Cries and Whispers

Directed by Ingmar Bergman

Sweden, 1972

The inanity of Bergman’s canonisation has always baffled me: I have tended to endure his films as a bitter medicine – worthwhile but unenjoyable, classics that everybody wants to have watched but nobody wants to watch. Subjecting myself to Cries and Whispers on the merit of Bergman’s reputation (a reputation which must have originated from a claque of obsequious film critics and scholars who probably jumped on some incomprehensible-European-language-arthouse-must-be-praiseworthy-though-unwatchably-tedious bandwagon) with no background knowledge of the film, cemented my hitherto opinion of his oeuvre.

Multi-award nominated Cries and Whispers is a stolid, stodgy tableau of three upper-class, turn-of-the-nineteenth-century sisters in their family mansion. These strikingly winsome aristocratic Scandinavian beauties (most of the cast are part of Bergman’s habitual posse with two of the priapic director’s mistresses, Harriet Andersson and Liv Ullmann, as well as best pal Erland Josephson keeping things in the family) toy with various would-be dark and stifled ‘emotions’, existential and physiological pains, inasmuch as their desiccated Nordic disposition allows for the expression of a histrionic, fitful sensibility which is as close as the characters get to feeling.

One of the sisters, Agnes (Harriet Andersson) has terminal-stage cancer and the other two, Maria (Liv Ullmann) and Karin (Ingrid Thulin) have come to the mansion to ‘assist’ her in her final earthly moments. Instead of sisterly bonding, however, the gruesome agony of Agnes’s disease seems to suffuse them with disgust, uncorking tawdry sibling rivalry, old hatreds and various aristocratic-life traumatisms (unloving husbands and lovers, sibling indifference) all interspersed with some stale, vapid woman-on-woman kissing (hard to tell what went on in Bergman’s head directing his mistresses frolicking about, but apparently he was coming out of a painful romantic breakup…) The most ‘torrid’ scenes are between the martyred Agnes and her self-abnegating maid, Anna, whose analgesic methods include proffering the patient mouth-on-mouth kisses and a bare, udder-like, wet-nurse-kind of bosom.

All this to signify the motherly figure of the maid, a stout, low-class servant providing Agnes with the one real tenderness, while her trim, squeamish, self-absorbed sisters sort out their various psychologically complex, aristocracy-becoming issues (apparently marriages were mostly loveless in nineteenth-century Sweden…) The ‘mother’ issues hark back to Agnes’ adulation of her distant, cold, disarmingly beautiful mother, the antithesis of the homely Anna, a mother who apparently favoured the prettier Maria while neglecting Agnes. Whether or not this sibling predilection was actual or imagined by Agnes, the present-day result is the symbiotic relationship between patient and maid (who as it happens has lost her own daughter).

The bond between Agnes and Anna is not the sole instance of repulsive physicality (Agnes: “Do I smell very bad?”, Anna unbuttoning her bosom: “No”), a deformed proximity which accords with the stultified emotional register of the film: the histrionic dialogues are occasionally interspersed with animal-like howls; the camera lingers purposely over a perturbing kiss between the two surviving sisters who otherwise detest each other; the elder one resorts to genital self-mutilation presumably to ward off her husband’s advances, who in keeping with the rest of the secondary male characters is a sordid caricature of a man (his idea of a ‘tolerable funeral’ is no one weeping or growing hysterical). Ironically, the most endearing male part may be that of the glazed, buttoned-up, puritan-oozing Lutheran minister who delivers the supposedly profound but impassive last rite to Agnes.

A lot of the praise heaped on this film, as well as the cinematography Oscar, has gone to the use of colour and art direction. Indeed, the mise en scene relies heavily on a mosaic of red (blood), white (innocence) and black (mourning), conferring to the film a stagey, heavily artificial texture. Why the preponderance of red? Apparently, when Bergman was a child he imagined the human soul was red. Groundbreaking? If the biggest artistic innovation of Cries and Whispers is the saturated colour palette, then not much would be left on stripping off the colours but beautiful actresses wearing impenetrable, icily Scandinavian masks. Insofar as watching Cries and Whispers was a torturous, painfully endured viewing process, I empathised with Agnes’s deathbed agonies. I am not sure if that is the kind of empathy Bergman had in mind.

The DVD includes an interview with the two aging patriarchs, an arrogant Bergman in his eighties and his faithful wingman Josephson in his late seventies, from which we learn that the director was once fined for threatening a film critic who ‘pursued’ him for a long time in a Swedish newspaper. I think I know whose side I’d be on.

Zornitsa Staneva

Mini-Review

David Lean is a bona fide cinema legend; having hemed A Bridge on the River Kwai and Lawrence of Arabia, his scope of filmmaking is evoked whenever somebody tries to film the desert or capture emptiness on a grand scale. However, before he made those beloved features, he adapted a few classic titles by Charles Dickens. That includes Great Expectations, one of his most faithful adaptations. The film is still noted among critics and film institutes as the finest film version.

The novel and film tell the well-trod tale of an orphan named Pip and his experiences. From love to tragedy to innumerable fascinating characters, this is a tale of a young boy and the love he has for the young daughter of the woman who takes him into her house. There is so much more to be said of this tale but this is one of those stories that one should discover for themselves, or should have in high school.

Disc/Packaging

Coming in at number #31, one can already understand that this being an older title there will be very limited extras in the special feature department already. With a shot of young Pip standing by the graves with the brightness and darkness overlaid in green, there is a feeling of sadness and aged beauty to the cover.

Video

Having been shot in black and white to emphasize the tone of Dickens’ novel, it is vital for its print to be cleaned up from its time of release. Thanks to Janus Films, the restoration is spectacular, with grain, dust and scratches removed in a pain-staking process. The presentation should be more than adequate for anyone not already spoiled by Blu-Ray.

Audio

Having such great video, the audio sadly lacks a little here. Do not expect your back speakers to get much use in this dialogue-driven film.

Special Features

As extras were not the standard when this disk was issued, we can excuse Criterion for the lack of them on this disc at the time of release. Then again, it is rather sad to not get an interview with Alec Guinness, or at least the adaptation of the abridged stage version. For now, this edition features just a booklet with liner notes and a trailer.

Closing Remarks

This being precisely the type of film that can be watched at any time, one can never be tired of timeless tales such as this nor could one ever hate such a film. And thanks to Criterion we can enjoy a great transfer and treasure a film that is worthy of the classic tale.

Jaffer Hasan

Fun Fact : Lean went onto direct another Dickens adaptaion, Oliver Twist.

Mini-Review

Before the rest of the world knew him for his performance in There Will be Blood, Daniel Day-Lewis had a career outshining most method actors. The Unbearable Lightness of Being, a story about intellectual life in Czechoslovakia during the Communist rule involving a love triangle between a doctor (Day-Lewis), Sabina (Lena Olin) and Tereza (Juliette Binoche), is a three-hour showcase for its stunning cast.

The filmmakers decided to change many elements from the source material (Milan Kundera’s novel of the same name) and remove pivotal characters from the narrative. The changes were so great, in fact, that Kundera would never allow another of his novels to be adapted.  The film was nevertheless received extraordinarily among critics and is considered one of the best love stories in cinematic history.

Disc/Packaging

This relatively early Criteron issue (#55) has become a collector’s item. Being an Orion Pictures, release one can understand why this has gone out of print, as Orion closed down in 1998 and its titles were transferred to the MGM banner. We are presented with an erotic cover displaying Daniel with another female and one by herself in the purple darkness, a hauntingly erotic cover image.

Video

Considering the date of issue, this is an impressive transfer, especially taking into account that DVDs themselves are limited in space and usually the industry standard is not to fit more than 2 hours onto one disc. This film is just shy of 3 hours, meaning the disc is packed rather tightly, which generally leads to compression and quality issues. Despite the handicap, there are barely any issues noticeable with the transfer; colors are vivid when presented and the black levels appear uncompressed.

Audio

The soundtrack relies heavily on the music by Leos Jancek, though it leaves adequate room for the dialogue in the mix. So while there is nothing too complicated in the sound mixing, this film uses the front speakers to its advantage and the back speakers of your home theater system for the enriching experience of the music.

Special Features

Commentary – Impressively we are presented with a commentary track by four individuals who worked on the film: director (Philip Kaufman), co-writer (Jean-Claude Carriere), editor (Walter Murch) and actress (Lena Olin), making for a commentary track meticulous and rich with experience and knowledge.

Closing Remarks

Those looking for a good, slow love story that is as rich in its visuals as it is with its character development, this is not to be missed. It’s also an essential purpose for Daniel Day-Lewis devotees; uncover why he is considered one of the finest actors alive today.

Jaffer Hasan

Fun Fact: Director Philip Kaufman showed the studio a sub-2 hour cut of the film that left them confused about the story and a very rare decision was made to re-insert footage previously removed. The studio later approved the near-3-hour version.

Night Train to Munich

Directed by Carol Reed

United Kingdom, 1940 

The title of Carol Reed’s 1940 wartime comedic thriller hardly tells the whole story.  Perhaps hoping to capitalize off of the success of the two-years prior The Lady Vanishes, Night Train to Munich would have you believe that it’s an equally contained picture.  That famous writers Frank Laudner and Sidney Gilliat wrote both is perhaps then, of no coincidence.

While there is an immensely successful third act that does take place primarily aboard a train, the film is far more sprawling and unfairly overlooked at the expense of its supposed successor. 

Scientist Dr. Bomasch (James Harcourt) is forced to free Prague at the invasion of the Nazis.  His daughter Anna (Margaret Lockwood) escapes from a concentration camp with the help of fellow internee Karl Marsen (Paul von Hernried) and meets her father in England, where father and daughter take up residence under the watchful eye of British intelligence man Gus Bennett (Rex Harrison).  Revealing his true allegiance, Nazi-soldier Marsen kidnaps Dr. Bomasch and Anna, forcing Bennett to go undercover across enemy lines to bring them to safety.

One of the many things that makes Reed’s thriller so effective is how swiftly the action progresses.  Each act could make up an entire film in and of itself: escape from a concentration camp, infiltration of Nazi headquarters, and finally, double-crosses aboard a moving train.  That these smoothly segue between one-another is testament both to Laudner and Gilliat’s script and to Reed’s direction, which features a roving, mobile camera and slick blocking.

Hitchcock famously related his idea of successful suspense as a bomb under the table with no indication of when it will go off.  Reed has many scenes that draw on this exact idea.  One particular scene aboard the train car is pure master-of-suspense stuff.  Two of Bennett’s school-buddies  – the hilarious and inimitable Charters (Basil Radford) and Caldicott (Naunton Wayne) – discover that Marsen knows Bennett’s true identities.  They concoct a scheme with which to warn their old friend: a note hidden under a donut on a tray being brought to his apartment.

In this example the note is the bomb, the donut is the table, and the various hands and eyes that may land on it first are its ticking clock.  Reed’s camera at first places the offending donut in the foreground.  His energetic cutting goes round from face-to-face, and the scene reaches a near climax when Marsen spins the platter, and unwittingly the note, closer towards him. 

Rex Harrison’s Gus Bennett is more of a complex character than his surface nonchalance and arrogance warrant.  In fact, as he is so frequently in disguise and undercover his real character is rarely glimpsed on-screen.  Harrison really plays three different roles: the real Gus Bennett, his singing Englishman front, and his Nazi impersonator.  Harrison delivers with ease, and the intentional cracks in his façade add to the humanity of a man forced to hide his true self at every turn.

The interplay between Bennett and Anna is peppered with cracks at one another’s expense and, unlike many of the concurrent Hollywood romances, the film does not culminate with an inevitable profession of love.  Instead, as Bennett makes his difficult away across to Switzerland – Marsen at his back, Anna in front of him – there is true concern in her eyes.  Perhaps it’s love, but her look only mirrors our own as the tension of the moment ratchets. 

- Neal Dhand

Mini-Review

Night Porter is rather a strange film; at first glance it comes across as an exploitation film, but as you dive in deeper it’s actually a (very messed up) love story, and then when you dive in even deeper it’s a film only Criterion could give a proper measure of true love and meaning to. This is again another example of a film that was not given proper attention when released; it was bashed at the time of its release for its nudity and sexual imagery.

The story is actually rather simple; a concentration camp survivor finds her former torturer/lover, and together they try to recreate their sadistic relationship, all while her former SS comrades start to stalk them. Though it’s hardly a conventional love story, The Night Porter comes highly recommended for those seeking something new.

Disc/Packaging

The Night Porter has to have one of the most hauntingly beautiful covers I have ever laid my eyes across and have to compliment Criterion for using it. It’s erotic and wrong for all the right reasons, one of my top ten favorite covers from Criterion.

Video

Being an older DVD, it does show some signs of the time of its release. Yet the video transfer holds up nicely, as having seeing it just after watching a Blu-ray, I was surprised how much it didn’t lack in disk quality compared to, say, the first Seven DVD release. Yet this is in need of a new transfer. preferably on Blu-ray, to show off the grand beauty of this tale.

Audio

Taken from a mono track, which is quite normal for a film of this period and genre, there’s no issue at all with its presentation and use of the front speakers. With the audio track being mostly dialogue, it holds just fine. Nothing too impressive, but that’s owed more to the style of the film itself than to Criterion.

Special Features

Well, here we have ourselves an issue, again as it’s an older release, there are virtually no extras at all. Maybe at its time of mastering, there were none to be found, or perhaps they were ties up in rights issues. Hopefully in due time we will see some of the extras and nab ourselves a commentary.

Overall

Understand that the film is not for everyone; its subject matter may be sensitive for some viewers. This is a film one has to venture out of their own comfort zone to watch and understand. Those who like cinema and actually care about what they watch would do well to take a chance on it.

Buy Or Rent?

Let’s hope that Criterion does give this film an enhancement and double-dips it. This film deserves it, and it would be amazing to see the extras that were missing from the original release. Rent for now, wait and purchase it only if you enjoyed it.

Jaffer Hasan

Recommended

Mini -Review

“Look at this jungle. Look at those vines, the way they twine around, swallowing everything. Nature’s cruel.” This contour can help sum up the difference between two of the biggest World War 2 films from the previous decade. On one side, you have Saving Private Ryan, and on the other The Thin Red Line, two completely different films besides the basic topic. One covered the European Invasion, while the latter covered the Japanese campaign, specifically the Battle of Guadalcanal.

Disc Review

Coming from Criterion on a single 50GB disc, with disc art replete with jungle imagery, the cover captures the mood of the film, tense yet beautiful. The release, #536, comes in a slightly atypical Blu-ray case with a 34-color booklet with two essays and transfer detail.

Video Review

What can one say about a Criterion Blu-ray, other than it is usually given a seal of approval by the director of the film. The film holds up extremely well, with colors breathing out on the screen more lively and green than ever. To my eyes this has to be one of the best transfers seen in a while – to the point that this disc is now my preferred demonstration piece.

Audio Review

This is where the beauty of the film truly lies. The bass is superbly used when the action finally comes, though of course the film is primarily narration- and imagery-driven. Makes splendid use oft he back speakers when it’s called for.

Special Features Review

Being a Criterion release, it is already known to have extras that are not in other releases of the film from the previous DVD, which was a rather bare-bones edition, sadly.

Commentary – While I only listened to part of this, since it happened to not have Malick himself in it, production designer Jack Fisk, producer Grant Hill and cinematographer John Toll round it out very nicely. It was interesting to hear about the experiences of working with so many actors and the direction that Malick chose along with the timing of day when certain shots should take place, along with problems that befell the cast and crew thanks to working in the wild. It would have been a nice to have an actor’s commentary and hear about their conflicts and experiences, but I guess that’s what the next extra is for.

Actors (35 minutes) – A truly amazing little feature, detailing how each performer got involved and what it was like to work on the film, with some funny little moments and impressions of Malick.

Casting (18 minutes) – Another great feature that tells the stories of the actors auditioned from the likes of Johnny Depp to Leonardo DiCaprio.

Editors (28 minutes) – Features the editors who explained the amount of time it took to re-edit and cut out scenes that featured actors who were not in the film, while explaining the direction they were asked to go in, another worthy extra.

Music (17 minutes) – Hans Zimmer helps tell us the type of score that Malick wanted, describing what it was like to have him live with him and details of how it should play.

Outtakes (14 minutes) – One could have hoped to see the scenes of actors cut out such as the likes of Billy Bob Thorton or Gary Oldman, sadly those are not here, but we do get a scene with Mickey Rourke, which was a surprise to me.

Kaylie Jones (20 minutes) – This is the daughter of the source-material writer James Jones, and is more of an extended interview on the novel and her father than the film, it’s more of a insight of the writer’s life and its imprint on him even after it’s over.

Newsreels (16 minutes) – Newsreels from during the campaign of the Pacific, shown in theatres back in America, truly great stuff here.

Melanesian Chants (7 minutes) – Hans Zimmer’s recordings with indigenous people set to production photographs, again another great extra that was unexpected.

Trailers – Only one included here, which is around 2 minutes 35 seconds, it was rather exciting to see since I did not see it back when released.

Booklet – Again this is Criterion gold. One of the articles is written by James Jones himself from 1963, a very interesting look at war films being made during that time and his take on them.

Closing Remarks

Criterion has done Malick proud, and Malick has done Criterion proud. There are rarely films made of such superior quality, films that really make you think about the nature of warfare and the general atmosphere within the battles and their aftermaths. This is not the easiest film to get into, but once you’re in, you will not want it to end. The poetic narration, along with the National Geographic-levelvisuals come together to make for an unforgettable film. It’s also a great showcase for any home entertainment system, coming as it does with Malick’s surprising message: “This film is meant to be played loud.”

Buy Or Rent?

Do not even think twice, this is one to buy; this is essential viewing for any self-respecting movie lover. Criterion deserves to release all of Malick’s films and hopefully in due time it shall. Definitely Buy!

Jaffer Hasan

Recommended

Mini-Review

When you think of Dustin Hoffman today, you do not think of an individual who is spineless and without the balls to defend his woman (Susan George), who made an ever-lasting impression in this film with her perky nipples and erotic display as the wife to Hoffman’s character, David Sumner.

Straw Dogs directed in 1971 by Sam Peckinpah, starts with the basic concept of a couple moving to the village side to enjoy the quiet life. Building slowly from a seemingly calm opening act, Straw Dogs sees the aforementioned couple being put to the ultimate test to defend themselves against the violence that is set to destroy and violate them. Oozing sexual tension and male masculinity, this is a film worthy of the Criterion Collection. Sadly, in less than a few months, we will get a remake to a film that never needed it.

Disc Review

At number 182 in the Criterion Collection, this double-disk edition is noteworthy for many things, including its brilliant artwork of Hoffman’s face and his shattered left eyeglass.

The booklet itself is always a reward from Criterion, here consisting of two essays.

• “Home like no Place” by Joshua Clover
• “The Cinema of Sam Peckinpah” by Andre Leroux

Video

Despite being a few years old, the DVD holds up amazingly considering how Blu-Ray is considered the new standard of viewing pleasure. Having heard from various other sources that grew up on this film, this is considered the best transfer ever presented on disk. With an anamorphic transfer (1:85:1) it truly does shine out and show some brilliant cinematography by John Coquillon.

Audio

Now that most homes are equipped with a sound system of all types, it does hurt the film when it is presented in 1.0 Mono, but for it’s for that reason we have an isolated effect-and-music track, which is rather a rare gift. For some, this is going to be a waste of a sound system as most of it comes from the front speakers, but who knows, maybe there is already a new mix being prepared in launch for the remake.

Special Features

Disk One

On the first disk we have an audio commentary by film scholar Stephan Price, who praises this as Peckinpah’s masterpiece. It’s an interesting commentary for those who want to dive deeper into this film.

Disk Two

Sam Peckinpah: Man of Iron: (82 minutes) We can always feel grateful to Criterion for giving us an extra punch with their films, truly a great documentary on the man behind the film, diving deep into his substance-abuse problems. Though this may not have much to do with the film itself, it is nonetheless a great addition for those who want to know more about this director. Interviewees include James Coburn and writer Alan Sharp.

Dustin Hoffman: On Location: (25 minutes) Hoffman talks about this career and his acting techniques, in addition to the normal on-location footage we are used to.

Behind the Scenes: (7 minutes) Presented in raw, black-and-white style, it is a rare look into the film making process.

Video Interviews with Actress Susan George (20 minutes) and Producer Daniel Melnick: (18 minutes) The first interview with the actress is an interesting look into her acceptance of this being her biggest claim to fame and how her experience working on this film. I couldn’t be bothered to watch more than 3 minutes of the producer’s immensely self-serving segment.

Peckinpah Responds: Select Correspondence to Critics and Viewers: A unique, standout feature. It consists of letters that Peckinpah sent out to two critics and two viewers who wrote back on his film; this is truly a highlight, a witty attack on his dissenters. At least it confirms to us that Sam has some humor in him.

Theatrical trailer (1.43) and Tv Spots (10-60 seconds).

Overall

Having come across at its time as a film under massive fire for its exploitation of sexual violence, this film holds up surprisingly well. There aren’t many films out there that show the nature of a married couple’s dissolve through brutal violation by savagery. Dustin Hoffman may not be remembered for his role in comparison to, say, The Graduate, but after one watches this film, this will see it is this role that defines him as one of the finest actors working today. May the upcoming remake show the world that there is no need for it, and it cannot and will not hold a candle to Peckinpah’s masterpiece.

Buy or Rent?

Personally I would wait for an updated version since this is one of the harder to find Criterion titles – it went out of print rather quickly (they even gave a limited-time release notice in the DVD box). Straw Dogs is in need of a Blu-ray release and hopefully within a year Criterion shall announce it. Though this is not a film to be waited on, though, and one should watch it as soon as possible.

Jaffer Hasan

Recommended Purchase

Underworld

Directed by Josef von Sternberg

United States, 1927

Josef von Sternberg’s pre-code gangster picture – the one that started it all – plays akin to the director’s vision throughout his career: hazy deep focus shots, sensuality that anticipates his collaborations with Marlene Dietrich, tough guy theatrics, and an eye for poetic framing.  Though its more name-famous companion piece, Howard Hawks’ Scarface, was produced five years later and during the Production Code, von Sternberg’s film is surprisingly less violent than Hawks’.

Underworld finds von Sternberg staple George Bancroft in the role of “Bull” Weed – gangster extraordinaire.  When Bull happens upon a learned alcoholic itinerant after one of his infamous heists he takes the man under his wing, cleans him up, and nicknames him Rolls Royce (Clive Brook).  Rolls Royce’s suave, quiet manner immediately endears him to “Feathers” McCoy (Evelyn Brent), Bull’s girlfriend.  While a precarious love triangle develops, Bull finds himself arrested, and sentenced to hang for a crime of passion.

Similar to his work in later von Sternberg pictures, including the following year’s The Docks of New York, Bancroft’s Bull Weed is a sympathetic portrait of masculinity.  Prone to outbursts of violence, von Sternberg frequently shoots Bull’s trademark smirk in close-up.  The smile is at once violent and endearing, and ultimately iconic.  Bull smirks when he shoots and kills a man, and then gives the same grin when his sentence is passed down.  It hides an array of emotions, and accurately conveys that there is more beneath the surface than what is said.

As he would throughout his career, von Sternberg refuses to adhere to Hollywood standards of the time.  A silent picture, Underworld relies even more heavily on its director’s visual flair than his later films.  Several shots and sequences testify to this.  In a bar fight von Sternberg places his camera in the perspective of a man being punched.  As the aggressor’s fist rifles towards camera, the lens shakes and tilts up, mimicking the effect of the jab to the jaw.  The shot occurs so quickly, and is so clever, that it goes by almost unnoticed.

A later prison sequence is just as stylish.  A wide-shot from Bull’s cell reveals the hallway of the jail in deep focus.  An extra walks along the frame in the far background, simply to emphasize the depth.  Shadows dominate, and the frame-within-a-frame of the cell bars makes this very open shot feel ironically claustrophobic.

As Bull’s hanging, and potential escape become imminent, he sits down to play one last game of checkers with the guard on-duty.  A cut to a close-up on Bull’s hand as it slowly moves through the bars tells the whole story of the moment: is he making a move in the game, or attempting to strangle the guard and expedite his escape?  The close-up lingers, Bull’s hand shakes, and then dramatically goes for the board.  Violence is momentarily averted, but the shot is enough to dramatically shift us into his mindset and prepare us for the inevitable.  When von Sternberg finally does lens Bull choking the guard, the actual violence takes place off-screen.  The camera remains on Bull’s face.  The effect is multi-fold: it avoids redundancy because von Sternberg has already so accurately anticipated the action, we are witness to the range of emotions fully playing out on Bull’s face, and, given that the guard has been friendly to Bull, it allows us to look away in the same manner that Bull likely prefers to.

Bancroft and von Sternberg continue to show off their versatility, and their interpretation of a character whose motivations seem to be beyond money, and to predict the later “Top of the world, Ma” theatrics of the gangster-noir hybrids that would dominate the 30s and 40s.  Having escaped from jail, and finding himself a hunted man, Bull finds a moment of respite in an apartment.  A suspenseful sound at the door reveals a kitten scratching at a jar of milk.  Bull brings both inside, sticks his finger in the milk and allows the kitten to lick it off.  It’s a tender moment, first imagined by legendary screenwriter Ben Hecht, and brought to fruition by actor and director.  This moment of calm amidst the storm is a summary of a multifaceted character and picture.

- Neal Dhand

Masculin Feminin

Directed by Jean-Luc Godard

France, Sweden, 1966

Godard’s Masculin Feminin is a film on a precipice.  Behind the great director are the carefree films of the first part of the decade: Breathless, A Woman is a Woman, Band of Outsiders, Alphaville.  In front lie those more politically disparate films La Chinoise, Week End, Tout va bien.

Of course it’s too much of a simplification to place the divide right at 1966, yet with de Gaulle’s defeat of the leftist Mitterand in 1965, the time was ripe for Godard’s conversion to Maoism.

Masculin Feminin is a film framed by two deaths.  At the beginning Paul (Jean-Pierre Léaud) and Madeleine (Chantal Goya) witness a lovers’ spat in a café that results in the man being shot to death on the street outside.  Neither witness seems particularly concerned.  In fact, all Paul can think to do, even after seeing the gun, is yell at the woman to close the door.

The end of the film, as with other parts, is shot in documentary style with a character answering an offscreen inquisitor.  Absent here, however, are the sociological implications of earlier scenes.  The ending is a police interrogation where Madeleine and her friend Catherine (Catherine-Isabelle Duport) are asked about Paul’s death.  Catherine claims, somewhat absently, that it wasn’t suicide.  Madeleine seems largely disinterested.

These bookends make up the thematic point of Godard’s self-proclaimed “sociological experiment”: the French youth of the mid-60s are unaffected.  A pall of malaise covers the jump-cut-fun of earlier in the decade.

Indeed, even Godard’s camera seems to have matured.  Fluid movements, blocking that might actually be called traditional, less obscure framing, all dominate what amounts to a semi-tragic love story.

This is not to say that Godard’s film is any less radical than those preceding or following it.  The soundtrack cuts in and out, and gunshots frequently interrupt, pointing to the violence that is seen both on and offscreen.  In the opening scene Godard cements his anti-classical form by cutting from the conversation between Paul and Madeleine in close-up to a wide-shot, revealing the arguing lovers behind the two protagonists.  Though Paul and Madeleine are still closer to camera, the argument is suddenly illogically louder.  This is Godard’s way of giving precedence to what is narratively convenient.  It’s a wink at the ducking audio technique in other films.

While Paul may be the character who proclaims the most purpose in the film – he sprays anti-Vietnam graffiti and peppers a young woman with political questions – his character too seems adrift.  In the obligatory cinema scene in Masculin Feminin he goes out of his way (literally outside of the theater) to tell the projectionist to correct the aspect ratio.  Upon reentering however, he whistles and talks loudly and wants to leave early.  As in his life, his purpose is split between real action and seeing the result of that action through.

The fun of the film-within-the film in this cinema scene – a purported homage to Bergman’s The Silence – is that it feels very much like an exact reflection of the world that Paul and Madeleine live in.  Their world of Coca-Cola and Marxism, as an intertitle suggests, is one also of meaningless conversation and interaction.  Godard boils this down to primitive status by replacing the dialogue within his Bergman-tribute to mere grunts.

- Neal Dhand

Mon Oncle Antoine

Directed by Claude Jutra

Canada, 1971

Mon Oncle Antoine could easily have been directed by Louis Malle.  Its bittersweet tone, its curious, naïve protagonist, its meandering semi-narrative structure all find cousins in such films as Murmur of the Heart (released the same year, 1971), Lacombe Lucien, and Au Revoir Les Enfants.

For that matter, Mon Oncle Antoine could easily have been directed by Bill Forsyth.  Its rejection of traditional narrative principles, its look at a small, tightly-knit community, its balancing act of comedy and coming-of-age all find cousins in such films as That Sinking Feeling, Gregory’s Girl, and Gregory’s Two Girls.

While Malle, Forsyth, and Claude Jutra might form some distinct directorial triumvirate, Mon Oncle Antoine is still uniquely Jutra.

The plotting is simple.  Adolescent Benoit (a magnificent Jacques Gagnon) lives in foster care with his uncle Antoine (Jean Duceppe) and aunt Cecile (Olivette Thibault).  Also in foster care is Carmen (the equally impressive Lyne Champagne).  Together with the md-30s Fernand (played by Jutra himself) the five run a small shop in the small Quebec town.

Filled with now-cliché moments of adolescent, male youth – peering through a door-crack to watch an attractive older woman dress, playfully teasing and flirting with a neighboring girl – Jutra places these scenes in such a moving, carefully observed context that these otherwise-cliché moment take on a power of their own.

Take for example a scene where Benoit attempts to kiss the female object of his juvenile affection, Carmen. Jutra lenses the scene almost silently, relying on the mischievous interaction between the two young characters.  Sent upstairs to the attic of her foster mother’s shop to find a wedding veil, Carmen is not surprised when Benoit follows her.  A short chase begins which ends with the two rolling around on the hardwood floor.  A pause in the action and Benoit places his hand on her breast.  They seem to stop breathing.  She turns her head away from him.  Jutra cuts to a close-up as a single tear rolls down her cheek.  The dusty milieu, the inexperienced lust thickly fill the frame.

As Carmen pushes Benoit away and rushes off, Jutra cuts away again, this time to Fernand who is on the attic stairs.  Fernand’s eyes meet Benoit’s.  It’s clear that Fernand has witnessed the encounter.  No words.  Benoit scurries off.  Fernand finishes his climb and fetches the veil himself.

The rhythm of the close-ups, the scraping sound of limbs and clothing on the hardwood attic floor, the emotion captured in the simple gesture of a head turn all contribute to one of the strongest scenes in the film, and perfectly represent Jutra’s style throughout.  His is observatory not necessarily by keeping the camera wide, but by allowing us to witness actions and interactions, whether in close-up or wide-shot, that feel intimate and personal through the aforementioned aesthetic traits.

This deeply felt scene resonates further when one considers the context.  Only moments before Carmen has seen her biological father.  She encounters him rarely.  He comes only to collect her wages.  She is hopeful when she first sees him, and bitterly, albeit again silently, disappointed when he leaves.  It’s heartbreaking.

The teardrop then has a dual function: Carmen is crying for her broken relation with her father, and for being thrust into this overly sexual position at a young age.

The surrounding scenes of Mon Oncle Antoine operate similarly.  What sets Jutra apart from a Malle or Forsyth, not necessarily for better or for worse, but for his own author-status, is his confidence in his editing process to carry a scene.  It’s not simply the shot that he cuts to, but rather the cadence of the cuts, where the cut means as much to edit away from a shot as it does to edit to the proceeding image.  It’s montage theory put into practice and practical use.

- Neal Dhand

Murmur of the Heart (

Directed by Louis Malle

France, 1971

Louis Malle’s first narrative feature-film was 1958′s Elevator to the Gallows. A jazzy, contribution to the late-noir period it placed Malle conveniently between the too-cool gangster pictures of Jean-Pierre Melville and the too-cool New Wave pictures of Jean-Luc Godard. Instead of continuing on this predetermined track, Malle took a left turn, and then another one. His refusal to be categorized is reminiscent of the varied work of an earlier auteur, the great John Huston.

After adding comedies, documentaries, and stark dramas to his repertoire, Malle turned to the film that, alongside 1974′s Lacombe, Lucien and 1987′s Au Revoir Les Enfants, would establish his reputation as a personal filmmaker, Murmur of the Heart.

Similar to Francois Truffaut’s Antoine Doinel films, Malle takes a look back at his childhood in a coming-of-age film that manages to be gentle, while remaining shocking even in 2011. Unlike Truffaut’s films, Malle’s are largely uninflected, observational, and more narratively free-form.

Louis Malle in this film is Laurent Chevalier, played brilliantly by then-newcomer Benôit Ferreux. Laurent lives with his two brothers Thomas and Marc (Fabien Ferreux and Marc Winocourt) and his parents Charles (Daniel Gélin) and Clara (Lea Massari, L’Avventura, The Things of Life).

Laurent’s brothers have been kicked out of school, they frequent a local brothel, steal their parents’ car, and drink regularly. Laurent, though only 15, is the scholar of the house. He reads Camus, listens to Charlie Parker, and petitions against French involvement in Indochina. Despite having three male figures to look up to Laurent is very much a mama’s boy and it is this mother-son relationship that Malle’s film hinges on.

Murmur of the Heart is overwhelmingly Oedipal, and it would be easy to point out incest as both a primary theme and the ultimate point of the film. This is a mistake. There is a certain amount of shock value in Laurent and Clara’s relationship, and the final act of the film, where a jealous tension builds between Laurent and Clara’s unseen lover intentionally does not shy away from its depiction of illicit sexuality, but Malle does well to keep the tone gentle and innocent. A scene where Laurent lays out his mother’s undergarments in her shape while she is away, giving him a tangible, temporary, surrogate mother, speaks simultaneously to his youth and his budding sexuality.

Malle stages Murmur of the Heart as a series of loosely connected vignettes, where all things sexual – Laurent’s awkward loss of his virginity, an encounter with a particularly amorous priest – act as a psychological confusion for the young protagonist. Long sound bridges connect scenes long after the visual edit, a technique that insists upon the enduring life of each individual scene and reinforces the idea that this film is simply a glimpse and not the whole story.

The real power in Malle’s film is that there is no indictment against or endorsement of any sort of moral system. His film is staunchly youth-driven, where ethics are subservient to the whims of naivety. By keeping the entirety of the film in Laurent’s perspective Malle intentionally tinges it with a false sense of empowerment, mimicking Laurent’s own puffed up courage.

- Neal Dhand

Directed by Emeric Pressburger and Michael Powell

UK – 100 minutes. Color

Criterion Spine # 93

Black Narcissus is one of the seminal works in British film history. Transplanting Anglican nuns to a strange and corrupting land, their identity and peace of mind is threatened by the exotic setting. The altitude and ever blowing winds of their Himalayan “home” resurface forgotten memories and abandoned desires. Their newfound sensual impulses put into question their religious identity and though they continue with their daily activities with a large degree of normalcy, these new feelings threaten their ethical convictions.

Each setting is carefully drawn to inspire in its characters a driving emotional force; the bare, neutral nunnery in Calcutta inspires order, the Irish countryside warm but distant comfort and the Mountain palace, animalistic desire and a distinct sense of isolation. The characters are able to flourish in the Calcutta setting, and are secure within the realm of reliability. With exception of Sister Ruth (Kathleen Byron), who is volatile from the onset, there is no doubt as to the women’s vocational choice early on in the film. However, moving to the mountains, into the “women’s palace” (a long abandoned palace for a previous sultan’s harem) puts into question and unravels their carefully constructed religious personalities.

The Irish countryside is the setting presented by Sister Claudogh’s (Deborah Kerr) flashbacks. They are literally sun-tinted memories from a previous life. In one sequence, the adolescent Kerr stands before a body of water that glows like thousands of crystals hit by a cascading light. A visually stunning composition also reflects her idealized perception of the moment, one that is quite apparently ill constructed and fantastic. Even in retrospect, she seems totally oblivious to her young lovers’ disinterest. Though older and more mature, she maintains these naive ideals of young and romantic love.

A film that can only be described as “feminine”, it carefully paints the motions of these women, young, old, virginal, promiscuous and their struggle with their individual desire in a world that is riling against them. One can find strong and interesting female characters at the heart of nearly every P&P film, and this is no exception. This is perhaps their most overtly sexual venture, exploring the conflicting social norms of different cultures, as well as the perception of the value of the feminine characters through their sexual roles. In this sense, Sister Ruth is the most fascinating. It is never clear why she decided to join this particular religious order; even before we meet her, there are sly remarks as to the fact that she is in the “wrong line”. Her predetermined tendency towards illness, and her feelings of being an outsider, are all aggravated by the mountains, and in particular the presence of the virile Mr. Dean (the incomparable David Farrar). His passing compliments and words of reassurance fuel a horrific transformation in her character, which seems to be linked to her unnatural and asexual life as a nun.

The film’s final act, which focuses on the collapse of the relatively minor power the nuns have established and Sister Ruth’s insanity, is among the greatest sequences in P&P’s oeuvre. Hinting at their next feature, The Red Shoes, the shots in this final act are choreographed by music; each cut, each camera movement is matched with this feverish score. In particular jarring cuts between long shots and close-ups create something of a Soviet-style montage driven by the ecstatic emotion of its leads.

Black Narcissus remains one of the most sensually charged films ever made; due not only to the erotic impulses of its characters, but the rich textures of its image and text. Brilliantly acted, each performer is able to capture the necessary operatic grandiosity needed to compete with the spectacle of nature. Similarly, they channel the quiet introspection needed for the screen, effectively operating on two related though distinct levels to create a uniquely British catalogue of performances. The fact that this film is not a top tier Powell & Pressburger production speaks only for the quality of their overall output, not the weakness of this particular effort. There are few films with no apparent faults, this is one of them.

- Justine Smith

Black Narcissus Trailer

It’s past midnight in the dark Le Poste Parisie recording studio. Miles Davis steps up to the microphone, his face illuminated by the flickering cinema screen in front of him. He sees Jeanne Moreau walking slowly along the Champ-Elysses on a stormy night, her face lit only by the lights glowing inside the cafes, bars and late night amusement arcades. Drawing breath, the first notes to emerge from Davis’ muted trumpet are sombre; a simple aching blues riff, that echoes the heartbreak and desperation of Moreau, as she searches for her lost lover.

Louis Malle’s first feature, Elevator to the Gallows (Ascenseur pour l’échafaud), was based on a pulp novel by Noël Calef, which he had picked up in a train station, and later adapted with Roger Nimier.

The narrative follows ex-paratrooper Julien Tavernier (Maurice Ronet) and his lover Florence Carala (Jeanne Moreau), whom devise a plan to murder her husband, an arms dealer, who also happens to be Julien’s boss. Having killed him, Julien gets trapped in the elevator and fails to arrive at their agreed rendezvous. A distraught Florence wanders the streets of Paris in search of Julien, afraid he has not carried out the plan and has abandoned her. Meanwhile, two teenagers steal Julien’s car and arrive at a new Motel on the outskirts of Paris, where they commit a double murder and inadvertently leave evidence behind that implicates him.

Malle, a fan of American film noir and Hitchcock, shot the film using the acclaimed cinematographer Henri Decaë. To update the traditional image of Paris and create a contemporary thriller, he incorporated office blocks, motels, and new highways into the backdrop. In a final touch of modernity, he disregarded the use of a conventional musical score, and used the cool, underground music of the day: jazz.

By the end of 1957, Miles Davis was moving away from the sound that he had created with Birth of the Cool. Influenced by George Russell’s theories on ‘modal’ music, he was looking to create music that stripped away the use of chord changes as the harmonic structure.

Without a solid band and these new musical concepts fermenting, Davis accepted an invitation from Marcel Romano to play at the Club Saint-Germain in Paris. Romano put together a group of musicians for him, consisting of René Urtreger (piano), Barney Wilen (saxophone), Pierre Michelot (bass) and the legendary Kenny Clarke (drums), an influential figure in the creation of Be-bop, playing alongside Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie.

Arriving in Paris, Davis found a culture open to jazz, where jukeboxes in bars and cafes had the latest be-bop records, and hip young kids were reading Faulkner and watching the movies of Nicholas Ray. Davis was introduced to Malle by the singer Juliette Greco, and agreed to record the score for Elevator To the Gallows, then in post-production. Malle, who was a knowledgeable fan of jazz music, asked Davis if he would improvise the music, and showed him just a few fragments of the first rough cut of the film. Davis quickly sketched down some basic ideas and musical themes, and that was it, until the day of the session.

On the night of the recording, December 4^th, 1957, each member of the band set up in front of a cinema screen on to which the film was projected. Davis showed the musicians the basic themes he had written, over which he would improvise, and with Malle, they quickly identified the scenes requiring music. Finally, the studio engineers let the opening credits roll and the band began to play.

As the camera pulls away from Julien stood at his office window, speaking to Florence on the phone, we hear Davis’ trumpet play a simple blues melody that will overshadow the tragic lovers’ story. In keeping with his ideas on modal music, the chords are spare, minor key, and the bass line a simple looping motif. Later in the film, as Florence stalks the night searching for Julien, she is seen muttering, almost mouthing the notes of Davis’ trumpet melody to herself. The trumpet follows and speaks for her, when all she can do is shake her head in the rain and mournfully roll her eyes.

In some of these scenes, Davis asked Urtreger not to play piano. He wanted the music to be more abstract and airy, detached from chord sequences. Urtreger described it as ‘a painter taking out the lines’. This abstraction gave his playing an almost human voice; when Florence enters a busy local café, a dialogue emerges between Davis’ chattering trumpet and the rarely heard saxophone of Wilen, that mimics the murmur of the after hours conversation.

In the last third of the film, Davis’ trumpet disappears and the only music used is Clarke’s sizzling hi-hats and Michelot’s bubbling bass, as two detectives interrogate Julien in a shadowy room. Malle leaves the trumpet out until the final scene, when Florence turns up at the Motel dark room just as photos of her and Julien are developing in the water. The detective explains that she is charged as an accomplice to her husband’s murder, and Davis repeats the blues theme from the opening credits, thus bookending the film, in which we never actually see the two lovers together save for in photographs.

The recording of the score was started and completed on the same night, and although Miles Davis’ music is only in the film for twenty minutes, its mood remains with the viewer throughout. Malle’s sparing use of the music echoes Davis’ sympathetic use of space in his playing; Malle doesn’t fill each scene with music, but leaves many sequences silent and brings the music in later on, to add layers of suspense or emotional impact.

After Elevator to the Gallows was released, Malle and Moreau both became ‘stars’ and the film helped pave the way for the Nouvelle Vague. Louis Malle remained humble enough to state that “without Davis I don’t think the film would be as good.”

Miles Davis returned to New York and formed a new band featuring John Coltrane and Cannonball Adderley. With them, he recorded the albums Milestones and Kind of Blue, the latter perhaps the most well know and influential jazz record of all time. He used his new techniques derived from the ‘modal’ system – basic sketches, minimal chord progressions, simple melodic themes, and improvisation – all ideas that first bore fruition on the Elevator to the Gallows score.

- Thomas Jarvis

“Despite the film’s minor problems, Sisters is a film that remains worthwhile for any fan of Hitchcock or horror.”

Sisters

Directed by Brian De Palma

USA – 93 min. Color

Criterion Spine #89

One of Brian De Palma’s best known early works, Sisters is draws on both the psychological thriller and the kind of body horror one expects from the likes of David Cronenberg. In a set-up reminiscent of Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window, a reporter witnesses a murder in the across apartment, but when she calls in the police to investigate, there is no indication of any wrong-doing. The familiarity of the basic narrative, however, is twisted by absurdities; for one, the main suspect in the murder is a French Canadian model who was separated from her conjoined twin the previous spring.

The similarities this film shares with the work of Alfred Hitchcock does not end with the story, and De Palma’s aesthetic is filled with auditory and visual homages to the master of suspense. Brian De Palma’s influences have never been a secret, and his use of other filmmakers’ works consistently treads a very fine line between tribute and rip-off. The affection that he obviously has for Hitchcock however, does not eclipse his own unique vision, and the film takes more than its share of unexpected twists and turns.

The effectiveness of these twists is directly linked to the audiences’ understanding and expectations of psychological thrillers, and though in recent years movies like Jacob’s Ladder and The Sixth Sense consistently play with our expectations of narrative and genre, Sisters borrows heavy use of  Hitchcock in its early scenes creates a misplaced sense of ease in the audience. When it begins to depart from the trappings, the events that follow become all the more disturbing. These plays with tone and style are not easy, and they can alienate as much of the audience that they endear. The film’s overzealousness in particular may be off-putting to some, especially in the overbearing use of Bernard Hermann’s score. The music is sometimes so loud and abrasive that it is able to dominate the events happening onscreen. In particular, during the murder sequence, it is so loud that it is difficult to concentrate on the peculiarities of the style and editing. This is a shame, because I think there are few filmmakers who have a better flair for montage than De Palma.

Margot Kidder as a French Canadian is a sight to behold, and I’ve yet to see any actor outside of Quebec to really master the nuances of the Quebecois accent. As a Montrealer, I find her attempt amusing, but it doesn’t really detract from the strength of her physical performance. I have always found her to be a fascinating screen presence, perhaps because she is so unhinged and physically engaged in her roles. I think in particularly she excelled within the horror genre, where her mortality and psychology have to be exaggerated as a means of engaging completely the consequence of violence on the human body. Though very different, her performance here and in Black Christmas are the stand-outs of her career.

What really makes Sisters worthwhile, however, are the strange quirks of the narrative and the cryptic final act. There is much debate over the open-ended final scene, and probably more over the strange flashback/dream sequence that leads into it. It is something one would expect in an obscure European art film, not an American horror film.  The moral issues relating to human nature, mental illness and the human body are fascinating, though perhaps somewhat underdeveloped. In particular, the use of hypnosis seems to have just been thrown into the narrative with little thought and though the effect is fascinating, it is also a bit disorienting. I can’t help feeling that some of the unsettling nature of the film’s finale is due to inept writing – it sits oddly against the strength of the film’s aesthetic and overall narrative.

Despite the film’s minor problems, Sisters is a film that remains worthwhile for any fan of Hitchcock or horror. It defies the odds and nearly forty years after its release, still has the power to shock.

- Justine Smith

“What really sets the film apart is its upbeat and hopeful tone. It is easily one of the most endearing films in the last few decades…”

Chungking Express (1994)

Directed by Kar Wai Wong

Hong Kong – 102 min. Color

Criterion Spine #453

A masterpiece in levity and pop cultural reverence, Wong Kar Wai’s 1994 film Chungking Express, uses pop art elements in order to create a unique vision of love in the modern world. Using the premise of a crime or gangster film, two independent narratives are presented, both featuring heart broke police officers that find love under unusual circumstances.

This film tells two somewhat similar but unrelated stories about loneliness and alienation in the big city. In the first story, a policeman pines after his former girlfriend and gives himself 30 days to find another woman; in the second story, another policeman catches the eye of an attractive waitress, who’s intent on completely rearranging his life

The film is heavily referential to Wong Kar-Wai’s early work which is situated almost primarily within the gangster and criminal genre. However, the film subverts all expectations of these previous efforts, and demonstrates a significant departure in his filmography. The transformation is made especially apparent by the mid-film shift, which highlights the separation of contemporary culture from the criminal element.

Chungking Express borrows heavily from pop culture. Most notably, the film is saturated with disposal consumer culture. References to particular brands are consistent, as is the focus on material products. The use of advertising signifies a dissolve between high and low art, making the disposable immortal and beautiful. Also in the dissolution of genre conventions, he is blurring the lines between “low art” genre cinema and “high art” art house cinema.

What really sets the film apart is its upbeat and hopeful tone. It is easily one of the most endearing films in the last few decades, suggesting that despite the loneliness and isolation that urbanization has caused, love is still possible. The means and circumstances have changed, but the possibilities for happiness remain.

- Justine Smith