Gimme Shelter (1970) **

“Gimme Shelter” is my all-time favorite Rolling Stones’ song, so I had exceptionally high hopes for this 1970 Maysles Brothers’ documentary—I was sorely disappointed.  Now, I’m not saying Gimme Shelter is a bad film—because it’s not—but is it really one of the 1001 (1089 as of last count) movies I must see before I die?  I think not.

Direct Cinema was all the rage in documentary filmmaking at the time the Maysles made Gimme Shelter, and so that’s what they turned out here.  There are no interviews with the band or their fans.  What we get is a random series of events (mostly song performances heavily reliant on a gyrating Mick Jagger) captured of the Stones’ 1969 U.S. Tour.  The one thing that ties the entire film together is the murder of a black man by a member of the Hell’s Angels at the December 6 Altamont Speedway Free Concert in San Francisco.  And then…nothing. If you’re looking for answers to what the band thought of the incident then you’ve come to the wrong film, because you won’t get anything more than some uncomfortable looks on their faces as they watch footage of the murder.  Somehow this just doesn’t seem right.

Ah, but the live performances are entertaining to watch, so I suppose that takes away a little of the sting of disappointment.  We get a little “Brown Sugar” and are asked to have “Sympathy for the Devil”, among other classic songs, but what the hell—they don’t perform “Gimme Shelter” live? I find this especially disturbing because Grace Slick and Jefferson Airplane were at the Altamont Concert and she could have performed the song with them.  Instead the Maysles decided they wanted to play this track over the closing credits, where we get to see a bunch of drugged-out zombies stumble around (and they weren’t even in the band!).  This definitely doesn’t seem kosher.

In her analysis of this film Karen Krizanovich writes that “Altamont was the Anti-Woodstock” and provided “negative closure to the 1960s.  It suggested that the counterculture was really a lot of drugged fools who thought murder was a ‘bummer’ and that the 60s dream was truly over.” I can see that.  When you juxtapose the two events (and the films that were made about them) you can definitely perceive a cultural dichotomy between them.  Everything seems peaceful and positive with Woodstock (1969), an event of brotherhood and community.  Whereas what happens at the Altamont is presented as violent and baseless.  In this one area I think the Maysles Brothers succeed—they show the true nature of the crowd mentality. Plus, was the 60s really so much about peace, love and understanding? Not really.

It is interesting to note that George Lucas was a cameraman at the Altamont, but none of his footage made it into the final cut.  It seems that during the concert his camera jammed—if only this would have happened to the cameras filming Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008). 

 

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The Young Girls of Rochefort (Les Demoiselles de Rochefort) 1967 **1/2

In 1964 director Jacques Demy shocked the Cannes Film Festival when he released The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, a modern day (popular) opera entirely sung and set primarily to a jazz score.  Along with legendary French songwriter Michel Legrand, Demy wrote a musical soundtrack/script that was at times playful, romantic, and haunting. It was a box office and critical success, and it made its star, Catherine Deneuve, an internationally recognized movie star. It was Demy’s aim to create a new musical format, one that owed “nothing to American musical comedy and nothing to French operetta.” Yes, he found inspiration in such films as An American in Paris (1951) and Les Girls (1957), but he wanted his musicals to be uniquely Demy—a colorful fantasy world awash with whimsical musical numbers.  That is exactly what he created with The Young Girls of Rochefort in 1967. 

Set and filmed in the French western seaside town of Rochefort (on the banks of the Charente River),  The Young Girls of Rochefort centers around the artistically gifted and ambitious Garnier sisters: twins (and real-life sisters) Delphine (Deneuve) and  Solange (Françoise Dorléac).  Unfulfilled with their jobs of teaching ballet (Delphine) and giving music lessons (Solange), the sisters long to escape to Paris to realize their dreams. Oh, and both are looking for their dream man, too.  When a fair comes to town for the weekend the sisters decide they will leave with it and make their way to Paris and, hopefully, stardom. 

All of Demy’s films have a thematic connection in that they somehow examine the meaning of love and separation.  In The Young Girls of Rochefort these themes are examined by the search for one’s ideal love.  Not only do the twins long for their ideals, but so does their mother Yvonne (Danielle Darrieux) and a number of other characters in the film.  By being separated from their ideals (some of whom have already been met and others who were just missed by coincidence and/or circumstance), the film has an underlying melancholic feel to it which is sharply contrasted by the overly bright production designs and the energetic musical numbers. These are the elements that define and set apart a Demy musical from others.

The musical numbers here are unlike those in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg in that no dialogue is sung and they are clearly breaks in the story.  The film opens with an intricately choreographed number by Norman Maen, as a carnival sets up in the town square with Legrand’s jazz introduction playing in the background.  This really sets the atmosphere for the rest of the film—clothed in bright colors the dancers effortlessly construct an entire set before our very eyes.  From this scene Demy smoothly transitions to the twins overlooking apartment, where we find the girls immersed in their artistic pursuits.  We are quickly introduced to them and the next thing we know they are engaged in a hilarious dancing duet about being “Les Demoiselles de Rochefort” (AKA “The Twins’ Song”).  From there we are treated to countless other upbeat numbers full of pep and color.  Still, there are a few melancholic songs, the most famous being “Chanson de Delphine” (although the music is set to various lyrics, based on what character is singing the song, it is after all everyone’s love song, just with a different ideal lover sung in mind).  Oh, and did I mention Gene Kelly is in the film, too?

That’s right, Mr. American Musical himself is in this quirky French musical extravaganza, too.  Demy waited two years to make The Young Girls of Rochefort because Kelly was engaged with other projects.  He plays an American composer destined to meet and fall in love with Solange.  He may have been 55 when he made the film, but he was clearly in peak shape and performs two of the best numbers in the movie.  “Andy in Love” finds Kelly exuberantly dancing through the streets of Rochefort after having met his true love: Solange.  Each person he meets along the way he engages in a small, separate dance—he even jumps atop a car (not so bad for 55, huh?).  Of course, the most beautifully fluid dance is the one he does with Dorléac near the end of the film.  Balletic and romantic, it takes my breath away every time I see it.  Still, after watching these musical numbers you might be a tad confused by the voice of Andy—it was dubbed.  This is strange because Kelly spoke and sung fluent French, but Demy chose to use someone else’s voice. 

While The Young Girls of Rochefort may not be as wonderful as The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, it is still a highly enjoyable (and colorful) musical. The songs are bubbly and the dance sequences are brilliantly choreographed.  In addition, the film has a rather poignant note for two reasons.  One, Françoise Dorléac died in a car crash just prior to the film’s premiere, and so it is nice to see her working so happily alongside her real-life sister Catherine Deneuve.  Second, this is the last good film Kelly danced in (Xanadu was crap).  For those of you who call yourselves Gene Kelly fans but haven’t seen this you should be ashamed.  Yes, it’s in French, but it is also the last time you truly get to see Kelly show off his extraordinary gifts as a dancer.  In the words of Shakespeare (sort of): Get thee to Netflix!

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Seven Samurai (1954) **1/2

Massive is the word that comes to mind when I think of acclaimed Japanese director Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954).  Everything was massive: the set construction, the cast, the battle sequences, and the film’s running time of 207 minutes.  It was Kurosawa’s first samurai picture, and it set the bar for all others that would follow. Not only did it influence an entire generation of Japanese filmmakers, but it was also a blueprint for future Hollywood films like The Dirty Dozen (1967) and The Magnificent Seven (1960).

Set in 1587 Japan during one of its many civil war periods, the story is a simple one: a farming village of peasants are tired of having their crops and women carried off by bandits every harvesting season, so they decide to hire a samurai for protection.  They end up hiring seven samurai to not only defend the village, but to teach them how to do it for themselves.  Kurosawa refused to shoot the scenes in the village inside a soundstage and made his studio, Toho, construct an entire village on the Izu Peninsula. The scale of this endeavor was vast, and it only added to the hallmark of Kurosawa’s gritty realistic style.  The overlooking shots of the village from the surrounding mountains and forest is a testament to how much work went into building it. As a result, So Matsuyama was deservedly nominated for an Academy Award for Best Art Direction.

The cast is comprised of a core group of characters and hundreds of extras—as well as a stable of horses.  The seven samurai are played by Kurosawa regulars. Takashi Shimura (Ikiru, 1952) is Kambei, the reflective leader of the group. Toshiro Mifune (Rashomon, 1950) is Kikuchiyo, the comical but short-tempered wannabe samurai.  Daisuke Kato (Rashomon) is Shichiroji, a stoic man and good friend of Kambei. Isao Kimura (High and Low, 1963), is Katsushiro, a young warrior who wants to learn from others.  Yoshio Inaba is Gorobei, Kambei’s second-in-command. Minoru Chiaki (Throne of Blood, 1957) is Hayashida, a cheerful man who keeps up the group morale.  And, Seiji Miyaguchi (Ikiru) is Kyuzo, the complete badass swordsman of the group.  All seven men represent the different elements of the human personality. While Mifune’s Kikuchiyo is perhaps the most memorable of the seven, due to his character’s over-the-top personality, I think all of the men bring an incalculable amount of humanity to the roles they are playing.  They all embody the samurai code of bushido: frugality, loyalty, honor, and martial arts master. 

It is interesting to watch how the samurai prepare the peasants for the impending siege.  They instruct them on how to build fortifications and how to properly use a weapon.  Along the way they teach them discipline and responsibility.  All of these things are abundantly important for the massive three-day battle that they engage in with the bandits.  Trenches are dug and abatis and cheval de frise are constructed as means of defense, but eventually hand-to-hand combat is required.  Kurosawa’s decision to have the decisive battle scene take place in a torrential downpour was inspired.  Chaotic and frenetic, there is a cleansing element to it as well—by standing up for themselves the peasants have had years of misery washed away from them.  They are reborn.

My biggest complaint with Seven Samurai is that it is way too long. I know many people say the pace is quick, but they must have seen the edited version, because if they saw the film at its original length I can’t see how they would say that.  Had Kurosawa cut about thirty minutes the film would have run more smoothly for me.  Yet, other than it being a complete endurance test, Seven Samurai is a treat to watch.  As mentioned above, the battle scenes are intricately choreographed and shot from varying angles, which gives the viewer a bird’s eye view of the intricacies of battle design and implementation. 

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Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) ****

Director Ann Lee’s Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) redefined what a wuxia  film could and should be.  Throughout the genre’s history there has been an overabundance of emphasis placed on the fight sequences, while the plot and/or character development aspects play second fiddle.  Lee, with the aid of an Academy Award nominated screenplay, revolutionized this thinking and created a film which is both visually striking and intellectually engaging.  It won the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar (and was also nominated for an overall Best Picture Oscar)--something unheard of in this genre—primarily due to: an outstanding story; spectacular action sequences; and, breathtaking cinematography.

Based on Wang Dulu’s novel of the same name, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon is a hard story to define. At times, it is a revenge tale. Master swordsman Li Mu Bai (Chow Yun-Fat) is determined to kill Jade Fox (Cheng Pei-pei), the murderer of his Wudang master.  But then, it is also a story about female independence and empowerment. When Jen (Zhang Ziyi) steals Li Mu Bai’s treasured sword, the Green Destiny, we learn she is an accomplished Wudan warrior who wants desperately to escape her pre-determined role as the docile wife of a man she does not even know, let alone love.  But then there’s more—it is also a love story—well, actually two love stories.  There is an unfulfilled peaceful love story between Li Mu Bai and his longtime friend Yu Shu Lien (Michelle Yeoh) that runs throughout the film.  And, then there is also the fiery relationship between Jen and Lo (Chang Chen) that inserts itself midway into the movie.  All of these elements combine seamlessly to create an engrossing story that comes to a tragic metaphysical conclusion. There is no clear-cut understanding of the ending—each viewer will have their own interpretation. While I’m usually against this type of ending, it works here, and, I think it is what cements this as an exceptional film.

Yet, when most people who haven’t actually seen the film hear Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon they envision clips of the magnificent fight sequences. That is to be expected, as these are what are highlighted in YouTube videos and promo clips.  Acclaimed fight choreographer Lee Wu-Ping used wires (and nothing else) to allow his fighters to skip across rooftops, treetops, and even water.  Not since King Hu’s spectacular fight sequences in Come Drink With Me (1966) and A Touch of Zen (1969) have I seen such wuxia artistry.  It is obvious that Wu-Ping was a fan of Hu’s because he pays homage to both Hu’s famous teahouse scene and his famed bamboo forest showdown. Yet, Wu-Ping brings his own particular artistic vision to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, too. For one, the swordplay is both powerful and serene at the same time.  As I said above, there is a metaphysical feel to the film, and I think Wu-Ping developed his fights to accentuate this fact.  There is no barbarism here. Instead, there is tranquil violence, which I think makes the action sequences appear both beautiful and reflective.

Now, if you are going to have a metaphysical film packed with eye-catching fight sequences you better have a good cinematographer.  Peter Pau won an Academy Award for his spectacular cinematography.  Whether he was shooting the Gobi Desert, a tree-topped forest, or the interiors of Peking, each image is full of color and texture.  Working alongside Tim Yip’s Oscar-winning art direction, Pau created a visual blueprint for future wuxia cinematographers—which is kind of ironic, as he wasn’t even Lee’s first or second choice for the film.  (It is obvious that Pau’s work here influenced Christopher Doyle’s work on Hero (2002) and Xiaoding Zhao’s work on House of Flying Daggers (2004).) The vast expanse shots he creates of the Gobi Desert are spatially mesmerizing, and his work in the bamboo forest is supremely stellar.  While it is the story that I love most about Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, it is Pau’s images that are forever implanted in my mind.

For a wuxia film Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon did pretty darn well with critics and audiences.  It was nominated for ten Academy Awards (taking home four) and earned over $200 million worldwide in box office gross.  It also revolutionized the wuxia genre, and raised the bar for future films.  It, alongside its greatest benefactor, Hero (2002), are two of my all-time favorite action films.  It proved that a movie can be a great action film and still merit artistic and philosophical significance. 

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The Last Wave (1977) *1/2

As the world debates the issue of climate change it is somewhat interesting to watch a film like The Last Wave (1977), which touches on the idea of a cataclysmic weather pattern wiping out humankind.  Still, I was very underwhelmed by director Peter Weir’s would-be apocalyptic endeavor.  I enjoyed both Weir’s Gallipoli (1981) and Dead Poets Society (1989), yet the unresolved ending of this movie did not sit well with me. Perhaps this is my own short-falling,  but I like my conclusions to be less perplexing than what I got at the end of this. 

Richard Chamberlain plays David Burton, an Australian lawyer assigned a legal aid case involving the murder of an Aborigine by a group of other Aborigines. As Sydney becomes deluged by torrential downpours, David finds himself having both dreams and visions of a coming apocalypse.  Hail, black rain, and even frogs fall from the sky as David attempts to wade through both his legal and personal trial, all the while trying to uncover the tribal secrets that led to the murder in the first place.  Along the way he develops a spiritual relationship with one of the defendants, Chris (David Gulpilil), who sheds light on the Aboriginal concept of Dreamtime (when spirits created the world).  David also becomes the main adversary of the tribe’s shaman, Charlie (Nandjiwarra Amagula), who knows David is a Mukuru, which is some kind of prophet from another world.  To fully understand what he is envisioning David must descend into an underground tribal shrine which explains the origins of the world.  By the end of the movie, it is difficult to know if David is in a state of reality or Dreamtime. 

It’s not everyday that you get to see a film cast with actual Aborigines.  David Gulpilil is probably the most well-known Aboriginal actor ever, appearing in such films as Walkabout (1971), The Right Stuff (1983), Crocodile Dundee (1986), Rabbit-Proof Fence (2002), and Australia (2008). In all of his roles, this one included, he exudes an unusual presence.  His gaze is always steady and his bearing seems almost otherworldly.  His Aboriginal counterpart, Amagula, is a  virtual unknown except for his work in The Last Wave.  He was a clan leader that the then-Aboriginal Cultural Foundation director told Weir was the “one man who has enough wisdom, enough breadth, enough understanding” to play the role of Charlie.  He brings a highly unusual element to the film—he is both creepy and ethereal.  While I am not a fan of the overall production, I did enjoy watching the work of these two men.  I am always fascinated to learn more about other cultures, and I think with their help, Weir did enlighten his audience about some Aboriginal practices. 

There’s another reason I didn’t like this film besides the ambiguous ending: Chamberlain. He’s sooooooo boring!  He does not do well in films with extended pauses, and there are many in this. In my opinion, he lacks the necessary charisma to do non-verbal scenes.  His stares off into space just seem void of any emotional depth, and when you are the star of a film with countless dream sequences you kind of need to be able to express something more than a look of vapidity. 

In the end, I just can’t get past, well, the ending of The Last Wave. Head scratching at the conclusion of a film is just not a good sign. 

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