SGS On Film

Bernardo Bertolucci’s historical epic 1900 (Novecento) is the final film in Kino Klassika’s “A World To Win: A Century of Revolution on Screen.” Inspired by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels’ famous declaration in The Communist Manifesto, the season aims to educate and inform the public on the wave of Soviet Film that had swept Russia for a hundred years. The season ran from 17th February to April 15th at the prestigious Regent Street Cinema.

With 1900 (Novecento) Bertolucci has constructed a tight wire act of a film; combining interpersonal drama that has archetypal resonance, a generational struggle between rich landowners and impoverished farmhands as well as the political turmoil that had swept Italy across a forty-four year period. This is combined with a permeating bawdy operatic flair that comes dangerously close to derailing the ambitious endeavour. However, in its epic 317 minutes running length; Bertolucci deftly illustrates an interesting metaphorical rise of particular populist ideologies that were prevalent in the 20th century.

The early part of the film is dedicated to the childhoods of Alfredo Berlinghieri and Olmo Dalcò. They are both born at the same time in 1901 and are on opposite ends of the social/economic hierarchy. Alfredo is born into a wealthy land-owning family and is named after his grandfather. Whereas, Olmo is the son of a poor foreman and is named after a man who had recently passed away. One does get a sense that Bertolucci’s heart resides in this stretch of the film. Trackings shots reveal sumptuous feasts and familial traditions; natural sun-soaked radiance washes over the lush green, and straw covered environments and Giuseppe Pellizza da Volpedo’s painting “Il quarto stato” (The Fourth Estate) boldly accompanies the opening credits.

At the same time, Bertolucci presents pivotal moments that fundamentally shape deeply ingrained ideological beliefs. A particularly striking scene is when a young Olmo walks barefoot across crowded dinner table towards his father. (Leo) His paternal figure states that no matter what Olmo becomes he should never forget his poverty-stricken roots. The scene culminates in the nine-year-old boy saying his friend gave him a single gold coin and Leo simply retorts “whatever is yours belongs to us all.” The moment feels like a secular and humanist baptism as the sun shines on the boy in a particularly breathtaking manner that reminds one of the great Renaissance paintings of yore.

By his own admission, Bertolucci has amusingly said that “I don’t film messages. I let the post office take care of those.” However, at the core of 1900’s structure is the emergence of Fascism and Communism within the confines of a family and its agricultural business. With this in mind, one can read the film as a directorial grappling of both forms of ideology. In regards to Fascism, Bertolucci has paralleled the conditions for its emergence in the narrative to that of Europe. Crucially, Alfredo (At this point in the film, the character is played by Robert DeNiro) is ineffective in dealing with the escalating abhorrent acts of violence in his community.

In the final act, Olma (At this point in the film, the character is played by Gérard Depardieu) and the workers’ community he oversees put Alfredo on trial for his passive behaviour and profiting off the labour of the workers. Through the character of Alfredo, there is a clear historical brush being used to suggest that Fascism emerged in Europe because it went unchecked and was allowed to grow by weak leadership. Cinematically, Bertolucci also effectively illustrates the rise of Fascism in the narrative. One sequence makes the blackshirts feel like an unforeseen force in a horror movie as we get fleeting glimpses of the army that are cut like lightning as they emerge on constructed boats, land and the surrounding countryside. The mutated colour palette that is chiefly made up of grey and black also make the violent squad seem like a terrifying mythological entity that is an affront to nature.

In tandem is a Biblical idea of the sins of the father passing onto the son as Alfredo’s father hired Attila Mellanchini (Donald Sunderland) as a foreman and fanned the flames of his violently held beliefs. In lockstep with his father, Alfredo keeps Attila on as a foreman and is oblivious to his continued violent crimes and the fact that his new belief system is being incorporated into his dealings with the workers.

In the history of cinematic villainy, Sunderland’s performance is singularly unsung. His primary facial expression of sadistic glee and manic energy match Italian cinema and its fits of frantic, energetic emotion. And his quiet moments of contemplation, drunkenness and aloofness imbue the character with a humanity that has a steadfast commitment to an extreme authoritarianism.

Robert DeNiro is simply spellbinding as the affluent older Alfredo. There is a scene when the character is wearing a fur coat that is too big for him and the small moment perfectly encapsulates DeNiro’s performance. He plays Alfredo as though he is a ten-year-old child who is playing dressing up. He is easily bored, foolishly idealistic in his approach and quickly resorts to brash action. More noteworthy is the stark contrast between his paternal warmness and numbness in the tail end of the film. In the context of DeNiro’s entire acting oeuvre, 1900 represents his most fascinating performance. The common perception of the actor that comes from his crime films is subverted here in favour of a jovially foolish and ultimately nebbish portrait of a man.

In the aftermath of the trial, the workers’ community disappears into the fabric of the newly regulated government that was established in the final days of the Second World War. With this act, Bertolucci suggests that Communism was like a short-lived hurricane that swept Europe; it never truly caught on or got its vindication due to the pragmatism of many world leaders.

In a recent introduction to the film, Bertolucci said “I wanted to show the birth of Communism in the Po valley and the repression of the {blackshirts} of Mussolini” From this statement, one does get the impression that the director favours one ideology over the other. Consequently, the film’s point feels one-note in its exploration and thematic resonance. It is for this reason and the elusive nature of the central relationship (Bertolucci is indecisive on what to do with the underlying homoeroticism between Alfredo and Olmo) that the film never reaches the richness of the director’s last film- Last Tango In Paris.

Fundamentally, 1900 is a raggedy epic with the import of a boisterous elderly uncle at a wedding who feverishly recalls his youth with captivating enthusiasm and mesmerising detail.

In what has seemed like a wonderfully generational celebration that has unified various disparate fans of the popular franchise; the headline Last Jedi panel felt like a humbling bow to the Galactic festivities in Orlando. Patience was rewarded with new details, funny anecdotes and an emphasised personable new vision of a Star Wars picture that has not been seen since the great bearded one himself. (George Lucas) Nevertheless, the piecemeal titbits did not compare to the sheer excitement for the first teaser trailer and poster for eighth film in the Skywalker saga.

The brand new poster for The Last Jedi simultaneously evokes the urgency of its premise and the galactic grandiosity of the Star Wars universe. It also harkens back to a time where the movies seemed like supreme event fare; even if it does echo the minimalism of the Tron (1982) poster a bit too much.

Finally, The Last Jedi Trailer is powerful, soul-stirring and lingering in its implications. The force is strong with Rian Johnson and his directing prowess; his widescreen canvas particularly stimulates the senses, and his close-ups are fiercely personal and meaningful. Quite simply, Star Wars has cinematic heft again.

Wild At Heart (1990)

Snake Eyes (1998)

The Black Dahila (2006)

While the rich colour scheme comprised of ashy browns, striking uses of yellow and a lavish desaturated wash make The Black Dahlia a visual marvel; it is inherently a turgid and soulless experience with none of the portent, darkness or emotional resonance that the film ought to have. Not even Brain DePalma’s virtuoso camerawork can redeem this incoherent, overstuffed and ultimately floundering spectacle.

The Curse of Frankenstein (1957)

Some of the greatest stories are the ones lost to time. Consequently, the mind indulges in endless speculation into the reasoning for the failed endeavour and an acute sense of wistfulness at the absence of the narrative. One such tale in contemporary cinema is Superman Lives, a tragically forsaken effort from Tim Burton that is fascinating to consider in light of the current deluge of superhero films.

Jon Schnepp’s 2015 documentary, The Death of Superman Lives: What Happened? is a wondrous tapestry of boundless enthusiasm and imagination for the auteurist studio picture. As interpreted by Burton, Superman is the ultimate outsider who grapples with feelings of isolation and self-loathing of his plight and alien heritage. As one commentator remarks, he is a man who deep down wanted to die.

The only sense of narrative that is revealed about the film is that it was going to be based on the comic book story- “The Death of Superman.” With this in mind, the rest of the film is an informative discussion of various concepts that were being bandied about in pre-production. These are punctuated with the stunningly detailed concept art and the other primary thread of the evolution of Superman’s costume throughout the film. (Primarily shown in the behind the scenes footage of the costume tests with Nicolas Cage and Tim Burton between 1996-1998)

An assortment of these ideas include the central villain Brainiac being conceptualised as a technologically advanced Grim Reaper, his ship having the visage of a giant skull and the HR Gigar inspired Krypton that synthesises metallic and organic life. However, the most striking piece of concept art is James Carson’s cyber infused black and silver reborn costume. Not only is it striking in of itself but it is also is an updating of Burton original sketch of Superman, thus illustrating the director’s artistic sensibility being filtered in a unique manner.

The real heart of the documentary is the producer Jon Peters who looms over the making of the film like a large shadow. On the one hand; he is a buffoonish wild man whose demands varied from a giant spider to Superman not flying (apparently) interspersed between many headlocks and full-lipped kissing of the director. On the other hand, he was a tireless and passionate advocate of Burton’s vision for the picture and insightful in his recollection of the picture. A particularly candid moment is when he expresses his doubt over the box-office prospects of the film, however in the same breath expresses that the movie was worth rolling the dice over.

Peters may have finally had his dream of seeing a giant spider fully realised in the odious Wild Wild West. However, Burton’s vision of the Man of Steel is sorely missed in today’s studio driven rush of cinematic universes, and throughout its running time, The Death of Superman Live earnestly reminds the viewer why.

Introduction

Beginning of an Unknown Century is the fourth film in Kino Klassika’s “A World To Win: A Century of Revolution on Screen.” Inspired by Karl Marx and Fredrich Engles’ famous declaration in The Communist Manifesto, the season aims to educate and inform the public on the wave of Soviet Film that had swept Russia for a hundred years. The season runs from 17th February to April 15th at the prestigious Regent Street Cinema.

Unknown Century was initially intended as a collection of four short films whose sole purpose was to commemorate the 50th anniversary of the 1917 Revolutions that toppled the Tsarist aristocracy and culminated in the ensuing Soviet Union regime governing Russia. However, the authorities during the Leonid Brezhnev era of the Soviet rule upon examining the first two parts decided to ban the film because of its bleakly provocative presentation of the revolutions.

It was not until 1987 when the film was shown for the first time in the country, a saddening fact that was made all the more tragic by the death of director Larisa Shepitko. (Shepitko directed the second part of the film) The film screened on International Women’s Day, resulting in a timely and sombre reflection on the young director. Francine Stock in her introduction of the film-maker stated that Shepitko’s other three films varied from a “Timeless and tender portrait of middle-aged women” (Wings) to The Ascent, which possesses an “immediacy [in its] modernity.”

The context of the film’s release history and its subsequent rediscovery feels like a small revolution in demonstrating the transcendent power of cinema and how it can overcome censorship and garner empathy from a contemporary audience.

Angel

Adapted from Andrei Smirnov’s novella, Angel depicts a disparate group of people and their tension-filled train ride through post-revolution Russia. The film’s opening in which the audience is shown an assortment of claustrophobic close-ups of improvised people on the slow moving locomotive encapsulate the film’s humanism. This central virtue admirably balances the horror of the situation and the seemingly jubilant moments of relief.

One scene has a buffoonish man revelling in the taste of milk as a lingering shot shows the man pouring the liquid all over himself in a state of pure ecstasy. Moments such as this are accentuated with the picture’s black and white photography. In particular, the white permeates the visual tone and makes one think they are watching the film through a perfectly preserved snow globe, which lends the picture with an innocent dreamlike atmosphere.

At the same time, the horror of the Revolution looms over the film like a haunting spectre. One subtlety harrowing scene has a little girl walking innocently through the woods with tense musical stings and confined close-ups accompanying her innocent steps. The moment suggests the inescapable nature of the Revolution and how it’s irrevocably tied to the youngest members of society. This inevitable quality also has a significant relation to the title character who is the presumably fabled Angel of Mercy, appearing in all white and having perpetual scowl of judgement.

In the end, he captures the large group of characters and violently punishes one of them for their past crimes while serving in the army. The dramatic scene illustrates the film’s conception of the Revolution as a character; it will cause even the most unassuming participant to be caught up in patriotic sentiment and punish those who abandon its painstakingly subscribed ideals.

Homeland of Electricity

Larisa Shepitko’s segment of Beginning of an Unknown Century is a haunting spiritual experience that combines the visual allure of a Western with the Theological import of an Ingmar Bergman film.

An especially striking sequence depicts a young man (The man in question is a technician who is tasked with providing electricity for a poor farming community) conversing with an ancient looking woman who expounds upon the nature of her faith. She expresses the futility of prayers in the face of her entire family passing away- concluding that it has become a meaningless habit. While the strikingly dramatic speech is being delivered, Shepitko’s employs a medium paced 360-degree panning shot of the environment.

The juxtaposition of nature and humanity is conveyed in a captivating manner as the old woman’s words feel like a flame in the wind, flickering into ceaseless obscurity much like her prayers to the Almighty. In cinematic terms, the Supreme Being seems like he has a substantial presence in the film.

One small moment in the tail end of the picture has a static wide-angle shot of many farmers working in the fields. The impressive shot is contrasted with many lingering moments of the sky. The small scene gives the audience a sense of God directly watching his creation in a manner akin to a human being gazing at an ant farm.

While the Revolution has cursory mentions in the dialogue, the film feels like it embodies the spirit of 1917. The picture presents a steadfast portrait of a community. In fact, the last moments of the film encapsulate this idea in a particularly poignant manner. In what seems like an act of divine intervention, rain pours over the villagers’ famine infested lands. They all stand in awestruck solidarity awaiting a promising future much like the people of Russia in the aftermath of the revolution.

Watching David Lynch’s much-venerated film, Blue Velvet is akin to seeing an artist creating a solid outline for a painting and then proceeding to ruin it with sloppy brush strokes that are delivered in an infuriatingly lackadaisical manner. The narrative weaves the tale of a young college student called Jeffery Beaumont, (Kyle MacLachlan) who gets a glimpse of the seedy and macabre underworld that exists within the underbelly of a pristinely picturesque American suburban town.

The picture deftly illustrates the inherently voyeuristic nature of the cinema in a scene when Beaumont is watching singer Dorothy Vallens (played with sobering fragileness by Isabella Rossellini) undressing through the shutters of a closet in her apartment. A static wide angled shot depicts the apparent unravelling of the seductive singer as she takes off her wig and goes into the bathroom to have a long agonised look in the mirror. Lynch’s unflinching directorial choice makes the audience equally as complicit in the act of watching as Beaumont.

And the film’s central metaphor of darkness residing even within the most peaceful and seemingly innocuous small-town is wonderfully encapsulated in the opening sequence. Lynch’s lush imagery primarily encapsulated in the shot of blooming red flowers set against the backdrop of a white picket fence and clear blue sky is juxtaposed with interesting elements. These include a woman watching a black and white scene on television showing a shadowy figure sneaking around a house with a gun in his hand that pervades the frame.

Blue Velvet is at its most cinematic fulfilling in moments such as this. However, the film is woefully marred by a conceptual confusion and overt melodrama- resulting in awkward writing and Lynch’s least satisfying portrait of surrealism in his entire oeuvre.

If one is to take Lynch’s central metaphor at face value, then it can be inferred as wanting. Crucially, the underworld Beaumont discovers existing within his hometown feels about as threatening as a pack of hyenas snarling at a parade of elephants.

The problem is compounded by the picture’s villain, Frank Booth. (Dennis Hooper) Sure, his introductory scene is a disturbing portrayal of torture, made, even more, frightening by Rossini’s emotionally anguished performance and Angelo Badalamenti’s score that is the musical equivalent of a sting from a scorpion’s tail.

However, the scene introduces various elements that remarkably diminish his character. Most notably, the extended sequence reveals that Booth is impotent as he gains sexual satisfaction from non-penetrative straddling Dorothy in a low lit environment while repeatedly asking the singer not to look at him during the act. There is a sense with this last part in particular that if Frank cannot be seen, then he cannot be judged for his lack of sexual prowess.

With his previous actions in the sequence, particularly the small moment when he looks at a naked Valance while repeatedly uttering Mummy, one could read the situation as a possible recreation of a memory of childhood abuse at the hand of his maternal figure.

Elsewhere, Booth comes across as a pathetic man whose various attempts at being tough becomes laughable. His repeated uses of the expletive “Fuck!” , asking Beaumont to feel his muscles after beating him up and his general shouty manner all combine to create an oafish and outdated portrait of masculinity. The film is under the delusion that it is still the 1950s and greasers remain the toughest and scariest people on the block.

The choice feels whiplash-inducing particularly when our young characters start moralising about the nature of evil in the world. Booth is held up as a terrifying figure of malevolence and the so-called satanic figure of Lumberton, however, the conception of the character combined with Hooper’s performance feels like an incongruous misstep in Lynch’s vision for the picture.

On reflection, the flaw also chips away further at a much more problematic aspect of the film. In essence, Lynch has conceived of a black and white tale that has aspects of the grey at the edges of its foundations. While I applaud the renowned director for crafting a counter-intuitive picture that stands out from the rest of filmography, on closer examination, some of the thematic similarities have been expressed with far more wit, sophistication and cinematic potency in his other films.

Consider the sequence when Jeffrey Beaumont and Sandy Williams (Laura Dern) are sitting in a car reflecting on Frank Booth and the strangeness of the world. They park next to a Church where an organ serves as the primary source of music in the scene. In many ways, it is the centrepiece of the film as it expresses that love will always overcome the seemingly never-ending force of evil in the world. The theme is expressed in the form of a dream that Sandy has where thousands of Robins are unleashed upon a world of unending darkness.

The pervading humanity should make the scene engage the senses and mind. However, contrived dialogue, awkward line deliveries and the choice of the Church organ make the scene feel like an overwrought mess.

Compare the sequence with the multiple numbers of scenes in The Elephant Man when John Merrick (John Hurt) is expressing his gentle and joyous observation of humanity. Or even the awkward moments of humanity in Eraserhead, with particular reference to Henry Spencer having dinner with his girlfriend’s parents and the moments that involve Spencer and his mutant spawn. One can see from these examples that Lynch’s humanism is alive, authentic and wonderfully moving.

Finally, the film’s most surreal sequence that involves a lip-synch rendition of Roy Orbison’s In Dreams draws comparisons with the far superior scene involving Rebekah Del Rio’s Spanish version of Roy Orbison’s Crying from Mulholland Drive. In Blue Velvet, the scene is a quirky flourish that attempts to make Booth’s world much more interesting. In Mulholland Drive, the scene is a cinematic manifesto where Lynch illustrates the illusory nature of film-making and how the audience can still be moved by the evidently presented facade.

In essence, Blue Velvet proves that Lynch’s surrealism falters when his portrait of reality is seemingly ordinary and mundane.