Day for Night (1973)

I don't know why, but Truffaut almost always lets me down. Maybe it's because he's got such a great reputation, but his films never seem to measure up to what I expect of them. Most notably Jules at Jim, which wasn't a bad film by any stretch of the imagination, but rang sort of hollow for me, mostly because I couldn't relate to any of the characters. Day for Night, I liked a whole lot more, and I have a feeling will probably grow on me more the more I see it.

What really impressed me the most, surprisingly, were the characters. They all seemed so well-developed to me, and I actually identified with most of them. I think what helps the film most is the way that you feel like a member of the crew, watching the film yourself. Kind of a fly-on-the-wall point of view. But it really helps to draw the viewer into the picture and identify with the characters and take an interest in what's happening to them.

Day for Night has got some really good dialogue, and some great quotable lines. Especially when Alphonse begins asking everybody "Are women magic?" Plenty of other great moments in the film. And hey, now I know what "les salades de l'amour" means. Pickles of love, eh Francois?

Battleship Potemkin (1925)

I've only seen a handful of silent films. Off the top of my head, Nosferatu, The Lodger, Metropolis, one or two Garbos maybe...So I'm not exactly a connaisseur when it comes to silent film. But, I can say, without a doubt, that Potemkin is my favorite thus far.

It's hard to describe, in some ways. But if you've seen it, you know its greatness. The plot is so well-done, especially for the time in which it was made. It's actually riveting, it really hooked me from the get-go. You really feel the sailors' plight, and get upset that they have to eat rancid meat and endure punishment. This is due in no small part to the excellent photography, shooting the men through gratings, letting the shadows of ropes fall over their bodies, exemplifying the tension and unrest they feel.

Then, when the Cossacks come and slaughter all the innocent civilians..man oh man, such great filmmaking. It's just incredible to watch. Obviously, the oft-parodied and lifted shots involving the baby carriage are just great, but the part right before it, where the Mother gets gunned down at the top of the steps is just as good. It's really suspenseful to see her fall and struggle to stay alive for her child. Then, the carriage goes down the steps, flying over corpses, their hands outstretched on the steps. The baby itself probably represents a kind of natural innocence, transending over the evil and slaughter.

The score, probably not the original, was great as well. It added much to the film, and complimented it well all along. Just a great, great film. I can't wait for Criterion to get their mitts on it.

Umberto D. (1952)

I loved the Bicycle Thief and I've been on a neorealist kick, so it's natural I check out De Sica's Umberto D. I really loved it. I found myself really relating to the old fella. In fact, it's strange, but I find myself usually attracted towards films with an elderly main character. Out of every other Kurosawa flick, with their kick-ass samurai action, my personal favorite is Ikiru. Same goes for Bergman and Wild Strawberries, minus the samurai bit. I couldn't tell you why, maybe it's because I had a very close relationship with my late Grandmother, maybe I just have a natural respect or affinity for the elderly. Maybe I fancy myself an 'old soul' at heart. Who knows? So, not surprisingly, I loved Umberto D.

In fact, I think De Sica presents Umberto in a way that all viewers identify with him. We all see our own Grandfather in him, or maybe just elderly people we know firsthand. This really makes the viewer care deeply for Umberto and wish things go well for him.

On the same hand, I have to wonder if Umberto's landlady's characterization is a little bit too heavy-handed. She just seems a little too evil and selfish to be real. But maybe that's just me. Maybe she just happens to be one of those greedy, selfish people who wouldn't think twice about putting themselves before an elderly pensioner.

I think, in many ways, the film is a struggle between dignity and survival, trying to find a middle ground between the two. The longer Umberto lives and tries to survive in the world, the more of his own dignity he sacrifices. It would be easier if he were to just die, but it's ultimately Flike who persuades him not to, without any words. Speaking of which, I really loved their relationship. Flike is Umberto's only friend in the world, and he cares so deeply for him, he treats him so well, that it really makes him endearing to the audience. And in Umberto's frantic search for him at the pound, you feel the same way as he does, desperately hoping he finds Flike. And when he does, he holds him so tightly that the tears welled up in my eyes, because it was such a beautiful moment.

Last Year at Marienbad (1961)

Alain Resnais' Last Year at Marienbad is one of the most frustrating movies I've yet to come across. It has no sense of time or space. Time jumps around, and sometimes the characters will continue their conversation as if nothing has happened, other times an entirely new scene is started this way. It's incredibly unconventional and enigmatic. I'm not even sure how I feel about it, because there's a fine line between enigmatic and thought-provoking and stupidly confusing.

Marienbad has a great, dreamlike atmosphere. It really feels as if you're in a trance-like state for 90 minutes. Whereas other films are obviously surreal, Marienbad has a pretty standard story and characters in a completely unconventional narrative. The camerawork is beautiful, and along with the music and somber delivery, really adds to the dreamlike atmosphere of the film.

I don't even know where to start in attempting to make sense of the film itself. The folks in the spa seem to be perpetually playing games, card games, parlor games with toothpicks and such, with a character supposedly named M always managing to outwit the rest of the residents. This seems to be what Resnais is doing in Marienbad, always trying to outwit and confuse the viewer. The characters often stop in mid-action while the camera tracks around, capturing them as if they were statues. This, of course, brings to mind the statue that A and X discuss in the courtyard. There can be many different interpretations as to what the statue of the 3 figures really means, perhaps as many as people that see it. Maybe the film is the same way.

This is the kind of movie that can haunt you, egg you on and challenge you to unravel its mysteries. I'm not quite sure if there's anything to it, or it it's simply an exersize in post-modernism. Maybe time will tell.

The Cranes are Flying (1957)

The Cranes are Flying is a pretty good slice of Russian melodrama, set during World War II. It focuses on a young couple, blissfully in love. They're torn apart when he volunteers to fight, leaving her home, trying to fend off the romantic advances of his cousin. The plot is a little bit cliched, in spots, but it really delivers, and at the very end, I was tearing up a tiny bit.

There's a great moment about 5 minutes into the film. Boris drops Veronica off at her apartment building, but follows her inside and up the stairs. They finally agree on a meeting place and he starts back down the stairs. Suddenly, he calls for her once more and runs up towards her apartment. The camera is focused on him, as he's front and center. The audience waits to see if she'll hear him and walk back into frame from the left. It's only a few seconds of the film, but it really involves the viewer as he waits with bated breath for Veronica to reappear from the left. We feel the same as Boris does, hoping she'll reappear, which is probably meant to mirror later in the film, when Veronica waits at home, for word from Boris.

Cinematographer Sergei Urusevsky seems to be very fond of low angles in this film, although not as extreme as Wajda was in Ashes and Diamonds. I spent a good while trying to figure out what it could signify, if anything, but I was at a loss. Though, there are some other great visual moments in the film. When Veronica rides the trolley to go see Boris as he's leaving, the camera is inside with her, and suddenly whips around as she gets off. It follows her outside, trailing her through the crowd as she makes her mad dash. Then, still in one continuous shot, it pans up to reveal the tanks rolling down the street, tossing steam everywhere, with Veronica in the middle of it all, such a tiny figure, engulfed in the smoke. The tanks, probably serving as a metaphor for war, their waste enveloping Veronica, just as the war itself will soon do.

It seems to be a film of parallels and comparisons. We're shown the same shots before the war, the idyllic streets, so peaceful and warm. Then, after war breaks out, we're shown the same angles, with metal girders crowding the landscape, rain and fog devouring the light. Veronica's life at home and Boris' out on the front lines are both echoed in one another. During Boris' death, the trees swirl around him in a dizzying frenzy. After being unknowingly accused at the hospital, Veronica runs away in a frantic dash, the trees whizzing by her in the same way that they swirled around Boris as he died.

The aforementioned accusation scene was great, a real highlight of the film. Close ups really showed the pain on Veronica's face, thanks in no small part to the wonderful performance. It goes a long way to show the emptiness and silent pain at the heart of the film.

Unfaithfully Yours (1948)

Damn, what a funny movie. Seriously, one of the funniest movies I've ever seen. Not only that, but bloody entertaining and well-plotted to boot. I've only seen The Lady Eve, which disappointed me slightly, and Sullivan's Travels which I really liked, but now I can really see why Sturges is so well-loved.

In Unfaithfully Yours, Rex Harrison plays a symphony conductor who begins to suspect his wife is cheating on him. While conducting, he begins to have elaborate fantasies of how he'll get his revenge after the concert. Heck, I don't think murder has ever been so hilarious. The dialogue, especially early on, is quick-witted and really funny. Rex Harrison is awesome in the role, he really plays the smarmy prick to perfection. My Fair Lady was decent, but THIS is the Rex Harrison I remembered playing Caesar in Cleopatra.

What really impressed me was the use of sound in the film. As he imagines getting his revenge, the music he conducts underscores his fantasies, and does so brilliantly. The music rises and falls in accordance to the onscreen action, and crescendoes at just the right moments. Even outside of the symphony, there are little audio touches, exaggerated sound effects that serve just to get a little chuckle out of the audience at moments where it's needed most.

Towards the end, of course, things don't go as planned for the poor conductor, as he pretty much becomes a Disney-style buffoon. What follows is a great scene of slapstick in which Murphy's Law applies, hilariously. Harrison plays it really well, because all along you realize what a jerk he's being, and he reveals himself to be the fool you thought he was. Nothing can top the scene where the woman he's planning to kill has to put a band-aid on his finger while he pleads with her to "be gentle".

Blood of a Poet (1930)

A looong time ago, I bought Cocteau's Orphic Trilogy set and am just not getting around to watching it. I'm always surprised at how small Cocteau's body of work is for such an influential director, much like Leone or Tarkovsky. In fact, Cocteau didn't even think of himself as a filmmaker foremost, as I understand.

I can't try to make sense of Blood of a Poet, at least not after a single viewing. An artist is painting a self-portrait and notices the mouth is moving, so he rubs it off with his hand. Now, the mouth is on his hand. He rubs it off onto a statue and the statue tells him to go into his mirror. He does this and finds himself in a hotel hallway, where he peers into the keyholes and sees bizarre images. He ends up shooting himself. Then, we witness a snowball fight involving young schoolboys. One hits another with a couple of snowballs and kills him, promting them to run off. Blood spills out of his mouth, and a young couple plays cards on a table above his corpse. A black angel with a limp comes down and places a sheet over him, making him seemingly disappear. The man playing cards is revealed to be the poet from earlier.

It's a surreal film, much like Bunuel's stuff, or to a lesser degree, Lynch's. Although, it doesn't seem to have the same striking effect that Bunuel's work does, simply because Bunuel's work is much more of an attack than Cocteau's. Cocteau is merely exploring the cinematic medium, and wonderfully at that. Blood of a Poet seems kind of like a grand fever dream, a journey into a fantastic world full of unforgettable, deeply affecting images. I assume that there's a rhyme and reason behind it all, but I'm at a complete loss for what it could be. I definitely have to watch it again soon, to study it, to try to figure it all out. But, taken at face value, it's an incredible cinematic work, exploring dreams, images, poetry, death, and film itself.

Rome, Open City (1945)

Roberto Rossellini's Rome, Open City was pretty much the inaugural film of the Italian Neorealism movement. After seeing De Sica's The Bicycle Thief and really digging the Neorealist style, I moved it to the top of my queue.

I wasn't aware that it was a public domain title, though. Man, what a horrible disc. It's window-boxed on all four sides, has no extras whatsoever, and the print is incredibly scratchy. The subtitles are burned in, and in all honesty, only seem to translate a third of the dialogue spoken. I imagine that sometimes speech is compressed when subtitled, so the audience can read it more easily, but this is just ridiculous. Not only is it frustrating, it really takes away from the characterization in the film. At one point, Anna Magnani's character asks a man how he knows a girl he mentions. After this, from my extremely basic Italian, I gather that she apologizes for asking such a personal question. Yet, only her asking the question is subtitled. Without knowing she apologized afterwards, you lose the little bit of characterization that shows what a warm, kind person she is. Makes me wonder how many other little touches are lost due to the subs.

About the film, it was very good, but I didn't think it was great. It was different than most other Neorealist works. It's actually got a lot of intrigue and suspense, which surprised me. A little bit of action as well. The plot focuses on the freedom fighters in Rome during the Nazi occupation. I'm always intrigued by this period in Italian history, just because of the struggles that ordinary people endured simply to survive. Rome, Open City deals more with the freedom fighters than with the ordinary citizens, like say a De Sica would, but it's still a good flick.

As usual, I loved Magnani's performance in the film. She dives into it, like all her other roles, with incredible gusto and bravado. Yet, she shows a very sympathetic and warm side at the same time. I was pretty much in shock when she got shot near the end of the film. Here's the heart of the film, the main, or at least most identifiable character, shot down in the street! How dare they! It's pretty much what Psycho or Planet of the Apes should have been, had their big events not been spoiled so many times throughout the years.

Tomorrow, I'm taking an hour's trip to Boston's Landmark Theater, barring any traffic because hey, it's Boston. So, I'm headed there to check out Louis Malle's Elevator to the Gallows, then Ingmar Bergman's latest film, Saraband. I've yet to see any of Malle's stuff, nor have I seen any classic cinema on the big screen. But, as neat as that will be, I'm infinitely more psyched about the Bergman.

Ingmar Bergman is my favorite filmmaker. Heck, if I idolized any person, it'd be him. And yet, I've never seen a single one of his pictures on the big screen. This, for me, is almost a pilgrimage in ways.

I remember, a while back, early 2002, I was just seriously getting into cinema. Like everyone else, I was loving Kevin Smith, so I bought Chasing Amy on DVD. I got the disc home and was surprised to see the loving care put into the DVD. From the great design, to the personal essay inside, to the information on the transfer, it really seemed like it was a labor of love. Watching the supplements, I got the same impression.

So, I started to investigate these Criterion folks and quickly realized I'd never heard of anything they put out. After researching, I blind-bought my first Criterion DVD because it was called an essential building-block of any film collection. That film was Ingmar Bergman's The Seventh Seal.

So, I eventually got around to watching it, and I wasn't particularly impressed. Maybe it was the fact that I wasn't used to watching foreign films, and Bergman's in partiular have a very deliberate pace. I did identify with the main character and his waning faith, and just his views on God and life itself. A while later, I checked out the commentary to see what I could find out about it and I was blown away. Partly because of everything Cowie explained that Bergman was expressing, but just because, seeing the film again, everything fell into place.

I checked out more Bergman, as well as other International cinema. I bought Wild Strawberries and fell in love with it. I bought Cries and Whispers and was kind of disappointed in the film itself. Now, I can see it for the masterpiece of expression that it truly is, but then, it didn't really strike me as anything special. I popped in the DVD to watch the hour-long interview with Bergman, thinking I'd get bored after a few minutes. The entire hour passed while I was enthralled.

To this day, I still don't know what it is I love about Bergman himself. Maybe it's his quiet demeanor, or the way he chooses his words and constructs his sentences. Just from interviews, reading his books (Images, The Magic Lantern) and of course, watching his films, I feel a deep connection. Yes, a connection with this 87-year-old man whom I've never met, nor spoken to.

"No form of art goes beyond ordinary consciousness as film does, straight to our feelings, deep down into the dark rooms of our souls." It's a famous quote from Bergman himself, and it helps to explain his films and my relation to them. Bergman is the first, and still one of the only people to convince me that cinema is a legitimate art, a form of expression. Films are made for many different reasons, sometimes to tell a story, sometimes to inform, sometimes just to entertain people. Of course, the most prevalent reason for making a film is to make money. Yet, Bergman doesn't particularly make films for any of these reasons. Bergman makes films to express himself, to exorcise his own demons, to release things from his soul in the way some would paint a picture, write a poem or compose music.

That's what I see when I see a Bergman film, I see a man exorcising his own demons up on the screen. That's kind of the same feeling I got when I watched Tarkovsky's The Mirror recently, one of the few times outside of a Bergman movie I've felt that. Bergman is simply a fascinating person, I could listen to the old coot speak forever. Even if you're uninterested, his autobiography, The Magic Lantern, is a fantastic read. Bergman kind of gives me hope that one day I'll find a means of expression and hopefully make a career out of it.

But, all corniness aside, I love Bergman. Hopefully, this explains why seeing what will most likely be his final film on the big screen is a big thing for me.

Wings of Desire (1987)

I've passed over Wings of Desire many times. Just one of those films that never seemed like it would interest me. So, my well-versed-in-the-cinematic-arts pal, Luke, tells me that Wings of Desire is "amazing, on an almost spiritual level" and I'm kind of baffled, because I never paid much attention to it before. Then again, same thing happened with L'Avventura. Heck, I even did the same thing with Beck's video for "Loser" many years ago. So, I checked it out, and I don't quite have the boundless enthusiasm for it that Luke did, but I'll agree it's a great film.

In some ways, Wings of Desire strikes me as a kind of moden-day folk tale. Two angels observe human behavior all day long and lament that they'll never experience such things. Instead, they spend their time reading peoples' thoughts and relaying the events to one another. While we're looking at things from the angels' point of view, we hear the thoughts of the residents of Berlin. This is the film's biggest flaw. These people have some real chatty minds. In fact, they go on and on. It does establish atmosphere well, but it kind of bored me in spots.

Most of the film is shot in hazy black-and-white, and some parts in vivid color. While looking at things from the angels' point of view, the camera glides around, careening effortlessly through Berlin. It's really beautiful camerawork. For the scenes in color, those viewed through the eyes of mere mortals, the camerawork is pretty stationary, flat and uninteresting. Also, the differences are evident in sound design as well. Most of the time, we hear only the thoughts of the people. But, once we look through the eyes of humans, the city is full of chatter and background noise.

The film is very effective on an emotional and spiritual level. It's likely to raise a lot of questions among the viewers themselves, wondering what they'd do in such a situation, for example. It's due in large part to the exquisite, floating camerawork and the somber, hushed dialogue.

I think I'll have to let it sink in, or watch it again to realize its amazingness. Not that I didn't like it, I thought it was great actually. But, it seems so much deeper than I realize.

Pepe le Moko (1936)

Pepe le Moko strikes me as a more Hollywood kind of film. Maybe the blame can be put on films like Casablanca and Morocco for spoiling the whole 'tough guy hiding out in a run-down European city' subgenre for me. But, all that said, there's not much really I can say about Pepe le Moko itself. I really liked it, for what it is. Pepe himself is a pretty interesting character. But the star of the film is the setting of the Casbah itself. It's teeming with life and richly detailed.

I didn't really buy his romance with the girl, but that's just me. Maybe she just didn't do it for me, heh. The rest of the characters just seemed like standard fodder, just occupying their cookie-cutter roles. Gabin is great, as usual. He really brings just the right amout of smarminess and debonaire to the role, while making it believable that he'd be able to let a beautiful girl be his downfall.

Criterion's given the whole thing a brand new coat of paint. There were a few noticable moments of softness in the picture, but for a nealy-70-year-old print, it looks damn fine.

The Mirror (1975)

Wow. There's not really much I can say about The Mirror. But, I can say that it's instantly become one of my favorite films of all-time. It welled up such a feeling in me. It's an incredible piece of art.

The plot is seemingly unimportant. An unseen man reflects on his life. However, like all reminiscences and memories, this isn't conventional in any sense. He recounts small mundane details as well as grand events. Some things are real, some are exaggerated, some are complete fabrications. Nothing appears in any kind of chronological order. Some parts are in full color, some are monochromatic, some appear to be documentary-style, others not. To add to the confusion, the same actress plays both the narrator's Mother and his Wife in scenes. Also, a random old lady also played his Mother sometimes.

So, it sounds incredibly confusing. You may be wondering why the Hell I loved it so much. Simply put, it's an incredibly powerful, moving, forceful work. Like all art, it can't be interpreted in any literal sense. I understood this early on, and just let the film take me on its journey, to wash over me and envelop me in its images and sounds.

I really can't say much more about it, just because I didn't understand it. It moved me so much, yet I'm almost completely at a loss to explain why this is so. Definitely one of the true works of art in the cinematic medium.

The Tin Drum (1979)

I'm really not quite sure what to make of the Tin Drum. It's a very complex film in a lot of ways. It inspires conflicting emotions in the viewer. At some points, it tells a story that is very fantastic, a boy who refuses to grow and can shatter glass with his shrill scream. Yet, at the same time, the story has many elements of reality, such as the backdrop of Nazi Germany, and touches the viewer because it's a very human tale.

In keeping line with the conflicts thrust upon the viewer is one of the most notable aspects of the film, the whole 'is it really pornographic?' argument. As an avid film buff and a believer in the filmmaker's vision, I'd argue that it isn't. But even for me, that line between art and pornography is toed very closely in the Tin Drum. On one hand, the main character is 20 years old, and thus it's perfectly natural for him to be with a woman of equal age. But, he looks 11, and is played by an actor of 11, so it really makes the viewer feel uncomfortable. I guess, though, that was the idea that the writer had in mind.

I kind of didn't buy the whole idea of Oskar's surroundings driving him to decide not to grow. Yeah, the adults were pretty buffoonish, but I can't see that being the driving force behind it. Then again, all children are impulsive and often times whiny about getting their own way, so I suppose it's understandable.

One neat little thing I noticed is when they go to Church and the Mother goes to confession, is the camera movement following Oskar's thought patterns. As he gets reprimanded for playing his drum, his Mother breaks down due to the important decision she'll have to make. Yet, the camera pans up, showing her, while still keeping the drum itself in frame. Yes, Oskar cares about his Mother, but not to the point where he doesn't worry about the fate of his precious drum.

Rebel Without a Cause (1955)

Rebel Without a Cause is one of those movies that I have no memory of moving towards the top of my Netflix queue. Not that I didn't want to see it, but it just didn't seem to interest me much. So, I approached it with trepidation, expecting some leather jacket, motorcycle gang kind of movie (not to knock The Wild One, a great movie). Just goes to show how much a title and image of the lead actor can affect one's notions about a film beforehand.

I really liked Rebel. I've never seen anything with James Dean before, so I was really impressed with his performance. Maybe not so much his performance, but maybe his charisma. The story of the film struck me on an emotional level, as well. I remember vividly experiences with bullies and peer pressure, being torn between maintaining your pride and doing the 'right thing'. I dug the character of Plato quite a bit, being the outcast and such.

It did feel pretty corny in spots, mostly due to the fact that it pretty much encapsulates a generation. Everything felt a little too stereotypical and glossy, like Jim's parents, and Judy just really wanting somebody sweet and honest. That's just my own jaded view, colored by many years of Hollywood tripe. However, in some ways, the message of the film (if it even has one) is still fairly relevant, as a lot of youngsters these days feel the need to rebel, even without a cause. zomfg.

Russian Ark (2002)

I'd always thought Russian Ark would be nothing more than a gimmick. It might be interesting to see, but I was sure there would be no substance to it at all, no reason behind filming it all in one single shot other than "because we can". My good pal Luke called it "A masterpiece, and a true work of art." After that, I had no choice but to check it out.

Russian Ark is mostly plotless, it functions more as a dream than a straight narrative tale. In this respect, it succeeds admirably. It's entirely first-person, which helps immerse you in the world. For a film that is so hard to pull off on a technical level, its world is incredibly rich and exquisitely decorated. You really do feel as though you're walking around in whatever time period you're tossed into.

I noticed how much the single-shot gimmick helps the movie's atmosphere. If the film were edited together, it'd be easy to disbelieve the events unfolding. But, the fact that the film never cuts away, never hides anything, you really feel as if what you're watching is the unquestionable truth. This really makes a big impact on the film's dreamlike quality. The sound is amazing, and is a large factor in the allure of Russian Ark. As you drift around the world, the sounds swirl all around you, doors close behind you in the rear surrounds, chatter envelops you. It's one of the most effective uses of 5.1 sound in a long time.

The one, and for the most part only, nitpick I have with the film is the setting. Yes, I understand it's a grand celebration of Russian history and art, but if you're not from Russia, or happen to be an expert on the country itself, most of the events that the film shows will be completely lost on you. As great as a job the film does establishing its trance-like, dreamy atmosphere, not knowing about the events I was watching pulled me out of the film many times. Like I said, the film does such an excellent job at creating its atmosphere, that what this one flaw takes away is minuscule in the grand scheme, but still, it's a flaw nonetheless.

I like the title of the film, or at least my interpretation of it. What is an Ark, Noah's Ark for example? Something that was built in order to preserve the species of Earth in the face of a grand disaster where all else would be lost. In this way, Russian Ark is the exact same way. It's capturing and preserving Russian history, art, literature, and its people so that they're never forgotten.