Hors de prix

Look at that shot above and tell me it doesn’t arouse even the faintest of curiosities deep inside you, underneath all that flea-infested swag that Hollywood regularly thrusts into everyone of us. Well, Hors de prix is not far from brusque Hollywood-ish sentimentality, but it does seem to withhold enough mystery about its characters to keep the film interesting for some time. Whip together a sly sense of humor carefully crafted by the leading characters’ lack of morality and a seemingly endless supply of charm and sexuality coupled with lavish decors of upper-class living in southern France and the carnal weaknesses of their affluent elderly counterparts, and we got a delectable yet frivolous comedy about a man’s unrequited love for a high-class “prostitute”.

Hors de prix (or Priceless, as it’s known in the Western world)  has one of those disgustingly romantic-sounding taglines - “She only dated men with money…until she met a man with a heart“, and the film maneuvers dangerously close to cloying ineptitude. But the characters are quite fun to watch, especially Irene (Audrey Tautou), who reveals a boyish charm underneath all her shrwedness and insecurity. There are of course “recurring” moments that get recalled just enough times to make a dint in the audience’s temporal memory, but none of these really should be anything new to the experienced wayfarer of cinema. While it does posses minor social commentary on the relationships between the wealthy and the working-class, given a choice, I think I’d probably prefer Leconte over Salvadori for contemporary French comedies.

The Band’s Visit

I’m eager to see this Eran Kolirin debut which premiered at Cannes last year. My other greatly anticipated viewing of the term, Fellini’s 8 1/2, was a bit of a letdown, probably because my expectations were set unreasonably high (as usual). On the other hand, I loved the surrealistic and eloquently mangled El Topo. Anyway, as of now, I just wish I had more time to spare.

Persepolis

On a beautiful night, with clear skies, mild winds and an almost full moon, I watched Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis, a deeply sensuous work, painfully autobiographical and frighteningly real. Persepolis’ visual style mimics Satrapi’s famous “graphic novel” of the same name. Viscerally disturbing at times, it combines the cruel depiction of an oppressive Iranian regiment with a mildly upbeat and catalyzing humor that is deliriously addictive, yet quite subjective and idiosyncratic.

There’s an interview of Marjane with the NYT here. She sounds very blunt and seems to possess a naturally polarizing character.

Miss Cuthbert

She’s so achingly beautiful. Makes my heart bleed.

[photo ©WireImage.com]

Claude Jade Interview

The stunning Claude Jade in an old interview beside Truffaut.

Some thoughts

There’s already a lot written about Coen Brothers’ No Country for old men and I do not wish to descend into a redundant interpretation. Instead I shall say that unlike Pan’s Labyrinth, in this case, the film matched (in fact, exceeded) whatever expectation I subconsciously had. The broadening arc cast over every individual’s (mis)guided interpretation of life, the hazy envelope that covers acts of will and faith and the underlying nature of causality are just some of the film’s powerful revelations, delivered through a mass of bloody chaos and paranoia. Just brilliant.

Atonement was another film I watched over the past couple of weeks. The film has a lot of potential, but I just wish Joe Wright had decided to keep the film’s cinematography clean and simple, rather than imbuing it with pointless stylistic touches of supposed splendor.

Before the Devil knows you’re Dead was a disappointment for me. The film’s first half is a frustrating and condescending manipulation of the audience, frequently reversing the sequences it makes us assume, while Lumet strikes me as being impatient in the latter half. I really have to watch some of his earlier films.

Meanwhile, I’m waiting (almost breathlessly) for this winter term’s showings of Nights of Cabiria, 4 months…., There will be Blood and The Savages. Speaking of Mr.Anderson, there’s a funny article where he comments about No Country for Old Men: ““You really think that movie was better than ours! C’mon, do you really believe that?”.

Rivette’s Secret Defense

Excerpts from a Senses of Cinema article on Secret Défense:

The story of Secret Défense comes in waves-long stretches of quiet weave in and out of long stretches of talkiness-and the action swings, pendulum-like, from Paris to the country, and back, and back again. Thanks to this unusual pace, each moment that could be considered a plot development feels like something much more authentic. Life doesn’t consist of a rapid succession of dramatic moments; every important action in our lives struggles to stay afloat amidst a sea of contemplation, interpretation, and stabilization, stretching away on all sides.
…
The danger of Rivette’s approach, of course, is boredom. And indeed, the movie feels extremely long, much longer than its three hour running time. But it’s not boring for a second; it needs to feel long. To deny us a sense of duration is a great cinematic sin, a waste of one of the medium’s most basic qualities, but it’s a sin that Rivette, the master of the generous running time, is never guilty of. It’s not that you’re unaware of the time passing; it’s precisely that you are aware of it, but aware of it as you would be if you were within the movie rather than without.
…

Sleepy Hall

Staying awake for 36 hours and then watching a film is something I wouldn’t recommend doing (often, at least). I remember my first such “sleepless” experience: sitting in the front row for Von Trier’s Element of Crime. Every time I closed my eyes, I’d drift off into a 30 second lull, and wake up to the darkness of the cinema hall. The film didn’t help either. The scenes were all mostly shot at night and shades of black permeated the screen at all times. I just wonder, if the film had been Europa (his second film) instead, I’d slept like a log from the hypnotic opening scene itself, which incidentally bears a close resemblance to Lynch’s opening sequence in Lost Highway.

Just yesterday was my second “sleepless” film, Julie Delpy’s 2 Days in Paris. The film was alright; it underplays the role of Paris, which is good, but features some unlikeable characters throughout. And Delpy is as beautiful as in Blanc.

The Shop on Main Street

Jan Kadar and Elmar Klos’ influential film of the sixties is a scathing critique on the Holocaust and Aryanization that expelled Jews from their country and occupation, replacing them with the “superior” Aryans. The film carries with it a faint sense of humor that provides relief against the dramatic background of the Jew expulsion.

There’s even a fairly long (and hilarious) scene of drunken revelry that runs into the early hours of the morning, waking the cocks in the farm. Ida Kaminská is brilliant in her role of an old deaf Jew who owns the titular shop, and is unable comprehend the events happening around her, finding solace only in her cooking, listening to the gramaphone and singing praises of sons and daughters who’ve abandoned her. I read later that the film itself is notorious for not being affiliated with a particular country, Czech or Slovakia, since it was made in the days of Czechoslovakia.

Jan Kadar himself has an essay at Criterion. A couple of excerpts:

***
The most perfect reconstruction of a situation—and this brings us to The Shop on Main Street—cannot outdo a picture of fascism concentrated in the tragedy of a single human being.
…
When I thought about casting the part of Heinrich Lautmann’s widow, who runs the shop that sells ribbons, lace, buttons, I was at a loss. Czechoslovakia has no actress of the older generation with the experience of life to create such a complex, exceptional character. But Polish colleagues drew our attention to Ida Kaminská. Over 60, she is manager, producer, and leading actress at the Jewish Theater in Warsaw. She is a daughter of Esther Rachel Kaminská, the famous Polish actress who founded the theater just 100 years ago. The Kaminská family represents something of a dynasty of actors for Ida. Her husband, daughter, and son-in-law are now acting at the theater. Ida Kaminská carries the widow Lautmann’s fate within herself, and she plays from actual experience.
***

[An article regarding the film's nationality].

The White Dove

Frantisek Vlacil’s The White Dove is an extraordinary film. Made in 1960, and part of the Czech New Wave, the film is beautifully done with frequent low angled shots lovingly looking upon the film’s characters, in particular capturing the desolation and crushed hopes of the young boy Michael (Michal) and the sullen beauty and melancholic appeal of the girl Susan.

Michal and Susan represent opposite ends of the childhood spectrum; Michal leads a constricted life, in meek submission of his failure to stand up to his friends. He is now voluntarily handicapped and refuses to climb out of the wheelchair. The cameara reveals the dark spaces around him, the black corners that shroud his apartment, the spacial depth outside the window and the narrow corridors of the building.

They together serve the purpose of identifying a kind of congestion, restraint, loneliness and helplessness in his life. The urban locality is dull and bleak, seeming to close down on him from everywhere. All this frustration is vented out by his shooting a white dove perched on top of his apartment building.

The dove belongs to Susan and has lost its way in a race. Susan represents the freedom that’s missing in Michal’s life. Surrounded by the calmness of the infinite sea, she lives an uninhibited and carefree life. Her sorrow and pain at having lost the dove is what connects her with Michal in a strange way. The dove in essence transfers her gaiety to Michal and infuses his dullness into her formerly vibrant self.

The artist and Susanne’s brother seem to play secondary roles but are equally important in the film. The artist is the one who rescues the dove and enables Michal to rediscover his childhood thus freeing him from his self-enforced captivity. His drawing of the white dove flying against a black sky and a bloodshot sun with flowers looming in the foreground is one of the many many beautiful moments in the film.

Vlacil’s handling of the camera, especially in scenes where he shoots Michal remind me of similar techniques employed by Tarkovsky when he focuses on Ivan in Ivan’s childhood. They both seem extremely similar to me: low angles slightly looking up to the face and evoking a pathos that no other film can match, and their tracking of subtle movement both on and off the frame are remarkable. This film’s scanty dialogue and brilliant use of music make it an even more indulging experience. The last shot of the dove, finally freed and flying away from the city is connected to its destination and to Susan by the sounds of the water splashing on a beach. It anticipates an untied and memorable childhood for both the protagonists (and the dove).

[An article on Frantisek Vlacil's films].