Le Pont Du Nord

Jacques Rivette's "Le Pont Du Nord" from 1981 is an interesting film, not least because it defies categorisation in any way you try and read it. I think it works best when viewed as an example of guerilla film-making, since that's effectively what it is, some years before that cadre of American filmmakers (Larry Clarke, Robert Rodriguez) took their cameras to the streets to film what their vision, and some years after Melvin Van Peebles arguably invented the genre. And yet it stands outside of those examples, since whilst those filmmakers resolutely worked within a genre and tried to emulate a genre, Rivette only uses his genre (the conspiracy thriller) as something of an afterthought, secondary to the process of guerilla film-making itself.

Rivette was, after all, all about method, and that seems to take preference within his films. In the liner notes he speaks of an inner juxtaposition, of the almost documentary-style nature of his film, and the highly strung plot. And yes, there is a plot, despite all this tedious stuff about methods and juxtapositions and all that. Mother and child Pascale and Bulle Olgier play two unrelated women, Baptiste and Marie, whose paths cross three times in one day, and whom Baptiste argues their being together must be fated. From there they explore a shady and ill-defined conspiracy involving a map modelled on a child's game, a briefcase containing... Something, and several men labelled as "Max" by Baptiste and hence deserving of scorn. Marie has just been released from prison; we have no idea where Baptiste has come from.

There's also Marie's partner Julien (Pierre Clementi), owner of the coveted briefcase, and seemingly the original Max (Jean-Francois Stevenin), who both cycle through benign and threatening at any given scene in the film.

What does it all mean? I don't know, but looking for meaning in a film like this seems counterintuitive. It seems to purposefully defy all meaning. In a Hollywood film, it would be a high-stakes affair with lots of scenes of Tom Hanks running through rooms looking for clues, but here, it is simply what Rivette presents it to us as. And it does contain an eerie, otherworldly beauty, mainly as a result of the on-location shooting in Paris, nearly devoid of interiors, and the rhythmic, simplistic editing.

I realise I have largely described this film instead of actually reviewing it, but this is no simple work. I loved it. It was quietly compelling, and culminates in a final sequence, with Baptiste and Max sparring opposite each other on a bridge, framing a Parisienne canal that's glimmering in the late evening sunlight, that has an indescribable lo-fi pulchritude, like the hazy neon glow you get from a Daniel Johnston record.

Odds are, if you know of this film, you know about Rivette, and already have an opinion on his methods and aims. If you've bought into his vision (I have), this will be an immensely rewarding venture. If you've never heard of him, this isn't a bad place to start. Look past the wilfully enigmatic style and engage in the beats, and the style.

Review of "Son of Saul"

If László Nemes' film "Son of Saul", set in Auschwitz in 1944, is ultimately a success, it is because before anything else it understands that a conflict spanning the entirety of the universe can be depicted on a canvas no bigger and no smaller than the human face; in fact, it understands that the human face is the perfect setting for such things. If it falls short of triumph, that's because it follows its own methodologies a little too closely to their ends, and seems slightly too preoccupied with itself as a film as opposed to what it seemed to me to be; a document, a hymn, a paean.

Opening text informs us of the "Sonderkommando", a group of Jews chosen in Auschwitz to work for a few months, before being killed. Saul (Géza Rohrig) is a member of the Sonderkommando; a startling and upsetting opening shot presents him front and centre, ushering in a new truck full of his kin, to be disposed of by the cruel guards. This opening take is remarkable for two reasons, firstly because it's an ambitious long-shot, and secondly because it establishes Saul's character in a way that fundamentally doesn't really change for the remaining 100 minutes. Red cross on his back, hollowed out sunken eyes, mouth slightly twisted, blank expression; he doesn't give anything away.

This creates a paradox which sustains the whole film; just how does Saul remain so emotionless in the face of such unspeakable horror? How can he, for example, not even give a sign of disgust as he drags corpses across a blood-streaked gas chamber floor, or as he is forced to dance for a room full of sneering Nazi guards?

In this sense we do not get to 'know' Saul in the sense that we would typically come to know a protagonist. But there are some clues thrown our way; a passing reference to a conversation from a less hellish time, a couple of moments where we sense his mind has gone blank, and the prevailing sense of his determination. And the driving mechanism for the film is a clue also; Saul becomes steadily more obsessed with a young boy who comes coughing out of the gas chamber and dies shortly after, seeking a proper burial for him. This is the plot in its entirety.

Stanley Kubrick once stated that the problem with "Schindler's List" was that it took a moment of despair in the human race, and turned into a story of hope. Kubrick no doubt would have strongly approved of this film, for it is hopeless (although not nihilistic, thankfully). It stares into the horror and does not ask us for an opinion, or a reaction; instead, to simply observe. It is a fearfully convincing recreation, and I had to look away in all the obvious places.

This is mainly due to the cinematography from Mátyás Erdély, which adopts Saul's perspective and immerses us in it, and the production design from Lászlá Rajk, which is sharp and brutalist, all dingy concrete underground rooms and long off-white corridors leading round into nameless horror (as it should be, as it was).

As the story goes on, we realise that the Saul's journey can be taken either as a Biblical attempt at redemption, or something more mundane, the last grasp of a man facing death attempting to salvage something, and going insane as he does so. In the end, ultimately, it does not matter; he is here, he is doing this, and this is what is. The chaos surrounding him is scary, but he is on a mission. The classical 1:33 aspect ratio is perfect for this, with its intimidating black bars at the side; it mirrors Saul's tunnel vision. The sound design is vast, overbearing, industrial, imposing. The final moments are staggering in both their power and their logic.

However, when I said that the film has a mechanism, I do not mean this in a positive way. For a film staged so excellently and so thematically powerful, being reminded that we are in fact watching a film is one of the last things you want; we should be immersed completely. But there are moments here and there; shots left too long out of focus, as if to say... Well, what? Technique is left to creep in where it shouldn't have done. And when the film breaks its predominant focus on Saul, as it does in a couple of scenes, I felt pulled out of it.

This is a dark and powerful piece, meticulously composed and unlike anything I've ever seen, especially on this topic. That it is so great makes its flaws that bit more jarring. Nevertheless, this is vital, devastating stuff, a film that feels like it needed to be made. And, well, good. Because it did. And, consequently, it needs to be seen too.

Review of A Girl At My Door (2014)

July Jung's 2014 film "A Girl At My Door" is many things at once; it is simultaneously a partial police-procedural, an exploration of two very different types of alcoholism, a story of a mother-daughter type relationship, and the tale of a young girl escaping her abusive father (with time to address issues like illegal immigration and LGBT rights in the workplace). It also has a philosophical bent, and is one of those rare films that is content to leave the viewer with more questions than answers (and not because it wasn't intelligent enough to know the answers, but instead because it was intelligent enough to understand that audiences can actually think for themselves).

For a film, looking back, does so much, it is remarkable how mannered it is and how unfussily it moves forward in the act of watching it. The core of the plot is essentially a three-hander; Young-Nam (Doona Bae) is a recently disgraced police officer who has been relocated to a small seaside town after an unspecified incident. After establishing herself as a steely, determined and stoic piece of work (one awkwardly effective scene sees her refusing to participate in office karaoke), she finds herself drawn to a young girl named Do-Hee (Sae-Ron Kim), who is being brutally abused by her father Yong-Ha (Sae-byeok Song).

Do-Hee keeps turning up at Young-Nam's door in ever-increasing states of distress and dishevelment until Young-Nam is forced to take her in, not entirely to her chagrin but not to her great pleasure either. But eventually a warmth comes to pass between them, and a maternal relationship of sorts is formed.

There are various late-in-the-day revelations, and the plot builds to a conclusion that isn't so much tense as just messy, one where sympathies slide and motivations can only be guessed at; and this is a good thing. Jung's writing and direction is so surehanded that any attempt to have actually explained anything would have been cheap and forced. This is a film with a commitment to reality such that it understand that some motivations are hidden even from those performing the action.

It's also, technically, a very accomplished piece of work with a visual style to match the fairly bleak subject matter. The score from Yeong-gyu Jang is sparse, with strings and piano chords flaring up quietly and very occasionally, only really coming dominating the soundscape for the finale. And the cinematography from Hyun Seok Kim is wonderfully understated, grim, grey and bar maybe two shots, expressly unvibrant, capturing the sense of place in this town, framing the washing lines, the docks, the stone pier, Do-Hee's red house. It might not be a nice place, but it's a place we come to know.

It does all hinge on the acting, however, and thankfully all three performances work very well; I was particularly impressed by Doona Bae, who gives a composed, dignified performance even as her life, seemingly, falls apart, and she keeps pouring the alcohol. Contrasted with Song's performance as Yong-Ha, also an apparent alcoholic, I was reminded of the maxim from 2005's Capote that two characters grew up in the same house, but one left through the front door and the other through the back.

What's ultimately so effective is that the film consistently trumps audience expectations without every coming across as exploitative or smarmy; every twist seems rooted in what these characters might actually do, and that's the kind of intelligence which is uncommon in movies like this. It might not be a happy film, but it is rewarding, thoughtful, morally cogent, and doesn't disappear after you've left the theatre. It dares to ask, "who do YOU feel sorry for?"

Review of 4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days (2007)

That title refers to the amount of time Gabita (Laura Vasiliu) has had a foetus in her body, although the film never quite spells it out. We do not, in fact, find out that Gabita is pregnant until about half an hour into the film, after we have observed the actions of her friend Otilia (Anamaria Marinca) as she goes about, collecting money, booking hotels, buying cigarettes, promising her boyfriend Adi (Alexandru Potocean) that she will make it to his mother's birthday party at five, and meeting up with a softly spoken yet menacing abortionist (Vlad Ivanov) to finalise the details. It is 1987 in Romania; abortion is very illegal, and if the foetus is over four months old, then the abortionist will go to jail for murder, not simply abortion.

Cristian Mungiu, the director, keeps us on our toes for these early scenes, and I was reminded of a film called "Le Fils" by the Belgian Dardenne Brothers. That film, which is a masterpiece, has an opening half hour in which we see a portly, divorced man stalking a young child before... Well, I wouldn't dream of ruining it, but the Dardennes took us around the trees before arriving at the forest. The same is the case here. This film also shares a liberal use of a handheld camera, and a certain slice-of-life feeling which goes hand in hand with a realism which the film doggedly pursues.

This is an immersive film, then, which is trying to plant us firmly in the shoes of its characters. It does an interesting thing in not, actually, being about Gabita but Otilia instead. In doing so, it completely dodges any ethical consideration of the issues of abortion. This is firmly a document of what happens when someone decides to have an abortion. Any reaction, good or bad, lies firmly in the hands of the viewer, and for that matter my opinion remains unchanged (abortion is sometimes a necessary evil and each case must be taken on its own terms).

What this film most resembles is a thriller with roots firmly in the character study. We get to know Otilia, and we discover that she is a very good person who goes way, way, way above and beyond the call of duty in helping her friend. Gabita is a lot more selfish, and seems to be at least partially blind to the sacrifices Otilia is making of her. However, once more in the tradition of the Dardenne brothers, we do not feel pushed to judge one side or another. This is simply how it is; circumstances have simply fallen this way. This is how these people are. The excellent performances from all concerned inform this objectivity.

There is a certain political element to the film as well; abortion might not be discussed, bet we do know it is illegal, and the recurrent use of ID cards both as plot device and a dating/setting device recalls a police state.

The film also does an interesting thing in taking on the qualities of a thriller; for better or for worse, this is a truly nerve-wracking film. One 20 minute scene between the abortionist, Otilia and Gabita, had me genuinely tensed up, and there's a genius 10 minute still take at a dinner table which, when you take the characters frame of mind into account, becomes torturous. This is where the camerawork comes into its own; the raggedy, loose style informed by the handheld camera allows us to share the state of mind of the characters perfectly; I've long thought that the best thing a director can do is allow a camera to reflect the mental states of the characters, so we feel as opposed to simply know their plight, and this film has that in abundance.

Yet... I do not think this film is a masterpiece. I see it has 97 on Metacritic, and that's not a score to be sniffed at, yet looking over the reviews they seem to be mainly superficial; Joe Morgenstern claims it is an "elegantly crafted, brilliantly acted film". Rene Rodriguez claims it is "brilliant and suspenseful". Kenneth Turan claims it has "a commitment to reality unlike any we're used to seeing".

That's all well and good; really, it is. On a purely superficial level, this film is an astonishment. Yet there does seem to be something reductive about how it takes it's subject matter and makes a thriller out of it. I hate to sound greedy, but it could have gone deeper. I'm going to recall "Le Fils" again, because that film had scenes that were similarly armchair-gripping, and yet when I recall the final scene, I see it as a totem of the most absolute form of forgiveness, and a statement on our capabilities for empathy as a species.

Alas, no such luck. Normally I would not take such an abstruse form of criticism, but this has the form and feel of a masterpiece... What a shame, then, that it's a four star must-see as opposed to a five star enduring classic. Still, though, that does mark it as a must-see and that's more than enough for most people.

Review of Sexy Beast (2000)

Jonathan Glazer's "Sexy Beast" opens disarmingly as Ray Winstone's retired gangster Gary "Gal" Dove suns himself by his swimming pool in Spain, lamenting on the good life he has, before a boulder tumbles down a cliff, sails over his head and lands in the pool. Gary seems to look upon the fact that he's not dead as a further example of his extraordinary luck. These early scenes are important because they do two crucial things; they accurately set up Gary's character as someone living a life of luxury, and they also reinforce the off-kilter, weird tone that Glazer sticks with throughout. Cliché though it may be to say it, there can't be many gangsters film like this. It's one of a kind.

After this opening, we come to know a little bit more about Gal. He's living the high-life with his wife, DeeDee (Amanda Redman), herself a retired porn-star, and his friend Aitch (Cavan Kendall), and Aitch's wife Jackie (Julianne White). They are all happily married, and we discover what became one of my favourite aspects of the film; that the women in the film aren't the usual one-dimensional, mute, gangsters molls. They have their own personalities, and in a few key moments actually prove themselves to be stronger than the "hard" men they are married to. It was certainly refreshing to see DeeDee holding a shotgun (although why she holding it, and who she was aiming it at, if anyone, I will not say).

Once this idyll has been established, we find that Gal's opulent lifestyle is soon to come under threat by the imminent arrival of Don Logan (Ben Kingsley). This news scares Gal, and when Don Logan arrives we understand why. A fearsome, ferocious and foul-mouthed monster who comes very close to evil incarnate. I was reminded of Michael Gambon's turn as Albert Spica in Peter Greenaway's "The Cook, The Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover", and they seem to occupy space the same way; by insulting it, swearing at it, and spewing out sexist diatribes. A lot has been written about how Kingsley is the last person you can see nailing this kind of role, yet the proof is there on screen; his presence is genuinely unsettling. He's also, crucially, not a man you can say "no" to, although that doesn't stop Gal when Don keeps asking him to come out of retirement for one last job.

Ah, you're thinking, this is one of those films where there is a "one last job", which will invariably go wrong, resulting perhaps in a shoot-out and a late in the day revelation or two. You're wrong. Admittedly it does, indeed, feature a retired gangster pulling one last job. But the film maybe spends 15 minutes on the minutiae of it, and doesn't seem to care about it too much, aside from what it can tell us about the characters. Or, namely Winstone's character. The only downside to Kingsley's performance is that it's the kind of turn that steals a film, when for me by far the most affecting character and performance is Gal himself. I was surprised at how invested I became in his fate by the end of the film. Again, I think this is because the film dodges clichés so mercilessly. Gal has a heart, and he's a genuinely loving person, displayed in his relationship with pool-boy Enrique (Álvaro Monje) and also his wife. He's a million miles removed from the dominating patriarch we expect from this kind of material. I grew very fond of him.

Glazer's direction also vastly helps the film. Coming from a background in commercials and music videos at the time, this is a heavily stylized film, and oddly beautiful. Using a 2.35:1 aspect ratio to spacious effect, the film disarms us with an inventive use of symmetry, space, and character placing. It's also a very, very sunny film, and even the scenes shot at night seem more brightly lit than the average gangster film (bar a few exceptions when Gal goes to do his job, and deals with Logan). It's a film that seems weirdly aware of itself, and the quixotic direction exacerbates the sense that things are not right, not what we've come to expect from this kind of thing. The dialogue, too, plays a part in this, with the kind of amusing and offbeat utterings such as "You're lovable. Big lovable bloke. Lovable lump. Lovable lummox." I was reminded, weirdly enough, of Dylan Thomas's writing. That's high praise indeed. 

Ultimately, though, as I often am with films, I was left with a remarkable attachment to the characters. How Glazer takes the usual composites of a run-of-the-mill gangster film and turns them into something weird, original, funny and with a palpable love for the Gal, DeeDee and the like is like watching a magician run a variation on a card-trick that you think you've seen before, only to realise that you haven't, and then be blown away. 

Review of You, The Living (2007)

One cannot review Roy Andersson’s “You, The Living” without first taking into account the manner in which it is made, and I understand that a description of this sort may make the film seem dull, or reduce it in some way, so don’t be put off. The film is nothing more than a series of fifty vignettes, or tableaux, detailing the lives of various characters in one small Swedish town. The camera doesn’t move, or when it does it doesn’t move very much, and that’s in not much more than five of the segments anyway.

It sounds like an experiment, or perhaps the kind of thing that might be better suited to an art-gallery, or an installation somewhere. But where the film sidesteps being gimmicky is in its rigorous and meticulous construction and unwaveringly sympathetic eye towards human nature. It is, by turns, unsettling, funny, warm, inviting, bleak and strangely hopeful. It s a film that does no more than invite you to be alone with your thoughts for a while, and it induced in me a certain strange serenity. Despite the various odd elements here, no film has put me at ease as quickly as this one.

The vignettes that the film is comprised of… Let me describe the first couple. The film opens with a man lying asleep on a settee in a fairly uncomfortable manner. The camera is still, and an unseen train rattles the apartment. The man awakes suddenly and tells the audience that he dreamt he was being bombed. Already, we are gripped; what films break the fourth wall so early on, in such a bizarre manner?

The second vignette, and one of my favourites, concerns a woman on a bench telling her boyfriend to go away, that nobody understands her, that she is miserable. It’s clear that she’s attention seeking, but just when you think all possibilities of the sketch have been exhausted, she breaks out into tuneful, upbeat song.

And so on, and so on, leading on from each other, or not, until the film reaches an ominous yet beautiful and startling conclusion. It’s as if Richard Linklater’s “Slacker” was directed by a metaphysical poet. It’s a gorgeous experience, and each tableaux could be a complete short film on its own. Some are funny, some are scary, some are plain sad, and the film flirts with Kafka in one memorable sequence where a man finds himself placed in an electric chair after his attempt to whisk a tablecloth from out under the table goes awkwardly, horribly wrong.

The film too has a certain dreamy, creamy quality which bolsters the effect that Andersson seems to be going for. The cinematography by Gustav Danielsson is delightful, relishing in the clear, composed images that Andersson has devised. The set design, too, is angular and slightly off-kilter, with Magnus Renfors and Elin Segerstedt having created a world where the images are constantly “not right” in the way that we scrutinise them constantly for details we might not be missing. Yet, every element is right there on screen for us to see; sometimes things will happen which jolt our perceptions, sometimes we stay focussed on one character doing nothing much at all. But we are always gripped.

Perhaps the major strength of this film is how Andersson seems to understand human nature, and is presenting a cross-section of us as a race. We are all here, with our lusts, love, self-loathing, joy, melancholy, our art and our attempts at making each other happy. One sequence, for example, sees a particularly nasty thunderstorm set into the town, and characters start peering out the window and stopping their business just to listen to it; and, believe it or now, I found myself enjoying the thunderstorm as well. This is the kind of film that it is; one which makes you a participant in the actions as much as the actors that Andersson has hired. You cannot help but be involved. This is helped by the jubilant, buoyant Dixieland score, which results in a certain tuneful tone to the film.

There is, no doubt, masses of subtext and ways in which the film can be read that I have missed out on; but I don’t think I’ve missed out on too much, because for me the film is first and foremost a treatise on human nature. That’s no small achievement. Above all, as a series of images, it represents a stripping back to the bare essentials of film, an exercise of formality that manages to draw the viewer in with quiet confidence. It’s a unique, blackly funny film that I cannot recommend enough, for its deadpan, rather sublime vision.

(you may note I have not listed any actors by name; there are so many in this film and their jobs are all so crucial that to name one would mean I would have to name them all. Instead, I shall compromise and link you to the cast IMDb page. They deserve their credit as much as the director- http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0445336/fullcredits?ref_=tt_cl_sm#cast)

Review of Of Horses And Men (2014)

Benedikt Erlingsson's "Of Horses and Men" is an Icelandic film about just that. A chronicle of life on a small, secluded island, for 81 minutes it quietly observes the behaviours of man viewed through the prism of his treatment of horses. It's an odd premise for a film that befits what can only be described as a very odd film. You know when your first scene details a man's attempts to train his horse, only to have it all unravelled when another horse decides to get it on with that horse, whilst that man is sat atop it... Yeah. I laughed. It's like an arthouse Tom Green movie.

It's from here that the film essentially delivers a series of vignettes about our connection with horses and what it says about us as a species. We get to know a few key faces, such as Ingvar Eggert Sigurðsson's proud Kolbeinn, the poor man on top of the horse at the beginning. Juan Camillo Roman Estrada stars as Juan (IMDb tells me this is his first film, perhaps his last), and he is the centre of the film's best sequence; fearfully navigating the snow as the sun begins to set, and desperate not to die, he finds himself with no other option than to cut his horse open and get inside. It could have been troubling, and it nearly is, but Erlingsson shoots it in a respectful, rather beautiful way, understanding of the fact that this is purely survival. Certainly Juan doesn't seem to be enjoying it that much (he only got into horse-riding to impress a girl he likes). and it represents the film at its best; thoughtful, funny, bizarre and strangely hypnotic. You can't help but look on in fascination and horror.

The film at it's worst, then... Sometimes, at certain moments, there seemed to be a misanthropic tendency to the film which rubbed me up the wrong way. This leaves me in a quandary as a reviewer because I don't think the film is, actually, that misanthropic. It certainly seems to be making a statement about how man is a bit stupid compared to the simple elegance of a horse, but by the end we can see some investment in the happiness of the people on the island. Why did I detect the misanthropy? It came through mainly in the sequences where a man rides his horse into the sea to buy some particularly strong alcohol, ignores the warnings of the seller, drinks it all and dies, and in another sequence where a man tries to cut down a barbed wire fence, it springs back and blinds him.

Why did these sequences bother me? Alas, I do not know. They are good cinema, blackly funny in a way the film invests itself in being, very effectively, although they do seem to dwell on human stupidity in a major way. They signalled a worry, I suppose, that the film was going to be a portrait of dumb people doing dumb things for 81 minutes (they all occur quite early on), detailing a sort of anthropophobic tract. Luckily, the film doesn't pan out that way, and I imagine I'd enjoy it more on a second viewing.

These little niggles aside, the film is very very good. The cinematography is beautiful, and director of photography Bergsteinn Björgúlfsson has created a certain epic feel to the film, with wide open vistas, a well-used 2.35:1 aspect ratio, and an unhurried composition. It's a little slow, but the film wants us to feel the same rhythms, longeurs and repetitions that the people on the island do. I can't fault that. 

I recommend this film, with the caveat that I had trouble embracing it. I had by the end, and on reflection my initial criticisms are unfounded, but yet they linger. I guess all I can say is that I would gladly see this film again, and know during the second run-through that the film isn't going to turn out in the way that I was initially scared of it being. This is an odd angle to take, but, I guess that's fitting, because as I have said and as I'm sure you have gathered, "Of Horses and Men" is a supremely odd film.