Gunnar Fischer & the Art of Cinematography

It seems to me that cinematographers often do not get the respect they deserve, which is a shame as film is at its heart such a visual medium. Most cinematographers tend to go unremarked upon, except by the truly devoted film buff. There are exceptions, of course, such as Christopher Doyle today (even though he is reknowned for his distempter as much as his talent), or Sven Nykvist before him. Nykvist, like the actors von Sydow and Ullmann, gained fame through a long and fruitful collaboration with Ingmar Bergman; his own career became synonymous with the director's. Nykvist even earned enough prestige to win not one, but two cinematography Oscars for subtitled films. You may draw whatever conclusions you wish from the fact that Doyle, despite lensing some of the more influential films of the last two decades (i.e., his own bountiful collarboration with Wong Kar-Wai), has yet to receive a nomination from today's Academy.

Yet Nykvist was not the first cinemtographer to enjoy an extended working relationship with Bergman; that honor goes to Gunnar Fischer, who passed away a couple of weeks ago. At age 100, he expereinced not only most of the twentieth century, but most of the history of cinema as well. His training took place during the silent period, an era of vitality for Scandanavian film in general; Fischer even collaborated with Carl Dreyer, one of that period's masters. Fischer and Bergman formed a partnership that lasted a little over a decade, before splitting for unspecified reasons. Working together, they produced many of the most iconic images of Bergman's career in films, such as The Seventh Seal, Wild Strawberries, and Smiles of a Summer Night. In addition to these acknowledged classics, he shot two of my favorite Bergman films: The Magician and Summer Interlude.

In honor of Fischer's passing, I recently rewatched Summer Interlude, an excerpt of which I have included below. The film was made during the early phase of Bergman's career, and was once refered to by the director as the first movie he made in his own voice. This fact is instantly recognizable in the themes (art, love, death) that preoccupy a narrative that tells the story of a ballerina and her first youthful brush with love. The ballet sequences are shot on a sparse stage illuminated by striking beams of light. The focus is entirely on the dancers moving as one. It is only after they leave the stage that our heroine, Marie, is separated from the company. Marie meets Henrik during summer vacation, and there is a superb lightness of touch to their carefree revels. There is also a great charm within the lackidasical manner in which Marie goes about her morning routine, and the tranquil beauty of waters so calm that we may glimpse below as Marie's boat drifts along. Towards the end of the clip, take note of the extensive grounds stretching out behind Marie and her uncle as they have their post-dinner chat; Fischer's admiration of Gregg Toland's deep-focus work is clearly on display.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gydPbJ2gEYI&playnext=1&list=PLDA50770A5070624C

Overall, the film is a remarkable achievement by all its participants (as always, Bergman's coaxes first-rate performances from his entire cast, though especially from Maj-Britt Nilsson as Marie). It is a film that deserves to be better known. However, there is satisfaction to be found in the fact that other works of Fischer's have so far stood the test of time, and it is quite likely that his images shall still be recognized, even if his name is not.

Cheers. 

A Week Ago (out on the town)

Last Wednesday, my nest mate and I attended a reading at the Ding Dong Lounge. While located uptown, this latest installment in the Tract 187 Culture Clatch series also fell under the umbrella of the annual Underground Howl Festival. We each took a turn reciting some verse as part of the open mic, as well as hearing some good performances given by others. In addition, I had my camera with me that night and was able to snap some photos. I was taking both black & white and color that evening, though the former seem to have come out better on a whole. Here's a sample:



photo by Creighton Blinn, all rights reserved




photo by Creighton Blinn, all rights reserved

 And, naturally, what evening would be complete without a little . . .



photo by Creighton Blinn,
all rights reserved























Cheers all.

Ruminations after Midnight . . .

So, last week I went to see the new Woody Allen film, Midnight in Paris. As a longtime Allen fan, I shall admit that I was leery as I approached the film. After being underwhelmed by the critically dubbed "return to form" of Vicky Cristina Barcelona I had taken the praise heaped upon the new film with a few grains of salt. Still, I expected to be amused for a couple hours, enjoy some good acting, and even if annoyed here and there, at least not dislike the movie. A reaction similar to Vicky Cristina Barcelona if you will. Indeed, I shall entirely fess up to my own longstanding fondness for the culture of the '20s--though if pressed, I may have prefered hanging out in the cafes & cabarets of Berlin with F. W. Murnau but I digress . . . the point is, Allen had a sympathetic viewer in me. Instead, I found myself groaning more than laughing, and finding few things of pleasure to latch on to . . .

In the plus column, there is Owen Wilson, who I thought made a fine stand-in for Allen. Opinion has been split on this matter, but I think that he handled his role quite well. He had that same bumbling charm that Allen could have at times. If his performance faltered in places, it was because the writer had failed to give him a script of any quality.

My nest-mate has a longstanding theory that Woody Allen basically hates women, which is why they often come off so badly in his films. Well, this may the best example of this to date. Wilson's character is engaged to Inez, the most two-dimensional, bitchy, unsympathetic female Allen has written yet. All you need to know about their relationship is that he wants to live in Paris and write novels, while she wants him to keep writing the Hollywood blockbusters that have made them rich and enabled them to live in Malibu. In case you missed the subtle cultural commentary, Inez is accompanied by her parents whose only function I could tell was to walk around with the label Ugly Americans stamped prominently on their foreheads. Oh yeah, and her dad is Republican, so we know that he must be unredeemable. Wilson's character, Gil, seems to be the only sane American in a wilderness of right-wing, superficial, materialistic, uncultured wackos. That issue aside, though, at no point in the film does Woody Allen allow one ounce of a sympathetic trait for Inez, or even give any indication of what attracted these two characters to each other in the first place. I guess that they could have had good physical chemistry, though naturally, any hint of that is long gone by this point in the relationship.

There's also a smug, know-it-all, name-dropper named Paul who is the butt of many a joke. More on him below.

As for the sections of the film that meander into the '20s? I simply was not that captivated by them. Yes, the frocks were pretty, and the sets nice. Yet, I wasn't sitting there going, "Oh my god, that art deco recreation is amazing." Hemingway shows up as a one-joke parody of himself that was funny until I realized that Allen had nothing more interesting about the man to say than that. More troublesome is the portrayal of the Fitzgeralds. It seems that in Woodyland Zelda was the parasite who held back Scott, and prevented him from achieving greater things. She is the flighty airhead, all fun & games distracting the Artist from his true work. I mean, it is such a nuisance when our loved ones go all diva and threaten suicide on us. Luckily we men of the present have valiums to keep our women calmer. La-de-da.

Finally, this parade of famous names starts feeling like Allen is showing off everything he knows about the period. When Gil runs into Dali, it's cute. When Dali promptly calls Bunnel and Man Ray over to the same cafe table, it gets a little tiresome. Later Gil suggests to Bunnel the plot for one of his most iconic films. What could have been a clever subtle joke is entirely heavy-handed. One gets to the end of these sequences wondering what the difference between the character Paul and his creator Allen is? They both seem rather self-satisfied with their own superior taste and intellect (cue cheap laugh at the expense of the Tea Party).

I shall grant the film does make a good arguement for why one cannot live in any Golden Age, as a Golden Age is never contemporary, but perpetually in the past, where it may be safely sanitized. (Though it takes an appearence by not one, not two, but three iconic late 19th-century painters to illustrate this concept). As I have observed on other occasions, the problem with wishing to live in the '20s is that eventually you pass 1929, and reach a decade that was decidedly not the best of times.

Some may say that I'm getting way too nitpicky about a silly comedy, and I would say "you're right" if I had been amused by any of this. However, I laughed rarely during this film, so I can't even recommend it really on the strength of escapism. It's got some great music in it, though buying a CD of Django Reinhardt tunes may be a better investment of funds.

Nope, I hate to say it, but I'm calling "the emperor has no clothes" on this one. I don't always agree with David Thomson, but on this one he's right: the saddest thing about all this is that Allen has demonstrated little wisdom gained with age and experience. Perhaps, the true problem, as is often the case with arrested development, is that the same old routines eventually cease being funny.

Or at any rate, that's how it seems to me . . .

Cheers.  

Saturday's Poem (Set at Twilight)

Sorry that I've been away, but the time has gotten away from me of late. I have been productive, however, both reading & writing poetry, as well as inching forward on a play. On Monday I debuted a recent poem at the Yippie Cafe, and am posting it here for my readers on this gray-skied Saturday in Brooklyn. Enjoy.

Twilight’s Dance

For a moment,

You may own the setting sun,

As you hold your beloved in your arms,

Experiencing waves

Of high & low

Streaming through you as the light

Gleams past the window pane,

The CD shifting from staccato morbidity

Into a lush romanticism,

You lay in bed

Drying tears

And savoring how now,

After all those stumbling attempts of the past,

Everything finally feels right,

Converging on this moment

That you know is pure luck

That can never be repeated exactly as it is:

Enfolding both past and present

As well as the promises of the future,

The good that shall come out of us,

Flowing from this twilight’s dance.

views from Bay Ridge (before the apocalypse)

I woke up Monday morning to a foggy sky, which was quite striking.  Thus, before I had to rush out to work, I decided to snap a few photos.  As a sign of simply how hectic this past week has been, I am only now getting around to selecting a couple good ones for sharing.  That said, it has been pretty grey and overcast all week here in New York, so the atmosphere still matches the pictures. . .   



photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved

                 

photo by creighton blinn, all rights reserved

  . . . any blending with any potential Doomsday occurring (or not) on Saturday (though hopefully not until after teatime) is purely coincidental. Unless, of course, you believe the whole thing's a scam, in which case . . . so it goes.

As for me, I plan to be around to post some more after the weekend. 

Cheers.

Spread Your Wings & Fly

On May 7th, the singer/musician John Walker (born John Maus) passed away. Not a household name, on this side of the Atlantic at any rate, he was one-third of a trio of young, unrelated Americans, who banded together, rechristened themselves in London and achieved a level of pop fame often compared to the heights of their fab contemporaries from Liverpool. (Beatles' fans were either better behaved, or their objects of affection hired superior security, as Walker Brother concerts were known to be aborted after a song or two due to an inability to keep the screaming gals off of the stage). Working within the pop styles of their day, the trio's signature sound was filled with swooning, lush melodies, belted out amidst the ever popular "wall of sound."  After three albums, they splintered into divergent solo careers, crossed paths again for a reunion (which produced, numerology geeks take note, another three albums), before drifting off in separate directions yet again . . .

I first came to the group several years ago through my love of the solo work of Scott Walker, who sung the lead vocals on the majority of the group's recordings. Scott Walker is one my favorite musicians, whose work I am continuously returning to for both comfort and inspiration. His presence dominates the trio, yet, John's contribution, singing the harmonies, should not be ignored. In addition, he did receive a handful of solo songs, which demonstrate a talent for singing in his own right. My personal favorite of these tracks is his rendition of "Blueberry Hill", which does not appear to be available on youtube. So instead, I'll offer a clip that I received from a friend yesterday with the news of John's death:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-LEv9KIDtkY

Now returning briefly to those Liverpool Lads, I have been told that George Harrison's difficulties with his group grew out of having to share the stage with both a Lennon and a McCarthy. Without the presence of that pair of dominating personalities, Harrison may have more naturally shifted into the central focus -- on the other hand, it may have been that sense of competition, which motivated him to become a stronger artist in the first place. Might the same be said of John Walker, who was the original lead vocalist of the trio until a Scott song shot up the charts? Perhaps. Regardless, he was a talented singer, who shall be missed.

Rest in Peace, John Walker    

In Honor of the First of May



Photo by creighton blinn,
all rights reserved



 . . . and as there is not enough room in this apartment for constructing a Maypole, I thought that I would observe the holiday with some verses. I did write something new this morning, however, it's still in revisions. So, for now, we'll need to make do with a piece I wrote last year. Regardless, I feel that it fits well with the occasion:

Momentum

Hearts beating quicker

And arms gripping tighter,

Our moist lips clasping,

Drawing us closer,

Pulling me further,

Filling all available space

As boundaries melt

Along warm wetness

Welcoming, guiding,

Voices gasping,

Trembling,

In the heat of passion,

Bursting . . .

Cheers all.