#607: A Hollis Frampton Odyssey

(Hollis Frampton, Various)

If you count By Brakhage as one set, A Hollis Frampton Odyssey is only the second collection of experimental shorts in the Collection. On one hand, this is totally understandable; it's doubtful that these sets reach the kind of wide audience even an arthouse release like, say, Badlands reaches; I assume compiling a set like this requires an enormous amount of curation, work obtaining rights, and other behind the scenes efforts; and perhaps most importantly many of the greatest and/or most well-known experimental filmmakers have work that either isn't meant to be seen in one sitting (e.g. Andy Warhol) or simply doesn't translate to home viewing (e.g. Nam June Paik). Currently, the set is in just under 400 collections, placing it on the low end of the spectrum, especially for an in-print recent release.

Of course, none of this matters when examining the films that are included here, and when the set is evaluated on its own merits it's pretty special. Frampton's work is notably different from Brakhage's deeply personal and tactile films - though there is certainly an auto-biographical component to Frampton's films, most notably in one of the best included pieces, (nostalgia), in which Frampton has an actor read descriptions of photographs from his life as they are shown burning away on a hot plate. The twist of the film is that the description corresponds to the photograph shown after it, making the viewer work to reconcile what has been said with what is being shown, while retaining enough information to do the same with the subsequent photo. It's a frustrating juggling act as a viewer - though not nearly as frustrating as another film in the same series, Critical Mass. The film combines three of the least appealing things in existence: improvisational acting, lovers' spats, and dischordant editing for an interminable half hour of nails on a chalkboard. I barely made it through this cinematic equivalent of Metal Machine Music even after tuning out halfway through.

The core piece here is Frampton's masterpiece Zorns Lemma, which runs over an hour and is the only selection available on Hulu. It's a brilliant exploration of form that should be required viewing for artists interested in photography of any kind. The majority of the film is dedicated to shots of letters of the alphabet as found on signs in various fonts and conditions, often but not always in alphabetical order. This sounds dull, and it kind of is, but it's also beautiful and oddly inspired. Like the rest of Frampton's films, there's certainly more to the explanation of the film than I am providing, but I think it's important to approach work like this with a totally clear mind and then search out people far more dedicated and informed than me to explain it should the need arise. Most of the time, however, I prefer my gut response to non-linear film to the explanation of it, however correct or intelligent the explanation seems.

There are other shorts here, some more appealing than others, but every one interesting in its own right. Most importantly in terms of his inclusion in the Collection, Frampton infuses his work with much more humor than Brakhage (at least based on the first volume of the latter's work), providing a much needed counterpoint to broaden the range of experimental film represented. On the whole, I would say I prefer the Brakhage set, but this is still a great collection that shouldn't be overlooked by people who are open to this sort of thing.

#621: Rosetta

(Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardennes, 1999)

Rosetta is a devastatingly simple film. We begin and end on the titular character, and rarely stray from her. She is in fact in every scene - even a couple where it seems like she's dragged into them so the movie can keep the streak alive - and nearly all of the action happens because of things she does. This would be difficult enough to construct a film around, but Rosetta also happens to be a character who is not especially likable, even if you do sympathize with her and root for her. This is the most obvious difference between this film and the previous movie by the Dardennes brothers, La Promesse, but really Rosetta is just an intense crystallization of the ethos behind that movie. It's hard to think of a more empathetic movie that still manages to feel so brutally realistic. For fans of socially conscious film, Rosetta might be the perfect example of the style - for this reason, I'm not surprised some people consider it one of the greatest movies of the past few decades.

I think what struck me most about the film, though, was its pure simplicity. The story lacks any major catharsis, the film ends abruptly, and Rosetta is never really afforded anything but the basic thing she most desires (or is it?): a low paying, unstable job. The film is almost distracting in its dogged determination to avoid straying from its purpose as a document of this lonely, desperate girl's life. The movie it most reminded me of, actually, was not La Promesse, but Bresson's Mouchette. However surprising it is to say about a Bresson film, though, Rosetta is actually the simpler of the two movies, and feels less episodic. Certainly his work was more lyrical than the Dardennes', but both took a humanist approach to their film, and ultimately Rosetta is the more satisfying of the two because its protagonist is more active and authentic - less a sacrificial lamb in the Cabiria tradition.

It's the simplicity of the film, however, that made me hesitant to fall head over heels for it. When combined with a protagonist that is very difficult to like it becomes much harder to find a way in. I think multiple viewings would improve my opinion of the movie, and unlike some other films I have felt that way about, Rosetta was impressive enough the first time that I am certainly willing to put in the time, even if the emotional toll the film takes can be exhausting.

#623: Lonesome

(Paul Fejos, 1928)

Lonesome is a film stuck between two worlds in more ways than one. Most obviously, the movie balances on the most significant pivot in film history, the move from silent cinema to talkies. By including three scenes in which the characters talk (rather stiltedly, I might add), Fejos nodded to the fad of the time without having to reconstruct the entire film. I had forgotten about this aspect of the film while watching it, so when the sound clicked on, the music stopped, and the characters began to speak, it was truly jarring - really, this must have been what it was like in the 1920s to hear sound synced up with images - although the limitless possibility of the time has turned into actual impressive accomplishments over the ensuing 80 years.

The use of color in the Coney Island sequence is similarly forward-looking, but less jarring than it is impressive and perfectly incorporated into the film. Color had been around for decades already by the time of Lonesome - some studios would hand paint each frame in the first years of the 20th century - so this was less novelty than a conscious artistic decision to deliver the maximum impact of the impressive sight of this beach retreat which at the time would have been just as exotic to most Americans as Paris or London.

But what's more interesting about Lonesome is the balance between avant flourishes and a wholly conventional plot. Fejos manages to incorporate enough artistic style into the film that this seems miles away from the typical romance of the time, despite the fact that the film's story is little more than a simple boy-meets-girl set-up with a twist that is less satisfying than it is acceptable. His use of superimposition, panning, cross cutting, and the above-mentioned color and sound makes the film seemed packed with forward-thinking ideas that are much more impressive than anything in comparable modern cinema. This makes Lonesome either a uniquely impressive balancing act that stands out from the crowd or an exciting representation of the kind of experimentation still acceptable in mainstream film's nascent period. I can't say I've watched quite enough silent film to be able to distinguish, but either way Lonesome is a thoroughly enjoyable exploration of the potential of narrative cinema to speak through form just as clearly as content.

#609: ¡Alambrista!

(Robert M. Young, 1977)

The most obvious comparison to make within the Criterion Collection to ¡Alambrista! is of course El Norte, a film that, according to the essay that accompanies this release, was influenced by this film. The basic premise of people crossing the border illegally to live in the United States is similar, but almost everything else about the two films is different. Most obviously, the protagonist here, Roberto, is from Mexico, and leaves simply to make enough money to send home that he can support his new family for a brief period, while the brother and sister of El Norte are from Guatemala and flee the country to save their lives, without hope of ever returning. This is one of the most notable ways - but surely not the only one - in which ¡Alambrista! intends to be a broad and universal portrait of the undocumented immigrant experience, while El Norte isolates a particularly compelling case to make the argument that much stronger.

This means El Norte is certainly the more conventional of the two films, which goes a long way towards explaining why that film got so much more attention than this one (including an Oscar nomination and a wide theatrical release, two things this film did not get - it was originally aired on PBS). But I also think El Norte is the better of the two films - not necessarily because it tells the more compelling story, but because it is more impressively made and notably more affecting. Still, ¡Alambrista! might be the more interesting film, both as a political and sociological exploration of the major American immigrant issue of the last fifty years and as a work of cinema that walks the line between documentary and fictional narrative.

Of the many thoughts the film provoked within me, two have lingered most powerfully. The first is the unconventional way in which Roberto's journey is treated when compared with El Norte and most recent films about undocumented immigrants. Roberto's choice at the beginning - though made quickly in the course of the film - is not without controversy within his family and is far from preordained. When he arrives in America, he is far from a saint - while not as stupid as his friend that meets a gruesome fate, he does end up having an affair and flirting with the life he eventually discovers his father had chosen for himself. Perhaps more importantly, unlike those later films, Roberto eventually rejects his fate as an American farmworker and returns to Mexico. (Self-deportation in action!) This conclusion made the film all the more interesting for me because it meant ¡Alambrista! was not about the man who has no choice but to leave his homeland to find work and make a life for himself, law be damned. It's a film about a just as real phenomenon of economics 101 in action - workers going where the money is and facing a real opportunity cost scenario which asks them to choose between money and a life without social acceptance or any real physical comfort and a life with economic struggle in a home they know and already have accepted. This is the true reality of most undocumented immigrants in this country, and it's one that will be impossible to overcome with laws, walls, or denied benefits.

The second thing which came to mind was the balance between documentary filmmaking and narrative work. While any socially conscious movie takes at least some steps towards making the film feel especially realistic, movies like ¡Alambrista! go the extra mile, usually by using non-actors in crucial roles, using typically documentary-style techniques, or letting the narrative hang loose a little bit to encompass various other stories that might provide some insight into the overall world the film is presenting. Young does all three of these things here, and it makes the film feel much more "authentic" than a commercial film like El Norte. Yet it also makes the film feel smaller and, counterintuitively, more difficult to buy into. Sometimes breaking down the conventions of narrative cinema does little more than highlight the gap between film and reality - which makes sense when you consider that most of those conventions were created to make you forget you are watching a film.

¡Alambrista! is a great addition to the Collection, and just because the movie might not be as strong as movies like El Norte or John Sayles's great Lone Star, as one of the first American films to address Mexican and Central American immigration it is a vital document for understanding the work that came after it. It's also a well-made conscious film that explores the line between the urgency of documentary filmmaking and the far-reaching effectiveness of the narrative, one of film's great battles as a medium. It might not be perfect, but it's recommended for anyone interested in these issues.

#617: And Everything Is Going Fine

(Steven Soderbergh, 2010)

And Everything Is Going Fine is the rare biographical documentary that seems both impressively insightful about its subject and ingeniously constructed. Soderbergh manages to deliver this without shooting a single thing, as all the footage here is from Gray's life and career up until his death in the mid 2000s. In fact, Gray is practically the only person who talks through most of the movie, and the bulk of the film is constructed with Gray's performances on stage (which means this isn't necessarily a complete look at his actual life, but instead a carefully selected approximation of a facsimile - but a cool one).

One really smart choice Soderbergh makes is to tell the story chronologically - not in terms of when the footage was shot, but in terms of when whatever Gray is talking about actually happened in his life. So while the scenes shift from grainy VHS to film to an E! interview, the story goes in a straight line. (By the way, can you imagine someone like Spalding Gray being interviewed on E! today?) This keeps you engaged even as the footage ping pongs around his career.

One thing I didn't know that the film helped me understand was just how revolutionary Gray's act was. It seems like such a simple and natural thing - go on stage and tells unadorned stories about yourself - that you would think people had been doing it forever, and in some ways they were. But reducing it to such a basic equation made his work shockingly fresh. The fact that his perspective was so unique helped prevent others from easily replicating it. Although I already liked Gray thanks to Gray's Anatomy, this documentary made me appreciate him even more, making it a fine companion to that film. That Soderbergh was able to construct such a satisfying documentary makes its separate release justifiable.



A side note: This is the 400th movie I've posted about on this blog. It's been nearly three years since I started this journey (really more since I've been watching Criterion movies for virtually my entire adult life) and I have fewer than 60 movies left. Although this number continues to tick up every month when the new releases are announced, it has steadily decreased to the point where I can genuinely say the end is near. Based on my label count to the left of this post, I've considered 102 of the 400 movies I've reviewed to be "five star" films (this average is a bit inflated by movies I had seen before). Whatever that arbitrary measure is worth, that means just following the spine numbers has led me to more cinematic epiphanies than I could have ever imagined. If anyone is reading this out there, I hope I've pointed you towards something you might not have otherwise picked up that you loved, or at least gave you a different perspective on a movie you like that you hadn't considered. For me personally, the ability to go back and look at my initial thoughts on every film I've watched has been invaluable - this is a collection of writing I'll never stop returning to, and even though I love getting paid cold hard cash to write (ah, sweet cash), this certainly ranks with my books as the most satisfying works I've produced in my life to this point. All I can hope for now is to finally see this thing through to the end - hopefully with at least another 15 or so masterpieces waiting for me!

#618: Gray's Anatomy

(Steven Soderbergh, 1997)

Gray's Anatomy is either going to drive you insane or delight you. This stems entirely from how appealing you find Spalding Gray - not surprising, considering the fact that the film is largely an adaptation of a one-man show. Gray's success as a performer and artist was primarily in this format, which consisted of a long monolog in the style of a story about his own life. Gray had already made two film adaptations of his work when he collaborated with Soderbergh here, but those two films (which I have yet to see) were apparently more straightforward filmed documents of his theatrical performances - essentially concert films, with an audience and no special effects.

Soderbergh chose to toss this out the window for his adaptation, keeping only the nearly iconic image of Gray sitting at his table with a microphone. Around him - both physically through the use of projections and rudimentary effects and cinematically through the use of editing - the director has placed interview subjects who had eye-related health issues (the subject of this monolog) and various embellishments like smoke, extreme lighting, and slow pans from one Gray finishing up a point to another already launching into the next segment. It's a playful and creative approach to Gray's work - one that's reminiscent of Errol Morris's documentary style, particularly in The Thin Blue Line - that doesn't abandon what works about the core material.

It's this material - both as text and in the manner in which it is delivered - that is going to be polarizing. Gray comes from a long theater background, and his performance style is often overdramatic and exaggerated - it's not a big jump to spoken-word. Similarly, his narratives are heavily neurotic and self-absorbed (although this is essentially unavoidable with a 90-minute monolog). Personally, once I had adjusted to the style, I found Gray to be absorbing and charming in the film. But it's not going to be for everyone.

As for the story itself, I don't think there are significant insights into the human condition to be found, but I did find it moving and entertaining. The process of moving from realizing he had a problem to seeking out help to coming to terms with his options and finally accepting the inevitable (risky surgery) was both interesting and somewhat enlightening, though again I'm not sure you can pull a whole lot out of it. Gray's Anatomy ended up being a fun way to spend an hour and a half.

#620: La promesse

(Luc and Jean-Pierre Dardenne, 1996)

Like Le Havre, La Promesse is a small french-language film about undocumented immigrants and the natives who sympathize with their plight. But while both films avoid the pitfalls of the socially conscious film - most notably the potential to become unrelentingly dark - Le Havre is slight where La Promesse is deep; abstract where La Promesse is vivid and real; carefully composed where La Promesse is messy. It's arguable whether it makes this the better film, but I have a hard time believing any viewer wouldn't be more affected by it.

It's no surprise that the Dardennes were documentary filmmakers before La promesse - the film's aesthetic is meant to evoke reality and indicate to the viewer that they are as close as they can be to living within the subjects' world. But what's much more impressive is how structurally intricate the film is, both as a character study of the young boy and an exploration of the immigrant experience. This is a reminder that "natural" almost never means simple, and often a work that feels like there is less artifice and more "authenticity" in the narrative requires a much surer and more intellectually prepared hand to guide it. I don't know if I'd say La promesse transcends its humble ambition as a work of art, but its unquestionable that there should more movies like La promesse made, and if that happened film would be in a much stronger place.

#603: David Lean Directs Noël Coward

(David Lean, 1942-1945)

This recent box set deserves to be heralded more than it has. Although I wasn't especially keen on In Which We Serve and This Happy Breed, the four films in this set represent a collaboration between two British icons that demonstrates many of the strengths of Anglo cinema in the middle of the 20th century. The collection ranges widely from screwball comedy to romance to war to epic drama - only the historical epic and the literary adaptation are missing (Lean would correct this later in his career).

Brief Encounter is unquestionably the crown jewel in the set. I've watched the film five or six times, and it's one of my favorite romance dramas. It's also one of a handful of films I would point to as emblematic of the potential for beauty in black and white cinema. I think it's kind of a travesty that Criterion didn't release the film as a standalone blu-ray, as I imagine there are a lot of people out there who would want to own this movie in high def who don't want to buy the whole set (e.g. me).

Still, for those amassing a more complete home video collection, this box set is a great addition. Blithe Spirit is a real pleasure that makes for light and easy viewing, while the other two films are strong examples of filmmaking worthy of multiple looks. It's also great to see a box that takes a collaboration as the framing device and delivers a broad range of compelling films within a narrow window of time.

Links to individual reviews:
Brief Encounter (no review)
In Which We Serve
This Happy Breed
Blithe Spirit

#604: In Which We Serve

(Noël Coward and David Lean, 1942)

In Which We Serve is a respectable version of the propaganda churned out on both sides of the Atlantic during WWII. As such, it's a valuable historical artifact, particularly when combined with the Coward/Lean pedigree. But these kinds of films are a real difficult sell for me. All movies attempt to manipulate, but propaganda films are so obvious about it that it can be pretty hard to watch them with an open mind. The Soviet film program produced a couple of flat-out masterpieces about WWII in Ballad of a Solider and The Cranes Are Flying, but these were made years after the war and were intended as nationalistic unifiers rather than a call to arms. Movies made during the heat of battle are usually much less appealingly complex (I'm ignoring for a moment the elephant in the room that is Casablanca, since that film wasn't purely intended as propaganda, and isn't about war per se).

The American counterpart that immediately springs to mind here is The Sullivans, the film which told the true story of five brothers who were killed serving together and would go on to influence Spielberg's flawed but technically brilliant Saving Private Ryan. Like In Which We Serve, the people in The Sullivans are notably average, caught up in a fight bigger than them but dedicated to serving their country. I'm a pretty patriotic guy, but this sort of stuff makes me annoyed rather than inspired (note: I cried like a little baby at the end of The Sullivans - you will, too). There's something about war that brings out the simplicity in everyone - and that something is that the complex take on war is sure to lead any thinking person down the path of resistance. In Which We Serve has occasional moments that are enjoyable, but you aren't going to learn anything real about humanity, war, or cinema from the film. You'll just learn how the British chose to indoctrinate their civilians during their last great war. Spoiler alert: stiff upper lip, everyone.

#605: This Happy Breed

(David Lean, 1944)

This Happy Breed is a class act (puns!), and that's probably going to mean you'll either love it or find it a colossal bore. I kind of see both sides. I did become engaged with the story by the end, but there isn't much here you haven't seen a thousand times in other stories of an average family over a period of many years.

What really saves the movie is Lean's direction, which at times shows flashes of brilliance that compare to his later classics. The best example of this is when the father is being told that Reg has died. Rather than follow Vi into the garden where she will tell him, the camera stays in the kitchen and slowly pans across the room, keeping the open door in the same position on the screen as it moves. It's a subtle but perfectly executed shot, a classic example of the power of the camera in isolation.

Still, This Happy Breed is melodramatic boiler-plate chicken soup for the masses. There isn't anything here you can't find in a thousand other movies - it just happens to be executed exceptionally (though not spectacularly) well. It might give in to all the stereotypes about British people, but they happen to be pretty good at this sort of thing, and it's hard to think of two more-British artists from the last century than Noel Coward and David Lean. So Anglophiles, have at it, while everyone else would have their time better spent with Brief Encounter.

#622: Weekend

(Andrew Haigh, 2011)

Weekend is one of the most unassuming revolutionary films you are likely to see. In a perfect world, this wouldn't be that far off from, say, Once or Before Sunrise. In our world, though, a small movie about two people in love who happen to be men means a lot more than that. Its characters know it, too - not in a meta, we're-in-a-love-story-about-gay-people way, but in a much more moving what-does-it-mean-to-be-gay-and-falling-in-love-way. This isn't what makes Weekend a great movie; politically "brave" or socially conscious movies rarely attain this timeless status. Think of the hopelessly simplistic Gentleman's Agreement or the guilt-wracked Philadelphia. But it does make it an important one, which is something different from an evaluation of its art, even if the two things are inextricably entwined.

The plot of Weekend is extremely simple: two men have a casual one-night stand but begin to feel a connection and turn something casual into an intimate few days spent getting to know each other. The movie is really about one of them, Russell, played spectacularly by Tom Cullen, as the film never strays from his perspective. This choice seems both political and necessary for the narrative: Russell is the more emotionally uncomfortable with his sexuality of the two, and seeing his growth as a confident lover and loved one over the course of the film is the beating heart at the center of the story. The film contrasts his arguably more conservative romantic views, a belief in love and marriage and sexual propriety, with those of his counterpart Glen, who sees strength only in being unashamed of his homosexuality, often defined by his own "queerness" (which is to say a rejection of the mainstream). This contrast is not only used to create interesting conversations about gay politics, though. Haigh has deftly balanced the two characters and their histories to create two sides of a whole, making their budding relationship seem extremely natural and believable; these characters really do seem to complete each other.

The challenge of gay cinema over the last twenty years in particular has been to create authentically gay stories without depending on the novelty or political relevance of featuring gay characters. Movies about gay people shouldn't be limited to message pictures like Boys Don't Cry or empty gestures like My Best Friend's Wedding - where's the murder mystery being solved by the gay police detective, or the action movie starring a gay James Bond? Perhaps the biggest success in this regard, ironically, was the supremely mediocre Will and Grace. (Though it was largely inauthentic, I'd argue it was no less realistic than the equally mediocre Friends - after all, don't gay people deserve their own shitty sitcom?) Creating these stories is an admirable task in many regards, but it shouldn't be the end goal. Just as striving for equality means thriving on diversity rather than ignoring it, the most important reason gay stories should be incorporated into the mainstream are the insights and collective experiences these new perspectives have to offer. When we learn more about the world and other people, we learn more about ourselves and our place in that world.

What's really impressive about Weekend is that it manages to succeed in both these regards. Not only is the film a rather conventionally moving love story, it's one that could only be told about two men. The two most significant and satisfying climactic moments - (spoiler alert) Russell finally shedding his self-consciousness about being gay and kissing Glen at the train station and the final moment in which it is revealed that Glen returned the tape to Russell - could really only have the emotional impact they do within their contexts. This is particularly true of the tape, since the power dynamic around sex would be so different with a man and a woman that this simple gesture would not nearly have been as powerful as it is here. After everything Russell and Glen have experienced and discussed, this returning of an intimate moment says more than it ever could have in a straight context.

Weekend is also a beautifully shot and wonderfully acted movie, and Haigh clearly has the potential for a very bright career ahead of him. But just as the film doesn't rely on the political statement it makes to carry it, neither does it allow its cinematic elements to overwhelm its narrative ones. Weekend is a great movie not because of the experience of watching it, but because its simple and profound portrait of a relationship has stayed with me for days after seeing it, and is unlikely to go away any time soon.

#606: Blithe Spirit

(David Lean, 1945)

Blithe Spirit is based on the play by Noël Coward and is only available in the recent boxset David Lean Directs Noël Coward, but it's also on Netflix streaming. It's also a complete joy from start to finish.

I'm a huge fan of both Lean and Coward, and Brief Encounter is one of my favorite movies in the Collection. But seeing Lean take on comedy is a bit of a surprise. What makes it work here is the fact that this film is so appealingly dry. The characters play their ridiculous scenario out with such unbelievingly straight-faced enthusiasm that the film is able to pull off such a ludicrous premise.

In this way, the film reminded me of one of my favorite cult classics from the 90s, Bob Balaban's My Boyfriend's Back. Though it's not close to touching Blithe Spirit's sly sophistication, that later film nevertheless walked the campy line with a smart take on the zombie/high school romance that treated a kid coming back from the dead as something perfectly normal. That's along the lines of what happens here, where a ghost appearing quickly turns into just another complication in a drawing room comedy. Blithe Spirit is also clearly reminiscent of the screwball comedies of the time, but I'm thankful Coward chose to keep this adaptation in England where its style of humor belongs, making it less like like the broad farce of Arsenic and Old Lace and closer in wit to another great Criterion title, Kind Hearts and Coronets. Blithe Spirit doesn't quite reach the highs of either of those classic comedies - the resolution is a bit of a letdown and while the final moment is clever, it lacks the true satisfaction that might have come from the play's more cynical ending. But this is still a total pleasure and highly recommended to anyone who loves screwball comedy.

#610: The Organizer

(Mario Monicelli, 1963)

If you were to focus on one or two of the most defining movements of the 20th century, you could do worse than to cite film and unions, two things which unavoidably changed the course of history. And because film was so often driven by socially conscious left-wing ideology, the two movements often intersected; technically, I suppose, you could argue that the first film ever shot - Exiting the Factory - predicted this essential relationship. This tradition ran through the course of the century, from The Grapes of Wrath to Norma Rae and Harlan County, U.S.A. up through Bread and Roses in 2000.

But of all the films that focus on union organizing, The Organizer is perhaps the most interesting and compelling. This is partially because the film focuses on the earliest years of the worker's rights movement and because the film is able to so effortlessly cover many of the notable characters seen in other films - not just the organizer himself (played by a pitch-perfect Marcello Mastroianni), but the poor immigrant who can't afford to strike, the bumbling worker who stumbles into a position of power, the middle man who cunningly aligns himself with each side, and many more. But it's the ending of the film - where the workers don't just lose but see a child join their ranks, ensuring that the cycle continues - that makes the movie stand out. We know (as did audiences when the film was released) that this defeat will be, historically speaking, relatively short-lived, so the ending is not all tragedy. But the failure is a powerful reminder of the sacrifices necessary for any kind of shift in power. In many fields in the US, unions have gained so much power that people have become complacent about their rights, leading to a crisis of faith in the necessity of organizing. Monicelli's film - in which workers strive for a thirteen-hour work day - is a stark reminder of the importance of the fight.

In terms of entertainment value, The Organizer is an admirable dramedy. Monicelli manages to let his star have a bit of shine without letting him overwhelm the other characters, and the plotting is so well constructed that the balance of the film's two competing destinies - that the workers will never give up, just as the owners continue to exploit them wherever they can - remain in constant balance even in the final moments. Certainly the movie's most notable reason for remaining fresh over the years is drawn from its subject's consistent relevancy. But it's The Organizer's story that kept me interested, making its message all the more poignant.

#625: Eating Raoul

(Paul Bartel, 1982)

Providing you have a healthy dark side to your sense of humor, Eating Raoul is one of the most enjoyably entertaining films to enter the collection in recent years. In fact, for a film about two people who pose as sex workers in order to murder depraved people and take their money, Eating Raoul is as light as can be. Think of it as the counterpoint to Onibaba.

Set in Los Angeles in the early 80s, Eating Raoul focuses on the decadence both moral and commercial that is degrading society - a thesis made clear in the over-the-top intro that borders on Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker territory. We're then introduced to Paul and Mary Bland, an innocent couple saving up to open their dream restaurant. What makes Eating Raoul so successful is its tone, which draws on John Waters and Andy Warhol camp but has a naivete that multiple filmmakers would draw on in their future social satire. I see David Lynch's Blue Velvet and Tim Burton's Edward Scissorhands somewhere in here, but smaller films like Bob Balaban's Parents and even Joe Dante's The Burbs come to mind.

Although Criterion has a number of Lubitsch and Sturges comedies in their catalog, modern American comedy until recently was extremely rare. Eating Raoul joins recent additions like Something Wild, Being John Malkovich, and Broadcast News that have helped round out a collection that - like similar groupings of works in the "canon" - is overly weighted towards serious dramatic fare. In the case of Criterion, this is (as with TV series) most likely primarily a consequence of financial considerations: comedies simply have a better shelf life on DVD, where people are less likely to come back to serious (read:depressing) movies when they stay in for the night. It's therefore a lot harder for them to license recent titles that studios believe they can make money from. But too often truly great comedies are dismissed as being lesser works when compared to "distinguished" films. Only a handful of comedies have won Best Picture, while Sight and Sound's famed poll has featured just one comedy (the much-deserving Rules of the Game) in its last three lists (although Singing in the Rain is kind of a comedy). Eating Raoul isn't that good, of course - I wouldn't even call it a five star film. But it's an important film in underground 80s cinema, and it's well-deserving of its soon-to-be place in the Collection. I'd love to see more comedies follow suit.

#619: Le Havre

(Aki Kaurismäki, 2011)

Le Havre is gentle movie, quiet in tone and narrow in focus. Even its grand political statement is uninterested in stepping on anyone's toes, preferring to hang to the back while a vivid but equally unassuming portrait of a man succumbing to his own principles has its moment. It's also a film populated by good people (even the bad guy, it turns out), depicting a world where good things actually come to them. There are funny moments in Le Havre, but the film is more cosmically lighthearted than comically so.
It all might seem slight at first, and in many ways it is. Having not seen any of Kaurismäki's other films (the director has two separate boxsets in Criterion's companion Eclipse series, joining only the rarefied company of Ozu and Kurosawa), I was not expecting to find such a light work. Still, it's extremely mature and beautifully rendered. Some viewers will certainly find the film's pace leisurely, but Le Havre is a nice reminder that good work - even about meaningful things -  doesn't need to feel grand or ambitious. It doesn't need to be invasive or aggressive in its attempts to move you. Le Havre might not be the best Criterion (or even its IFC collab) has to offer, but it's a nice reminder of this, and a good way to spend 90 minutes thinking about what it means to be a person.

#614: Summer with Monika

(Ingmar Bergman, 1953)

Hmmm... I really didn't like this movie. This is surprising considering a number of things:

1. I'm a sucker for Bergman.
2. I rather enjoyed Summer Interlude, which Criterion is releasing as part of a one/two punch with this film.
3. Summer with Monika is not only considered better than that movie, but is widely heralded as an early triumph for Bergman, who gained international fame with its success.
4. The cover has boobies on it.

And yet, I had a couple of problems with the film. (These problems were unrelated to the boobies - though, again, how sad were people's lives that they had to go to an Ingmar Bergman melodrama to see a little (emphasis on little) sex?) First of all, Monika was a ridiculous character who felt extremely simplistic and veered slightly into sexism. Coquettish and demure to reel in the man, bitter and hateful to ruin his life, Monika comes down on our solemn stand-in with a vicious fist that seems almost premeditated. The clear lesson of the movie: don't be nice and sacrifice everything for your hot girlfriend, because once you marry her and have a baby, she's just going to bitch and moan about how you can't buy her nice things.

(I would like to qualify these complaints, however, by giving credit to Bergman for at least depicting with tragic detail how fucked Monika was with regards to the way men treated her throughout her life. The girl is practically raped at her job, beaten by her father, and basically told she won't amount to much. These conscious inclusions do at least paint a stronger picture of her justifications - or at least motivations - for what she does later in the film. That said, I don't necessarily know that these elements were meant to explain her irrational "womanly" behavior, as they could just as easily have been included to show just how shitty the lives of the two protagonists are before their dalliance in the summer of the title.)

My second huge problem with the movie was the simplicity of the plot. The story is both depressingly  predictable and structurally boring. We all know things aren't going to end well, but I don't like being hit over the head with it, either, and the cliche nature of Bergman's plotting cuts into the emotional impact of his more abstract choices, such as the opening quiet shots of the harbor or Gunnar Fischer beautiful cinematography. Unlike Summer Interlude, which was similarly nostalgic and rather basically structured, the narrative is chronological and the emotional arc preordained. Just look at the cover and think about the fact that this is a Bergman movie; you've probably figured out the whole movie.

This is all kind of surprising for me and rather disappointing, but I can't expect to like every Bergman movie - especially pre-Seventh Seal before he kicked into high gear. Jean-Luc Godard loved Summer with Monika, weirdly comparing its influence and importance in cinema to Birth of a Nation, but Godard was/is crazy, so you should probably just watch the movie and make up your own mind.

#612: Certified Copy

(Abbas Kiarostami, 2010)

Occasionally, the selection process of Criterion becomes the subject of controversy. This is usually related to the films they select (see: Armageddon, Tiny Furniture) rather than the films they pass on, since the rights negotiations are often kept secret until films are actually announced. Certified Copy was the subject of a rare non-release controversy, however, as a rumored exchange between one internet poster and Criterion's Peter Becker revealed that the latter supposedly considered the film "minor Kiarostami." A few months later, when Criterion did finally announce the film's imminent release, they referred to it as "a major work" on their Twitter account, a sly nod to the uproar caused by the rumor.

As someone who had yet to see the film - and who had admired Kiarostami's other works in the Collection, particularly Close-up - I listened to the complaints with a great deal of interest, and was excited to see the film announced if only because it made my drive to see the film that much stronger. After watching it, I can see what all the fuss was about: Certified Copy deserves a place alongside L'Avventura and Last Year at Marienbad as one of the great cinematic mysteries in the Collection.

The basic premise is as simple as the one at the center of those films: an author comes to Italy to give a talk on his new book where he meets up with a woman who was interested in speaking with him about his thesis. They engage with each and take a brief excursion around the countryside a la Before Sunrise/Before Sunset. As their meeting goes on and the film gets deeper, there begins to seem like there is more to their relationship than has been revealed.

I won't go too far into the "Are they or aren't they" debate at the center of the movie; needless to say there are bits and pieces here or there which make the case either way, and I don't think that's the point of the film any more than the end of The Sopranos was about whether or not Tony died. Certified Copy is about the nature of art just as much as it is about the nature of relationships. The film has an oddly cool tone that is countered perfectly by a consistent struggle by the two leads to break through and make an emotional connection. This effort is much more obviously made by Juliette Binoche, who once again gives a spectacular performance. But William Shimell's character is the more interesting specimen, and his emotional arc in the film is much more difficult to pin down. On the surface, his demeanor matches the film's tone, particularly at the beginning when he seems to be simply passing time before his train. But regardless of one's opinion about the nature of their relationship, there must be a point at which Shimell's character is no longer along for the ride, to observe and dissect - or perhaps, depending on your viewpoint, merely dismiss and ignore - his companion. If he is playing along with her, what is his fascination with their game? If he has conversely finally given up their charade, is his contempt an indication of his failure or of hers?

The movie is deepened by the questions of authenticity that are presented at face value. Just as we question the nature of their relationship, we question the nature of the film. This uncertainty is doubled over on itself by the intellectual argument within the film that the fake can be just as satisfying as the real - even more so. Like the ending of Kiarostami's A Taste of Cherry, this film is constantly reassuring the viewer that they are watching a movie. The fact that our protagonists have become unreliable midway through the film only enhances this reminder. Again, the film doubles over on itself, exponentially increasing its layers until all that is left are the questions.

Like Last Year at Marienbad, Certified Copy is a movie that needs to be seen more than once to fully digest it, and I plan on watching it again soon. For now, the questions linger in my head, and Kiarostami's unique eye and amazing ability to mine new material out of arguments that many consider passe (or at least precious) continues to impress me.

#601: Letter Never Sent

(Mikhail Kalatozov, 1959)

Like its predecessor, The Cranes Are Flying, Mikhail Kalatozov's Letter Never Sent is one of the most visually stunning films in the Criterion Collection. In terms of story, the film is a simple tale of survival and (no surprise from the USSR) sacrifice for the common good. But the film stands out because of its visuals, created by Kalatozov and his cinematographer Sergei Urusevsky, with whom Kalatozov worked on both The Cranes Are Flying and the later masterpiece I Am Cuba, arguably Kalatozov's best film.

Unlike those films, however, the elemental story allows style to completely overtake substance. When the style is this compelling, this isn't necessarily a bad thing; there are moments in this film which are so strikingly beautiful that it makes you forget there isn't much here to make a connection to. Certainly, there's a direct visual line between Letter Never Sent and Tarkovsky's masterpiece debut Ivan's Childhood made a few years later. And much of what Urusevsky was able to accomplish here was expanded upon in I Am Cuba. This makes Letter Never Sent a near classic despite its storytelling shortcomings, and certainly places it alongside the other two Kalatozov/Urusevsky films as must-see examples of the outer boundaries of cinema's potential.

#613: Summer Interlude

(Ingmar Bergman, 1951)

Summer Interlude is Bergman Beta, a rough approximation of the deeply spiritual and personal films the director would make later in the 50s and throughout the rest of his career. But that's not to say that the film isn't successful on its own merits. The story, which surrounds an aging ballet dancer and the love affair she had when she was a teenager, is simple but moving. There are certainly a lot of brief sketches of emotion that rely on long-standing film cliches to stand in for genuine emotion (as can be the case with any young filmmaker) but Bergman was beginning to come into his own as a director, and consequently the camera's gentle but confident presence shows a maturity somewhat lacking in the writing.

The most obvious comparison between Summer Interlude and Bergman's later, well-known work is Wild Strawberries. Both films focus on people reflecting on their past life and love, though of course Marie is at the end of her career rather than the end of her life. There's even a literal connection to the later film's title, as the two lovers in this film first begin to fall for each other over a field of wild strawberries. But the emotional pull her is less compelling, and the influence of Hollywood melodrama on Bergman's technique is still very apparent here, especially when compared to a film like Wild Strawberries, which seems so unique and even revolutionary. There's a hint of the "absence of God" theme of Bergman's later work towards the end of Summer Interlude, but it seems more specific to the moment than tied to the thematic thrust of the film as a whole.

After all, Bergman's clear goal here is to entertain, something that was always at the forefront of his films but seems much more obvious here - especially with the early humor in the film and the sweeping score. It's something often forgotten about many of the directors now considered "serious" or "intellectual" (Bergman, Fellini, and Truffaut in particular do not hold up to this rejection). It's what makes early work like this so important for understanding a career as a whole. When it's also enjoyable on its own, that's the icing on the cake.