l'eclisse

L'Eclisse
d. Michelangelo Antonioni, 1962

L'Eclisse will not only have to go down in history as Michelangelo Antonioni's most accomplished work, but also as one of the great masterpieces of the cinema. When I first discovered it about a year ago, I preferred his L'Avventura and I felt that this film lacked the same kind of well-thought out meaning behind it. After rewatching L'Eclisse, it becomes clear what Antonioni is trying to say (though some details are up to the viewer) and, perhaps more importantly, how effectively he is able to present it on the screen.

The film centers around Vittoria (Monica Vitti), a young translator who during the opening sequences of the movie is breaking up with her boyfriend Riccardo (Francisco Rabal). Antonioni shoots this extended sequence (which takes place in Riccardo's house) with beautiful medium-shots of both of the characters. The scene continues when Vittoria decides to walk out and Riccardo follows her on his car.

After the opening scenes, Vittoria goes to the stock market to find her mother (Lilla Brignone), who pays little attention to her and is not at all interested in her break-up with Riccardo (at least not until she needs money later on). There, Vittoria runs into Piero (Alain Delon), a young stockbroker who happens to work for her mother. The film then becomes about both Vittoria and Piero, although most of the thematic groundwork revoles around Vittoria.

Piero and Vittoria's relationship is shot in scenes in long intervals. A lot of the action of the film deals with Vittoria's own insecurities and dissatisfaciton with the world she finds herself in. One night while looking for her neighbor's dog, she says that "here, everything is difficult, even love." This is but one of the many examples Antonioni presents of the inability to express real emotions in the modern world.

On a technical level alone, L'Eclisse is as astonishing as nearly any other film. Antonioni understands film grammar better than possibly any director, and his compositions in this film are breathtaking. Paired with Gianni Di Venanzo's (who also shot Fellini's 8 1/2) black-and-white cinematography, the film creates a spellbinding visceral experience that almost stands aside from Antonioni's actual storyline.

The episodic structure of the film is not unlike that of other Italian films of the time, like Fellini's 8 1/2 or La Dolce Vita, or Antonioni's own L'Avventura. Although some would argue that this kind of loose cohesive structure dimishes the viewing experience, I personally find it more exhilarating than the standard three-act structure.

The last seven minutes of the L'Eclisse are a masterpiece on their own. In what has been described as a visual essay, Antonioni is able to craft what is possibly the most astonishing sequence in all his work. He shoots some of the same places that have been shown during the film, except that, for the most part, the streets are vacant and the different angles Antonioni shoots from (along with Giovanni Fusco's haunting score) create a hypnotic experience like no other. Yet, the closing sequence not only serves as an amazing part on its own, but also a brilliant conclusion to a masterful film.

L'Eclisse begins with Vittoria ending a relationship, and it ends with a seemingly unsuccessful relationship with Piero also ending. Their last exchange seems lively enough, but their corresponding sequences alone (with her leaving his house and him at his desk) seem to suggest that it is indeed not ever going to work. They promise to meet at 8:00 at their usual place. However, the visual essay at the end of the film shows the usual place (a street corner) several times at different times of the day, with no sign of the two (ex) lovers in sight. As a brilliant form of rhetoric, Antonioni shows people who resemble them walking into the frame, in order to give the audience false hope that these characters may indeed be able to have a successful relationship.

Indeed, the ending paints a pretty pessimistic portrait of modern life and the perils of trying to form a connection in a world based almost entirely on fleeting, superficial means.

dead man

Dead Man
d. Jim Jarmusch, 1995

Jim Jarmusch's best film, Dead Man, is a western like no other; a poetic and lyrical film filled with unforgettable moments, it is one of the best films of the 90s. The film begins with William Blake (Johnny Depp) on a train ride to the town of Machine, where he will assume the job of an accountant. Jarmusch uses black-outs during these first sequences to foreshadow the violent episodes that are to come.

Upon arriving, Blake finds out that someone has already filled his position and that he spent all his money getting there in vain. Dickinson (Robert Mitchum), the owner of the place Blake was to work at, scares him off. Blake heads to the bar to buy some liquor. Sitting outside, he meets Thel (Mili Avital), an ex-whore who know sells flowers she makes out of paper. They go back to her place and, in the morning, her lover Charlie (Gabrial Byrne), who also happens to be Dickinson's son, walks in on them.

After an awkward exchange, Charlie shoots Thel in the chest and the bullet hits Blake, who shoots Charlie in the neck and kills him. Blake finds himself on the run and the rest of the film is him coming to terms with his life. When he wakes up, Nobody (Gary Farmer), a native American, is hovering over him and tells him that he is a dead man, for he wasn't able to get the bullet out of his chest. Blake and Nobody continue moving through the woods and they soon find that Dickinson has sent men to kill him.

That's about as much as there is to know about the plot. But Jarmusch doesn't focus on story so much as his characters; and this seemingly simple western turns into a powerful metaphor of life as a journey. At the beginning of the film, Blake is not aware of the world around him, he focuses on worldly distractions instead of acknowledging that he himself is part of the world. But the more time he spends with Nobody coming to terms with the fact that he is dying, he learns of the things that truly matter. A poignant moment shows him curling up around a dead animal and then looking up to the sky.

Jarmusch's direction and composition is particularly amazing in Dead Man. The way he chooses to frame his scenes is truly something to behold, which has as much to do with the way the story is structured as with the shooting itself. For example, since the film follows both Blake and the people tracking him down, the audience often sees the same places twice; this creates a very unique lyrical effect. Robby Muller's beautiful black-and-white cinematography is really something to behold. Neil Young's minimalist score enhances the scenes without giving anything away, which solely relies on Jarmusch's thematic groundwork.

The overall effect created by Dead Man is one that is not easily forgotten, both as a purely fascinating piece of filmmaking and as a meditation on the connection between death and nature.

the chelsea girls

The Chelsea Girls
d. Andy Warhol, 1966

Andy Warhol's The Chelsea Girls is a long, rambling, self-indulgent exercise. However, I still feel compelled to write a review and it is important to note that I meant my first sentence as a review. I could see an experimental film like this not working, but Warhol and his cast are so sure of their fabulousness that the result is a spellbinding and hypnotic experience like no other.

In 1966, Warhol filmed 12, 33 minute reels at the Chelsea Hotel. In the film, he plays 2 of them at a time, which averages out to about 180 minutes of unrelated segments of people like Nico, Pope Ondine (who steals the show), Brigid Berlin, and other Warhol "superstars."

What makes The Chelsea Girls truly successful is the amount of freedom that is given to the viewer. With two reels playing at a time (only one of the two has sound), it is up to the viewer what to focus his attention on. This, in turn, becomes an examination of our experience at the movies and what is expected from one.

The different segments, not related in any way, vary from the very strange, as is the segment titled "Boys in Bed," to the truly sublime, the last 33 minutes in which one of the reels is titled "Nico Crying" and the other shows Ondine shooting up heroin and then trying to figure out what to do with the rest of his time. The one thing all of these sequences have in common is the organic feel that is common not only present in Warhol's work, but in a lot of other experimental films. This fundamentally fascinating exercise is a very unique experience.

masculine-feminine

Masculine-Feminine
d. Jean-Luc Godard, 1966

A title card towards the end of Godard's Masculine-Feminine reads "This film could be called: 'The Children of Marx and Coca-Cola.'" Godard uses these title cards, as well as his narration, to provide comments on cinema and the world while the movie is going on. In this one, he's telling the audience that these characters are torn between the revolutionary ideas they seem to believe, and the consumer culture that they inhabit. The film is Godard's meditation on these aspects of society.

At the center of Masculine-Feminine are Paul (Jean-Pierre Leud) and Madeleine (Chantal Goya). He just came back from the army and is disillusioned with his life, she's an aspiring pop star that's not much interested in politics. At first, they work together in a fashion magazine and he constantly tries to seduce her. Eventually, they become boyfriend and girlfriend and the rest of the film is Godard's examination of the youth culture of the 60s (other characters include Madeleine's two friends Elisabeth and Catherine and Paul's radical buddy Robert).

The relationship between Leud and Goya is as captivating as Belmondo's and Selberg's in Breathless or even Karina's and Belmondo's in Pierrot le Fou. Ultimately, Masculine-Feminine stands as one of Godard's most accessible and enjoyable films.

the wayward cloud

The Wayward Cloud
d. Tsai Ming-Liang, 2005

Tsai's The Wayward Cloud is an endlessly inventive film; part Tatiesque comedy, part Singin' in the Rain and The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and (most importantly) part the freedom you don't see in many American films. The genius of the film lies on the way Tsai is able to reinvent these genres. His comedic scenarios are based entirely on the dramatic elements of the story. Though there are musical numbers in the film (all of them lip-synched), the film itself is very silent. Like Tati, Tsai narrows his dialogue to as little as possible, there are probably no more than 10 lines spoken in the film.

One of the main characters in The Wayward Cloud is Hsiao-Kang (Kang-sheng Lee), an actor in pornographic films made right in his apartment. The other is Shiang-chyi (Shiang-chyi), who once knew Hsiao but is unaware of his new profession. Their first encounter comes in a very lovely scene; Shiang is carrying a watermelon she found at the river (more on the background information later) and happens to pass by a swing Hsiao is sleeping at, and she notices a water bottle next to him. She walks towards the swing and takes the bottle to wash her watermelon, and when she comes back to drop it off, she realizes that she knows him and sits down and waits for him to wake up. She falls asleep and he's the one that wakes up first, and after a brief exchange ("do you still sell watches?" she says), they go back home and begin a relationship.

Because of Tsai's sparse use of dialogue, the development of Hsiao and Shiang's relationship is all the more fascinating; he films them together in wonderful little scenes. My favorite of these comes when Shiang (for some reason or another) has managed to get the crabs she was about to cook all over the kitchen floor. In a sequence that echoes Woody Allen and Diane Keaton picking up lobsters in Annie Hall, Tsai shoots her standing frying pan looking very scared and Hsiao trying his best to pick the lobsters up.

There are also several musical numbers in The Wayward Cloud. They come at very specific parts of the film and are supposed to take place in a fantasy world. They are all equally joyful and work as both irony (the scenes adjacent to them usually differ greatly in mood) and transitions between narrative stages.

Tsai has a very distinct way of framing and holding his shots. Along with the aforementioned lack of talking, Tsai rarely moves his camera. His static compositions are fascinating and they make the one or two times when he moves his camera very dramatic (just as the openened eye in Chris Marker's "La Jetee"). Tsai's shot composition is quite brilliant and very reminiscent of the work of both Godard (in which shots are later recalled) and Antonioni (where people are often the subjects of their environments).

The entire movie takes place in Taiwan during a drought. Because of this, the government is encouraging citizens to drink watermelon juice as a replacement. Watermelons are present throughout the film and the metaphor of the drought is critical even in the last few shots of the film.

The last sequence of The Wayward Cloud (which lasts I guess about 10 minutes) has stirred up controversy because of its sexual imagery, but I don't think it would help to go into details about the scene. Suffice it to say, however shocking the scene might be, it still serves as a greatly ambiguous ending to a wonderful movie in which the motivations and feelings of both Hsiao and Shiang open for interpretations.

videodrome

Videodrome
d. David Cronenberg, 1983

David Cronenberg's Videodrome is a very strange, but satisfying, film. It deals with a lot of the same themes that Cronenberg uses in most of his films; including last year's A History of Violence, which explored the nature of violence, one of the many things touched upon in Videodrome.

The movie follows Max Renn (James Woods), a sleazy TV producer whose cable channel runs mostly soft-core pornography and violent shows. He is interested in finding the new big thing for television, and he thinks a show called Videodrome may be just that. The "program" shows torture in a very realistic way (as it turns out, it is real) and it is what most of the thematic fodder revolves around.

In its use of strong and violent images (most of them hallucinations Renn has), Cronenberg is able to craft a powerful allegory about the power of the media and about man's impulses and inherent reactions to a program like Videodrome (Cronenberg considers himself a "complete Darwinian). The very fact that the film itself is called Videodrome adds a hint of irony (the program shows violent images, and the film shows the program) and a statement about the broad implications of most of the problems in the world.