HIGHLANDER (Russell Mulcahy, 1986, European Cut)

 

Connor MacLeod is cursed with immortality, suffering the death of his true love, her lifetime as a momentary breeze from a gathering cosmic storm as friends and foes alike decide the fate of mankind. Director Russell Mulcahy captures the Quickening like lightening in a bottle, combining music video sensibilities with a complex narrative structure that utilize crosscuts which jump in time using wonderful transitions. 

Mulcahy and his wonderful DP Gerry Fisher make a rather straightforward story visually arresting, using sports to mimic the brutality of Conner’s (Christopher Lambert) past, as modern man has become a showpiece when compared to the harsh gladiatorial survival of our primal past. The film’s first crane shot spirals through Madison Square Garden during a wrestling match, where men in tights strut and taunt, and quickly focuses upon a seated figure whose mind is in the past, a bloody battle and grim existence haunting his daydream. This dichotomy is a common element throughout the film, as Conner’s mind loses track of time and drifts back and forth, a stream whose serpentine path sometimes flows in reverse: even for immortals…the past can never be changed. Queen’s bombastic score is often intrusive except for Brian May’s weepy soliloquy, a power ballad that marries Connor’s new world with the dying remembrance of his bonny wife Heather once upon a time. Mulcahy’s spatial transitions dilate through Connor’s unblinking eye, surface from a fish tank into a past realm or rise from a parking garage into the bloody Highlands: cinema is, after all, a kind of magic. 

The story gives a proactive and feminist role to Connor’s love interest Brenda Wyatt (Roxanne Hart), a forensic investigator with the NYPD. Fortuitously, Brenda is an expert is ancient sword making and this leads her to unravel the mystery of “Russell Nash” and confront him, her independence and fiery attitude making her more than the screaming heroine…though she does often scream in the final battle. The vile Kurgan (Clancy Brown) is the embodiment of evil, a creature who will use the Prize for selfish purposes to enslave the weak, while Connor is the Redeemer or Christ figure, brutalized and tortured before rising from the dead: he is mankind’s only hope. The final swordfight begins upon the concrete cliffs of the city and ends in an empty warehouse, and one swift stroke brings an end to an age…and the beginning of another. 

Final Grade: (B)

ACCIDENT (Joseph Losey, 1967, UK)

 

Stephen’s patriarchal crisis becomes a car wreck of twisted morals and fetid emotional fumes, a combustible combination that will burn away the slick veneer of his socially forthright conceit. Director Joseph Losey and Writer Harold Pinter collaborate to examine the corrupt cultural mores of the bourgeoisie and reveal the iniquity behind the masks of education and enlightenment; a cancer whose malignancy sickens the entire family unit as it slowly rots away from the inside out. 

The film begins with a slow zoom towards a beautiful farmhouse as night settles comfortably upon the land, but a revving engine interrupts this serenity and suddenly tires screech, and we hear the sounds of metal and flesh being torn apart: but Losey’s camera continues to slowly focus on the house until the front door swings open. Stephen rushes from the house to discover that his guests were involved in the crash: his young student William (Michael York) is dead, and the sultry Anna (Jacqueline Sassard) is injured…and drunk. As Anna tries to extricate herself from the wreckage, she grinds her heels into the pallid face of her young lover, an apt metaphor concerning her egocentrism and contempt for men. Stephen carries her back to the empty house and the body of the narrative is a flashback leading up to this fatal moment. 

Losey and Pinter dissect Stephen and his Oxford cronies, these leering Professors of Philosophy and Literature who usurps the student’s will to quell their own perfunctory passions. Actor Dirk Bogarde imbues the protagonist with the right amount of empathy and emotional detachment, a man whose guilt is sometimes reflected in his dark eyes and sagging visage while his derivative conversations attempt to hide his shallow motivations. The story begins to divulge the vapid secrets between Stephen, his colleague Charlie (Stanley Baker), his student William and the exotic Anna, a woman not as innocent as she first appears. In one scene pregnant with ennui, we witness Stephen and a former mistress share dinner and sex, the conversation narrated but never matching the images we view onscreen: this disjunction creates a cold psychological indifference towards the protagonist. Stephen is so concerned about losing his virility that he joins in a mock rugby game, and views Anna as only a goal to be achieved…at any expense. He feels threatened by Charlie, who is having an affair with Anna, and even exposes this fact to his gravid wife. Losey expertly crosscuts this scene with Stephen’s visit to Charlie’s estranged spouse where we discover her gardening in the rain, depression consuming her once vibrant personality. 

As this chronicle of malfeasance comes full circle, Stephen ignores his wife’s premature delivery by blackmailing Anna, who is drunk and still in shock, into sleeping with him. The film closes with another slow zoom upon the farmhouse, as children play in afternoon delight, while the horrendous sound of another crash overwhelms the visuals: this is the fission that lurks beneath the swagger of the nuclear family. 

Final Grade: (B+)

THE SERVANT (Joseph Losey, 1963, UK)

 

Hugo Barrett is seemingly a model servant, a man of impeccable references and character, his black suite and bowler hat a charming anachronism that delineates his social status, a man who takes pride in his job. Tony is a young man, a wealthy playboy with grand ideals but locked into a life of ennui.

Tony hires Hugo and soon comes to depend upon him both as servant and caregiver. Hugo slowly but steadily fosters this relationship and begins to place himself in a position of power, forcing his master’s fiancé into a marginalized role and introducing a femme fatale into Tony’s life. Hugo manipulates Tony into allowing his (Hugo’s) “sister” to move in but it’s a ploy to seduce Tony and invert their rigid social standing by becoming masters of the household…while Tony serves the servants. Tony becomes the mark, his major flaw a sense of duty, and it’s this inherent and commendable trait that Hugo exploits: Hugo is a man of selfish needs and violent temperament who hides behind the mask of civility.

Director Joseph Losey and writer Harold Pinter once again collaborate to examine archaic British cultural mores, to vivisect the class structure and reveal the marrow of human nature that transcends any social hierarchy. Losey utilizes languid camera movements and tracking shots in claustrophobic spaces, often framing the characters as one dominates the space either by close-up with the other in deep focus or as one stands unflinchingly above the other. He often films reflections in gilded mirrors, as master and servant begin to transpose their allegiance and become opposites. Tony’s fiancé is redacted from his life by the powerful influence of Hugo as she suspects that something is indeed wrong, while Hugo’s “sister” is actually a weapon of sexuality, blackmail that keeps Tony a slave to his base desires.

The keystone of the narrative takes place in a bar haunted by reflections where people are as insubstantial as whiskey fumes, eyes no longer sparkling with life but voiding it. Here, a “chance” meeting between Hugo and Tony leads to a “heartfelt” confession from Hugo as he begs to be given a second chance. Losey films the scene with Hugo as the dominant force, his tearful pleadings reflected in the bar’s huge mirror and framed by a vase full of flowers (a visual call-back to a previous trope). Losey positions Hugo on the left side of the frame and Tony on the right for the entire scenario then shockingly crosses-the-axis. He cuts to a reverse angle (or mirrored shot) which put Hugo in Tony’s previous position: a powerful visual image that foreshadows the final act. He has totally usurped his master’s place.

In a climactic scene, Tony and his servant are drunkenly playing a game on the staircase with a violent riptide underscoring the scene. Tony is on higher ground, but he slowly allows Hugo to take control as he climbs the stairs until they both stand on equal ground…until Hugo orders Tony to pour him a drink. The servant has now conquered the household, and the film descends into a drug addled orgy where Tony’s fiancé stumbles from the inequity to seek the cold slivered air of a winter night, slashing her back to her senses. THE SERVANT is a film that not only examines class distinction but blurs the lines; where the wealthy young man is nothing but naïve while the butler seeks his deconstruction. Here, the Ruling Class is victim of its own devices.  

Final Grade: (A)

WATCHMEN (Zack Snyder, 2009, USA)

 

Ozymandias’ empire wracks the Mighty Corporations with a despairing and mocking futility of their own human fallacies, but in time the boundless sands will consume his legacy. Though he controls the Outer Limits of human knowledge, he fails to recognize that the means never justify the ends and in doing so, becomes less human than the ghostly Dr. Manhattan. 

WATCHMEN is a modern adaptation of the great science fiction classic THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL, with the indestructible Gort replaced by the bluish Übermensch. This is visually prevalent in the graphic novel where the film poster can be seen at Madison Square Garden, but the effects of an unstoppable force creating a United Earth under threat of alien annihilation is analogous. What begins as a masked murder mystery deepens into a nuclear morality play, and the juxtaposition of scenes to deconstruct causality is wonderfully crafted. The narrative introduces many characters and imbues each with enough time to see them as disparate people, not comic book caricatures. But it’s Jackie Earle Haley as Rorschach whose abusive but strictly ethical performance invigorates the film; he is the outcast, the voice of reason who doesn’t sell his soul at the cost of billions…and accepts his fate, no, demands his fate be carried out and dies knowing that he is justified. 

Director Zack Snyder fills every inch of the 2:35:1 frame with exacting detail, his mise-en-scene subliminally conveying information from Alan Moore’s prose and Dave Gibbon’s dense artwork. The film’s structure and pacing are fantastic and could easily have devolved into a stuttering fanboy panegyric. The action sequences utilized too much slow motion though the editing was quick-witted and atypical of Block(head)busters. With Nietzsche’s superman accepting his part in this tragedy, The Comedian would have appreciated Rorschach’s fatal joke that will destroy this tenuous peace…because human nature can’t be changed. Indeed, who watches the Watchmen? 

Final Grade: (A)

KNIGHTRIDERS (George Romero, 1981, USA)

 

King William is a creative anachronism who desperately tries to decipher the code of honor in this modern world of polluted morality. Director George Romero eschews zombie politico for a character study involving a troupe of Renaissance performers, a group of misfits and self-imposed outcasts who joust upon their iron steeds, living upon the fumes of chivalry.

Romero begins the film with a fluttering prophecy like some evil incarnate, a black bird descending to the earth. This is Billy's (King William) vision as next he is seen in naked repose beside his buxom queen, then flagellating himself in a lake. Surrounded by skeletal trees, this could be a scene from the 6th century. It's not until a low angle shot reveals his horse to be a motorcycle and he kicks it to life, its growl cracking the air like a burbling Jabberwocky. The film is essentially plotless and focuses upon the struggle of this group's existence in a society that doesn’t care to understand true freedom and honor. They travel the country roads of Pennsylvania and perform for a few dollars to small towns where the cows outnumber the people. The conflict involves Billy and his nemesis (and cohort) Morgan, who wants to “sell out” to a promoter for fame and glory. The strength of the film is in its ability to allow peripheral characters to develop; though these insights don’t advance the plot it grounds the story in human drama.

The motorcycle jousting scenes are wonderful and well-choreographed, often composed in medium shot (with close-ups reserved for weapons striking bloodied armor and shields), so the crashes and stunt-work can truly be appreciated...in the days before CGI! Ed Harris infuses Billy with a pompous and knightly conceit yet makes him fallible and human, full of anger, despair, and love for his friends. Tom Savini is the Black Knight Morgan, but he too has many dimensions and is not a total cad and earns the respect of his King. On paper, the film seems like a guilty pleasure, a campy romp through Camelot but it rises above the superficial: this is a sad tale of sacrifice and nobility in a world haunted by corporate zombies.

Finally, a joust decides the once and future King as Morgan accepts the crown and the heavy responsibility of leadership. Like King Arthur, Billy then disappears into history and becomes a myth for those who loved him.

Final Grade: (B+)

DELIVERANCE (John Boorman, 1972, USA)

 

Mankind’s primal instincts lurk just below the dark mirrored surface of the mind, the animal only temporarily suppressed by Reason and the trappings of civilization. Four men confront Nature and must face the tumultuous rapids and violent confrontation with their bastard brothers; their modern tools only a crutch because they must rely on their Will to Live (and each other) to survive. As modernity clashes with anachronism, like Neanderthal witnessing the extinction of Cro-Magnon, DELIVERANCE is an allegory concerning the contempt that these disparate primates feel for one another and the violent outcome when intelligence is consumed by aggression, when Law and Order breaks down and the only rule is survival. Director John Boorman deftly adapts James Dickey’s novel about three city men and their guide who wish to spend a weekend canoeing on the Cahulawassee River before it is dammed (or Damned), men who wish to connect with Nature peacefully on their terms, but end up battling the wild deep water, violent natives, and their own insecurities.

Vilmos Zsigmond's lush cinematography projects the illusion of a journey into the wild where civilization is but a dream and anarchy reigns. Boorman creates iconic imagery such as the dueling banjos between Floyd and the craven-eyed boy, and the squealing sexual assault as Bobby wallows in the mud, dominated and unmanned. The anxious feeling of prey being stalked with raptor-like precision is ambiguous; we only experience it from the protagonist’s perspective, and Floyd’s death is never fully explained though it’s interesting that he is the lone dissenter in the democratic vote to bury the dead rapist. Another allusion to this battle between the present and past could be seen in the tools themselves: the wooden canoe breaks apart while the man-made aluminum canoe holds together and takes them safely home. It's also depicted in the weapon that saves their lives: the modern firearm has been replaced by the Stone Age bow and arrow. 

This precarious balance is maintained on the rocky slope, as the bluish sunset casts it ominous shadow over Ed, and he murders the man who is stalking them. In a nerve-wracking moment, Ed’s hands shake, and he cannot bring himself to kill, flashback to another scene when he lost the nerve to kill a doe, lacking the essential component to play Lewis' game. But does he kill an innocent man? This is a film concerning decisions and their life-long consequences. The survivors never find the answer and are left to face their nightmares, fearing that the past will resurface like a bloated hand breaking the tepid surface of a lake, making one final accusation.

Final Grade: (A)

TOKYO SONATA (Kiyoshi Kurosawa, 2008, Japan)

 

Kenji’s family is a maelstrom of disharmony, the tonal hierarchy dissolving like random notes of a discordant sonata. Writer/Director Kiyoshi Kurosawa vivisects the living body of the nuclear family, the patriarchal authority fatally anesthetized. Though the film’s scalpel cuts deep into traditional Japanese values, it is applicable to any society whose moral foundation and family values are built upon the crumbling sandstone of sexism and social status. 

The father Ryûhei commands the household and defines himself within this power structure. He has a seemingly well-paying job but his company downsizes to hire Chinese workers, saving the Company millions of dollars. It is a deeply troubling parallel between his role as powerful father and his submissiveness to the Company: a business that demands a religious loyalty, a zealous fealty even at the cost of the individual. Kurosawa captures Ryûhei dressed in his suit standing in food lines and desperately searching for employment, unable to tell his family that he has been fired. He spends his days diminishing into a fog of unrest while his wife, sensing the destructive secret, waits for someone to pull her from the quicksand of helplessness. 

Kurosawa’s mise-en-scene and lighting are a force of nature because he conveys very little information through dialogue: the flashing of a passing L-train through bamboo blinds like a searchlight revealing lies, unemployed businessman sitting isolated on pedestals eating their borrowed lunch, or the mother trapped between the ocean and her calamitous past mirroring Antoine’s desperate escape. The eldest son decides to join the US Army, to forsake his lineage while the youngest child Kenji is mesmerized by the twinkling rapture of a piano. Though his father forbids his lessons, Kenji steals lunch money and begins his journey. Kurosawa never shows Kenji playing the piano, only thumping away on a broken keyboard, and it is unknown until the final scene if he is truly talented. 

Meanwhile, a house divided must fall and it falls hard into despair and suicidal impulses, Ryûhei scrubbing toilets and the mother running away. But incongruous events bring them together again in a literally broken home, silent in their own thoughts. Kenji auditions for a respected Conservatory and he gently shines moonlight upon the tearful joy of the audience. Kenji finishes, bows and walks away while his father finally reaches out and brushes his hair in the first gesture of love. 

Final Grade: (A)

A GOOD MARRIAGE (Eric Rohmer, 1982, France)

 

Sabine is more in love with the idea of marriage than the man she proposes to wed. Director Eric Rohmer turns his lens upon a young woman to expose the shallow emotional tide that drowns with naïve passion.

The charming Sabine is emotionally backwards, her 25 years belie her forceful ignorance and selfishness, her vow not to a man but to herself to get married immediately. When she is introduced to Edmond, she focuses all of her attention towards making him fall in love. But the harder she pushes the harder she falls. The second film in Rohmer’s Comedies & Proverbs hexalogy concerns itself with the adage “Can anyone refrain from building castles in Spain?” We are all guilty of loving an ideal more than the real, of struggling to fit the square peg through the round hole, of trying to mold another into an appointed role, and Sabine is guilty of exactly these things. Edmond is very busy with his career and at first it seems that he is interested in a relationship though he seems to sense Sabine’s urgency. It gradually becomes obvious that he is tuning her out of his life, that he doesn’t have room for romance; the irony is that he and Sabine are a very good match…they just met at the wrong time.

Rohmer eschews his signature visual detachment and utilizes close-ups and slow zooms to create immediacy and intimacy, bringing the audience in close contact with the characters while eliding outside distractions. Sabine is always moving and Rohmer’s point of view perspectives, flashing scenery from a car or train, represent her restlessness.

Finally, Sabine discovers the potential for romance when least expected, and it’s when her defenses are weakened that love gains strength. 

Final Grade: (B)

THE EXTERMINATING ANGEL (Luis Buñuel, 1962, Mexico)

 

The Valkyrie’s virginal spirit rises above the tempest of anarchy: as a socialite dinner party comes to an end, the guests inexplicably find themselves trapped by their own desire to escape, the music room a dirge as class distinction and reason are devoured by the subconscious. Director Luis Buñuel guides us through the labyrinthine convolutions of our brains, its electric impulses driving pure instinct as the guests struggle to rise above the animal and not be sheep led to slaughter. 

Buñuel's surreal and absurdist masterpiece examines social order and breaks down the elitist conventions to reveal base desires, addictions, incestuous relationships, and self-destructive motivations that imbue each of us, regardless of wealth or standing. He is more forgiving of the servants as they leave the party before it begins, and the one who stays behind fulfills his role until the very end, trying to assuage the suffering of the imprisoned. But they are comically trapped in a room without bars, the transition to the Dining Room an open archway where they throw their trash…but are psychologically unable to pass through. Time becomes insubstantial like a morphine dream, and as one older man suffers a stroke, a couple locks themselves away to sleep forever. Their spilled blood awakens the brooding killer whose nervous hand has been lurking beneath the polite veneer of cultural mores…and a sacrifice must be made to appease this witchery. 

Buñuel films in beautiful black and white, moving his camera about the crowded room and is able to focus upon individuals while never being intrusive: it is a marvelous technical feat. The performances are inspired as the suspense and madness gradually escalates into believability, as friends turn upon each other consumed by bloodlust and revenge. The aristocrats eventually escape by mimicking their behavior after the fateful sonata; but they become trapped once again under the watchful eyes of their deity. Here in this sacred temple walks the Exterminating Angel whose darkness and decay holds dominion over all. 

Final Grade: (A+)

MAN BITES DOG (Remy Belvaux, 1992, Belgium)

 

"When a dog bites a man, that is not news, because it happens so often. But if a man bites a dog, that is news." -John Bogart, Editor New York Sun.

This militant satire is a biting indictment of journalistic expression; of the fast-food media’s desire to report the esoteric as mundane; to canonize brutality for the sake of the public’s “need to know”. Rèmy Belvaux’s film differs dramatically from Oliver Stone’s NATURAL BORN KILLERS in cinematic philosophy though both films are thematically similar. Stone embraces Eisenstein’s intellectual montage principle and extracts meaning from disparate images with rapid-fire quick cut editing, whereas this film’s visual profundity relies on mise-en-scene decoupage. 

Belvaux achieves meaning through the relationship of objects (and people) within the frame; he utilizes long takes and real environments to sustain the illusion of reality. Benoit, the natural born killer, addresses the audience directly because this is his film; he’s the star in his heliocentric universe. This killer stalks the modern jungle, he hunts beneath the canopy of concrete and steel, and he is the innocuous tenant who lives next door. 

Absurdly, a film crew follows this depraved sociopath to document his every move, to glean some titular insight into his motives and psychology. His victims are ignored because they aren’t valuable news stories; they don’t garner high ratings because their lives are as disinteresting and repetitive as ours. Benoit’s ubiquitous narration doesn’t create intimacy; it’s a profane dialogue that separates the audience from his engorged persona. But the film crew soon becomes a part of the story and participates in the carnage, they cease to report the news and become the news, accomplices to murder. 

When a camera measures reality, it automatically changes it, the composition of elements excludes and promotes information within the frame creating a new viewpoint in order to manipulate the audience. The illusion becomes more tangible that the solid world around us. Like “Reality” television and the media’s brainwashing concept of Doublethink, it encourages the propaganda of TruthLie. 

Final Grade: (B+)

YOUTH WITHOUT YOUTH (Francis Ford Coppola, 2007, USA)

 

Smoke and mirrors. Time. Illusion. Duality. Transmigration of the soul. Accelerated decrepitude. Nietzsche’s THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA. Philip K. Dick’s exegesis VALIS. This philosophical potpourri is exquisitely photographed by Mihai Malaimare Jr. but frustratingly paced making the two-hour run time seem like an eternity. This is not about the spiritual and philosophical dialogue; this is really a simple story about love and sacrifice. 

Tim Roth is excellent as Dominic, the aging linguistics researcher who is struck by lightning and becomes young once again (yes, I consider 40 young!) and becomes supra human. He is unable to complete his research, his Raison d'être, because of the death of Laura, his love many years before. He is cold and unloved in his old age and maybe realizes the mistake of his youth. When his age is reversed, his two personalities light/dark at first live a symbiotic existence. But when Dominic meets Veronica (who is very similar to Laura, his lost love) and he realizes that her physical body is being used by an ancient spirit, his reflections clash. Through her, he can finish his work as she regresses through the evolution of language soon to reveal the original proto language…but there’s always a price to pay. She begins to age quickly so Dominic must sacrifice his life’s work for the woman he loves but can never have. He has gained youth but without the folly of youth. And that is what this film is all about: to love someone so completely that they become more important than yourself. But Coppola’s film is too concerned with exposition which grinds the plot to a halt, making this intelligent story a bit of a bore…like sitting through a philosophy lecture with a hangover. 

Final Grade: (C)

ROMAN HOLIDAY (William Wyler, 1953, USA)

 

Joe Bradley is heartbroken and left abandoned, not before the Alter but a Princess’ vacant throne. Princess Ann, played by the beautifully childlike and radiant Audrey Hepburn, is given a shot in the arm to relax her but instead she escapes from her gilded cage and into the bustling Rome nightlife. Down and out reporter Joe Bradley stumbles upon this dazed and confused stranger and thus blossoms a 24-hour love affair; between both “Anya” and Joe…and the vibrant city of Rome.

Director William Wyler films entirely on location, which imbues the narrative with superlative energy and creates a romantic Neo-realism: the walk through the market and the use of non-actors bring this fairy-tale to the crowded streets, a stark juxtaposition that is necessary to empathize with the characters. Two superb DPs capture Wyler’s vision, Franz Planer and Henri Alekan,  and their Academy Award nomination is deserved! Their deep focus photography places the Princess in large, looming rooms where she becomes just another decoration, like the foreboding angels that adorn these cavernous halls. Planer and Alekan also film her escape sequence like a film noir, their chiaroscuro and high angle compositions creating the needed tension. Edith Head wins her fifth Oscar for costume designs, and Audrey’s wardrobe perfectly accentuates her performance instead of overshadowing and obscuring.

Audrey’s performance of fiery independence and firm morality elevates the plot’s text concerning the feminist emancipation of a woman who ultimately must choose duty over a man. Dalton Trumbo’s script subverts the carefree romantic comedy with allusions to prostitution and drug use (the sedative that will make her happy…morphine?), that could victimize instead of empower. Also, the ascent into journalistic ethics by Joe Bradley (Gregory Peck) who sacrifices a great story for love; he’s a shyster that has grown into a man. “Anya” meanwhile has understood that her duty to the many outweighs her need to the one...or herself. Eddie Albert provides slapstick relief as the sneaky photographer (LA DOLCE VITA wouldn’t coin the phrase Paparazzi for another 7 years) and he too makes the difficult choice.

Wyler plays with romantic convention, as we await the typical ending when lovers reunite, specifically: once in the car as “Anya” disappears around the corner, the camera holds upon Joe and the empty street for a few moments of suspense; and secondly, when the Princess and her entourage depart the ballroom and Joe is left standing alone, hoping for her to run back into his arms. The final tracking shot of Joe’s forlorn walk is through the empty hall, his footsteps a harsh staccato that echoes his loneliness; a sad love that could have been but can never be. It’s perfect.

Final Grade: (A)