2 or 3 Things on 2 Or 3 Things I Know About Her (TFR Article)

(Link to IFC Daily's mention about the article)

by Meseret Haddis

Looking back at Godard’s career, 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her comes at a pivotal transitional period for the filmmaker. The film follows a Parisian woman, Juliette, as she works as a prostitute and mother over the course of a day. Godard’s previous two films (Made in U.S.A. and Masculine Feminin) as well as those that followed (La Chinoise and Weekend) moved away from the “theatrics” of Pierrot Le Fou and towards political theater, which absorbed his later work. In certain points in Godard’s career, he is able to show that political and philosophical understanding almost have no differences, as they are linked toward social and emotional progress.

Alienation of Character and Content

The alienation effect is a tool pioneered by the German playwright Bertolt Brecht to insure that the audience doesn’t relate or empathize with a play’s characters. This can be achieved through disjointed scenes, self-aware characters and broken fourth walls. The audience is drawn away from a sense of emotional investment and, instead, focuses on the ideas being expressed in the play. Godard, a self-proclaimed student of Brecht, uses many of the playwright’s techniques in achieving this effect.

As the film begins, Juliette (Marina Vlady) is introduced. The woman is first described as Marina and then as Juliette; this break of the fourth wall continues throughout the film, as Juliette narrates her emotions and thoughts, often in the midst of conversation with another person. There isn’t much room for the audience to identify with Juliette, often because she seems cold and mechanical (a result, she admits, of the life she lives).

Other characters share the self-awareness that Juliette expresses, as well. During certain points in Juliette’s day, a store clerk or a bar fly will look into the camera and say two or three things about her self (“I come to the city twice a month,” “I have hazel eyes,” etc). As we follow Juliette, we are reminded of the invisible wall that separates her and us, and when we look to other characters we hope to find a connection or situation that is able to help us fall into the fantasy of the film, but it’s never there.

There seems to be a consistent attempt by Godard to keep the viewer aware, at all times, of his film’s fabrication, to continue to look critically at the expanding city of Paris that is being quietly destroyed by capitalism. Godard whispers in the final scene, “Thanks to Esso, I drive safely to the land of my dreams and I forget the rest. I forget Hiroshima, I forget Auschwitz, I forget Budapest, I forget Vietnam, I forget the S.M.I.G., I forget the housing shortage, I forget the famine in India. I’ve forgotten everything except that, as I’m going back to zero, I’ll have to use that as my point of departure.” Godard is warning us of the intended effects of a capitalist society, something that he mocks unabashedly later in the film Weekend. The quite citizen is what they want and their control has become so great that Godard himself has to whisper his thoughts to the audience, because what he is saying is creating new consciousness, new beginnings, essentially; destroying the old.

Modernization: Creating New Consciousness

2 or 3 Things is littered with shots of a growing “Paris Region,” as it is referred to in the film. Transition scenes are cut with shots of cranes and trucks at constructions sites, over which Godard’s narration is heard, attempting to draw connections between Juliette and the city’s modernization.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Brecht’s alienation technique and Marx’s theory of alienated labor are similar in what they express. They both speak to the disconnection between product and production. With Brecht, we are shown the idea or meaning behind the dialogue separating the audience from the play or film; with Marx, we are shown the consequences of capitalism as workers becomes disconnected with the objects he’s producing. Marx explains, “The externalization of the worker in his product means not only that his work becomes an object, an external existence, but also that it exists outside him independently, alien, an autonomous power, opposed to him. The life he has give to the object confronts him as hostile and alien.”[1]

Juliette is a character who’s aware of this disconnection, but seems incapable of doing anything about it. In one of the last scenes, she asks her husband, Robert, about their evening plans:

Robert: We’ll sleep… What’s the matter with you?

Juliette: And after that?

Robert: We’ll wake up.

Juliette: And after that?

Robert: The same. All over again. We’ll work. We’ll eat.

Juliette: And after that?

Robert: I don’t know. We’ll die.

Juliette: And after that?

Godard is making the point clear and how this can be related to a factory worker, of this disconnection from what we are doing. Juliette is aware of the monotony, but Robert is not. He’s confused as to why she would ask him these questions in the first place. Juliette later states, “I’ve changed and yet I’ve gone back to being myself, so what does that mean?” Whether or not this means that she’s done commodifying herself to her husband and other men is unclear, but the statement is posed to the audience. Will you make the change? Or have you not even realized the situation you are in?

[1] From Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844

Image as Language

“Language alone cannot accurately define an image,” Godard proclaims. But it’s also clear that both are being pushed together in our society. As Godard adds, “Words and images intermingle constantly. You can almost say that living in today’s world is rather like living in the middle of a big comic strip.” Godard continues to examine the scenes and questions if they’re being described effectively and accurately with images.

Godard wants to show the audience that a new language has to be created, that our language has a set of limitations. Even in 2 or 3 Things I Know About Her, we must be wary of words, particularly so when they come from Juliette (“Words never say what I’m really saying”). In one scene Juliette is getting her nails and hair done, and she’s being asked questions by the woman doing her nails, but before Juliette answer the questions she makes a comment for the audience (that the woman doesn’t hear) and then answers the question. At one point when she’s asked about her kids she says, “Words never say what I’m really saying.” And answers the woman by saying their fine, but very naughty, you know.” Godard continues this expression of what we say can’t always capture what we mean, that (as it is said in Le Petit Soldat) the only truth is photography.

By the end, as the title perhaps alludes to, the film feels intentionally incomplete. You can’t whittle down a woman to two or three things, because more is required to complete the picture. Godard isolates information and asks that we use it to better understand the picture and, more importantly, to change it. For the people of Paris to change the bad things that were happening they had to understand modernization, what its effect is on the people, economically and psychologically and by examining two or three things is a great way to get started.

2 Or 3 Things I Know About Her is playing at the Film Forum until February 24^th.

Nicolas Roeg: An Auteur’s Visual Journey (TFR Article)

by Meseret Haddis

In examining Nicolas Roeg’s early films, it’s not surprising that the filmmaker officially broke into his career as a camera operator and cinematographer. There’s something extremely distinct in his films, especially the first two, Performance and Walkabout, wherein he functioned both as director and cinematographer. An arresting visual style, matched with simple performances and montage editing, helped to create a fevered, dream-like experience of images and sound.

Sound vs. Images

At many points in Roeg’s early films, there seems to be a conflicting motive between what we are seeing and what we are hearing. A great example of this type of juxtaposition is in Walkabout, where two children are stranded in the Australian Outback after their father kills himself, forced to find civilization under the guidance of an aborigine boy doing his walkabout (a journey of survival and an initiation into manhood). As the opening credits begin, we hear the scrambled noises that fall in between radio stations; the children later use the radio as a means of comfort. Treading along in this new environment and trying to survive in a desolate land, they cling to the one artifact that reminds them of their home.

After the credits end, a red brick wall fills the screen. The camera slowly tracks rightward as music from the aborigine instrument, the didgeridoo, is heard. Behind the brick wall, we see a cityscape of Sydney. As the shots of the city and people compile together, there are shorter, rightward tracking shots of the same brick wall, although the Australian Outback is now revealed in place of the city. The viewer transitions from one jungle to the next.

In the film Performance, Chaz – a thug on the getaway for disregarding his boss’ orders - hides in a retired musicians’ commune until he leave the country. Music is an important element in the film. In fact, here’s where the struggle between image and sound becomes clear: one must dominate the other. This relationship mirrors the conflict between the two main characters (Chaz and Turner), wherein one has to dominate the other. Mr. Turner’s struggle is an internal one, represented by the sound of the Moog synthesizer, while Chaz’s is a struggle of getting out of the country.

The Sun and the Lens Flare

While lens flare was once considered a clichéd indicator of amateur cinematography, Roeg uses it as an effective cinematic device. In Don’t Look Now, for instance - a story about a couple’s life after the death of their daughter – the wife, Laura, meets a blind psychic who views her daughter. At one point, the psychic warns Laura that her husband is in danger. Her husband, John, who is renovating a church, receives some mosaic pieces from the bishop and wants to compare them to the original. But as he steps onto the ladder, the camera is pointed directly at a floodlight. As he climbs past the camera, the lens flared, melded with an image of the psychic and giving an ominous premonition to John’s fate.

In Walkabout, the sun is constantly shown alongside the vast landscape of the Outback. It’s not odd that the sun’s appearance throughout the film mirrors the daunting feeling that the two children are experiencing while traveling in the wasteland. The constant barrage of heat also contributes to the mindset of these characters, becoming increasingly primal as the films progresses. After the children meet the aborigine boy, a montage of images of the sun leaves the viewer a little dry-mouthed and warm.

Blending and the Illusion of Continuity

Dissolves were a technique used during the early days of cinema that lead viewers from one image to another without losing the audience’s train of thought. The logic, thus, was to ease the viewers into scenes without startling them by a cut. However, if executed properly, viewers can certainly follow a story that is cut and mangled. On example is in Bad Timing, where a young woman and a doctor have a relationship that goes terribly wrong. The film opens with the young woman is in the hospital, and we watch as a doctor dances around the questions posed by the police. During this sequence, the doctor remembers aspects of his relationship with the young woman; a fight, a look, them having sex, etc. By the end of the film, we can piece together what happened to this young woman; although it feels disjointed and erratic, it’s actually quite logical. Roeg pointed out that the film is constructed according to the shape of human memory and, thus, doesn’t develop as one complete story but, rather, in pieces.

Order is something that Roeg likes to play with frequently, especially the flash-forward. In Performance, Mr. Turner is shown early in the film, long before he’s introduced. We don’t hear any dialogue, nor do we encounter any other significant information about him. But a connection is being created here between Turned and Chaz. Roeg uses the flash-forward in a way to temporarily disrupt continuity, or to give the illusion that things are out of sync when, in actuality, they aren’t.

There’s a particular scene in Don’t Look Now where John and Luara are having sex, but while they having sex the continuity is intercut with them dressing right after and it goes from them having sex to each of them dressing and back and forth until both acts are completed. Here, the illusion of time is suspended between the couple having sex and then re-dressing, but the cutting blends together the time of the couple having sex and of them dressing into one time frame, comparing the routine of their having sex with getting dressed.

There’s a definite arc to Roeg’s early films - from a visual director who captured counter-culture and beatniks in Performance, to a director who blended images and content to convey story and emotion in Walkabout, and to a complete dismantling of how continuity works in relation to what we are seeing. Roeg’s early work is a testament to a strong visual story and the progression of someone who wants to astound the audience by making them not want to look away from what they are seeing.

Samuel Fuller: 3 Films, 1 Sound (TFR Article)

By Meseret Haddis

I recently watched Samuel Fuller’s first three films, I Shot Jesse James, The Baron of Arizona and The Steel Helmet. Like Rossellini and Hitchcock, Fuller’s early films show a director in control of the frame, with a remarkable vision capable of capturing an audience through images. However, it was Fuller’s control of sound and music that I responded the strongest to.

A great example would be from The Baron of Arizona. In the film, James Reavis (Vincent Price) is on a mission to make an orphan girl, Sophia (Ellen Drew), the inheritor of Arizona. His quest takes him to a monastery in Spain where he has to forge the land rights that the King of Spain gave to the fictitious Baron of Arizona in an ancient book guarded by the monks of the monastery. James has spent years in the monastery until he is finally able to gain access into the library, where he can forge the claim. But before he is able to do that, another monk informs James that there is another copy of the King’s land rights at an official’s house in Madrid. By itself, the information doesn’t seem that devastating, but Fuller is able to build the importance and gravity of the James’s reaction with sound. At that moment of realization, James’ look is accompanied by a crash of noise that devolves into music.

Fuller through these three films is able to marry sound and image to create profound moments of sympathy, realization and anger. In I Shot Jesse James, music and sound are used to underscore a certain mood. The first time we see Bob Ford’s chance to kill Jesse is underscored with a spark of music. Here, the camera assumes Bob’ point of view, looking at the back of Jesse, suggesting his vulnerability as a character. But it isn’t until the sudden appearance of music that we fully realize the threat to Jesse’s life. The shot’s composition and angle alone couldn’t have conveyed this feeling; the music assists us.

The Steel Helmet provides another example. The film concerns Sgt. Zack (Gene Evans), a soldier fighting in the Korean War and the sole survivor of his company. In the first sequence, we see Sgt. Zack with his arms tied behind his back, crawling through the grass with the dead bodies of his company strewn about. The music coveys the physical struggle Zack is going through, contributing to a sense of anxiety within the audience. As he continues to struggle, we see a low angle shot of a gun pointed to the ground. Zack stops struggling and plays dead until caught by a Korean soldier. As the shots cut together between the soldier and Zack, the music and tension build. Similarly, when Zach is finally unbound, our anxiety lessens alongside the music.

In these three films, sound and image are often used in a way to build tension only to a point, so that only silence can alleviate or elevate a conflict. Take this clip from I Shot Jesse James, where a singer joins Bob Ford inside a bar and eventually plays a popular tune (which turns out to be a song about Jesse James). At a certain point, the singer remarks that Robert Ford is a dirty little coward, although Ford forces him to finish the song. At this point, Bob is grappling with what he has done to his friend, Jesse. Fuller adds no music to soften the blow of the look or the mood in the bar.

Fuller’s control of sound shows how effective it can be to convey a certain look or feeling with a soft tune or a loud noise. In these three films, Fuller understands the implication of what certain music or sounds have when married or juxtaposed to an image. He places such an importance on the music and sound in the beginning of these films that you can’t help but pay attention and notice when the sound is saying something that the images can’t express. Fuller understands that emotions can be told through looks, but that a look can have such a greater impact, if it’s accompanied by the right sound.

Sincerely, Not Surprised (TFR Article)

To The Academy,

The very fact that I am writing to you forgoes the fact that I don’t believe in you. By putting the delusional perception that you exist within an objective, artistic world aside, I want to talk to you about, well, you. I was not surprised by your nominations this year. Deep down in the crevasses of your psyche, I’m sure that you hoped to shake-up the business a little with a few glaring omissions and well, who cares about them anyways, right?

This, I’m only assuming, is how you went about your nominations:

Academy Member 1: “I’ve been seeing a lot of ads for ________ lately.”

Academy Member 2: “I know. It’s been making a lot of money, too.”

Academy Member 1: “Yeah. We don’t want to have any trouble with the industry by not forgetting to nominate ________.”

Academy Member 2: (Rubbing his beard) “Well let’s call ________ and see what he thinks.”

Academy Member 3: (On the phone) “I just got done having lunch with the producer of _______ and he thinks a nomination will do even more to bolster box office numbers.”

Academy Member 1: “Well I guess we can’t escape it now. Let’s give _______ a best picture nomination.”

(10 minutes later)

Academy Member 2: “Well that’s all the nominations.”

Academy Member 1: “Are we forgetting something?”

Academy Member 2: “If we did, it must not have been a very memorable film.”

Academy Member 1: “It’s a good thing we got ________ a nomination this year. Last year his film ________ was such a piece of shit.”

Academy Member 2: “That was his film? How did I miss that?”

Academy Member 1: “It was released earlier in the year.”

Academy Member 2: “That makes sense. I don’t really watch films before November. I mean, do you know how many films come out in a year?”

Academy Member 1: “A lot, I know. I’m just glad they release all the good ones near the time when we have to vote, so it makes it easier to do our jobs.”

Academy Member 2: “Yeah, you can knock out a few nominees in an afternoon.”

Academy Member 1: “So do you want to go get a bite to eat?”

Academy Member 2: “Sorry, I can’t. I got to meet _______ over at ________ so he can give me a lot of money for his nomination.”

Academy Member 1: “Good luck with that.”

Now I’m sure I’m not doing justice to the Academy by playing out this scene. Clearly, not all of the Academy Members are this nice and sincere.

What boggles my mind about your organization is this idea that you exist independent of the industry, picking films that truly represent our time and advancements in the art of film. But you know, and I know, that that is a load of bull. Slumdog Millionaire nominated for best picture? What are you, the Hollywood Foreign Press?

I’m a filmmaker for the people and I’m not in it for the awards or for the money. Down the line, if I ever were to make a film that garners the attention of the Academy for Best Direction or Best Picture, I would stop making films. Because that kind of praise isn’t worth sacrificing your artistic soul.

For me, to list a number of films and artists that you forgot to include in your nominations seems arbitrary because I don’t need a list of films to show proof of my convictions. To be honest, I haven’t seen any of the films that have been nominated, because, frankly, modern cinema is dead.

Sincerely,

Don’t Care About the Oscars

It’s a Comic Book, Not a Film. (TFR Article)

By Meseret Haddis

Jean-Luc Godard’s Made in U.S.A. is hard to describe. Anna Karina plays Paula Nelson, a proto-type of noir-film detectives, who often narrates the film as she processes her thoughts. She’s a journalist who has come to Atlantic City (Paris) in search of her lover, Richard, whom she discovers is dead. The film follows her, following leads, questioning suspects, all to get down to the truth of Richard’s death.

It’s not surprising that when I watched this film I was reading as much as I was listening, which was something that started to happen when I began watching Godard’s post Pierrot Le Fou films. Made in U.S.A. and Pierrot Le Fou, both use the images of comic book characters and cartoons juxtaposed to images that were filmed. Masculin féminin, released in 1966, also splits narrative into boxes (or vignettes), mimicking the method of comic book storytelling. A comic book, much like these three Godard films, can have juxtaposed ideas, images, and dialogue; characters hare panel frames and, subsequently, thoughts.

What Godard does in Made in U.S.A., is transform each scene into a kind of panel. An example would Paula’s attempt to follow a lead into a doctor’s office), turning her head in paranoia while a nearby female doctor puts on her coat (pictured above). Later on, these two characters are introduced; Paula points a gun at her, and leads her into an examining room. When another gun-toting doctor enters, Paul turns her head again, mimicking the same motion she made a few seconds earlier. Through the flash-forward (something effectively used in comic books), we watch the sequence play-out in the context of the situation. This repetition of movements or sequences seems arbitrary at first but, when viewed in context, they fit together.

Made in U.S.A.’s visual style also creates parallels to comic books. A color palate of red, white and blue litters the background of many scenes, which all take place in Atlantic City, France (fictional, of course, but so is Gotham City). The Technicolor pops like the color in a new comic book pops, with an abrasive punch. Godard’s words don’t fail in their punch, either, as he takes the panel frames of how comic books are structured and uses that fragmentation to structure the film’s story.

The way the film’s narrative is atomized into pieces and fragments adds to the characters relationship to time the same way comic book characters relate to time. Super heroes are generally a certain age, perpetually defeating villains and saving the day. Made in U.S.A. mirrors that feeling. Paula tells a barman that she’s 22. He replies, “22 years from now, you’ll be double that,” to which Paula adds, “Yes, I’ll be 26.” Time has no effect on Paula, who is trying to discover the cause of Richard’s death. Time seems to stand still, with dates being mentioned, but again, without the context, they’re just words.

At the bar, Paula talks with a man named Thomas about sentences. Thomas believes that sentences are meaningless (”The dictionary says so”). Paula explains that words put together make sentences, “Which makes perfect sense”. Thomas replies, “I disagree. Sentences can’t both be meaningless and make sense.” Soon after, the barman interjects: “If you won’t make sentences, I can’t understand or serve you.” In reaction, Thomas conjures a few nonsensical sentences (”The glass isn’t in my wine,” “The barman is in the pen’s jacket pocket,” etc).

Godard’s film is a sentence with missing words, yet those missing words are essential to understanding the sentence/film. Each given word, like a frame in a comic book, is an important contributor to your understanding of the film. Sometimes the most memorable panels and frames in a comic book are at the beginning or end, but they are only memorable because of the frames between them. Which means essentially, that you need words to make a sentence, not the other way around.

Made in U.S.A. is now playing at the Film Forum until January 22.

The Realism of Wrestling (TFR Article)

By Meseret Haddis

Director Darren Aronofsky described The Wrestler as a back-to-basics film and, within the first few seconds that Mickey Rourke appears on-screen, this becomes immediately apparent. Randy “The Ram” Robinson is sitting in a chair with his head down; the camera sits low to the ground and at a distance, showing Randy in his costume as he sits in an elementary classroom. It’s just you and him. No music playing, no dramatic lighting.

The film follows Randy as he tries to restore his wrestling career. His chance to get on top again comes out of a rematch with an old wrestling rival. Randy prepares for the match by juicing up and getting stronger, but the mix of his age and steroids gives him a heart attack after a match that sidelines him. Randy then tries to repair his relationship with his daughter, whom he left when she was a child.

With its grainy picture that looks like it was shot on the family home camera, we quickly feel a sense of intimacy with Randy. The film works like a documentary and is without a definable visual style, relying solely on its performances.

I don’t think this film could have been as effective otherwise. Tracking shots, crane shots - all the visual aides that have become natural and almost unnoticeable in films – would have proven too distracting here. When Randy first examines the scar on his chest left by a bypass surgery, the camera zooms-in to grab a closer look. This image struck me: I felt as though I was watching was a documentary (of course, I knew it wasn’t, but that zoom was something instinctual, foreign even). It could have been just a simple close-up shot, through a cut, but that zoom reveals a subjective eye, something you notice in documentaries.

That eye has moments of subjectivity in a film that’s fairly objective throughout, as we follow Randy through his troubles. After Randy retires, he is working at a grocery store on his new shift at the deli counter. He puts on his hair net, walks to his “ring” at the back of the store and, soon, we begin to hear the cheer of the crowd. As he moves closer to the back of the deli counter, the cheers and roars become louder. Once he walks through the counter’s dividers, however, the roar stops. Of all the moments depicting Randy outside of the ring, it’s one of the most endearing. Randy’s persona feeds off of others and it’s clear that he doesn’t like to be alone. His contemplative moments are awkward and sometimes lead to destructive consequences (his heart attack, his last fight with his daughter, etc.).

The Wrestler is a beautiful photographic look at an American protagonist, someone who’s broken, beaten, old and weary, but continues to fight on for the love of the people. Randy is self destructive, something that is a product of years of physical abuse in the ring and emotional abuse outside of it. The realism of the sport of wrestling is that these are actual people who go home afterwards, who work and raise families. Randy’s struggle is that he’s never felt comfortable outside of the ring and why, when he tries to fit in with the world, he can’t stand it. He can’t stand the silence, the banality, and the heartbreak. He’d much rather live, flying between the ropes until he dies.

Che: A Viewer’s Guide (TFR Article)

By Meseret Haddis

I saw Che back in December during its road show circuit here in New York. These are some of my thoughts and impressions of the film, which are marked in italics.

The Argentine

For those going to see Che, now being screened at the IFC Center, it’s good to know a few things beforehand. At this point, it’s hard to not have an opinion about Che Guevera. For those who believe that he’s a symbol and a revolutionary, The Argentine is a film you want to see.

It’s tough to analyze something that’s such a symbol for the revolution. As far as objectively looking at Guevara goes, Soderbergh holds him up to an ideal that confirms most people’s preconceptions of the man.

Soderbergh remarked in a recent interview that it would be interesting to gauge people’s reactions to the film if they saw each film on a different weekend. Seeing the film back to back gives each film context, but it also doesn’t give the viewer breathing room. What’s interesting about the style of The Argentine is that it’s disjointed, often showing three different periods in Che’s life. This back and forth is accentuated by the visual style of each section.

The U.N. is shot in 16mm black and white while the Cuban revolution shot in Technicolor. The interplay between the visuals adds to the dynamic of the black and white images, which show a foreboding Che in the 60s after the revolution. In comparison, the color images represent the rich culture of the Cubans who want reformation.

Bencio Del Toro’s performance as Che is very likable; you are drawn to him, much like many Cuban’s were during the period. The disjointed feeling of the story adds to this likeability; when he’s speaking at the U.N. about the La Cabaña executions, it’s hard to look at the executions objectively because of what is being shown before and after it. He looks like a hero at the U.N., while boasting that the Cubans have executed and that they will keep on executing. In an odd way, Guevara appears more heroic at the beginning of the film than he does later on, in the mountains in Cuba.

Bencio Del Toro is playing Che as a sick and weak man, constantly coughing and holding his side and not being able to physically endure the struggles of fighting in the Sierra Maestra with his soldiers. His performance shows someone who’s moving forward because of will power.

To reiterate, the first part still holds Che as a revolutionary and it would be hard for someone to leave the film without a sense of this symbolic weight. Yes, the atrocities of La Cabaña are brought up, but they’re almost hidden, and you lose the context of those executions, which in a way diminish their importance. The disjointed structure is able to hide the bad within the intercutting of the events, but it also de-glamorizes what people think when it comes to the revolution and when it comes to Che .

In the second half, I don’t know what I’m going to expect - whether this symbol (Che) will be uplifted further (which may be difficult to do, since it seems like he could do no wrong at this point). If I weren’t already familiar with Guevara’s story, the first part of Soderbergh’s film would lead me to believe that this revolutionary leader could do no wrong. I don’t know if Soderbergh wanted the audience to think a certain way for the first half so that he could convince them of something else in the second half, but I think it will be interesting to see how he deals with Che’s representation for the Cuban revolution. There’s clearly a side that we’re suppose to take (and it’s Che’s side).

The Guerilla

Going into the second film, I was wondering if the symbol of Che would be maintained – (it’s clear that it won’t be maintained; slowly breaks down in the second film).

The first time we see Che, he’s bald, he’s older, and he looks like a different man. He’s in a disguise, but the duality of a figure like him having to impersonate a normal person in order to kick start a revolution in Bolivia, goes to what he believes as a bottom to top movement. Just because of the fame and success he is known for in Cuba, doesn’t make other revolutions any easier. In fact it proves harder for him, because he now has the US and Bolivian government focusing on eliminating him.

Probably the most signifying shot here is of Che lying in bed in a Bolivian hotel. He’s quietly reading the paper.

This comes off as very distinct change from the first film, where you can’t catch your breath in between switching time periods and locations. Here it’s just him, the symbol, bald and alone. His process in Bolivia begins similarly as it did in Cuba; recruit peasants and build support among the community, but what’s different now is that people are on to him. The Bolivian government is working for the United States, using propaganda to dissuade its people from assisting the rebel forces. Not only is the government against him, but many of the people he meets will also turn against him. This force of revolution, which pushed him through the mountains of Cuba to make his way to Havana, slowly loses its color to the point of destruction. Bad luck turns worse as his health deteriorates and becomes more of a problem as they trek through the mountains. The Guerilla does an exceptional job at debunking the idea that one man is capable of creating a revolution. Che wasn’t the reason the Cuban revolution succeeded - it was the people’s revolution, something that he tries to express in The Guerilla, but doesn’t translate like it did in Cuba.

The second film was narrative story. We went from disjointed pieces in the first film to a complete linear story that traverses the struggles of the Bolivia movement for 300 some days. I think the second film establishes the deconstruction of the symbol and the myth without glory. Che doesn’t die in glory and, in a way, it makes it personal, it demystifies Che and it shows that he’s just a person who was able to achieve these things. It’s not clear if that is a call for arms or not, although I don’t believe it is. I think it’s a great showing of how the myth of someone can not only be debunked but also destroyed. In the first film, he’s very affable and you want to be on his side, and in the second film you still are connected, but you know it’s not going well.

Once The Guerilla finished, Soderbergh came and took questions from the audience and it soon turned emotional. People were yelling out, “He was a murderer!” “He was a revolutionary!” and it was clear that the film brought produced strong emotions. Soderbergh ended up having to defend why he didn’t show the La Cabana executions, which were mentioned during Che’s U.N. speech. Everyone has an opinion of Che, and I believe that Soderbergh wanted us to look at him in a different light, regardless of these opinions. I think for those who want to keep him a symbol are heeded to watch the first film only, because you will be tested of that belief in the second film and it doesn’t end neatly justifying him as a symbol. But it’s good to have a sense of objectivity when viewing this film because, without it, you will be limiting yourself.

As Soderbergh adds in a recent interview:

“He is a murderer to them. He is irredeemable, and it’s hard. And sometimes you can have a reasonable conversation about it, and I can talk to them about context. And I can talk to them about balance and my reasons for showing the two periods that I show, and addressing the issues of the executions in the way we do. But some people literally can’t… I was having a discussion with this journalist in Europe, and he said, ‘I don’t know how you can make this film and not address the executions’… And I said, ‘It’s in the film. It’s in the UN. He says in a close-up, ‘We execute people. We’ve never denied it, and we’re going to keep executing people because this is a fight to the death’…

For people who don’t like Che, he is defined by the events at La Cabaña, and to me, the events at La Cabaña are consistent with what I read about him and what I heard about him.”

For people who know Che and his history, the film will be a great starting point for discussion of whether or not Soderbergh has a subjective aim or not. The film presents us with a history that goes beyond the T-shirt with that curious-looking, bearded man on the front.

Che opens January 9th at the IFC Center in New York City.

April 3, 1998 (Diary of Tim Scheft)

Read the introduction to the diary here.

April 3, 1998
Dear feeling's eater,

I don't know what to say anymore. I'm having the worst time with women. My mother won't stop with the baby talk. Just because my brother became sterile from excessive bull riding, doesn't give anyone the right to push for children. In all honesty I would love to give my mother a grandchild, but that isn't the problem. It's really the womens fault. What does a guy have to do to get noticed? Maybe I'll start boxing or something. (NOTE: call Clark about boxing trainer) It's just to tough for me to start anything new, let alone meet a nice girl.

Like today, for example, I was sitting in a subway car, on my way home from work and something caught my attention. After squinting, it became apparent that the shape was actually a woman. For some reason she was looking my way and was winking incessantly. I looked behind me to see if she was signaling someone in morse code, but there was just an add for safe sex "Don't wink unless you know the consequences." I looked back at her and pointed to myself and she nodded assuredly.

The subway car skidded to a stop and I exited the car only to notice the woman follow me out. I turned around and looked at her curiously.

"Can I help you?" I inquired.

"Who me?" she said in a playful manner. "You could help me with a lot of things."

I blacked out for a few seconds as I suddenly realized, this is how many erotic videos and audio tapes start. I took a deep breath and examined her. She was wearing a business type light red blouse, with a black skirt and shiny heels.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what I can help you with." I stuttered.
"It's OK sweetie." she said as she took my hand.
I became like a child as we walked up the subway stairs to the street. Who was this woman taking my hand? The last time a woman took my hand I was spanked and put in time out.
It started to get dark out, but I felt safe with her. She saw my eyes light up when I looked at the cart selling snow cones and she stopped to buy me one.
"What kind do you want?" she asked.
"Blue." I responded. God I love blue flavored snow cones.
"That's my favorite to." she smiled as she said it. I almost fell to the ground, but thank god she caught me. We continued to walk, until we got to a hotel. She invited me to her room and I agreed on the condition that I could use the bathroom first. I hadn't gone since lunch.
Her room was nice, especially her bathroom. She said it was all done by a modern designer, Claubert. When I got out of the bathroom, I found her sitting on the bed, taking off her heels. I sat on a chair near the window, which I'm pretty sure was a desk, and took off my shoes, remembering what my mom says about shoes on the carpet "Patty Hearst wore shoes on the carpet and you know what happened to her."
We started to talk and she continued to undress. It became really awkward and at one point she was just in her pantyhose and hair clip. She just lunged at me in the chair and we had sex. It was amazing. I'm pretty sure I satisfied her, because when I asked her if I did, she said, "I'm pretty sure." We laid there, on the chair, her naked and me in just my overcoat, just taking in the modern decor. I wondered if Claubert had made love in his room and if he knew his chair/desk was the perfect place for two people to have sex and then organize their files. He probably did.
She got up and started dressing again. I asked her why she had sex with me.
"Because, I wanted to." she replied calmly.
I was happy and excited, since I thought we'd pretty much spend the rest of our lives together. I asked her what her name was. "What ever you want it to be, darling" she said.
I thought to myself, "Wow, she really is a catch. She just wants to please me."
I walked up to her and tried to kiss her, but she suddenly got cold. She asked what I was doing, and I said I was trying to kiss her. She said she didn't do that and was wondering when she was going to get paid.
That's when I realized she was a prostitute. Apparently my mother found her on a site, where she was listed as a "friendly companion who's willing to go all the way". When I later told my mother about it, she said she thought it meant to go all the way to the alter and that's what she told her. Lola, as I later found out her name, did give me the Tuesday special which was sex in a Claubert designed room (or "The Alter" as they called it).
I was a little paranoid when I finally got home. Partly because I didn't have the $400 on me that she required for her services and because their was a knife stuck in my front door with a note attached that said "$400 or your nuts. You decide."
I guess I'll have to go to the bank tomorrow. Ah women.

The Diary of Tim Scheft

Introduction to "The Diary of Tim Scheft" by Meseret Haddis:

How many of you keep a diary? Captain's Log? Journal? Memoir? I personally don't keep a diary, because the thought of reliving my day on paper is nauseating. But I have found it a common occurrence of people finding writings or things of the sort, in the trash, or in coffins and then posting them on the internet, or showing them to their friends. It's a odd thing finding something that wasn't meant for your eyes or wasn't of very much value to the original person. It's less illegal than voyeurism, but still as thrilling.

This here is the diary of Tim Scheft. Let me tell you the story of how I happened upon the diary. One day, I was walking on Mercer street, in lower Manhattan, admiring the noises of an Armenian man yelling at Dutch tourists for not understanding that they aren't the only people walking the sidewalk. Walking along the street, I saw a small little grassy area, which is amazing to find in Manhattan. For people who move to a city that has so much concrete per square mile than almost any other city, they sure love there small grassy patches. Lying in them, reading Kafka, silently judging people as they walk by. 

Walking by I noticed a park bench, but what was under it really grabbed my attention. From my distance I couldn't asses the hand sized item. Being a citizen of America and especially a citizen of New York, I adhered to the common practices of civilized humans. Before approaching said item, I called the police and the bomb squad to be safe. I saw something, now I must say something about it. After they cornered off three blocks, putting traffic into a deadlock, they decreed the suspicious item not harmful. After a steep fine the started to pack up there things. Apparently it's a new policy, where if the police are tipped, and the bomb squad finds nothing dangerous, the person that tips the police off is actually fined for the inconvenience. So I proceeded to pick up the item, which was this diary of Tim Scheft. I began reading his diary, partly because I couldn't find him (he wasn't listed) and I had recently burned all my books. Little piece of advice: Don't sign up for a book burning, without contacting your attorney first.

Tisch Film Review: January

Articles on the Tisch Film Review for the month of January '09.

A Battle of Objectivity 

My Favorite Films of 2008

Che: A Viewer’s Guide

The Realism of Wrestling

It’s a Comic Book, Not a Film.

Sincerely, Not Surprised

Samuel Fuller: 3 Films, 1 Sound

My 5 Favorite Films of 2008 (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

By Meseret Haddis

Of the nearly 120 films I watched in 2008, these are my five favorites:

Umberto D. (1952) Vittorio De Sica

In 2008, I watched many Italian films, most belonging to the Neorealist era. For me, Italian Neorealism starts and ends with De Sica. Bicycle Thieves (1948) was the first De Sica film I saw and, as with almost everyone else who experiences it for the first time, I was floored and moved. However, the pinnacle De Sica film for me was Umberto D. The heartbreaking tale of an elderly man who has nothing to live for but his dog encapsulates everything I feel toward Neorealist cinema. A stripped-down visual style couples with the struggles of post-war Italy. Andre Bazin writes that everything screenwriter Caesar Zavattini and De Sica tried to achieve in Bicycle Thieves was realized in Umberto D. and I couldn’t agree more.

Une femme est une femme (1961) Jean-Luc Godard

It’s no mystery that I like Godard. I enjoy both his pre and post 60’s films because each has something to offer. While watching Godard’s post-60’s work, you can’t have the same attitude you had when you watched his earlier films. The best example of pre 60’s Godard, however, is Une femme est une femme (A Woman is a Woman). It’s a light, carefree, and a funny film, but not without its New Wave roots. It mirrors a lot of Godard’s attitude toward film that his fellow New Wave counterparts saw in him, which was a good hearted prankster and not as a morose character that people identify with his later films. It is difficult to not mention Brecht when discussing Godard’s, but this film shows Brechtian acting at its best (with dialogue such as, “The line between reality and musical comedy is absurdly blurred” and, “Before we act out this farce we must bow to the audience”). It’s one of his most fun and energetic Technicolor projects – and, let’s face in, one’s better than Anna Karina.

Les enfants terribles (1950) Jean Cocteau/Jean-Pierre Melville

Les enfants terribles (The Strange Ones), based on Cocteau’s novel, is credited as having been directed by Melville, but because Cocteau was constantly on set - making changes and guiding the actors - the film more appropriately belongs to Cocteau. The visual style falls between French New Wave and surrealism, using an objective voice with narration much like many New Wave films that simply describe the action or emotion of a character or a subjective dream world that borders on reality. While Melville’s other films (Bob Le Flambour, Le Samourai, Army of Shadows) are much more straightforward, stylistically, The Strange Ones stands apart from the rest. The tension between the film’s on-screen adolescent siblings mirrors the tension of Cocteau and Melville behind the camera. Both sides wanted control over the other, and - as in any fight - there is only one winner. In this case it was Cocteau, but Melville’s influence can still be felt. Because of the influence of the two directors, however, the film remains timeless.

Zazie dans Le Metro (1960) Louis Malle

I have yet to see a more visually ambitious comedy than Zazie dans le Metro. The film is an inventive farce, which is best matched with its absurd style. Most of the Malle films I’ve seen feature clean, simple compositions (as exemplified in his documentaries) but, in this film, it’s as if he wanted to re-write the camera trick book. Zazie dans le Metro is more similar to a cartoon than a live action film - if you think that’s impossible, take a look for yourself.

Synecdoche, New York (2008) Charlie Kaufman

Kaufman’s film is ambitious; by putting us so strongly in its story, the film makes us question its motives. This isn’t common in today’s cinema. Each shot, each line of dialogue can be used to help us understand Kaufman’s complete message – however, each little revelation is also small enough that it doesn’t initially contribute to our full understanding of the film. Synecdoche, New York is rich with material, references, emotions and dialogue but, dramatically, it is fairly simple. Despite the fragmentation, you could have called this film Umberto D., as it is similarly concerned with the banality of life and the search for something meaningful. Kaufman’s writing style is abrasive (compared to his previous scripts), and it’s good to see an artist break away from his own conventions to explore areas that are less comfortable and manageable for the audience. Mel Brooks said that all writers eventually want to direct because they’re going to want to protect what they’ve written. In his first directorial effort, Kaufman achieves what many filmmakers accomplish only later on in their careers: he encourages the audience to think.

Honorable Mentions:

Crisis (Ingmar Bergman)

The Flowers of St. Francis (Roberto Rossellini)

Diary of a Country Preist (Robert Bresson)

Monkey Business (Norman McLeod)

The Kid (Charlie Chaplin)

The Elephant Man (David Lynch)

The Lodger (Alfred Hitchcock)

Three on a Match (Mervyn Leroy)

Che (Steven Soderbergh)

Punch Drunk Love (Paul Thomas Anderson)

A Battle of Objectivity (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

By Meseret Haddis

As I do with most stage to screen adaptations, I had my doubts about John Patrick Shanely’s film Doubt, which he adapted and directed from his Pulitzer Prize winning play.

Cinematographer Roger Deakins’s visual style reminds me of Vittorio Storaro’s work on The Conformist, where the camera provides an almost internal look into the characters through Dutch angles, ominous establishing shots and slow dolly sequences that put extraordinary importance in a movement. Despite its stylistic similarities to The Conformist’s clean visual style, it’s hardly as fancy. Here, the film’s reliance on its performances keeps the visuals in the realm of staged theatre. The performances shift from the mannered to the melodramatic, leaving you with mixed reactions for both the authentic and the melodramatic performances.

The first scene immediately establishes the film’s dynamic. Father Flynn (Philip Seymour Hoffman) begins speaking about his sermon topic: doubt. While reciting the sermon, he stands before us (the audience in the church and in the theater), establishing a hierarchy in the film and in the setting. Sister James (Amy Adams) is sitting in the pews, near the front of the church, listening. Ensconced with her parishioners, Sister James is provided with facts, and she uses them to guide her understanding. Sister Aloysius (Meryl Streep) is shrouded when we first see her; strolling the pews, smacking talking children in the back of the head, scolding others who are nodding off, she represents a dynamic counterpoint to Sister James and Father Flynn. She represents the authority of everything on that level (the school and the children), while Father Flynn represents an authority over them (with God and the children’s parents). Even before any confrontation, a conflict with control already exits.

The performances born from this dynamic are predictable. We find Sister Aloysius put in contradicting light towards the beginning of the film, giving us contention with our perception of her. We don’t like her cold demeanor, but can’t help but be touched when she prevents an older, partially blind nun from being expelled from the convent. This sense of empathy quickly deteriorates once the ball is rolling in the quest against Father Flynn. There’s even a point when (after the first acquisition about Father Flynn’s inappropriate behavior with an alter boy, Donald, has been made) Father Flynn asks Sister Aloysius if the elderly nun who hurt herself was losing her sight. Sister Aloysius denies it without hesitation but, at that point, her compassion is almost secondary and a little alien to the moment.

Surprisingly, this feels like a very non-directorial film, meaning the performances seemed very much in the realm of the actor’s ability and what was presented didn’t surprise me when it came to these actors. When you have a cast this spectacular, you know what you are getting, but there are moments in this film that feel like a performance. When Streep explodes at Hoffman in their second, secluded, confrontation I expected all of their loud yelling and sharp movements, but it felt alien and out of place and particularly like a performance.

Throughout Doubt, the camera becomes a God-like figure that watches and influences what it sees. When Mrs. Miller (Donald’s mother) leaves Sister Aloysius on her way to work, after Sister Aloysius tries to recruit her to fight against Father Flynn, the camera is angled right above Streep, looking down, much like the hand of God pointing down on the gossiper in Father Flynn’s sermon. The sermon is about a woman who confesses to a priest that she had a dream where she saw the hand of god pointing down on her after she had been gossiping. The priest tells her to leave and to take a pillow and bring it to the roof of her house, cut it open and come back. When the woman had done this, the priest says that she must now go and gather back all of the feathers from the pillow. The woman remarks, but I don’t know where they all are and the priest says that’s what a gossip is, and after it’s out it can’t be recalled. This image immediately cuts to a level shot, as a gust of wind violently blows the leaves like the feathers of a gossiper in the Father’s story, spreading out so much that it marks the point of no return for Sister Aloysius. It’s no surprise that the next scene is the biggest confrontation of the film.

The camera’s objectivity is something beyond theater that can’t be expressed in any way but through the camera. It’s impossible to show the importance of a background character checking the time on his watch in a play, unless the character does it calling attention to the audience or it’s blatantly stating that he’s doing so. In a film a quick shot of a character checking their watch can’t be missed by the audience. It’s a form of subtlety that easier in film. When you have a play, it’s two-dimensional, meaning we are only able to see the characters and the setting from one angle (from our chairs in the audience). We can’t see them from behind or from below or above like you can in a film. Angle can influence how we view a character, or place importance in an object or location; it’s essentially unspoken dialogue. In Doubt, that simple over the head shot expresses something that words can only complicate

The Dawn of a New Era: Part Three (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

Part Three: Sustaining the New Era

By Meseret Haddis

In this three-part examination, I will look at cinema as an industry and as an art form. In Part One, I examined the dying industry; in Part Two, I examined the rebirth of the industry and, in Part Three, I will examine how to sustain it.

Everyone’s a critic

One of the most important elements for sustaining an artistic medium is criticism. This can mean both professional and amateur critics. The general population of filmgoers are amateur critics. You might think: “I’m not blogging my opinions or giving speeches about them, so how can I be a critic?” Making the choice to see a film makes you a critic. Once you spend those twelve dollars on a ticket, you have just made a critical choice.

When The Dark Knight swallowed hordes of money at the box office this summer, most viewers said, “We like this film. We like action, we like drama, we like suspense and I think you would like it, too.” A critic’s job, when deconstructed and simplified, is to get people to see a movie. Bad reviews are often defended because they protect the audience member from wasting their money - but who asked them?

One argument says that critics should use their power to showcase great films that aren’t getting attention; the other argument questions whether or not these same critics should be trusted at all. Let’s look at it this way: If you are a critic for an entertainment publication or company (i.e. E! or Rolling Stone) that depends on selling papers or getting website hits, don’t you think you would feel pressured to hand out positive reviews? The other alternative is to be an independent critic and, well, if no one reads your reviews, then you might as well keep them to yourself. It’s a tricky position to be in, as we need independent critics who can cut through the complacency of the mainstream critical establishment.

The Internet’s ability to give weight to a variety of smaller voices has benefited independent criticism (just like the idea that digital cameras could save independent cinema by giving more people an opportunity to create films). However, quantity does not always mean quality. It does, however, give opportunities to those who hadn’t previously been given a voice.

Critics are as powerful as the art form. When art forms suffer, so do their critics. Not in their talent but, rather, in their potential to influence audiences. When an art form thrives, everyone’s a critic.

Two Audiences

I’m not someone who believes that there are two audiences: audiences that are passionate about the art form and those that are merely casual participants. When something transcendent happens in an art form, it will affect both audiences. This is proof that the distinctions between the two audiences are arbitrary. What we have is a collective audience that everyone - artists, critics, fanatics and casual fans - share and experience together. Thus, distinctions between audiences are arbitrary, because we all experience the human condition. Yes, we might live in different places, know different people, like different things, but that doesn’t change the fact that we get sad, or happy, or angry, or depressed. It’s not surprising why successful films are so successful. They capture something that isn’t defined by the physical or regional, but by the whole, which we all experience. It’s like string theory. It’s an idea that forms the fabric of all our lives, something that we know is there, but can’t grasp or manipulate.

What has happened, with the audience, is a conscious split between them. This again goes back to artistic and economic cinema. A film that caters exclusively to one of those audiences has a much better chance at being successful (financially) than trying to please everyone. Independent films, for example, have limited releases, because that’s the best way to effectively spend limited resources while getting a profit. People who appreciate independent cinema are not necessarily fans of commercial, popcorn films; however, when a film is great, these distinctions collapse. The only catch is to make great films.

How do you make great films?

To call a film great is subjective, of course, but what can do is measure great films by their reception (financially and critically). Case in point: Hollywood’s Golden Age. The rate at which films were made during this period was enormous, producing terrific work. Of course, with every great Golden Age film, there were about fifty mediocre releases on the side. The good releases, however, were most certainly good: romantic comedies (The Philadelphia Story), crime dramas (The Big Sleep), war films (Only Angels Have Wings), westerns (Stagecoach), and so on.

Besides the obvious rate of production, another difference between films being made during this period and those being made now is the quality of collaboration. Howard Hawks worked with Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner on screenplays. Internationally, Jean Cocteau wrote dialogue for Robert Bresson’s Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne and, later, worked with Jean-Pierre Melville on Les Enfants Terribles. Dalí worked with Buñel, as did Pasolini with Fellini.

Great films around the world are able to speak to both audiences; they examine something important. The great films of the past eighty years all share a passion about telling stories through images; 8 1/2, Citizen Kane, The Godfather, Bicycle Thieves, Seven Samurai - all are films made by auteurs, by filmmakers who are telling stories with a unique eye and a particular worldview. Importantly, another common thread through all of these films is that they are inspirational. That is, they are influential for future filmmakers, they encourage them to want to make films.

Learning should be cheap…

Education, of course, is important for sustaining a growing community. Free education, however, should not mean bad education. One place of learning that has become exceedingly costly is the movie house. In New York City, for instance, I have yet to find a single dollar theater. Here, when asked why they don’t go to the movies, most people reply that the cost of admission is too expensive. Why do you think Netflix is such a successful company? It’s because it’s become less expensive to watch a film at home than at the theater. However, watching films in the cinema is still unsurpassed by any recent technology or alternative; films, after all, are made for the big, silver screen.

One way for cinemas to combat complete financial ruin is by showing older films inexpensively. Here in New York, we have a number of movie houses that feature extensive retrospectives of older films and filmmakers, but these venues still charge the same prices as other theaters.

In Conclusion…

To be at the cusp of artistic change is frightening for artists and for audiences alike. And I can assure you that we are nearing the cusp of such a change. Artists will take chances and audiences will grimace and complain, but there has to be an understanding. A change artistically can’t happen unless time warrants it. That’s one big issue I’ve had with Jean-Luc Godard and some of his later films; they weren’t about the audience anymore, it became about the revolution, the change, the method. Godard is someone I admire and think has altered modern cinema forever, but he moved too quickly for his audiences. You can call him boring, you can call him pretentious, but you can’t deny that the man takes chances and is willing to put it all on the screen. How many filmmakers (let alone artists in general) would you say do that same thing? He’s not a successful filmmaker because of these choices, but that’s the price you pay for trying to instill change in your audiences. Don’t get me wrong, one day Godard’s films will have a significant place in our culture, where casual audience members and students alike will look at them for artistic and cultural understanding, but for future filmmakers we can’t lose sight of that important thing we are making our films for: the audience. As filmmakers, it is your job to not lose sight of that. We have to understand, we have to study, we have to relate, we have to disagree with our audiences, but the moment we think we are above them, it’s over.

The Dawn of a New Era: Part Two (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

Part Two: A Time for Rebirth

By Meseret Haddis

In this three-part examination, I will look at the cinema as both an industry and as an art form. In Part One, I examined the dying industry; in Part Two, I will examine the industry’s rebirth; in Part Three, I will examine how to sustain it.

How will we know it’s dead?

When an art form suffers financially and artistically, the result is often death. Unlike a recession, this death is noticed after it occurs. But since an art form can’t be lost forever, it has the opportunity for rebirth. This rebirth is actually the first sign of death. Only when the change from death to rebirth happens will we be able to identify unproductive and stagnant periods. When François Truffaut’s A Certain Tendency of the French Cinema appeared in Cahiers du Cinéma, it was the beginning of a rebirth. Published in 1954, the piece describe what Truffaut identified as “Tradition of Quality” films, which featured uninspired scenarios of adapted novels (typical of commercial French cinema at the time) and a need to champion directors who were already proving that French cinema didn’t have to sell it’s soul to make a great film. He described filmmakers like Bresson and Renoir as early, exemplary figures of an artistic sensibility that Andre Bazin, Godard, and the other Cahiers critics were heralding as auteur cinema. “I do not believe in the peaceful co-existence of the ‘Tradition of Quality’ and auteur’s cinema,” Truffaut wrote. These critics and filmmakers saw the stagnation of uninspired films and decided to change it. Our goal shouldn’t be to wait for the cinema’s death, but to start the rebirth before the effects of its death can cripple us.

Rebirth or Revolution?

There are many similarities to an artistic rebirth and a political revolution. Sometimes an artistic rebirth and a political revolution happen simultaneously (i.e. French Revolution, American Civil War, etc). Art is one of the best ways to think about and acknowledge cultural problems without having to set off a bomb; the effect, however, can be just as catastrophic. Some fight wars with guns and some fight wars with words, paint, music, and images. Jean-Luc Godard’s “political” era, for instance, was an effort to bring about a revolution in France. Although one person cannot start a revolution alone, Godard provided the political ideas and circumstances symptomatic of revolutionary thinking. Brecht, like Godard, wanted to involve his audience intellectually. In Two American Audiences (a Pennebaker documentary about Godard at NYU in April 1968) Godard takes questions about his new film, La Chinoise, and is asked if he thinks Brecht is “someone who does philosophy by means of art and if that applied to him and the film.” Godard agreed with the student about Brecht, but said La Chinoise “was art by means of philosophy.” Both of these men changed the way we look at art in their respective fields. Both of these men also used politics and philosophy in their work to examine the culture of the time. Not all works of art have to be analytical or steeped in philosophical theory to be revolutionary, however. Plays like Arthur Miller’s The Crucible and Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage and Her Children were both period pieces that told stories with implications for the cultural and political climates within which they were preformed. In an indirect way, these were political works.

Re-education: From the bottom up.

Ernesto “Che” Guevara says, “You can’t start a revolution from the top down.” It can also be said that cinema can’t be reborn from the top down. Education is the most important part of any revolution and that’s precisely what a rebirth in cinema is: a revolution.

Let’s take a look at past cinematic revolutions. From silent films to the first talkies, early filmmakers created the bedrock of cinema. Whether it was Eisenstein’s montage, or Griffith’s close ups (or genres like Ford’s Westerns, or the Marx Brother’s farce comedies), cinema was being reborn over and over again, without ever dying. A post-World War II world brought about a sharp distinction in films. On the one hand were films imbued with abject realism (i.e. Italian Neorealism) and, on the other, were films that generated for the war effort (i.e. American war pictures). This was an important separation between a narrow reality and a grand delusion (something that still exists with contemporary cinema). These were all revolutions, educating filmmakers and audience members alike to make a choice about how they view films. Do I recognize cinema’s importance in expressing a reality, or do I enjoy something that doesn’t remind me of my experiences outside of the theater?

Once the studio system started to collapse, the idea that films could be shot on location with a low budget became a reality. However, these new films also experienced periods of stagnation, and the urge to create new works and examine new places dwindled. David Lynch still made surreal films, Scorsese still made gangster films and, as audience members, we became O.K. with that. When a director was good at something, he stuck to it. When he ventured from it, he suffered financially. In a climate where taking chances and creating new, risky work prevents an artist from taking those chances again, could ultimately stifle the artist’s creativity forever. Even Chaplin had to leave the tramp; it cost him an audience (Monsieur Verdoux was a box office flop and ruined Chaplin’s reputation in the United States). Chaplin, however, felt it was time to move on.

Cinema is a two way street. Filmmakers have to take chances and progress and, as audiences, we have to progress with them. Some consider cinema simply a medium of entertainment – and that’s fine. However, for those of us who expect more from a film than mere entertainment, we have to be mindful of a certain process, to be alert and engaged film viewers. For instance, each time I hear the names of new books, movies, paintings and people in a film, I create a list, do some research and, in the process, become more acquainted with the film’s meaning and complexity. This research - into a film’s political, cultural and aesthetic background - makes the second viewing a richer and more rewarding experience. Not only is the film more enjoyable, but the black and white, grainy picture also doesn’t look so alien anymore.

A rebirth comes from a need for change. If this need doesn’t exist, change doesn’t exist. Politically, we made history this election year because the time for change was ripe. If eight years of Bush can be compared to the “Tradition of Quality” films Truffaut described, then Obama would represent a New Wave. But a political revolution, just like cinematic revolution, doesn’t come because people at the top say it should. It has to start with us.

The Dawn of a New Era: Part One (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

Part One: The Dying Industry

By Meseret Haddis

In this three-part examination, I will look at cinema as an industry and as an art form. In part one, I will examine the dying industry; in part two, I will examine the rebirth of the industry; in part three, I will examine how to sustain it.

Cinema as a Definition

When examining something, it’s important to be clear about what’s under examination. Here, when I refer to “cinema,” I am thinking specifically of two kinds: an economic cinema and an artist’s cinema.

By economic cinema I mean the financial aspects involved in making a movie (production costs, distribution, etc.), separate from artistic and creative decisions. Commercial cinema is a main product of an economic cinema; producing films that are created to make money. It’s something that has stayed since the golden era of Hollywood. When you have films funded by big studios, you’re expecting something that generates a big return. Big stars (like Humphrey Bogart, Clark Gable, Bette Davis, Greta Garbo, etc.) worked specifically for certain studios, and they would draw money for those studios by making picture after picture. Today, the intentions of studio films are the same, except that it costs more money to make them. The formula seems to be that putting more money into a film will get more money out of it.

By artist’s cinema, I mean the creative and artistic aspects of filmmaking (subject matter, methods, etc). Artist’s cinema doesn’t necessarily mean the films don’t make money; it simply means that money isn’t the main goal. Here, the goal is in trying to express a feeling, story, or image in a way that transcends money. Each kind of reformation in cinema (and in other art forms) changed the world and how we looked at it, but never planned to do so. You can’t look at Paul Thomas Anderson’s films without thinking about Scorsese or Altman (or then at Kurosawa and Fellini). Artistic cinema is a bond that can’t be defined by weekend sales, but by its cultural and psychological impact.

Can cinema die (and should it)?

When people say that cinema is dying, they are only partially right. Economic cinema, one that lives on profit, can wane and flutter, but because cinema is also an art form, neither (economic or artistic) can die. Economic cinema will always cross the line of profitable and not profitable; and at the moment, it’s not making money. This assessment isn’t difficult to make when our economy is dying; furthermore, when you look at other art forms, the death of an economic medium isn’t always bad. Sometimes it forces artists to focus on the art and not the spectacle that comes in creating it or presenting it. In some cases, it’s actually needed. In the 1980s, for instance, a stand-up comedy boom happened in the United States. Practically anyone who wanted to become a stand-up comic soon became one, since the demand for them on television grew. But, at the end of the 1980s and following into the next decade, the frenzy died down. What didn’t die was stand-up comedy; the people who wanted to be stand-up comedians stuck through the bad period, while the people who wanted their fifteen minutes got it and were never heard from again.

An economic cinema needs to go through the same process. You know you have a problem when films like Synecdoche, New York and Che can’t find distributors by the time they leave Cannes. As the economy fails, so does its art (economically). When life is good, art is great (think Renaissance literature, art, philosophy, architecture, science, etc.). When people have money and are content with their lives art can flourish, creating a necessary supply to an earnest demand. When life isn’t great, a period’s art either flounders or is transcendent. Shakespeare was born in a time of economic unrest in England, where the gap between the rich and poor was growing. That’s why it’s not surprising when people say his plays can pander to the rich in the balcony and to the poor in front of the stage. There was a need for it.

An artistic cinema sometimes needs to go through the same process. Of course, an artistic cinema can’t die, but it can go through stages that force a rebirth. Each new wave (French, American, German, Czech, and so on) began when filmmakers (and critics alike) needed to not only put their stamp on the medium, but to redefine it for their generation, their ideas, and their culture.

Are there no quality films?

It’s not that there aren’t any good films; rather, the way films are being made is changing so significantly that it’s becoming more difficult to produce good work. The big news at last year’s Oscars was that foreign backers financed a majority of the Best Picture candidates. When someone gives you money, they control what you make. Remember: distribution dictates production. And when a film like Che leaves Cannes without a distributor, not only is the industry effected (i.e. the crumbling of the specialty divisions Picturehouse and Warner Independent Pictures), but the filmmakers are, as well. One could say that Che was finally purchased solely because of the Soderbergh/Benicio brand.

In artistic cinema, money should never effect how a film is created. However, with the commoditization of art films, business and art are now even more inseparable. So the choices we will be left with are these:

Big budget blockbuster movies (some good, some not, but you’ll be able to see it at any theater in the country). Or: Low budget movies (again some good, some not, but will be regulated to New York and L.A. for limited engagements).

When it gets harder for Joe Shmoe to see a film like Synecdoche, New York in Kansas City, or Seattle, or Minneapolis, that’s the death of cinema. It shouldn’t be a question of whether or not we think Joe Shmoe might be interested in a film like Kaufman’s, because it isn’t our place to decide what his interests may be. Henri Langlois, the late co-founder of the famed Cinémathèque Française in Paris, took all films into his museum. He said, “One must save everything and buy everything. Never assume you know what’s of value.” I believe the same goes for showing films. How will you ever know the impact a film can have on you if you’ve never see it?

Quirkiness and the Transformation from Independent to Commercial Cinema (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

“Quirkiness” has become the word of the different, weird and uncool. Films that can’t be defined as funny or serious are called quirky. If you’re not sure if the film you’re watching is quirky, take out the quirky character trait and, if you’re left with a fairly standard story, it’s a quirky film. An example: take out the witty dialogue from Juno and you have a Lifetime movie called Fifteen & Pregnant. (You’d be surprised how eerily similar they are).

Quirky is a modern incarnation of a type of film that used to be called “outcast cinema.” Of course, it used to be a lot less normal and a whole lot weirder. Eraserhead, Pink Flamingos: that was outcast cinema. It dealt with abnormal subjects, in a not-so-normal way. There was a reason you saw those movies at midnight, too – their foreboding allure made watching them during daylight hours seem sacrilegious. (Watch Eraserhead at noon and then at midnight. It’s two different films, two different worlds, two different sets of implications).

Independent cinema thrived on these types of stories and subjects. Studios, however, didn’t care for them: hardly ever making much money, these films stayed on their side of the sandbox. Then Napoleon Dynamite happened and, suddenly, independent cinema crossed lines. It wasn’t the first time an independent film became a mainstream success, however: Quentin Tarantino made a name with Reservoir Dogs and Pulp Fiction, two films that proved he was fit for Sundance and the Academy. Others like him include his partner in crime Robert Rodriguez (El Mariachi), Kevin Smith (Clerks), Steven Soderbergh (Sex, Lies, and Videotape) and Paul Thomas Anderson (Cigarettes and Coffee), all who had films at Sundance and made more money than expected. Napoleon Dynamite was a clear example of how eccentric characters, doing pretty normal things, and in their own unique, “quirky” way, could be replicated. Whether it is the hamburger phone in Juno, the costumes in Eagle vs. Shark, or a family in a semi-working Volkswagen van in Little Miss Sunshine, it doesn’t take much to make something banal into something quirky.

Does this mean America is becoming more tolerant to the weird, unspoken, un-championed people of our time? Partly. It started with Woody Allen (as a somewhat average, albeit neurotic, man) who wasn’t destructively handsome or completely serious. Woody Allen turned into Steve Martin, then into Adam Sandler. Slowly, this ideal of leading men became less Cary Grant and more Jim Carrey. This doesn’t mean that the actors became less handsome; rather, they began portraying people who weren’t necessarily “normal.” As time progressed, we became O.K. with imperfect leading men and women, which also meant less-than-normal stories.

However, this convergence of independent cinema into commercial film was premature. I agree that America is ready for less manufactured, more authentic protagonists, but has this really happened? People tend to mistake quirkiness for well-developed characters when, in fact, quirkiness simply functions superficially. Quirkiness, therefore, never reveals anything about the character. That’s why genres ebb and flow so much in a commercial industry; once something becomes commercially successful, a market emerges. This explains why, following the popularity of the Lord of the Rings series, we get The Golden Compass; or, when 3:10 to Yuma does well, we get Appaloosa.

You get the same trouble in an economic market. When you find that yo-yo’s are popular, you flood the market with them until the supply overshadows the demand; then you’re left with a warehouse full of yo-yo’s that may one day be in demand again. (Or maybe they won’t). Quirky films are going through the same process and, as a consequence, we’ll have to suffer through the Juno’s to get to the Rushmore’s.

Marxism, of the Brothers, not Karl (TFR Article)

Even though I saw Soderbergh’s Che on Friday, I wanted to examine different sorts of Marxists: The Marx Brothers.

The Marx Brothers were a famous vaudeville act in the 20’s, and when they moved to film in the early 30’s they established a unique approach to comedy, which becomes their tenants of Marxism.

Ideology

The joke is king. Their ideology establishes that settings, backstories and characters are simply premises that one of the brothers will use to capitalize on a joke. Whether it’s interrupting a chess match or an argument, if something funny isn’t happening, it’s not a Marx Brothers film.

Tenant 1: If there’s no “in” (or setup) for a joke, make one.

This is largely a trope for Groucho, like when he walks into a conversation and makes himself a part of it. He takes the situation away from the characters in the frame and makes it a focus of him. Without it, the scene is reality and reality isn’t funny. This shows just how much the brothers other-worldliness is juxtaposed to the society that they are portraying and it’s about as far as any critique of something will go. The ultimate is when the critique is the joke, but the joke always has precedence.

Tenant 2: If it’s silent, it’s not funny.

Take Monkey Business for example. Throughout the whole film we are constantly berated with noises, being music or words. Groucho, either after a one-liner or while waiting for someone, will hum, sing or whistle. This makes any silence that does happen in their film awkward and uncomfortable. Even when they play songs, they are played in a humorous way. Harpo’s odd faces when strumming the harp, or Chico shooting the piano keys with his fingers or Groucho’s facial expressions when he sings. It’s all a push for a laugh.

Tenant 3: It’s never about you.

All of the Marx brothers have an approach to scenes and to characters with the knowledge that they are performing. Often the characters are playing straight to the audience. Groucho is constantly looking in the direction of the camera and saying a one-liner (sometimes with no reaction from the opposite character). Many times they will enter a scene and never acknowledge that the other person is talking. It adds to the fact that supporting characters are simply plot devices implemented for the story to progress and so more jokes can be used. The supporting cast are often a reverse comic relief to a film filled with comedy.

I would conclude by saying the unwritten rule of Marxism is never analyze the joke. If it doesn’t make you laugh, don’t worry - their are hundreds more to come.

(Link to article)

Meeting Woody Allen (TFR Article)

I was in the Upper West Side over the weekend when I ran into comedic genius and good friend, Woody Allen. He was kind enough to take a break from trying to stop the fatalism of death, to do a quick interview with me.

Meseret Haddis: So Woody, how are things?

Woody Allen: Well it’s hard to say. I found a lump on my neck the other day before going to bed and haven’t been getting much sleep since.

MH: Besides the lump, how are things?

WA: Well I suppose they are good. My kids are doing well in school and I’m still making films so I can’t complain. Even though it’s getting a little cold for my liking.

MH: Speaking about film, how was working on Vicky Christina Barcelona with Scarlett Johansson, Rebecca Hall, Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem in Spain last year.

WA: It was wonderful. You know me, I’d never cheat on Soon-Yi, but on this shoot I had three reasons I could cheat on her. I only say that because I know Penelope wouldn’t have gone for it.

MH: You’re in the process of finishing Whatever Works with Larry David, is that right?

WA: We actually just finished cutting the film.

MH: So how do you think it turned out?

WA: Well you know me Mezzy. It’s hard to analyze something you care for, so beyond that I don’t know. I hope people will enjoy it as much I as did making it although Larry David was a little much from time to time. And I thought I was a mushugana!

MH: Oh Woody!

WA: How about you? How’s school?

MH: School’s fine. I’m working five jobs right now to pay off one month of tuition, so it’s going pretty well.

WA: You’re still at NYU right?

MH: Yes. You’re alma mater.

WA: If I had stayed at the school it would have been.

MH: I want to let you go, but is there anything you want to say to students who might read this?

WA: Only to say that education is very important, because without it, how will anyone ever learn how to cheat?

MH: Before you go, what is your one regret?

WA: Printing that quote on in the back of my books and not killing everyone who’s asked me that.

Woody and I hugged our ceremonious hug. He asked if I needed any money to get home, but I said I was fine, I had my skateboard. I told him I’ll keep in touch and he told me he’ll keep ignoring my calls.

Vicky Christina Barcelona is playing at the Angelika Film Center and Whatever Works will be released in early 2009.

Tisch Film Review: December

Articles on the Tisch Film Review for the month of December '08.

5 Essential Jean-Luc Godard (60' to 67') without Breathless

Meeting Woody Allen

Marxism, of the Brothers, not Karl

Quirkiness and the Transformation from Independent to Commercial Cinema

The Dawn of a New Era: Part One

The Dawn of a New Era: Part Two

The Dawn of a New Era: Part Three

The Rock Bible

I contributed some rules to Henry Owings' (Chunklet) very funny book The Rock Bible which you can buy at Quirkbooks.com or on Amazon.

Here's one of my rules in the book

Drummers (in the Book of Live Performances)  Rule 52: In no way, shape, or form will you lead a band from behind your drum set.

5 Essential Jean-Luc Godard Films (60' to 67') without Breathless (TFR Article)

Jean-Luc Godard is one of cinema’s most prolific minds. Because his films were often years ahead of their own time, they might seem difficult to approach, unless you already love them (which I know is kind of a paradox). The challenge is to find the Godard film you like and discover his other films through it. The films below are essential to any fan of movies, but just as important to any fan of Godard.

These five Godard films are in no way an introductory course to the filmmaker (he made 23 features and short films during the 7 year period), but these will help guide your journey in experiencing cinema’s greatest troublemaker.

Le Petit Soldat (The Little Soldier) 1960

One of Godard’s first films was banned for three years in France because of its depiction of the war between France and Algeria. It’s the first film in which Godard works with his cinematic muse, Anna Karina, whose portrayal as an Algerian spy is so subtle that it becomes immediately clear why they will later make eight films together.

Quote: “Photography is truth. And cinema is truth at 24 frames a second.”

Le Mépris (Contempt) 1963

Starring the ultra sultry Brigette Bardot, Michel Piccoli, Jack Palance, Fritz Lang, Greek statues, Italy and cinema, in this exuberant Technicolor masterpiece. The film becomes a template to the Godard romance: A woman, a man, another man, a misunderstanding, a death, a camera and a whole lot of questions.

Quote: “Now it’s no longer the presence of God, but the absence of God, that reassures man. It’s very strange, but true.”

Pierrot Le Fou (Pete the Mad) 1965

Often heralded as the color version of Breathless, Pierrot Le Fou is the essential love story by Godard. A man and woman, together against all odds, struggling to keep sanity in a world strife with gun smugglers and musicals. It’s one of Godard’s best road films and is an example of the work of a master.

Quote: “Poetry is a game of loser-take-all.”

Masculin féminin: 15 faits précis (Masculine, Feminine: In 15 Acts) 1966

In what seems to be a throwback to Rossellini’s disjointed narrative, Pasian, Godard pieces fifteen vignettes showing the volatility and confusion of young men and women in Paris. Brilliantly performed by Jean-Pierre Leaud (a new wave favorite) and Chantal Goya (a ye-ye singer), this film gave Godard a chance to re-establish the theme of banality, which he had begun with Breathless, and also to express realism, through which he used mainly improvised dialogue (most of which was fed through an ear piece to the actors from Godard himself).

Quote: “Human labor resurrects things from the dead.”

La Chinoise (The Chinese) 1967

Godard’s most overtly political film, about a student teach-in, in a Paris apartment that examines/predicts the May 68 riots which would happen a year later. The students engulf themselves (figuratively and literally) with Mao’s Little Red Book and debate and discuss the Marxist-Leninist-Maoist rhetoric of their day-to-day lives. This film would be a clear precursor to the Dziga Vertov Group (JLG and Jean-Pierre Gorin) and marks the time when Godard went “political”.

Quote: “We should replace vague ideas with clear images.”