196: The House is Black

Initially I decided not to individually acknowledge the specific contributors to the 1001 canon, as I thought that perhaps my opinions would be seen as an attempt to draw comparison between myself and professional critics.  Thus, I simply noted Editor Stephen Jay Schneider. However, after seeing Forugh Farrokhzad’s haunting documentary The House is Black (1963), I felt compelled to return to the film’s write-up.  Jonathan Rosenbaum’s viewing prompt and description constitute some of the finest prose within the text, and are a prime example of the art of criticism.  Like the film he describes, Rosenbaum elicits high emotion from brief text.

At roughly 21 minutes, The house is Black is one of the most complete documentaries I have ever seen. Focusing on the day-to-day happenings within an Iranian leper colony, the humanity evoked from a film about those who have been deemed as barely human is incredible.  Though many of the images are disturbing, Farrokhzad manages to find the beauty in these hard lives lived, as simple pleasures such as a board game and a meal with friends take on great emotional weight for the viewer.  Perhaps it is telling that Farrokhzad was a poet by trade, and the voiceover that accompanies her images is indeed emotive of the poetic irony of beauty found amongst ugliness.

One thing that fascinates me about films is titling; how a good title can make a movie and a bad one, or bad title reference, can ruin an otherwise decent project.  In one of my least favorite moments of my movie-going career I was sitting with friends at Ben Affleck’s directorial debut, the flawed (and horribly titled*) but interesting Gone Baby Gone (2007). When the titular reference was made the man sitting behind me decided to take advantage of this poorly constructed moment by whispering to his wife something to the effect of “oh that’s where they got the title.” I write all of this to preface the excellent titling of this brilliant doc.  In the film’s final moments, a brief instant at a school within the colony sums up the view which the outside world takes of this ostracized community.  It is a moment that is both frank and beautiful.

Grade: 3 Hats Off      

*This seems to be an Affleck trend

197: Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors

It’s become evident early on that the challenge I’ve set before myself with these final 200 films won’t be easy. I didn’t think that it would be. I knew there would be difficulties. I anticipated having trouble finding all of these films, and know that the challenge will be even greater after Netflix can no longer be of service (about 50 films from now).  I also anticipated the inevitable. Long gone are Casablanca, and The Godfather. The remaining films won’t be the ones that are an absolute joy to watch. While there have certainly been some difficult movies up until now, I assume that this last 200 will contain some of the most challenging pictures.

This assumption was confirmed with Sergei Parajanov’s Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors (1964). The Ukrainian film isn’t devoid of striking moments, but on the whole it was lost on me. 1001 acknowledges that the story, which combines elements of Romeo and Juliet and various European folklore, serves as merely the vehicle for the cinematography of Yuri Ilyenko.  I’m certainly in agreement that the film is an achievement in this regard, as the unique angles and use of focal length make for some interesting compositions.  Still, I can’t say that this element saves the picture, which frankly felt like the cliftnotes version of a story.  The narrative holes are supplemented by chapter titles which do little more than describe what is to come before the film reaches its abrupt and confusing conclusion.

To be fair, the film also incorporates some dazzling editing, but in all, these brief moments can’t supplant the overall puzzling nature of the picture.  Displaying interesting elements of the Carpathian Mountain culture, which entails elements of both Christian and pagan religion, the film has the potential to be engaging to those employed as professors of anthropology.  However, for even an avid lover of film this one was difficult to engage.

Grade: One Hat Off

198: Louisiana Story

Most film enthusiasts are familiar with Robert J. Flaherty’s Nanook of the North (1922), even if only by title recognition, but not as many also know his Louisiana Story (1948).  Nanook has come under fire from critics in recent years for not being a “true documentary,” as many of its most famous sequences were obviously staged for Flaherty’s camera.  With so many detractors decrying him for his betrayal of Cinéma vérité it is ironic that Flaherty’s Louisiana Story is itself often described and categorized as a documentary. 

           

Made on a budget of $258,000 financed by the Standard Oil Company, this staged and scripted narrative film was never-the-less selected to open the second Edinburgh International Festival of Documentary Films.  It was in all likelihood Flaherty’s reputation as a documentarian that led to this early misconception, but having seen the film I see why further confusion has ensued.  Light on dialogue due to the near impossibility of running microphone cable through swampland, the sound mix relies heavily on the natural resonance of the bayou, likely added in post-production.  The resulting eerie environmental verisimilitude adds to the films suspenseful moments in a brilliant way, as does the Virgil Thompson score which won the Pulitzer Prize for Composition (the only film score to do so).

Through the perspective of a young man (Joseph Boudreaux) who the film credits simply denote as “The Boy,” the audience witnesses the quiet satisfaction of life on the bayou.  Though this life is presented as simple, danger is always lurking in the form of scaly predators, and the bag of salt, used as a gator deterrent, which the boy carries on his hip, serves as a reminder of this eminent threat.  His life a la Huck Finn is, however, interrupted when his father signs papers that will allow for oil drilling on their property.  The foreshadowing in the scene that follows is heavy-handed as the prospector’s exiting speedboat makes waves which rock the boy right out of his raft and into the swamp.

The ensuing arrival of the oil derrick is trumpeted by the score, as it is for the young man perhaps his first view of the industrialized outside world.  The work that progresses is noisy, and disrupts the quiet of life in the swamp.  Though awestruck by the rig and its workers whom he befriends, like his father the boy is skeptical that the machines will be able to draw oil from the marsh.  He watches intently as the roughnecks work their craft, Boudreaux conveying the character’s sense that there is more to the world than he understands.  These make for some of the film’s most engaging scenes, as Flaherty and his young actor take the audience inside the boy’s perspective of fascination.  

With a retrospective of the films which followed Louisiana Story to draw from, the scenes here of striking oil do not measure up in excitement to those of say Giant (1956) or There Will Be Blood (2007), but those two films and their derrick-busting moments are anchored by two of the finest performers in the history of cinema.  Here, Flaherty works with non-professional actors and conveys something different than excitement.  In terms of conveying the childlike sense of wonder, he and Boudreaux strike it rich.

When the well is capped the rig moves up the river on a barge as the boy and his father wave goodbye to the workers.  The story here is a simple one.  Flaherty mostly ignores the environmental themes at which his foreshadowing could have hinted.  No doubt this simple conclusion without residual effects was required by the film’s financiers.  The disruption of life in Louisiana Story, though tangible, is brief.

Grade: 2 Hats Off

Note: The audio mix on the streamed version from Netflix was awful.  Dialogue is almost unintelligible as score blasts.  Does anyone know if this was the filmmakers intension, simply the product of the microphone problem I noted, or just a bad digitization transfer?

199: The Story of a Cheat

“1001” calls Sacha Guitry’s The Story of a Cheat (1936) a “tour de force.”  While I’d say that slightly overstates the film’s greatness, I can’t deny that several elements of the picture, which Guitry also scripted and stars in, had me delighted as I watched.  The film is noted for its unique title sequence in which Guitry directs his camera to display to the audience all of the principle actors, many of the sets, his composer, and the cinematographer as he introduces each in delightful voiceover.  So much of the subsequent film relies on this same voiceover technique that this early breach of the so-called “fourth wall” serves to establish the irreverent (for its time) tone of the film.  The gag is the first of many Guitry employs to take us through the tale of middle-aged scoundrel as he composes his memoirs. 

This frame story gives way to the memoirs’ contents and the misanthrope’s detailing of his loose moral fiber.  Always ironic, the film notes how he was able at a young age to escape death from deadly mushrooms by having committed a small crime prior to their picking.  Thus our rogue protagonist develops a philosophy of life prone to mischief and misbehavior.  As he writes, he laments that his only successes in life came from his delving into degradation and forays as a crook.

To call the film tongue in check is to put it lightly, as verbals and visuals often combine for amusing filmic fun.  “1001” makes the interesting point that essentially what we see for most of the film’s duration is a silent movie, only being commented upon and narrated by Guitry’s character from retrospect.  Thinking about this comment as I read their summation, I found that I had not noticed this while I screened the picture.  It is to Guitry’s credit as both scribe and director that this technique goes unnoticed.  Much of the film’s action takes place in a casino, and Guitry’s scene compositions stand up well even so with contemporary clips from such pictures as Soderbergh’s “Ocean’s” trilogy.


Grade: 2.5 Hats Off

#200: An Autumn Afternoon

I would be remiss if I did not mention the invaluable resource that Chicago Sun-Times film critic Roger Ebert has been thus far on my filmic quest. Ebert’s insights and enlightening prose have been the most wonderful of companions on my journey.  One of the areas in which his writings have been most valuable is the effort he puts toward introducing the great works of foreign directors to American audiences, particularly with their inclusion in his “Great Movies” series. At the conclusion of his introduction to the first collection of these essays to be published in book form, he writes that “[s]ooner or later every lover of film arrives at Ozu, and understands that the movies are not about moving, but about whether or not to move.”

            The genius of Ozu, and one of the elements that Ebert argues make his films “great,” is that he is able to create emotionally and spiritually moving images without ever physically moving his camera. In 1962s An Autumn Afternoon, as in almost all of Ozu’s pictures, it is placed at a low wide angle, often seeming to wait for action to occur in front of it instead of seeking that action out. In a way, this conscious choice of camera patience reflects Ozu’s characters.  The pace of life we observe from a distance in an Ozu film is not realistic – life not as it is, but as it should be.  What other director would give us the time to reflect upon the beauty created by a spinning barber’s pole on a street cluttered by neon signs? That is not to say that the characters here live their lives passively or without a care.  Like Ebert says, these are not films of action but of the decision to act.  Characters in Ozu films reflect on the life-changing possible outcomes resulting from the actions they may, or may not take.

            The central concern of An Autumn Afternoon is the decision to marry.  A widowed father struggles with questions of matrimony as they concern his daughter, whom he fears may grow old caring for him and her childish older brother.  Meanwhile his oldest son, who perhaps married too soon himself, tries to be of assistance by drumming up suitable candidates for the marriage from amongst his friends.  The story may sound simple, and it is, but while Ozu tells small stories, he does not use small themes.  These are characters we can understand at a basic level because they deal with real human issues. The primary protagonist is a man who works hard, drinks too much, kids with his friends, and worries over his daughter as she worries for him. Though he holds some status, he lives a simple life.  The film tells us that during the war he was a captain in the Japanese navy, and though he seems to enjoy reminiscing, in a candid moment he says simply, “[p]erhaps it is best that we lost the war.” He is a man at peace with his station in life, and he now wants only what is best for all of his children. 

            Ozu tells stories about families. Many consider Tokyo Story (1953), another quiet family drama, to be his masterpiece. However, I prefer Floating Weeds (1959).  Though that film certainly concerns the relationships between biological relatives, its true beauty comes from Ozu’s ability to create a family from the small troop of kabuki actors around which the film centers.  Though these individuals may be cast aways from their own families, the film shows how they find harmony together even through turmoil.  An Autumn Afternoon shows us how we sometimes make decisions not because they are easy, but because they are what we think is best for those we love.   

Grade: 3 Hats Off

199 to go!     

"Let's Start at the Very Beginning (A Very Good Place to Start)"

I suppose that a confession is in order: I Love Movies. I love credits. I love knowing that Maria Falconetti, who has only two film credits to her name, both of which predate 1930, can be connected to Kevin Bacon in only three moves. I love the way rubber soul shoes stick to theatre floors that haven’t been mopped. I love the feel of freshly ripped movie tickets, and the way that they inevitably remind you to check the archives in your change pocket as you add them to the collection. There is a moment in every film when the lights go down and the logos of studios and ceremonious music simultaneously trumpet its beginning. In some movies this will be the best moment, but in many it serves only as an emotional primer for what is to come. This is perhaps my favorite moment, generally speaking, when going to the movies. It is the moment in which all things are possible. From there on in its flush or bust, and you’re in the hands of the filmmaker.

Movies have been special to me for as long as I can remember. As a child when I couldn’t sleep, my father would descend the stairs with me, and I would eventually drift off to the gravelly assertions of John Wayne or the melodious drawl of Jimmy Stewart. Dad was a movie guy. I guess I just got lucky. Still, I don’t think even my father suspected that as a teenager movies would become an obsession for me-- the next logical step after I foolishly assumed I knew all there was to know about rock music. There was about a three month period during my junior year of high school when I spent almost every Friday evening roaming the isles of Blockbuster with Jake Johnson trying to find anything that I’d heard was good, and wanting to see them all.      

            Then, in my freshman year of college I was lucky enough to take a three-week accelerated course in film. During the class I learned how much I didn’t know about the movies and was introduced to some of the finest films I’ve ever seen. Some were classics that I should have seen long before then, and some I saw in that basement lecture room for the first time with new eyes. I was hooked, and to my mother’s delight I got a library card the following summer. I think she was a bit disappointed when I starting bringing home armloads of DVDs as opposed to literary classics, but some of the them were Olivier adaptations of Shakespeare so she tried to understand.

            Though it was difficult to convince roommates when I returned to school to sit through some of the classics when I wanted the TV (and I must say I put them through quite a bit) by the end of my sophomore year I had pretty much exhausted the Greenville College VHS library.  Returning home that summer I decided to dedicate myself to a larger mission within the oeuvre of simply loving movies. Shortly after my 20^th birthday I purchased Steven Jay Schneider (ed.)’s 1001 Movies You Must See Before You Die and set myself to the task of doing just that. Upon purchase I had seen roughly 250 of the titles contained therein. Now, four and a half years later, I have seen over 800. The tome actually contains over 1001 films as it is a revised edition*.  As of today, my color coordinated check-off system indicates that I have exactly 200 left to see. And so it begins. This blog is a way for me to chart my progress and to undertake the challenge of doing what I should have been doing all along. I plan to write about each of these remaining titles as I attempt to complete the book by my 27^th birthday (June 16, 2013). I may finish long before then. I may not. I may, as the book somewhat ominously foretells, drop dead before I can complete the task. However, my resolve is strong and my thirst for films has yet to be quenched.

            I know already that some of my entries will be shorter than others, as the book has already taken me some places I didn’t want to go. I can’t see myself writing more than a paragraph about a film as utterly dull as Jackie Chan’s Project A, Part II (1987), a movie to which the text gives three.  Conversely, I find it hard to believe that Schneider’s contributors contained their summation of Jim Sheridan’s My Left Foot (1989) to that same number of paragraphs. As with any journey, there will inevitably be some pit stops that are less rewarding, but ultimately necessary, to reach the final destination. And with that, I’m off.

*There has since been another edition printed which I can only assume will eventually lead me to lengthening my cinematic journey.