co_oldman's Reviews

Sweet Movie (1974)

10/10

4 August 2017

It should surprise no one who has seen Sweet Movie that the film divides opinion. Precisely when the viewer's delight at the film's irreverent humour and carnivalesque whimsy threatens to overcome his sense of revulsion he is besieged with scenes of disgusting debauchery or stock footage of mass graves. The entire film is a deliberate affront to or subversion of cinematic conventions and societal norms. Familiar images, symbols, and scenes are smeared with excrement or defiled with incongruous sexual and violent overtones. An advertisement for chocolate becomes pornography, lovemaking an opportunity for murder, and the sacred blasphemous.

The brilliance of Sweet Movie lies in its unrestrained creativity and its ability to induce paroxysms of laughter. It is the perfect antidote to the solemnity, melodrama, and mawkishness of popular cinema. Few directors possess the genius to conjure up a sugar boat or chocolate bath and even fewer the effrontery to incorporate these images into a film, particularly in the peculiar and outrageous manner that Makavajev does. Sweet Movie was destined to be censored or banned from the moment its conceit gave birth to a film. Indeed, Polish authorities found Anna Prucnal's (Anna Planeta) participation in the film so objectionable that they prohibited her from entering her country of birth for several years! The film centers around a few set pieces whose utter originality and depravity make them unforgettable. To avoid revealing too much about the film, I shall discuss one. The scene of the feasting orgy, at which the actress Carole Laure was so appalled she quit the production, is one of the most disgusting in the history of cinema. I consider this an achievement. The food and drink consumed at a feast is summarily expelled, vomited, or excreted at, on, or nearby the feasting table. A second childishness inexplicably possesses the revelers leading to incontinence, babbling, and egregious misbehaviour. Each excess is mimicked or met with an even greater one. The scene culminates in a few miscreants depositing their own faeces on platters and parading them around the warehouse to the merriment of all present. Sweet Movie is thus a film one can taste, smell, and feel. The film is besides so well-seen that the viewer, for better or for worse, cannot un-see it.

Sweet Movie is not merely the expression of a chaotic explosion of creativity devoid of any meaning. Makavajev has messages for the viewer notwithstanding his extremely oblique way of communicating them. Capitalism, supposedly a superior economic system to communism, is represented as equally decadent and depraved, no less violent or deadly. The film is also an ironic indictment of the excesses of the free love movement, the feasting orgy a manifestation of the most hyperbolic and grotesque caricatures of its members. Our visceral shock at their licentious and intemperate behaviour exposes our moral hypocrisy for our shock is scarcely greater when presented with evidence of mass murder. Deplorable conduct and outright criminality, moreover, when presented in a pleasant manner, by way of a beauty pageant, for instance, or perpetrated by a person whom society has arbitrarily judged as reputable, such as an extremely wealthy man, is met with disbelief or entirely excused.

Sweet Movie dredges up parts of our psyche that we wish we didn't have or pretend we don't and unflinchingly, even joyously, captures them on film. If the resulting concoction is sweet, it is cloying and disgusting. I consider it a masterpiece, a must-see for fans of art cinema and the bizarre.

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Rat Life and Diet in North America (1968)

10/10

Canada, a Haven for Rats

3 March 2017

Warning: Spoilers

Joyce Wieland, with the title of her film, which calls to mind an insipid nature documentary, almost discourages people from watching it as if, upon seeing it in its entirety, authorities might regard her as a person of interest. Indeed, the protagonists, identified as "rats", are in fact pet gerbils, the idea of the former being far more repulsive than that of the latter. Rat Life and Diet in North America offers a subversive antidote to the poison of war, one that moves and amuses through its masterful use of irony and allegory, to the select few who look past its deceptive title.

Made during the height of antipathy to the Vietnam war, Rat Life tells the story of a few political prisoners, Vietnam war deserters by implication, who successfully escape to Canada. Upon arriving, these "rats" lead an idyllic life in harmony with nature. Throughout their imprisonment, they were kept under constant watch by cats who taunt them and glare at them menacingly. They come under fire during their escape, taking refuge under a tattered American flag.

Rat Life excels in its evocation or expression of internal conflicts, contradictions, and paradoxes. The film's use of humour, deliberately shoddy production values, and light-hearted tone, reinforced by the use of animals, particularly rats, is incongruous with its exalted themes. Albeit hilarious, the bathetic mocking of the film's heroes forces the viewer to reflect on her actions and attitudes by asking herself whether she, a human, is morally superior to the lowly rat.

The film's imagery engenders conflicting emotions. The rats are at once revolting and adorable, tragic and hilarious, and heroic and meek. In particular, the sight of them scurrying across a millionaire's dining table, gnawing at the fine food on offer, defecating on the table, is captivating, evoking horror in equal measure to delight. The obtrusive, visceral score, which ranges from fairground to free jazz to Beach-Boys-plus-bees, echoes the extremes of emotion that the fugitives experience. The clamour serves to muffle the incessant drums of war.

Wieland likely did not harbour any grand aspirations in her production of Rat Life. Yet the best films need not proclaim their virtues because they speak for themselves. Rat Life is thus a strident whisper that rewards anyone with an open ear that is willing to listen closely.

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Black River (1957)

9/10

I Prefer My Rivers Black

20 February 2017

No one is innocent in the post-war Japan depicted in Masaki Kobayashi's Black River. The film focuses on a love triangle: the straight-laced bookseller Nishida and Yakuza gangbanger Joe compete for the affections of the bourgeois local girl Shizuko. The American military base looms large in the film but the action takes place outside of it, mostly in a nearby shantytown. Although he regards the American presence as pernicious, Kobayashi is clear as to where responsibility rests for immoral behaviour and deficiencies in character, namely, the individual and society as a whole.

Kobayashi challenges preconceived notions as to whether people of a certain class are virtuous or vicious. Appearances may reinforce the moral decay of a character, such as the rotten teeth of the unscrupulous landlord, or conceal it in the case of the beautiful and virginal Shizuko. In a disturbing scene, not one tenant is willing to donate blood to a man who is critically ill--not even his own wife. Nishida at least deigns to admit that, in spite of having the correct blood type, he does not want to donate his blood. He may feel that the man, apparently less educated and of a lower class than him, is unworthy of his blood. However, his refusal is as callous and cowardly as that of the other tenants, exposing his apparent nobility as a mere façade.

Black River exhibits the characteristic influence of film noir whose origin is American popular culture. Just as the presence of the American military corrupts Japanese society in the film, American culture has, as it were, corrupted Black River. Kobayashi paints in black and white a quasi-dystopian picture of a society that, having abandoned its principles, has descended into paranoia and mutual sabotage. The stylized and disinterested depictions of characters betray a moral ambivalence to their actions. Sultry jazz music, a distinctly American genre, provides the score of the film. Like the cinematography, its expression suggests that sordid deeds, places, and people are at hand.

In general, Kobayashi juggles the large cast of characters skillfully. However, their number can distract from the film's main plot about the love triangle, leading to a loss of focus and making it difficult to identify with any one character. Humour often shines through the dark subject matter, notably in a quarrel about emptying outhouses and the use of communal space. Like most film noir, Black River occasionally wavers into campiness and mannerism.

Kobayashi crafts a powerful ending to commit the metaphorical assassination of Shizuko's character. Once again, the Americans act as an accomplice but crucially not as the malefactor, the person ultimately responsible. Perhaps for the first time in the film, a character reflects on her own behaviour and is profoundly disgusted. Contemporary viewers will likely, as I did, have more sympathy for some characters and forgive them in light of the ordeals they have experienced or the circumstances in which they live. Nonetheless, Kobayashi makes a powerful argument, not to mention an excellent film that will appeal to fans of post-war cinema, film noir, and Japanese culture.

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The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964)

8/10

An Umbrella for Your Thoughts

16 February 2017

Shot on location in Cherbourg in northwestern France, the Umbrellas of Cherbourg is a tale, told through sung dialogue, of young love and separation. Winner of the 1964 Palme d'Or and favourite film of La La Land director Damien Chazelle, it has come to be regarded as a classic. The strengths of the film are plain to see but so are its flaws, notably a surfeit of sentimentality and its elementary story.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is atavastic even for a film released in the 1960s. Its social conservatism and depoliticization stand in marked contrast, for instance, to films of the French New Wave. Set in the present, the film offers no criticism of modern life and reinforces traditional gender roles. The film interprets the actions of characters solely through the lens of old-fashioned sexual mores with the result that the characters' lives follow a predetermined course that is arbitrarily restrictive and unrealistic. Indeed, the plot is so simple and trite as to resemble a fairy tale. The ending departs from the formula slightly but is nonetheless predictable. Jacques Demy probably had every intention of making an uncomplicated, old-fashioned musical but intentions are no excuse for weak storytelling.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is a veritable ode to colour. Almost every shot is awash with an array of luridly bright colours both contrasting and complementary. These colours amplify the intense emotions of the characters and reinforce the cheerful, light-hearted tone of the film. A skyward tracking shot of a blue sky dotted with clouds along a street lined with blossoming planes is particularly breathtaking, albeit comparatively restrained in its use of colour. Contemporary directors take the widespread availability and low cost of colour film for granted by overusing colour combinations, composing monochromatic shots, or simply paying little heed to how they use colour in their films. Demy, on the other hand, provides an extravagant feast for the eyes that will leave the viewer feeling satisfied and delighted, if perhaps a little bloated.

The actors are suitably charming and attractive like almost everything in this film. Catherine Deneuve throws herself into the role of Geneviève which she credits for making her a star. She succeeds in bringing a rigidly stereotyped character to life, for instance, through her strategically-inserted bouts of emotion. Nino Castelnuovo shines as the jovial and amorous mechanic. Encumbered by the unimaginative writing, he is less persuasive when emulating the malaise Guy experiences upon returning from military service. The primary consideration in casting was evidently not singing ability. To be sure, Deneuve and Castelnuovo are capable singers in spite of having thin voices. Deneuve in particular is successful at conveying a range of emotions with her voice.

Demy elects to have the actors sing every line of dialogue as opposed to having songs interspersed with ordinary dialogue. Sung dialogue sounds like a song but lacks the characteristic structure, such as the reiteration of certain sections, that can make a song catchy and appealing. Demy succeeds nonetheless in crafting a screenplay with rhythmic dialogue that effectively communicates the film's simple story. Like the film, the jazz-hued score, with its soaring strings and pleasant melodies, is appropriately maudlin.

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg is a delightful but excessively sweet confection, replete with je'taimes and mon amours, laughter and weeping, vivid and kaleidoscopic colours, and charming and beautiful people. Its undeniable charms will take hold of but not transport you.

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Psycho (1960)

10/10

Lock Them Bathroom Doors, Kids

8 February 2017

Warning: Spoilers

Psycho, one of the best horror films of all time, has become irretrievably embedded in popular consciousness. Few are unaware of the iconic shower scene and the shrill string instrumentation that accompanies it, whether they have seen the film or not. The production values are, without exception, exemplary, even though the film was made on a comparatively small budget and largely with a television crew.

The expressive and natural performance of Anthony Perkins in the role of Norman Bates launched his career and dogged him for the rest of it on account of his subsequent typecasting. Janet Leigh as Marion Crane convincingly betrays an increasing sense of alarm at her immoral behaviour and her helplessness at preventing it. Bernard Hermann's score, which adds tension throughout the film, even to seemingly innocuous scenes, has been rightly singled out for praise, not least from the director himself. I doubt whether a better reproduction of the sound of stabbing someone with string instruments is possible. The music for the main credits sets the tone for the film, foreshadowing the drama, danger, and violence that punctuates it.

The cinematographer uses black and white film to its full advantage. The result is, in my opinion, as impressive as the film's score. The lack of colour robs the film of vitality and warmth, creating a sense of dread in the viewer. Shadows and darkness provide cover for illicit deeds or an elegant way of framing images. In a memorable scene, the long shadow of various birds of prey makes them appear alive and even more frightening, as if they were ready to attack the character or, by extension, the viewer who shares her perspective.

The shower scene deserves a special mention. The scene occurs in the middle of the film, at a point when viewers have become absorbed in the story, forgetting, if only slightly, that what they are watching isn't real. Shooting the scene from the perspective of the killer was a stroke of genius. A tranquil scene of a woman enjoying a warm shower greets the viewer. The woman even begins to hum jauntily. Immediately the viewer feels as if he shouldn't be spying on this woman, much less pulling back the shower curtain. Soon they see themselves stabbing her relentlessly and viciously. Hitchcock grants the viewer no respite as the murder is shown from a multitude of angles. The jarring montage of violent images frightens and disturbs. Indeed, one would be forgiven for looking around the room afterwards to see whether there are any murderers lurking in the shadows. The dissonant strings, at once, accentuate the helpless cries of the woman and the violent rage of the killer. The scene concludes with a close up of the lifeless eye of the woman. The eye may signify the viewer's vicarious participation in the murder through watching it, confronting him with his perverse enjoyment of the gruesome scene.

Psycho does have its flaws. The exposition at the end of the film is superfluous as the climactic scene provides the same information, obviating the awkward insertion of an ad hoc monologue. The scene in which a character falls down stairs, which, to be sure, would have thrilled contemporary audiences with its groundbreaking special effects, has not aged well. The clumsy and conspicuous use of special effects shatters the illusion, reminding the viewer that he is watching a film. The deputy sheriff's lack of interest in investigating the theft of $40 000 beggars belief.

The virtually unrivalled excellence of the bulk of the film, reaching its apogee during the shower scene, transcends any residual imperfections. Psycho, through its elevation of the horror genre and its inspiration of subsequent generations of filmmakers and film enthusiasts, is surely deserving of its place in the canon of American cinema.

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Il posto (1961)

10/10

Love of Labour Lost

2 February 2017

As my German grandmother is fond of saying, "mit Arbeit versaut man sich das halbe Leben," which translates to "through work you ruin half your life". In Ermanno Olmi's masterpiece Il Posto, work is portrayed as a prison, an obstacle to romantic love or a disruption of the natural rhythm of life. To secure a job in a corporation for the rest of your life, then, is a life sentence. And yet the young man Domenico, with the encouragement of his parents, earnestly endeavours, even desires, to obtain such a job, to be wrested from the comfort of his childish existence and to enter into a wholly unfamiliar world.

The director depicts the violence of the transition from childhood to adulthood and from simple small town life to the organized chaos of the city with great subtlety. His use of non-professional actors adds to the film's realism: Sandro Panseri effortlessly channels Domenico's discomfort and awkwardness owing to his unfamiliar surroundings and new experiences because starring in a film for the first time must have had the same effect on the actor. The attraction between Domenico and Antonietta feels genuine as does the intimacy of their interactions. A scene in which Domenico unsuccessfully attempts to suppress a smile upon seeing Antonietta is particularly memorable and affecting.

The outstanding sound design and cinematography reinforce the themes of the film without attracting unwarranted attention. The obtrusive cacophony of incessant traffic and construction reflects and enhances the anxiety of Domenico and Antonietta but also grants them the anonymity through which they can develop their attraction to each other. By way of contrast, the monastic silence of the office represents the stultification of youthful energy and personal expression. The director uses long shots to convey the isolation and vulnerability of Domenico. Hand-held shots give the viewer the feeling of being in the midst of a throng of people. The black and white photography is starkly beautiful.

Although Olmi's vision of modern life is bleak, he enlivens the film with humour. In one scene Domenico's father, a reluctant participant in a ploy to allow his son to go out one night, pretends to retire for the night only to reemerge from his bedroom seconds later shaking his head. The workers at the corporation appear to be employed for no other reason than to pass the time as they sit in their desks. One rolls a cigarette unhurriedly, another cleans out a drawer in his desk, and a third works on a manuscript for a novel, all in plain view of their supervisor. The perspective of the film shifts here to portray the lives of the workers individually inside of their own homes. Their lack of agency at work is mirrored at home where they have to endure vexatious landlords because they do not earn enough to purchase a property.

By the end of the film, it becomes clear that the achievement of obtaining a job for life is at best bittersweet, an escape from a miserable life of penury at the expense of happiness and fulfillment. Notwithstanding that one might be nostalgic for an era where permanent, lifelong positions were abundant, Il Posto resonates with the viewer of today, inasmuch as capitalism and alienated labour, along with their attendant harms, remain as prevalent as ever.

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Wiener-Dog (2016)

8/10

We Have a Wiener

29 January 2017

Anyone who has previously seen a portmanteau film and experienced the almost inevitable disappointment in spite of the involvement of an accomplished director(s) would be doing themselves a disservice by ignoring Wiener-Dog. Okay, so it's not a masterpiece but three out of the four films within the film are good. The lone hold out is at least an entertaining diversion.

This being a black comedy, I might as well begin with the bad, namely the story about a washed up and weary professor at a film school. I suppose it's ironic to write a poorly written screenplay about a professor who himself writes such screenplays and is powerless to prevent his students from doing the same. The whole segment is a bit too meta. One wonder's whether Danny DeVito bafflement as to why he is appearing in this film accounts for some of the professor's evident weariness. Always a supporting cast member, the dachshund almost disappears in this segment, only to deliver the ad hoc conclusion, one which, to be sure, is an amusing and cathartic way of disposing of a half-baked idea.

Ellen Burstyn is, as ever, excellent, hilarious as the aloof and world- weary grandmother. Apart from relationships to her granddaughter and caretaker that are sustained by monetary payments, her sole companion is her dachshund, whom she has named Cancer, a delightfully unsuitable name for a dog in an era where euphemism and smarm reigns supreme. Todd Solondz devises an ingenious way of confronting Nana with her regrets regarding how she has treated the people who were close to her throughout her life. Since the leap from director to visual artist is not great, is Solondz, in part, poking fun at himself with his caricature of a contemporary visual artist?

Not without its appeal, the trope of an uncommonly attractive woman who, on account of her hopeless awkwardness, struggles to attract weird, greasy dudes always struck me as overly sentimental, the realization of a particularly improbable fantasy. Although it touches on loss and drug addiction, this segment is neither particularly black nor comedic. The director's portrayal of a couple, both of whom have Down syndrome, is uncharacteristically sensitive. A small gesture that concludes the story leaves little doubt as to whether its positive tenor is intentional.

My favourite of the four films is the first, which is about a father who buys his son a dachshund to cheer him up, the latter having recently recovered from cancer. When put that way, it almost sounds schmaltzy. The parents lack of interest in training the dog ensures that the situation gets ugly quickly. Remi, the son, loves the dog unconditionally but his parents can't look past its behaviour, in particular its penchant for defecating in the house. While the parents' desire to be honest with their son is noble, Remi has an amusing habit of interpreting their rationalizations in the most morbid light. The Islamophobia of the mother seems timely and the director shows how her prejudice can be passed on to her son through a seemingly innocent conversation. The French folk song "Au clair de la lune" provides effective contrast or enhancement to a couple of noteworthy scenes.

I appreciate that it can be difficult to obtain funding for producing independent films but the amount of product placement in Wiener-Dog is regrettable. I expect many viewers will find the ending offensive but it does constitute a definitive end to a series of narratives that were only connected by a single element. The director achieves a memorable if not particularly adroit subversion of cinematic (and societal) conventions.

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Forbidden Planet (1956)

6/10

In the Future There Are No Emotions

26 January 2017

While doubtless a highly original and seminal science fiction film, it's hard to overlook Forbidden Planet's flaws in acting and direction. The final version of the film is reportedly a rough cut and it shows. Towards the end of the film some obvious jump cuts were apparently deemed satisfactory edits. I also can't fathom how Fred Wilcox, an experienced director of studio films, was satisfied with the acting in the film. The performances are uniformly wooden and indifferent. Even for a Hollywood film, the nonchalance with which the characters greet the death of someone is remarkable. I guess in the future humans have advanced to a point where they don't cry.

Perhaps the only exception is the histrionic portrayal of Altaira, characteristic of films from this era. She needs to emote to provide opportunities for male cast members to rescue her heroically or grope her. And yet where a display of intense of emotion might be warranted, it is absent. The stoicism of the men in the film seems eventually to take hold of her for no apparent reason. Her character is so rigidly stereotyped as to have no personality. Her presence seems to serve no other purpose than to inflame the passions of male viewers.

To its credit, Forbidden Planet seems to be the inspiration for many tropes that were used extensively in later sci fi films and televisions shows, from the ability to travel at speeds faster than the speed of light to a plot focusing on the suspicious sole inhabitants of a remote planet. At the same, it is for this reason precisely that fans of sci fi—and films in general—will have guessed how the film plays out before the first act has even concluded. The ending nonetheless manages to feel tacked on and awkward. Notwithstanding some erudite allusions to Greek mythology and an obvious allegory of the dangers of nuclear warfare, the screenplay is on par with a decent but not great episode of the original Star Trek series, weakened, for instance, in its attempt to court viewers with some light comic relief provided by the ship's cook.

The highlights are the set design, special effects, and, in particular, the early electronic musical score from Bebe and Louis Barron, which is absolutely first rate. But, as the cliché goes, you can't build a great building on a weak foundation. In this respect, Forbidden Planet is like its sets, which look pretty but would probably break if someone leant on them. Ultimately Forbidden Planet is worth a gander if you love sci fi. Otherwise you can skip it.

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