on savage shores (w. caroline dodds pennock)

Dodds Pennock’s book treads similar territory to The Dawn of Everything by David Graeber & David Wengrow, a more broad ranging book but one which also sought to reverse the mirror, examining indigenous American attitudes to Europe, as opposed to the other way round. Where The Dawn of Everything lent heavily on the interpreted perspective of the Wendat leader Kondiaronk, (also mentioned in this book), On Savage Shores seeks to harvest multiple indigenous points of view, noting that within a decade of Colombus having landed in the Americas, the cross-Atlantic peregrinations went two ways. The Native American visitors sometimes came as dignitaries and sometimes as servants or slaves. Dodds Pennock faces the age-old problem that so far, few written accounts of these visits to European shores have emerged. Where there is information, it tends to be cursory or viewed as a depiction of “the other”, even when the author’s take is sympathetic (cf Montaigne). Surprisingly Dodds Pennock doesn’t really tackle Caliban, and even more surprisingly to this reader, there appeared to be no reference to Garcilaso de la Vega. Nevertheless, Dodds Pennock assiduously mines the records and addendums to find traces of these early visitors, and the book is perhaps at its strongest when the author seeks to convey an idea of the way the indigenous people might have blended in to societies that were already more cosmopolitan than orthodox (school) history would tend to suggest. On Savage Shores does a great job of revealing the way that the Americas (for want of a better word) insinuated themselves into global culture, a process that involved both goods and people, although it could be said that the greatest riches of the Americas, their philosophies and cosmologies, have sadly struggled to make as much of an impact.

 

la notte (w&d antonioni, w. ennio flaiano, tonino guerra)

La Notte takes L’Avventura’s elaboration of mood (what they call clima over here) and welds it to a disciplined twenty four hour structure. Moreau and Mastroianni make for an impeccably charismatic troubled couple, as the film documents their marriage on the verge of collapse. Cinema in mid-century Italy embraced existential angst with a vigour that even the French can’t claim to match. The French fascination with the rules of form meant they were always more playful than their Italian neighbours, who seem to be perpetually chewing on the hollow bones of affluence. (Perhaps it is more than coincidence that the Godard film which feels closest in tone to the likes of Antonioni, Fellini et al was shot in Italy.) In La Notte, Antonioni pushes the ennui and angst towards a kind of perfection, a perfection which is conveyed through the cinematography and lighting, where every shot is another element in the couple’s exquisite decadence. It is at once claustrophobic, deadening and brilliant, as is the case of their marriage.

Unfortunately I was teaching on the night of the screening of LÉclisse, the third in this kind-of trilogy. But seeing the first two on consecutive days, you can see how the director had no choice but to gravitate towards colour and the fractal explosion at the end of Zabriskie Point. La Notte would appear to be pushing an aesthetic as far as it can go. Even if there was one more step, the end of this journey, the one he and his characters is on, is clearly nigh. The constrained concerns of the mid twentieth century cannot be masticated for much longer, no matter how beautiful they (and their avatars, Antonioni’s perfect actors) may be. People will soon stop wearing perfect suits, their hair will be a mess, the codes of civilisation will be challenged and overthrown, to an extent. The whole of late twentieth century thought is encapsulated in the films of Antonioni, leading to Jack Nicholson going awol on the edge of the world’s great desert. 

l’avventura (w&d antonioni, w. guerra, elio bartolini)

L’Avventura hinges on a brilliant moment of melodrama, which is also something so down to earth that the audience can readily connect with it, in spite of the fact that this is a film about wealthy socialites. A group of loose friends go on a day trip to an island in a yacht. One of their party, Ana, is in a troubled relationship with her fiancé, and disappears off the face of the earth. The group search the rocky, uninhabited island but Ana persists in her vanishing. Later there are reports of another boat in the area, and then reports of her having been seen on the Sicilian mainland. Her fiancé and friend, Sandro and Claudia, go in search of her, but there are tensions between them, which leads to the revelation of a secret which might explain Ana’s disappearance.

This story, which is echoed at the start of La Notte, is direct and straightforward in a film where so much is opaque and confusing. It gives a spine to the film’s 144 minute narrative, even if the second half of the film struggles to maintain the dramatic tension as the focus shifts to Sandro and Claudia’s relationship. As much as anything else, Antonioni is a master of mood. Scenes unfold gradually, allowing the tensions and conflicts to reveal themselves without ever needing to be underlined. The humorous character is later revealed to be heartless, the charmer is stripped bare by the end. There is a preoccupation with what we might now call toxic masculinity, but this is always crafted, never bludgeoned. This leads to the creation of what the textbooks might describe as 3-D characters, albeit the kind of 3-D characters that Anglo-Saxon moviemaking tends to shy away from: complex characters struggling with the simpler things of life like desire, faithfulness, the bricks and mortar of the (post-)Christian societies we inhabit. 

tierra de españa (d. joris ivens)

Ivens’ film is an unashamed propaganda piece for the Spanish republic during the Civil War. The film centres on a region to the East of Madrid and the capital itself. Of particular interest to this viewer were the scenes from the university city, where I stayed for a few cold weeks nearly twenty years ago, at what would have been the front line back in those days. Ivens’ film uses the voice of Hemingway as its narrator, and his magisterial tones suggest that despite all the difficulties, most significantly the German airforce, all will be well in the end. Of course, we know it wasn’t to be, and Ivens’ positive message turned out to be misleading. There is so much about a war we don’t know from the outside: why the republican cause faltered, what lead to eventual defeat. Was it due to strategic error; internal indiscipline, as Orwell suggests; the superior mercenary forces ranged against it, as the film suggests; or the will of the people, whatever that might be? Being a propaganda piece, Ivens’ film doesn’t offer much clarity on the subject, as its aim is to rally the troops. What did strike me, though, watching the film, double billed with Buñuel’s, is that this was such a key moment in history. The victory of the far right, a European far right, emboldened Hitler and his allies. The disinterest from the UK or the USA or other natural allies, and the mixed reaction of the USSR, suggested that an attitude of non-engagement was their priority. Where we in the UK are shown a heroic version of WW2, we are never confronted with the counter-narrative of the world as it might have been had that far right movement been confronted  earlier in the process, before it had the chance to become a messianic death cult. 

tierra sin pan (d. buñuel)

Buñuel’s early short film is a trip to a desolate corner of early 20th Spain, Las Hurdes, a mountainous region not that far from the Portuguese border. The film reveals a society steeped in poverty, which doesn’t look as though it has changed much since the Middle Ages or before. Children and adults go barefoot, the diet is impoverished, with the voiceover informing that very little grows in this region. The men go to seek work elsewhere, leaving the women to keep the villages alive. In a highly Buñuelesque touch, the film shows a donkey which has been attacked by bees and is on its last legs. At another point we are shown a sick baby and informed that it subsequently died three days after the filming. Coffins have to be carried across rivers, because the soil is too stony to dig. Everything is precarious and the similarities between standards of living in poorer areas of Latin America and Spain seem striking. Having said which I passed through Caceres, the nearest town, a few years ago, and the changes were remarkable: this is a society that has succeeded in more or less eliminating poverty, albeit at the cost of hollowing out the rural communities which Buñuel reveals in this 90 year old film.  

dead man (w&d jarmusch)

My friend, Mr P, has long lauded this film to me. I have seen stills and had it referenced many times. Somehow I had never got round to watching it. The screening in Cine Universitario, in the underwhelming Sala Chaplin, was 25 minutes late starting. I was almost tempted to give up. But I didn’t. And to be honest, I was quietly blown away by the lyrical beauty of Jarmusch’s elegant, oneiric movie. As is the case with the best of the auteur’s movies, very little actually happens. A few moments of violence, never overstated, punctuate William Blake’s journey to the other shore, which is where his spirit guide is leading him. Is Blake alive or dead? Does it matter? Perhaps he inhabits an in-between zone, that hazy space between the two supposedly separate states. The very fact that the viewer is compelled to muse upon these issues, rather than the more traditional fare of a western, is testament to the director’s transcendent vision, a vision which feels as though it might be rooted in traditions that pre-date the occidental worldview. 

l’été meurtrier (d. jean becker, w. sébastien japrisot)

Jean Becker is the son of Jacques Becker and the two of them were a spinal cord of French cinema for over half a century. The Beckers never achieved the level of global fame of the likes of the Nouvel Vague and subsequent directors like Audiard, Noe etcetera, although I remember Truffaut singing the father’s praises in his collection of reviews. L'Été meurtrier is a very gallic tale of revenge, featuring a femme fatale, (Isabelle Adjani), who spends most of the film wearing the skimpiest of outfits, and sets out to find the men who raped her mother, one of whom must be her father. In the course of her mission she seduces and then marries Alain, the son of one of the men she suspects, who is now dead. The tale is convoluted, and at over two hours long, relies heavily on the charms of Adjani to maintain interest. Perhaps the most intriguing element of the film is the way it looks at the legacy of the Second World War in provincial French culture, as the violent rape which is at the core of the film’s narrative happened in the wake of the war, at a more catastrophic moment in time than the charming village life of the late sixties which Eliane and Alain enjoy.

the five devils (w&d léa mysius, w. paul guilhaume)

Mysius’ film is superbly constructed, beautifully filmed and edited, with a great score and some phenomenal acting. All of which makes one wonder why one comes away from the film feeling slightly underwhelmed, no matter how enjoyable it might be. Vicky, played by Sally Dramé is a nine year old girl whose parents are going through a difficult patch and who happens to have psychic powers. Which is something she has in common with Julia, her aunt, who appears mysteriously in her life after a long unexplained absence. Julia and her dad, Jimmy are second generation, their parents coming from Senegal (where Jimmy was born, but not Julia). This perhaps ties Vicky & Julia’s psychic powers into some kind of African witchcraft trope, and indeed, Vicky is partial to creating concoctions which include ingredients such as dead crow. Sally Dramé is one of the best child actresses you will ever meet and more or less steals the show, as she gradually gets to the heart of the menage á trois which is her family origin story. As such, the film, in spite of its stranger elements (such as her mother, Joanne’s penchant for swimming in life-threateningly cold lakes, and a rhythmic gymnastic strand), is a fairly classical French relationship narrative, with antecedents such as Huis Clos or Dangerous Liaisons. Personally I was reminded of a film I remember loving called L’Apartement (Mimouni), which felt when I saw it like the apotheosis of French cool, and it might be that Le Cinque Diables will have a similar effect on a younger generation, rather than one of my jaundiced era. It’s a really well made film, but one has the sense of something stranger, less organised, trying to break out, which never quite manages to rupture the lake’s impervious but static beauty.

mccabe and mrs miller (w&d robert altman, w. brian mckay, edmund naughton)

There are a few Altman films I have always hoped to see on the big screen, and this is one of them. The anti-western western, by a master of the high Anglo-Saxon art of gentle satire. (The transformation of Gosforth Park into Downton Abbey represents everything that has gone wrong with Britain in the 21st century.) M&M is a typically baroque piece of work which opens with a lengthy, darkly lit sequence where Beatty’s McCabe visits a desultory tavern in a forlorn mining settlement which will one day become a thriving city. The sequence is shadowy, almost mysterious, as the locals ask themselves who this McCabe might be, mythologising him as a gunslinger (which he isn’t). It lasts for perhaps 15 minutes and sets out Altman’s stall to create immersive, confusing (as immersive procedures tend to be) and a novelistic kind of cinema, with Dickensian undertones. The narrative of M&M is underwhelming: Julie Christie’s opium smoking entrepreneur comes to town, in a strangely off-key sub-cockney performance, and goes into business with McCabe to set up the best whorehouse in town. The big players want to buy McCabe out, he arrogantly shrugs them off, with catastrophic albeit predictable results. The chemistry between Beatty and Christie, two luminous screen presences, never quite seems to flower and Christie’s role feels underwritten. The pacing is stately. Nevertheless, the world of the movie, this remote mountainous corner of the USA, is perfectly realised, and there’s an almost regal authority to Altman’s management of the grand set piece scenes, culminating in a final, glorious snow-bound shoot-out that is the equal of any Western that precedes it. This might not be his greatest movie, and the gender politics occasionally make one cringe, but, embossed with the hallmark of its humanist director, it is nevertheless a minor masterpiece. 

From Wikipedia:

Carpenters for the film were locals and young men from the United States, fleeing conscription into the Vietnam War; they were dressed in period costume and used tools of the period, so that they could go about their business in the background, while the plot advanced in the foreground.

opening night (w&d cassavetes)

Cassavetes’ baroque movie, once again placing his wife centre stage and riffing off their marriage, is one of the great theatre films. Once upon a time the worlds of theatre and film essentially overlapped, nourishing each other in a mutually beneficial feedback loop. Perhaps it can be said that this is still the case on Broadway and the West End, but, having worked in both mediums, the relationship feels more tenuous than it was back in the day. Cassavetes’ film describes the build up to an opening night in New York of a new play, staring Myrtle (Gena Rowlands) as the vampish lead who is well into middle age and scared of being defined as old. The part she has been contracted to perform is that of an ageing woman and she fights back against the writing and the role, as she goes through her own mid-life crisis. Ben Gazzara is the director trying to hold everything together. The film meanders and deviates and could be described as self-indulgent, were it not for the fact that this very self-indulgence is integral to the movie’s dynamic. In an early scene, Gazzara spends an age on the phone to Myrtle assuring her she is brilliant, in spite of the fact it is four int he morning and his wife wants to go to bed with him. Everyone loves Myrtle but they all know she’s a disaster area. The film is a remarkable study in stardom and its excesses, as well as what makes for the type of person who can become larger than life, both on stage and off it. In the closing sequence, Rowlands and Cassavetes are playing a couple on stage, within the play, but it is clear that they are riffing and improvising and basically making the whole thing up. The director, producer and writer can hardly bear to watch. But when the curtain goes down they are cheered to the skies. Cassavetes’ vision feels both deeply cynical and deeply honest: when you get to be *the star* anything you can do is untouchable and revered, even though Rowlands is blind drunk and making it up as she goes along. The scene goes on too long, it becomes self-indulgent, and anyone who has ever been inside a play and seen the actors start to take it over, will see this for the painful exercise it is, but that’s the whole point. The figure they applaud and deify is in all likelihood a liability, and a danger to themselves. The toxic industry of stardom is a bride stripped bare in Cassavetes’ tortured masterpiece. 

how to blow up a pipeline (andreas malm)

Perhaps the reason Malm’s text feels a tad underwhelming is because it is getting so much coverage right now. It doesn’t hurt having a film made, ostensibly of the same book, and I look forward to seeing it, because it’s hard to see how this slight and largely theoretical text would make a movie. The book’s killer title is an obvious selling point, but the book then tells us very little about how to actually go about blowing up anything. Rather, it’s a meditative discourse on the validity of violent (“terrorist”) actions in defence of a cause, in particular the cause of resisting ecocide. Referring to classic campaigns, assessing to what degree they were actually non-violent (Gandhi; MLK; the Suffragettes etc) and concluding that effective resistance cannot occur without an extremist wing being prepared to go beyond the dictates of the law, an action which contains an implicit violence against the status quo. Quite how that should manifest itself in concrete terms is something the book seems to shy away from, even as it refers to more recent acts of environmental resistance.