Abre los ojos (1997)

Abre los ojos, the second feature by Spanish director Alejandro Amenabar, is a taut psychological sci-fi thriller that captivated audiences in Spain and abroad. The film takes place in a frame narrative: we meet our protagonist as he sits in a prison cell, recounting the events that led to his imprisonment. Eduardo Noriega is the erstwhile prisoner Cesar, who we learn used to be an attractive and self-styled player. When he rejects the advances of his ex-girlfriend Nuria (Najwa Nimri) at a party to pursue his best friend's current flame Sofia (Penelope Cruz), he sets in motion a chain of events that are both terrifying and surreal. The jealous and obsessive Nuria pulls up in front of Cesar's flat, where he has just spent the night with Sofia, to offer him a ride, only to suicidally crash the car into a wall.

Though Cesar survives, he is left horrifically disfigured. Despondent, he drinks heavily, until one night he wakes up from his stupor to find that his luck has changed dramatically. Plastic surgeons who had previously insisted that there was nothing to be done for his Quasimodo-esque face successfully restore his good looks, and Sofia, who had rejected him after the accident, insists that she loves him. Eager to buy into his good luck, Cesar feels as though he's been given a second change - until holes appear in his new, perfect reality. His friends begin to confuse Sofia and Nuria, and when Sofia transforms into Nuria one night and in a panic, Cesar smothers her to death with a pillow.

The prison guards eventually help Cesar to piece together his patchy memories of how he came to be there. It turns out that Cesar is a patient of a cryogenics company that preserved him after the accident to allow him to leave his new reality as a disfigured, lonely person and instead, traverse an idealized dreamscape through use of virtual reality technology, which was implanted in such a way that it replaced his actual memories. Disturbed that the cryogenics had morphed Nuria and Sofia into one person and desperate to reenter reality, Cesar demands to be removed from the treatment. Unfortunately, Cesar's mind has been so irreparably muddled that he becomes convinced that the accident itself and his facial disfigurement was the product of the company's virtual reality-gone-wrong, and commits suicide in an effort to "wake up."

The film, what was released in 1997, has been cited as an influential forebearer of everything from The Matrix to Inception in its treatment of dreaming and virtual reality. Unfortunately, the film was also remade by Cameron Crowe as Vanilla Sky in 2002, starring Tom Cruise in the leading role and with Penelope Cruz reprising her role as Sofia. Notably, Abre los ojos was the first Spanish feature to undergo the sort of glossy Hollywood remake that is common to films from other countries; this is likely due in part to the fact that the numero uno auteur of Spain, Pedro Almodovar, makes films that ostensibly could not be remade for wide release by Hollywood studios, given that they focus on themes including transvestism, drug abuse, homosexuality, and the corruption in Catholic church. Many critics also cited Vanilla Sky and the adapted role of Cesar as perfect for Tom Cruise, since he more or less reprised his role in Jerry Maguire. But the remake never achieved the level of international acclaim as Abre los ojos, which has retained a cult following in the United States and become a landmark achievement in modern Spanish cinema

Works Cited

White, Anne M. "Seeing double? The remaking of Alejandro's Amenábar's Abre los ojos as Cameron Crowe's Vanilla Sky." International Journal of Iberian Studies 15.3 (2002): 187. Web. 10 Dec. 2010.

"The Pumpkin Eater" (1964) -- Jack Clayton

One of the films I chose to review for UK week was the 1964 British film "The Pumpkin Eater", directed by Jack Clayton. The film, starring Anne Bancroft, focuses on a woman named Jo who is reflecting on her life with her third husband and six children after she learns of her husbands infidelity. We follow her through random stories of her life with her third husband and the film ends with her decision of whether or not to stay with him.

While I thought the story was somewhat interesting, it wasn't particularly well executed. The story shifts from problem to problem quickly, with little flow. The viewers are given little background information on the main character; we are left to assume facts based on things said in passing. The film is very dialogue heavy and tended to be slow because of all the talking and little action.

The plot was the only thing I disliked about the film; the other elements were good. The acting was phenomenal. Bancroft effectively portrays a mentally unstable woman's roller coaster of emotions, proven by the fact she won Best Actress at the Cannes Film Festival and was nominated for the Academy Award for Best Actress. Chemistry between all the actors, especially the many children, was great and convincing.

The director provided a variety of angles and effects to shift into the next scene. When Bancroft's character Jo was feeling especially sad, reflective, or emotional, he would close up on her face, leaving nothing else in the shot. He also did this when other confronted her with criticism or an important issue, such as her husband and his infidelity claims or the woman in the salon who verbally attacks her.

Clayton also set up characters in interesting positions. One shot was a long vertical shot of Jo rummaging through the icebox while having a conversation with her friend sitting on top of it, another was Jo and her husband sitting on the couch, both their heads leaning back on the sofa, and a very low angle shot of Jo on the top of a windmill, looking out its window. All noteworthy shots that added to the aesthetic quality of "The Pumpkin Eaters".

The most memorable scene of the movie was the physical fight between Jo and her husband. Claytons technique somewhat reminded me of Hitchcock's thrillers: a slow paced movie until the end, when all the action occurs in less than 10 minutes. It didn't feel like you were watching the scene, you felt like you were part of the scene. The camera was shaking, the scene was spinning, and the cameras were directly in front of the actors, who were looking directly into them, which felt like you were either Jo or her husband. The technique was frantic but I could still see the emotions of the characters faces and clearly see both of them, regardless of the shaking. I really enjoyed it and appreciated the creativity.

Lastly, a prop that played an important role in the film was windows. Jo is often near a window or looking out of one and there are a few scenes where the children are playing outside in their large fields or she and her husband are talking walks with them. I think making a point of this shows how Jo feels trapped in her life and like something is missing; she has already been married three times and has six children. I think she is trying to produce something substantial in her life that will satisfy her, but nothing so far has done so. So she must look further, out windows and to open spaces, implying something more is out there. Overall, typical plot but execution was above average and worth a watch.

Almost Stranger, Almost Perfect

Almost Strangers is a BBC telefilm in three parts by Stephen Poliakoff. It follows Daniel, the son of the prodigal son, as he goes to a family reunion where he's never actually met any of the family. He and his father are drawn to unravel the mystery of two pictures, one of each of them as small children, and neither have a memory of the picture or why it was taken.
The film has an absurd kind of logic to it, placing surreal family members and encounters at a fairly normal event. One uncle channels his Robin Goodfellow, while another serves as a voice of reason, a conscious urging Daniel not to follow his heart. Daniel himself seems to be a ghost, filling in the shoes of a long gone relative, even though he does not know it himself.
The film is underscored by a haunting melody. The music, while at times almost melodramatic, is beautiful, and serves to underline important moments, and give a bit more to the mystical quality of the film. The music seems to linger, and where the film could easily have become overly melodramatic, it instead becomes simple melodrama - a story of a family trying to come back together after being driven apart by secrets and shame. And within that story is one of a father and son, long outcast from the family, discovering they have more in common than they had thought to begin with.

Mike Leigh

Mike Leigh’s film Vera Drake takes place in the 1950’s and explores themes related to social status and morality. The film utilizes Leigh’s signature style to create characters that are relatable and thoughtful. Leigh uses lengthy improvisations as a means for character and plot development and is open to many perspectives while filming. The works of Leigh are characterized by his focus on human emotions, connections, and relationships. Vera Drake, which was released in 2004, uses these themes to discuss the multigenerationally relevant issue of abortion.

The character of Vera Drake was developed around her occupation as both a wife and mother, but also an abortionist. Vera Drake is seemingly just a neighborhood mother, but in actuality she provides a highly sought after service for women in need. Drake performs illegal abortions without pay as a way to help desperate woman but in the end it deeply affects her family. The film ends with not much being resolved but instead acts as a way for Leigh to explore the class struggles, issues related to the family, and the question of abortion.

Leigh’s characters and scripts are created through improvisation and the actors who play the parts. This technique creates an interesting experience for the viewer because the characters are extremely authentic. An interesting example of Leigh’s technique can be witnessed through the dinner party scene. The main character, Vera Drake, played by Imelda Stuanton, was unaware of Leigh’s full plans for the scene and the end result is an intensely emotive scene that is utterly true to real life. The performance of Staunton as Vera Drake is outstanding and through the dinner party scene it is clear that she has fully explored and understands the character that she is portraying.

The film Vera Drake is an excellent example of Mike Leigh’s work and specifically his use of improvisation. Leigh’s overall goal while making films is to create a work that explores real issues that connect people and portray the emotion depth and realities of life.

Source: Singular Vision. Films Media Group, 2005. Films On Demand. Web. 28 November 2010.

Michael Collins

Michael Collins (1996), Neil Jordan’s epic motion picture about the Irish revolutionary leader, was one of the most expensive movies made in Ireland, costing Warner Brothers. and the Irish National Film Board more than $25 million (Merivirta-Chakrabarti, p 122).Indeed, Michael Collins sits squarely at the intersection of Hollywood convention and the conventions of European cinema and the idea of epic national cinema.

Filmed at a time when there seemed to be the first real, lasting cease-fire in Northern Ireland, a sudden outbreak of violence threatened the planned release and distribution of the film. Because of that pressure and because of some disappointing audience testing in America, Neil Jordan agreed to re-shoot some scenes and change the opening and closing of the film to fit a more traditional “Hollywood” understanding of filmic communication.

The film’s opening scene, which was added at the request of Warner Brothers, features a very traditional narration. Kitty Kiernan, Collins’ love interest, is lying on a bed in the background, while another character, Joe O’Reilly seems to speak directly to the audience.

Joe O’Reilly addresses the audience directly, saying: “You’ve got to think of him. The way he was…He was what the times demanded. And life without him seems impossible. But he’s dead. And life is possible. He made it possible”. (Merivirta-Chakrabarti, p 124).

The point of this pseudo-narration is to give away the ending. Most of the international audience had no idea who Michael Collins was, apart from the film advertisements they saw, and so it was important to set their expectations at the beginning of the film: Michael Collins is going to die.

Indeed, one other change that Neil Jordan made was to the ending of the film.

According to Bordwell (1990: 160), at the end of a classical Hollywood film, “the narration may again acknowledge its awareness of the audience (nondiegetic music reappears, characters look to the camera or close a door in our face), its omniscience (e.g. the camera retreats to a long shot) and its communicativeness (now we know all)”. Closely following this tradition, Michael Collins returns to overt narration towards the end of the film. (Merivirta-Chakrabarti, p 125).

The film returns to Joe O’Reilly’s narration to Kitty Kiernan, and we hear non-diagetic music, in the form of Sinead O’Connor’s rendition of “She Moved Through the Fair” during a montage of Kitty’s wedding preparations intercut with scenes of Collins’ assassination. Another addition that Warner Brothers suggested was a scene in which Kitty hears the news of Collins’ death (as she is shopping for a wedding gown). In the original version, according to Jordan, the film cut from his death scene “to a bridal wreath being placed around her head in the wedding shop. And in the great European tradition, emotion is implied rather than presented.” (Merivirta-Chakrabarti, p 124).

However, even as Neil Jordan made concessions to Hollywood, he maintained a strong sense of his European roots as well. The actual scene of Michael Collins’ death is very understated, which contrasts with the usual depiction of the death of a protagonist/hero in mainstream Hollywood fare.

Collins’s death is not mythologised but instead seems futile. Unlike the death of the hero in so many Hollywood films, Collins’s screen death is essentially undramatic and devoid of profound meaning. (Merivirta-Chakrabarti, p 125).

The camera stays in a long shot, and refuses any indulgence such as slow-motion or close-up. Indeed, it could have been easy to depict Collins dying in the midst of action, defending his fellow men, or engaged in some kind of gallantry (since he died in the midst of the Irish Civil War). But, staying true to his editorial intent, Jordan chose to show Collins as the target of an ambush while his convoy was making its way from one town to another: another needless victim of war. His death seems like a waste rather than an act of martyrdom.

It is in this way that Neil Jordan kept a healthy tension between Hollywood and Ireland, big-budget and art-house, melodrama and understatement, and in the process, helped the people of Ireland consider more fully the question, “where are we coming from and where are we going?” (Merivirta-Chakrabarti, p 123).

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Works Cited:

Merivirta-Chakrabarti, Raita. “Between Irish National Cinema and Hollywood: Neil Jordan’s Michael Collins” in Estudios Irlandeses, Number 2, 2007, pp. 121-127

Jean Vigo's L'Atalante

There are many differing opinions on the work of Jean Vigo but one thing that becomes evident when one sorts through the various critiques and reviews of his films is that it is very difficult to categorize him. Vigo died young and only had the time to make four films, yet each one of them has been given their fair share of academic discourse. However, none have been given more attention than his final film, L’Atalante (1934). Taken at face value the film is about relationships and perhaps seeks to point out the inherent difficulty of maintaining one even when a couple is truly meant to be together. However, beneath the surface this is a film that explores many nuanced topics including an examination of the battle between open space and claustrophobia. When the film ends, it is difficult to say which side wins though, one could argue, it doesn’t really matter. There are two major technical elements that serve to enhance the story. The first is its use of a cinéma vérité style of filmmaking (largely foreshadowing the Italian Neorealist movement still yet to come) and the use of certain surrealist experimental elements that set it apart from some other films being made at the time.

In brief L’Atalante tells the story of newlyweds Jean and Juliette. They start off as a happy couple but quickly digress, becoming angry and argumentative with one another. Their personalities are represented by the barge, (Jean) which is meant to symbolize containment and the normality of day-to-day life, and dry land, (Juliet) which is meant to express freedom and openness. By the end of the film Jean and Juliet realize that despite their differences they’re still meant to be together and a joyous reunion ensues. One interesting element that is worth pointing out occurs at the beginning of the film. Although the film opens on what is obviously the tail end of a wedding, it looks more like a funeral procession than anything else. The bride and groom march intently ahead of the rest of the group, all of whom are dressed in black. Furthermore, in the middle of what should be a joyous moment the mother of the bride is crying over the event. This is certainly done intentionally as a means to show the impending doom of their relationship.

As was previously mentioned the use of a cinéma vérité style is one key to the success of the film. There are no studio lights or sets, which consequently give the film a unique look for the time. In his 1951 article, Revaluations 9 – L’Atalante, Roger Manvell discusses this topic by saying that “The main faults of this film are, curiously enough, to a certain extent, assets. The photography is very rough—but how could it be otherwise unless the barge had been made artificially in a studio or every scene shot in special lighting and special weathers. This is an everyday story photographed in everyday lighting, and the narrow interiors do not allow for fancy shots.”[1] In this sense Manvell precisely highlights the point that this film is a direct influence on the Italian Neorealists that would arise in Italy about a decade later. Much like it’s offspring, L’Atalante uses reality to its advantage as a means to underline the core of the film as reality.

Another interesting aspect of this film is its timely use of surrealistic elements as a means to convey the star-crossed relationship of the two lovers, Jean and Juliet. Manvell describes Vigo’s surrealism as the “use of dream-imagery in the representation of experiences difficult or impossible to present directly.”[2] Early in the film Juliet explains to her new husband a legend, which is that when one’s head is under water you see the face of the person you love, saying, “It’s true. It happened to me. That’s how I recognized you when you first came to our house (00:15:34).”[3] Shortly after Jean jokingly tries out her theory. He is unsuccessful primarily because he treats the moment as a chance to mock her beliefs. However, later on in the film when Juliet has left Jean and he is distraught over his loss, he leaps into the water in an attempt to see what he once had no desire to even believe in. Now, fully capable of appreciating the love of his wife, he is able to see her in the water and recognize her as his true love. In order to show this transformation, Vigo uses a surrealist technique of superimposing one image on top of another. In this case, he superimposes the image of Juliet as she was on her wedding day, on top of an image of Jean in the water trying desperately to see the one he is meant to be with.

In conclusion the film L’Atalante is as brilliant as it is inspirational. In addition to its influence on the Italian Neorealist movement it was also a big influence on the French New Wave filmmakers, in particular François Truffaut. Sadly, Jean Vigo died tragically in 1934 due to complications from tuberculosis, ironically on the night L’Atalante premiered. His work, however, instantly became timeless and his notoriety and influence lives on to this day.

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[1] Manvell, Roger. “Revaluations 9—L’Atalante”. Sight and Sound. Volume 19. Issue 10 (1951): Pages 421-22.

[2] [2] Manvell, Roger. “Revaluations 9—L’Atalante”. Sight and Sound. Volume 19. Issue 10 (1951): Pages 421-22.

[3] L’Atalante. Vigo, Jean. Gaumont-Franco Film-Aubert, 1934.

Vittorio De Sica's Two Women (1960)

Vittorio De Sica’s Two Women contains various techniques which makes it one of the great films from the Italian Neo-Realism era. Set during the allied bombing in Rome, the film tells the story of Cesira (Sophia Loren), a beautiful widowed woman, and her religious and innocent 12 year old daughter, Rosetta (Eleanora Brown). The story follows Cesira and Rosetta’s tumultuous journey to and from Rome. Following the trend of other Italian Neo-Realism films by De Sica (such as Bicycle Thieves), Two Women explores the effect World War II has had on the basic human condition. The viewer comes to understand the effect on people’s most basic wants and needs such as shelter, food, and money. But what makes Two Women stand out among other films, is that it shows the effect war has on one of the most primeval of human needs; and this is the lust for love and sex. Two Women caused a bit of a stir when it released because of its brief nudity, suggestive camera shots, and rape scene. However, Two Women received an Academy Award (for Best Actress- Sophia Loren) and recognition elsewhere, because it is simply real. Regardless of the difficult times around them, people still have sexual and romantic desires, and some of them act on these impulses-whether they are welcomed or not.
The character of Cesira is particularly interesting because of her fire and passion for survival. We notice Cesira’s passion even more as she interacts with Michele (Jean-Paul Belmondo). When Cesira and Rosetta eventually make it to a small compound of refugees in the hills, they encounter and befriend Michele who is a student who sympathizes with Communism and other ideologies. Michele can’t seem to comprehend Cesira’s ‘obsession’ with supplies and survival. In one particular scene in the film, Michele reads passages of The Bible to the refugees. Rosetta is mesmerized by his reading of Holy Scripture. However the other refugees, and especially Cesira continuously interrupt him. He’s interrupted by a man delivering supplies who just barges in to make his deliveries. He’s interrupted by other refugees who are late. And lastly, he’s interrupted by Cisara’s rant about the possible bombing of her house in Rome. At this point in the scene, Michele is fed up with the interruptions. He tells the refugees they aren’t worth hearing the stories and they are better off dead. He storms off. Rosetta instantly defends Michele, accusing her mother of causing the outburst and Cesira goes after him. Cesira meets up with Michele, alone in a field and it’s in this scene that the viewer comes to understand the stark differences between these two characters, and thus the difference of feelings and priorities amongst Italians during this time.
Cisera represents the common people of Italy during this time. She is not rich, only a poor, simple widow (with beautiful features and outrageous sex appeal) trying to fend for and protect her daughter. Her first priority is food, shelter, and the preservation of Rosetta’s innocence. That is all. Michele, on the other hand wishes more refugees would stop hiding out and fight for what’s right (in his opinion: Communism), and stop fattening up like pigs while others die. Even though Michele and Cisera are two completely different people in terms of what’s most important, they learn something from each other; and that is basic human romantic and sexual desire.
Regardless of Michele’s vehement ideologies and theories, he admires Cisera for being so open about the things important to her. He mentions that he wishes he could be more like her in that respect. On the other hand, Michele inquires about Cisera’s love of life and if she’s ever loved before. After being reminded of that part of life, Cisera seems to develop a fondness of Michele- and so does her daughter, Rosetta. Cisera and Michele’s fondness of each other semi-blossoms into a glimmer of a romantic relationship. They end up kissing in a field during a bombing attack. Their being so oblivious during a dangerous scenario like this shows how much they are in need of passion- just as much as Cisera is in need of flour for bread. Additionally, an elderly couple catches them kissing in the bomb laden field and they carefully move away not to disturb them. The elderly couple seems to understand and sympathize with their need of passion even in a moment like this. Michele’s helping Cisera with her flour shows that he understands her need for it and has come to understand her point of view.
De Sica’s Two Women is a great portrayal of many ordinary citizens in Italy during this time. However, the film doesn’t just dote on romantic feelings and politics alone. The last portion of Two Women show just how ravaging and terrible wartime can be. After traveling to get back to Rome, Cisera and Rosetta are cornered in an abandoned church and raped by a group of Arabian Allies. Rosetta’s innocence is taken from her in the most malicious way, and there’s nothing Cisera can do about it. It’s at this point in the film that both Rosetta and Cisera become ‘two women’. Rosetta begins to act out because of what happens to her. She even sleeps with a stranger in exchange for a pair of women’s stockings. Eventually Rosetta and Cisera reconcile over the news of Michele’s death. What happens to Rosetta and Cisera in this film shows us that war affects everyone. Poverty, uncontrollable lust, and hunger affect everyone as well, even the most innocent. Vittorio De Sica’s Two Women is not only a great film from the Italian Neo-Realism period because of its classic story surrounding by theme, but because it dares to show the good bad and the ugly side of this time period in European history.

Sources:
“Vittorio De Sica- Neo-Realism, Melodrama, Fantasy”
http://hcl.harvard.edu/hfa/films/2010aprjun/de_sica.html
“Two Women (1960)
http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/51437/Two-Women/overview

The Passion Of Joan Of Arc

The Passion of Joan of Arc is an aesthetically fascinating film. It tells an interesting, true legend, stars an unknown actress who would never act in another film, and has a very unique and fitting visual style that was very uncommon for the time. The film recounts the final hours of the life of Joan of Arc as she is put on trial, tortured, imprisoned and then executed.

The look of the film is what really makes it stand out. One aspect of the cinematography that makes it unique and adds to the intensity is the shot sizes. The film is essentially almost entirely comprised of close-up shots. Much of the film involves close looks at Joan’s condemners asking questions and seeing her response. All of the close-ups of character’s faces really allow the viewer to see and understand the pain and emotion of Joan and her accusers. Maria Pramaggiore and Tom Wallis comment on the frequency of the close-up shot by writing, “The narrative focus on Joan’s trial and use of close-ups emphasize Joan’s spiritual power...Dreyer championed the close-up because he believed the soul is visible in the human face.”[i] The viewer frequently sees the pain and dedication of Joan through the performance of Maria Falconetti and Dreyer’s use of close shots of her face. The camera staying close on reactions and faces with little movement increases the intensity of the shots. The trial/interrogation is almost all close shots, which helps create an atmosphere that is uncomfortable, disoriented, and extreme – the same feelings the protagonist is feeling in that situation.

The composition of shots in the film, accompanied by the set design assisted in creating the intense and emotional mood of the film as well. The focus of the film is clearly the strong performances and consequently, the faces of the characters are the prominent part of the framing in the film. It is extremely effective and creates a bond between the audience and the protagonist. Mast and Kawain write, “Dreyer fills the frame with faces and seeks out each one’s essence…the bare white walls of the set make the richly textured human features leap out at the viewer.”[ii] The faces remain prominent throughout the film thanks to the performance but also the set as previously mentioned. David Cook offers another reason to keep focus on the actor’s faces as well as for the shot size. He writes that Dreyer “constructs a formal space for the sacred (that of Joan) untouched by the space of the profane (that of her inquisitors).”[iii] She is kept away from the “evil” characters in the frames but when she is on-screen, all focus is directed to her face and eyes so that the audience can get a closer understanding to the internal conflict within her (will she really reject an offer to renounce what she did if it will save her life).

One other technique utilized in the film to add more humanity to the story and performances was the decision to not use makeup – a revolutionary idea at the time. Film experts have made many comments about this decision. By creating a film without the assistance of makeup, the realism of the film increases exponentially. It is “a film of faces without makeup” and the casting allowed for audiences to notice the handsome face of Joan’s “one compassionate accuser and the wrinkled imperfections of the faces of her accusers.”[iv]

All of these visual components (the framing, shot sizes, lack of makeup) help create a very realistic, gritty feel to an emotional, humanistic story. These techniques allowed for viewers to truly look into the eyes and souls of the characters – especially Joan and sympathize with her more easily because the audience can feel like they understand the struggle she is going through. The film tells a very real, vivid, personal story effectively through the cinematic techniques and performances by the actors.

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[i] Maria Pramaggiore and Tom Wallis, Film: A Critical Introduction, Second Edition (London: Laurence King Publishing Ltd, 2008), 145.

[ii] Gerald Mast and Bruce F. Kawin, A Short History of the Movies: Ninth Edition (New York: Pearson Education Inc, 2006), 250.

[iii] David A. Cook, A History of Narrative Film: Fourth Edition (New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2004), 312.

[iv] Mast and Kawain, 249.

Germany Year Zero - Most Definitely Not a Zero

Roberto Rossellini’s Germany Year Zero is a fantastic work and a perfect example of what the Italian Neo-Realist movement was. Despite being an Italian director, Rossellini was able to perfectly capture the mood of post-war Germany and strongly portray the struggles, both internal and external that many Germans were going through at this time.

The plot of Germany Year Zero is based around a young boy who is helping his family survive in post-war Germany. Despite being the youngest, he seems to be most mature but it is easy to see that his situation has forced him to take on the major responsibilities in the family. His sister stays at home to care for their sick father and his brother is so suffocated by the guilt of being a former Nazi soldier that he refuses to leave the house and help his family.

Like De Sica’s The Bicycle Thieves, Rossellini used real people and not actors to portray the characters in the film. This is impressive because while these people were experiencing a difficult life, it is often difficult for those same people to portray real emotion, in character, on film. Even some professional actors have a difficult time portraying a real person (see Hayden Christensen, Star Wars: Attack of the Clones and Revenge of the Sith). So the fact that Rossellini was able to find totally inexperienced people to play these roles as well as some of the top professional actors of the time is remarkable.

Also remarkable is the sets. This film was shot in the ruins of Berlin. Consequently, you can feel the depression and terror that lies within the characters because their surroundings are authentic.

Throughout the film you are able to understand the stress the main character, Edmund is going through. Rather than see his father suffer more and waste precious resources keeping him alive, Edmund decides to go behind everyone's backs and secretly poison him. While he thinks this will make everyone breathe a sigh of relief that he has passed, his former teacher (who originally jokes about Edmund doing something like this) calls him insane. Consequently, Edmund believes he cannot do anything right. In the end the pressures of his reality force him to jump from a building to his death.

As a result, this film does not have a happy ending. But that is necessary because this is an Italian neo-realist film and consequently needs to portray the reality of the German people's situations. It took years for Germany to recover and decades for East Germany to start seeing major results. The German’s people government (the Third Reich) failed them utterly.

As the textbook says, Rossellini, “willingly sacrificed polish for authenticity, sets for real locations, fiction for life” (Mast, 377). His was willing to take a risk by shooting this film in Berlin and using real Berliners as actors. He wasn't in it for the money and while there are some scenes where the video and audio quality is lacking, it only adds to the dire mood.

Rossellini was brilliant in capturing the mood of this difficult period so perfectly. Without films like these it would be easy to forget the horrific events of the past. These realist films are completely necessary and are perfect tools for future generations to use to better understand the past. We must learn from our past to move towards a brighter future. Normally, I usually like to include some humor in my writings but there just isn’t any to be found here. This was a serious time and a serious tone is necessary.

Germany Year Zero most definitely is not a ‘zero.’ It gets a 10/10. Below is a link to the end of the film. I believe it perfectly shows the talents of the young actor, the bombed out Berlin and the struggles of the period.

Final Scene of Germany Year Zero

PERSONA: As far as Bergman could go

"Don't you think I understand? The hopeless dream of being. Not seeming, but being. In every waking moment aware, alert. The tug of war -- what you are with others and who you really are. A feeling of vertigo and a constant hunger to finally be exposed. To be seen through, cut down, even obliterated."

Such is said of the protagonist in Ingmar Bergman’s Persona, yet it may also be said of the film itself. For while Bergman had been considered a “serious” filmmaker since his pair of 1957 classics The Seventh Seal and Wild Strawberries, those films were still entirely accessible. Allegorical, yes, but still fairly tidy.

It wasn’t until Persona that Bergman fully satisfied the “hunger to be exposed.” That is, to expose cinema in a self-reflexive way. He saw through it, cut it down, obliterated it. And as Bergman himself wrote in his book Images, “Today I feel that in Persona — and later in Cries and Whispers – I had gone as far as I could go. And that in these two instances when working in total freedom, I touched wordless secrets that only the cinema can discover." (Brody)

The film follows actress Elisabeth Vogler (Liv Ullmann), who has gone blank on stage during a performance of Elektra and has refused to speak since (the audacity of Bergman to have a silent protagonist!). She’s admitted to a mental hospital and assigned to the care of a pretty nurse, Alma (Bibi Andersson), who takes her to a remote, sea-side home to study her. As Alma holds a series of one-sided conversations, she begins confessing the most personal of information. It isn’t long before we realize that it’s actually Elisabeth who’s the one doing the studying and Alma who’s undergoing to the psycho-analysis. Through heated exchanges ranging from sexual to violent, we’re left to ponder whether the two women are in fact the same person, and what that says about the nature of identity. Is one the alter-ego of the other? And if “persona” is another word for “mask” and “Alma” another for "soul,” one has to wonder whether we’re really watching a woman grappling with her own conscience.

Bergman continually comes up with new visual ways to express the similarities of the two women. In many shots, Elisabeth and Alma are so tightly framed that it looks like a limb from one (i.e. an arm holding a cigarette) belongs to the face of the other. At other times, they embrace in such a way that their necks appear to wrap around each other, as if two heads from the same body. Most obvious is the famous close-up of the two women lying side by side, as Alma says, "Is it possible to be one and the same person at the same time?"

Perhaps most revolutionary in this regard is a sequence where Bergman essentially plays the same scene twice -- a confession of Alma to Elisabeth – shot from two different points of view. The first time, we see the scene from Alma's POV, looking constantly at Elisabeth, who wears a black sweater and black headband. With a sequence of four shots and a series of dissolves, we slowly move closer to Elisabeth's face. Suddenly, Bergman starts the scene over, except now from Elisabeth's POV, looking constantly at Alma, who wears an identical black sweater and headband. The dissolves happen again, on exactly the same dialogue cues.

Note also that in each instance, as Alma’s confession grows darker, their half-lit faces grow darker. The two halves increasingly seem to complement each other, until finally Bergman blends them together to create a single face. As Gerald Mast writes, this is the classic formula of thesis (Elisabeth's face), antithesis (Alma's face) and synthesis (both faces combined into a single identity). (Mast) What's more, both scenes start with a close-up of the women’s hands on top of each other – a callback to Alma's earlier line: "It's bad luck to compare hands."

Still, the "persona" that most concerns Bergman may be his own as author of the film. As such, he takes every opportunity to call attention to the film medium at his disposal. Persona opens with the spark of a projector illuminating a film screen, a film reel turning, a projectionist selecting film clips and a countdown before the film begins. Mid-way through Persona, the film literally stops, creases and burns up in the projector, throwing the audio for a loop. It ends with the film slipping out of the projection gate, the movie screen going blank and the arc light burning out (Monte Hellman’s Two Lane Blacktop also ends with film burning up in the projector, no doubt inspired by Persona).

Adding to the reflexivity is the occasional intercutting of bizarre film clips, including an animated cartoon, slapstick comedy, nails being driven into Christ-like hands, a crawling spider (a symbol of God in Bergman's Through a Glass Darkly), a blood sacrifice, a fitting clip from Bunuel's Un Chien Andalou (1929), even a shot of a penis (foreshadowing Fincher’s Fight Club). It’s as if Bergman is reminding us that a film, when watched in a theater, is ultimately at the mercy of the editor, and later the projectionist, who can splice in whatever images he or she wants.

Why call attention to the projection process? Mast says it’s to remind viewers that what they are witnessing is fiction, an illusion: "The audience has entered the world of art and chimera, of magic and theatre, not of nature and reality." It’s also to ask whether the world of nature is any more real than the one of artistic illusion. (Mast) And what type of art is it? The answer may lie in Bergman’s cut from a giant face sculpture outside the beach house to a close-up of Elisabeth’s face on stage. We’ve been led to believe she is acting in a theater performance, until suddenly, a film camera swoops into frame, suggesting a sound stage. Here, sculpting has evolved into theater and ultimately into cinema – art’s purest expression.

Nothing breaks down the “illusion” of film more, though, than his use of direct address. The first instance (and creepiest) comes during a disturbing sequence of bodies lying on an autopsy slab. Suddenly, their eyes open, staring straight at us, and a young boy (who we thought was dead) turns restlessly under his sheet, like he can’t sleep (a moment of artistic inspiration?). He winds up putting on his glasses, pulling out a book and turning to stare right at us. It’s here that he reaches out and caresses the screen, as if he’s trying to understand the apparatus between him and us. When Bergman cuts to the reverse angle, we see that the boy is inspecting a large, blurry image of a woman's face, which slowly comes into focus to start the narrative.

Even within the narrative, the direct address continues. Early on, there’s a single take where Elisabeth stares directly at us for an uncomfortable period of time. Day turns to night, yet her eyes never blink. Her face remains expressionless and she holds her breath. Finally, she exhales and looks away, worn out by the ordeal. In a later scene, we get an empty wide shot of a beach, only for Alma to rise into the frame with a camera and take a picture of us (Wes Anderson has Owen Wilson do this in The Royal Tenenbaums). In all of these instances, Bergman has not only broken the fourth wall, he's taken a wrecking ball to it, cleared the rubble and built anew.

So what new structure has been left in Bergman’s wake? How about the argument that structure need not always exist. Unfortunately, the art of experimentation seems lost in most movies. But that doesn’t mean Bergman’s masterpiece hasn’t inspired some of our greatest filmmakers: from Woody Allen, who spoofs Persona in both Love and Death (1975) and Stardust Memories (1980) to Robert Altman, who has Shelley Duvall and Sissy Spacek shift roles in 3 Women (1977); from David Lynch, who merges female identities and gives a visual nod in Mulholland Dr. (2001); to the aforementioned references from David Fincher (Fight Club) and Wes Anderson (Tenenbaums).

It should be no surprise then that the 2002 Sight & Sound directors’ poll ranked Bergman the #8 greatest director of all time, while ranking Persona the #41 greatest film of all time. When it came to the Sight & Sound critics’ poll, however, the film curiously dropped from the Top 10 in 1972 to a three-vote honorable mention in 2002, where critics shifted favor to Wild Strawberries, The Seventh Seal and Fanny & Alexander. Either way, my hat is tipped to you, Mr. Bergman. “Too many masterpieces” is a great problem to have.

Citations

Brody, Richard. “DVD of the Week: Persona.” The New Yorker. 5 August 2008. Web.

<http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/movies/2010/08/persona.html>

Mast, Gerald. Kawin, Bruce. “Ingmar Bergman.” A Brief History of the Movies. Ninth Edition. Pearson Education, Inc. 2006. P. 440-449.

Fanny and Alexander: Bergman's soul on screen

Whenever I begin to talk or write about Ingmar Bergman’s work there is always a feeling that I can’t do him justice. When I read what others, way more eloquent than myself, have written about his work, the same thought haunts me. Then I begin to question why is this? One explanation keeps resurfacing – his films are to feel, not to talk about. Take for example, Fanny and Alexander (1982). It seems impossible (to me at least) to accurately describe melancholic feeling I get while I’ve been drawn into Bergman’s delicate memories.

When expressionless Alexander (Bertil Guve) is watching a statue move from underneath the table, at the beginning of the film, I can say - yes that’s young Bergman I’m looking at. But when it comes to expressing how and why I instantly have tender feelings toward that child-actor, I’m at loss with words. The same goes for the Christmas celebration sequence. Bergman carefully designed the set of his grandmother’s house on the Christmas Eve. Christmas trees, fancy dresses, and too much food on silver plates combined with children running around Victorian-style furniture radiate warmth and happiness. Still, behind each camera movement and cut I could feel Bergman’s presence.

Fanny and Alexander thoroughly follow Bergman’s life – both professional and spiritual. The first sequence in the film, aforementioned Christmas celebration, marks his childhood spent at his grandmother’s house in Uppsala, and his happy years directing theatre plays. The second sequence examines young Ingmar’s troubled years spent with his conservative and abusive father, a Lutheran minister. Bergman often admitted that his father’s teaching methods, like locking him in a closet as a punishment, left deep scars on his soul. In Fanny and Alexander, the children’s mother marries a conservative minister after sudden death of her husband, who was a theater actor. Even though no such thing happened to Bergman, he wanted to show clear distinction between his spiritual father (theater) and real father, who represented church (reality). The dark ages spent in the cold house with his stepfather also represent Bergman’s noir black and white films of the 1960s. Finally, the third sequence of the film is return to the magical, and breaking away with the rational constraints imposed on him by the world. Young Alexander and his sister Fanny (Pernilla Allwin) are magically saved from the house of their stepfather by Isak Jakobi (Erland Josephson). Isak is a Jewish curiosity dealer, who also happens to be their grandmother’s lover. Once they are safe in Isak’s oddity shop, far from reality, Alexander and his new friend Ismail imagine how Bishop will die, which in reality is exactly how Alexander’s stepfather dies.

Fanny and Alexander left many open questions – what did Alexander have to do with his stepfather’s death, or did the statue at the beginning really move? Rather than explaining further, Bergman ends the movie with words from A Dream Play by Strindberg, “… time and space do not exist. On a flimsy framework of reality, the imagination spins, weaving new patterns.”

To fully grasp Ingmar Bergman’s poetic soul, one must sit and watch his films. Reading about them is as silly as trying to smell a painting of a rose.

Hiroshima mon amour: Shattering Time

Hiroshima mon amor was not the first film to use archive footage in combination with narrative footage. However, the way in which Alain Resnais confronts the audience with the B-roll sets the tone at the beginning of the film that drives the destruction and brokenness that both characters feel.

Although I did not particularly care for the film, I can appreciate the powerful technique of separation Resnais employs throughout using the archive footage along with his narrative. As Kent Jones states in his essay Hiroshima mon amor: Time Indefinite, "it's the anguish of past, present, and future: the need to understand exactly who and where we are in time, a need that goes perpetually unsatisfied."

Resnais takes the audience through the emotional roller coaster of a young french women as she deals with the resurfacing of buried feelings of her first love. Ironically, the young woman is an actress who is working on a film about peace in Hiroshima, yet she is unable to find peace within her own life. The film weaves its way between the present of the characters, the past of the young woman, and post A-Bomb footage.

Reminiscent of Eisenstein, Resnais systematically uses the visuals

of documentary footage to showcase the pain and destruction of not only people during that time but that it continues to have on generations. As Resnais clearly points out, Hiroshima can not be rebuilt in a year or two and go back to the way things were before the dropping of the bomb. The bomb devastated families for many years to come and will have a lasting impact on japanese culture.

Resnais's slow, drawn-out narrative does not captivate me. Instead, the magic of his film making is found in his use combining documentary footage with narrative. This was the second time I have seen the film and I must say, it was easier to take than the first time I saw it. Maybe as I age his narrative style will grow on me and I will be able to appreciate it as the work of art that so many others think it is. Maybe so, maybe not, but the images will be with me forever.

Do You Have a Fever? Pudovkin's Montage in Chess Fever

Chess Fever (1925) Synopsis: A young man who is complete obsessed with chess enjoys an international tournament of the game. He becomes so obsessed that he neglects his fiancée who has no interest in it. She becomes frustrated by the neglect from him and find that no matter what she can't escape the game. She tries to give up on him and the game all together until she runs into Capablanca, the world champion of chess. He changes her views. Seen here.

Like many other films during this time Pudovkin uses real footage in his film. They used footage from a chess tournament in Moscow. Using this footage they were able to show the intensity of real players. This helped to create more understanding for the main characters chess obsession. “The general enthusiasm for Chess is making itself felt in cinema. The comedy is pieced together as a parody of a newspaper story. Ordinary everyday matches acquire exaggerated scale: caricatures of the policeman, the cabman, of the chemist, the public at the tournament and others are wittily portrayed . . . There is much humorous incident, much movement, the material forwarded pointedly by the serial story form” (Sovetskoe kino 1. 13). For Pudovkin the shots of the film combine to build the whole work, as bricks combine to make a wall, rather than conflict with one another in dynamic suspension. Chess Fever is an appealing example of this because he uses and breaks the conventions of soviet silent film to create humor.

The style of this film connects to the Kuleshov experiment where “art grew out of joining these rigorously composed fragments into wholes” (Mast 199). The fragments were tail ends of films that were used to practice the art of storytelling. During this time the film stock was too expensive to use and create new footage. They had to use what they had left over from past news stories and films. Pudovkin was one of Kuleshov most famous students at this workshop.

Montage : Creating Geography

• Pudovkin makes an entertaining play on creative geography tested by Kuleshov. Creating geography is creating a connection of shots from different locations and editing them together so that the audience believes they are a consecutive location. This is seen early on in the film during the chess match. He creates a montage of footage from different times of the competition. The audience sees a player on the left and a player on the right. Teaming this together with shots from the audience we have an understanding of a tournament, even though they were all shot at different times.

Multiple Illusion

• He uses montage later in this scene to create the feeling of a mass amount of cats. We see a group shot of kittens on the ground. Then we see his pulling out a kitten from various items in his room like a shoe, jacket sleeve, and coat pockets. This gives us the idea that there are many cats in the apartment, hiding in every nook and cranny. This editing style continues through the rest of the film.

Conclusion:

• In the final act we see Fogel return back to the Chess championship. He has lost his love and he still hasn’t gotten over his addiction to chess. It is there that he runs back into his love Zemtsova. She looks happy and pulls him aside to inform him of her new love of the game of chess. Intercut with this action we see the chess champions from earlier in the film. Each is now looking at the camera with a sense of happiness on their face. This works to show the viewer that all is now resolved. The editing causes us to think that the champions had some sense of the love story and now are relieved as Fogel is. In the other room Zemtsova asks Fogel to show her the chess move the Sicilon Defesnse. Fogel looks very excited but his face turns to worry. The audience knows that he has previously thrown all of his chess memorabilia into the river. His face turns again as he remembers one last board that he has hanging around his neck. This, as the title card says, is “the beginning of a very happy marriage.”

Pudovkin’s unique editing style for this time creates a blend of humor and inimitability appropriate for this type of caricature. And all though the couple ends up happy at the end the question posed in the film “could love be stronger then chess?” is never really resolved. In the end it doesn’t matter. Fogel gets both and is able to continue his fanatic obsession with his girl by his side.

Corr

Pola X (1999) directed by Leos Carax

Summary: A young writer gets intrigued to a dark hair girl who claims that she is his long-lost sister. They develop a unusual relationship and eventually crosses the line of brotherly love, promoting a down-road spiral involving his domineering mother and innocent fiancé.

Recently I saw Pola X (1999) directed by Leos Carax. The film is based on a novel written by a American writer Herman Melville, “Pierre, or the Ambiguities.” First thing to say, I liked the film a lot. I am confident enough to say that I am a Leos Carax fan. I started watching this at like two in the morning planning just to watch half of it, but as the film proceeded, I could not take off my eye from it.

What I liked about it so much? First of all, the cinematography is absolutely beautiful. Not only about the looks, but I was especially amazed by Carax’s ability to craft images with scrupulous attention in every gestures, sound of the steps, intensity of light, tempo and camera movements to create a meaning, or mood in each frame. What’s magnificent about it is that the coherence of images are so perfectly orchestrated, because all the elements I just mentioned were so meticulously tuned in to a beautiful flow of images. Especially, how they illustrated the theme of the film. “ambiguity,” in the visuals was just perfect. I honestly could not believe how he could pay a tension in all those elements when he is directing! I’m not trying to exaggerate. It’s probably the dexterous work of the film crew, and it’s wonderful. It’s worth watching just looking at those crafts of mise-en-scene.

The story explores a controversial theme, incest. I didn’t mind it at all. The story is dark and sad, but amazingly mysterious and enticing. Exploration the topic of incest, the film takes us to a mystery of life where we are not familiar with and makes us anxious causes fear. The film is not fast, but it’s so visceral. Pola X gives a scene of fear of the unknown, or the alien and we are forced to constantly confront with this. Interestingly, this fear of the unknown could be the strong implication of political fear in France. According to Michael DeAngelis, “Carax's film has concerns in territorial isolation and the threats and realities of invasion, implicating French culture historically, politically, and culturally by relocating Melville's land narrative from America to France.” What makes this film fun to watch is that the images always challenges us to interpret its implications. I highly recommend it and I am going to go head and watch some of his other films.

Work Cited

DeAngelis, Michael. "Inverting French Heritage Cinema: Melville, Carax, and Pola X." Film Criticism 27.1 (2002): 20-35. Film & Television Literature Index with Full Text. EBSCO. Web. 4 Nov. 2010.