I watch many films. So many it’s hard to blog about them all. On top of this, I’m writing my own film, “Sekrets in Lyfe.” (Misspelled on purpose.) But I was compelled to stop everything and write about the film Last Year at Marienbad.
I highly recommend this film, but not without a disclaimer. Alain Resnais Last Year at Marienbad is huge puzzle, one that requires a high level patience and a sharp eye for detail. For this is film was made for the eye and the ear. The plot is arguably incoherent. It could be love story, or a critique about memory—the possibilities are endless. And many say Resnais has left the meaning of the film open to the viewer. However, in terms for film making the film is amazing—I feel a must watch for aspiring photographers, cinematographers and set designers.
I was recently discussing with myself—of course—about the reasons people watch film. It’s a great question. Why do we devote time to the screen? Some sit down for nearly two hours to be entertained, or to escape reality, which IS NOT a bad thing. Others watch films to be challenged, or to make a discovery. I honestly say this film forced me to think differently; it forced me to think about what motivates us. I had to rewind and watch parts three times. The film can be confusing. But the ambiguities interest me, and the style in which the story was told is what I loved most. The film, for me, was purely visual—using camera movements and lightning to convey meaning.
Don't know why. But my moms rented this film for me and went to something for her job. Still puzzled till this day why she did. But I know one thing. It taught me what not to do! Caaaaaasper!
I’ve learned much from old appliances. On many occasions, a fuzzy television awoke my innate gift for engineering. Foil, paper clips, safety pins or the classic bent hanger, were my tools. I’ve even opened a T.V—I truly the believe manufactures, placing all those screws in the back, are a preventive measure. Maybe they expect you’ll give up, maybe that long process was a warning, giving time for the conscience to kick in. Whatever the intention, it couldn’t over shadow a trait, which either made me special or a glutton for punishment. Those green panels, with harden droppings of silver were calling, Fortunately (or unfortunately) for me. I’ve always been persistent.
Inside a metallic mesh, inanimate objects vibrated, releasing a burst of air. I clung to it. Like a venerated wise man, I sought a wooden console—really a flimsy wood coated with in adhesive paper. The speakers opened like barn doors, revealing shelves. It wasn’t always mine. The console was once off limits. Around 1995, my mothers friend, sold her Sony five compact disc changer, retiring the console, with the old tape deck stereo, to my room. It stood about three feet, making the final resting place for my thirteen-inch television and VCR—the tandem united.
I loved that stereo. It was perfect. It had two tape decks. The two speakers would open, like a hustler opening the flaps of his coat, and my index finger would scroll the sides of plastic boxes. I loved the tandem, not for what they were but for what they could provide. The needle, reading the metallic strip, produced my escape. No exaggeration. As the machines would break, I would operate: a hanger to fish out small pieces, a pair of pliers to turn up the sound, a pair of scissors to cut wire, a butter knife to pull out a stubborn VHS. I went through one obstacle, the machine, to find another. Ironically, the wires sending electrical signals, for me, became a conduit.
The art form is pleasing; yet the eyes distort. The ears can take in sounds, creating the most vivid images. When the eyes are closed, listening, one is internalizing, and the effects are life altering. The white or black suburban boy is now gangster or more street—something I can identity with. I would speak of music, film, television, and its effect on the actual street dweller, but I don’t know personally. However, I believe a person is more likely to internalize fantasy or a distorted reality before items closely related to the world they see.
As for my beloved appliances, which link me to my beloved content, they’ve taught me the strongest lesson. Though these inanimate objects never reproached my gluttony for their individual genius, I can’t blame them for their effect. The film KIDS and my present day Freudian slips about, about Latin women talking widely about sex, all point to my young mind, insisting that my thumb was justified in its repeated use of the rewind button.
Dodes-ka-den was Arika kurosawa’s film to revive his career. Prior to Dodes-ka-den, Kurosawa, was slated to direct an Epic film, Runaway Train, with American producers; do to complication with him and the production company, the project was scraped. He was slated to direct the Japanese actors in the film TORA TORA TORA, but do to differences; he was removed from the project. Five years had passed. Kurosawa hadn’t made a film. To prove his worth as a filmmaker, Kurosawa formed a band called the white knights to make Dodes-ka-den. The film had to be successful, win over critics, and grab international acclaim. To add more pressure, Dodes-ka-den was Kurosawa’s inaugural effort in color filmmaking. According to film “historians,” after the Dodes-ka-den was released in 1970 it was not well received. However, the film was nominated for an academy award. Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooookaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
With the intro out the way, I like to say forget critics. My favorite comedian Richard Pryor said, “No one ever grows up wanting to be a critic.” I’m no cheerleader, but I have respect for man’s passion, for a person who performs with his or her heart and soul . Dodes-ka-den had themes centering on the human heart: delving into the quality of a person, the experiences that govern our choices, and ones philosophy or outlook on life.
In man or woman’s lifetime, they give others hell, and receive it just as equally. But the amazing quality about humans, we endure. All these elements are wrapped around a brilliant use of color. Vivid, striking and at times exaggerated, the colors in the film make Dodes-ka-den a joy to watch. But use of color does not overshadow the story. Dodes-ka-den opens with a young boy who is mentally ill, a boy who’s called the Train freak; he drives an imaginary trolly car through out a slum outside Tokyo. With his foot and his imaginary pedal, he takes us into the slum, chanting Dodes-ka-den, Dodes-ka-den, which seems to be the Japanese equivalent to Chug-a-Chug-a-Chug-a.
We encounter stories, told in episodic fashion, or like a cluster of vignettes. There is no identifiable plot. However, I feel Dodes-ka-den naturally is an entertaining film. The only thing that bothered me was the ending. I wanted to know the fate of the films most despicable character. However, the strongest parts are the scenes that contain real emotion. Overall, I enjoyed this film. Lately, I've been going on a Kurosawa binge. I have a few more of his films on deck. Next up, KAN and Yojimbo.
My first Tribeca Film Festival! It was a lot of fun. The tickets sell fast. So, I just saw the first thing available. The big dog Alex Acosta always talked about making a Mockumentary, and that was my main in influence for choosing this film over some other film about vampires--or something crazy like that. I got lucky. The film was awesome. I seem to have liking for films where directors play themselves, making a film about the process of making a film, or in this case the hardships of being a female actress.
It was definitely a great experience. I'm proud of myself having the guts to venture to New York City, to be around what I love most. It was a year of trying times, maybe I should make a mockumentary about college grads giving everything up to peruse film. Note to self.
On a social networking site, a film connoisseur expressed his love for the film Crash. Crash was great a film. But it’s my hunch, the lifeblood of Crash traces back to the author Raymond Caver—a poet and writer of short stories. Craver’s work, famous for dealing with his marriage, his children and struggle with alcoholism, influenced Robert Altman to write the film Short Cuts, which debuted in 1993.
Both Crash and Short Cuts are great films. Though the similarities are obvious: both films are set in Los Angeles; both films cut between a series of people linked together; both films have a police officer who abuses his power; both films have a couple on the rocks; and both films even have small child that brushes with death.
The exception? Short Cuts is no where near conventional or adheres to the standards that well with American audiences.
The police officer in Short Cuts never has the chance to redeem his transgressions, the couple in Short Cuts never truly makes up, and unlike the little girl who leaped into her fathers arms in Crash, the boy in Short Cuts, accidentally hit by a car, dies.
To me, the themes of both these movies deal with our imperfect world, were nothing is flawless, and we continuously crash into each other.BUT FOR ME, Short Cut’s provides of more a challenge. There is no easy way out. The story doesn’t allow one to feel good in the end. Often, unfortunately, life is the same way.
Personally, I would love to see more challenging stories with black and Latino issues. NOT TO SAY CRASH WASN’T A CHALLENGE, I ENJOYED THE MOVIE! I could sense the Hollywood in film. I would love to see a candid scene, not necessarily a woman standing nude, like in Short Cuts, but scenes of minorities in their natural element, unvarnished—the very element that minorities unnecessarily feel a shame of: like black women walking about side with rollers in their hair. That's one aspect that I admired about Short Cuts, the blue collared characters in the film were relatable. Why can’t can we see blue-collar minority characters?
Is it because minorities have been so inflicted with racism, the belief that one race is superior to another? We strive for a portrayal that’s always free from any shade negativity, furthermore, feeling the need to prove ourselves: we’re just as intelligent, we have class. I feel the most important thing, in terms of art, is to know thy self, to appreciate the positivity and face the negativity, ultimately diving deeper into ones flaws.
What I find interesting about Short Cut’s is the film is obscure. Altman was nominated for Academy Award for Best Director in 1993, but he and his film Short Cuts lost to Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List. Since then, it’s been a film of mystery. I encourage anyone who wants to see a different style of story telling to pick it up—if there’s a cool enough video store in your area that carries the film. If not, I believe the whole film is on youtube. Ahh Good old youtube.
He started with neo realism in the 1940’s. In the 60s and 70s, his films would mold into his signature style: one of dream like states told in an episodic fashion. In his second to last film, Intervista, 1987, Federico Fellini looks back. Much like his earlier film 8 ½, Intervista, gives a back stage pass to the film making process.
However, this time Fellini stars as him self. A trio of Japanese journalist, shooting a documentary, follows Fellini, asking him questions while live on set. The journalists learn Fellini is directing an adaptation of Franz Kafka’s Amerika—the story based on Fellini’s first visit to a movie studio called The Cinecitta.
The story line cuts intermittently between the trio following Fellini and his crew, as they face the obstacles of filmmaking, and the story of young Fellini’s first day at The Cinecitta. Younger Fellini, played by Sergio Rubini, hops on a bus, heading to the movie studio. Humorously, the older and wiser Fellini watches Rubini traverse the world of his distant past.
Cameramen angle their lenses through the windows; the bus picks up speed, and the story begins, as if the cameras where never there. When wild elephants and Native American’s spring from the Italian countryside, it’s apparent: we’re watching a Fellini Film. As a habit, while viewing Fellini’s films, I watch for symbols, representing America. (Reading or understanding Kafka’s play may prove handy in understanding this film.) Most of his films seem like an inside joke or arcane knowledge about the filmmaker. Intervista is rich in references to Fellini’s career, and fans of Fellini are definitely in for a surprise.
Many consider Intervisita to be Fellini's late masterpiece.I honestly don’t know the criteria for this honor, or do I fully understand the significance of this film—I was two years old when it debuted. Still I think Intervista is wonderful closure to a life of film making. It is a celebration of the craft and the energy placed into a successful production. Fellini acknowledged everyone that contributes to production's success: the actors, the crew, and the cinematographer. I especially enjoyed seeing the lighting equipment. Though, I understand the importance of light, seeing this large-scale production, and the massive lights used for an entire dark street, put my rinky dink projects in perspective. I dare not ruin this film, but it’s must watch for people interested in film making and fans of Fellini.
The classic structure of exposition, climax and resolution is staple for storytelling; though when challenged with the abandonment of logic and reasoning, the viewer is in for interesting film. And "The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie," is with out doubt no exception to this rule; it opens the door for the arbitrary, the contradictory, the outrageously offensive, and the controversial—everything that makes great satire. This satiric story teases the viewer, as if telling a joke and hording the punch line. With obvious exaggerations in the story, it's apparent the Director, Luis Bunuel, is providing a riddle that's almost impossible to crack.
Bunuel, a Spanish director,creates a world that has roots to surrealism: dialogue, is mysteriously shadowed by harsh sounds, and dream sequences begin with out warning—the events all bizarre and impossible in our reality make perfect sense to bourgeoisie in the film; their precarious life style of drug trafficking, sex, expensive cuisine and rubbing elbows with politicians is apart of being high class; a life style opening the door for contradiction.
The story follows a group of bourgeoisie and the their acquaintance Don Rafael Acosta, ambassador of the fictional country Miranda—which the story alludes is some where in South America. Rafael is a drug trafficker with a pesky assassin from Miranda on his tail. His coterie of high class makes the attempt to sit down for dinner, lunch and tea, yet their plans are foiled every time. And with every spoiled meeting, they seem become more acceptant of these odd disturbances.
Hilariously, this group of individuals, schooled in propriety, is anything but genuine and refined: the hostess for the gatherings decides to keep her guest waiting in order to have sex. Because of the long wait, her guests leave in fear of being raided by the police.
Being from a middle class background, I watched the ambiguity with a smile. Old clichés, over used yet rarely incorporated in daily life, come to mind: There’s two sides to every story, and everything that glitters isn't gold. The Bourgeoisie were very rich and very flawed. Oddly, every where on Earth, practices of the lower class are written off as inferior: sipping a martini as opposed to gulping it down takes precedence over tolerance and acceptance. And if viewed carefully, I feel Bunuel’s stretches his themes towards the U.S.
Rafael, an ambassador, candidly mentioning the arrest of a U.S Ambassador for drug trafficking was a red flag. A Cadillac, a tank in the streets of Paris, for me was another. I’ve watched this film twice, and I’m sure it will take a few more sittings to absorb as much from this film as I can. I honestly feel the bizarre elements in this form of expression are not to be wholly understood. And many other elements are strictly for the filmmaker’s personal satisfaction. I see this film as an invitation into some one’s worldview. Fortunately for Bunuel he was free from constraint, free from the usual shape and aesthetic viewers become accustomed to,ultimately,in the end,carving his imagination as he saw fit.
I always speak of serendipity. An unexpected lesson, falling in your lap, is a prized possession. I found Rene Laloux’s “Fantastic Planet” sifting through the shelves at Brandon Florida’s Regional Library. I selected the title because the box looked cool—being honest. But the day after my viewing this gorgeous piece of anime, its themes of knowledge and survival would take root.
Unexpectedly, My brother called, and we stumbled in to friendly but intense argument relevant to “Fantastic Planet.” With his request, I played the intro to Dead Prez’s album “Let’s get Free.” (Don’t Start) A strong voice spoke of a wolf, lured and caught by a knife lodged into a block of ice. After continuously licking the blade, the wolf, attempting to fill his hunger, dies from his insatiable taste for blood. My brothers argument was interesting: Because some men, like the wolf, are caught in the moment, living for Today’s hunger, and because they're faced with feeding a family or themselves, this person can not be told there is a better means for survival, simply because this individual is absorbed by what they feel is the right choice.
I didn’t agree. However, in many ways, I later killed my own argument. I mentioned the freedom of knowledge. As in the film “Fantastic Planet,” the domesticated humans were only set free with the understanding of the Draag's Alien language and knowledge of their science.
“There is a better way, I professed.” They're so many routes a person can take beside drugs.”
I also added, that African-American’s experienced slavery, reconstruction and Jim Crow, and didn’t resort to killing and drugs. He agreed. However, he countered with the variables that flourish in an ever-changing world: technology and the sensationalism of material. He asserts, African Americans, in latter time periods didn’t worry about cars and flashy material, it didn’t exist. I agree with this. I feel previous generations, had they been exposed to modern day perils of cars and money, they too, speaking generally, would have taken to the same rusty blade lodged in the block of ice.
The killer of my argument was my mentioning Malcolm X. “Think about Malcolm, I said. He would also agree there is a better way. But I quickly paused. For I know as well as any one else, after researching one of the most interesting men of twentieth century, no one could have told Malcolm little what to do during his time of the streets. To learn a lesson, Malcolm had to hit rock bottom. I looked at my own life. I had never been street person but this doctrine held true. I have said in the past, its easy for privileged people, like myself write off someone egregiously—yet done so subconsciously—tearing down a man or woman's choices without understanding their motivation. I can feel people sneering at this statement. But can you only take credit for a your positive influences.
Furthermore, can you call a person a "Star?" (Something capable of creating its own light) Though, I still feel knowledge is freedom. What does it take to give a man the “sober mind?” Can a man find his lane before prison or even worst death? I had disagreed with my brother’s argument, but had been agreeing with it all along. And I’ve reaffirmed my stance: I can’t judge a man; rather I must take the time to understand him. As for the freedom of the human race, I wish I knew the best course of action.
Obtaining these “quixotic” ideals is nothing like in the movies. However this Sci-Fi classic offers a wonderful solution: To be free, one must arm his self with knowledge. However, I love how the story opens the door for intelligent creatures need for superiority. Maybe this is just my interpretation, but there's a subtle scene that had me—the hugest advocate for brotherhood—watching with a sardonic smile.
This is my Great Uncle Huge Walton. He fought in WWII and he survived. My mother told me he owned a location used for the film Coley High. I will have to check for the exact name, but I believe a Walton will have a street named after him in Chicago.
Picture a curvy and enticing middle age Italian woman inviting your hands to rome freely, it’s a fifteen year old boy's dream come true.If Federico Fellini’s childhood was anything close to his film Amarcord, in my book, he was lucky kid. Not just for the character Grandisca, the curvy Italian beauty, but for the unique experiences. However, in terms of memory my brother recently told me: we tend to forget the bad things. In Amarcord, Fellini’s coined term which translates, I remember, he rehashes the joy being young and the pain stemming from our unforgiving world. Many say the film is autobiographical. However, Fellini contends he’s created a world, dreamlike and artificial. Though, his childhood friend appears in the film, I also believe Amarcord deals with the memory and they way we’ve imagined our past. Oddly—maybe a bad word choice—I remember my kindergarten teacher, bending before me, revealing her breast coated with freckles. Most women neal down, back perpendicular to the ground, or cover their cleavage. But this woman, who noticed me looking, didn’t cover anything and I remember fighting with my eyes, slowly losing the battle--if you wondering why I'm rehashing this story see the film. Why these memories stay with us is one thing, but the way we recall our crazy childhood or any time period, in my opinion, is the psychological equivalent to the bodies use of endorphins. We heal the pain of memory with a veneer. The lie is good. I love filmmakers who aren’t afraid to ascend into their closet of skeletons. These types of films offer a challenge. With my hand covering my nose and mouth, I open a door to my past daily. An event sticking out in my mind is my grandmother’s funeral—I was five years old. I hate my self for saying it, but I looked at my mother and said: It wasn’t so sad mom. I didn’t cry. I would love to go back and smack myself, for being young and stupid. Yes. My silly mouth would get me into trouble, especially with women, for years. Which is why, my watching of Fellini's exaggerated yet objective tales of Fascism, and the confrontation with family members, for me, was inspiring. For an introduction into Fellini's world, where his characters seem like metaphors, you should read his essay Mi Rimini. The stories in the essay are told in the same episodic fashion as Amarcord,however with out question the essay is an example of an idea on paper materializing on screen. As a aspiring Filmmaker, the film Amarcord, in terms of honesty and innocence, is the direction I hope to take some day. Lately, I've been opening the can of worms that is my childhood. : ) So far it's been pleasant, the 1990's were fun and I was very silly boy then, it's my college years that scare me.
Like all of Andrei Tarkovsky films, the Stalker is a spiritual journey. Amazingly,Tarkovsky, a Russian Filmmaker, deals with spirituality, knowing censors are waiting to cut out his disagreeable themes on politics and nuclear weapons--yet some way The Stalker is released, and seemingly with full creative control. Judging by the content, this film is definitely risky, dealing with nuclear weapons years before stepping into a cold war. While watching the film, I couldn't help thinking about the reaction of the Russian censors--the film must have been challenging for them to watch. And with out doubt, I'm sure The Stalker will be a hard film for the impatient. But for me,The Stalker extends a hand to the viewer in special way—to watch this film is to partake and become a piece in its intricate story. Though the title may wet one’s appetite for an obsessed criminal, The Stalker is a science fiction film minus the special effects—something that’s almost a sin to an American audience, where science fiction is known for lasers, droids and roaring spaceships. But Tarkovsky proves less is more. And after watching this film, I’ve reaffirmed my position on cut shots: they're use too often these days. In this film every shot has significance. Tarkovsky creates suspense with superior camera movement. He relies on the viewers mind to create the feeling of fear. For those new to Tarkovsky, you must be informed of his use of Oneiric sequences: a deceptive dream-like state. One can easily be confused, for these day dreams occur at random and give no warning when they initially begin or even end. But Oneiric dream sequences are constants in Tarkovsky’s story telling, so if you're going to watch Tarkovsky, you'll have to adjust to their subtlety. However, all of his films, which tell the story in pieces, are pleasing when viewed twice. A rewarding element to look for is the character that unexpectedly takes a spill to the ground. In all of Tarkovsky’s films, his characters fall before stepping into to hardship. I hate to delve in the plot or even give a run down, for this drains the films luster. I watched the film not knowing much about the plot, and to fully enjoy The Stalker that's the best way. I can only mention the Oneiric film theory, the deceptive dream like states, and of course the classic spill before adversity. With out understanding this, you'll likely watch feeling lost by the subtle turn of events I saw this film at a time when I longed for my desire, film making, and had no clue how to obtain my goal. Before watching this film, I went in feeling one way,and when it ended I was left watching a blank screen, fumbling over new thoughts.But I will say this: If you desire something, how far would you go for it? And would you accept all that you find?
