#782: The Apu Trilogy

 (Satyajit Ray, 1955-59)

After more than 800 spine numbers and nearly twenty years, there are few titles that can compete with The Apu Trilogy for the title of most significant achievement in the Criterion Collection. As the spectacular (but brief) documentary on the supplements explains, the three films' negatives were heavily damaged in a fire, leaving Criterion and its partners with a painstaking task of restoring the damaged film and/or reconstructing a master print from various prints sprinkled throughout the world (the process used most generally for Apur Sansar). The finished versions of the films we see on these blu-rays are absolutely stunning, especially Pather Panchali, the crown jewel of the set. This film - certainly one of the ten or fifteen most important works in cinema history - has been transformed from a barely functional relic of a forgotten era to a pristine jewel in cinema's rich history. There have been glorious transfers in Criterion's day. But it is quite clear that nothing compares to this.

But what's most amazing about the story behind these restorations is that the stature of the films themselves is equal to this remarkable product. These are living breathing artifacts of a crucial turning point in cinema, monuments to a new era yet every bit as relevant today as they were when they were released. Quite simply, if you are receptive to the average Criterion film, The Apu Trilogy will have an enormous impact on you. It's the kind of movie experience that brings to mind only a handful of comparisons that can compete with its humanism, its cinematic sophistication, and its importance to one of the five major centers of filmmaking. You owe it to yourself to watch these movies.

Links to individual reviews:

783. Pather Panchali
784. Aparajito
785. Apur Sansar

#762: A Master Builder

(Jonathan Demme, 2014)

I have no business writing anything on this movie, so instead I'll talk about the boxset that was released at the same time, which lacks a spine number. Andre Gregory & Wallace Shawn: 3 Films includes three very different movies from three separate decades that come from a collaboration between two very talented actors focused primarily on the theater and ways in which its structure can inform life. Two of the films included in the collection were directed by Louis Malle, while Jonathan Demme directed this third installment, released to festivals in 2013, making it one of the more recent films in the Collection.

Of the three films, there is no question that My Dinner with Andre is the one that I like best. I'll quite easily admit that part of this is my general disinterest in theater, though there are some theater-focused films in the Collection that I like very much. Both Vanya and A Master Builder are older plays that have been tweaked or updated for their respective film adaptations, but Vanya takes a significantly more radical approach that at least let the film stand out from the average filmed play that many traditional stage-to-screen adaptations are.

My Dinner with Andre similarly flouts conventional filmmaking, but it does so in way that to me is highly cinematic - though I haven't seen it in years, it's one of my favorite Malle films. The conversation the two actors have is extremely engaging, and the way Malle shoots it underscores the simple drama of an enlightening human-scale interaction. It's a film like Waking Life or the documentary The Power of Myth that gets creative gears turning and makes you think about the potential of art and human creation. It's also just a fun experience, like sitting alone eavesdropping on people who are far more interesting than whoever didn't show up to have dinner with you.

This isn't a box for me - I don't like theater as I've made clear on this blog before - but for people who do like this sort of thing, A Master Builder is deserving of its place next to the other two films, even if it's clearly the weakest of the bunch. Shawn in particular is such an engaging and unpredictable actor that even I was occasionally entranced by his performance. With one straight classic, one extremely strong swan song from one of the most important directors in the Collection, and a final film from another major director to round out the journey, this is an admirable set, and one that could mean a lot to a certain kind of fan of acting and the process.

#713: Essential Jacques Demy

(Jacques Demy, 1961-1982)

Halfway through watching the films from The Essential Jacques Demy this fall, and despite the fact that all six main films in the box are available on Hulu, I bought the set. I did this partially because I got a great deal (40 bucks through a B&N eBay malfunction) but mostly because I wanted to see the rest of the movies in HD, particularly The Young Girls of Roquefort, and I was interested in the Varda extras. As much as I like Demy, I like Varda significantly more, so getting the chance to see a few documentaries by the filmmaker was an added bonus to owning Umbrellas on blu.

After watching the whole set, I'm very glad I made the purchase. I'm looking forward to making my way through the extras on each disc, but most importantly I know I'll revisit at least three of these movies: Lola is an early New Wave masterpiece that balances many of the great forward-thinking concepts at the heart of the movement with an entirely different kind of tone and life philosophy. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (which I've seen a handful of times years ago - including once on the big screen!) is one of the great French films of the 1960s and perhaps one of the best musicals of all time. And finally, The Young Girls of Roquefort is a visual and musical delight, a great movie to watch with the subtitles off.

All Criterion boxsets belong to one of three categories: a complete filmography of a director, a trilogy or series of films tied together with one story, style, or theme, or a random assortment of films by one filmmaker. This Demy set belongs to the latter group, but unlike 3 Films by Malle or 4 By Varda, this is the only set to be titled The Essential. Considering the fact that the set contains a little less than half of the director's feature output, it's worth noting this title and wondering about the process by which they decided on these specific films. Obviously, the only glaring omission here is Model Shop, which is a somewhat sequel to Lola. Although the film is likely tied up in rights (it's out of print on DVD at the moment) it's also difficult to see that film's English-language, Los Angeles-set, Hollywood hippie vibe meshing well with the rest of this box, sequel or no. The rest of Demy's catalog lacks a film that would merit any serious objection to the labeling of this box as "essential" - if anything, there are a number of film nerds out there who would argue there are too many movies in this set.

It's very possible that Model Shop or perhaps one of Demy's 70s films could make their way to the Collection someday, but for now this set does seem like truth in advertising and it's nice to have gotten all of the films in one fell swoop instead of parceled out like Chaplin or Lloyd (though there are other obvious reasons - legal or not - for them to be more judicious with those releases). Because Demy's films were light and even in tragedy or melodrama lacked the thematic heft of his fellow Frenchmen (or even his French wife), they were often forgotten. This set feels like it rights that wrong with admirable style and efficiency.

Links to individual reviews:

714. Lola
715. Bay of Angels
716. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg
717. The Young Girls of Rochefort
718. Donkey Skin
719. Une chambre en ville

#737: Les Blank: Always for Pleasure

(Les Blank, 1968-1995)

The best parts of Les Blank's films are when no one is talking. In these moments, people cook, dance, sing, smile, play instruments, walk through nature. The buildings hum with their unique histories, bound by their American essence; a run down house with a man playing guitar on the porch stoop; a simple roadside tavern ignited by a neon sign advertising the music within; farms and tents; kitchens and living rooms; an occasional store selling records or repairing instruments or making sausage. Parades go by. Meals are prepared by the pound. The omniscient narrator (who never learns to talk) is distracted by another song or good soup on the stove.

The themes of music and food are consistent throughout Blank's 14 films collected on Always for Pleasure (along with a handful of shorts and some extras covering his career). Even in a film like Gap-Toothed Women, which explores conventional ideas of beauty, Blank can't help but home in on an apple or an artist's portrait of musicians. But Blank is most at home filming the musicians themselves, who make up the vast majority of individuals he profiles here and even crop up in films that are ostensibly about something else like garlic or gumbo. He no doubt does this because of his own interest in music (and it's worth noting his connection to the Lomax family, as John's son and Alan's brother John Jr. introduced him to Lightnin' Hopkins and Alan's daughter Anna helped edit on a few of his films), but it's also a conscious decision to make the various elements of each culture he explores inextricably linked, thereby creating a fuller picture of the specific element he's highlighting. Other elements, such as fashion, marriage, work, and friendship, come up frequently as well. But the two constants throughout are music and food.

Blank's films get more conventional as the set goes on, with his last few films featuring significantly more talking and something that approaches mainstream documentary storytelling. Yet there are unique charms to each of his films, while they all retain Blank's singular perspective. A relatively lyrical film like A Well-Spent Life crackles with the same energy as In Heaven There Is No Beer?, which could be a (still fairly quirky) PBS special, and both are equally enjoyable, even as the silences begin to come less frequently and with more action to fill up the space.

The biggest issue here is, of course, the cultural tourism label that has also dogged the Lomax family as their legacy has grown. Blank comes from a well-off family in Florida, but the bulk of his subjects, particularly in his early films, are poor country people, often black, dotting the backwaters of Louisiana. As someone who is unfamiliar with that world, it's impossible to know how "right" Blank got it, but his work here never feels disrespectful and always seems aware of his outsider status. Certainly a film made by someone of each culture would deliver a richer and truer portrait of its subject in both form and content. But this doesn't make Blank's perspective any less valuable, because for the vast majority of people his camera is the placeholder for our own forays into the world he is filming. We would dwell on the pig being slaughtered just as Blank does; we might delight in the tall tales and idealize the easy (hard) living of the Cajuns ourselves; we get caught up in the colors and sounds of Carnival in New Orleans to an even greater degree than Blank's camera.

Ultimately, Blank's career was spent documenting isolated American cultures at the dawn of mass media. While the pockets Blank highlights remain, their window to the outside world has grown larger and their choice to remain separate from the greater culture has become more conscious. The moments depicted in Blank's film already seem mournful and urgent, begging for a few more minutes with this time that might never come back. Just as he filmed a broad range of musicians at the twilights of their careers and lives, the music played and the food cooked feels short for this Earth, even as it seems like it has existed forever. America's future is homogeneous and bright, so it's best to get a good look before the past and present are gone.

#684: Martin Scorsese's World Cinema Project

(Various)

Martin Scorsese's World Cinema Project is a vital project with distinctly Western mindset. The notion that six films as diverse and distinct as these could be grouped together under any banner other than "cinema" is reductionist. Yet the care given to each and the spotlight shone on them by Scorsese's name and organization is impossible to dismiss as exoticism. The films in this collection (an assumed first in a series considering the 1 on its cover) are all unique and deserving of their restorations, and if the "world cinema" label ghettoizes them it is done while simultaneously elevating the value of perspectives different from what we typically see in film. Like world music, the title hopefully becomes a call for more diverse voices in cinema (in this case cinema history) and a tacit admission that the accepted canon is not definitive but instead sorely lacking perspective.

All six of these films (with the possible exception of The Housemaid) put their respective cultures at the center of their themes and subject matters in a way only rarely seen in the US. The similarity of the films stop there, however, as the stories range from music documentaries to experimental dramas to studio suspense. Of the bunch, Dry Summer stood out for me as the masterpiece. I was hooked on the story from the beginning, and the technique on display was more compelling than Hitchcock's Marnie, made the same year. But overall this box is a great release worth digging into, and the thought and effort put into preserving these films and giving them a wider audience is arguably the best thing Scorsese has done since Goodfellas.

Links to the individual films:

685. Touki Bouki
686. Redes
687. A river Called Titas
688. Dry Summer
689. Trances
690. The Housemaid

#679: Zatoichi: The Blind Swordsman

(Various, 1962-73)

This massive set represents the single biggest viewing challenge in the Criterion Collection to date. Twenty-five feature-length films, all with the same spine number. When it was announced, I felt a wave of resigned determination come over me. After all, I had just claimed victory in my Criterion battle, and had just three yet-to-be-released movies left before I had a clean slate. But here it was, nearly 40 hours of viewing time dumped on me in one fell swoop. Fortunately, these are really fucking good. Rather than dedicate just a few paragraphs to so many movies, I've decided to review them in order, immediately after I watch each one. I began writing this in August, 2013. Hopefully, you're not reading it in 2015. [Note: just made it!] I've bolded all the films that are worth watching if you don't plan on seeing the whole series.

The Tale of Zatoichi
(Kenji Misumi, 1962)

This movie is pure fun, the kind of film you can't help but want to watch. Yojimbo had just been released the previous year, and though this is not the cinematic tour de force that one was - after all, Kurosawa was at that point an international sensation at the height of his powers - it's nearly as entertaining. Misumi has a populist way with his camera, plunging into melodrama when needed yet exhibiting a perfect amount of restraint in the climactic fight sequence. As for the character of Zatoichi, it's easy to see why a franchise was built off of him. Like Mifune's ronin in Yojimbo, he is reserved but cunning and always a pleasure to watch and see what he does next. Getting through this collection is a major project that makes Berlin Alexanderplatz look like a walk in the park, but if every film is as entertaining as this one, I'm certainly going to enjoy the ride.

The Tale of Zatoichi Continues
(Kazuo Mori, 1962)

The second film in the Zatoichi series is not the first film's equal, most likely a victim of the rushed production after the original's surprise success. Obviously still indebted to the first movie but with an eye to future films in the series. Shintaro Katsu is just as charming, though, and the movie remains enjoyable throughout.

New Tale of Zatoichi
(Tokuzo Tanaka, 1963)

Number three is better than two, and features some really great moments, most notably when Ichi must roll dice to determine if he gets to keep his arm (spoiler alert: he still has two arms in the fourth movie). I don't know that I really bought that the person who taught this truly honorable dude would be such a scheming asshole, but as an installment in the series it worked pretty well. I am hoping later movies in the series have a little more style to them, as everything has been somewhat conservative up to this point, but overall I am definitely ready to keep going.

The Fugitive
(Tokuzo Tanaka, 1963)

The fourth film is the first not to have his name in the title (at least according to the subtitles) - and the first to repeat a director, as Tanaka also directed the third film. It's also probably my favorite movie in the series to date, mostly thanks to a totally kickass sword fight at the end between Zatoichi and a rival samurai. At this point, two things are clear about the series.

First, it's settled into a nice formula, which is basically that Zatoichi arrives in a new town where he quickly gets into trouble, often because his past catches up with him. What follows is Zatoichi peacefully trying to resolve that trouble before succumbing to killing everyone in sight. This naturally mucks things up with whichever woman had fallen in love with him or with which he has fallen in love, and Zatoichi is left once again to roam the countryside alone and one step ahead of trouble.

Second, though, is the series' continuity. Unlike a similarly long-running (though not as prolific) series like James Bond, Zatoichi has a continuing story that carries over from movie to movie. You can certainly watch any of them on their own at this point, but all three sequels to date have featured at least one other character from a previous film. This makes the series feel like less of a serial and more of television series, and in this context the boxset Criterion is releasing is not especially long. With most of the films coming in at less than 90 minutes, this 25 film set amounts to less than two seasons of a network drama. This is a much more comforting way to think about the road ahead, even if I'm certainly enjoying the journey.

On the Road
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1963)

Unless I'm forgetting someone, On the Road is the first film not to include any other characters from earlier films. It's also the most routine, though it's a fun routine, for sure. I'm definitely hoping the woman who is plotting revenge against Zatoichi is going to reappear in later films.

Zatoichi and the Chest of Gold
(Kazuo Ikehiro, 1964)

The jump in filmmaking from On the Road to Chest of Gold is startling. Every film before this was directed in a serviceable manner - think of them as television episodes rather than cinema and you'll get the idea. There were a handful of flourishes here and there, but mostly the camera's job was to show you what was happening and help you understand the action. Kazuo Ikehiro's take on Zatoichi is akin to Cuaron's take on Harry Potter; he's reading between the lines and improvising in those spaces, while still retaining the basic rhythm and not straying too far from the familiar riff. This makes Chest of Gold the first truly cinematic installment. The script is less appealing than some of the earlier work, however, which keeps this from being my favorite in the series to date. But I'm interested in seeing where the series goes as it gets deeper into the 60s.

Zatoichi's Flashing Sword
(Kazuo Ikehiro, 1964)

Flashing Sword is one of the more violent installments to date - but that's not saying much considering the fact that the early films didn't show blood of any kind. The movie isn't as flashy as its predecessor, but there are some great stylistic flourishes, and one of the best moments in the series involving Ichi killing a bunch of dudes under water. The climax involving dark corridors and candles is also very well-executed, and brings some fresh fighting concepts to a series that in America would be quickly turning into a routine. Although the stories in the Zatoichi films have certainly settled into a formula (as has Shintaro Katsu's performance), there remains something new to offer viewers in each entry, even if you mostly know the dance.

Fight, Zatoichi, Fight!
(Kenji Masumi, 1964)

After a few out-of-the-box installments in Ichi's series, as directed by Kazuo Ikehiro, Kenji Misumi, director of the very first installment, takes back the reins in Fight, Zatoichi, Fight. While the results remain entertaining, this installment is the first to feel extraneous. Maybe it's the absurd baby-centric premise that has been used in countless films before and after (he even pees in his face - comedy!), or maybe it's that the one original fight sequence here - in which Ichi is attacked by men with torches to block out his hearing - fails to electrify and is shot in a rather pedestrian manner. There's still plenty to like here, but I'm hoping the next movie has a little bit more energy.

The Adventures of Zatoichi
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1964)

We are back on track with the ninth feature. Interesting backstory for Zatoichi with a potential reunion with his father combines with a standard but well-executed version of the typical Zatoichi-against-the-machine conflict, but the stand out here is the impeccably shot and totally fucking awesome sword fight in the climax. This is the second kick-ass faceoff in the series to rival anything I've seen in more "artistic" Japanese samurai films, and it's a real pleasure to see such great work in a simple studio product. Another note here: aside from the occasional honorable samurai (which Ichi inevitably has to kill) pretty much every guy in these movies other than Ichi himself is a real jerk. Weren't there any decent men in feudal Japan?

Zatoichi's Revenge
(Akira Inoue, 1965)

Another routine outing, though Akira Inoue does bring some interesting flashback/montage techniques into the mix. Shintaro Katsu gives a very strong performance in this entry, but the fight scenes are standard and the villains are so weak that there's hardly any suspense. A redeemable non-samurai man does finally show up, but he starts out trying to betray Zatoichi and only turns toward the light after being confronted by the swordsman. The entertainment is not as constant, but the spark is still there long enough to carry us through to the next installment.

Zatoichi and the Doomed Man
(Akira Inoue, 1965)

I took a long break from Zatoichi in between the last installment and this one, for no real reason other than life is busy. Coming back to it I am reminded how impressive the series is. This is the second movie in 1965 to feature the character, and yet they managed to deliver a fresh concept that makes this movie stand out from all before it. Here, what felt new was the character who decides to impersonate Zatoichi, a clever plot that builds on the challenges of the earlier movie but also serves as a shrewd reminder of how honorably the blind swordsman uses his powers. I'm not sure if the break renewed my vigor for the concept, but Zatoichi and the Doomed Man was one of the most fun offerings yet.

Zatoichi and the Chess Expert
(Kenji Misumi, 1965)

Despite an interesting premise, this was an average installment in the series that lacked any really compelling moments. I did enjoy Zatoichi's relationship with the chess player in the film, but it never really felt like anything beyond the typical Zatoichi movie.

Zatoichi's Vengeance
(Tokuzo Tanaka, 1966)

Tokuzo Tanaka directed one of my previous favorite movies in the series, The Fugitive, but Zatoichi's Vengeance felt much more routine. The key differentiating feature here was the blind monk that Zatoichi meets, who convinces him that he should not be corrupting the young boy Zatoichi must protect. This is a clever enough take on the series, but it doesn't go very far beyond that. Another good movie - and I probably liked this one slightly more than the last one - but nothing special.

Zatoichi's Pilgrimage
(Kazuo Ikehiro, 1966)

Zatoichi's Pilgrimage is the first movie in the Zatoichi series that I feel genuinely reaches classic status. This is a perfect execution of the concept and a stunningly beautiful movie, both emotionally and technically. The movie makes a statement early on with an opening sequence that ups the ante in terms of gore in the series when a thief gets his hand cut off, but the rest of the movie doesn't maintain this shock value, and instead turns into a confident retelling of the Zatoichi template. Zatoichi's Pilgramage often reminded me of the strongest episodes of my favorite television shows - not the ones where the most significant things happened (although those can often be great, too) but the ones where it feels like everyone associated with the series is firing on all cylinders and the director really gets what's at the core of the series thematically. Tanaka's beautiful cinematography and straight-faced delivery of the story is a reminder what can happen when craftsmen refuse to settle and instead elevate their popular art to graceful levels. If I had hated all of the films up to this point (and I liked all of them) it would have all been worth it for this one.

Zatoichi's Cane Sword
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1967)

How are these still this good? I mean, I know TV shows can be good or even getting better 15 episodes in, but these are 90 minutes and they release two or three every year. Movie sequels get made every few years and are always terrible. Anyway, Zatoichi's Cane Sword doesn't reach the cinematic heights of its immediate predecessor, but it's just as compelling as a narrative. This time, the series focuses on Zatoichi's underrated supporting character, his sword. There's a twist here that matches any plot development that's come before, and the movie as a whole has some great character swings for Ichi. These are all a real pleasure, but they seem to be only warming up 15 in.

Zatoichi the Outlaw
(Satsuo Yamamoto, 1967)

This one was a bit routine, with the only interesting moments coming from a boss who manages to deceive Zatoichi's usually impeccable sense of character and a brief musical montage that feels very much of its time in the best way. The plot is overloaded with characters, perhaps a recognition that the core story is not especially interesting or special within the series, so we get just about every archetype we've seen to date: the evil corrupt bosses, the star-crossed lovers Zatoichi attempts to shepherd, the reformed ronin, etc. Still not a bad movie, but I'd put this near the bottom of the pack.

Zatoichi Challenged
(Kenji Misumi, 1967)

A perfectly serviceable entry in the series, Zatoichi Challenged was neither especially noteworthy nor memorably off. Again Zatoichi is tasked with transporting a child, though thankfully we are saved most of the dumb humor of Zatoichi and a Baby!!! The final fight sequence is especially beautiful and the samurai's change of heart was pulled off rather well, I thought. But there's nothing here to remember or that makes it different from the rest of the series - which, in a way, makes it different from the rest of the series. Zatoichi Challenged is as formulaic as the series gets, which is a pretty good thing.

Zatoichi and the Fugitives
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1968)

Another generic entry, with only a few saving graces: the fight scenes were particularly bloody and the death faces were incredible. Do they have a school for those people? There should be an Academy Award for best death face. Although Zatoichi Challenged was actually pretty good, the last three in the series have taken a notable step down - though I wouldn't put any of them at the very bottom and they are all still pretty entertaining as far as samurai movies go.

Samaritan Zatoichi
(Kenji Misumi, 1968)

And we're back! Samaritan Zatoichi doesn't reach classic status but it is one of the must-see films of the series. Misumi delivers just enough cinematic style and variation in formula to make this installment the best since Zatoichi's Pilgrimage. The best part, though, is how focused the plot is, with minimal side stories and a contained universe of characters, all swirling around Zatoichi in an elaborate dance of corruption and honor that defines the series. This one was a real pleasure.

Zatoichi Meets Yojimbo
(Kihachi Okamoto, 1970)

Zatoichi Meets Yojimbo is a significant departure for the series. First, there are all the superficial differences; it took nearly two years for the film to be released after the previous installment, when previously there had often been two films in one year; the film runs nearly two hours, while most of the series' films clock in at under 90 minutes; and finally the film features another towering figure in samurai cinema: Toshiro Mifune's Yojimbo. Yet the film also feels different. While the basic template of the series remains - in this case, Zatoichi returns to a town he loves only to discover that it has been taken over by evil yakuza - the story is more sprawling, the characters more complex, and the pacing more cinematic and less episodic. Although Zatoichi is certainly still the protagonist, he spends most of the film sharing screen time with Yojimbo, who drives as much of the story as anyone. Obviously, it's a real pleasure to see both of these characters onscreen at once. We don't get to see a true battle between the two (since neither could possibly kill the other) we do get a few great exchanges and some brilliant dialog. The plot might be a little overly complex, and there are a few scenes that probably could have been excised. But overall this film lives up to its promise and kicks the cinematic ambition of the series up a notch, refreshed after its longest break and ready for the homestretch.

Zatoichi Goes to the Fire Festival
(Kenji Misumi, 1970)

BADASS. After a two-year hiatus, the Zatoichi series had a one-two punch in 1970 of a strong crossover with an iconic character and then this, certainly one of the best films in the series and arguably the best overall after Zatoichi's Pilgrimage. This one has everything we expect of a great Zatoichi movie: sullen women pining after Ichi's honor, prideful and petty villains who wield power over towns of peasants, naive men and/or boys who mistakenly choose the path of the yakuza, and Ichi himself, alternately humorous and powerful. But it also does everything the previous installments did so exceptionally well that it seems to be on another level. Ironically, as the series gets closer and closer to its move to TV the films are becoming more and more cinematic. Check the epic bath house fight - a clear influence on Cronenberg's Eastern Promises and every bit as gripping and memorable. Or the climactic sequence, an incredible mix of impressive suspense (the dice without marks) and stunning visuals (Ichi in the fire). The villain, too, rivals any of the previous heavies for a place as the greatest in the series, a blind man who has consolidated power and fears Ichi's similar drive. If all of this wasn't enough, we get Tatsuya Nakadai, one of Japanese cinema greatest stars, as a ronin desperate to avenge his wife and convince Ichi was her undoing. If I had to recommend only one Zatoichi film to someone who had never seen one, it would be this. It's just that good.

Zatoichi Meets the One-Armed Man
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1971)

This installment was one of the most fun from a stylistic perspective. A guest appearance by Hong Kong kung-fu star Jimmy Wang Yu not only gives the series a bit of hand-to-hand combat to mix in with traditional samurai action - it allows the filmmakers to have some fun with the usual flourishes found in that region's cinematic grammar. This means awesome rack zooms, quick cuts matched with impossible stunts, and sparse, even abstract set design. The story itself is passable but certainly beside the point, as everything leads up to the big showdown between Zatoichi and the one-armed swordsman. All in all another fine 1970s entry that distinguishes itself from anything else in the series.

Zatoichi at Large
(Kazuo Mori, 1972)

Oh dear, another baby. Although it is definitely handled better than it has been in previous films, this has become such a contrived driver of conflict in these movies that it was disappointing to see it in the later editions. All of the previous films of the 70s have been so different from what came before, so this routine entry was a bit of a letdown. Still, there were components here that weren't strictly routine, the most amusing of which was the final, last-second fight - fit in as if the movie was ending and the filmmakers thought "oh no, we forgot to close that plot thread!" The least impressive film since Zatoichi and the Fugitives four years earlier.

Zatoichi In Desperation
(Shintaro Katsu, 1972)

This is the first film in the series to be directed by star Shintaro Katsu and the actor's enthusiasm and inexperience both shine through. The film is visually busy, making for a constantly engaging installment but without any real heft behind it. He certainly has some great moments behind the camera, but they rarely serve the story, which has another fairly routine central conflict (Zatoichi accidentally causes a woman's death, leading him to make amends by freeing her daughter from prostitution). The difference here - and the thing that allows the movie to join most of its 70s associates as a singular entry in the series - is that the film is almost oppressively dark. Just the fact that the woman isn't especially interested in leaving the oldest profession is something that would not have happened in early Zatoichi films, where just about everyone who isn't yakuza or government is pure of heart. What Zatoichi is up against here is notably more complex than what we've seen in earlier films, and so too is the challenge bigger at the end when his hands are pierced, the kind of injury we've never seen from the seemingly invincible hero. Add in a dead kid as a sideplot and you've got a pretty depressing popcorn movie. But after 24 of these movies, seeing something different can be just as enjoyable as seeing the same routine executed more efficiently.

Zatoichi's Conspiracy
(Kimiyoshi Yasuda, 1973)

A fine ending to the series. Although the film is rather typical, the central conflict carries an emotional heft that earlier films lacked, and Zatoichi's journey - while unfinished - feels like it has come to a resting place. There are a few really great fight scenes here, and the candle sword trick is pretty cool. Overall, the films in the 70s showed a huge maturation from the earlier phase. Certainly these movies were more explicitly sexual and violent (blood spurts everywhere in the last few movies), but they also featured more nuanced characters (relatively speaking) and bigger threats. While the earlier films had settled into an episodic rhythm, where each movie could be subbed out for any other, these last six films each felt like they were trying to separate themselves from the pack, so it seems surprising that this was the last stretch before the series made the jump to TV.

Thoughts on the series:

Zatoichi is wholly deserving of its place in the Collection. These movies represent not just a significant chapter in Japanese film history, but one of the most impressive runs of any serial. Although there are certainly some mediocre entries in the series, none of them are truly bad and all of them would make perfectly decent standalone films. And then there are the must-sees: the first film, Zatoichi and the Chest of Gold, Zatoichi's Pilgrimage, Samaritan Zatoichi, Zatoichi Meets Yojimbo, and Zatoichi Goes to the Fire Festival are the movies every film lover, and especially every lover of samurai movies, should not miss. This was a massive undertaking, but it was also never a chore and I could certainly see myself going back to these at some point in the future (especially with all of them up on Hulu). This is the sort of set Criterion does best, and I'm glad they are still doing it.

#655: Pierre Etaix

(Pierre Etaix, 1963-1971)

Criterion's Pierre Etaix boxset is going to be a revelation for just about anyone interested in digging into it. As a filmmaker, Etaix ranks somewhere between "occasionally listed as influential" and "totally forgotten," especially considering the fact that he hails from one of the highest profile cinematic countries. But a combination of rights issues, poor championing, and a career that existed primarily during an era when his light touch was not in line with the dominant radical tastes of the cinematic elite has left Etaix in a position totally undeserving of his talent. This set should reverse that.

While I wouldn't put Etaix on quite the same level as Tati, the comparison is not without merit. Both directors have relatively small catalogs, and both operate in light, mostly visual humor with a sharp satirical bend that gives their work more heft. At his best, most specifically with Yoyo, the absolute masterpiece in the set and a solid candidate for best comedy of the 60s, Etaix can rival Tati in his deft delivery and execution. Some jokes in these films are truly sublime - as a part-time comedian, I found myself in awe of Etaix's ideas and ability to execute them multiple times. This is comedy in its highest form.

Of the five full-length films included here, the only one I didn't especially care for was The Land of Milk and Honey. After a promising opening, the footage Etaix shot never really comes together. And his talent lies in his impeccable execution so much that the documentary format takes away from his perfectionism, making him less special. His four fiction full-length are pretty consistently enjoyable, even As Long As You've Got Your Health, which is essentially a series of mostly silent shorts cobbled together. As a whole body of work, it's extremely impressive, and while his style is somewhat tied to his era, it would have been really wonderful to see him evolve into the 70s, 80s, and even 90s (Etaix is still alive, and contributes to the box). As it stands, this must be one of the most underrated comedic voices in film. Don't overlook this set.

#672: 3 Films by Roberto Rossellini Starring Ingrid Bergman

(Roberto Rossellini, 1950-54)

Rossellini is about to become the only director with two spine-numbered boxsets in the Collection, a designation that's well-deserved. The director is often overlooked on lists of the best filmmakers ever - even Italy has produced a number of filmmakers that often get mentioned before him, such as Fellini, Antonioni, and De Sica - but his influence on modern film, especially in Europe, cannot be overstated. The three films in this boxset were made during his most notorious era, when he met Ingrid Bergman and began an affair with her, despite the fact that both were married to other people at the time.

3 Films by Roberto Rossellini has no chance of measuring up to its cousin and Criterion's #500 spine, Roberto Rossellini's War Trilogy, which contains three of the most significant films in history. The movie that comes closest is Journey to Italy, the third film in the set and ironically the least ambitious. Although it shares a late epiphany with Stromboli and some drawing room melodrama with Europe '51, the film is much more mature and restrained than either of the other films in this box. It's also a deep and complex examination of marriage and generally knowing a person too well. Kiarostami was heavily influenced by the film when he made Certified Copy, one of the great films of the last decade, and I wouldn't be surprised if it ranked high on Antonioni's list either.

Criterion is still doing a giant service with this set. All three of these films have been unfairly neglected (none were originally hits) and the only available prints or discs were in shoddy condition. I'm excited to see the finished product, especially with regards to Journey to Italy, which I would say is one of the great overlooked films of the post-war era.

Links to individual reviews:

Stromboli
Europe '51
Journey to Italy

#495: The Golden Age of Television

(Various, 1953-58)

It's nice to know as I come to the final five films that have been released by Criterion up to this point that there are still major surprises to be had. The Golden Age of Television is certainly one of those - a great boxset that makes a powerful case for its grandiose title. The whole set is brilliant and powerful stuff, both in what's on screen and the context surrounding it. We wouldn't even have these remarkable stagings if it wasn't for kinescopes, essentially films taken of a monitor showing the broadcast in action, since these live performances were not shot on film and were simply broadcast over the air to affiliates all over the country. With only a couple of networks at the time, virtually everyone in America was watching these, making them the cultural equivalent of a super bowl every night.

Of course, unlike the super bowl and most universally watched shows these days, all of the episodes that make up The Golden Age of Television were fictional, essentially plays put on television and written by major talents, the most notable of which was Rod Serling, most famous for creating and writing most of The Twilight Zone and still one of the great television writers in history. Serling wrote three of the eight teleplays that make up this set, and they are probably my three favorites (though Marty, written by another great, Paddy Chayefsky, is also spectacular). Patterns, Requiem for a Heavyweight, and The Comedian all take on major cultural institutions of the 1950s (big business, boxing, and television, respectively) and have no problem tearing them down and forcing the viewer to question their mindless consumption and acceptance of each. But they are most impressive for their vivid characters, the way he manages to make even the most heartless person in each a three-dimensional person with believable and even somewhat sympathetic motivations. Serling also benefited - as did the other writers in this set - from a group of memorable and at times brilliant performances, particularly from Jack Palance, who is heartbreaking in Requiem, and Mickey Rooney, who is a bit of a revelation for me in The Comedian.

Still, it is hard to believe that this was mainstream art in the 1950s, especially when you add The Days of Wine and Roses, a pitch-black story about alcoholism that pulls few punches, to Serling's three. There are sexual elements and subversive themes in many of them; most obviously Patterns runs so counter to what we perceive of today as 1950s American values that it's hard to believe that the teleplay was so popular that they actually "reran" the performance a year later by getting everyone back together and putting on another show (fortunately, the performance included here is the original).

The other three telecasts included here, The Wind from the South, Bang the Drum Slowly, and No Time for Sergeants, were still very good, but fail to transcend their time. The Wind from the South is a beautiful romance story, but tilts toward the era's melodrama a bit too much to maintain its freshness. Similarly, No Time for Sergeants is hopelessly dated now, even if there are bits and pieces that stay funny. Comedy is a difficult genre for aging, especially on TV, and Andy Griffifth's "aw shucks" routine has seen better days, even if he was clearly an influence on Kenneth the page from 30 Rock. Bang the Drum Slowly is another melodrama, made more interesting by the inclusion of a young Paul Newman, but the film just doesn't have the same crackle of energy Serling's work does.

Overall, this is a spectacular box that makes a strong case for its title (even if I do think the golden age of television is really the last decade or so). Like so many box sets from Criterion, this is an historical document of invaluable relevance in both television history and film history (many of these plays went on to be filmed, while cast members, directors, and writers also went on to big-screen careers). I can't really recommend it highly enough.

#528: 3 Silent Classics by Josef von Sternberg

(Josef von Sternberg, 1927-28)

This was one of my biggest Criterion surprises in recent memory. I guess I should have been more interested in the set based on how much I loved The Scarlet Empress, but the serious looking fellow on the cover made me think the set was going to be rather dreary. I was totally wrong - this is one of my favorite boxsets in the Collection.

Of the three films, I have to say I loved The Last Command the most. While it's story and emotional arc are a bit dated, the effectiveness of the storytelling and Jannings's performance made it feel relevant and still impressive in a contemporary context. Meanwhile, Underworld transcended its historical importance as an early gangster picture and, like The Docks of New York, which is far superior to similar working class melodramas of its era, became a stellar example of the craft of cinema - not to mention a fun and surprise-filled ride!

One note about the packaging here, though: while the set they put together is really beautiful. I think the cover designs - all portraits - do a disservice to the motion and vitality of von Sternberg's vision. As someone who has seen the films, I think incorporating more of this energy would more accurately reflect the experience of viewing, in much the same way the Qatsi set was able to present those films. It's a very well-designed set, for sure, I just happen to think it's not 100% representative of the work it contains.

Still, overall I really can't recommend this boxset enough, and it's a shame that more people haven't been exposed to it (it's in just 450 or so collections on the site - for whatever that's worth). Obviously most silent film is an acquired taste - in many ways it's a completely separate artform from talkies - but I would be surprised if anyone who has liked at least one silent film in the past wouldn't be blown away by these. Please seek these out if you are at all intrigued.

Links to individual reviews:

Underworld
The Last Command
The Docks of New York

#639: The Qatsi Trilogy

(Godfrey Reggio, 1983-2002)

When it comes out in two weeks, The Qatsi Trilogy will be the second "trilogy of life" that Criterion releases in as many months. The two trilogies are of course totally different, but represent the impressive scope of the Collection - a provocative sex series sits just a handful of films away from a wordless and often human-less documentary set with roughly the same title.

They are hardly worth comparing, but in case anyone was wondering this is certainly the more essential set. In fact, despite its weaker third film and the need to see all three on as big of a screen as possible, this just might be the most essential thing Criterion has released this year - only Godard's Weekend really comes close in terms of pure significance and accomplishment.

Of course, Koyaanisqatsi is the stand-out here, and, while I realize I'm getting all proclaimy up in here, I think it deserves to be considered one of the greatest documentaries ever made. It certainly joins Hoop Dreams, Harlan County U.S.A., and Night and Fog as exemplary offerings from the genre in the Collection. But unlike some other sets where it's a shame that one of the movies is not available on its own, this is a great series to have together. Even if Naqoyqatsi is less effective, it's still an interesting experience, and Powaqqatsi is maybe the most breathtakingly beautiful of the three.

Bottom line if you're considering this set, if you have a great system at home and don't mind sensory experiences outside the conventional narrative framework, this is a no-brainer. Within the larger context of Criterion, this should be a stand-out release in their collection for years to come.

Links to individual reviews:

Koyaanisqatsi
Powaqqatsi
Naqoyqatsi

#508: Letters from Fontainhas: Three Films by Pedro Costa

(Pedro Costa, 1997-2006)

Letters from Fontainhas is the kind of set only Criterion would release. Without a company like this, these three films would be issued in bare-bones, poorly designed separate discs - if they were released Stateside at all. To the market's credit, there's a pretty good case for this fate - there aren't many people who would want this box set, and even those people probably wouldn't argue that they watch it on a regular basis (it's only found in 200 or so collections on the Criterion site right now - 500+ is more typical).

So why is this informal trilogy worth releasing? On quality, these are vital films that say something desperately unique about the nature of cinema at the turn of the century. They demand attention from film historians and makers alike, and even if they are difficult - and they are certainly that - there is something invigorating about their grammar. As a product, Criterion is not in the business of releasing (only) films that will sell well or are guaranteed to generate a huge response from cinephiles. It's in Criterion's best interest as a company to release films that reinforce their brand as a continued arbiter of significant film. Letters from Fontainhas easily satisfies this motivation - it's a stunning collection from a lesser-known but extremely well-respected director from an under-exposed film industry.

But as a contribution to the home-viewing film audience, this release's worth is self-explanatory. Costa has received so little attention that even Manohla Darghis, in her NYT review of Colossal Youth, admitted that she had not seen any of Costa's previous films. This is exactly the kind of unsexy release that Criterion almost seems to have an obligation to produce - a beautifully rendered, impeccably packaged collection of movies that never would otherwise receive the kind of loving high-profile release they deserve, put out simply because it is good and worthy of that release.

Watching the films in order is even more rewarding than the individual films. As a triptych, they represent the evolution of an artist's approach to an otherworldly setting. All three have similar difficult pacing and deliberate camera work, but each film is clearly distinct. Ossos is certainly the most conventional. In Vanda's Room is a conscious rejection of this conventionality, exploding into a messy but intoxicatingly ambitious statement. Colossal Youth is the culmination of this journey and the most fully realized of the three, the moment when Costa emerged from his experimentation with a fully formed and wholly original cinematic grammar.

I want to see all three of these movies again, but I think I will wait until I can see them on the big screen. Despite the digital nature of the last two, these are big films meant to be shared in the darkness, and demand attention to deliver their rewards. In Vanda's Room in particular is a difficult viewing at home (and probably would be in theaters), but so are Solaris, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and The Thin Red Line. What's so impressive about Costa is that he manages to project the same epic potential with seemingly intimate and quietly ambitious subjects.

Ultimately, this box set sells itself - either you are the kind of person likely to pick this up and fall in love with Costa's voice, or you are part of the large majority of even Criterion loyalists who will pass over it for something a little more willing to give up its secrets. Both groups are right, which is what makes Criterion's release so welcome and impressive.

Links to individual reviews:

Ossos
In Vanda's Room
Colossal Youth

#631: The Trilogy of Life

(Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1971-1974)

The Trilogy of Life is the first of two big box sets Criterion will be releasing for the Holiday season, and it's arguably the higher-profile one. This would no doubt be endlessly amusing to Pasolini, as he imagines Americans all over the country exchanging his most sexual works in plastic-wrapped high-end packaging under the Christmas tree. This is not the most typical gift for the season that I can think of, but it is certainly one of the most awkward.

Of the three films, I certainly liked Arabian Nights the most, although The Decameron is probably the most entertaining and accessible film in the bunch. Those two films are head-and-shoulders above The Canterbury Tales, which is so disappointing that I'm sure it would not have received a Criterion release had it not been tied to the other two, Pasolini or not.

I am beginning to appreciate Pasolini as an iconoclast, but I have yet to be truly impressed with any of his movies. I doubt I will start with Salo, but I'll try as best I can to keep an open mind...

Links to individual reviews:

The Decameron
The Canterbury Tales
Arabian Nights

#203: The BRD Trilogy

(Rainer Werner Fassbinder, 1978-1982)

Of any boxset I've watched during this adventure, the widest gaps in viewing each film came with the BRD Trilogy. I first saw The Marriage of Maria Braun in college, then watched it a couple years later to see if I had under-appreciated it (I had, but not by too much). Veronika Voss was one of the first films I watched when beginning this blog, way back in January, 2010. For some reason, Criterion seems to have streaming rights for that film (I watched it on Netflix, but it's now also on their Hulu Plus page) but not for Lola, which is why it took me this long to get around to completing the series.

This broad timeline makes it a little more difficult to reflect on the overall series, but I think three things unquestionably unite the set: tragic female protagonists, a setting in post-WWII Germany, and a pure love for film of the era, particularly in the Sirk-style colors of Lola and the noir-drenched visuals of Veronika Voss. The essay accompanying the set makes a compelling case for the series as metaphoric steps towards a prosperous Germany unshackled from its past. This is certainly present in all of these films, especially in the ending of each. But I like to think of this trilogy as primarily cinematic in intention - not an empty stylistic experiment like Grindhouse, but a purposeful deconstruction of the era through film. Fassbinder has always seemed to me to be the pulpiest of any high-art filmmaker, and while I might have enjoyed World on a Wire more, this set is where his grandest ambitions are fully represented. I might not really love any of these films, but I don't think you can say you've completed a grand overview of cinematic history without watching them. In many ways, they define post-war German cinema.

Here are the links to individual reviews:
The Marriage of Maria Braun (no review)
Veronika Voss
Lola

#250: John Cassavetes: Five Films

(John Cassavetes, 1959-1976)

This set is one of the hardest for me to talk about in the Collection because I will never be able to do it justice. My favorite John Cassavetes movie is still Rosemary's Baby, and I doubt it will be eclipsed any time soon by any of the films Cassavetes directed himself. I just haven't found a way into his work, even if I have enjoyed a handful of them a great deal, with the one I had seen before, A Woman Under the Influence being my favorite.

I talked more about the phenomenon of writing about something that didn't have a major impact on the writer in my Opening Night post, so I'll just say that just because I wouldn't ever be interested in buying this set doesn't mean I don't think Criterion should have released it, and it certainly makes for an impressive collection. Unlike Ozu or Dreyer, Cassavetes remains distant for me, a hugely praised icon in film that I still don't love. You aren't going to love every piece of art in the canon or every artist that's been lionized, so the important thing is just to continue keeping an open mind about even work you've already been exposed to and hope you can get the most out of whatever has been produced.

Links to the individual reviews:

Shadows
Faces
A Woman Under the Influence (no review)
The Killing of a Chinese Bookie
Opening Night
A Constant Forge

#369: Paul Robeson: Portraits of the Artist

(Various, 1925-1942)

OK, here's a quandary. This boxset contains individually numbered films - but only half of the set is numbered. Criterion is uneven when it comes to numbering boxsets. Most sets are like The Adventures of Antoine Doinel or the Rossellini War Trilogy set, where each film is numbered, along with a number for the overall set. However, this is not always the case; the great Rebel Samurai boxset has individually numbered movies but no overall boxset number; the Golden Age of Television set has an overall spine number but no individual numbers for the films inside. But no boxset is more strangely numbered than this Robeson set. Each disc contains two films, but only the first of each gets a spine number. The set is arranged based on a connection between the two films rather than by any consistent order, and the choice to give a spine number to one of the films and not the other seems rather arbitrary - really, the whole set should just be one overall number.

So the question is what constitues having seen this set? There have been plenty of spines that I've checked off without watching all of the supplements, even feature length ones. And on a film like The Leopard, which has a full English version, or The Complete Mr. Arkadin, which has multiple versions of a "finished" product, some might say that unless you've seen all versions of the film, you haven't really seen the full release.

I think there's an argument to be made for both sides - and really is there anything more insider and nit-picky than this dilemma? But for now I'm going with the idea that once you've seen each spine number in a boxset, you've seen the overall boxset. That said, there are still three films in this set I haven't seen, and I plan on circling back around and watching them when I can, even if I didn't particularly enjoy the films I saw (though the Robeson documentary is excellent, and should be the starting point for anyone interested in the set). On the whole, I thought The Emperor Jones was the best film in the set, and I enjoyed watching Body and Soul. But again, this set is mainly relevant for its historical importance within the context of film history. No medium is more tied to the 20th century than film, and within Robeson's catalog many of the most important fights and themes of that century are both intentionally and inadvertently explored. This is a set for historians perhaps more than film lovers, though of course they are often one and the same.

Links to individual reviews:

The Emperor Jones
Body and Soul
Sanders of the River
The Proud Valley

#124: Carl Theodor Dreyer Box Set

(Carl Theodor Dreyer, 1943-1964)

I was about to write that this is a love-it-or-hate-it boxset, but I wrote this instead because if you hate these Dreyer films, but love cinema, you really need to watch them again. And again. And again until you get them right. Even if Ordet is not especially my type of film thematically speaking, all three of these masterpieces are stunning cinematic accomplishments. They should be required viewing for anyone interested in film.

Of the three (and I'm not counting the documentary about Dreyer that comes with this set), my favorite was undoubtedly Gertrud. This is true not just because it was the most interesting to me from a plot perspective (and dwelled the least on overtly religious elements), but because the films seemed progressively more technically accomplished - an impressive, almost unimaginable feat considering how well-executed Day of Wrath is. Although there are a great many filmmakers who are easily identifiable by their signature style, Dreyer's appears to me to be the least easily replicated. There are probably only a handful of films in history that could not have been made by any other director. Gertrud is quite simply impossible to imagine without Dreyer's hand, not because it would be different in tone, less pronounced in its visual style, or thematically altered, but because it would very clearly cease to be the film that it is in any regard. Gertrud is practically about Dreyer as a director, yet he never overshadows what's on screen. It's a brilliant, brilliant movie.

Still, they are all brilliant, and while this isn't my favorite boxset in the collection, it's probably the first one I'd give to someone who told me they wanted to become a serious cinephile. Dreyer doesn't quite reach the apex of film as an artform for me, but he just might be the purest representation of the auteur and film's ability to manifest its creator's inexplicable spirituality.

Links to the individual reviews:

Day of Wrath
Ordet
Gertrud
My Metier

#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

#342: Six Moral Tales

(Eric Rohmer, 1963-72)

Six Moral Tales is not meant to be a wide-ranging anthology encompassing all moral guidelines, as its title might imply. Instead, they are variations on a theme, best described as stories about a man who has given himself to one woman (either explicitly or mentally) who is tempted by another. All of these men (occasionally through arguably not their own choice) eventually reject these temptations and return to their original object of affection. The similarities between the films do not end there - Rohmer's protagonists certainly share a typical masculine narcissism, though they manifest it in different ways, while his women often attempt to demand their own identities, even as they are being objectified by men who are using them to define themselves. But the movies each present a unique take on these themes, and the feel and intellectual thrust of each is notably and refreshingly original.

Of the six films, I think My Night at Maud's is unquestionably the most impressive. But I think Claire's Knee is also a major work, and La Collectionneuse is very underrated. This is one of Criterion's great boxsets, and hopefully they will be able to produce similar collections of Rohmer's other series in the future - I would at least like to see any of his other films represented! For now, though, this set is a great introduction to his work and one of the great results of France's New Wave.

Links to individual reviews:

The Bakery Girl of Monceau
Suzanne's Career
My Night at Maud's
La collectionnuese
Claire's Knee
Love in the Afternoon

#471: Pigs, Pimps & Prostitutes: 3 Films by Shohei Imamura

(Shohei Imamura, 1961-1964)

As you may have guessed, Pigs, Pimps & Prostitutes is all about one movie for me, Intentions of Murder. What's so rewarding about stumbling upon this film from a personal perspective is the unlikelihood of finding it without first taking on this seemingly unending task of watching every movie in the collection. Even assuming I would have heard about the film or its director is a stretch considering Imamura's relatively low profile in the US. But  Intentions of Murder is also the third film in a boxset that consists of two other films I respected a great deal but didn't especially like, so the chance of actually sticking with the set all the way through so I could watch a two-and-a-half hour movie about woman who is sexually assaulted is even less likely.

In general, it's not especially surprising that this is one of the more overlooked boxsets in the collection. Imamura's work is not as obviously allegorical or universal as that of Hiroshi Teshigahara, and his emphasis on female protagonists certainly hurts his accessibility in a male-centric film community. But Criterion's work here - both aesthetically and technically - is no less impressive than in their Teshigahara set, and it's a reminder that they insist on a high level of quality across their catalog regardless of the core feature's profile. The fact that I enjoyed Intentions of Murder as much as I did makes me only that much more excited at the prospect of more undiscovered gems to come.

Individual reviews:
Pigs and Battleships
The Insect Woman
Intentions of Murder