Film: Last Year In Marienbad Year of production: 1961 UK Release date: 8th July 2011 Distributor: BFI Certificate: U Running time: 94 mins Director: Alain Resnais Starring: Delphine Seyrig, Giorgio Albertazzi, Sacha Pitoëff, Françoise Bertin, Luce Garcia-Ville Genre: Drama/Mystery/Romance Format: Cinema Country of Production: France/Italy Language: French
Review by: Anna Attallah
Baffling and enchanting critics in equal measure, whether Last Year In Marienbad leaves you bewildered or firmly under its spell, it is a cinematic experience that cannot be ignored. Winner of the Golden Lion at the Venice Film Festival, this icon of European art house cinema influenced countless films, including Vertigo and The Shining, with a tale that is both enigmatically dreamlike and just plain weird. In the beautifully intricate corridors and stately rooms of an imposing baroque hotel, a nameless stranger, credited as X (Georgio Albertazzi), stalks the elegant woman A (Delphine Seyrig), who he claims he had a love affair with the previous year.
As the story is built, layer upon layer, rotating seamlessly between the past and present, we learn that she supposedly promised X a year ago that after a year had passed they would meet again and run away together.
Shadowed by another sinister man who may or may not be her husband (Sacha Pitoëff), the woman vehemently denies she ever made such a promise, or, indeed, that they know each other at all, as fact and fiction become increasingly blurred.
Men in tuxedoes robotically fire pistols in an unexplained shooting gallery, elegantly dressed guests inexplicably freeze in mid-conversation and the layout of the hotel and gardens is constantly shape-shifting (the action was shot in three different locations).
Whilst events intensify and the flashbacks become even more surreal and threatening, the action builds to a dramatic crescendo, posing more questions than it answers...
This film tore up the cinematic rulebook in 1961 and is still provoking debate and dividing opinions fifty years later. Like all works of modern art, there are those who dismiss it as pretentious nonsense and those who claim it is a masterpiece, but even on a purely cinematic level, you cannot fail to be impressed by the way the camera transforms into an artist’s brush in the hands of Alain Resnais and his cinematographer Sasha Vierny. Long tracking shots and disjointed flashbacks create impressions and images which question whether the narrator’s memory is accurate or if he is making it up as he goes along. Unsettling organ music heightens the feeling of oppression, as the hotel, which should ooze glamour and sophistication, instead becomes an ominous prison populated by gorgeously dressed mannequins. The narration itself is also musical, elegantly poetic and endlessly cyclical, it rarely stops and has a hypnotic quality which heightens the disconcerting sense that this is all a dream – or a nightmare.
It is clear that many horror films owe a certain debt to Last Year In Marienbad, which shows that subtle tension can be created easily without scary CGI effects with something as simple as a woman and a bed. We can recognise the lingering long shots of the hotel’s corridors in The Shining and A’s ambiguous lover M, played by Sacha Pitoëff, wouldn’t look out of place as Dracula with his corpse-like looks and icy demeanour. Georgio Albertazzi seems innocent enough as the gloomy narrator, yet even he takes on a menacing air as we begin to question his motives and even his sanity when he becomes more and more insistent in his pursuit of Delphine Seyrig. It is a credit to her charisma that she doesn’t fade into the background; having minimal dialogue, in comparison to Georgio Albertazzi, she is practically silent for the whole film. Nevertheless, she is not just a seductive bit of eye candy dressed in striking outfits (designed by none other than Coco Chanel), she is an accomplished actress who drives most of the disquieting tension of the plot.
Given that the occupants of the hotel are so mannequin-like it is no surprise that the film recently served as inspiration for Karl Lagerfeld’s Chanel Spring/Summer 2011 collection, where the models strutted their stuff on a catwalk based on Marienbad’s immaculate geometric garden. This is the setting of the famous still where the people have shadows, yet the trees and shrubs do not, and it is these experimental touches which root this world in a sort of hallucinogenic reality.
Sacha Pitoëff is constantly shown playing what appears to be a completely pointless game of chance – a version of pick-up sticks which any 5-year-old could master. It is, however, an ancient Chinese game called “Nim”, which requires an enormous amount of mathematical precision and skill. This is clearly a sly wink to the audience from Resnais, a small reminder that although we suspect this is all just random self-indulgence, it has in fact been meticulously planned.
Last Year In Marienbad may have popularised a surrealist aesthetic which now seems dated, but it is also an aesthetic which walks a fine line between the sublime and the ridiculous. Whether Resnais succeeds is open to everyone’s interpretation, and it is this that gives beauty to this cult classic. A film that forces you to engage and puzzle over what it’s all about. One thing is certain, this is a film made to be seen on the big screen – and it’s a trance-like trip that is well worth it. AA
Film: Cría Cuervos Year of production: 1976 UK Release date: 10th June 2011 Distributor: BFI Certificate: 12A Running time: 110 mins Director: Carlos Saura Starring: Geraldine Chaplin, Mónica Randall, Florinda Chico, Ana Torrent, Héctor Alterio Genre: Drama Format: Cinema Country of Production: Spain Language: Spanish
Review by: Patrick Gamble
The best years of life are universally regarded to be those of youth; a time filled with unadulterated fun and adventure with the constraints, monotony and rigmaroles of adulthood nothing but a distant enigma. Director Carlos Saura raises a rather compelling counter argument; he believes “it’s only our memory that tells us this period was a wonderful time, but that’s only because we don’t remember things.” Although a rather pessimistic view (Saura is no doubt referring to his own traumatic childhood growing up during the Spanish civil war), there are many that would agree with him. Cria Cuervos is a delightful exploration of one girl’s traumatic journey through childhood, giving us a warts and all portrayal of the true confusion that plagues this phase instead of glorifying it through self imposed misinformed nostalgia. Using a seemingly endless series of unhappy events, Saura throws us into a time of terrible indecision, cloaked in a suffocating atmosphere of fear. Highly regarded as one of the most insightful and politically charged pieces of Spanish filmmaking, this charming journey of child fantasy imbued in reality finally gets the re-release it deserves from the BFI. It’s still very much Francisco Franco’s Spain when we intrude upon the Madrid household of the recently widowed Anselmo. He dies suddenly amidst the throes of passion with Amelia, the wife of his best friend and fellow army officer, Nicolas. However, it appears this was no natural death - he was poisoned! The apparent culprit of this calculated murder? None other than the second of his three daughters, Ana (Ana Torrent, Spirit Of The Beehive), a wise beyond her years girl who blames her father for the death of her beloved mother. Cria Cuervos literally translates as Raise Ravens, a Spanish proverb that reads “raise ravens and they’ll take your eyes” and is generally used for someone who has bad luck raising children!
Out of a sense of family duty, Anselmo’s sister-in-law, Paulina, soon moves into the large, yet moderately dilapidated house to care for the girls and their mute grandmother, instantly instituting her own domestic regime. The girls remain unfazed and continue with their lives in much the same manner as before, but as their summer holiday unfolds, we become privy not only to the family dynamic of this all woman household, but also the vivid fantasy world of Ana. Through a myriad of daydreams and other forms of escapism, this inquisitive, imaginative and possible deadly young girl comes to terms with the death of her mother, whilst maintaining her staunch hatred for her father and the oppressive regime he represented…
The most captivating element of Cria Cuervos has to be its seamless story, which impressively blurs together fantasy and memory, whilst maintaining a strong foothold in reality. These hauntingly vivid depictions of Anna’s numerous flights of the imagination are beautifully conveyed as a stark contrast to the repressed household she dwells within and the world around her. These flashbacks, dream sequences and daytime mirages could have easily resulted in a confusing and cluttered film, yet, through deceptively simple shooting methods (Ana’s mother wanders into the frame nonchalantly and is completely ignored by all except Ana), the camera work of Teodoro Escamilla manages to capture the intimacy of these fictitious moments between Ana and her deceased mother. This ability to let fantasy and actuality intertwine on screen, combined with the tension created by the tentative yet relentless movement of the camera, perfectly aligns us with Ana’s point of view. It all culminates in not just an enjoyably honest portrayal of childhood confusion, but a unique and exquisitely presented perspective on the gritty reality of bereavement.
Fans of Pan’s Labyrinth’s darkly unsettling, poetic depiction of child fantasy and fairytales, successfully mirrored against the violent backdrop of the Spanish Civil War, will instantly fall in love with Cria Cuervos. Both films undoubtedly share a similar thematic and stylish template, but stand out for the astonishingly professional performances from their young and engaging female leads. This in no way should detract from the enjoyment of both these films, but instead underlines how effective depicting sensitive adult themes through immature eyes can be. However, unlike Pan’s Labyrinth’s heroine, Ofilia, a young girl who radiated with childlike innocence, Ana Torrent’s performance is so frighteningly serious that you can’t help but believe that she’s more than capable of the most malevolent of acts. This, however, is a role which demands a broader range of emotion responses than your usual pedophobia thriller, yet Torrent’s expressive and incredibly watchful face never falters in portraying any of these.
The film was made whilst General Franco was on his deathbed, and was naturally seen as a metaphor for the last dying gasps of fascism and the dictator’s totalitarian regime. The film clearly stresses the disparity between Ana’s fantasy world and the political reality of fascism though numerous symbolic techniques. The house, whilst clearly quite grand, feels incredibly claustrophobic, and it can be no coincidence that the blinds on the windows seem like prison bars containing the girls from the outside world. The empty swimming pool in the garden, which the girls play around, could also represent the lost pleasures of the era or, indeed, their unfulfilled lives. Ana’s father, in his military attire, is evidently here to represent fascism within the family dynamic. His controlling nature over Ana’s mother (a once famed concert pianist) could easily be interpreted as the repression of artists such as Saura, making Ana’s murderous act seem almost revolutionary within this domestic microcosm. Unfortunately, the introduction of Paulina to rule the home, with her strict code of cleanliness and etiquette, seems to act as a warning that Spain’s transition toward democracy may not be as smooth as hoped for.
Paulina’s presence turns the home into an all female household that spans three generations; each is represented with its own distinctive soundtrack. The disparity between the girls’ incredibly catchy pop music and the classical music, which seemingly once filled the house, shows a shift away from tradition, which is equally apparent in their casual clothing - a stark contrast to the elegant dresses of their elders. It has led to many perceiving that Saura uses the female sex and their legacy of repression as a parallel to Spain’s troubled history. It’s a tenuous link, but the fact remains that many feminists still laud Cria Cuervos as a wonderfully subtle account of female socialization, specifically the way in which the girls reject the roles they are expected to fulfill. Ana’s interactions with Rosa, the maid, lead to some humorous and well crafted examples of this, but perhaps the dress up scene, involving the three girls recreating a domestic dispute, is the most obviously symbolic of them all. It’s a scene that we later realise, through one of Ana’s recollections, is an almost exact copy of an argument between her broken down mother and nauseatingly abhorrent father. Yet, in this delightfully charming recreation by the children, Ana’s portrayal of her mother is a far more assured and confrontational one, perhaps signalling a time of hope regarding women’s rights through this new rebellious generation, brought up within a new liberated Spain. It’s a subject matter dealt with cautiously by the director, who despite these countless depictions of youthful empowerment presents the future Ana (though some gently interspersed, straight to camera pieces) under an impartial light. Interestingly, Saura casts the same actress here as plays Ana’s mother, leading us to question whether young Ana is doomed to make the same mistakes.
The term ‘classic’ often gets thrown around too easily, without much regard to the importance and role of the adjective within cinematic history. Cria Cuervos, with its cultivated meditation on history, memory and childhood, combined with an intriguing political undertone, is a film which can be enjoyed on many, many levels. Whether you choose to view it as a reflective parable documenting the fall of fascism, a subtle allegory about the repressed roles of women, or just as a joyous journey into the fantasy world of an imaginative young girl, it rightfully deserves to be heralded as a true classic. PG
Film: Deep End Year of production: 1970 UK Release date: 6th May 2011 Distributor: BFI Certificate: 15 Running time: 88 mins Director: Jerzy Skolimowski Starring: Jane Asher, John Moulder-Brown, Karl Michael Vogler, Christopher Sandford, Diana Dors Genre: Comedy/Drama/Romance/Thriller Format: Cinema Country of Production: West Germany/UK Language: English
Review by: Patrick Gamble
In 2008, Jerzy Skolimowski returned from a self imposed, seventeen year absence from directing (reportedly to concentrate on his true passion – painting) with his much lauded come back, Four Nights With Anna. Last month he followed up that success with Essential Killing, described by many as his most painterly presented film yet. It has also gained high praise for its lead performance by Vincent Gallo – an actor renowned for being difficult to direct. To coincide with its release, and to celebrate this underrated director’s return from the cinematic wilderness, the good people of the BFI have gracefully decided to restore one of Skolimowski’s most revered and respected pieces from the 1970s – his previously unattainable cult hit about adolescent passion, Deep End.
Mike (John Moulder-Brown) is fresh out of school and still very much wet behind the ears when he takes up his first job as a bathroom attendant at a rundown swimming baths in West London. It is here he meets Susan (Jane Asher) and it doesn’t take long before this attractive young redhead, with her breathtaking beauty and teasing demeanour, becomes the object of Mike’s obsessions.
The revelation that not only is Susan engaged, but also having a lurid affair with Mike’s former P.E teacher, is like an arrow through the young boy’s heart. Yet, whilst many of us would begrudgingly surrender defeat, and bottle away our carnal desires, it only strengthens Mike’s resolve to destroy Susan’s wedding plans and expose her adulterous nature in an attempt to make her his own.
What starts as an innocent crush soon manifests itself as something much worse and as Mike’s determination over takes his common sense, the lines of decency and morality begin to diminish and there seems to be no stopping the momentum of this treacherous fixation. He quickly falls steadfast into a series of events which look on course to end in tears…
Released during the height of the French New Wave and the hangover effect of the swinging ‘60s, Skolimowski’s British made tale of obsession and desire is a delightful mix of the type of work that both Godard and Truffaut were creating at the time but with a distinctive underlying English sensibility. This delightful mix of the desolate beauty of London with the sort of subtle nuances and loving attention given to character detail which we’ve come to love from the nouvelle vague truly separates Deep End from a lot of the cinema being produced here at that time. Our unconscious manner for comparing and creating films to the modern Hollywood mould often results in nothing more than a continued conveyor belt of drab, uninspired and, most importantly, unoriginal films. Deep End is a wonderful example of how drawing influence from other cultures can have a strikingly profound effect on a movie without making it completely inaccessible to a wider audience.
John Moulder-Brown does a wonderful job with the character of Mike. Starting off as a picture of innocence, he seamlessly crosses the boundaries of right and wrong without succumbing to a melodramatic about turn, making his performance all the more haunting. Jane Asher, with her ‘60s chic style and piercing stare needs little direction in portraying a temptress; she could quite easily have stood mute on screen for the film’s entirety and still have passed as competent within the role. However, she doesn’t and you’ll soon find yourself sympathising with Mike’s infatuation for her, although perhaps not to the same fatal degree. A fleeting cameo by Doris Dors is also due a mention, as a mildly camp carry-on-esque turn as a steamy, bath house patron. She undoubtedly opens Mike’s eyes to the seedy underside of adulthood and singlehandedly removes the last shreds of his innocence. It’s a pivotal performance that could so easily have undone Skolimowski’s hard work at creating a story of passion without hysteria, yet instead adds some light relief to an otherwise subtly sinister depiction of sexual fixation.
Deep End also garnished its cult status thanks to its eclectic soundtrack by Krautrock heroes Can and the guilty pleasure that is Cat Stevens. The fact that the undiscerning ear could easily miss this whilst watching is in itself a compliment to the film’s production. It’s ever present, yet its unobtrusive nature makes it a perfect companion, never distracting you from the story that unfolds in front of your eyes or the dialogue that wisps along so elegantly.
The only criticism to be levied towards Deep End is the fairly obvious symbolic clues it leaves along the way that perhaps make the ending (which in itself has left many viewers wanting) not as poignant as perhaps it could have been. The final third lacks the ambiguity this film’s rich build up deserves, like those sitcoms which leave you cringing at what’s to follow. Skolimowski dark observation of Mike’s perilous descent into a maddening addiction for Susan, however palpable it may seem, surpasses being unbearable and instead leaves only the question of how this obvious fate will manifest itself into its logical conclusion.
Regarding the film’s digital transfer, the hard working restoration team at the BFI have yet again managed to do justice to another lost classic. The film may have aged noticeably, and the age old problem of poor 1970s dubbing is still apparent, but with regard to the lovingly recreated film print, you’d be hard pressed to criticise what is at heart a marvellous achievement for a film which deserves such a beautiful return to the big screen.
With Deep End, Skolimowski may have dived head first into the deepest part of the male psyche, but by no means does he sink under the pressure. Instead, he has created a film which manages to propel past its self imposed obstacles, which could otherwise have left it stranded in a sea of teenage confusion. PG
Bertolucci’s dazzling second feature, made at the age of 22, is being released nationwide to coincide with a major Bertolucci season at BFI Southbank.
Before the Revolution won the Young Critics’ Prize at the Cannes Film Festival (1964) and was, according to the New York Times, the ‘revelation’ of the New York Film Festival the same year. The Italians hated it, but post-Cannes the French critics hailed it as a homage to the school of Cahiers, whereupon the Italian poet-turned-filmmaker Bertolucci found himself adopted by the French New Wave. Loosely based on Stendhal’s ‘The Charterhouse of Parma’, Before the Revolution is also partly autobiographical, and indeed Bertolucci spent much of his youth living in Parma where the film is based. The title derives from a remark made by the 18th century French diplomat Talleyrand: “He who did not live in the years before the revolution cannot understand what the sweetness of living is.”
Before The Revolution centres on the emotional and political conflicts within a young man, Fabrizio (Francesco Barilli), who is contemplating joining the Communist Party. But his personal life is even more unresolved as he breaks away from his planned marriage to Clelia (Cristina Pariset), a perfect bourgeoise, and begins an affair with Gina (Adriana Asti), his neurotic aunt who is visiting from Milan. Bertolucci’s obsession with politics and cinema is openly expressed through this alter-ego and in the extraordinary freedom of his camerawork and editing.
In making Before The Revolution, Bertolucci assembled a remarkable wealth of young Italian talent: cinematographer Aldo Scarvarda, who had shot Antonioni’s L’Avventura in 1960, actress Adriana Asti, who had appeared in Pasolini’s first feature Accattone (on which Bertolucci was production assistant), and composers Ennio Morricone and Gino Paoli.
Film: Before The Revolution Release date: 8th April 2011 Certificate: 12A Running time: 112 mins Director: Bernardo Bertolucci Starring: Adriana Asti, Francesco Barilli, Domenico Aldi, Allen Midgette, Morando Morandini Genre: Drama/Romance Studio: BFI Format: Cinema Country: Italy
Released on DVD for the first time in the UK, these six films from legendary auteur Akira Kurosawa were made at the start of his career and demonstrate the emergence of a profoundly influential directorial vision, whose endless admirers range from Fellini and Bertolucci to Spielberg and Lucas.
This fascinating collection, which contains six films across four DVDs, spans 1943 to 1947 and features Sanshuro Sugata, Sanshuro Sugata Part Two, The Most Beautiful, They Who Step On The Tiger's Tail, No Regrets For Our Youth and One Wonderful Sunday. The films have been transferred to High Definition from the best available film elements and are packaged with a fully illustrated booklet featuring essays by Philip Kemp.
Sanshuro Sugata (Sugata Sanshiro)
Kurosawa's assured debut about a young man's spiritual journey through the study and practice of judo.
Sanshuro Sugata Part Two (Zoku Sugata Sanshiro)
This sequel reunites most of the principal cast from the original and follows Sanshiro face a new set of enemies whilst continuing his quest to become a judo master.
The Most Beautiful (Ichiban utsukushiku)
An artful propaganda film that anticipates the social realism of Kurosawa's post-war films, The Most Beautiful provides a fascinating portrait of female volunteer workers in an optics factory manufacturing lenses for binoculars and gunsights.
They Who Step On The Tiger's Tail (Tora no o o fumu otokotachi)
Adapted from Noh and Kabuki theatre, this classic tale of deception sees a lord and his bodyguard disguise themselves as monks to bypass an enemy roadblock.
No Regrets For Our Youth (Waga seishun ni kuinashi)
Kurosawa's first post-war film stars Ozu regular Setsuko Hara as Yukie, a privileged daughter of a professor who takes a soul-searching journey through rural Japan and comes to question her values.
One Wonderful Sunday (Subarashiki nichiyobi)
A bitter-sweet story of young love set in the devastation of post-war Tokyo reminiscent of Frank Capra's social realist comedies.
Film: Early Kurosawa Release date: 28th March 2011 Certificate: 12 Running time: 523 mins Director: Akira Kurosawa Starring: Denjirô Ôkôchi, Susumu Fujita, Yukiko Todoroki, Takashi Shimura, Soji Kiyokawa Genre: Action/Adventure/Drama/Romance/Thriller Studio: BFI Format: DVD Country: Japan
Classic thriller from director Henri-Georges Clouzot, following the events of a murder plot in a small French provincial school.
Tired of being mistreated by abusive headmaster Michel Delasalle (Paul Meurisse), his frail wife, Christina (Vera Clouzot), and his mistress, Nicole (Simone Signoret), plot to kill their tormentor. When Michel's body goes missing, however, the women soon realise their plan is not as straightforward as they first thought.
Film: Les Diabolique Release date: 18th March 2011 Certificate: 12 Running time: 114 mins Director: Henri-Georges Clouzot Starring: Simone Signoret, Vera Clouzot, Paul Meurisse, Charles Vanel, Jean Bro Genre: Crime/Drama/Mystery/Thriller Studio: BFI Format: Cinema Country: France
Film: The Valley (Obscured By Clouds) Release date: 14th February 2011 Certificate: 15 Running time: 105 mins Director: Barbet Schroeder Starring: Bulle Ogier, Michael Gothard, Jean-Pierre Kalfon Genre: Action/Drama Studio: BFI Format: DVD & Blu-ray Country: France
The career of writer and director Barbet Schroeder has so far spanned over forty years. Very much in the primitive stage of his illustrious life behind the camera, The Valley (Obscured By Clouds) represents a glorious stepping stone in Schroeder’s development as a young filmmaker who would later enjoy remarkably consistent Hollywood success.
Set in the mystical jungles of New Guinea, the film follows the story of Viviane, the wife of the French consul in Melbourne, whose quest initially revolves around finding the forbidden feathers of a rare exotic bird. This quest takes an unexpected detour when she meets Gaetan, an intriguingly charismatic stranger travelling in a small group of hippies.
Upon meeting the hippies, Viviane’s inquisitive nature leads her to abandon her previously materialistic existence, and embark on an even more enticing mission, seeking an unmapped valley believed to be the home to one of the world’s most isolated tribes.
As one might expect, Viviane’s plight becomes much more than just a search for earthly enlightenment, as she immerses herself in the hippie world of self-discovery, ending her journey far removed from the person she used to be.
With Pink Floyd providing an ambient soundtrack to proceedings, Schroeder invites us into the mysterious world of bongo-pounding, chanting, and tribal pleasures…
Very much drawn in the art house vein, The Valley is not afraid to push the boundaries, and the unrestrained and relaxed lifestyle of the hippies manifests itself in the use of mind-altering stimulants, and also in scenes of full frontal nudity. Viviane is quick to develop an affinity with the hippies’ love of nature, which plays an integral part in her decision to stay beyond her intended departure date and venture into the unknown.
Schroeder’s priority appears to be that his audience identify with his central characters, and he succeeds admirably. It is easy to develop an emotional attachment to Schroeder’s characters and to the story, and as viewers we share Viviane’s enthusiasm and excitement for what lies ahead. The acting is consistent and never misplaced, and assists in creating an intriguing aesthetic.
Despite, at times, amateurish editing, the cinematography is close to perfect, lending an almost documentary style to The Valley. The film is not afraid to lose itself in panoramic landscapes, or to pay tribute to the natural beauty of New Guinea. With Pink Floyd’s uncomplicated yet engrossing soundtrack in tow, Schroeder’s story is given further meaning, through subtle sweeping chords and melodic twangs.
The interaction with the tribe provide the film’s most breathtaking scenes, and the audience witnesses a number of compelling traditions and rituals. It is in these moments that The Valley finds its true spirit.
Another angle for which Schroeder deserves much credit is for maintaining a cordial atmosphere throughout. Too many action/adventures are guilty of taking the route of menace, where the protagonists reach their desired destination only to find that everything is not as they hoped. Instead, he elects to focus on emotionally fulfilling his central characters, and in turn, his audience. This is not to say that the characters have matching reactions to their experiences - one or two find themselves completely underwhelmed, but the film revels in exploring this further.
The Valley’s mildly understated conclusion and perhaps unoriginal slant does not retract from an overriding satisfaction, which is both thought-provoking and inspiring, and anyone who previously held no aspirations for travelling will have been persuaded otherwise.
The suitably primitive style is fitting considering its placement in Barbet Schroeder’s fine career. The Valley rarely deviates from the simplistic route, which is fully complimented by the ideologies of the main characters. Although the outdated hippie angle grows slightly tiresome, The Valley is thoroughly intriguing to its end. MC
Film: Equinox Flower Release date: 17th January 2011 Certificate: U Running time: 118 mins Director: Yasujiro Ozu Starring: Shin Saburi, Kinuyo Tanaka, Ineko Arima, Yoshiko Kuga, Keiji Sada Genre: Comedy/Drama Studio: BFI Format: DVD Country: Japan
It was only after his death in 1963 that the films of Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu began to be widely appreciated in the west, and he is now held in high esteem by the likes of Mike Leigh, Jim Jarmusch and Wim Wenders. This dual format disc containing two of Ozu’s best loved films shows how important the twin themes of family and the impermanence of life and culture was to the influential director. There Was A Father (1942) and Equinox Flower (1958) both explore shifting family dynamics to quietly powerful effect. Ozu’s first colour film, 1958’s Equinox Flower, is probably the pick of the two films; a slyly amusing comedy starring Shin Saburi as Wataru Hirayama, an old-fashioned father and businessman who is in for a nasty surprise when he discovers that his eldest daughter has decided to marry a man he and his wife know nothing about.
Mr Hirayama (somehow it seems inappropriate, given his character, to refer to him by his first name) is a likeable but deeply paternalistic man who believes that is his task, with the support of his dutiful wife, to arrange marriages for his daughters.
Mr Hirayama is aware that Japan is changing and that the traditions he holds dear are not as important to the younger generation, but when it his own daughter challenging him he finds it difficult to adapt.
Eventually, however, and partly due to a little deviously amusing trickery on the part of a younger female relative, he begrudgingly accepts that his daughter’s will is her own.
Earlier film There Was A Father (packaged as a bonus feature) is a 1942 wartime drama about the relationship between a similarly straight-laced father, Shuhei Horikawa (Chishu Ryu), and his son Ryohei.
Shuhei is a widower and teacher who decides to quit his profession following a tragic boating accident. This change sets in motion a series of events that will separate Shuhei from his young son, with the tearful youngster carted off to boarding school.
As the years go by, and Ryohei reaches adulthood, he realises that his father made great sacrifices in order to give him the best possible education, but he still yearns to spend more time with him…
In some ways, particularly in terms of its visual style, Equinox Flower appears far ahead of its time. Ozu is known as a director who refused to pander to Hollywood conventions relating to both visual techniques and narrative structure, and Equinox Flower has a highly distinctive look that owes much to the ‘tatami shot’ that Ozu pioneered; a low shot named after the tatami mats used in Japanese homes to sit on, and beautifully composed static or near static shots that linger on the screen, highlighting the visually arresting geometry of domestic and urban spaces.
The use of colour is also important, especially the contrast between the rich, warm colours in the shots of domestic interiors and the more intense colours of commercial signs in the city. This contrast isn’t just a visual device; it draws attention to the shift from traditional to modern values that is central to the film’s story and Mr Hirayama’s dilemma.
For its time, the acting seems wonderfully understated, even in the film’s more comic moments, or when Mr Hirayama is responding with petulant anger to his daughter’s refusal to submit to his will. The humour in Equinox Flower is subtle but pointed; in one particularly enjoyable scene that redefines the notion of toilet humour. Mr Hirayama, unable to continue listening to an annoying woman’s incessant chatter about her attempts to arrange a marriage for her daughter, politely excuses himself by claiming he needs to go the toilet, then heads straight back to his office to escape her babbling.
The performances in There Was A Father are similarly understated, but in place of comedy there is an aching sense of loss, of physical distance between father and son, but also of love and connectedness. In spite of living far from one another for many years, there is a strong bond between father and son that is evident even when they are apart.
There Was A Father does show its age more than Equinox Flower, not simply because it was shot in black-and-white, but because the best print available has deteriorated over time, to the point that the sound quality is sometimes quite poor, and the film scratchy. Even so, it’s interesting to see an earlier example of Ozu’s work; one that shares the underlying thematic focus of his later work.
If you’re interested in Asian cinema of the past and want an introduction to one of Japan’s most influential and respected directors, this double bill is a great place to start. Ozu’s films are clearly rooted in the Japanese experience, but his explorations of family life have a universal appeal that transcends time and place. JG
Imbued throughout with Truffaut's infectious passion for the magic of cinema, this wise, witty blend of comedy and drama is arguably the most charming of all his films.
The title alludes to how our belief in movie storytelling is dependent on all manner of deceits, and it's that gulf between reality and illusion which Truffaut – here playing the director of a melodrama being shot at a studio in Nice – delights in exposing and exploring.
As the production proceeds, it's the job of the director to keep the chaos of real life off-camera – be it a diva repeatedly fluffing her lines, a feline extra's feeding habits, or the tempestuous romanticism of an immature leading man (Truffaut regular Jean-Pierre Léaud).
Though behind-the-scenes gags abound, they never distract from the emotional truths of a script that constantly acknowledges the roles played in our lives by fantasy, anxiety and desire.
A superb cast perfectly embodies the fleeting joys and pitfalls of teamwork, and Georges Delerue's soaring score echoes the exhilaration of fertile creativity.
Film: Day For Night Release date: 18th February 2011 Certificate: PG Running time: 115 mins Director: François Truffaut Starring: Jacqueline Bisset, Nathalie Baye, Jean-Pierre Léard, François Truffaut, Alexandra Stewart Genre: Comedy/Drama/Romance Studio: BFI Format: Cinema Country: France/Italy
Film: Seven Samurai Release date: 22nd November 2009 Certificate: PG Running time: 207 mins Director: Akira Kurosawa Starring: Toshirô Mifune, Takashi Shimura, Keiko Tsushima, Yukiko Shimazaki, Kamatari Fujiwara Genre: Action/Adventure/Drama Studio: BFI Format: DVD Country: Japan
One of the most influential films ever made, this towering masterpiece has been remade numerous times, and its grand sense of adventure has been endlessly copied by Western filmmakers. Its enduring popularity is thanks in no small part to Akira Kurosawa’s masterful direction and a wonderful ensemble cast, including Kurosawa muse Toshiro Mifune. After discovering that a group of bandits will attack them when the rice harvest is ready, a poor mountain village resolves to stop them at all cost. Too weak and scared to take on the bandits themselves, village elder Gisaku suggests they hire samurai to do the job for them.
Hiring a group of samurai that are willing to work with only food as payment is difficult, but eventually the villagers assemble seven warriors to help them. After rescuing a child without taking payment, a ronin named Kambei becomes the first recruit, along with his young follower Katsushiro. They are later joined by Katayama, Shichiroji, Gorobai, Heihachi, Kyuzo and Kikuchiyo, a false samurai who proves himself worthy of a place in the group.
Initially met with fear and skepticism, the samurai soon earn the respect of the village. They set about building defences and training the villagers in preparation for a climactic battle with the marauding bandits…
Seminal is a term used far too often in critical journalism. Its use suggesting that the majority of industry output stems from some other grand, influential work. The films of Japanese auteur Akira Kurosawa, however, can truly be described as seminal - the legacy of his films stretching far and wide in cinema, an influence that has lasted for decades. Seven Samurai is perhaps his most enduring classic, with its universal story and clutch of successful remakes (The Magnificent Seven, A Bugs Life), it has managed to remain fresh in the collective conscious for over fifty years.
The progenitor of countless adventures featuring a ragtag bunch of heroes defending the innocent from evil doers, the story is beautifully simplistic, yet rife with moral complexity. The villagers are initially victims, pushed to their very limits by the prospect of exploitation at the hands of the bandits. Yet when the samurai arrive to help, their initial reaction is mistrust and resentment. Later, a heartfelt speech from Kikuchio reveals the true nature of both himself and the seemingly frightened farmers.
The film is full of dark moments that serve to offset the lighter tone of the story. Moments of levity, like the youngest samurai’s affair with one of the villagers, are in close proximity to darker scenes like an elderly villager wreaking brutal vengeance on a captured bandit.
The cast is superb throughout, particularly the samurai, who are all given vignettes of exposition and moments to shine. Standouts include group leader Kambei and the stoic swordsmen Kyuzo (it’s a testament to the 1960 remake that Yul Brynner and James Coburn excelled in the same roles).
The star of the film, of course, is Toshiro Mifune, who gives an outstanding performance as Kikuchiyo. The film was his seventh collaboration with Kurosawa, and their close creative relationship shines through. Mifune is given free reign, and as a result, Kikuchiyo is all childish excitement and animalistic rage; the film’s comic relief and its beating heart (his outburst about the true nature of farmers is a master class in emotional range).
Kurosawa’s masterful direction cannot be forgotten, however, and Seven Samurai presents the maverick director at the peak of his powers. The film’s final act is a tour de force, and was, in its time, the epitome of spectacle. A series of pitched battles culminating in a climactic, rain drenched last stand in which the samurai defeat the bandits at grave cost to themselves. The finale became the blueprint for every decisive cinematic battle that would follow, yet few would attempt to copy its bittersweet conclusion. The victory against the bandits leaves the villagers prosperous, and all but three of the samurai dead (one of which, Katsushiro, leaves the group to be with the woman he loves). It’s a bold conclusion that deftly mixes elation with tragedy.
A high point in a long line of Kurosawa masterpieces, Seven Samurai is an historic work that anyone who has even a passing fondness of film should seek out. In many ways a proto-blockbuster, its far reaching influence on modern spectacle cinema cannot be ignored. KT
The striking second feature from Barbet Schroeder (Barfly, Reversal Of Fortune, Single White Female), released by the BFI in a Dual Format Edition package, explores the limits of experience as it journeys into the great unknown accompanied by Pink Floyd's wondrous soundtrack, later released as the album Obscured By Clouds.
When Viviane (Bulle Ogier), a chic diplomat’s wife, meets an intriguing adventurer (Michael Gothard) and his hippy friends in the wilds of Papua New Guinea, different worlds collide. The group, led by enigmatic visionary Gaetan (Jean-Pierre Kalfon), convince Viviane to join their expedition in search of a mysterious uncharted Valley.
Previously unavailable in the UK, the film is a Dual Format Edition release (a Blu-ray and a DVD disc in one box) has a director-approved high-definition transfer from the original negative, and is packaged with an illustrated 26-page booklet with rare on-set photographs, an essay, ‘Childhood’s End: Pink Floyd’s Music for The Valley (Obscured by Clouds)’ by Rob Young, and an essay and new director interview by Emilie Bickerton, author of the recently published book A Short History of Cahiers du Cinéma.
Film: The Valley (Obscured By Clouds) Release date: 14th February 2011 Certificate: 15 Running time: 105 mins Director: Barbet Schroeder Starring: Bulle Ogier, Michael Gothard, Jean-Pierre Kalfon Genre: Action/Drama Studio: BFI Format: DVD & Blu-ray Country: France
Special Features:
• Original and digitally-restored optional endings
• Original un-restored ending
• Three ethnographic documentary shorts directed by Barbet Schroeder
• Theatrical trailers for Schroeder’s The Valley, More and Maîtresse
François Truffaut’s fourth feature (directly following Jules et Jim), was initially a disappointment to critics who had expected something more strikingly innovative from the enfant terrible of the French New Wave. Over the years, however, the reputation of Silken Skin (La Peau douce) has grown. Now acclaimed as one of Truffaut’s subtlest and most insightful films, it is released by the BFI to selected cinemas.
What Truffaut had set out to make was – in his own words –“a story of adultery - very realistic, which will give an antipoetic idea of love, the reverse in a way of Jules et Jim, like a polemical reply.”
Pierre Lachenay (Jean Desailly) is a somewhat unprepossessing middle-aged ‘man of letters’ and minor media celebrity who lives in a fashionable Paris apartment (Truffaut’s own) with his wife Franca (Nelly Benedetti) and young daughter Sabine. While on a trip to Lisbon to deliver a lecture on ‘Balzac and Money’, he embarks on an affair with Nicole, a beautiful air-stewardess half his age. The independent, self-possessed young woman is sensitively portrayed by Françoise Dorléac (Catherine Deneuve’s elder sister, who was to die tragically in a car crash in 1967).
Back in Paris, Pierre and Nicole continue to see each other but are constrained by the need to conceal their relationship from his forceful, passionate wife – who is intent on rekindling the flames of their marriage - and by Pierre’s timidity and clumsiness in dealing with the many obstacles that stand in their way. Obsessed with his lover and irritated by his wife – while somehow managing to misread both women - Pierre is a man increasingly out of his depth.
Although Truffaut was condemned for making the kind of bourgeois melodrama that had once seemed anathema to him, his treatment of adultery in Silken Skin was deliberately unconventional – a dark, unsentimental, startlingly true-to-life portrayal of the petty frustrations and practical problems of an illicit affair. The romantic lyricism of Jules et Jim is here replaced by a more rigorous, detached style, while the script – co-written with Jean-Louis Richard (who has a wickedly funny cameo as a creep who accosts Pierre’s wife in the street) – was inspired by a number of authentic newspaper reports which combined with autobiography and fiction to create a single story.
Featuring beautifully nuanced performances, the precise black-and-white cinematography of Raoul Coutard, and one of Georges Delerue’s most memorable scores, Silken Skin is psychologically astute, suspenseful, packed with telling detail and laced with black humour – showing just how much the brilliant young director had learned from his idols Renoir and Hitchcock.
Film: Silken Skin Release date: 4th February 2011 Certificate: PG Running time: 118 mins Director: François Truffaut Starring: Jean Desailly, Françoise Dorléac, Nelly Benedetti Genre: Drama/Romance Studio: BFI Format: Cinema Country: France/Portugal
Film: Good Morning Release date: 17th January 2011 Certificate: U Running time: 205 mins Director: Yasujiro Ozu Starring: Keiji Sada, Yoshiko Kuga, Chishû Ryû, Kuniko Miyake, Haruko Sugimura Genre: Comedy/Drama Studio: BFI Format: DVD Country: Japan
In a world where the mundane hides meaning, it’s what’s left unspoken that is most poignant. Communication and real people is what Yasujirô Ozu listlessly investigates in his recently re-released Good Morning, an engaging snatch of life in a mediocre Japanese community.
How does a filmmaker plot real life? Minimally, if they use Ozu’s approach. The narrative is threadbare, almost to the point on non-existence. Although it is scripted, ‘documentary’ springs to mind.
Whilst schoolboys are busy envying each other and making vows of silence, their mothers are occupied with finger pointing when the Women’s Group’s fees go missing - but more to the point, Mrs Haraguchi has a new washing machine! Her recent acquisition certainly ruffles a few feathers, and gives the women something to cluck about, even incurring accusations between mother and daughter. Gossip and bickering is consistent, but no-one ever really listens to each other, much less take action.
Upon beginning the film, viewers may expect this saga to come to a climactic conclusion after an hour or so of tension. A solution is reached, but not with the drama that other directors would feel obliged to create.
In addition to the money mystery, Ozu inserts a few subplots, which resemble frivolous anecdotes more than narratives. Two young brothers get up to harmless antics and demand a television set from their parents like their friends have. A pensioner is driven back to work to cover the cost of living. A bachelor and a young lady are on the cusp of a relationship, only they’re too scared to admit it. But isn’t it these little things that make life what it is?
That is why Good Morning forms such a strong bond with the viewer; establishing a shared understanding. Ozu presents audiences with a candidly dull account of life, which is thoroughly universal and timeless. To the onlooker who watches from the outside, nothing really happens, but actually an awful lot does go on within. Take the budding couple, for example - who hasn’t felt that silent swell of excitement and affection for another person at some point in their life? Those uneventful family meals that host squabbling siblings and trifling inconveniences have undoubtedly been lived by audience members. Ozu engages on a level seldom seen in the arts for fear of boring the consumer; but in this case, its very monotony is what makes the film memorable.
If the characters’ lack of purpose is most striking within the film, then cinematic style holds the fort without. Over the course of the film, it will dawn on viewers how effectively these two matters work together here, strengthening the laborious pace that is established from the start. Static cameras and an overall omission of movement may initially go undetected - one of those clever techniques which manages to create effect without drawing attention to itself – but when the finger finally lands on what exactly is feeding this atmosphere, it adds to the intentional frustration at lack of progress within the narrative.
Camera angles also feel odd and bizarre. Viewers frequently find themselves on the floor, watching the feet of characters who enter and exit the scene reminding them of Japanese culture. Cinematographer Yûharu Atsuta truly makes his presence known, however, through a peculiar obsession with straight lines and right angles; a visual clue to Ozu’s study of conformity. Interior design, patterns on clothing, and the village layout are dominated by squares and rectangles, and should just one of those lines be broken, it would immediately ruin the entire shot. This is equally the case within Ozu’s community, where change is an alien concept. This highly structured and rather artificial environment is also reflected in characters’ movement. Controlled to the point of choreography, paths rarely meet on the street so that characters are always alone, just missing the chance to interact with others.
Whilst the tedium of life makes Good Morning as applicable today as when it was made, several traits also mark it as a film of its time. That phobia of individuality dates and locates it perfectly, but so do other trivialities. Made at the end of the 1950s, the decade’s leap forward in technology is addressed here with implications of progress and youth; afterall, the other invention that the ‘50s saw was the advent of adolescence. Good Morning bears witness to a generational split, emphasised by the reoccurrence of gadgets. Whilst some are swayed by “idiot boxes” and appliances, others are struggling to resist the wind of change, determined to uphold their traditionally familiar home. But Ozu seems to maintain that technology is the way forward, for that pensioner who returns to work is doing so as an electrical salesman.
Also included on the re-release of Good Morning is one of Ozu’s earlier efforts, I Was Born, But… , a compelling coming-of-age story and a powerful statement on overwhelming capitalism.
I Was Born, But… centres around a middle-class version of the families we see in Good Morning, complete with two inseparable brothers who learn a massive life lesson. This family, however, are driven by what the later family lack: a determination to succeed and become “important.” The father works for a powerful company beneath his manager, whom he makes every effort to charm, for what is ambition and achievement without promotion?
His passion for prominence has inevitably been engrained on the minds of his sons, who evidently feel pressure on their own academic performance. A spanner is thrown into the works, however, by the school bullies. The playground predators make school life intolerable, spurring the miserable brothers to sacrifice their grades and skip classes.
Not only do their grades slip, but they also learn that their father might not practice exactly what he preached. The boys’ blind admiration is cast into doubt when they realise that dad isn’t as respectable as they were led to believe. In this humiliating scene, the boys’ acceptance by their peers, which they have worked - and paid - so hard to win, is also placed under threat; this is no minor problem to a child, nor in a society where approval means everything.
I Was Born, But… is a sceptical reflection of the domineering commercialism of the superficial West. The entire premise of the film is balanced upon the ruthless realities brought on by modern capitalism. Sadly, material achievement takes precedence over happiness and the young brothers’ rather touching introduction to this makes Ozu’s statement all the more brutal.
“Reality TV” is a term that has been thrown around for almost two decades, but Ozu was ahead of the game. Bravely admitting that reality isn’t all excitement, he even pre-dates the British Realism trend of the 1960s. Some may find comfort in his film’s modesty, reassurance that life doesn’t have to be all thrills. Others may choose to take it as a warning. Escapism certainly isn’t one of Good Morning’s allures, but empathy and insight might be. RS
