stalingrad (vasily grossman, tr. robert & elizabeth chandler)

It’s taken a month to read Stalingrad. Which given the thematic, seems quite rapid. Vasily Grossman’s epic text is in many ways an anti-novel. It has no central character as such. Minor characters appear and take over the book for chapters at a time, then vanish, never to be heard from again. Split into three parts, it feels in the opening part as though this will be a classic Russian novel (with an acknowledged homage to Tolstoy), following the fate of a single Stalingrad family, the Shaposhnikovs, but as the book evolves, this central thread becomes more and more tenuous. Characters of apparent significance are despatched to Kazan, or death. This is a counter-intuitive methodology, which would go against all the tenets of the courses dedicated to the art of the novel. Yet there it stands, Stalingrad, a bastion, a monument, a living embodiment of sacrifice and struggle. Day by day, it feels, both in the reading of it and in the chronology of events, Grossman draws us into the looming conflict, which finally explodes in the third book.

Literature isn’t about character journey or narrative structure. It’s about capturing reality. So, Grossman will move from the frontline to a factory hundreds of miles away - where the weapons which permit the frontline to keep fighting are created. Or even, in one extended sequence, the coal mines from whence the power to keep the factories running is sourced. War is a chain of social interactions and commitments. To document its reality, the writer has to be prepared to dig down into the roots. Even the camels on the steppe and the fish in the rivers are affected by the hell that has been unleashed by Hitler, and the writer’s pen pays its dues to the beasts too.

The book, more than aware of its own significance, moves from scenes with peasant women to scenes with Hitler himself. The battle of Stalingrad signalled the beginning of the end of the fascist war of conquest, a war that would end in ignominious defeat. In the UK we are weaned on D-Day and Dunkirk as the great heroic events of the Second World War. Grossman explains with an almost clinical brilliance how it was at Stalingrad that the tide was turned. German soldiers idly speculate on taking India next. The riches that lie to be claimed in the Urals will continue to fuel their conquests. But a few brave soviet soldiers hold them back, fuelled, the writer argues, by a commitment to the communist cause and the sense of solidarity that the philosophy engenders, a solidarity that endows the resistance with the strength to defeat the geo-political odds. 

the misfits (d. john houston, w. arthur miller)

Whose film is this? It feels as though there are three separate animi for the movie, each pulling in their own direction. The film opens with some classic, droll MIllerian dialogue, as Monroe’s Roslyn is introduced. Miller wrote the script for his then-wife, and much of the opening sequence deals with the pains and pleasures of being, or being married to, America’s pin-up girl. The Rino sequence is light, almost frothy, with Monroe showing off her comedy chops. When the film moves out of the city, the tone changes. It becomes a meditation on the America west, reminiscent of the plays of Shepherd as much as Miller. There’s a metaphor at the heart which feels as though it might work better in the theatre than film, as Gable, Wallach and Clift go hunting for wild mustangs to make a buck. Nevertheless, the filming on the Nevada salt flats is visceral. Here it feels like Houston’s film, a vigorous tale of men and their values, the rights and wrongs of the American way, with an implicit critique of the men’s petty greed reminiscent of The Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Finally, of course, this is Marilyn’s film. She is the pivot around which everything revolves, the one who questions the men’s phallocentric vision of the world, the one who gets the big emotional moment, filmed curiously in the middle distance, as though Houston felt uncomfortable with her scene disrupting his high-octane hunting sequence.

All of which makes for an awkward, angular film, which struggles to fit in its variant, misfitting parts. Nevertheless in spite of the over-simplified, sentimental finale, it acts as a warped homage to warped dreams. The dream of the American west, the dream of the American beauty, the dream of the Miller-Monroe marriage. It’s not perfect, but then no marriage is. 

cabaret (d. bob fosse, w. joe masteroff, john van druten, christopher isherwood, jay allen)

Germany, interwar. So much of my reading and watching seems to return to these times. Whilst there is a personal connection to pre-war Berlin, it is also disconcerting the way in which interwar Germany seems to resemble contemporary western society. The culture wars and the xenophobia. The hankering for a strong leader which goes above and beyond a hankering for democracy. The societal petri dish which leads to fascism is always latent, but these days the ingredients feel more combustible than ever. Cabaret, the film of a musical inspired by a book written by Isherwood, who must have been jotting down notes in the clubs and beer gardens and parks he would have frequented, does a sterling job of capturing Berlin in the thirties. A heightened, musical Berlin with a shadow hanging over it. How many of these english speaking German characters would be dead a decade later? Would Fritz and Natalia manage to flee? Would Maximilian end up dead on the eastern front? It’s a curious film in so far as the fate of the lead protagonists, no matter the scrapes they get into, seem to have less jeopardy than that of the secondary characters. Minelli is barnstormingly brilliant. I once, in another life, saw her perform two nights in a row at the Royal Albert Hall. Presumably singing many of the songs from this film. What stays with me most, however, is how the two nights were carbon copies, even down to the supposed ad-libs. Minelli was a meticulous pro. That quest for perfection underscores her representation of Sally Bowles. She appears to capture her character’s comic timing and apparent chaos effortlessly - something that suggests there must have been a world of effort involved.  Fosse choreographs the whole film, not just the dance sequences. The editing is sharp to the point of jagged. The rollercoaster ride reflects the rollercoaster lives that everyone was living in those dangerous days, both exhilarating and ghosted by imminent terror. 

palo y hueso (w&d nicolás sarquís, w. raúl beceyro, juan josé saer)

Palo y Hueso (Stick and Bone) is a low-fi, casi nouvelle vague tale from rural Argentina. Besides being an intriguing film in its own right, it has the added kudos of being adapted from a story by the great Argentine novelist Saer, who is credited as co-writer. There’s something about harsh tales from the countryside which suit that a Chabrolian black and white aesthetic (thinking of Sanjines and Paolo Costa, among others.) Palo y Hueso tells a simple story of an older campesino, Don Arce, who ‘buys’ himself a fifteen year old wife. He also happens to have a good-looking twenty-something son, Domingo, who lives with him. It comes as no great surprise that Rosita is more interested in Domingo than Don Arce. One of the more surprising elements of the film is the way in which the agent of change turns out to be Rosita, rather than either of the men. Although she finds herself in a weak position, she emerges as a strong character, prepared to take charge of her life. The film is threaded through with images of the local culture and landscape. The riotous festivities of the local pueblo contrast with the emptiness of country life. All of it is captured by a camera which feels as though it is constantly probing the slim tale’s possibilities, employing depth of field in the manner of Bergman, another who enjoyed putting the passions and bleakness of rural life on screen. 

two prosecutors (w&d sergey loznitsa, w. georgy demidov)

Loznitsa’s film does everything one might expect of it, including the long, brooding takes. It’s interesting to review the narrative’s structure. Adapted from a novel by Demidov, the film is essentially four sequences. In the first the prosecutor, Kornev, played with a deadpan naivety by Alexander Kuznetsov, visits a prison where he interviews an elderly former tutor and prosecutor, who has been the victim of the Stalin’s regime’s abusive torture. The second brief sequence occurs when Kornev is in the train to Moscow, and falls asleep as a peasant relates a meeting with Lenin. The third sequence has Kornev heading for the office of the Soviet state’s head prosecutor, a man shrouded in bureaucratic menace. In the final sequence Kornev returns in the train accompanied by two ebullient characters who are not what they seem, even if this feels quietly predictable. There is a simplicity and straightforwardness to the storytelling which perhaps betrays an exaggerated straightforwardness towards the film’s material. If there is no doubt that Stalin was a monster, ultimately responsible for heinous crimes, there is nevertheless no attempt made to contextualise Kornev’s fateful journey. It emerges as a kind of fable of totalitarianism without in any way addressing its roots. The film has a clipped, efficient feel, where the only real note of humanity comes from two murderous agents of the state. 

carol (d todd haynes, w. phyllis nagy, patricia highsmith)

Carol is a polished adaptation of Highsmith’s novel, which feels as though it ticks all the boxes without ever catching fire. The film is set in similar territory to Haynes’ earlier Far From Heaven, but it has a more muted feel. Like the earlier film, it deals with the crossing of taboos in post-war USA; but the colours are less vibrant and the melodrama is toned down. There are no obvious flaws, but this might be a flaw in itself: in spite of the transgressive nature of the relationship between Blanchett’s Carol and Mara’s Therese, it never feels as though they are running the same kind of risks that Moore and Haysbert ran in FFH. This could be down to the adaptation of the source material, Highsmith’s novel. The film opens with a self-evident homage to Brief Encounter, (albeit this is later revealed to be a tricksy device), but where the almost unseemly desperation of Trevor Howard’s passion shines through and propels that movie onto a heightened emotional plane, Blanchett always seems to hold things together in a polished performance which might have benefited from being more unhinged. When she threatens someone with a gun, it never seems likely that the gun will go off.

 

love and anarchy (w&d lina wertmüller)

This was my first Wertmüller film. I had no real idea what to expect. However, it seems clear that she fits right in with a golden age of Italian cinema. Fellini, Bertolucci, Pasolini. Directors who are unafraid of making bold, sweeping films that mix the serious with the bawdy. Love and Anarchy is set in a Roman bordello, as the naive Tonino commits himself to assassinating Mussolini - with the film set long before the war, evidently with zero success. In the process he falls for Tripolina, one of the prostitutes, whilst being encouraged by Salome, another. Could a man make a film about a naive would-be assassin hanging out in a whorehouse? It seems debatable. But in Wertmüller’s eyes this place is one big raucous family, and her female characters are exuberant and powerful. Cinema has a curious way of reflecting national traits. With her over-the-top, sometimes operatic direction, this is a film that seems to capture the craziness of Roman life, in much the same way as Fellini did. Italian cinema has a love-hate relationship with realism, allowing it to push narrative boundaries and characterisation to an extreme edge. Nothing feels particularly believable, but it is all relentlessly entertaining, and somewhere within the beating heart of the story is a fragrant political message.

 

alpha (w&d julia ducournau)

The critics have not been overly kind to Alpha. It is indeed, a messy film, so full of ideas and concepts that they seem to overflow. There’s a pandemic storyline, as society becomes gripped by a disease which turns people to crumbling stone. There’s a junkie storyline, as Amin, played by Tahar Rahim, struggles with his addiction. There’s a double timeline, with teenage Alpha and young Alpha living side by side within the film’s framework. Gradually we piece together that the pandemic scenes, with Alpha’s heroic mother, Golshifteh Farahani, sporting a different hairdo, happened in young Alpha’s past. There’s a coming of age storyline, as Alpha, (Mélissa Boros) fights for her independence and tries to reconcile with the family ghosts. There are loose strands featuring the anglo-french actors Finnegan Oldfield and Emma Mackey, which feel as though they might even have been included to keep the financiers happy. Finally, there are some great moments where the director explores her Berber heritage, a heritage from which Alpha feels alienated. The red wind whose myth permeates the film clearly has a saharan origin. So there is a lot going on, probably far too much and even more so than with Titane, one feels that the director might benefit from working with a screenwriter…. But none of this means that Alpha makes for anything less than a fascinating, visceral ride. As ever with Ducournau, there’s a vigour and energy to the filmmaking which propels the film over the course of its two hours, no matter how many highways and byways it goes down. It’s not perfect, but then who is?

 

brief encounter (w&d david lean, w. noël coward, anthony havelock-allan, ronald neame)

When the lights came up in Montevideo’s Cinemateca, there was more one person who could be seen unashamedly in tears. How can a black and white, subtitled British film made in 1945 continue to exert such an effect? The answer is twofold. On the one hand it’s simple. This is one of the classic cinematic Ur-Love Stories. The account of the doomed love affair of Dr Alec Harvey and Laura Jesson represents a transcendent vision of that thing called romantic love upon which so much of our western dreamlife is predicated. Their love is uncomplicated, unconsummated, and clear as mountain stream. It is a kind of dream we are born and bred to share and when we witness this framed within the rectangle of the cinema screen, it has a potency that real life, with all its complications, struggles to emulate. On the other, this is a result of delicious artistry. From Lean’s opening shot, as the camera initially focuses on Stanley Holloway flirting with the station cafe manageress, before panning to the protagonists, the film exudes a delicacy blended with high passion. We are spies on this couple’s intimacy. Coward’s script is a thing of joy, blending reserve with those moments when the reserve breaks and Howard declares, with an unbridled simplicity, that he loves Laura. The violence of love is laid bare, the way it creates great joy, but an equal measure of sorrow. Somehow Coward manages to squeeze in a reference to Keats, the prince of romantic poetry. This violence would, of course, have had a heightened resonance at the time of the film’s release, a moment when so many relationships would have flowered briefly only to be torn apart by war. Of course there is something that feels inimically British in the way that the characters wrestle to keep their passions under control, but at the same time the film makes one think of another great unconsummated cinematic love story, Wong Kar Wai’s In The Mood for Love. The yearning of love, also known as the tugging of the heartstrings, is a universal emotion. Lean and Coward’s encapsulation of these emotions, delivered in the flesh by the sublime performances of Howard and Johnson, reverberates across the decades.

 

romería (w&d carla simón, w. neus pipó simón)

Simón’s auto-ficción tale of a young woman getting to know her deceased father’s lost family and their drug-running secrets evolves gently, punctuated by the revelations Marina gleans along the way. It’s careful pacing leads towards an oneiric, staged finale, which shifts away from the steady naturalism of the rest of the film, a naturalism exacerbated by the frequent use of Marina’s, an aspiring filmmaker, camcorder shots. Even if there is an underwater sequence in the dream sequence which matches an earlier underwater sequence when Marina dives into the Atlantic waters off the coast of Vigo. This artful use of imagery helps to give the tale added depth. In a way it feels reminiscent of the work of Mark Jenkin, just as the rugged Galician coastline, which features prominently, echoes the rugged Cornish coastline. Both directors have carved out their niche on the edge of conventional cinema, allowing their personal aesthetic and themes to percolate into films which pay little more than lip-service to conventional narrative models. Marina’s journey is a slow, roundabout trip, featuring Galician grannies and heroin nights. It’s a film with capas that accompany the viewer as they follow the footsteps of Marina, who is in turn walking in the footsteps of her lost parents.