essence of film

Poetics of Prey and Vultures in the Space of Fear

“(Jancsó’s films) consist of approximately ten-minute long shots which resemble collective ballet and usually record shifts of the relations between rulers and the oppressed, often in a violent form. The masterfully controlled technique is not, however technical playing but a natural consequence of the director’s historical vision; formed from its pressure.” (Peter von Bagh)

Silence and Cry (1967), directed by Miklós Jancsó, is one of the finest achievements of East European New Wave, and is of paramount importance when studying the greatest era of Hungarian cinema. A wildly poetic and masterful study on fear and love. It is quite an unknown film but its historical and political relevancy should not be neglected. For, it is an outstanding work made during the age of the Brezhnev Doctrine and social turmoil. After a year, in 1968, the Prague Spring took place and Soviet tanks silenced the people. This is the era when Godard and Buñuel made their wildest films. The revolutionary decade of the 60’s which, more than anything else, manifested in the cinema. But in order to understand the social backgrounds of Silence and Cry, we must take a look back.

Unlike in many other European countries, Hungarian film industry wasn’t nationalized until the year 1948 when communists came to power. Although the People’s Republic was what it was, it did wonders to the film industry — as did the fierce control in Soviet Union. In fact, the situation was so propitious that Hungary had the potential to achieve something similar Italy did with neo-realism. It had the theoretic, as well as the artistic talent, but the fascist dictatorship, which had ruled from 1919 to 1940’s, simply had made the possibility too difficult. The dawn of tomorrow was too far away, so to speak.

Due to this, it took some time before Hungarian film rose to its feet. But once it did — in a decade — it was ready to produce something exceptional and magnificent. Already in its earliest days, Hungarian art has been characterized by ontological questions, such as “what is blind chance?” and, in turn, “what was determined to happen?” but it was in the 1960’s when these issues developed their social associations; and exactly in Hungarian cinema. As a matter of fact, a film critic and historian Peter von Bagh has written how the late 60’s of Hungarian cinema represents the most free and creative atmosphere of the whole Eastern Europe.

In addition to Miklós Jancsó, this era of Hungarian cinema was also reigned by András Kovács who was a leftist pioneer of cinéma vérité and, above all, István Szabó whose films have been continuously associated with the Nouvelle Vague. In Szabó’s films reality and fantasy, past and presence conduct dialog. He created his own poetics, which was very close to surrealism. A famous piece of his style is Mephisto (1981) which dealt with the serious problem of Europe — the relation between art and power. Now, by studying these contemporaries we get to the core of Jancsó’s art. For, the way I see it, it was his style which reassured the success of Hungarian film. It was him who made Novi-Film rise above. Jancsó is the director of the East Europe in the 1960’s. Only Andrei Tarkovsky can beat him. Jancsó is not only the most famous but also the most controversial Hungarian director of all times.

One of Jancsó’s best films Silence And Cry begins with a montage of still images which take us to history: the year is 1919 and the age of white terror is upon us. In the first scene the viewer sees an empty hill which three men arrive to. One of them is a prisoner, who is executed by shooting in the back. Nothing is heard but silence; and quiet birdsong. In fact, this is the image which the entire film is based on. During the white terror, reds were constantly searched and executed. Peasants were put under house arrest, under the watching eyes of the police. This group of people is represented by the protagonist, who is also wanted by the police. Two women fall in love with him and, therefore attempt to poison their master to free themselves. The story unfolds to many directions and gets a lot of dimensions but, at its heart, it is based on the landscape — on the horizontal vision of empty hills.

All the milieus of the film feature simplified landscapes which seem to depict isolation; or alienation — the spaces are extremely open. As if, the characters were unable to hide; they are like rats under the eyes of vultures; and in this supervised milieu of fear, no room is left for love and tenderness. In a way, this draws a tenuous parallel to the Cold War; to the puppet states of Soviet Union where Stasi (The Ministry for State Security) took care of Orwellian surveillance.

In fact, this is a central realization in Jancsó’s style: the pure unity between visuals, themes and historical conditions. It is really this what separates him from Michelangelo Antonioni whose films seemingly bear a striking resemblance to his. For Jancsó’s films aren’t really abstract, although several critics seem to highlight this. To my mind, his films are, yes abstract — in a certain fashion — but deal with historical conditions in a concrete manner. He creates realist cinema. Still characterized by that psychological depth which drills down to the innermost of man; through which he analyzes the workings of the mind.

The greatest topic of all — history — is constantly dealt with in Jancsó’s films: whether it was the war in The Red and the White (1967) or the peasant uprisings in Red Psalm (1972). However, Jancsó never took historical topics unless his themes demanded it. For, isn’t the social surveillance and agony portrayed in Silence and Cry strongly related to its existentialism and gloomy depiction of the bleak reality? One shouldn’t see the symbolism and poetry, both of which are an essential part of his films, as a boundary but as an accessory to his realism; to the realism of historical mythology. Especially while watching Red Psalm, this idea might just be more than useful.

Jancsó uses extremely long shots and very little dialog which ties him to the Hungarian master of contemporary film Béla Tarr. Practically, Jancsó only cuts when a sequence changes. The camera moves and observes reality. To a similar monotonous atmosphere, typical for Tarr, Jancsó doesn’t even try to achieve, for his space is constantly full of action; of movement. The camera circles around the characters and follows their moves. It is as if, the camera or the narrator coexisted with the characters; creating reality of fear. In the result of this, the information about the characters is given to the viewer, not through dialog, but through action. However, in the story itself, much doesn’t happen.

Silence and Cry is shot in magnificent black-and-white CinemaScope where naturalistic realism obtains even expressionistic features. The cinematography and the composition are characterized by certain poetic elements, such as the white horse and the well, but the same repeats on the sound track as well — in the song of the bird and the howl of the wind. Yet, as in the films by Tarr, the viewer sees ground, mud and top of the trees which prevents seeing the edge of heaven. If the director’s philosophy can be found from this, his state of mind lies distinctly in the description of the environment: grey reeds, cold ponds and dead trees, which build up the architectonic composition of desperate desolation.

It seems that, in addition to the landscapes, the cinematography indicates the existential state of mind of the characters; their continuous fear for their lives. In fact, it is truly fear and hate what this is all about. As many great European novels, Silence and Cry also has both social and individual dimensions — the historical condition of classes which have ran into a violent confrontation. It is, actually, these conditions through which Jancsó studies individual human beings and, in the result of this, dialectic poetics always characterize his films and play an integral role in his stylistics.

Although Jancsó is never self-evident, and at times he even seems to be politically objective by showing the cruelties of both parties, he should not be seen as an anarchist director. Even if he tenuously criticized the state of Hungary, he was clearly a Marxist-Leninist. He seems to hate war and respect life, but still highlight situations where things, which are worthy enough to be categorized as the price of life, can exist. He was a communist, however in his films, political dimensions aren’t as important as philosophical.

“All over the world irrationalism is spreading in a manner which awakes anxiety — its manifestations are, for example, religion, obscure nationalist ideologies and right-wing anarchism. In most parts of the world, the citizens’ participation to political decision is not in order and thus, citizens feel the need to turn to gods and other forms of irrationality.” (Miklós Jancsó)

In the last image of Silence and Cry all is summarized: the protagonist is given a gun — “you can do it yourself” — but, suddenly, he turns and shoots his executioner. This surprising gesture is followed by an equally surprising freeze-frame which contradicts to the entire visual appearance of the film. In fact, as the title suggests, this aesthetic choice seems to highlight the slowly unfolding aggressiveness, beneath the severe themes, from which an angry thesis of the historical conditions is formed.

Oh, the Jolly Julie Andrews

“The Sound of Music, one of the most viewed films of all times, is made in a big fashion. Those viewers who were fascinated by the Cinderella story, which included nuns, children, Nazis and Julie Andrews, were literally stunned (there were all of the four sufficiently), and they had to watch the film two or three times until they could settle down and go back to the safety of their normal lives.” (Ethan Mordden)

The Sound of Music (1965) is one of the most popular films ever made and has gained quite a reputation with an intense cult following. Back in the day, it was indeed a huge economical success and even won five Oscars. But, what is more, in the course of time, the film has aged very well and newer generations seem to have taken it to their hearts as well. However, not surprisingly while discussing a big hit like this, the film has faced a lot of criticism. Although, it is no masterpiece The Sound of Music is an intriguing film from a historical and cinematic perspective. The colours and landscape pans of Austria are gorgeous but beneath the nostalgic shell one can find several themes that will fascinate even a demanding viewer. Moreover, its setting is so absurd that it takes time to realize how absurd it actually is: during the years of the rising of the German national socialists; a jolly governess and a group of spoiled brats spend their time singing in the Alps.

The initial position of the film is, of course, horrible. But it must be accepted in order to get forward. It would be too easy to reject the film for the artificially cheery songs, too cute children and an idealistic bourgeois who bravely resists the Nazis. To top it all, the Nazis don’t sing because they are determined to lose. This idea can be associated with the philosophy of musical — searching for the meaning of life in the form of song. Nonetheless, one should keep in mind that for some people horror movies are difficult to watch because of their amount of gore and violence but, in turn, musicals are difficult for some viewers because of their amount of cheerful songs and light-hearted surface. In any case, one should try to break the ice and look behind the veil of the external image.

The film begins with wonderful landscape shots which set the spectator’s mind into a romantic tone. At last the camera reaches a woman (Julie Andrews) who sings the title song on a mountain. The opening credits start and images of Austrian architecture are shown to the viewer. Soon the viewer learns that the woman is Maria, who is cheery and dashing in every way but too blunt and inpatient to become a nun. She rather spends her time singing on the mountains than following the rules of the convent. Therefore, the abbess sends her as a governess to the family of von Trapp.

The father of the family (Christopher Plummer) is very strict and maintains order and discipline in the household. The mother has died and the father is always away, due to which the children lack attention and, therefore try to get it by teasing the governess. However, Maria’s arrival and her positive attitude change their behaviour. In the end, even the father softens. Soon, Maria and Georg (the father) begin to fall in love. But, unfortunately, Georg has already arranged a marriage with him and a baroness. After a few adversities the baroness gives in and Georg confesses his love to Maria, and they get married. Suddenly, Germany’s grip on Austria tightens and Georg should sign up to the army. To avoid this, the family decides to run away and, in the final image, they climb over the mountains to freedom in Switzerland.

The historical background of the story can be found from the late 1930’s. Already in 1932 the NSDAP had won the election and, a year later, Adolf Hitler received the powers of a dictator. In 1935 he took the civil rights away from the Jews and started to gather troops. In the following year, he slowly began to conquer the tribal nations of Germany: first he re-militarized Rhineland. Two years later he attached Sudetenland of Czech to Germany and then it was time for Austria. The west did nothing with its appeasement politics. This is the time The Sound of Music focuses on. However, it doesn’t attack on the reluctance of other nations’ to help but quite well portrays the growing fear in Europe; the beginning of horror to which one can only answer with a song.

Robert Wise, the director, who had already tried his skills in film-noir (Born to Kill, 1947), science fiction (The Day the Earth Stood Still, 1951) and musical (West Side Story, 1961) succeed very well in humanizing this unpleasant topic; which is, as a matter of fact, a lot when discussing a massive production like The Sound of Music. However, beneath the superficial surface many themes from politics to history; moral to love; and from the nature of reality to happiness can be found.

Already in the 1950-60’s Broadway musicals had brushed traditional “written directly to the screen musicals” aside. Most of these were empty and unimportant films, with only a few exceptions. The Sound of Music continued this trend but was the finest achievement of it while, at the same, put an end to it all. Between the years from Singin’ in the Rain (1952) to Cabaret (1972), The Sound of Music was the only good American musical. Surely many musicals of the time included nice songs and cute plots but anything cinematic they didn’t have to offer.

A film critic Geoff Andrew has highlighted how Nazism has been perceived in a more captivating manner in The Sound of Music, than in Cabaret which is often celebrated for its depiction of the gloomy morale of the time. The political aspect of The Sound of Music depicts the historical conditions of the rising of the Nazis in a consistent manner. In fact, Robert Wise found great cinematic counterparts to reflect a certain form of evil in the language of film; for, all this doesn’t feel banal because the series of events that lead to the rise of Nazism have been relayed to the viewer concretely. And, in reality, the corny songs are talented resistance.

For the radical left-wing, which rose up in the 1960’s, the film was of course too much. Too much merriment and joy. But in a historical sense the film was also about a new form of information sharing: to give knowledge of Nazism, the backgrounds of WWII and what had been won over, for the new generation. So the question remains: Is this propaganda? Perhaps. Is it bad propaganda? No chance.

At its heart, the film is a story about an individual who attempts to bring freedom to an authoritarian world. It condemns totalitarianism and violence and praises peace and individuality. Maria, of course, as a free spirited wild child represents the latter. God appears to her in the beauty of nature. She arrives to a new strict world when she enters the mansion. Even its architecture seems to represent high social status and hierarchy. But Maria fights back. In fact, The Sound of Music could be seen as a battle; the battle between reason and emotion. For, Georg is very rational where Maria, on the other hand, constantly relies on intuition and sensibility. Moreover, Georg is experienced and Maria innocent with regards to sexuality. The bike and rowing trips with the children are an essential part of nature’s dramaturgy and, therefore epitomize Maria’s consciousness where, in turn, the architecture of the mansion does Georg’s.

Above all, however the film is a growth story about: Maria’s maturation and Georg’s recovery — the strict severity caused by the wife’s death softens. So, in other words, emotion and reason collide and complete each other. In addition to Maria and Georg, this confrontation of reason and emotion is also highlighted by the presence of Germany (the tyranny) and Austria (the dear homeland); but also by reality and the unreality of musical; the latter offers sentimental chaos for the sterile order of the former, which is characterized by the gloomy morale of the national socialists.

As a matter of fact, towards this historical context, the criticism of the viewers was most strongly aimed at. Many saw the theme of Nazism quite useless and unimportant for the time. “Where’s Vietnam,” so to speak. This is a common critic many American films received in the 1960’s but the fact those people seem to have neglected is the allegorical approach to war. For even if the first American war films on Vietnam were made in the 1970’s, other genres touched the topic through allegorical stories — western being the most famous: The Wild Bunch (1969), The Good, The Bad and the Ugly (1966) and The Great Silence (1968).

In 1964 the Vietnam war had begun and a year later the States started the severe bombing and this most likely accelerated the theme of Nazism in the film. Many of the film’s moments and themes can actually be located into the context of Vietnam or any other war, which reinforces its allegorical nature. No matter whether it is intended or not, for each historical film is, unintentionally or intentionally, a reflection of two ages. One example is the wistful waltz Edelweiss, sung by Plummer, which tells about love for the father’s land and resistance to the Nazi tyranny. Let alone the film’s aesthetics of national romanticism. In addition, on a widely associative note, the film portrays a classical battle between good and evil; and deals with an important theme which exceeds the limits of all wars, nations and ages.: the pursuit of happiness in difficult circumstances.

However, all this is relayed to the viewer in an impressive fashion with strong architectonic vision. A film historian Peter von Bagh has written that Wise “turns verbal poetry into visual images” which quite well summarizes the visuals of The Sound of Music. Wise indeed analyzes the space brilliantly and enhances the nature of the milieu — the songs as only a natural part of it all. Unlike in many other musicals, they are no longer detrimental for the film. Few examples shall be mentioned of Wise’s talented direction: 1) The montage of dolls and facial expressions in the puppet show scene. 2) How choreography is used to accompany the Austrian-romantic architecture. 3) The wedding ceremony’s grandiose filming and how the breakaway from its grip truly can be felt. Last but not least, 4) the structure of the space is nearly perfect in the pavilion scene where Georg and Maria confess their love: the extreme expression of depth which is reinforced by the contrasts and windows; the beautiful silhouettes of the characters; the column-like shapes and strong shadows. It is an extremely romantic image that aptly embodies the spirit of the film’s aesthetics.

The Sound of Music is not as easy as it seems to be. Even though it is often categorized as a family movie. It is an intriguing look at historical conditions and the difficulty of happiness for both, the young and the old. Above all, nature is an inspiring force in the film which partly links it to the hippie movement of the time but, moreover highlights its themes of love and eternity. Love faces obstacles but, in the end, wins over. Although, the film is artificially cheery and sweet, it does deal with many important issues; even if in a more light-hearted sense: falling in love with its problems, love for one’s homeland, and the importance of emotions. In conclusion, The Sound of Music is a film about the triumph of endurance, love and freedom over the hardship of the world.

The Sky Is Clear

Grigoriy Chukhray was one of the most prominent Soviet filmmakers of the new wave and Clear Skies (Chistoe nebo, 1961) is among his greatest achievements. It is a part of the movement when Soviet war films began to highlight the humane consequences of war over material. All of these films were made after the death of Joseph Stalin which freed Soviet cinema from the chains of fierce control that had lasted for over a decade. However, Clear Skies might just be the first which dared to attack against the cult of personality; and actually critize Stalin. From today’s perspective it doesn’t seem that bold and the film’s treatment of this social issue remains quite low; but realizing the situation of the early 60’s, the film is extremely interesting in its historical context.

In spite of its social and historical function, Clear Skies is above all a war film with a touching love story. As a matter of fact, this is what Chukhray was best at: to make fresh films which still had the echo of a traditional story. However, to the tradition he always added his own unique romantic charge which many remember from his masterpiece Ballad of a Soldier (1959). In comparison to Ballad of a Soldier, Clear Skies doesn’t seem that great, but what lifts it above the rest is its innovative use of colour; social criticism and that same melancholy emotion which has made all Soviet war films exceptional in the eyes of the western world.

The film begins with a series of images depicting the life of an airport after which the viewer sees a car braking quickly. A woman runs out of the car and looks a plane go by — “it must be him.” This image is connected to the end where we return to this set-up. The viewer sees the woman again, as she leaves the place, but now one knows much more about her.

Through a flashback, a romance of hers with a pilot is presented; a romance that begun so shyly but developed into a great love story. After they had become acquainted, the biggest turning point in their relationship was the moment when the woman heard that the pilot had disappeared during action. In the result of this, the woman got depressed but rose up and gave birth to their son. In reality, the pilot never died; he just became a prisoner of war. Now, when he comes back, nothing is what it used to be: his son has no respect for him, the state sees him as a dirty villain and the members of the Communist Party consider him a traitor. However — in the end at the dawn of the new world — the pilot receives recognition and a medal of honour from the army.

Inevitably, this ending makes the film a little idealistic but it seems that it is, in fact, its only weakness. It is an attack against the injustice of the Stalinist era; and how “heroes” were mistreated. The man is even left out from the Communist Party, although he adores it — “Communism equals life for me.” As mentioned, Clear Skies was the first films which dealt with the Soviet cult of personality. Of course, this was possible because of Stalin’s death in 1953 after which Nikita Khrushchev denounced from the cult of personality and sentenced Stalin’s acts.

However, what is more important is the film’s emotional mood for it is the core of Chukhray’s art. As Ballad of a Soldier, Clear Skies is also characterized by poetic sentimentality. It is never banal, as many other romantic war films are, for its emotional charge is deep and authentic; and the basic questions of existence exhale beneath the surface.

In all its naturalistic realism, the use of colour tinted frame seems to highlight the grim but also the tender reality of everyday life which is accompanied with the cruelty of war. In addition, colour is used in a very innovative manner to describe emotions: during the scenes of loss and love; blue and red shapes appear on the image. What is more, Chukhray’s experimentalism extends wider, as it does with many other new wave directors. A particularly intriguing example is the scene — shot in montage — at the train platform, where women watch their men go to war, which is in its chaotic nature truly agonizing. In the scene, the true being of war is revealed.

Furthermore, the myth of war is broken down on a dramaturgical level when the past of being a prisoner of war turns a hero into a drunk. However, this theme should not be interpreted too far for it is obvious that the film also highlights militaristic idealism. Nonetheless, Clear Skies is constantly tied to social reality: WWII and its development, the victory of the Soviet Union; Stalin’s death and the rise of the new world.

But, above all, it doesn’t really matter whether the film is social or state-idealistic; for it is, at its heart, a praise of love and hope. Although, the film doesn’t reach on the level of its parallel work The Cranes Are Flying (1957) it must be remembered as an excellent achievement in its sentimentality and authenticity. In fact, due to this, the humane focus of the film can be found from the relationships between people.

Once again Chukhray succeeds to capture strong emotions of yearn, loneliness and love into few images. Even to the most conventional scenes he has managed to give that psychological depth which drills down to the consciousness of man. For instance, the fact that the film is told through a flashback; and the remembering face of the protagonist is constantly shown to the viewer.

All this reinforces the emotional charge which is typical for Chukhray. It makes Clear Skies very widely associative and multi-dimensional but still clear and integrated. In addition to montage techniques and cinematic experimentalism, Chukhray can be associated with the Soviet Montage Cinema, and especially with Aleksandr Dovzhenko, because of his innovative use of the elements of nature: The death of Stalin causes a flamboyant montage of melting blocks of ice which poeticizes the transition of the new world — on all levels of life. However, what really ties Chukhray to Dovzhenko, are the images of the variable darkness and clearness of the sky. For it is the sky which works as the indicator of the protagonist’s being in a lyrical sense.

Divine Decadence or Grotesque Morale?

Musical. The genre of wishful thinking, optimism and cheerful attitude towards life. It is a ritualistic genre where man is allowed to move into another world. However, in many occasions, this false reality portrayed by musicals seems to turn into a horror-utopia. As it nearly does in On the Town (1949) by Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen where three layers of reality are gorgeously reflected on the levels of the town. What is more, the whole philosophy of film can be constructed on the act of singing, as in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) and, of course, in Alain Resnais’ Same Old Song (1997) — the deconstruction of musical — where the characters are anguished, desperate and doomed to sing the same old song until they die. Yet, none of these seem to be as horrifying as Bob Fosse’s Cabaret (1972) starring Liza Minelli, which fills me with both fascination and irritation.

Back in the day, Cabaret was drown with praises and awards — eight Oscars and three Golden Globes. It was a big hit and is still today considered as one of the finest musicals ever made. It has succeed to record images to our consciousness regarding what life was like in the Weimar Republic, right before the rise of NSDAP. Even as a weaker film, Cabaret must be acknowledged among the finest musicals, alongside with The Sound of Music (1965), of its era. The era when American film industry began to fall apart. In any case, Cabaret is a film with its flaws but what is most interesting in it is its historical period picture.

The film begins with a mirror view of a cabaret; and the viewer is instantly invited to the world of joy and oblivion — “Leave your troubles outside, life is disappointing, forget it!” In fact, Cabaret is a mirror reflection itself; a reflection of a world at transition; Europe on the eve of the rise of Nazism. Soon the story is introduced to us: an American club dancer entertains crowds in Berlin at the beginning of the 30’s and starts a love affair with two men. The story is rather thin, and intelligently simplistic but, to my mind, the most intriguing thing is how this story line reflects the zeitgeist and the gloomy morale of the Nazis.

However, by the word “horrifying” I wasn’t referring to the film’s story but more likely to its outward appearance and its unity with its cinematic value. The latter remains quite low and the film is really a farce. To be honest, it’s quite a poor film in comparison with The Sound of Music, for instance. Nonetheless, this seems to be the reason why the film has gained such a reputation. For it first looks like a horribly silly musical. But then it turns out that there lies its essential being: the innocence of musical reveals itself as a horrifying and disgusting piece of reality.

First of all, the central milieu of the story is a cabaret and the songs sung there are strongly tied to the film: “money makes the world go around,” “life is a cabaret,” “two ladies and one man,” “if you could only see her with my eyes.” The latter, which portrays a man and an ape in love, is, in all its tackiness, funny and naively simplistic. In fact, here one can find the biggest flaw of the movie. In its structure and how, at times, it is extremely self-evident; even banal in its metaphorical nature.

Yet, the grotesqueness of the film is really both delightful and horrible — the montage of attractions where a show and a violent act performed by the Nazis are associated with each other, for example. In the light of this, we see how Cabaret deals with friendship and love, happiness and freedom; but also portrays a decadent world where all of these have turned upside down, into malignancy and violence, oppression and anxiety, all of which have taken over the reality.

With regards to the performances of the film, an essential observation is that the grotesque eroticism of the cabaret equals the decadent morale of the Nazis. Due to this, most interesting in Cabaret is its historical context and how it is also a picture of the 70’s. How it has drawn intriguing parallels between the past and the presence: the burlesque — the disco; gay culture, civil rights and the feminist liberalization. However, not in the sense of comparison, of course.

In the end of the film, we return to the beginning; to the reality — “Didn’t you forget all about your troubles?” — and see the mirror view once again, through a tracking shot. The camera stops by an elusive reflection; an illusion from which we cannot distinguish anything but the faceless Nazi officers. This awakes a strong thought of Cabaret as a “meta-musical” for it truly achieves to describe how transient happiness is, in the middle of chaos, suffering and destruction.

on IMDb

The Quixotesque Myth of The Great War

La grande guerra (The Great War, 1959), directed by Mario Monicelli, is one of the most underrated and overlooked European war films in the history of cinema. What makes it even worse, is that we aren’t just talking about a good war film or an interesting piece of Italian cinema, but of an authentic masterpiece of the genre. When it was first released, in the year 1959, the film faced a lot of anger and criticism for its strong satirical grip and bold treatment of taboos. There is no need for me to illustrate the situation any further, for the director himself described it quite aptly: “The fact that Gassman and Sordi were acting two WWI soldiers was taken as a fierce defamation. It was revolutionary to show miserable, rotten, hungry soldiers who were commanded by incapable officers and who didn’t have a clue about the reasons of the war.”

After Thomas Edison had invented the Kinetoscope in 1892-93, many others built their own inventions based on his and the Lumière brothers were the first who realized that one could make money with film, even though they saw no future in it. Soon France, Germany and Italy became the greatest countries of cinema, until their progression was fiercely interrupted by WWI; and the United States, on whose land there were no battles, took all of their places in the film industry. This sheds light on the history of Italian cinema and the painful, but productive, rise back to the top.

Italy was first known for its gigantic epics such as The Last Days of Pompei (1913) but also for its naturalistic social films like Assunta Spina (1915) for example. To put it briefly, Italy was at the top. But the war changed its course. WWI did the same to Italy that it did to Germany: doomed it to poverty, bitterness and marginal production of film, even though in the 1920’s Germany went through the magnificent era of German expressionism. In the 1930’s, during Mussolini’s era, Italy produced mainly propaganda, but also timeless, even if made in the sense of agitation, films were born such as Alessandro Blasetti’s 1860 (1934) which associates the unification of Italy with the rise of fascism.

After WWII, Italy went through its second great era — the era of Italian neo-realism. It was started in the late years of the war, in 1945 by Roberto Rossellini with Rome, Open City which still is the greatest manifesto-film of neo-realism. Already in 1947 American films filled the theaters of Italy but the hopes for democratic freedom were soon destroyed, when the victory of Christian democrats in 1948 threw Italy into the world of the Cold War. In spite of that, neo-realist cinema managed to do more for Italy than all the efforts done by the government put together. It helped Italy to find its place among other nations, as Rossellini said it. In neo-realism, history was approached from a whole new perspective; from the perspective of left-wing and ‘Rinnovamento’ or the Italian Renewal. 

The 1950’s is often known as the era of Italian masters, when directors such as Federico Fellini, Luchino Visconti, Michelangelo Antonioni and Mario Monicelli begun to rise to international popularity. All of them were different, in comparison to the masters of the neo-realist movement, but what connected them all was anti-fascism, and for some even Marxism. They were courageous auteurs whose topics spanned from the travesty of social institutions (Fellini) and the description of urban alienation (Antonioni) to leftist interpretations of history and tragic stories of Italy (Visconti).

Although, Monicelli is without a doubt the most unknown of “the Italian masters of the 50’s” and, he doesn’t necessarily share Visconti’s mastery, he doesn’t lose to anyone of them with regards to cinematographic visionary. Alongside with Ettore Scola, Monicelli is most well known for his Commedia all’italiana and, therefore, isn’t often tied to the same generation of Italian filmmakers with Fellini and the rest. But, to my mind, he is much closer to them than the auteurs of spaghetti western (Sollima, Corbucci, Leone) or the new generation of the 60-70’s (Pasolini, Bertolucci). There is something in La grande guerra that lifts Monicelli up from the mud of “just being a comedian.” It is a masterful and bold war film characterized by black comedy; and it is a shame that the film and the whole production of the director is as underrated as it is.

La grande guerra happens during the years 1916-1918 — the last years of WWI — when the final moves of the war were made. The film focuses on two characters (played by Alberto Sordi and Vittorio Gassman) who are far from being heroic soldiers. First they try to avoid getting into the army and, once in the army, they try to avoid getting into the actual battlefield. Over there both of them are coerced into obeying fool’s errands. During the war, Gassman’s character falls in love with a woman (Silvana Mangano) in an Italian town which broadens the film’s zone to the home front as well. 

The protagonists of the film are anti-heroes who don’t want to fight for Italy. They don’t care who wins, only that the war would end. They even change their Italian uniforms to German, in order to pass one zone — a trick that bears a striking resemblance to one famous scene in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966). However, this anti-hero interpretation should not be linked to the Italo-Westerns and one shouldn’t think that these characters were violent and had no moral. Of course they do, nationalism just happens to be garbage for them — a display of human idiocy.

With regards to the contents of the film, La grande guerra is, for its style, somewhere in between of Fellini’s I vitelloni (1953) and Visconti’s Senso (1954). It starts with ironic humour but develops into a more serious, dramatic direction. Magnificent battle scenes, shot in CinemaScope, are combined with individual scenes where there is humane, heart-warming dramatics between the characters.

In many insightful scenes, Monicelli depicts the absurd reality of war; its mindlessness and vanity. For example, the essential ruthlessness of war is most luminously relayed to us in a scene where our heroes see an enemy having breakfast. They decide to “at least let him drink his coffee,” but from the opposite direction, another Italian shoots the man — the coffee squirting out of his mouth — “What were you waiting for? Him to get away?”

It is a typical scene in the genre; showing the lack of empathy that must be a part of every decent soldier. Already André Bazin highlighted the possibility, given to us by film, to see our world even more concretely. And that is the core of war film: to throw the reality in front of the viewer’s eyes. But how this is done and the level of realism is very variable in the genre. The essential paradox of war film is that the eligible realism can only be made by maximizing the illusion: the actual war vanishes into the memories of individuals but film manages to collectivize these wars; to transform them into fictive documentaries, where they become a part of our memory; of the ‘eternal’ presence.

Like in many other genres, so were the conventions of war film defined in the mid-20’s — during the collision of silent films and the talkies — and one could see The Big Parade (1925) and All Quite on Western Front (1930) as the most important films, with regards to the definition of the genre. As does La grande guerra, so do these films deal with WWI; for it was not just the first of the genre’s topics, but also the best; due to its unconventional position in comparison to earlier wars. Gertrude Stein associated the war with cubism in her book about the art of Pablo Picasso: “composition had no beginning nor an end, each angle was as important as the other” — the essential realization of cubism but also of the new warfare of WWI.

It is exactly WWI which explains what is the most common but also the most unfortunate intention in war — or the Quixotesque myth of war. The trench warfare between France and Germany took years and either of them achieved nothing. The counter parties took turns to conquer and these military victories were celebrated with great joy but, in reality, the sense of them was extremely questionable. Since these victories meant nothing. The way I see it, La grande guerra expresses this in the most powerful way; for it doesn’t need to show the actual war to make us realize its vanity but to depict the individuals and their personal thoughts which reflect the war.

La grande guerra courageously strips patriotism, nationalism and war-like heroism down from their idealistic forms. In many wacky scenes, the grotesque absurdity of war is relayed to us. But, in addition, the film tackles a taboo: the position of Italy in WWI which was a silenced issue in Italy for years, especially during Mussolini’s era. The war begun on 28th of July in 1914 and, after a year, Italy joined the Allied Powers in 1915. Italy was an outsider, a stranger in the war. Its role was meaningless for itself. Although, Italy was among the winners of the war, it didn’t get anything from it — only lost economical resources. And, due to this vanity, Italy was driven into fascism in 1922 — the same fate which awaited the “loser of the war,” Germany when Adolf Hitler came to power in 1934.

Because the reasons of this fest of stupidity were nationalism and arms race, it is no wonder that Monicelli most fiercely attacks on these masculine themes. The war appears to us as surreal; non-existent. The reality of it is elusive and mendacious which, through many brilliant scenes and details, is illustrated to us: the dead turn out to be wounded and grenades inkwells — a great joke. In the frenzy of patriotism the protagonists mock German prisoners of war who soon turn out to be their own, wounded, fellow men. A man praises the food on the battlefield to a general, who calls it puke and, later on, tells his companions that he was only pretending to please the soldiers. The general reads a letter from home to a soldier, who cannot read himself, replacing the sad news with good news; only to keep the soldier in good mental shape. Our heroes collect a collection for the casualties, at a bus station, only to get money for their own tickets. Furthermore, there is one particularly effective scene where a soldier runs through a dangerous battlefield to bring an important sealed message to the general which turns out to include the words: “Merry Christmas!” In fact, it also brilliantly highlights the thesis of the film: soldiers are constantly sacrificed in war because of the generals’ vacant ideals.

First, in the 1930’s, filmmakers tried to take distance to the war by dealing with it in films. It was approached as if it was somewhere in the ancient past. Back then, All Quiet on the Western Front opened the pacifistic wave of the genre — of which the most famous work is La grande illusion (1937) by Jean Renoir. In comparison to these, La grande guerra takes the war to its hands and looks at it; honestly; without trying to take distance to it. For war film is specifically therapeutic self-examination for the director and it belongs strongly to the ground of memory and soul searching.

Renoir not only made a genuine masterpiece of cinema but reassured that people would use the reconstructions of WWI as propaganda during WWII (Renoir himself thought that La grande illusion was a failure for it didn’t succeed in preventing the second war). Either pacifistic war films or tableaus of horror about the cruelty of war were made. On the other hand, Humphrey Jennings made extremely evocative and poetic documentaries about WWII, and war in general, such as Listen to Britain (1942), Words for Battle (1941) and A Diary for Timothy (1945). Only a decade later, directors had the courage to make fictional films about the subject of WWII. And nowadays it is exactly this war that is the most filmed of all. There is something about its grotesque horror that infatuates people — is it unhealthy demagogy or misanthropy? Or maybe it is just fascination for the moment when man loses his humanity.

The Korean War in 1950-1953 caused a wave when anti-militarism reinforced itself in American cinema and army was starting to get criticized as a social institution by directors. The next turning point of the genre was of course the Vietnam War which caused a massive amount of pacifistic effusions: the first (The Deer Hunter, 1978 and Apocalypse Now, 1979) and the second wave (Platoon, 1986 and Full Metal Jacket, 1987). The nature of criticism changed significantly, for better and worse.

Even though the genre has went through rough transitions, its essential being has stayed the same. To my mind, the masterful descriptions of WWI are exactly the films that represent the finest set of the genre. Such as La grande guerra or Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory (1957) whose positions in memory and in the myth of the genre are very important.

So what makes La grande guerra stand out from other WWI films? I believe it is simply the exceptionally brilliant combination of comic and tragic elements. They balance each other out and form a gorgeous synthesis. In one particularly tragicomic situation, the absurd reality of war is given to us in a thought-provoking manner: the scene where the soldiers are installing phone lines on the battlefield but, accidentally, connect the lines with the Germans; creating a funny dialogue of which neither understands a thing — an insightful vision of the essential nature of war; of its Quixotesque being.

During the opening credits, we see pictures of digging ground, cutting bread, filling bottles with water, sewing buttons and wrapping tobacco. This montage ends in a frame where boots are walking in mud. Pictures are sown to the viewer’s mind but they aren’t reaped which seems to be the central principle of war for Monicelli: promises but not actual actions. In fact, that tells everything about Italy’s position in WWI: preparing and preparing but getting nowhere; except walking in filthy mud.

In the end of the film, our heroes arrive to the German zone. They try to survive by changing outfits, but fail, and get caught. Again, in the frenzy of patriotism, they decline to tell the secret plans of Italy — even at the risk of death — and get executed. After they have been shot, Italian troops drive the Germans away. The general says: “I can’t believe they got off Scott-free once again.” Nobody knows of their noble self-sacrifice. They will only be remembered as useless cowards. Therefore, La grande guerra truly depicts tilting at windmills, which is the core of war.

Remember, Night and Fog

“Tonight we must forget that we are film critics or part of the audience. This film is meant for us as human beings in order to open our eyes and set questions of conscience to ourselves. For a few hours Night and Fog erases all the other films from our memory. This film must be seen, definitely.” (François Truffaut)

The most important event of the 20th century, the biggest crime against humanity ever committed — the heart of darkness. This is what Alain Resnais’ Night and Fog (1955) is all about. During WWII Germany and Soviet Union had several concentration camps through which they tried to eliminate the enemy, permanently. This process of human exploitation, humiliation and destruction was unfortunately extremely efficient. Unlike Russians, Germans filmed a lot of the brutalities they did to their prisoners and, when the allies won the war, these film archives were taken to their custody. After a while many documentarists wanted to get their hands on these and, on the material filmed by the allies themselves. And, therefore several collages of the archives have been made, even to this date. Night and Fog by Alain Resnais is the widest and best of them all; bringing unseen material from the archives to daylight.

In the year 1955 Alain Resnais had stabilized himself as the best director of short films in the postwar France with Van Cogh (1948) and Guernica (1950). Two years earlier, in 1953 he was asked to make a custom documentary about the colonial possessions of France. However, the same destiny that hit Georges Franju’s pacifistic documentary Hôtel des Invalides (1952) — Franju was even accused of treason — awaited Statues Die Too (1953) which didn’t please the government for its rather strong criticism for imperialism at all, and was banned for decades. Because of this, the film has remained quite unknown but Resnais’ other documentary Night and Fog (1955) is still among his most remembered films and the most acclaimed documentaries in the history of cinema.

Anyhow, before 1955 people had already made documentaries about concentration camps. So why did Resnais make this? Could Night and Fog tell us something we didn’t already know? Why would we want to look at these horrifying pictures again? Is the reason just demagogy or unhealthy obsession? Can a film create the reality of concentration camps aptly and can we even watch the realism of the documentary? These are probably the questions one who is about to watch Night and Fog asks oneself. Wouldn’t the subtlety of literature fit better for a topic like this? Probably, because the reconstruction of film is only sociological or mental. Film can’t relay an essential image of the reality of concentration camps. But it can achieve something even greater.

A question whether the horror of this topic exceeds the opportunities for cinematic expression is indeed very relevant. With regards to morality and aesthetics, Night and Fog takes film, as an art form, to the extreme. It takes us away from our position as a viewer to somewhere between the murderers and the victims. For Night and Fog isn’t really a poem or a film — at least by the conventions we often define them. It’s contemplating about the most important event of the last century and the film deals with the madness of the event with quiet severity. It is an example of the fact that film can exceed higher than conversation or many other art forms. It proves that sometimes words are inefficient. However, Night and Fog doesn’t try to reach any macabre reactions with its honest visuals. On the contrary, it puts us receiving the horror images, not with our heart, but with our brain.

Alain Resnais’ debut feature Hiroshima, mon amour (1959) gave a fictional form for the thematics of remembrance and memory that he had already studied in his earlier documentaries. In his next film Last Year at Marienbad (1961) he tried to create detached mental state and time in a film and these can also be sensed in his documentary films where the reality is always present. Often even in the role of the protagonist.

Night and Fog was actually one of the first films which used both: color and black-and-white footage. In it, the combination of them becomes a creative aesthetic principle. Nowadays, it is used in the most banal ways but for Resnais it meant an obsessive attempt to concretize the mechanism of thought. The juxtaposition of black-and-white and color frames means a strong signal of memory. In fact, the theme of memory is lifted as the protagonist of Night and Fog. It is exactly this collision of past and presence — that are far from each other in both; time and experience — which gives power to this film. Resnais shows the horrors of the holocaust: cruelties, the clearing of the corpses and finally the trial of Nürnberg; while camera tracks through the fields, the camps and the buildings invaded by wild grass. In this zone presence projects itself to the course of historical events.

Furthermore, these images of grass and carefully arranged piles of shoes take the film away from the juvenile “it can’t happen again” attitude, when its message truly hits us. But neither is the film a fierce attack filled with bursts of anger and sudden flashes of horror. It is truly a gentle and compassionate film. A contemporary critic André Bazin said that Night and Fog “radiates gentle light of humanity.” For Night and Fog is, paradoxically, a film filled with geniality and tenderness. Resnais hasn’t erased anything and how could he? But the film is, first of all, a demonstration of love and trust for man — a triumph of hope over despair. Because, when the Nazis walked on the soil of Auschwitz the grass didn’t grow. Now it grows freely from the gaps of crematories and this is exactly a strong manifestation of the power of life — a triumph of life over vacancy. 

However, Night and Fog doesn’t try to attain careless optimism, oblivion or denial. It tries to remind us of the horrors of concentration camps and their stability. It asks us to look into our innermost, to study our conscience, because: couldn’t we all really be Nazi murderers? At least indirectly. “Those of us who pretend to believe that all this happened at a certain time and in a certain place, and those who refuse to see, who do not hear the cry to the end of time.”

As said, Night and Fog has a clear connection with Hiroshima, mon amour. They both deal with the contradiction of remembrance and insult. For there is a huge difficulty of understanding in our world. We can never truly understand the tragedy of others and all we can do is try. In Hiroshima, mon amour the characters couldn’t understand each other because the other was Japanese and the other French. In turn, in Night and Fog Resnais tries to tell us about the horrors we can’t understand because other people experienced it in the past and we live in the presence.

I myself have visited Auschwitz with my family when I was a lot younger. We took pictures there and I have a few photos of myself leaning on the gates or sitting on the rail-roads. And as I infiltrated to the tragedy of others, I insulted them, in a way. I insulted their heritage. But this is exactly the contradiction of remembrance and insult. Sometimes we should remember the horrors and forget the insult, because this should be a part of the upbringing of us all. For history means nothing if we don’t learn from our mistakes. Or as the director himself has put it: “memory only exists when presence meets it and sheds light on it.”

But again, despite the brutal topic, Night and Fog is lyric and even beautiful. The gorgeous music by Hanns Eisler and the insightful commentary track by Jean Cayrol make us forget that we are viewers. They put us on an amorphous zone between past and presence. In fact, the film is a combination of subjectivity and non-fictional realism. Cayrol had personal experiences of concentration camps which brought some personal perspectives to the film. However, this made the two auteurs realize their documentarist dilemma: they wanted to make a historical documentary but the commentary tracks inevitably were personal, poetic and touching. Fortunately, this only reinforced the film and attached lyric beauty to this otherwise so heartless view.

It is exactly the monotony and repetition of images, which turn into hypnotic elements, that enhance the film. Because in the end it doesn’t matter whether the frames are in color or black-and-white — the past and presence have merged — and this highlights the film’s thesis: this is the truth. Individuals vanish, all people are from the same mold without age, gender or nationality.

Alain Resnais wasn’t interested in making a conventional tribute to the Jews and the victims of WWII. His attitude towards historical monuments was negative because they weakened the resolution of memory — which only exists “when presence meets it.” Alain Resnais wanted to present the horrors to the ignorant youth of today. The film shows the events luminously to the generation who has been unable, because of its age, to understand them. And that is what makes Night and Fog priceless and timeless, even in the world of today.

Film might just be the only method which we can use to deal with this subject, at least with this kind of depth. Resnais couldn’t have just used one color or otherwise he might have been driven into romanticism of social pornography. A brutal but ironic picture of man’s life is constructed through image and text. Another connotation with regards to the irony is the fact that Night and Fog can be interpreted as a travesty of the rules of capitalism. Because, in addition to misery, we see “normal” life: industry and cities, eating and living. In the end, the mockery hits the history of man. For this is what the victories of capitalism are all about: ruthless exploitation. The triumphs are handled without any humanity or dignity and that, we shall never forget.

My older review on IMDb

Passionate Love and Sensual Beauty of Life

Luchino Visconti was a specialist in the district of traditional theater and opera before he started making films. Therefore, his debut film Ossessione (1943), which is widely considered as the pioneer of neo-realism — which some people seem to define as everyday realism —, might shock an inexperienced viewer with its magnificent aesthetic styling. During his later days, Visconti’s central aesthetic problems were about his unique and severe way of reading classics of world literature and making independent adaptions from them: Lo straniero (Albert Camus) and L’Innocente (Gabriele D’Annunzio) for instance. Morte a Venezia or Death in Venice (1971) is, without a doubt, the finest film of his later era, and it was also based on a world famous classic: a novella, Death in Venice (1912), by Thomas Mann.

Death in Venice got a contradictory reception when it first came to the theaters: for some it was a bland remake and for others pure cinema. I guess it is no wonder that I count myself among the latter group. In the film loneliness is put against homoerotic fulfillment, artistic creativity against death, and old age against youth. The one who dares to accuse Visconti for making a dull visualization hasn’t truly understood the film because, in the very beginning, the director tells us that this is a different kind of story: for Mann the protagonist Gustav von Aschenbach was a novelist and for Visconti he was a composer (played by Dirk Bogarde), who was slightly inspired by the composer Gustav Mahler whose 7th Symphony plays on the background throughout the film.

This film is often called “a story about a man obsessed with ideal beauty” but there’s much more than just that. It is, just like the original story, about loneliness and old age, art and beauty, life and death. It is about the yearning for youth and this was a theme which Visconti returned to: three years later with Conversation Piece (1974). To put it briefly, Death in Venice is a story about Aschenbach, an aging artist who travels to Venice. He has dedicated his life to art and the dream of ideal beauty. The only thing that is able to awaken Aschenbach’s emotional life in his later days, is a 12-year-old Polish boy Tadzio who, with his family, stays at the same hotel with Aschenbach on the beach of Lido. In the meantime, or in the result of this, Venice is attacked by an epidemic, a plague which the authorities try to cover up; in order to protect the tourist industry of Venice. Aschenbach loves Tadzio, from distance. Tadzio represents something unattainable, unreachable for him — perfection of idealized beauty. For Aschenbach, this extraordinary relation is based on an aesthetic attitude, the contradiction between life and art, but eventually it turns into passionate love.

Luchino Visconti’s style was never as self-conscious as it was in Death in Venice: perfection of mise-en-scene, minimalist visual aesthetics, the bouquet of red and white flowers — the mark of death. He seems to be completely secure for the movement of the camera, and this is exactly the highlight of Visconti’s stylistics, not the art of editing; because the film is far from the hectic style which the 1970’s film industry was characterized by. Several tracking shots through the hotel lobby, with all its people. The frames are gorgeous and full of significance: the unreachable Tadzio who moves just as smoothly as he did in Mann’s novella, the grotesque street singer and the barber who wants to make Aschenbach look younger — who in reality makes him his death mask.

However, Death in Venice isn’t just a beautiful experience for the eye but, to my mind, it might just be the best film made about the essence of art and beauty. It is a fact that in a perfect world: art wouldn’t exist. It needs imperfections, injustice and cruelty around it. One of the theses of this film could be that art requires certain anxiety, unhealthy environment. If a person is happy and feels good about oneself; what good can come from that? It is cruel but true. Because leading life without anxiety equals leading a lie. It is an emotion that can be numbed but never erased. It is “the only real emotion,” as Freud said.

These people who try to live their lives without anxiety are actually all the people around Aschenbach: the sophisticated ladies with their stylized clothing, drinking tea and listening to live music. In addition, the film offers an intriguing set-up: Aschenbach is alone, his wife and daughter are away, and in the hotel there are only women and children, besides Aschenbach. One could analyze this from a male chauvinistic perspective but I prefer to see it as part of the dialectics of the film, where loneliness and social gathering meet each other. Compared to the original story, in the film the protagonist has much more power to his “unhealthy” environment.

Visconti always depicted his era through the decay and destruction of bourgeois families (Sandra, The Damned). The decadence of European culture, in Death in Venice, is reflected by the destruction of the city and Aschenbach’s death mask. This particular social theme is challenging, and might be hard to find during the first viewing. But when it has been found, it is more luminous than anything else.

The acting of Bogarde is just perfect. This is his moment of perfection. In the film he is wonderfully able of playing nuanced grief (the scene at the elevator, which was entirely Visconti’s) as well as joy (the scene at the railway station). In addition to the former scene, Alfred, the only friend of Aschenbach, was added to the story by Visconti and they conduct several dialogues regarding beauty and art. Aschenbach thinks that deep intelligence and consciousness can only be achieved when one controls one’s senses perfectly and that beauty is created by art. He thinks that “the creation of beauty and purity is a spiritual act.” But Alfred begs to differ: he thinks that beauty is exactly created by senses. Beauty is something that can’t be controlled by knowledge and spirit. It is uncontrollable: “Words can only praise sensual beauty, not express it.” (Thomas Mann)

The visit (hesitation and cancellation) at the brothel and the lies of the officers are all part of the Marxist director’s criticism for capitalism which characterizes all of his films — and that seems to be one of the reason why he uses the city more where Mann, on the other hand, was more infatuated by the beach. For Visconti, the hotel and the beach represent the ideal image and the city represents reality; realistic presentation where the former aesthetic. However, in the end, dream and reality, both surrealistic and realistic ingredients get mixed up — Venice is burning.

The relationship between Aschenbach and Tadzio is built in an extremely fascinating way which also might bother another viewer. The reason why Aschenbach tries to find out the “mystery” of the epidemic isn’t his own health but the life of Tadzio. In fact, healthy and unhealthy conduct dialogue in an interesting way through Aschenbach and the milieu: getting older and the spreading of the plague. In addition to this, logic and passion (art) are part of the film’s dialectics: Tadzio represents the passion for Aschenbach, perfect beauty or; life without logic. In the original story, Aschenbach even gets pleasure for the imperfections of the city and Tadzio — because if they can be perfect, it means that he hadn’t had the slightest clue about life and the truth. In the end, love seems to win this struggle: passionate love does justice to life over art — Aschenbach’s last sight is Tadzio wading in the infinite sea, like an angel.

The way I see it, Death in Venice is one of the most beautiful films ever made. The beauty of it is born from a light play over Venice (the opening credits) and ends with a dying artist. Death also indicates the destruction of old life. The story is set to the time, right before World War One which destroyed a lot of European history and culture. However, Death in Venice doesn’t just depict beauty but offers a critical vision on the bourgeois worldview and way of life, beneath the surface. The film is extremely complex exactly because of the dramatic intensity which beats beneath the sensual visions. The film is just as masterful, and captivating, as the original story but it is more sensual than philosophical. It is all about the aging Visconti, dealing with the beauty of life, his art and time.

Homo Homini Lupus

The famous Latin phrase “homo homini lupus” meaning “man is a wolf to (his fellow) man,” known to be said by a great English philosopher Thomas Hobbes, could easily be the motto of Akira Kurosawa’s 21st film Yojimbo (1961). It is purely a genre-film at its best; a film in which the basic realizations and contents of a genre have been internalized perfectly. In this case the genre is samurai-film which is strongly related to the genre of western. Whereas from western the American mythology exhales, from samurai-film Japanese does. Although, the history of samurai-film extends to the 1930-40’s it found its dynamic form and was truly born in the early 1950’s when Japanese films first came to Europe. The genre still lives on but Yojimbo is, without a doubt, among the five best samurai-films ever made. Both, ironic humor and conception of the eternal weakness of the human nature characterize this exquisite film about a mythical character.

Western and samurai-film are usually compared to each other, and Kurosawa has said that: “Everybody likes a good western. Because people are weak, they want to see good people and great heroes. Westerns have been made over and over again and in this process a certain grammar has developed and I have learnt something from it.”. They both take place to important phases of their country’s national history and in the focus there are armed heroes. The heroes are often marginal characters in the society who return order to it but are also conscious of the fact that their virtuous action doesn’t take them to the new, better, ordered society. And this is exactly what happens in Yojimbo as it does in A Fistful of Dollars for example. Kurosawa had the habit of placing his stories to history, far away, so the producers and managers of film companies wouldn’t get upset of his anti-feudalism. On the big screen, he was safely able to tell about his thoughts without them being directly linked to the present day — and that’s why it is samurai-film that he most eagerly studied.

The story of Yojimbo is, from today’s perspective, classical and has been lent dozens of times in A Fistful of Dollars (1964) and Last Man Standing (1996) for instance. The Japanese word ‘yôjinbô’ means a bodyguard or a hit man and that is exactly what the protagonist of the film is. The film happens in a simple milieu where two selfish robber gangs work. Soon an unknown samurai — played by Toshirô Mifune — arrives to the town and offers his services to one of the gangs. He cheats the other by claiming that he would be working for them. The other gang finds out and tortures him. However, soon our hero escapes and after a few days recovery he overthrows the hostile gang of 20 bandits and leaves the town in peace.

During the late 1950’s and early 60’s western was dying. In the United States there were made three times less westerns than a decade ago and, therefore the genre moved to Europe: Germany and most of all Italy. In this atmosphere samurai-film also found its place. In fact, we could say that samurai-film gave a kiss of life to western. Samurai-film gave birth to many genres and at the same it took a lot of influences from older films. But the greatest interaction between the east and the west happened during the early 1960’s: and The Magnificent Seven (1960) by John Sturges is the most famous adaption of Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954). Yojimbo, on the other hand, was strongly influenced by John Ford’s westerns for example and in turn gave the most important inspiration for Sergio Leone’s dollar-trilogy — and the whole spaghetti western genre.

This particular topic divides film fanatics and has created discussion: whether Leone stole Kurosawa’s film or was just heavily influenced by it? Basically, there are two schools of thoughts regarding this and I count myself somewhere in between. After A Fistful of Dollars (1964) was published Kurosawa sent a message to Leone in which he said that it was a good film but it was his. Ironically, Leone was very proud for this note because his cinematic hero had commended his film. The claim (around 100, 000 dollars) was a little unreasonable and Leone made fun about it by saying that Kurosawa got more money from this legal hasslel than any of his films had produced. Of course Kurosawa took a lot of influences from the genre of western, the trace of Stagecoach (1939) can be clearly seen in Seven Samurai, but where can we draw a line? Sure Leone’s act was ruthless but he did take a lot of influences from other westerns by Ford, Stevens and Aldrich, though not as directly as from Yojimbo.

When we get past the legal hassle, we get to what is important. In my opinion, Yojimbo is far better. Because for Kurosawa the historical situation is much more concrete and the portrayal of the general nothingness of life is more ironic. To put it briefly, his approach was more mature whereas Leone was standing on a loose basis, except in 1969 when he achieved his peak in Once Upon a Time in the West which is an excellent film. However, Yojimbo and A Fistful of Dollars do have a lot in common.

They are united by a stripped, closed and simplified landscape in which ruthless and completely selfish and unethical groups of bandits work. Their cruel attitude towards the world is relayed to us most luminously in the scene where one bandit says to his son that: “To gain respect one has to kill more.” Irony and humor mean complete destruction of morality and the caskets, for instance, are a big joke in both films. In contrast to the quote from Yojimbo, A Fistful of Dollars is based on the philosophy of “to live one has to kill.” The cinematic method of Leone is a postmodern collection: the combination of fantasy and realism, odd humor, the perfect dramaturgical presence of the music and the sounds in the story, the exaggeration of the melodramatic scenes. It is not a bad film.

As said, the essential elements for Yojimbo were ironic humor and the conception of the eternal weakness of the human nature. There are no good and evil; just two evils from which the protagonist has to choose. With regards to the year 1961 when the film was made in we inevitably try to connect the story with The Cold War: the Soviet Union and the United States; the two evils. But as it is a timeless classic I find it much more interesting to interpret it as a study on humanism, which in addition to existentialism occured Kurosawa the most, or as Kurosawa himself puts it: “An action film can only be an action film. But how wonderful it is if it can also depict the human nature. — I’ve wanted to deal with the ancient drama from this new perspective.”

We all know this situation. An ethical dilemma that is impossible to solve. We want to end the battle between these two evil but can’t because we are too weak. In this the hero of Yojimbo (named Sanjuro) differs from us. He can stand in the middle and quit the fighting. This realization makes us associate Yojimbo with High Noon (1952) by Fred Zinnemann. Just like the hero of High Noon Sanjuro thinks that people are bad and they should not be let off the hook. Even though their mission is the same: to clean the mess of a small scattered town, their reasons and ways to do it are different. The protagonist of High Noon is a moralist. Sanjuro isn’t; he is cynical, melancholy and has a total lack of morality. Unlike the former, Sanjuro doesn’t aim at a more wide operation than cleaning up the town and there is no greater moral purpose behind it. For Kurosawa social action is serious business and therefore he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He doesn’t make it look grand and glorious.

Samurai-film reflects the action that has been going on between the traditional Japan and the modern west. But in order to understand the genre, we must take a brief look back at history: samurai comes from the word ‘to serve’ and they were indeed servants. But they were also a class of their own, part of the higher class. Samurais even had the right to kill a man who acted disrespectfully against the representative of the higher class. In 1868 when the class was removed the former samurais became officers and ministers. The concept of samurai lived on beneath the surface. Samurai turned into a myth, and just like several American filmmakers, Kurosawa broke this myth.

The genre is often divided in two: jidaigek (The Heian period, the last period of the classical Japan; 782-1167) and more action-like chambara (The Edo period; 1603-1868). For their style, these two sub-genres cannot be mixed. But the temporal division is weak and elusive. For instance, The Life of Oharu (1952), which is one of the greatest Japanese films ever made, is widely known as a jidaigek film but takes place to the Edo period. Basically, jidaigek is always felt as a deeper genre: the past and presence conduct dialog, themes such as what we should believe and the quality of life exhale from it. Jidaigek-films attain an authentic historical feeling and chambara-flicks are often b-class, the ideas are opaque and the films seem to glorify violence.

Yojimbo is filled with action but I wouldn’t categorize it under chambara as it is an action film with deep thematics. The film shows that “man is a wolf to a man,” how people in reality are animals. The humor comes from the fact that we are quite ridiculous when we think that we are trying to attain morally righteous solutions. The message of Yojimbo and so many films seems to be that the world can’t be observed through absolute morality. Both utilitarianism and virtue ethics collapse in the world of Kurosawa. For example, Sanjuro’s only virtue is that he doesn’t try to be bad, all the time. At times, he might make decisions that ostensibly are good but are actually built on selfish acts.

Out of no solidarity or anything that has something to do with morality, he helps one evil to win over another. After he has performed his duty he can walk away and forget all about it. He resembles a god in Greek tragedies: he descends down, does his mission and once again disappears. In one particularly intriguing scene he climbs up and looks down at people, from the roof. He watches the lives of people as a grand comedy — a seedy anti-hero observing; similarly brilliant shots have been used in the finest spaghetti westerns as well. 

The world view of Yojimbo is so horrifying that it is funny. When we see a stray dog carrying a human hand, we can do nothing but laugh. The film is tragicomic, filled with black humor. Kurosawa misleads us. First we think the film is a traditional tragedy. But then Kurosawa destroys it, as he does melodrama by precisely considered exaggeration. The desolation of Kurosawa’s world view is most brilliantly projected on the life of Unosuke, the gunfighter. First his sight is innocent and curious. But soon the cruel corrupted world teaches its lesson and therefore he becomes a mighty gunman who digs up his own grave: “He died like he lived.”

In many films by Kurosawa, Yojimbo and The Hidden Fortress for instance, the samurai myth collapses. All the brave samurais talk about is money. The anti-hero interpreted by Mifune is directly related to Leone’s “man with no name,” as said. The moment where he overthrows 20 bandits by himself is close to self-parody. Although, Kurosawa does brilliantly reflect the violence culture in the zone of irony and consciousness. Yojimbo is truly a travesty of warlike glory: nothing really happens in the fighting sequences and the macho man played by Mifune is great comedy. Kurosawa depicts violence in a masterful way which doesn’t turn into gluttony, nihilism or exaggeration. Each and every one of you who have seen the film know the great aesthetic experience the pure and poetic movement of the camera achieves.

Samurai is pure genre-film. But it is also full of subjectivity and personal sights which makes it hard to categorize all of them under the same headlines. Death instinct, life at the gates of hell, loyalty, the harsh reality of heroism, life control and violence culture viewed under the samurai myth are all typical themes of the genre. Samurai is a part of the Japanese culture but it has also tied itself to the core of universal drama and therefore infiltrated to many American films: Ghost Dog (1999) for example or Kill Bill (2003) which is a modern tribute to the genre with its direct references in narrative as well as in the samurai swords. Or Star Wars (1977) which was partly based on The Hidden Fortress. So it doesn’t really matter whether the stories happen in history, presence or the future, is there samurai spirit or not. However, it is always about the inevitable dialogue between loyalty and glory.

In the Heart of America

Giant (1956) is not a perfect film. But it is exceptionally brilliant, insightful and touching. It is based on a family novel by Edna Ferber which was published in the year 1952. The director of the film was an old Hollywood master called George Stevens. He had the greatest qualifications for making this film because he was familiar with many different kinds of genres: from adventure films to musicals and comedies. The director had made several Tracy-Hepburn comedies and one can clearly see the trace of these films in Giant; in its portrayal of marriage, parenthood and its problems. In the 1950’s Stevens moved to the genre of western (Shane, 1953) where he was able to examine the American identity; and therefore, Giant is characterized by all these different genres. Screwball, western and marriage drama. It is a historical family melodrama epic. It is a film in which we can observe the heart of America and, for me, it is the embodiment of the soul, mythology and spirit of American cinema.

One of the many central characters of the film is Rick Benedict, a rich Texan cattle baron, who marries an affluent woman from the eastern states. His traditional cattle business starts to cramble when a new resource is found from Texas: oil. His poor hired man — brilliantly played by James Dean — gets some land of his own, finds oil and becomes richer than Rick ever could. However, Rick understands that one can’t look life as black and white. Economy, technology, people and the world change, and he must change with it which coerces him into the oil industry as well.

In this case the milieu is more important than anything else. Texas is, of course, the Giant. But the magnitude of the state, portrayed in the film, is a paradox. Texas is in the core of America; it is its heart, soul. It’s the essence of the American image, so to speak. But, on the other hand, it’s different and isolated, almost a country of its own. It’s a place where the outside world doesn’t exist or at least Texans don’t see any need for its existence. I am of course referring to the portrayal of the film, things have changed, and I don’t even know any Texans — so please, excuse my naive ignorance.

Rick, played by Rock Hudson, represents the old Texas. He is unable to understand why anyone would like to travel away from Texas, he thinks it is the stupidest thing one could do. At its heart, Rick’s world is unchangeable but in the world of economy, business and technology changes, transitions and surprises aren’t that rare. Suddenly, this new resource, oil brought up such wealth that threatened all the traditional arrangements — and therefore Rick, representing the old cattle business, gets into a fight with Jett, his ex-hired man James Dean, who now is a wealthy oil billionaire. Hudson also brought something for the film because he had tried his hands at comedy. He had became quite famous in silly, commercial romantic comedies, in which he was often coupled with Doris Day. Everyone brought something with their effort which allowed Giant to reach its complexity and versatility.

Giant is a portrayal of a family at the dawn of the new world. This new world, which the oil industry represents, brought up a lot of new political chicaneries, new ideals and values which highlighted efficiency above all. But, what is more, prejudices and problems appeared to this new world as well. Having realized this we get to the core of Giant; what lies below the surface. Extraordinarily brilliant, and what infatuates me the most in Giant, is the way how it links the economical change to the cultural change. The cultural transition which was going on in the 1950-60’s. Through a simple but powerful story about family the film is still able to relay the message, more clearly than anything.

Many of us know that the 1950’s was one of the most important decades of cultural transition — youth culture was born — and as a historical film the time has also reflected itself on Giant which actually ends in present day (mid-50’s). The 1950’s was a prelude for the 1960’s which was the decade of radicalism, anti-war and the civil rights’ movement. During the time the morality of the parents and conservative set of values were questioned which can be seen in films such as The Left Handed Gun, East of Eden and Rebel without a Cause. The fact that Giant has three same actors that the latter does (James Dean, Dennis Hopper and Sal Mineo) inevitably makes the viewer draw parallels between these two films. They are quite different in style but both truly talk about the alienation and anxiety of the new generation, the problematic relation between the parents and the children, the transition of ideals, values and morality.

Giant is also an attack against racism which most strongly characterizes the character Jett Rink (James Dean). The film was made during the time when questions regarding the civil rights and ethnic discrimination were just about to wake up. Giant lifts up the poor and the oppressed to actual human value — think about the scenes where Rick’s new wife meets the Mexican-Americans, and how touchingly idealistic they are. But the film also succeeds in criticizing the common struggles which ethnic minorities were forced to face in hamburger bars and hairdressing salons. For far too long.

However, criticism for racial prejudices and discrimination is only one of the many levels of the film. It also talks about women’s rights which Elizabeth Taylor represents as Rick’s wife, Leslie Benedict. She is a modern day woman who tries to attain independent solutions and lead a life of her own. Even that she married a rich Texan it didn’t mean she would give up her own ideals and set of values. She holds onto them, and doesn’t give herself entirely to her husband. Still it would be quite juvenile to call it a pre-feminist film but Stevens’ portrayal of an independent woman is marvelous, and strictly related to his screwball comedies. This is one of the several layers of Giant and it is a film about masculinity and femininity, gender roles and the social gender.

It is hard for Leslie to keep her own ideals as her sophisticated world collapses, when she arrives to a new, distant and incomprehensible habitat. This, already tricky situation, isn’t eased by the fact that the couple’s children don’t really fulfill their wishes. This leads us to the theme of the problematic relationship between the parents and their children. Because the women weren’t the only ones who tried to attain independent solutions now, the new generation was infatuated by this as well. Rick and Leslie’s son, played by Dennis Hopper, doesn’t want to become a cattle baron and — to top it all — he marries a Mexican-American woman. Their daughter, on the other hand, is extremely interested in taking care of a ranch; not the ranch her father owns but a smaller one in which she could build her life with her husband-to-be. All this doesn’t please Rick Benedict at all but he’ll learn that life isn’t unchangeable.

As a social film, which is one of the levels, Giant also deals with the dimensions of power, economy and money. There is an ultimate tension in this particular zone but also between Rick (Hudson) and Jett (Dean). Jett is a man who challenges Rick’s traditional life style. He becomes a multi-billionaire from a poor hired man but, in the end, drowns himself to his fame and fortune, power, attitude and ideals. It is a miracle how James Dean could do such performance and, just as the film, the character is so full of everything that it is about to break up from its seams. However, psychologically the character is pure gold. As a winner he is a typical character, like Orson Welles in Citizen Kane, for instance. He can’t win in the end with money and power if he is lonely, without love, nothing is real: “Happiness is not real unless shared.” His alcoholism is a result of his loneliness and unsatisfied thirst for love.

The beauty and sentimentality of the film exhale from the absolutely gorgeous landscapes, and noble sights but the way how Stevens has used animals in Giant is extremely insightful. Jett’s dog who highlights his loneliness and stray dog image, or the cat who runs across the room before Jeff fights with Rick — pure screwball. But the most brilliant characterization which has been projected on the animal life is Leslie’s horse. The horse represents her freedom, her old sophisticated world which is about to collapse. Rick’s obsessive sister doesn’t like Leslie taking her place as the hostess and therefore expresses her anger and frustration to the horse; by kicking it with her spiky shoes. The horse gets severely wounded and throws Rick’s sister away, causing her death. While Leslie is gone, Rick shoots her horse, claiming that it had a broken leg. But we know the truth. He shot it because he was frustrated with Leslie going to the village of the Mexican-Americans. It was a double revenge. Stevens’ display of the human mind is surprisingly cruel when we start looking at the details more closely. However, beneath the surface, he finds compassion, warmth and love.

Giant as a historical family melodrama epic touches the social, political and sentimental problems of our world but it also achieves to drill down to pure emotion, to our level. In addition to its social thematics it moves in the zone of emotionality: envy, exploitation, ruthlessness and jealousy are all a part of it. It achieves to touch us. It is probably most well remembered as the last performance of James Dean who, ignoring the warnings of the managers of the Warner Bros., left driving his car in the middle of the night and ended up dying in a car crash. Some years later Rock Hudson passed away, as the first celebrity, of AIDS and now recently we lost Elizabeth Taylor. But still the film lives on. It gets more and more fans day by day. Probably because it is very accessible with its ‘easy-to-follow’ storyline and strong thematics.

The film happens in the heart of America and, to my mind, it is its heart and soul. But what do we find there? From the core of Texas: racism, prejudices, cruelty and ruthless hierarchy. However, Stevens doesn’t look down at Texas, exactly because it is changing and it is also full of beauty, kindness and love.

Giant is a grand epic. It’s one of those films that shouldn’t be let to watch on the television, or anywhere else but at the cinema. The viewer’s heart will pound as rapidly as the film’s dramaturgy, as hard as the oil pump. It is a film full of ultimate power with its multiple layers and simple thesis which most clearly appears to us in the end; where we see two different babies and two different animals, together, looking at us. Texas, the world, was and is changing. We can’t stop it. We just have to accept the change, try to make it better and enjoy the ride.

Rome, Open City: The Interpreter of History and the Symbol of Resistance

“Each time, at some point while filming, I feel the urge to put the script down and follow the person to the quintessential details of his or her thoughts, even to those, of which he or she’s probably unaware. This ‘microscopic’ aspect of film is a part of neo-realism: a moral approach which becomes an aesthetic fact.” (Roberto Rossellini)

In the 1940’s film had stabilized its place as one of the strongest forms of art to depict the deepest sensations of people, nations and history. After WWII many filmmakers were looking for their own ways to deal with history: a Britannic documentarist Humphrey Jennings made evocative documentaries about WWII, and in turn Americans made romanticized fictions about the same war — from their own perspective. Italy departed from both of these modes, for its style and contents, with documentary-like ‘objective’ fictions. A nation which had just released itself from the chains of fascistic totalitarianism tried to find its own way to deal with its history: WWII, which was still clearly in the minds, hearts and wounds of people.

From this, a certain cinematographic style was born, which is today known as Italian neo-realism that approximately lasted from 1945 to 1960, to put it briefly. It was basically recognized for its violent use of light and shadows, amateur-like camera work combined with brave description of Italians; reportage-like characterization, national personal gallery and the dramatization of the resistance. But it cannot only be described by these external elements regarding stylistics, by any means: “Its starting points are in the anti fascistic battle and the legacy of the liberalization of Italy,” as Peter von Bagh, a Finnish film professor, puts it. And one of the most famous film critics, André Bazin, called it a cinema of “fact” and “reconstituted reportage”. But who else could describe neo-realism as well as its father and mentor Roberto Rossellini? Whom I hereby quote: “Each time, at some point while filming, I feel the urge to put the script down and follow the person to the quintessential details of his or her thoughts, even to those, of which he or she is probably unaware. This ‘microscopic’ aspect of film is a part of neo-realism: a moral approach which becomes an aesthetic fact.”

Rome, Open City, directed by Roberto Rossellini in the year 1945, is often seen as the opener and flagship of Italian neo-realism. Although, two years earlier Luchino Visconti had made his debut Ossessione (1943) which had many of the basic elements of neo-realism. It was instantly thrown into the hands of Italian censorship and therefore is still quite unknown. But since Italian neo-realism is characterized by postwar feelings and the wounds of the war, it is often perceived to be born after WWII. However, to my mind, this early masterpiece by Visconti could be seen as a pathfinder of some kind; even if Open City was its opening shot. The melodramatic story about the desperate struggle of the resistance against the fascists in 1944 is often seen as the main work of neo-realism. Even better than Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves (1948) it has succeed to define what neo-realism, at its heart, is.

De Sica, Visconti, Rossellini and other neo-realists wanted to lift Italy back among other nations. They needed their own unique way to deal with the history of Italy. For its style, it was all about documentarism; history was approached through the sacred union of fact and fiction, beneath which anti fascist battle and cry for democracy exhaled from. The actual protagonists of history, the faces of the characters of the film relay a different picture of Italy. The extremely melodramatic scenes are at times unbearable but at the same so admirable.

For a long time after the year 1945 Rome, Open City perceived as the symbol of the resistance — and still the film delights and horrifies. The picture of the character, played by Anna Magnani, running to her son, who was shot by the fascists, was even stigmatized on an Italian stamp after fifty years. The film has turned into folklore. Over time, it has tied more significance to itself than any other piece of art, considering the subject of WWII.

As many other films of Italian neo-realism, so was Rome, Open City written under the watchful eyes of the fascist management — when the risk of getting caught was high. This made Roberto Rossellini and the co-writer Sergio Amidei feel like the activists of the resistance. Since what would be greater than write your own page to history? After young Federico Fellini — today the most famous of this group — became one of the co-directors, they begun to film Open City with an incredibly low budget; and most of it was actually shot in the streets of Rome. It was an extremely ambitious film which perhaps succeed in redeeming all of its expectations. The director even said himself that the film achieved more than all of the efforts done by the Foreign Ministry of Italy put together. It helped Italy to find its place, again, among other nations.

Rome, Open City is, as a historical film, a description of two different times: the year 1944, when the resistance fought against the fascist management, and the post war emotions of hope in the year 1945. Although, these hopeful feelings were destroyed soon enough as the Christian Democrats won the election in the late 1940’s. This dejection and destruction of optimism was, in turn, reflected on Luchino Visconti’s historical-epic Senso (1954). Rome, Open City is a landmark in the history of cinema. In both, neo-realism and war film, both of which Rossellini continued to make for years after his ‘magnum opus’. The film was a cry for democracy and freedom. It was a hopeful picture of Italy; free from the chains of fascism. It meant a completely new way to deal with history. It’s an ethnological interpreter of history. It is a key to Italian neo-realism and the deepest sensations of the nation, as to the country’s history as well.

My older review of Open City on IMDb, 27th January, 2010