I've had a busy week...

The Godfather

Francis Ford Coppola, 

1972

The Godfather, Part II

Francis Ford Coppola, 1974

Sweet Movie

Dusan Makavejev, 1974

The Osterman Weekend

Sam Peckinpah, 1983

Alive

Frank Marshall, 1993

The Three Faces of Eve

The 1957 film The Three Faces of Eve, directed by Nunnally Johnson, is a relatively good film that demonstrates a degree of sensitivity toward the mentally ill not necessarily common in Hollywood. Joanne Woodward performs magnificently, but I found her more convincing as the psychiatrist in another, more powerful film about multiple personality disorder: Sybil, the 1976 TV movie starring Sally Field in an absolutely stunning performance. The difference in time periods can perhaps excuse the rather shallow, sensationalistic portrayal in Eve, whose personalities are caricatures of deviance or abnormality - except, of course, Jane, the personality that wins out in the end. The manner in which the movement between personalities is depicted is similarly unconvincing. Furthermore, the incident of rupture from Eve's childhood is revealed and wiped away rather quickly in the film, thereby failing to portray the psychological intensity of that defining moment. 

The most interesting moment of the film is perhaps the interaction between Eve Black and Ralph, Eve White's husband. He has just scolded his timid wife, only to face her "alter-ego" in full va-va-voom mode, attempting to seduce and control him as his own wife never had. What makes this such a thought-provoking sequence is its relevance for the general portrayal (and understanding?) of the power dynamics and personality performance between men and women who are romantically or sexually involved. At first, Ralph is threatened and angered by this forward, barely-clothed woman whose make-up nearly hides her other personality; however, he is soon drawn to her, and consents to buy her things in order to bring her home - and to his bed. Of course, the control dynamic remains as it was as soon as they are home again. This instance also relates to an interesting aspect of the film, in that for most of its duration, as the audience is allowed to see, Eve's personality disorder seems to be perhaps an expression of repressed disappointment and boredom in the face of her controlling husband and banal domesticity. A risky move, to be sure.

WR: Mysteries of the Organism

The October, 1971 film WR: Mysteries of the Organism by Yugoslavian director Dusan Makavejev, borrows from Eisenstein's technique to create a film part documentary, part fiction - that is, follows in the footsteps of his early-twentieth-century Soviet filmmakers, with an added degree of honesty. Each is staged; each is propaganda; yet WR has the audacity and recognizes the benefit to increased forthrightness with the viewer. Unlike Godard's films of the era (as Jonathan Rosenbaum mentions in his essay), Makavejev's polemic admits to being just that - and transcends. Beautifully, I might add. I loved the film, and I felt challenged by it, and uncomfortable, and giddy, and moved. I'd like to read more about Wilhelm Reich and see more of Makavejev's films - and perhaps these are the signs of a certain kind of cinematic success: desire for more, questions left excitingly unanswered, introduced like opened doors, and the recognition that a new language and more time are required for the real exploration of such a film. 

Mr. Death

Errol Morris' documentary of 1999, Mr. Death, is subtitled The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leuchter, Jr. This subtitle has a great degree of significance; the film isn't truly about Leuchter's apparent "calling" as an "execution expert" or his strangeness, his queer fascination with the means of execution and the tale of a unique man; rather, it is the chronicle of an ordinary man, caught up in a familiar trap, and abandoned to oblivion. All those little additions to his name, the "A" and "Jr," the very length of the subtitle, these indicate the banality of the narration to follow - which isn't to say that the film is dull or boring, rather that its problems, motivations and subject are tragically mundane. Poor Fred. Not even Frederick. 

The film is lovely though not free of the rather "cute" touches that fill most of Morris' films. That the director of The Thin Blue Line and the First Person television series should allow, apparently relish, a ridiculously Midi soundtrack, and, just as in Fast Cheap and Out of Control, populate the film with useless little clips, is always a bit disappointing. The tale is there, the interviews are there; why is this preciousness necessary? Give the filmgoer a bit of credit.

Dog Day Afternoon

Sidney Lumet's 1975 Dog Day Afternoon provides a number of tremendous performances from the various actors, most notably a startlingly unwrinkled Al Pacino and the perhaps under-appreciated Chris Sarandon. One of the more moving moments in the film is exemplified by the look on Pacino's face and the proceeding change of general countenance when what Leon's saying - that he's terrified of Sonny, and doesn't want to be with him, and will become a woman without him - finally penetrates Sonny's wall of tension and violence and reaches understanding, and heartbreak. 

Afternoon refuses to make itself easily consumable for the viewer. What was Sonny's life like, how could he have maintained these two marriages and exploded into bank robbery, how and when did he discover his own homosexuality, how did the war effect him? What about Sal - clearly a product of Vietnam and a lacking education, why did the FBI kill him so immediately, so cleanly and easily, yet preserve Sonny? Why didn't Sonny and Sal commit suicide, when Sonny could clearly see what awaited him at the terminal? The film is two hours long, and takes place over a single afternoon and evening, yet it seems like the sped-up implosion of the little universe surrounding one man torn between his own various selves. Tragic. 

The Bridge on the River Kwai

David Lean's 1957 The Bridge on the River Kwai is a real masterpiece, an example of responsible filmmaking done with a true artistic sensibility and realized in a beautiful, beautiful cinematic work. Gush, gush, gush. I left the theater in a state of glee. All this, despite having fallen asleep twice during the first hour (I'd worked all day after about 5 hours of sleep) and failing to recognize the significance of so much of the film until having left the Forum. 

The film's irony works, I think, as a powerful anti-war message. The opening and closing images are of birds before a blue sky - perhaps of symbolic significance, but also allegorical in that the bridge does not fully exist at the beginning or the end of the film, and that nothing has changed - a few men, possibly great men, have died, but the war continues, the prisoners are shunted from labor camp to labor camp, things are built, other things are destroyed. Admit it. It's almost funny; it's "Madness" on a national scale, blindness beyond party or national lines, idiocy and obsession rewarded and punished by armies of men. 

Lawrence of Arabia

David Lean's 1962 film, Lawrence of Arabia, was an especially wonderful cinematic experience for me. Seeing one of the definitive epics on the big screen will surely stay with me for a long time. Whenever I've heard of a classic, or something described as one of the greatest, I build up an image in my mind of something dull, difficult, and tragic, an image always destroyed by the real. For example, I had no idea before reading it that Ulysses was a hilarious romp through the nastiest body parts and the most repressed animalistic desires, a difficult read without the pain of dullness. Lawrence of Arabia was similar for me in its many-splendored exploration of the ugliness within man, of something so unavoidable in the interaction between "power" and "man." I was immediately reminded of another great, great film, Elia Kazan's A Face in the Crowd, and a somewhat great film, P. T. Anderson's There Will Be Blood. Cinema is perhaps the best medium for the depiction of this particular aspect of humanity, of particular fascination for the western, imperially-minded artist. While these three films are the depiction of it, Apocalypse Now, for example, is the cinematic realization thereof. Stunning, massive, horrific and fantastic. Human corruption.

Of course, I can't help but make a few shallow remarks on the political difficulties of such a film. For example, Lawrence features not a single female character. I can recall two instances of any female presence: in the distance, black burkhas seated Indian-style on the cliffs, sounding the familiar war cry that Americans love to use to characterize the evil Arab; and, a murdered harem that moves El Orance to murder an injured train of Turks. And, can we apply a political reading to the film's overall plot? What are we to think of Lawrence's embrace of the so-called "Arab Revolt," its relationship to the colonial desires of the English and French politicians, and the Arabs' apparent worship of a white man in "black face"? For whatever reason, I resist reflection on such questions. 

Brief Encounter

David Lean's 1945 film Brief Encounter proves, again, to be a real masterpiece. The cinematography is clever without being cute; the intensity of the projection of Laura's subjectivity is accomplished smoothly and wonderfully with her narration and the overlay of images of her back as she reflects upon the unfolding scene, etc. The music is beautiful. The romance is palpable. The Englishness is ridiculous(ly realistic). We speculated on Celia Johnson's bird-like appearance, and the likelihood that she mainly performed in comedies or rarely at all - which seems to be, in fact, the case, according to the IMDb. Trevor Howard is amazingly gorgeous and suave. 

On this second viewing, I'm moved to reconsider my earlier interpretation of the film as a pure romance, heart-rending and sweet. The audience laughed at loud during the early moments of the film, which were indeed funny, though I kept thinking, "Can't they see that her heart is breaking?!" Their romance is indeed a bit banal and ridiculous - they "accomplish" so little, and her own fears that it was nothing, reflected in the title, seem indeed to be true. They are simply bored suburbanites in the midst of their routine who add the attraction of a whirlwind, illicit love affair to that same routine, with little change. Which isn't to discount the reality and passion of their love; the truth remains that in those days, saying "I love you" came before sex, quite the contrary today. 

The Omega Man

This 1971 adaptation of the Richard Matheson novella I Am Legend diverges greatly from the source. The 1964 version, The Last Man on Earth, starring Vincent Price, is, on the other hand, nearly a direct translation. And the earlier is definitely much better, despite its novelistic tendencies... The greatest change lies in the nature of the "plagued" citizens, who, rather than becoming vampires, are a race of people sensitive to the light and averse to the technological developments of modern man. Neville is no longer their enemy because he is human and food, but because he represents what the "Family" believes is the cause of their plight - progress. The Family also represent one of the film's greatest weaknesses in visual effectiveness and general lameness. 

The racial aspect is difficult to read; while Charlton Heston gets freaky with a hot black woman, she begins by calling him "the Man, literally" and "motha" and I believe I also heard the word "jive," never a good sign. Furthermore, she chooses to go white before the final rescue, in which Neville is left lying prone in a fountain, painfully obviously posed as the dying Christ. Earlier in the film, one of the surviving children asks Neville, "Are you God?" And he just looks at her and slowly turns away, not even denying it. Clearly, he IS the problem, not merely a survivor but a scientifically-minded antagonist to the cause of the albino people of the night. I fell asleep a couple of times. The couch was warm and soft... and the movie just wasn't that great.

Sins of the Fleshapoids, etc.

Every element of the three films featured on this DVD (Sins of the Fleshapoids, The Secret of Wendel Samson, and The Craven Sluck) was a complete surprise; I knew absolutely nothing about it, except that Netflix considered it a movie I would love. And I did. All three. I've since looked the Kuchar brothers up, finding the work absolutely divine, wondering: is there more that I can get my hands on? 

I'm not sure what to say; the three films are very different. The elements they share are an obviously-low budget, awkward/"bad" acting, script and plot, low-fi "special effects," and an interest in subversive sexuality. Sins was actually the least remarkable - though I must allow that it was the first of the three I watched, and was therefore a complete shock to my babied senses. My roommate and I were reminded of John Waters at times, as his films are also frequently interested in sex, drag, the disgusting, and apparently cheaply made. The envelope referred to the Kuchar brothers as the creators of "bargain basement cinema." If this is truly something beyond their films, I'm absolutely thrilled to have discovered it. I highly recommend... to some of my friends. 

Shoot the Piano Player

Francois Truffaut's 1960 Shoot the Piano Player is truly wonderful. The film inserts a degree of humanistic levity into the portrayal of rather heavy matters, without triteness or laughs - simply an honest, loving approach. Charles Azvenour is absolutely amazing, and the interior monologue is delicate and natural; how does Truffaut achieve this? The camera's constant self-consciousness, the constant presence of a milieu of references, and the persistent breath of a fresh breeze - really, how does he do it? I'm not even a particular fan of the director's work, yet there's truly something marvelous about this film's combined levity, movement and strength. Gush, gush, gush. 

As Sasha remarked, "They all end in the woods, in or near a cabin, but it works!" This is one of the effects, I believe, of a trope done well, of something familiar multiplied and enriched through some deeper exploration and conscious enjoyment or appreciation thereof. Why do they all end in the woods? I'm sure the greater response would have to do with the realization of true isolation as the result of being the outsider, the murderer, the petty thief; but maybe it's simply because there's something stunning about a woman's body rolling down a barren, snow-covered hill, or a man rapped in blankets aching for intimacy and warmth, or futilely moving figures against a pure  white backdrop. This film is so great because it refuses to give the easy or the typical difficult response. 

Don't Look Now

Nicholas Roeg's 1973 film Don't Look Now gives off a strong sensation of the eerie and the non-accidental; the story itself has its hiccups and inexplicable aspects, but it works, if only for the gloomy atmosphere of crumbling cathedrals, an ill-lit and murder-ridden Venice, and that bright red coat. Donald Sutherland is so under-appreciated - what an odd looking, fantastic guy. I found Julie Christie a bit grating at times, but I suppose that was at least partially intended. And I have to say, there's something so embarrassingly terrifying about a blind woman's cataract-eyes and an aging dwarf. Damn you, Nicholas Roeg. 

The form of the plot and its apparent priorities remind me of various of David Lynch's films, particularly Lost Highway, another film that appears to be about murder and terror, but is at heart the narrative of predicting one's own death as it approaches. David Eggars has a fascinating essay on the film, connecting it to Saul Bellow's early-twentieth-century story, "Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," frightening and misleading in its own way. One could almost draw a timeline from the story, to Roeg, to Lynch, in delineating a sort of history of the meeting of the prognostication of death with the realization of its personal meaning and the actual death itself. This may give much away about the film. But I promise it doesn't "ruin" it. I have to mention how beautiful the cinematography, setting, etc. all are - the film is visually stunning.

Three Days of the Condor

Sydney Pollack's 1975 political anxiety thriller Three Days of the Condor was another enjoyable watch, with an interestingly brainy plot that folds in on itself. I can't help but remark upon how sexy Robert Redford was as a nervous, stubbly journalist-type with big glasses and a cigarette, a little frightening and innocent in appearance at once. The ever-lovely Faye Dunaway was, however, a bit of a disappointment; while the fault seems to lie mostly with the oddly flat and melodramatic script, one would hope for a better sex scene, much less the flirtations that ought to have led up to it. 

My most pressing inquiry would be, is there really such a branch of the CIA that reads spy novels and watches patterns of sale and translation in the hopes of catching some underground communication? And, is there a CIA within the CIA? The point remains, Max von Sydow is always awesome.