Monthly Archives: August 2019

Fifty Years On (Summer of ’69): Andrei Rublev

300id_113_w1600While Andrei Rublev was officially released in 1966, it was not unleased upon the world until one fateful night (at 4 AM, courtesy of Soviet censors) in May of 1969 at the Cannes film festival, and as that screening was one of the most important cinematic events of 1969, it seems entirely legitimate for the film to have a place in this short retrospective. 

One of the truly epochal films, Andrei Rublev is oneiric and elliptical but also deeply physical, at once abstractly cosmic and bodily comic, heavenly and grounded, ethereally resplendent but possessed of a tough, pragmatic bodily consciousness that, for all its sublimity, means that driector Andrei Tarkovsky’s film never floats above the characters for long. For an art film of this vintage, Andrei Rublev is second only to The Seventh Seal in its orientation toward the unruly nature of bodies, toward an aesthetics not of tableaux studiously arranged but quasi-absurd fracas. Its prologue depicts a man furiously struggling with a hot air balloon, attempting to rise above the masses and the proto-Russian swamps out of which St. Petersburg famously rose up, and the entire texture of the film formally embodies his doomed, noble quest: desiring to rise above all, to see the totality of existence, only to be drawn back down by the seismic pull of a world that can only be properly appreciated, for Tarkovsky at least, from below.

Andrei Rublev is a breathtakingly broad canvas, less stringently Protestant than Bergman, less cynical than Antonioni, and perhaps more genuinely humanistic than any film ever released, attempting to encompass multitudes and defy perfection. It might be described as a series of transmutations of a question – what is the relationship between the individual, society, and God – and the film absolutely takes seriously both the grandeur of that question and its polyphonous diffuseness, not treating it as a linear projection to be “answered” so much as a broad canvas on which to meditate and consider various aspects of human identity in tandem. Continue reading


Midnight Screening: Akira


It’s been a while since I’ve done these Friday B and/or cult movie reviews, and I’ve decided to return with two dystopian films set in the year of our Lord 2019, offering visions of THE FUTURE that may or may not have come to pass. 

Akira, perhaps the first anime to really hit home stateside, was for a long time, and still may be, perhaps the paradigmatic “animation for adults” film in the US, a designation that reveals as much about the film’s failings as its obvious worth.  The film evokes the social anxieties of ‘50s American youth pictures as readily as Kurosawa, himself in the ‘50s, was mobilizing his awareness of American Westerns to theorize relationships between self and other, individual and community, and narrow and generous notions of family in Japanese culture. But although director and co-writer Katsuhiro Otomo and co-writer Izo Hashimoto (adapting from Otomo’s manga of the same name) have studied American genre pictures well, it can be seen as a kind of template for so many later American blockbuster failings, in particular its attempts to launder its sci-fi-inflected action with a phalanx of speciously expressed social and existential themes that vacuously and inevitably diffuse into the margins of the film en route to a hectic, hyperbolic action movie conclusion more invested in grandiosity and magnitude than theoretical acumen. Continue reading

Midnight Screening: Running Man

the-running-manIt’s been a while since I’ve done these Friday B and/or cult movie reviews, and I’ve decided to return with two dystopian films set in the year of our Lord 2019, offering visions of THE FUTURE that may or may not have come to pass. 

… And then there are those films which receive consummate passes in the mainstream simply because they’re “prescient,” a word that should, at this point, clearly join “honest” in the critics’ jailhouse. Running Man is one such film, far less provocative in its embodiment and critique of fascistic tendencies (and its ability to recognize the fascism latent in capitalism) than Paul Verhoeven’s fellow 1987 action-sci-fi classic Robocop, lacking Verhoeven’s almost psychotically perfect understanding of blockbuster mimicry (without ever tipping his hand), not to mention Verhoeven’s impish, gleeful bloodletting. Compared to Verhoeven’s film, The Running Man delights in showing us the cards early on: this is a broad, unashamed Hollywood action film, and a satire totally ashamed that we won’t realize what kind of social commentary it has on its mind. Continue reading

Fifty Years On (Specters of 1968): Black Panthers

black-panthers-agnes-vardaIn honor of the half-century anniversary of the epochal years of 1968 and 1969, I meant to propose a little series of reviews commemorating the films of those years last summer, particularly with all the academic conferences and articles trying to rekindle the lost spirit of ’68 or otherwise to dissect it. I didn’t get around to it at the time, but with the era lulled to sleep last month by Quentin Tarantino’s phenomenal Once Upon a time in Hollywood, now seems as good a time as any to start! I apologize that I’m a year late to officially celebrate the 50th of some of these films, but a great film doesn’t need a deadline to be remembered. 

This particular review is also in commemoration of Agnes Varda, who passed away earlier this year. RIP. 

Most non-American filmmakers drawn to visualize their escapades in the US, or their fantasy projections of US life, are perhaps naturally attracted to, and unable to escape the pull of, America’s paradigmatic genre, the Western. Although heavily freighted with mythological weight, the genre doesn’t prescribe any intrinsic disposition. Initially structured around absences – of marginalized people, of violence perpetrated in the name of Manifest Destiny, etc – which various filmmakers have undertaken efforts to correct, the Western has become one of cinema’s most mutable forms for theorizing American existential uncertainty and the growth pains of a nation growing physically but not necessarily morally.

Thus, for the Italian Sergio Corbucci, the West became a burial ground. For the German Wim Wenders, contrarily, the West became a Romanticized, Emersonian portrait of exploratory selfhood, not to mention a gulf between desire and reality that threatens to dissolve the self in a deeply existential morass of uncertainty. For some, the open expanse signals space to cultivate, and for others, it signifies the untouched primacy of truth prior to civilization, and still for others it asks knottier questions about how to experiment with identity without becoming circumscribed by it, to remake the self and the land in tandem and often, to conquer and to be conquered by that desire to conquer.

But the West, in another guise, was also a land of opportunity, or at least hopeful escape from persecution, in another way. For many African-Americans who ventured to California in the first half of the 20th century, confronting not a wildland of uncarved space ready for adventuring but new forms of oppression and discrimination, the West was not only a way to partake in the American Dream, but to critique it. Because African-Americans had reason to and did develop a radical tradition often not associated with white Western travelers, they aren’t typically associated with the geography and moral architecture of the Western. But for many African-Americans, moving out West became not only a means to (or hope to) remake the self, but to fight in service of a new imagination of the world, to refuse to let go of the dream of worldwide revolution and acquiesce to the moral vistas often associated with America and American expansion.

It is this “West,” not the desert landscape of the 19th century, which Agnes Varda turned to in her finest American film. Immediately drawn to and caught up in the spirited rhythms and combustible movements of present-tense America rather than using America’s past as a canvas upon which to refract various personal traumas or historical or representational conundrums, Varda’s Black Panthers draws attention to wayward souls dedicated, unlike many Western protagonists, to not only finding their way in America but questioning the nation’s moral principles more fundamentally. Including, if need be, by throwing the nation off the precipice of its fallacious sense of stability and holding its feet to the fire in demanding justice. No doubt thinking through other flavors of worldwide resistance that swept the earth beyond her native France in the summer of ’68, Black Panthers is Varda’s earnest documentary attempt to discover and share the flavor of resistance so loudly emanating from Oakland California in ’68, a current which one particularly hazy white man in the film (the only white interviewee subject) seems entirely bemused by.

Early on in this 31-minute documentary, Varda’s narrator gives perhaps the definitive sentence-length summary of the personal style of the Panthers: “when they dance, they clench their fists”. She immediately draws us to the dialectics of provocation and asceticism, looseness and rigidity, that so consciously defined the Panthers’ self-authored persona and their canny, theatrical manipulation of the public gaze. Not to mention their ability to encapsulate and polemicize various dualities found in the African-American tradition, particularly the tragicomic spirit of the blues and its inextricable entanglement of pleasure and pain, rapture and earthly anxiety. For much of its length, Varda’s wonderful little film latches onto this spirit, seeing its fluidity and sense of contradiction as a serious way to navigate the tempestuous climate of the ‘60s. And, in the film’s final moments, this current tests and confounds the filmmaker’s ability to separate viewing from commenting or to fall back on the artist’s perennial aesthetic detachment and dispassionate observation. Rather than legitimizing the documentary impulse to observe, Black Panthers asks at what point the camera must act.

Of course, Varda does also offer a phenomenal example of the late ‘60s social documentary impulse with Black Panthers, a swaggering portrait of radical political jouissance and viewer involvement in the spirit of resistance. A spirit that the film, in turn, necessarily counterpoints with a silently-manifested awareness of the power dynamics latent in the subject-object relationship on screen. On the one hand, Varda is naturally inclined toward the Panthers’ aesthetics, but on the other, she draws us to the dialectics of spectatorship so essential to resistance in the US, to the ways in which the Panthers are hyper-conscious of being viewed and must mobilize this viewership but are also weary of the visibility of their bodies in a system which often mobilizes that visibility to dubious and oppressive ends.

In other words, her camera at once observes the fray, questions whether the camera can only observe the fray without participating, and conversely captures the danger of thinking the camera can truly and fully participate in a manner that breaks down the barriers between her and her subjects. Although a corrective to the skeptical, otherizing gaze placed on the Panthers at this time, Varda’s film is nonetheless canny enough to resist the illusion of full and unmediated access to the Panthers.

Throughout, the film quietly contests Varda’s camera, as in another early shot of a Panther member perched above, returning Varda a combative gaze mediated through his binoculars. He seems ever aware of being viewed, even of sympathetic eyes and technology mobilized, ostensibly, for empathy. Even more telling are the wonderfully unstressed dialectical frames of, for instance, a boisterous speech by Bobby Seale is displaced in the background on the left side of the screen, counterpointed by a stoic party member in close-up on the right of the screen partially blocking the camera’s access. Even as the Panthers mobilize their audience’s attention, their famously dark sunglasses cultivate an air of mystery and a noted skepticism about being so visible in the public.

Still, despite the creeping anxiety lurking around the film’s corners, Varda’s camera does capture an aura of generative glee, partially because she depicts the Panthers at play as well as at work (both work and play depicting them in action, both a form of “modernism in the streets,” both linked together rather than separated into a rationalist-capitalist work-time model). But also because she studiously undercuts the audiences’ assumptions about the ease of play, as when the rambunctious uplifting spirit of the boisterous beginning is soundly questioned (without being eliminated) by her sudden remark “this is no picnic in Oakland, it is a political rally organized by the Black Panthers” and an immediate, brutal cut to a line-up of the Panthers looking off in the distance, mischievously not-quite-looking at the camera, ever suspicious of onlookers and with good reason.

It is perhaps because this air of suspicion is so duly considered that the film is all the more capable of etching moments of genuine human willpower glimpsed and discovered in the streets. My favorite is an exuberant little sliver where the camera, viewing a series of posters on the wall, is graced by a flicker of humanity in the form of a random passerby suddenly walking by raising a power-fist, either in playful communion with the camera’s probing glance or in resistant desire to make his presence known. The Panthers were, certainly more than any typical Western hero, emphatically committed to remaking America in lines they saw as more commensurable to human flourishing, and Varda’s Black Panthers considers this flourishing in multiple keys: not only the political but the social and the visual, and not only at the level of the formal-ideological, but in minuscule moments of human decision (and indecision) and communication (and miscommunication) that might break through the barriers which blinker our perceptions.

Score: 9/10

Fifty Years On (Specters of 1968): The Great Silence

the-great-silenceIn honor of the half-century anniversary of the epochal years of 1968 and 1969, I meant to propose a little series of reviews commemorating the films of those years last summer, particularly with all the academic conferences and articles trying to rekindle the lost spirit of ’68 or otherwise to dissect it. I didn’t get around to it at the time, but with the era lulled to sleep last month by Quentin Tarantino’s phenomenal Once Upon a time in Hollywood, now seems as good a time as any to start! I apologize that I’m a year late to officially celebrate the 50th of some of these films, but a great film doesn’t need a deadline to be remembered. 

For American audiences, perhaps the paradigmatic revisionist Western is Robert Altman’s McCabe and Ms. Miller, a mournful and melancholy elegy with which Sergio Corbucci’s The Great Silence shares its cruel disposition toward and critique of the state-sanctioned monopoly capitalism at the heart of American myths of bootstrap individualism. Both implode the notion of the wandering soul thriving on and conquering the landscape in service of personal achievement. McCabe is arguably the great American Western, a murky moral tapestry of uncertain desires and unfixed figures barely convincing themselves that their tenuous relationships constitute a frontier “town”. Compared to McCabe, most so-called “revisionist” Westerns seem like trivial twists on conservative formulas passing themselves off as revolutionary signposts of a new cinematic future.

But if McCabe is a weary lament, The Great Silence, one of the great forgotten Westerns, is a sorrowful and brutal dirge. To my mind, it is the only Western from the era which can truly huddle up under McCabe’s fire, particularly because it’s the only one which knows how frail, fragile, and dubious any fire of hope in the old West truly is. The Great Silence is a morose, poetically wayward counterpoint to that other Sergio’s more famous, more flamboyant Italiannette abstraction of the American experience. Like McCabe, it both takes seriously the wayward lives of the nomadically unsettled – and the kinds of new conscious born on the frontier – while questioning – and in Corbucci’s polemical case, absolutely desecrating –the American outlaw mythology where lone heroes brandish a form of individually-legitimated personal justice that stands apart from and above the state. The Great Silence’s protagonist opposes state-sanctioned violence, but there is no sense that is above or beyond it morally so much as circumstantially on the other side of it. Continue reading

Review: Widows

WIDOWSIt goes without saying that Widows is more of a crackerjack offering than we’re used to from director Steve McQueen, who typically specializes in the soul-rotting malaise of a cold-blooded world and/or the existential disfigurement of an abandoned person barely surviving in it. But Widows still bears McQueen’s ruthlessly stark, almost psychotically perfect formalist streak. There’s a little more wiggle-room in the style – more drive, more chaos, more flippancy, more immediacy, maybe even more of a desire to please – but it’s still a Steve McQueen film. Which means, although its gears run faster and it’s more soul-shredding than soul-rotting, it’s still all cold muscle, coiled nerves, and ready-to-pounce fury.

My mixed metaphors above – mechanical to organic, automotive to leonine – sound off, but the film validates them – and, more importantly, itself – within a minute of its run-time, an old-fashioned “here is some cinema for you” gesture that sets the film absolutely running. I don’t want to spoil it, but it involves an immediate, mesmerizing, and rather brutal cut from sexual animalism to full-throttle pedal-to-the-medal instability that comes out of nowhere and carries us forward for more than two hours.

It also indicates, perhaps a little overtly, that the film really wants to let us know that it means business, that it is first and foremost out to Cinema us with a very capital C.   Widows is positively overstuffed with masterful gestures of that sort, both big and small, perhaps to the point of self-congratulation. Within half an hour, there’s a spellbinding circular tracking shot and, as if to top itself yet again, an astonishing several-minute tracking shot as a car hastily skedaddles from a working-class, African-American community into a predominantly white, upper-middle-class neighborhood, the film quietly but pointedly underlining via its formalism the inescapable (but, in America, typically very easily forgotten) fact that such stark wealth disparity can be visualized within a roughly two-minute tracking shot without cutting.  Widows is almost definitively the most sharply crafted Hollywood film of 2018, but it is also no less definitively aware of that fact, and that realization is not always to its benefit. Continue reading

Review: The White Album (The Beatles) 50th Anniversary

white-album-1541798596-640x640Forgive the fact that this anniversary was last fall; I wrote this then, but didn’t publish it here until now

The most famous band in the world naming an album after themselves sounds like a mark of certainty, even hubris. They don’t need another name, no album title to serve as postscript, subtitle, or anteroom for the main attraction. They’re The Beatles, dammit. And this post-summer-of-love album is The Beatles, 30 whole songs of them. The title’s self-conscious striving toward monumentality aims for essence, for the answer, for an obelisk-like encryption-key to decode what makes The Beatles themselves. And it may actually achieve this monumentality, but not because the album offers any conclusions or solutions. Rather than statement, The Beatles’ totemic title is more of a mimic for the famous album cover: negative visual space, a cover and a title so basic and obvious that, rather than explaining the band in the plainest of terms, they offer a blank canvas upon which every audience member can ponder their opinion of the band.

And those pondering, of course, include all four members of the band themselves, all of whom at times seem to use the colloquially-titled White Album as a way to disentangle themselves from what they by all accounts felt to be a noxious interpersonal communion, to ponder if anything of The Beatles was really worth saving. Naturally, they only end up tangling themselves further. More than on any other Beatles album, The White Album is the one where their individual voices seem to bleed and contort, separating out into specific quadrants (such that some songs are only by McCartney, only by Lennon, only by Harrison, etc) while paradoxically blurring to the point where it is exceedingly difficult to actually put one’s finger on what constitutes a “Lennon song” or a “McCartney song” anymore in the first place. The band turn their identities into a centrifuge of discreet sounds and sensations which, pointedly, never collect themselves into any cohesive, singular, or easily-mappable perspective. Which is to say: The White Album, to cop a cliché, exceeds the sum of its parts, but specifically because it fails to do so, because it is an accumulation of song-styles which cannot be summed-up or summarized into a larger “vision”.  The act of making the album pulled the band apart, and, aurally speaking, the album’s sound doubles that breakage. The results are gloriously dysfunctional. Continue reading