What is the relationship between history and memory? Can we understand one without the other? And how does either appear to us: as linearity, as narrative, or as a jumbled heap that suddenly appears, daunting in its messiness? These are the beguiling questions that documentarian Thomas Heise poses to us with Material, albeit implicitly: the nearly-three-hour documentary/essay is comprised of archival footage, spontaneous imagery shot by Heise while living in East Berlin in the late 1980s and early '90s, and material leftover from Heise's 35mm productions and excised from the final films. The diversity of sources from which the footage is culled results in an eclectic visual palette – from grainy black-and-white digital video, to the vivid images from news programs distorted through magnification, to pristine color film – yet this sometimes-jarring combination of styles is itself a fascinating portrayal of the various guises in which memories and past events appear to us, as though their passage through time has colored them in unforeseen ways. While theoretical notions of historical analysis remain under the surface, the movie explicitly illustrates an East German society in the midst of drastic transformation: every figure we see onscreen (from esteemed theatrical directors to former Stasi bureaucrats, from imprisoned murderers to opinionated grandmothers) responds to their sociopolitical climate with rhetorical fervor, collectively weaving a bewildering tapestry of a particular time and place. To add to the chaos, Heise offers little to no explanation for the events we see onscreen: a forced eviction early in the movie and a riot that breaks out in a small movie theater, for example, simply play out before our eyes with overwhelming immediacy, removed from their immediate context. Thus estranging itself from typical political documentaries, Material draws a further correlation between historical events and the visceral spontaneity of memories, as though East Germany itself is desperately referring to the memories and histories that brought about its downfall. Those looking for a document of East Germany in its waning years will probably be disappointed, but by questioning the nature of history and documentary itself, Material transforms into something infinitely more troubling and thought-provoking.
A Grin without a Cat (d. Chris Marker, France, 1977) B+
A Grin without a Cat would actually make a fine double-feature with Material, though seven hours of dizzying political history presented in a rush of archival imagery would be tough going for even the staunchest cinephile. The late, great Chris Marker's four-hour compilation of turbulent world events throughout the 1960s and early '70s is comprised mostly of on-the-ground, spontaneous footage captured by everyday witnesses who happened to be present (with some televised news programs and excerpts from other films thrown in). Marker's whirlwind, globetrotting breadth – we leap from Vietnam to France to Cuba to China to the U.S. to Bolivia, making some detours along the way – is made even more overwhelming thanks to Marker's unwillingness to clearly explicate the sociopolitical context of these scenes. (Some considerable knowledge of mid-20th century world history is practically a requirement here.) The benefit of this lack of talking-heads explication is that A Grin without a Cat offers a visceral, baffling document of a tempestuous turning point in global events: we really do feel like the world is teetering on the brink of either rejuvenation or collapse, with each shaky handheld viewpoint immersing us in this raging torrent of history. The movie also offers us the opportunity to witness compelling political characters like Fidel Castro and Salvador Allende addressing their constituents. It's no coincidence that Marker begins by citing Battleship Potemkin: throughout the documentary, Marker uses montage editing (in the purest Soviet sense) to pose juxtapositions and correlations between geographically distant events, suggesting the forces of dialectical materialism with characteristic intellectual agility. At times his connecting tissue can be pretty flimsy, but then aren't we always at the mercy of a flippant, capricious history?
Interiors (d. Woody Allen, USA, 1978) A–
I had been intending to check out Woody's first all-out dramatic film (an homage to Ingmar Bergman, one of the director's idols) for a long time; happily, Allen reveals himself as sure-footed with drama as with comedy (at least during this fertile mid-to-late '70's period. Three sisters' lives are unsettled after the divorce of their parents, a demanding matriarch and an aloof father who wants to make the most of his remaining years. As Eve, the mother who is at once frail and volatile, Geraldine Page (who garnered a slew of awards for her performance) commands every scene she's in: a study in restrained anger and insecurity, her character (even, or especially, through her absence) catalyzes the rest of the ensemble. (Allen originally wanted Ingrid Bergman to play the part, but she was committed to shooting Autumn Sonata with Ingmar Bergman; the casting switch may have actually benefited Interiors in the long run, as Ingrid's effortless poise would have innately altered the character.) Shot in muted browns, blues, and grays by Gordon Willis, Interiors extends its central thematic motif (characters who feel the need to tyrannically control their external worlds to make up for the turbulence of their inner psyches) to its close, suffocating compositions: the lack of distanced establishing shots and the tendency to edit abruptly between brief snippets of scenes (a dangerous technique that works better here than in practically any other instance I've seen) powerfully conveys the tense relationships between a number of compellingly troubled characters. Some other Allen movies are off-putting in their middle-upper-class insularity, but that privileged milieu actually acts as a nice counterpoint to these characters' messy lives (and in any case, the character of Pearl, the father's new wife, acts as an implicit critique of bourgeois arrogance).
Caravaggio (d. Derek Jarman, UK, 1986) B
Jarman's biography of the controversial 17th century painter treads a fine line between kitsch and tragedy, a balancing act that succeeds to varying degrees throughout the film. Jarman envisions Caravaggio as a bisexual blaspheme, a drunken brawler revisiting his scandalous life from his deathbed, as the sound of foghorns (and, occasionally, automobiles and trains) filter through the open window. Ripe with pederasty and homoeroticism, the movie paints an extravagant portrait of a painter whose beauty was inseparable from his sacrilege; his religious iconography typically used ruffians and prostitutes as models, a duality that's also reflected in the movie's numerous anachronisms (from the aforementioned cars and trains, to calculators, typewriters, and electric lighting). Jarman and his crew get around the difficulty of believably conveying 17th century exteriors by containing all of the action to interiors shot on studio sets, which makes for a bold, colorful, occasionally surreal visual palette, but which also makes the movie seem at times like an intentional curio, sardonically exploiting its barebones budget. That kind of thing works well in Flaming Creatures or George Kuchar movies, for example, but is trickier when the movie also contains portentous proclamations and extravagant portrayals of lust, jealousy, murder, and revenge. In any case, Jarman's artistry is invigoratingly unique, and the movie is never less than thought-provoking.
Looper (d. Rian Johnson, USA/China, 2012) B+
Despite cribbing from both La jetée and that masterpiece's own "remake," 12 Monkeys, Looper still manages to be refreshingly original and, at least so far, the most exciting Hollywood movie of the year. Joseph Gordon-Levitt is Joe, an assassin in 2044 who is tasked with offing victims sent back in time from 30 years in the future. Inevitably, one of those targets ends up being his older self (Bruce Willis), whose escape leads to an especially fraught game of cat-and-mouse (not to mention a grappling with morality and sacrifice). The background of this peculiar time-scrambling enterprise is surprisingly well thought-out, and the portrayal of this near-future is as immersively thorough as those in A.I. Artificial Intelligence or Blade Runner. That careful verisimilitude in a fanciful world extends to the characters, who sometimes function only as cogs in the narrative machine but who are nonetheless offered fleeting moments of personality and empathy. (This is thanks mostly to a stellar supporting cast; Paul Dano, Noah Segan, and Garret Dillahunt all bring uniqueness to what could have been stock B-movie roles.) Ultimately the movie can't transcend its genre trappings to be anything more than an exceptionally well-told story, but in this case that's enough. Looper's most impressive miracle: yet another eerie little kid who has supernatural powers, yet who never quite descends into the morass of syrupy cliche (though he comes dangerously close at times).
The Master (d. Paul Thomas Anderson, USA, 2012) B
We shouldn't be surprised that Anderson's newest film is a sprawling, ambitious, cryptic, and unsettling account of postwar America and the ease with which people can be coerced into faith; nor should we be surprised that the writer/director concocts an episodic, open-ended, disquieting story to parallel the sense of confusion felt by both a single man and an entire nation in the immediate postwar years. Call it aimlessness by design, then, but this aimlessness is still what prevents The Master's characters from feeling real and compelling, and what prevents the movie's larger themes from cohering into a complex expression of societal cancer; I can't say it better than Roger Ebert, who wrote, "The Master is fabulously well-acted and crafted, but when I reach for it, my hand closes on air." Joaquin Phoenix is Freddie Quell, a withered and rage-fueled veteran of WWII; he drunkenly stumbles onto the yacht of Lancaster Dodd, the charismatic yet manipulative leader of a cultish religion called "the Cause," who sees in Freddie's twisted desperation a wounded man in need of recuperation. The Cause is famously reminiscent of Scientology, and it's true that The Master offers some subtle allusions to L. Ron Hubbard's New Age delusion (Dodd's "processing" technique most of all), but the movie should be read as a broader snapshot of how drastically World War II imploded modern society (whether in America or Japan, Germany, France, Britain, etc.). That snapshot was filmed (mostly) on pristine 65mm, and projected on larger-than-life 70mm in some areas (not mine, unfortunately), meaning The Master is as visually awe-inspiring and technically immaculate as we'd expect from Anderson and his crew (with cinematographer Mihai Malaimare, Jr. replacing Robert Elswit, Anderson's usual collaborator). But, if the movie powerfully evokes a troubled and alien environment (only sixty years removed in actuality, yet metaphorically eons away from us), what about the people within it? Quell and Dodd are clearly discombobulated, lonely souls, but by stranding them amid their confusion and alienation, The Master fails to say anything significant about their lives or their world. (The movie's finest scene is the one that most effectively conveys the two men's desperation, which they try to alleviate in disparate ways: Freddie paces furiously in front of an audience of observers, unable to transport himself to the distant, metaphysical realm that Dodd paternalistically demands of him.) Narrative elusiveness is not in itself a detractor, but Anderson is not aiming for the same amorphousness that Claire Denis or Apichatpong Weerasethakul achieve so well; it's clear that The Master has something (too much?) to say, yet is as confused as its protagonists in trying to articulate what that might be. Should we fault a movie for trying to tackle too much? Probably not – but it still keeps The Master from the level of greatness.
Night Train to Munich (d. Carol Reed, UK, 1940) A–
A rollicking early actioner from Carol Reed (who would go on to direct Odd Man Out, The Fallen Idol, and The Third Man). In the thick of World War II, a dapper British spy (Rex Harrison, at his least aggravating) poses as a Nazi major in order to rescue a Czechoslovakian scientist and his alluring daughter from the clutches of the S.S. The movie is clearly propaganda (especially given the introduction of two supporting characters, Charters and Caldicott: jovial Brits who decide to band together to help their endangered countryman and defeat the Germans), and its scenes set in a concentration camp inevitably take on the perverse sheen of escapist entertainment, but if we think of the setting into which this movie released (that is, a beleaguered country in the thick of war, in need of uplift and unification) its more lightweight aspects aren't necessarily flaws. Technically the film is charmingly ingenious: the model sets (like the still above, or the numerous rail-travel scenes obviously achieved with a toy train set) and rear-projection effects aren't exactly convincing, but they're grandly immersive in the larger-than-life way that only cinema can accomplish.
Samsara (d. Ron Fricke, USA, 2012) B
The director of Baraka (and cinematographer of Godfrey Reggio's Koyaanisqatsi) returns to similar territory with this plotless, nearly wordless visual poem centering on spirituality and materiality (or, as the press notes claim, offering us "a guided meditation"). There's little originality in its concept or even its broad thematic structuring (sequences about religious zealotry, modern life in the metropolis, the commodification of sex, the wonders of a decaying natural landscape, and so on are practically ripped straight out of Baraka and Koyaanisqatsi), but the images themselves are astonishingly unique and overwhelmingly beautiful. (No offense to The Master, but Samsara is actually the first film to be shot entirely on 65mm since Kenneth Branagh's Hamlet [1996], since parts of The Master were shot on 35mm.) Some stretches in Samsara are obnoxiously heavy-handed: a shot of a geisha crying, or of Indonesian strippers dancing for the camera, are as cheap and pretentious as they sound. But other scenes are jaw-dropping: a high-angle extreme long shot of pilgrims at Mecca, Saudi Arabia; ethereal helicopter shots of rustic temples shrouded in fog; and, most of all, a surreal and horrific scene in which a man in a skyscraper's lobby slathers clay on his face, smears on disturbing make-up, gouges out his artificial eyes, then repeats the process. (It's as insane as it sounds.) Ethnographically, then, the movie may be hollow and even condescending, and its overarching theme is offensively shallow for anyone who's thought even remotely about the stampede of modernization. As cinema, though – as pure, immediate visual spectacle – Samsara offers us sights we would never otherwise see, in an oneiric alternate world that's as awe-inspiring as the religious rites it ambivalently documents. True, I had to force myself to ignore the movie's witless themes (and occasionally block out the cliched musical score), but if you're able to do this, Samsara will be one of the most breathtaking movie experiences you'll have this year (or for years afterwards), though it must be seen on the big screen to be fully experienced.
Intruders (d. Juan Carlos Fresnadillo, USA/UK/Spain, 2011) C–
Fresnadillo made the excellent sequel 28 Weeks Later (and the acclaimed Intacto, which I haven't seen), but Intruders mostly falters as narrative, as horror movie, and as aesthetic enterprise. Two children – one in Spain, one in Britain – begin having nightmares about faceless creatures who want to steal their senses (beginning with speech, then vision, and so on). Of course their parents (tormented by their own demons) initially chalk it up to childhood whimsy, but gradually come to realize that their nightmares are more real than they thought. The twist? The kids give life to these creatures by writing about them, turning illusion into reality – a meta-cinematic concept that horror directors should have realized a long time ago is not even remotely scary. The movie is too clever for its own good, but it's also annoyingly over the top (the awful musical score reliably dilutes scares rather than enhancing them; here's for an embargo against all string instruments in future horror-movie soundtracks) and relies on cheap CGI to create its supposedly terrifying monsters (which look more like the poor man's version of the Dementors from the Harry Potter movies). A few interesting ideas are folded into the overstuffed narrative (such as the unexpected suggestion of an incestuous Elektra complex between Clive Owen's character and his daughter), and there's one chilling scene in which a woman sees a religious icon in a Barcelona church turn into a menacing demon before her eyes, but mostly this is a flimsy horror concept, and a poorly-told one at that.
The Age of Innocence (d. Martin Scorsese, USA, 1993) A
To my eyes, Scorsese is one of the few directors who makes the most of his historical settings, fleshing out distant periods of time with fleeting gestures as well as sweeping verisimilitude, realizing cinema's potential to make immediate life both immersively real and viscerally hyperreal. This may be less true of The Aviator and Gangs of New York than of Hugo or, especially, The Age of Innocence. Using Edith Wharton's 1920 novel as a springboard to indulge a dizzying play with modes of address and the interweaving of art and society (Scorsese indulges his literary, theatrical, musical, and painterly tendencies along with his cinematic one), Scorsese slyly infuses Wharton's satire of upper-class mores in 1870s New York City with a surprisingly metacinematic emphasis on how art reflects, or refracts, broader movements in society (the best example: an opulent tracking shot through a mansion's hallways festooned with classic paintings, all of which say something about the aristocrats who argue over them). I may be biased – late 19th century America may be the historical setting that fascinates me the most – but this is the most vivid examination I've seen of how a still-nascent American upper-class defined itself in contrast to its European forebears. There's also a tragic love story, brought to fervent life by Daniel Day-Lewis, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Winona Ryder, all of whom lend aching gravity to the emotional hoops they're forced to jump through. (Scorsese called this his "most violent" picture, but it's violent precisely because each character sublimates their desires and passions in favor of social decorum – a semblance of "innocence" more maddening than anything else.) Staggeringly complex and visually dazzling, this is one of the most undervalued works in the director's esteemed career, revealing (along with Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore and The King of Comedy) how eclectic and sure-footed Scorsese truly is.
Dark Days (d. Marc Singer, USA, 2000) B–
The production circumstances of Dark Days practically beg for your sympathy: shot amongst a homeless community living in New York City's abandoned subway tunnels, the film was shot on black-and-white 16mm film by Marc Singer, who knew the onscreen subjects and had never shot a film before. The community collaborated on the project, rigging together lighting setups and dollies for camera movement, and the general intention of the project was to improve the living condition of the people we see onscreen (which it does, as Singer's lobbying led to housing vouchers from the city of New York for all of the people living below-ground). It's a noble work of social activism, obviously, but as a film it's problematic. The movie seems to be at odds with itself, precisely through its attempt to sympathize with the homeless community: initially the point is made that they have forged a legitimate world for themselves (complete with electricity, running water, comforts like television and music, etc.) in order to escape from life's cruel realities; yet when the storyline shifts gears to portray their new above-ground apartments, the air of triumphant reintegration seems forced, as though the film craved a happy ending while dismissing some lingering, unsettling concerns. (How long will they be able to afford their housing? Will they actually be able to readjust to life "above ground"? Some of the climactic interviews seem to suggest a feeling of discomfort and doubt on the part of the subjects, though the movie itself seems to skim past these uncertainties.) It's strange how legitimately unique the film is in production background and audio-visual style, yet how closely it still adheres to a conventional story arc, even when that plot progression seems to contradict what's taking place beneath the surface. The emotional power of Dark Days might be diluted, then, but it's still overwhelming at times: ultimately, the movie reminds us how extreme and uncompromising human life can be, and casts an eye on the kind of sobering underground community that typically remains concealed.
House of Pleasures (d. Bertrand Bonello, France, 2011) B+
At once opulent and morose, House of Pleasures is set in a stately Parisian brothel at the turn of the 20th century (literally, in the months directly preceding and succeeding 1900). On the surface, all is luxury and hedonism: certainly for the men who have the money and the power (and who loll about gazing at the merchandise, exploiting them with various degrees of cruelty), and occasionally for the prostitutes who are aware that there is no escape from their servitude, yet whittle away the hours with champagne and fantasy. At times, though, disturbing visions intrude upon the elegance: a vicious knife attack that transforms one of the ladies into "The Woman Who Laughs," or a nightmare vision of a prostitute weeping semen. A wispy surrealism is achieved by musical anachronisms (James Brown and The Moody Blues are included on the soundtrack), a dizzy shuffling of time and space, and the confinement of almost all the film to its maison interiors. Ultimately, the dominance of money, implicit throughout the entire film, becomes a bleak omen casting its shadow upon the twentieth century to come. At times, House of Pleasures comes off as self-consciously clever, but uniformly graceful performances more often enmesh comfortably with Bonello's bold, hyperstylized vision. The movie is undeniably sexy, yet primarily to make the point that even (or especially) sex has become a commodity in a nascent modern world ruled by capital.
The Innkeepers (d. Ti West, USA, 2011) C+
So slight it's constantly in danger of vanishing into nothing, The Innkeepers is an old-fashioned ghost story that coasts by mostly on atmosphere and dread, strategically spacing its scares at about 25-minute intervals. (The still above is one of the few outright "boo" moments in the entire movie.) This is the kind of thing I typically love (and which was outstanding in Ti West's previous effort, The House of the Devil), but here it simply seems like a by-the-numbers rehash (though the numbers are traced particularly well). At the Yankee Pedlar, a New England inn that would be at home in a Stephen King story (and which is imminently going out of business), two bored desk clerks investigate rumors of ghostly hauntings. Is there something unknown lurking in the basement? Does the mysterious guest who's shut himself up in an ominous hotel room have anything to do with the poltergeists? You probably already know the answers; to be fair, there is some fun in following the generic story to its inevitable conclusion, but there doesn't seem much point to the paint-by-numbers setup. What made The House of the Devil so strikingly unique was precisely its bold setup and staggering payoff (practically nothing happens for the first hour, then everything happens in a ghastly rush); The Innkeepers may be charming, but in this case that's not enough.
Haywire (d. Steven Soderbergh, USA/Ireland, 2011) C+
Put this in the "by-the-numbers" category mentioned above: assemble an all-star cast, paste together a lame crime story about double-crosses between stoic assassins, throw in a David Holmes score that tries too hard to be suave, and you've got your next Steven Soderbergh movie. That all-star cast does enliven the proceedings, and the fight scenes (sans music, with every blow landing with tremendous dull force on the soundtrack) are undeniably exciting; too bad that appeal wears off after a while (around the time that it becomes clear that there's absolutely nothing going on in this plot). Soderbergh and screenwriter Lem Dobbs had previously collaborated on The Limey (1999); at least that dreamlike thriller was able to disguise its familiar storyline with dazzling construction and unexpected poignancy. In the lead, Gina Carano proves she could be a striking action star in the future; but, stranded in the middle of a vacuous plot and hollow characters, she can only provide fleeting glimpses of her potential here.
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