Saturday, 9 May 2009
Stan Brakhage & the Subconscious Cinema
Thursday, 4 December 2008
Come and See
Klimov deploys an array of cinematic techniques—most prominently close-ups, moving camera, and sound track—to memorialize both the sufferings of the individual survivor, a village boy of about 14 who joins the partisans, and the anonymous tens of thousands of victims of Nazi atrocities as the army burned its way through rural Byelorussia.
Indeed, through his extraordinary use of soundtrack, Klimov manages to take the “formal conventions of socialist realism” it relies upon and turns them into a sort of ‘socialist hyper-realism’. During much of the film we find ourselves seeing the devastation from Florya’s point of view, but for the films entirety the soundtrack serves as a window into the physical and mental impact the events are having on young Florya; for example, after a bomb causes his ear drum to rupture, Klimov uses the soundtrack to portray the confusion and struggle Florya undergoes as for the next half hour or so of the film the sound becomes muffled with a constant ringing noise, replicating the physical sensations Florya is suffering as a result of the explosion. Further still, Klimov intertwines non-diegetic sounds with the diegetic sounds Florya is actually hearing; perhaps used as an indication of what is going on in Florya’s imagination, but certainly in order to heighten the effect of the devastation being portrayed on screen.
Over the course of the film we witness Florya age drastically; originally resembling a young, innocent child, by the end of the film Florya looks like a defeated old man – his hair grey along with severe bags under his eyes which themselves portray a look of sheer terror after witnessing the events exposed to them. It is evident that by portraying the struggle of the individual, particularly through his own eyes, ears and mind, Klimov successfully manages to leave the audience with an unforgettable account of the effects of war through his use of cinematic techniques, a sentiment echoed by David A. Cook’s statement:
We are taken on a relentless 142-minute journey toward the centre of a horror so profound that the film itself is actually rendered speechless... it achieves such an extraordinary level of intensity in its montage of swooping Steadicam shots and shattering images of atrocity, visual and aural, that we are left with a nearly physical sense of devastation.
Wednesday, 3 December 2008
Landscape in the Mist
Thursday, 27 November 2008
Aguirre, Wrath of God
In my films landscapes are never just picturesque or scenic backdrops as they often are in Hollywood films. In Aguirre the jungle is never some lush, beautiful environment it might be in a television commercial. Sometimes when you see the jungle in the film it is a reality so strange you cannot trust it, and maybe think it is a special effect. The jungle is really all about our dreams, our deepest emotions, our nightmare. It is not just a location, it is a vital part of the characters' inner landscapes. The question I asked myself when first confronted by the jungle was 'How can I use this terrain to portray the landscapes of the mind?'The (mostly) languid pace of the Amazon River helps heighten the increasing sense of paranoia and madness present within the film and its characters, especially when combined with Herzog's ominous, lingering close-ups (fig 1); something we see repeated in his later Amazonian work Fitzcarraldo (1982), particularly during the scene where Kinski cautiously plays Caruso from his gramophone whilst floating downstream towards an uncertain fate (fig 2).
Much like John Ford before him, Herzog successfully uses his surroundings in order to "portray the landscapes of the mind". Indeed, when commenting on Aguirre Herzog highlighted the similarities between himself and Ford in terms of landscape:
I like to direct landscapes just as I like to direct actors... Most directors merely exploit landscapes to embellish what is going on in the foreground, and this is one reason why I like some of John Ford's work. He never used Monument Valley as merely a backdrop, but rather to signify the spirit of his characters. Westerns are really all about our very basic notions of justice, and when I see Monument Valley in his films I somehow start to believe - amazingly enough - in American justice.
WR: Mysteries of the Organism
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
Weekend
A traffic jam serves as an admirable metaphor for the fatal indigestion afflicting consumer society. In a brilliant travelling shot, almost a reel in length, Raoul Coutard’s camera gazes dispassionately at men playing cards beside the road, a cart-horse deep in its own mire, lorries filled with animals for some zoo, overturned cars and even one vehicle facing the wrong way, rammed up against a petrol tanker. Off-screen proclamations mingle with the din of crashing dustbins, in characteristic Godardian dialectic.
Friday, 21 November 2008
If...
The other aspect that appealed to me, I think, was the extent to which a school is a microcosm – and particularly in England, where the educational system is such an exact image of the social system. I like very much to show a little or a limited world which has implications about the big world and about life in general existence… I should have thought that such an intimate and authentic picture of these great and influential establishments would be appreciated by anyone interested in the way the world works.
Wednesday, 19 November 2008
Jean-Luc Godard Film Club
Anna Karina & Co. in Bande a Part by Danielle.
Saturday, 8 November 2008
Interrogation
Bugajski realised that the film could be 'lost' or destroyed and so, risking imprisonment at the very least, he surreptitiously made a copy on tape... In what seems like a scene from a Cold War novel, Bugajski then met a friend at a bus stop and gave him the tape for safe keeping. From this tape VHS copies were made and were leaked out into general circulation. Interrogation became a genuine underground hit. A population otherwise fed propaganda were holding secret viewings of the film all over Poland.
Friday, 31 October 2008
Day for Night
"If one were to take one of his later films to a desert island, it would have to be La nuit américaine (1973), in which Truffaut succeeds gloriously in capturing the frenetic joy and frustration of making a film with a team of actors and technicians."
So said Peter Cowie when referring to François Truffaut's magnificent Day for Night (La nuit américaine); a film - much like Federico Fellini's 8½ (1963), Jean-Luc Godard's Le Mépris (1963) and Andrzej Wajda's Everything for Sale (1969) before it - about filmmaking itself. Whilst I believe Cowie is right in stating that if you were to become stranded on a desert island and had to take one of Truffaut's later films it would "have to be" Day for Night, I myself would go one further and say that if you were to take a film about making films then, again, it would have to be Day for Night, hands down.
In his annotation of Day for Night, Brian Hoyle pinpointed exactly why I would opt for Truffaut's Day for Night over the likes of 8½ and Les Mépris; it's tone is "far removed from the introspection and lofty artistic ambitions of Fellini's film in this mode and the cynicism and alienation of Godard's." Indeed, unlike Fellini and Godard's films - which focus more upon the struggles of the director (themselves) and some of the more negative aspects of film making, at times rarely focusing upon the actual art of filmmaking - Day for Night acts as Truffaut's love letter to cinema, reminding us that not only is he a director, auteur and critic, but also a cinéphile like you or me. Throughout the film Truffaut constantly pays tribute to his cinematic influences, heroes and contemporaries; whether it be through Ferrand's recurring dreams involving Citizen Kane (1941) or Ferrand's pile of books on directors, auteurs even, such as Alfred Hitchcock, Howard Hawks, Ingmar Bergman, Luis Bunuel, Robert Bresson and Godard.
Despite creating Day for Night over a decade after the peak of the Nouvelle Vague he helped instigate, Truffaut still manages to use the same sharp editing and freeze frames present in The 400 Blows (1959) and Jules et Jim (1962). Whilst one could talk endlessly about Truffaut's majestic composition and subtle touch through which he pulls back the curatin and reveals the magic of making cinema - the crane shots of crane shots, the cat and milk scene, the electric candle etc. - there was one particular recurring sequence I found even more interesting than most. More than once during the film we hear an uplifting piece of orchestral music set to Dziga Vertov style, Man with a Movie Camera-esque (1929) montages illustrating the mechanism of the camera as well as the film making and editing process, romanticising the entire notion of cinema and once more reminding us that this is Truffaut's love letter to the art of cinema; this is his Man with a Movie Camera, his 8½ and his Les Mépris all in one.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
Fellini's 8½
For many audiences, critics, and film historians, 8½ remains the benchmark film by Fellini, the work that justifies his statues as a master and continues to reward the spectator after numerous screenings... The films occupies an important role in the director's complete works, not only because of its obvious autobiographical links to Fellini's life but also because it focuses upon the very nature of artistic creation in the cinema.
Wednesday, 29 October 2008
Persona
Monday, 27 October 2008
Last Year in Marienbad
Can it be that X is the artist--the author, the director? That when he speaks in the second person ("You asked me to come to your room...") he is speaking to his characters, creating their story? That first he has M fire a pistol, but that when he doesn't like that and changes his mind, M obediently reflects his desires? Isn't this how writers work? Creating characters out of thin air and then ordering them around?