THE LAST METRO (François Truffaut, 1980, France) A Jewish playwright is forced to hide in the dank underground of his own theatre, and he directs his play listening to echoes and whispered secrets as his wife drifts farther away into her double life. Director François Truffaut creates a play within a play within a film, and the love triangle reflects this deep masquerade, as the characters must act out their parts to survive, losing themselves in the brutal nexus of fiction and reality. During the Nazi occupation of Paris, an Anti-Semitic critic vomits his propaganda through the media and attempts to gain control of the Montmartre Theatre and its beautiful owner, the gentile wife of the “missing” playwright. The gorgeous Catherine Deneuve imbues Marion Steiner with a fiery inner strength and charm, an independent woman torn between her husband and the new actor Bernard Granger, a rock-solid performance by Gerard Depardieu. Granger is a member of the Resistance and uses his talent to secret information and contraband to his cohorts, his egotistic façade hiding his true political motivations. But soon Bernard can no longer hide his anger at the inane verbiage spouted by Daxiat and his actions threatens the company and his own life by revealing his true colors: blue, white, & red. Lucas directs the play through a proxy and the play THE VANISHING LADY is a huge success…but the two leads begin to love and despise one another. Truffaut is concerned with the faces hidden under the makeup and shadowed by stage light, and seeks to uncover the hidden agendas and aspirations of human nature, using the play set amidst our violent history as a metaphor concerning the value of art imitating life. His characters all hide behind some barrier: a dank cement wall, the social graces of high society, or the idol banter of male egotism. THE LAST METRO is filmed in glorious saturated colors, giving the film itself a stage-like atmosphere, which further confuses the senses. As the film ends and reconciliations are made, Truffaut cuts to life as an act, seeking truth through the paradigm of Art. (B+)

HUNGER (Steve McQueen, 2008, UK)

A bare bones narrative that focuses its stark lens upon Bobby Sands’ hunger strike but whose recipe is food for thought, a prescient menu of Bush-era polemics where the ends justify the means. Director Steve McQueen’s poetic vision structures the film around a 20-minute dialogue shot entirely without edit, an unapologetic and dense moral conflict between Sands and an Irish Priest: two figures whose objectives are shared but beliefs towards a political and spiritual resolution differ greatly. During the long conversation, McQueen finally cuts to close-up on Sands and thus begins his hunger strike approximately halfway through the story. 

The film begins with the incarceration of another inmate, the dehumanization complete with naked aggression and brutal off-camera beating, a fresh open head-wound in close-up a telltale sign of life in the Maze prison. The prisoners begin their protest by smearing their cells with feces and remaining unwashed, unwilling even to submit to the clownish uniforms and forced baths. McQueen crosscuts meager existence in the prison with a guard’s life outside, as he soaks his bloodied knuckles in the sink, eats a hot breakfast, says goodbye to his wife and checks for a car-bomb. The poison of torture infects everyone involved and transforms the just into the unjust: the warders become even more tainted than their wards. 

The second half concerns Bobby Sands decline into skeletal protest, his body wasting away but his cause hopefully growing more powerful. We witness the emotional turmoil of his parents and experience his mind reverting backwards into time, a lonely runner in a long distance race, his younger self seeming to understand this self-destructive decision and the complex causes that brought it about: he is at peace with himself. McQueen strategically fails to navigate the troubled waters of a specific cause: he explains little about the background of the characters or history. Instead, he seems more interested in conforming to a more general statement about torture and the treatment of prisoners, as Dostoyevsky said: “ The degree of civilization in a society can be judged by entering its prisons.” 

Final Grade: (A)

WHITE DOG (Sam Fuller, 1982, USA) A parable condemning racism’s vicious bite as being much worse (though no less immoral) than its bark. Director Sam Fuller’s mauling narrative begins with a neutral gray screen haunted by simple black and white text. Suddenly off-screen, tires screech on rough blacktop and we hear the painful whimpering of an injured animal. Kristy McNichol plays Julie, an aspiring actress, whose compassion in rescuing the injured animal soon saves her own life…and eventually takes another’s. As she begins to understand the complexities of this beautiful dog, she seeks the help of a professional animal trainer names Keys, wonderfully portrayed by Paul Winfield. Fuller’s metaphor is as subtle as the Holocaust, showing the killing ovens of the local animal shelter, the possible fate for this German Shepard; a fate that Julie will do anything to avoid, her heart bursting with empathy for this animal whom she believes is victim, trained to be something that is inherently against its nature. Fuller often cuts to extreme close-up of all three characters: Keys, Julie, and the dog, as they share such intelligent and profound deep brown eyes, a two-way mirror to their souls. The violence is brutal and unflinching as the dog’s white fur becomes matted with bright red gore, its menacing snarl exposing the sharp incisors that cut and tear like cruel weapons. When a black man is killed by the dog, Keys, Julie, and Carruthers (another dog trainer), become accomplices to this savage death even though their goal is to cure the dog: do the needs of the many truly outweigh the needs of the one, or justice? Through ferocious trial and error, Keys risks his own life to break the dog of its racist upbringing by showing it love and kindness. And here I believe the film is misunderstood: as the dog is finally freed of its inhumane bondage, it escapes Julie’s heartfelt embrace and attacks Carruthers, bulbously acted by Burl Ives. But Fuller introduces us to the original master of the dog a few minutes earlier: an overweight middle-aged man with two freckled daughters, and he looks very much like Carruthers. Does the dog now attack any white man, its training irrevocably reversed, or was it seeking revenge by mistakenly identifying Carruthers as its original racist mentor? Depending on your interpretation, the whole mood of the film is altered. And herein lies the power of Art, to examine these subterranean deep-rooted issues, as we should seek to come together as the human race and obliterate racism. (A)

SYNECDOCHE, NEW YORK (Charlie Kauffman, 2008, USA) Caden attempts to understand his life by reenacting fragments, removing himself from the human equation while striving for omniscient interpretation, to unburden him of regrets and doubts while his life slips quickly away. Writer/Director Charlie Kauffman has crafted and exquisite portrait, in miniature, concerning human denial of mortality and our (un)conscious desires to ward of death forever, examining this evolutionary inability to accept the conundrum between brief existence and the abyss of infinity. Like the fool PARSIFAL, it’s compassion that helps Caden regain his moral cadence; to accept the impact of his selfish decisions and realize that his behavior has affected many lives…as he vainly attempts epiphany. Here, in the surreal recess of his mind, time does indeed turn into space. Kauffman wonderfully fails to narrate a baseline for reality: instead, we are never given queues as to what is experienced through Caden’s actual perceptions, dream-senses or what is hallucination. Though the film begins innocuously enough, strange patterns soon emerge and we are beguiled into believing we are one step removed from our protagonist, that we are only experiencing him through his own cracked lens of future deathdream. Caden is lost into himself, a vast conspiratorial territory where he is always the victim, unable to take responsibility but, like any creative intellect, he begins to work out his dilemma through art. He builds a larger and larger interior world where others act out his tragedies, and soon the line between identity and actor blur and become ethereal. As Caden directs the play in god-like fashion, his total control is a symptom of his predicament; unable to discover himself through other people acting out his mistakes, he sinks deeper and deeper into despair. It’s not until he becomes another person, a minor actor in the story of his life that true understanding begins. A willful empathetic feminine voice whispers salvation to Caden and he finally breaks this human bondage and all the tiny pieces are put together…and he dies a whole man. (A)

LET THE RIGHT ONE IN (Tomas Alfredson, 2008, Sweden)

Oskar’s troubled life is like Rubik’s cube, its many permutations seemingly unsolvable until he befriends Eli who bleeds tender mercy…and violent hunger. Director Tomas Alfredson crafts a gentle coming of age story tinged with archaic bloodletting, as Oskar and Eli slowly form a mutual bond of trust and love, both outcasts who haunt the periphery of reality’s penumbra.

Their relationship builds slowly while we experience a few gruesome murders: young men captured and bled like cattle, the thick rush of life force collected into a plastic container. A rip current of angst and mischievous horror lurk just below the surface tension, as we discover our dark eyed heroine stalking a darkened underpass, feeding upon unwary strangers and spreading her infection. Eli is in the care of a mysterious father figure: though never explained, there seems to be some incestuous affair as he murders to quench her cursed hunger. Oskar is being bullied at school, and it’s Eli whose reserved passion gives him strength to finally take a stand, to fight back and no longer become victimized.

But this tangled web of horror begins to unravel as the neighbors discover Eli’s freakish secret, and together Oskar and Eli must escape to a new life…or undeath. This is a beautifully shot film that relies on characterization and pacing without need to resort to CGI or flash-cut editing: the few images of horror are quite shocking and the true fear is in the soft animal sound of Eli’s growling thirst and her struggle to master this supernatural instinct.

The mystery deepens in the depths of a swimming pool: suspended in his watery grave and lungs slowly filling with certain death, a ripple of salvation lifts him back into life. Oskar has finally found his niche, and carries his love in a heart shaped box to an unknown destination…towards a better (a certainly bloodier) future.

Final Grade: (B+)

HANGMEN ALSO DIE (Fritz Lang, 1943, USA)

The diabolical Reinhard Heydrich bleeds his Nazi propaganda into the occupied Prague streets, assassinated by the Czech Resistance who refused to surrender to an occupation of mass murderers. Fritz Lang rebels against his German heritage and directs a pure and concise piece of World War Two propaganda, decrying the fascist consumption of Europe by portraying the Czech’s gunpowder treason as heroic defiance…and it is. But the film is more interesting as a historic document viewed in the black and white of nostalgia and revisionist history: made during WWII, the narrative fails to explore the truth about Hitler’s cold-blooded retort…the murder of over 1,600 Czech citizens and the razing of two villages. 

The performance by Brian Donlevy is sterile and expressionless, his dialogue as exciting and emotional as a cue card. The staged direction detracts from the suspense as the narrative becomes too contrived, the plan to frame Czaka just too unbelievable because it relies on coincidences and implausible unforeseen reactions. The intelligent performance by the Gestapo Inspector adds a devious element that creates some frisson, but the Nazis and their sympathizers are effeminate caricatures, drunken slobs, or very stupid. Bertolt Brecht’s story delves into the subconscious and duality of the protagonist’s actions as he must weigh the needs of the many against the few, but the words are crammed into a thick narrative and becomes heroically preachy. Even Lang’s direction is restrained except for a few expressionist scenes, as long dark shadows stalk the walls of the interrogator’s chambers, or the long silent walk down a narrow alley with death close behind. 

In retrospect, a strong political film that questions the morality of murder, examines the concept of Justice, but falls flat as suspenseless and poorly acted: history is written by the winners…and this could have been a better story if written after the war. 

Final Grade: (C)

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. His 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. Buñuel 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 Dinning 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. (A)

DREAM (Kim Ki-duk, 2008, South Korea) Ran sleepwalks through the brittle night; she is possessed by a stranger’s dream, acting out his secret impulses as he struggles to redeem a broken affair. Jin is a scorned lover, victim of his girlfriend’s affair, unable to conquer his consuming obsession. Ran has forsaken her boyfriend, thrown him away because she doesn’t love him anymore; she has regained her own identity. But these two people are strangers of the night, where the inky blackness and brilliant white are the same color, yin and yang of each other’s existence, linked only by Jin’s dream-world where Ran unconsciously acts out his fantasy. They are like a butterfly; once wrapped in their own cocoon to be reborn, their wingspan a symmetrical representation of the other. As they attempt to work out this problem by alternating waking life, their existence becomes more entwined and deprived of love, imbued only with the willpower to stay awake: Jin bears the burden of guilt as he struggles to control his dreams…but is unable to change. Ran is victimized by his uncontrolled passions and feels contempt; she struggles to understand why he can’t solve his destructive problem. Kim Ki-duk examines the human condition at its most basic element, where love isn’t for sale and can’t be bargained for…even at the cost of our soul. We can’t choose who we share this tenuous connection with, and sometimes it is not in our best interests and we become slaves to our passions. Love and pain walk together, brutal twins whose familial bonds are like handcuffs, and Jin torturers himself to into wakefulness to save Ran from punishment: for he is the one whose intent sparked the violent act, she was only the marionette. Finally, his fatal decision leads to a reunion and absolution, as he rests in peace upon the frozen river, hand in ghostly hand. Or was it all a part of his dream? (B)

IDIOCRACY (Mike Judge, 2006, USA) Luke Wilson in literally an average Joe, a victim of the military’s unnatural selection for a cryogenic experiment: he awakes to a nightmare of ubiquitous obtuseness, a future society where stupidity has evolved as the status quo. Mike Judge’s dunce capped satire is over-the-top hilarious but not far from current cultural trends where Reality TV dominates and Conglomerates consume the landscape. Isaac Asimov wrote about the decline of human intelligence years ago, as college graduate working couples nurture fewer children than the religiously fixated and miseducated who birth and rear new monstrosities on a regular basis. Multiply this by a few centuries and this militant satire, though impossible (an elite class would still be needed to run the computers and maintain the infrastructure), still resonates with a tone of truthfulness and ill-humor. The attention to detail is farcically incisive: clothes slathered with advertising, grunts and inane slang as a common denominator, sex infusing every facet of society (even Starbucks & Fuddruckers), Costco’s huge warehouse crouched amid the rubbish-strewn environment like some Lovecraftian horror, and the redacted history that literally depicts Chaplin as THE GREAT DICTATOR and has UN (pronounced monosyllabically) dinosaurs saving the world from fascist behemoths wrapped in Nazi regalia. Though funny, this prescient warning should be headed as we see the rise of Creationist Museums that vomit their religious myths as fact: the human race is becoming lost in a blink of a cosmic eye, stumbling towards extinction…by our own hands! Unfortunately, the voice-over narration is annoying, as Mike Judge seems to have contempt for the very audience he wishes to reach: we don’t need omniscient explanation. But Luke Wilson as Joe and Maya Rudolph as Rita are excellent as they exemplify the empathetic human spirit, this emotional connection that otherwise would leave the audience to despise the entire species. IDIOCRACY is sinfully smart and those who rave about 90 day Fiancé, Ex on the Beach or Ghost Hunters…just don’t realize the joke is on them. (B+)

ZABRISKIE POINT (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1970, USA) Mark and Daria fuck amid the barren desert, the lifeless womb of Death Valley: he drifts among the clouds while she drives endlessly, both drowning in sea change. ZABRISKIE POINT is a film of its time: it could not be made today as we see the past through a faded veil of retrospect or diseased nostalgia. Director Michelangelo Antonioni creates a vaporous dream-world where his characters linger; Mark in his hijacked plane rising above reality and Daria racing down the two-lane blacktop…both about to clash with harsh reality. They escape together far from the madding crowd and into the desert, imagining their free love shared with other castaways and drifters. Both characters are archetypes, meant to represent ideas rather than multi-faceted individuals, and possibly Antonioni displays contempt for the nihilistic militant drama that ends on a long road to nowhere. We feel emotionally disconnected from the narrative, though the intense cinematography is always interesting: he utilizes roving close-ups and pan shots that are disorienting and experimental, and often focuses our attention upon billboards and advertising. This creates frisson as the dichotomy between those in power and those without is delineated; Mark and Daria represent those without power…but with the ability to choose. After their brief affair, he returns to meet his fate in a rain of bullets, not willing to be consumed by The Man. Daria’s option is more profound for she can become part of the Order, accepted into the status quo: she looks towards the mansion on the hill and makes up her mind; imagining an explosive orgy of fire and death, she drives away disappearing into the scintillating desert haze. Antonioni films the final explosion from seemingly twenty different angles, showing the destruction in slow motion while the soundtrack thrums with hypnotic Pink Floyd music. If destruction is a form of creation, what New World Order shall Daria discover? (B-)