Jack Nicholson once speculated that the counterculture of the 1960s and 1970s may not have been as film-savvy as we were led to believe. Perhaps, he pondered, people really liked "Blow-Up" because it had a beaver shot.
He may not have been far wrong. Writer-director Michelangelo Antonioni used sweeping vistas and brooding actors to create a compelling vision of members of the bourgeois grappling with the emptiness of life in "L'Aventurra". Many of his other films, however, have shown the limitations of stories about bored rich people: they aren't particularly insightful or interesting.
"Blow-Up" features a young photographer, Thomas (David Hemmings), who spends much of his time conducting fashion shoots with beautiful women. Antonioni has no qualms about reminding us of this; in one scene, Thomas straddles a woman and shouts in excitement, even exclaiming "Make it come!" The insinuation is embarrassingly obvious.
And the shameless titillation doesn't end there. At one point, Jane (Vanessa Redgrave) takes her shirt off for Thomas. She reveals her bare top to him, but covers her chest when the camera shows her front. This covering up, presumably for censorship reasons, goes on for several minutes. Over time it becomes faintly ridiculous.
What about the plot? Thomas photographs Jane kissing a man without her permission. After he develops the photos, he realizes that someone was shot in the background as the pictures were being taken. He goes and finds the body, but it is gone by morning. That is the beginning, middle and end of the story.
In fairness, the plot is never the point with Antonioni. He merely uses it as a jumping-off point to engage in some interesting exercises. For instance: James attends a rock show and comes away with the neck of one of the guitars. The crowd inside mobs him for it, but outside the neck becomes worthless. Also, the beginning and end of the film feature a band of marauding mimes (you read that right) who raise interesting questions of perception and reality. These are interesting little interludes, but they never come close to cohering into any broader theme or statement. The very idea of coherence seems banal to Antonioni.
Like Godard, Antonioni seemed to be playing games for his own amusement in his films. There is a certain degree of contempt for the audience in such films, and it deserves to be reciprocated.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
El Mariachi
Low-budget filmmaking creates many challenges, which can lead to distractions for the viewer. Out-of-focus shots, bad acting and cobbled-together scenes are just some of the flaws common in films made on the cheap. True filmmaking talent, however, can shine through in spite of these problems. "Clerks" showed Kevin Smith's trademark wit and working class pride despite being filmed on security cameras. "The Puffy Chair" captured the Duplass brothers' penchant for genuine emotional moments despite using an amateur cast. "Primer" featured a dazzlingly complex plot despite its $7,000 budget.
Alas, "El Mariachi" cannot match the creative sparks which ignite these three films. The debut feature of Robert Rodriguez, "El Mariachi" was famously shot in Mexico for $7,000, much of which was money Rodriguez raised by subjecting himself to medical experiments. But despite the charming backstory, "El Mariachi" is no more than a mediocre B-movie.
The singer of the film's title arrives in a small town in Mexico looking for work in a bar. Unfortunately for him, there happens to be a drug dealer in town, Azul, who dresses in a similar fashion and carries his gun in a guitar case. Azul is going on a rampage against the henchmen of Moco, the town's kingpin, who cheated him out of some money. Moco's men mistake the mariachi for Azul and try to kill him. Even more unfortunately for the mariachi, he falls in love with Domino, Moco's kept woman.
"El Mariachi" suffers from all the aforementioned low-budget flaws, but these are not what sink the film. The biggest problem here is the poorly constructed story. Every plot twist here is either totally predictable--the mariachi falling for Domino, for example--or inexplicable--the mariachi has a penchant for showing his face around town even when he knows there are armed men hunting for him.
The film has mixed success on a smaller level. There isn't a single memorable line of dialogue in the film. But Rodriguez does occasionally show some humor and charm, as when Domino playfully threatens to castrate the mariachi before he explains himself. Rodriguez also proves competent with the camera, providing some interesting framing and effective quick cuts (though he also has a penchant for rather lame, in-your-face close ups).
However, Rodriguez's subsequent career shows "El Mariachi" was a harbinger of things to come. Despite some limited successes--his segment of "Four Rooms," "Spy Kids," and "Sin City"--he has largely peddled schlock. "From Dusk Till Dawn," "Once Upon a Time in Mexico," "The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl," and "Planet Terror" all confirm that on balance, we would have been better off if Rodriguez had foregone those medical experiments and stuck to watching bad movies instead of making them.
Alas, "El Mariachi" cannot match the creative sparks which ignite these three films. The debut feature of Robert Rodriguez, "El Mariachi" was famously shot in Mexico for $7,000, much of which was money Rodriguez raised by subjecting himself to medical experiments. But despite the charming backstory, "El Mariachi" is no more than a mediocre B-movie.
The singer of the film's title arrives in a small town in Mexico looking for work in a bar. Unfortunately for him, there happens to be a drug dealer in town, Azul, who dresses in a similar fashion and carries his gun in a guitar case. Azul is going on a rampage against the henchmen of Moco, the town's kingpin, who cheated him out of some money. Moco's men mistake the mariachi for Azul and try to kill him. Even more unfortunately for the mariachi, he falls in love with Domino, Moco's kept woman.
"El Mariachi" suffers from all the aforementioned low-budget flaws, but these are not what sink the film. The biggest problem here is the poorly constructed story. Every plot twist here is either totally predictable--the mariachi falling for Domino, for example--or inexplicable--the mariachi has a penchant for showing his face around town even when he knows there are armed men hunting for him.
The film has mixed success on a smaller level. There isn't a single memorable line of dialogue in the film. But Rodriguez does occasionally show some humor and charm, as when Domino playfully threatens to castrate the mariachi before he explains himself. Rodriguez also proves competent with the camera, providing some interesting framing and effective quick cuts (though he also has a penchant for rather lame, in-your-face close ups).
However, Rodriguez's subsequent career shows "El Mariachi" was a harbinger of things to come. Despite some limited successes--his segment of "Four Rooms," "Spy Kids," and "Sin City"--he has largely peddled schlock. "From Dusk Till Dawn," "Once Upon a Time in Mexico," "The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl," and "Planet Terror" all confirm that on balance, we would have been better off if Rodriguez had foregone those medical experiments and stuck to watching bad movies instead of making them.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Scenes from a Marriage
Few filmmakers can give us compelling, personal stories that also shed light on universal truths. Ingmar Bergman is such an auteur. His 250-minute, six-episode miniseries, "Scenes from a Marriage," is a showcase for his wonderful gifts.
"Scenes" tells the story of Johan and Marianne, a couple married for ten years with two children. On the surface, they seem very happy and content, but they are clearly suppressing their deepest feelings. Johan is all masculine bluster, always willing to discuss his many talents, while Marianne seems stifled by the obligations of marriage and parenthood. (Bergman highlights the unfair burden of the working mother, which was much less discussed in 1972 than it is now.)
Then suddenly, the dam breaks. Johan announces he is leaving for Paris with a graduate student. The marriage quickly disintegrates. At first, Marianne begs Johan to stay, but she slowly evolves into a new woman. No longer concerned with pleasing Johan, she is free to fashion her life as she sees fit. It's small wonder that the film inspired many Swedish women to file for divorce.
Johan, in contrast, still suffers from a sense of isolation and longing. These differing outlooks are common in the wake of divorce, although usually it's the spouse who initiated the process who feels liberated.
But Bergman is not content with such a pat ending. In the final episode, occurring about ten years after their split, both Johan and Marianne have new spouses--whom they are cheating on with one another. Without the burdens and expectations of marriage, the lovers have rediscovered the spark that brought them together. Most interestingly, Marianne expresses guilt over the break up of the family, and hints that she sometimes feels just as lonely as Johan. Ever the visionary, Bergman suggests that women may not be able to break free of their familial instincts--and that none of us can escape the void inside us.
"Scenes" tells the story of Johan and Marianne, a couple married for ten years with two children. On the surface, they seem very happy and content, but they are clearly suppressing their deepest feelings. Johan is all masculine bluster, always willing to discuss his many talents, while Marianne seems stifled by the obligations of marriage and parenthood. (Bergman highlights the unfair burden of the working mother, which was much less discussed in 1972 than it is now.)
Then suddenly, the dam breaks. Johan announces he is leaving for Paris with a graduate student. The marriage quickly disintegrates. At first, Marianne begs Johan to stay, but she slowly evolves into a new woman. No longer concerned with pleasing Johan, she is free to fashion her life as she sees fit. It's small wonder that the film inspired many Swedish women to file for divorce.
Johan, in contrast, still suffers from a sense of isolation and longing. These differing outlooks are common in the wake of divorce, although usually it's the spouse who initiated the process who feels liberated.
But Bergman is not content with such a pat ending. In the final episode, occurring about ten years after their split, both Johan and Marianne have new spouses--whom they are cheating on with one another. Without the burdens and expectations of marriage, the lovers have rediscovered the spark that brought them together. Most interestingly, Marianne expresses guilt over the break up of the family, and hints that she sometimes feels just as lonely as Johan. Ever the visionary, Bergman suggests that women may not be able to break free of their familial instincts--and that none of us can escape the void inside us.
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