146: The Mirror (a.k.a. Zerkalo)

I have to admit that when I read over the remaining titles on the 1001 list, there are a few that I’m dreading.  But I always hope that films that I’m not looking forward to will surprise me, as was the case with 36^th Chamber of Shaolin (1978; #150).  Anything by Soviet director Andrea Tarkovsky throws up just such a red flag.  Of his films that I’ve seen, many of them i.e. Andrea Rublev (1966), Solaris (1972), and Stalker (1979) which are considered masterpieces, I haven’t enjoyed a single one.  Yes I’m probably a viewer too young and too thoroughly westernized to enjoy these semi-ethereal Russian works, but that’s just how it is.  His movies are achingly slow, and as such I wasn’t exactly excited about his The Mirror (1974).

            In this case my ominous sense of dread seems to have been dead on.  Again Tarkovsky delivered a snails-paced meditation on God know what that simply missed the mark for me.  The 1001 text notes in the write-up on The Mirror that avant-garde American director Stan Brakhage (of Dog Star Man infamy) was one of Tarkovsky’s greatest stateside supporters – in what must be one of the most blatant examples ever of one hack praising the hackery of another.  Both of these filmmakers made pictures that no one could possibly understand, and I would bet that they generated equal pleasure for that experience.

            The Mirror is supposedly a multigenerational examination of the experience of being raised without a father, an experience Tarkovsky knew well.  It’s been highly praised for its personal nature by Brakhage and by others for years, but I found it little more than distant and apathetic.  It is supposed to be clear that the protagonist, who’s POV we experience without ever seeing his adult face, is Tarkovsky himself, grown and now guilty of the same sin of abandonment.  He doesn’t seem particularly apologetic for his actions, and doesn’t appear particularly to care for anything at all.  He complains to his mother over the phone about having a soar throat, using it for his excuse not to visit as he idles away in his dilapidated apartment.  This lodging in particular pushes the film from “personal” to self-indulgent, as an Andrea Rublev poster is hung on the wall.  How insecure can director be when he has to use art work promoting one of his films as a set piece for another?  This is more that George Lucas hiding “THX 1138” in all of his movies. This is pure narcissism.

            And how about naming a film that is supposed to be a self-reflection “The Mirror?”  Did he copy this script off of a bathroom wall at the obvious metaphor bar?  To be fair, the film really is full of reflection shots and sets full of mirrors, but placing them there doesn’t really enhance the film’s meaning.  Compliment these factors with bad editing and the added confusion of having one actress play both the mother of the past and the wife of the present and you get a disjointed Oedipus complex movie. 

            There are however some brief bright moments, more credited to Tarkovsky’s vision than his filmmaking abilities.  He incorporates the use of stock footage, most of it concerning major moments of 20^th century Russian history, setting them to the compositions of Bach and Purcell.  These instances are brief but powerful, and speak volumes more than anything Tarkovsky committed to his own celluloid.  They seem to imply, in the context of his almost incoherent work, that Russians are affected, generation to generation, by the history of the land in which they make their lives.  On these notes the film hits the right chord, but unfortunately they are all but lost in the midst of Tarkovsky’s filmic ramblings.  Brakhage said of Tarkovsky’s work that it was dreamlike, “illuminat[ing] the boarders of the unconscious.”  He did get one thing right.  Unconscious is what most viewers will be about ten minutes into this one.

Grade: 1 Hat Off              

On Film Criticism

Film Criticism is, when thought about, one of the most pointless of all professions.  The public at large pays little attention to the musings and opinions of local and national film critics, choosing instead to visit the overpriced megaplex to see the latest over-hyped, under-developed, opening weekend-concerned blockbuster.  They ignore the advice and miss the subtle homage and witty illusions of those individuals who have dedicated their lives to the appreciation of film, choosing instead to fall victim to the whims and wills of corporate marketing executives hoping to retire at 35 on their foolishly spent dollars.  As the average moviegoer (the adolescent to young adult male) pours out his allowance/wages to see the latest special effects-littered slasher flick megahit, devoid of character, but always with the promise of exposed cleavage, the critic can only sit back in disgust and dismay.

            While the art house and black and white foreign films of the critic’s fancy appeal to fewer and fewer filmgoers by the year, it becomes painfully obvious that he serves only the function of personifying the aspirations of his dying faithful as they salivate over found Metropolis footage and desperately anticipate unauthorized midnight screenings of Cocksucker Blues.  Yet have no pity for the critic, for as much as he may claim to wish that his suggestions were heeded by movie-going millions, it is in his distance from them, and thus his distain for them, that he finds his true pleasure and passion in life.  The critic exists as the absolute middle between the artist and the public, a position he often relishes as his own true talent is but the dissemination and interpretation of the work of true artists.

            Therefore, that intrinsic and universal desire to be loved, which exists in all artists and is juxtaposed by that other ironic artistic desire, to not be appreciated in their own time, is magnified in the humble critic.  Thus he relies on the emotional high provided by the near worship of a few filmic faithful who blog and write letters in the frantic hope of response, and hence their own recognition.  Indeed, the film critic functions solely to perpetuate the slim hopes of these desperate dweebs that their own useless opinions and musings will one day be respected by others of their oft-dateless ilk.  But as I said, have no sympathy for the critic, for he has risen to a position of public semi-respect by doing little more than watching countless movies.  Though this can not be considered true sloth, as many of these films take great intelligence and a strong will to sit through, it can not also, by any conventional means of the word, be considered “work.”

            The critic is the proprietor of the half-art; creative only in it description and dissection of the art of others.  Reaching this pinnacle of mediocrity he can take solace in knowing that he has garnered enough credibility to fall just short of incredible.  No one can take away his realized aspiration, except say a supervising editor to whom he must feign his respect, as journalism is but another world in which he is only a fringe citizen.  Do not forget that the critic is not totally without respect from the general population, as his opinions, while not always respected, are regarded as informed.  He would also rank highly on a list of anyone attempting to compose a winning team for a local junior high-sponsored trivia night. 

            It is in these respects that he has socially surpassed the likes of the true artist, or say… the average stock broker.  The critic has found a niche through which he has filled the two highest aspirations man can aspire to when seeking employment.  These aspirations of course present themselves in the form of the most often asked questions of the job seeker.  First, and most important to the common man: “Does this position provide me with the means to support those who depend on me financially?”  Second, and most important to the artist: “Does this work fulfill my inner needs of expression and self-worth?”  While the first question/aspiration may be difficult to fulfill for the struggling Catholic critic of impeccable potency, it should suffice for the protestant critic with at least minimal sense.  Now consider the artist who enters his profession with the aspiration of wealth.  He would be considered by many men to be a complete idiot.  Conversely, the stock broker who finds a sense of expression and self-worth in his position would be considered by many men to be a complete ass hole.  Thus, the Critic could do worse.

147: A Matter of Life and Death (a.k.a. Stairway to Heaven)

The films of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger are held in such high regard by the likes of Martin Scorsese and Francis Ford Coppola that it can be difficult to see one without already having heard all about it.  These two directors have been credited with leading the “re-discovery” of the Powell/ Pressburger filmmaking team and have produced and recorded much of the supplementary material available on the DVD releases of their films.  Suffice it to say that the information one could glean from the viewing and listening to all such introductions and commentary tracks would be immense.  And yet, I’ve never quite understood the obsession with this English/Hungarian duo’s films that is held by this pair of Italian American directors. 

It’s not that most of the movies made under the Powell/Pressburger Archer logo are bad, but until seeing their A Matter of Life and Death (a.k.a. Stairway to Heaven; 1946) I’d never viewed one that I thought was truly great.  It was a film produced during the heart of their most prolific run from 1943 to 1948 which included such titles as The life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943), I Know Where I’m Going (1945), Black Narcissus (1947), and The Red Shoes (1948).  Of these films, the most critical praise has been lavished on the latter two releases, which I personally didn’t get much out of.  However, of the films that the Archer team released during this period, A Matter of Life and Death is the only feature to have yet to receive the Criterion treatment.  This is a travesty, as it makes finding this film on DVD particularly difficult.  Trust me though when I say that the search will be worth your time.        

The ever talented and ever-so-British David Niven is perfectly cast here as an English airmen, P.D. Carter, who is supposed to have been killed in a leap for the burning fuselage of his plane while returning from a bombing raid.  He submits his dying words to an American servicewoman manning the night radio watch on the ground.  However, when the English fog prevents a “conductor,” an angel of death figure, from finding his descending body, he awakens the following morning having washed ashore unharmed.  When the conductor finally catches up with the pilot later that day, he has fallen in love with the woman, June (Kim Hunter), whom he spoke to over the radio.

Believing that this burgeoning love happened as a result of an error on the part of the Heavenly bureaucratic machine, Carter petitions his conductor to be allowed a stay of execution of sorts.  His conversations with the conductor, played by a pitch-perfect Marius Goring, exist outside of the time of the earthly world and are dismissed as hallucinations by the medical personnel assigned to investigate Carter’s strange survival.  Earthly events seem to have Heavenly counterparts as the script builds toward a medical operation which coincides with Carter’s trial for his life up in Heaven. 

These events play out against a backdrop of set pieces that would incite wonder in any audience knowledgeable that they were created long before the advent of C.G.I.  The “Stairway to Heaven” of which the U.S. release title speaks is alone worth placing this film high on your “To See” list.  Likewise creative cinematography, including a “within the eyeball” shot and a distinct choice of color vs. black and white to note earth and Heaven respectively, make this film visually spectacular. 

Tipping the scale to greatness however is the screenplay’s ability to touch on deep philosophical issues within the Heavenly High Court scene.  The film was intended as a piece aimed at easing strained relations between England and the U.S. at the close of WWII.  The relationship between a British pilot and USAAF servicewoman opens the door for debate between the English and American inhabitants of the eternal paradise.  I realized watching this piece that the truths they speak of in this scene, of inalienable rights and debunking injustices, are not distinctly English or American ideals, but universal ones.  Perhaps this is what evokes the admiration of two Italian American virtuosos for their British and Hungarian counterparts’ films.          

Grade: 4 Hats Off

148: Ariel

There seems to be some critical disagreement about Aki Kaurismaki’s Ariel (1988).  Some critics say it is a sad film that evokes a banality of life.  Netflix.com describes it as “a wry commentary on the triviality of human existence.”  Others decry it as an uneven piece of work that doesn’t fully commit to this depressed projection.  Roger Ebert even laments over its “happy” ending (quotes original).  Most reviews focus on the fact that the film is droll, but paced in a way as to not allow any one emotion to triumph in the viewer.  Some might consider this a weakness of the film, but I see it as its true triumph. 

            A young minor, Taisto (Turo Pajala), has little recourse after his mine is closed.  His father hands him the keys to his car before he goes to the restroom of a local bar to shoot himself.  Taisto’s reaction doesn’t seem to add up to much.  He simply retrieves the car and begins to drive south from frozen Northern Finland, where they had worked and lived.  Much is established in this early segment of the film.  Taisto is not a lucky man, and his luck doesn’t look to change any time soon.  The fact that he gets the car out of the garage seconds before it collapses seems to be a miracle.  His reaction is minimal here as well.  Does he not notice or not care? Has his life always been this way?  The roof to the convertible is stuck down so he is forced to drive in the open cold, wrapping a scarf around his head as the snow falls.

            Stopping for a hamburger just before Helsinki, he is beaten and mugged.  Arriving penniless, he is forced to look for work on the docks.  He finds a place to sleep and meets a woman (Susanna Haavisto).  She sleeps with him after quitting her job on the spot for a date.  She seems to have about ten other jobs to go to as well.  After one night together Taisto proclaims that they will be together forever.  She doesn’t protest or argue.  She simply explains that she has a son.  “A good head start on our family,” Tasito exclaims. Both of their worlds’ have been matter-of-fact in nature, and they instantly recognize this reality in one another.  

            Still searching for work and down on his luck, Taisto recognizes one of his muggers in a train station and is sentenced to a term in prison after attacking him.  Though the film holds its austere tone, it changes rhythm in the prison sequences as the protagonist and his cellmate prepare plans for an escape.  While these scenes are not prolonged as in Jacque Becker’s Le Trou (1960) or John Sturges The Great Escape (1963) they are almost as effective at evoking the suspense of these actions.  Though they succeed in breaking free of the confines of prison, many problems await them on the outside before they can be free and clear of the long arm of the authorities.

            Much has been made of how clumsy of a film this appears to be. Characters stumble, drop things, and don’t move as they do in most Hollywood films.  It’s amazing how conditioned we are as moviegoers to believe that every person walks like Clark Gable, when in reality Clark Gable probably didn’t walk that way.  The world is full of people who drop notes outside of banks, so why is it so hard to believe that this could happen during a bank robbery?  It does in this movie, but it isn’t played for laughs.  It’s funny if you think that sort of thing is funny, and not if you don’t.  It’s up to you.  One thing is sure though.  This film wasn’t made clumsily.  It is well put together, and as good of a neo noir that you will find between the early work of Goddard and the coming of Curtis Hansen.  It has an ending that while it may be “happy” is just as likely as any.  There are only two real possibilities when it comes to movie bank robberies. Either the guy will get away with it or he won’t.  Whether you like that or not is up to you as well.

Grade: 3.5 Hats Off

149: The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, & Her Lover

I’ve probably read more about Peter Greenaway’s The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, & her Lover (1990) before actually seeing it than any remaining film I’ll encounter on the list.  It was used by Roger Ebert as a principle argument of his brilliant 1990 “Case for an ‘A’ Rating” essay, as well as by right-wing film and cultural critic Michael Medved as a point of departure in his 1992 book, Hollywood Vs. America.  In each of these cases the author notes the fact that Greenaway’s film is certainly not intended for children.  But whom then was it intended for, and what message does it intend to convey to this ambiguous audience?  It has been the subject of so much controversy amongst film critics, the Motion Picture Association of America, the moral right in the U.S., and the political left in the U.K. that its status as a movie seems to have been lost.  A shame really, as it is a good movie at that.

            Georgina (Helen Mirren) is the wife of a cruel and piggish London crime lord.  Each night they dine in a fancy French restaurant he has recently acquired, which he occasionally does business out of.  Though the décor and the cuisine are classical, the crime lord, Albert (Michael Gambon), and his cronies exhibit the behavior of crude and foulmouthed ten year-olds; each comment during dinner more disgusting than the last.  Fed up with this behavior, and tired of Albert’s beatings and insults, Georgina finds solace in the arms of a bookish patron, Michael (Alan Howard), meeting him for a rendezvous in the women’s wash room.  Their relationship, and their escapades, become more complicated every night, as they copulate almost under the nose of the violently jealous Albert in seemingly every room in the restaurant except the dining hall.

            When the gangster is tipped off about the affair, Georgina and Michael are forced into hiding at the book depository he curates.  After events lead to his hideous death at the hands of Albert’s goons, Georgina plots a calculated revenge.  In a scene of absolute masterful acting, Mirren embodies her character’s lament for her lost love and attempts to convince the restaurant chef to cook his disfigured remains.  What she plans to do with them remains one of the most notorious, and controversial, payoff endings in the history of cinema.                

            The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, & Her Lover has been described as “disgusting, vile, and contemptuous,” but it is also operatic, suspenseful, and clever.  Lost in the controversy are the amazing performances by Mirren and Gambon and the artistry of Greenaway, who makes bold choices with camera and mise en scene.  It is both gross and engrossing.  More so than anything it was intended to be a good film for mature audiences, and in that light it succeeds with flying colors.  It is a film to be seen (but not by those with weak stomachs), and further description might only distract from its delights. 

Grade: 3.5 Hats Off

150: Shaolin Master Killer (a.k.a. 36th Chamber of Shaolin)

If you’ve just looked over my recap of the first fifty reviews for this blog and you’re familiar with the films I listed as the worst I’d seen thus far, I’m sure it isn’t lost on you that three of them are Shaw Bros. Studio-produced Kung Fu films.  I’ve detailed my dislike for these films in their respective reviews and noted the negative similarities in their poor production.  Director Chia-Liang Liu hits some of these same sour notes in Shaolin Master Killer (1978), but manages still to pull together a good movie. 

            That being said, this film does have some shortcomings.  It features a fight scene so early on that I honestly wasn’t even sure who I was supposed to be rooting for.  It also follows a big Kung Fu movie cliché that somewhat relates to this problem.  If you ever want to know who the main bad guy is in these pictures you need only to wait for the character with the most ridiculous black facial hair.  This character hadn’t been introduced yet, so I wasn’t sure who was bad and who was good.  I make a point to mention the black facial hair above because the character with the most ridiculous white facial hair will undoubtedly be the wise old master who imparts wisdom and strength to the young hero.  I didn’t make these rules.  I simply acknowledge them.    

            As with some of the previously covered Kung Fu films there are also some blatant editing errors and some major sound effects faux pas, but here the former are occasional and the later less recognizable.  This is likely because the film itself is compelling and doesn’t give its audience time to nitpick its techniques.  The 1001 text notes this film’s clear adherence to three act structure, and while (as noted in previous posts) this can make a film dull it can also highlight the film’s best portions.  Undoubtedly in this case, the film’s strength is its second act. 

This is a basic revenge tale so the first act set-up, where most of those technical errors occur, is simple enough.  San Te’s (Gordon Liu) village is harassed and ransacked by the minions of an evil warlord looking to crush a burgeoning resistance movement.  San Te escapes the carnage to the sanctuary of the Shaolin Temple.  The second act commences when he inquires about being taught Kung Fu, as he has been told that the Shaolin Monks are masters of the marshal arts.  The next 45 minutes of the film basically function as an extended, Rocky-style pumping-up-for-the-fight montage, as San Te completes the 35 chambers of the Kung Fu training regimen.

Cast out of the temple for suggesting he be allowed to teach the art of Kung Fu to layman, San Te does just that after his banishment.  Whether this is meant to be ironic or to insinuate cleverness on the part of the hero I’m not sure. In either case, the film starts to drag again after he leaves the temple.  There’s a build up to a final fight with the ridiculous black facial hair guy, and the whole thing culminates in San Te founding his own 36^th chamber to pass on the knowledge of Kung Fu.  These bookend 1^st and 3^rd acts are cheesy, but the film’s center is strong enough to warrant viewing.

Grade 2.5 Hats Off              

50 Down; 150 to go

So I’m a quarter of the way through this experience and feel invigorated by reaching this checkpoint.  I’ve seen some fantastic movies thus far and some stinkers as well, but my resolve is always strengthened by those terrific films.  My thanks to all who have been following.  Please tell friends and family whom you think would enjoy these pieces to join in, and to post responses.  I appreciate all feedback.  

Recap:

Five Best I’ve seen so Far:

1. Zero for Conduct

2. High School

3. Winter Light

4. Spirit of the Beehive

5. Muriel’s Wedding

Five Worst:

1. Touch of Zen

2. Come Drink With Me

3. The Color of Pomegranates

4. Five Deadly Venoms

5. Shadows of our Forgotten Ancestors