A Viewing
List for Twenty-Fifteen
The Visit [M. Night Shyamalan,
2015]:
1. A scatological
lampoon of dysfunctional domesticity; the gross-out depiction of a rural
Americana as seen through the demented eyes of Nana and Pop-Pop recalling the
uncomfortable suburban nightmares of Todd Solondz and (occasionally) David
Lynch. 2. A mock-documentary fairy story that deconstructs its own conventions
through the interaction between characters, further draped in the guise of a
Joe Dante style children's survival drama, where serious things are stated without
the need to become serious. 3. A semi-autobiographical
'film about filmmaking', in which the director splits his auteurist "id" between his two adolescent characters; the quiet and sensitive
Becca, who sees poetry in the landscape and aims to make a film that will heal parental
wounds, and the brash and narcissistic Tyler, who only hopes to see his name
trending through social media. 5. A film about forgiveness of the
"self" and Shyamalan's first masterpiece in (nearly) a decade.
Far from the Madding Crowd [John
Schlesinger, 1967]:
Much of what
makes the film astounding is not its translation of Hardy's text into cinematic
narrative, but the depiction of a rural lifestyle that throbs with a pastoral,
primal beauty. Scenes on the farm and the interactions between characters - either eating, drinking or enjoying the simple pleasures of life, the
daily grind - anticipates something along the lines of Pasolini and his bucolic trilogy
of life; more specifically, his masterpiece The Canterbury Tales (1972). Far
greater than any conventional literary melodrama adapted from a similar source,
Schlesinger's film becomes a hymn to the splendour of nature, colour and the
drama of the changing light.
The Steel Helmet [Samuel
Fuller, 1951]:
Few films on
the subject of war are so brazen in their condemnation of the futility of conflict
and all of its inherent prejudices, while still managing to pay tribute to the
heroism of those that take part. Fuller's film might not compete with the
spectacle of more recent efforts, like Saving Private Ryan (1998), nor the subversive satirical bite of a masterpiece like the Vietnam-eta Full Metal Jacket (1987), but the
depth of its ideas and the sensitivity of its intentions are well beyond the
level of contemporary example.
Cover Girl [Charles Vidor, 1944]:
A film about
objectification, desire, ambition, regret, jealousy, the thrill of performance;
about doing something for the love of it and not just for the fame. On-stage
drama spills out behind the scenes; a sense of joie de vivre envelopes both
audience and protagonists, finding hope in the hopelessness, beauty in tragedy;
traces of Cocteau (as Kelly breaks the mirrored illusion of the surrogate screen
to free himself of the "id") and pure romanticism lead to a visual
spectacle far greater than anything in today's computer generated blockbusters.
If nothing else, Cover Girl illustrates the lost art of "performance"
as its own special effect.
The Tulse Luper Suitcases, Part 1: The Moab Story [Peter Greenaway, 2003]:
Every sound and
image is presented as a series of layered reflections; depicting the surface
(the conventional narrative, which is enthralling throughout) but also the
subtext, and a deconstruction of the form. Actual history is interwoven with
fact and fiction, fantasy and autobiography, as well as Greenaway's continual
obsession with the various ephemera of lists and numerical miscellanea, all
adding up to a vast but never alienating compendium of sights, sounds and cinematic
textures all working in service of a funny and fascinating tale. The film, even
without the benefit of its concluding chapters, Vaux to the Sea (2004) and From
Sark to the Finish (2004), is nothing less than a total reinvention of the
language of cinema.
Hard to Be a God [Aleksey
German, 2013]:
Falling
somewhere between the immersive, mystical meditations of filmmakers like
Tarkovsky and Tarr and the surreal, allegorical weirdness of Boorman's similarly
satirical Zardoz (1974), German's long in production passion project is a film effectively
about the nature of existence. More specifically, about the propensity of the species
to find new and ever more cruel ways of decimating itself throughout the course
history, only to then reassemble itself and repeat the same mistakes. Unsurprisingly,
this is a unique, one of a kind film. At once frustrating, disorienting,
profound, silly, revolting, even sublime! As director, German denies the
audience everything one might find necessary to understanding his drama or identifying
with his central characters; forgoing even the most basic of exposition and
even allowing important narrative developments occur off-screen. Conventional
ratings seem irrelevant here; love it or hate it, this is a truly immersive and
original work; once seen, never forgotten.
Walker [Alex Cox, 1987]:
Anchored by
a powerful performance from Ed Harris in the title role, director Cox's
anarchic and imaginative political commentary on U.S. imperialism in Nicaragua
has lost none of its satirical significance or relevance in the era directly
following the Iraq war. Much of the film's blending of slow-mo Peckinpah
inspired carnage and in-depth social discourse could be seen as precursor to a
film like Tarantino's Django Unchained (2012), where post-modern lifts from
cult genre cinema are used to create a self-reflexive parallel between the past
and the present/fiction and reality/etc, but all delivered with a far greater level
of intelligence, integrity and scope.
Grizzly Man [Werner Herzog, 2005]:
In the
tragic tale of Timothy Treadwell, Herzog finds his archetypical "hero";
a man like Aguirre, Woyzeck or Kaspar Hauser driven mad by the modern world; losing
himself a fabled landscape that seems as if disconnected from time; his
insanity propelling him on a fated journey towards self-destruction. Herzog's
innate respect for Treadwell and his refusal to condemn the man's actions or
the course of events ensure that the film works more as a found-footage variant
on the filmmaker's usual themes of man's place in the wilderness, survival and
the nature of the "outsider" within society (as illustrated in the
titles above) and less as conventional documentary intended to educate, critique
or surmise. A fascinating and frequently heart-breaking look into the fragility of the human psyche and the mysteries of the natural world.
Pistol Opera [Seijun Suzuki, 2001]:
Suzuki is
one of the cinema's preeminent formalists; a filmmaker capable of elevating
even the most hackneyed of B-movie narratives to a level of audio-visual art.
Here he turns in a psychedelic Rorschach test that could have been described as
"modern Godard remaking '60s Godard" (to establish a prevailing if limiting
cinematic shorthand), if only for the fact that the film itself is pure Suzuki; in short, a loose remake
of the filmmaker's own new wave masterpiece Branded to Kill (1967). However,
like late-period Godard, Pistol Opera is a work of genuine modern art; a movie
where light, colour, sound, editing, design and composition are as essential to
the expression as its baffling and labyrinthine plot.
Unforgiven [Clint Eastwood, 1992]:
The final
statement of Eastwood as orator of the American west. His character here is
like a cross-section of all his past protagonists, creating a sense of the
concluding chapter of a career-long journey, from innocence into the abyss. From
Rowdy Yates to "the man with no name", from Josey Wales to the Pale
Rider, this is a man who has committed the worst violence and atrocity and
found himself transformed by it; a man striving to find peace but gradually
being pulled back into the brutality and the blood-shed. At its core, the film
is a meditation on violence and revenge; the morality of murder as a cold-blooded
act committed by cold-blooded people, regardless of how valiantly one might
attempt to justify it as an act of vengeance. The morality of trying to
maintain a semblance of "life" in the face of a death, and violence that leaves
scars, both physical and mental. A monumental film.
