ONE WONDERFUL SUNDAY (Akira Kurosawa, 1947, Japan)

Two lovers are an unfinished symphony in the ruins of post-war Japan, mired in the emotional fallout of despair and suffering, struggling to see the world not as it is…but as it should be. Director Akira Kurosawa attempts to imbue his film with the robust humanity of Frank Capra, as Yuzo and Masako are nitrate reflections of George and Mary Bailey, but instead of showing us a lifetime Kurosawa shows us a day in the life.

The story is set on a Sunday afternoon, the weekly meeting for this poor couple, where the day begins well but grows gradually darker both in spirit and weather. The opening shot is of Yuzo staring at a discarded cigarette butt, the pain of indignity upon his face, which mirrors the knowledge that he has been reduced to grubbing for trash. But along comes Masako, full of vibrant energy and life-affirming beauty, to temporarily quell his quiet desperation. The camera follows them throughout the day as they struggle with only a few yen: Yuzo feeling less than a man because they have to use her money and Masako wearing the mask of cheerfulness. Together they play husband and wife in a prototype house that they will never afford, visit the zoo where the animals seem more content than they, get ripped off by scalpers at a Schubert concert, and then can’t afford a tiny meal at a local café. Leaving his coat behind, they walk through a dreary night and into the ruins of a courtyard, where they dream of opening their own café, treating customers with respect and dignity.

Kurosawa doesn’t hide the darker elements of their relationship, as Yuzo invites her back to his room and makes a sexual pass: it is obvious that she is still a virgin and their relationship has not yet been consummated. She runs tearfully from the room and Kurosawa holds the camera on Yuzo’s isolation for five minutes, as he listens to the rain drum its nervous rhythm upon the leaking tin roof. But Masako is the stronger of the two and returns…he doesn’t run after her! Wandering in the lower depths of despair, they meet a starving war orphan and Masako’s selfless sacrifice brings a tiny light of kindness to this child’s dirty face.

 

Yuzo is a stark realist, knowing that dreams don’t fill an empty stomach, but Masako is his counterpoint, his hope, and his raison d’être. In the windswept night they find a deserted band shell and she sits attentively while he vainly attempts to imagine an orchestra playing Schubert, but the only sound is the rustle of dead leaves and the soft murmur of cold wind. Here, Kurosawa breaks the narrative’s fourth wall and like Wendy in PETER PAN, Masako speaks directly to the audience. But she doesn’t ask for complicity, she begs and pleads for help, their very lives depending upon the audience clapping so Yuzo can hear the imaginary orchestra. This device contradicts the film’s morality in that strength must be found within and together, not by some outside force: though heartfelt, it falls on a completely flat note. Finally, the string section swells and they are happy once again, ready to face another Sunday together.

 

Final Grade: (C)

 

RECORD OF A LIVING BEING (Akira Kurosawa, 1955, Japan)

 

Nakajima suffer the fallout from his nuclear family, consumed by fear that eats the soul. Director Akira Kurosawa’s concise character study puts an aging patriarch, Kiichi Nakajima (a volatile performance from legendary Toshiro Mifune, playing a man twice his actual age!), on trial for loving his family so much that it destroys them.

Nakajima is a successful foundry owner whose life was forged by fire and steel, and whose family (both consanguineous and illegitimate) lives comfortably off his fortune. But they move to have him sanctioned when he begins spending his life-savings building bomb shelters and eventually planning to move the entire clan to South America…against their will. Nakajima is consumed by fear of nuclear war, the ultimate disintegration of social mores and family values. His life has come to a spiritual halt, paralyzed and frightened beyond endeavor: Kurosawa begs the question, is Nakajima irrational or hyper rational? He could liquidate few assets and move himself to safety but his desire is in saving his extended family, in selling his factory and starting a new life on a farm in a foreign country, safe (at least, for now) from the H-bomb. In one transcendental scene, after he is declared incompetent, he diminishes his role as patriarch and begs his children to move with him, prostrate on the floor: it is a humiliating display. He fails to pursued them and sets his foundry ablaze, burning down his life in hope of convincing them to join his exile. Finally, Nakajima is institutionalized with a fractured mind and he believes himself safe from harm, but cries for those left on earth who are burning, burning, burning…
 
Kurosawa casts Takashi Shimura as a dentist, a volunteer mediator for the local family court who will have to make a decision on Nakajima’s case. He brings a humble sensibility that contrasts Mifune’s tempest, allowing the issue to be examined objectively. Are his actions unfounded? There are no answers and Kurosawa doesn’t preach or offer any trite resolution: it’s important enough just to present the question. Fumio Hayasaka’s Theremin score induces a disquiet and unsettling dis-ease, upsetting rational expectations. The final shot of a split staircase, the older Shimura descending as the young mistress ascends isn’t an explanation, only a glimmer of hope for the future. Maybe the only thing to fear is fear itself.

Final Grade: (B+)

SCANDAL (Akira Kurosawa, 1950, Japan)

A morally bankrupt attorney sells himself to the highest bidder and must face the consequences without appeal. Akira Kurosawa condemns the media with this scathing indictment of yellow journalism; a cautionary tale of cancerous reporting that destroys reputations with its malignancy.

Ichiro and Miyako embark upon an innocent rendezvous that is photographed by paparazzi, alleging a fictional tryst. Ichiro is a well-known painter whose rebellious nature is represented by his growling motorcycle, and Miyako is a waifish pop star. The problems with the film are evident in its first reel as Ichiro is surrounded by a group of farmers while painting his masterpiece…atop a desolate mountain. Suddenly Miyako stumbles upon the scene, well off the road, and says she has missed her bus. This questionable setup is absurd: the uncultured farmers have nothing better to do than discuss painting, and a famous singer is wandering an isolated country road looking for a ride? Is there such a thing as a celebrity painter whose life would matter to the tabloids? Kurosawa was a fine artist and it’s obvious that Ichiro echoes the director’s own sentiments concerning the need to reinterpret reality through the human lens of abstract perception. Their careers are irrelevant since it adds nothing to the story: they could be athletes or politicians. Also, the characterizations are trite and obvious: both protagonists are painted with broad brush-strokes, undeniably good and generous and innocent of the alleged moral crime. The journalists are likewise one-dimensional, wickedness and greed their only traits. The characters aren’t complex human beings, they simply are. The film only becomes interesting halfway through when the couple hire Hiruta, a sloppy and desperate lawyer who avers his conspiratorial anger. The film’s structure is bi-polar and the first half seems only a setup to focus upon Hiruta’s ethical dilemma.

Hiruta is the convoluted persona, a man who has sacrificed himself for the almighty dollar, and a wretched lawyer who is not above stealing from his own clients. But his soul is not entirely lost: he has a sick daughter that he loves dearly and it’s revealed that most of his money is spent in caring for her. The daughter is dying of tuberculosis, bedridden for the past five years, and this is the reason that Ichiro finally decides to hire Hiruta: a man who cares for his sick child can’t be all bad. This axiom will be put to the test.

Though the film is generally a failure because of its prosaic judgments, Kurosawa’s visual language is profound. In one sublime scene, Ichiro visits Hiruta’s disheveled office that is crumbling and dirty, the ashtrays full and pictures hanging askew. Without language, Kurosawa equates the sordid environment with the spiritual turmoil that rages within Hiruta: his interior reality has tainted his exterior and Kurosawa tricks the audience into a quick assumption. Ichiro’s expression is one of dissatisfaction until he sees a photograph of the sickly child, and it’s this splinter of decency that empowers him to hire the bumbling attorney. Also, the final courtroom scenes are ambitious and tense, not in revealing the verdict but in witnessing Hiruta’s internal struggle.

Finally, the attorney must lose everything: his family, his money, the last remnants of dignity, and his job…to discover that his child’s faith wasn’t misplaced. In a sweltering courtroom before a higher authority Hiruta finds himself at last.

Final Grade: (B-)

DRUNKEN ANGEL (Akira Kurosawa, 1948, Japan)

A doctor’s Hippocratic Oath must pass the test of hypocrisy, mired in the bog of feudalistic violence and disease where the body can be healed…while the spirit decays. Director Akira Kurosawa creates his first masterpiece of imperfect humanity, like swallowing medicine tainted by this mosquito-infested quagmire, where the Yakuza feed like carnivores upon the corpus delicti.
A gruff but honest doctor looks into the mirror where the ghost of a turbulent young man becomes his daunting mission: a man he must heal in order to save himself. Dr. Sanada’s conflict with the frightened and pugilistic Matsunaga begins with an obvious lie: the criminal says he injured his hand on a rusty nail while the Dr. removes a bullet without anesthesia, reveling in the physical suffering his patient deserves. But he soon diagnoses Matsunaga with TB, the deadly bacterium an allegory of the crime that strangles and scars the streets.

Kurosawa begins the film with a roiling bog, detritus of a stagnant society, a cancerous wound that dominates the entire narrative: the village is centered around this morass while children play in the sickly waters and Sanada’s home lurks upon its vaporous shores. Kurosawa connects Matsunaga with the viscous malady immediately when he throws a rock into its lower depths; later, the Crime Boss is seen making this same gesture…and Matsunaga almost throws away his last chance of salvation like dead petals upon dark waters.

The flawed doctor is driven to heal and he seems to rebel against his very nature, drowning his anger in pure alcohol laced with tea. Kurosawa contrasts this morality against Matsunaga who is driven to cause harm but also fights a feverish struggle against more than a physical contagion. Yet both are destined to never truly understand one another: they come to an epiphany where change is internal…and eternal.

One masterful shot (of many) shows the fractured psyche of the criminal anti-hero, a man divided against his nature: an image that Kurosawa could have lifted from Orson Welles’ THE LADY FROM SHANGHAI, as Matsunaga is caught in a vanity of mirrors. He decides that dying honorably is more important than living dishonestly, and he fights his Boss to the death. Kurosawa films the duel in close-up and slick medium shots, with tension wound like clock springs, the frisson relying on inaction as each waits on the knife’s edge for the killing blow. Matsunaga falls, covered in white paint and arms spread like an angel, his reasons never revealed and maybe not totally understood to himself. Even Dr. Sanada believes he died just another gangster’s death and curses him, but for the first time feels love beat inside his heart, as he walks a young patient towards her sweet reward.

Final Grade: (A+)

THE BAD SLEEP WELL (Akira Kurosawa, 1960, Japan)

Nishi is consumed by more than a new identity; the cold breath of revenge fills his lungs and clouds his mind, contaminating his true nature with toxic tragedy. Akira Kurosawa condemns the cankerous contemporary Corporation, a conglomeration of poisonous individuals who subsume public funds to deposit in their own trust. It has become a prescient tale of Wall Street run rampant without regard, where the love of money is the tangled root of human bondage, people willingly enslaved for profit at the expense of others.

Kurosawa begins the film with an elaborate wedding that serves two purposes: first, it introduces the characters and their status in the Corporation; second, it explains a past crime and every major character’s alleged involvement. This is done by a chorus of reporters; in SCANDAL, Kurosawa decried journalism as a corrupt institution but here, the writers are after the truth and newspapers are the ultimate weapon to fight Corporate Greed. The wedding culminates with a huge cake in the shape a building with a black rose like an accusation, inserted in a window on the seventh floor. The businessmen gasp and sweat profusely, as all becomes quiet as the grave because this is a representation of the past crime, a confectionery accusation. 

The story is a bleak parable as Nishi rejects his own nature and becomes a weapon of mass destruction, his fuse ignited by an unquenchable fire. He has married the Vice President’s daughter under an assumed identity just to get inside the organization and murder those responsible for his father’s suicide. He has planned this for five years, willing to sacrifice innocents to see the guilty punished. Nishi is lost in selfishness, convinced that the means justify the ends. He marries the crippled Yoshiko but she and her brother do not share their father’s guilty burden and they become collateral damage. Nishi uses everyone (including his best friend whose identity he traded) for his own purpose: he kidnaps, tortures, steals, and becomes the very thing he despises; the abyss not only peers into him…it devours his soul. 

Kurosawa depicts Nishi’s penultimate failure off-screen in bloodstained twisted steel and this narrative's blunt force trauma hammers the audience with existential dread. Though the VP loses his son and daughter, he gains a promotion as Big Business continues to sleep well with politics. 

Final Grade: (A)

STRAY DOG (Akira Kurosawa, 1949, Japan)

Two disparate fugitives are passengers on a one-way train of thought. Director Akira Kurosawa’s second masterpiece is a story of chance and choice, a tale of violence set amid the squalor of occupied Tokyo: the Western influence taints the narrative with existential doom, illuminating victims of the broken post-war dream. This gritty film noir transcends the genre though its main ingredient is the criminal element, the chiaroscuro cinematography capturing the sweaty inhabitants of the litter-strewn streets, trapped in smoky nightclubs and filthy bars. The environment becomes a character, exhaling its deadly fumes into the story.

Murakami is a rookie detective whose Colt pistol is stolen. He worries that he will be fired but, more importantly, he dreads that his gun will be fired...sold on the black market and used in violent crimes. This moral burden to recover his pistol becomes his obsession. Murakami spends hours perusing mug shots of well-known pickpockets until he luckily stumbles across the conspirator: Kurosawa films this sequence with claustrophobic intensity with Murakami diminished, like his chances, by the monolithic cabinets that store millions of photographs. This scene and his superior’s cold attitude also serves to reflect Japan’s failing, where the criminals are only judged by their actions: after all, they are only trying to survive this awful Depression.

Kurosawa also infuses the film with humor, especially the sequence when Murakami stalks the pickpocket throughout Tokyo until she is just too tired to elude him anymore. She finally offers him a beer (which he doesn’t drink because he’s “on the job”) and together they sit and stare at the stars. It is a wonderful sequence because she feels a connection with the young cop, and together they look skyward and see the heavenly beauty that is always present…if they only raise their eyes. But those lost in the gutter rarely have the power to lift their heads and dream. Like the opening credit sequence where a dog pants in the smothering heat, Kurosawa will match this shot at the film’s climax. This elliptical imagery describes their potent journey, Murakami and the gun-thief, and punctuates their spiritual brotherhood.

Another interesting chapter concerns Murakami’s undercover odyssey in search of a black market dealer. This ten-minute sequence of slow dissolves and fades, with action alternating from right to left, is a vast montage that creates atmosphere…but decelerates the story. Again, by chance, the protagonist finds the one dealer who knows the thief and “rented” him the gun. Kurosawa also only allows insight into Murakami as it relates to the criminal, sharing a past that is similar: they both had all their belongings stolen after returning from the war, and this act was the crossroads for both. The story doesn’t take us into the protagonist’s life; he always remains elusive, known only from his desperate and single-minded quest. To parallel this structure, we are introduced to his partner’s family and experience Shimura not as just a cop but a husband and father. Kurosawa also uses a suspenseful plot device in the form of seven bullets: the number in the Colt’s clip. Unless the criminal purchased more ammunition (the characters never mention this possibility) by the time of final confrontation we expect the clip to hold two more rounds.

Finally, Murakami must face the murderer mano-a-mano and thus fight himself, knowing that he doesn’t hate this man but truly hates what he has become. After all, Murakami realizes that this could have been himself if he had chosen another path. Gunshots interrupt the gentle musings of a Mozart Sonata and the two wrestle in the dirt and slime until they become physically identical, covered in filth. Then lying exhausted, panting in the morning heat they stare into the newborn sky and hear sounds of children, like blossoms in the sun…and a stray dog cries for his lost and tortured soul.

Final Grade: (A)

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL (Akira Kurosawa, 1944, Japan)

The indomitable spirit of Japanese culture is mirrored in the humble women of an optics factory: where one woman may die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not. Akira Kurosawa’s second film is wartime propaganda, a manipulative composition that utilizes cinema as political dramaturgy; it demands the authority of a documentary but subtly conceals a fictional structure, using wonderful actresses and filming in controlled environments where movement and lighting can be completely controlled. Though Kurosawa does not extol the Emperor’s divinity, he imbues the story with the need for physical sacrifice while not surrendering individuality: a theme that would become commonplace in his oeuvre.

The Matriarchal structure of the film empowers this group of women but more importantly, shows that their leader Watanabe is of equal value to the elder men who command the factory: her credo of “keep on trying and do your best” is not a hollow motto…but an intrinsic value that will be tested and overcome at great expense. The opening title cards proclaim death to Japan’s enemies, and he cuts to children standing in line as a godlike voice, full of electric sympathy and remorse, tells them that emergency production must begin immediately: the men must increase their output by 100% and the women by 50%. Watanabe is taken aback by the effrontery and insists that their ration be increased to 75%! The women push themselves to their limits, hiding sickness and injury, even carrying the burden of those who have difficulty making their own ration.

Kurosawa uses Riefenstahl inspired close-ups to show teamwork and camaraderie during the volleyball games, skewed angles and smiling faces, but always focuses his own optics upon the lovely and bold women, portraying them as human beings and not brainwashed subjugates. There is no coincidence in the use of a seemingly minor optics factory as the setting for the story: it both reminds the viewer of the camera’s lens but also as a metaphor for the eyes of Japan; eyes that must be perfectly focused upon the enemy to ensure victory.

In retrospect, the opening scenes become haunting like Resnais’ NIGHT AND FOG, the wooden factory and stark living quarters like an abattoir full of victims, exploited by murderous theocratic dogma. Kurosawa hones the use of transitional swipes and dissolves, to project a specific stopping point or show the passage of time: all elements that would become a hallmark of his technique. THE MOST BEAUTIFUL is Watanabe, who works past the point of human endurance so that her minor error does not jeopardize one soldier’s life: she lives by the very creed she preaches.

FINAL GRADE: (B-)

Korova Award Winners: Best Films of 2015!

1. SON OF SAUL (Laszlo Nemes, Hungary)

2. WHAT WE DO IN THE SHADOWS (Jemaine Clement & Taika Waititi, New Zealand)

3. A PIGEON SAT ON A BRANCH REFLECTING ON EXISTENCE (Roy Andersson, Sweden)

4. DIARY OF A TEENAGE GIRL (Marielle Heller, USA)

5. HARD TO BE A GOD (Aleksei German, Russia)

6. 45 YEARS (Andrew Haigh, UK)

7. SHAUN THE SHEEP (Mark Burton & Richard Starzak, UK)

8. VICTORIA (Sebastian Schipper, Germany)

9. SOUTHBOUND (Various, USA)

10. WILD TALES (Damian Szifron, Argentina)

THE CAR (Elliot Silverstein, 1977, USA)

"Oh great brothers of the night who rideth upon the hot winds of hell, who dwelleth in the Devil's lair; move and appear," –Anton Levay from The Satanic Bible

The film begins with a quote from Anton Levay which sets the tone for the demonic debacle to come. Then Leonard Rosenman’s score sends chills up the spine as he interpolates the Gregorian chant Dies Irae into a brooding electronic nightmare as a cloud of dust rises and crawls like a venomous snake in the distance. (Note: Stanley Kubrick must have watched this film as the score is evocative of his use of music in THE SHINING a few years later). As the head of the cloud races closer towards the camera we see a black car spewing dust from its rear wheels on this dirt road. It’s immediately obvious in the juxtaposition of music and image that this car is Evil, born from the desert mountains and now speeding towards its prey. Silverstein’s excellent use of cross-cutting builds suspense as the car closes in upon two teenagers biking down a mountain highway. As the young man and woman bike through an ominous tunnel the car closes in upon its victims and sheds first blood. It’s a wonderfully designed opening as Silverstein utilizes long shots to tight close-ups as the camera speeds along with the chase between metal and flesh. We also get some nice POV shots shot through a red filter from inside the car but we never see the driver…or if there even is a driver!

The entire film is competently directed and structured by Silverstein. Though the car’s origin or purpose is never explained we can assume it’s demonic from the opening quote from Anton Levay. The film zooms along because very little time is wasted on explanation; Silverstein gives us a few slower moments of character building that relate tangentially to the plot. James Brolin’s private interactions with his girlfriend are brilliant in their inanity as they relate like real people and not avatars of real people.  

The film suffers in its depiction of women. Though made in the late 70s the small town patriarchal attitudes haven’t evolved since World War II….or even the Civil War. Its only progressive woman, the girlfriend of the protagonist, is given a small measure of independence especially when she confronts the hellish car with expletives. Though these sticks and stones infuriate the venomous vehicle she stands safely on hallowed ground: however, she is soon mangled by steel and (Fire)stones! The film can be read as oppressive towards women’s rights; after all, look what happens to the one woman who is tougher than the men. The other female characters are the girlfriend of another sheriff whose loving presence helped him quite drinking (but these murders bring his addiction on full swing…or swig) and another as a victim of domestic violence who returns to the abuse. Importantly, the abusive husband is given a heroic characterization. The women are depicted as good people but submissive and the finale brings this into sharper focus.

The Evil Car (Evihicle ?) is forced off a cliff as the grand finale, the men banding together to celebrate their patriarchal victory. But it’s a pyric victory as the women are destroyed or relegated to background noise. As the Demonic spirit is released from the burning wreckage and rises angrily towards the sky (reminiscent of the Grasshopper entity in Hammer’s QUATERMASS & THE PIT!) we feel that Evil has been held at bay and “Good” won the day. But this would be a superficial and false realization. The subtle reality is that Evil has won merely by awakening the masochistic temperament of the abusive men who must band together…at the expense of the women. It seems the intent of the Demon was not to murder indiscriminately but to reinforce outdated social dogma. The destruction of the Demon is only spurious as the battle was already lost.

Final Grade: (B)  

SON OF SAUL (Laszlo Nemes, 2015, Hungary)

"Son of Saul is a fiction in many respects, but the fiction is the truth." – Claude Lanzmann

Saul Auslander has been reduced to a drone, a Sonderkammando who has become the hand of the Nazi killing machine, bled of his empathy, compassion… and hope.  But does he still retain his humanity?

Director Laszlo Nemes has crafted a masterpiece by pulling focus so tightly that we experience almost everything solely from one limited perspective which eschews all Holocaust tropes.  Nemes and his DP Matyas Erdely set the frame limits at Academy ratio 1:37:1 and forbid any establishing shots. There are very few medium long shots and when the camera pans left or right it quickly focuses once again upon Saul’s visage. The depth of field is so limited that we never quite focus upon obviously horrific events. Nemes refuses to exploit the Holocaust: there are no lingering close-ups of piles of bodies, overt crying and wailing victims or murdered children in red jackets. All of these things (sans red jacket) exist in this film but are rendered as routine and peripheral.

Nemes like his protégé Bela Tarr utilizes extreme long takes and a roving camera often following his protagonist from behind while walking or running. Erdely masterly frames everything in close-up to medium close-up even while Saul is in motion. And the entire film is in motion as Saul constantly moves and works, unable to stop for fear of being singled out for execution. As powerful as the imagery is (even the images we tangentially perceive) it’s the sound design that is the building block of the realism. Dozens of disparate languages and dialects haunt the film often without a visual source. Or the chugging of arriving trains or the ventilation system of the crematorium as it pumps out the fatal pesticide. Neither the crack of gunfire nor the rumbles of explosions are exaggerated and even the awful scene of flamethrowers burning victims alive has a subdued brittle realism. This is an anti-Hollywood film. This is an anti-SCHINDLER’S LIST film.

The film opens out-of-focus until a character (who we learn is our protagonist) walks towards the camera and stops in close-up. Without an establishing shot it’s chaotic and confusing and difficult to tell what is happening. This becomes the structure for the entire movie. But we soon understand that Saul is shepherding a new trainload of Jews to the crematorium. As he helps these confused victims undress and neatly hang up their clothes and organize their belongings, we begin to directly experience the cruelly efficient Nazi killing apparatus: most victims believe this to be a shower and are encouraged that they will come back out to retrieve their belongings. When the crematorium door is closed and the generators thump to life we don’t hear as much as feel the bulk of the dying victims crushing one another, pushing towards the door, climbing upon each other in a gruesome frenzy to survive. We only see Saul’s blank expression as he stands by the door waiting to pull out the corpses and load them onto the elevators towards the ovens. And here is the vilest evil of the Holocaust: in making the victims complicit in their own destruction.

Nemes refuse to condemn or judge Saul or any other Sonderkammando; he is only depicting the acts. He is humanizing the Jews in these “Special Units” without making any excuse for their behavior or allowing melodrama to intrude for an emotional reconciliation. Saul remains quite impassive and difficult to read. Nemes underscores this at the very beginning of the film (even before the opening shot) when the text states that the word Sonderkammando is a German word. This divorces their title from Jewish authority: that is, they are labelled by the Nazis and have become what they have been forced to do.

The plot of the film is beside the point. Saul discovers a boy who briefly survived the Zyklon B before being murdered by Joseph Mengele (who is never explicitly named). He believes that this dead boy is his son. He is driven by the need to bury this boy with a Jewish ceremony and keep it from the ovens. We wonder if it is indeed his son as other prisoners dispute this telling Saul he never had children. In the face of this seemingly unending tragedy we also become curious as to why this one act is so important to him. Saul’s search for a Rabbi drives the narrative but these motivations are not the focus of the film: Nemes wants us to see how this film is about the Holocaust not what happens (because we know what happens as we know what Saul’s fate must ultimately be). Nemes creates tension about a potential revolt and the need of a smuggled package but our expectations are once again subverted.

Saul is among a group of prisoners who escape the camp but are tracked down to a decaying barn in the middle of a forest. The group-speak promises to join the Polish Resistance and continue the fight against the Nazi tyranny but Saul is focused upon one thing: the ghostly child tentatively framed in the doorway. And in a striking departure the narrative exits Saul’s perspective and we follow the child running through the woods until he’s grabbed by German soldiers. Pushed aside, the child runs through the thick woods as gunshots echo in the distance. Saul has met his death with a sublime smile, his humanity somehow intact.

Final Grade: (A+)

 

 

SHOAH (Claude Lanzmann, 1985, France)

Claude Lanzmann records the testimony of survivors who walked through the valley of death at Chelmo, Treblinka, the notorious Auschwitz-Birkenau, and the Warsaw Ghetto: a violent chronicle captured in spoken words thus breathing life into history.

Lanzmann’s emotionally explosive exposition eschews historical film clips such as Resnais utilized in NIGHT AND FOG: piles of rotting corpses, mounds of hair, or the blackened ovens thick with human ash. These images are graven into the collective consciousness (at least, anyone with a conscience) and Lanzmann instead allows his subjects to add context, to tell their tale in their own words, to resurrect a past that must never be forgotten: for it is the curse of humanity that we forget. Lanzmann allows the stories to unfold slowly but he presses for testimony even when his subjects shy away from details, for these are the truths that must be revealed to future generations.

The camera often strays from the person speaking to depict the scene of the genocide as it appears at the time of filming, 30+ years after the crime. A peaceful clearing surrounded by sullen trees was once the sight of 400,00 deaths; a muddy road was once the cold steel rail towards a final destination of choking gas; or a small village of simple hard-working townsfolk who witnessed the deportation and execution of thousands of Jews. This brings the black and white past into the future and colors it red with the blood of innocents. One particular scene joins past and present as a Nazi document is being read as a voice-over; an order concerning the need to improve vehicle efficiency to include floor drains for easy cleanup after its “cargo” has been destroyed. The camera focuses upon a modern box truck thrumming through traffic and we see that it is the same German vehicle manufacturer: Sauer.

Lanzmann also secretly interviews a few Nazi perpetrators, old men who hide behind ignorance and who have grown to believe their own lies in order to allay guilt and remain human. One soldier was a guard at Treblinka and goes into detail about the working of the gas chambers and crematorium…but fails to take any responsibility though he was a factor in the Final Solution. Another was in charge of the railroad scheduling that took millions to their deaths by boxcar but claims no knowledge of the specific cargo, only that he was a paper-pusher. Though the facts are intriguing, it is what these men don’t say that weighs heavily upon the narrative and reveals the cancer that destroys their souls.

From the barber who cut the hair of women about to be executed to the Pole who sneaks into the Warsaw Ghetto and witnessed the inhuman atrocities, or the local elders who heard the screams while tilling their fields to the vehement Christians who still vomit their contempt of the “murderers of Christ”, Lanzmann has crafted a document of truth as remembered by those who survived: by telling he transcends the propaganda of the image.

Final Grade: (A+)

AU HASARD BALTHAZAR (Robert Bresson, 1966, France)

The wise little donkey Balthazar struggles through his innocuous life and becomes a saint among sinners, while Marie’s downfall is a stark contrast, her vice is her lifelessness. Director/writer Robert Bresson’s diminutive parable reaches epic proportions as his lens captures the ignoble origins of rural life and finally attains the majesty of salvation. 

The story begins with Marie adopting a foal she names Balthazar: she and her friends even baptize the baby donkey in a playful ritual. Marie and Balthazar form a bond of love, though both will be held in physical and emotional bondage for the remainder of their lives. The donkey accepts his hard existence but finds ways to subvert his captors, whether it’s by tipping a cart or breaking the bridle, braying and kicking, while Marie surrenders to her nowhere fate, always depending upon others and soon becomes victim to selfishness. Marie spurns the one boy who professes his passion and runs away with Gerard, the leather jacketed “bad boy” who uses her up…and casts her out like trash. 
Marie becomes addicted to the adrenaline of ecstasy, and wanders through a stormy night willing to sell her body for a warm bed. Her father is an egotistical man locked in his own world of pride and self-denial, unable to accept reality or offer forgiveness: Marie has learned well. 

Bresson captures the raw power of life force, the harmonic resonance that synchronizes living beings, whether they are Homo Sapiens or Equus Africanus Asinus. In one touching scene, the donkey escapes from a cruel taskmaster and finds its way to the manger where it once knew happiness, and Marie hears its cry and comes to his aid. We begin to see Balthazar as an intelligent and compassionate animal as he makes his way through the difficult terrain of his life, and he becomes blameless in his hardships…unlike Marie. Both fall by the sword and become portions for foxes, though Marie is offered a choice: her violent fate remains ambiguous while Balthazar has no chance at all. Finally, a tiny suffering life is shepherded from the mountaintops to the Elysium fields. 

Final Grade: (A+)