Film Review

Old Boy – Park Chan-Wook – Korea 2003

Tyneside Film Theatre 29 Oct 04 Ticket £5-95Old Boy – Park Chan-Wook – Korea  2003
Tyneside Film Theatre 29 Oct 04 Ticket £5-95
 
The final shot of Old Boy, over which the end titles roll, seemed to me to be an entity detached from the rest of the film.  The camera pans across a huge snow covered mountain ridge and stops at a gap through the mountains.  The shot, suggesting space or the possibility of space on the other side of the ridge, stands apart from the rest of film which is shot in urban confines, in ‘any space whatever’ where we rarely see the whole picture or any place that in itself is culturally coded(in the way New York Paris or Tokyo are iconically tagged).  Old Boy action takes place and moves through ‘cross sectional space’ – interior sets bounded by wallpaper(lots of fine wallpapered surfaces) plaster, glass,  mirrors and exterior locations set on streets with anonymous urban vistas. Sets that are defined by the coordinates of intimacy and detachment rather than geography or building plans. 
 
Old Boy shot by Park in ‘anywhere space’ ends up somewhere.  In the mountains with a shot that moves slowly across a complete ridge coming to rest at an opening through the rocks through which we can see into the distance perhaps into the future.  
 
At some point during this pan (during which most of the audience leave) I see a credit for the New Zealand crew.  New Zealand……I’m surprised.  Of course any space whatever can be shot wherever: these mountains were New Zealand.  I am thinking that they are probably located on the South Island – the setting for the Lord of the Rings movies.  There are all sorts of cinematic referencings burrowing through Old Boy – spot them for yourself –  but does this last and final referencing event by the camera point directly to a ironical metaphysical juxtapositioning of the two films?
 
Both Lord of the Rings and Old Boy have a metaphysical imperative as an engine that drives them as respective filmic assemblages.  The Lord of the Rings is a fantasy realised and heightened through digital technology.  Old Boy uses parody as a stylistic expressive medium but counterweights the distancing effects of parody by grounding the film in the physicality of its protagonist Oh Dai-Su, brilliantly played by Choi Min-Sik in a performance that calls out to de Nero’s in Taxi Driver.  LoR explores as a simplistic metaphysic, the battle between the forces of good and evil – forces that seem defined in terms of race and culture.  LoR in closing with the triumph of the forces of the Shires is moral tale attuned to the nutritional requirements by the nursery for simple easily digested food.
 
Old Boy operates on a metaphysical plane that is personal and built on a mythic foundation overlaid with a recasting of familiar Judaic-Christian psycho religious psychological states.  It’s formal parody but the visceral and immediate nature of its imagery at critical moments heighten understanding of the processes at work(Dai-su’s use of chop sticks to dig his way out of his prison cell).   In the course of the action which begins( in fact there is a strange double start) with the  proposition of a man locked up fifteren years in a prison for reasons that  are not explained to him, Park and  Choi  plot out the dynamic overlayering of Judaic/Christian psycho religious concepts – guilt and atonement –  onto an oriental psychic and mythic code.   It is an overlayering that energises the film with the paraschizo fuel that burns through all the world.  There is no space left – only time zones.  As Western culture disperses, it melds and merges with other forms to create new twisted hyrid social types.
 
 Incest is the key myth underlying Old Boy, the Oriental version of the taboo not the Western.  In the Hellenic story of Oedipus, mother /son liaison is the forbidden relationship.  The East,  such as the Japanese myth of Amaterasu and Susanoo, favours the story of the forbidden nature of the brother / sister  relationship.  It is the oriental dynamic of forbidden incestuous relationships between brother and sister and the consequent terrible sense of shame(attached to public revelation) that works through Old Boy.  Drawing on a mythic wellspring the protagonist of Old Boy,  Dai-su journeys across a metaphysical plane impelled by the need the understand his condition – why me.  The temporal imperatives of TV, mobile phones, constant incessant monitoring, glass and mirrors are devices that collapse the coordinates of space.  Ideas of far and near are delusions in a world where you are never nearer an event than when you believe yourself distant from it.  Answers to questions sought in the quest lie in crossing time not space.  Far and near, near and far are not oppositional ideas but collusive spatial contractions.
 
Time is now a personal journey rather than a collectively experienced history.  Dai-su has assimilated a Judaic-Christian ethos into the machinery for coping with the demands of individual time travel.  Dai-su  in his quest for the answer moves through the idea of revenge into the processes of forgetting and remembering that lead to awareness of his own personal guilt.  Perhaps his own personal guilt is a state he always knew but had to forget but whose recognition could only be followed by penance expiation and redemption.  Personal redemption  – the shot of the gap through the mountains of New Zealand.   
 
Park has a story to tell ( and  at the end of Old Boy Dai-su also has a story to tell but part of the story is that he is unable to tell the story)  of how East meets West – how cultures and societies fuse schizoid responses to this mergeance.  The story encapsulated in the strange form taken by the title in the title sequence where the titles appear first as a sort of computer encrypted script that resolves briefly into legible characters before morphing back into a cipher.  Drawing on visually skewed references to Bunuel Tarrentino Goddard Scorcese etc  Park tells how it is with a sure understanding of what this global contraction implies for all of us.  
Adrin Neatrour 6 11 04
adrinuk@yahoo.co.uk

9 Songs – Michael Winterbottom – 2004 – UK – Keiran O’Brien – Margot Stilley

Tyneside Film Theatre 2 April 2005 – price £5-959 Songs – Michael Winterbottom – 2004 – UK – Keiran O’Brien – Margot Stilley
Tyneside Film Theatre 2 April 2005 – price £5-95
 
Performance as Dick-tat
 
During the opening sequence of 9 Songs a small plane flies over the icescape of  Antarctica – or what Keiran O’Brien in voice over claims is Antartica.  As the shadow of the plane travels across the ice Keiran O’Brien (KOB) says that: he will always remember her smell the texture the feel of her skin.  That’s what he says.   But a question raised by the film is who is KOB? Is he KOB himself or a character in a film?  Depending on the reply will he always remember the her smell and the feel of her skin; or will he actually remember the whir of the camera and Michael W and cameraman’s faces squeezed towards him as he fucks Margot Stilley(MS) or she fucks him.
 
9 Songs takes its form its from the intercutting of three sections:   9 Songs performed at the Brixton Academy(where KOB and MS meet each other): short sequences from ‘the Antarctic which permit KOB voiced geophilosophic musings on the nature world and of permanence of memory; and scenes from the relationship between MS and KOB.  The performances of bands such as Franz Ferdinand and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club are not immediately problematic.  The depicted relationship of KOB and MS(which Winterbottom contrives as a chronological story voiced by the male, with a beginning a middle and an end) raises some issues.  This section is defined and expressed on film, mainly but not entirely, by scenes of supposedly unsimulated hard-on fucking and licking.  This is the heart of the film.  The performances of KOB and MS touch on issues central not just to the film but also to a critical socio-cultural movement away from the rigid lines that define the performed and actual – a line that Performance artists have always explored – but which the acting profession struggles to maintain. 
 
 Is there or is there not a line separating the frame of acting from the frame of the real? Have the times blown apart and away the distinctions between performance and actual so that the expressive plastic arts are celebrated on the plateau of the now.  For in these times there is only: now and then; in and out.  What will KOB and MS remember and take away from the experience – anything or nothing:  the memories of each others smells and intensities – apologies to each other – satisfaction at a job well done, the film in the can – resentments at Winterbottom?
 
The sex scenes were graphically and somatically real.  Perhaps prosthesis was used occasionally in the filming; but we are ‘told’ (and that’s important; though do film publicists never lie…?) the sex was for real and mostly it looked dripping and tumescent body parts –  sex organs which are connected to our strongest drives, emotions and increasingly self image. Or perhaps not?  Everyone’s different, actors and actresses no less anyone else.  Actors spend much time and expenditure of energy in faking emotionally charged drives and states: fear, remorse, sorrow, dispair, anger etc.   Actors train to develop an expressive range of  facial and bodily responses for displaying through simulation and mimicry these arousal’s.  Actors also develop skills for enacting (faking) physical acts – dying – being wounded – being tortured – panicking – and sex.  Psychic involvement with character allows the actor to explore the parameters and ranges of responses –  while always retaining expressive control needed for direction.  Actors sometimes seem to utilise a form of mild self hypnosis that allows complete identification with the part whilst in character, but enables this state to be shaken off quite quickly when role is dropped, set left and cues of everyday life re-introduced.  (most players move in and out of role with relative ease, but failure to master this knack can cause personal and career problems).  Why in this film did Winterbottom  demand that his actors perform actual sex, rather than ask them to fake simulate and act out the action?  This could have been done, but it would have been a different film with a different point. 
 
The point about ‘acting’ is(was?) not to engage in real physical acts because real acts may have real physical consequences.  The traditional trick is to make the emotional experience  real  because engagement with feelings is through psychological mechanisms and triggers( as well as the whole mis-en-scene) Actions involving potentially fateful engagement with others are traditionally all simulations: fights – injuries – murders – slaps – full kissing – sex.  You do have a physical theater of the body based on dance, gymnastics, acts and feats of strength stamina and endurance.  But in the case of physical theatre there is the absolute injunction to take care – of yourself and the other.  The ethos of acting has been to fake action using mime skilled simulation use of prostheses and careful rehersal etc.  It is based on a notion that if there was a real engagement of the body, if the slap to the face was real, if the cut and blood drawn were real, the line would be crossed and actors would no longer be having to deal with a fabricated scenario but an event with real consequences for them and acting relationships; the cost would also be unpredictable loss of expressive control which the contriving machine – the camera or theatre was attempting to impose. 
 
The trends in public entertainment have mostly been to move away from the traditional  boundary  lines of acting on stage or the film set.  The movement is towards creating new machines where manipulation and exploitation of the real, of the visceral can be presented as entertainment with actual consequences.   Reality TV as a sort of Roman circus where there is expectation that participants will experience ‘real stress’ ‘real pain’ not the acted out faked stuff in a bottle of theatrical make up.  The line mapping the border between the real and faked is blurred and crossed.  Participants are subjected to both psychological and physical stress in a manner in which the authenticity of  reaction is ensured.   
 
The blurring between doing and being has long been the working assumption of both the pornography industry and the sado masochistic industry.  Both these expressive industries(including snuff movies) have progressively edged into mainstream media in the form of girly mags like Cosmopolitan and the Male laddish press.   Sex in the porntrade is not performance art – the players in pornographic films simply put in their days at the office, projecting  themselves into doing sex. Most of these performers stake little claim to thespian status: their cocks tits and orifaces are the business and the stars of the system are supposed know how to look after themselves physically and psychologically. (Though exploitation is rife and the industry has serious casualties).  The sex performers whether on stage screen or behind the curtains of the brothel may use mechanisms of distance and deterritorialisation from their working bodies.  These are shizoid psychic shifts of conscousness(sometimes anaesthetizing) that in themselves do not involve acting skills .
 
In some respects the acting profession has also incorporated trends from these marginal zones.  This blurring – merging  – this lack of discontinuities – between being and doing.  Actors are increasingly pressured (by society? By producers and directors?) to become their roles.  It’s what we come to expect.  An actress works as a waitress to prepare herself for a role, which in itself is more important than scenario or text.  But it’s not just an issue acquiring a mind set or gestural vocabulary: there are also demands that the body must be prepared.  Christian Bale to become the Mechanic(“ Total Film”) undertakes a three month ordeal of starvation to reduce weight and find the character.   The body becomes the central spectacle for our gaze.  We are back to the circus where the spectacle is at the centre of the arena.  Discontinuities.  What special preparations,  exercises did KOB and MS undertake to ready themselves for 9 Songs?
 
 This is what 9 Songs points to.  The inexorable movement in entertainment towards the exploitation of the actual.  Perhaps its corollary is inexorable movement in the other direction in film, towards the exploitation of the virtual, in that digital technologies are taking over huge swathes of the action images to the extent that it may soon be possible for films to star digital actors and actresses.  How interesting to see digital beings fuck?   9 Songs asks an ethical question at the core of the of the socioentertainment culture about whether distinctions between the forms of the faked and the real have any meaning for us.  And in this 9 Songs is a moral statement.  We are moving into an ethos where the issue is that for many audiences  the real has an overwhelming authenticity of effect.  And the image industry exists to fulfill the expectations of its audiences.  All those engaging in it will have to adapt to this transformation, that we are moving into a culture of discontinuities in which acted sequences will be replaced by the real with real consequences for the performers. How long before an actor(agreeing freely in his contract) agrees to be shot and killed as part of a sequence in a movie.  It’ll be real though it  won’t look any different from the faked. But we will be told its real.   This is the song that 9 Songs sings.
 
The film also calls attention to another interesting aspect of sociocultural experience and that is the nature of performance itself.  In 9 Songs music is performed; sex is performed; (a Voice Over snow is performed but this is an acted faked sequence; or is it?).  The music gigs and the sex have the same attributes in that they are real and presented as such.  But what is the connection between real performance and feeling?   There is no necessary connection: on tour, bands perform their songs every night and from their performance ellicit strong emotional reactions from audience(just like Hitler).  But the bands don’t actually have to feel anything.  In performance they can connect with their gestures and actions, they can surf the power unleashed and the reaction to the power unleashed.  As they actually make the music they perform it out but they don’t have to feel anything – even though the audience does.  Similarly with sex as performance.  Sex may be performed with great prowess, drawing on a knowledge and confidence both in your own body and in other bodies, but as sex  becomes performance so link to feeling becomes another discontinuity.  Cultures based on actual performance tend to deterritorialise emotional feeling.  Did KOB and MS have feelings when they fucked, or like porntrade stars did they adopt strategies of self alienation or whatever?  Having no access to states of mind obviously these sort of questions cannot be answered.  But at the end of 9 Songs the feeling that came through for me was one of emotional deadness and flatness(matching the male voice over – and why did Micheal W chose the male party to tell the story?)  Emotional deadness is a possible price for the uncoupling of action and feeling a process that is also part of the machine of mainstream culture production.
 
Adrin Neatrour  5 April 2005
adrinuk@yahoo.co.uk

Down by Law – Jim Jarmusch – USA 1986 – John Lurie, Tom Waits, Roberto Benigni

Viewed: Side Cinema, 19 June 2005 – ticket price £3-00Down by Law – Jim Jarmusch – USA 1986 – John Lurie, Tom Waits, Roberto Benigni
Viewed: Side Cinema, 19 June 2005 – ticket price £3-00
 
Retrocrit
 
Haircuts at dawn
Down by Law opens with a series of floating tracking shots of a series of facades shot upwards from a acute low angle.  Filmed as if from a Venetian gondola the buildings glide through the lens the camera as a particularly flat perception of the world.  Slum tenements, industrial units, middle class lawn-girt spruce white detached houses, roccocco mid town 19th century blocks with ornate caste iron balconies, no man’s land all slip by and out of sight as we listen to a latino Creole fusion of complex cross rhythms laid over the picture.
 
 In this opening Jarmusch assembles the American South as a world of facades.  Like an opera set on a proscenium stage it is a land populated by two dimensional stick figures, a world defined only by its surface.  In Down by Law surface is all there is in the world and the narrative is but a  device a for movement across this surface.  In this it shares some characteristic features with opera where plot is also a simple device, a narrative welded together out of non sequiturs and improbable coincidence that serves to cue a series of emotional states driven by the music.   Whereas Opera uses music as an intensifier of the emotional affects and responses, in Down by Law, Jarmusch uses film as a deintensifier of emotive and affective states.  A world in which in a similar manner to opera the narrative line is essentially overblown and  episodically implausible; different to opera in that there is no associational emotive linkage.  Down by Law works through an integral disassociation of emotion from image   What matters here is what you see and hear in the now. In Down by Law there is no back story, there is no front story, there is no story: there is only what you see at and on the surface.  This is a world of flowing disassocation.
 
Moving into the first act of his opera bouffe, Jarmusch utilises a high key American gothic style of lighting.  The point here is not to use this lighting rig as an intensifier of whatever – character, emotion, plot line.  The lighting serves to amplify dissonance between the lighting frame and what we actually fills frame – in particular the characters.  As the sequence of scenes setting up Jack and Zak unfold,  it is evident that Jarmusch is not interested in any sort of Hollywood acting style – method, deep characterisation or anything like this.  The acting style is a put on.  In a film comprising layers rather than the illusion of filmic unity, the acting is another detached layer in the film, a spoofed  playing that goes through the motions of action and reaction only in so far as they are surface bound.  Its an act – not acting. 
 
As with the Marx Brothers or Jean Harlow hair style undercuts and underlies the affect of the performance.  The performance is always now. In Down by Law it is the haircuts that are the central gestural pivot of the act.  Not faciality; not body language.  The hair in the film is all thick black greased up stuff devoid of certain line or form, that falls about the head and moves according to its own rights.  It is the New York punk style de rigeur of the early ‘80’s.  Its deterritorialised shift to New Orleans not only heightens the alien quality of the 3 stooges but it is the edge to their occupation of space and their dialogues(brilliant written) which layer into the space impermanence vulnerability  dissonance and anarchy.  It all happens beneath the hair line.  Wherever that is.
 
The delimiting surfaces are intrinsic to the look and style of Down by Law.  The wall, whether of gaol home or fantasy accentuates the idea of containment within a two dimensional world.  The idea that what we living here is a two dimensional culture that has the illusion of depth that is created by an accumulation of layerings.  The walls are covered with graffitti – cumulations of words images calculations which build up deeply patterned milieus.  There is one moment of formation of the set surround that points to core of the film and its relationship to the spirit of America.  Roberto in the prison cell, picks up a pencil which Zac has been using to mark off the days spent in custody.  He goes to a wall of the cell draws the outline of a window frame complete with cross pieces.  It is a blank window endowed with the complete quality of intense opacity.  Looking at nothing.  It is an idea.  Its complete functional uselessness suggests the joke of there being nothing to see except what is on the surface. Later in the narrative after the 3 stooges escape and find the fairy tale cottage, they are eating a meal in the house.  Behind them as they eat is the same window: blank empty smiling looking out to nothing.  From gaol to home from containment to freedom, its all the same view.  There’s nowhere to go.
Adrin Neatrour
adrinuk@yahoo.co.uk

A History of Violence – David Cronenberg USA 2005 – Viggo MortensenA History of Violence – David Cronenberg  USA 2005 – Viggo Mortensen
 
Empty form
I think that David Cronenberg’s (DC) movie demonstrates – QED – the bankruptcy of the mainstream forms of Hollywood film making.  A History of Violence is built around a  back story that has been used many times before. It’s the story of the man -Tom – with the past – when he was called Joe – which comes back to haunt him. The film proceeds to fill out the machinations of the plot line with a series of graphically violent encounters as the protagonist Tom struggles to square his present reality with Joe, himself of yesteryear.  It’s not that either the idea or the story do not have interesting possibilities.  Rather it’s the way the film is structured round a series of violent set pieces that reduces the movie to the level of yet another parody.    A History of Violence is tricked out with a stylistic hyper real look with regular measured doses of sex and violence and has made box office.  But it is evidential testimony for the proposition that film based on narrative action image is now running on empty and that any attempt to make such films that do anything other than pander to the debased currency of entertainment is either the result of dishonesty or self deception.
 
The film is built up on a skeletal framework of five epically composed episodes of extreme violence connected by the narrative of the suburban man whose past is provoked into finding him.  This key idea is a Jackle and Hyde schizo story in reverse, with suburbia as a  drug induced state of catatonia,  that is only relieved by engaging in acts of violence.  Violence is the antidote that overcomes censorious inertia.   Violence is a suppressed mode of behaviour that stems from a state of mind characteristic of earlier consciousness.  America realised as a prepubescent repressive culture.
 
To highlight the shizo awakening DC employs his usual hyer-real stylised mis-en-scene.  The film looks like its shot on HD with separation of foreground and backgrounds suggesting dis-association.  This effect is reinforced by the set construction and of wide angle lens all working effect sense of distortion and proportion.  Complementing the settings the action adopts a highly stylised and graphically expressed representations of violence.   But for violence to work in this situation at any level beyond that of fantasy entertainment, the violence has to have some moral basis that grounds it within the fabric of the film.  But moral basis there is not.
 
In the violence DC renders in all the usual vivid heightened details such as: a knife driven right through a hand, a neck crushed under the heel of a shoe so that the jugular blood shoots out, brains slurping out of a shot blasted skull.  The overall effect is parody but even on its own terms within the movie the parody does not maintain a consistent moral line.  This is evidenced in the first sequence of the film which shows the aftermath of  the violent murderous robbery of a small motel by psychopathic killers.  Before the leaving the scene of the crime one of the hoods is surprised by a little girl.  The hood and the girl look at each other: we see the hood takes his gun aim and fire it from point blank range at the little girl. Cut.  We do not see the little girl. Unlike the other scenes of violence we do not see what the bullet from this gun does to her body: DC cuts and switches the action.  DC might say that he is working with a convention in which only ‘the badies’ get hurt.  But in which case why have the little girl in the script?  It is a moral failing that defines and typifies the film.  Graphic violence is central to A History of Violence: it is the very premise of its structure.   Throughout the film our retinas gaze on images of blood   mangled flesh and crumpled bodies.  Yet the most ‘shocking’ violence in the film is omitted.  DC pulls away from it.  He suddenly becomes reticent and shy as if he cannot allow himself to admit the full force of his own filmic logic.  The scene is suppressed; perhaps even unshot.  DC in making A History of Violence is caught up in the schizo contradictions of the culture as much as his subjects.  Lacking any moral stature the film becomes just another exercise in style another vacuous violent exploitation flic.   Empty parody without substance without life.  A film for the dead like the zombie gangsters that inhabit its frames, but collapsed and without meaning.
 
The last shots of the Stall family having diner together is perhaps the low point of the film. This sequence, in which wife and son know the truth about Tom/Joe is shot without dialogue.  We see the whole family eating around the table and cut to a series of close ups in which the faces reflect a sort of gross disturbance.   DC seems to say that the horror of the knowing of truth has permeated their bodies their spirit, and results in the affect of this realisation  streaming out of their sensory expressive organs.  The visual effect acheived by DC is as if the actors are pissing with their faces, or about to be sick.  As a coda it is at least in tune with the rest of the film: an overblown stylised affectation.
adrin neatrour
adrinuk@yahoo.co.uk

The Fog of War – Errol Morris 2003 USA

Seen Tyneside Cinema Newcastle UKThe Fog of War – Errol Morris 2003 USA
Seen Tyneside Cinema Newcastle UK
I think that the Fog of Film is a good alternative title for this movie.  Film technically becomes fogged if exposed to light before going through the gate of the camera; artistically film gets fogged when the marketing intentions of the film makers delimits or distorts the light they can throw on the subject. 
At the core of this film there is a deeply ingrained dishonesty, in which the film’s structure and presentation confer a protective halo over the person of  Robert McNamara (US secretary of Defense 1961-67).   Whatever ‘mistakes’  McNamara admits to on camera such as the US declaration of war on North Vietnam and the subsequent carpet bombing of Vietnamese civilian populations, the film as vehicle transposes and elides these acts and omissions into mistakes, understandable mistakes rather than the consequence of deeper malaise in an empire out of control.  The interview of McNamara’s with its artsy framing, tasteful background, continuous jump cuts, slick computer graphics and archive footage represents the triumph of style over substance.
The USA as a deeply conservative and conformist consumer society has developed a culture that validates and evaluates reality through appraisal of image.  The concerns of the makers of visual products  are often to control and validate outer expressive gestures tokens and  signs at the cost of disregarding inner meaning.  This predominant concern with image and style at the expense of a concern to seek out the truth is particularly disturbing in documentary film about such a key figure in the development of US foreign policy.  But it is perhaps an inevitable concomitant of the featurisation of documentary films which now  pitch in the market of the large corporations to attract investment, either at the production or distribution end of the process.   The fog of film.
In Errol Morris’ film some of McNamara’s insights about what was happening in Vietnam have salience for the American Empire’s contemporary foreign policy, but he doesn’t talk about the internal driving mechanism of policy – long term industry and military perspective.  He doesn’t want to, and he’s a man who only talks about what he wants to, on his terms.  Like a written or unwritten contract.  But the result is that the overwhelming impression left of McNamara, is of McNamara as image.   The old senator, the Avatar who has achieved wisdom, the survivor who has a message for us from the past.   This image however is communicated not just through the form of the film  – the intercut interview – the settings – the cutting – but through its structure. The Fog of War is structured as “Ten Lessons and an Epilogue”  which leads the viewer of the film towards a quasi pedagogique reading with strong religious overtones.  This structure gives to McNamara an aura of the wise one and induces an inclination towards reverence, an inclination reinforced by the soundtrack.   
It was the Philip Glass score that alerted me to the nature of this film as a marketing device selling Robert McNamara rather than an instrument trying to seek truth.  Glass’ piece is a very classy  contemporary score, restrained almost to a fault, mixing interesting percussive effects with moody modal sequenciations.  Like the music accompanying certain kinds of adverts it is designed to make the selling proposition easy to swallow. The music evens out the film providing a consistent emotional tonality to  the  roller coaster ride of events punctuated by assassination wars deaths and bombings.   The music works to unify the film in the same way that McNamara’s life is unified by his implicit claim to have attained wisdom as a reward for surviving.   The selling proposition in Fog of War is that this is a classy piece of film making about a classy subject matter, Robert McNamara one of the erstwhile rulers of the planet.  Meet the Avatar.  Once he was a cold murderous Secretary of State for defense in love with mass bombing as a solution as long as was efficient; the bombs sent by his hand were responsible for mass destruction and killing mainly of Vietnamese but others as well.  Now he is still cold but old and wise.  Old and wise.
The pedagogique structure of the film, with its use of  twee title cards informs us that he has attained the wisdom of age and has ten lessons and (of course) an epilogue to impart.  Most of this wisdom amounts to no more than the specious knowledge contained in self help books sold at supermarkets checkouts – ten steps to enlightenment.  McNamara’s wisdom amounts to turkey truisms dressed up in the fancy dress of the statesman:  Truisms such as: never say never; you can’t believe all you see…etc.  Morris might well reply that his objective was to reveal the vacuity and empty nature of McNamara’s wisdom by allowing the viewer to see and judge.  But the structure of the film,. its score, its lesson structure, its artsy framing of McNamara with classy light paneled background,  all these conspire to frame McNamara as a glossy image for reassuring consumption.  Like a reassuring public service announcement for the benefits of growing old.
In relation to this last point and the idea that perhaps Errol Morris was really giving us the viewers the material we needed to make up our minds,  I began to worry about all those little jump cuts in the master interviews.  They are the sort of cuts, the ones we take for granted these days where continuity is no longer an induced state of mind but an illusion.  In TV documentaries the  situation is that if the guy under interview hums haws stops or digresses whatever, they cut out whatever they don’t like to keep the pace up, to rock and roll with the meat of the story.  To cover obvious jumps in continuity, filmed interviews used to employ a device called the ‘cut away’ in order to literally cut away from the subject to another image, such as the interviewer nodding, and then cut back to the subject.  This presents the illusion of a continuous stream of sense.   Few film makers now bother with this laborious device, they just jump the cut; what we see is a funny little dissolve or a blip in the picture.  Given that this convention is accepted, the effect is the same: to make the subject(in this case McNamara) appear fluid and controlled in intelligence: more fluent and focused than people in general are able to speak… erm…ummmm….long silence(prompt).  All the little hesitations, all those signs of the fallibility of age, lapses of memory, all losing of the thread of thought, the meaningless digressions, are in effect censored.   The point is that there were a lot of these jump cuts. I don’t know what or how much lies on the cutting room floor; I can only hazard a guess based on the observation that at times in the interview there were scarce 10 seconds passed without the characteristic little blip of the jump cut.  The end result of this approach is McNamara is rendered by the Fog of War as an image:  cut out all the crap and you’re left with the image of McNamara as a fallible but articulate old man who has attained wisdom in his old age.   The trouble with such a filmic approach is that it starts to say less and less about the subject – McNamara in this case – than it does about the conceit of the film maker.
Robert McNamara tells how before accepting the post of Secretary for Defense he insisted to Robert Kennedy that he write his own contract.  I can’t imagine that he insisted on a similar contract arrangement with Errol Morris.  But perhaps he didn’t need to; because it was evident that Morris was going to make a high gloss film based on marketing led production values.  Given the evident nature of the intended film, whatever the form of final product Robert McNamara knew that Robert McNamara’s image could only be enhanced as the subject of such a product.   Adrin Neatrour 8 July 04

On yer bike, Che! by Tom Jennings

[film review published in Freedom, Vol. 65, No. 20, October 2004]On yer bike, Che! by Tom Jennings [published in Freedom, Vol. 65, No. 20, October 2004] 
 
Remember those 1960s t-shirts favoured by trendy-lefties? (recently dredged up by French Connection – so perhaps my title should be worded more strongly …). The iconic pop-art image of Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara stood for the heroic struggle of the Cuban revolution, and Western middle class youth could affiliate (or pose) with the aspirations of the world’s poor to transcend oppression. Now, the more comprehensive commodification of The Motorcycle Diaries also encompasses the road movie, tourism brochure, coming of age story, and even documentary realism. Box-office success at multiplexes and art cinemas suggests that the resulting melange works, thanks in particular to Brazilian director Walter Salles (Central Station, 1998; also a producer of Rio ghetto blockbuster City of God, 2002) and cinematographer Eric Gautier. A frisson of dangerous glamour doubtless helped – the script being loosely based on some of Che’s memoirs (exceedingly turgid and self-important though those are), reinforced by heartthrob Gael Garcia Bernal (Y Tu Mama Tambien, 2001; Bad Education, 2004) as leading man. But whether or not viewers know or care about the political history, this subtle film still has interesting things to say – if you can stomach the shallow smugness and picture postcard beautification.
 
Twenty-somethings Ernesto and Alberto (Rodrigo de la Serna) take a year off their studies in the early 1950s, and leave their upper-middle class Argentinean families for an awfully big lads adventure round South America on a knackered Norton. The overwhelming landscapes they pass through echo aspects of their experience and growing awareness: the Pampas are as empty as their idle bourgeois morality; crossing the Andes shows the arbitrary majesty of nature (i.e. history); fertile valleys are populated with evicted peasants; a copper mine in the Atacama desert reflects the  impoverishment of industrial capitalism; and Incan traces (at Cusco and Machu Picchu) contrast with the mess of Lima, giving poignancy to notions of ‘civilized progress’. They randomly encounter and hear the stories of those who suffer and toil without their luxury of playful choice – recounted by local extras whose biographies are little different fifty years later – and whose dignity, passion and generosity belie their desperation, anger and pain.
 
The travelogue arrives at San Pablo leper colony in Amazonian Peru, where our heroes get their teeth into contributing to the lives of others for a change (not that big a change, but revolutions have to start somewhere …). They still occupy immensely privileged positions, of course, but the trials and tribulations so far – repeatedly crashing the bike, temporarily running out of pocket money, Che’s chronic asthma, the repercussions of adolescent scamming, drinking, womanising, and so on – begin to crystallise into something approaching adult maturity. Alberto gets a medical research job whereas Ernesto continues north in his search for a worthwhile life. The film ends with a sepia-toned montage of the ‘ordinary people’ in the film and a brief textual exposition of Che Guevara’s central role in Cuba before his CIA-sponsored assassination. There’s also footage of the real Alberto – now in his 80s, having been a pioneering health service mandarin in Cuba – musing on his formative years.
 
 
On yer bike, Che!
 
Some have lambasted The Motorcycle Diaries as facile soft-liberal populism – an insult to those it purports to sympathise with. The ‘historical’ barbarism the film mentions in passing is intensifying, right now, all over the world – especially in Latin America where widespread grass-roots resistance continues. The inspirational significance of today’s struggles in Mexico and Argentina (among others) lies partly in their rejection of both neoliberal economics and authoritarian government. But here there is no political analysis, no exploration of vanguard elitism, Stalinist personality cults, or charisma and celebrity in general – all salient to both Che’s and our situations. Because we may not otherwise give a toss about the personable (but basically tedious and narcissistic) protagonists, the patronising pedagogy before the credits reminds us that they later devoted themselves to alleviating the misery caused by Latin America’s ruling classes and their US backers. That they were disaffected members of those same classes, and ended up inflicting similar degrees of dictatorial damage (and, crucially, that those two facts might be connected) could have injected some welcome melodrama and irony – as well as overall depth – into the weak narrative.
 
But getting all that right would be a tall order – just to construct; never mind fund and distribute. Lacking the wit, conviction and industry clout required, the director’s strategy is more humble in intertwining biography, geography and history. His previous hit, Central Station, vividly portrayed a middle-aged ex-teacher as a bitter failure consigned to the lumpen-bourgeoisie, cynically exploiting the illiterate clients of her letter-writing service. She recovered faith in herself and humanity, almost inadvertently, by helping a destitute orphan find his family after a tortuous and sometimes surreal journey through the Brazilian hinterlands. The narrative arc succeeded because the characters could intuit each others’ dilemmas and thus negotiate their relationship socially, emotionally and cognitively. The aesthetics intensified and gave expressive counterpoint to their lived experience – thus allowing enchantment for the characters in the context of their culture (and for film viewers in theirs).
Central Station thus offered a nuanced account of class and its conflicts (albeit at the individual level), but The Motorcycle Diaries is less optimistic – documenting charitable sympathy rather than engaged empathy. The camera only reveals what the characters see – no violence, no police, no scenes of exploitation, not even any poor people until we’re halfway up the continent. Even then, no exploration of context, and scarce evidence that the lads have a clue about anything much. Their personal tastes and sensibilities are increasingly offended, to be sure, and their friendship is transformed – but that’s hardly a sound basis for a revolutionary programme. They even misunderstand their well-meaning efforts in the leper colony, where Che makes a first feeble soapbox speech and risks a dangerous swim to spend his birthday with the patients – whereas for the latter it was any old excuse for a party.
 
Salles effectively demonstrates (whether intentionally or not) the uncomprehending naiveté of romantic idealism among affluent youth. That’s his background too – with language, worldviews, social structure and culture evolving specifically to facilitate the performance of their functions in whatever systems of domination prevail. In this paradigm it’s almost impossible to conceive of the way that economic necessity, bodily suffering, social prejudice and political oppression fundamentally shape the vast majority of human existence throughout history. Instead life’s problems are perceived as exceptions to a benevolent rule, to be resolved in grand hysterical gestures and personal redemption (just like at the pictures). Little wonder that when the privileged few generalise their trivial ethics into political prescriptions for the multitude, breathtaking arrogance and presumption transpire along with baleful practical consequences. This filming of Che’s journal infinitesimally punctures such fatal illusions.
 
* ‘Che’ is Argentine slang for ‘pal’.
 
 
 
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Hackney(ed) Crossroads by Tom Jennings

[published in Freedom, Vol. 66, No. 10, May 2005]

Hyped as a Brit Boyz N The Hood, Saul Dibb’s Bullet Boy hits more ambitious bullseyes, according to Tom Jennings.Hackney(ed) Crossroads by Tom Jennings[published in Freedom, Vol. 66, No. 10, May 2005]
Hyped as a Brit Boyz N The Hood, Saul Dibb’s Bullet Boy hits more ambitious bullseyes, according to Tom Jennings.
Curtis (12) meets adored brother Ricky (20) at the end of his stretch for aggravated assault, driven by best mate Wisdom (Leon Black). Ricky is determined to go straight and keeps the peace in a stand-off with their old gang enemy Godfrey (Clark Lawson). Curtis returns alone to mum Beverley’s welcoming party as Ricky hooks up at a ragga club with faithful girlfriend Shea (Sharea-Mounira Samuels). Later Wisdom kills Godfrey’s pitbull before gifting the pistol to Ricky. Agreeing with Shea to leave town, he again fails to placate Godfrey, who trashes Wisdom’s car. Curtis and friend Rio (Rio Tison) bunk school to smoke dope on Hackney marshes, and Ricky misses another family get-together – this time with Beverley’s close friend, lay preacher Neville (Sylvester Williams). Instead he stands point when Wisdom busts into Godfrey’s crib and shoots up the place. Armed police raid Beverley’s flat and arrest Ricky, while Rio and Curtis play with the gun he’s hidden – but Rio is accidentally shot in the arm. Trying to protect Curtis, Beverley throws Ricky out. Shea also breaks with him and then he discovers Wisdom dead. Having given Curtis a man-to-man pep-talk on his return from making up with Rio, Ricky is shot dead by Godfrey’s gang as he awaits the last train out. After the funeral Beverley falls into Neville’s sexual and pastoral arms. Curtis retrieves the gun and throws it in the canal.
The film’s restrained picturing of northeast London’s towerblocks, terraces, playing fields and waterways showcases the troubled biographies, conflictual spaces and questionable futures of its characters. The uniformly assured performances are further testament to a first-time feature director of documentaries and a screenplay of accurately youthful Cockney vernacular. So as Ricky, Ashley Walters1 conveys a fully convincing self-fashioned code of adult integrity whose intelligence is fatally undermined by the ambivalent egoism of macho brotherhood that Wisdom can’t see beyond. As Ricky’s mother, Clare Perkins perfectly captures the contradictory nobility of working class single parents, whose strength in surviving thus far has demanded singlemindedness – but also an inflexibility which prevents her from helping Ricky with his very different difficulties. However, in beautifully distilling the nuances of pre-teen bewilderment and sagacity, Luke Fraser decisively makes this Curtis’ story.
Bullet Boy’s generally heroic struggle partakes in – but is not imprisoned by – the hoary old generic conventions of the coming of age crime melodrama. Against the usual odds, Curtis seems to emerge with a chance of neither succumbing to anti-social criminality (in striving to thrive in unpromising environs) nor decisively severing ties with his background (in class aspiration elsewhere). This is an achievement that the recent US cycle of ghettocentric cinema has so far largely forsaken, despite the purportedly political intentions of its exponents.2 Nevertheless, the more modest traditions of UK social realism allow the fine-grained attention to relationships and their vicissitudes to not be drowned out by neo-blaxploitation thrills or the more vintage baggage of hysterically overblown liberal issues and spectacularly reactionary menaces to society.3
Hackney(ed) Crossroads
Saul Dibbs and Catherine R. Johnson’s subtle script shows dawning adolescent masculinity in a context where peer pressure reserves mutual respect and consideration for those in closest proximity to the public self. The wider (middle class) social ethics spouted in educational and other local institutions – when not ignored as irrelevant – may be despised as hypocritical duplicity; yet the realm of private kinship suffocates desire and constrains growth within the childish purview of the mother’s embrace and overwhelming needs. Curtis clearly appreciates her position but understands why his brother rejected its ministrations. Meanwhile, merely reproducing the arbitrary authority of patriarchs is recognised to deliver none of its promises beyond recuperation into one of the useless status quos –  including the upped ante of ‘gun crime’ at increasingly hazardous lower class UK street levels.4
At this point it would be easy to ‘blame the parents’ – as in the currently fashionable reality TV treatment of ‘problem children’ or all the other class- and race-prejudiced nanny-state discourses. This is another mistake Bullet Boy avoids, along with its honourable disavowal of the nonsense that media glorification and youth culture ‘cause’ violence. So, destined for disappointment and pain, the mother’s lioness love for her seeds and her yearning for hope and meaning in life are eventually displaced into religious ecstasy – which offers communal experience, valuation of the self and an anticipated transcendence of suffering. This makes sense in the absence of neighbourhood cohesion or mutual solidarity or any dynamic or shared ideology (whether or not enforced with guns or father-figures), since the nuclear family womb can never fulfil the hopelessly excessive demands placed upon it as haven in a heartless world.
Finally, important ingredients missing from Bullet Boy include, firstly, the lure of the cult of consumerism, where a pseudo-spiritual fervour to fend off insecurity by hoarding cash and trivial secular commodities meshes perfectly with both globalising gangsterism and government wars on crime.5 Secondly, in reifying isolated individuals as representative of entire societies or historical epochs, European cinematic naturalist realism unfortunately forecloses on portraying the larger-scale reverberations of personal stories in the potential collective synergy of social action. And while one film could hardly cover all these bases, is it really too much to imagine several levels of analysis at once – for example, a Bullet Boy who could Do The Right Thing in these Strange Days?
Notes1. aka Asher D (of UK Garage supremos So Solid Crew) – himself recently released from jail for possession of a firearm.
2. for example Spike Lee, John Singleton, or Ice Cube. Paradoxically, the absence of moral agendas seems to enable postmodern nihilists such as Albert & Allen Hughes (Menace II Society, Dead Presidents) or even blockbuster stylists like Kathryn Bigelow (Strange Days) to drop more hints of the possibility of collectively creative solutions.
3. see also the French ‘cinema du banlieue’ inaugurated by La Haine (Mathieu Kassovitz, 1995), which likewise references Hollywood without pandering to it.
4. so, before ultimately ditching the weapon, Curtis tells Rio “I’d rather be a mummy’s boy than a crack-head”. And, despite her prior soulmate loyalty, Shea also refuses to accept Ricky’s repetition compulsion; thus Bullet Boy grounds optimism in both younger genders.
5. rendering New Labour’s fascination with faith and fundamental morality more intelligible – as desperate rearguard defences against the damage to sociability done by the feeding frenzies of spending which, ironically, represent their only vision of economic ‘health’.
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A State of Mind – Daniel Gordon – UK 2004 – 94 mins

Viewed : International Documentary Film Festival – Amsterdam – November 2004

BBC/ARTE/WNET commission. Coming to a BBC channel – probably 4 – soon.A State of Mind  – Daniel Gordon – UK 2004 – 94 mins
Viewed : International Documentary Film Festival – Amsterdam – November 2004
BBC/ARTE/WNET commission. Coming to a BBC channel – probably 4 – soon.
 
Ends justifying means – an old story.  As far as I know this doc has only had limited screenings at film festivals.  As a BBC commission it’ll be showing on TV soon and  I hope anyone reading this crit will watch A State of Mind  check it out and let me know what they think.
 
In the course of A State of Mind, the director who’s also the voice over commentator tells us not once, but twice, that the filmmakers negotiated with the North Korean authorities privileged access to film in North Korea without controls or censorship over what they might shoot.  To say it twice was certainly not accidental. What was it he was wanting to tell us?  Whatever it was my attention was drawn not to the implied ‘freedom’ of the film makers but to the restrictions and limitations endemic in shooting in a totalitarian state and how the film production company might respond to these restrictions and limitations. 
 
In a totalitarian situation – whether it be a state like N Korea or a large multinational corporation – the  very notion of ‘privileged access’ is problematic.  Why can’t you have access without privilege?  Privilege is the concomitant of one party’s control and the power to dispense favour.  By definition unprivileged access is not permitted.  Of  what  are the mighty ones who grant the privilege, frightened?   Something that you might see; something you might hear?  And suppose that there are things which  ‘they’ are determined to conceal and that they don’t want you to see?   How can you as filmmaker with privileged access know whether what you see and film is ‘real’ or in some way staged for your benefit?  The resources and control of a totalitarian state are certainly capable of complex stagings. 
 
Further if you film under conditions of privileged access, the implication is that this access has been traded for a relationship of trust with the party ceding this privilege.  This very relationship of trust between the parties implies a certain kind of contract, often in the form of unspoken understandings about limits.   In return for privilege the filming party often tacitly agrees not only to a degree of self censorship but also to refrain from asking certain types of awkward questions.  In this case where the production company, VeryMuchSo Productions boasts a long term relationship with the regime and has plans to make a further documentary in North Korea I feel it of relevance to examine carefully the way A State of Mind has been made and to ask whether the film is characterised by an ingenuous collusion  as a state of mind rather than the spirit of free enquiry.
 
The film is based on the instrumental premise that in following the progress of two young girl gymnasts through their training and selection programme leading up to the North Korean gymnastic mass games(the high point of the totalitarian leader worship bullshit), our understanding of this closed society demonised by the West, may be extended or even deepened.  Further by experiencing through the mediation of film ordinary North Koreans living their ordinary lives we will also perceive something about the truth of human nature and universal values.  Daniel Gordon seems to say: you see North Koreans are no different from us! They may say be prone to mouthing off  propaganda and stuff about America but in fact human nature is the same everywhere and everywhere lots of young girls love gymnastics and dedicate themselves to its practice with the support of their families.   These are folk living under a rather peculiar organised system of indoctrination – but just folks!
 
This is the message I received.  But I need neither Walt Disney nor Gordon to inform me about human nature.   In fact the issues in relation to people in North Korea or in Stalin’s USSR or Hitler’s Reich have nothing to do with the universal characteristics of human nature but with what is going on in this society that controls and contains people who  look and act as if everything were normal?  What is the nature and construct of these normal appearances?  And what’s going on under the surface?  What’s the crack – do people tell Great Perpetual Leader jokes?  Do people know its all bullshit?   Under what strains do North Korean people live out their lives?   In the situation in which A State of Mind was produced, universal truths are no more than decontextualised platitudes, the resort to which is a ploy to disguise the fact that a film made under ‘privileged access’ in  these conditions can only be either dishonest or banal or both.  Either which way A State of Mind is a film that whilst pandering to the North Korean State by refusing to pose any questions about society,  risks betraying its people.  .  
 
The choice of  two young girls as drivers of the film narrative conforms with the compromised ambitions of this production.  The idea is that in following the lithe flowing tumbling innocent  bodies of these girl child gymnasts, a crack will open up in the monolithic wall of North Korean society which will allow us to peek in to see and meet the people.  We are used to seeing young dedicated girl/woman child gymnasts.  They are part of the TV furniture,  moral tales of success through dedication.  We have seen Olgas and Nadias,  Dianes and Debbies going through their asexualised prenuptial Olympic routines on floor asymmetric bars vault and beam.  We know them and we are also aware, because we have been told, of the abusive forces that sometimes lurk behind these bodies in flux.  The spectre of mummydaddycoach in the various guises; twisted authority figures colonising young feminine bodies and minds in order to develop the necessary athletical synthesised  bodies.   It seems strange that Gordon should chose a practice involving a fascism of the body to lead us through the concentric circles of state totalitarianism.  
 
A State of Mind would not be the first film to exploit young athletic bodies as a front for a totalitarian regime.  It was the stock in trade device of German and Soviet documentary makers in the ‘30s.  Leni Riefenstahl’s Olypische Spiele is the key example.  I am not suggesting either that Gordon has her caliber as a director or shares any of her propagandist intentions – probably he simply wants to sell TV programmes.  But whilst aware of these differences in motivation between the two, nevertheless some overlap in form and structure suggests itself.  There is something about the flow of young bodies in agonistic display, in the fluidity of athletic intention and achievement that overwhelms and inundates context.  That these perfectly balanced muscular yet frail  frames filmed from tracks angles and unlikely rigs, images edited (with music often) to heighten aesthetic effect and deepen emotional affect, sweep away context and setting.  In a way there is no time in these films only space that extends through an all encompassing present.  Berlin 1936 is simply the collective spacial experience of bodies – most of whom happen to be German.  The context of what the German state has become is rendered irrelevant by the imagery which seamlessly excludes the black star of the games Jesse Owen because of his blackness.  This sort of effect works through A State of Mind – it is all place and no time.    This is particularly evident in A State of Mind’s opening sequence which establishes the visual style of the film which is to look ‘good’  and beautifully shot.  This opening sequence sets out its stall as having 35mm Hollywood production values with all that that connotes.  In the opening sequence the picture fades up to a high key spot in a totally dark space to reveal in the cross fading spots the two young gymnasts dressed in leotards,  as individually and then together they appear and disappear performing items of their routine. The edited cross fades between the two performers continue as they move nearer the camera.  From the start A State of Mind is invested with the pure aesthetics of space.   
 
Time and its ponderable considerations are as absent here as they are in the average travelogue.  
 
If in some way Gordon thinks that he is parodying Riefenstahl, then I think the problem is that you can’t parody Riefenstahl.  In Riefenstahl’s films where the fake distorted and dishonest is raised up to high heroic kitsch status, she is already a parody of herself.    
 
A State of Mind presents as a glossy travelogue of a forbidden country fronted by cute gymnasts, perfect euro-fodder.  But still there are things that bother me, and it’s all the in between bits(and there are quite a lot of them) where we see the home life of the two girl gymnasts.  How to evaluate these sequences in the context that they are shot behind the closed walls of North Korea?
 
In the West the limits of fabrication(leaving out the often dubious nature of re-constructed events – with dialogue!) are in some ways defined ( as some producers for C4 have found out)by the openness of Western society and the fact that participants involved in filming any fabrication or faked sequences may spill the beans, revealing for example, that what purported to be a gang bang or fight, was an event staged for camera.  At this point the disclosure that something framed as ‘real’ has been staged, castes any documentary as morally suspect and discredited. No such openness exists in North Korea.
 
Aside from these exterior discreditings, audiences can generally, but not always,  within the flow of imagery  purporting to be a documentary film( and at IDFA about 50% of the films purporting to be docs were composed primarily of reconstructed material – but that is another story) perceive or identify some traits events or items through which they can authenticate different aspects of a strip of action.  Audiences by continuous reading of audio and visual cues can gauge respondents behavior and evaluate their replies to questioning.
 
In A State of Mind in order to know what is going on and whether to trust what we are shown, we are very much in the hands of the director and the translators.    We don’t speak the language: we can’t read  North Korean culture so we don’t have a language of gestures for looks glances stutters verbal glitches uncomfortable pauses and  body.  The problem is how do we evaluate what we are shown; even at the level of basic structural narrative components, how can we know that the things we view are true?  Can we trust the judgment of the film makers that what they filmed were real strips of life?  But  perhaps all those family sequences are faked, perhaps the individuals purporting to be mummies daddies and grannies are actors…….suppose it’s all staged?  Certainly many visitors to Stalin’s Russia came away with the impression that what they had seen was a real when they were witness to carefully staged pieces of theatre.  The resources of the totalitarian state which has the ability to bring large numbers of discontinuous effects into play mean that the staged events can often be convincingly presented as real.
 
There is an interesting parallel here with people who want to investigate paranormal phenomena.  Scientists, like film makers, look at what they see.  Perhaps for this reason they have often shown themselves to be easy to fool into believing in performed paranormal effects. Magicians when looking at the same phenomena are not  so much interested in what they see; rather they are interested in what they don’t see – underlying structures utilized for the practice of deceit.   Film makers can be easy to fool because they often want to see what they are looking at: looking and seeing are conflated.  In the film the girls are real gymnasts, but we have no way of knowing who they are – perhaps those claiming to be their families are in fact acting out these roles so that the state is controlling the staging of all events. (acting normal, appearing to be normal when acting familiar roles is simple and something most people are capable of doing)
 
My suspicions about how to frame what I was looking at started when I watched the sequences of the families eating: I wondered about the good food that was going into their mouths. We know North Korea has had severe food shortages(this is admitted in the film) but was the food the people were eating provided as imagery for the Western camera, special food provided as part of the staging of normal appearances?  And the apartments where the families lived with their carpets and wood wall panels?  Were these normal every day appurtenances or part of a set for the camera to film?  
 
The fact that the families in their homes looked so real on film draws attention to the latent problems in looking for signs of authentication.  Those features of a situation which we may judge most difficult to fake are precisely the ones which those seeking to deceive will take the greatest pains to faithfully replicate. Although many may think the above points are far fetched, a totalitarian system such as North Korea has the means and the perhaps the motivation to carry through such devices.  And film makers should be aware that in closed systems either capitalist or communist nothing is necessarily what it seems. 
 
I was left unconvinced by A State of Mind that from the point of view of veracity, that it is a worthwhile project to shoot in North Korea in the way exemplified by this film.  Privileged access is really just a smoke screen through which you peer into the mirrors of distorted reality with no way of knowing what is going on. 
Adrin Neatrour    8th Jan 05
adrinuk@yahoo.co.uk

La Nina Santa – Lucretia Martel – Argentina 2004 – Mercedes Moran; Maria Alche; Carlos Belloso

Viewed – Tyneside Cinema 31 March 2005 – £5-95La Nina Santa – Lucretia Martel – Argentina 2004 – Mercedes Moran; Maria Alche; Carlos Belloso
Viewed – Tyneside Cinema 31 March 2005 – £5-95
 
 An Argentinean/Spanish chamber piece which avoids the cutesy archeness that cinema of this provenance often embraces as a solution to dramatic imbroglio’s.  Martel’s oblique framing and use of fragmented scenes allows the development of two parallel domains to flow out of three intersecting worlds which fold into one another like a complex origami construction.   La Nina Santa(LNS)  builds on intercourse between these worlds:  the fluxes of female adolescence, a rundown out of season hotel, a conference of doctors.
 
The three worlds are psychically and physically marked out by the hair of the principal players which has the power of an interlubricant.  Hair in LNS is not a control statement.   Hair in LNS is a manifest independent physical force of the actors that creates powerful fields of attraction and resistance independent of will.   In most Hollywood movies hair is something that is kept under the strictest control and carefully contoured as part of costume.  Hair is tamed and modeled to suit the needs of  the actors and the film script: it can be understood as a sort of production value: it operates as optical sign encoding moral character and mood.  As hair per se, as matter, it has no independent function or role(Garbo and Ingrid Bergmen exceptions here).   In the world of the girls, their hair is part of their sensualites and sensibilities;  the dry and frazzled hair of the hotel people and their shampoo(‘it dries out your hair’) personified by Mecedes Moran, is located at the centre of identity; the creeping baldness of the doctor(Carlos Belloso) is part of the aridity of  conference world.  Physical attributes such as hair can interweave and interflow through being in such a way that it becomes life.  Their are no haircuts so to speak in LNS; just hair as an attribute of being.
 
LNS is not just an interpenetrating of worlds.  Underlaying these worlds are domains: the domain of the visible and the domain of the invisible.   Lucretia Martel uses invisible musical instruments and the spraying invisible enemies as the outer markers of the things we can’t see.  Unseen domains are folded into the characters, carrying them and releasing in them the impulse to action.   The domains of past relationships, the domain of spirit, the domains of sexual yearnings and desires meld achieve transient intensities that instantly fragment and re-form. 
The opening shot of LNS sees the young girls at religious instruction listening to the song of the unseen forces of religion.  Looking at the group, it is a sea of trailing hair falling through faces punctuated by eyes.  The last shot we see  the two main young girls floating togather in the waters of the pool with their hair flowing about them as far away and above in another unseen world, we know that a tragi-comic script is being played out.
Adrin Neatrour 7 April 05
adrinuk@yahoo.co.uk

I Vitelloni (1953) / Amacord (1973) – Fellini double bill

Viewed Curzon Mayfair 17 07 05 Ticket price -£5- 00
I Vitelloni (1953) / Amacord (1973) – Fellini double bill
Viewed Curzon Mayfair  17 07 05  Ticket price -£5- 00
 
There is an tendency to see films through the telescopic concept of the auteur principle understanding film through the singularity of the director’s voice.  Certainly it is valid to look at a director’s output and try to discern their underlying film attributes and themes as they develop over the course of a career:  style – formal concerns – structure – subject and content.    Viewing two examples of Fellini’s output, one relatively early and the other relatively late was for me also a strong reminder that filmic output is often collaborative  work and that for some directors there are essential collaborations in their careers that determine the force of their attraction.  Collaborative partnerships can be with producers, writers, cameramen, editors and actors.  From a viewing Fellini’s films recently I think that Fellini’s owes his reputation as a director to Guilietta Masina the actress whom he married and who was the clown star of most of the work central to his reputation.
 
With I Vitelloni Fellini shows that he is a director endowed with a fluid musicality in his composition, in his use of his tracks and pans and his ability to orchestrate space and spectacle. But these achievements in their visual aesthetic qualities, divert attention away from the fact that I Vitelloni feels like a film, visuals excepted, without a strong core either in focal concern or subject matter.  Autobiographical in inspiration, I Vitelloni sentimentalises provincial Italy of the early’50s.   The 5 young men, whom the film follows in their contextual world of the out of season sea side town, all feel too old too formed.  This is not an absolute age connected observation.  The characters feel like they are already formed beings so the film can never deliver a sense of the process of forming or of change.  The rebellion of the characters, such as it is,  is circumscribed by the preformed boundaries of the originary world of the film – physical metaphysical and social.  The revolt by the characters is a sham.  A sham which is beautifully captured as spectacle by Fellini.  But is a sham with which he seems happy to conspire, a pretend reaction to what is a phantom world with which he is ultimately content.  Interesting to compare I Vitelloni with Antonioni’s Il Grido.  Shot in a provincial canal side setting, it is a film set in the fog of post war Italian society where all certainties are now blurred and society and social relations are torn apart with no obvious ways in which to repair the rents. A strong forceful work showing the forces of disintegration at work in post war Italy.
 
In its focal concerns, its originery world and main subjects (but not in visual style) Fellini’s I Vitelloni resembles something of the output of Ealing Studios in the 1940’s and ‘50’s.  In particular those which were based on the concept of a world:  Whiskey Galore, the Titfield Thunderbolt, Passport to Pimlico.  All products of an unashamed sentimental vein of filmmaking, all constrained in their capacity to make social connections by the hermetically sealed nature of their context.  Films locked into sealed worlds with scripts tricked out with fake social and character tensions – enjoyable as sacred social relics(charm)and for the strong social character acting but weak in ideas and filmic impact.
 
 Fellini’s I Vitelloni has visual style and charm but nothing to say.  But this at least in relation to Amacord makes it watchable movie.  Amacord is unwatchable in the sense that by this stage in his career Fellini is only interested in indulging his craving for creating and filming spectacle; as if spectacle alone were the necessary and sufficient effect to justify a film.  Like fireworks they are spectacular to view two or three times a year; to view them every night – unless you are the pyrotechnican – is tedious.  Amacord delivers a firework display every 15 minutes.  In fact the opening 20 minutes presents as full of promise: this opening suggests the idea of  a visual examination of fascism through use of spectacle.  An idea which held me in thrall until the repetitive motif’s of the made up faces, the red dresses, the uniforms, the fires and the fireworks revealed that to realise such an idea was beyond Fellini’s powers.  Without a collaborator such a Giulietta Masina to work with, Fellini becomes increasingly trapped in his own self referential world, entrapped in a barren circularity.  Doomed to recreate vacuous fluid works in the opera bouffe manner.
 
When I Vitelloni and Amacord are compared to films that he made with Guilietta Masina the critical difference seems to be the ability of  these works to connect the formal visual style and the subjects of the films to the wider referential world of contemporary Italy.  Something happens to Fellini’s films when Guilietta is involved.  The films are linked into a wider field of concern and they possess vitality, allowing Guilietta clown to escape out of the confines of the originary context and connect with social processes.  Il Bidoni, La Strada, La Notti de Cabera all have a clown entity in the form of Masina but as such an entity she transposes her clown nature, without sentimentality, onto a wider social canvass.  From La Strada -1953 – to Juliet of the Spirits -1965 – this seems to be the period when Masina was in most of Fellini’s films.  As collaborator and Fellini’s wife it is her spirit as the ultimate clown that fills out these films not with mindless indulgence but with a sure understanding of how the character and dilemma of the clown could be tuned to focal connections with society.  The clown cannot exist in vacuo.  The clown – she who is always in the shit – has to exist in a world of wider references or she quickly uses up all her material a series of gestures that yield increasingly diminishing returns.  
 
That film is often a collaborative undertaking is seldom recognised.  Both Lean and Eisenstein have acknowledged the role played by Young and Tisse as their respective cinematographers.  Sydow  Bjornstrand and Anderson seem to be involved in Bergman’s films far beyond their calling as actors.  As wife and partner to Fellini, Guilietta Masina’s influence on the films in which she was involved during this period have the effect of raising Fellini’s work out of the mediocrity of his self indulgence to a level of significant filmic achievement where ideas, visual concerns and style, attention and subject matter combine in complex interplay.
 
I don’t know if Masina’s influence on Fellini,  her consummate acting abilities and strength of personality worked to inspire him to move beyond the boundaries of his natural egotistical concerns, or whether there was collaboration between them at the level of ideas and/or in the composition of the scenario.  I do think that the Masina effect is an effect that can be seen in the films in which she and Fellini worked togather, and the consequences of her lack of presence are evident in the ordinary output of his early period and the dire product of his later films.
adrin neatrour     
adrinuk@yahoo.co.uk
 8 September 05