Strange Days (1995) **

Loud, obnoxious, and inexplicably unbelievable is how I would define director Kathryn Bigelow’s Strange Days (1995). I’ll admit that I dislike most science fiction movies, so I already had a proverbial chip on my shoulder when I watched this. Plus, this is one of those Y2K films that forecasts the world on the brink of anarchy as the new millennium approaches, and since I know that was all much ado about nothing it irks me even more.  Now, I’m not saying it’s unwatchable, because it’s not horrible, I just don’t think it’s very good, either. I’m obviously not the only person who viewed it as such, since this James Cameron $42-million production was a huge box office disaster.  Over the years it has developed a cult following, but so has Pink Flamingos (1972), so that’s nothing to brag about in my opinion.

The beyond handsome Ralph Fiennes plays Lenny Nero, an ex-L.A.P.D. cop who has morphed into a complete sleazeball who sells bootleg recordings for something called a SQUID (Superconducting Quantum Interference Device). Basically this device allows the wearer to record whatever they see. These recordings are then sold to virtual reality addicts. While some of these images are benign, most of them are for adrenaline junkies, perverts, and/or budding psychos.  When Lenny comes into possession of a Blackjack recording (what we call a snuff film) of a woman being raped and killed he finds himself embroiled in a web of corruption and multiple murders.  Things are only exacerbated by the fact that his slutty ex-girlfriend, Faith (played by Juliette Lewis),  is at the center of the whole sordid mess.

Where to start?  The story is just too bizarre for me.  For some reason Lenny is obsessed with the whorish Faith. Juliette Lewis spends the entire film scantily (if that) clad in what can only be described as Fredrick’s of Hollywood couture.  Her character is a punk rock singer who likes to do covers of PJ Harvey songs. Lewis does her own singing, and while her voice isn’t bad, the songs (to me) are.  Anyway, Faith obviously has a thing for sleazy men, as her current one, Philo (Michael Wincott), is a sadistic freak (he is also her manager).  Because he can’t have Faith, Lenny watches old recordings of them having sex to compensate.  Can anyone say yuck…oh, and pathetic, too!  In what world would a man who looks like Fiennes need to be pining over a former heroin-addicted prostitute?  This is one of the biggest reasons I couldn’t get behind this story—why would anyone want to risk their life to save such an unlikable character?

Then there’s Angela Bassett as Mace—Lenny’s ass-kicking, limo-driving friend.  It’s obvious she has a thing for Lenny, but for the life of me (besides his hotness) I can’t figure out why.  There is some unexplained backstory about how they came to know one another, but other than this I don’t know why they would be friends.  It’s apparent she’s actually a decent human being—why would she want to be friends with someone as despicable as Lenny?  Well, she does, and so she joins him on his quest to save Faith from Philo and the mystery murderer.  I like Bassett, but her character here is one of those I want to help the man that I love besides my better judgment women that I always find myself despising.  As such, I dislike all of the female characters in this flick. 

There’s so much tech-speak about the SQUID that it is really difficult to keep everything straight. Yes, like most sci-fi films they do quick, passing explanations of what the hell they are referring to—this is another convenient role that Mace plays since she is a strict non-user of the device she has to have tutorials (just like the viewer) as each new thing about this virtual reality world is introduced—but it just sounded like sci-fi geek stuff to me and I found myself not caring what did what.  Since James Cameron, along with Jay Cocks, wrote the screenplay I guess I shouldn’t be surprised there is a heavy reliance on gadgetry, but that doesn’t mitigate the fact that I felt bogged down with information overload. 

And, the ending: it was so trite.  Was I supposed to be surprised about who the killer was?  I wasn’t.  It was beyond clichéd. Oh, and the whole allusion to the Rodney King police brutality incident was just so over the top for me.  I know the film was made in 1995 and America was in the throes of the OJ Simpson murder case and the entire country was led to believe the LAPD was full of rogue racist cops, but sometimes a director should take a step back and look at the message they are sending to their audience. 

One of the main reasons I couldn’t enjoy this film was how loud it was.  Punk rock just isn’t something I find enjoyable to listen to, and when it was unnecessarily amplified in what seemed like every scene I found myself reaching for the Aleve. I’m sure Bigelow and Cameron used it to create an atmosphere of anarchy, but it just gave me a headache.

At the end of Strange Days I just couldn’t find anything I liked about it (other than Fiennes’ hotness).  All of the characters were either reprehensible or annoyingly flawed; the story was bogged down in tech-jargon; and, everything just came off too loud.  Yes, the film has a lot of style, but, to me, it lacks substance.

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Of Gods and Men (Des hommes et des dieux) 2010 ***

While the Islamic world sets itself aflame with religious zeal due to perceived slights to the Prophet Mohammed by one very intolerant bigot I watched director Xavier Beauvois’ Of Gods and Men (2010). It tells the spiritually courageous story of eight French Trappist monks’ attempt to ride out the Algerian Civil War, which was a.10-year bloody struggle (1992-2002) for power between the government and Islamist rebel groups. The story takes place in the winter of ‘95-96 at the monks monastery, Notre-Dame de l'Atlas of Tibhirine, during a clash between rebels and the government.  As danger knocked at their ancient door, the monks had to decide whether they would remain true to their vocation or give into their fear of death.

Often when people watch films about contemplative religious (monks and nuns) they have a difficult time understanding the austerity and quietness in which these men and women live. As someone with a bit of experience with the religious life I suspect I have better insight into this world than most.  As such, I was not fazed when Beauvois chose to focus in on the internal (mostly silent) struggles of these men as they grappled with their desire to stay true to their calling while at the same time fearing death.  Still, crises of faith, especially ones that remain mostly unspoken, don’t exactly make for riveting cinema for most viewers.  There are many long, static shots of still silence in this, and for some that can come off as boring.  I expect many viewers asked themselves why Beauvois chose not to have the men’s internal dialogues spoken in voiceover.  Ah, but it’s all about their facial expressions and body language—that’s how you understand what they are thinking.  If you can convey this without vocalizing it then you, as a director and as an actor, have done something special. 

Other than Michael Lonsdale, who plays Brother Luc, most of the actors here are relatively unknown to audiences outside of France.  Some may be familiar with the work of Lambert Wilson (especially fans of The Matrix films), who plays Brother Christian, but the other six monks are played by French character actors. The one thing a character actor knows how to do is how to use his/her face and body in a scene.  They don’t always have a lot of dialogue, so they have to make up for this with stage/screen presence.  This is exactly the type of actor Beauvois needed to fill the roles of his often silent monks.  Dialogue hogs have a tendency to become hammy when they have limited lines, so it was an inspired decision to use actors who weren’t used to having to speak a lot on screen.  As a result, all eight men give delightfully nuanced performances which make you believe that they are monks.  Of course, for me Lonsdale’s Brother Luc is the most memorable of the men.  Perhaps it was his age-induced haggard look and his lumbering gait, or maybe it was those weary soul-full eyes of his, but he fully embodied so many religious that I have come across in my life.  He deservedly won a Best Supporting Actor César (France’s Oscar) for the greatest performance of his long, storied career. 

While there are many expertly designed scenes to discuss, I would like to focus on my favorite: Beauvois’ homage to The Last Supper. Set to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake (op. 20 Moderato), the monks gather around their communal table to partake in what one would assume they viewed as a meal of reprieve. Having overcome their personal struggles about whether to flee danger or to stay true to the words of John 10:12: “a good shepherd does not abandon his flock,” the men are at peace with themselves and one another. As they silently and reverently listen to that beautiful composition a wave of emotion washes over each man’s face.  In one of the more powerful scenes I’ve seen in recent cinema, Beauvois employs extreme close-ups of every man’s face.  This elicits an extremely powerful emotional reaction from the viewer (at least it did for me).  Knowing what will soon befall seven of these men, of course, makes it an even more bittersweet view of what can only be seen as unmitigated joy at being alive and at peace with themselves.  (While I don’t do this often, I invite you to watch this clip: http://vimeo.com/27678110)

Overall, Of Gods and Men is an emotionally riveting film.  The peace with which these men lived is inspirational. At a time when there is so much religious unrest in the world it is good to know that there are some people who still believe in peace, tolerance and human goodness.

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Hidden (Caché) 2005, **

(While I try to avoid including too many spoilers, I have to discuss a big one in the following post.)

There is absolutely no music in Hidden (Caché) (2005). I don’t know why this is a big deal to me, but it is.  I suspect the slow, deliberate style of director Michael Haneke seemed even more drawn out than usual to me because this film literally lacked rhythm. I’m a fan of cerebral dramas, but sometimes directors just take things one step too far intellectually even for me.  Haneke has said that his films are “polemical statements against the American ‘barrel down' cinema and its disempowerment of the spectator—they are an appeal for a cinema of insistent questions instead of false answers.” He has illustrated this cinematic philosophy in such other films as Funny Games (1997), The Piano Teacher (2001), and The White Ribbon (2010).  If you have seen those films (along with the one being reviewed here), then you know what I do: Haneke makes movies that are uncomfortable to watch.  His films are filled with mentally unstable people who do extremely irrational things in very calm manners.  As such, he presents cinema that is jarring and exhausting to watch.

Caché is a French film that will make you ask a lot of unanswered questions. The first few minutes of the movie are a static long shot of a quiet suburban street in Paris. This is followed by the screen turning into a fast-forwarded VHS tape with an unseen couple discussing why they are watching a recording of the front-side of their home.  Soon we are introduced to Georges (Daniel Auteuil) and Anne Laurent (Juliette Binoche), a married couple who start to receive strange tapes, drawings, and phone calls from a creepy anonymous source.  Not long after this it is revealed that a sordid incident from Georges’ adolescence may be connected to these events. When he confronts the person he thinks may be responsible (Maurice Bénichou), things begin to slowly-spiral out of control. 

Okay, I can’t give this movie a poor rating because the dialogue and acting are superb. Other than the fact that Binoche is dressed like some Bohemian bag-lady in many of her scenes, there isn’t much that irks me about the characters or how they communicate with one another.  Yes, it is strange how calm they remain when horrible things happen, but I can overlook this because, well, they are French and lets face it, the French have a strange jena se qua.  Yet, there is just something I don’t like (other than the lack of music) about Caché: I had too many unanswered questions at the end of it.  (Spoiler alert) After being totally shocked upright out of my seat by Majid (Bénichou) slitting his own throat, I thought I had a clear understanding of what had taken place and who was responsible for what.  Then his son (Walid Afkir) showed up and all of my understanding slowly dissipated.  To make matters worse, the film ended in the most idiotic fashion, with yet another static long shot of the front of a school, and that’s it.  Will there be a sequel? I certainly hope not.

While it may have won all sorts of awards and earned the praise of many critics, Caché is not what I would classify as must-see cinema.  It just really pissed me off—but not in such a way that I loathed it and wanted to write hate-mail to Haneke.  Now that I’ve seen most of Haneke’s oeuvre, I think I know what to expect from him.  His work makes me uncomfortable and I am forced to think about it after the credits roll—I’m sure that is his intention. 

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The Battle of San Pietro (1945) **

The Germans weren’t the only country that made propaganda films during World War II—the United States enlisted top-tier directors like John Huston and Frank Capra to shore up troop morale and to keep the homefront abreast of what was happening in the European Theater, too.  Of course, there was a very significant difference between Joseph Goebbels and John Huston: Huston had a conscience.  It was his understanding of right and wrong that shaped how he composed what is considered the greatest war documentary ever made, The Battle of San Pietro (1945). 

San Pietro is an Italian town located in a flat corridor surrounded by mountains near the Mignano Gap, which leads to the Liri Valley, which at that time was the road to Rome. As Allied Forces made their jump from Northern Africa to Sicily and then the Italian mainland in September 1943, retreating German forces began building parallel defensive points to the south of Rome, which they called the Winter Line.  Unfortunately for San Pietro it was in a strategically important location to the Germans, who built overlooking pillbox fortifications and mined the surrounding hillsides. By December 1943, after a month of fighting, the Germans were holding on for dear life against the Allied offensive.  It was the Battle of San Pietro, which lasted for ten brutal days in early December and cost the 143rd Regiment of the U.S. Army over a thousand soldiers, that led the Germans to retreat further north and set up what would later become the pivotal Battle of Monte Cassino in 1944. 

What makes The Battle of San Pietro so memorable is its gritty realism. Cameramen Jules Buck and his crew filmed right beside the 143rd Regiment as heavy artillery and machine gun fire reigned down on them from overlooking German fortifications. Today people talk about how realistic the battle scenes in Saving Private Ryan (1998) are—well, you don’t get more real than the filming of an actual prolonged assault.  Chaotic in nature and unflinching in the reality of what takes place on the field of battle, this is a testament to the true nature of warfare. There are shots of dead soldiers and rows upon rows of makeshift graves, as well as aerial shots of the completely destroyed town itself. 

While the film was held back from general population until after the war in Europe ended in May 1945, it was used as a training film for the army.  General George Marshall said it was the type of film that would make soldiers take their training more seriously—I would hope so!  The finished product that was shown to the American people was narrated by Huston himself and exalted the courage and tenacity of the 143rd Regiment.  It also had a bit of an anti-war feel to it, which brought Huston some criticism from the Army.  To me, this is the least offensive thing about the documentary.

What I find more disturbing about this documentary is the overtly religious music and imagery that Huston uses.  There is no sanctity in war and it always bothers me when anyone attempts to say that God favors one country over another in acts of death and destruction.  When you end a film by saying that the children of San Pietro will wake up tomorrow and it will be as though the bad things never happened, and then you show an image of Saint Peter, I think you may have overstepped just a tad.  Ah, but isn’t that why war propaganda films are made in the first place?

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Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985) **

On the morning of November 25, 1970, Yukio Mishima (Ken Ogata) was recognized as Japan’s greatest modern writer. By the end of the day he was viewed as a narcissistic madman, after he and four cadets from his own private army took the general of the 32nd Garrison of the Japanese Armed Forces hostage and then asked that the army join him in  bringing the Emperor back to power. When his request was impolitely turned down he proceeded to commit seppuku (a ritualistic form of self-disembowelment), and then he and his trusted lieutenant, Morita, were beheaded by one of the other cadets.  This act of rebellion came as a shock to the Japanese people, but it shouldn’t have, as Mishima’s novels had been filled with such plots as this one for several years. 

Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters (1985) depicts this bizarre real-life drama by not only showing the day of rebellion itself but by also focusing on four chapters (and three of the author’s fictional stories) in Mishima’s life: (1) Beauty, (2) Art, (3) Action, and (4) Harmony of Pen and Sword.  As each chapter is unfurled the viewer comes to understand Mishima’s almost pathological desire to unite art with the samurai mentality (i.e. harmony of the pen and sword). Supported by the deep pockets of executive producers Francis Ford Coppola and George Lukas, director Paul Schrader helmed a highly stylized film that is told in several tenses: present, flashback and literary, with each time frame represented by its own color palette. Elko Ishioka’s masterfully designed sets are the star of the film.  Beautifully photographed by John Bailey and set to a powerful musical score by famed composer Philip Glass, Mishima is a visually stunning art film with a generous budget. 

The color composition is what stands out about this movie. When shooting in the present Schrader chose to use a very flat color base, primarily in dreary browns with heavy lighting.  This created an atmosphere of unease for the chaos that Mishima was about to release. Flashbacks of what led Mishima to make his fateful decision are shot in reflective black and white, and are always accompanied by voice-over narration from Ogata. It is when the story delves into the literary elements of Mishima’s fictional writings that the movie pops off the screen.  Three stories are interwoven into the real-life drama: The Temple of the Golden Pavilion (1956), Kyoko’s House (1959), and Runaway Horses (1969). All are designed as stage plays and end in the suicide/death of the male protagonist.

The Temple of the Golden Pavilion is shot, not surprisingly, in golds and greens.  It is the story of a stuttering, homosexual Zen acolyte who is tormented by the power of beauty, which is embodied by the temple itself.  When you first see this section of the film it takes a few minutes to realize that this isn’t part of the real-life story.  It can be jarring to see the theatrical set design with its creative use of scale and scene backdrops, but once you adjust to it you begin to appreciate the creativity that went into designing it.

The second chapter, Kyoko’s House, is effeminate in nature and relies heavily on pinks, reds, and grays. It is a contemplation on the idea of the human body as the highest art form. It is decided that the body must be destroyed at the height of its beauty. In addition, there is a need to reconcile the duality of male and female for Mishima’s surrogate in this story.  This is perhaps the most disturbing of the four chapters in the movie, primarily because there is a sadomasochistic element running throughout.

While it might not be as colorful as the two previous chapters, Runaway Horses is the most visually striking of the three stories.  The lighting is much darker here, and the color tone is primarily in orange, brown and black.  In it, a young man decides to lead a revolt against those who support capitalism and he wants to bring the Emperor back to power (perhaps the most foreshadowing of the chapters).  Two set designs stand out to me: the house of cards (really cubicle panels) which fall down upon the conspirators and the endless open jail cells that follows this scene.  Images like these have a way of implanting themselves in your subconscious.

The story itself can be difficult to follow if you don’t pay close attention. It’s in Japanese, so while you’re looking at the amazing set designs and hearing Glass’ pounding score in the background, you also have to focus on reading the subtitles.  As such, I think this film takes at least two viewings to fully appreciate and understand.  The non-linear narrative can be off-putting to some, but I don’t think that it is too disjointed for someone to figure out when and what is happening. 

Overall, Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters is an art-house movie that is actually enjoyable to watch.  Yes, you have to do a little bit of work, but it does not require much heavy lifting. 

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Playtime (1967) :(((

You suck, Jacques Tati! I’ve seen three of your films and they all blew. Francois Truffaut wrote that your Playtime (1967) was a “film that comes from another planet, where they make films differently.” I expect he meant that as some sort of compliment—to me it means that somewhere in the galaxy there is a planet full of films I would never want to watch.  I’m glad you went bankrupt after this ₣17-million fiasco, and I’m especially pleased that the man who constantly criticized modernization had to do an advertisement for Lloyd’s Bank ATM machines to pay off debts incurred while making this pointless, plot-less, meandering film.

For a man who said he grew to dislike playing his signature character, Monsieur Hulot, you sure went to the well a lot.  Many people find the pipe-smoking Hulot lovingly innocent and likable.  He just annoys me.  Just how many people in the French army did this man meet? And, how many after meeting him would be so pleased to run into him years later on the street and offer him a job or to buy him a drink, etc.?  Even worse, he spawned an evil doppelganger in England with the creation of Mr. Bean!  You suck Jacques Tati, and so does M. Hulot!

I’d discuss what Playtime is about, but that would require a plot.  Your Hulot is back in Paris and he is still bewildered by modernization.  Everything is cold and sterile in his view of the modern world. Ultra-clean lines, metal and glass are everywhere to be seen.  You built a massive set that was nicknamed Tativille and then shot it with 70mm film—those were your best ideas.  The set design is awesome—everything else sucks, just like you, Jacques Tati! 

Hulot’s mindless wandering is overlapped with the sightseeing of an American tourist played by Barbara Dennek.  Through their travels you visually criticize the modern workplace, transportation system, and home.  Along the way you make us watch the complete deconstruction of a restaurant for 45-minutes and then your idiotic carousel of cars.  The only thing in your entire film that I found mildly entertaining was how you designed your apartment scenes to appear as TV screens.  Everything else sucks, just like you, Jacques Tati!

Overall, this film sucks, just like you, Jacques Tati!

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The Night of the Shooting Stars (La Notte Di San Lorenzo) 1982 **1/2

Lyrical, humorous and tragic are the words that best describe directors Paolo and Vittorio Taviani’s The Night of the Shooting Stars (La Notte Di San Lorenzo, 1982). Winner of the 1982 Jury Special Grand Prix at the Cannes Film Festival, this Italian film tells the poignant story of the flight of a San Marino village from their German-mined homes in the waning days of Nazi occupation in 1944. While it is a tad oversentimental at times, the movie benefits from an outstanding musical soundtrack and beautiful cinematography.

The story is narrated by a mother to her sleeping child on the Night of San Lorenzo, which according to Italian folklore is the night when all dreams come true.  She remembers her six-year-old self and her fellow villagers daring escape from retreating Nazis and Fascist collaborators on her own Night of San Lorenzo in 1944. Half of the village chooses to take refuge in the cathedral, where they have been promised by the Nazis and the Bishop that they will be safe.  The rest of the village doesn’t trust the Nazis and decides to set off to find the advancing American army.  Obviously the fleeing group had the right idea, as those who go to the cathedral are treated to a bomb as they receive holy communion.  Knowing that they will be shot if found on the road, the fleeing villagers band together for a tragi-comic exodus unlike any other.  Along the way they meet resistance fighters and encounter blood-thirsty Fascist collaborators—there is a particular father/son Fascist team that is so revoltingly evil that I actually clapped when they were killed.  Conflicting personalities and unresolved village grudges amongst the group adds a bit of comic relief to what would have otherwise been a somber march toward safety. Combined with the lighter moments, the violence and death that takes place is somewhat more palatable. 

When I reflect on what I liked about the movie two things stand out: the cinematography and the music. Shooting in the Tuscan countryside,  famed cinematographer Franco Di Giacomo captures such beautifully breathtaking images you almost forget people are being mercilessly killed.  It’s easy to see why Di Giacomo won the Donatello Award for Best Cinematography at Italy’s version of the Oscars.  The vast expansive shots of the countryside are poetically composed with pristine lighting and framing.  The spectacular shots in the wheat fields create both a pastoral feeling and an overbearing brutal sense of nature when things turn violent. 

The memorable music fits perfectly with every scene.  Nicola Piovani wrote the score and it is played throughout the movie. It is lyrically haunting and memorable.  His use of both Richard Wagner’s Tannhauser and Giuseppe Verdi’s Messa da Requiem is simply brilliant. Verdi is leaned heavily upon in both the pivotal church bombing scene and the iconic wheat field battle.  The film has a few surreal scenes, so when “Dies Irae-Tuba Mirum” starts playing during a scene where our child narrator envisions an old man as a classic Roman warrior hurling spears at his enemy, its pretty awesome to watch.  I love Verdi’s Requiem Mass and when it is properly placed in a film, as it is here, then it has extra emotional pull for me. 

Overall, The Night of the Shooting Stars is an emotionally engaging film that is both beautiful to look at and pleasing to the music lover’s ear.  While I can’t place it on the same level as Cinema Paradiso (1988) or The Children Are Watching Us (1944), it is still one of the better Italian movies I’ve seen.

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