Friday, August 16, 2019

Where'd you go, Bernadette?

Where'd you go, Bernadette? is beautifully acted, well-directed movie about a brilliant woman who has lost her way.  Richard Linklater, the movie's auteur, directs the movie in his most nondescript and fluent "invisible" style -- at no point,does the film's style draw attention to the way that it was made.  It has no gorgeous shots (except a few images of icy mountains and icebergs ostensibly in the Antarctic -- the credits reveal that the landscapes were filmed in Greenland), no flashy or fast editing, and much of the picture, curiously enough, was made in Pittsburgh, standing in for the more expensive Seattle where the bulk of the film is set.  The camera set ups are utilitarian and some of the movie, particularly the scenes in the Antarctic, are obviously shot on sets nowhere near the polar circle.  Linklater's unassuming style is on display in a scene that many directors would turn into a showy quasi- action sequence -- Bernadette (Cate Blanchett) has so landscaped her backyard that the steep hill is unstable and, during heavy rain, a massive landslides pours down the slope and knocks down a wall in a suburban house where Bernadette's neighbor and nemesis (played by Katherine Wiig) is hosting a party.  Linklater uses three close-ups showing soil slipping on the hillside -- the shots are close, abstract, and without any landscape or environmental context.  This is intercut with the party.  We see some wet mud flowing under a door, then, two quick shots of the backwall giving way and mud pouring into the party.  Most film makers would milk the sequence for suspense, create a threat of injury, and use some flashy CGI effects to show the torrent of mud and debris pouring down the hill -- Linklater knows that the landslide is wholly extraneous to the actual themes of his film and, therefore, doesn't interrupt the story with anything that would distract us from the main themes in his narrative.  This sort of discipline is rare among filmmakers and contributes to the powerful effect that the movie makes as a whole.  (Linklater has always been more interested in extracting remarkable performances out of his actors than he is in staging action scenes -- in fact, rare among American directors he has no interest in directing fights or combat or action at all.  Some of his films have been openly experimental, for instance A Scanner Darkly and Boyhood -- but the nature of his experimentation is more philosophical than pictorial.  With Steven Soderburgh, he's our best advocate for the "invisible directing" style that characterizes the old masters like Howard Hawks and Budd Boettcher.)

Bernadette Fox is a great architect who was awarded a McArthur Genius grant and, after a calamity involving a house she built in LA, fled that scene and moved with her family to Seattle.  At the film's start, she seems to have no interest in architecture and has become a kind of recluse.  She is given more than adequate grounds for her reclusiveness -- after four miscarriages, her daughter was born with a defective heart and required several neo-natal surgeries in order to survive.  This stress seems to have knocked her out of the professional orbit where she was once well-known and even feted.  No longer creative in architecture, she has channeled her intelligence into tinkering with the decaying mansion where she lives, fighting with the neighbors whom she derides, and hiding from the world.  Most of all, she has focused her energy on her relationship with her daughter which is almost frighteningly close and intense.  Bernadette has agreed to take her daughter on a trip to Antarctica with her remote husband, a Google executive played by Billy Crudup.  But she's terrified of the trip and seeks ways to avoid making the journey.  The film is very clever at showing us Bernadette's reasoning from her perspective -- we don't really sense how crazy she has become until the film is about half-way finished.  After some bizarre behavior, Bernadette's husband hires a perky therapist to work with his troubled wife -- the therapist diagnoses her as suffering from severe anxiety and adjustment disorder.  When the therapist and her husband try to "intervene" and have her hospitalized, Bernadette flees and, in fact, ends up on an adventure by herself in Antarctica.  

In some ways, the film is a bit like a Woody Allen movie -- it features fantastically intelligent and articular characters who harangue one another is a witty and engaging way.  (Cate Blanchett is particularly good in her manic discussion with a former colleague on the things that she despises about Seattle).  In another way, the film resembles Five Easy Pieces even down to the rainy Pacific Northwest setting.  Like the concert pianist played by Jack Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces, Bernadette has suppressed the most important part of her personality, her creative energy, and this has caused her extreme distress.  Like Nicholson's character, she's rude and outspoken and lashes out at those around her -- she alienates and estranges all of those around her.  But the picture develops along its own organic lines and becomes extremely affecting emotionally. (All of the film's performances are excellent and Wiig in particular gives a very striking and surprising turn to her role that, in most films, would be that of a simple villain).  This is the sort of picture that is designed for female suburban audiences -- it's charmingly aspirational, focuses on creativity which, I think, is an important theme for gifted women who may be relegated to the role of mere mother and wife, and is intensely emotional particularly in the film's depiction of the relationship between the troubled mother and the spunky teenage daughter -- and it is, in fact, heart-warming.  I spent much of the last half of the movie dabbing at my eyes.  The movie doesn't exactly stick with you because it's pleasures are really readily portable -- the pleasures the film offers are so intrinsic to the material and so embedded in the relationships that the movie depicts that they don't really apply to other settings.  Parts of the movie are probably wildly improbable although I didn't register any of that implausibility as condescending to the audience or disturbing in any way.  Linklater is one of our best film-makers and this modest picture is one of his best movies.  (I should note that the advertising campaign for this film which leads the viewer to expect a vulgar SNL-style comedy is totally misleading.  But it's an excellent film and I hope the meretricious ad campaign helps the movie find an audience.)

Monday, August 12, 2019

The Wandering Earth

The Chinese mega-blockbuster The Wandering Earth is said to be the second most popular film in human history.  Probably, when all receipts are collected, the science fiction epic, will be accounted the movie seen on the big screen by the most people in all of the history of cinema.  Based on a notable science fiction novel, a part of The Three Body Problem books by ... (admired by no less than Barack Obama), the picture has a distinguished pedigree.  It's fantastically grandiose but incoherent to such an extent that one suspects that the Netflix streaming version of the epic, perhaps, preserves only about half of the movie.  Whether this is true, I don't know. 

Even severely edited, the film, after its novelty wears off, becomes rapidly tedious.  This is due to the fact that we can't ever tell what is happening or why, confusion aggravated by the fact that, with few exceptions, we don't have much clue as to the characters (or even identities) of the various heroes and heroines expiring spectacularly on-screen.  It's pretty clear that the director can manage a zoom shot that begins with a glint in the eye of a character, passes through buildings and walls and monstrous machines, then, rises over what's left of the frozen earth's atmosphere, climbing into outer space, and, then the intergalactic void, all of this accomplished in a single take that is about 30 seconds long, but has no idea at all how to film a simple conversation between two actors.  I've never seen a film so technically accomplished in its special effects, Bladerunner-style urban environments, and gut-churning anti-gravity scenes, that is so completely botched in all other  respects.  Most of the action comes down to a guy in a space suit hammering on jammed door with a wrench. 

The plot moves with lightning speed.  In the first minutes, we're told that the sun is about to explode and that "monster tsunamis" have wiped out half the population.  The survivors have been forced into underground cities about 5 km below the earth's surface -- these places look like a combination of an urban mall with the streets of neo LA in Blade Runner, all kiosks and brightly lit booths and flickering neon signs.  To escape the blunderbuss of the exploding sun, the earth has been equipped with 1500 giant blue propulsion jets -- these huge jets fire incessantly operating off some kind of nuclear fuel in "reactor cores."  The jets propel the earth across the Solar System and toward a friendly planetary system where human beings plan to take up residence after a 2500 hundred year flight -- nine-hundred years of acceleration, nine-hundred years of cruising, and 700 years to decelerate into a earth-like orbit around a distant sun.  Alas, the best laid plans of mice and men oft go awry -- the earth which is relying on Jupiter's gravitational field for an additional boost is off-target and, venturing too close to the massive gaseous planet, will be torn apart by its influence.  There's a vestigial backstory about a teenage boy who is mad at his astronaut father -- the boy's father is an astronaut on a huge rotary space station that is shadowing the earth on its voyage for completely inscrutable reasons.  (A sort of explanation is given late in the film.)  The boy skips school and sneaks to the earth's frozen surface -- it's a vast glacier -- and, with his kid sister, gets caught in titanic earthquakes as Jupiter's tidal forces begin to literally pull the earth apart.  Some more heroes surface and the kid with his colleagues drives their giant snow-rover, a big mining truck qua snowplow, down to Sulawesi where they are supposed to replace a failed reactor core.  At Sulawesi, the kid contrives a plan to light Jupiter on fire using a huge jet torch and employ the consequent blast (Jupiter being mostly inflammable hydrogen) to propel the "wandering Earth" back on course.  When the flame from the jet falls short of Jupiter, which is pulling earth's matter into the vortex of its great red eye, the kid's father on the space station bridges the gap by sacrificing himself (and the Helios Project) in a huge self-inflicted explosion that amplifies the jet from the earth and puts the match to Jupiter.  As anticipated by the teenage hero, the massive planet blows up and blasts the Earth back on its 2500 year voyage.  The film ends inexplicably with a sequence just reprising shot for shot an early sequence in which the hero "hot-wires" and steals a massive snow-rover which he doesn't really know how to drive. 

I've left out about an hour of earthquakes and explosions. Jupiter's gravity turns the earth's surface into a turbulent ocean of cracking and lunging ice.  Periodically, the characters shoot through ravines full of deadly snapping rocks, a bit like the navigation of the fissure in the Death Star in the first Star Wars movie.  Sometimes, they go underground into giant shafts where they fall or are endangered by meteorite-like shards of ice and boulders about the size of train locomotives.  Each individual shot or vista is impressive, but, ultimately, they don't add up to anything at all.  In the film's climax, daddy astronaut is working to blow himself up as his enormous Ferris-wheel shaped space station fragments into fiery pieces.  Down on earth, everything is being sucked into the sky by Jupiter's gravitational field.  In some kind of hole, two lads are trying to do something to some kind of machine -- this involves hammering and mighty feats of strength.  Nearby, about 12 heroes are shoving on something as hard as they can -- they are really putting their shoulders up against some sort of obstacle (maybe, it's a door they are trying to keep closed against some enigmatic force).  In any event, a little girl, who has been skewered with iron re-rod, broadcasts a call for help.  All of the snow-rovers are frantically driving home so people can say goodbye to their families before the earth blows up.  But the snow-rover drivers heed the child's call and make about 5000 u-turns on the crumbling glacier, drive back to the Sulawesi jet, and, there, hopping out of their monster snow-plows, run into some vast shaft to help the 12 heroes who are pushing heroically on whatever it is that they pushing heroically against.  There are too many people to put their hands on the surface that, for some reason, has to be pushed and so they push on the backs of others who push on the backs of yet others who push against the backs of the dozen heroes who are pushing on whatever it is they have to push against.  It's completely idiotic.  But whatever has to be pushed gets good and pushed and the earth is saved -- although at the expense of the Helios Project.   The Helios Project is a post-human library of all known DNA designed to seed the universe with people and animals and insects from earth in the event that the Wandering Planet gets destroyed -- this is why the Earth is shadowed by the giant space station.  Of course, the Helios Project is supervised by a HAL-like computer intelligence who is not at all amused when the hero-astronaut (the surly boy-hero's father) decides to blow up the repository of all future generations.  But the hero-astronaut does something to something else to induce a mighty explosion, destroys the Helios project and its uncooperative robot sentinel, and, then, pilots his space station with 300,000 kilotons of nuclear fuel into Jupiter to help his son blow up the colorful Gas Giant.  (Given the level of stupidity in the human characters, I found myself rooting for the computer and the Helios Project.)

There's no acting in this movie.  No dialogue worth repeating or, even, hearing -- the film is hideously dubbed and, probably, best watched with the sound muted.  People posture, declaim defiance or express hope, and, then, they die.  It doesn't matter half the population perished before the movie began and, I think, another third of the survivors were eliminated when they were forbidden to enter the underground cities, freezing to death on the icy surface of the earth that is now nothing more than a huge sepulcher.  In the cosmic scheme of things, life is cheap, although this film is not.

Sunday, August 11, 2019

Western

In the arid and mountainous frontier, a group of hardy men are assembled to achieve some objective -- perhaps, it is a cattle drive or mining or defending a cavalry post.  One of the pioneers is laconic and has a mysterious background; he is thought to have killed many men.  Everyone drinks too much and conflicts arise over poker, women, and water rights.  Inevitably, a confrontation ensues between the pioneers and the tribe living in the area.  The mysterious gunman takes action and, then, his combat skills no longer needed, recedes into the frontier darkness.

This is the general premise of the German director Valeska Grisebach's 2017 film, Western.  Shot in the wilds of Bulgaria, the movie features a cast of non-professional actors, mostly selected, it seems, for their rugged good looks.  Grisebach says that she watched many American Westerns when she was growing up in West Germany and she models her film  (she says) on Henry King's The Gunfighter, John Ford's My Darling Clementine, and Anthony Mann's Winchester 73.  Notwithstanding its plot, Western is an austere art-house film, with influences in Antonioni and the Rumanian new wave particularly Corneliu Porumboi and Radu Jude.  Grisebach's cowboys are a group of German construction workers dispatched to a remote part of Bulgaria to build a hydroelectric power station.  The leader of the construction workers is the foreman, Vincent, a man with a malign babyface, recently estranged from his wife.  Vincent clashes with Meinhard, a new addition to the crew and the film's apparent hero.  Meinhard has a weathered face (too many years riding the range) and seems to be a loner.  He is a man of few words, although he has said enough to let it be known that he has seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan (and may have been a member of the French foreign legion).  These claims seem more than a little questionable.  The German construction crew approaches their job with a considerable degree of arrogance -- they blithely plan to re-route an entire river, maul the terrain with huge construction equipment, and flirt  aggressively with local women.  The German cowboys, as it were, even post a large German flag over their encampment.  Only Meinhard has any interest in the local people.  He wanders around in the village a few miles from the encampment and, after being initially rejected (the village shopkeeper won't sell him a cigarette let alone a beer), becomes friends with some of the people in the dusty arid town.  Meinhard's friendship with the villagers creates hostility with Vincent, not helped by Meinhard getting a big crane stuck in the middle of the river near construction site.  Initially, Vincent also creates a bad impression by taking a local woman's hat and playing "keep away" with it as the men and girls swim together.  Communication problems are rife:  the Germans don't know Bulgarian and the Bulgarian's know only smatterings of German.  (This problem seems a bit fabulous -- in my experience, even uneducated Europeans speaking different languages can communicate with pidgin English.  Here no one knows any English at all notwithstanding the fact that men from the impoverished village are said to have immigrated to North America.) .  Grisebach subtitles the Bulgarian (and the German is subtitled for English-speaking audiences) and so we can clinically see how misunderstandings arise and propagate themselves, at times, something excruciating to watch. Meinhard finds a horse grazing near the construction crew's camp which he tames and rides bareback.  He becomes good friends with the horse's owner, Adrian, a man who also owns a local quarry and may have ties with some kind of organized crime.  The German flag is stolen and, during a poker game, Meinhard wins all the money of one of the villages -- the man later comes to him and begs for the money back and he has a point:  Meinhard won the poker game simply because he had more money to gamble away than the poverty-stricken, unemployed local men.  The presence of the Germans destabilizes the rather fragile local economy.  The village, as it happens, shares its water with two other towns, but the Germans need water to mix their concrete.  When Vincent takes the horse to turn on the water to his camp, the animal stumbles on a steep hill, falls and is badly injured.  A quarrel arises over gravel aggregate from Adrian's quarry.  Everything seems tending toward a final showdown of some sort.

Western achieves an interesting balance of double perspectives.  It's like certain optical illusions that  shift shape as you gaze at them -- is this a hag or a young woman haughtily turning away from you?  Is it a rabbit or a duck?  From one perspective, the construction crew seems to be a group of men struggling to tame the wilderness and surrounding by enigmatic hostiles.  But from another vantage, the German construction crew are wild Indians, invading raiders who threaten the stable, traditional life in the small village.  Similarly, for three-fourth of the film, the strong, silent Meinhard seems to be the hero -- the only member of the German crew willing to meet the locals half-way.  But, by the end of the film, Vincent is partying with the Bulgarian villagers and, in fact, engages in a game of keep-away in the river using the German flag earlier stolen by the locals, a scene that rhymes with, and resolves, the conflict arising from the "keep-away" game with the woman's hat.  By contrast, the eerie Meinhard now seems relegated to the shadows.  After having sex with the attractive local translator, who actually likes Vincent it seems, he becomes further alienated and estranged, lurking in the darkness and brandishing a nasty-looking switchblade.  The movie suggests that Meinhard has gone native -- when a group of men beat him up at the end of the movie, the kindly Adrian says:''Don't worry about it.  It's the kind of thing that happens in small villages."  In the film's final shot, we see Meinhard dancing clumsily with the villages.  He is the sort of man who doesn't fit in anywhere -- and, of course, the movie suggests that he is too restless to be happy with any one or in any place.

The film is about two hours long and features some spectacular landscapes of the mountains on the border with Macedonia.  The editing employs many jump-shots that don't really contribute to the film and, in fact, work against its archetypal form.  Details as to local geography and the customs are vividly established and, even, minor characters have a pungency not often displayed in films -- we can almost smell these people.  The oppressive heat and humidity, the river cutting through little limestone gorges, the hillside thickets, and the small, poor village -- all are effectively and memorably presented.  In this part of Bulgaria, the Germans were regarded as "allies" during World War Two and, oddly enough, the locals recall their presence "seventy years ago" with warmth and affection.  (This reminds us that the history of World War II at what we might regard as its periphery -- for instance, the Balkans -- is fantastically complex.)  The film has a number of blind spots that strain credulity -- it seems doubtful that a group of thuggish construction workers would be unleashed on a remote Bulgarian village without better preparation and some kind of liaison with the local authorities.  (And there seem to be no local authorities -- in keeping with the Western theme, there is no real law and order.)  The details of the construction work, which never seems to advance, are unclear -- a bunch of re-rod stands for a concrete pour that never happens (I assume the budget didn't permit anything more than the nominal foundations we see on screen).  Except for a few short sequences, no one seems to work -- everyone just sits around chain-smoking and getting drunk.  (I think the conceit is that without the gravel to make aggregate no progress can be made on the hydro-electric project).  In this part of the world, people are very religious -- Grisebach, as a modern secular German, has a complete blind spot for religion -- we see a church on one occasion but no one seems to go to it other than the sexually compliant lady translator.  Grisebach's non-ending is suggestive but also something of a cop-out.  Real Westerns conclude with some sort of climax that resolves at least some of the issues.  Grisebach simply complicates the situation to a sort narrative saturation and, then, ends the picture without anything approaching a resolution.  Her answer to this criticism would be classically "art house" -- there are no resolutions in real life.  True enough, but her film isn't exactly a model of realism either and, so, an audience has a right to, at least, hope for some kind of denouement. Despite these objections, it's a pretty good film, exciting enough in its own way, and well worth seeing.     

Saturday, August 10, 2019

The Counselor

When it was released in 2013, Ridley Scott's The Counselor was, more or less, universally derided.  Despite an all-star cast, the movie was said to be nearly unwatchable with a script by Cormac McCarthy that was so bad as to be risible.  (In fact, the movie was denounced in such terms as to cause re-evaluation of some of McCarthy's more recent novels.)  However, recently the Mexican director, Guillermo del Toro has suggested that The Counselor is better than its reputation and has been severely underestimated.  Accordingly, I thought that I would take an look at the movie.  Del  Toro is highly inconsistent himself and, generally, overrated in my view, but he's an important film maker with a good eye for genre films and his critical views are worth consideration.

In fact, The Counselor is entertaining.  It's not a bad film by any means.  Much of it is ridiculous, but this arises from its rather bizarre aspirations.  McCarthy's script is primitive by any standards, but, certainly, contains a number of soliloquy-like scenes that succinctly present themes present in the novelist's works -- for better or worse, the director (and his actors) treated McCarthy's screenplay with reverence (I recall that a few pages were published in The New Yorker) and what's on-screen is all intentional.  My Blu-Ray of the film is 137 minutes long and appears to capture every word that the novelist wrote -- the theatrical (cut) version was about 120 minutes.  On the film's commentary, everyone raves about McCarthy's script -- in fact, the script is poor, implausible, and very thin.  The characters are all cartoonish and the plot is rudimentary.  The long speeches with which McCarthy indulges himself occur at about 15 minute intervals and add nothing at all to the movie -- indeed, most of what is said in those speeches is either totally extraneous or, in the alternative, serves as an obtuse commentary on action that would be better shown and than described.

A lawyer, called simply "Counselor" (Michael Fassbender) has a beautiful girlfriend (Penelope Cruz) and seems to be prosperous.  The character has no depth -- he is a Luftmensch to use the Yiddish expression.  This attorney seems to have no office, very few, if any, current clients, and no obligations other than enriching himself by transactions with bad guys.  Counselor is completely implausible as a lawyer -- we have no idea about his practice -- and he seems to be an idiot too boot.  He's good in bed, however, as we see in a long and embarrassing sex scene with which the film begins -- it involves what the elderly Cormac McCarthy regards as post-modern pillow-talk (which also makes no sense) and simply compromises the two high-powered actors who have to thrash about in this scene.  Counselor is planning some sort of transaction with Reiner, a smarmy club owner in El Paso, played by Javier Bardem.  Bardem seems to have thought his part was unworkable and he makes fun of  it with his appearance -- he has a kind of frizzy hair that looks like a cartoon character who has suffered a high-voltage shock and he wears pink sunglasses.  (It's a ridiculous get-up and he looks like the old Little Rascals African-American child actor who plays Buckwheat.) Reiner's girlfriend is Cameron Diaz who slinks around in BDSM garments and keeps twin pet cheetahs -- the cheetahs are apparently pretty well trained because they sometimes sit regally in Reiner's night club.  This detail is like something imagined by a precocious 8th-grade boy and is indicative of the general level of most of the script -- the film's morality features bad guys who do garish bad things of the kind that an imaginative 8th-grader would find deplorable.  (Are there really "snuff films" in which teenage girls are beheaded and their twitching torso's ravaged by naked guys in executioner hoods?)  The movie is generally misogynistic (again an element of 8th grade boy morality) in that women use their sexuality to coerce men into doing bad things -- the world would be so much better if these nasty, sexy girls weren't always forcing us to sin.  Counselor goes to Amsterdam where he buys a beautiful diamond for his girlfriend and, later, asks her to marry him.  The Amsterdam scene features an encounter with a Sephardic Jewish diamond cutter played by the great Bruno Ganz -- there's a lot of totally unnecessary dialogue establishing that McCarthy has read Wikipedia about the diamond trade and some bizarre religious commentary about the "man of God" versus the Greek hero and Semitic (Jewish) culture being the last culture of any substance to exist on earth.  At times, the film slips into gloomy apocalyptic ravings -- the sins of the hero, which seem pretty minor to me, are somehow equated to world-wide greed and false values that McCarthy thinks will destroy the world.  (This is flat-out quack nonsense.) For some reason, Reiner who wants Counselor to invest in a new night club tries earnestly to talk him out of the deal -- he seems weirdly concerned about Counselor's naivety and innocence.  Needless to say, the deal is going to be financed with money provided by a Columbian drug cartel that ships its wares around the US in a huge "honey-wagon" filled with barrels of cocaine and human shit.  After Reiner tries to talk the dimwitted Counselor out of the deal, another drug dealer, played flamboyantly by Brad Pitt, also tells him to back out of the transaction.  But Counselor decides to make the play for the big one-time score with predictably dire consequences -- all the main characters suffer spectacular on-screen deaths.  (There are a couple of beheadings, some well-staged shoot-outs, and lots of running around desperately to avoid the assassins sent to murder all of the principals  in the film.  At one point, the hapless Penelope Cruz suggests that she and the hero hide in Boise, Idaho -- this amazes both the audience and Counselor who seems not to know where Boise is located, although he dutifully goes there.)

In the end, just about everyone is killed, the bad guys recover their cocaine, and Cameron Diaz playing the role of the evil, pan-sexual Malinka (she offers to have sex with Penelope Cruz and, in one memorable sequence, copulates with the windshield of a Ferrari) remarks to some character who I couldn't quite identify (a survivor bad guy I guess) that "the slaughter to come you can't even imagine", another of McCarthy's idiotic apocalyptic ravings.

Despite its folly, the movie is very entertaining and its fun to see big Hollywood actors wrestling with material that obviously completely baffles them -- Brad Pitt as the horn-dog drug dealer is pretty funny and Bardem is hilarious throughout the whole movie.  (He seems to relish to stupid lines that he has to read and, when he describes how his girlfriend "fucked" the windshield of his car, with visual to illustrate, his eyes bug out and he acts truly traumatize; he literally cowers as Malinka wipes her vagina all over his windshield, half-covering his bulging eyes, but too obsessed to look away -- it's laugh-out loud funny.  (The episdoe traumatizes Reiner Although not traumatized enough to end his relationship with this evil femme fatale ; in light of recent events, its impossible to see the wicked Malinka as anyone other than the snow-white Malania Trump.)  Just before the climax, Counselor calls the head mafia guy predictably called Jefe, played by the redoubtable Ruben Blades, and gets an earful of gibberish from the crime boss including statements about human destiny at the crossroads, the transcendence and duty of suffering, and the fate of the world.  It's all pretty great if viewed in the proper mood.  A scene in which Cameron Diaz tries to confess her polysexual adventures (she's not Catholic and doesn't know if she was even baptized) to a poor priest is also priceless -- ultimately, the miserable priest has to flee his own confession booth to the dismay of the nice Mexican ladies waiting in line for his services.  The sequence in which Brad Pitt loses all the fingers on one hand and his head to a ridiculous garroting automaton is really funny, particularly the way in which the astonished cops put the actor's head on top of his crotch to carry him away.  It's not a serious movie and once  you figure out that the film's pleasures will all be guilty ones -- it's just a well-made, interestingly acted B neo-film-noir --  the proceedings are, in fact, pretty amusing.  Nothing in the movie is even remotely plausible and, as I watched the film, I wondered about the Euro-trash night-clubs and elaborate restaurants and palatial mansions in El Paso where the movie is set.  Remarkably,it turns out no one went to El Paso to make this movie -- why would a film crew suffer for eight or nine weeks in a backwater of that kind? Amazingly, London is used for El Paso, hence, the utter, overt inaccuracy of the city scenes.  The landscapes look pretty plausible for West Texas.  But those scenes were shot in a National Park in Spain, the same place where spaghetti Westerns were once made.
 

Wednesday, August 7, 2019

Alec Soth "Sleeping by the Mississippi" and Minnesota Marine Art Museum

"Sleeping by the Mississippi" is an exhibition of about 15 large pictures made by Minneapolis-based photographer, Alec Soth.  Soth uses a large format camera to make his images.  He works effectively in several styles:  many of his picture are full-frontal confrontations with eccentric people -- in this vein, his work looks like Diane Arbus; but Soth also has an excellent eye for landscapes and color-saturated interiors making bright, disturbing pictures that show the influence of William Eggleston.  The landscapes and the interiors, generally garishly decorated, are wonderful, if always seeming a bit derivative.  Those pictures don't raise the moral conundrums implicit in Soth's portrait photographs.  For some reasons these images make me a bit queasy -- I'm not sure to what extent Soth is patronizing or exploiting the subjects of these photographs.  He is a good-looking, youthful-seeming man, undoubtedly born to the modest privileges of White middle or upper class (he attended Sarah Lawrence) and one wonders a bit about the exchange of power on display in these portraits.  Soth gets rich and famous and inspires rapturous reviews and receives funding from State arts organizations as well as a Guggenheim Fellowship; but he finds his subjects poor, disenfranchised and half crazy and he leaves them that way as well.  Two photographs exemplify the uneasy transaction between cameraman and his subjects.  In one picture, we see a very handsome, red-headed girl -- she is startlingly pale and throws her head back like a pre-Raphaelite Madonna or martyr; there is a big soot cross on her forehead.  The caption to the picture tells us that the woman, someone living on the streets in Louisiana, made the cross on her forehead for Ash Wednesday with soot from a cigarette that she had just smoked.  The girl's eyes have a dull, medicated look.  Of course, we don't know what she really looks like -- we don't know what the other images of her taken by Soth show.  He has instead opted for to print a four-foot by four-foot picture in which the woman is posed as a preternaturally light-skinned red-haired saint  shown against a nondescript, glowing void-- in other words, he makes her into something unwordly.  But I wonder if this is exactly fair -- and, if the intent is to show the woman as a sort Dante Gabriel Rossetti saint, then, why tell us that she's not really a believer and has marked herself with soot from her cigarette?.  Did she do this herself?  Why? Or did Soth encourage her make the mark on her forehead?  An aggressive image of a mother and daughter said to be taken in Dubuque, Iowa is similarly troubling.  The two women are reasonably attractive and Soth has posed them with their long, naked legs crossed and touching one another -- even though everyone is decent it remains a highly sexualized photograph.  Much of the image is occupied by the women's bare legs -- they have almost identical and hardened-looking faces under identical canopies of black hair and their little heads appear as an after-thought:  the big legs make them look like the strutting stylized harlots in some of Steinberg's  sketches.  (The picture is also similar to a obscene picture of a mother and daughter in the collection of John Waters illustrated in his book, Art, a Sex Book.)  Again, the picture seems somehow condescending and unduly harsh and confrontational -- the clinical approach to these women seems to dehumanize them and the label which indicates something like the daughter wants to go into "nursing" but the mother "has no dreams left anymore" doesn't really help things.  With these reservations, moral but not  necessarily esthetic, the show is excellent.  Soth has some spooky still lives, a mattress drowned in a slough and a chain gang working the absolutely flat and barren cotton fields near Angola Prison in Louisiana.  One image is particularly both memorable and strangely appalling -- it's a photograph of Charles Lindbergh's cot on the front porch of his parents' home near Little Falls, the old mansion only a stone's throw from the Mississippi River.  (Indeed, I suspect that this strangely indelible picture gives the exhibition and the book from which it is drawn its name).  I saw this cot about 15 years ago when I took a tour of the Lindbergh house and I was also struck by the abject aspect of that little bachelor bed on the house's unheated porch.  Lindbergh's childhood seems to have been unhappy and his parents were miserable in their marriage -- misery that seems to have been inherited by Charley and imported into his own marriage with Anne Morrow Lindbergh.  The impression that I had was that Lindbergh fled the perpetual strife in the home by sleeping on the porch -- maybe, this impression is wrong, but the little cot with its white blankets and sheets, the refuge of the hapless teenage boy who was to become the most famous person in the world, is strangely mournful, dejected, even, pathetic.  Soth has a brilliant eye -- he  has caught the uncanny atmosphere around the bed on the porch and made a picture with real presence which somehow communicates this sense to the viewer.

It costs seven dollars to get into the Minnesota Museum of Marine Art and the admission is a real bargain. From the outside, the gallery looks a bit like a nautical-themed restaurant near an airport or the outskirts of a mall, something like a larger and more elegant Red Lobster.  But, in fact, the interior consists of five large exhibition rooms, well-lit by skylights, and filled with beautiful and interesting things.  Two of the exhibition spaces were occupied by temporary shows -- the Soth photographs and twenty canvases by Dutch artist, Maarten Platje.  Three of the galleries display paintings from the permanent collection.  Ostensibly all of these paintings are thematically related to water -- oceans, lakes, and rivers.  The collector, Bob Kierlin one of the founders of Fastenal, however, seems to have purchased noteworthy works on the basis of their availability and about a quarter of the pictures, although intrinsically interesting, have little or nothing to do with the aquatic theme.  (For instance, there's a Toulouse-Lautrec painting, a bit sketchy and, perhaps, incomplete, that shows a young man and what seems to be a Labrador retriever.  One might interpret the young man as wearing a sailor's suit and, of course, Labradors are bred to swim -- but I don't recall any water being in sight in the picture.  Similarly, the museum owns a reasonably good Millet -- the artist's trademark field workers are stooping to the harvest, but the image is mostly dusty-looking and dry.)  The museum is small, but has a plenty of luminaries on its walls -- Picasso, a bright expressionist landscape by Max Beckmann, all the Impressionists, and, even, a half-scale, but still impressive "Washington crossing the Delaware", kitsch but inspired kitsch.  The recent paintings in the collection are mostly commissions for the museum:  a 2012 canvas of  New York's East River waterfront circa about 1632 done in a limpid style that combines Luminist influence and American primitive folk painting (Tarantillo), a blue and foamy Marteen Platje painting of a mighty 19th century war ship sailing the high seas, and various other commissions that seem to have been made to document the appearance of the rigging and other accoutrements of martial "Tall ships" -- these things are picturesque, particularly in the way that the artists have managed the choppy, turbulent seas, but, otherwise dull, unless you are a specialist in nautical history -- and, apparently, there are enough Master and Commander fans in the world, enough, it seems, to support an entire accredited academy, the American Society of Marine Artists.  Otherwise, the most recent paintings in the collection are a Marsden Hartley landscape that looks like a bleeding wound, a painting of dunes by Georgia O'Keefe, and some snazzy if light-weight, Stewart Davis paintings.  The strength of the collection is its array of 19th century Luminists on display -- there is a gorgeous, sultry-looking canvas by an artist named Alfred Bricher showing a solitary grain elevator perched next to the still and vacant expanse of the Mississippi River at Dubuque and two heroically sized paintings by Martin John Heade, a botanically exact wall-sized canvas called "View from Fern Walk, Florida" showing a jungle that would have delighted Douanier Rousseau and the spectacular pink flamingo-colored "Great Florida Sunset", an explosion of neon color that has to be seen to be believed.  (There are many other fine Luminist works in the collection including paintings by Fitz Henry Lane and Francis Silva).  The Hudson River School is well-represented, particularly in a series of paintings by various artists that show Indian Summer, the trees all gone yellow and brown and a pale golden haze softening all edges and forms.  The museum has a good Constable, a painting by Turner, a typically windy and silver-toned Corot, some vigorously painted horseman by Degas, and a dark and green-shadowed Courbet from 1864 showing a glimmer of limestone cliffs around a spring -- "The Source of the Lison."  Just about every painting displayed as part of the permanent collection is well worth your attention.  Even the duds and misfires have their pleasures:  one painting ("On the Beach, Julius LeBlanc Steward 1880) showing a bourgeois family stiffly enjoying a seaside beach is noteworthy for the almost surrealist hideousness of the people depicted -- the painter was inept and couldn't managing foreshortening with the effect that some of the portraits are like images of pale shrunken heads.  It's an awful painting but also a genuine curiosity.

When I toured the museum, the other traveling show featured about 20 window-sized paintings by Marteen Platje showing "United States Naval battles during the first 20 years of the 19th century."  Plaatje was a sailor with the Royal Netherlands Navy and his pictures are microscopically detailed.  He seems to have researched the precise rigging, caliber of the cannons, the weather conditions at the time of the encounter, and details relating to the location of rocks, shrubs, and trees on the shoreline if the affray took place near land.  The vessels swarm with tiny, realistically depicted figure -- there are explosions and haze of drifting smoke, timbers floating in the foaming seas, little life-boats, flags unfurled and so on.  The fantastic detail lavished on all details is surreal and the pictures can best be described as photo-realist.  Plaatje works fast -- I think all of these impressive canvases were made in 2016 to 2018.  The pictures resemble some sort of conceptual art joke -- they are pretty much devoid of interest, all look more or less alike, and, so, pedantically painted that one suspects that there is some kind deceitful, even, malign program underlying these things.  But this would be to give the painter and his paintings too much credit -- there is apparently a big market for hyper-realistic depictions of old-time sea-battles and I suspect Plaatje had these paintings sold to someone or some several before the pigments were even dry

A bonus of going to the museum on Sunday morning is that you might encounter Mr. Kierlin himself patrolling his galleries.  On both occasions when I was in the museum, he was on hand to interact with visitors and show his favorite pictures to them.  

Tuesday, August 6, 2019

Kaili Blues and Bi Gan (Film Group Note)



Kaili Blues and Bi Gan



Bi Gan was raised in a lower middle class household in Kaili City, Guizhou province, China.  He was born in 1987.   He is ethnic Miao – that is, Hmong.

Kaili City is an industrial blue collar metropolis.  To the north of Kaili, coal mines and cement factories dominate the landscape.  South of city, the landscape becomes more rugged and the river valleys are deeper and narrower.  This is the scene karst landscape of the “Ten Thousand Peaks” area.  The people living to the south of Kaili are ethnic Miao.  The Miao speak languages related the Hmong and are mountain dwellers with an entirely different culture than the Mandarin-speaking Chinese who live in Kaili and the other metropolitan areas.  At present, the economy of this area is dominated by the tourist trade – Chinese people come to see the picturesque karst topography where a popular Tv show, Journey to the West, a sort of Mandarin equivalent to Game of Thrones was filmed.  Visiting ethnic Miao villages is also an important feature of the tourist business in this area.

Kaili City is poor and Bi Gan claims that there were no movie theaters in the town when he was growing up there.  He watched TV and considers himself a “child of TV.”  He had no interest in film until he attended a junior college and took courses in TV production.  One of those courses briefly addressed the history and esthetics of film.  In that course, Bi Gan was required to watch Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker.  Bi Gan says that he hated the film at first and thought it would be impossible to watch to its conclusion.  But he persevered and, now, says that this film influenced him to become a director.

Bi Gan did some Tv work, made a couple of well-received short films, and, then, received funding, largely through the Guizhou regional film authority, to make Kaili Blues.  The movie was internationally premiered at the Locarno Film Festival in Italy in 2013.  The picture won numerous international awards – Bi Gan was, then, 26.

His next film, A Long Days Journey into Night, was completed in 2018.  It was also premiered to some acclaim.  Unfortunately, however, the movie was released on Valentine’s Day and marketed as a date movie.  Several million Chinese couples paid to see the movie that was alleged to be a romantic comedy.  In fact, the film is an experimental picture that is incomprehensible on first viewing.  (At least, this was my impression when I saw the picture in May, 2019 at the Walker Art Center.)  Lots of couples demanded that their money be returned and Bi Gan says that the film has a bad reputation based on the way it was marketed.

It’s not clear to me what he is currently directing.  He toured with A Long Days Journey into Night as well as earlier with Kaili Blues.  A number of interviews with him can be watched on You-Tube.  Bi Gan is short stocky man with a buzz-cut hair do.  He looks a little like a less sinister and more merry Chairman Kim.  He likes to drink and, frequently, claims that he is a bit intoxicated during interviews.  He seems to understand some English but can’t speak the language.  His answers to questions posed to him are generally evasive.

Although Bi Gan’s work seems related to some of David Lynch’s films, particularly the American’s nightmarish Inland Empire, an uncompromisingly abstract experimental film, he admits only to admiring Blue Velvet.  Bi Gan claims as his primary influence the Taiwanese director, Hou Hsiao-Hsien, particularly that film maker’s Goodbye, South, Goodbye (1996).  Hou Hsiao-Hsien is famous for his extremely long sequence shots, often implemented by intricate camera movements.

Bi Gan writes poetry.  He claims that he is more influenced by classical Chinese poetry than films or TV.  In particular, he cites as influences the poetry of 9th century Tang Dynasty and the prose from the Song dynasty – in both types of writing, he notes a rhythmic alternation between long and short lines.

Tarkovsky’s book on cinema is called Sculpting in Time.  Bi Gan says that film allows the director to compose with light, color, shadow, and time or duration.  The duration of shots is integral to the design of Bi Gan’s films.  He relates the alternation between long and shot to ci, a technique in classical Chinese poetry in which long lines alternate with short phrases.

Bi Gan shoots his films in Mandarin.  He maintains an outsider status – he is not part of the Chinese commercial film industry, producing his movies in remote Guizhou Province.  China also has a thriving and internationally acclaimed experimental or avant garde film community.  Art-house or independently produced films are, generally, made by directors based in Beijing.  Bi Gan is not associated with the avant garde scene in Beijing either.  In interviews, he affects the posture of a blue collar Asian hillbilly, a hard-drinking montagnard from the boondocks.


Cheat-Sheet

Kaili Blues presents a narrative that can be stated in a diachronic sequence.  Of course, by unscrambling the plot, I am betraying certain aspects of the film – clearly Bi Gan wants his viewers to decipher the plot from information that is scattered and, often, mentioned in an off-hand manner thoughout the film.  However, one must recognize that most viewers are not going to have the leisure or opportunity to watch the movie several times in order to ascertain what happens and who is doing what to whom.  Furthermore, the film poses difficulties to non-Chinese viewers that don’t confront people seeing the picture in Mandarin and with some familiarity with the circumstances that the movie depicts.  Clues as to the narrative may be muttered by a character and shown so briefly in subtitles that the viewer can’t react or assimilate the information.  Furthermore, there are clearly two types of experience presented by the movie – there is reality, as represented by events shown to happen in and near Kaili City (although this is confounded sometimes by elliptical flashbacks that may not clearly delineated or set apart) and, then, there are experiences occurring near Dangmai, after the young man picks up Chen Sheng at the reservoir.  These experiences are largely compiled within several long takes – the first involving Chen Sheng’s “shaggy dog” story about being beaten in prison and the second, a 42 minute long sequences without any cuts, that takes around the river village and involves a complex series of interactions with the inhabitants of that village.  I will not attempt to unravel exactly what takes place in that scene because it is, as Chen Sheng says, “like being in a dream”.  The dream-like character of these long sequence shots is particularly remarkable because we can see exactly what happens without any edits or ellipsis – there’s no ambiguity of any kind about what we see, but, of course, there are very significant questions about what these events mean.


The Characters

Since Chinese names are a little tricky, we need to first establish the relationships between the characters.  Bi Gan casts family members who are, in fact, related similar to the way the family was constituted by actors (also related) in Vardas’ Le Bonheur.

Chen Sheng, the protagonist, is a medical doctor and poet.  He is the uncle of an eight-year old boy, Wei Wei (a nickname).  Chen Sheng has written a book of poems called Roadside Picnic.  The poems are ostensibly introduced on TV in an early scene that, in fact, provides credits for the film – the TV show purports to introduce a program in which Chen Sheng’s poems will be recited.  (The film’s actual titles occurs about a half-hour into the movie.)

Crazy Face is Chen Sheng’s younger half-brother.  He is the father of Wei Wei.  Like many of the apparently aimless Miao characters in the film, he seems to be some kind of low-ranking gangster.  (The film implies that he runs a chop-shop for stolen motorcycles.)  Crazy Face sometimes works at a carnival in Kaili City, but also spends a lot of time gambling on a games that seems to be like dominos.

Guanglian is an elderly female doctor who is Chen Sheng’s partner in their somewhat shabby medical practice in Kaili.   Guanglian (Mandarin: “Lotus Light”) was a revolutionary Red Guard during the Cultural Revolution.  At that time, she had an affair with Lin Airen, a Miao musician.  But she has not seen Lin Airen for many years.

Pisshead is a drunk affiliated with the gangsters in Kaili City.  Pisshead is also a member of a rock and roll band in Dangmai.

Monk is a gangster for whom Chen Sheng once worked.

Yang Yang is a hair stylist in Dangmai.  Her friend, whose name we don’t know, is revealed by flashbacks to look exactly like Chen Sheng’s wife.


The film takes place in three places:

Kaili City – this is where Chen Sheng practices medicine with Guanglian and interacts with is brother, Crazy Face, and his nephew, Wei Wei.

Dangmai – this is river valley town somewhere between Kaili City and Zhenyuan.  The name in Miao means “Hidden Place” – it’s not found on any maps.  As Herman Melville remins us “real places” are never “found on maps.”

Zhenyuan – this is tourist town catering to tourists who want to interact with the Miao (Hmong) tribal people.  Bananas are produced whole-sale there.


Some of the plot:

1. As a young man, Chen Sheng worked for the gangster called Monk; he was a “street kid” abandoned by his mother who lived, from time to time, in Zhenyuan;
2. One of Monk’s henchmen owed money to another gangster, apparently a female mobster;
3. The female mobster punished the debtor by burying his son alive after cutting off the child’s hand – I presume the hand was cut-off to provide evidence that the boy had been actually killed.  The film implies that the child may have penned onto his wrist a watch to imitate the flashy way that Chinese mobster’s dress;
4. Chen Sheng accepted the justice of burying the boy alive but thought that the hand amputation went too far;
5. Chen Sheng attacked the female mobster and may have murdered her;
6. Chen Sheng was convicted of murder or assault and sent to a labor prison (a coal mine) for nine years;
7. While Chen Sheng was in the labor camp, his wife left him and, then, died;
8. Presumably in prison, Chen Sheng learned medicine and became a doctor;
9. While in prison, Chen Sheng’s mother (who wore slippers embroidered with a Batik pattern) died.  Crazy Face cared for his mother while Chen Sheng was in prison.
10. Crazy Face and Chen Sheng are estranged because their deceased mother gave Chen Sheng the family house.  Furthermore, Chen Sheng is angry at Crazy Face because of his neglect of Wei Wei;
11. Guanglian, the woman in medical practice with Chen Sheng, asks her partner to track down her former lover, Lin Airen, and give him a casette tape and, also, a batik shirt;
12. Lin Airen is thought to be living in Zhenyuan, the Miao village – he is said to be old and sick;
13. Chen Sheng accuses Crazy Face of evading his responsibilities to Wei Wei and, in fact, says that Crazy Face sold the child to Monk and that the boy is living with Monk in Zhenyuan.
14. So Chen Sheng sets out on a road trip to go to Zhenyuan via Dangmai for two purposes: first, to find Lin Airen and give him the shirt and cassette tape, gifts from Guanglian; and, second, to retrieve Wei Wei from Monk.




Titles

Bi Gan’s titles for his films are curiously allusive and unhelpful.  He initially called Kaili Blues, The Book of Disquiet after the volume of prose poems by the Portuguese poet, Fernando Pessoa.  He wrote the script to the film now called A Long Day’s Journey into Night under the title Roadside Picnic.  Roadside Picnic is the name of the novel by Alexander Strugasky that was adapted by Tarkovsky (very loosely) into the film Stalker.  He decided to release Kaili Blues under the Chinese name Roadside Picnic –this was because Bi Gan’s book of poems, nine of which are read in the film, was published under the title Roadside Picnic (Lo bien ye can in Mandarin).  “Because of this decision,” Bi Gan says, “I had to call my next film A Long Day’s Journey into Night”, although the Chinese name for the film is The Book of Disquiet.”  This suggests that we shouldn’t devote too much critical energy to deciphering the relationship between Bi Gan’s titles and his films – the titles seem to be simply allusions to books that he is reading or admires.  A Long Day’s Journey into Night, of course, is the title of a play by Eugene O’Neill (1941-1942, first published in 1956) which seems to have nothing whatsoever to do with the Chinese film of that same name directed by Bi Gan and released in the United States this year. 


Poetry and Time

What is Kaili Blues about?  Many years ago, the Italian film maker Pier Paolo Pasolini wrote an essay on cinema and poetry. (Pasolini was also an important Italian poet.)  Pasolini said that film is absolutely objective and absolutely subjective – by this he meant that the camera is always recording a real thing in real light and real space, but that the selection of the thing to be photographed and the way the image was edited into the film’s continuity was wholly subjective.  Film’s subjectivity in marshaling into real objects into pictograms or ideograms (that is, constellations of juxtaposed images) is poetic.  In this respect, Pasolini’s ideas comported with many of the theories underlying modernist poetry in English – William Carlos Williams famously proclaimed that there are “no ideas but in things” and Ezra Pound as well as T. S. Eliot and Marianne Moore created a verse comprised of citations, fragments of prose and verse, arranged to create ideograms.  Bi Gan, also a published poet, devises his film as a sequence of indelibly tangible images that, nonetheless, are suffused in a poetic atmosphere.  Kaili Blues is about trains, watches, tunnels, dripping water, batik fabric, disco balls, humidity and rain fall – these are the elements from which the film is constructed.  But Kaili Blues is about the poetry of these objectively real things displayed against a luminous background of impenetrable enigma – the things in the world are everywhere present to us, but they can’t quite be grasped.

In his book, The Red and the Black, Stendhal says that the novelist uses prose like a man carrying a mirror through the countryside.  The novelist writes in order to reflect reality.  Bi Gan adjusts this image to warp and fracture his mirror into a reflective disco ball – an emblematic image often shown in Kaili Blues.  The disco ball reflects reality but shatters it into innumerable prismatic shards – the world is reflected in a discontinuous series of broken images.  Poetry and memory assemble these scattered reflections of a world into a structure that makes meaning.  There are many different ways of assembling the prismatic fragments of memory – we can construct a diagram of the past, that is, decrypting the shards into a narrative; we can devise plots that explicate, justify, or defend our actions; or we can make poetry (and reverie or dreams) out of these broken shards of reality.  Bi Gan typically opts for an order that does not explicate – this is the order of poetry.  He opts to reconstitute memory into a poetry that simulates, in some ways, dream.  More accurately, Bi Gan is interested in the transitional half-lit zone where memory becomes dream or memory becomes poetry.  “Cinema is too realistic for dream sequences,” Bi Gan has said.  “Dream sequences seem phony.  I’m interested in the transitions from dream to reality.”

Consider Bi Gan’s deployment of train imagery in the film.  Wei Wei rides a small train that runs in a loop at the carnival in Kaili City.  Crazy Face seems to have a train projected on fabric on the wall of his apartment.  Chen Sheng rides a train to the reservoir above Dangmai and, then, ultimately to Zhenyuan.  (At the end of the movie, he seems to be returning to Kaili City on the empty train.)  Throughout the history of film, trains have signified the onward rush of time, the march of history, the irreversible nature of historical events – consider the train in Bertolucci’s 1900 resplendent with red Communist flags that appears at the end of his film.  An old man lays on the tracks between the rails and the train passes over him – when the red train has passed, time has reversed and the old man has reverted to being the child that he was 70 years earlier.  Yang Yang tells Wei Wei that she will go with him back to the City “only if you turn back time.”  At the end of the movie, we see a train which Wei Wei has covered with graffiti of clock faces seeming to reverse time.  Film is comprised of photographs which have frozen or stopped time – time can be reversed by running a film backward.  The windows of a train are metaphorically like the individual frames from which movies are (or were) made.  A moving train is like celluloid strip of frame moving through a projector.  (We will need new metaphors in this digital age.)  Einstein used trains to demonstrate relativity – the fact that clocks will seem to run at different speeds according to the frame (that word again) in which the clock is observed.  Time may move like a locomotive in one direction, but we also experience times as spiral or circular – events reoccur and history cycles in loops.  One poem in the movie addresses “42 windmills” – this is the whirligig that Yang Yang buys on the other side of the river, but also the ubiquitous spinning fans in hot apartments (when first started, the rotors seems to run backward), the faces of the clocks with or without hands, the clock inscribed on the train that reverses time – 42 windmills also seems to identify the 42 minutes that comprises that long take in the film’s second half.

The landscape in Kaili Blues also is inflected with time.  The linear flow of time is like the linear flow of a river – rivers are also emblematic of time and, in Kaili Blues, a great river bisects the landscape running in deep narrow gorge.  Space is defined as upriver or down river.  (It comes as an almost physical shock when Yang Yang moves cross-river defying the linear logic of the roads and elongated villages in the river valleys.)  The climax of the film is when the two trains pass one another and we see time reversed.

Memory reverses time.  Memory is like dream in which linear time doesn’t really exist.  (The Diamond Sutra argues that space and time are both illusions.)  Memory also corresponds to reincarnation.  The Chinese proverb tells us that “every meeting is a reunion” because everyone we meet we have encountered in a previous life.  Chen Sheng’s (Bi Gan’s) poem says that “reunion is in a dark room.”  The dark room is the cinema in which memory counteracts time’s arrow.  The dark room is also our dreams – a closed, twilight space in which people from all times in our lives brush elbows and are all simultaneously present.  A poem is a kind of waking dream made from memories.  Ultimately, there’s no point in explicating a poem – if the poet wanted the meanings of the verse to be reduced to prose, he or she would have written those meanings out in prose.  But, of course, we explicate poetry endlessly, fascinated precisely by a structure that will not yield to explanation.  It’s our melancholy fate as human beings to move from the entrancing experience of poetry to its explication – but without explication poems are merely onanistic, masturbatory, a sort of self-pleasuring. What we explicate in poems is the communal meaning that can be expressed.  This explication leaves us with an excess, with something left-over – that left over thing is my own personal, private, inexplicable response to the poetry, my visceral reaction.  When I have reduced (and I intend the verb) the poem to its meanings, I have described in the common language what can be said about the poem and what we can share in our understanding of it.  But there’s a hermetic core, a secret center of the poem, that I may feel but can’t express.  We can say what happens in Kaili Blues and may, even, devise some ways of explaining those events – but the essence of the movie, like the essence of a poem, is communicable only in the language of emotion and memory which is not a language at all.





Notes

Batik – Batik is a technique for producing colorful fabric using a wax-resistant pattern while dyeing.  Batik is an Indonesian term, probably related to a Asian verb for “tattooing.”  Fabric is marked with hot wax painted onto the cloth.  The fabric is, then, dyed.  After dyeing, the wax is scraped off the fabric leaving an undyed area on the cloth.  This process can be repeated several times to produce complex and colorful patterns on the cloth.  Batik has been invented various times and in various places – Indonesia is famous for its Batik-patterned fabrics.  The technique is used extensively in Africa and India and also among the Hmong in southwest China.

Diamond Sutra – This Buddhist scripture dates to 200 to 400 Common Era.  The text is written in Sanskrit but was translated into various other Asian languages within a hundred years of its inception.  “Diamond” is a translation for the Sanskrit vajra – which means “lightning bolt that cuts like a diamond.”  The short scripture, it is 6000 words long, is thought to be a “diamond that cuts through the appearances in the world and reveals all things to be illusory.”  The sutra is very popular, often memorized, or carried about in folding pocket editions.  The Diamond sutra is also the oldest printed book – a copy of it was found printed from woodblocks circa 868 CE.  This Chinese language translation was commissioned by Wang Jie in honor of his parents and, according to its colophon: “for universal free distribution.”

The sutra proceeds by the logic of negation to deny the reality of everything, including the self.  The text purports to be a dialogue that took place between the Buddha and a monk Subhuti near the Jeta grove outside the Indian city of Sravasti.  The most famous passage of the sutra is the admonition “to view this fleeting world (as) a star at dawn, a bubble in the stream, a flash of lightning in a summer cloud, a flickering lamp, a phantom and a dream.”

In Kaili Blues, Bi gan quotes the part of the sutra in which the Buddha tells Subhuti that he knows the minds of all gods, men, and sentient beings because all of those minds are alike in sharing the same error, that is, the mistaken notion that time exists.  The Buddha says “the past is not to be attained.”  Similarly the “present is not to be attained.”  And the “future is also not be attained.”  This means that the mind can not truly “grasp” or comprehend the future because it has not yet happened, the past because it has vanished, or the present because it is too ephemeral and elusive to be seized.

Little Jasmine – this is a pop song released in 1980 by the Taiwanese singer Mei Sheng Bao.  (Not to confused with the very famous and much-played “Jasmine Flower” (“Mo Li Hua”), an 18th century Chinese folk song that you have heard a dozen times playing in the background at Chinese buffets.)  Mei Sheng Bao’s record is simply called “Songs” – it was an enormous hit in Asia.  (The song is an example of so-called Mandopop – Mandarin pop.)  Chen hears the song being played while riding with the musicians in the back of the white pickup truck.  Later, he tries, without much success, to sing the melody on the street where the Miao rock and roll band is playing.  He learned the song in prison so that he could sing it to his wife upon being released.  We know she died before his release.  However, the hair stylist who cuts Chen’s hair looks exactly like the hero’s wife – we know this from several flashback scenes.  Therefore, Chen’s wife is standing on the street listening to him when Chen tries to sing “Little Jasmine.” 

Wei Wei – typically a nickname.   When applied to a boy, the name is written with characters that denote “loftiness” and “Power” – an English equivalent would be “Biggy”.  (When applied to a woman, the characters mean “Little Fern”.)  Bi Gan’s nickname as a child was Wei Wei.

Monday, August 5, 2019

Cymbeline (August 2) and Macbeth (August 3, 2019)

The Great River Shakespeare Company, a summer festival troupe in Winona, Minnesota, presented productions of Cymbeline and Macbeth on its 2019 closing weekend, Friday evening and Saturday matinee, at the Vivian Fussillo Theater at Winona State University.  These shows were part of the 16th season for Great River Shakespeare Festival.  In both instances, the plays were competently acted and ingeniously staged.  The mostly young company performed with zeal to audiences that must have seemed disappointingly small to the players.  I found much admirable in the presentation of these plays and little to criticize -- the acting is somewhat inconsistent, ranging from impassioned and excellent to merely tolerable. The sets and costumes were generally drab, although serviceable enough.  Shakespeare generally has to be edited to be performed -- in Cymbeline, the unstageworthy stuff involving a tablet deposited on the breast of the sleeping Posthumus was mercifully omitted; a few of the apparitions were excised from Macbeth and the witch's lines about seasoning their potion with the"hand of a blaspheming Jew" and the thick lips of "a Turk" were redacted.  But, by and large, the audience was served with Shakespeare, more or less, uncut together with large doses of Shakespeare's bombastic and bizarre gibberish, his weird circumlocutions for simple concepts and his ornate formulations that mean more than the ear can possibly decipher.  On occasion, the lighting faltered.  Whoever was operating the spotlight aimed at the principals in Cymbeline seems to have fallen asleep for a couple of scenes -- the actors were shrouded in darkness while the focused beam of the spotlight aimlessly lit a few yards of the stage adjacent to them.

Cymbeline is a daunting production and intimidating to even professional repertory companies.  The play is long and vastly intricate with more plots and subplots than can be productively described.  Set in a fairytale England around the date of Jesus' birth, the play involves a pointless dispute between Britain and Rome in which both sides posture at length and, then, end up reaching an accord and satisfaction that renders all their earlier bellicose speechifying meaningless -- medieval kingdoms always sought to establish their roots in ancient Rome (hence, the Holy Roman Empire, as our professors used to say:  neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire) .  Similarly, the English during the renaissance seem to have felt it necessary to wed the ancient peoples indigenous to the isle to the Caesars, hence, the rather vapid subplot about whether the English mythological king, Cymbeline, refuses to bend the knee to pay tribute to Imperial Rome.  This subplot is merely incidental to a complex series of improbable, if romantic, misadventures involving members of Cymbeline's family:  his wife, the Queen, is a wicked stepmother who seeks to poison the King's natural daughter Imogen.  (I'm not sure she wants to poison Imogen or Imogen's husband, the dimwitted Posthumus, who spends most of the play mercifully off-stage and in exile, inexplicably changing sides several times in the conflict between the Britons and Romans.)  There's a "yellow" (swarthy) Italian Iachimo who tries to seduce Imogen -- it's a typical Cosi fan tutti wager on the chastity of Imogen, so wicked in tenor that the bet compromises the moronic Posthumus so severely that he's implausible as a hero thereafter..  (To the extent that there's a hero it's the forthright, enterprising, chaste and loyal Imogen.)  The evil stepmother's son, the cloddish Cloten, plans to rape Imogen.  But, after dressing up in Posthumus clothing (for reasons that make no sense), he gets his head chopped off by one of Cymbeline's two sons, twenty-year old princelings who were kidnapped by a "mountaineer" Belisarius, and raised as his own children.  Waking up next to the headless corpse of Cloten, dressed as Posthumus, Imogen immediately concludes that her husband is dead and, so, she dresses as a man, and, after spending some time in disguise as the saucy and waggish Fidele, encounters her two actual brothers supping on venison in Belisarius' cave. (I have the sequence of these events out of order, but you get the general gist.)  A sort of spasmodic skirmish between the Brits and the Romans brings Cymbeline into the field.  Posthumus is captured, about to be hanged, but, then, ends up with all the characters on stage for the final enormous scene, said by one Victorian critic, to resolve as many as 24 plots in one uninterrupted action presented across about the same number of pages.   By a reasonable count, the final scene resolves about 9 or 10 simultaneous narratives and ends with everyone happily reunited, the bad folks (Cloten and the wicked Queen) decisively dead, the married couple restored to their joy, and Britain and Rome yoked in some kind of  blessed political wedlock.  It's ridiculous but, also, involving in its own abstract way and critics are always astonished that this snarl of absurd plots is actually quite stageworthy -- it may be easier to watch than to read.  That said, the full play is an exhausting experience -- the verse is dense and coagulated to the point of being almost stagnant;  some of the metaphors are so elaboarately developed that you can't keep track of the point while reading the text let alone as the performers stammer the poetry at you.

The play was presented on thrust stage with jagged-looking blades of metal blocking vantage across grim-looking horizon with a single great cloaked obelisk standing mute as a megalithic menhir in the background.  Flanking the stage were groups of audience members, useful to the actors who used these choirs of spectators as an audience to whom to declaim their lines -- a lot of the speech is ornate declamation, arias of poetry and its helpful to have the audience represented on-stage and present to be hectored by the actors; somehow, this enlivens the proceedings.  As Harold Bloom points out, much of the play seems bitter self-parody of Shakespeare's other works and, in fact, the play, often, operates to mirror itself in an overtly unflattering way.  The transcendentally beautiful verse "Fear no more", sung on the occasion of the double burial of the comatose Imogen and the beheaded Cloten is parodied by the gaoler who, about to hang, Leonatus Posthumus, tells him that his death will free him from tavern bills and other sordid debts, "fear no more the tavern reckoning", the gaoler merrily says.  Posthumus deranged misogynistic speech triggered by his belief that his wife has cuckolded him is mirrored by Imogen donning men's clothing and, then, being told by her page, Pisanio, how to act like a young man, that is, like a strutting, quarrelsome fool.  The theme of doubling, one character represented by someone similar but grotesquely caricatured, is mirrored by the production's casting -- the whole show, requiring upwards of thirty speaking parts, is performed by about ten actors, each of them playing two or more roles.  Most noteworthy is casting a handsome Black young man to play both Posthumus and Cloten,, revealing that, at heart, the two characters may be uncomfortably similar to one another -- Posthumus is merely earnest, dull, densely stupid when he bets on his wife's fidelity and hysterical when he learns that Imogen seems have cuckolded him.  Cloten acts like a pimp from an HBO show like The Wire or the The Deuce -- he wears sunglasses, has a loose-gaited strut, and has his shirt pulled open to show chains displayed around his throat.  It's a showy racist conception, a sort of modern minstrel blackface conception -- but the show gets away with it, I suppose, because of the enthusiastic, if offensive, mugging of the Black actor playing the part.  There are two theatrical coups:  in the convoluted finale, one of the actresses acts as if she's confused herself by the flurry of revelations and denoument and she shouts in alarm, then, darts to the side of the stage to get herself properly costumed for resolution of the next plot point on the list of things to be concluded before the curtain -- it's very funny and makes a point about the wildly implausible ending as well as the hazards and difficulties of staging the show with 10 actors when more than 30 are specified by the Bard.  Equally effective is a moment when mighty Jupiter is supposed to appear -- in the script dangling down from some kind of baroque stage-machine.  In this staging, an actor goes to the group of people seated on stage-left, apparently all of them spectators with their tickets in their pockets, selects a "ringer", a tiny, puny-looking woman who, then, mounts on high and with the use of a golden sash about 45 feet long speaks Jove's lines.  It's a spectacular and wholly unexpected solution to a problem that the play poses, particularly to modern audiences -- particularly startling because the woman tapped to play Jove is so petite and seemingly ineffectual:  the effect captures both the splendor of the conception and the fact that we moderns are not going to find this element of the play very convincing.  (The play's structure is remarkable -- the audience knows the truth about all of the secret identities and the web of relationships that power the play's plot has been dramatized for the spectator.  By contrast, all of the characters have only incomplete and partial knowledge of the true state of affairs.  The intricate final scene has the effect of restoring equilibrium to the play -- the knowledge imbalance, as it were, is corrected:  at last, the characters are made privy to what the audience knows -- that is, the characters come to understand what the audience already has been shown.  The play's resolution, therefore, has a double authority:  conflicts are resolved but, also, and, perhaps, more importantly the resolution of these conflicts involves a sort of gnosis.  That is, the characters can not be freed from their conflicts without coming to know what the audience already understands to be the case.  This is different from the construction of Shakespeare's other plays -- for instance, we don't know that Macduff is not born of woman until the same instant that Macbeth learns this fatal fact.)

Ultimately, Cymbeline with its headless corpse and vials full of poison is infected by death, this shown by the famous dirge that provides the most hair-raising and awesome poetry in a text crammed with poetic gems.  In the face of death, it seems pointless to heap more deaths on those already seen or intimated -- thus, the play's powerful themes of redemption and forgiveness.  Even the loathsome Iachimo, whose slander against Imogen has driven Posthumus temporarily insane and nearly cost Imogen her life on several occasions (he's an Iago figure, but trivialized) , is slapped on the wrist and forgiven.  The piling up corpses in tragedies is revealed as absurd and futile -- death after all is never really a solution nor a plot-point and this is what Cymbeline as a play dramatizes.  Accordingly, the romance is a good counterpoint to the frenzied and hyper-violent Macbeth -- the nihilistic Macbeth is tragedy reductio ad absurdam, a play that starts with butchery evolves through murder and massacre and simply ends in more slaughter, proving nothing other than that once we indulge in violence, we are so steeped in blood that it is better to simply play out the pattern of deadly homicide since it would be "tedious" to retreat through the torrent of gore.  Cymbeline demonstrates that the elements of tragedy demand forgiveness; Macbeth dramatizes both why tragedy is so compelling but also how the form can readily disintegrate into sheer nihilistic murder.  As such Cymbeline can be read as a corrective to the lethal darkness of Macbeth.

Macbeth is presented without the audience members on-stage, without proscenium on a thrust platform in front of what looks like an intricate iron jungle gym.  The fence-like metal balconies and stairs are equipped with racks on which numerous five-foot long 2 x 6 boards are hung -- these wooden pieces will be used to simulate Birnam Wood.  A pike with a scary-looking metal point dominates one side of the set -- this is where Macbeth's head will ultimately be impaled.  The three witches are on-stage throughout almost all of the action -- they play menials, servants, and murderers.  One of the witches is a man with dark black shadow haloing his eyes.  He also plays the part of the porter in the famous interlude of pitch black comedy in play's second act.  Very early in the action, we see the witches eavesdropping on conversations about the Thane of Cawdor -- this undercuts the notion that the "weird sisters" have prophetic knowledge.   Rather, they seem to be merely reporting on what they have learned by non-supernatural means.  The fact that the witches appear in every scene naturalizes them -- their dire presence is not occasional and extraordinary but rather continuous and unremarkable.  The things of darkness are omnipresent, simply a part of this nightmare landscape.

In an interesting way, Lady Macbeth and Macbeth are symmetrically defined characters:  Macbeth hesitates and scruples before killing Duncan, but, then, has no regrets thereafter -- once committed  to a course of action, he has no time for regrets.  Lady Macbeth, by contrast, has absolutely no hesitation in inciting her husband to murder the King -- in fact, she is wholly murderous from almost her second or third spoken line.  But, of course, she then suffers endless, disabling regret once she has incited Macbeth to murder.  Viewed across one trajectory of action, the play seems to be about scruples.  Macbeth has scruples but once he overcomes them, they vanish as if they were never present in the first place.  Lady Macbeth has no scruples until it is too late -- and, then, her conscience kills her.  The theme of scruples is explored thoroughly in a scene that always seems slightly extraneous, an interruption to the frenzied action but which I think is thematically central.  Young Malcolm is urged to take up arms against Macbeth  -- but the boy fears that if he becomes King he will devolve into some sort of homicidal maniac (or rapist) such as Macbeth has become.  He expresses enormous scruples and, in fact, declares himself unworthy of rule because of his latent tendencies toward lust and rapaciousness.  Then, in a puzzling exchange, a peripeteia, he reverses and nullifies everything he has just said.  The importance of this scene is that it demonstrates the essence of Macbeth's tyranny, a word used repeatedly in connection with the play's protagonist.  To be a tyrant is to allow your fantasies to become real -- to actualize what may only be dreams of lust or power.  Malcolm reveals himself tainted by violent and lecherous fantasies but avows that he will not succumb to them.  By contrast, the fantasy of absolute power that afflicts Macbeth is one that he can't resist and that he embodies by increasingly murderous and tyrannical acts.  In order to do evil, one must first imagine evil, that is fantasize evil -- this is the gist of the scene in which Macbeth hallucinates an imaginary dagger and, then, seizes it and is aghast that it is decorated with gouts of blood.  At the heart of tyranny is the fantasy that one can have anything, any pleasure, that one desires.  But what does Macbeth desire?  Ultimately just more violence and more murder.  Clearly, Macbeth harbors murder in his heart from the outset -- he disembowels an enemy from "the nave to the chops" and the slaughter on the field of battle is likened to the crucifixion at Golgotha.  The moment the witches prophesy that he shall be king, Macbeth's mind leaps to the murders necessary to accomplish that oracle -- his mind doesn't rest on the privileges and pleasures of being King (he's not a policy wonk); rather, he immediately fixates on the homicides that he will have to commit to seize the throne.

Macbeth's power lies in its apparent realism, notwithstanding all the supernatural machinery of spectral parading kings, resurrected corpses, and witches.  An example of the play's realism is the scene preceding the murder of Lady Macduff and her four children -- Lady Macduff doesn't bear her husband's flight from their castle with equanimity; she sees herself as abandoned to the violence of her husband's enemies and bitterly decries the situation.  Her complaints on this subject make the scene in which she and her children are murdered all the more horrific -- Shakespeare makes her as real and plausible as possible before she is butchered.  (The show has a very effective bit of business -- Ross brings Macduff souvenirs of his dead children, a toy sword and a doll.  Macduff puts these artifacts in his shirt, next to his heart when he embarks on his mission to destroy Macbeth.  The toy sword is symbolically significant -- every one plays murder with their boy-children, rough-housing with them to simulate the battlefield.  In this world, one learns murder as a mere toddler.)  Ultimately, the show's darkness is unremitting.  The production's commitment to the blackest kind of nihilism is shown in the final scene.  After Macbeth's corpse has been beheaded, his head in a bloody sack is carried up onto cage-like ramparts and stuck on the pike --the head must be simulated by a cabbage or melon or something because, at first the gory thing doesn't give, resisting the pointed pike until with a grotesque, liquid sound, the shell breaks and the spike sinks in deep.  The three witches, then, raise their arms in a sort of fascist salute -- it looks like an image from Fuseli.  The witches salute an abyss of nothingness, a corpse's head:  to be king is to be tyrant is to be nothing at all:  it's a world in which "our monuments shall be the maws of kites."

The new fashion in staging Shakespeare, at least at Winona, is to extend the sword-to-sword combat as if Shakespeare required, like Star Wars, protracted duels with light sabers.  In each play, the stage combat was lengthy and intricately choreographed.  This is almost always a bad idea.  Even the best designed stage combat always looks like professional wrestling -- every move is elaborately worked-out (otherwise someone would get hurt).  It never looks real and, always, distracts the audience from the more important business in the plays.  There's another convention that I think is equally ludicrous, although I'm not sure how it can be  avoided.  In many scenes, the characters engage in deliberations and, then, turn sharply on their heel and, then, march resolutely off the stage.  This resolute, martial fast march looks improbable and, also, distracting.  It would be better, if possible, to just black out the scene before the characters spin on their heels and hustle off-stage.  The resolute manly march always seems, more than a bit foolish-- everyone shows identical fortitude in hustling off to fight and sometimes die.  Wouldn't, at least, someone show a bit of hesitation?