The Making of Fanny & Alexander (1982)

I loved Fanny & Alexander, and of course I love Ingmar himself. Document Fanny och Alexander (aka The Making of) is a great film, not only because you get a glimpse into the mind and the working process of one of our century's greatest artists, but because you get a very intimate look into the filmmaking process in general. With Bergman, even a Making Of is approached as a piece of art, serving not only to entertain and educate the viewer, but to invoke a feeling, an emotion. Bergman chooses some great moments here, some funny (a hilarious scene where a cat won't stay still), some fascinating (most of Sven Nykvist's camerawork) and some that are downright emotional (Gunnar Bjornstrand struggling to keep his hand steady due to his age and illness). It's full of Bergman's trademark humility and self-effacing humor. He's never afraid to poke fun at himself and point out his own mistakes.

It's interesting to see all the small details that Bergman struggles to fit into his films. Also, the subtle nature of Nykvist's camerawork is given a lot of screen time. The documentary on him, Light Keeps Me Company is pretty good, but nothing compared to seeing him at work, creating his shots. Another interesting thing, kind of funny to see, is the actors all out of costume, early on, getting acquainted. After viewing the work itself, it's weird but somewhat comforting to see Emilie and Alexander out of costume, the former looking quite beautiful with long hair, the latter chomping on a sandwich.

Between this, Ingmar Bergman Makes a Movie, the interview on the Cries and Whispers disc, and the countless commentaries and interviews on other discs, it's great to have so much insight into Bergman himself and his creative process. The Making of Fanny & Alexander is my favorite, simply because you can see Bergman at work, the old coot he is. My friend Brent once complained about Bergman's interviews and books, because he often gives little mention of the technical aspects of his films, how he moves the camera and such, but I think that with Bergman, it's less about being knowledgeable about film and what effect you want to achieve, but simply art, something that you create from your heart. But hey, that's just me.

Oldboy (2003)

Oldboy is #97 on the IMDb Top 250, so naturally I had to check it out. I'm not too big on modern Asian cinema as it tends to be pretty exploitive and shallow, or at least the films that make a big splash here in the States are. So, I was kind of trepidatious about Oldboy, but it turned out to be a great slice of filmmaking.

The most exciting part of Oldboy is the fact that it grabs you with one question - why? Why was he held for 15 years? This basic question propels the narrative and really keeps you interested in the film, as you're staring wide-eyed, trying to discern any small clue that will help you discover the answer. Because of this, I'm not quite sure if the film would hold up to repeat viewings. Even if not, the first time, it's still a hell of a ride. Usually, it takes a lot to surprise me and catch me off guard, so I was amazed when the ending to the film did exactly that. For anyone stumbling across this, I won't dream of spoiling it for you, but personally, I didn't see it coming. Not from a mile away.

Boudu Saved from Drowning (1932)

So, I've loved every Renoir I've seen thus far. Boudu isn't his best work, but it's still a great gem of a film. I can't possibly go into as much detail as Eric Rohmer and critic Jean Douchet do on the interview on the disc, but I did really enjoy Boudu. I'm always impressed at how easy it is to see a Renoir film. He pulls it off so effortlessly, like it's second-nature. Yet, it's always incredibly entertaining and complex.

Michel Simon gives an excellent performance as Boudu, the perfect example of a tramp, as he's called in the film. He's an elemental force in the film, full of life, always moving and bringing the frame around him to life. I love the way he walks in the film, with all of his limbs going limp, like a child's does. Despite the fact that no 'sides' are taken in the film, the viewer becomes jealous of Boudu and his easy-going nature. A highly enjoyable film, another triumph for Renoir and Criterion alike.

The Flowers of St. Francis (1950)

I'm not a religious person. I've never read the bible, save for quotes here and there, and I know next to nothing about apostles and Holy Ghosts. It's not that I don't care, it's just that it doesn't interest me much, and it doesn't really make a whole lot of sense to me. But, that's just me. Nonetheless, I'm always fascinated with stories about other people's faith, probably because I can never muster up any of my own. Roberto Rossellini's The Flowers of St. Francis is just that, the story of one man's faith and humility, and how it affected those around him. It's an incredibly interesting and effective piece of work.

After the credits, the first thing we see is a black screen as Francis begins to pray to God, thanking him for the sun. Essentially, Rossellini is showing us that his prayers and faith are what Francis values more than anything else. I couldn't help but have a deep admiration for Francis because of his faith that God will take care of anything he needs, and the amount of humility he has. In the film, the monks give everything they have to others less fortunate. They don't spread their message of peace by giving sermons, they do so with actions, with their own humility and generosity.

Rossellini seems to always capture the elements in the frame. Very often, the sky is given a lot of space in the frame, fire is always completely prevalent when it's on the screen. Rossellini is emphasizing these elements that the monks themselves are so thankful for. The monks joy for these elements and life itself is infectious, as it's hard not to get caught up when they're so excited over making a bed of flowers for the visiting Saint Clare.

The climax of the film, well, as much as a climax as a loose collection of vignettes on St. Francis of Assisi can have, comes in the form of a face-to-face meeting between one of the monks and a Tyrant who's invaded a local town. The bandits are all shown as caricatures, dumb harbingers of war without much independent thought. The Tyrant himself is encased in a giant suit of armor, completely incapable of even lifting his own helmet to see anything. Encases in his show of power, he's completely immobile; a joke. It's incredible to see Ginepro, the monk, in the face of adversity, as he simply accepts whatever happens to him, knowing that God will take care of him. Rossellini uses deliberate framing in the scene following, where Ginepro is confronted by the Tyrant, using two-shots to show the proximity of the characters to one another, emphasizing the tension in the situation. I wonder if Bergman wasn't influenced by this scene when he shot the indoor scenes, namely in the pub, in The Seventh Seal.