Filming the Human Comedy

Long time readers of this blog may recall my fondness for the 2011 film The Mill and the Cross by Lech Majewski. The movie examines a moment in the life of the painter Pieter Bruegel and the creation of one of his masterworks, The Way to Calvary. The painting is one of the sprawling canvases, teeming with activity, for which Bruegel is well known. The figure of Christ weighed down by His Cross may be centered in the composition, yet He is not given any special emphasis by the artist. Indeed, He receives no more prominence than any of the other characters populating the scene. (The only figures given such special designation are the Virgin with her companions). As with many of Bruegel's works, this is an illustration of history in progress, even if few of the passersby have any inkling what they are witnessing. Many do not pay any heed to the procession of condemned, preoccupied as they are with their own cares. Bruegel was interested in more than simply recording the Important Events of History, but also the more typical everyday actions that co-exist alongside. Majewski takes this approach in his film as well, giving us less a portrait of the famous artist than of the society in which he lived and the range of behavior he witnessed in his daily life. Like the painter with his brushes, Majewski wishes to capture with his camera, as much as possible, the sum of human experience.

This summer, another approach to Bruegel through cinema can be experienced. Jem Cohen's outstanding Museum Hours is the story of two individuals who meet in a Vienna museum. Johann is a guard at the institution, while Anne is from North America, visiting a once-close cousin, who has lapsed into a coma. Large sections of the story occur inside Vienna's Kunsthistorisches Museum, which happens to contain an entire room of Bruegels, including some of his most famous works (The Way to Calvary being among them). A scene in which a "visiting guide" shares some remarks on Bruegel highlights Cohen's own desire to reproduce the aesthetic of the artist. The guide speaks a little on The Way to Calvary and other paintings, but Cohen seems most in sync with Bruegel's The Peasant Wedding. Here there is no lofty subject of the past being ignored, only everyday life being experienced. There is no hidden subtext within this picture, or some old-wives' proverb being illustrated for our edification. Instead, the artist simply shows how people live. We witness the good, bad and ugly just as we might at any contemporary wedding celebration we might attend ourselves this season.

Throughout the movie, Cohen inserts seemingly random sequences of bystanders, both in and outside the museum, going about their business. Then, late in the film, Johann takes Anne to his regular tavern for its weekly "immigrant night." There is no narrative purpose to this scene, yet it is one of the highlights of the story. Music foreign to both the local and the tourist plays while patrons drink, sing and dance, welcoming Anne into their celebration. During the time in the tavern, Cohen focuses on a huge collage of photographs, reminders of the people who have been there and the various events they have observed. A faded banner hangs prominently on a nearby wall. Bruegel used paint; the tavern uses photography, Cohen uses a movie camera, yet they all follow through on the same human instinct: to document, to express through art, "we were here and this is how we lived." In such a way, Cohen, like Majewski, successfully translates the aesthetic of Bruegel's paintings to that of cinema, and in the process attempts to capture as wide a spectrum of the human experience as possible.

Cheers.    

Fables of Monsters, Nightmars of Ourselves

art by Dave McKean

"Evil comes I know not from where. But if you take a look inside yourself--maybe you'll find some in there." -Jarvis Cocker



There is always pleasure in remembering our favorite stories, those tales which once read never leave us. There is arguably even greater pleasure in revisiting those same narratives and discovering that you still find them as well-told, if not more so, many years later. When I was in high school, I discovered and quickly grew obsessed with Neil Gaiman's comic book series The Sandman. Gaiman's tales of Morpheus, The Lord of Dreams, captivated me so much, both in terms of their mythology as well as their human drama, that years later specific scenes remain clear, poignant memories. (Credit must also be given to the wide range of highly talented artists who worked on the title over the course of its run). Recently, I began, for the first time in nearly twenty years, rereading the series from its beginning. Now, I will admit that some of the arcs I read only once and cannot recall much what happened within them. Others, however, I remember as well any piece of literature I have ever read. And, I shall call Sandman literature, as it was, and still is, a work that I rank equally with any of my favorite prose novels. Is this verdict flavored with tinges of nostalgia? Why, yes, of course (more than once I have caught myself grinning upon seeing a favorite supporting character once again -- oh, Lucien and Matthew, I never realized how much I have missed you). Yet, there is also a deeper grasping of the full extent of what Gaiman accomplished in these tales, how complex they truly were. This is especially true of the second volume, The Doll's House, which I just completed.

When I was younger, the earlier more horror-flavored stories were never among my favorites. Now that I am older, though, I see beyond the gore to the themes that Gaiman was exploring. A good example of this is found within the fourteenth issue of the series, "Collectors." This issue takes place at a large gathering of serial killers, modeled after any mundane trade (or fan?) convention. (The sign outside the hotel discreetly welcomes attendees to the "Cereal" Convention). When I first read this chapter in the early 90s the idea of such a gathering seemed an exercise in slightly outrageous, morbid black humor. When I picked it up to revisit last week, I wondered if, in this pop cultural moment of Dexter and Hannibal Lecter, it might seem prophetic.

The truth is certainly less glib. Holed up in one room are the only two non-collectors in the hotel at the time: the arc's heorine, Rose Walker and her mysterious companion Gilbert. Rose is on, if you will, a quest to find her long-lost brother and is stuck inside while awaiting an update from the police. Restless, Gilbert tells her stories, including a rather un-sanitized verision of Little Red Riding Hood. Here not only does the Wolf murder the grandmother, but also "poured her blood into a bottle and sliced her flesh onto a plate." (Artist Mike Dringenberg illustrates the Wolf up on his hind legs, employing a carving knife on what looks like any ordinary piece of meat). Riding Hood arrives and is told by the Wolf, now dressed as the Grandmother, to enjoy the food and drink he has prepared for her. She does, and the Wolf calls her "slut" for consuming her own kin. Then, she is instructed to undress and get into bed with the Wolf. When she asks what she should do with her skirt, she is told to toss it onto the fire as "you won't need it any more." This is repeated with each article of clothing elicting the same repsonse from the Wolf. (The language chillingly echoes what we have come to expect from a contemporary child predator). Eventually the naked girl gets into bed with the animal who devours her. When Rose expresses disgust at the tale, Gilbert replies "There are earlier versions that are even worse."

So, why do we keep telling these stories then? Why the constant, universal need for fables soaked in blood, mythologies of gore? How many times need Apollo flay Marsyas? Why does Little Red Riding Hood's Wolf need to be reborn with the mischievous grin of a Hannibal Lecter?

Dream himself provides the answer when he arrives at the hotel to confront their guest of honor, The Corinthian. Dream created The Corinthian, but the nightmare slipped loose during his master's recent absence. Dream expresses disappointment at the battered trail of bodies his creature has left in his wake. Dream wished for this nightmare to be his masterpiece, "A black mirror made to reflect everything about itself that humanity will not confront." Evil is within us all; we all contain the potential for terror and cruelty. This is part of who we are, a piece of our nature that we should be aware of, because it is only by acknowledging our darker urges that we can overcome them. None of us are pure, and thus we should not pass easy judgement on the failings of others. This is the lesson that Dream hoped The Corinthian could haunt into humanity, only to be let down. "In the end," Dream decrees, "You've [simply] told them that there are bad people out there. And they've known that all along."

We don't need stories that tell us that there are monsters, we need narratives that help us understand why there are, where they come from. If we stared into the eyes of a cornered child molester would we act any differently than Dexter? Should we?

Having dealt with The Corinthian, Dream offers his own fitting punishment to the hall of mass murderers. He explains that over the years they have been able to justify their crimes through elaborate illusions in which each of them was the misunderstood hero of some grand drama, "Comforting daydreams in which, ultimately, you are shown to be in the right." Dream evaporates this deception of self-righteouness, leaving behind something much harsher: "you shall know, at all times, and forever, exactly what you are. And you shall know just how LITTLE that means."

A poetic justice more fitting, I suspect, than anything that Showtime shall concoct for Dexter's final fate . . .

Cheers


ps: Can I also say how good it was to see Hob again? We should all be so lucky, if Death overhears our drunken tavern boasting.
 

Forms of Fiction

Good fiction does not date, which is good for those of us woefully behind on our New Yorker reading. Last week, I was rummaging through that unruly stack of back issues living under my coffee table when I came across one of their "deluxe" issues (i.e. twice as many ads combined with roughly the same amount of content). These editions are often organized around a theme, which in this case was "Science Fiction." Those of you playing along at home can locate your own copy wherever you stashed your issues from July, 2012. Yep, nearly a year a ago. So, as I said, good thing that quality fiction does not date, right? During the course of the week, I made my way through the majority of the issue's contents, and can say that it was overall a strong collection of pieces. (I still have one fiction piece to finish, but, unless Mr. Diaz bungles his ending, I think that it's safe to include his work among the highlights). On another day, I might ramble on a little on China Mieville's defense of genre, but instead I would like to say a few words about Jennifer Egan's contribution.

Summer is usually a very hectic time of year for me, but, still, I am not sure how I would have missed the news that Egan was releasing a new short story via Twitter. I would think that such an announcement would have been (arts section) headline generating. Perhaps it was and it simply happened the week I was on vacation, not paying much attention to the news. Regardless, it flew under my radar. Thus, I unknowingly consigned the print verision of this spectulative tale to the limbo of my "to-read" pile.

This is not the first time that Egan has attempted to create a new form for fiction. One of the final chapters of her fabulous novel A Visit from the Goon Squad is written from the perspective of a young person in the near future. Here the story is told more through graphs and charts, literally drawing connections between characters, than through the conventional building blocks of sentences and paragraphs. It is an intriguing experiment, as well as commentary on how social media and smartphones are changing language, but one that does feel as though it could be self-containing. As one part of a larger tapestry it works; however, I have doubts that it could be sustained for an entire novel.

Egan's Twitter tale "Black Box," on the other hand, feels much more successful. Each tweet is the equivalent of a paragraph, with these tweets being grouped together in numbered sections which resemble chapters, or more aptly, stanzas. The narrative focuses on a woman (again in the not too distant future) using her beauty to investigate violent men of dubious incomes. Exactly what criminal activities these men are engaged in is never directly stated, though my inference is terrorism. Business transactions are referred to, as well as the goal of following the money trail, but every cell, no matter how remote, does require fundraising. What is clear is that the unnamed protagonist is a government employee, a "citizen agent," who is often reminded of her patriotic duty.

We also know that she is American. One of the more striking passages of the piece explains a new theory of the self, which is not centered around individual accomplishment, but, instead, the common good. "In the new heroism, the goal is to dig beneath your shiny persona." Many are surprised by what they find through this process, comparing the expansion of awareness to "a dream in which a home acquires new wings and rooms." In the past, individuals sought personal glory, only to make themselves weak in the process, defenseless to those who would do them harm. However, these new citizen agents have learned to use these expectations to their advantage and turn the tables on their adversaries. "Now our notorious narcissism is our camouflage."

This passage is also a good example of how Egan succeeds in her project. Each unit of thought might be compact (it is hard to imagine a writer like Saramago on Twitter), yet still able to convey not only practical information (the tools of an agent), but evocative imagery and social commentary as well. It does what all of the best writing, regardless of form, does: it bewitches you with words, a steady rhythm, leaving you feeling something after you have put down the piece.

Is this a vision of the future, the shape of stories yet to come? Maybe. It is definitely another tool that authors can add to their kit, another form that they can poke around at. Will there be imitators? I'm sure there already have been (remember I am behind the curve on this one). Would I read a whole novel written in this manner? Yes, I would. Reading the story I thought of the older, now mostly abandoned form of the verse novel. As I hinted above, I feel that this is the best comparison to how Egan manipulates the restrictions of Twitter in her piece. Tweets become the equivalent of lines in a poem, her numbered sections the same as a stanza. In both poetry and Twitter there are conventions, rules to which the writer must conform. Both require an economy of words, a stress on the perfectly turned phrase. Something both pithy and evocative is expected by the reader. Would I wish every author to follow this example? No more than I would desire that every novel be written like Eugene Onegin, or every drama to be constrained by the same metric structures of Shakespeare or Moliere. Like I said, what Egan offers the reader is an intriguing glimpse at how future writers might manipulate language in new and thoughtful ways.

Or, for the time being, we could simply enjoy the story according to the more old-fashioned and timeless standard of a captivating tale well told.

Cheers. 

Film 2012

So, here we are, another Oscar weekend, another self-imposed deadline for cutting off my Best of Films List. There are plenty of films from 2012 that I have positive expectations for, yet, never got a chance to view. As always though, I take reassurance from the fact that my rental queue grows ever longer--better to have too many choices than too few, right? Last year I posted a list of 11 films, plus two honorable mentions; this year, the list has swelled to include 15 best of's and five runners up. Were all the critics right, and this was a stronger year for cinema, or did I simply get out to the theater more often? Or both? Regardless, here they are, in no order whatsoever. (As before, country designations refer to the origins of the directors). 

1. Take This Waltz (Sarah Polley, Canada): On paper the plot of this film (the temptations of adultery) may sound awfully familar, but Polley and her actors invest it with a new found emotional force, creating a narrative that I could neither predict, nor decide how I wanted it to end. One of the most honest, moving and sexy films about relationships that I have seen in a long time.

2. The Avengers (Joss Whedon, USA): It is easy to look back now and say that this had a license to print money, but Marvel truly took a gamble on setting up these films the way they did. They have taken the time to construct an actual interconnected film universe. Not all the installments were equally successful, yet it all came together here for one terrifically fun film. Now, let's hope that Phase Two will be just, if not more, rewarding . . .

3. This Is Not a Film (Mojtaba Mirtahmasb, Jafar Panahi, Iran): Panahi has long been my favorite of the current generation of Iranian directors, his films being essential viewing for anyone trying to gain a fuller view of Iranian society beyond the stereotypes. Currently under house arrest and banned from filmmaking for political reason, he persisted with this "documentary" made inside his apartment, a moving, whimsical view of his current situation. (Still undeterred by the authorities, another clandestine film by Panahi recently debuted at the Berlin Film Festival). 

4. Frankenweenie (Tim Burton, USA): Funny, quirky, creepy, imaginative, in other words, a lovely Burton film. The animation is well crafted and devoted to detail -- Frankenweenie's movements naturally mimic those of a dog perfectly. As does Mr. Whiskers, or at least until his not-so-feline transformation . . .

5. For Ellen (So Yong Kim, Korea/USA): A simple story of a young man who despite all his past mistakes, longs to connect one last time with his young daughter before signing away all his visitation rights. Kim takes a familiar set-up, yet consistently avoids any of the cliche plot-turns you would expect from the material (i.e. no child gets lost in a mall). Anchored by a first-rate performance by Paul Dano, this character piece flew much lower under the radar than it deserved.

6. Neighboring Sounds (Kleber Mendonca Filho, Brasil): A decade ago, I was raving about the Brasilian documentary Bus 174, and how it portrayed a society completely at war with itself, from the luxury penthouses to the impoverished slums. The intervening ten years have brought to the country unexpected prosperity and previously unthinkable social mobility. Yet, as this powerful depiction of neighborhood life reminds us, not all ingrained ills can disappear overnight, nor can every crime be swept away under the rug of progress. Resentments still linger . . .

7. The Master (Paul Thomas Anderson, USA): Not a film that ever explains itself, but why should it? The acting, especially from Phoenix & Hoffman, is outstanding, while the visuals and atmosphere are captivating. Anderson has crafted a tale of drifting veterans and religious shysters of our past, yet, one wonders, how out of place would they be in our own time of war and searching?

8. Holy Motors (Leos Carax, France): An ode to the beauty of cinema, a riff on the absurdity of life, the fluidity of identity and the personas we keep shuffling. Technologies may evolve, CGI creatures replacing Lon Chaney's old box of makeup, but our emotions and the stories we tell about them stay the same. 

9.. Lincoln (Steven Spielberg, USA): Yes, it is a history lesson, but one that never drags or feels stale. Yes, Kushner has done a poor job of explaining some of his factual errors, yet, the strengths of his writing remain: his ability to script anachronistic dialogue naturally. In his hands the film is not only a celebration of what has been accomplished in the past, but, I believe, a reminder of the work for equality which remains for the present generation. Oh, and yes, Day-Lewis was that outstanding . . .

10. Footnote (Joseph Cedar, Israel): A portrait of bullying, and how the victim, given the opportunity, grows into a bully themselves. Cedar's insightful screenplay examines this phenomenon not only on the level of the individual (and the all too familiar refrain of "I am not my father"), but on the national level as well. A timely reminder of how we can unknowingly become what we originally feared and fled. 

11. Tabu (Miguel Gomes, Portugal): Beginning in the present day, before flashing back to the last days of colonial rule in Africa, Gomes' film is a wistful, moving look at not only a doomed love affair, but the departed (though not forgotten) way of life which was its setting. Lovely. 

12. Amour (Michael Haneke, Austria): Despite the ravages of age and illness, one couple continues to care for each other, trying their best, until the end, to provide whatever comfort, no matter how small, is within their power. Haneke and his actors capture perfectly the couple's interactions, allowing that they occasionally say the wrong thing or lose their patience, even under the best of times, only the devotion never ceases, even under the worst. At the end, Haneke leaves us with the hope, if we chose to believe it, that such bonds will never break, even onto death.

13. Silver Linings Playbook (David O. Russell, USA): What could have been another cutesy "quirky souls in love" type story, is instead a non-sentimental view of mental illness. Love does not simply solve all problems, but provides another outlet, another support along the way, as does family, once you figure out how to avoid (literally) strangling each other. A well-crafted story, well-played.  

14. Zero Dark Thirty (Kathryn Bigelow, USA): Like great art should, Bigelow and screenwriter Boal prod the viewer to ask many questions without providing many of the answers, the primary one being: Was it worth it? If torture was required to find bin Laden, was it worth it? If Maya denied herself any other pleasure from life but her work, finding herself utterly alone at the end, was it worth it? And what exactly was accomplished? Revenge? Attacks prevented? Possibly the most heart-breaking scene is after the raid, as the Seals unload all the intel gathered from bin Laden's home, and you realize that tomorrow another day will dawn and the conflict will continue unabated. Perhaps, it will never have an ending . . .

15. Argo (Ben Affleck, USA): And finally, a story about the Middle East that has a happy ending (how did Spielberg not get to this first?). Seriously, a fine piece of filmmaking, and one that does not let America off hook for events leading up to the Iranian Revolution. Affleck wisely lets the acting and directing be unobtrusive, letting the setting, the atmosphere and ultimately the story take center stage. From the opening raid of the embassy to the final flight, a gripping film.

Honorable Mention:
1. The Pirates! Band of Misfits (Peter Lord, John Newitt, England): Aardman demonstrates that they have not lost their knack for quality stories full of humor, winning characters and impressive set-pieces. Remember, though, "some of you are simply fish I put pirate hats on . . ."

2. Turin Horse (Bela Tarr, Hungary): Two people, a man and a woman, living a desolate existence (possibly) at the end of the world. Haunting. (See my earlier post, http://pacingmusings.blogspot.com/2011/10/ruminations-of-end.html, for a close examination).

3. The Dark Knight Rises(Christopher Nolan, England): A true rarity: a superhero film with a true, honest-to-goodness finale. Over three films Nolan created an arc with a real beginning, middle and end that was quite rewarding. True, the last installment did not quite reach the greatness of the previous (though that is a pretty high standard to meet), but it was still a satisfying conclusion. I wonder if this type of approach to film adaptations (creating a series of self-contained arcs) might be a way in which DC could differentiate itself from Marvel's world-building approach.

4.  Elena (Andrey Zcyagintsev, Russia): A woman begs her cold-hearted rich husband to help out her son from a previous relationship. He says no, and thus the plot starts to spin. A bleak look at contemporary society, where there are precious few opportunities for any happiness that don't involve possessing the required cash deposit . . .

5. Beasts of the Southern Wild (Benh Zeitlin, USA): I wanted to love this movie wholeheartedly, but something about it prevented me from being drawn into it 100% emotionally. So it goes. Still, it is a first-rate technical accomplishment with some superb acting.

Repertory Discoveries: This year's list starts with some classic 30's Hollywood comedy, moves on to late 50's drama and ends with a silent Soviet gloss on a Gogol short story. All three brilliant, in their own ways . . .
Ruggles of Red Gap; Bonjour Tristesse; The Overcoat
 
Performances: Denis Lavant, Edith Scob (Holy Motors); Joaquin Phoenix, Philip Seymour Hoffman (The Master); Michelle Williams, Luke Kirby, Seth Rogen (Take This Waltz); Paul Dano (For Ellen & Ruby Sparks); Daniel Day-Lewis, David Strathairn, Sally Field (Lincoln); Tom Hardy (The Dark Knight Rises), Tom Hiddleston, Robert Downey Jr (The Avengers); Leonardo DiCaprio (Django Unchained); Quvenzhane Wallis, Dwight Henry (Beasts of the Southern Wild); Jennifer Lawrence, Robert DeNiro (Silver Linings Playbook); Martin Freeman, Andy Serkis (The Hobbit); Jean-Louis Trintignant, Emmanuelle Riva, Isabelle Huppert (Amour) 

Best Ensemble: Take This Waltz, The Avengers, Lincoln, Neighboring Sounds, Amour

Best Cat: Dino (Cat in Paris)

Best Dog: Franekenweenie (Frankenweenie)

Best First Film: Neighboring Sounds

Best Sound Design: Neighboring Sounds

Best Period Piece Facial Hair: Lincoln (part of me will never grow tired of seeing so many muttonchops in one place . . . seriously, though: credit for making all that antiquated hair appear natural to the contemporary eye).

Best Score: Jonny Greenwood (The Master); Dan Romer, Benh Zeitlin (Beasts of the Southern Wild); Danny Elfman (Frankenweenie); Alexander Desplat (Argo & Zero Dark Thirty)

Best Use of Non-Original Music: Leonard Cohen's "Take This Waltz", The Buggles' "Video Killed the Radio Star" (Take This Waltz); The Ronettes' "Be My Baby"(Tabu); "The Star Spangled Banner" (The Dark Knight Rises); Philip Seymour Hoffman singing "Slow Boat to China" to Joaquin Phoenix in The Master

Hardest Working Musicians in Film: That German string quartet in The Avengers. I mean, seriously, come Hell, high water, or an attack by the Norse God of Lies and Mischief, those musicians are just going to sit there and play the gig goddammit (literally, I guess). Now, that's dedication to craft. (Or as my love pointed out, they could have just really needed that paycheck before the weekend's house party).

And You Were Doing So Well . . . : Flight & Ruby Sparks. Two strong films that mishandle the ending. In the former's case, it was a jump-the rails Hollywood cop-out (filled with snazzy ready-made Oscar clip moments), which while disappointing was not surprising. In the case of the latter, it was literally the very last scene which I felt undercut what came before it. Sigh.

Memento Mori: Studying the close-ups of Joaquin Phoenix in The Master, his face creased with lines and wondering if this is what his brother would look like today, if he had lived . . . 


Well, that pretty much covers it for the moment. Cheers

Glasses Ever Darkly

Religious skeptics have a long history of reexamining religious phenomenons through an ever changing lens of science. Some of these thinkers attempt to construct a middle path between the two perspectives, demonstrating how science is simply a natural outflowing of Divine Providence. Others use a more antagonistic method, employing science as a conflicting explanation for what was once believed to be miraculous or supernatural. One such example of this latter approach is the 1922 film Haxan:Witchcraft through the Ages. Made by the underrated Danish director Benjamin Christensen, this silent movies explores the history of witchcraft in Europe. While the film begins with a series of images tracing the iconography of the Devil to pre-Christian times, it soon settles into the Medieval period. What follows are a series of reenactments depicting the staples of witchcraft folklore: the local village witch, the Black Mass, black cats, demonically possessed nuns, etc. These visually stunning sequences seek to recreate a world where any tiny physical detail could be viewed as some potent for deep distress, and superstitions could be fatal, especially during a visit from itinerant witch-hunters. Christensen clearly holds to the view of Medieval Europe as The Dark Ages devoid of any science or reason (there is even a short segment demonstrating the cruel fate of medical students brazen enough to study cadavers). This attitude towards religion is reinforced in the final section of the film. Here Christensen revisits the extraordinary occurrences of earlier centuries, and explains them away by using the, then current, prism of Psychoanalysis. In such a manner, the possessed nun who disfigures images of her Lord Jesus is compared to a high class society shoplifter. Both commit their crimes unconsciously, in an attempt to strike out against an environment within which they feel powerless. They are simply sleepwalking through a life that they do not understand. Such individuals should not be feared or condemned, but pitied. Circumstances have made them who they are, and sympathetic treatment will help. Prejudice will only make the situation worse, until you have not one distressed nun, who has slid into disillusion, but an entire convent which has lost its reason.

As I stated above, perspectives shift over time, so that 90 years later, Christensen's linking of witchcraft and hysteria may seem more simplistic than profound. After all, in the intervening years we have witnessed many types of "illnesses" swept under the catch-all rug of  "hysteria." In fact, many contemporary thinkers, including some within psychology, would smirk at the thought of Psychoanalysis being labeled a "science" instead of merely another philosophy, another set of theoretical beliefs. Probing for a deeper understanding often leads to a more complicated portrait, which, in turn, leads me to Beyond the Hills.

Beyond the Hills, which I viewed last weekend at the New York Film Festival, is the most recent movie by the Romanian director Christian Mungiu. It centers on the relationship between two young women who bonded deeply while living in an orphanage. (The film implies that their relationship may have included lesbian elements, but leaves the matter up to the viewer's interpretation). At the beginning of the film Alina is returning to Romania after living abroad in Germany for three years; the reason for her return is to visit her former companion, Voichita, who is now a nun in a local monastery. Alina has been troubled lately, and wants her old friend to accompany her back to Germany. Voichita is willing, but the priest in charge refuses to grant her leave. As the tension between the two women grows, so does Alina's mental distress, which quickly comes to include violent outbursts and attacks against the priest and other nuns. Mungiu never offers a clinical diagnosis of Alina's condition, yet it would appear to be some sort of bipolar disorder or even schizophrenia. (Once again, the reality of mental illness is much uglier than in the rose-tinted world of Ron Howard). The priest and nuns wish to help Alina, but have been given precious little guidance from the doctors which examine Alina after a suicide attempt and violent attack on the community. Left to fend for themselves, they ultimately resort to their own frame of reference: the young woman must be possessed by the devil. In such a way, Mungiu, like Christensen, presents how supernatural lore of old might have quite concrete roots in today's accepted science. Unlike the earlier director, however, Mungiu, does not scapegoat believers for their faith. When tragedy arrives, the priest is the only person anywhere in the film to take responsibility for what has occurred. He may have been wrong to do what he did, but at least his compassion moved him to try something, which is much more than can be said for any secular authority (civil service or medical) who had an opportunities to intervene in Alina's life. At the Q&A after the screening, Mungiu explained that he wished to examine the consequences of indifference, and make us think twice about those troubled souls who we ignore every day with a shrug of our shoulders. In such a way, Mungiu is working in the same tradition as Christensen, whose film is also a plea for sympathy towards those whose thoughts and actions are not easily understood. (Finally, it should be noted that both directors' took their inspiration from recorded incidents; in the case of Beyond the Hills, it was events which occurred less than a decade ago).

Taken together, these two films demonstrate a shared interest in understanding the human experience in order to gain a deeper compassion for those in need of assistance. The fact that one film may be more nuanced than the other simply shows how that search for understanding is a perpetual process of growth. After all, who can predict how thinkers a century from will consider our most profound thoughts on human behavior? We cannot. We can only continue searching for a deeper answer, acknowledging that our comprehension shall never be complete, that the glass will always remain somewhat darkly . . .

Cheers

Returning with a Poem

Sorry that I have been away for awhile, but, there has been much going on in my life. I am happy to report, though, that these developments have been quite positive & I am in good spirits. It also pleases me to say that I have been keeping at my writing, composing new pieces and performing them around the city. Today, I would like to share with you a poem which was inspired by music. For a few years now, I have been a fan of the Portuguese tradition of fado. Introduced to this music by one of my oldest friends, I quickly fell in love with its sounds and melodies. Last December BAM hosted a weekend of fado concerts, which I eagerly devoured. The vast majority of the acts were quite strong and the audience very receptive. The first night I was so swept up in the music that, after leaving the main stage, I was compelled to check out the cafe for even more fado. After the show ended, I stopped in a nearby bar for a drink, and wrote a poem. As a final note, I should add that the word fado is usually translated as "fate."

 

Fado

Fado is a mournful music

Made up of somber rhythms

And solemn tones

Comprising a lament,

As well as an acceptance,

For what once was

But now has been lost.

Yet, its songs may not always be funereal;

At times they might contain the sounds of celebration

Set to a more lively tempo

Offering up defiance

In the face of circumstances

Which try to confine our movements.

We strain, instead, to be their master

By proclaiming our fado

In a voice of our own choosing.

 
For those interested in sampling the diversity of fado, I would recommend Carlos Saura's film Fados. Not a talking heads history, but instead a series of performances which run from traditional to contemporary, all of which are strikingly staged. (That Saura is well known for his ability to capture dance on film is readily apparent). Here are two excerpts, both featuring Mariza, one of the most well regarded living fado singers:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D4jNIi7QYPM&feature=BFa&list=PL240757B2F57FE380
&
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_0_rHpY3wf8&feature=BFa&list=PL240757B2F57FE380


Cheers. 

Film, 2011

Yeah, I know that the year actually ended two months ago, but I have been playing catch-up (more so than usual this time around, but that's another story for another time and place). So, as the Oscars are tonight, let me offer up what lingered with me once I left the theaters these past several months . . .

Best of the Year
[The films listed are not ranked. Also, to simplify matters in this world of global financing, country designations refer to the director's origins].

1. Cave of Forgotten Dreams (Werner Herzog, Germany): The subject of these cave-paintings proved a natural fit for Herzog's characteristic musings about humans and their place in this world. And, yes, the 3D suited the subject as well. A truly haunting film. On a personal note, as a long time Herzog fan, I think that I have reached the point where I would be soothed by the sound of his voice reading a phone book.

2. Tuesday, after Christmas (Radu Muntean, Romania): Possibly the best film I saw at the 2010 New York Film Festival, this stellar movie is one of the best theatrical films of 2011. A portrait of adultery and the final dissolution of a marriage filled with fully drawn characters and all the messy ambiguity of everyday life.

3. Uncle Boonmee Who Can See His Past Lives (Apichatpong Weerasethakul, Thailand): There seemed to be a preponderance of films last year examining the cycle of life and our place within it. This example is filled with ghosts, fantastic whimsy, beautiful imagery, and a scene in a cave that, I believe, is an allegory of reincarnation. Either way, I left the theater wanting to hold onto the sensations of this film for as long as possible.

4. The Mill and the Cross (Lech Majewski, Poland): An examination of Pieter Bruegel's creation of his painting The Road to Calvary, this may be the greatest film I have seen on the life of an artist. Not a bio-pic of Bruegel, but instead a study of the times in which he lived. Like the work of the painter himself, Majewski dares to capture all of human experience, only to admit by the end, that it is too vast for a single canvas of any type. Simply stunning.

5. Melancholia (Lars von Trier, Denmark): Opinion, as always with von Trier, was all over the place with this film. I have often had a mixed experience with the director, but was swept up in this one from pretty much the beginning. Another vision of our place in the cosmos, and speculation on the End of Things (note the use of Bruegel images throughout), it avoids massive physical destruction, for more psychological suffering. His best since Breaking the Waves, if not simply his masterpiece.

6. The Artist (Michel Hazanavicius, France): The silent film junky in me was pretty much in love with every moment of this film. A superb combination of both fun and pathos.

7. The Descendants (Alexander Payne, USA): Yes, it started slow; for the first third or so, I was thinking "not bad, but nothing special." However, the more I watched, the more the characters deepened, until I was completely absorbed by the end. Another first rate film for Payne.

8. A Separation (Asghar Farhadi, Iran): Similar to Tuesday, this film also is a close character study, whose story spins out of a crumbling marriage. However, this film employs a larger cast, weaving a wider social portrait. In the end, it seems to be illustrating how small omissions of consideration for those around us can create unintended and quite poisonous circumstances. Again, a film with no easy villain -- only finely drawn characters. Oh yeah, and in a year where I saw the world end, literally, at least three times in the cinema, this may have been the most emotionally intense film of the year.

9. Hugo (Martin Scorese, USA): If The Artist was about the thrill of making movies, Hugo is about the joy of watching them. Scorsese has taken his love for the history of cinema, stripped it of academic baggage and delivered it with a sense of pure excitement. Mix in two charming young leads and a wonderfully restrained comic performance by Sacha Baron Cohen and you have a bit of fun. And the 3D works well to boot. Of course, I'm also the guy you heard sighing at the brief glimpse of Buster Keaton in The General . . .

10. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Tomas Alfredson, Sweden): At a third of the length of the Alec Guinness miniseries adaptation, this film may not keep the same amount of plot detail from the book, yet it makes up for it in atmosphere, and thus in rendering the moods and emotions of le Carre's novel perfectly. I have a couple quibbles about Connie's character, but beyond that, first rate all around. As for the final scene? Is it too early to hope for bringing the gang back together for The Honorable Schoolboy?

11. Meek's Cutoff (Kelly Reichardt, USA): Much ink has been spilled on the Oscars and nostalgia for the past. Well, here is film set in the past without any trace of rose-tinted glasses. Tracing the increasingly desperate wanderings of a lost wagon train, this movie serves well as a companion piece to her brilliant Wendy & Lucy. Both concern the lengths to which individuals will travel in search of dreams of a better life, as well as the sacrifices required along the way. (The ending of Wendy & Lucy still lingers in my mind).Once the pioneers take captive a stray Native American, circumstances get even more complicated. Reichardt (and writer Jonathan Raymond), smartly avoid thematic resolution, since, as a society, we're still debating what all this means anyway.

Honorable Mention: The Tree of Life; La Havre

Repertory Discoveries: These range from silent Wiemar melodrama to Pre-Code Hollywood comedy to delinquent Japanese youth to a non-romantic documentary on life along the Ganges River. The last one even inspired a couple poems, one of which I debuted recently at Cornelia Street Cafe . . .

The Wonderful Lies of Nina Petrova; Me and My Pal; Live Today, Die Tomorrow!; Forest of Bliss

Best Ensemble Acting: The Artist, A Separation, The Descendants, Melancholia; Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Notable Performances: Viggio Mortensen (A Dangerous Method); Kirsten Dunst, Charlotte Ganisbourg (Melancholia), Jean Dujarden, Berenice Bejo, John Goodman (The Artist); Shailene Woodley (The Descendants); Gary Oldman, Colin Firth, Tom Hardy (Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy); Chole Grace Moretz, Sacha Baron Cohen (Hugo).

Best Dog: The Artist

Original Score: The Artist (Ludovic Bource); Cold Weather (Keegan DeWitt); Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy (Alberto Iglesias)

Best Use of Non-Original Music(aka The McCabe & Mrs Miller Award): "Love Song" by Bernard Hermann in The Artist; Tristan and Isolde by Ricard Wagner in Melancholia; "La Mer" by Charles Trenet in Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Most Intriguing Missed Chance at Type-Casting: Tom Hiddleston in Thor & Midnight in Paris . . . "Excuse me, is that?" "Yes, it is: Mr. F. Scott Fitzgerald, great American novelist, noted drunk and Norse God of Lies & Mischief." Definitely would have spiced up Allen's film a little . . .

Least Interesting Bit of Type Casting: Jon Hamm in Bridesmaids. What can I say? I'm sick of the sight of his naked chest and the new season of Mad Men hasn't even started yet . . . Oh well, as long as he doesn't mind spending the next decade of his career playing cads. I suppose someone needs to tackle the roles that Michael Caine is too old for these days. How's your Cockney, Jon?

Biggest Waste of a Single Talent: Tadanobu Asano as Hogun in Thor. Maybe he's just biding his time for a Warriors Three spin off, but, come on, at least Stevenson's Volstagg got to interact with the other characters. Funny thing, though: just a few days before seeing the film, I was wondering why I hadn't seen more of the actor lately . . .

And, finally, something to look forward to in 2012? Well, I'm sure as the festival season begins, there'll be plenty of enticing offerings, but, for the moment, all I can say, is: The Dark Knight Rises. Anne Hathaway as Selina Kyle? Can't. Wait. Don't care if doesn't even put on the catsuit during the film. Still. Can't. Wait.

Meanwhile, back in the present moment, I hope that everyone's weekend has been running smoothly.

Cheers.

Once more into the breach, dear friends (with Antony & Cleopatra)

"If you'd been emperor of Rome
At the age of just 15
Wouldn't you have done the same? So why then does his name
Retain the mantle of the evil
Always claimed by joyless vultures
To explain the strange allure other cultures?"
-"Heliogabalus", Momus

A couple days ago, I finished reading Stacy Shiff's recent biography of Cleopatra. Having already completed the designated "beach read" for my vacation, I treated myself to a copy at an airport bookshop before returing home. While no expert on the period, those hundred years or so around the turn from BC to AD, it continues to fascinate me both on account of the upheavals readily apparent at the time (Rome's gradual dissolution from a aristocratic republic into an autocratic empire) as well as those less so (a Jewish diaspera deeply at odds with their place in the world).  All these events would cast long shadows in the years to come.  So many dies were cast, that it is hard to resist the temptation to ponder the questions of "what if," or "if only . . ."

In her book, Schiff draws a stark contrast between the lifestyles of the Roman world, and those which Cleopatra knew in Alexandria. In Schiff's telling, the Alexandrians were a people given to luxury and ostentation, whereas a Roman prefered the plain style of his white toga. It is true that some Romans lived more grandly than others, but, they still paid lip service to the ideals of society. Antony did not, chosing to demonstrate his preferences grandly. It did not help his cause that he did so while reclinging beside a soverign female, as the Alexandrains granted more rights and respect to their women than in Antony's homeland. (The current Italian government is not the first to approach women as interchangable sex objects). In the eyes of his countrymen, Antony had abandoned his martial calling for more effete, less valorous pursuits.  Thus, the general who once boasted of his descent from Hercules, now ran about town in the guise of Dionysius.  It would seem that the conniving foriegn sirens of the first century were no less unmanning than the lulling idles of the nineteenth century opium den or geisha house . . .       
   
It was while reading these sections of Schiff's book, reflections rattling around my mind, that I recalled the song "Heliogabalus" by the Scottish musican, artist, et al Momus. 

I first became aware of the Roman emperor Heliogabalus through a short story by Neil Gaiman, which I read in high school.  The piece, a musing on Gaiman's experience in the English public school system, Heliogabalus and Oscar Wilde made a strong impression on me at the time, and has stayed with me over the years.  (It probably helped that at the time I was quite fond of both Wilde and Gaiman, which, I guess, just goes to show that as a teenager I prefered my narratives dripping with wit, while dressed up in goth and legend).  Several years later, I bought my first Momus album, including the song "Heliogabalus," in which the singer defends the young emperor against the standard historical line of his rule being the nadir of Roman imperial debuachery.  Now, some of this is tongue in cheek, and I, for one, do not intend to absolve Heliogabalus of all his (mis)deeds.  However, there are two legitimate psychological observations that deserve our attention.  First of all, if you had grown up in the hothouse of a late Roman imperial family, before ascending the thorne at age fifteen, how firm would have been your bearings?  I suspect that the young man was already deeply disturbed by his surroundings before anyone handed him a sceptor.  More important for the present discussion, is the other idea expressed in the above quote. There is a very human tendacy to take all that we fear, that unsettles us, that tempts us and project it onto some scapegoat, usually one from a different background than our own.  Thus, we demonize by use of extreams: We should all be celibrate and temperate becuase look at what happens when someone pursues a course different from the norms of our society? Incidently, why was it that a young Gaiman was thinking about a Roman emperor and a Victorian playwrite anyway? They were both mentioned in a piece by Gilbert and Sullivan (Mr. Gilbert being quite a prude himself).

Antony lost not only the literal war, but the propganda one as well, allowing Octivian to cast/recast Cleopatra and her realm in an aura of wasteful decadence.  (It should noted that those extragavant spoils from the dead queen's treasury paid for the foundations of Augustus' Pax Romana).  Over the course of this week, I have found myself wondering what might have been instead.  What if Antony had triupmhed in place of Octivian?  Would we remember the Peace of Eygpt?  Would we be living in a culture not so mistrustful of pleasure, but, more embracing of the sensual?  Would the entire course of Western culture, and therefore history, flow differently?  Now, I realize that I am oversimplifing, running the risk of swinging too far to the opposite pole in stereotyping.  The intellectual enviroment of Hellenistic Alexandria also produced Neo-Platonism, a system of thought horribly antagonistic towards the material world, which has left deep scars along the body of Western thought.  (This is not the time for my critique of Michelangelo, though it would be a good example).  No society is perfect, all is a mixture of good and bad.

Still, it is tempting to speculate . . .

Or, perhaps, I should have simply mused on the similiarities between the Momus song "Bishonen" and the film Dogtooth? 

Regardless, cheers