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Reviews
À la folie... pas du tout (2002)
Delightful, Grim, Shocking: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
He Loves me, He Loves Me Not The very title conjures up images of lovelorn girls bemoaning their romantic tribulations, falling in and out of love and pursuing the un-pursuable. At first it seems like the director makes the typical plot work, with a vibrant visual eye and knack for keeping the relationship at a fast but believable pace. For a time it's ridiculously but bearably sugary, even the opening credits are laid over images of love heart merchandise, with a delightful bells and whistles score chiming out for new romance in the background. As expected he state of the relationship gets progressively worse, the tone then fades slowly into a darker one, becoming like increasingly like a tragic melodrama. Angelique, the central character, goes overboard and overreacts to the downward slide As happens due to love, so we sympathise. Then everything changes, a monumental twist occurs and the film changes into a different one. The audacity in such a move isn't because it's especially deceptive or unjustifiable (ala The Usual Suspects), but because it so fluidly and intelligently reinvents everything we've already seen But yet still ties in with all we've witnessed, making complete sense because of how it is implemented within the boundaries of the film. The sweetness tastes bitter, pleasant events become darkly comedic and the emotional tragedies of the first half have to be urgently reconsidered.
Audrey Tautou, as well as playing the Amelie charm and feminine charisma wonderfully, adds a new level of oddity and disturbance rarely seen in roles played by young women. In tune with the films development her characters real nature comes out gradually, but because she plays up the quintessential lightness it's almost hard to believe when more is revealed about her. I found myself asking "How could Audrey Tautou do that???", which was obviously the reaction the director and Tautou herself wanted to project With her image adorned to the character, the eventual narrative twists and re-assessments that follow are made all the more hard to swallow but even more interesting to consider. An inspired piece of casting and one of many brilliant uses of subversion the film employs. The cinematography carries the same structural and performance development, with the first section making use of slow-motion, colour and intentionally formal methods, in many ways lulling the viewer and taking advantage of the expectation that what we see is the one and only truth. The second half appears more shadowy, with an emphasis on hand-held movements. More scenes are inside with a greater feeling of paranoia and worry, with very little bright light or colour. The background appears to be out of focus more often than not, whether this is the case or I just was more aware of it, looking out for another threat, after the sudden burst of unpredictability the twist unleashes.
Even with the elements of romance and suspense, the director manages to squeeze a perfect amount of dark humour out of genuinely macabre situations. Not a single joke is told, but through manipulation of musical and narrative cues and clues, there are some hilariously dark and bizarre comedy elements at play Not the kind of humour I personally would expect from the romance genre, least of all French romantic cinema. Equally intelligently worked in are some of the more grim strands, looking at the film as a whole some of the revelations are quite shocking, but the subtle humour and tragedy are both secondary to the expertly weaved story structure and character expositions. He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not is riveting because of the director's ability to celebrate, indulge in, and subvert convention. In a "Why didn't I notice that?" fashion the director toys with the fundamentals of perception, in the internal sense of character focus and reaction, and the external case of playing with the viewer's engrained expectations of structure and narrative. The plot does slightly peter out towards the end, as all of the pieces of the puzzle have to naturally fall into place, but we're left looking at a pleasantly surprising, challenging work of great excitement. One for those who like a little bit of everything in their cinema.
Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985)
Who are we to judge?
Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters is an emotional mosaic of a film, there is as the title suggests a clear structure of four chapters, but inside these are three separate - but cohesively linked through what they observe in the character of Mishima - modes of storytelling. They can be broken down as past (From childhood to the last day of his life), present (a real-time following of Mishima, ending with his famous act of public seppuku) and imagination (Three of his novels brought to life). It's rare that a film is so interconnected through style, substance and structure, the organised wholeness reflecting the subconscious life-long mission of perfection that Mishima embarks upon, ending in (when observed as a whole) what seems like a predestined fusion of artistic expression, destruction and a longing to change the world. There is a rolling development to the character, glimpses of ideas and emotions in his past are exposed and consciously studied in his novels, and are fully realised in his final act of self-crafted spiritual beautification, an act which can be viewed as culmination of the depths probed in the first three chapters of the film; art, beauty and action. The final chapter, The Harmony of the Pen and the Sword, is the most honest and brutally real, no novel to hide his extreme personality and ideals, baring his soul forcefully through protest and finally destroying himself at his highest point of honour and power.
The film is incredibly arresting, the style different for each mode, each with its own visual language and manner of exploring Mishima. His past, in harsh black and white, is shown in an un-probing way, in a near historical-recollection fashion, and we simply follow his life. At first the novel sequences are quite jarring, they are so vibrant, raw and colourful, full of telling compositions and beautifully crafted, hyper-stylised sets. They are all rooted in total blackness, like they've just sprung up in Mishima's mind (occasionally the novel sequences are preceded by a scene of Mishima writing), the absorbing artificiality of it all is at odds with the shut-out realistic style of his past. It's a bold move to blend such opposite visual storytelling techniques, but the events of his past amalgamate with the beauty and emotional forwardness of the novel sections to fully conjure up Mishima. Neither would work on its own, but together they work as one and fill in the gaps that they other left out, the lack of expression in his past is filled with the constant rampage of passion found in the novel sequences, and the lack of conjunction of each novel sequence is an irrelevance as they compose of crucial elements we are now able to see reflected in Mishima's past life, and most importantly his final day. Starting with Mishima getting ready, there's a roaming kineticism to the camera. The focus is stuck on Mishima, gliding over his immaculate army uniform and watching him button up in close up. It's a very finalised way of shooting, like everything is being seen for the last time so is given a grand send-off. He is followed documentary style, hand-held camera and tracking shots structured in real-time. This almost displaces Mishima in the external world, in some ways casting him in a different light, making him seem like a determined mad man in a world full of coasters. Philip Glass' score is outstanding, punctuating Mishima's fixed path with absorbing rushes of sound. Like Mishima, the score has an evocative presence, a complicated array of short stabs of strings and bells, repeated over and over again but never faulting in aiding the visual climate.
The film is an interpretation of Mishima, but is surprisingly without conclusion. This is not a flaw, Schrader bravely chooses to avoid judgment or criticism, putting Mishima in an as-close-to objective light as possible. Through the sociological fundamentals of sexuality, political action, art, and the body, Mishima attempted to perfect himself. He achieved great literary success, he body-built himself into a towering statuesque figure, he formed a private army of dedicated fellow traditionalists. What conclusions can be drawn from these achievements? Many, but I believe that Mishima is a man who never lost his childlike yearning to change the world. He carved his own destiny out of his body and his work, set his mind on a clear path early on and obstinately followed it to the glorious end. Whether or not one agrees with his life's work, I cannot help but admire his yearning for fullness. Someone who is so rigid and immovably confident in everything he does may seem unlikable, and he most certainly isn't a likable character in the strictest sense. He is, simply put, a self-formed piece of art. A piece of art that I cannot help but be fascinated by. Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters does the impossible and shows a life eternally connected to art, a life defined and destroyed through art, and fittingly it is a colossally profound and ambiguous work, a ravishing exploration of a man who melded integral desires of creation and impact together to shape something unique and special in himself, in death he was his own vision of perfection, even when the world was not.
Omohide poro poro (1991)
Takahata's Finest
Isao Takahata is well known for his WW2 story, Grave of the Fireflies. That film is deservedly highly acclaimed for its tender and tragic vision of war-time orphans, offering a story that's at odds with the usual conventions of anime, straying far away from fantasy and heavy confrontations and concentrating on the realistic and true to life. Only Yesterday shares that films humanistic values but focuses more on a personal dilemma, more detached from the outside world and self-reflexive. Grave of the Fireflies worked as a window into the past, a vision of a global tragic event scaled down, Only Yesterday is more relatable and profound because of its individualistic subdued style, character development and in turn offering a more concise study of human nature that's debatably more fundamental than coping with tragedy, in this case focusing on the effects and even the act itself of recalling memories, the difficulty in overcoming one's own mistakes, and of the complexity of reflection and change. Taeko, an unmarried 27 year old, born and raised in Tokyo decides to go and visit her sister's in-laws in the countryside, while on the train she starts to remember events from her life when she was a young girl of about 11. We witness her past and see her find out and worry about puberty, struggle with maths problems and become more interested in boys. There isn't an exact structure to the recall of events, they function as real memories, avoiding the neatness of having each one fit firmly into the story and serve to show everyday moments of development of the younger Taeko, despite an apparent lack of magnitude each one has had a cumulative emotional effect on her present in her as an adult, and we can see that Taeko enjoys dipping into her past as much as we do. Taeko isn't a large character, in both childhood and adulthood, but through the film we do get to know her immensely and I found myself calm in her company and fascinated with her memories and the slight jolts they give her, watching them build up, her character changing and in many ways becoming the person that she was prevented being as a child. Atmospherically Only Yesterday reminded me of Ozu's best, relaxed and timid but capable of surprising me and forcing a powerful reaction out of little narrative, such as Taeko recalling her time in a school play and the passion she put into the single line that was attributed her. Being a Studio Ghibli film the animation is naturally fluid and stunning to admire, there are little touches of brilliance in the animation that aid the characters and story structure. During the memory sequences the colour is noticeably less prominent in the background, and the edges of the frame have a faded hue to them, accentuating the act of recollection and drawing attention to the people and less on the surroundings. I wasn't surprised to read that the facial expressions were, in an unusual move, animated after the dialogue had been recorded, giving the people more physical detail and presence, making them seem more human in a medium that makes doing so a task in itself. There are several moments in Only Yesterday that aren't related to the narrative but still revelatory of Taeko's inner meditations and conclusions. One in particular is of her and the others farming in the fields , they all stop and watch in awe as the sun peeks over a mountain and pours light across the field. This and the others like it serve more as moments of life than of character, showing snippets of emotions and reactions universally present in our behaviour, but still remaining connected to Taeko and her gradual development. Another of these low-key moments is Taeko and a man she meets, Toshio, engaging in small-talk and slowly getting at ease with each other. In scenes like these we see that the film isn't intending to make grand, sweeping statements about behaviour and thought, it's more concerned with those which could be labelled as ordinary, the special qualities of which arise not from a extreme demonstrations of emotion, but fundamental truths exposed in Taeko's past and present that make watching the film and going on her journey an empathetically involving one, showing us that these (often ignored in cinema) day-to-day trials and experiences can be just as important as the grander, life-changing ones found in Grave of the Fireflies. Only Yesterday stands as one of animations most mature works of genius, joining the likes of Princess Mononoke and Nausicaa as one of Studio Ghibli's best pieces of pure cinema.
Eastern Promises (2007)
Mediocre, Well-performed, Unexciting: Eastern Promises
By the first 15 minutes of David Cronenberg's Eastern Promises, there's already been a fair-share of bloodshed. A Russian mobster has his throat slit in a barber's chair, a young prostitute haemorrhages during childbirth, and the baby is covered in the blood of her mother, now dead leaving only the baby and a diary behind. With all this potential and diversity in story shown in such a short time, it is disappointing that apart from the extreme scenes of violence, Eastern Promises fails to provoke any sort of reaction.
Eastern Promises features the real-life Vory V Zakone, an underground Russian gang, helmed by Semyon, a softly spoken and ruthless old mobster played by Armin Mueller Stahl. His son, Kirill, played by Vincent Kassel and their driver Nikolai, played by Viggo Mortensen (who featured in Cronenberg's structurally messy A History of Violence) all revolve around a plot to stop Anna, a midwife who finds the diary, incriminating the gang members in several sex-trafficking related crimes. The problem with all this is that the intention is to explore the way-of-life of these gangsters from the outside, but this doesn't happen because the gang is never fully mapped out. They never commit any crimes. They seem to have only one building at their disposal. There only seems to be about 5 members. I never felt the full force of their power like I did for the wise-guys in Goodfellas. The violence does show the extreme behaviour that naturally exudes from living this kind of life, but even then they only seem to go after each other. Even the mysterious higher-up leaders don't provide more detail, simply showing up from hidden sources of power and strength that we aren't privy to I was disappointed at the end at how little we learnt about how the Russian mob operated, they seemed more like a failing business than a controlling, intimidating crime-squad. Cronenberg also fails to give London the same kind of black, pulsing heart of the L.A in Heat, or the New York of Goodfellas Further making the film feel more artificial, like it isn't taking place in anywhere in reality.
Viggo Mortensen's is a rare case of a deserved Oscar nomination for his embodiment of the role. The accent is pitch-perfect, the mannerisms and style all collecting to create his character. His personality is never really exposed, never beyond much more than downplayed intelligence and natural charm. He always seems like both an outsider and an adamant insider, his moral compass swinging around throughout the film and never landing squarely on a single spot. Even when the film itself is mediocre and plodding, he is always fascinating to watch, never knowing when his character may evolve into something we haven't yet been shown.
The ending of Eastern Promises somewhat lends itself to a possible sequel Which I doubt will ever take place, though part of me wishes would. I felt like I'd only been shown a glimpse, then torn away from the deepest, darkest corners of the Russian crime-world The characters and their dynamics are interesting to watch, but even that and Viggo Mortensen's commanding screen presence didn't fully make up for the lack of depth or detail in the films narrative and focus point. For a film that I was never bored to watch I was surprised at how little I got out of it.
WALL·E (2008)
Important, hilarious, moving: WALL-E
For a Disney Pixar film what surprised me most about WALL-E is just how dark it is. Yes, there's the fast-paced motion-based comedy and quick visual jokes, but there's also a different kind of tone in regard to the human characters. There's none of the comfortable security present in so many children's films. In fact one could even argue if WALL-E is primarily a children's film, there's none of the colourful backdrop (at least in the earth segments) of Cars and Finding Nemo, no array of funny sub characters chipping in with quickwitted comments, and an image of the world that's shockingly grim and cynical. This is all very beneficial to WALL-E, its Pixar's most ambitious film to date; they have raised the bar yet again in what they will focus on and how they tell their stories, if anything it's more like an art film than a multiplex blockbuster. Yet it retains the core elements of all the best Pixar films, a daring world-of-it's-own universe, strikingly fluid and astounding animation and genuine emotional development and depth in its characters.
WALL-E himself is one of Pixar's most lovable, engaging and well-drawn (literally and in terms of personality) characters. His little mannerisms and mechanical features are so thoroughly articulated and designed, his clunky tyre tracks and jittery head giving him all the dimensions and expressions of a person. The only human facial feature that WALL-E retains are his prominent eyes- no mouth to smile or frown with, and he still manages to be as emotive as any of Pixar's weird spins on real-world objects or creatures. Ben Burtt, the man responsible for recording and orchestrating the sounds of WALL-E and other robots deserves credit for the life he has breathed into these characters just through sound. WALL-E's curious whirring noises and beeping squawks work with the exceptionally thought-out visual design to really give the little robot presence and a heartfelt endearing quality.
WALL-E is the one and only individual left in a world full of robots controlling humans and turning them into lazier, fleshy robots. The society of the future is basically nonexistent, there's no socialising to speak of. Screens are projected in front of everyone's faces 24/7, they play virtual golf and in classic sci-fi fashion, eat entire meals in liquid form. It's a very dark image, and while done to poke fun at the stupidity of the humans, it's slightly depressing. Advertising screens are never out of frame when we board the new home for earthlings, the space ship Axiom. There's a gloomy paradox in WALL-E present in many Sci-Fi films, that once humans have reached and explored the depths of the universe, they're unfazed and even ignorant of the limitless freedom of it all. There's a lovely montage of WALL-E marvelling at galaxies and stars, reaching out and being in awe of it all on the space ship, the humans simply sit in their hover-chairs and have even begun to forget where they are.
With all these political views underpinning the entire film, at heart WALL-E is a classic love story. The opening section of WALL-E shows us just how alone the little robot is the impressive photo-realistic animation of earth, with the towering structures of garbage and dusty wastelands surrounding the city give the film a very dystopian and gloomy atmosphere. The quick zooms and pans, wide tracking shots of WALL-E bobbing along doing his daily chore, and the detailed tour of his job and trinket-filled home paint a picture of a very isolated little robot, who over 700 years has evolved within himself and extracted all of the best human qualities through our devices, games and even movies. We see WALL-E watching the 1969 musical Hello, Dolly!, focusing on a song involving two partners holding hands, an important gesture that WALL-E in his advanced state instantly recognises as a sign of love. When EVE, a robot sent to look for vegetation, shows up its delightful and exciting to watch WALL-E do his best to keep up (literally) and connect with EVE. The way their relationship evolves is excellently handled and very involving, they barely speak a word to each other yet the relationship is crafted in a believable, gradual way as they learn how they learn to relate to each other.
WALL-E is so successful because of how challenging it is with its dialogue-less opening segment and its political message, simultaneously combined with a beautiful love story and typically imaginative Pixar twist on the world. I've noticed that in all of Pixar films there are several clearly defined processes at work In Toy Story, the rigorous regime of surveying Andy's birthday presents, in Monsters Inc, the structure and organisation of the monsters' work In WALL-E, what makes it so unique in Pixar's canon is that it its processes directly relate to our own. While put to the extreme, the vision of the future, with its blatant commercialist control exerted so subtly so the humans don't even know its happening Is tragically all too reminiscent of the corporations of today. The environmental message is just as relevant and important. Hopefully, as the message is so well handled and masterfully blended with a terrific story it will manage to influence the people of today and tomorrow, and of many generations to come.
L'année dernière à Marienbad (1961)
Shadows, Dreams, Love: Last Year at Marienbad
When I started reviewing films I promised myself that I'd try and avoid the obvious trappings of film criticism; clichéd phrases, OTT statements, hyperbole and the like. And then Last Year at Marienbad came along. A film so unique, so audaciously dynamic in its style and structure it's almost impossible not to descend into a mad frenzy of hyperbole when describing it.
An unnamed man approaches an unnamed woman and illustrates in great detail an encounter that apparently took place the previous year at a similar château in Marienbad, an encounter the woman fails to recall. The distorted manner in which this simple story is told, in narration, the repeated poetic ramblings of the man as he pleads and persuades the woman into acceptance, and on-screen, with the transfixing subjective imagery and lack of cohesion and linearity from one scene to the next, give Marienbad an ineffable feeling that only cinema's most enigmatic and entrancing films can impart.
The exquisitely dressed people all seem to merge into one, a single distant cipher as lost in the maze of fine architecture and halls as we are. They are like phantoms, adding nothing but coldness and an unwelcoming gaze. There's a haunting sense of inexorable repetition, these people will forever dance and play the same table games and watch the same play over and over again (a feeling heightened by the repetition of some scenes and lines, slightly reworded or shot differently) much like the attendees at the ball in The Shining.
The female character, referred to in the screenplay as A, seems to be at the edge of this struggle. She's halfway from becoming another faceless shadow, or tearing away from the monotony with the male character, known as X. X is distinctly separate from the others, just as dryly conceived, but possessing an individuality and purpose the others lack. His emotion is unspoken but unflinchingly imposed through his incessant near begging with A to remember their previous love. It's as if he is trying to pull her into consciousness, take her off the auto-pilot that all the other directionless people are doomed to be stuck on. Everything in the film is intentionally ambiguous, Delphine Seyrig's reserved performance doesn't overdramatize the psychological struggle that I personally see as taking place In one scene X describes a remark she made to him on the balcony The sound and image don't correlate, we see A walking in the grounds as the wind blows her dress all around her, it appears that she's looking for something It's as if she is searching for his memory, dipping into X's mind and sharing his dreamscape but becoming utterly lost and helpless.
Occasionally X seems to take control of what we're seeing (leading some to believe that he is representative of a director conjuring up things as they go along), reworking what we see into a scene of his pleasing, whether the scene actually took place is irrelevant There's no provable truth to anything we see in the film. Past, present, future, reality, dream, story time and space are emotional barriers, and thus, displaced Instead the connection is a single moment of pure, continual desire. The matter-of-fact way the lack of structural conformity is shown makes it so effective In an early scene A looks around the bar, turns, and is in a different room. The casualness of such a moment (of which there are many, such as the famous selective-shadow shot), loaded with philosophy yet so unpretentious, makes it so beautiful.
Before we even meet any characters or see any people whatsoever, Marienbad has already stood out from the rest and presented its uniqueness in its cinematography. The camera glides over the decor, the elaborate interior architecture creating a labyrinthine effect, long tracking shots moving forward through the corridors but never reaching anything. The lifeless people are as ornaments fashioned in sumptuous compositions and wide shots of the party, still as statues and just as engrained and forgotten. X and A together have a different kind of imagery, a greater level of perception inherent mirrors reflect them closer to each other, the geometric gardens serve as frames, the stillness and contrasting moods conveyed beautifully through the assortment of angles, compositions and lengthy shots, giving the film the visual grammar of a dream. Often they will wander up to each other, the soft black and white giving them a kind of ethereal quality, their emotions seem to emanate off of them rather than be spoken out bluntly.
Upon release the films intellectual merits were constantly debated It was a fashionable picture, something you just had to have an opinion on. Nowadays the film remains as inconclusive in its underlying meaning as ever. I typically would've also strived to find meaning in this film, but Last Year at Marienbad is different. More so than any other film I've seen its substance is rigidly connected to its style, to the point where they are nearly one and the same. Perhaps most of all the film should simply be allowed to wash over the viewer, free from assigned meanings and an urgency to interpret it. Last Year at Marienbad is one of the screens most unique experiences, and a film I would gladly get lost in time and time again.
Otoshiana (1962)
Thrilling, tragic, slightly untidy: Pitfall
Opening with two men and a boy fleeing in the darkness from some unseen threat, with an ominous silence punctured by wolves barking, it is clear that the film will be unpredictable in both style and content. Moving on from this we follow the man (a miner) and his son as he tries to find work, until eventually he is set up in a complex murder plot. Stalked by an unnerving, immaculately suited assassin he is soon slain brutally and left for dead, in a move reminiscent of Psycho and its quick dispatching of the main character.
Following this, the character we thought dead rises up from the ground to a standing position. The simple technique of playing a shot backwards recalls another early 60's Japanese film, Akira Kurosawa's Yojimbo, while there it was used as a slight character moment, here it completely reinvents the film's narrative melting away all we've seen and reforming into something much more ambitious.
Pitfall contains elements of social realism, surrealist experimentation, crime procedural, conspiracy thriller, and fantasy-tragedy. Teshigahara's roots in documentary film-making and strong leftist political view provide reason for his sympathies with the struggles of miners, shown through the exploitation of the miner and his son and the two union's confrontation. Selfishness pervades the film, the individual selfishness of the exploitative old man hiring the men to do a mining job, the boy taking a candy from his dead father's corpse, and the political selfishness, as seen in the confrontation between the two unions.
Duplicity and division are chief devices in Pitfall. Cinematographically we see this through the sensual distance of Teshigahara's camera, at once close, tracking, exploring the personal space and frame of mind of the characters, other times distanced and merely observing, displacing the individual as they get lost in the harsh world around them. The lack of structure in the films cinematography is a benefit, sumptuous compositions, guerrilla hand-held movements, deep-focused long shots, erratic zooms and pans, the assortment of shots is astounding; the film is simply a visual treat. The welding of extreme social realism (at one point real documentary footage of impoverished miners is inserted) and the surrealist imagery of ghosts left in the town, carrying on their lowly routines with no effect, and of the many dead characters inspecting their own corpses, quizzically studying the circumstances of their deaths and often probing the living, creates a fusion of misery both in life, and forever in death. In ghost form the miner laments his hunger something he no doubt would've done often in life.
Despite all these many seemingly contradictory modes and random story-strands, Pitfall holds together well. As Teshigahara's first feature film, this as a major outlet for his artistic visions, and consequently the film is slightly untidy, structurally the film lacks a successful linking of the many elements at play, they seem to pop-up randomly, sometimes without reason. For example the conspiracy hints littered throughout the murder-mystery plot seem to go nowhere. Rough around the edges it may be, Pitfall is a genuinely fascinating, thrilling, involving picture from beginning to end, possessing the visual tenacity and narrative complexity of a first-time director finding his feet and unleashing his cinematic imagination.
O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)
Full of delight, diversity and comedy: O Brother, Where Art Thou?
Charming is a word I'd never thought I'd use to describe a Coen Brothers film, who previously have treated us to such violent extremities as bodies being jammed into wood chippers, and pneumatic cattle guns pulverising foreheads. O Brother Where Art Thou? Is on the surface a simplistic comedy/adventure story, but in true Coen Brothers fashion, nothing is as it seems.
O Brother, Where Art Thou is set in Mississippi, 1937, as the Great Depression nears its end. George Clooney plays Ulysses McGill, a scheming, energetic criminal who flees the roadside as prisoners smash rocks. Unfortunately for him he's chained to two dim-witted co-escapees, and even after the chains are off they stick together to find the loot Ulysses buried before being prosecuted.
The film is partially based on Homer's epic Greek poem, Odyssey, and many of the famous episodes from it have had a typical Coen twist of character and quirk to fit with the different time, space and the sensibilities associated with the Depression-era South. Instead of the monstrous Cyclops, there's a boisterous, deceptive one-eyed bible seller. The allusions to Odyssey are expertly weaved, avoiding indulgence and not seeming forced. Each character and situation seem to naturally belong in the world the Coens create, like The Big Lebowski and Fargo, the bizarre universe of O Brother is full of human behavioural traits and actions we can recognise, but still laugh at the ridiculousness of.
There are references to other cultural tales, Tommy Johnson, a blues musician in the film claims to have perfect guitar skills after selling his soul to the devil, a reference to real life urban legend of blues musician Robert Johnson doing the same in return for a mastery of the guitar. Even the title is based upon the film-within-a-film from Preston Sturges's Sullivan's Travels, the director in the film wishes to make a Depression-era stark-realistic drama but gradually realises that a comedy would be much more beneficial. Conversely in O Brother the mood of the period is one that in theory wouldn't lend to the comedic material the Coens devise, one of the bleakest points in American social history is somehow reworked into a time of vibrancy and assorted excitement.
Mythology in all its forms is both an important influence on the narrative, and a plot point in itself. Ulysses, his jail buddies and the blues musician record a version of "Man of Constant Sorrow" for a radio station after hearing they can make some quick bucks from just "singing into a can". The song travels fast through the state of Mississippi and the mysterious "Soggy Bottom Boys" are a hit. The mythology surrounding them brings people together in speculation and idolisation, so when they show up on stage at a dinner party the crowd goes wild. Even the politicians get in on it, as the running candidate for governor jumps on stage and dances along to help his failing campaign. The Coens both celebrate and explore the power of myths, of legends and word-of-mouth for our culture.
I earlier referred to this film as charming, which is a clear understatement considering how hilarious, uplifting and exciting this film is. But charm is appropriate too, due to one of the best uses of music in recent years. The bluegrass/folk music is at the core of the films ever-changing mood, and vital to expressing each varying episodes' tone. From the opening scene of prisoners singing as they smash rocks, the unified beat provided by their labour, we know that music going to be important in the film. George Clooney excels himself as Ulysses McGill, providing excellent comedic timing while playing off his two sidekicks with quick wit and guile. Who knew George Clooney was such a funny performer? The physical comedy is done wonderfully too, as in the scene with Ulysses taking two punches in quick succession, Clooney widens his eyes and flits his head to the side twice to shrug off the punches as he circles his opponent. The rest of the cast are all impressive, providing another amusing array of Coen caricatures. Forming a delightful comedy trio with Clooney are Tim Blake Nelson and John Turturro, the group has masses of chemistry The film could simply be the three arguing for the entire duration and it would be just as funny. Even with the quick-paced plot, the two supporting performers give the characters personality and depth.
It's noteworthy that this is the first film in Hollywood to be entirely colour-corrected digitally. The film has a distinct, sepia-toned hue, reminiscent of old photographs, framing the landscapes in the period of the great depression, immersing us in that old lost time. O Brother, Where Art Thou? is a unique film in the Coen's canon, never have they made such a purely joyous film and they may never again. But for now, O Brother is deservedly up there with their best.
Blade Runner (1982)
Surprising, exciting, inconsistent: Blade Runner.
Upon my second viewing of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner, I enjoyed and appreciated the film a lot more. The film is successful in its handling of the loaded subject of artificial life, introducing new ideas of false memories and a unique vision of a dystopian future. The core build up is well crafted, performed and shot, however it loses momentum towards the end, causing me to question the films central achievements and consistency.
Blade Runner follows Rick Deckard, an archetypal retired cop coerced into one final job to catch and kill 4 rogue Replicants (Robots forced to do slave labour for humans). The film plays with crime, sci-fi and noir themes, distorting our expectations and forming a unique twist on the conventions found in each genre.
Running through the film are motifs of eyes and Christian symbolism, the former including the intense Voight-Kampff test scene and the above eye shot with the industrialised, dystopian L.A sprawling ahead. The Christian symbolism is a questionable inclusion in a film with no major connection with religion, one flawed example being Roy Batty's hand pierced by a nail during his pursuit of Deckard. Likening Batty to Jesus doesn't fit with his violent, calculating personality shown through the film. The subtext here seems to have been added as an afterthought, it's too sloppy to relate to any ideas the film has already established, and too major a comparison to introduce at such a late stage.
The film is infamous for its long-running debate about whether or not Deckard is a replicant. Both sides have their merits, Deckard being a replicant would lend to the ideas concerning artificial life and the existence of an objective reality, however it would detract from the complex history and social conditions surrounding replicants the film presents - it would be very unlikely that a replicant would be put in a position of power such as a blade runner, even for experimental purposes. This final mystery disregards the emotional crux of the film, both humans and replicants are shown to be emotionally equal, showing balanced levels of thought and feeling. Deckard potentially being one is almost irrelevant to his character, disregarding the obvious irony of him hunting his own kind and not knowing it. The ambiguity revealed in the final moments distracts from the poetic image of a man and replicant in love, fleeing society and breaking all the rules as they go.
Roy Batty's death speech is the highpoint of the film script-wise; his sudden jolt of heroics is shocking and performed well by Rutger Hauer, who makes the insane robot's bout of divine understanding believable and compelling. However when considering the relationship between Batty and Deckard, Deckard having killed Batty's replicant girlfriend Pris, Batty minutes before breaking Deckard's fingers, and the blade runner's numerous attempts to kill him, his final act of kindness seems like a well concealed deus-ex-machina. One argument could be Batty accepts his fate in his dying moments, no longer having a reason to kill Deckard. But earlier Batty finds out he has no chance of life, yet still mercilessly kills J.F Sebastian - despite well deserving of its iconic status, the rooftop sequence doesn't hold up to scrutiny.
The set design and lighting (or lack of) compliments the narratives stylistic twists, the people in their flying cars don't enjoy a luxurious future of economic stability and urban technological perfection, instead spluttering through darkness, drowning in noirish smoke and patronising talking advertisements. J.F Sebastian's decrepit, rainwater filled home is an excellent manifestation of the state of Earth in the future. Abandoned, half-destroyed, and gradually dissolving away as the opportunity of the future slips by, the rain forever dripping into nothingness.