Séraphine

Long and slow, but majestic and moving, Martin Provost’s film about an outsider artist in France between the wars swept seven Césars last year, including Best Picture and Best Actress.  Séraphine (Louis, later known as De Senlis) is a pious middle-aged cleaning lady and laundress, nowhere near as simple as she seems, with a passion for painting in secret, mostly still lifes of flowers imbued with hallucinatory intensity.  One of her paintings comes to the attention of a tenant whom she’s serving, and he turns out to be Wilhelm Uhde, a gallerist and art critic who gives her crucial encouragement, but his promises of exhibition in Paris come to nothing when he flees before the invading Germans at the start of World War I.  Despite the disappointment, Séraphine redoubles her efforts, so when their paths cross again more than ten years later, she has a body of work to show, which he begins to sell.  The late-blooming success then goes to her head in more ways than one.  Already I’ve betrayed the way the film unfolds, unless you are familiar with the painter’s biography in advance, since you never know for sure where it’s going.  You see Séraphine going about her chores -- with some mysterious interludes of collecting pigments -- for half an hour before you get the idea that she is anything more than a peasant.  Yolande Moreau is exceptional in portraying a simple, circumscribed life lit from within, and also the pride with which the artist later displays her work, in scenes that artfully survey her paintings in their finished state, as well as her distress when things go bad.  Director Provost’s approach is unhurried and visually acute, attuned to concentrated looking, so it’s definitely not a film for everyone, but rather for those with eyes to see and patience to understand.  (2009, dvd.)  *7*  (MC-84.)

Filling in 2009 et al.

I’m getting close to writing up my year-end summary of the best films of 2009, on my typical six-month delay, as the last DVDs finally come out.  Here are several that I’ve watched recently that won’t make the list, two that finished high in the Film Comment critics poll (#13 and #22, respectively) and one that made no one’s list but that I liked better.

I’m not hipster enough to be a real fan of Jim Jarmusch, but I’m willing to give a look to most anything he does.  The Limits of Control (2009, dvd, MC-41) has a number of elements that make it watchable, if ultimately frustrating.  First mention must go to Christopher Doyle’s eye-catching cinematography of Spanish locations.  The acting works as well, with Isaach de Bankolé suitably impassive as the stone-faced operative in the midst of an operatic conspiracy, with a parade of familiar faces as the contacts he meets in turn, including the likes of Tilda Swinton, Gael Garcia Bernal, and Bill Murray.  This movie is all “maguffin” -- the dispensable plot mechanism by which Hitchcock drove his audience manipulations -- and no substance.  Jarmusch is too laid back to manipulate, so he takes the stalking assassin plot and just riffs on it in theme and variation, much of it amusing and visually striking, but going nowhere despite being all over the place -- just as critical and audience response has been.  At best, the film is a surreal tour through old movies and I didn’t mind going along for the ride, even if it didn’t take me anywhere in particular.

I also didn’t mind taking the trip with Spike Jonze to Where the Wild Things Are (2009, dvd, MC-71), another film with a wildly divergent critical response (the Metacritic average comprises rankings from 100 to 40).  But in fact it was a huge letdown when the film entered the realm of mopey fantasy, after the promising “real-life” introduction, with Max Records making for an electrically bad-behaved Max and Catherine Keener making the most of her minutes as the stressed mother.  After sailing a wild imaginary sea and landing at an island with an equally imaginary variety of landscapes (all in Australia, I understand), Max runs into the Wild Things, a group of hulking creatures, cleverly costumed with digitally enhanced facial expression, and voiced by the likes of Tony Soprano (!).  Even with wild rumpuses, the air goes out of the film with the grumpy lamentations of the wild things, a rather depressive lot.  For me, there was more magic in the realism, and too much didacticism in the fantasy.  A much better collaboration between Spike Jonze and Maurice Sendak was the former’s documentary portrait of the latter, Tell Them Anything You Want, which is also now out on DVD.

Garnering strictly middle of the pack reviews was Adam  (2009, dvd, MC-56), and I am not going to single it out for your delectation, but I did enjoy Max Mayer’s debut film, a Sundance-endorsed romantic comedy, with the offbeat angle that the male lead explicitly has Asperger’s Syndrome.  While no Claire Danes as Temple Grandin, Hugh Dancy evokes well many attributes of mild autism, without going all Rainman.  I thought Rose Byrne was destined to be something, but in this film she disappointed me.  Maybe it was the script, perhaps all Mayer’s empathy was with the male character.  At times the camera does a good job of conveying Adam’s point of view, but we never get the girl’s, just a lame familial backstory (though it was fun to see Amy Irving as her mother, and Peter Gallagher would have been all right if the father weren’t such an intrusion in the story).  And the children’s book that is supposed to make the girl sympathetic struck me as kinda icky.  So I was disappointed in the ending (and also the alternate ending on the DVD), but along the way I was well into it, with so much self-identification that I hardly knew myself from Adam.

One more romantic comedy that I liked perhaps more than it deserved was In July (2000, dvd, MC-71).  Just as a Cinema Salon Film Club screening of The Headless Women led me to other films by Lucrecia Martel, showing The Edge of Heaven sent me looking for more Fatih Akin, as another young filmmaker to follow.  This trifle is slight, and might have made my teeth ache if the road trip were across America, but had the merit of novelty since it followed Akin’s persistent personal route between Hamburg and Istanbul.  A somewhat dorky high school teacher (Moritz Bleibtreu) is accosted by a smitten street vendor (Christiane Paul) and sold a ring with a Mayan sun symbol, which she insists will lead him to his one true love.  The set up seems obvious, but then chance intervenes and he meets a lovely Turkish traveler whom he immediately believes is the one.   After a night of chaste enchantment he puts her on a plane back to Istanbul, but then decides that he must go there to meet her again, and borrows a car to drive through Romania and Bulgaria.  On the way out of town, he picks up a hitchhiker and what do you know, it’s the disappointed hippie girl, setting off for wherever the wind takes her.  Okay, a huge contrivance and you know exactly where it’s going from the get-go, but there are some amusing Eastern European hijinks along the way, with incidental surprises on the well-worn road trip.

Framing Lucrecia Martel

I do not take the critics’ polls in Film Comment as gospel, but I find them a useful point of reference, so it’s worth noting that Lucrecia Martel of Argentina was chosen the 2^nd best new director of the decade (19^th best overall), and of her three films to date, The Headless Woman came in at #2 of 2009 and #50 of the decade, with The Holy Girl (2004) at #56 and La Ciénaga (2001) at #62.  I’ve (re)watched all three lately, and I’m beginning to see the point of all the acclaim.

Right from the beginning Martel has displayed the stamp of an auteur, with her own unique style and subject matter.  Her eschewal of establishing shots is as much a metaphysical as a stylistic choice; she throws viewers into the middle of the action and let’s them fill in the picture.  With tight framing in crowded scenes, what is offscreen is as important as what is shown, and that goes for sounds as well as what is cropped out of her images (the eponymous “headless woman” is not the only one).  Instead of traditional storytelling, she relies on layering.  The social setting, the situation, the characters are revealed bit by bit, laid in stroke by stroke, and not necessarily in the center of the screen.

Two innovations in her third film make that a good place to start.  Putting the audience in the position of the central character, not from a subjective angle but somewhat askance, motivates us to try to piece the story together just as the “headless woman” does, focusing the suspense that in Martel’s previous films might be just puzzlement.  She also goes widescreen, to allow even more information in at the edges of her frame.

Once you’ve seen the earlier two films, her whole approach begins to make sense and her personal obsessions emerge.  What’s her thing with swimming pools?  It seems like immersion in a supposedly refreshing environment that is actually contaminated.  You definitely get the idea that she comes out of a large Catholic family in the provincial northwest of Argentina, where a comfortable but decadent middle class relies on native servants to maintain a seedy but luxurious style of living.  While not overtly political in any way, her films are full of social comment, in a manner that may be more evident in Argentina than elsewhere.  When you are sensitized to the class situation, her films seem steeped in it.

La Ciénaga translates as The Swamp, which is also the name Martel gives to her hometown region of Salta, where each of her films is set.  It may also describe the family around which the film weaves, with vain and indolent drunks for parents, and five grown and growing children getting into various kinds of sexual mischief.

The Holy Girl maintains the hothouse atmosphere, where piety is deeply confused and intermingled with adolescent sexuality.  A spookily intent girl is groped on the street and decides it is her vocation to save the molester from his transgressions, though she is excited by transgressions herself.  He turns out to be a guest in a hotel her mother has inherited but hardly runs, in town for a doctors’ convention, and the mother takes a rather lascivious interest in him as well.  Any summary of plot misses the point, offering no more than a thread through a labyrinth of desire and decay.

The Headless Woman loses her identity in a hit and run accident while driving, where her head is concussed and her conscience left behind, as she drives away without checking the body lying in the road.  Gradually she puts the pieces of her life back together around the missing moral core, with her extended family gathering around protectively to save her from any consequences of her misdeed.

What is easy to miss on first approach to Martel’s films, besides the social commentary, is their deadpan wit.  Like everything else, it is thrown off tangentially, at the edge of the frame, and requires alertness to appreciate.  So she’s an acquired taste, but one worth trying.

Beeswax

Andrew Bujalski established a personal, homemade style in Funny Ha-Ha and Mutual Appreciation, but with Beeswax he has developed his process to an audience-friendly sophistication, worthy of comparison to Cassavetes or Rohmer. Some of the appeal definitely derives from the twin sisters, Tilly and Maggie Hatcher, who play twin sisters, one a wheelchair-bound ant earnestly confronting business problems with her vintage clothing store in Austin, Texas, the other a boyfriend-dumping grasshopper trying to figure out what to do with her life. The former, whose disability is totally taken for granted, turns to a bemused old friend, about to take the bar exam, for help with legal issues in a retail partnership that has gone sour. Nothing much happens, and that’s a good thing, as the extremely naturalistic dialogue and delivery -- an articulated inarticulacy -- opens up to unexpected depths of humor and feeling. It’s enjoyable to spend time in the company of these likable but layered young women, as well as Alex Karposky in the role of the would-be lawyer, would-be boyfriend. You definitely should make it your business to see Beeswax -- it’s sweet and will stick in your mind. (2009, dvd.) *7* (MC-70)

Bigger Than Life

The Criterion Collection resurrects another lost gem, but I’ve never quite gotten Nicholas Ray, in the way that I eventually got Douglas Sirk and became a fan. I find it hard to see past the evident flaws of the melodrama to the genuine passions within. Still, there’s a lot that makes it worth watching. The topical story is taken from a New Yorker article on the dangerous side effects of then-new wonder drug Cortisone. James Mason plays the small-town schoolteacher who is prescribed the drug against an otherwise fatal heart disease; soon his personality is being distorted by the steroid, which makes him feel “ten feet tall.” His megalomania becomes a commentary on the constraints of mid-century middle-class life, but his newfound bravado lurches ominously into psychosis, when he begins to see himself as Abraham called by God to sacrifice Isaac. When his wife points out that God stopped Abraham, Mason chillingly replies, “God was wrong.” Mason is good in the role, but inherently too posh in his diction and demeanor to be a convincing middle American. Barbara Rush as the wife is pretty much a cipher, but then that’s her role; the damagingly inadequate role is the young son, who is not believable for a minute. It’s surprising, but effective, for such a claustrophobic film to be shot in widescreen color. In the context of Mad Men, it’s interesting to see the domestic era of the Fifties depicted in great detail while it was still the present, like Father Knows Best through a broken mirror. The ending seems forced and perfunctory, especially after the tension has been ratcheted up so well, and thus I am left with something less than a full-throated recommendation. (1956, dvd.) *7-*

35 Shots of Rum

Claire Denis’ quiet everyday love story between a widowed father and a grown daughter owes a debt to Ozu, but also to the relationship between her own mother and grandfather, which lends the film an enrapturing intimacy. Denis is wonderfully assisted by the lovely, haunting music of Tindersticks (plus a key scene scored to the Commodores), and the mesmerizing camerawork of her longtime collaborator Agnes Godard. Also by the leads, Alex Descas as the father and Mati Diop as the daughter, as well as the supporting cast. He’s an aging Caribbean immigrant who drives a commuter rail train in Paris; he married a German girl who died long ago and now their daughter is a university student who lives at home and lovingly looks after her Daddy. As in Ozu, he wishes her to be free to pursue her own life, even if it leaves him forlorn and drowning in those 35 shots. Also as in Ozu, shots of trains loom large in the story, but here many of them are taken from the driver’s view, the tracks a sinuous parallel of light stretching into the distance. The film is all about mood and inarticulate feelings beautifully made manifest, through sidelong glances and an intent gaze. Though nothing much happens here, and that frequently offscreen, for those who have eyes to see (and ears to hear) there’s a lot going on. (2009, dvd.) *7+* (MC-92.)

Temple Grandin

Wow, Claire Danes is electric and utterly convincing in Mick Jackson’s biopic about the autistic woman who has become prominent in the realms of both animal rights and autism. She’s always been a good actress, but here she is a revelation. Julia Ormond has not always been more than a pretty face, looking like a less-talented Juliette Binoche, but is excellent here as Temple’s mother, while the usually comic Catherine O’Hara is empathetic as her rancher aunt. David Straithairn brings his usual quiet nobility to the role of the high school science teacher who liberates Temple’s native intellect. But this is Claire Dane’s show, and she takes command of it without being showy – she conveys both the outside and the inside of an unusual personality. The film is swift, smart, and funny, as well as deeply moving. And forceful in its message that different does not mean less, when it comes to innate human talents and limitations. As the title of Grandin’s autobiography, Thinking in Pictures, would imply, her story is a natural for visualization, and one of the levels on which this film works so well is as a quasi-documentary on livestock management and humane treatment of animals, not to mention an inspirational story for anyone whose brain is wired differently from the rest of the herd. The DVD won’t be out till August, but the film is still being repeated on HBO – you ought to track it down one way or the other. (2010, HBO.) *8* (MC-84.)

Going to the Dickens

I think it’s less a matter of production values, even with digital enhancement, than sheer directorial style that makes recent BBC adaptations of Charles Dickens’ novels – memorably, Bleak House (2005) and Little Dorrit (2008) -- stand out from earlier efforts, however worthwhile. Certainly the quality of acting remains a constant, and the authenticity of speech and dialect makes subtitles highly desirable, which the older dvds of Our Mutual Friend (1998) and Martin Chuzzlewit (1994) do not offer. So one misses some of Dickens verbal play, and crucial plot points as well. It usually takes several episodes to sort out the characters, and some of the plot twists remain incomprehensible if you haven’t read the book. I’d mostly forgotten the one, and never read the other. So I enjoyed neither of these as much as the first-mentioned pair, nor as much as the Elizabeth Gaskell adaptations I’ve been watching recently. Still, they are worth taking note of. In Our Mutual Friend most of the familiar faces are in supporting character roles, like Timothy Spall or David Morrissey, but one actress stands out, Keeley Hawes as Lizzie Hexum – you have no trouble understanding why two men would become so fixated on her. (She was also good in Wives and Daughters, so I wonder why I haven’t seen her in any movies?) Of the antecedent pair of adaptations, this is the one to watch, with the river and the ash heap, which figure so symbolically in the story, brilliantly rendered. In the other, the elder Martin Chuzzlewit is played by Paul Scofield, and Pecksniff by Tom Wilkinson, both very well indeed, but best of all is Philip Franks as Tom Pinch. David Lodge, one of my favorite novelists, wrote the script, but I found the plot both obvious and opaque at spots. Martin Chuzzlewit is reputed one of Dickens’ worst novels, so maybe he’s to blame. Therefore let me take this occasion to reinforce my strong recommendations of Bleak House and Little Dorrit – watch either of those, and then go on to the others only if you get hooked on BBC versions of Dickens

Make Way for Tomorrow

The Criterion Collection resurrects a rarity here, and it’s a long-hidden gem, an understandable flop in its day but esteemed from then till now by the cognoscenti. Leo McCarey is better known for directing Cary Grant and Irene Dunne in The Awful Truth, for which he won an Oscar in that same year. Or for first pairing Laurel with Hardy, or directing the Marx Brothers in Duck Soup, or Bing Crosby in Going My Way, or two versions of An Affair to Remember. So the grim seriousness of this film comes as a surprise, notwithstanding memorable moments of humor. It’s basically the story of five grown children who, when faced with the dilemma of their parents losing the family home in the “Roosevelt recession” (in the interval between the passage of Social Security and its implementation), force them to separate, eventually sending the mother off to a home for the aged and the father off to an unknown fate. This story is so un-Hollywood that the comparison that struck me was Tokyo Story, and indeed it appears that Ozu did take inspiration from McCarey. That’ll shake up your view of film history. Make Way for Tomorrow is notable for its matter-of-fact and even-handed manner – no heroes, no villains, just ordinary people responding in an ordinary way to an ordinary situation. Tears are elicited but not jerked. Smiles earned but not forced. The couple, played by Victor Moore and Beulah Bondi, reunites once for a day in New York City, where they had honeymooned fifty years before, and grace abounds for a fleeting moment, before an ending of ineffable sadness. This hardly qualifies as escapist entertainment in hard times, but makes for a film of lasting import. (1937, dvd.) *7+*