Friday, November 19, 2010

Walkabout (1971) by Nicolas Roeg


Nicolas Roeg's 1971 film 'Walkabout' tells the story of an English brother and sister stranded in the Outback after their father inexplicably snaps, shooting at them before setting his car on fire and killing himself. The pair of siblings are left to fend for themselves, but it isn't long before they're out of food and water, so they have to rely on the help of an Aborigine boy they meet who is living in the wilderness as part of a ritual Walkabout to mark his transition into manhood. The children initially have no way of communicating with the Aborigine, but the younger brother is able to get their needs across via pantomime, while the older sister (Jenny Agutter) is less adaptable, never fully understanding their guide and always longing to return to civilisation. The differences between the two vastly opposed cultures is the central theme of Roeg's film, but his work is also a comment on the tide of industry versus nature, the innocence of the Aborigine and the English boy that allows them to communicate on the same level versus the civilised bearing of Agutter's character that she's incapable of shedding, and the subtext of sexual tension between the Aborigine and the girl. But ultimately, from the Agutter character's perspective, it's a film about regret and a missed opportunity, a longing for the simpler existence met in the Outback, as once returned to civilisation she reflects fondly on her time with the Aborigine, imagining a version of the bathing scene where she was able to let her guard down and allow the Aborigine to join her.

The film is wonderfully shot, with some truly stunning views of the Outback and it's denizens, but at times Roeg is certainly guilty of over-using various techniques to get his message across. Often the film will make sharp cuts back and forth, hammering home Roeg's theme of cultural juxtaposition with shots of a natural cliff face versus a brick wall, or the Aborigine boy dismembering a carcass versus a butcher performing the same act in an abattoir. While this may have been unconventional at the time, it isn't entirely effective and is ultimately a detriment to the film, as are the scenes involving a research team in the Outback that serves little purpose beyond explaining the presence of a weather balloon that provides yet another nod to society in the wilderness. Regardless, this is a stunning film with wonderful performances from a young Jenny Agutter and Aborigine actor David Gulpilil, and while the delivery may not be entirely consistent, the message presented by Nicolas Roeg is no less poignant nearly forty years on.

Umbracle (1970) by Pere Portabella




Christopher Lee stars in this bizarre avant garde film commenting on censorship in Franco-era Spain that presents documentary footage along with surreal, overexposed scenes in which Christopher Lee walks around Barcelona, witnesses a kidnapping, visits a museum and has silent encounters with a woman. The documentary footage comes in the form of Spanish film-makers talking frankly about censorship in their country and is interspersed with footage from a pro-Franco film glorifying the actions of the army, but it's the surreal scenes starring Lee that are the highlight here. Shot in high-contrast black and white that gives a bold, yet dreamlike quality to the footage, many of the scenes are also exquisitely framed, yet there's no dialogue, no narrative. Any audio we do hear in these scenes is asynchronous from the action on screen - for instance, a conversation occurs, but we aren't able to hear anything but a phone ringing incessantly. While these images are often beautiful and certainly striking, there seems little in the way of meaning. Things get even more confusing when half way through the film breaks to Christopher Lee on stage. He announces that the director asked him to improvise, so he sings some opera and then reads a portion of The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Right. Whatever. I've been told that this film is 'a masterpiece of unconscious narrative', but to me it seems little more than some artsy, yet undeniably beautiful footage, used soullessly to bookend fifteen minutes of directors venting about censorship, with a dose of weird for the sake of weird surrealism thrown in for good measure. While probably not worth your, or anyone's time, it is beautifully shot and Christopher Lee looks very suave and dapper while doing not very much at all.

You can watch Christopher Lee's weird intermission on youtube; here

I Sell The Dead (2008)




Arthur Blake (Dominic Monaghan) is awaiting execution for murder, among other things, including his principal trade as a grave robber, and as he relates his tale to a kindly priest (Ron Perlman in a very un-Perlman-like role) we see his origins as a young grave robber apprenticed to Willie Grimes (Larry Fessenden) through to the events which resulted in the pair's incarceration. It's a twisting tale of deceit, disreputable characters and the undead, and while it's not the best relayed story, the camp Hammer Horror feel of the film, some nice comedic moments and good performances from all the main cast are enough for it to stand out against it's, much higher budgeted, comedy horror peers. At times it suffers from being a bit too dark and could definitely be paced a whole lot better as it meanders towards the finale, but overall it's an enjoyable comedic horror caper that is well worth your time.

Europa (1991) by Lars von Trier


"You will now listen to my voice. My voice will help you, and guide you still deeper into Europa. Every time you hear my voice, with every word and every number, you will enter a still deeper layer, open, relaxed and receptive. I shall now count from one to ten. On the count of ten, you will be in Europa. I say; One, and as you focus your attention entirely on my voice you will slowly begin to relax. Two, your hands and your fingers are getting warmer and heavier. Three, the warmth is spreading through your arms, to your shoulders and your neck. Four, your feet and your legs feel heavier. Five, the warmth is spreading to the whole of your body. On six I want you to go deeper. I say; Six, and the whole of your relaxed body is beginning to sink. Seven, you go deeper and deeper and deeper. Eight, on every breath you take, you go deeper. Nine, you are floating. On the mental count of ten, you will be in Europa. Be there at ten. I say; Ten."

And on the narrators command we are transported into Europa; Lars von Trier's dark and brooding film noir masterpiece that deals with themes of guilt and manipulation in post-war Germany. The protagonist is Leopold Kessler, an idealistic American of German descent who has come to Germany to work with his uncle as a first-class sleeping-car conductor. There he meets and is seduced by a strikingly beautiful young woman named Katharina, whose father owns the rail company Leopold now works for. As he is drawn into Katharina's world he encounters the problems Germany is trying to face; a sense of national guilt over their countries actions during the war, a dark depression settling on Germany's national psyche and the realities of living in an occupied and defeated country. The occupiers, meanwhile, concern themselves with administering tests to determine German citizens culpability in Nazi actions during the war, and dealing with the insurgence threat of the 'Werwolf' (a group of commandos and Nazi sympathisers set on sabotaging Allied interests). But as Germany faces it's past, so must Katharina, admitting to the now smitten Leopold that she used to be a member of the dreaded Werwolf group.

In a way, the story is almost incidental in the face of the spectacle of Europa. The plot is a standard thriller affair wrapped in allegory, with characters, music and cinematography so deeply recalling film noir that you have to wonder whether von Trier is offering up a pastiche or a homage, but it's through his wonderful cinematic technique that Europa becomes something truly unique. Using all sorts of visual trickery such as double exposure, superimposition, aft and foreground projection, highly-choreographed, Hitchcock-esque camera movements and splashes of unexpected colour in the deep and oppressive high-contrast black and white world of Europa (a technique Spielberg would later ape to widespread acclaim in Schindler's List), von Trier presents a composite image that shows the films larger themes. Through the hypnotic presence of Max von Sydow's narrator who commands Leopold on his journey, the clever use of colour and interleaved images, the familiar plot and noir sensibilities, the way the occupying US forces manipulate the situation for their own gain and the way Katharina manipulates Leopold, the viewer is in turn expertly manipulated and taken along for the ride. The plot offers no surprises, everything is foreshadowed and hinted at via one method or another, but through von Trier's manipulation the scenes remarkably lose none of their impact. Undoubtedly Europa is a cinematic masterpiece, but more for von Trier's technique and than anything else.

L'Année Dernière à Marienbad (1961) by Alain Resnais

I think half the fun of Alain Resnais 'Last year in Marienbad' is trying to decide what the hell the whole thing was about afterwards. It ostensibly tells the tale of a man who is convinced that a woman staying at the same hotel as him is his lover from a year past, yet she does not recall ever meeting him. The film is wonderfully shot, employing an ethereal, dream-like quality throughout, while the inhabitants of the hotel at Marienbad drift by, almost as if in a trance. The viewer enters and leaves the film knowing only that a man believes he had an affair with a woman, and that she denies it. Nothing more. Filled with sparse and ambivalent dialogue that confounds the characters and viewers in equal measure, L'Année Dernière à Marienbad is a beautiful and entirely ambiguous film. Intentionally bizarre, expertly shot, brilliantly edited, wonderfully arty, oh-so-very French and perfect on every cinematic level. Not for everyone, for sure, but undoubtedly and undeniably a classic.

Orbis Pictus (1997)




From Slovakian director Martin Sulík, Orbis Pictus is a strange film that follows a teenage girl, Tereza, on a fanciful journey as she's sent home from boarding school with a letter for her mother. As she travels in a childish and innocent manner through the Slovakian countryside, she has numerous strange encounters with a variety of people, such as a well-to-do mobster, a man marrying his brother's much older widow, a famous singer (whose fame Tereza is entirely ignorant of), an old woman buried up to her waist in the ground and a man employed seemingly to burn brand new clothes. All these people have stories to empart upon Tereza, and as the encounters become more and more surreal it becomes apparant that, as we see the film from a child's perspective, here a child's fantasy and imagination are melded with reality.

On the surface Orbis Pictus presents itself as a quirky and serene film about a young girl journeying in ignorance of the world around her. Yet there's an underlying sense of menace here, as through the various encounters Tereza's innocence is tested against a darker side of reality that, while only hinted at, is a disturbing presence all the same and sets up perfectly for the film's last revelations as we learn the contents of the letter and as Tereza finally comes face to face with her mother. Much like the bulk of the film, it's an entirely ambigious ending, but one that carries perfectly the film's theme of reality versus imagination and innocence.

The Noah (1975)

What a strange little movie. Robert Strauss plays The Noah, an ageing soldier and the last survivor of a nuclear holocaust that has claimed the earth. The film begins with Noah's dingy washing ashore on a deserted Pacific island, where he quickly goes about the task of exploring and making the island and it's deserted buildings his own. But soon isolation and boredom kick in, and something in Noah cracks. He creates an imaginary friend for himself, conversing in his head with this man he's invented named Friday, and then he creates a woman too, named Friday-Anne - inevitably Friday and Anne couple, and Noah in a fit of rage banishes them from his house (and his mind). Stinging with betrayal, he then creates a child, something innocent and pure that can't hurt him the way his imagined adults did, and eventually a whole school class that he can mould in his image. He holds classes and eventually a graduation, where he sends his children out to re-populate the earth. For a while, things seem great as Noah lauds himself as the venerable leader of the community that has sprung up and taken over the island - but the children recreate human society on the island all to perfectly, complete with all it's squabbles and ugliness, which leads Noah to lay down commandments, Moses style, in an effort to force his subjects to behave. When this doesn't work, he turns away from his society back to the rigid command structure of the military, envisioning his own soldiers to look after and keep in line - but when the voices of war (Stalin, Roosevelt, Kennedy, Churchill, etc.) supersede his authority, he retreats into himself and succumbs to the bitterness that so tainted his community, his soldiers turning against him as he argues with the government about his pension pay. Noah fights his soldiers, running about with his rifle in the rain, and when he wakes in the morning he finds that the radioactive warning tag attached to his uniform has turned black; the rain was radioactive, and all that's left is for Noah to await death. Despite having the means, he chooses not to take his life, instead deciding to stoically await his fate and keep watch for the rescue he knows will never arrive.

As I said, The Noah is a very strange film, chock full of allegory and biblical references, the whole thing played out by one man and a series of voices and archive recordings (presumably dredged from Noah's subconsciousness) - but it's ultimately a commentary on humanity, about a man trying to create a new world in his own image, but finding that he's just as flawed as any other human being and that his society and it's flaws all too closely mirror our own. All Noah gets from his efforts is disappointment and death, and one has to conclude that the message of the film is that you can't change nature, and that the only change you can affect comes from within.