Heathers

Oh why oh why did I not see this film when I was, say, fourteen or fifteen? I might have truly loved it then, watched it over and over and memorized every line. Now I was merely fascinated by it's bizarro twist and turns and the absurd grandiosity of its ambition. I was laughing out loud at some moments (the whole "eskimo" business is amazing), shaking my head at how far they were pushing the boundaries of logic in others.

I don't think any movies get dated as quickly as high school movies. It's the need to differentiate between the popular people and the geeks, I suppose. We have to see who belongs to which group right away, but while geeks look more or less the same throughout the decades, the popular kids go through at least one fad every year. This is so clearly an 80's movie, with the shoulder pads and big hair, it's a little bit of a distraction.

But I shouldn't whine. I can't think of any high school movie so deliberately strange and dark, so nasty. The only one in recent memory that comes close is "mean girls", which has a similar trio of "heathers" at its center. I loved the baby-faced and totally psycho Christian Slater here (admittedly, when do I not love Christian Slater, but that's another story), with his ambition to destroy society by destroying the high school he sees as a representative of it. I even liked Winona Ryder: her character is not very consistent, but the look on her face as she stands straight at the end, like the action hero at the end of a film,bruised, bleeding, and blackened by smoke but triumphant, is priceless.

Too bad I've grown to realize high school's not that important or representative, after all...

What I've been ...

...watching

He Walked By Night (Werker & Mann, 1948)
The only reason this film could have been included in my film noir box is its cinematography, with long shadows and crooked angles, and a great chase through the sewers at the end. The only other interest it can have is historical, as this film is clearly the forebear of every police show ever made: we follow the police, see even the CSI unit of its day, see how a portrait of the suspect is made, etc.

The Fabulous Baker Boys (Kloves, 1989)
I finally saw this, after hearing Nathanial at the Film Experience sing its praises for so long, and I'm glad I did. The cinematography is indeed gorgeous, as is Michelle Pfeiffer. The performances are spot on, and there are too many well-caught details to name them all here. Also: who knew the Dude was sexy?

Escape from Alcatraz (Siegel, 1979)
What can I say? This is my idea of fun: Clint Eastwood being snarky and kicking some ass. Admittedly, this film is a bit too slow, Clint doesn't really kick that much ass, and the characters are caricatures, but hey. Dirty Harry this is not, but it's fun enough for an hour or two, when you're tired and not up for anything more sophisticated.

...reading

Ghostwritten (David Mitchell)
The last book by Mitchell I hadn't read yet, I liked it. For the first half and more I was just ok with it, going along with it and admiring his craft but not particularly transported, but the last two of the nine stories really hit it out of the park.

As She Climbed Across the Table (Jonathan Lethem)
I keep running into female physicists lately. There's one in the second to last story in Ghostwritten, and this book is entirely about a guy in love with one. This is no masterpiece, but Lethem has fun with the concept (woman falls in love with big void in space whose only characteristic is taste), and manages to surprise you with some observations and ideas.

...listening to

Spoon - Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
No need to say much about it, just listen to it. "The Underdog" is my favorite so far.

Quentin Tarantino's Death Proof OST
At first I couldn't stop playing April March's "Chick Habit", now it's Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick and Titch who get me dancing to "Hold Tight". One plays while a guy gets the shit beaten out of him, the other just before four girls get gruesomely killed. The songs bring a grin to my face. Should I be worried?

The Big Heat

On the outside, this is almost a boring story, and not very noir at all. Glenn Ford as Sgt. Bannion is the proverbial straight cop in a bent town, too good to be true, not cynical but still convinced good will beat evil in the end. He almost goes vigilante, almost lets his own darker side burst through, but in the end he lets a woman do the dirty job.

Ah, but that's where the film gets interesting, with this woman. Gloria Grahame is glorious as Debbie, who seems a supporting character for much of the movie, but don't get her angry. She's ditzy, perpetually drunk, and makes no excuses for placing money above everything else, but she's the cynical hero of this noir tale in the end. She's the one who gets all the good lines, too: she says of her perfume that it's "something new. It attracts mosquitoes and repels men", and as explanation for her roaring rampage of revenge, all she offers is a pouty "Vince should have never ruined my looks. It was a rotten thing to do".

She gets a raw deal, Debbie. All she does is execute Bannion's wishes, so that he can keep his conscience clean and return to his Sgt's desk while she's punished. She's by far the most interesting character here, but like the other women, she ends up by the side of the road.


I really can't recommend this film enough. It's deceptively simple, but there's so much lurking beneath the surface, so many repressed feelings and undercurrents of violence, violence against woman in particular. And then there's Lee Marvin, who is positively amazing here, making his sadistic thug more interesting than he has any right to be. It's a noir as noirs should be: in the end, the bad guys are punished and good does win, but we don't get to feel triumphant about it.

Gerry (continuing the 'going crazy in the desert' theme)

In the music of Arvo Pärt, the gaps, the silences, are just as important as the notes that are played, if not more. The same can be said for Gerry, and for the other two films in Gus van Sant's informal trilogy about (violent) death, Elephant and Last Days. This might be the emptiest of them all, but they have in common a total lack of motivation, structure, and above all meaning, defying viewers to make anything of the raw images.

As I watched this film, my mind often wandered, and I even went back one time, only to find that I had, in fact, seen and registered the shots that came before, just hadn't processed them. It might be the best way of seeing this film, and the two others: just letting the images stream through is, repressing our innate yearning to analyze and destroy.

Happy 100

Is there anyone comparable today? Sexy, self-possessed yet vulnerable, and most importantly, never, ever hiding her intelligence? Happy Birthday, Ruby.

The Sheltering Sky

There's nothing quite like going crazy in the desert, is there?

Bernardo Bertolucci's "the Sheltering Sky" opens with grainy B&W images of Manhattan: all the familiar spots, the neon signs, the skyline. Strange, as the movie takes place entirely in Morocco, albeit with American protagonists. But it's not the only strange detail: Paul Bowles (who wrote the novel the book is based on, and which I must read sometime soon) is briefly in the first half of the movie as a narrator, then disappears -likethe main characters do from civilization- for the rest of the movie, only to re-appear to deliver some memorable final words.

This isn't a good movie. I think. The plot meanders and stalls, the characters are sketchy and hard to understand, and I found myself bored and impatient with it for long stretches. While Bertolucci doesn't quite make the mistake of portraying the Moroccans and Tuaregs as noble savages, he does take too much of an anthropological interest, filming anything and everything vainly looking for some revelation. Still, at the end, I was oddly moved. Maybe owing to those final words, no doubt taken directly from the book:

"Because we don't know when we will die, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well, yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more, perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless. "

It's not as deep as it wants to be, of course, but it made sense to me on some level. It made me want to see the movie again keeping that in mind (though not right now).

Debra Winger has a strange face. It shifts so much it's impossible to get a firm grasp on it, and at the same time it can be almost unbearably still. One scene she's a traditional beauty, the next she's almost unrecognizable, anonymous. She would make sense in the Manhattan world we glimpse, all fashionable clothes and wit, but it also doesn't quite surprise you when she "goes native".

I miss Morocco, sometimes.

Death Proof - revisited

As already occurred to me yesterday, Crash and Death Proof would make a nice double feature: Crash is about people turned on by car crashes, and Death Proof is about one man for whom car crashes are a form of sexual aggression. He's a rapist, in a way: in the first part he his successful, and in the second, the girls take back the night.

I already discussed Death Proof at length before. This post is merely to contemplate the differences between the version I saw as part of Grindhouse a month ago, and the longer, stand-alone version I saw tonight.

To be honest, I'm not quite sure which I prefer. I do know I'm happy I saw both.

The main advantage of seeing Death Proof in it's originally intended form is that a) it doesn't really need to be longer than 1.5 hours, b) the fake trailers rule and c) Planet Terror is a lot of fun, and puts you in precisely the appropriate mood to be able to appreciate Death Proof.

However, there are things to be said for the longer version, too, and luckily, in the arthouse theater I went to see it, it was preceded by the trailer for Planet Terror, and that one only. The lenthening of the dialogues is not really necessary, and makes some drag on a bit too long, in fact, and the many more shots of feet and legs are somewhat superfluous, but two of the three extra scenes are definitely worthwhile. The first one is, of course, the "missing reel": Vanessa Ferlito's lapdance, which is all you'd expect it to be, and set to music worthy of Tarantino. But the second one, which was a surprise to me, is a long, mostly black and white, opening scene to the second half. It features something creepier even than the lapdance, and it also makes for a wonderful little moment when the color gets "switched on": the colors jump out at you, the yellow of the car, the pink of Rosario Dawson's shirt. It signals that this half is going to be different. That these girls are different.

Aside from that, the films are very similar: you still get the scary/funny moment when Kurt Russell's Stuntman Mike suddenly looks into the camera and grins, telling you that now the action's going to start, the brilliant moment with the beat-up Dodges spilling out into our world is still there, and at the end, you still walk out feeling like kicking the air, humming "Laisse Tomber Les Filles" and yelling yeah.

I wonder though: the triumphant feeling I got again tonight walking out of this film, do guys have it too? Is it gender-dependent that this fighting back feels to empowering? There's often criticism about films, for example about this new "torture porn" genre, that act like they "deserve" to degrade and abuse women as long as the women get the upper hand in the end, but truthfully, is that really so bad an attitude? As long as I get to be in the second batch of women, I'm not sure I think it is.

I'm still pissed Grindhouse was split up. I still think it's underestimating the viewer, and ripping off film lovers. But the longer version definitely has some things to recommend it.

Crash

First, the awesome news: I will soon be reviewing movies for the Dutch film website filmtotaal, and I couldn't be more thrilled. I mean, not only will I get to go to advance screenings and stuff, but, for the first time, I'll get paid (a little) for writing. Like a real journalist. I feel like Pinocchio. Hopefully I won't turn out to have been transformed into a smoking donkey.

Anyway, when introducing myself on the message boards, I listed a few of my favorite directors. Among them was David Cronenberg. And well, while I can honestly say I've loved all the Cronenbergs I've seen so far, it is true that, at the time of writing, I'd only seen two: eXistenZ and A History of Violence. Luckily, these things are easy to remedy, and now I've added Crash to that list. I'm glad to report that Cronenberg is, in my eyes, now 3 for 3.

I'm sure I don't need to add this, but I will just in case, for clarity's sake: I am not, I repeat, not referring to the recent Oscar winning Paul Haggis film about racism. I am instead referring to the Cronenberg film about people who get turned on by car crashes.

And boy, do they get it on. I don't remember seeing any other film -that wasn't porn- that included so much sex. In all kinds of positions, between numerous different couples, mostly in cars, but not exclusively. The most surprising thing is that, with maybe one or two exceptions, these sex scenes are not just window-dressing, they're not there (just) to titillate, no, they're essential to character development and even to the plot.

It's amazing to me how flatly and non-sensationally Cronenberg films everything. He views these characters without judgment: he never presents them as freaks, but I don't think he thinks we should fully go along with their fetish, either. As such, the film is fascinating, and you get to understand the appeal of mangled steel and scarred flesh, without necessarily needing to share in the obsession.

Still, the amount and graphic nature of sex scenes is not the most remarkable thing here. No, that would be the total lack of conflict in the plot. There is no jealousy, and while there is definitely physical danger, it is unaccompanied by any fear or pain. Our main character, played by James Spader, is impossible to read: he goes along with everything, and is clearly affected in some way, but it's unclear what it is exactly that he seeks.

Because of the lack of conflict, it's not really surprising that the ending is nothing more than a reflection of the beginning: James and his wife start out unsatisfied, longing for something they can't quite reach, and they end up exactly the same way, just with a different method, a different goal. Even the words are the same: "Maybe the next one". It's a film about people who are forever looking for the next thing, the next thrill, and the only conclusion you can draw is that whatever they try, they'll always be unsatisfied.

I still think that A History of Violence is the more controversial and though-provoking film of the two, not in spite but because of its apparent normalcy, and it's the more coherent, precise film too. However, I did enjoy Crash very much, and I'll definitely be watching more Cronenberg soon.

Some more Othello screengrabs

Easy, Tiger

Ryan Adams' latest, Easy Tiger, has been out for a few weeks now. I downloaded it right the first day it was available, to decide whether to buy it or not. Yet I kept postponing writing this review.

Why? Might it be that *gasp*, I simply have nothing much to say?

In general, I've disagreed with the majority of critics about Ryan's albums. I actually liked the reviled Rock N roll and 29, even loved Love is Hell, especially pt.1. At the same time, I wasn't too enthusiastic about the critically well-received Jacksonville City Nights, which was too country for me, and Cold Roses, which I found pretty much a snooze. So when critics starting praising this album, lauding its consistency in particular, I was worried.

It is a consistent album, but why is that a good thing? Yes, true, there are no wtf-moments, no strange unpolished, out-there songs, but there's also no greatness here, and what's worse, there are no surprises. There's no innovation here, no stretching: it's all pleasant and harmonic, sure, but that's not why I like (or should I say liked? Already?) Ryan.

The only moment that half-way stands out is "Halloweenhead", and it should be said that the last two songs, "These Girls" and "I taught myself how to grow", are quite good. But this album stays a disappointment, maybe best illustrated by "The Sun Also Sets": it starts out interestingly, with a seemingly classic chord progression that doesn't go where you think it will, but the song then devolves into, well, "generic Adams", and who would have thought two, three years ago that there would ever even be such a thing?

Much has been made of Ryan Adams' recent sobering and cleaning up, and I feel almost guilty, complaining that the manic outbursts and unbearably quiet cries of despair are gone. Of course I'm happy he's gotten his shit together, but I won't be buying this CD.

Othello

Wow. I mean, wow.

Othello opens with a funereal procession, heavy dramatic music playing. The shots are truly black and white, in that there are barely any greys: the figures are just black silhouettes set against a forbidding fortress. A man in a cage hangs overhead. This is a tragedy, there's no mistaking it, and when the title card comes up, accompanied by some -by now stereotypical- lute music, it's a jarring contrast.

This is how Shakespeare adaptations should be done. This is how theater adaptations should be done, period. Welles both enhances the theatricality here, and at the same time uses every tool and possibility offered by the medium of cinema. One breathtaking shot follows another: in some, the characters are dwarfed against the backdrop of the Essaouira fortress, insignificant and powerless, and in the next they can be seen looming ominously large, filmed from below, often set against a monochrome sky.

It's one of the most efficient and unencumbered Shakespeare production I've seen, too. Nothing feels rushed, and time is taken both for long silent passages and grand speeches, but the film lasts only 90 minutes and nothing seems superfluous. Many directors confuse respect for the source material for a prohibition against leaving anything out (I'm looking at you, Kenneth), but Welles gets to the essence here, to the core of this jealousy-driven story.

Then there's the voice. Has there ever been a deeper, more majestic, more thrilling voice than Orson Welles'? At some points, it literally sent a chill down my spine. Some might object to the blackface used in the movie, but I cannot imagine Othello now with anyone's voice but his.

I could talk on and on about this movie: the intriguing scene in which Rodrigo is murdered; the shots of Iago with the empty cage hanging overhead; the strangling of Desdemona; how this makes me want to go back to Essaouira. In the end, of course, the film's a mess: some of the text is very hard to understand, Rodrigo's motivation is never made clear, and I didn't find Iago at all convincing. However, it's a mess that's imminently fascinating every step of the way, and with more memorable shots than I could keep track of, shots that make you gasp in surprise and wonder, shots that remind you of why Welles is revered for more than just his hypnotic voice.

Croupier

It's sometimes so nice to come into a movie with no expectations or preconceived notions about it, and so rare, unfortunately. It's the big movie geek dilemma: you want to read everything that's being written about a movie you're eager to see, but this does have the side-effect that you lose the ability to be surprised. By the time a movie finally comes out here in the Netherlands, it often feels like I've seen it already.

All I knew about Croupier was that a) it was about a croupier and b) it was Clive Owen's breakout role. My crush on Clive Owen made point b) enough of a reason for me, and after just watching Ocean's Thirteen two days ago, the casino setting seemed appropriate.

I loved: the noirish third-person narration - though it spooked me a little, as when I get in a writerish phase I start narrating my life to myself in my head, also in third person; the unreliability of said narration, Clive Owen as a blonde, even if it isn't for long; Clive Owen's hat; the surprises of the plot; the cynicism; Clive Owen's grin at the end.

I wasn't convinced so much by: the South-African accent on the woman from ER; the ending; the overall tone; the quality of Jack's writing.

So the verdict? Definitely worth checking out.

The performance that changed my life?

Note: contribution to the Performance that Changed My Life Blog-a-thon

Can you ever really say something changed your life? As much as we talk about movies being transformative, do they really ever transform us more than a moment? Sure, when I walked out of "The Science of Sleep", for example, I felt like creating something, I felt like I could, in fact, create something, but did I really become noticeably more creative after seeing the film? Unfortunately, the answer is no.

I'm not sure any performance really changed my life permanently. I am sure, however, that there is one that sent an almost painful pang of recognition and revelation through me.

It's a performance from "Lost in Translation". But it isn't Bill Murray's.


It was the scene where Bob and Charlotte lay on the bed together that did it, when she talks about her aimlessness. It wasn't just that the details fit: I had a horse phase, a phase in which I photographed everything including my feet (and pizza's before and after, that sort of thing). I wanted to be a writer, still do somewhere, but as soon as I sit down and start writing I hate every word.
But as I said, it wasn't just the details. It was also her flat tone of voice. Her expression. The way she seemed to accept what she was and wasn't, but at the same time also the way you could feel the despair lurking under the surface. The combination of not too high self-esteem and an arrogance toward girls who use Evelyn Waugh as a nickname. She was me - except of course much, much sexier.

Many other actresses of Scarlett Johansson's generation are more talented than she is, and have much more range, more depth. I don't dislike her as much as some do, and I in fact love her voice, but I have no problem admitting she's no great actress. Nonetheless, in this part (and in another one from before she got all glossed up, in Ghost World) she is absolutely perfect, and could not be more genuine.

Did her performance change me? I couldn't say in which way. But it did affect me greatly, and that alone makes this performance worthwhile.

Ocean's Thirteen

Oh, do I love it when Soderbergh just sits back and has some fun with his boys.

I refuse to apologize for it, either. The Ocean films might not be high art, perhaps, they might not have any important message or central theme or whatever, but they're pure, undiluted fun. More importantly, perhaps, they don't confuse being fun with dumbing down and making fart jokes. Instead, this film, like the others, finds the fun in nice small character moments: Danny and Rusty finishing each other's sentences and sniffling over Oprah, Roman's competitor being called Greco, Virgil leading a Mexican worker's revolt, Basher's letters, Linus' nose, I could go on. Soderbergh himself, in the meantime, amuses himself as "Peter Andrews" by going crazy with color filters, strange angles, overlays, even a split screen at some point.

Not everything works, of course. The big seduction of Ellen Barkin is too puerile and vaguely reeks of sexism, even for a boys-will-be-boys movie like this. The inclusion of Toulour feels tacked on, and as much as I love seeing Vincent Cassel (francophile that I am) there should either have been more of him or none at all.

But why nitpick? I saw this in a full theatre and I'm fairly sure everyone left the movie with just a little more jaunty a step than they came in with. This is a movie about the pleasure of letting yourself be scammed: there might be nothing here, but it's a great time at the movies while it lasts, and sometimes, that's all you could ask for.

A Bout de Souffle - first thoughts

Maybe the clearest way to illustrate the difference between France and the US is that the American idea of Jean-Paul Belmondo is Richard Gere.

It's amazing how the two Godard's I have seen so far are both very similar and very different. The style is what's similar, mostly: the jump cuts, the acting style, the fascination with the sound of gunshots. The form is what's different. This is the film I should have watched with my parents, not just because it's linear and focused in a way "Masculin Feminin" was not, but also because of the wonderful touristic shots of Paris.

Of course, this doesn't mean I liked it any less. You can definitely feel Truffaut's touch in the quirkiness of the characters and in the logic of the central love story, and as you might now I absolutely love Jules et Jim, the only Truffaut film I've seen so far. And how can you NOT fall in love with Belmondo chain smoking through the film giving his best impression of Humphrey Bogart -albeit a bit too filled with youthful enthusiasm to be able to approach Bogie's cool. He's not conventionally handsome by anyone's definition, but there's something about him that makes you understand exactly how he can wrap any girl around his finger. And Jean Seberg, ah, Jean Seberg, she's such a lovely little pixie, hair cropped short, every feature so clearly delineated and so mobile.

There are wonderful scenes here. The two lovers kissing, then taking their sunglasses off, the interview with the novelist, I could go on.

The conclusion? I need to find a way to get a hold of Bande a Part.

Whistle Stop

I was worried there for a while.

See, film noir is my reliable genre. Whenever I pop one into the DVD player I know that I might not love it, that it might not be particularly well-written or well-acted, that they might be some cheesy effects, but I can be sure that I'll at the very least enjoy watching it. I have a hard time articulating what makes the grim, cynical world of noir films so comforting to me, but it is.

You can imagine that tonight, I watched "Whistle Stop" with growing dismay. It started promisingly enough, with a mysterious Ava Gardner decending of an ominously whistling train. But almost everything that followed disappointed. The main character wasn't snarky or disillusioned or even truly tortured: not only was he much too old for the type he played, but he was just a wimpy, spineless drunk, and not the good kind. The Femme Fatale looked classy and acted fatale-y at first, but she soon turned out to be a sheep in wolf's clothing. The only one even remotely capable of interesting me was the sleazy nightclub owner played by Tom Conway.

I responded in the only natural way: I tried to find reasons to disqualify the film as a noir. There weren't enough shady metaphors, for one, there was no noir dialogue. The femme fatale ended up being a woman who stood by her man unconditionally. There was no deception, no double-crossings; there were plans of murder, yes, but they were diffused and then almost forgotten.

I needn't have bothered, because one thing gives it away entirely, and makes the point like all the above arguments can't: this film has a happy ending. And so this evening has for me too: my first film of the night might have been a disappointment (I'm about to watch the next one, my second Godard, "A bout de souffle"), but I don't have to discard my comfort genre just yet.

The Player

The Player has suspense. Laughter. Heart and hope and sex and violence and, of course, a happy ending. It's Altman saying a royal and distinguished Fuck You to Hollywood, by making a movie that both honors and mocks Hollywood, and that manages to follow the template of a Hollywood movie, that has all the elements of a generic Hollywood movie, but that's impossible to mistake for anything but an Altman movie.

I liked it, as you might have gathered from the above. I didn't love it though, because despite all the loving references to classic films, it is a bit of a cold movie, a bit glib. So many Hollywood players appear in this film, yet all seem to be feeling superior to what's being depicted. It's as if by appearing in this movie they're distancing themselves from "the system", but of course they're still inside it.

Masculin Feminin

This is certainly a milestone in my cinematic education: my very first Godard. I checked. In my defence, his films are not easy to get a hold of, and they're not exactly the kind of films often shown on Dutch television. So when I saw that Masculin Feminin was on sale for a mere ten euros, I decided to ignore my resolution not to buy any more DVD's until I'd seen all those I already have, and gave myself a holiday present. (actually, two: they had Drugstore Cowboy for 6 euro. Who could resist?)

All this, of course, to build up anticipation for the crucial question: what did I think?

Aside from how refreshingly bizarre and unpredictable I found it, I'm not quite sure yet. There's simply too much to it, I think, to absorb in just one sitting, and I mean that as a good thing. It's a portrait of an age and of a generation, but I'm not sure what exactly it says about that age, that generation. There's affection in how Godard portrays his protagonist, Paul, but also some detachment, a certain sense of mockery too.

I love how Godard frames his images. It's as if he sometimes felt he was being too precise, too preditable, and decided to just shift the image a little to the left or right, leaving someone's face cut in half, another oddly centered. I love the playing with sound too: phasing in, phasing out, fitting with the images or not at all.

During the conversation Paul has with Mlle 19 ans, my father said the film was not that much different from the third one we saw yesterday, and I bristled, because to me, it couldn't have been more different. Ego-documents, after all, are made by people who think their own lives are the most fascinating thing there is, and Masculin Feminin is all about putting this shameless self-display under scrutiny.

Paul is also someone who -perhaps like most 21 year olds at some time or another- thinks his ideas are revolutionary, that he will re-invent the world single-handedly, that he alone is "pure" in his quest for the truth, for philosophy, for enlightenment. And in the interview scene, not only is it shown how terribly naive and silly Mlle 19 ans is, but also how silly and naive Paul is for feeling so superior to her.

Maybe that's the overwhelming theme, in the end, the arrogance of youth. But this seems too harsh: Godard never passes judgment, he just observes his characters, shows them to us without any apparent slant, and lets us be the judge. "The children of Marx and Coca-Cola" is right: they are communist, idealistic, paint "Paix au Vietnam" on an American embassy car, but in the end, they drink the Kool-aid, or well, the Coke.

I realise this post in incoherent, but in some sense it is appropriate with such an incoherent film: it's not just the jumping back and forth in both image in sound: a man gets shot, without apparent consequence, a man stabs himself and it's neither a joke nor something particularly meaningful: it just happens.

The end could be tragic, but due to what came before, it just is, random and slightly sad, but not very significant.

After watching this film, I finally understand where "Les Amants Réguliers", Philippe Garrel's 2005 film, comes from. It takes place only a few years after this one, and the plot is, in essence, similar, but the almost 40 years in between make a world of difference: the fun is gone. While Godard doesn't romanticise, you can tell he enjoys spending time with these people, and that he understands the fun inherent in being young. Garrel's film was a reaction to the nostalgia of Bertolluci's "the Dreamers", but he might have gone too far in the other direction: too disillusioned, perhaps, by how little has changed despite all the upheaval of the sixties.

I have to admit I have a strange sort of longing for the summer of '68. Is it possible to be homesick for somewhere you've only heard of? Fourty years since the summer of love and it seems the world hasn't changed that much since the fifties, except for technological advances which seem almost superficial. But I suppose as long as there's 21-year-olds in the world, we should be alright.

Graduations

June's the month of graduations. Yesterday I went to see my little brother, all grown up and looking mighty dashing in his suit, receive his high school diploma. And tonight, I went to see three graduation films from the Dutch Film and Television Academy in Amsterdam.

The first, "Bomber", was set in a near-future dystopic version of the Netherlands and revolved around a group of graffiti-spraying friends who don't quite know how to deal with the war. Is merely making impressive "pieces" enough if their efforts are so easily effaced by a waterhose? I liked the atmosphere - quite similar to fellow angry-young-people-in-the-suburbs film "La Haine"-, the moment where they erupt in (rap) song is well done, and the ending took me by surprise, but unfortunately the main character lost his believability as soon as he opened his mouth, and the dialogue was far from stellar.

Then came the film my dad and I really came to see, "Gödel", about the eponymous mathematician. It didn't disappoint. You could say it's about the last period of his life, when he was so paranoid he was starving himself to death, but that would be an incomplete statement. It's also about the distinction between reality and delusion, about where the film ends and the filmmaking begins. Gödel changes his mind about which part of what he sees is real, which part is not, the set collapses around in and at some point the director comes in to discuss with two critics what the ending should be. It's too pretentious by half, artificial and even glib, but you know me, I rather enjoy pretentious and glib (see also: my idolatry of Dave Eggers), and despite all the gimmicry, the film ends on a perfect note.

Finally, the third film, and unfortunately by far the least interesting of the three. The title (translated by yours truly) is "Daddy is gone...and I still had something to ask", and the documentary is precisly what you'd expect from such title, except maybe twice as long. There is really nothing remotely original or even simply visually inventive about this one. I'll admit part of my disinterest might come from my general feeling of "meh" when it comes to ego-documents, but really. Compare this for example to "Four Eyed Monsters", a recent debut film that's still available in its entirety on youtube. It's also an ego-document, but it's embellished by so many visual flourishes, so many little details that surprise you, that's it's interesting much beyond its cliched quirky boy-meets-girl story. This film however apparently thought an opening and closing shot of an ant hill and some jumping back and forth in time would be enough to make the story interesting. Unfortunately, it is not, especially not when every fact and feeling is rehashed at least twice.

All-in-all, it was a wondeful to celebrate that...my summer break has started! I did my last exam today, and I could not feel more relieved, despite, as expected, failing one course. I met my dad in Amsterdam, we had some ridiculously overpriced but delicious sushi and went to these movies, with one of the most generous audiences I've even seen a movie with. Afterwards we walked to the station, over the wallen (we saw a "de majoor is thuis" banner), saw an amazing double rainbow, and well, these are all irrelevant details but it comes down to: I had a great time, and I can already feel myself relaxing. You can expect a definite uptick in posting frequency from now on!

La Stanza del Figlio

Sometimes there's movies you've been wanting to see for a long time, but somehow keep delaying. Requiem for a Dream is such a film for me: I've heard it's great, I want to see how great it is, but I enver quite feel up putting myself through it.

La Stanza del Figlio I've actually owned on DVD for a while, but the word "tearjerker" on the backflap held me back. Luckily, I had a friend over, and she picked it as the film we would watch.

The thing is, this is not a tearjerker. Yes, it is about a son dying. Yes, it's about grief, and there is much crying done in the film. But at no point did I ever feel manipulated. The film never felt melodramatic, the music never swelled to try to push feelings over the top. For lack of a better word, it felt real.

Maybe that's why I didn't cry, even if I'm usually quick to shed a tear or two over a movie (or book, for that matter). But I was more moved than I've been in a while, because everything felt true.

Did I mention it's funny, too? The main character's a shrink, and much of it stems from his patients, but despite the fact that they're all somewhat pathetic figures, the overall sense you get is that despite everything, life does go on.

La Stanza del figlio is not a masterpiece. It's too small in scope for that, too innocuous. But it's note-perfect in what it sets out to do, and definitely worth watching. Just don't let the "tearjerker" label scare you away.