South Riding

Andrew Davies adapts again! 

This time it is the novel by Winifred Holtby. The town couldn’t be smaller, but the characters are as big as life. Each, with their foibles and agendas, vie for space and influence. 

As good as the characters are written, the brightness comes from the actors that play them: stoic David Morissey, able-to-tackle-any-emotion Anna Maxwell Martin, hope-springs-eternal-Penelope Wilton, and last but definitely not least, more-charm-than-what’s-good-for-him Shaun Dooley. 

I just read about a 1938 filmversion with Ralph Richardson and Glynis Johns as his daughter! I love how a movie can open up a whole treasure trove of unexplored possiblilities of other films and actors’ work.

Some Came Running

Some Came Running is a raw and gritty story wrapped up in rose colored cellophane and placed carefully on a soft embroidered pillow. 

I wonder if Vincente Minnelli intended to create something different, but just couldn’t help himself and added beautiful lighting and character sympathy. Was the studio aware of the audiences’ sensibilities of the time and wanted to appeal to a broader viewership? Or, perhaps the decade of retrospective carried a weight of deference? Whatever the reason, it was a movie at odds with itself, with an undercurrent not fully explored.  Like a fog, the back stories were obscured with only the occasional wind gust of clarity by way of a pointed comment of a barbed comeback.  But then the fog would roll back in and nothing more was known.

Many of the characters were shrouded in a fog as well; the fog of numbness brought about by drink, work, societal expectations and buried feelings. As Dave Hirsch put down the bottle and remembered his love of words and his ability to love another, he too had a gust of clarity; which overwhelmed the object of his love, Gwen French. I never did see her clearly, since she remained close to the vest. Shirley MacLaine’s a wonder and played the only character that was crystal clear. Minnie’s openness and naiveté were perfectly portrayed with no barriers to her feelings or her actions.

People on Sunday

1930, Germany. People on Sunday mindlessly sleep, drink, flirt, and eat. 

I want to yell at the screen. “Wake up! Wipe that silly grin off your face Edwin.” If only I could rip the watch off my arm and shove it in his face. “Don’t you know what time it is? It’s Nazi time! You’re oblivious to what is going on under your nose.” The little boy who got his picture taken at the park, in nine years, will be at the River Plate on the Graf Spee. The world as they know it will end. But they can’t hear me, so drink up; lounge by the lake, sleep the day away.

I can’t blame them really. They just came off of a great inflation upheaval where they learned to spend their money as soon as they earned it; in case it wasn’t worth much later. They were conditioned to live in the moment because of the unsure future. With all the political turmoil, escapism must have looked pretty good.

Jour de fête (The Big Day)

I left the theatre with three distinct thoughts mulling about in my head. 

First, Jacques Tati is a physical comedy genius. He made the acrobatics with his bicycle look effortless, but the amount of work and precision that went into creating that illusion were immense. 

My second thought was that the foley experts must have had a blast! Every rooster crow, squishy shoe, bee buzz and bonk on the head were accentuated. There were sounds on top of sounds. I could just see the foley studio in a hubbub of one-upmanship. 

Third, was the love/hate theme of France and the United States. Tati’s character was impressed with  U.S. modernity, but resented it as well. It’s as if the U.S. was infiltrating their lives and culture (Can you say McDonalds?). A fitting line in the film could be, “Yes, we are grateful for all you have done, now please go home.”  

I’m very interested in seeing Mon Oncle soon.

Never Cry Wolf

I’m not sure how this Disney film flew under my radar. Few do, just by the nature of who I spend a great deal of time with. Never Cry Wolf was full of surprises; from masticated mice (just a moment while I tamp down my gag reflex…), marking territory, and bare tush shots (which has Touchstone following right behind  ). 

A very pleasant surprise was the actor Charles Martin Smith. He so fit the part, that I checked to see if he wrote it. Sure enough, he was one of the narration writers. I never felt that he was playing a part, because he was living and breathing his character, Farley Mowat. Not a surprise was Brian Dennehy in all his unhinged glory.

My favorite line was “I wonder why it was that long ago I became a watcher of things; always watching others do and feel things I wouldn’t or couldn’t do myself--always standing off at a distance isolated, detached.” Until I heard that, I was a little confused why someone would jump at the chance to take the assignment of forced isolation. Even though he questioned the decision, it was a condition he was familiar with.

At one point in the movie, Farley studies an Inuit watching the wolves. That was my experience exactly. I studied the man who watched the wolves and I was captivated.

Spirited Away: My Internal Struggle with Miyazaki

Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to start with Ponyo. The universe looked like mine for a while, then all heck broke loose and I’m left watching a world I don’t understand. The reality shifts like sand as new and confusing characters take the stage. Why is there a long nosed wizard living under the ocean and why do his children look nothing like him? I was wowed and impressed, but consternated as well. Were there any consequences at all or would the artist just paint in a new creature to save the day? 

When My Neighbor Totoro came along, I was a little more prepared. But, Miyazaki played with my mind again as Totoro’s little mouth widened into an unsustainable gaposis. By the time the cat rolled around, I said, “Why not. Nothing surprises me anymore.”  

Next it was time for Princess Mononoke and by this time Miyazaki had worn me down. I kept telling my brain to just stop it and behave. There was something wonderful going on on screen and I didn’t want to miss it. 

Now Spirited Away; this was important. So I sat myself down and had a little conversation. It went something like this, 

“Listen, just because your puny little brain cannot comprehend the magnitude of the genius that is Miyazaki, doesn’t mean you’re going to waste time questioning everything. Just go with it. If a man-sized duck spirit wants to sit in a bathhouse with his friends, you’re going to accept it no questions asked.” 

Well, that little talking to worked, because it was a fantastic ride! I watched creatures that lived and breathed and smelled. I saw the evolution of Chihiro unfold before me; culminating in her courageous sacrifice to save Haku. It was a completely surprising and satisfying story.  

You win Miyazaki.

Days of Heaven

(Ronsardian) Ode To Linda M.

How refreshing to have narration be
Commentary
That doesn't re-tell to me what I see
Oh contrary
The simple words and observations bring
A whole new level of understanding
Your haunting face
Your voice apace
Linda, you ethereal thing.

* * *

Dialogue scattered on the cutting room floor. It had served its purpose as a tool for the actors to bring their emotions to the screen, but it wasn’t needed anymore. Words weren’t going to add to the story. In fact they were in the way, cluttering up the place. They had to go--left among other pieces of the process that was explored and then discarded

. 

What to keep? 

The happy happenstance of the flock of birds caught on camera? 

Yes. 

The sand bird brought in to stand amongst the ashes? 

Yes. 

Who could have guessed what composition was going to emerge from that editing room? Perhaps future collaborators were able to divine their way into the workings of Malick’s mind and help with vision of it. They had the benefit of seeing the outcome of this film and could tell that a little trust in the creator pays off.

The Tree of Life

The film was as fluid as a daydream and just as personal. 

Childhood holds the firsts, the discoveries that never again have the same impact. Glimpses of the universal brought my own story into play and it became nearly impossible to separate the two. Whose pain was I feeling, mine or Jack’s? I flew with the mother. My gullibility disappeared with R.L.'s. The father's hand (and dinosaur claw) pushed, pushed--stay down, comply, look. The mother's hand brushed lightly, to distract, as if to say, avert, look away. There was ugliness in both as well as beauty. For no one is complete, but all is made well and whole in the wave of redemptive power.

At moments of frustration, where I wanted to know what I was supposed to understand, I recalled Clovis and sdedalus’ modern art advice. Stop trying. Experience it. That made all the difference. All that needed to be clear, was and the rest…well, that’s for another viewing.