Not sure of the origin of this poster but it is lovely…
Two men, known only as ‘Writer’ and ‘Professor’, hire a Stalker to guide them through the ‘Zone’, an off limit area where danger is supposedly ever-present. Their aim: to get to the room at the heart of the zone where their innermost desires will be realised.
It’s been a few weeks since I watched Andrei Tarkovsky’s Stalker and I’ve wanted to write about it since then but, well, I’ve had to give it some time to settle in my mind. It is, first and foremost, a beautiful film. Cate Blanchett has talked about how each frame is ‘burned’ into her retina; on watching, it quickly becomes apparent why. Each frame is an exquisitely composed piece of art. Colours drip and drain whilst the textures of the world are the crumbling evidence of a creative space in a state of decay and disrepair. Because it is Tarkovsky you get plenty of time to appreciate these compositions too (141 shots in 160+ minutes, several over four minutes and one clocking in at 6 minutes and 50 seconds – Johnson/Petrie). There’s a few other familiar things in here too, his focus on the backs of people’s heads is evident and recurrent religious iconography as well as his father’s poetry being read out.
Circles. Lots of circles.
Solaris. It is often referred to as Andrei Tarkovsky’s masterpiece. A sci-fi response from the communist world to the Western 2001: A Space Odyssey. In reality it functions in an altogether more subtle way. Solaris is a 160 minute film about grief and loss. The subtlety with which it plays out is such that you can easily get a little confused as to what is supposed to be happening. What the film has in abundance is ideas. Taken from Polish author Stanislaw Lem’s science fiction book of the same name the plot is about a psychiatrist, Kris, sent to a near abandoned space station where there are three scientists left analysing the planetoid called Solaris. Their studies have apparently waned in use to the point that our Kris is going to advise the government on whether or not to carry on ploughing money and time into the endeavour.
Hollow faced Anatoly Solonitsyn is Andrei Rublev
In light of enjoying I’ve bought a box with all of Andrei Tarkovsky’s films in it and I’m working my way through the lot of them. I’ve never seen any of them before, which is a bit slack, but I’ve got the bit between my teeth now and I’m enjoying them
I was going to write something on each film but Tarkovsky’s first film, Ivan’s Childhood is functionally a similar story to Come and See and suffers a little in watching it so shortly after Klimev’s powerhouse. Though it is still a superb film, stark and beautifully photographed, with a dark denouement where a wire hoop holds the answer you didn’t want.
Andrei Rublev is a different beast entirely. Having wrestled with Mosfilm, the Russian film authority, on getting the film released it’s initially difficult to understand why. In fact, at first, to Western eyes dimmed by the constant parade of over edited, over stylised, gaudy and exposition heavy produce from America, it’s easy to be completely nonplussed at a film like Rublev. It’s black and white, set in the medieval 1400s and the main character is a bit of a non-entity. At three hours in length with an episodic story that has no apparent continuity it is, in the tradition of Russian literature, a forbidding experience.
Eyes that have seen far too much…
Surprises are rare these days which is why I’m moved to write about something that has taken me aback. A couple of days ago I watched Elem Klimov’s film Come and See, a story of how the Nazi incursion into the Belarus (part of the former USSR) affects the life of one young partisan. I’d contend that it’s possibly one of the greatest and most human films about war. This is cinema at its most deadly serious about slapping you in the face and forcing you to confront something you don’t want to. This is fury made celluloid and it stares you right in the face without flinching and shows you the horror of war in a very special way.
Noisy colours
In December 1957 Charles Starkweather killed a man, Robert Colvert. By the end of January 1958 he, and his girlfriend Caril Fugate had killed 11 people (and a couple of dogs). Their violent spree-killing road trip has left a quite unexpected legacy, one that sprung to mind whilst I sat watching Bobcat Goldthwaite’s latest film ‘god bless america’ (all in lower case because that’s how it is in the film and, well, I’m pretty sure it’s like that on purpose).
Goldthwaite (probably best known in this country for his turn as ‘Z’ in the Police Academy films) doesn’t pull any punches in his film. From the moment a baby is blown away with a shotgun inside the first two minutes the nihilism on display is unremitting. This isn’t a film where there is a light at the end of the tunnel, redemption or a new found appreciation for life – it’s cynical and pissed off and it doesn’t want to vote on another vacant TV ‘talent’ show parade of underachievers. In short, I recommend it. This is a work that has the courage of its convictions and they are rare beasts indeed. Check out the excellent trailer below…
read more…
In the wake of our first glimpse of Zack Snyder’s Superman and following criticism of the big guy himself from certain quarters (yes, I’m looking at you) I thought I’d write a little paean to the fella with the bright red pants on the outside of his tights, starting with some musings on what a Superman film might need to take from the rich history of the big guy to succeed and why.
It’s easy to dismiss Superman, and there are plenty of Superman stories and some incarnations that deserve dismissing, being a mix of un-ambitious boy-scout adventures or even showcasing the ridiculous Superman who can blow out a star (a ‘pre-crisis’ Superman from #91). But there is something in the story of Superman, something in the concept of the alien who strives to be the best human he can, that appeals and continues to be relevant. read more…
It became swiftly obvious during the opening ceremony for the 2012 Olympic Games that the creative director of the showpiece, Danny Boyle understands the importance of cinema, the movies, to a nation hoping to finally craft a positive identity in the modern age.
In years gone by I was taught about Australian cinema by a remarkable lady, Cath Ellis, whose key text in beginning to understand Australia as a concept and as a nation was the opening ceremony from the 2000 Olympic Games in Sydney. I remember discussing the importance of self-image and identity as presented by one of these events, events that are seen and consumed by the world at large. The ceremony aims to present a potted history of the country via images, music and loads of people dancing. read more…
Whilst feverishly writing a piece for OPM the other night I was alerted to the presence of a classic on the TV. John Cusack’s classic Grosse Point Blank, a film I’ve watched innumerable times before, was on the BBC. I left it on in the background.
It’s as brilliant as it was back when I was first falling in love with the movies. The script is razor sharp, the performances are elegant and genuine and the action/drama all hit the spot. It also features a fight that I would still rate as one of the best in any movie, the scruffy martial arts scramble between Cusack’s Martin Blank and the faintly satanic-eyed hitman, Felix La Poubelle (played by martial arts supremo ‘Benny the Jet‘). It’s not hard to explain the good things about Grosse Point Blank but it is, to me, far more than the sum of all these parts. It’s one of a clutch of films made in the indie movement of the 90s that really cemented my interest in the movies. read more…
The sound of silence in my life is often cause to celebrate. For now it means that my son is watching a feature length Postman Pat (yes, that exists) and I’m not at work. I’m not at work for six weeks and I had intended to spend the vast unholy bulk of that writing, some of which would appear on this neglected blog, once a day if possible. Well I have been writing but all of my efforts have been poured into paid work, which I’m going to have to start collecting together at some point. A chunky piece of freelance just popped up this very day at OPM. A mark of some success as getting paid to write was the reason behind setting up this blog in the first place.
T’was re-named The Conqueror Worm in America.
Witchfinder General (Michael Reeves, 1968)
Brutal, sadistic, bloody and very very cheap, Witchfinder General was the fourth and final film made by the young and exciting Michael Reeves. The film concerns a fictional account of the activities of Matthew Hopkins, authorised in the film by Cromwell to smoke out any witches that may be operating in the country. Along with his brutal aide, John Stearne, he travels from village to village accusing people of witchcraft before having his assistant ‘extract’ a confession. It’s an interestingly cruel presentation of violence and misogyny and Vincent Price as Hopkins is inspired casting. As his lip curls and that tell-tale voice slithers out proclaiming that he is ‘Here to do God’s work my child’ there’s nothing camp here. Instead we get only the sinister look into the sadistic and perverted eyes of man with a mandate for cruelty. read more…