There's something terrible about reality

RED DESERT (1964)

It’s amazing what color can do for a film. All that was sterile and desolate in Michelangelo Antonioni’s prior black and white films seem to take on a more cryptic form in Red Desert, the Italian director’s first foray into color film. The film’s working title – Celeste e verde or Light Blue and Green – denotes the significance of color in this postmodern landmark and Antonioni makes spectacular use of his resources to utilize dull, pastel colors as a means to illustrate the film’s jarring atmosphere. Being Antonioni’s first color film, his approach in Desert is unique and experimental, but reminiscences back on familiar themes – isolation, modernization – from his earlier films.

We find the director breaking new ground that allows him to express these themes more cognitively than ever before – while L’eclisse was primarily dependent on its bleak cinematography, Desert gave Antonioni free reign to manipulate environments with color; having his crew coat the ground and surrounding debris with muted colors and spray-paint forests black are just two examples. It was all an incentive to emphasize a haunting, but beautiful industrial world, one that Antonioni held no qualms against, but was in fact fascinated by. In the opposite corner is his protagonist – played by muse Monica Vitti – who reacts aversely to this world and shields herself from the reality of her condition. What Antonioni seeks to convey most in this film is that Giuliana’s neurotic tendencies are indeed amplified by her stark surroundings, but the root of her maladies runs much deeper than the director lets on.

Vitti plays Giuliana, an unhinged housewife recently released from the hospital after a severe car accident – which we later learn was the result of an attempted suicide. She feels estranged from her husband Ugo (Carlo Chionetti) a plant manager who is very much aligned with modernization and often dismisses Giuliana’s condition in order to make sexual advances. Giuliana’s anxiety also hampers her ability to connect with her son who, like his father, seems more inclined to adapt to industrialization than shun it. She's eventually introduced to Ugo’s partner Zeller (Richard Harris) who’s in Italy for business and appears to understand her troubles far more intuitively than her husband ever has. But what appears to be a budding romance on the surface for Giuliana and Zeller ultimately foreshadows their inability to communicate with each other.

There’s something deceptive, but compelling about the relationship that develops between Giuliana and Zeller. Although both manage their plights from two different ends of the spectrum, they relate in feeling alienated from the industrial world. We're able to discern that these two characters are at a compromising stage in their lives, yet neither is willing to compromise with the society they live in.

As the film progresses it becomes clear that both Giuliana and Zeller seek to avoid this bourgeoning society filled with factories and large scale manufacturers, but despite feeling so close to one another, there’s still some dissonance in their communication. Zeller, with all his machismo and fortitude, has successfully realized his fantasies of escape – he’s constantly traveling to recruit new workers from all over. This, however, is merely an illusion of escape, and by the end of the film Giuliana – who’s bound to the objects and people around her, thus incapable of escaping – realizes that she can no longer seek refuge in a man who’s just as crippled as she is.

Apparently Ingmar Bergman – one of my favorite directors of all time – detested Monica Vitti’s performance in this film, but amusingly enough I’d rank Vitti’s work in Desert alongside Ingrid Thulin’s best in any of his films, including The Silence. I suppose he found her a pinch too intense, but the most difficult aspect about playing neurotic characters is finding a balance between going too far and not going far enough. The mannerisms, ticks and nuances that comprise the standard unstable protagonist pose a complex challenge for actors; a single slipup could prompt a comically theatrical performance. But Vitti manages to circumvent caricature and achieve a remarkably understated portrayal of a woman inflicted with severe neurosis without taking things too far.

I suppose Desert can be interpreted as a grim social commentary on industrialization, but as I mentioned above, Antonioni actually loved the idea of progress and found factories beautiful – obviously they played a large role in inspiring the film's concept. The art direction only further confirms this; blurring out characters and placing objects in the foreground to insinuate the importance and potential of technology, etc. As for Giuliana’s cold reception to the modern world, Antonioni’s merely suggesting that many individuals – especially during the industrial revolution that was unfolding during this period – were unable to adapt to such a social metamorphosis and therefore were impaired psychologically. Giuliana is a representation of those who failed to make the transition from the natural world to the industrial one, and Vitti's performance encapsulates that demographic wonderfully.

8/10

What kind of man are you?

LE SAMOURAI (1967)

I was first introduced, cinematically, to French filmmaker Jean-Pierre Melville in Godard’s Breathless, where he makes a rather satirical cameo appearance as a highbrow novelist near the film’s climax. Little did I know that the man I was watching churn out existentialist nonsense was also the man behind a number of exceptional films including Les enfants terribles, Army of Shadows, and of course, the film I’ve decided to review, Le Samourai. Some of his more enthusiastic contemporaries have actually dubbed him as the “father of the French New Wave,” but naturally, many – including myself – would argue otherwise.

He followed the New Wave rules of thumb (filming on location, working on a budget, etc.) but like most foreign directors, he was also known for conforming to American influences; drawing comparisons between Samourai and noir films like This Gun For Hire isn’t exactly a chore. I suppose this western charm was one of many factors that contributed towards his success, but despite Melville’s mainstream appeal, the fact remains that he established himself outside of the studio system, preferring to adhere to his roots in New Wave cinema throughout most of his career. Samourai is a great example of how he trades in big-studio customs for a more subtle, independent approach. Melville took a typical "genre film" and reworked the more conventional elements in order to craft something truly abstract. Samourai is slow, meticulous, and unwavering; attributes you wouldn’t expect in a standard, shoot-em'-up thriller, but here they work beautifully.

The film opens with a line written by Melville that refers to the film’s Bushido (“Way of the Warrior”) influence: “There is no greater solitude than that of the samurai unless it is that of the tiger in the jungle… Perhaps…”. Following this seemingly cryptic text, we’re introduced to our “samurai” who goes by “Jef Costello” (Alain Delon), a contract killer hired to off a nightclub owner. Like clockwork, Costello devises a methodical double-alibi – involving his girlfriend (Nathalie Delon, Alain’s real-life wife) and a late-night card game with a group of shady individuals – before he commits the crime.

Despite these painstaking measures, he’s eventually apprehended for homicide, but is let off due to insubstantial evidence supporting his arrest – although the station’s inspector (Francois Perier) remains a bit overzealous about indicting him. But this isn’t exactly good news for Costello. His employer wasn’t expecting him to get caught, so in classic gangster vein, Costello’s contractor orders one of his goons to dispose of him. Making matters worse, the dogged police inspector from earlier becomes determined to somehow fetch Costello and charge him for the murder. With fluid, ninja-like strategies, Costello must now avoid two oppositions who are tracking his every move.

Samourai isn’t traditionally “New Wave”, but it also isn’t built around an accelerated plotline with stylized action sequences. What I loved most about Samourai was its ability to move fast at a slow pace. Melville is instinctively aware that the audience’s excitement lies in the mounting tensions before the action takes place, and that’s essentially what this film is; a large build-up of tension. There’s only two moments of fatal violence in the entire film – one at the beginning and one at the end. Both scenes are almost identical in execution and in a way bring the film full circle. The events that occur between these crucial moments are conveyed in the most minimalist manner and handled with a controlled sense of direction; Samourai knows where it’s going and how it intends to get there.

Dialogue is scarce and only implemented when absolutely necessary. Character development is motivated by plot, not vice versa. Costello’s actions and mannerisms are subdued in even the most hostile environments. It’s, oddly enough, – given the genre – a quiet film, but it makes sure not to sit statically in place. The story doesn’t exactly echo the high-octane antics of the Bond or Bourne series’, but it manages to come across as far more genuine in terms of the way an expert in this field would actually behave. Naturally, the film has its inauthentic moments – there isn’t a police department I can think of that would dispense that much manpower for a single homicide case – but nonetheless, Samourai is still a gem to behold. It’s truly cinema in its finest, most succinct form.

8.5/10

Will time pass and roses fade?

POETRY (2010)

German art director Hermann Warm – known for his distorted set designs in Robert Wiene’s The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari – once said that “films must be drawings brought to life,” and if there was anyone who knew how to breathe expressive verve into a film, it was Warm; his work in the early years of German film not only spoke for itself, evoking dark pathos through mere appearance, but also established the art director as a key figure in the birthing of German expressionism.

While watching Lee Chang-dong’s Poetry, Warm’s quote felt incredibly relevant to what Chang-dong had achieved on screen; his ability to balance both heavy and light themes through visual projection without resorting to the conventions of sentimental tearjerkers – instead framing the often disregarded beauty of everyday life around perverse subject matter – is warm, breathtaking and, despite the events that unravel, an uplifting experience. It’s a reaffirmation that beauty can be found in even the bleakest of circumstances, the coldest of individuals; all explored in Chang-dong’s grim illustration inspirited by the joys of life and nature.

The opening of Poetry struck me as a throw-back to Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria, except here our drownee’s motives were intentional; we find the body of a schoolgirl floating facedown in a riverbank, muddied up, lifeless, and eventually learn that she decided to commit suicide after months of being raped by a group of six schoolboys. One of these schoolboys happens to be the ill-bred grandson (Da-wit Lee) of Mija (Jeong-hie Yun), a woman in her sixties weathering through bouts with Alzheimer’s and barely scraping by on government subsidies and a part-time maid job; yet her wardrobe is considered “chic”.

Said to have a “poet’s vein”, Mija enrolls in a poetry class that challenges her to “see” the beauty around her and become inspired by it. Of course, this proves difficult after being approached by the father (Nae-sang Ahn) of her grandson’s friend Kibum who requests that she – along with the fathers of her grandson’s other pals – persuade the suicide victim’s mother to settle outside of court; obviously to avert media spectacle and ensure their sons' futures. Cornered on all sides by apathy and immorality, Mija struggles to attain the perception she needs to reach the zenith of poetic inspiration.

The capacity at which Chang-dong streams his ideas in Poetry – both sentiments of beauty and the fouler aspects of humanity – is unwavering and cements his capability as a director with a point to nail. His concrete look at corruption isn’t brutal or gritty, but rather understated and unobtrusive, yet still effective in elucidating the film’s major themes.

Chang-dong manages to contrast elements of beauty with despair in many scenes; one of my favorites being Mija’s lighthearted conversation with the victim’s mother out in the boondocks about gorgeous scenery, apricots and bountiful harvests, all wonderful subjects, but none pertaining to the dark incident she came there to address. Earlier we find Mija in a doctor’s office being diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, scrutinizing a bouquet of artificial camellias – which she describes as “flowers of winter, flowers of pain,” providing another instance of anguish found in something beautiful. The way that Chang-dong presents his motifs is crystallized to a point of immediate comprehension, but much of Poetry’s basis, like actual poetry, is left to the viewer’s own interpretation.

The ingenious placement of benign, restrained actress Jeong-hie Yun amongst such self-interested and crooked characters – in itself – is an uncovering of beauty within corruption, leading us to posit the film as a metaphor for something specific, yet the depth that Chang-dong hollows out from such a simple story is practically bottomless; infinite readings can be spun from his creation. Poetry’s final shots are brilliant, summing up 2010’s most touching film with lines from Mija’s poem that symbolizes departure – death – but in a manner that portrays it as something splendid.

9/10