Directed by: YASUJIRO OZU
1932, TSPDT Rank #328
As the earliest Yasujiro Ozu film on the 1,000 Greatest Films (as well as the only one of his silent films to make it on to the list), I Was Born, But... presents Ozu's style as it was still in the process of developing. It's also much lighter in mood than most of Ozu's later, more well-known dramas, highlighting the humorous antics of its child protagonists, as well as their first glimpses of the adult world, which ultimately provide a crushing realization of their father's fallibility. However, while the film initially shows a fair amount of comic promise, it suffers from a plodding middle section which slows its momentum considerably, as too many supporting child characters are introduced, and their comedic scenes become increasingly repetitive and inane in nature. This makes the film feel a bit more uneven than Ozu's later work, although the final half-hour is powerful enough to make up for it.
What ultimately makes this film stand out, despite its flaws, is Ozu's ability to convey a child's perspective while juxtaposing it with that of the adults who effectively rule their lives. Ozu's trademark low-angle visual style works perfectly for showing the world as seen through a child's eyes, but his ability to gracefully switch between low-angle point-of-view shots and long shots, which emphasize the children's small size in comparison to their environment and their parents, lends an air of sophistication to the film which will be instantly recognizable to those familiar with Ozu's later films. Ozu had yet to perfect the pacing of his films, but his ability to convey family relationships with unmatched level of intimacy and warmth was already in full view with this early silent film.
Thursday, June 30, 2016
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
#580: The Blood of a Poet
Directed by: JEAN COCTEAU
1930, TSPDT Rank #861
During the introductory sequence of The Blood of a Poet, a series of intertitles describes a poet's work as "a documentary of unreal events". This film was director (and poet) Jean Cocteau's first attempt with the medium, and as such, it functions primarily as a declaration of intent - a poetic meditation on the nature of art and the tortured souls whose solemn task it is to create it. As an attempt to transfer the essence of poetry to film - quite a groundbreaking idea at the time - it emphasizes art's function as a portal to "unreality", while also focusing on the creative process itself, which is depicted as being destructive for its creator - who must either destroy himself in order to create, or destroy his creations in order to save himself. Cocteau's portrayal of the struggle between an artist and his creations is shown from a number of angles, but it is seen to invariably result in the artist's death. The Blood of a Poet is known today as a landmark work of surrealism, but unlike the other famous surrealist film of the early 1930s - Luis Bunuel's L'age D'or - it is less concerned with the hypocrisies of the external world of political authority and religion than it is with the internal world of the artist. In conveying the "unreal events" of this internal world, Cocteau employed a number of innovative techniques which distort the appearance of the on-screen space and the movement of characters within it - creating a distinctive sense of the uncanny which sets this film apart from other surrealist films of its era. It would be over ten years before Cocteau made his return to the screen with his most famous film, Beauty and the Beast, but the "unreal" imagery and dreamlike atmosphere of The Blood of a Poet would go on to influence countless filmmakers and artists in the years to follow, and the film remains a striking work of vision to this day.
During the introductory sequence of The Blood of a Poet, a series of intertitles describes a poet's work as "a documentary of unreal events". This film was director (and poet) Jean Cocteau's first attempt with the medium, and as such, it functions primarily as a declaration of intent - a poetic meditation on the nature of art and the tortured souls whose solemn task it is to create it. As an attempt to transfer the essence of poetry to film - quite a groundbreaking idea at the time - it emphasizes art's function as a portal to "unreality", while also focusing on the creative process itself, which is depicted as being destructive for its creator - who must either destroy himself in order to create, or destroy his creations in order to save himself. Cocteau's portrayal of the struggle between an artist and his creations is shown from a number of angles, but it is seen to invariably result in the artist's death. The Blood of a Poet is known today as a landmark work of surrealism, but unlike the other famous surrealist film of the early 1930s - Luis Bunuel's L'age D'or - it is less concerned with the hypocrisies of the external world of political authority and religion than it is with the internal world of the artist. In conveying the "unreal events" of this internal world, Cocteau employed a number of innovative techniques which distort the appearance of the on-screen space and the movement of characters within it - creating a distinctive sense of the uncanny which sets this film apart from other surrealist films of its era. It would be over ten years before Cocteau made his return to the screen with his most famous film, Beauty and the Beast, but the "unreal" imagery and dreamlike atmosphere of The Blood of a Poet would go on to influence countless filmmakers and artists in the years to follow, and the film remains a striking work of vision to this day.
Monday, May 30, 2016
#579: La Roue
Directed by: ABEL GANCE
1923, TSPDT Rank #930
Here's another film with a relatively simple narrative which gets stretched across a very long running time. But unlike The Mother and the Whore, this film's length isn't necessarily meant to be a key component of the experience. Instead, it just suggests the seemingly endless supply of bold cinematic ideas possessed by director Abel Gance during its production. The film was originally cut down from an original length of nine hours, and at its current restored length of four and a half hours, it still seems to be bursting at the seams with visual dynamism and stunning displays of technical innovation. The film is unlike just about anything else in the history of cinema, as Gance brings an approach to the medium which is seemingly unconnected to any conception of established rules or conventional approaches to filmmaking, editing, and storytelling. At its most basic narrative level, the film merely tells the story of two men, a railroad engineer and his son, who fall in love with the same woman - the railroad engineer's unofficially adopted daughter. However, Gance proceeds to amplify the tragic implications of the film's narrative to epic proportions - drawing audacious symbolic connections to the myths of Sisyphus and Oedipus Rex, while augmenting his basic narrative with frequent dramatic subplots and multiple climaxes in order to intensify the film's emotional impact. As a viewing experience, the film is more engaging than a French silent film made nearly a century ago has any right to be. And while there are few films which can truly be compared to this one, there are moments which seem to predict the later work of similarly ambitious filmmakers such as Sergei Eisenstein and Stan Brakhage. Abel Gance, however, was clearly in a class of his own as a cinematic visionary, and La Roue may be even more successful as a whole than Gance's later masterpiece, Napoleon, in conveying Gance's technical brilliance and desire for boundless narrative scope in his films.
1923, TSPDT Rank #930
Here's another film with a relatively simple narrative which gets stretched across a very long running time. But unlike The Mother and the Whore, this film's length isn't necessarily meant to be a key component of the experience. Instead, it just suggests the seemingly endless supply of bold cinematic ideas possessed by director Abel Gance during its production. The film was originally cut down from an original length of nine hours, and at its current restored length of four and a half hours, it still seems to be bursting at the seams with visual dynamism and stunning displays of technical innovation. The film is unlike just about anything else in the history of cinema, as Gance brings an approach to the medium which is seemingly unconnected to any conception of established rules or conventional approaches to filmmaking, editing, and storytelling. At its most basic narrative level, the film merely tells the story of two men, a railroad engineer and his son, who fall in love with the same woman - the railroad engineer's unofficially adopted daughter. However, Gance proceeds to amplify the tragic implications of the film's narrative to epic proportions - drawing audacious symbolic connections to the myths of Sisyphus and Oedipus Rex, while augmenting his basic narrative with frequent dramatic subplots and multiple climaxes in order to intensify the film's emotional impact. As a viewing experience, the film is more engaging than a French silent film made nearly a century ago has any right to be. And while there are few films which can truly be compared to this one, there are moments which seem to predict the later work of similarly ambitious filmmakers such as Sergei Eisenstein and Stan Brakhage. Abel Gance, however, was clearly in a class of his own as a cinematic visionary, and La Roue may be even more successful as a whole than Gance's later masterpiece, Napoleon, in conveying Gance's technical brilliance and desire for boundless narrative scope in his films.
Saturday, April 30, 2016
#578: The Mother and the Whore
Directed by: JEAN EUSTACHE
1973, TSPDT Rank #114
This is probably one of the more elusive films on the 1,000 Greatest Films, so when presented with the opportunity to catch a one-time screening of a 35mm print, I snatched up the chance. I was prepared for a long, dialogue-heavy French film about sex, relationships, love triangles, and pseudo-intellectualism, but what I was not prepared for was how truly unsettling and draining the film would be. The film's protagonist, Alexandre, is a pretentious and hypocritical young bohemian who is the embodiment of the emptiness that he sees in the society that surrounds him. He talks endlessly, but has nothing to say. He attempts to maintain simultaneous relationships with two different women - taking advantage of them physically, emotionally, and financially - while offering nothing but misery to either of them. In fact, Alexandre is such an extreme type of character that viewers of the film could be separated into distinct two categories: those who identify with him and those who find him absolutely contemptible. Most viewers, myself included, would probably fall into the latter category, but it's easy to see how those who identify with Alexandre could come away with a completely different interpretation of the film - seeing Alexandre as a hapless victim instead of as a destructive parasite framed as a criticism of a larger social disease. Still, regardless of your perspective, this film - which was Jean Eustache's debut feature, amazingly enough - is designed to take Alexandre's self-inflicted predicament to its limits, showing both the causes and effects of the damage which he sets in motion with a startling emotional honesty that takes a while to sink in, but is hard to shake once it does.
As with many films which go beyond the three-hour mark despite having a relatively small-scale narrative, the length of the film is a key component of the experience, and I'm sure that watching the film in one sitting makes for a much different experience than watching it in two or three (as most people watching at home seem to do). The first couple hours of the film are relatively light, with an unnamed friend of Alexandre's (who is even more aimless and ridiculous than Alexandre is) coming in at regular intervals for comic relief, as Alexandre's relentless self-absorption and movement between love interests continue on seemingly without consequence. Around the two-hour mark, however, the tone begins to shift very noticeably, as does the nature of the viewing experience. The friction between the three main characters continues to increase, as does the number of long, tortured monologues and lurching transitions from scenes of stifling boredom to frenzied emotional outbursts. Eustache takes each scene all the way to its breaking point before fading to black and immediately launching into the next one. This repetitive raising and lowering of tension, along with the increasingly brutal honesty of the subject matter, becomes almost unbearable as the final hour of the film progresses and the tension continues to rise, eventually culminating in an intense final scene which serves as a frightening mirror image of the opening sequence.
Eustache's technique is merciless but effective, which, along with his use of grainy, documentary-style cinematography, has earned him much-deserved comparisons to John Cassavetes from critics such as Pauline Kael. However, while it's often a less than pleasant viewing experience, The Mother and the Whore is certainly in a class of its own - a singular work which is often as interesting as it is grating, exposing the emptiness and self-destructiveness of its unsavory protagonists in stark, uncompromising detail. It's a film that's worth seeing at least once if the chance arises, if only for those of a certain temperament.
This is probably one of the more elusive films on the 1,000 Greatest Films, so when presented with the opportunity to catch a one-time screening of a 35mm print, I snatched up the chance. I was prepared for a long, dialogue-heavy French film about sex, relationships, love triangles, and pseudo-intellectualism, but what I was not prepared for was how truly unsettling and draining the film would be. The film's protagonist, Alexandre, is a pretentious and hypocritical young bohemian who is the embodiment of the emptiness that he sees in the society that surrounds him. He talks endlessly, but has nothing to say. He attempts to maintain simultaneous relationships with two different women - taking advantage of them physically, emotionally, and financially - while offering nothing but misery to either of them. In fact, Alexandre is such an extreme type of character that viewers of the film could be separated into distinct two categories: those who identify with him and those who find him absolutely contemptible. Most viewers, myself included, would probably fall into the latter category, but it's easy to see how those who identify with Alexandre could come away with a completely different interpretation of the film - seeing Alexandre as a hapless victim instead of as a destructive parasite framed as a criticism of a larger social disease. Still, regardless of your perspective, this film - which was Jean Eustache's debut feature, amazingly enough - is designed to take Alexandre's self-inflicted predicament to its limits, showing both the causes and effects of the damage which he sets in motion with a startling emotional honesty that takes a while to sink in, but is hard to shake once it does.
As with many films which go beyond the three-hour mark despite having a relatively small-scale narrative, the length of the film is a key component of the experience, and I'm sure that watching the film in one sitting makes for a much different experience than watching it in two or three (as most people watching at home seem to do). The first couple hours of the film are relatively light, with an unnamed friend of Alexandre's (who is even more aimless and ridiculous than Alexandre is) coming in at regular intervals for comic relief, as Alexandre's relentless self-absorption and movement between love interests continue on seemingly without consequence. Around the two-hour mark, however, the tone begins to shift very noticeably, as does the nature of the viewing experience. The friction between the three main characters continues to increase, as does the number of long, tortured monologues and lurching transitions from scenes of stifling boredom to frenzied emotional outbursts. Eustache takes each scene all the way to its breaking point before fading to black and immediately launching into the next one. This repetitive raising and lowering of tension, along with the increasingly brutal honesty of the subject matter, becomes almost unbearable as the final hour of the film progresses and the tension continues to rise, eventually culminating in an intense final scene which serves as a frightening mirror image of the opening sequence.
Eustache's technique is merciless but effective, which, along with his use of grainy, documentary-style cinematography, has earned him much-deserved comparisons to John Cassavetes from critics such as Pauline Kael. However, while it's often a less than pleasant viewing experience, The Mother and the Whore is certainly in a class of its own - a singular work which is often as interesting as it is grating, exposing the emptiness and self-destructiveness of its unsavory protagonists in stark, uncompromising detail. It's a film that's worth seeing at least once if the chance arises, if only for those of a certain temperament.
Thursday, April 14, 2016
#577: Late Spring
Directed by: YASUJIRO OZU
1949, TSPDT Rank #65
This film struck me as being relatively light and humorous compared to other family dramas from the latter half of Ozu's career - although I admit that I am not even close to having seen all of them. The story involves a daughter's unwillingness to leave her widowed father in order to get married - a simple plot which Ozu presented numerous variations on over the course of his career. However, Ozu's distinctive low-angle visual style is as humbling and intimate here as it ever was, with some of his best visual poetry also on display - especially in exterior scenes which place the titular season in the foreground. Ozu named many of his films after seasons, and he never assigned his titles arbitrarily. In this case, "late spring" refers to the daughter's state of full bloom, being in her late 20s and almost past the prime marrying age - a point which, from the perspective of the film's characters, makes her marriage a matter of utmost importance. Much of the film assumes a semi-comic tone which keeps it from feeling emotionally overwrought, but the climactic scene between father and daughter, soon before the daughter's impending marriage, must rank among the most powerful moments in Ozu's filmography. It may not pack the same overall emotional punch as Tokyo Story, but nevertheless, Late Spring still displays Ozu's meditative and sensitive approach in full force - making for a feeling of intimacy which few other filmmakers have ever been able to achieve.
1949, TSPDT Rank #65
This film struck me as being relatively light and humorous compared to other family dramas from the latter half of Ozu's career - although I admit that I am not even close to having seen all of them. The story involves a daughter's unwillingness to leave her widowed father in order to get married - a simple plot which Ozu presented numerous variations on over the course of his career. However, Ozu's distinctive low-angle visual style is as humbling and intimate here as it ever was, with some of his best visual poetry also on display - especially in exterior scenes which place the titular season in the foreground. Ozu named many of his films after seasons, and he never assigned his titles arbitrarily. In this case, "late spring" refers to the daughter's state of full bloom, being in her late 20s and almost past the prime marrying age - a point which, from the perspective of the film's characters, makes her marriage a matter of utmost importance. Much of the film assumes a semi-comic tone which keeps it from feeling emotionally overwrought, but the climactic scene between father and daughter, soon before the daughter's impending marriage, must rank among the most powerful moments in Ozu's filmography. It may not pack the same overall emotional punch as Tokyo Story, but nevertheless, Late Spring still displays Ozu's meditative and sensitive approach in full force - making for a feeling of intimacy which few other filmmakers have ever been able to achieve.
Saturday, March 26, 2016
#576: Ossessione
Directed by: LUCHINO VISCONTI
1943, TSPDT Rank #764
This rough and compelling debut film from great Italian director Luchino Visconti, an uncredited adaptation of the James M. Cain novel, "The Postman Always Rings Twice", could hardly be farther removed from its Hollywood counterpart (which came three years later, directed by Tay Garnett, and starring Lana Turner and John Garfield). The Hollywood version of "Postman" was made under the strict supervision of the Breen Office, but nevertheless remains one of the most erotically charged and suspenseful films of all time. Visconti's adaptation, on the other hand, dispenses with eroticism and suspense in exchange for raw, earthy sexuality and the suggestion of brutal violence. In doing so, the focus remains on the motivations behind a murder, as well as the inevitable events which come before and after - but in a style which has much more to do with neorealism than film noir.
#575: Brokeback Mountain
Director: ANG LEE
2005, TSPDT Rank #718
This film is a work of rare simplicity and grace which follows the secret lifelong love affair between two cowboys in the American West during the middle of the 20th-century. The desperation and setting-specific social ramifications of the men's relationship is evocatively portrayed throughout the film, and is perfectly supported by picturesque cinematography and an achingly beautiful score. Heath Ledger gives a brilliant performance which serves as a reminder of the great loss that his death represented, and Jake Gyllenhaal gives his character an emotionally intense energy which makes him the perfect foil for Ledger's highly reserved and repressed character. I admire films which capture the passage of time so well within the constrained length of a feature film, and this film does it exceptionally. Definitely worth seeing for those who enjoy films which attempt to convey the profound highs and lows of relationships, while also conveying the toll that time eventually takes on us all.
2005, TSPDT Rank #718
This film is a work of rare simplicity and grace which follows the secret lifelong love affair between two cowboys in the American West during the middle of the 20th-century. The desperation and setting-specific social ramifications of the men's relationship is evocatively portrayed throughout the film, and is perfectly supported by picturesque cinematography and an achingly beautiful score. Heath Ledger gives a brilliant performance which serves as a reminder of the great loss that his death represented, and Jake Gyllenhaal gives his character an emotionally intense energy which makes him the perfect foil for Ledger's highly reserved and repressed character. I admire films which capture the passage of time so well within the constrained length of a feature film, and this film does it exceptionally. Definitely worth seeing for those who enjoy films which attempt to convey the profound highs and lows of relationships, while also conveying the toll that time eventually takes on us all.
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