Update on the Chinese Film Industry
Confucius
The WSJ published an interesting article last week stating that “cinemas confirmed that they have been ordered to pull two-dimensional editions of the Hollywood blockbuster as of Thursday to make way for a state-sponsored biography of the Chinese philosopher Confucius.”
Let’s be honest, this isn’t such an outrageous move. What a fantastic bio-pic idea! Though you have to be a touch leery of anything state-sponsored (see Frank Capra’s government funded propaganda series in 1943-44 on Why We Fight). However, an ancient philosopher, proponent of the Golden Rule, is hardly much to give the stink-eye about.
The article points out, however, there’s been much push back from China on foreign films entering their market. And in a triumph for foreign distributors, in December a World Trade Organization ruling said “China should open its market to foreign films by lifting the requirement that the movies be sold through a government-run monopoly…. The system allegedly discriminates against foreign films and limits foreign companies’ revenues. China has a year to change the rules or face tariffs from the U.S.”
I can’t imagine how smart it was removing 2D-Avatar from the screens to make way for Confucius. We’re talking big money here regardless of it’s foreign or not. Further, as of yesterday, Avatar is predicted to overtake prior Box Office record holder (and Cameron flick, Titanic).
In some haughty backlash against the request from Beijing to remove 2D-Avatar, some movie houses are giving it the middle finger and continuing showing the film. And why shouldn’t they? The government currently only allows a total of 20 foreign films a year to enter the Chinese market; this can only occur during slow seasons (you won’t find a foreign soul during the upcoming Chinese New Year, that’s for sure).
Stay tuned. Not only is this an interesting development for film distribution, but also the continual slap of the cheek between US-China protectionism.
Fish Tank
Fish Tank
Director Andrea Arnold’s new pessimistically carnal character study Fish Tank completes the triptych of the young and restless young ladies of 2009. That being Precious in Precious, Jenny in An Education, and now Mia, brigadier general of the group. Take your pick: a frolicking ode to sexual awakening in pre-Swinging London (That time as Philip Larkin so ironically put it “Between the end of the Chatterley ban/ And the Beatles’ first LP”); Harlem in 80′s with sexual and physical abuse thrown on a minor who also happens to be a mother of two children from her father’s loins (who tops this by giving her a dose of HIV); or monolithic shanties bearing foul-mouthed chavs and their tramp parents in present day Essex, UK.
All of these teenage girls have such clueless parents, particularly mothers (not to mention abusive, though “An Education” bows out before things get rough, though we doubt child abuse would ever happen with such a prickly daughter as Jenny). And yes, Mo’Nique deserves all the accolades she’s been bestowed for her magisterial monster mother she portrays, however “Precious” falls into tedium too soon, not rooting it feet into the soil as Fish Tank so firmly does.
Why “Fish Tank” is the strongest of the three is the patience it gives the viewer in siding with our young protagonist. We’re not tossed into the emotional muck quite so quickly as “Precious.” Nor do we find our protagonist particularly precocious enough that we find her tedious after the first third of the film as in “An Education.” Arnold doesn’t have time for backstory nor do we need it. We get the picture (As William Holden says in “Sunset Boulevard,” “You just look at their shoes, and you know the score”). We know that Mia is an aspiring self-taught hip-hop dancer (as much as Abigail Breslin is Ginger Rodgers in “Little Miss Sunshine” if you catch my drift). She comes from poverty, bad manners, an absent father, an alcoholic mother, and is a loner who alienates every friend-to-be. She’s a sad creature, but a very curious one. And this curiosity is piqued upon the arrival of mum’s new boyfriend Conor (smartly played by Michael Fassbender). He’s a very kind, warm creature. One who seems more alien than the family he’s preparing to adopt for himself. Sexual tension is inevitable between the two, and it’s released in a rather erotic–yet cold–scene on the couch after hours when mum is passed out upstairs.
What underscores the success of “Fish Tank” is the relentlessness of Arnold to aim for stereotypes and yet zip around them with such ease. We need these for familiarity’s sake, however we can walk without them quite effortlessly. These types of movies that are destined for Oprah’s couch are easy to get bogged down in “pray for them, Sister” jeremiads. Take, for instance, what’s especially troubling about Mia. It’s not that she’s not reaching for the stars–she knows her socioeconomic ladder is a mere stool–but rather her complacency about it all: she’s beat before a fight is even arranged. But since knowing her parameters she works in them, and the parting scene underscores this ever so nicely. Is the film pointing the finger at cases like Mia and telling the government “clean this mess up?” Not exactly. Mia makes no cries for help. She’s the existential hero Sartre could never write. She starts and stops again on numerous follies in the film. She knows she’s the only one who’ll take herself to task. And this type of wisdom does come from age, but rather spirit. And I appreciate Arnold finally giving us an adolescent protagonist who’s not a chest beater, nor an obvious victim of some discrepancy in the system (that is to say there is, but outcomes are multi-faceted, of course, and this is a refreshing take). A very worthy achievement.
Now showing in Manhattan
Lincoln Plaza Cinemas
1886 Broadway 11:05am, 1:20pm, 4pm, 6:45pm, 9:20pm
IFC Center
323 Sixth Ave. 11:05am, 1:40pm, 4:20pm, 6pm, 7pm, 8:40pm, 9:40pm
Living with Madness (Yours, Not Mine)
Hour of the Wolf
Seeing Ingmar Bergman’s “Hour of the Wolf” this evening set me up beautifully for this post. I thought about tackling such a topic as madness in the movies for a while, but nothing better has instigated the urge as this film. (And this is a very small exertion).
In 1968, Bergman still on his disintegration kick with “Persona” from two years back, set off a marvelous voyage exploring the madness of an artist desolated on an island with his mouse wife. The hour of the wolf is that hour between night and dawn where people die and children are born. Has a wonderful folklore quality to the idea and it works. The buffer zone between reality and insanity blurs throughout the movie, finally the latter giving in entirely and swallowing our protagonist through a thinly disguised horror set-up of a neighboring castle full of demons. They, of course, represent the characters in his paintings, and if we choose suicide as his demise, well, that’s up to us, Bergman says.
Probably one of the realistic portrayals of madness comes six years later by John Cassavettes in “A Woman Under the
A Woman Under the Influence
Influence.” Played by his wife, Gene Rowlands, this film’s protagonist is a gosh darn loving mother of three who happens to be schizophrenic and married to Peter Falk (reason enough to mad). Not only is this take on the “living with madness” story pleasing for its sheer heart bleeding, but, my God, it’s clear as day: living with insane wife and mother certainly is alright. She’s mom! And by the end of the film this makes sense, does it not? It was Norman Bates who succinctly put it: “We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven’t you?”
Antichrist
Our most recent entry (from 2009) in the madness annals is “Antichrist” by the self-proclaimed greatest living director, Lars Von Trier. You really have to disparagingly chuckle over the brutality he gives his lead actresses. He puts them through rape, beatings, blindness, and now self-mutilation. Antichrist so easily resembles Hour of the Wolf it really took some of the steam of out it for me that I originally carried me for it. Still, all-in-all, a deeply moving and flawed film, but one for the ages–certainly this last decade for sure. Here a child’s death that was caused in part by negligence on the love making between mother and father, leads to the mother’s demise, and the physical and mental torture she puts herself and her husband through when they escape to the woods for solace and redemption. Of course it doesn’t work. And of course we’re staring Adam and Eve in the face, and the downfall of humanity right before our very eyes. (And yes, this is womankind’s own doing, says Trier).
What all three films have in common as well as other studies in madness (“Repulsion,”The Hours,” “American Psycho” “Sunset Boulevard,” “The Three Faces of Eve,” “Aguirre, the Wrath of God” to name just a morsel in this overwhelming sub-genre) is not the subject of madness but rather their (platonic or romantic) partner. How on earth do you live or work with this person? And all partners usually take stabs at curing, and fail miserably–that’s fun of it, you see, in the movies. Is it love that binds? Or is it simply they find themselves so very much at one with them, share their madness, and somehow adopt it for themselves giving them this serene effect of utilitarianism (Peter Falk’s character in Woman is the poster child for this, as is George in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?,” himself the Leonard Woolf character of sorts if you’d like to get ‘meta’ at this righteous hour). And if a director and screenwriter are credulous and keen enough to get it, we actually learn more about these fascinating characters and their illness from their loved ones’ multifarious reactions, as madness takes the same form every time around (in cinema) mark my word.
“Creation”
Creation
If you’re a skeptic, non-believer, or mere fence-sitter, I’m here today with great shock and awe to tell you: yes, there is indeed a God. For no man could be capable of making such drivel as that of “Creation.” Certainly an act of divine intervention occurred to give us this wretched miracle of a film.
Behold, Darwin (Paul Bettany). Here’s a man of profound intellect, curiosity; both an absolute realist and dreamer who was well-respected amongst his peers and his foes. Not only does he have On the Origin of Species to place on the mantle, he also wrote The Descent of Man, The Expressions of Emotion in Man and Animals, as well as other texts, encyclopedias, lectures, etc. He also had great skill as a taxidermist, amongst other things. This is learned man. Creating a world view that shakes its fist at monotheism or other fantasia, and has remained clenched ever since 1858 is certainly no small feat. But in this stinker called “Creation” we simply would not have known.
No. What we’re given via a (loosely fictional) biography by Darwin’s ancestor Randal Keyne’s uncomfortably entitled Annie’s Box, is this silly account of a hysterical scientist who for the majority of the film is stuck in deep or rather flirtatious conversation with his deceased daughter, Annie. By the final third of the film we simply could care less in seeing her again, and wish for someone–whether it’s Lucifer or Saint Peter–to take her off the screen and back to her appropriate abode. This Darwin can’t write do to the pressures of the matrimonial home front. (Forget his lingering convictions or simply writer’s block). His loving wife so frigidly (and, may I say, predictably) played by Jennifer Connelly, has a smattering of lines and glances, but really it’s impossible to think so brilliant a man (and wit) would take issue with his wife’s religious devoutness to the point of forfeiting his philosophies.
“Creation” drones on and on and on, and finally the Origins manuscript is finished in what appeared to be a couple weeks, and read in one flicker of an evening by Mrs. Darwin. Her approval baptizes the manuscript before making its voyage to London to change the world, and that’s that.
This is not a film that should be taken lightly. It being the 150th anniversary last year of Origins 1st edition, this is not a bubble gum romance. I take the material seriously. And so does the theater full of wonderful secular humanists who invited me (as well as husband and wife, Bettany and Connelly, who, by taking on such a plainly boring script, had obviously had some spiritual interest in doing the movie for evolution’s sake) . I am not one claiming groupie status of Darwinism. But being such a water shed philosophy I expect a great deal more consideration and frankly gall in making this picture which was given the task of “summing it up.” It did none of this. This was made for TV at best and it should stay there. Biopics are hard to pull off, yes. And truth be told, not all are 100% accurate, shockingly enough. However a tender stab at erudition would’ve been nice.
Down the pipeline no doubt we’ll be garnered with the wild eye of Tom Cruise and his embalmed wife, Katie Holmes as they take on Scientology in the L. Ron Hubbard serenade “The Song of Dianetics” and thanks to “Creation” we’re ready for it.
R.I.P Eric Rohmer
Eric Rohmer
The AP reported that famed French filmmaker, Eric Rohmer, passed away today. He was 89. Rohmer is known especially for his Six Moral Tales (“Claire’s Knee”, “Chloe in the Afternoon”), and was crusading member of the French New Wave, focusing heavily on the intricacies of relationships.
Jazz and the movies: a marriage made in heaven (or too tired for an affair)
This post’s title riffs on a wonderful satire by the late great Irma Bombeck, and it’s so conveniently apt for the marriage of jazz and the movies.
Both are such fascinating art forms who share very convenient birthdays. There’s never an exact day when jazz dropped or when cinema began. But traces of each can be found in the late 19th century, and before in different forms. As the 20th century began to develop so did these two mediums. And both have evolved into respected arts with their own avant gardes (see the line-up for this year’s Winter Jazzfest for a smattering).
2010's Winter Jazzfest, New York City
However, jazz which reached its crescendo (in terms of popularity) in the mid-50′s to mid-60′s (it’s offshoot, rock-and-roll, took it from there, again, in popularity), has found its place in contemporary culture in the back catalog. Sure there are crossovers like Norah Jones, Madeleine Peyroux, and (say it isn’t so) Michael Buble. But these aren’t jazz singers in the same sense as Annie Ross, Johnny Hartman, or Betty Carter. (This is not to say that there aren’t groundbreaking jazz vocalists today, they’re just shamefully removed from the mainstream spotlight). And for the the majority of the world, jazz has become this convenient aperitif whenever the mood strikes, or connotations of intellectual behavior need to be made to a credulous date or parent.
This is not so with the movies. Jazz is as much as crowd art form as the movies, perhaps even more so. We can clap, jeer, dance, shout during performances. Whereas, in the cinema we’re accustomed to silence for the most part unless the laughter track is set-up for us. However, with box office revenues surpassing the $10 billion dollar amount in 2009 alone, there’s no comparison in who the real winner is in terms of economics and longevity.
John Cassavettes' Shadows
And yet one of the most interesting aspects of these two mediums is that their avant gardes began breaking into the mainstream at the same, and included one another. Take John Cassavettes. Hailed by many as the Godfather of American Independent Cinema (Maya Deren, the more obscure Goddess), his first feature from 1959, “Shadows” not only had a jazz soundtrack, but was about the love life of jazz musicians, their friends, and siblings. (Two years prior, the darkly satiric “Sweet Smell of Success” hit screens and showcased a brilliant score of jazz, and live performances complementing the film’s pacing and chiaroscuro). These are just two examples of the cross over. Some are more blatant like Clint Eastwood’s biopic, “Bird,” or even one of the earliest talkies (if not the first, as it’s so heralded), “The Jazz Singer.”
Louis Malle's Elevator to the Gallows
Jazz does make it’s auditory appearance in the movies and when it does, most critics’ ears perk up to make note, as if it were a fluke, a rare, special occurrence (see Sideways or Elevator to the Gallows, or Last Tango in Paris for examples). I think it also adds much more to films when it’s included, and gives any film a degree more intimacy and energy. You also remember the film better. (This can be said of any film with a memorable soundtrack, of course, but on a whole those with jazz soundtracks verses those with standard catalog fare will claim immortality easier).
Chet Baker
Why on earth jazz is not used more often except for the art house picture is beyond me (it can’t be budgetary reasons, of course–think how much cheaper it would be to use an independent quartet verses the likes of James Horner or Hans Zimmer). Not only would this nicely inculcate jazz into our film language and history; a history so paralleled with the movies’ in American culture. But it also would help push jazz back into the popular spotlight it once shared with the movies (good luck try finding any moviegoer in the mid-fifties who didn’t also listen to Chet Baker or Sarah Vaughan). We can thank the likes of Mick Ronson and company for pushing Motown back on to the music charts the past couple years. Now how about a marriage counselor for movies and jazz?
Three on a Match: Jung, Stella Atrois, Antonioni
It came to some surprise to see the vast amount of attendees at the so creatively dubbed Friday Nights at the Rubin Museum. I had never been and my reasons were to see Antonioni’s L’eclisse. However, the K2 Lounge (why this gets named after a mountain is beyond me, but still nice lighting and atmosphere particularly for a museum) lent me its ear for a couple Stellas in exchange for a free movie. (The Carl Jung exhibit on his Red Book was sadly a bore considering the material. I don’t know who to blame on this one except the curators, but it lacked a great amount of background and complementing materials, leaving the goers with the “And that’s it?” mindset which is never good.)
The best thing about these Friday Nights I’m quickly realizing is the magnificent Cabaret Cinema. Like clockwork, 9:30pm becomes movie time in the basement studio. Drinks and dinner are a welcomed accompaniment if you care to risk the stairs and bring them with you from K2. Each film is introduced by a speaker, some distinguished, some not. “L’eclisse” was presented to us by Percival Everett, short story master and aesthete. Though he was, of course, pleasingly moved by the film and gave some wonderful anecdotes on seeing it with his father in rural South Carolina some time ago, he gave a rather lackluster introduction which could be diagnosed as a case of nerves (his major contribution to the introduction was pointing out the suspected hidden racism and ignorance of Antonioni; and his apparent sexual interest in Monica Vitti. News to me. And a horrible misreading of the African scenes, by the way). Thankfully I have some good working knowledge of Antonioni’s work, and the (late) rise of modernism in art cinema at the time of “L’eclisse’s” release. The rest of the audience most likely left the film thinking “My lord, what a trite, stupid movie! A ten minute montage of urban designs? Why?” Context, context, context…we need it, please.
Regardless, this is a cinema evening to be hugged. Next Friday will be “Blue Velvet” followed by a wildly fascinating Japanese picture “Tanin no kao (The Face of Another)” which coincidentally enough came out a few years after the French horror-drama, “Eyes Without a Face” a similar “give me life–anyone else’s please” kind of plot. February’s schedule, I’m told, will be posted shortly and will be kicked off with a silent film with live music accompanying it. Excellent!
Rubin Museum of Art
http://www.rmanyc.org/
150 West 17th Street, New York, NY
(212) 620-5000
The White Ribbon
“The White Ribbon,” the latest in a series of psychodramas from Michael Haneke, Master of Loose Ends and Nihilism, puts us on jury duty for a case that will never be solved, and some how we love him for it. Talk about Beckettian.
The case comprises of not just one individual and one act of violence, but rather several of each. These are shared throughout a small Northern Germany village in the early 1910′s. Some are committed by adults (physical and sexual child abuse) others by children (beheaded birds, beaten prepubescent heirs), and the rest cannot be traced. Our narrator, and thus confidant, is the bespectacled village school master (When and if the American version of the film comes to evolve, Michael Cera most definitely will read for this chump role). He drives the narrative with his voice-over given at a much later stage in his life (Haneke never allows us meet the older version).
Christian Berger, long time Haneke collaborator, has a very deliberate, and effective impact on the narrative with his breathtakingly chilly cinematography, keeping each character at arms length from the viewer and purposely avoiding zooming, or direct close-ups of any kind.
Issues of violence and how they’re pleasantly integrated into our culture (sometimes openly, sometimes not) has been explored again, and yet again in the films of Cronenberg, Lynch, De Palma, Scorsese and so forth. Violence, whether intentionally released or not, has a wonderful taste to the characters and audience alike. And watching “The White Ribbon” sure, we cringe at the thought of a retarded youngster being tortured, but we’re certainly pleased to have a peek at the damage when given the opportunity. (The fact that this could be the handiwork of children just pleasures the mind even more so — what awful, sneaky creatures children are!) Is this anything new? No, not quite. We’ve heard the sermon before, thank you very much, Mike.
What does work–whether the director admits to addressing (loosely or not)– is context. Why bother setting the film in pre-WWI Germany without encouraging readings of the village people as representatives of the recipients of a shifting world on the brink of a world war? How will these types be affected by the war’s outcome? These children are little Nazis in the making. Is there a young Karl Wolff in their midst? It’s not incomprehensible. The ambiguity and applicability of this reading gives the viewer the right to adapt to their own nation’s history. We’re all capable of such horrors. Case in point is this remote, strange village of Aryans. But we also have the option to be an innocent bystander like the good school master mired in Kantian ethics–if we’re lucky.
rrwells
Film Comment’s Top Films of Decade
Yes, very late getting to this. But stumbled upon Film Comment’s Top Films of the Decade Poll (see below). Fascinating list, though I disagree with some of the choices (Zodiac #11, Wendy and Lucy #86, Miami Vice # 119…how on earth did they even make it on this list?), and applaud others (Malick’s hidden gem, The New World, breaks the top ten). Enjoy!
Mystic River
My Top Ten:
1. Mystic River (2003, Clint Eastwood)
2. There Will Be Blood (2007, Paul Thomas Anderson)
3. The New World (2005, Terrence Malick)
4. Gomorra (2009, Matteo Garrone)
5. The Lives of Others (2006, Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck)
6. The Royal Tenenbaums (2001, Wes Anderson)
7. Gosford Park (2001, Robert Altman)
8. Bad Education (2004, Pedro Almodovar)
9. Antichrist (2009, Lars Von Trier)
10. Mulholland Drive (2001, David Lynch)
Film Comment:
Mulholland Drive