Мать (Mother)

1926
Directed by Vsevolod Pudovkin
USSR



The 1920s was truly one of the greatest times in the history of cinema. Hollywood was solidifying its status as a wellspring of creative filmmaking. DeMille pioneered the modern historical epic. Flaherty gave birth to documentary filmmaking. Chaplin, Keaton, and Floyd delighted the world with comedic masterpieces that have yet to be topped. Warner Brothers gave birth to sound pictures, MGM to musicals, and Paramount to the movie star. France also challenged to status quo by examining the artistic merits and possibilities of the film medium. Innovators like Dreyer, Clair, and Renoir, and Buñuel dared to take the cinema to new heights by treating it as a genuine art form instead of just a source of entertainment. In Germany, economic hardships sparked the German Expressionism movement, a fever dream of artistic expression and innovation.

And yet, there is one other country that redefined cinema during the 1920s: The USSR. Established on December 30, 1922, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics would forever change the balance of world power and become a defining force of world culture. Declared by V. I. Lenin as the single most important medium for educating the masses in the ways of Communism, the cinema took on a new role. Whereas in America the cinema was entertainment and in Europe it was art, in the Soviet Union, the cinema became propaganda.

Throughout the 1920s, several of the greatest geniuses to ever touch the medium were employed by the Soviet government to transform the cinema into a teaching tool of indoctrination. To do so, new cinematic techniques and methods were invented. Dziga Vertov pioneered the theory of Kino-Pravda, or film truth, which postulated that the cinema can witness and depict greater truth than can be seen with the naked eye. Vertov’s Man with a Movie Camera (1929) was a bold attempt to literally redefine cinematic language and is still revered today as one of the greatest films ever made. Sergei Eisenstein released what could be the greatest one-two-three punch debut in the history of cinema with Strike (1924), The Battleship Potemkim (1925), and October: Ten Days That Shook the World (1928). In these three films, Eisenstein quite literally changed the rules of cinematic construction by introducing the theory and practice of montage editing. Alexander Dovzhenko’s “Ukraine Trilogy” would become three of the most important films in early Soviet history, simultaneously gaining praise and scorn from Soviet authorities for sheer craftsmanship and political ambiguity.

And yet, there is one director from this era who almost always seems to be overlooked by film enthusiasts. While he may not be as famous as Vertov or as influential as Eisenstein, he still remains one of the most consummate cinematic craftsmen to ever come from the Soviet Union. His name was Vsevolod Illarionovich Pudovkin. History may overlook him, but it can never overlook his work.

Just like his contemporary Eisenstein, Pudovkin helped pioneer the montage editing process. But Pudovkin differed from Eisenstein in the messages that he promoted through the use of montage. While both obviously used the montage to create scenes that praised the power of the proletariat and the strength of Communism, they highlighted different aspects of the revolutionary process. Eisenstein used the montage to glorify the image of the masses. In Battleship Potemkin the infamous Odessa Steps Massacre shows the Czarist guards as an unfeeling machine that mowed down crowds of innocent bystanders. In October: Ten Days that Shook the World, Eisenstein used hundreds of extras to create scenes where waves of humanity swept across their oppressors. To Eisenstein, there was strength, power, and significance, in numbers.

Pudovkin preferred to focus on the individual. The montage was used to highlight the individual efforts and struggles that made up the revolutionary forces that swept across Russia. In The End of St. Petersburg (1927), a single unemployed peasant becomes a revolutionary hero. His magnum opus, Storm Over Asia (1928) followed the plight of a plain Mongol herdsman who leads a revolution against English oppressors. These two films alone would be enough to solidify Pudovkin as one of the USSR’s premiere filmmakers. However, both of these films were predated by another masterpiece. The film in question was simply titled Mother (1926) and it eclipses both films in terms of emotional content and impact.



Allow me to explain. In both Storm Over Asia and The End of St. Petersburg the main heroes are exploited characters who eventually rise up against their oppressors. However, they do it by their own volition. They rebel because they believe it the right thing to do. In the case of Mother, the events are inspired by something much simpler and infinitely more powerful: love.

Based on a Maxim Gorky novel, the film follows the struggles of a simple family caught up in the failed 1905 Russian Revolution. The father is a rough brute who keeps his wife in constant terror. The son is an inspired revolutionary wholeheartedly devoted to his cause. The mother is an ever-suffering woman. Life is hard, her husband is abusive, and her only son seems hell-bent on throwing his life away. It isn’t long before her husband is killed in a worker’s strike, leaving her in charge of the family. When the son asks her to hide weapons for the revolution, she wearily agrees. But when the police come looking for them, she quickly betrays them, hoping that they will free her son.

Of course they don’t. In a farcical trial scene reminiscent of Tolstoy’s Resurrection, the son is sent to prison. Things come to a head when the prisoners try to escape. But they are brutally massacred. Inspired by the horrors of Czarist oppression and spurred on by the death of her son, she picks up a political cudgel and joins in a worker’s protest. The ending is the stuff of cinematic legend. To ruin it would be a crime. Suffice to say, the film stays faithful to history.



What propels this film to the level of a masterpiece is Pudovkin’s impeccably economic execution and delivery. As Pudovkin’s first independently produced feature, he had access to little money. So Pudovkin had to compensate with devastating cinematic grammar. Along with his cinematographer Anatoli Golovnya, Pudovkin doesn’t waste a single shot or frame composition. Rob Edelman wrote a fantastic article explaining some of the attributes of Pudovkin and Golovnya’s cinematic language:

He and his cinematographer, Anatoli Golovnya, photographed the actors from every which angle: a military officer's self-importance would be conveyed by shooting him from below; the mother's early frustration would be emphasized by shooting her from above, and at the end, her triumph and liberation is highlighted by shooting from below. When Pudovkin places his camera in this position, the character's upper body and head seem further away, more inaccessible, reaching to the sky and towering over the viewer; when the actor is beneath the camera he becomes inferior, in that the viewer is literally looking down on him. Pudovkin does not shoot his performance straight on, as if he is recording a stage play. Mood and characterization are communicated in Mother not by the actor emoting before the camera; the performer is almost a passive participant in the filmmaking process.

That isn’t to say that the acting in Mother is hackneyed. Pudovkin used a blend of professionals (the mother and son were recruited from the Moscow Art Theater) and non-actors (smaller roles like the colonel supervising the son’s interrogation) to create a dynamic world that is both highly realistic and expressionistic. The performances were also highlighted by Pudovkin’s use of montage. Take the famous scene where the son receives good news while in prison. His reaction is punctuated with images of spring: a thawing river, children playing, and birds bathing.



Inevitably (and predictably) later in Pudovkin’s career he would fall out of favor with Soviet authorities. But before he provoked Soviet ire, Pudovkin left a powerful string of films to cement his legacy. Mother will forever be remembered as one of his greatest. A genius piece of economic filmmaking, Mother also separated itself from other Soviet films by making the audience feel sympathy and love for the characters. The struggles faced by the mother reflected countless other cases of pain and suffering that permeated Soviet revolutionary efforts. And yet, as a piece of propaganda, it works its magic. It is impossible to not feel inspired and enraged by the events that transpire. Some may ask why. The answer is that Pudovkin put a human face on the revolution: that of a loving mother.

The entire film can be watched for free on youtube. Below is part 1/11.

Sources:
http://www.filmreference.com/Films-Ma-Me/Mat.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cinema_of_the_Soviet_Union#1920s
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vsevolod_Pudovkin
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mother_%281926_film%29
http://sovietmovies.blogspot.com/2008/11/vsevolod-pudovkin-mat-aka-mother-1926.html

Editor's Note: One Year Old

Well, to all my faithful readers I have great news!

Today is the one year anniversary of "Forgotten Classics of Yesteryear"!



The past 52 weeks has produced 87 film reviews. For those who are interested, here are some interesting statistics:



Sorry, that's supposed to say "Continent."

*Sigh*



I want to thank all of my great readers and all of those who have been so kind to leave comments over the past year.

In particular, I wish to thank:

AJB: For that great article on Seijun Suzuki!

Bruta1ity: For helping me learn about the wonders of Russian cinema! I got a special treat for you in a week!

Chris: For spreading the word about my blog and for keeping things classy!

Danielmontgomery: Thanks for adding me to your blogroll and for the great encouragement!

Dave: For keeping it real with the Western rap! I miss you, buddy! Comment more!!!

Elisabeth and Baba: Without you two, there wouldn't be a single African film on this blog! Love you!

Emptyflow: For your kind words of encouragement!

Felipe Lacerda: I hope that we cleared everything up! I'm very thankful to have you as a reader!

Fred: For proving that musicals never go out of style!

Ian Mongomery: For all of your kind words! As one blogger to another, keep up the great work, buddy!

Jonathan Cameron: For the hits, the encouragement, and, of course, the love and prayers! Tell Janet I love her!

Kaist455: You have NO IDEA how thankful I am for every word of feedback that you give. It truly is an honor to have you comment on my site!

Litdreamer: Hope you've enjoyed "I Live in Fear"!

Meditatia10: For constantly commenting and saving my life!

Paul J. Marasa: For setting me straight about Bresson! ;)

poetbdk: Hope my article on "The Trial of Joan of Arc" helped your book!

S.M. Rana: For being one of the best contributors and commentators on this blog. It wouldn't be the same without you!

Tom Morris: Thanks for sharing your thoughts about Altman!

Wilding: I know that you're out there, buddy! I'll see you around /tv/!

To all my other commentators and subscribers, thank you.

This has not been an easy year for me. There were several times when this blog was my last stake on sanity. Every subscription and comment was like a dream come true.

Special thanks to Mom, Dad, and Rachael. I'd be lost without you all.

God bless you all.

Here's to another year!

Keep those comments coming!

In celebration of my first year anniversary, I will be taking this week off. I'll be back on October 30th with a new review!

Der Golem, wie er in die Welt kam (The Golem: How He Came Into the World)

Directed by Paul Wegener and Carl Boese
1920
Germany



If the cinema is a world of dreams, then German Expressionism is a world of nightmares. After the horrors of World War One, Germany was consumed by rampant inflation and a horrendous economy. In order to compete with lavish Hollywood films, German filmmakers reinvented the language of the cinema so that they could make films cheaply while maintaining a sense of artistic integrity. Disillusioned by the War to End All Wars, horror seemed a natural fit for a country that had lost 13,000,000 young men. Films began to deal more increasingly with matters of madness and monstrosities. Sets became lucid mazes of sharp angles, painted shadows, and terrifying vistas. In a sense, the fractured and distorted sets and shots reflected the shattered mindset of the films’ characters and, in a sense, those of its audience. Early German Expressionist films, like The Student of Prague (1913) and Destiny (1921) dealt with Faustian exchanges and deals with Death himself. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920) and Nosferatu (1922) were progenitors of the modern monster film with lumbering somnambulists and creeping vampires that lurked in the shadows.

90 years after their production, most German Expressionist films are lovingly cherished by film makers and connoisseurs. Many have been painstakingly restored from their original prints so they can be preserved for the ages. And yet, there is always the occasional film that slips under the radar. One of these is a film of staggering power and artist merit entitled The Golem: How He Came into the World. The third in a series of films about a clay golem that comes to life and murders hapless victims, The Golem: How He Came into the World is the only one that still survives to this day. The film itself was a prequel to the first golem film, appropriately titled The Golem (1915) that took place in the (then) modern world. Set in the 16th century, The Golem: How He Came into the World deals with how the golem was first created. Truly, the origin story of this early film monster deserves to be appreciated not only as a towering example of the genre of German Expressionism, but also as a consummate work of art.

In 16th century Prague, the esteemed Rabbi Loew ben Bezalel reads in the stars that a great catastrophe threatens the Jews. The catastrophe comes in the form of an edict from Emperor Rudolf II that the Jews must leave the city of Prague due to accusations of practicing black magic and the scorning of Christian ceremonies. To protect his community, Rabbi Loew constructs a golem, a massive automaton made of clay. After a magical ceremony, the Rabbi brings the golem to life by giving it a magical pendant with the word aemaet inscribed on it (Depending on who you ask, aemaet can mean either “life,” “God,” or “truth”). He then brings the golem to the court of Emperor Rudolf II and tries to reason with him to repeal the decree of banishment. Laughing at his appeal, Rabbi Loew orders the golem to make the palace collapse onto the spectators and block the exit. Desperate, the Emperor swears that if Rabbi Loew recalls the golem, he will repeal the decree.



When they return home from the palace, all seems well. Then Rabbi Loew tries to deactivate the golem. Unbeknownst to him, the golem, having been alive too long, has no intentions of going quietly into that dark night. The golem rebels, sets the city on fire, and begins a murder spree. The golem is eventually stopped, and I will leave that incredible scene for my readers to discover themselves. Suffice to say, as the golem was borne of ignorant makers, it could only be defeated by ignorant innocents.

The Golem: How He Came into the World was a terrifying film of grim ironies. Accused of black magic, the Rabbi Loew decides to protect his people by summoning Astaroth, otherwise known as the Crowned Prince of Hell, to bring his automaton to life. The golem, originally designed to protect the Jewish community from destruction, ends up almost annihilating them himself. In a way, the film acts as a prophetic warning of the coming of fascism in Germany in the 1930s. In order to save themselves from destruction, the German people elected Adolf Hitler as the Chancellor of Germany in 1933 to lead them. Eventually, the man they elected to help rebuild and protect their country would plunge them into World War Two, leaving their cities in ruins and their population decimated.



The film, while revolutionary, is a tad uneven. Rabbi Loew has a daughter named Miriam who begins a tryst with a knight named Florian who originally delivered the decree of banishment to the Jewish community. The entire affair, while vital to the plot later in the film, comes off as out-of-place in such a nightmarish landscape. Rabbi Loew takes his automaton about town and even sends it shopping at the market in one scene. Perhaps this was intended to show how tame the golem was harmless when first constructed. But one feels that such scenes were only added to pad the film’s length and to give the golem more face time.

But such complaints are tolerable in the face of such innovation. The directors Paul Wegener and Carl Boese, were key figures in the German Expressionist movement. Boese, who actually appeared in the film as the golem, helped define how movie monsters would act, move, and respond. Along with the somnambulist Cesare from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Count Orlok from Nosfertu, the golem was a prototype movie monster that would go on to inspire the characters of Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster, and the Wolfman.

As a production, The Golem: How He Came into the World may seem overly excessive for its genre. Armed with multiple sets and a massive cast that included waves of extras all dressed up in expensive period costumes, The Golem: How He Came into the World must have been a herculean production for its time. But the effect was well worth it. The end result was a film that existed in a macrocosm of fear and suspicion, terror and uncertainty. While The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari clearly existed in a series of sets, The Golem: How He Came into the World leads the viewers to believe that they are truly witnessing another world, or perhaps, a shadow from the past. Or, could it be that the film was a reflection of the future? Only the stars know….


The entire film can be seen for free on youtube. Below is a link to the first part of the film.

Sources:
http://www.suite101.com/content/the-golem-how-he-came-into-the-world-review-a76413
http://www.thefilmjournal.com/issue4/golem.html
http://www.mysteryarts.com/magic/words/Ed.3/?p=89
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Golem:_How_He_Came_into_the_World

Girl Shy

Directed by Fred C. Newmeyer and Sam Taylor
1924
The United States of America



He was so afraid of girls that he made a secret study of them, and the more he studied them the more he feared them.

Of all the great silent comics, there was never a man quite like Harold Lloyd. He was not a rascally little troublemaker like Charlie Chaplin or the perfect stone-faced gagster like Buster Keaton. Instead, his characters were usually unassuming, white-bread men. Walter Kerr, author of the 1975 book The Silent Clowns probably best summed it up by saying, “He had to think it all out. Lloyd was an ordinary man, like the rest of us: ungrotesque, uninspired. If he wanted to be a successful film comedian, he would have to learn how to be one, and learn the hard way.” And learn the hard way Lloyd did. Of the three great silent comedians (himself, Chaplin, and Keaton), Lloyd was the most prolific. By the mid-20s he had already starred in over 100 films. As the highest paid performer of the 1920s, he became famous for two onscreen personas: Lonesome Luke and his most famous character known simply as “The Boy.” “The Boy’s” toothy smile, stylish hat, and trademark glasses made him instantly recognizable. The famous scene from Safety Last! (1923) where he dangled from a clock on the side of a skyscraper could very well be the most iconic image of the silent film era.

But at their core, Lloyd’s characters were modest, inconspicuous fellows just trying to make their way in the world. Of course, there was usually a girl involved for whom Lloyd would jump through hoops to impress or woo. But then again, that was usually the basic formula for silent comedies back then. Women were prizes for which the protagonist had to endure severe dangers or complications in order to win.

But in 1924 Lloyd released magnificent film that broke away from that formula and in the process inadvertently helped create an entirely new genre of film: the romantic comedy. The film in question was entitled Girl Shy. While it may usually be overshadowed by Lloyd’s other great films like Safety Last! And The Kid Brother (1927), it is nevertheless one of the genius’ greatest films.

We find Lloyd as his “The Boy” character working as a tailor’s assistant for his uncle in the small nowhere town of Little Bend, California. As the title suggests, Lloyd is unusually frightened by women. When confronted by a member of the fairer sex, he is seized by uncontrollable stuttering that can only be broken by the sound of a whistle. His condition makes him somewhat of a celebrity as girls come in to deliberately tease and intimidate him. In one cruel scene, one girl forces him to sew up a hole in her stocking while she wears it.

But despite his fears, Lloyd desperately craves affection. In an early heartbreaking scene, he stands outside of a dance hall and begins to meekly dance with a store’s support column. His undiluted eagerness and bittersweet innocence recall Chaplin dancing with his dinner roles in The Gold Rush (1924). Who cannot identify with such a poignant and familiar scene?

But Lloyd has big plans. He has no intention of staying a tailor’s apprentice for his entire life. He writes a book in the hopes of getting published and becoming a successful writer. His book is entitled The Secret of Making Love by Harold Meadows. Obviously, the title had much more innocent connotations in 1924. Indeed, the book is a compilation of his fantasies of being a successful playboy and ladies’ man. Many of the film’s earliest gags come from reenactments of these fantasies. He first writes his “experience” with “The Vampire,” a seductive brunette trapped within a tightly-fitting dress. After watching the scene, one wonders if Lloyd was a fan of the exploits of Irma Vep in Louis Feuillade’s Les Vampires. We then watch his exploits with “The Flapper” who he callously mistreats until she begs for his affections.



After the book is completed, he hops on a train to Los Angeles where he meets a young sociality named Mary Buckingham. She first meets Lloyd when, in one of the film’s most iconic scenes, he sneaks her Pekinese dog onto the train after it is denied entry. Forced to sit next to her in the only empty seat, he finds that he can actually interact with her without breaking down. This is in part to the fact that the train whistle periodically breaks his stutter and to Mary’s eagerness to talk to him. Played by Jobyna Ralston, a regular in many of Lloyd’s films, she channels some of the original innocence and demur beauty of no less than Lillian Gish. But her character in this film is no stock beauty. Unlike the women in Buster Keaton’s work, Mary is not rude, mean, or demanding. Unlike Chaplin’s belles, they were not helpless but well-meaning airheads. She is a funny, kind, and surprisingly experienced character. By that I mean that she is no ingénue. Notice the coy and slightly mischievous smile she gives Lloyd when she learns the name and topic of his book.

When the train reaches its destination, there is a sweet scene where Lloyd and Mary find that they are the sole passengers left after everyone else had departed. Startled t, they hurry off the train towards their different destinations. It is at this time that the audience realizes that this isn’t like the other silent comedic romances that they were accustomed to. The film takes time to develop each character as separate individuals. We watch as Mary rejects suitors and Lloyd’s book gets rejected. When they meet again, Lloyd purposefully blows her off because he was too embarrassed to tell her the truth. It is this conflict that establishes Girl Shy as one of the first genuine romantic comedies. In a romantic comedy, two characters fall in love, for whatever reason they separate, realize that they truly love each other, and get back together. Romantic comedies require there to be a problem or a roadblock in the relationship that each character must overcome. In other silent films of the era, once the protagonist wins the heart of their loved ones, the film usually ends. For them, the comedy was more important than the romance. In Girl Shy, one could make an argument that it is actually a love story with jokes.

Of course, through a series of rather silly events, the publishing company decides to publish Lloyd’s book, Mary decides to marry another suitor, and Lloyd decides that he needs to confess to Mary before she gets married. This is all a set-up to the film’s greatest sequence: the chase to the chapel. If this isn’t one of the greatest silent comedic sequences ever filmed, it is at least one of the best of Lloyd’s career. We watch as he seizes vehicle after vehicle in an attempt to get to the chapel. During the chase, he finds himself on horseback, in a shootout with criminals, and on top of a run-away trolley. The camera intersperses medium and long shots of him almost as if it is desperate to prove that it is indeed Lloyd on top of real runaway vehicles. The audience never doubts it for a second. Several of the stunts could have easily killed him, especially one near impossible shot where he hangs from a pole off the top of a trolley and falls into the passenger seat of a nearby car. Even if it wasn’t Lloyd, we know for a fact that somebody was risking their life doing that stunt.



Of course, Lloyd makes it to the wedding just in time and whisks Mary away. He begs for Mary to marry him, and of course she says yes. Would we want it any other way? After all, we are emotionally invested in both of the principle characters. It makes sense considering that Lloyd described the film as a “character story” instead of a “gag film” that was played solely for laughs. As a result, there were fewer gags and more of a focus on the characters and their relationships. That’s not to say that it isn’t funny. It’s quite the contrary, actually. Girl Shy is one of Lloyd’s funniest films. And we are lucky that he managed to be so funny. By creating that perfect balance between character development and pure humor, Lloyd helped rewrite the way that romantic films would be made for the rest of history. Pretty good for a modest country boy, huh?



The entire film is available on youtube at the following link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36bprz_Kfck

Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Girl_Shy
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harold_Lloyd

Editor's Note: A Trio of Silent Films

Hello readers!

Well, we are quickly approaching my 100th review! It's still a couple months away, but we are getting closer and closer every week!

Such occasions give people reasons to reflect. I, too, have begun to reflect over my blog and its reviews. But something struck me as odd.....

Of my 90+ reviews, only SIX of them were silent films!

This problem needs to be alleviated. So, for the rest of the month of October, I will be doing a trio of reviews on silent films. I've got some comedy, some drama, and, in true Halloween spirit, some terror coming your way!

Stick around. You never know what you may find!

Editor-in-Chief
Nathanael Hood

Ônibus 174 (Bus 174)

Directed by José Padilha and Felipe Lacerda
Brazil
2002



On June 12, 2000, a homeless man named Sandro Rosa do Nascimento boarded a public bus in Jardim Botânico, Rio de Janeiro with the intention of robbing its passengers. Armed with a .38 caliber revolver, Sandro found himself in the middle of a hostage situation when one of the passengers managed to signal the Brazilian military police. What followed was a media circus as reporters swarmed the bus, transmitting the entire crisis on Brazilian television. As the day turned to night, Sandro became irritated and began to threaten the lives of his ten hostages. Finally, at 6:50 PM, Sandro exited the bus using one of his hostages, a pregnant schoolteacher named Geisa Firmo Gonçalves, as a human shield. Tragically, a bungled effort by local special ops to disarm Sandro led to Gonçalves being shot several times. As Gonçalves died in the street, the police forced Sandro into the back of a police vehicle where he died of asphyxiation. The entire event was a monumental disaster. Stubborn higher-ups in the police force insisted on taking Sandro alive, resulting in multiple missed opportunities to neutral him with a sniper. The law enforcement acted indecisively as a result of the local media coverage, not wanting to lose face by taking him in on live television. Miscommunication between the various law enforcement branches led to the disastrous attempt to subdue Sandro when he exited the bus, directly leading to Gonçalves’ death. And finally, it is rumored that the police murdered Sandro in the back of the police vehicle as revenge for humiliating the entire department on national television. The officers who took Sandro into custody were tried in court and found not guilty.

The entire affair was later documented and partially recreated in the superb Brazilian documentary Bus 174, named after the specific route advertised on the bus that Sandro unintentionally hijacked (in November 2001 it was renamed as route 158). It creates a visceral and devastating examination of Brazilian law enforcement, media politics, life for homeless orphans, and street crime. But at its heart is Sandro: his life, his struggles, and his unintentional martyrdom. Yes, martyrdom is the right word to use. For Sandro used the event to cry out against social injustices. Screaming at the video cameras that surrounded him, Sandro struck back at the criminal elements that led to his mother being murdered in front of his eyes, the system that prosecutes and mistreats young street orphans, and the apathetic public who, when polled, revealed that they were in favor of killing the orphans in order to clean the city up. Some may say that the death of Gonçalves nullifies all chances of him being a martyr. But let me point out that Gonçalves was shot four times and three of those bullets came from the police officers who were supposed to rescue her.



Directors Padilha and Felipe Lacerda recognized that the Bus 174 incident was a symptom of a much more devastating illness. So they spend much of the film exploring the criminal element of Brazilian society. What we find is a torturous portrait of young children forced to live and steal on the streets. These children, it is explained, are literally invisible to passersby who ignore them as they go about their daily routines. Their lives are worth less than nothing, as they are rounded up, thrown in jails with subhuman conditions, and literally left to rot. Sandro himself was a survivor of legendary Candelaria church massacre of July 23, 1993 where Brazilian policeman murdered seven homeless children and injured several others. We meet a bevy of experts and psychologists who postulate that Sandro was psychologically scarred by the event and may have led to his holding up Bus 174.

As Padilha and Felipe Lacerda dive deeper and deeper into the social ills of Brazilian society, disturbing trend begins to appear. As can be expected, there are several convicted criminals and street orphans who are interviewed. They all mask their identities, either out of fear of losing street cred or facing retribution for squealing. But soon the police officers and law officials that they interview begin to wear masks and disguise their voices as well. One would think that they would have nothing to fear from testifying about a public police action. But it slowly becomes apparent that these men have as much to fear as the street criminals that they attack. Clearly, they face prospects of retribution from inside their own departments. After all, the Bus 174 was a colossal embarrassment for the local law enforcement. In one of the most corrupt police departments in the developing world, is it any surprise that those who remind them of one of their greatest failures would be in danger for their lives?

After all, we are talking about a police department that not only allows, but in a sense depends on corruption and graft to survive. My mother used to work as a missionary in Brazil. She explained to me one day that most Brazilian policemen are severely underpaid by the government. In order to feed their families, officers are literally forced to survive on what they can manage to extort from the public. Bogus traffic violations, spurious parking tickets, and other illegal methods of extortion are the name of the game. When I asked why people didn’t stand up to them, she explained that such a reaction would lead to being put in jail. And the last thing you want, according to my mother, is to end up in a Brazilian jail.

In addition to being forced to operate in a system that requires corruption, Bus 174 explains that many, if not most, policemen are critically under-trained. Experts in the film explain that the mentality among most police officers is that they exist to enforce the law and kill those who stand in their way. Most of the time, it is the homeless who find themselves in such predicaments. In hindsight, it is a miracle that only two people were killed as a result of the standoff.



To watch Bus 174 is to witness a sad implosion of Brazilian society. The end, when it comes, is tragic, but we ultimately don’t expect anything else. What else could happen in such a situation? But Bus 174’s greatest strength is not in what it says, but in what is doesn’t say. A lesser documentary would chastise the local law enforcement and the complacent public that allowed such a tragedy to happen. A lesser documentary would grandstand itself and demand social change. Bus 174 doesn’t. It regards its material with a sad sense of resignation. It bestows Sandro with a sense of dignity and understanding that he probably never received in his life. Ultimately, Bus 174 presents a system in desperate need of change. One can only light a candle for orphans like Sandro, so mistreated, so exploited, so destined for tragedy.

Out of respect for my Brazilian readers, I have removed some lines from this review that may be misconstrued as hurtful or insensitive. As one of my readers pointed out, many of these social ills discussed in this review are being diligently resolved. For that I am extremely thankful.

Part 1/12 of Bus 174

Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bus_174
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2016_Summer_Olympics#Security_Concerns
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandro_Rosa_do_Nascimento
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0340468/

Love and Death

Directed by Woody Allen
1975
The United States of America


Editor's Note: I would strongly recommend for you to read this article with this playing in the background. When the music stops, just restart it from the beginning.

Boris: I have no fear of the gallows.
Father: No?
Boris: No. Why should I? They're going to shoot me.

Woody Allen’s films have always been relatively easy to categorize. You have your screwball romcoms (Annie Hall, A Midsummer Night’s Sex Dream, The Purple Rose of Cairo), your more subdued dramedies (Manhattan, Hannah and Her Sisters, Broadway Danny Rose), and even starkly serious dramas inspired by his idol Ingmar Bergman (Interiors, September, Another Woman). And yet throughout all of these films, the persona of Woody Allen dominates. Even in films where he doesn’t act, you can feel him nervously twitching and wringing his hands somewhere closely off-screen. To see his films is to share in his neuroses, his thoughts, his anxieties, and his fears. Some of his films don’t feel like entertainments, but cries for help. But things were not always that way. There was a time when Allen didn’t bring his problems to the front of his work. There was actually a time when his only goal was to entertain and make the audience laugh.

In the late 60s and early 70s, Allen wrote and directed a number of comedic spoofs that represented the purest concentration of his comedic talents and acerbic wit. Inspired by the works of the Marx Brothers and Bob Hope, they were free-form comedies that didn’t so much have a plot, but merely a sparse storyline that allowed Allen to progress from joke to gag. The first, Take the Money and Run (1969), was a mockumentary of the life of a notorious, and yet painfully incompetent, petty criminal. The plot was straightforward enough and the humor seemed to come naturally (if not a tad surreally) from the subject matter. Then you had such notorious films as Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex* (*But Were Afraid to Ask) (1972) and Sleeper (1973) which resembled what might have happened if Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali ever did comedy. Overall, they were funny, but uneven, casually cluttered messes of one-liners and gags. The movies were entertaining, all right, but they felt like movies made by a comedian, not a comedic filmmaker. The movies worked as long as Allen’s gags held up. Perhaps that is why in hindsight they may not have aged quite as well as his later work.

Then came 1975 and Allen’s film Love and Death. Easily his best early work, it also is easily the funniest of his entire career. A calculated balance of gags, character and plot development, and emotional whimsy made Love and Death his first genuine masterpiece. It would later be forgotten when Allen released his next, and arguably his greatest, film Annie Hall (1977) which won him critical acclaim, Oscars, box office success, and an adoring fan base. But to those in the know, Love and Death was where Allen’s true career as a filmmaker started. It was the film that saw him embrace his role as not just a comedian, but also as a director.

Looking back over the film, I estimate that only about a paragraph is needed to explain the plot.

It follows as such: Allen plays Boris Grushenko, a cowardly Russian peasant who is forced to enlist in the army along with his brothers after Napoleon invades their country. Through a series of mishaps, he becomes a decorated war hero, marries his childhood sweetheart and cousin, the lovely Sonja (Diane Keaton), and settles down. But it isn’t long before he becomes involved in a plot to assassinate Napoleon. He is captured, tried, and executed. The end.



Do you feel like I spoiled the movie? Trust me, I didn’t. What matters are the jokes, puns, setups, and payoffs. As long as I don’t give them all away, your experience watching the film will not be diminished.

Those familiar with Allen’s oeuvre know that he is an avid fan of philosophy. This predilection shines brightly in this movie. The plot itself is a conglomeration of various philosophical Russian epic novels by Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. Allen indulges in several tongue-and-cheek conversations with Keaton where they spout off meaningless philosophical techno-babble like college professors on caffeine. Take the following exchange:

Sonja: Judgment of any system, or a priori relationship or phenomenon exists in an irrational, or metaphysical, or at least epistemological contradiction to an abstract empirical concept such as being, or to be, or to occur in the thing itself, or of the thing itself.

Boris: [Deadpan] Yes, I've said that many times.

We aren’t meant to follow it, but simply to marvel. And what else can you do in such a film? Allen keeps the one liners coming as fast as he can think them up. Even Groucho would have trouble keeping up with Allen in this film. Take the following examples:

Countess Alexandrovna: You are the greatest lover I've ever had.
Boris: Well, I practice a lot when I'm alone.

Boris: Isn't all mankind ultimately executed for a crime it never committed? The difference is that all men go eventually, but I go six o'clock tomorrow morning. I was supposed to go at five o'clock, but I have a smart lawyer. Got leniency.

Sonja: There are many different kinds of love, Boris. There's love between a man and a woman; between a mother and son...
Boris: Two women. Let's not forget my favorite.

Anton Inbedkov: Shall we say pistols at dawn?
Boris Grushenko: Well, we can say it. I don't know what it means, but we can say it.

Sonja: Oh don't, Boris, please. Sex without love is an empty experience.
Boris: Yes, but as empty experiences go, it's one of the best.

Sonja: What are you suggesting, passive resistance?
Boris: No, I'm suggesting active fleeing.

Sonja: Boris is trying to commit suicide - last week he contemplated inhaling next to an Armenian.

But Love and Death does not merely rely on fancy wordplay. Five years before Airplane! (1980), Allen was inventing and perfecting the art of the spoof with witty one-liners, blatant historical anachronisms, and unrestrained absurdity. Whether he is ordering red hots from a vendor in the middle of a battle or watching a public service announcement skit on venereal diseases, Allen breezes through more comedic setups in fifteen minutes than most films do within their entire duration.



But remember, I said that this was more than just a comedic smorgasbord. It was the dawning of a new age of Woody Allen. Suddenly, he wasn’t just about the jokes anymore. Philosophy and insights on the human condition (some of which are startlingly beautiful) creep into the film. For perhaps the first time we see glimpses of Ingmar Bergman’s influence creeping into Allen’s work. Take an early scene where a child version of Boris is walking in the woods and has a holy vision of Death. Cloaked in a white robe and carrying a vicious scythe, the figure is an obvious tribute to Bergman’s The Seventh Seal (1957). But pay attention, dear readers. There are many other sly references scattered through-out. A duel scene between Boris and a rival play out like a similar scene from Bergman’s Smiles of a Summer Night (1955). And in one scene Sonja converses with a woman servant and suddenly positions her face perpendicular to the other, creating an unmistakable reference to Persona (1966).

But Allen did more than just homage Bergman’s work. For the first time, his characters began to suffer conflicts that arose from internal dilemmas. For example, it is well established that Boris is a coward and doesn’t want to go off to war. But notice that he spends his precious leave time going to the opera. Could it be that Boris does not fear death as much as he fears missing out on life and all its beauty? It’s not that he is afraid of dying (although he most certainly is). He is afraid of not living. When Boris wins a duel for Sonja’s hand in marriage, she is originally opposed to it. This provides many funny gags representing their early home life. But eventually Sonja develops love for Boris. In another comedy by another director, Sonja would hate Boris up until the credits. But not here. Although the situations they become involved in are absurd, although they represent comedic extremes, the characters here are Characters with a capital C. They are people, not just crash test dummies designed for bouncing joke after joke on.

At heart, Love and Death is a comedy of the highest pedigree. It represents Allen at the height of his comedic genius. His films would get more serious in the following years, and it is generally agreed that he became a better filmmaker for it. But Love and Death gives us a glimpse at a young director coming to terms with his own creative forces.

Let me leave you with one last thought. The last scene of the film has Boris returning as a ghost (he was executed, remember?) to Sonja. He is accompanied once again by the spectre of Death. Of course, Allen manages to pull some laughs from the scene:

Sonja: You were my one great love.
Boris: Oh, thank you very much. I appreciate that. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm dead.
Sonja: What's it like?
Boris: What's it like? You know the chicken at Tresky's Restaurant? It's worse.

That exchange alone is funny enough, but notice that Allen doesn’t end the film there. He ends it with this soliloquy:

Boris: The question is have I learned anything about life. Only that human being are divided into mind and body. The mind embraces all the nobler aspirations, like poetry and philosophy, but the body has all the fun. The important thing, I think, is not to be bitter... if it turns out that there IS a God, I don't think that He's evil. I think that the worst you can say about Him is that basically He's an underachiever. After all, there are worse things in life than death. If you've ever spent an evening with an insurance salesman, you know what I'm talking about. The key is, to not think of death as an end, but as more of a very effective way to cut down on your expenses. Regarding love, heh, what can you say? It's not the quantity of your sexual relations that counts. It's the quality. On the other hand if the quantity drops below once every eight months, I would definitely look into. Well, that's about it for me folks. Goodbye.




I think that quote speaks for itself. It contains an unbelievable balance of humor, introspection, and insight. Not content to leave us like that, Allen then dances down a lane surrounded by flowering trees to the triumphant tune of Prokofiev’s Troika. Truly, this was a man who had not yet been consumed by the neuroses that would trouble him for the rest of his life. He knew that his whole career was ahead of him and that he could afford to be optimistic. Never again would Woody Allen be so charming, so delightful, so funny, and so hopeful for the future.

Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Love_and_Death

Bad Day at Black Rock

Directed by John Sturges
1955
The United States of America



The last thing you would expect to think of while watching a Western would be an Eighteenth century Irish statesman. And yet, for the entirety of Bad Day at Black Rock by John Sturges, one thought dominated my mind. It was a quote by the great Edmund Burke that went, “The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” How relevant was that quote, how relevant was that piercing statement on morality while watching this phenomenal film. For the main theme of Bad Day at Black Rock is a common one in Westerns: one man must stand alone against insurmountable evil. We have seen it dozens of times in countless varieties in films as varied as High Noon (1952), Rio Bravo (1959), and The Magnificent Seven (1960). Yet the evil in Bad Day at Black Rock is not the average fare for Westerns. Instead of evil being represented by bad men with guns, it is chiefly represented by good men who refuse stand up for what is right. Complacency, resignation, and denial are the true villains in this film.

Bad Day at Black Rock starts like so many other Westerns: a lone law man comes riding into a desolate, near deserted town. But something is different here. Instead of riding in on a horse, the law man rides a Southern Pacific passenger train. Instead of a dashing and handsome champion, we get a one-armed, handicapped veteran named John J. Macreedy. Instead of a ruthless masculine bravado, he operates using a calm, almost absent-minded listlessness. And finally, instead of a rough-and-tough personification of the Wild West like John Wayne, Montgomery Clift, or James Coburn, we get soft-spoken Spencer Tracy. Yes, the man whose claim to fame was playing Catholic priests and Portuguese fishermen is the hero of this picture. But don’t be fooled. In Bad Day at Black Rock, Tracy creates one of the greatest heroes that the West has ever seen.


Immediately, Macreedy senses that something is…amiss…in the town. The people are all surprised to have a visitor. The train hasn’t stopped in the town for four years, one of the townsfolk tells him. It appears that they preferred it that way. Here is a town with a dark secret. Macreedy seems dead-set on discovering it. He bums around town like Phillip Marlowe or Sam Spade as he searches for answers and explanations. The comparison to film noir is not unwarranted. Indeed, Bad Day at Black Rock is nothing less than a synthesis of the Western and film noir genres. Like film noir, dread and gloom permeate the people and setting. Like all classic film noir protagonists, they have something from their past that they are running from. Macreedy too, has his own secrets which motivate him. After all, why would he come to a hell-hole like Black Rock in the first place?

Much like in film noir, Macreedy starts to make acquaintances with the local color. There’s Pete Wirth, the young hotel desk clerk who always seems to have something on the tip of his tongue burning a hole in his mouth. Reno Smith (Robert Ryan) plays the incompetent authority figure. Blurred with alcohol and scared of his own citizens, he advises Macreedy to leave. Liz Wirth, Pete’s sister, is the resident dame (possible femme fatale?) and indeed appears to be the only woman in town. Ernest Borgnine plays the local neighborhood bully named Coley Trimble who at one point assaults Macreedy by trying to drive him off the road. The great character actor Walter Brennan plays Doc Velie, the town’s resident physician and undertaker. And then there’s Reno Smith, played by the indomitable Lee Marvin. Although he carries no badge, it’s obvious that he is the de facto ruler of Black Rock.



All of these characters react uneasily to Macreedy’s presence. He shouldn’t be there. He especially shouldn’t be asking so many questions. Like film noir, motivations are not immediately revealed. It is only after a sufficient amount of prodding that Macreedy reveals that he is searching for a Japanese-American farmer named Komoko. Being 1945, the townspeople are quick to say that Komoko was interned in a camp shortly after Pearl Harbor. But Macreedy isn’t so sure. After all, it wasn’t the policy of the United States government to burn down Japanese-American property after they were interned…

With all the timing and execution of an expert thriller, Macreedy lets on that he knows that the townspeople are lying. Even worse, he knows that Komoko wasn’t interned. To the townspeople’s horror, he lets on that he has guessed Komoko’s true fate: that he was lynched in the aftermath of Pearl Harbor. It turns out that Macreedy had a reason to sport a missing arm: he had lost it invading Italy. And while he was in Italy, his life was saved by none other than Komoko’s son. Sadly, he was killed in combat. So Macreedy had planned to return his son’s medal to Komoko. Now that he knows Komoko’s fate, Macreedy plans on having those responsible arrested and brought to justice.

But the townspeople think otherwise. As soon as they discover that Macreedy knows about their past, they no longer want him to leave. In fact, they now want nothing other than for Macreedy to join Komoko. See, Komoko’s death did something scary to the townspeople: it revealed their own cowardice. Most of the townsfolk literally stood back and did nothing while Komoko was killed. And now, the idea that they will not only be punished, but be forced to confront their own actions, proves to be too much. The answer to the townspeople is simple: kill Macreedy, act like nothing ever happened, and pray to God that everyone will forget that there was ever a man named Komoko.

One by one, individual members of the community stand up with Macreedy. Eventually, they tell him the story of Komoko’s death and reveal the name of his killer. They even try to help him get out of town. Call the police, they say. But the operator says the lines are “busy.” Take another train out, they say. But the next one isn’t scheduled until tomorrow morning. Take the spare jeep, they say. But somebody has ripped all of the wires out of the engine….


Folks, I’d love to divulge more of the plot to you. I really would. But it would be like giving away the ending to a Hitchcock or Clouzot thriller. Rest assured that once Macreedy realizes that he can’t leave the town alive, the movie morphs into a suspenseful powerhouse. Suddenly, every person is a potential killer, every plot of earth or abandoned well a potential grave. All that keeps Macreedy alive is the sun. Once it disappears beyond the horizon…well…I don’t think I need to go on.

Bad Day at Black Rock is a film of the highest caliber. A film noir dressed like a Western, it combines genres and breaks stereotypes. It plays with all the intrigue of a thriller of the finest caliber. In a time when Westerns dealt with moral absolutes, where good guys wore white hats and bad guys wore black hats, here is a film that dares to delve into the foundations of right and wrong. Submerged in moral ambiguity, in the town of Black Rock, nobody is innocent. And they don’t like being reminded of it.

Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bad_day_at_black_rock

Sugar

Directed by Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck
2008
The United States of America



I can literally point my finger to the exact moment when I knew that Sugar would be a great film. It was a scene about 20-30 minutes into the film where the protagonist, a Dominican baseball player named Miguel “Sugar” Santos, sits alone at a diner in the wee hours of the morning. Equipped with only a few clumsy words of English, Sugar tries to order eggs. The waitress asks how he would like them. Fried? Scrambled? Sunny side up? Not understanding, Sugar bows his head and quietly asks for the only item on the menu that he is familiar with: French toast. Having worked in the food industry for several years, I thought to myself, “A real waitress would understand and bring him eggs anyway.” And what do you know, she did! Gobsmacked, I sat and watched as she brought Sugar three different kinds of eggs and taught him how to order them. It was as if the film had literally read my mind.

It was right there that I realized that I was not watching an average film. From there on I started watching a little bit more closely. I was amazed to realize that not a single character, no matter how small, was one-dimensional or flat. These were real humans with genuine motivations, hopes, dreams, and fears. They were not just mannequins designed to spout dialogue or progress the plot. The people in this film were not characters, they were human beings.

Perhaps you may think that I am over-reacting. I disagree. As I look out over the state of popular cinema these days, I am disappointed to find that more and more films are content to let stereotypes and archetypes define their characters and their actions. It has gotten to a point where you can predict how characters will react to certain situations. But in Sugar, we don’t know what the characters will do next. They aren’t preordained to succeed or fail. Instead, we are given the pleasure of watching them interact with their world, make decisions, and develop.

We first meet our protagonist Sugar as a young Dominican baseball pitcher trying to get signed by an American baseball team. Dreaming of one day playing for the New York Yankees, Sugar attends a baseball training camp where he learns such essentials as how to say “You’re out” in English. But Sugar is not alone. He is surrounded by dozens upon dozens of other hopefuls with dreams of purple waves of grain. After all, to the young men of the Dominican Republic, getting signed represents one of the only guaranteed sources of upward social mobility. One wonders if half of them even enjoy playing baseball. For Sugar, the siren call of the United States is a piercing shriek. Miraculously, Sugar is invited to spring training in the states, courtesy of the Kansas City Knights.



It isn’t long before Sugar gets noticed for his devastating knuckle curve and is signed for a Single A affiliate in Iowa. The wide plains of Middle America are as foreign as the surface of Mars to Sugar, having grown up in crowded, urban squalor. Even more bizarre is his foster family who takes him in, the Higgins. Sugar would be hard pressed to find a more red-meat-and-potatoes, salt of the earth American family even if he dived into a Norman Rockwell painting. While they desperately try to be loving and accommodating, the language and cultural gap only serve to increase Sugar’s uncontrollable sense of isolation.



Indeed, in his pursuit of the American Dream, Sugar falls into the American Wasteland. He watches as one by one his friends are cut from the team and sent back to the Dominican Republic. When he injures himself during a game, a new Dominican pitcher almost immediately pops up to take his place. He finds himself attracted to the Higgin’s grand-daughter, who encapsulates everything that American women are renowned for. But her staunch conservative values prevent her from pursuing a pre-marital relationship. He comes to rely on drugs to give him the edge needed to overcome his injury and pitch.

Eventually, he realizes that he is living the American Nightmare. So one day he jumps off the team bus and travels to New York City. As he careens from one hotel to another, he slowly starts to rebuild his life, first taking a job at a dinner before gaining a better job as a carpenter. As he reconstructs his life from the ground up, he comes to realize true personal fulfillment. Is it any surprise that at the end of the film he picks up baseball again? He joins up with a league of immigrants who had all come to the States with dreams of playing baseball, only to be cut. He becomes one more face in the crowd of baseball’s rejects. And yet, in doing so he finds a new place in life. This time, he plays because he wants to.



Sugar is a true gem of a film. Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck, who both wrote and directed the film, based the film off the experiences of real Dominican immigrants who came to the States to play baseball. They said, “The stories we heard were so fascinating that it became what we were writing before we'd even decided it was our next project.” Perhaps that is why the universe of the film feels so real and alive. Or perhaps it has something to do with the design of the film itself. Much like Bresson and Ozu, the film seems interested in the character and inner humanity of its titular character. It seems to almost disregard the plot in preference of focusing on his inner struggles and turmoil. The film is more interested in how difficult it is for him to order breakfast in English than it is for him to succeed in the Minors. And much like Bresson and Ozu, Sugar is not afraid to take its time. The film is two hours long and let me tell say, you feel every one of those minutes. But that isn’t a bad thing. Here is a movie that is unafraid of boring its audience. It has a story to tell and it is going to tell it on its own terms. If you don’t like it then you can leave.

But for those of you who wish to stay and watch, you will be treated to one of the greatest films of the last ten years that nobody has seen. Perhaps its unwillingness to compromise its artistic integrity in favor of audience-oriented flair and style was responsible for its poor distribution. Outside of a few film festivals, almost nobody has heard of it. And that is a true shame. Sugar hearkens back to a time when directors and storytellers actually had something that they wanted to say. It single-handedly defies the concept that they don’t make them like they used to.

Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sugar_%282008_film%29#Production

Dancer in the Dark

Directed by Lars von Trier
2000
Denmark



In a dark theater, a pair of middle aged women sit and watch the classic Busby Berkeley musical Gold Diggers of 1933. In the midst of the infamous Pettin’ in the Park sequence, one of the women leans over and takes her friend’s hand. She starts to reenact the dancing with two fingers upon her friend’s open palm. For her friend, this is the closest she will get to experiencing the wonders illuminating the screen. Almost completely blind, she relies on her friend to narrate the film. One may wonder why bother? The answer is that the music and dancing is the only comfort that this woman can find in the cruel world of America. It’s getting harder and harder to do her job at an industrial factory when she can’t see which machine she is working at. A Czech immigrant, she is finding that the American dream is more elusive than she ever could have imagined. And to her horror, her only son, already constrained by a pair of coke-bottle glasses, is having more and more trouble seeing…



Such is the world of Selma Ježková, the tragic heroine of Lars von Trier’s devastatingly powerful Dancer in the Dark. A bizarre departure from the majority of Trier’s oeuvre, Dancer in the Dark is a harrowing film of unimaginable depth and emotion. One may ask what could possibly differentiate this particular film from the rest of Trier’s eclectic catalog. The answer is simple: for all his diverse exploits, this remains Trier’s only musical. Let me say that again. Lars von Trier, founder and poster child of the Dogma 95 movement, creator of some of the most shocking and challenging films of the late 20th and early 21st century, directed a musical. As in, a film where the narrative is broken up by songs and choreographed dancing numbers.

Surprised? Confused? Don’t be. While the film may look like a musical and quack like a musical, it is a singular, independent entity among the ranks of musical productions. The songs aren’t particularly catchy (they are usually dominated by one or two musical themes that are repeated over and over again). The lyrics are choppy and irregular (many times a single phrase is repeated for almost the entire song). And the dancing frequently looks robotic and artificial. But to understand the film, you must first understand that the nearly amateurish music and dancing were designed to look that way. And to understand why, you must first understand the character of Selma Ježková.

Selma is an occupant of two different worlds. In the first, she is a poor single mother who must work grueling shifts at a factory. In time, she will get fired because she almost cannot see her machines anymore. She finds solace by going to the movies with her friend Kathy (whom she nicknames Cvalda) and participating in an amateur production of The Sound of Music. The other world is a land of fantasy. As the film progresses, she delves into fantastic daydreams where the people around her break out into song and dance. Much like the Academy award winning musical Chicago (2002), all of the grand song and dance numbers take place inside the character’s mind. Location and circumstances are irrelevant to Selma. When the urge to escape hits her, the world explodes into song. When she is on a train, a band of hobos stealing a ride becomes an impromptu dance company. When she is toiling away at her soulless job, the machines start to beat in time and the workers begin to jump in frolic to their beat. And finally, on death row, her own footsteps as she makes that final, solemn march to the noose count out the time to a final swan song.



It occurs to me that I have perhaps gotten a little ahead of myself. Maybe I should explain the plot before I give the ending away. But in retrospect it doesn’t really matter. This is a film by Lars von Trier. Would you expect anything else? But perhaps an explanation is in order. After Selma gets fired from her job at the factory for breaking an expensive piece of machinery, she is beseeched by her friend Bill for a loan. She declines, as she saves every penny that she can spare for an operation that will save her son’s eyesight. Desperate for money, Bill steals Selma’s savings. When she confronts him at his house, a struggle breaks out as he pulls a gun on her. In the ensuing chaos, Selma accidentally injures Bill as his wife, Linda, flees the house seeking help. In his final moments, Bill begs Selma to finish him off. Clearly in a state of shock, a terrified Selma complies. After the deed is done, Selma slips into a trance where she imagines Bill’s body coming back to life and dancing a slow dirge with her. He encourages her to run for freedom. After the last note dies off, she complies. She rushes to an Institute for the Blind and spends every last cent on paying for her son’s operation.

She is then picked up by the police and taken to jail. A kangaroo court awaits her as she is mercilessly accused of being a Communist. I’m sorry, did I forget to mention that this film takes place in the Fifties? Well, it does. But you would never guess that from watching the movie. The entire film seems timeless as it is bereft of period clothes or any other indicators of the era. In fact, the only time when we are reminded of the year is when Selma is accused of being a Godless Commie. Does it come off as a bit random? Perhaps. But maybe that was the only way that the Dutch von Trier could think of creating a situation where his character couldn’t escape a conviction within the American court system.

Her fate sealed, she rebukes one last effort from her friends to help her escape her fate. They take the money that she tried to spend on her son’s operation and hire a big city lawyer. The second that she finds out, she fires him and demands a refund. In a stunning scene, she is confronted by her new lawyer who bluntly asks her if she realizes what will happen to her if she fires him. She smiles weakly and responds that she does. And so we find her walking the Green Mile towards her doom. I could tell you how the film’s most powerful moments play out at the end of the film, but that would be tantamount to theft. Let’s just say that you cannot imagine the horror and the power of the film’s closing scenes.

Some may scratch their heads and wonder how such a bizarre film could work. To them, I raise my hand and simply answer, “Björk.” In Dancer in the Dark, Selma is played by Icelandic superstar Björk Guðmundsdóttir. To watch her is to witness a revelation of true, unbridled talent. Never once do we fail to believe in Selma’s character or feel anything but the utmost love and sympathy for her. Björk seems to channel a beaten puppy as she navigates her way through an uncaring society. And yet, her painfully introverted performance explodes in a phantasmagoria of energy and emotion during her musical numbers. Remember how I said that the songs weren’t particularly well written or well composed? I think that von Trier did that on purpose. After all, they are the extensions of a foreigner’s mind. Selma probably doesn’t know how to construct shimmering lyrics or pleasing melodies in her adopted language and culture. Instead, they cut right to the core of what Selma thinks and experiences. And Björk makes them work, transforming each note into a devastating scream of beauty and each lyric into a trembling cry for recognition and acceptance.

Watching her perform, it seems only natural that she would have won so many accolades for her performance, including the Cannes Film Festival award for Best Actress. So it is a tragedy that afterward Björk swore never to appear in another film. Apparently, working for one of the most demanding and innovative directors in the world was a taxing and emotionally devastating experience. Don’t mistake that last sentence as a statement born of cynicism or sarcasm. It was a serious observation. It must have been next to impossible to channel so much energy into each shot. And so, we must be eternally grateful that Björk blessed the world with even one performance. I would almost feel greedy asking her to commit to another role…

Critics and audiences must have agreed with me that Dancer in the Dark was one of Lars von Trier’s greatest works. After all, the film won the 2000 Palme d’Or at the Cannes Film Festival. Some might be surprised that I would mention a winner of the Golden Palm on a site designed for under-appreciated films. My answer is simple: yes it won one of the most prestigious awards that a film can receive in the world. But really, how many people know about it? When people talk about Lars von Trier, they tend to think of his earlier work when he was involved with Dogma 95 or his more recent films that have redefined the terms “visceral” and “shocking.” Few have seen, or even heard of this great film. And so I write about it. It deserves not only to be seen, but to be cherished. Is it difficult to watch? Yes. It can be a grueling experience that yanks at the exposed nerve endings of your comfort zone. But I would argue that many great works of art do the same. The original performance of Stravinsky’s The Rites of Spring caused fights to break out. During an author’s reading of Allen Ginsberg’s Howl the audience almost revolted. And let’s not forget that Eisenstein’s The Battleship Potemkin literally compelled its audiences to riot. And so I return to Dancer in the Dark. It is not just a good film. It is not just a great film. It is a transcendent film. It provides one of those rare experiences that shake you to your core.

Just thank God that at least you got a couple of musical numbers out of it.

Sources:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dancer_in_the_dark#Awards

Here is a clip of the Academy Award nominated song "I've Seen it All."