Thursday, September 19, 2019

Once Upon a Time...in Hollywood

Twice I’ve watched Tarantino’s Once Upon a Time...in Hollywood and been underwhelmed as it unspooled, and each time I had a warmer feeling afterwards. Of course the ending is transformative...but I don’t think it’s only that. Tarantino always gives the viewer a lot of direct pleasure, and I’m in the awkward position of not taking a good many of the same pleasures as he does, or at least not permitting these pleasures to myself. But Tarantino also has a powerful sense of narrative form, and I find myself appreciating the large structures that he builds around the giving of pleasure and the qualification of it, even when the actual pleasures that are his currency don’t hit home for me.


(I tried not to spoil the film, but I still don’t recommend reading this if you want to remain unspoiled.)


The most obvious play with narrative that we associate with Tarantino is the insertion of the inscribed audience - which is Tarantino and anyone who likes the same things he likes - into the diegesis of his movies, in violation of genre naturalism. Few have been so pedantic as to observe that the conversations between Travolta and Jackson in Pulp Fiction are the musings of young urban educated pop-culture-immersed men and fit oddly in the mouths of professional killers; it’s plain to all that Tarantino is acknowledging and expanding the fantasy of the inscribed audience to play at being killers in a genre film. This now-familiar ploy can be found in Hollywood as well, most memorably in the giddy scene where the Manson killers babble excitedly about their encounter with TV star Rick Dalton, but also in Rick and Cliff’s tipsy conversation about the films of William Witney, and in the geeky details about spaghetti westerns that Kurt Russell’s narrator inserts into the account of Dalton’s time in Italy.


But the most important structural idea in Hollywood is of another kind of reflexive genre play. Nearly every dramatic setup in the film fails to materialize, and in most cases we don’t realize that no chicken has come home to roost until the movie ends. The central friendship between Rick and Cliff is clearly marked for conflict by movie shorthand: by the power imbalance between the two, about which Rick is not especially considerate; and later, by the marriage that busts up the pals’ bond. But absolutely nothing materializes to disrupt the friendship. Another setup without the expected payoff: Dalton’s anguish over his declining career, which has a post position to move to the center of the narrative, is reversed by his bravura “Lancer” performance; likewise, his dreaded transition to cheap westerns in Europe goes pretty well. (What we get instead of all this personal drama that never quite happens are simple demonstrations of Tarantino’s desire for his characters to do well and be happy.) The 20-minute Spahn Ranch sequence is a fabric of ominous cross-cutting and portentous music cues, and there’s no clear moment where we realize that every single thing the Manson family tells Cliff is the truth. And the long-germinating flirtation of Cliff and Pussycat that sets up the ranch scene is another movie convention that never delivers its expected romantic payload. Finally, of course, there’s the big deception of the Dragnet-like buildup to the Tate killings, for which all the other little lies can be construed as preparation.


As we look back on it, Hollywood is basically a movie about a friendship that starts good and stays good, and about a pretty girl walking around a sunny, tranquil Los Angeles of memory. In the old sense of the word, the film is a comedy - and the unspeakably gruesome violence of the climax, like it or not, is certainly intended as a pure dose of entertainment pleasure, the greatest gift that Tarantino can imagine to reward his audience. It’s comedy all the way down until the gentle and moody postscript, where, alongside the sweetness of the gesture, the viewer must confront real death for the first time in the film.


It’s possible to think that the energy Tarantino puts into period recreation is misspent, to find the beer-and-pizza friendship between Rick and Cliff unremarkable in its particulars, to feel that Rick’s redemption as an actor is a bit up the sentimental middle, to be unsatisfied by Cliff’s unadulterated invincibility and cool, to close one’s eyes through most of the climax, and still to be moved by the filmmaker’s surreptitious creation of a world of fulfilled wishes, and by his sad, final acknowledgment of the limitations of fantasy.








Friday, September 13, 2019

Esther Kahn Elisions

Arnaud Desplechin's Esther Kahn premiered at Cannes 2000 in a 157-minute version, which I believe was used for the French DVD. Afterwards, Desplechin was obliged to cut several scenes for the film's theatrical release. The running time of this version, a 35mm print of which still circulates, is always given as 142 minutes, though I've twice timed the print at 147 minutes. Desplechin prefers the Cannes cut, which has not been shown in New York theaters in many years.

The theatrical version screened at Lincoln Center on Thursday, September 11. On Friday, September 12, I watched the Cannes version at home, and catalogued as many differences as I noticed. I was working from memory rather than doing a systematic comparison, and so I may have made mistakes: feedback is welcome.

1. Early in the film, there's a shot of the young Esther trying to eat soap bubbles from the air, while her siblings chatter off-camera. This shot yields to a long shot of Esther running up a staircase, screaming for her mother, her forehead bloody. The last line of the soap-bubble chatter is one of the siblings saying "I hate you so much!" while laughing. In the Cannes cut, this line is over the soap-bubble shot; in the theatrical cut, I'm fairly sure we hear it over the staircase shot. This probably means that the soap-bubble shot was shortened, perhaps by only a few seconds.

2. Just after the transition to the older set of actors playing the siblings, Esther's father asks Esther’s sister Becky to take a brick (for heat) to their grandmother, and her mother interrogates Becky about the dance the girls had just attended. In the theatrical cut, this scene is followed by two shots of Becky carrying the brick to the grandmother's rooftop hut. In the Cannes version, there's a short scene interpolated between these two scenes, a conversation between Esther and Becky at the staircase to the roof. After Esther lights Becky’s cigarette, Becky asks Esther: "Why'd you tell mum that she's not your mum?" (“It was just an idea”) and “What’re you going to do when we leave home?” (“I’ll stay”). (37 seconds)

3. The first sizable cut is Esther's dream of the balloon men menacing her on the street outside her home. This dream follows the scene of the sisters going to bed and discussing what they want most in the world, ending with Esther's sotto voce line "I want to be revenged." The dream is followed by another cut scene, in which Esther goes to her mother's room after awakening from the dream; her mother is sitting in bed, naked except for stockings, and slowly puts on a nightdress before asking Esther why she has come (“I’m frightened of still not being awake”) and rubs water on Esther’s eyelids. We then return to the theatrical cut's narrative with the scene of the siblings going out to the theater. (1 minute 59 seconds)

4. Near the end of the theater section, there's a short cut scene in which Esther's boyfriend Joel returns to the cheap seats with a bagel sandwich for Esther, who is waiting in her seat alone through the intermission. Joel sits next to Esther, who asks him why he didn’t get a sandwich for himself, and whether he would be allowed to eat it; their brief conversation ends with Esther saying to Joel "We don't talk, right?" while eating. Before this scene, there’s a handheld shot of Joel buying the bagel outside - I’m not sure if this shot was also cut. (34 seconds, possibly 45 seconds)

5. In both versions, Esther's announcement to her family that she is going on the stage is followed by two scenes in which Esther’s sisters chat with her about her suitability for the life of an actress, and then by an exterior scene of the family on a staircase, discussing the consequences of Esther’s possible abandonment of the family business. In the theatrical version, this scene ends with Esther’s father sending her siblings away on a delivery; in the Cannes version, it continues with an absorbing conversation in which Esther and her parents discuss the hardship that Esther's departure will cause, with Esther performing a precise calculation of how much she will owe her parents and when she'll pay it back. Along the way, both Esther and her mother agree that Esther is such a slow worker that she won't be missed much. At the scene's end, Esther's parents agree to the arrangement. Then we return to the short scene of Esther’s mother helping her mark up her script, followed by Esther’s first performance. (2 minutes 25 seconds)

6. In both versions, Nathan's acting lessons for Esther begin with Nathan’s introductory talk about the actor’s choice between lying and telling the truth. The first acting exercise after this talk is cut from the theatrical version. Nathan tells Esther to come on stage and then asks "Who just came on stage?" The ensuing discussion, of whether Esther or Cordelia from Lear came on stage, is inconclusive. The next exercise, of Esther walking across the room, is in both versions. (2 minutes and 41 seconds)

7. Esther's interest in Haygard is established in three scenes, in both versions: the list of possible suitors that Esther makes alone in her room; Esther's backstage interrogation of the sexually experienced actress Christel; and Esther's visit to a bookstore to buy Haygard's book of essays. After the bookstore scene, there's a cut scene in which Esther is again in the theater with Christel, asking how she should show her interest in a man. Christel jokes about taking the direct approach, then advises “Things will just happen, little by little. For fuck’s sake!” and finds for Esther the date of Haygard’s next appearance in the theater’s register. After the cut scene, Esther finds Haygard in his theater box and asks him out for a drink. (56 seconds)

8. During the section of Esther's affair with Haygard, there's a short cut scene in Haygard's bedroom, in which Esther is splashing water on her eyes at a basin, saying "My eyes are stuck together. It's because we did it too much last night!" This cut scene follows Haygard's memorable psychological analysis of Othello and his kiss with Esther on the street, and precedes the section in which Haygard, Esther and Sean discuss and then encounter the Italian dancer. (25 seconds)

9. The final cut is the longest. In both versions, Haygard introduces Esther to Trish the impresario and her entourage at a pub, and the entire table discusses whether Esther has played leading roles as well as supporting ones. In the Cannes version, there's a time jump to the same group at the same pub, with Trish discussing her professional relationship with Haygard, and Haygard giving a long speech in which he describes a period of mental instability that culminated in an arrest in Italy, his subsequent escape from jail, and his recapture by guards who damaged his feet. This speech is followed by another cut scene, in which Esther, frightened by some thought, sits awake in bed next to Haygard in the middle of the night, sees the bandages on both his feet, and kisses them passionately. At the end of this scene, the film's narrator describes how Haygard's patient tutelage of Esther concealed from her how the intimate feeling between them was slipping away. This voiceover is the only part of these cut scenes that was salvaged for the theatrical version: it was placed over an earlier scene. The subsequent scene, of Esther presenting Haygard with a copy of Hedda Gabler in Norwegian, is in both cuts. (4 minutes and 7 seconds)

All this adds up to a bit less than 14 minutes.

Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Bloody Kids

People don’t take Stephen Frears too seriously these days, and even I feel weird about taking him seriously. For one thing, only a few years (1979-1986) of his long career really command my attention, and the diminution of his directorial personality afterwards makes my high appraisal suspect. For another, he is so much an interpretive artist, having always willingly subordinated himself to distinctive writers, that modest arguments on his behalf are more likely to fly than inflated ones. But then there are the movies, which for a brief time were not like anything else in the cinema. Grand claims must be attempted.

Bloody Kids (1980), Frears’ best film, begins with one of director of photography Chris Menges’s many dazzling long following shots, as a boy named Leo (Richard Thomas) approaches a nighttime accident scene that is cordoned off by the police. The shot moves fluidly around Leo as he enters the site undetected, as if through the back door of a theater, and examines the accident close up. All the elements of this sequence work together with the aim of defeating our immersion in the fiction and creating an abstract depiction of the act of observing. We see Leo clearly and see everything from his approximate viewpoint, but we can’t identify or identify with his mission. The world is presented in fragments, through a haze of spotlights and lens glare, and can’t be interpreted clearly: we see wrecked cars, one of which is dangling in the air from a police crane; a distracted accident victim gently chases Leo away, behaving more like an onlooker than an involved party. Both performance/narrative and camera/lighting exaggerate the separation between the looker and what he looks at: the looker may be enigmatic to us, but it’s at least clear that he’s looking; whereas the outside world is robbed of causality and coherence. The tour-de-force introductory sequence continues as Leo flees the accident site and finds himself at the windows of a nearby police station. Frears and writer Stephen Poliakoff break abruptly here with Leo’s point of view and take us inside the station, where we witness an elaborate but inscrutable scene in which a frustrated cop (Derrick O'Connor) makes fun of an expensive new surveillance system by giving a group of women (prostitutes awaiting intake?) a guided tour of the equipment. Eventually one of the women looking at the surveillance monitors says, “There’s a boy watching us” - and we see Leo on the monitors, which track him as he flees into the night. The shift away from Leo’s point of view is manipulated in such a way that it only reinforces the fragmentation of the world and the primacy of Leo’s spectatorship.

Even in this introduction, the cohesion between direction and script seems greater than what one expects from an interpretive artist. And the larger structure of the film only increases the surprising unity of the project. The plot kicks in when Leo and his less adventurous friend Mike (Peter Clark) decide to stage a fake knife fight outside a sports event, just for something to do. The film traces the consequences of this prank, as Leo throws fuel on the fire by spinning tall tales about Mike’s criminality from his hospital bed, and Mike spends a phantasmagorical night on the run from the police and under the protection of an older and more fully realized juvenile delinquent (Gary Holton).

The true excitement of the film is that Frears and Poliakoff use the more mundane aspect of the theme - the inability of London underclass youth to identify or engage with the adult world - only as a jumping-off point, continually tipping the film toward metaphysics, toward the gap between consciousness and the world, toward the way that reality comes to resemble fiction in the absence of our involvement. Leo and Mike are protagonists without a cause; the filmmakers exploit this concept to make a reflexive film that not only finds its own story inconclusive, but also wonders how any story can be conclusive. As Leo’s elaborate and completely successful charade runs out of road, the young mastermind is overtaken by bitterness toward a society that lacks his nihilistic insight. He leads Mike on a final manic tour of the hospital, entering forbidden areas and destroying property without meeting resistance or obtaining satisfaction: the world is revealed to him as a cheap movie set that has lost its power to persuade. The policeman who represents, as well as anyone in the film can, the reality principle takes the brunt of Leo’s scorn: “You should have figured it out!” Leo screams at him in frustration. In the end, the hospital undergoes a mass evacuation - a delayed effect of one of Leo’s casual destructive acts that the audience has forgotten - and Frears stages this human disaster as a phenomenon internal to the boys’ minds, robbing it of visual and aural impact, and using the last of Menges’ amazing following shots to fade the crisis into the background as the boys wander away from the world and smoke a cigarette, lost in their own thoughts.

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

2018 One-Week-Run Manhattan Premieres

I thought I was going to catch up with a few more 2018 films before making this list, but one day I looked around and the films were all gone from theaters. So here are my favorite films that played at least one week in Manhattan for the first time in 2018, in approximate order of preference:

1. The Day After (Hong Sang-soo, South Korea)
2. Classical Period (Ted Fendt, USA)
3. Western (Valeska Grisebach, Germany)
4. 24 Frames (Abbas Kiarostami, Iran)
5. The Grief of Others (Patrick Wang, USA)
6. Dim the Fluorescents (Daniel Warth, Canada)
7. Support the Girls (Andrew Bujalski, USA)
8. The Banishment (Andrey Zvyagintsev, Russia)
9. Ray Meets Helen (Alan Rudolph, USA)
10. Ismael's Ghosts (Arnaud Desplechin, France)
11. Mrs. Hyde (Serge Bozon, France)
12. Before We Vanish (Kiyoshi Kurosawa, Japan)
13. On Body and Soul (Ildikó Enyedi, Hungary)
14. Notes on an Appearance (Ricky D'Ambrose, USA)
15. Dovlatov (Alexey German Jr., Russia)
16. Rodin (Jacques Doillon, France)

Pretty good year, though only four of these films actually premiered in 2018. I consider any theatrical premiere that feels like a new film to me: in this list, that includes 2007's The Banishment and 2015's The Grief of Others, but not 1953's When You Read This Letter and 1949's Rendez-vous de juillet, hotsy-totsy though both are. Nor The Other Side of the Wind...

I didn't see many documentaries, but I liked 12 Days (Raymond Depardon, France), The Rest I Make Up (Michelle Memran, USA) and Pow Wow (Robinson Devor, USA).


Thursday, January 18, 2018

2017 Manhattan One-Week-Run Premieres

I've probably seen as many first-run 2017 releases as I'm going to. So here are my favorite films that played at least one week in Manhattan for the first time in 2017, in approximate order of preference:

1. Staying Vertical (Alain Guiraudie, France)
2. The Unknown Girl (Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne, Belgium)
3. Mister Universo (Tizza Covi and Rainer Frimmel, Italy/Austria)
4. How Heavy This Hammer (Kazik Radwanski, Canada)
5. Downsizing (Alexander Payne, USA)
6. I Hate Myself :) (Joanna Arnow, USA)
7. Hermia & Helena (Matias Pineiro, Argentina/USA)
8. The Wedding Plan (Rama Burshtein, Israel)
9. Marjorie Prime (Michael Almereyda, USA)
10. Ma Loute (Slack Bay) (Bruno Dumont, France)
11. La Patota (Paulina) (Santiago Mitre, Argentina)
12. A Ghost Story (David Lowery, USA)

A few good films that received their first NYC theatrical run this year felt too old to put on a 2017 list: Yang's Taipei Story, Hou's Daughter of the Nile.

Lately I wonder why I even make this list. I keep a perfectly good list of favorite films by international release date. What gets released in the US in a given year is in the lap of the gods. Theoretically one makes such a list because those are the films one's readers are likely to have seen. But that's no longer the case, if it ever was: many of the films on my list were exhibited in such a DIY fashion that they were barely more accessible than a one-day booking. (Those DIY bookings are awesome, by the way, don't get me wrong.) I'll probably keep these lists coming, just out of habit - but if you don't see one next year, you'll know why.

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Lubitsch's Angel, 1978

I wrote this paper on Ernst Lubitsch's 1937 Angel when I was 22 years old, for a 1978 Steve Mamber class at UCLA. As usual with my early film writing, I'm embarrassed by the paper's youthful arrogance and excessive zeal for categorization. But the current Lubitsch retrospective at Film Forum prompted some friends to ask me for writing on Angel (one of my very favorite films), and I'll never have the chance to go into this much detail again. Below are scans of the original paper, with some of Steve's sensible criticisms still visible. I took the liberty of omitting a useless introductory paragraph.








Wednesday, February 8, 2017

James Bridges

In a comment on my last post, dm494 asked for a blurb on James Bridges' Mike's Murder that I wrote in 1984 for the Los Angeles Reader. I don't think much of the blurb, but here it is, along with a second blurb on Bridges' 1985 Perfect.