The Case for a Gentler Cinema

“Art imitates life, and life imitates art. I don’t think you have to choose between the two, and I think…I think we’re a violent people.” James Gillham says this to his co-host Matt Gamble about an hour into a recent episode (4.3 – “At the Movies”) of their podcast High & Low (Brow) in which they discuss, among other things, the role violence plays in contemporary media. It is a very wise statement, and it neatly sums up a few things that have been on my mind for some time now – especially recently, what with the increased discussion of gun control in the USA following such horrific incidents as the Aurora, Colorado movie theatre shooting and Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in Newtown, Connecticut. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about my personal tastes in films and how they have changed over the years, but also about peculiar little things I’m taking greater stock of – like how, in the midst of the talks and debates about gun control, while the abovementioned incidents are still fresh in people’s memories, films like A Good Day to Die Hard, Olympus Has Fallen, and G.I. Joe: Retaliation keep filling the multiplexes.

            
Now, to be clear, this is not one of those pieces that places the blame for violent incidents on violent films. In the High & Low (Brow) episode, Matt is quite right when he explains that focusing exclusively on violent films and other entertainments does not help the situation at all and only takes critical attention away from the real key factors of the problem: gun accessibility and mental health. Getting help to those who need it and making it tougher for ill or dangerous individuals to get their hands on and keep weapons and ammunition are absolutely the most important areas to focus on. However, I can also see where James is coming from when he questions the proliferation of violent entertainment and its impact on consumers amidst such troubling times. As he indicates in the quote above and his additional comments in the discussion, it is worth considering just what kind of role violent media does play and reevaluating what the abundance and endorsement of so much violent entertainment really means nowadays.

            
For me, I think the matter boils down to two words: healthy intake. Instead of debating whether media violence should be labeled as cause or symptom of real violence, I think it is much more productive to think about how media violence affects us as both people (individuals) and a people (society). And personally, I don’t really think it’s all that healthy. Now sure, a great many of my favorite films contain and, in some cases, focus in great detail on screen violence, and, similarly, a great many of my favorite filmmakers have relied on violence to express their views on bigger themes in their work. More on that later, but for now, isn’t it a little funny just how much violence has been fixated upon and worshipped for so long in cinema – particularly North American cinema? Back in 2007, Tom Carson wrote an especially illuminating piece for GQ on this matter entitled “In Violence We Trust” which explores how the vast majority of American filmmakers have largely avoided mature takes on sex and romance out of fear, embarrassment, or disinterest while going the opposite route and devising ever more lavish, over the top, shock-inducing, and gravely serious portrayals of blood, gore, death, and destruction. He’s right on the money too – from Taxi Driver’s orange-tinted climactic shootout and Raging Bull’s geysers of blood to the messy massacres in such recent films as Nicholas Winding Refn’s Drive and Quentin Tarantino’s Django Unchained, violence and artistic merit have long been the closest of bedfellows when it has come to films permeating the pop culture current and becoming identified as exemplary specimens of cinematic craftsmanship.

            
In the past, I’ve been just as involved as anybody else in this area. Tarantino was one of the very first filmmakers whom I identified as an auteur, and Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, and Kill Bill were among the first films I looked at from an artistic perspective, from a perspective besides the one that regards films as entertainments and nothing more. To this day I still enjoy Tarantino’s work, and have lapped up Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained with just as much enthusiasm as I did for his earlier works. But I will admit: lately, I have been getting tired of Quentin. Part of it simply has to do with the annoying egoism and smugness he emanates (yes, he’s got talent as a filmmaker, but he’s the kind of guy who wants to be absolutely sure you know it, who wants to be sure you see that big, juicy Written and Directed by credit over his name at the end of his film, who wants you to be keeping track at home of how many films he has under his belt to date, etc.), but a part of it also has to do with how he continues to use screen violence to a fetishistic degree in his filmmaking, leaning on it like a crutch even when digging into such big historical subjects as World War II and the American slave trade (which, granted, are topics mired in violence). That, as well as certain other qualities of his work (specifically the countless references to and precious emulations of his favorite films and genres) at times make it somewhat difficult to take him and his work seriously. I do admire Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained for providing fresh insights into their respective topics (e.g. Basterds’ depiction of the cultural and linguistic diversity in WWII-era Europe; Django’s commendable, bravely confrontational exploration of the slave trade), but as they coast along and hit their B-movie beats, there are times when they simply can’t be taken all that seriously and are in fact pretty embarrassing to behold. This is because the films are strictly set in Quentinland, and thus are chiefly designed to offer up highly entertaining and visceral cinematic experiences via Tarantino’s now well-established tools of choice: flowery dialogue, flamboyant characters, impeccable fusions of music and imagery, and, of course, elaborate displays of violence. I perfectly understand that these traits are what Tarantino’s films are all about – they’re simply what defines his distinctive voice, making him the filmmaker I and many others know and love. And yet, I’m growing increasingly weary and agitated by both the public adoration that violent works like Django (which recently snagged two Oscars, including one for Tarantino for Best Original Screenplay) continue to attract and, especially, the nature of many filmmakers’ relationships with violence as a part of their storytelling vocabulary, which I’d argue is a little too over-dependent for comfort.

            
While people frequently seek out films for entertainment and escape, I have long felt that a main goal of cinema should be to chronicle and explore universal human experiences. After all, what better way to connect with an audience and provide further insight into the human condition than to pick apart the stuff of everyday life in all of its beauty and complexity? Through this lens, the abundance of violence in film becomes unspeakably perverse – exactly how essential is violence to illuminating the human condition if so few of us have actually encountered serious forms of it with our own eyes? For how long have we been tricked into thinking that murder is a useful tool for examining so-called universal truths – that murder is, in fact, one of those universal truths? On a few occasions, I have spoken with my close friend Chris MaGee about the use of violence in cinema and its relationship to real-life violence. The last time we had a discussion on the topic, we both agreed that the average North American will fortunately pass through his or her life without ever having to kill anybody. Shortly afterwards, Chris showed me a documentary on Youtube that featured Vietnam veterans talking about their experiences in the war – specifically, the extreme trauma they went through as a result of killing other human beings years ago. That documentary plainly illustrated the real effects of violence – the true nature of violence. To hear those veterans’ stories, then contemplate how Tarantino and other filmmakers use violence in their work is more than a little off-putting, to say the least – in some cases, it simply feels wrong. To see a detached, obsessive fanboy like Tarantino orchestrate his gleeful killing sprees set to pop or rap music behind the argument that “it’s only movie violence” feels wrong and irresponsible – again, not because having so much violence in a film will turn viewers into killers, but instead because it doesn’t afford any respect to those who have actually had to face murder and death in their own lives. That’s why you would never want to see Inglourious Basterds sitting next to a World War II veteran – a situation like that makes the insulting nature of the film clear as day. Chris has also convinced me how a man like Samuel Fuller is infinitely more entitled to make a film about war than Tarantino simply because of how much life the man has seen. Fuller lived a truly extraordinary life in which he not only served as an infantryman in World War II, but also worked as a crime reporter and novelist before making a name for himself in filmmaking. Fuller constantly drew from his own life when making his raw, honest films – he had a rich field of experience he could consult to inform the stories he told. Next to him, people like Tarantino who seemingly learned everything they know about the world just from watching movies are simply too detached from real life, and as a result come across as pitiful phonies.

            
I’m not saying that in order for a film to have any credibility or meaning to it, it has to be based on actual experiences lived by one or more of its key authors. However, after not only observing Tarantino and other filmmakers flush away human life onscreen in such a flippant manner, but also seeing how ubiquitous and commonplace such films have become, I think it would only be a good thing to see a) more work that is based on something thoughtful and genuine (like actual experiences) rather than detached, adolescent fantasy, b) violence handled in a more serious light more often in cinema, and c) more filmmakers do away with violence altogether in their storytelling. Regarding point b), I not only think of Tarantino (who has long been a favorite punching bag for arguments like the ones presented here), but also other filmmakers whose use of violence comes across as childish, grotesque, and stupid. Many have commented on the increasingly nihilistic worldview of Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy; I myself can’t help but think of the video game-like anonymity of the gun-wielding goons who threaten Inception’s team of dream hackers – yes, they’re only dream figments, but it’s still unsettling to see how casually they are first conjured, then eliminated throughout the film. Then there are the Robert Rodriguezes and Michael Bays of the world – true juveniles whose fascination with noisy, obnoxious destruction serves no constructive purpose and leaves no room for anything resembling a responsible or positive worldview. Sure, these directors are clearly invested in providing escapism, not contemplation, but is this really the kind of escapism people want? Are they really so eager to lose themselves in films that are so sorely lacking in conscience?

            
And really, that’s what it boils down to for me. I’m just so weary and tired of filmmaking that lacks a conscience, and utilizes death so thoughtlessly and frequently, positioning it as the ideal way to resolve conflict. Just to get away from the nastiness and cynicism that saturates so much of film culture, I have been taking more comfort in filmmakers who in fact don’t feel they need to rely on screen violence to tell interesting stories in interesting ways, and I feel so much better for it. They have meaningful things to say about the world that are grounded in easily relatable experiences and come across as so much more positive and compassionate than the majority of the messages I’d be likely to find in a heavily violent film. Along these lines, I’m specifically thinking of filmmakers like Jean Renoir, the humanist par excellence; Jacques Tati, the gentle clown of French cinema; and François Truffaut, whose relatively rare uses of violence in his films often, significantly, come across as rather clumsy – sometimes to great effect, as in Shoot the Piano Player; sometimes to poor effect, as in The Bride Wore Black. In any case, he is better remembered for sunnier, stronger films like Stolen Kisses, Day For Night, The Wild Child, and Small Change. More recent efforts from Asian cinema have created an interesting dichotomy: while Park Chan-wook has been lavished with praise for his prettily framed studies of violence and its harmful consequences right up to Stoker, others like Hou Hsiao-hsien, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, and Hirokazu Kore-eda have been at work making some of the most peaceful and light-hearted films you could hope to find. If there is a cinematic father figure for these modern masters, it is surely Yasujiro Ozu, whose calm, orderly family dramas say so much without resorting to outlandish scenarios – indeed, they hardly ever leave the households, office buildings, bars, and train platforms of a bygone – yet still familiar – Tokyo. A number of his contemporaries in the Japanese film industry – Hiroshi Shimizu, Mikio Naruse – likewise remained quite content with the stuff of everyday life. As for Akira Kurosawa, while he is well known for creating some of the most striking scenes of violence in all of cinema, one need only think of films like Rashomon, Seven Samurai, or Ran to understand that Kurosawa’s violence is nearly always in service to his critiques of mankind’s stupidity and savagery. Kurosawa did not use violence lightly, and made sure to put it to some constructive purpose in his films.

            
Kurosawa was another big gateway filmmaker for me, but these days I’m more likely to turn to Ozu. It’s not that I have lost sight of Kurosawa’s greatness, nor have I grown scared of or extra-sensitive to screen violence – hell, if anything, I’ve developed a pretty high tolerance level of all manner of movie gore. But that’s part of the point I’m making here – how did it reach that point where I and so many other viewers are unshaken by the carnage we see in so many films? How wide is the disconnect between the seemingly harmless, fantastical violence of the movies and the real thing? I’m not passing any judgments on anyone’s tastes, nor am I saying that I’m done with violent films forever. I’d just like to take a bit of a break and lessen my intake of violent cinema for a bit – and why not? The way I see it, having more playful, compassionate, and conscientious films in my viewing intake can only be a good thing.

            
Yet while this is a personal choice in the way I watch and think about film, it would be interesting to see more filmmakers follow this route as well – to see them challenge themselves by turning away from violence and murder and towards more relatable and commonplace subject matter for their stories. There is a delightful documentary tribute to Ozu called Talking with Ozu (available on the Criterion edition of Tokyo Story as well as on Youtube in separate parts) in which such filmmakers as Hou, Claire Denis, Wim Wenders, and Lindsay Anderson share their personal connections to the Japanese master. In it, Finnish filmmaker Aki Kaurismäki offers up his words of gratitude and affection, at one point voicing his admiration for Ozu’s aversion to violence: “What I respect most is that Ozu never needed to use murder or violence to tell everything that’s essential about human life.” While he admits in his typically self-deprecating manner that he will never reach Ozu’s level, Kaurismäki can rest easy: a deeply conscientious filmmaker in his own right, he rarely resorts to violence, and only ever lets it play a small part in his nourishing humanist tales. 

 

But what about other filmmakers? Are there any who would be willing to take up the Ozu challenge and ease off of the bloodshed in their own films? Pedro Costa voices a similar wish at the end of a recent interview for MUBI.com’s Notebook in which he imagines a version of David Fincher’s The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo devoid of any violence: “Let’s avoid every single murder, killing, weapon. That’s the challenge.” It’s challenges in cinematic storytelling like that that I’d be very happy to see more of. After all, there’s something to be said for the filmmaker whose idea of an essential prop is a red teapot rather than a human skull.

Yasujiro Ozu's Equinox Flower

Quentin Tarantino's Django Unchained

Watch List

Fresh Goodies from Joe

A little over two years ago, I was quite thrilled when one of my favorite contemporary filmmakers, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, was awarded the Palme d'Or at Cannes for his marvelous Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. During this year's festival in the sunny south of France, I was likely not alone in my joy at hearing of the Thai filmmaker's newest projects. Apichatpong is known for being a fairly productive artist; aside from the six feature film projects to his name, he has also created a large number of short films and installation pieces, testing his unique, experimental sensibilities in various ways. The recent news of his two latest short films come as a welcome assurance that he will be continuing to maintain his productive, curious work methods even with a Palme d'Or on his shelf.

-The first of the two films that were screened at Cannes is Mekong Hotel, which clocks in at a little over an hour. Daniel Kasman wrote about the film over at MUBI Notebook in an enticing piece.

-The other film, Ashes, can actually be viewed for free online. Jittery and primitive in its visual quality, it was created with the LomoKino camera as part of a collaboration between Apichatpong, LomoKino and MUBI. Disorienting and beautiful.

-Also over at the Notebook is a wonderful interview with Apichatpong by Kasman about these new pieces and his work methods.

A jungle straight out of Apichatpong's cinema...in Northern Ontario.

Vegetation

August, 2011 - Oakville, Ontario, Canada

Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (2010)

Director: Apichatpong Weerasethakul
Country: Thailand

After the tidy and at-times sterile spaces of 2006's Syndromes and a Century, which has been recognized by many as the best film of the previous decade, Apichatpong Weerasethakul returned to the dark, mysterious depths of the jungles of Thailand for Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives. It is the latest in a series of works that are part of his Primitive project, which is centered around the town of Nabua in northeast Thailand where government soldiers tortured and killed farmers suspected of being communists between 1965 and the early 1980s. Through an installation piece, the short films Phantoms of Nabua and A Letter to Uncle Boonmee and the feature Uncle Boonmee, Weerasethakul has adressed the topics of memory, community and, in keeping with his ongoing interest in Buddhism, reincarnation.

Uncle Boonmee is inspired by the 1983 book A Man Who Can Recall His Past Lives by Buddhist abbot Phra Sripariyattiweti, who in turn based the book on the remembered experiences and reincarnations of a man named Boonmee. Along with elements from the book, Weerasethakul incorporated into the film memories of his own family (chiefly his father, who like the titular character, suffered from kidney failure) and bits of inspiration from old television shows and Thai comic books. The end result is yet another fantastically strange treat from one of the most original voices in contemporary Asian cinema.

The film follows kindly farmer Boonmee (Thanapat Saisaymar) as he lives out his final days in a country house surrounded by dense wilderness. He is kept company by Jen (Jenjira Pongpas), his sister-in-law, and Tong (Sakda Kaewbuadee), his nephew, and has his medical needs taken care of by Jaai (Samud Kugasang), a migrant worker from Laos. As the days pass, the group encounters a range of unusual beings. Most memorably, there is an evening dinner table sequence early in the film in which the family is joined by the ghost of Huay (Natthakarn Aphaiwonk), Boonmee's long-deceased wife, and Boonsong (Geerasak Kulhong), his long-lost son who transformed into a red-eyed ape creature after mating with another member of the same species. Boonmee converses with his wife about what awaits him after death and summons memories of his previous reincarnations. Eventually, Huay leads Boonmee and the others to an ancient cave where the sick man was originally born in his first form. There, he prepares himself for what is inevitably to come. 

Uncle Boonmee is possibly Weerasethakul's most linear narrative to date, as it noticeably deviates from the very clearly-defined two-part structures of Blissfully Yours, Tropical Malady and Syndromes and a Century. While there is a portion towards the ending that relocates the narrative to urban spaces, the film is mainly set within the jungle and, a few isolated episodes aside, devotes most of its running time to Boonmee and those around him. Weerasethakul very much seems to be revisiting territory he covered in Tropical Malady - primarily that film's prolonged stay in the wilderness, which immerses main character Keng (Banlop Lomnoi) and audience alike in a rich, sensory experience filled with thick vegetation, natural phenomena and the sounds of countless unseen insects and other creatures. Uncle Boonmee provides a similarly overwhelming ambience taken from the flora and fauna of the Thai country, and, like Tropical Malady, freely includes some more overtly fantastical creatures and elements - though this time, it could be said that Weerasethakul has truly outdone himself. At certain points during Uncle Boonmee, I was reminded of a quote Jonathan Rosenbaum uttered regarding the African film Yeelen (Brightness): "...should make George Lucas green with envy..." Well, Uncle Boonmee takes that idea a few steps further, as some of its inclusions seem directly influenced by Star Wars (namely the ape creatures, which seem like a mix of Wookies and Jawas). Yet the traces of influence aren't direct or glaring enough to be called rip-offs. Instead, they give the impression that the film is a dream being experienced by someone who has seen Star Wars a few too many times - the raw ingredients are there, but they have been re-invented and mixed in with the filmmaker's other preoccupations, ideas, memories and creative wishes. In fact, Weerasethakul himself is quite the big fan of science fiction, having read a number of the classic authors (Asimov, Clarke, Bradbury) in his youth. Many times (including the career-spanning talk he gave at the Bell Lightbox during TIFF, which I attended), he has mentioned his ambitious dream project: Utopia, which would ideally feature actors from old science fiction films and television series (Jane Fonda and the cast of the original Star Trek show among them), the remains of the starship Enterprise and an eerie, snow-covered setting (Weerasethakul quite understandably  associates the color white with science fiction sets and environments). Even if that film is never realized (the director worries that it would be too expensive), there are many fascinating sci-fi touches in his existing works that certainly indicate an interest in the genre.

Uncle Boonmee is a film to savor and celebrate for the way in which it continues its maker's ongoing fascination with and reinterpretation of storytelling practices. His methods can be challenging to those not used to his particular way of relaying narrative, but if you approach his works with an open mind, you will find a grand wealth of strange yet wonderful riches. Like Weerasethakul's previous works, Uncle Boonmee is piled with several scenes and moments that ask you to enjoy certain pleasures: a honey tasting in a sunny tamarind orchard; the eerie yet relaxed dinner table meeting between human, spirit and ape-man; a stunning passage set by a night-shrouded waterfall involving a princess, one of her servants and a talking catfish; an unexpected photo montage; the cave, glistening with constellations of minerals; a karaoke stage aglow with colorful lights. All of these things and more are presented in a welcoming tone of curiosity, sincerity and happiness, and the weaving, unexpected structure in which they are presented simply adds to the fun, fascinating quality of the film. 

There is so much more I could write about (including the interconnected quality of all of Weerasethakul's works, including Uncle Boonmee - for example, the actress Kanokporn Tongaram from Blissfully Yours seems to reprise her character in the newer film's final scenes), but I think I've said enough. Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives is indeed different and mysterious, and it certainly helps if viewers go into it with some familiarity with Weerasethakul's work and methods. But the experience it provides is surely one to be contemplated and cherished in equal measure, and I can't wait to partake in it once again.

I'll leave you with a slew of Weerasethakul-related goodies:

-the blog Ruthless Culture has some very good pieces on Blissfully Yours and Tropical Malady, but most worthwhile is a review on Syndromes and a Century that describes the unique approach to storytelling that the film and its director utilize, the literary tradition of said approach, and how the film goes about charting new ways in which cinema can be used to tell stories (and how critics should approach them).

-John Berra, editor of the Directory of World Cinema: Japan and American Independent volumes and contributor to Electric Sheep, conducted a great interview with Weerasethakul for the latter in December 2009 that explores the Primitive project, the director's clashes with censors over Syndromes and that enticing Utopia film, among many other things. Check that out here!

-Finally, included below is a video featuring excerpts from the previously mentioned appearance Weerasethakul made at the Lightbox:

Film Socialism (2010)

Director: Jean-Luc Godard

Country: France

Quite fittingly, Jean-Luc Godard’s already-notorious Film Socialism was the last film I saw at this year’s Toronto International Film Festival. Having read reports of its difficult qualities (on top of being fully aware of his work’s striking transformations over the course of his career), I knew I was in for a rough ride when I walked into the theatre, and even had in mind the famous credits that accompany his 1967 film Weekend: “End of Film,” “End of Cinema.” Those words quite definitively marked the end of a remarkable run of films that at once reflected and defined the decade in which they were made. But anyone willing to follow Godard beyond then would have to turn away from Jean Seberg, Jean-Paul Belmondo, Anna Karina and all other traces of romanticism from that phase of his work as he delved deeper into political theory, philosophy, video technology and an increasingly experimental style that tossed conventional narrative techniques out the window.

Depending on what you read, Film Socialism is reported as being either Godard’s final film or one of several final films. Constructed as “a symphony in three movements,” it begins on a cruise ship traveling on the Mediterranean Sea, which the filmmaker poetically portrayed in Contempt and Pierrot le fou. Here, it is captured in high definition video as a cruel place of crashing waves; a raging, terrifying void stretching as far as the eye can see. Using a variety of cameras that range from crisp and clear to crude and blurry, Godard and his film crew show the ship’s passengers as they engage in numerous activities: eating in decadent restaurant settings, playing in an on-board casino, visiting a crowded swimming pool. Godard’s disgust for the relaxed, unsuspecting people who pass before his lenses is detectable, as is his barbed critique of the realm of wealth and ignorance that they inhabit. Twice, he cuts away to a dance club comically rendered via pixel-strewn video as a chaotic, hellish realm of flashing lights and deafening noise – clearly a poke at what the young people of today’s age do for entertainment. At certain points, people clearly enlisted as actors (though it can’t be said that they are portraying actual characters) appear: a man who frequently snaps pictures, a woman who mournfully talks about Europe and points to something in the distance, a girl who contemplates an amusing Youtube video of talking cats. There are vague allusions to the Nazis, Spanish gold and the invention of Hollywood by the Jews.

At this point, I should mention one of the more daunting (and talked about) features of Film Socialism. At Godard’s request, the English subtitles of the film have been considerably modified to the point that each sentence only ever consists of a handful of words (mostly nouns). Apparently a form of Navajo English, this fragmented language is bound to be the final straw for many an already frustrated viewer – and it already has been at several previous screenings in film festivals around the world. Yet it also undeniably adds a game-like quality to the film as it asks – nay, forces you to decipher the images and selected words that appear before you while also inviting a deeper consideration of language and articulation – subjects Godard has been tackling throughout his entire career. Regardless of how you choose to react to them, the partial subtitles become much more problematic by the second movement, which shifts from the ship to a lonely country gas station run by a family currently being shaken by a number of politically charged occurrences. The mother is a candidate in the upcoming elections while her young son and teenage daughter demand a serious consideration of Liberty, Equality and Fraternity and stop using the verb “to be.” The girl keeps company with the family llama (they also own a mule) by the gas pumps and determinedly reads Balzac instead of helping customers. Meanwhile, the blond-haired boy is centered amidst moments of humor and contemplation as he conducts an imaginary orchestra, paints a Renoir from memory and thoughtfully listens to a piece of classical music, a jazz piece and a political monologue whilst blowing bubbles in his milk. A white journalist and black camera operator (both women) document the family’s activities, questioning and recording them. This passage is the closest Film Socialism ever comes to being an actual narrative, and while some viewers have complained of it being monotonous, I found that an engaging quality emerged from watching these people (I again hesitate to say “characters,” and Godard himself has said that “the scenes stop before the people become characters”) as they interacted with each other – even if I couldn’t entirely understand everything that was said.

The final movement is a collage of images that has been drawing many comparisons to Godard’s lengthy film essay series Histoire(s) du cinéma. The main subjects are “six sites of true or false myths,” including Egypt, Palestine, Odessa (along with, yes, the stone steps where Eisenstein shot the famous massacre sequence for Battleship Potemkin), Hellas (Greece), Naples and Barcelona, all of which explored through scraps of both original and found footage. Two words not unlike those at the end of Weekend bring Film Socialism to a close: “No Comment.”

Understandably, I’m still finding it hard to sort my exact feelings about Film Socialism. At the very least, I can say that I somewhat disagree with all the critics out there who are flat-out rejecting it or simplistically summarizing it as merely a middle finger defiantly pointed at the audience. Yes, there is an undeniable quality of unfriendliness about the film, but that’s something Godard has developed and incorporated in his works for ages. Part of what defines Godard’s work is its intentional difficulty; its unwillingness to be easily defined or understood according to rules of conventional film spectatorship. You don’t have to like or agree with this mentality by any means, but if you’re walking into a late Godard film, you have to understand that this is what you’ll be subjected to for its duration. Additionally, while he is making these daunting choices about how Film Socialism will be viewed (especially for English-speaking audiences), the film is by no means entirely incomprehensible or without form or coherence – case in point being the three-part structure that takes you from floating pleasure palace to domestic setting to wind-swept shores of history. While difficult if not impossible to peg down the maker’s precise intentions, there is nonetheless a lot to think about and even appreciate. In the second category, one can easily include the film’s undeniably beautiful images of the blue and yellow ship, the vast expanses of sea and sky stretching beyond it and the different rooms and spaces of the family’s household. There is even something resembling a nice character moment when Godard lingers in extreme slow motion on the smiling face of the teenage girl.

In conclusion, if you’re considering giving Film Socialism a watch, it’s worth keeping in mind that there are challenging films, there are challenging films, and then there’s Godard. There are some films out there like Alain Resnais’ Last Year at Marienbad, David Lynch’s Mulholland Drive and Christopher Nolan’s Inception that require their audiences to think a little differently, but nonetheless can be extremely rewarding to those who approach them with an open, eager mind. Such films are closer to puzzles than stories, and in turn are more ideal for being played with than simply watched. Film Socialism should be approached with the same mentality, but with the crucial caveats that a) Godard’s considerations for his audience are pricklier than most other cinematic tricksters’, b) his particular rulebook for the film has intentionally had some of its pages ripped out, and c) his intended messages are perhaps inevitably going to be murky, unfocused and scattershot. Whether people have the patience or tolerance for such characteristics is entirely up to them. Personally, I am willing to accept (though not entirely embrace) the challenges of Film Socialism and approach it as an intriguing puzzle, but there are indeed far more pleasant ways to be engaged by a film. Take, for example, Apichatpong Weerasethakul, the Thai filmmaker who has thus far taken the film world by storm with an assortment of odd, unconventional “mysterious objects” that are also filled with a warmth that is extremely alluring and pleasing. Watching one of his films is like sipping a pleasantly intoxicating liqueur. Film Socialism, for all of its infinitely more hard-won rewards, is more like gargling vinegar. Take from that what you will, I guess. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Tropical Malady (2004)

Director: Apichatpong Weerasethakul
Country: Thailand


I recently took it upon myself to seek out Apichatpong Weerasethakul's highly celebrated Tropical Malady, motivated by his Palme d'Or win in Cannes for his latest film Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives and the fond memories I had of seeing his Syndromes and a Century at the TIFF Cinematheque this past January. Like that film, Tropical Malady made it onto a lot of critics' lists of best films of the decade - and I can certainly see why.

Like Syndromes, Tropical Malady is divided into two very different parts, but while the former "reboots" its narrative, the latter could be seen as one continuous narrative journey for Keng (Banlop Lomnoi), its central protagonist. Keng is a soldier who meets a young man named Tong (Sakda Kaewbuadee) and soon forges a close bond with him. The film's first portion is set within the safe haven of civilization, dwelling in the Thai countryside and a busier city setting. When not amidst the peaceful outdoor settings of the village, the film ventures into distinctly urban locations flooded with florescent light, including a sterile veterinary clinic, an internet cafe and an eye-poppingly colorful karaoke bar. The slow-burning love story between the two men is portrayed in such a way that its homoerotic situation is not overly stressed. Instead, in a universal fashion, it simply portrays two people expressing affection for one another.

The second part, entitled A Spirit's Path, offers a significant departure from the first and almost feels like its own separate film. Onscreen text tells the folk tale of a shaman with the power to turn himself into a tiger. Having changed from his casual short-sleeved shirts to his camouflaged uniform, Keng pursues a tiger that is killing villagers' animals, putting up with the heat and blood-sucking leeches while making puzzling discoveries, including tracks that change from those of a man to those of the beast. One possibility is that Tong is the very shape-shifting tiger that Keng seeks. Barely any dialogue is spoken or music played, allowing Apichatpong to heighten the purely sensory experience of the jungle through the sounds of birds, insects and other wildlife and a spellbinding array of images.

In the programme guide for the Cinematheque's Best of the Decade series, Apichatpong's work is accurately described as a cinema of generosity, invested with a joyous desire to share moments pleasing and wonderful to behold. This idea is solidly reinforced in Tropical Malady, which is chock full of memorable sights and sounds. The first part alone features workers at an ice-making plant, gorgeous sun-drenched landscapes, warm communal gatherings in the nocturnal hours, an excursion to a cave, an outdoor mass aerobics class and the delightful karaoke scene. The second half contains elements that are just as stimulating, but of a completely different order. So mystifying and strange are they that it would be a crime to reveal them here in mere, crude words.

Like few other films, Tropical Malady forges a unique connection between it and the viewer, taking him/her on a mysterious, unpredictable journey of discovery ripe with pleasures. Seductive and beautiful, it is all but guaranteed to provide a different experience for each person who watches it, and a world apart from any other film you will watch this summer. If you're looking for something fresh, challenging and rewarding, something to truly lose yourself in, then seek out Tropical Malady first chance you get.

Below, I've included the trailers for Tropical Malady, Syndromes and a Century and Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives.

Grab Bag

I've been venturing out to the movie theatre quite a bit recently, catching up on some of the high points of the past year and decade (the latter thanks to the Cinematheque Ontario's Best of the Decade program). As a result, this post is a small cinematic cornucopia of sorts, focusing on four very different, very good foreign films I've seen in the past few weeks.

Syndromes and a Century (2006)
Director: Apichatpong Weerasethakul
Country: Thailand


After having missed it when it first appeared at the Cinémathèque Ontario, I was very glad to finally see what many are calling the best film of the decade. I had heard much about Apichatpong Weerasethakul and the fresh, idiosyncratic quality that defines his films, and discovering both for the first time was a genuine pleasure. On the surface, Syndromes tells two parallel stories. One is set at a hospital in the countryside and follows one man as he tries to confess his love to a doctor who works there, while the other relocates to a more sterile hospital in the city, containing some elements from the first part while moving in a different direction. This interesting, unconventional dual structure invites a fair amount of pondering, not least of all over the differences between the rural setting and the urban one. The film all but begs for multiple viewings, which are sure to offer new discoveries, rewards and revelations. I'd love to see it again if only to take in its warmth and compassionate worldview, which is often reminiscent of Ozu and Truffaut. There are virtually no villains to be found, but instead one fascinating character after the next. My favorites would probably be the Buddhist monk who dreams of being a DJ and a dentist who sings country songs in a green jacket in his spare time.

Mystifying and compelling, Syndromes adopts a Murakami-like approach to narrative, following its own course and taking many unexpected twists and turns, often in directions entirely unanticipated by the viewer. There are also hints of Weerasethakul's background as an avant-garde artist, leading to moments of contemplation and tranquility all too seldom experienced in films.

Now that my curiosity has been temporarily satisfied, I am quite eager to see both more of Weerasethakul's films and Syndromes and a Century again soon.

Waltz with Bashir (2008)
Director: Ari Folman
Country: Israel


Waltz with Bashir, the only animated film to be nominated for the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar thus far, is quite fascinating for the way it approaches both the historical and the personal. It explores the events of the 1982 Israeli invasion of Lebanon, but not in a distant, documentary-like way. Instead, it is more along the lines of a personal account or confession as director Ari Folman, who partook in the campaign as a young man, tries to remember what transpired there and makes sense of dreams and images that he experiences. He tracks down and interviews several people involved in the conflict, some of whom he served alongside. By confronting his personal demons, Folman simultaneously conducts a sort of study of suppressed guilt that has afflicted Israel in terms of its past.

With its foggy borderline between historical fact and the dreams and memories of the Israeli soldiers, Waltz definitely makes the most of its animated form. Many of the images used to tell its twisty story are quite beautiful and surreal, dipping into Fellini-esque territory at times while keeping true to the brutal realities of the Lebanon conflict, which are gradually revealed as the film continues in an intriguing, detective-like fashion that keeps you hooked. Its conclusion is marked by a stylistic move that is daring, drastic and extremely effective in its emotional resonance - very much like a similar moment in Chris Marker's La Jetée.

Waltz with Bashir is much more than an animated documentary, anti-war statement or autobiographical confession. It is an imaginative journey to find truth in the murky depths of memory and time.

Songs From the Second Floor (2000)
Director: Roy Andersson
Country: Sweden


I had heard quite a bit about Roy Andersson, this film and his follow-up, You, the Living, which was recently released on Region 1 DVD, before catching it with a few friends at the Cinémathèque Ontario. I didn't want to miss the chance to see this one-of-a-kind gem on the big screen, and I sure wasn't disappointed. Following one poor businessman and the various people around him in a dark, depressing city, it has been described as Ingmar Bergman meets Monty Python, which is pretty accurate. Yet the figure I was most reminded of was Jacques Tati. Presented in only 46 shots (all but one of them completely stationary) with amazing visual compositions and great comedic details in both image and sound, Songs possesses the same kind of control, originality and social commentary as seen in films like Mon Oncle and Playtime, albeit with a nightmarish slant. I will definitely be checking out You, the Living before too long, so eager will I be to revisit the unique world of Andersson's imagination.

The White Ribbon (2009)
Director: Michael Haneke
Country: Germany


I was glad to finally catch Michael Haneke's latest, much celebrated film The White Ribbon, which of course won the Palme d"Or at Cannes. Set in a small German village shortly before the outbreak of World War I, it tells the story of a number of unusual occurrences that fall upon its inhabitants. A doctor's horse is tripped by a thin wire that mysteriously disappears before it can be more fully investigated. A woman falls through rotten floorboards at her place of work and dies shortly after. A barn catches on fire. Two children are tortured and left tied up in the woods.

As intriguing as these incidents may be in and of themselves, they serve a purpose similar to the threatening videotapes and drawings in Caché - the point isn't the discovery of the perpetrator(s), but rather the effects they have on the film's characters. In the village, they stir up a veritable hornet's nest of suspicion, distrust, simmering hatred and long-stewing resentment. While the village's severe, commanding adults (namely, its authority figures, which include the Baron and the Pastor) are most deserving of scrutiny, its children, who are often seen together in conspiratorial groups, don't always seem all that innocent either.

I'd very much like to see The White Ribbon again soon, if only to better take in its many secrets and messages. Apart from providing, in typical Haneke fashion, plenty of food for thought, the film is expertly paced and absolutely gorgeous, mainly thanks to Christian Berger's black-and-white cinematography, which was apparently inspired by Sven Nykvist's work for Ingmar Bergman. While I have yet to see any of the other nominees for this year's Best Foreign Language Film Oscar race (including France's A Prophet), I would not at all be surprised to see Haneke up on the Oscar podium this coming March for this excellent, truly masterful achievement of his.