Las fantasías de Séverine (Catherine Deneuve) y la virtud mezcladas con la mancha del “pecado” del erotismo.

¿Es todo el film una fantasía imaginada por Severine o es la realidad?

Scratchings, scrapings, filings, movements, symmetries, births, miscarriages, dirt, ancients, forms, loves, desperations, whys, for-whats, whens, wets, crackles, callouses, dusts, tans, barriers, highs, flows, echoes, quiets, looks, blinds, hurts, forces, bends, times

An appropriate viewing considering the previous mind-barf on the nature of art: La Belle Noiseuse is a film that shouldn’t be categorized too quickly, since it is so much. In a way, it’s all in the title: “the beautiful nuisance/annoyance.” Very loosely based on a Balzac novel, was expecting something much more in the vein of melodrama, based on this present reading. Either that mode doesn’t apply to that novel, or Jacques Rivette made some significant changes in his adaptation. This is a film on the process of art, in a sense a lengthy pastiche of the labor (as in, giving-birth-to) of paintings. Rivette holds his camera on the sketch paper or canvass from the first abrasions of pen or brush on through the form taking full shape, most often giving little comparative screen time to the model inspiring the representation. The interior of the artist is on vivid display as the vision moves from subject to the new object. This is an anti-biopic, though rooted in a real history. Only five days are contained in the film, and they build a climax and an anticlimax to the end of the painter’s career. He proclaims his death a byproduct of his final masterpiece, a masterpiece that we never see on account of its unveiling of the souls of the artist and the model. It is hidden, walled up, but deliberately not destroyed. He commands the only one who knows its location, a child, never tell of it, even when he is gone. For what is it hidden, not destroyed?

A faux masterpiece is presented in the stead of the true one. It masquerades as the real and masks the image of the artist’s wife and former model, now erased, covered. The real piece is hidden, masked by brick, an ancient façade or façade of the ancient. The wife is too holy, the model is desacralized. Ten years of inactivity follow the artist’s inability to finish his masterwork, the beautiful nuisance that tortures him and is impossible to finish. A cold life in a chamber-filled castle with the woman he loves too much to paint replaces his creative life. Outside the chateau French insects creak, croak, and croon, adding an ambiance of anxiety, as if in the pangs of birth. Is there no music until the end? The “music” is rich and uncomfortably present, but the instruments are the painter’s, and the silence of the studio. Rivette is not the manipulator that his painter is, shaping, misshaping, forming, and malforming his object into contortions too perfect and imperfect. She is crucified throughout and he is the god who does more than allow it. A necessary evil? A microcosmic sadist? He is tortured at least as much as he tortures; she gives in by watching her recreated image; his torturing of her is incidental, not pleasured in.

The beautiful annoyance is not only within the film; it is the film. Discourse falters. Tropes, patterns, styles, themes – they are inadequate. This is not so much a “big” film as a wide one. How do you summarize a landscape? Photos of horizons are injustices. The event is too palpable, visual, earthy to be cluttered up by words, so why should one stoop to them to describe it?

Um Dia, Um Gato (Az Prijde Kocour, Vojtech Jasný)

Vidas Secas / Boca de Ouro (Nelson Pereira dos Santos)

Fugindo do Inferno (The Great Escape, John Sturges)

O Desprezo / Viver a Vida / O Pequeno Soldado (Le Mépris / Vivre Sa Vie / Le Petit Soldat, Jean-Luc Godard)

Charada (Charade, Stanley Donen)

Os Malditos / O Criado (The Damned / The Servant, Joseph Losey)

Paixões que Alucinam (Shock Corridor, Samuel Fuller)

O Chicote e o Corpo / As Três Máscaras do Terror / Olhos Diabólicos (La Frusta e il Corpo / I Tre Volti della Paura / La Ragazza che Sapeva Troppo, Mario Bava)

8½ (Federico Fellini)

A Casa é Escura (Khaneh Siah Ast, Forugh Farrokhzad)

Nota: Para manter viva esta série, agora não há mais anotações bobas, nem numeração, nem grau de importância pessoal, são só filmes que muito me apetecem por um motivo ou outro. Só não vale passar de 10.

Regia: Marco Ferreri

Interpreti: Andrea Ferreol, Marcello Mastroianni, Philippe Noiret, Michel Piccoli, Ugo Tognazzi

Paese: Francia – Spagna – Italia (1973)

Nelle età passate, prima che delle feste si perdesse il senso e il radicamento nell’ordine sociale, il carnevale costituiva una inversione dei ruoli gerarchici dentro una società in cui la disciplina dei ruoli corrispondeva spesso alla differente disponibilità del cibo. E il carnevale, non fino a molto tempo fa anche qui in Italia, era appunto una grande abbuffata in cui, soprattutto nei villaggi, i poveri, o gli ex poveri passati attraverso il miracolo economico, trascorrevano un’intera giornata mangiando. Lo stesso corpo di Carnevale nel mio paese di nascita, ed è questo uno dei miei ricordi d’infanzia più nitidi, era composto da dolci e salsicce che venivano lanciati alla folla al termine di una rappresentazione “sacra” e dissacrante al tempo stesso. Il cibo svolgeva una funzione salvifica e il suo accaparramento, la sua ingurgitazione fino al vomito, sprecava un giorno per salvare i secoli. L’opera culto di Ferreri è, al contrario, un carnevale privato di ogni funzione salvifica, senza Re o redentori, che coinvolge, in una progressione pantoclastica, i suoi protagonisti fino alla loro estinzione. L’inversione radicale, anarchica e per questo privata di ogni intenzione restauratrice, è la cifra attraverso cui questo film va letto per mantenerne intatto il significato radicale.

Lo schema di Ferreri è quello di mettere in scena per demolire, coinvolgendo nella sua decostruzione dei ruoli tanto le maschere del presente – i ruoli sociali che gli attori rappresentano nel film – tanto la stessa figura della maschera e dell’attore. Mastroianni, Piccoli, Tognazzi e Noiret nel film, non casualmente, mantengono i loro nomi propri e, soprattutto nel caso di Mastroianni, interpretano “caratteri” che suonano come l’esatta antitesi del “mito” che ognuno di loro si è costruito nella vita reale. Il grande seduttore diventa così un procacciatore di puttane, l’attore comico la più compiuta maschera drammatica, l’elegante Piccoli un produttore televisivo che soffre di aerofagia, l’eterno bambino Noiret un giudice in perenne e grottesca ricerca di una figura materna al cui seno attingere. Fatta eccezione per la forse eccessiva banalità del personaggio di Mastroianni, il gioco delle inversioni è perfetto e mette in luce il talento e la versatilità di un attore immenso come Ugo Tognazzi.

Attraverso questa inversione l’irriverenza di Ferreri si riversa contro lo stesso mezzo che l’artista utilizza al fine di metterne in evidenza e di irriderne la funzionalità a un sistema sociale qui impietosamente descritto. L’esatta corrispondenza di questa decostruzione la troviamo, poi, nella figura di Andrea Ferreol, grassa maestra elementare che elimina poco alla volta le ben più ordinate puttane “invitate” alla festa da Marcello (Mastroianni) e assiste al suicidio dei protagonisti accompagnandoli sia come madre che come amante. Un ruolo non casualmente doppio, quello della Ferreol, perché da un lato rappresenta l’elemento amorale che rispetta la libertà dei protagonisti anche in questa sua manifestazione estrema, ma dall’altro incarna la sanzione materna all’irragionevole assenza di limite della società borghese.

L’amoralità di Andrea dà dignità al personaggio, all’interno di un quadro grottesco che annulla la dignità degli altri protagonisti, ma la sua condiscendenza verso un suicidio metaforico di una società morta d’ingordigia, è d’altra parte il sintomo di una demolizione della figura sociale per eccellenza del mondo borghese, quella della madre. La madre è così il principio che precede alla dissoluzione piuttosto che alla generazione.

Infine lo spazio in cui si svolge il film, la Parigi degli anni ’70, costituisce l’ultima inversione, dal momento che Ferreri confina i suoi protagonisti e il loro crepuscolo dentro la città che più di ogni altra negli anni precedenti aveva rappresentato il simbolo della contestazione. Il regista va appunto a scovare, dentro la città, una isolata villa di campagna in cui si perde del tutto ogni rapporto tra l’uomo e quel mondo che il maggio francese pretendeva di rivoluzionare. In questo crepuscolo dove tutto ciò che appare si rivela la contrapposizione di sé, dominano infine tranci di carne senza padroni appesi a dei magri alberi come quadri finali di una civiltà che ha perso.

Gregorio Sorgonà

Parênteses: sobre a retomada do blog e minha participação nele

O cinema. As imagens que passam por nossos olhos e a reação que elas proporcionam no espectador. A crítica, a análise que parte de um entendedor, de um estudioso ou de um mero entusiasta. Mas o que importa são as imagens que passam, a tentativa de destrinchá-las em palavras e expressar a admiração pelo simples fato do cinema existir. Admirar, repensar, refletir, criticar. Cinema que não merece apenas rótulos, e sim experiências. Experiência de viver essas imagens.

Mais do que um exercício de crítica, penso em um exercício de reflexão, muitas vezes desapegado. A proposta é uma expansão do campo, seja do espectador interessado, seja de quem escreve. E a expansão a que um ser humano se abre merece crédito, a oportunidade de ser compartilhada. Muito mais do que uma postura insegura ou defensiva, a proposta é um apego à experiência de crescer perante o cinema. Crescer em qual direção for. E que o cinema faça com que a reflexão resulte em um desapego da palavra, uma vontade de ser surpreendido e a ambição de simplesmente não saber o que dizer sobre um filme, apenas senti-lo. Basicamente, pretendo me apegar à experiência do ver, refletir em textos e vivenciar a neófita cinefilia irrefreável.

Para reiniciar a participação nesse blog, escolhi um filme dos mais especiais para minha curta vida de cinéfilo. Não me aterei a comentar apenas o novo, o frisson do momento, e sim o que realmente me motivar a parar, pensar e escrever sobre. Mesmo que fuja do cinema em uma péssima partida de futsal ou um comercial de cigarros de gosto duvidoso.

O Desprezo, de Jean-Luc Godard

A trágica emoção, visceral, que vaza da película. A pureza da imagem, bela, meticulosa, pensada, mas tragicamente espontânea. A câmera que segue a emoção, que captura os elementos e absorve a estética plena do mundo. Um voto pela intensidade, pelo lírico, pelo cinema.

A introdução na qual a atriz caminha suavemente pela rua, acompanhada pela câmera que desliza pela grua, grosseira e artificial, introduzem a experiência do que é viver o cinema de dentro para fora. O convite ao espectador em dividir mentalmente o plano, e na sutileza imergir no que a câmera traz. Ser absorvido pela câmera, que focaliza de maneira dura e fria o espectador. O mundo irreal, onírico, mas pleno. O mundo no qual as emoções são sentidas, na qual o homem não tem medo do sentir e o cinema é apenas cinema, e não um objeto de estudo no balcão de laboratório sobre a mira de um frígido microscópio.

E a mulher. Mas não uma mulher regular, e sim uma deidade. Traz a perfeição estética desejada pelo homem, mas sem a lascívia, com um distanciamento contemplativo. A câmera apenas acompanha o corpo, belo e pleno, enquanto o homem se oferece. O quarto como reduto do belo, o homem como felizarda testemunha e a câmera como olhar do fraco presenciando uma epifania. Brigitte Bardot como mulher-desejo, perfeição divina. Perfeição incompreensível, imensurável, incapaz de um simples homem possuí-la como um todo. O homem como olhar, a mulher como emoção. A quebra na fluidez da imagem, adquirindo um tom azulado ou avermelhado, afastando a veracidade daquele momento. Eles estão, mas não estarão mais.

O casal em ruptura. O deslocar-se pelo apartamento enquanto discutem o amor que se esvai. O homem, dissimulado, fingindo que se importa. A mulher, intensa, voraz. O indescritível plano de um relance do antigo fervor no qual a mulher desliza a perna por entre as pernas do homem. A cumplicidade e o desejo que não existem mais.

A realização do cinema dentro do próprio cinema, baseado no que é considerado por muitos a obra que demarcou as possibilidades da literatura: Odisséia, de Homero. Fritz Lang como realizador fictício, como ele mesmo, como ponte com o próprio Godard. E Jack Palance como o produtor egocêntrico, desenfreado, maior que o próprio cinema. Michel Piccoli como o roteirista focado na sua própria arte, arte a qual está distante dos sentimentos, é fria e metódica, e na qual nunca acontece. E que entrega a própria mulher, no mais frio individualismo, no desapego de quem não sente as próprias emoções.

As locações na Ilha de Capri, Itália. Um olimpo terrestre. As pessoas, que se deslocam pela estranha arquitetura e o amor que acaba na fria entrega da mulher ao produtor. O homem que se desinteressa, trava, é vazio. E a realização do cinema. Os planos representando a encenação de Odisséia. A cabeça das estátuas perante o céu azul. Lirismo absoluto.

E o desfecho trágico, incompleto, porém pleno no cinema. O filme que talvez nunca seja finalizado, o roteirista que nunca acabará seu projeto, a mulher que nunca será desse mundo, a emoção que nunca será tão intensa. Tudo isso sendo levado pela monumental trilha sonora de Georges Delerue. Godard filma com uma intensidade voraz e é dessa força, pouco metódica e muito sensorial que surge esse filme magnífico.

Cinco primeiros minutos de O Desprezo

Três faixas da trilha composta por Georges Delerue – “Ouverture”, “Generique” e “Camille”

Les demoiselles de Rochefort, Jacques Demy’s 1967 musical, charms the viewer with bright (and I mean BRIGHT) costumes that recall the technicolor eye candy of Vincente Minelli’s musical classics, albeit updated to 1960s France.

However, Rochefort has a completely different feel than An American In Paris or Singin’ In The Rain. Many of the actors are neither trained dancers nor singers, as demonstrated by the lack of drawn-out dance numbers starring the likes of Catherine Deneuve or Michel Piccoli (although he does break out a few moves at the end, much to my enjoyment). Michel Legrand’s score differs from the traditional (as seen in previous Demy/Legrand collaborations, such as Les parapluies de Cherbourg),  but is nonetheless vibrant and memorable. Good luck in getting the twin’s theme song out of your head after watching this. Despite the catchiness and beauty of Legrand’s score and the star-power of the cast, the attributes I find myself recalling in Rochefort are the vivid colors popping up in every scene, from flowers to unnamed extras. This exquisite use of color is also present in Cherbourg, but in Rochefort, the sheer joy of color is not diluted by a bleak and hopeless plot. In the final scenes, the hues of the costumes are noticeably purposefully chosen by Demy. As the camera zooms out on lovers dancing together in twos, one observes the coordination of the clothes in each pair. It is here the union of love and color occurs, a union that Demy continued to celebrate throughout his career.

NOTE: The last few screencaps contain spoilers.

Director: Jacques Demy

Starring: Catherine Deneuve, Françoise Dorléac, Danielle Darrieux, Michel Piccoli, Gene Kelly, Jacques Perrin, Grover Dale, George Chakiris

Music: Michel Legrand

Costumes: Marie-Claude Fouquet, Jacqueline Moreau

Maxence (Jacques Perrin) and the lovely Josette (Genevieve Thenier)

The robes are volumnious and sheer, with a black leotard worn underneath.

Solange (Dorleac) and Monsieur Dame (Michel Piccoli)

The lovely Françoise died in an auto accident shortly before the British premiere of this film.

Gene Kelly once again plays An American In Paris (or Rochefort, to be exact).

“Won’t we look a bit like whores?”

Could these costumes perhaps be an homage to Cyd Charisse in Minelli’s The Band Wagon?

I hope you didn’t think Solange was not going to have a matching robe. Of course she does!

BUY (REGION 1)

BUY (REGION 2)

Yesterday I saw two movies: Inglorious Basterds (http://www.inglouriousbasterds-movie.com/) in the morning and the classic, Chinatown, at night  (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071315/).  Though the opening scene in Inglorious Basterds is as fine a scene as can be found in any recent film there was no comparison…but then there are few films that measure up to Chinatown when it comes to storytelling and acting.  Jack is nearly as beautiful as Faye Dunaway.  And Faye…well, what can be said about her?  In the eight years from 1967 to Chinatown’s release in 1974, she was in some great films. Bonnie and Clyde, followed immediately by the Thomas Crown Affair (the word luminous comes to mind for her ‘Vicky Anderson’) and Little Big Man.  Add on another 7 years and her resume shows Three Days of the Condor, Network, First Deadly Sin–the book is far more frightening–and speaking of ‘frightening’, Mommie Dearest.  Of course there are a bunch of clunkers mixed in as well but that isn’t a bad decade and a half.

I’ve seen some extraordinary movies this summer.

I can hear you now.  “Extraordinary!?”  “Is he talking about THIS summer?”  ”2009?”  “Where?”  The answers are Yes…yes…yes…and JBFC.  ”JBFC?”  The Jacob Burns Film Center in Pleasantville, New York.  Yes, I can, and do, take advantage of all the great movie theaters in NYC but at less than an hour from the city, Pleasantville is one of those pocket, bedroom communities that, from this outsider’s eye, lives up to its name…it seems like a very pleasant place.  But I don’t go there to sightsee or shop or to eat, though I’ve had some good meals at the diner two blocks from the theater.  No, Pleasantville means only one thing to me: Movies!  Great movies!

This summer alone they’ve had three film series of note.  Back in June, for nearly three weeks, there was the “Classic Italian Cinema” series that included such classics as: Amarcord, The Damned and Fellini’s Roma.  My favorite from that series was Marco Ferreri’s, Dillinger is Dead (Dillinger è morto), starring Michel Piccoli.  A very strange yet mesmerizing film.  It still haunts me.

In July there was The Meditative Life series. Unmistaken Child, Enlighten Up! and Silent Light were highlights for me. Unmistaken Child (http://www.unmistakenchild.com/)   so impressed me that this is part of what I wrote to friends that night after seeing it:

Les Demoiselles de Rochefort (Jacques Demy, 1967)

This film is the NFT’s current reprint du jour and I’d never seen it before, although I’ve enjoyed what I’ve previously seen of Jacques Demy. It was the follow-up to his biggest hit Les Parapluies de Cherbourg, and its reputation is essentially Parapluies-only-not-as-good. I can see what people mean but I’m not sure it’s altogether fair as the two have different objectives.

With Parapluies, the swelling music elevates a fairly mundane story (of first love dissolving in disappointment and rancour) to the stuff of tragedy. Demoiselles is a great deal more expensive, with more stars, and even better songs. Demy plays puppeteer with a cast of would-be lovers, finally pairing them all off in a happy ending, but self-consciously (and affectionately) sending up the sort of story that he’s telling. Think A Midsummer Night’s Dream and its countless imitators.

As you watch the film, it feels barely relevant that the script is far from rigorous, because the content is in the visuals and the music. It’s a beautiful, breezy summer and the sunshine really brings out the pastel colours of both this little seaside town and the gorgeous costumes. Catherine Deneuve and Francoise Dorléac’s twins are usually seen in matching outfits, one in yellow and one in pink. Gene Kelly’s pink polo shirt and lilac blazer, however, may over-egg the pudding a little.

Michel Legrand’s vivacious, jazzed-up soundtrack really steals the show. I have been humming the song which introduces the twins, ‘Nous sommes deux soeurs jumettes’, constantly in the 36 hours since I left the cinema. It’s one of those killer tunes that really puts a smile on your face (and it rhymes ‘érudites’ with ‘frites’).

But although this film is much lighter than Parapluies, the music still pulls off the feat of being simultaneously feelgood and heartbreaking. Even when it’s at its most boisterous and rousing, it’s tinged with real melancholy. The effect is that as we watch the characters drift in and out their amours, we sense that love is something which will inflict great pain and is nevertheless to be pursued at all costs. You swoon as you are punched in the stomach. A musician could probably explain why this is, I imagine it’s something to do with minor chords.

The opening credits rather advertise the artificiality of what we are about to see. A convoy of lorries and workers in white overalls are moving through grim-looking surroundings on the edge of town. Their lorries arrive on a platform at the edge of a river, and an enormous crane mechanism lifts the platform and carries it across. On the platform a group of youngsters perform a slow-motion, synchronised dance number. A birds’ eye view shot sees the crane lift them over the brown water.

As they enter town a convoy of soldiers are leaving on the same road. A panoramic view of the town square is filled with more dancing and high-kicks as the girls pair off with sailors. We have been planted into Demy World; and his films do indeed feel like a theme park. Not only are they musicals, but characters from one will reappear in another. Over dinner, a family discuss characters from Parapluies. We hear snatches of dialogue from passers-by.

A fair is coming to town and people are hanging up gaily coloured bunting. The camera surveys them, then enters an upper-storey window where Deneuve and Dorléac are concluding a ballet class for young girls. Then we get that fabulous song, in which the sisters express their longing to quit the small town for the bright lights of Paris.

In this day and age, one forgets how luminous Deneuve was in the mid-60s. Demy usually casts her as an ordinary girl with extraordinary beauty. Personally I prefer her in more twisted roles (Tristana, Replusion) but it’s each to their own. She and her real-life sister Dorléac have a yin-yang quality; the blonde and the brunette, the dancer and the pianist/composer. Dorléac’s beauty is less immediately striking (whose wouldn’t be?) and her character compensates by being cerebral where Deneuve is flighty. She died in a car crash shortly after filming finished.

The twins’ mother Yvonne is serving up the chips and beers in her café; a piece of prime real estate in the town square, a unit with glass walls and gold pillars. Josette the waitress helps out; Yvonne’s father sits in the corner and makes model aeroplanes, occasionally breaking off to bark that he needs more glue. We meet Etienne and Bill, who are running one of the fair stalls, and Maxence the sailor (a peroxide blonde Jacques Perrin), who describes himself as a ‘painter/poet’ and has been looking for his ‘feminine ideal’. When he enters the regulars ask, “Have you found her yet?”

As passers-by somersault along the streets, Deneuve interacts with them on the way to see her on-off boyfriend Guillaume, who runs an art gallery. He’s creating a Pollock-esuqe work by shooting at bags of paint dangling in front of a blank canvas. He shows her a portrait, a little like blue-period Picasso, which a local ‘painter-poet’ has submitted. It’s called ‘Feminine Ideal’ and it’s a perfect likeness of Deneuve. She is touched by it, he is disdainful. They quarrel and break up. Back at the café, the boys from the fair give us a swaggering song-and-dance number about how they love the freedom of life on the road.

The next location is the music shop of Simon Dame (played by a suede-suited Michel Piccoli as a gentle, bashful chap). It’s a celestial white with neo-classical pillars and instruments hanging from the ceiling. He sells some sheet music to a group of nuns before Dorléac pays a visit. Could M. Dame perhaps put in a good word when his friend, the famous American composer Andy Miller, arrives in Paris for his forthcoming concert? She plays him some of her latest concerto; strings and cymbals join in. It’s a dramatic, Romantic piece which moves Dame to confess that he has moved to Rochefort because he met the love of his life here. She ran off to Mexico with another man and he wants to live alone amongst his memories.

Dorléac is collecting her little brother Boubou from school. He throws a tantrum and her belongings are scattered to the floor. A handsome stranger (the beaming Gene Kelly) rushes to help her and as their eyes meet, her concerto is reprised. It’s the cheesiest thing you’ve ever seen and most of the audience roared with laughter. Dorléac is (understandably) embarrassed and rushes away, leaving Gene Kelly to express joy at his coup de foudre via the medium of dance. Though he has a mere bit part, Kelly’s improvised routines properly show up the other dancers. He rolls up her score and hits boys on the head with it, then spirals off down the road, lifting a Nureyevish leg over the water hydrants.

Etienne and Bill are in trouble; their dancers/on-off girlfriends are quitting the stall on the eve of the fair to run off with two sailors. They could never love the boys because they don’t have blue eyes (there is much discussion of the importance of blue eyes in this film). Their carefree song is reprised, this time delivered in unsmiling and bitter fashion.

Maxence chats to an old man called Dutrouz; he hates the military and foresees trouble (“it’s like ’39″). In Parapluies, Algeria hangs over everyone’s lives and is the catalyst that separates the lovers- here there are soldiers about, and commented on, but their purpose is much more vague and accepted. No trace of ‘68 in the air as there was in Godard’s films of the time. Yvonne sings of her lost love; she pretended she was moving to Mexico, and he left town for good. The reason? She couldn’t bear to have the silly name Madame Dame. Amusingly, Boubou is scolded for trying to dance on the tables.

The portrait of Deneuve fades into her face as Etienne and Bill pay a visit to the twins, who greet them sardonically as “Jules et Jim”. The girls are haughty but admit the boys, who ask if they might replace their dancers by performing a song on their stall. Needless to say, a torch song about virile Hamburg sailors does not go down well. In another song, they ask what sort of music the boys are looking for? Mozart, Stravinsky, Thelonious Monk, Louis Armstrong or Michel Legrand? (Cheeky!).

Things take an oddly Brechtian turn at the café as Yvonne reads the newspaper and sings a jaunty tune about an axe murderer who chopped up a woman and left her remains in a basket. Upbeat, strident jazz accompanies the pompiers‘ efforts to disperse the crowds and wash the bloodstains from the pavement. Later on, we learn that the killer was Dutrouz and the cast react with glib amusement. This segment jars a little and looks forward to the full-on weirdness of Peau d’Ane (my favourite Demy film).

The plot teases the lovers a little- Dorléac meets Maxence and Deneuve meets Gene Kelly. She’s been buying spectacular costumes for the fair (red sequinned dresses and elbow-length gloves), which characteristically, Dorleac worries “will make us look like whores”. Kelly visits Piccoli and tells him about his recent love-at-first-sight experience.

On the day of the fair the town square is packed. There are ballerinas and basketball players on the diverse stages. The crowd scenes are well handled, the camera moving from stage to stage and picking out things and people in the crowd on its way. The boys are in white denim and trying to flog motorbikes. Indeed, a number of the stalls are sponsored by well-known corporates, bringing to mind Parapluies’ climax at a Shell station. Is Demy saying something about the early stages of globalisation, or were these companies paying for the film to be made? Or a bit of both? 

The sisters’ song does, of course, go down a bomb. Afterwards, they are backstage with the boys and draw a curtain across to undress. The boys pounce upon this moment of vulnerability to make a hesitant declaration; we love you and we want to sleep with you. Drearily reminiscent of adolescent courtship. The sisters brush them off with a song about how useless men are, only ever wanting transient flings. Where is Mr. Right? The boys wander out to dance across an empty square, littered with balloons and streamers. They look a bit Saturday Night Fever in the white denim and black t-shirts.

The next morning comes the finale. The boys are giving the twins a lift to Paris. Yvonne meets Piccoli and Dorléac meets Andy Miller. Deneuve turns up to mind the café, in which Maxence has left his bag. Grandad calls her out the back and they miss each other by seconds. Josette wants to see Paris and takes Dorléac’s vacant place in the lorry. Guillaume tells Deneuve her painter has gone to Paris and she is determined to find him. Just as we think they’ll have to wait for a sequel, the final shot is of Maxence trying to hitch a ride on the road out of town. The lads stop their lorry to let him on. FIN.

The best way I can describe Les Demoiselles de Rochefort is as a great big gloopy dessert of a film, filled with fresh cream and runny caramel and chocolate sauce. You wouldn’t want it every night, but I savoured it and as the film hurtled to its conclusion I was genuinely crestfallen to realise it was ending, and that I was going to be banished into a monochrome world where there are no happy endings and nobody sings or tapdances down the street to the accompaniment of a fantastic jazz score.

The run at the NFT will continue til the 27th of August; I strongly recommend paying a visit and I think it would be a perfect film for one of those Dates you sometimes hear the Young People talking about.

Jardins en Automne (Otar Iosseliani, 2006)

A lucky dip from the selection at work. Its director is a Georgian and a dissident of communism who has worked in France since the early 1980s. He’s a disciple of Tati, with whom I’ve never got on, and they call this film surrealist. I’d say it’s more absurdist; the surreal elements are more in the gentle, teasing vein of 70s Bunuel than an attempt to declare war on conventional values. It started very well, then it lost me.

The film opens with death. Handmade artisan coffins are in various states of completion in a workshop-cum-showroom. The workmen greet a constant stream of old men walking in to browse the wares. Excuse me, is this one pine or oak? Three men spot a coffin at the same time, and fight over who should be allowed to buy it. A strong and funny beginning.

Next we meet our hero, Vincent (though it’s half an hour before we catch his name). A mild-mannered man in late middle age with a faint resemblance to Chirac, he appears to be a minor government minister. He gives a medal to a dwarf and cuts the ribbon to open a petting zoo, full of mooing cows and donkeys. In Africa, his jeep is surrounded by natives with spears and red robes. He exchanges gifts with the local chief, giving a rifle and receiving a toucan in a cage. The toucan’s bewildered, out-of-place look reminds us of Bunuel’s ostrich from The Phantom of Liberty.

Vincent’s strawberry-blonde mistress purchases a ostentatious grecian statue and has it delivered to their palatial grace-and-favour apartment. The camera roams through open-plan rooms which are so scattered with clothes rails, ornaments and bric-a-brac that they look like backstage at a pantomime theatre. She continues her singing lesson whilst showing the delivery men where to leave the statue. When Vincent arrives he tucks a few banknotes into the pianist’s blazer pocket.

A man arrives outside Vincent’s office for an appointment and is told to take a seat. A busy procession of administrators, cleaners, &c. cross the screen. Vincent’s phone continues to ring as the camera enters his office. He and his adviser are drinking wine, playing cards, and ignoring the phone. The office has huge chandeliers and gold-pannelled walls, plus that toucan. Eventually they place a map of Africa over the card game and sit at their desk to receive the guest. We think once more of The Phantom of Liberty- the surreptitious thrill of sneaking behind closed doors and seeing authority figures behave like naughty schoolboys.

The sound of a boisterous crowd can be heard from the streets. It grows gradually louder, to the apparent indifference of Vincent who strolls into the room off his office; full of gymnasium equipment. His mistress arrives, pours herself some wine and puts her feet up on his desk. A brief exchange reveals Vincent’s fatalistic outlook, one which makes him an unlikely government minister:

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Of course I mind it. But what can I do about it?”

Cut straight to the demonstration outside, which demonstrates that Vincent’s worldview is somewhat at odds with the world in which we live. We are given no explanation of what the strike is about or the extent of Vincent’s culpability, but a few officials arrive and give him a letter of resignation to sign, which he does with a shrug and good grace. As he leaves, his car is pelted with tomatoes. He leaves the office to his successor, a fat, toadish man with a surly face and a pet cheetah. His mistress leaves him for the bald, Capaldi-esque battleaxe who fired him; this is nicely conveyed as he turns up at the empty apartment to see the statue disappear in the back of a pick-up truck.

After half an hour of these excellent set-up scenes, I was settling in to watch an irreverent film of spot-on satire. But the film lost its way and bored me. Vincent readjusts to civilian life, is welcomed back by his old friends, and finds that life off the gravy train isn’t so bad at all. There are some great moments; Michel Piccoli plays Vincent’s mum, in a Widow Twankey costume, and is accepted by the entire cast as his mum. He has to ask her for his PIN codes, spare keys. Vincent’s old apartment has been taken over by an extended African family of squatters, who empty their bedpans onto his head as he stands in the street.

There are many convivial, communal meals between Vincent and his friends, who gently rib him (“We hear you’re a mere mortal again”). His estranged ex-wife is still on the scene and he meets a multitude of pretty young lovers with little effort. He takes up the piano and guitar. Two of his friends are Orthodox priests who throw boisterous all-night parties, and laugh in the face of neighbours who threaten to call the police. There’s another hour and a half of this and there really doesn’t need to be. Paris looks beautiful but I felt altogether disconnected, that the film had made its point and Vincent’s jolly life was drifting along aimlessly.

In the end it becomes circular. Vincent joins his old pal to work as a gardener. The rioters turn out yet again, Vincent’s successor is sacked and he sees the bald boss on a bus; suggesting a more thorough reshuffle this time around. The successor turns up at Vincent’s park in a daze. As his friends did for him, Vincent sits him down, hands him a cigarette and a hip flask, and reassures him that everything will be fine.

The DVD had a lengthy interview with the director, in which he confirmed that he belives democracy to be as ineffective as any other system. “The masses sack everyone, and vote in people who are even worse- but the masses never have to apologise to anyone”. He approved of Vincent’s belief that it’s futile to try to change anything, and that life should be lived in laziness and simple pleasures. He was at pains to play down the casting of Piccoli, saying that the casting of a star actor ruins a film (“Your film simply becomes a necklace for Catherine Deneuve”). Heigh ho.

Sono giovani e belli; lui, Pierre, è un affermato chirurgo innamorato del suo lavoro, lei Severine, è una donna elegante, affascinante. Pierre dedica troppo tempo al lavoro, così Severine inizia a fantasticare strani rapporti sadomasochistici. Un giorno capita per caso davanti alla casa di madame Anais, una maitresse che gestisce una casa d’appuntamenti. Severine, attratta inspiegabilmente da quel mondo così lontano dalla sua vita ordinaria, conosce Anais, ed entra a lavorare come squillo all’interno della casa.

Jean Sorel e Catherine Deneuve

Non ha bisogno di soldi, Severine; ma sembra in preda ad un autolesionistico bisogno di punirsi, così come sembra attratta dalla morbosità di quella che diventa ben presto una doppia vita. Bella di giorno, moglie affettuosa e compagna la sera e la notte. Un giorno però le cose cambiano; all’interno della casa d’ appuntamenti Severine conosce Marcel, un bel giovane dal passato e dal presente burrascoso. L’uomo si innamora di lei, e dopo aver appreso che la donna è sposata, cerca di convincerla ad andare a vivere con lui.

Ma Severine, in fondo, è attratta solo da quell’esperienza assolutamente anticonformista, e rifiuta le avance dell’uomo. Messa alle strette, decide di lasciare per sempre la casa di Madame Anais, Marcel non accetta le cose, e progetta ed esegue un attentato contro Pierre; l’uomo rimane gravemente ferito e menomato, mentre Marcel viene ucciso in uno scontro a fuoco. Sarà un amico di Pierre a rivelare a quest’ultimo la verità sulla moglie, dopo averla incontrata a casa di madame Anais. Luis Bunuel gira nel 1967 questo film incentrato sulla doppia personalità e sulla doppia vita di Severine, una donna all’apparenza frigida, e che si trasforma improvvisamente in una prostituta in un impeto di annullamento della propria personalità.

Usando i suoi grandi mezzi cinematografici, la sua capacità di scandagliare l’animo umano quasi fosse uno psicanalista e di saper poi proporre in immagini il risultato del suo lavoro, Bunuel elabora splendidamente un film sospeso a tratti tra il reale e l’immaginario, anche se non si addentra nelle motivazioni del comportamento della donna, lasciando evidentemente allo spettatore il compito di analizzare e metabolizzare il tutto. Grazie alla maiuscola prova della Deneuve, che sembra una vergine di ferro nella vita famigliare, mentre si trasforma in un essere ambiguo quando è nella casa d’appuntamenti , il film che come tutte le opere di Bunuel è estremamente descrittivo, scivola congruamente verso il finale, in parte inaspettato.

Ottime le prove di Francisco Rabal, Michel Piccoli, Geneviève Page, Georges Marchal,Jean Sorel, Pierre Clémenti, Françoise Fabian. Da segnalare sopratutto Jean Sorel nel ruolo di Pierre e il bello e dannato della situazione, Pierre Clementi. Premiato con il Leone d’oro a Venezia, circolò in versione edulcorata,priva della sequenza fondamentale in cui Severine rifiuta di fare la prima comunione, scena che avrebbe permesso agli spettatori di alzare un velo sulle motivazioni del comportamento della donna.

Bella di giorno, un film di Luis Buñuel. Con Catherine Deneuve, Francisco Rabal, Michel Piccoli, Geneviève Page, Georges Marchal.Jean Sorel, Pierre Clémenti, Françoise Fabian Titolo originale Belle de jour. Drammatico, durata 100 (105) min. – Francia 1967.

Grande Bouffe, La
★ / ★★★★

“La Grande Bouffe,” or “The Big Feast,” directed by Marco Ferreri, was such a huge disappointment for me because I’ve heard a lot of good things about it, especially from critics and bloggers that I look up to for recommendations. Since my expectations were a bit hyped up, while actually watching it, it was such a letdown because the characters that came from different backgrounds–a pilot (Marcello Mastroianni), a chef (Ugo Tognazzi), a judge (Philippe Noiret) and a television star (Michel Piccoli)–were so uninteresting for such an interesting premise. The four friends hired prostitutes and had orgies in a massive getaway mansion as they ate more food than they could digest in one sitting. Just when I thought that the story would evolve into something more, I felt like it actually tried to stay in one place and featured more images of sex and gluttony. Admittedly, I’m the kind of person that can endure watching pretty much all kinds of sexual acts but this film made me wince repeatedly. I’m not quite sure if that was the kind of reaction that the director had it mind or if it was supposed to be genuinely sensual or erotic. But since it’s a dark comedy, I’m guessing it’s the former so perhaps, in a way, it succeeded on that level. Morever, for having such a group of supposedly smart gentlemen, they sure acted like adolescent morons for most of the picture. I didn’t see any scenes where any of them offered some sort of insight that made me think of their situation (or any situation for that matter) any differently. I felt like writers just had this one idea of excess but never quite broken from that in order to reach the next level. (And for a picture that ran for more than two hours, there was absolutely no excuse for that.) I also did not appreciate the slapstick that involved scenes with flatulence and excrement. I’m not a big fan of slapstick in the first place because they tend to rub me the wrong way so this film became that much worse in my book. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the final scenes that revealed the fate of the four main characters felt completely forced and I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. It was a complete waste of my time and I almost wished I never saw it.

I admire Godard the visual artist. Now I just wish I could admire Godard the writer, or Godard the explorer of ideas. I like how Contempt begins, with Godard’s camera following an actress while a narrator reads aloud the opening credits, but that’s about as clever as his meta asides get. Jack Palance as an egomaniacal movie producer is cartoonish and unnecessary (when discussing the version of The Odyssey that he’s trying to get made, he says, “I like gods. I know how they feel!” while grinning gleefully with his hands locked together, like he’s Mr. Burns or something), and Fritz Lang as Fritz Lang doesn’t seem to serve any purpose other than to inspire the thought, “Fritz Lang made way better movies than Jean-Luc Godard.” But of course the heart of this cynical look at moviemaking, if it has one, is the troubled relationship between screenwriter Michel Piccoli and the stunning Brigitte Bardot. They’re certainly on the rocks, and Godard attempts to chronicle the disintegration of their relationship at the hands of The Odyssey’s production, but the film is so lacking in any kind of human emotion or feeling that it’s impossible to feel anything but detached and disconnected. This is a visually interesting movie, but also a cold and impersonal one. Plus it’s boring.

C

Vi segnalo l’intervista di Paolo d’Agostini a Nanni Moretti, su La Repubblica del 10 luglio.

Nell’annunciare il titolo del nuovo film, la cui sceneggiatura è in via di definizione, Moretti svela anche un progetto più politico:

Sto accumulando materiale di repertorio televisivo che poi monterò. Per raccontare le oscenità politiche e giornalistiche a cui ci siamo abituati, o di cui non ci siamo accorti. Si chiamerà È successo in Italia. È tanto che dico “bisognerebbe farlo”. Ho iniziato ad archiviare trasmissioni e telegiornali. È una cosa che tocca fare e la si fa…

La soglia del nostro stupore e della nostra reazione nei confronti di una catastrofe etica, istituzionale, umana, “culturale”, si è abbassata sempre di più, sempre di più… fino a scomparire sottoterra. Fino a considerare normale un orrendo spettacolo, che in un paese democratico tutto è tranne che normale. Con questo lavoro non voglio convincere nessuno, voglio semplicemente ricordare che questo schifo, di cui fa parte anche il conformismo e il servilismo di tanti giornalisti, è successo davvero. Da 15 anni 60 milioni di italiani sono ostaggio degli interessi di una sola persona. Un’umiliazione impensabile fino a poco tempo fa. Da parte della sinistra c’è stata un’incapacità totale di reagire e affermare la propria identità. Si è fatta aggredire e sbeffeggiare. È arretrata in continuazione…

Il resto lo trovate qui.

Der gute Freund hat es verstanden, die intellektuelle Diva unter uns, die auf Grund der letzthin gewählten Filme bereits den Verfall des cineastisch Niveaus beklagte, zu besänftigen und – zumindest was mich betrifft – wieder einen pädagogischen Aspekt in unseren dienstäglichen Filmabend einzubringen. Wir sahen Themroc, die Metamorphose vom “Fröhlichen Proletarier” zum steinzeitlichen Anarchisten.

Ich fand den Film faszinierend, wie er ohne echte Worte Sinn entstehen lässt, wie Bilder, Grunzen, Gesichtsausdrücke die Geschichte des im ewigen Alltagstrott gefangenen Arbeiters Themroc erzählen, der nach einer Standpauke durch den Chef den unsinnigen Job als Anstreicher verlässt, sein Zimmer zumauert, die Außenwand der Wohnung aufschlägt und zum triebhaften Höhlenmensch wird, dessen Anarchismus auch die Staatsgewalt nichts anhaben kann und der nach und nach immer mehr Nachahmer findet.

Allerdings fehlt mir der Mittelteil – meine Augen wollten nicht offen bleiben. Wegen der französischen Herkunft des Werks? Weil er zu sehr ein Spiegel seiner und nicht meiner Zeit ist? Oder bin ich einfach zu bequem geworden, mag dieses “Artyfarty”-Gedöns nicht mehr, sondern lieber “anspruchsvolle Unterhaltung”? Bin ich milde geworden oder faul? Beides?

Schon allein dafür liebe ich unseren Dienstag abend: für die Auseinandersetzung mit dem, was ich mir freiwillig immer weniger aussuchen würde.

P.S.: Der Widerstand gegen die Staatsgewalt kulminiert darin, dass zwei der Polizisten gebraten und verspeist werden. Die Vorgabe fürs nächste Mal: “Der Mensch lebt nicht vom Brot allein”. Kommentare dringend erwünscht.