Life is sweet (1990)

There is something in Mike Leigh’s films that compels me to feel and think. Leigh’s films might not be as political as Ken Loach’s, but all of his films contain a sense of hope that can be interpreted in political terms. That he would patronize his characters is something I can’t take seriously. For Leigh, nothing is simple. But he is not interested in the obscure either; very little in his films appeals to a sense of extravagant aesthetics. Actually, one might say that all his work follows the principle: "Nothing is hidden." 

Leigh’s films revolve around the business of everyday life. This is true for Life is sweet, too, even though there are plenty of scenes that dabble more in black comedy than kitchen sink realism. Life is sweet humorously dissects what it means to dream, or what it means to be quite happy in one’s present situation. Some of its characters are tragic because their dreams have remained private indulging of possibilities that will never see the test of reality. This goes for Aubrey, a weird man who has decided to open a French restaurant in a London suburb. An evening that begins with neat (over-the-top) decoration and great expectations ends in drunken catastrophe. Andy is a family man who is bored with his job. He dreams of a different life. His pal comes up with a plan that seems promising, but just for the two of them: a hot-dog van. Nicola, Andy’s daughter, is a rebel who doesn’t have much of a cause. She doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. Most of the time, we see her slouching around the house, complaining. She feels nothing but contempt for the world. She can’t even dream. Andy’s wife Wendy, on the other hand, seems happy with her life. She married young, but seems not to regret it. Through an ever-present laugh, she endures the company of eccentrics, and has a way of handling loony characters. Nicola’s sister, Natalie, exudes earthbound gentleness. Despite her parents’ initial protests, she chose to work as a plumber. Natalie is the realist, but she doesn’t have the cynicism we sometimes connect with realism. – 

All this makes for a gentle and heart-warming film about human relationships. With its many hideous examples of late 80s sense of "style", the film never creates a romantic image of its scruffy characters. Life is sweet may not be a cinematic masterpiece, but Leigh’s perspective on life and love is, I would say, refreshing in its dedication to forgiveness and reconciliation.

Boiled bacon consomme, yummy.

A woman is a woman (1961)

I was surprised to learn that I was less annoyed with A woman is a woman than several other Godard films. One impression remains, however. It is something that mars all of Godard's early films (I haven't seen his later work, from the seventies onward). It is the depiction of women. Godard may be interested in pastiche. Godard may be interested in style. Godard may be interested in cheeky references. But in every single movie, we see the same type of chic female body trotting from frame to frame, pouting with her lips, uttering "I despise you" to some male whose destiny it is to lose everything. A woman is a woman is less doom-ridden than some other films. Instead, it is a light-hearted film with lots of quirky one-liners and confused dialogue. A pastiche of musicals and comedies, it revels in inspired non-sense. And Godard's usual bag of tricks. In one of the funniest scenes, we see Angela perform a strip show - that is what she does. The camera pans from her to the ogling of the audience. The ogling eyes belong to weary men are all dressed in trenchcoats. Somehow, the result is quite hilarious. The film follows the romance and non-romance of Angela and Émile. Angela dreams of having a baby but her partner is reluctant. You will not be shocked to hear that they have a quirky relationship. Godard's camera tracks the movements in their lush aprartment. Lamps are carried around while a piece of whimsical dialogue is locuted, bicycles are a means of transportation in the elegantly lit rooms. A woman is a woman is of course no less self-conscious than any of Godard's movies. As the rest of his oevre it is fun to watch but it leaves me absolutely cold, except for the scene I already mentioned, which was a strike of genious. "Even the lightest of Godard’s films is touched with a political consciousness and sensitivity to the modern female condition lacking in the works of most of his Nouvelle Vague compatriots." Well, I don't know about that.

His Girl Friday (1940)

When compared to many modern comedies, the representation of gender in His girl Friday can be argued to be less stereotypical than the majority of films produced in Hollywood today. The film portrays the messy relationship of two newspaper men, Hildy and Walter. They are a divorced couple. Hildy goes to Walter’s office to tell him about her plans to remarry. She wants to live a “woman’s life”, being the traditional housewife. Her prospective husband is a boring insurance type.Walter still loves her, and he knows that is not the life for her. Soon enough, we realize that Hildy is still in love with Walter, too, and that she is not ready to give up her career for making Christmas cookies. In this film, love and work are not seen as two conflicting areas. Walter loves Hildy for what she is, including her work. The depiction of work is not romanticized. Walter is depicted as an amoral person who happens to pursue a good cause. The newspaper business is all about writing the exclusive story and selling more papers. Stylistically, His girl Friday is in its own league. The pacing is hectic and there is always at least three synchronic conversations fighting to get your attention. With that much going on, watching the film is an exhausting – yet funny – experience. The performances in the film are all great, keeping up the black humor of the film.  

Red desert (1964)

Antonioni knew exactly what he was doing when he directed Red desert. Aesthetically, it is convincing. Actually, it is a marvelous, chillingly dazzling work of dystopian art. It is evident that the relation between the different aspects of the films is meticulously worked through. The soundtrack, a very retrofuturistic affair, is thrilling, as is the dynamic and expressive use of colors. One might depict the film as Playtime’s tragic twin sister. Both Antonioni and Tati depict the alienation of modern life in. Tati transforms modernity into impossible landscapes, eerie machines and people who simply don’t fit into this world of mechanisms. Antonioni’s film starts with panning camera movements. We see indistinct, blurry images of gray, industrial landscapes. Then: billowing, yellow smoke from a smokestack. The color contrast is mind-blowing: the sharpness of yellow against the backdrop of a grey sky. The sound we hear is a persistent industrial fizz. Humans are introduced into the scenery. There is a strike. A woman in a green coat looks at a group of strikers. One man encourages a blackleg to get out from the factory. The camera follows the woman in green. She buys a sandwich from a man. She looks confused, maybe scared. A gasp of breath is contrasted with the numb fizz. While she eats the sandwich, the camera tracks the paths of sickly landscape. The next scene takes place in the factory. It is quite a shock to be transported from the dirt of the previous scenes into the neat and tidy engineering section of the factory. Here, no dirt is tolerated. A snipped of conversation is heard. We learn that workers are hard to find for some work abroad. Machines are hollering. The sound almost drowns the words spoken. Also here, there are unexpected explosions of color. This shows somehow that not even the factory can be sorted into one piece of reality. A few scenes later on, the camera explores the woman’s sterile apartment. Her son’s room is cluttered with colorful robots. Their mechanic eyes shimmer in the dark. The visual expression is stunning.

Red desert takes places in the land of Dystopia, among desolate industrial landscape, billowing smoke and ramshackle “cottages” by a dead-looking sea. Even the characters’ homes lack every trace of warmth and intimacy. The world of Red desert is narrated from Giuliana’s perspective. She is the woman in green, wife of Ugo, a lukewarm factory manager. Giuliana has an affair. Or at least, there is a certain man in her life who thinks she is having one. Giuliana is the only character who reacts to the decay of the surrounding world in a strong way. In one scene, she is walking in a drab-looking alley with the man who pursues her. Suddenly, her gaze is frozen. Eerie music underlines a sense of fear. A man is sitting beside a cart with eggs. She stares at the man. The image is blurred. (This is the kind of thing Fassbinder is so in love with: the fear embedded in ordinary life) It’s a stunning moment, a very short moment, but it is executed masterfully to create the intended effect.

Of course, Giuliana is depicted as emotionally fragile, on the verge of a breakdown. One could criticize the film for its stereotypical characterization of women, always more sensitive than men. On the other hand, we are not to take a psychological interest in Giuliana. With its formalized language, the film encourages us not to. She is a product of society, as are the men that surround her. Every bit of surrounding in the film can at the same time be interpreted as a state of mind – and the other way around. As a result, all characters are paper-thin. Even though Antonioni’s film has a relation to Marxist critique of alienating relations, there is no – at least I don’t see it – dialectic movement here. This does not mean there is no tension within the film. There are moments when the deadening rhythm of small talk and business is broken. As I said, there are also moments of visual and aural disruption. The world, which these characters inhabit, is presented as a static one. Eruptions of frantic energy (a quasi-sexual orgy among a circle of friends), make up yet another side of alienation; feverish emotion is no less estranged than neutral and businesslike demeanor. Viewing the closing scenes, very little has happened, with regard to story.

It is difficult not to be immersed in the world evoked by the film. The film has an enormous pull. With the exception of some minor flaws, this is a fantastic film.

Rutheless (1948)

Edgar Ulmer’s Detour is one of the best noir movies I’ve seen. Ruthless may not fit the noir book of rules (not every clause at least), but it is a cynical, disillusioned film that fits the times. Ruthless is a film about business, the kind of unstoppable force of social and economic progression that has no logic, no real purpose and will show no mercy to attain its ephemeral ends. I suppose this film, cloaked as a tale about moral destruction, is an example of how strikingly anti-business an American movie can get. Because Ulmer, in this movie, has nothing good to say about business. Through flashbacks, the life of Horace Vendig, businessman, is narrated. The women of Vendig’s life, men too, are used as instruments to manipulate and possess. Vendig’s motivation is never explained. He is a force, not a human being. Welcome to the American nightmare. Ruthless is a film that offers no solution of consolation. As in many noir tales, what we have here is simply a story about things going from bad to worse, along a path paved with misery and destruction. I must confess there is something about the utter dullness of Ruthless that I appreciated – maybe this is the right way to craft a movie based on this particular subject matter. No titillation, no entertainment, no nothing: expressionless, unimaginative acting, dull cinematography, static lines. Greed is not exciting. It is boring as hell, just as the system that propulses it. Cheers to you for making films like this, Mr Ulmer!

The flight of the red balloon (2007)

There’s a surge of interest in “contemplative cinema”. I am not at all comfortable with the concept. I become all the more suspicious when I watch Flight of the red balloon, a pretty, yet timid, piece of slice-of-life. I’ve heard about Hou Hsiao-hsien, but this is the first time I see one of his movies. What didn’t work for me in the movie was its too overt use of cinematography, symbolism and “calming” music. To me, the film lacks the edginess it would need to keep it from becoming tepid. I can’t say I was bored by it, but some scenes annoyed me, being too pretty, lacking substance and a sense of cinematic urgency. Sure, I see where his style is coming from. I recognize the romantic sense of everyday life as present in Wong Kar-Wai’s oeuvre, and there are bits of pieces of Kieslowski, even Bresson, here, too. The title refers to red balloons. The red balloon is all over the place. It’s present in a slew of scenes, it’s talked about, it’s shown in a film-in-film, it’s even included in the music. If there is one example of overloading an image, this is it. I didn’t like the god damn balloon in the very first scene in the movie. It didn’t get better. The film, however, features some decent scenes as well. A young boy, Simon, lives with his mother in a crammed apartment. The new babysitter, Song, has just arrived. In the best moments of the film, we see the mother, the son or Song moving around in the apartment, going about their everyday business, perhaps angrily arguing with a bothersome neighbor. The balloon-free, music-free scenes, which are not so loaded with Meaning, are, to me, the best ones. They have a quiet sense of life passing by, everyday conflicts, mundane conversations.  I have to add I was a bit worried that Juliette Binoche would destroy this movie. I was surprised to see she performed her repulsive role with a, in the context of the film, liberating amount of gusto. The visual expression of the film is certainly pleasing to the eye (saturated colors, mesmerizing urban perspectives, reflecting images & shapes, a pattern of color scales) but regardless of this I could not stop feeling that the director was somehow trying too hard to make a serene movie.

Reassemblage (1983)

I watched T. Trinh Minh Ha's Reassemblage without much previous knowledge about the director or the film. That proved to be a good thing and a bad thing. A voiceover guides us through the film. The words spoken are elusive, poetic strikes against colonialist thinking and seeing. Reassemblage is not traditional narration. It is not a film with a story. Rather, the film appears to be a questioning of the gaze of the documentary. Trinh Minh Ha points out the risks of exoticizing the Other. She is not, she says, making a film about Senegal. Trinh Minh Ha places one image of "objectivity" next to another; the ethnologist falling asleep beside his tape recorder while the locals perform music; the invention of underdevelopment; needs are created, so that help then is needed, too; the ethnographic "insider's" perspective - to spend two weeks in one place. She doesn't attempt to convey a completely different approach, not an alternative story; she wants to disentangle exoticizing tendencies. This is disassemblage and reassemblage of images and sounds.

The film comprises images of women, Senegalese women. They work, they feed children, they dance. This is not the image of Africa (Africa, Africa - yes no) as we are used to see it. The film confronts us with our own expectations (Trinh Minh Ha's own, too?) about "Africa" and these poor, "underdeveloped women". The film, sometimes, goes along, showing images of carcasses and naked female breasts. But it always subverts. Instead of poverty, we see happy faces, activity.

What I didn't know when I sat down to watch the film is that Trinh Minh Ha's film was part of an ethnographic research project.  When realizing that, I could no longer interpret the film as a fight between the Film maker and the Scientist. At least it is not so easy. To some extent, Reassemblage is a film about connection and disconnection, contextualization and decontextualization. As much as I like this film - its brilliant use of sound and image - I don't know if I share Trinh Minh Ha's reservations as to a film being "about" something, that all we can do is to "speak near by". In every scene, she shows how the film is not "about". Being "about", in her view, seems to be synonymous with objectification and false claims to reality. It is evident that Trinh Minh Ha wants to make no such claims. But what exactly is she so afraid of here? Would she say there can be no images that do not distort? Is there no true or right account? - What I intend to say is that it is not clear what she would see as the contrast to the exoticizing gaze.

Testament of Orpheus (1960)

Here we have yet another film that revolves around Art. Regrettably, this is not Naked Lunch.

Testament of Orpheus might be the first film by Jean Cocteau I've seen. Throughout the film, the only thing I could think of was Jean Genet's film A song of love. These two have some things in common; a romantic, dreamy expression, only I must say I hold the second film to be far better than Testament of Orpheus. It is also clear that some of Fellini's films may have been inspired by this one (8 ½). The film's oscillation between grandiose commentary about art and a lofty story about mythical creatures did not convince me at all. The only thing I really learned from this film is that David Lynch has apparently put some of its scenes to use in his own productions. The symbolism in Lynch's films can be blamed for being overly cheap, but it is never as downright trite as the stuff Cocteau comes up with here. There is always some sort of openness and sense of mystery in how Lynch employs what may, by some, be considered as "symbolic". Cocteau's musings on art tend to be both banal and sentimental. I must say this is a very, very pretentious film - and a terrible one.

Naked lunch (1991)

As much as films about Artists and Creativity tend to irritate and bore me – DAMN IT, Naked Lunch is a funny, disturbing film, one of the fewest films about "creativity" I can actually stand. Clearly, I have a thing for perversely talking typewriters. Even though I don’t like all of his films, David Cronenberg’s interest in metamorphoses and corporeality tend to make for good movies.  As you know, the film is based on Burroughs’s famous novel. Our hero is William Lee, exterminator. We learn that the powder that kills the bugs is not only good for that particular purpose – Will and his wife use the powder as a drug. At a drunken party, they play the Wilhelm Tell game. Will aims a gun at an object on his wife’s head, accidentally killing her. William is approached by a giant bug. We learn about “Interzone”, some kind of North African country. William goes there – or is that where his druggy hallucinations take him – to write some kind of report. Under the influence of drugs, he starts to write a novel. The typewriter he uses is not a dead tool. It’s a communicating creature. So – there we are, in a strange country, where American men (and some women) hunt boy toys, where eerie talking bugs lurk around the corner, and where there is a scheming corporation that William is destined to get in contact with. Nothing is quite what it seems here. Naked lunch builds layers and layers of dread and paranoia. But it does so humorously, almost gently. Even some of the grotesque machine-bugs are gentle. That I have no idea what this is all about doesn’t worry me one bit. I wasn’t really looking for hints about Burroughs’s life and pals. I enjoyed Naked lunch immensely. Even the slightly predictable free jazz soundtrack works just marvelously. I also like the sleazy feel of the sets and the brown desaturated color scale of the cinematography. Every little detail of Naked lunch is just right, even the cheesiest bit of quasi-sexual (always very queer) imagery (you see some literary eroticism going on here … for sure). Sleazy entertainment! "Exterminate all rational thought. That is the conclusion I have come to."

La Chinoise (1967)

My mixed feeling for Jean-Luc Godard's films always make for interesting viewing experiences. Excruciatingly irritating as they may be, I still, somehow, like watching them. Aesthetically, Godard is never a let-down. This is particularly true for La Chinoise, Godard's political film about a marxist-leninist-maoist revolutionary group - a comedy of sorts.

Most of the events in La Chinoise are located in one apartment. Every small detail of the sets has been arranged according to Godard's ideas about mood and style: quotes are painted on walls, furniture are used sparingly - and bright colors are used everywhere. The six main characters in the film represent different classes of society. As a parody of certain traits of ideological mumbo-jumbo, it would work fine. But I'm not sure what is intended as parody, and what isn't.

Let's start with the things I admire in this film. Godard is not afraid of experiments and being playful. In this film, he builds layer upon layer of sounds, colors and words. In many cases, it's fun to watch these chaotic scenes comprising slogans, quotes, music, images, overwhelming color scales and quirky acting. As a collage film: congrats to you, Mr Godard. Godard's mix of mockumentary, cartoons, stylized "lectures" is endearing, sometimes mind-blowingly sharp - while some scenes are terribly flat and simply irritating (the "love" story). As a political film, the peculiar mix of demagogic rhetoric and dove-eyed youth is certainly not without interest; perhaps Godard's film is a believable portrait of French leftist movements during the 60's, along with complicated schisms among its participants.

But if this is to be a political film, then I must say it is a mess. Godard praises the revolutionary force of naivité - naivité stands against the faux-progressive "older" forces who are not brave enough to embrace the openness of revolutionary struggle. The use of violence in the film is depicted in a typically ambiguous way: at least something happens, anything can happen, even though the persons killed happen to be the wrong people. As a film about political violence, I really cannot recommend this. Godard is too chic, too much in love with his own quirks to focus on anything essential that would really hit hard. (That said, I consider one of the film's best scenes the one in which Veronique talks to a philosophy colleague on a train - if the film had been focused on this conversation, something more interesting might have come up.)

To sum up: I don't have anyting against Godard's stylized approach to counter-culture storytelling. The problem is that Godard, in my opinion, has very little insightful to say about the world. However revolutionary his films are, in terms of surface-level aesthetics, I never feel that Godard encourage me to look at the world in a new or unexpected way. For that reason, there is the worrying hunch that his films are empty gestures, small teases, references intended as intellectual gags. - And it is in this sense that I would say that if Godard thinks of himself as a revolutionary film-maker (I know too little to know if he does/did), then I must say that I don't really see the force in his films that would make him one. What I mean is that I very rarely feel that Godard's play with artificiality has the power of revelation, or disenchantment. I just don't get it: what does he want me to see? “Vague ideas must be confronted with clear images,” sums up the film quite well.