It's come earlier than usual this year - the annual update to the TSPDT list! This yearly change is inevitable, but it always requires me to recalculate where I'm at in my quest. I guess it's a case where you can never see exactly how far off in the distance the finish line actually is.
However, this year only brought a mere 31 changes to the list, meaning that 31 films have left the list and 31 films have been added, including the following 13 films which I have yet to see:
Amour (Michael Haneke)
Irréversible (Gaspar Noé)
Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (Nuri Bilge Ceylan)
Fata Morgana (Werner Herzog)
D'Est (Chantal Akerman)
The Last Bolshevik (Chris Marker)
Cría Cuervos (Carlos Saura)
Stroszek (Werner Herzog)
Strangers When We Meet (Richard Quine)
Le deuxieme souffle (Jean-Pierre Melville)
Caro Diario (Nanni Moretti)
Humanity and Paper Balloons (Sadao Yamanaka)
Diary (David Perlov)
Add these to the films I watched last year, subtract the films (both seen and unseen) that fell off the list this year, and that leaves me with a net gain of exactly 1 film on my previous total. So yes, I am now at 680 films seen of the 1,000. Let the new viewing year begin!
The complete 1,000 Greatest Films list (created by Bill Georgaris at They Shoot Pictures, Don't They) can be viewed at this link: http://theyshootpictures.com/gf1000_all1000films_table.php
A list of all films that have left the list (from last year's edition as well as all previous versions) can be seen at this link: http://theyshootpictures.com/gf1000_all1000films_ex1000.htm
Thursday, January 31, 2019
Wednesday, December 26, 2018
#679: Chimes at Midnight
Directed by: ORSON WELLES
1965, TSPDT Rank #157
Shakespeare has always been a popular wellspring of cinematic source material for film adaptations, but the resulting films have tended to fall into two categories: those that attempt to be faithful to Shakespeare's language and theatrical style (i.e. the films of Lawrence Olivier and Kenneth Branagh), and those that attempt to update their general themes and narrative structure into a contemporary style (i.e. Baz Luhrman's Romeo and Juliet). But Orson Welles' Shakespeare adaptations fall into an entirely different category - and this is especially true when it comes to Chimes at Midnight.
First, it should be noted that, since this is an Orson Welles film, the cinematic technique on display in Chimes at Midnight is breathtaking and full of unpolished mastery. But despite being from an era of social upheaval and the death of the old Hollywood, the film seems to exist in a time and place all its own. The cinematography is in striking black and white, full of depth and beguiling visual patterns. The world of old England is portrayed with more imagination and realistic detail than most of the Shakespeare purists have been able to manage. A dream of Welles' since childhood, this combination of multiple Shakespeare plays (all featuring the rogue drunkard Sir John Falstaff) exists in a world that had lived in his mind for decades - making it feel more vibrant and believable than the most closely studied of traditional adaptations.
Welles' love for Shakespeare's language is plainly evident in Chimes at Midnight as well. Preserving the poetry and rhythm of Shakespeare, along with lifting much of the language verbatim from the original plays, clearly took precedence over any concern about the audience's ability to easily follow the film. Watching Chimes at Midnight requires an attention to the language on multiple levels - which is no mean feat when faced with the overwhelming visual power of Welles' imagery. This makes the Criterion edition of the film a must-have, allowing for multiple viewings to absorb both the rich visuals and the poetic language.
Welles also preserved the narrative structure of a Shakespeare play, despite using pieces of five different plays to construct it. Of particular note is the incredibly visceral battle scene that comes exactly halfway through the film - just as the climax of a Shakespeare play would traditionally come in the third of five acts. Likewise, the film's most potent emotional moment is saved for the final act, leaving the viewer with a profound feeling of melancholy and bittersweet loss. Welles worked on numerous projects after Chimes at Midnight, despite only a few of them being released in his lifetime, but this monumental project feels like the perfect swan song regardless. The technical imperfections that resulted from its low-budget production in Spain might keep it from being Welles' magnum opus (Citizen Kane will always remained the rightful recipient of that title), but it's the defining work of his later years, as well as one which brought his career full circle - back to the Shakespearean aspirations of his youth.
Chimes at Midnight is available here on Criterion Blu-ray and DVD: https://www.criterion.com/films/28756-chimes-at-midnight
1965, TSPDT Rank #157
Shakespeare has always been a popular wellspring of cinematic source material for film adaptations, but the resulting films have tended to fall into two categories: those that attempt to be faithful to Shakespeare's language and theatrical style (i.e. the films of Lawrence Olivier and Kenneth Branagh), and those that attempt to update their general themes and narrative structure into a contemporary style (i.e. Baz Luhrman's Romeo and Juliet). But Orson Welles' Shakespeare adaptations fall into an entirely different category - and this is especially true when it comes to Chimes at Midnight.
First, it should be noted that, since this is an Orson Welles film, the cinematic technique on display in Chimes at Midnight is breathtaking and full of unpolished mastery. But despite being from an era of social upheaval and the death of the old Hollywood, the film seems to exist in a time and place all its own. The cinematography is in striking black and white, full of depth and beguiling visual patterns. The world of old England is portrayed with more imagination and realistic detail than most of the Shakespeare purists have been able to manage. A dream of Welles' since childhood, this combination of multiple Shakespeare plays (all featuring the rogue drunkard Sir John Falstaff) exists in a world that had lived in his mind for decades - making it feel more vibrant and believable than the most closely studied of traditional adaptations.
Welles' love for Shakespeare's language is plainly evident in Chimes at Midnight as well. Preserving the poetry and rhythm of Shakespeare, along with lifting much of the language verbatim from the original plays, clearly took precedence over any concern about the audience's ability to easily follow the film. Watching Chimes at Midnight requires an attention to the language on multiple levels - which is no mean feat when faced with the overwhelming visual power of Welles' imagery. This makes the Criterion edition of the film a must-have, allowing for multiple viewings to absorb both the rich visuals and the poetic language.
Welles also preserved the narrative structure of a Shakespeare play, despite using pieces of five different plays to construct it. Of particular note is the incredibly visceral battle scene that comes exactly halfway through the film - just as the climax of a Shakespeare play would traditionally come in the third of five acts. Likewise, the film's most potent emotional moment is saved for the final act, leaving the viewer with a profound feeling of melancholy and bittersweet loss. Welles worked on numerous projects after Chimes at Midnight, despite only a few of them being released in his lifetime, but this monumental project feels like the perfect swan song regardless. The technical imperfections that resulted from its low-budget production in Spain might keep it from being Welles' magnum opus (Citizen Kane will always remained the rightful recipient of that title), but it's the defining work of his later years, as well as one which brought his career full circle - back to the Shakespearean aspirations of his youth.
Chimes at Midnight is available here on Criterion Blu-ray and DVD: https://www.criterion.com/films/28756-chimes-at-midnight
Tuesday, November 27, 2018
#678: Two English Girls
Directed by: FRANÇOIS TRUFFAUT
1971, TSPDT Rank #842
With Two English Girls, François Truffaut returned to the fertile territory that he had mined almost a decade earlier with one of his best films, Jules and Jim. Like that masterpiece, Two English Girls tells the story of three friends whose relationship becomes fractured by the development of a love triangle. It was also adapted by the only other complete novel by Henri-Pierre Roché, the author of the novel that Jules and Jim was based on, and ostensibly the prototype for both Claude and Jim. So it's impossible to keep from comparing the two films, but their approaches are different in more than ways than one. For one thing, Two English Girls inverts the characters' genders: instead of two male friends and their ideal woman, we have two sisters and a man caught between them. Maybe because of this, there is less room in this story for the peaceful menage a trois situation seen in Jules and Jim. This relationship is much more fraught and tenuous, each side struggling to get off the ground, with one side sent crashing down to earth whenever the other begins to take flight.
This film also trades the poignant immediacy of Jules and Jim for a more reserved and nostalgic sense of melancholia. Truffaut set the film at the turn of the 20th century, conjuring a lost era and a forgotten set of moral and romantic attitudes. The only slightly later setting of Jules and Jim is belied by its energetic New Wave style and the youthful rendering of its characters, whereas here Truffaut was more successful in conveying the perspective of an older man looking back wistfully on a painful youth. The visuals are some of the most sumptuous ever captured by Truffaut - together with cinematographer Nester Alamandros, he created an impressionistic world which makes watching the film feel like stepping into a painting - the colors more vivid than life and the action onscreen unfolding like a distant dream. However, like in Jules and Jim, the feeling that love and pain are tied together is inescapable. For Truffaut, the memories of youth can be as painful as they are beautiful.
1971, TSPDT Rank #842
With Two English Girls, François Truffaut returned to the fertile territory that he had mined almost a decade earlier with one of his best films, Jules and Jim. Like that masterpiece, Two English Girls tells the story of three friends whose relationship becomes fractured by the development of a love triangle. It was also adapted by the only other complete novel by Henri-Pierre Roché, the author of the novel that Jules and Jim was based on, and ostensibly the prototype for both Claude and Jim. So it's impossible to keep from comparing the two films, but their approaches are different in more than ways than one. For one thing, Two English Girls inverts the characters' genders: instead of two male friends and their ideal woman, we have two sisters and a man caught between them. Maybe because of this, there is less room in this story for the peaceful menage a trois situation seen in Jules and Jim. This relationship is much more fraught and tenuous, each side struggling to get off the ground, with one side sent crashing down to earth whenever the other begins to take flight.
This film also trades the poignant immediacy of Jules and Jim for a more reserved and nostalgic sense of melancholia. Truffaut set the film at the turn of the 20th century, conjuring a lost era and a forgotten set of moral and romantic attitudes. The only slightly later setting of Jules and Jim is belied by its energetic New Wave style and the youthful rendering of its characters, whereas here Truffaut was more successful in conveying the perspective of an older man looking back wistfully on a painful youth. The visuals are some of the most sumptuous ever captured by Truffaut - together with cinematographer Nester Alamandros, he created an impressionistic world which makes watching the film feel like stepping into a painting - the colors more vivid than life and the action onscreen unfolding like a distant dream. However, like in Jules and Jim, the feeling that love and pain are tied together is inescapable. For Truffaut, the memories of youth can be as painful as they are beautiful.
Thursday, November 1, 2018
#677: The Devils
Directed by: KEN RUSSELL
1971, TSPDT Rank #527
Ken Russell's most acclaimed and most controversial film opens with the claim that it is based on "historical fact" and then quickly descends into a delirious imagining of the depths of 17th century religious hypocrisy. France has been devastated by wars between Catholics and Protestants, the Catholics have won, but the king is a debauched homosexual unconcerned with anything besides satisfying his own whims. In the small village of Loudon, a non-conformist Jesuit priest (Oliver Reed) has affairs with young women and declares them part of his quest to become one with God, while a power-hungry Cardinal schemes to have the independent town under his control and a sexually-frustrated nun (Vanessa Redgrave) suffers depraved fantasies about Grandier, eventually declaring him an agent of the devil sent to possess her.
At least this is what Russell would have us believe. Beneath the claims of historical accuracy, however, The Devils is an extremely impressionistic film, with almost futuristic set designs by a young Derek Jarman and campy characters which often seem to pave the way for The Rocky Horror Picture Show rather than invoke 17th century France. And the extreme debauchery and cruelty on display here, well known as some of the most shockingly obscene imagery ever seen in a mainstream studio film, often crosses the line into lurid, melodramatic exploitation.
However, whatever redeeming value this movie might have can only be found by reading between the lines. Russell often seems to bombard the viewer with exploitative imagery, but what the film really shows beneath the surface is the variety of ways that people find to convince themselves and others that they are acting in God's name - when their actions precisely imitate the evil forces they claim to fight. Russell's portrayal of these themes might be seen as over the top, but it is in this way that we can see the true depths that people will sink to to protect their own delusion of religious piety - a statement that is as relevant today as it was in the 1970s or the 1630s. Make no mistake, The Devils is not a film about historical events, it is a feverishly surreal rendering of religious hypocrisy and human depravity allowed to run rampant.
1971, TSPDT Rank #527
Ken Russell's most acclaimed and most controversial film opens with the claim that it is based on "historical fact" and then quickly descends into a delirious imagining of the depths of 17th century religious hypocrisy. France has been devastated by wars between Catholics and Protestants, the Catholics have won, but the king is a debauched homosexual unconcerned with anything besides satisfying his own whims. In the small village of Loudon, a non-conformist Jesuit priest (Oliver Reed) has affairs with young women and declares them part of his quest to become one with God, while a power-hungry Cardinal schemes to have the independent town under his control and a sexually-frustrated nun (Vanessa Redgrave) suffers depraved fantasies about Grandier, eventually declaring him an agent of the devil sent to possess her.
At least this is what Russell would have us believe. Beneath the claims of historical accuracy, however, The Devils is an extremely impressionistic film, with almost futuristic set designs by a young Derek Jarman and campy characters which often seem to pave the way for The Rocky Horror Picture Show rather than invoke 17th century France. And the extreme debauchery and cruelty on display here, well known as some of the most shockingly obscene imagery ever seen in a mainstream studio film, often crosses the line into lurid, melodramatic exploitation.
However, whatever redeeming value this movie might have can only be found by reading between the lines. Russell often seems to bombard the viewer with exploitative imagery, but what the film really shows beneath the surface is the variety of ways that people find to convince themselves and others that they are acting in God's name - when their actions precisely imitate the evil forces they claim to fight. Russell's portrayal of these themes might be seen as over the top, but it is in this way that we can see the true depths that people will sink to to protect their own delusion of religious piety - a statement that is as relevant today as it was in the 1970s or the 1630s. Make no mistake, The Devils is not a film about historical events, it is a feverishly surreal rendering of religious hypocrisy and human depravity allowed to run rampant.
Friday, October 26, 2018
#676: Early Summer
Directed by: YASUJIRO OZU
1951, TSPDT Rank #416
Throughout his career, but especially in his postwar films, Yasujiro Ozu tended to mine similar themes from one film to the next. Like his previous film, Late Spring, Early Summer is about a young single woman (Setsuko Hara in a practically identical role) whose family wants her to get married before it's too late. However, while the plot initially seems simple and even banal, the film becomes increasingly expansive as it progresses. In comparison, Late Spring is much more confined - a father-daughter story - whereas this film takes the woman's extended family and social circle into consideration. This gives the film an almost sweeping quality, along with a number of great comic scenes along the way which highlight Ozu's unique sense of humor.
The sublime beauty and balance of Ozu's compositions is also stunning throughout. There seem to be entire worlds contained within the ordered confines of the film's simple interior settings, and when Ozu shifts his view to the outside world for a moment, the effect is breathtaking. His timing and pacing are, as always, impeccable in this film. The feeling of intimately knowing a few people within a vast, awe-inspiring world creeps up on you just like Hara's realization that she loves her childhood friend. The last few sequences are particularly powerful, a view of a family in all their imperfections sharing one last fleeting moment before their lives change irrevocably. It was his ability to evoke such powerful and universal emotions that made Ozu one of the great cinematic masters.
1951, TSPDT Rank #416
Throughout his career, but especially in his postwar films, Yasujiro Ozu tended to mine similar themes from one film to the next. Like his previous film, Late Spring, Early Summer is about a young single woman (Setsuko Hara in a practically identical role) whose family wants her to get married before it's too late. However, while the plot initially seems simple and even banal, the film becomes increasingly expansive as it progresses. In comparison, Late Spring is much more confined - a father-daughter story - whereas this film takes the woman's extended family and social circle into consideration. This gives the film an almost sweeping quality, along with a number of great comic scenes along the way which highlight Ozu's unique sense of humor.
The sublime beauty and balance of Ozu's compositions is also stunning throughout. There seem to be entire worlds contained within the ordered confines of the film's simple interior settings, and when Ozu shifts his view to the outside world for a moment, the effect is breathtaking. His timing and pacing are, as always, impeccable in this film. The feeling of intimately knowing a few people within a vast, awe-inspiring world creeps up on you just like Hara's realization that she loves her childhood friend. The last few sequences are particularly powerful, a view of a family in all their imperfections sharing one last fleeting moment before their lives change irrevocably. It was his ability to evoke such powerful and universal emotions that made Ozu one of the great cinematic masters.
#675: Sawdust and Tinsel
Directed by: INGMAR BERGMAN
1953, TSPDT Rank #962
Life is a carnival, or so they say. Many of the great European directors born before World War II seem to have been heavily influenced by seeing traveling circuses or carnivals pass through their towns, and in Sawdust and Tinsel, Ingmar Bergman made this influence clear. However, unlike people like Fellini, who used the circus as a metaphor for the rollicking energy and myriad idiosyncracies of everyday life, Bergman's view is predictably more misanthropic.
The film follows the breakdown of a relationship between an old, surly circus owner (Åke Grönberg) and a young, beautiful carnival performer (Harriet Andersson), as they experience boredom with circus life and each other. Like many of Bergman's early films, the basic storyline is pure melodrama, but it is used as a springboard for more lofty concerns, particularly the unending drudgery which seems to envelop people in all walks of life. The circus is portrayed as a group of people whose members regularly make fools of themselves in front of uncaring audiences, while living an undignified and unending life on the road. Infidelity is the final straw for a number of film's characters, who find it impossible to cope after losing the one sure thing in their lives.
Bergman paints a bleak picture all right, especially with the help of master cinematographer Sven Nykvist, who took over from Bergman's regular collaborator Gunnar Fischer on this film, and would go on to provide the cinematographer for virtually all of Bergman's films from the 1960s onward. The film's look is so different from Bergman's previous film, the Fischer-shot Summer with Monika, that it's hard to believe that the two films were made by the same director, much less in the same year. But while Nykvist may have been the perfect choice to pursue the look that Bergman was after (one that is alternately grotesque, dreamlike, and stark), Sawdust and Tinsel doesn't pack the same dramatic punch that Summer with Monika did. In that film, Bergman was focused on achieving lyrical realism, whereas with this film, he took a sharp turn towards a more abstract and psychological approach. As a result, Sawdust and Tinsel could easily be described as the start of Bergman's mature period - the decade in which he would make his most acclaimed work and become a figurehead of the international art house cinema movement.
1953, TSPDT Rank #962
Life is a carnival, or so they say. Many of the great European directors born before World War II seem to have been heavily influenced by seeing traveling circuses or carnivals pass through their towns, and in Sawdust and Tinsel, Ingmar Bergman made this influence clear. However, unlike people like Fellini, who used the circus as a metaphor for the rollicking energy and myriad idiosyncracies of everyday life, Bergman's view is predictably more misanthropic.
The film follows the breakdown of a relationship between an old, surly circus owner (Åke Grönberg) and a young, beautiful carnival performer (Harriet Andersson), as they experience boredom with circus life and each other. Like many of Bergman's early films, the basic storyline is pure melodrama, but it is used as a springboard for more lofty concerns, particularly the unending drudgery which seems to envelop people in all walks of life. The circus is portrayed as a group of people whose members regularly make fools of themselves in front of uncaring audiences, while living an undignified and unending life on the road. Infidelity is the final straw for a number of film's characters, who find it impossible to cope after losing the one sure thing in their lives.
Bergman paints a bleak picture all right, especially with the help of master cinematographer Sven Nykvist, who took over from Bergman's regular collaborator Gunnar Fischer on this film, and would go on to provide the cinematographer for virtually all of Bergman's films from the 1960s onward. The film's look is so different from Bergman's previous film, the Fischer-shot Summer with Monika, that it's hard to believe that the two films were made by the same director, much less in the same year. But while Nykvist may have been the perfect choice to pursue the look that Bergman was after (one that is alternately grotesque, dreamlike, and stark), Sawdust and Tinsel doesn't pack the same dramatic punch that Summer with Monika did. In that film, Bergman was focused on achieving lyrical realism, whereas with this film, he took a sharp turn towards a more abstract and psychological approach. As a result, Sawdust and Tinsel could easily be described as the start of Bergman's mature period - the decade in which he would make his most acclaimed work and become a figurehead of the international art house cinema movement.
Tuesday, July 31, 2018
#674: Nostalghia
Directed by: ANDREI TARKOVSKY
1983, TSPDT Rank #365
I saw Nostalghia for the first time at an all-night Tarkovsky marathon at a Tokyo cinema (along with Solaris and Mirror). I had seen the first two films before (you can find my post on these films here), so having only Japanese subtitles for these was not a problem, but for Nostalghia, often described as one of Tarkovsky's most opaque films to begin with, I initially missed a lot of nuance and subtext as a result of my limited understanding of the dialogue. However, what I got from it is this: a Russian poet goes to Italy but is quickly overcome by nostalgia for his home country and the urge to sacrifice himself for the greater good of mankind (or maybe for merely personal reasons). Along the way, Tarkovsky ties melds this story with themes of faith, family, cultural philosophy and dream-like imagery to form a powerful, hypnotic whole.
When I watched the film later, with English subtitles, I was able to catch many of the deeper resonances suggested by the dialogue and, with considerable irony, the idea that art is inherently untranslatable. Eugenia, Andrei's traveling companion, translator and foil in the film, suggests that music is an exception to this. Many of the readers of this might also feel, like I do, that film is another artistic medium with the potential to "abolish the frontiers" between countries and languages. I think that my experience at a one-screen repertory theater hidden in a narrow Tokyo alley is a perfect example of this. Without the aid of my native language, I was able to watch films presented in foreign languages that I understood little to nothing of and come away with a greatly enhanced appreciation of their director and his uniquely poetic visuals and themes.
1983, TSPDT Rank #365
I saw Nostalghia for the first time at an all-night Tarkovsky marathon at a Tokyo cinema (along with Solaris and Mirror). I had seen the first two films before (you can find my post on these films here), so having only Japanese subtitles for these was not a problem, but for Nostalghia, often described as one of Tarkovsky's most opaque films to begin with, I initially missed a lot of nuance and subtext as a result of my limited understanding of the dialogue. However, what I got from it is this: a Russian poet goes to Italy but is quickly overcome by nostalgia for his home country and the urge to sacrifice himself for the greater good of mankind (or maybe for merely personal reasons). Along the way, Tarkovsky ties melds this story with themes of faith, family, cultural philosophy and dream-like imagery to form a powerful, hypnotic whole.
When I watched the film later, with English subtitles, I was able to catch many of the deeper resonances suggested by the dialogue and, with considerable irony, the idea that art is inherently untranslatable. Eugenia, Andrei's traveling companion, translator and foil in the film, suggests that music is an exception to this. Many of the readers of this might also feel, like I do, that film is another artistic medium with the potential to "abolish the frontiers" between countries and languages. I think that my experience at a one-screen repertory theater hidden in a narrow Tokyo alley is a perfect example of this. Without the aid of my native language, I was able to watch films presented in foreign languages that I understood little to nothing of and come away with a greatly enhanced appreciation of their director and his uniquely poetic visuals and themes.
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