Le cercle rouge [Melville, 1970]
It's got all the workings of a five-star film. The cast is superb across the board. The cinematography is gorgeous; France never looked so good. The plot unravels in a fresh and original direction.
It's a shame, then, that Le cercle rouge just doesn't seem to be able to match the sum of its parts.
Jean-Pierre Melville is easily one of the greats of cinema, but he seems to get caught up in style rather than substance here. While all the characters seem to have their own motivations (after all, one of the film's themes is that people are inherently evil), none of them garner any empathy during the film. This is demonstrated most clearly at the end of the film—our three protagonists are killed, but the audience can't find the emotion to care.
This is further reflected in the stylistically-perfect heist scene: Though our characters pull off a fantastic scheme, we feel like observers rather than participants, simply watching rather than feeling. But what makes this even worse is that in all other regards, the sequence is literally perfect. Melville manages to outdo Rififi's famous heist scene in every aspect—that is, except for the emotional one.
Sure, Le cercle rouge can be broken down and proven to be a shining example of film craftsmanship, but that's not always the point. Films like Rififi and even Ocean's Eleven manage to meld crime with empathy. Revanche, which seems to borrow largely from Le cercle rouge, keeps the style yet adds emotion. And it's surely worth noting that Melville can mix style and substance, as seen in the masterly Le samouraï. Alas, he can't do the same this time.
Le cercle rouge shows exactly how to craft a film; and exactly how not to as well.
*****
This post is part of March's Tackling the Oeuvre series, focussing on Jean-Pierre Melville. Other participating reviewers: Ryan Smith covered Le deuxième souffle, and Thomas Balkcom reviewed Le doulos. More to come.
Breaking The Waves [von Trier, 1996]
Lars von Trier's Breaking The Waves, 1996, 159m
Breaking The Waves is a film that, simply put, should be much better than it is. Some films are more than the sum of their parts; Breaking The Waves is the opposite of that, showing incredible potential but rarely delivering. von Trier’s jump cuts and unsteady focus seem to have no point or purpose, serving only to give the film an amateur sensibility. Scenes seem randomly patched together rather than actually editing and thought out, the camera shaking and moving with the actors, almost a character in itself. The film’s Dogme 95 influence is admirable, but this is a case where the philosophy fails.
This all, though, is not to say the film has no merits: the acting is wonderful and the framing is masterly. Shots are put together like paintings—it’s a pity they’re lit so poorly. von Trier’s talent for crafting a movie is evident throughout the entire picture, which is why it’s so frustrating to see him held up by technical details.
The film raises interesting questions about love and religion—or does it even raise questions? It is a gritty depiction of a religious beliefs and control? An indictment? A deadpan satire? What’s the greater force at work here, God or fate? Are Bess’ prayers divine communication or insane ramblings?
As the story moves on, the camerawork begins to stabilize: the cuts are smoother, the focus sharper. It’s a subtle change that goes unnoticed at first, but is very successful at helping the plot develop.
Breaking The Waves is far from a perfect film, but it’s close to a perfect attempt. von Trier’s choices, whether they work, are all done for a reason and with a goal in mind. And that’s how, even when his films are filled with flaws, von Trier succeeds as a filmmaker.
*****
This post is part of February's Tackling the Oeuvre series, focussing on Lars von Trier. Other participating reviewers: TJ Wells covered Europa, Thomas Balkcom reviewed Dogville, Nathan Raine wrote on Dancer in the Dark, and Dan Wotherspoon analyzed Antichrist.
What I’ve Been Watching
Singin' in the Rain, 1952
Anyone who says otherwise is wrong: Singin’ in the Rain is truly the best movie-musical ever made. Shot in gorgeous Technicolor, the film is made up of two main ingredients. The first ingredient is choreography, and Gene Kelly delivers a tour-de-force. He, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connor all deliver heart-stopping numbers one after another after another. They tap dance while playing instruments. They run through rooms and film sets, jumping in puddles, over couches, up and down countless stairs. It’s exhausting just to watch. The second ingredient is a wonderfully comic look at 1920’s Hollywood and its transition into sound. One can’t help but smirk at the references to Warner Brothers and The Jazz Singer. Overall, the amount of effort put into Singin’ in the Rain is astounding, and it seems a miracle the film was completed. Thank God it was.
"Alias", 2001–2006
Yes, the storyline went to hell in the last two seasons, and yes, the writers ran out of ideas, but none of that changes the fact that “Alias” remains the best-cast and most well-acted TV drama in years. (“Arrested Development” wins best-cast comedy by a mile.) Jennifer Garner naturally excels as Sydney Bristow, but “Alias” stands apart from other shows by ensuring that every other actor is up to par—better, even. Victor Garber and Ron Rifkin both have a habit of stealing episodes, but the same can be said of Lena Olin or Michael Vartan. Hell, even Bradley Cooper, Carl Lumbly, and Kevin Weisman all get their moments to shine. “Alias” is smart, brilliant television, and it sets the bar for what other shows should strive to equal.
Star Trek [Abrams, 2009]
J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek, 2009, 127m
J.J. Abrams’ reboot of the famous franchise, Star Trek, does what precious few other sci-fi films do: put the characters first. Though Abrams has always relied on the relationships between people to propel his stories forward—TV shows Alias and Lost make this especially clear—in Star Trek, most other story elements seem to fall to the wayside, and this is precisely how the picture succeeds on so many levels.
It’s clear that Abrams prefers ensemble studies rather than character studies, and his casting truly shines in Star Trek. Everyone fits together perfectly, all coming together and playing off one another to spotlight the wonderful foil between rowdy Kirk and conflicted-but-emotional Spock, both played admirably by Chris Pine and Zachary Quinto, respectively. Simon Pegg especially shines as Scotty, but Eric Bana is disappointingly one-dimensional as Nero.
A curious but faithful aspect of the film is the love interest, which is to say, there’s not one in the foreground. A half-baked romance of some sort goes on between Spock and Uhura, but the expected pairing of Kirk with another character, thankfully, is absent, in keeping with the franchise. After all, what does any woman have on the Enterprise?
This is not to say, however, that the rest of the story is lacking. Though the concept of time travel is beginning to seem repetitive, how else is one to reboot the Star Trek franchise? And, following suit from his past work, Abrams once again pays the audience the respect of not explaining every last detail. The pivotal “red matter” simply exists; it’s the equivalent of character acting for a plot device.
It’s lucky for the movie that the story can support the production values, then, and not the other way around—it’s dazzlingly obvious where the film’s $150m budget went. Every frame of the picture is near-perfect; the colors pop and the special effects blend effortlessly. The sound design, too, is truly remarkable; space is utterly silent, and the fight and battle scenes sound hugely immense. It all comes together in a gorgeous, polished package.
Star Trek is a textbook example of how to craft an action film: enjoyable characters, an interesting storyline, and visuals to back it all up. With any luck, the forthcoming sequel will live longer and prosper even more.
*****
An Education [Scherfig, 2009]
Lone Scherfig’s An Education, 2009, 95m
An Education is a film with a story that would fail miserably with the wrong actors. Nearly all of the main characters posses characters traits that almost seem to negate one another. Jenny (Carey Mulligan) is a teenage schoolgirl who puts up a façade of being wiser than her years, when, in reality, she is young and naïve. She begins a relationship with a much older man, David (Peter Sarsgaard), who is, incredibly, both affectionate and creepy simultaneously. Meanwhile, Jenny’s parents—namely her father, played by Alfred Molina—try and restrict her life to nothing but studies and homework, but in the name of love.
These three main performances are all magnificent, but the ensemble created by director Lone Scherfig rivals that of Network or the Lord of the Rings trilogy. And this is without a doubt required in order to convincingly portray the story that writer Nick Hornsby adapted from Lynn Barber’s memoir. Sarsgaard’s ability to humanize a man dating someone nearly half his age is stunning, but he owes much of this to Hornsby and Barber’s surprisingly realistic and captivating plot.
Further, the production of the film is top-notch as well. The score soars, the editing is tight and effective, and the camerawork is exactly as it should be in each scene; sometimes basic, at other times decadent. An Education, though, is not about the production, or even about the actors—it’s a picture that wants to tell a story, and everyone involved simply helps it do just that.
*****
A Film With Me In It [Fitzgibbon, 2008]
Ian Fitzgibbon’s A Film With Me In It, 2008, 83m
Accidents happen. A pitch-black Irish comedy, A Film With Me In It plays like Simon Pegg and Nick Frost adapting an episode of CSI. The plot is this: Mark and Pierce (Mark Doherty, also writer, and Dylan Moran, resp.) are friends who dream of one day making it in the film industry. Mark lives with his wheelchair-bound brother, girlfriend, and dog in his apartment, which is quite literally falling apart. His landlord won’t fix anything because he’s three months behind on his rent.
In the span of about fifteen minutes, though, Mark and Pierce’s lives go to hell. It all begins with the dog—a wall-mounted shelf falls on it. Soon after, the chandelier falls on Mark’s brother, killing him instantly. Then, the landlord comes to fix a broken lightbulb and falls off a stool and onto a screwdriver. Mark calls Pierce over to try and explain what happened, but they’re interrupted by Mark’s girlfriend who comes home, sees his brother’s body, and faints, falling to the floor—right onto Mark’s clarinet stand. Finally, a police officer comes to the door (about a noise complaint), and they decide to knock her out and tie her up. When she tries to escape out the window, though, it falls on her neck, and she dies.
What follows is an interesting concept. Mark and Pierce begin to think like criminals in order to hide the evidence—but neither of them killed anyone. Once they begin to try and change the past, it becomes harder and harder to back out. The only way out is up.
The breakneck pace at which all of this this happens is almost as unbelievable as it is entertaining. Director Ian Fitzgibbon navigates the fine line between drama and comedy like a pro, keeping us both amused and worried simultaneously. But the best part of A Film With Me In It is Doherty’s script. The dialogue and events are the focal point of the movie; everything else simply exists to push the story further and further towards the absurd, and the film succeeds by doing just that. And that’s something other comedies should learn from.
*****
The Conversation [Coppola, 1974]
Francis Ford Coppola’s The Conversation, 1974, 113m
Harry Caul tells colleagues he doesn’t have a phone at home, using payphones instead. He insists on having the only copy of the key to his apartment. He plays the saxophone. He is considered one of the best wiretapping and surveillance experts in the country.
In the Palm d’Or winner The Conversation, Caul, played by Gene Hackman, is hired to record two people talking in a park. This seemingly banal and simple task begins to eat away at him, bringing back memories of a previous job that ended up costing people’s lives.
The film is a well-paced, impeccably designed character study, and Hackman shines as the reclusive Caul. But Hackman, incredibly, isn’t who carries the film, nor is it director Francis Ford Coppola, whose cinematic eye has never been more keen than in The Conversation. As Caul tirelessly plays back his recordings, we’re constantly reminded of the film’s strongest point: the sound design. Walter Murch, sound designer, is the true artist at work here, incorporating all the imperfections of the surveillance recording into the entire picture, and to stunning effect. In the opening scene, the audio we hear isn’t what the camera sees—it’s what the characters are hearing from hundreds of yards away. It’s jarring at first, but it pulls us into Caul’s work like nothing else could.
Toward the end of the film, Caul is told that his apartment has been bugged, and he does everything he can to find it. He tears up the floorboards, rips down the wallpaper, and reduces his home to shreds. When he can’t locate the bug, he simply begins to play his saxophone as if nothing were wrong, surrounded by what’s left of his house. He simply doesn’t care anymore, but Coppola has made sure that we don’t suffer the same fate. We care more than ever.
*****
Contempt (Le mépris) [Godard, 1963]
Jean-Luc Godard's Contempt (Le mépris), 1963, 103m [CC #171]
An unusual self-reflexive punch (common during the French New Wave movement) serves as the start of Contempt; the opening credits are spoken over a clip of Contempt’s crew shooting a tracking shot, one that is used later in the film. This opening visually rhymes with the final shot of the film: a clip of the Odyssey crew shooting yet another tracking shot.
The plot centers around Paul Javal (Michel Piccoli), a playwright hired by an American producer, Jeremy Prokosch (Jack Palance), to rework director Fritz Lang's treatment for his upcoming film, an adaptation of The Odyssey. Meanwhile, Paul's wife, Camille (Brigitte Bardot), is growing increasingly distant from him after the two meet Jeremy.
When first introduced to the Javals, Godard superimposes color filters over the action. He uses the French colors—red, white, and blue—which are carried throughout the entire film. Soon, Paul and Camille meet with Jeremy, and we see Jeremy in a long shot/take; towards the end of the shot, he steps out of the frame but the Javals remain onscreen. This blocking motif is echoed throughout the entire film: characters will constantly leave and enter a static frame, as if in a stage production. Much of the camerawork is reminiscent of blocking in earlier cinema. This, coupled with Contempt’s practical obsession with long shots, serves to emotionally distance the viewer from the film.
Contempt goes through all the motions of a plot, introducing Lang, watching dailies of the still-in-production Odyssey, and showing Camille become angry with Paul, revealing the emotional backdrop of the rest of the picture. But it's not the plot that Godard is concerned with; he's wrapped up instead in composition and color, making the movie one to watch for the production rather than the story. About halfway through, Paul and Camille go to their apartment; during this thirty-minute, real-time sequence, they move in and out of static frames, almost as if the apartment is the focus.
The second half of the film takes place in Capri, at Jeremy's villa, to shoot The Odyssey. By now, Paul and Camille have dissolved entirely, and Contempt is reduced to scenes of the characters wandering around the villa, sometimes talking, occasionally filming.
It's Godard's "angry with the industry" film without a doubt, but that fact could easily become lost among the extravagance of nearly everything about Contempt. The film succeeds in ways that should be impossible. Jeremy's death is laughable; the soundtrack is stuck on repeat; The Odyssey is the opposite of impressive. Yet somehow, Godard keeps us entranced. Even in spite of himself, it all just works.
*****
Adam [Mayer, 2009]
Max Mayer's Adam, 2009, 99m
Adam is a film that would softly sink into the depths of mediocrity were it not for Hugh Dancy, who puts an incredible amount of life and detail into the picture’s titular character, Adam Raki, a space-obsessed twentysomething with Asperger’s Syndrome. The plot, a love story between Adam and Beth (Rose Byrne) begins typically and ends expectedly bittersweet: boy meets girl, boy has Asperger’s, boy and girl both (painfully) move on and are better off for their experience together. Adam is, more or less, a forum for the actors; the production values exist simply to carry the characters, and Dancy steals the show.
The emotional climax of the film is, of course, where he truly shines. Upon discovering that Beth once lied to him, Adam feels that she cannot be trusted again, ever—and when he confronts her, Dancy lets all hell break loose in Adam’s small world. Books are thrown, chairs and tables tossed, but the most incredible feat here is that the audience is acutely aware of, even still, his care for Beth. It's a miraculous display of Dancy's: As the audience, we know Adam would never hurt her.
The rest of the film allows Dancy to be the same character in virtually every scene: staring at the stars, overperforming in unnecessary ways at his job. Adam, by definition, is almost always in the same calculating and analytical mood, yet Dancy finds ways to keep the viewer engaged throughout all of his repetition. Perhaps most impressive, though, is Dancy’s ability to fuse together the seemingly mutually exclusive character traits of Asperger’s and his care for Beth. The emotional crux of the film rests solely on him: We must believe that a man who cannot comprehend emotion actually experiences emotion for the film to work. It’s a tough feat to be sure, but Dancy pulls it off with flying colors, somehow finding the perfect balance of care and isolation.
One of the most effective methods Dancy uses throughout the film is an incredibly subtle way of conveying feeling through his hands, à la Alain Delon's Jef in Le Samouraï. They shake, they fidget, they reveal worlds about Adam that would be left entirely unexplored otherwise. Another aptly-chosen tool of Dancy’s is his voice: The stutter he gives Adam helps the audience sympathize with him while still maintaining a façade of confusion and loneliness.
Dancy's performance raises Adam from a fairly interesting film to a precise and paced character study; it's a display on par with Philip Baker Hall's Sydney or George Clooney's Michael Clayton. In a word, the performance is perfect.
*****
Caché [Haneke, 2005]
Michael Haneke's Caché, 2005, 117m
It's a film about questions rather than answers; indeed, director Michael Haneke deliberately leaves Caché open-ended. As Georges and Anne Laurent (Daniel Auteuil and Juliette Binoche, resp.) receive anonymous tapes and drawings, their family and sanity begin to crumble.
All of Georges' efforts to determine who might be the culprit result in half-truths at best. Any hunch or guess he has is refuted by those he presumes guilty, and the film leaves the audience with nothing more, encouraging them to draw their own conclusions. Haneke peppers the film with the footage the Laurents receive—long, static shots—but also begins actual scenes of the movie in the same manner, blurring the line between what is recorded and what is happening. Often times, the film feels like a dream.
Plot descriptions or attempts at explanation do nothing to shed light on the mysteries Haneke invents. At dinner, a friend of the Laurents tells an outrageous, unbelievable story, and another friend speaks up: "Come on, is it really true?" They all simply laugh, leaving the question unanswered—and that's the whole idea.