4: Signs and Wonders

            Thinking about the ending of Jonathan Nossiter’s Signs and Wonders (2000), I can’t help but recall an exercise that is common in undergraduate creative writing classes (including screenwriting).  Multiple participants are asked to write three unrelated elements onto separate scraps of paper.  The scraps are then shuffled or placed into a hat, and each participant then draws three out of the collection.  Then each is asked to compose a story that includes all three elements.  The exercise, to my understanding, has two distinct benefits. 

First, it challenges writers to draw together narrative elements, themes, or objects which they, theoretically, would otherwise not have chosen to connect together.  This, if approached as the course’s instructor’s hope, strengthens the participants’ ability to make connections, which is essentially the art of good storytelling.  Second, and sometimes more beneficial to the students, is that it opens their minds to the possibility that inspiration can come from multiple sources, and that in connecting those elements (again, the art) they have forced themselves to create a story, where before there may have only been writers block.  Writing this now, I’m developing the assumption that reviving this exercise may be how many science fiction writers deal with that particular affliction, even long after commencement.

ANYWAY, the end of Signs and Wonders feels like the result of this exercise on the part of Nossiter and his script collaborator James Lasdun.  That is not to say that the ending of the film does not work.  It simply joins together narrative elements that, outside the context of the film, would be difficult to draw together.  Could this be said of the conclusion of most films?  Maybe, but consider this.  Two days after it’s opening, Fast and Furious 6 has already grossed $122M.  I’m betting that sitting through only the last 5 minutes of that picture (I cannot call it a film), I could put together a rather decent summation of the previous 125 minutes. (The obvious benefit to such a challenge would be not having to actually experience that prolonged agony.) So while I’ll concede that most movies end on notes that are built toward throughout the course of their runtime, not all pictures pull together elements that could not be explained without this buildup.  Signs and Wonders is a glaring exception.  I’ll not spoil the ending by giving anything away.  I’ll only give you the setup.    

 Alec (Stellan Skarsgård) is a man who looks for meaning in everything.  He sees significance in catching the street lamps come on and in seeing two covered motorcycles parked next to each other.  Most of this reading of signs constitutes a little game he plays with his children, but part of him actually believes in deeper significances that can be hinted at in everyday occurrences.  He’s a successful trader living in Greece with his wife, Marjorie (Charlotte Rampling), and their two children, and he gives off the impression that he believes this reading of signs has lead to much of his success and happiness.  He does have one ugly secret to hide.  He’s had a lengthy affair with an American woman from his office, Katherine (Deborah Kara Unger).  She often wears a yellow scarf in her hair, and he’s always felt that yellow has brought him good fortune. 

   He doesn’t believe enough in this sign to keep the affair going though, and when he confesses everything to Marjorie she is eventually able to forgive him.  Months later, on a ski trip with the entire family, he follows a series of yellow signs down a slope, and finds Katherine in a clearing.  This for him is evidence enough, and soon he’s left his family for Katherine and for America.  However, a revelation about this renewed relationship and about this woman quickly has him again rethinking his choices.  When he returns to Greece he finds that Marjorie has found someone else, and he begins to wonder about his philosophies and the meanings he has always read into so deeply.  He makes an ally of his daughter, but it appears that the two will have to do more than read the signs correctly to reconcile the family as a whole.

Signs and Wonders was a French production filmed on location in Athens, but most of the dialogue is in English, which is justified by Marjorie’s dual citizenship and job at the U.S. embassy, and her desire to raise the children as Americans.  It was released in 2000 at the tail end of a five-year run of rather incredible performances by Skarsgård, in which he starred in both groundbreaking European cinema (Zero Kelvin (1995), Breaking the Waves (1996), Insomnia (1997)), quality American dramas (Good Will Hunting* (1997), Amistad (also 1997)), and Hollywood action thrillers (Ronin (1998), Deep Blue Sea (1999)).  Here his work does not quite match the intensity or depth of any of those previous performances, but this is perhaps because he’s overshadowed by Rampling, doing some of her finest work since the 1970s.  She was 53 when filming Signs and Wonders, and she looks just a bit too aged for the role in close-up, but her delivery is nearly flawless as she deftly maneuvers a script that would be full of potential embarrassments for lesser actresses.  She carries her mature beauty with grace, and even has the confidence for a revealing (of both character and skin) sex scene.

Like its protagonist, critics read a number of meanings into Signs and Wonders.  Some said that it was rife with critique of American imperialism in Greece and the commercialization of modern society.  I think that those elements are there, but not because Nossiter wanted to stress them, so much as that they were ways in which the audience could identify with (or against) the films two superfluous lovers, Katherine and Marjorie’s fiancé Andreas, a former political activist.  I’m not sure that either element really contributes anything to the narrative, other than justifying Marjorie and Andreas’ meeting at the embassy. 

Regardless of larger meanings, intended or not, Signs and Wonders is an effective film in that it gives talented actors good dramatic material to play out.  I don’t think that it is particularly well-structured, but individual scenes and performances do stand out (even transcending the dated handheld digital camerawork that was all the rage in late 90s European films).  I’m sure that I could take to the net seeking out explanations for the narrative juxtapositions at the film’s conclusion, and any deeper significance that they might have, but for now I will be content in having seen gifted thespians apply their craft to material written for mature audiences wanting more than car chases.

 Language: English (primary)/Greek

Runtime: 105 Minutes

Grade: 3 Hats Off

*Robin Williams rightly garnered critical raves and an Oscar for his opposite performance, but watch the film again and think about the complexities that Skarsgård’s Professor Lambeau reveals.

       

5: Too Early, Too Late (a.k.a. Too Soon, Too Late, a.k.a. Zu Fruh, Zu Spat – Original German title, a.k.a. Trop Tôt, Trop Tard – Original French title, a.k.a. Troppo Presto, Troppo Tardi – Original Italian title)

            How strange it is that two of the most difficult movies to see in the 1001 canon are “landscape films.”  With Deseret (1995; #10), Danièle Huillet and Jean-Marie Straub’s Too Early, Too Late (1981) is notorious amongst followers of the list for being the final elusive title for many apostles.  I noted in my review of Deseret that I believed it to be more of a “video essay” than a film.  I stand by that claim, but must admit that viewing Too Early, Too Late has caused me to reevaluate it.  I see now that that term connotes a boredom that my previous review does not describe.  But where I felt Deseret to be transcendent of the sum of its parts, I found Huillet and Straub’s film to be weighty and dull; dragged down by a not-so-subtle subtext regarding social revolution.

            After a dizzying opening shot, the film’s preliminary section consists of lengthy pans of modern provincial France, complemented by Huillet’s voiceover reading of a late-eighteenth century letter noting the impoverished state of the rural countryside under Louis XVI.  Additional verbal text is drawn from the same period’s “Notebook of Grievances,” compiled by village mayors in 1789 as a response to proposed taxation that would surely cripple the mostly agrarian economy.  The monologue overtly questions whether the peasant revolt began too early, but perhaps succeeded too late to have been truly beneficial.          

           This sentiment is heavily reinforced by the film’s lengthier second section, which shifts locales to modern Egypt, where the Neguib-lead revolution of the 1950s resulted in the expulsion of British presence.  Here the voiceover text, read by Mahmoud Hussein, is a work of Karl Marx.  The visuals in this second section are much more densely populated than their earlier counterparts, and the message is more direct when the camera is placed outside of a Cairo factory during a shift change.  Obviously this image invokes the similar early work by the Lumière brothers, and seems to insinuate the consistency of Marx’ message from the late 19^th to the latter half of the 20^th century.

            Apart from this shot, which is in and of itself difficult, as it lasts for almost ten minutes, I found little in Too Early, Too Late to capture my attention.  I falls low on my “watchability” scale.  However, much like Wavelength (1967; #129) there’s something in its innate “Filmness” that can’t be denied.  Chicago Reader critic Jonathan Rosenbaum (whose work I usually enjoy, but whose opinions I don’t always agree with), who composed the write-up on the film for the 1001 text, seems to put his finger on this elusive element in his essay on the film that’s posted to his website. 

He astutely notes that filmmaking is about decisions, and that Too Early, Too Late, with its implicating title, effectively conveys the power of these decisions to dictate our reactions.  Interestingly enough, though Rosenbaum put the film on his 1982 ballot for the Sight and Sound poll, he admits in the essay that he can’t quite capture the film in his prose.  Perhaps that illustrates the elusiveness of this picture, and that enough might make it worth your time.  It’s voiceovers were recorded, with the same readers, in German, French, English, and Italian, but versions hit the net in sections more often than in their entirety.  If you came across the whole thing, watch it when you find it.  It may not be posted for long.

Language: English (German, French, and Italian versions available)

Runtime: 105 Minutes

Grade: 1 Hat Off

          

6: No Fear, No Die (a.k.a. S'en Fout la Mort – Original French title)

            No Fear, No Die (1990) is the third film I’ve seen by director Claire Denis.  Her Beau Travail (1999; #65) didn’t quite work for me (but its final shot is masterful), and her recent White Material (2009; which I came across as part of my Criterion quest) seemed to be missing something as well.  Still, I’ve picked up on some consistent themes in her work which I like, and which I hope she continues to embrace.  She seems particularly fond of outsiders (not losers, who John Hughes* loved, but outsiders) and her fascination with process is somewhat marvelous.  No Fear, No Die, like her other films, seems to embrace the “somewhat” there.  As a director, Denis seems to be consciously restraining herself from falling in love with these outsiders and with their processes, and I think this might be why I just don’t love any of her work.

            Dah (Isaach De Bankolé) and Jocelyn (Alex Descas) are her outsiders here.  Dah is a West Indian Native and Jocelyn has emigrated from Benin.  Both appear to be in France illegally, but no dialogue in the film confirms this.  Both of their pasts seem like stereotypes, and I suspect this is what Denis wanted; too many details and the audience would focus on their lives before, and not the here and now.  They are in France, it seems, for one reason: cockfighting.  The script lets on that they have worked together before, and that they need to make a lot of money fast to get out of some sort of trouble.  Dah, like all movie criminals, is convinced that this is the scheme that will put them in the black.  He’s the one with the head for angles and details; Jocelyn knows the game and the birds. 

            A white man named Pierre, who knew Jocelyn as a child in Africa, has asked him now to help him start up a cockfighting ring.  The plan, they all believe, is simple enough: host the game, take bets, train ringers, and count the money as it rolls in.  Dah works the logistics, Jocelyn will train the roosters, and Pierre will provide the room.  The location as it turns out will be in the basement of Pierre’s suburban nightclub, perhaps one of the strangest movie locations I can recall.  The whole place looks like a deserted airport, and we hardly see anyone there for any reason other than the cockfights.  One gets the sense that Pierre may not be the most adept club owner.  He seems to have other problems to focus on, including a young wife, Toni, who he barely speaks to and a contemptible adult son, Michel, who he doesn’t know has eyes for her.

            The arrangements are all made.  Dah and Jocelyn will live with the birds in the basement while the underground publicity can be drummed up.  Dah buys the groceries and fixes the meals while Jocelyn works with the birds.  The film’s best scenes involve this routine.  Music – always Bob Marley or hip hop – blasts from the stereo.  Jocelyn manipulates the roosters to improve their agility and aggression.  He believes that cockfighting is an art form.  Dah paces, complains, and tries to read, but he is a man who seems unable to stay still.  Jocelyn likes the birds more than he cares for his partner most days. 

            The rooster their betting big on is called S'en Fout la Mort.  Jocelyn thinks he can beat any bird in the circuit, but he doesn’t want him involved in the gimmick fights, where the cocks are equipped with razor blades on their feet in order to increase the damage of each blow and decrease the time of the fights.  He’s a traditionalist.  Dah doesn’t care much either way.  Winning fights and adding to the bank roll are his only concerns.  Things, however, get complicated when Michel begins to make moves on Toni.  Any upsetting of the status quo could throw off the profits, as the somewhat erratic Pierre might shut the game down if he were to find out.  The situation is further complicated when word of S'en Fout la Mort’s success begins to bring in legitimate challengers.

            I suspect you know that there is more going on in No Fear, No Die than I’m letting on, but these few details should help you decide whether or not it’s worth your time.  Much of the appreciation for the film centers on its implication about the status of black immigrants, and the power struggles represented by Dah and Jocelyn’s relationship with Pierre.  In both gambling and prostitution – probably the two most exploitive entities of human existence – the house always gets a cut.  Essentially, walls and a roof provided for the purpose of vice to be carried on within them are an investment that is expected to generate lucrative returns.  Pierre may be out of his league, but he’s determined to make it in this racket.  Exploiting two illegal aliens doesn’t matter to him.

            While this economic exploitation seems to be the pinpoint of most of the critical praise for the film, I think that perhaps it undercuts a much better narrative avenue.  The social consequences for Dah and Jocelyn are never really explored.  Yes, they are forced to keep mostly to themselves in the nightclub basement, but neither ever vocalizes any discontent with their living arrangements.  Jocelyn is too focused on the birds, as well as Toni, to be dissatisfied by the set-up, and Dah seems to care only about making money.  In this respect, they both seem like one-dimensional characters, with only their occasional disputes about the music and the fight nights punctuating their existence.  We never really know how they feel about their situation; we just know what they think.

If it was Denis’ intention to focus on the process of training the birds, as I suspect it was, then she succeeds on this level.  But she never really gives us reasons why this rather deplorable activity appeals to any of the participants.  We suspect that Dah doesn’t really care how the money is made (perhaps a clue about how desperate he is too make it), and that Jocelyn comes from a line of cockfighting trainers, but no solid explanation of the betting process or the draw of the blood sport is ever given.  Again, maybe this is the point.  During one fight, Dah’s voiceover tells us that even he gets emotional when one of his birds is in the ring, but it feels more like an excuse than an explanation of legitimate excitement. 

This had to be a difficult film to make.  A disclaimer at the film’s conclusion tells us that no birds were injured or mistreated during production, which is certainly admirable, but difficult to believe in consideration of the material.  This logistic problem was mirrored by a thematic one.  How do you make a film about cockfighting without a) glorifying it, and b) going into full campiness?  The answer to “a” is by making it obvious that this is a subculture populated by sleaze balls.  Check.  The answer to “b” is more difficult.  This movie easily could have been dismissed.  Heck, I was thinking of using “Cocky” (possibly needing some roman numerals to drive home the joke) in my review about five minutes in.  Denis avoids camp with directorial class though, by focusing on the human characters.  I just wish she’d given me more of them.

Language: French

Runtime: 90 minutes

Grade: 2 Hats Off                              

*second John Hughes reference in as many reviews … no explanation

7: Red Psalm (a.k.a. Psaume Rouge, a.k.a. Még kér a nép – Original Hungarian title)

Just about everything I’ve read about Miklós Jancsó’s Red Psalm (1971) notes the director’s use of nudity in the film (the French DVD version even has a bare-breasted young woman prominently featured in the cover art).  Though none of my research has specifically noted it, I suspect that this was one of the first modern eastern bloc films to expose such brazen amounts of skin.  While this may be important in that it broke down the barriers of cinematic art in its time and place, Jancsó and Red Psalm don’t really cover any new ground metaphorically with their exhibition.  Nudity in art has always symbolized vulnerability, and here it clearly mirrors the unprotected farmers of a Hungarian agricultural community who strike against the practices of their landlord.  The workers have no protection but their ideals, and such things often fail to stop bullets.  

            As the film opens, just over 100 farmers, their wives, and children have gathered on the plains to stage their protest.  Their clothes, tools, and instruments denote that this is the close of the 19^th century.  The dissent begins merrily, with big talk, music, and dancing, but the swift arrival of a cavalry unit called in by the landlord quickly establishes the gravity of the farmers’ decision.  Three young women strip their clothes as a sign of resistance to the tyranny of their oppressors.  The songs and the discussions continue amongst the group as tensions with a few mounted officers begin to rise.  If the protest comes to a halt, all will be forgiven the group is told, but many farmers mistrust this promise of peaceful resolution.  In just 27 shots, which run over the course of under 90 minutes, this conflict, which appears to exist in the span of only a few hours, will reach its inevitable conclusion.  I say “inevitable” because something is evident right from the beginning with Red Psalm: this is not a movie of characters, but rather a film of the collective.  I couldn’t recall a single character name as the picture ended, and I wondered whether I’d even bothered to learn them during the movie.

            I suspected that this was because many of the gathered individuals have Hungarian names with no clear English counterpart.  A quick look at the IMDb confirmed this, but I’m not so sure that Jancsó wanted even a Hungarian audience to remember one specific character so much as he wanted the struggle and sacrifice of the group to be the prominent focus.  Indeed, I remember several events in the film clearly, but little about any individual.  Jancsó is intentional in his methods.  Reactions, close-ups, and shot/reverse shot editing wouldn’t have served his purpose.  His few shots are comprised of calculated camera movements that seem to float between sub-groups and conversations.  In this way, Jancsó reminds me of a Hungarian Robert Altman.  One gets the feeling that he somehow saw M*A*S*H (1970) before making this film.  Years later, his fellow Hungarian, Béla Tarr would perfect this ethereal movement between subjects and dialogues in cold black and white films such as Satantango (1994) and Werckmeister Harmonies (2000). 

Here Jancsó uses color like Altman, not for artistic ends, but rather to evoke the reality of the conflict.  It happens on a plain that could be anywhere, to farmers who could be any type of worker, with soldiers who might be the strong arm of any oppressive force.  It is a story of generalities which are representative of the principles of Marxism, and therefore must appear for Jancsó’s purposes to be told in the context of the real.  Black and white would have evoked a specific plain, in a specific nation, and a specific conflict.  It would have called for opening title cards with a date and a region.  By comparison, think of Tarr’s films, which feel like they could take place nowhere but where they do.  This would be wrong for Jancsó’s Red Psalm. 

            If it were my movie, (which of course it isn’t) I would have made different choices.  Films about the collective usually fail in my estimation because groups often bring out the worst in us (See the films made by the Russians just after the revolution for examples).  As an audience, we want to see films about individuals who stand up against the cries of the masses; who rise above to become something greater.  The best films about groups are often dependant on one character emerging as a leader, beating both the odds and personal demons to seize the day and embody what the group needs.  When this doesn’t happen, at least for Western audiences, something feels off.  War movies about a squad on a dangerous mission, Westerns that involve a posse, ensemble high school movies written by John Hughes, and any film about a band or a sports team essentially works on this principle; both the good of the group and the story will be served in those moments when an individual is singled out by the narrative to explain his or her purpose in life and in that context (e.g. the war, the search, the tour, the game, and specifically the jury room in 12 Angry Men (1957))  These moments are altogether absent from Red Psalm, and thus, while I enjoyed its craft, I cared little for its story, its characters, or its meaning.     

                    

Language: Hungarian

Runtime: 87 Minutes

Grade: 1.5 Hats Off