Foreign excursions

Lately I’ve been watching a random assortment of foreign films, which I will take note of but not review in any detail. Foremost would be Ridicule (1996, *8*), part of my “In Amorous Fashion” film series at the Clark, which showed to great advantage on the big screen, confirming Patrice Leconte as one of the post-New Wave French directors to watch (like me, he was born in 1947) -- type his last name in “search this blog” box at top of this page to see my reviews of his recent films. This well-made film has the appeal of movie romance, lovely and witty, as well meticulous period depiction of the pre-Revolutionary court of Versailles.

Alain Resnais, along with Eric Rohmer and Claude Chabrol, represents the remnant of the old New Wave that continues to lap against our shores refreshingly. Filling in his filmography, I watched Muriel (1963, *7-*) for the first time, though Resnais made it right between two of my favorites, Hiroshima Mon Amour and Le Guerre Est Finie. The subject matter is not as substantial (though the Algerian War figures largely as backstory), but the method of depiction is striking in its own right, and surprising in that it has not been emulated more (though today it might be compared to music-video style) -- the picture is a mosaic made of shards of action, discontinuous but chronological, that you have to piece together in your own mind, but that add up to strong images of place -- Boulogne -- and character -- Delphine Seyrig is an antiques dealer who accepts a visit from an old flame, who in turn brings a “niece” who falls in with her stepson, with confusion and deception ensuing among the quartet -- in a lively if inconsequential chamber piece.

I am struck by how often, when I give an old film a second chance based on its citations as a classic, my long-ago first reaction is reaffirmed by a re-viewing. I remember my lack of enthusiam for The Conformist (1970, *6*) back in the day, but I’ve grown in appreciation of Bertolucci over the years, so I thought it might be a revelation. It remained, however, gorgeous but nonsensical. Eye-popping in many scenes, there is not a plausible motive or emotion in the motion picture.

Zhang Yimou remains one of the world’s great filmmakers, though these days he seems to alternate between spectacle and sentiment, without the bold critical intelligence that first made a name for him in the West.
Riding Alone for Thousands of Miles (2005, *7-*, MC-73.) is in the vein of Not One Less or The Road Home, folk-tale-inflected depictions of contemporary Chinese peasantry, rather than the martial arts fantasies of Hero, et al. It is notable for surrounding Ken Takakura, known as “the Clint Eastwood of Japan,” with nonprofessional actors, amid astounding locations in Yunnan province, reminiscent of the Rockies and Bryce Canyon out West. Takakura is the impassive father of an estranged but dying son, who takes it into his head to connect with him by going to China to film a folk-opera (titled like the film) for a documentary the son will now never finish. After much low-ley comedy of mistranslation, Takakura goes to fetch the young son of the imprisoned opera singer he wants to film, and predictably, they form a heart-tugging surrogate relationship, though not speaking a word of the other’s language. If a cute kid melting the heart of a crusty old guy, along with breathtaking picture postcards of fascinating foreign terrain, is enough for you, then you should see this movie. Though beautiful, it’s a little overt for me, with an underlining voice-over.