilded coins, which are the seeds of all the family greed. Chris, after sending his brother to safety with an acquainted junkie, stands rooted in the middle of a stream. He taunts his uncle at first to then gleefully toss the coins into the water. The uncle’s countenance chances rapidly from anger to disbelief as he approaches Chris. He wades towards the boy and strangles him to death.
The final scene showcases Chris fording the delta of a river. He wades until he meets the vast omnipotent ocean. As waves swallow him in the distance, a voiceover placates our pain. The last scene is left to open interpretation, the death of Chris? The escape from the grimy living they toiled under? The bursting green balloon might hve released all the answers.
The story is presented to us coated only by few, well-balanced artistic layers. The fluid narrative Gordon Green accomplishes is transparent due to his keen eye for troubled adolescence and decaying landscapes of the south (See “George Washington”, his first feature length film). The plot is never hidden from the story. The scenic ambition and the artistic vein from which Gordon Green commandeers images – freezing frames – is a testament to his talent. The film calcifies the directorial status of Gordon Green as a young genius. To transform the grimy story, where an abnormal family is plagued by misfortune, into a filmic experience augments the value of the technique and the fresh judgment behind the camera describing it.
The squalor of the south is the backdrop of the film. Gordon Green’s fascination with bucolic decomposition pervades into almost every shot of the film: the derelict hippie commune, the hopeless architecture of the Munn house, the shelter in the landfill, the frail gas stations, and the street walls decorated with slovenly graffiti. The purity of the shots and the precise sense of photography are not abased by the casual presentation of violence and severe dementia within the story. The disturbing blamelessness of the younger brother, Tim Munn, as he swallows toxic paint conveys parental abandonment. The close-ups of this secretive activity, sucking lead paint from his finger, isolate the character from other except the viewer who cannot avoid a slight alarm as Tim laboriously swallows the poisoned paint.
The solitude of the children is counterpoised with the development of their independence. After witnessing the murder of John Munn, their father, a cat-mouse wild chase ensues. In their escape they bond. I reveled in delight when the boys had the opportunity to be boys for the first time, and wrestle each other under the refreshing rain. The visuals translate the joy within the boys but Gordon Green doesn’t want us to forget the hard-to-swallow reality. He quickly levels our delight by reminding us of the quotidian tragedy of the Munn kids. Tim digs out a pile of wet soil and chews it. I could almost taste the wet specks of soil exploding in my teeth. Such calibrated delivery by the editing of the movie permits emotions to leap from inexplicable pleasure to acute distress. The brief respite of the Munn boys reaches an end. They are on the run again.
The beautiful scenery, endowed with poetry, blends with the story’s treacherous end. The wild chase must end. The murderous uncle Deel finds the boys in the forests and requests, rather politely, for his gilded coins, which are the seeds of all the family greed. Chris, after sending his brother to safety with an acquainted junkie, stands rooted in the middle of a stream. He taunts his uncle at first to then gleefully toss the coins into the water. The uncle’s countenance chances rapidly from anger to disbelief as he approaches Chris. He wades towards the boy and strangles him to death.
The final scene showcases Chris fording the delta of a river. He wades until he meets the vast omnipotent ocean. As waves swallow him in the distance, a voiceover placates our pain. The last scene is left to open interpretation, the death of Chris? The escape from the grimy living they toiled under? The bursting green balloon might hve released all the answers.
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Happening
It is one of the scariest plots I have come across. But wait. It’s the concept underscored by the plot that’s brilliant. Let me explain. The movie is terrific in the initial moments. People kill themselves for apparently nothing. They appear to have lost the instinct of survival. They no longer care to live. We witness the physical change, a backward pedaling, and then a mental computation to self-destroy. The multiplicity of self-inflicted damage is unfathomable to any rational mind. It is scary because suicide-bombers have no sense of self-preservation; it is scary because to the nucleus of any surviving species is the instinct to endure; it is scary because not even zombies execute themselves without chasing a purpose.
Now, the plot of the movie and the entire development of it is a routinely increment of bizarre and bloody suicides. Theme soars too high only to plummet to a regrettable end. The movie attempts to hint into a political issue that Al Gore pointed to without forcing the viewers to witness people plunging from building, bashing windows with they eyes, driving at suicidal speeds into trees, shooting themselves, and laying flat under a tractor to be chopped by the blade. The painful cringes are not worth the reward. Nonetheless, the idea of loosing the most primal of instincts is terrifying. To measure the movie, I also take into account the hilarity of seeing Mark Whalberg helplessness against an old woman thumping walls with her forehead. Whalberg tries to portray the harmless school teacher Elliot Moore, but all he wants is to clobber the insolent and punch something, anything. You can see it in his eyes. M. Night Shyamalan tames him to the point where he talks to a plastic plant.
With flaky characters crammed into the plot, like the hot-dog loving hippie couple who are convinced the plants are the problem or the flummoxed army soldier who has low potential of surviving any type of movie genre, the film moves forward tragically just as the deathly disease beleaguering the characters in the bleak Pennsylvanian landscape. M. Night Shyamalan always manages to tune into something unexpectedly petrifying but sadly his forte is thematic editing and superior story-telling. He has no sense of photography or creative visuals, he is bereft of any coherent social, least political, comment and he is not one to make a movie without a precise intention. Since he has nothing else but the power to sway the paranormal on the screen, like agitating the creeps of the viewers, when he fails, he fails as dramatically as any uni-talented director. This is that movie, a movie where he falls. He is marvelous in the initial ten minutes but after that he disappoints at the only thing he excelled for about eighty minutes.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Mongol
Filmed in the arid plains of the Far East, the movie is a visual spectacle worthy of the ticket just for the scenery itself. The story board is based on the theoretical development of one of the ancient world most enigmatic tyrants, Genghis Khan. Temudjin’s (Genghis Khan’s family name) conception arrived not without the weight of cross-tribal relations. His father, the Khan of the tribe, stole a woman from a foreign tribe. To appease for this transgression his first born must marry a woman of the offended tribe. Against his father’s internal wish, Temudjin chooses a nubile girl, Oelun, from within the clan. The story expands the lustful and romantic longing of the two characters to reunite. With the insubstantial insertions of the romantic knots to secure the tale’s march onwards, the film follows the transformation of Temudjin, a homeless boy, into the pachyderm he was destined to become. It is clear that Temudjin would not have reached the grandeur prognosticated if it were not for his wife, Oelun, who sacrificed her purity twice in order to save his life.
After the casual murder of the father, the tribe’s Khan, Temudjin is kept in isolation and subjugated from the rest of the tribes. His resolve to survive combined with his motility allow him to become independent of any tribe. A remarkable chapter in the film has Temudjin, finally enjoying time with his family, explaining the beauty of a language. Here is a potential maudlin scene if you remember the solitary years the little boy endured without a person to address. Really the language is ugly, but the fact that he can say “meat” to somebody else is proper cause of celebration.
The obsequious camera of Sergei Bordov, studies the precious topography of the Plains. The panorama has not been this imperative to a films integrity since the last westerns, where the desert was as much a character as the gunslinger. The plains of the Far East exhibit an exquisite spectacle in the development of the film. They effortless beauty is as puzzling as Oelin, Temidjin’s wife. If the panorama were to be sloughed off and replaced by another, the film will lose weight. The fading steps in the sand of the monk trudging along a tempestuous desert hill; the forlorn backpack of the monk set against earth’s erosion; the cavernous shrine were the thunder-god resides embodied in a lone wolf; or the wetland were an unpretentious river sliders into the horizon leaving rivulets as it navigates the wet-land.
All characters are susceptible to the land. During the winter, they suffer a shortage of food. While trekking across the desert their skin desiccates and their lips part. There is nowhere to vanish when a pursued in the flat plains. If at night it thunders, there is no place to hide. When the final battle ends and the thunder hammers the humans to their haunches, the only figure that emerges tall is Temudjin on his horse. When asked by his brother, who is also his nemesis, why he doesn’t fear the thunder if every Mongol fears it, “I had nowhere to hide.” And so the legend of the fearless tyrant stems from his nomadic childhood in the green, unforgiving and torrential plains of the Mongolia.
The other forgotten aptitude of films that Sergei Bodrov resurrects is well-constructed and enticing fighting scenes. The blades of the Mongols are stern against the human flesh, quick to open a gash and kill. The war zone is meant for quick deadly blows. Movies have jettisoned our good judgment of a sword battle. A tidal wave of medieval-themed sagas and powder-action jaded our blood-thirsty nature with the unnecessary slashing or shooting of an opponent at the expense of the facial expressions of the million-dollar sex symbol. The battle scenes are few but in their spare use, the director, the cameraman, the choreographer, and the computerized effects, manage to display the artistry in the mutilation of an enemy. Their work rhythmically follows the sounds generated by the motion of the swift blades.
During the course of the film, Temudjin encounters a plethora of obstacles, that postpone and provide material to solidify his persona as he inevitably escalates to absolute power, the most determined of them being his tyrannical and power-hungry “blood brother”. The film surrenders no answers to whether the obstacles strengthen his character or simply delay destiny. Before Temudjin’s hike to power even begins, the spiritual characters of the film (the apologetic Buddhist priest and the village elderly sorcerer) sense the greatness contained within the broken body. These predictive men remind us, as Temudjin suffers, that the destiny of most men is a narrow, but cozy corridor to the end, whereas the fortune of great men is set against landscapes of seclusion and infinite reflection. Although not a film replete with symbolisms, I could surmise the attempt of the film to modestly condense the gyrations of greatness by depicting the torment and loneliness which all the great human spirits must surpass to become legends.
After the casual murder of the father, the tribe’s Khan, Temudjin is kept in isolation and subjugated from the rest of the tribes. His resolve to survive combined with his motility allow him to become independent of any tribe. A remarkable chapter in the film has Temudjin, finally enjoying time with his family, explaining the beauty of a language. Here is a potential maudlin scene if you remember the solitary years the little boy endured without a person to address. Really the language is ugly, but the fact that he can say “meat” to somebody else is proper cause of celebration.
The obsequious camera of Sergei Bordov, studies the precious topography of the Plains. The panorama has not been this imperative to a films integrity since the last westerns, where the desert was as much a character as the gunslinger. The plains of the Far East exhibit an exquisite spectacle in the development of the film. They effortless beauty is as puzzling as Oelin, Temidjin’s wife. If the panorama were to be sloughed off and replaced by another, the film will lose weight. The fading steps in the sand of the monk trudging along a tempestuous desert hill; the forlorn backpack of the monk set against earth’s erosion; the cavernous shrine were the thunder-god resides embodied in a lone wolf; or the wetland were an unpretentious river sliders into the horizon leaving rivulets as it navigates the wet-land.
All characters are susceptible to the land. During the winter, they suffer a shortage of food. While trekking across the desert their skin desiccates and their lips part. There is nowhere to vanish when a pursued in the flat plains. If at night it thunders, there is no place to hide. When the final battle ends and the thunder hammers the humans to their haunches, the only figure that emerges tall is Temudjin on his horse. When asked by his brother, who is also his nemesis, why he doesn’t fear the thunder if every Mongol fears it, “I had nowhere to hide.” And so the legend of the fearless tyrant stems from his nomadic childhood in the green, unforgiving and torrential plains of the Mongolia.
The other forgotten aptitude of films that Sergei Bodrov resurrects is well-constructed and enticing fighting scenes. The blades of the Mongols are stern against the human flesh, quick to open a gash and kill. The war zone is meant for quick deadly blows. Movies have jettisoned our good judgment of a sword battle. A tidal wave of medieval-themed sagas and powder-action jaded our blood-thirsty nature with the unnecessary slashing or shooting of an opponent at the expense of the facial expressions of the million-dollar sex symbol. The battle scenes are few but in their spare use, the director, the cameraman, the choreographer, and the computerized effects, manage to display the artistry in the mutilation of an enemy. Their work rhythmically follows the sounds generated by the motion of the swift blades.
During the course of the film, Temudjin encounters a plethora of obstacles, that postpone and provide material to solidify his persona as he inevitably escalates to absolute power, the most determined of them being his tyrannical and power-hungry “blood brother”. The film surrenders no answers to whether the obstacles strengthen his character or simply delay destiny. Before Temudjin’s hike to power even begins, the spiritual characters of the film (the apologetic Buddhist priest and the village elderly sorcerer) sense the greatness contained within the broken body. These predictive men remind us, as Temudjin suffers, that the destiny of most men is a narrow, but cozy corridor to the end, whereas the fortune of great men is set against landscapes of seclusion and infinite reflection. Although not a film replete with symbolisms, I could surmise the attempt of the film to modestly condense the gyrations of greatness by depicting the torment and loneliness which all the great human spirits must surpass to become legends.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Jim Jarmusch's Dead Man
Jim Jarmusch addresses the poetic, symbolic and abstract aspects of life rather than the physical, corporeal and ephemeral in his films. From the onset, Jarmusch reveals the intension of the film, “Dead Man”. It is a journey. Its tone is completely dependent on the interpretation donated to the introductory sequence in the train. People, landscape and activities change but William Blake (performed by the multitalented Johnny Deep) remains. Might he be traversing the nation physically or might Mr. Blake be descending into a pernicious territory inhabited by mysterious people? As the film grizzles in theme and clarity, the quest is accompanied only by the repetitive and droning twang of Neil Young’s guitar. The poetic voyage upon which our hero, William Blake, will navigate is introduced without apology in the introductory sequence of the film.
Jim Jarmusch sets the tone of the movie, with a short and concise glimpse in the introduction of the movie. The film is shot in classic chiaroscuro, black and white, which reinstates the mystery and enigma bestowed in the monochromatic gray. William Blake, a taciturn accountant vulnerable to the generic menace of the western frontier represented by the town of Machine, is exposed to the ambient fornication, the gun-slinging norm and the seedy, dingy bars sheltering prostitutes, and criminals. These are ingredients of disaster when mixed with the innocuous nature of William Blake.
The declivity into perdition is a spiral of unfortunate events. William Blake, privileged enough to have found a woman in the town, must confront the woman’s lover who returns rancorous to repossess her at any cost. The chastity of the naked lovers is stirred by the celerity of murder. The lover and the prostitute are both killed in the affair. William Blake, petrified by what just happened, scurries unseen into the forest. He is later framed for both murders. The mogul employer that promised Blake a job, John Dickinson (Robert Mitchum), also father of the murdered man, gathers a coterie of the most notorious slayers to hunt down Blake. William falls ill due to a bullet planted near his heart, which ironically serves as the hemostat keeping him alive.
Within the poetic symbolism of the theme, the vivification of our hero is in part due to the apparition of a lonely, cultured, and overweight Indian. The Indian, named Nobody, believes William Blake to be the spiritual embodiment of the 18th century poet. With Nobody Jarmusch attempts to destroys the habitual portrayal of the Indian as ignorant and dumb. Yet he must revert do this by educating him in England. Jarmusch is in a cul-de-sac; the Western system still prevails on the natives. However, Nobody adds a blithe and humane touch the otherwise frigid tale of a man hauled by destiny to his death. Movies that circumvent the canorous reality to concentrate on the bland supernatural are rationally fatiguing for leisure time. This is not a film to pass the time.
“Dead Man” utilizes a western-style background as the canvas for the existential exposition of a man’s intermittent passage to death. The western is a portal from which Jarmusch develops metaphors closer to the umbra of living than to the relief of death. For its obscurity, it must stray from the didactic and sacrifice crucial parcels of character development for preventable symbolisms, like the repeated mention of tobacco or the bluntly mentioned religious icon. The film is an invertebrate composition of symbolisms but it is meant to be so.
It’s like the initial metaphor by the train-fireman “doesn’t this remind you of when you are in a boat and then the water is not dissimilar to the landscape above, and then you ask yourself why is it that the landscape is moving but the boat is still?” The opening sequence is a preface to the final scene of the film. The river passes underneath the dory while the body remains and the sky moves. Nevertheless, the ubiquitous symbolisms are reprieved by the perplexing gnomic speech of the Indian. Jim Jarmusch disarms the main character of any possible control of his life. Life for William Blake was spent in stasis below a passing sky. If the film is to represent an aspect of life, at the conclusion of it you must feel exhausted, your mind must throb and you ought to feel a total release of tension now that the movie, like life, is over.
Jim Jarmusch sets the tone of the movie, with a short and concise glimpse in the introduction of the movie. The film is shot in classic chiaroscuro, black and white, which reinstates the mystery and enigma bestowed in the monochromatic gray. William Blake, a taciturn accountant vulnerable to the generic menace of the western frontier represented by the town of Machine, is exposed to the ambient fornication, the gun-slinging norm and the seedy, dingy bars sheltering prostitutes, and criminals. These are ingredients of disaster when mixed with the innocuous nature of William Blake.
The declivity into perdition is a spiral of unfortunate events. William Blake, privileged enough to have found a woman in the town, must confront the woman’s lover who returns rancorous to repossess her at any cost. The chastity of the naked lovers is stirred by the celerity of murder. The lover and the prostitute are both killed in the affair. William Blake, petrified by what just happened, scurries unseen into the forest. He is later framed for both murders. The mogul employer that promised Blake a job, John Dickinson (Robert Mitchum), also father of the murdered man, gathers a coterie of the most notorious slayers to hunt down Blake. William falls ill due to a bullet planted near his heart, which ironically serves as the hemostat keeping him alive.
Within the poetic symbolism of the theme, the vivification of our hero is in part due to the apparition of a lonely, cultured, and overweight Indian. The Indian, named Nobody, believes William Blake to be the spiritual embodiment of the 18th century poet. With Nobody Jarmusch attempts to destroys the habitual portrayal of the Indian as ignorant and dumb. Yet he must revert do this by educating him in England. Jarmusch is in a cul-de-sac; the Western system still prevails on the natives. However, Nobody adds a blithe and humane touch the otherwise frigid tale of a man hauled by destiny to his death. Movies that circumvent the canorous reality to concentrate on the bland supernatural are rationally fatiguing for leisure time. This is not a film to pass the time.
“Dead Man” utilizes a western-style background as the canvas for the existential exposition of a man’s intermittent passage to death. The western is a portal from which Jarmusch develops metaphors closer to the umbra of living than to the relief of death. For its obscurity, it must stray from the didactic and sacrifice crucial parcels of character development for preventable symbolisms, like the repeated mention of tobacco or the bluntly mentioned religious icon. The film is an invertebrate composition of symbolisms but it is meant to be so.
It’s like the initial metaphor by the train-fireman “doesn’t this remind you of when you are in a boat and then the water is not dissimilar to the landscape above, and then you ask yourself why is it that the landscape is moving but the boat is still?” The opening sequence is a preface to the final scene of the film. The river passes underneath the dory while the body remains and the sky moves. Nevertheless, the ubiquitous symbolisms are reprieved by the perplexing gnomic speech of the Indian. Jim Jarmusch disarms the main character of any possible control of his life. Life for William Blake was spent in stasis below a passing sky. If the film is to represent an aspect of life, at the conclusion of it you must feel exhausted, your mind must throb and you ought to feel a total release of tension now that the movie, like life, is over.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Les Diabolique (1955)
Two women, a wife and a mistress, plot a murder against their odious man.
The plot becomes the revelation of the perfect murder ploy. The conclusion of the perfect plan is forborne that its conclusion infiltrates the mind of the concerned viewer. The suspense story is punctuated by inexplicable supernatural factor. A body returnsfrom the death? The possibility of it, as absurd as it may sound, rings a baneful tone in the suspicious mind of the viewer.
H.G. Clouzot installs the characters in vulnerable positions to expose their true colors when a counterpart missteps. The five adults live at the expense of this residue after the fall. All of the characters suffer against their will in order to achieve a greater reward. Every soul inferior to the prefect Mr. Delasalle (Paul Meurisse) is lambasted and so reminded of their inferiority. The two male teachers bear the callousness of the school prefect, while the wife and lover of this depraved man withstand the most repugnant and overt of physical and verbal abuses. Not to mention the incorrigible brood immured in a dilapidating school that serves spoiled fish for dinner and shelters a symbolic sludgy recreational pool.
The sympathy propelled by the gyrating plot leans towards the wife. The dark countenance of Christina (Vera Clouzot) permits the express contribution of emotions to Clouzot’s (her husband) favorite cinematic syntax, the close-up. Each close-up enhances the darkening story plot. The black-and-white format tolerates the covering of the mystery prowling behind the shadows, doors, and hallways of the phantasmagorical school. Clouzot’s executions of such thrilling devices spar against our logic with every passing minute and every skipped beat of Christina’s heart.
Reinvigorated by the close-ups, the visual language gains a distinct punctuation. The meticulous shots of raised eye-brows, sheathed hands in gloves, and moving doors, muddle judgment until the impacting revelation of the climax. The film’s conclusion is not hard to surmise. Like the redolence of a long marinated dish, it is not the anticipation but the touch before delivery that makes the preparations worth the while. The film “Les Diaboliques” brews sequences of spectacular tension to resolve in of one of the few well-crafted murders ever witnessed on the movie screen.
It is subtle, it’s deadly and it targets the victim’s weakest point. The accelerating beat of the heart is juxtaposed to rate of the suspense. The pace of the film is measured according to the pulsation of the weakening heart. I don’t know if it is Christina’s heart amplifying the tension or if the suspense is increasing despite the weakening heart. What I know is that the finale dwarves most other finales, except perhaps Sixth Sense and Hitchock’s Psycho. Clouzot, the contemporary opposite of Hitchcock himself, twists the plot one more time to reveal a scene that causes stupor. Buried by the simplicity, modesty and the mundane make-up required, the scene could not impress a modern day toddler. Yet it runs to the gamut of gut emotions just like any of the modern horror movies suffused in gore and mutilation, i.e. Saw quadrilogy and the Hostel franchise.
The pace at which Clouzot turns the screw in this suspense can asphyxiate the patience of the modern viewer. Legions of mediocre films pretending to replicate the mastery of this piece have corrupted the ability to savor the richness in the delivery of suspense. Rather than utilizing the industry’s ample supply of creative oxygen, the mediocre attempts to greatness by imitation result in the attrition of a filmic signpost.
The plot becomes the revelation of the perfect murder ploy. The conclusion of the perfect plan is forborne that its conclusion infiltrates the mind of the concerned viewer. The suspense story is punctuated by inexplicable supernatural factor. A body returnsfrom the death? The possibility of it, as absurd as it may sound, rings a baneful tone in the suspicious mind of the viewer.
H.G. Clouzot installs the characters in vulnerable positions to expose their true colors when a counterpart missteps. The five adults live at the expense of this residue after the fall. All of the characters suffer against their will in order to achieve a greater reward. Every soul inferior to the prefect Mr. Delasalle (Paul Meurisse) is lambasted and so reminded of their inferiority. The two male teachers bear the callousness of the school prefect, while the wife and lover of this depraved man withstand the most repugnant and overt of physical and verbal abuses. Not to mention the incorrigible brood immured in a dilapidating school that serves spoiled fish for dinner and shelters a symbolic sludgy recreational pool.
The sympathy propelled by the gyrating plot leans towards the wife. The dark countenance of Christina (Vera Clouzot) permits the express contribution of emotions to Clouzot’s (her husband) favorite cinematic syntax, the close-up. Each close-up enhances the darkening story plot. The black-and-white format tolerates the covering of the mystery prowling behind the shadows, doors, and hallways of the phantasmagorical school. Clouzot’s executions of such thrilling devices spar against our logic with every passing minute and every skipped beat of Christina’s heart.
Reinvigorated by the close-ups, the visual language gains a distinct punctuation. The meticulous shots of raised eye-brows, sheathed hands in gloves, and moving doors, muddle judgment until the impacting revelation of the climax. The film’s conclusion is not hard to surmise. Like the redolence of a long marinated dish, it is not the anticipation but the touch before delivery that makes the preparations worth the while. The film “Les Diaboliques” brews sequences of spectacular tension to resolve in of one of the few well-crafted murders ever witnessed on the movie screen.
It is subtle, it’s deadly and it targets the victim’s weakest point. The accelerating beat of the heart is juxtaposed to rate of the suspense. The pace of the film is measured according to the pulsation of the weakening heart. I don’t know if it is Christina’s heart amplifying the tension or if the suspense is increasing despite the weakening heart. What I know is that the finale dwarves most other finales, except perhaps Sixth Sense and Hitchock’s Psycho. Clouzot, the contemporary opposite of Hitchcock himself, twists the plot one more time to reveal a scene that causes stupor. Buried by the simplicity, modesty and the mundane make-up required, the scene could not impress a modern day toddler. Yet it runs to the gamut of gut emotions just like any of the modern horror movies suffused in gore and mutilation, i.e. Saw quadrilogy and the Hostel franchise.
The pace at which Clouzot turns the screw in this suspense can asphyxiate the patience of the modern viewer. Legions of mediocre films pretending to replicate the mastery of this piece have corrupted the ability to savor the richness in the delivery of suspense. Rather than utilizing the industry’s ample supply of creative oxygen, the mediocre attempts to greatness by imitation result in the attrition of a filmic signpost.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Kite Runner
Kite Runner.
The story is a fascinating web of factors extrapolated from the majestic book by the same name. But for an unknown, outlandish factor, the film failed to engross me. I am a detractor of critics who rank books higher than their filmic adaptation. One has to be reasonable with Marc Foster’s Kite Runner. Besides from the obvious story board cropped from the book, both modes of art, literature and film, desire to transmit the situation in Afghanistan by depicting the moral decay and the abysmal tragedy the country has long been peppered with by the Taliban since the Soviet invasion.
I will spare you my opinion on the disconnected intercalation of flashbacks. I can forfeit my distaste for those unlinked lapses for the sake of the well-constructed story-telling. A part from the story, the salient aspect of the movie was the acute sense of cultural disparity. There are particularly three scenes in which the cultural difference can be savored.
As the story unfolds, we witness Baba(Homayoun Ershadi), the father, fall from grace. The transition is almost immediate. Going from a high intellectual respectability to a stereotypical gas-station manager, Baba’s pride must be bruised. But unaffected by the traitorous nature of political affairs, he managed to retain a modest life in the United States as a gas-station manager. Even as he plummets to death, he marries off his son, the frail Amir (Khalid Abdalla), to a good woman of honorable background. Baba’s influence on the story is only measured by his effect on his son, Amir. The movie’s climax buds from the hunting memory of a father, who, even if not wearing the jewel-laden watch, preserves the poise, presence, and honor to continue facing life’s challenges.
The cultural discrepancies are well emphasized. The most permanent of them is the blurry figure of the loitering mother walking yards behind the couple, Amir and Soraya. While Soraya(Atossa Leoni) reveals a dark secret from her past that could ruin the arranged marriage, her mother paces behind them watching discretely their every move. Marc Foster, the director, captures the essence of a culture that, to an untrained mind, appears to be eons from the habitual elopement in American society.
In yet a third scene, towards the end of the film when the family is having dinner, the General – as a result of his social standing – questions Amir about the boy’s religious affiliation and demands Amir for a proper answer to the hypothetical queries of friends. Amir, instead of bending over to the general in his usual gentle demeanor, indicates to the general what is to be said. Amir bares the truth, which is worse than any lie. Amir humbles the General in the most affable and delicate of ways. It is here where the stretch of the father’s influence finally reaches Amir’s ears. One most stand for one’s self.
And here, possibly the most important of all cultural disparities is underlined. For people like Amir, who have grown and nurtured to revere the name of the forefathers, living up to the memory of the death is often the sole purpose of one’s life. One is always the son/daughter of someone else in Islamic culture, whereas in the United States, everybody is nobody until they make a name for themselves. Although both ideologies target the same standard, to maximize the individual’s potential, the means to that end see different landscapes.
Landscapes are a minor character in the film. Nonetheless, they conceal a greater deal than they reveal. Contrasting the vibrant colors of the Californian landscape at the end of the film with the initial dry, ancient and colorless look of Kabul, the film closes the circle of atonement that surrounding the story with a touch of hope. The lopsided smile of a convalescing young Shorab(Ali Danish Bakhtyari) serves as a harbinger of change. It opens the door for Amir to yell “For you, a thousand times over” and with the pronunciation he clears his past pains sprinting, with the lethargic athleticism of a writer, to run the kite.
I must add that visually, the marvel of the film lies in the effects -- sound and visual -- of the actual kite runs. The extras involved in these sequences are so believable, or adept, that if you have ever flown a kite you will find your hand circling just as theirs. By the end of the day, the film is a forgettable representation of an unforgettable story. They don’t cancel each other out.
The story is a fascinating web of factors extrapolated from the majestic book by the same name. But for an unknown, outlandish factor, the film failed to engross me. I am a detractor of critics who rank books higher than their filmic adaptation. One has to be reasonable with Marc Foster’s Kite Runner. Besides from the obvious story board cropped from the book, both modes of art, literature and film, desire to transmit the situation in Afghanistan by depicting the moral decay and the abysmal tragedy the country has long been peppered with by the Taliban since the Soviet invasion.
I will spare you my opinion on the disconnected intercalation of flashbacks. I can forfeit my distaste for those unlinked lapses for the sake of the well-constructed story-telling. A part from the story, the salient aspect of the movie was the acute sense of cultural disparity. There are particularly three scenes in which the cultural difference can be savored.
As the story unfolds, we witness Baba(Homayoun Ershadi), the father, fall from grace. The transition is almost immediate. Going from a high intellectual respectability to a stereotypical gas-station manager, Baba’s pride must be bruised. But unaffected by the traitorous nature of political affairs, he managed to retain a modest life in the United States as a gas-station manager. Even as he plummets to death, he marries off his son, the frail Amir (Khalid Abdalla), to a good woman of honorable background. Baba’s influence on the story is only measured by his effect on his son, Amir. The movie’s climax buds from the hunting memory of a father, who, even if not wearing the jewel-laden watch, preserves the poise, presence, and honor to continue facing life’s challenges.
The cultural discrepancies are well emphasized. The most permanent of them is the blurry figure of the loitering mother walking yards behind the couple, Amir and Soraya. While Soraya(Atossa Leoni) reveals a dark secret from her past that could ruin the arranged marriage, her mother paces behind them watching discretely their every move. Marc Foster, the director, captures the essence of a culture that, to an untrained mind, appears to be eons from the habitual elopement in American society.
In yet a third scene, towards the end of the film when the family is having dinner, the General – as a result of his social standing – questions Amir about the boy’s religious affiliation and demands Amir for a proper answer to the hypothetical queries of friends. Amir, instead of bending over to the general in his usual gentle demeanor, indicates to the general what is to be said. Amir bares the truth, which is worse than any lie. Amir humbles the General in the most affable and delicate of ways. It is here where the stretch of the father’s influence finally reaches Amir’s ears. One most stand for one’s self.
And here, possibly the most important of all cultural disparities is underlined. For people like Amir, who have grown and nurtured to revere the name of the forefathers, living up to the memory of the death is often the sole purpose of one’s life. One is always the son/daughter of someone else in Islamic culture, whereas in the United States, everybody is nobody until they make a name for themselves. Although both ideologies target the same standard, to maximize the individual’s potential, the means to that end see different landscapes.
Landscapes are a minor character in the film. Nonetheless, they conceal a greater deal than they reveal. Contrasting the vibrant colors of the Californian landscape at the end of the film with the initial dry, ancient and colorless look of Kabul, the film closes the circle of atonement that surrounding the story with a touch of hope. The lopsided smile of a convalescing young Shorab(Ali Danish Bakhtyari) serves as a harbinger of change. It opens the door for Amir to yell “For you, a thousand times over” and with the pronunciation he clears his past pains sprinting, with the lethargic athleticism of a writer, to run the kite.
I must add that visually, the marvel of the film lies in the effects -- sound and visual -- of the actual kite runs. The extras involved in these sequences are so believable, or adept, that if you have ever flown a kite you will find your hand circling just as theirs. By the end of the day, the film is a forgettable representation of an unforgettable story. They don’t cancel each other out.
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