Agnès Varda - Gleaner of Everyday Life

All film buffs know the French Nouvelle Vague (or New Wave) of course—even more casual enthusiasts are familiar with the works of Goddard, Truffaut, Demy et al.  But there is one of the New Wave who’s still with us, tho she isn’t as well known by the public at large.  That relative obscurity is a shame—at least—because her works are as filled with high artistry & inspiration as those of her more famous colleagues.  That filmmaker is Agnès Varda.

Eberle & I have been on an Agnès Varda spree of late—a whirlwind of beautiful & inspired films.  Actually, until a few months ago, neither of us had seen any of Varda’s films except for Sans toit ni loi—Vagabond as it’s called in the States or Without Roof or Law (a literal translation) in other English speaking countries.  We both saw the film at Vinegar Hill Theater in Charlottesville, VA; I recall that I found the film beautifully made & powerful—but so powerful as to be harrowing.  Eberle says quite straightforwardly that Vagabond changed her life.  I found it quite interesting that when we saw Varda’s 2008 cinematic autobiography, Les plages d'Agnès (in English, The Beaches of Agnes), she talks about how Sans toit ni loi was born out of rage—rage at the marginalized & oppressed condition of women (it’s telling that Varda discusses the film against a filmed backdrop of women’s rights protests), but also about her marginalization as almost the only woman, along with Marguerite Duras, within French cinema. 

There is no question that Sans toit ni loi is a great film, but it may not be the best introduction to Varda’s work—at least in my opinion (Eberle might disagree with me on this).  During our recent Varda watching spree, we’ve seen La Pointe-Courte (Varda’s debut film in 1955), L'opéra-mouffe (The Diary of a Pregnant Woman, 1958), Cléo de 5 à 7 (Cleo from 5 to 7 from 1962), Les glaneurs et la glaneuse (The Gleaners & I, 2002) & Les plages d'Agnès.  In these films we were struck by Varda’s focus on the ordinary objects & appurtenances of everyday life—her eye for detail—& a focus that can morph readily from surreality to candid realism.  Varda’s films also celebrate process, whether following the real time movement of a woman awaiting a possibly serious diagnosis in Cléo de 5 à 7 or her detailing the process of gleaning in Les glaneurs et la glaneuse—in case you don’t know, gleaning is picking up what is left over after a harvest.  & despite her treatment of serious themes, her films are always inviting to watch.

Agnès Varda began her artistic career as a photographer, & you can see this background in the composition of her shots—many stills from her films would be art photographs in their own right.  She combines this with a thorough feminist vision & a fierce love of life combined with a keen sense of social justice.  I’ve added four clips from her films—I know that’s a lot, but I’ve selected short ones (& sorry—the definition on the Vagabond clip isn’t so great.)  The clips should give at least some sense of these characteristics.

Some of Ms Varda’s 47 films are available on DVD.  The Criterion Collection has issued a must have set called 4 by Agnès Varda (La Pointe Courte, Cléo from 5 to 7, Le bonheur, Vagabond), & The Beaches of Agnes, The Gleaners & I & Vagabond also are available.  All of these except for Le bonheur are also current NetFlix selections.

Hope you find the clips intriguing, & please do check out the marvelous films of Agnès Varda.

Béla Fleck: Throw Down Your Heart

Is there any sound that conjures old-time Americana more than the plunking of a banjo on a tune like “Old Joe Clark?” Imagine that song being played by one of the pre-eminent banjo players of his day, surrounded by other virtuosic musicians. Sounds like a bluegrass hoedown, doesn’t it. Well, not quite—not if it’s the scene in the fabulous documentary Throw Down Your Heart featuring banjoist Béla Fleck & Mali’s Jatta family, a group that features not only drums & percussion, but also the akonting, the three string west African instrument that is considered the banjo’s most direct ancestor. (Note: if you saw this film in the theater & don’t recall this scene, it’s because it’s included in the DVD’s generous selection of bonus performances).

For those who aren’t familiar with Mr Fleck, he’s truly a banjo maestro playing in the 3-finger bluegrass style developed by Earl Scruggs. However, Fleck has long ago expanded far beyond bluegrass for forays into jazz, classical, pop & world music; in fact, Fleck has been nominated for grammy awards in nine categories, more than any other musician. Fleck names his main musical influences as Chick Corea, Charlie Parker & Earl Scruggs, so you get the idea that his musical tastes are inclusive; he’s also recorded with a wide variety of musicians—from Newgrass mandolin wiz Sam Bush to tabla virtuoso Zakir Hussain.

Fleck’s idea in the Throw Down Your Heart project is to connect the banjo back to its African roots. The instrument that was variously referred to as the banjar & the banza in colonial America was brought to the U.S. thru the slave trade, & for quite some time remained solely the instrument of enslaved Africans. In fact, the films title comes from a phrase used in Tanzania, from which slaves were usually transported to the east, to Arabic countries. The phrase means to leave your heart behind, because you’ll never see your native land again. Fleck composed a song called “Throw Down Your Heart,” & he plays this (again in the bonus material) in scenes filmed both on the shores of the Indian Ocean & the Atlantic. It’s a moving piece of music—Fleck is capable of making the banjo a surprisingly lyrical instrument; sometimes you’d almost swear you were listening to a jazz guitar player.

But one of the many great aspects of this film is that it’s not all about Béla Fleck—it’s about the music & the instruments, & about how the music made on these very different instruments & in these very different styles can interact. It also occasionally highlights how the different musical cultures can’t quite connect—for instance, there’s a scene in which Fleck is accompanying an all-woman singing group in which the banjo really does seem out-of-place, despite Fleck’s artistry. The film also underlines some very basic differences between African music & western music—despite the banjo’s ultimate African origins, its current incarnation in bluegrass is very much based in European & U.S. folk styles, & Fleck’s virtuosity on the instrument is also based in the western tradition of long melodic phrases & the ability to play difficult, fast passages with ease. This contrasts with the African music, which is based on a virtuosity of patterns—patterns that are altered in concistently intriguing ways to keep the song moving forward, but patterns that are based on a multiplicity of rhythms. Our musical shorthand for this is “riffs,” but the rock & roll or even blues notions of riffs are pretty straightforward in comparison. When Fleck has trouble fitting in with someone’s music, it’s because of the rhythmic complexity.

It’s fortunate for the documentary that Fleck is able to show all sides of the musical interactions; it deepens the film greatly. But I should stress that the vast majority of the music in both the film itself & the bonus material works gloriously. Fleck’s musical interaction with Tanzanian singer & thumb pianist Anania Ngoliga provides transcendent moments, as does his playing with Malian dgoni player Bassekou Kouyate; the dgoni is another banjo ancestor. Malian singer Oumou Sangaré performs her song “The Worried Songbird” with Fleck accompanying her on banjo, & this is startlingly beautiful. These are just a few highlights: a couple of others worth mentioning: Ruth Akello, a Ugandan woman thumb pianist—this is apparently such a gender anomoly that people believed (in her words) “God wanted to create me like a boy—that’s why I play like that;" & the giant marimba in Uganda’s Nakisenyi village—what a magnificent instrument!

I’ve seen some world music documentaries in which the filmmakers &/or western musicians seem to be co-opting the traditional music for their own purposes or glorification, but that’s never the case in Throw Down Your Heart. Fleck is a truly engaging presence on film, because he comes across as a person who hasn’t allowed his prodigious talent to go to his head; he lets his vulnerability show, whether he’s playing beautifully, or baffled (check out his dancing in Uganda!), or in awe of his fellow musicians.

Throw Down Your Heart had a limited theatrical run, but it's now available on DVD & you can queue it up on Netflix. Whether your interest is the banjo or world music or Africa or documentary film making or just plain great music, this is a film you shouldn't miss! You can get a short sample from the trailer posted below:



UPDATE: I was very gratified to receive an email this afternoon from John Bonini of New Video Digital. Mr Bonini mentioned that Throw Down Your Heart is available on Itunes here, & that there is a Facebook Fan Page at this link.

Octoberflix #4 – Laugh, Clown, Laugh

What better way to end our Octoberflix series than with a film starring an actor who also starred in one of the very greatest horror films (& for my money, one of the great films) ever made: Lon Chaney, Sr., whose role as the Phantom in the 1925 Phantom of the Opera would by itself have been enough to assure his lasting fame. However, Chaney made many films, & a number of them are certifiable masterpieces. According to IMDB, Chaney may have acted in 161 films, possibly beginning as early as 1912, but certainly by 1913, when he was credited for appearing in The Ways of Fate (this seems like a particularly Chaneyesque title). His career ended in 1930 with a “talkie” re-make of 1925’s film The Unholy Three—sadly, he died at age 47 from bronchial lung cancer that had developed following a 1929 bout with pneumonia. In that almost 20 year career, however, Chaney created some of the most memorable film characters ever, & one of his best is Tito Beppi, in the 1928 Laugh, Clown, Laugh.

The film’s narrative has the feel of a fairy tale or Ur-story—a story that is altogether familiar even if we’ve never encountered it in a specific manifestation. Chaney, playing the traveling clown Tito Beppi, one day discovers a very young girl who has been abandoned by her parents. Tito immediately decides that he & his partner, Simon (played by Bernard Siegel) should raise the girl, arguing with Simon (who opposes the idea) that her parents left the child “for the saints,” & “what the saints offer, sinners can’t refuse.” It’s also clear in their first scene together that Tito is completely enchanted with the girl, & when he decides to name the girl Simonetta, Simon relents.

The story then cuts ahead to Simonetta’s adolescent years, & she—played by a 15-year-old Loretta Young, in her first major film role—has grown into a young beauty. Tito recognizes Simonetta’s transition toward womanhood, but he is profoundly perplexed by it, & by the feelings this stirs in him. The remainder of the film explores how Tito struggles with those feelings, & his ongoing anguish of love for a much younger woman who he raised as a daughter. As such, the narrative is disturbing—of course, many of Chaney’s best roles involved anguished & disturbing characters, many of which were physically deformed in some way—most famously in Quasimodo of the 1923 Hunchback of Notre Dame—but in this case the deformity Tito suffers is emotional. While Chaney’s brilliant portrayal renders Tito’s torment in an almost visceral, but ultimately compassionate, manner, he also makes it clear in subtle ways that this torment springs from his inability to form a relationship with Simonetta as an adult. In the film’s penultimate scene, we see Tito—now with gray hair—looking over his mementos of Simonetta, & all of these are tokens of her girlhood: a doll, a toy chicken, a ballet shoe she wore when younger (Simonetta had joined with Tito & Simon as a tightrope walker).

The trope of the clown who can make everyone laugh but cannot laugh himself is an old one—Chaney had done it very successfully in another of his great films, He Who Gets Slapped from 1924—but thru the power of Chaney’s portrayal, & the power of the film overall, this subject doesn’t seem in the least trite, but rather extraordinarily moving. At one point, Tito visits a neurologist because he is weeping compulsively. The neurologist (without any apparent insight from Tito) correctly diagnoses the problem as “hopelessness in love,” & advises Tito to win the girl “without delay.” Here Chaney reveals dramatically how Tito realizes there are legitimate & serious reasons why he shouldn’t pursue this passion: the great age discrepancy (& of course Simonetta will very shortly have a suitor her own age) & also because their relationship mirrors that of a father & daughter. The neurologist takes Chaney out to the balcony & they look across the street toward a poster advertising the act of a clown named Flik. The doctor says Chaney should see the clown perform, because Flik would make him laugh. Chaney answers, with the sort of anguished expression that few other actors could convey, that he could never laugh at that man’s act—& after a pause, the caption comes on screen: “Because I am Flik!”

Although this is Chaney’s film, the other performers all are first rate—Siegel as his clown partner, Simon; in fact Siegel & Chaney have an excellent onscreen rapport; Nils Asther as the young suitor whose transformation from rake to true lover we grudgingly accept; & Loretta Young as Simonetta. Tho only a teenager, Young brings a dimensionality to her characterization, & we can understand thru her Simonetta’s own torment at becoming an adult & dealing with the awakenings of sexual desire. One would also have to give credit to director Herbert Brenon, as the film’s pacing & staging are all superb. There is a famous story about the film involving Brenon, Young & Chaney. It seems that Brenon was a notorious taskmaster, & that he was quite cruel in the way he spoke to Young—but only when Chaney was not on the set. Chaney found out about this, & for the duration of the filming made a point of being on the set during all of Loretta Young’s scenes, whether he was involved in them or not.

What is Chaney’s greatness? It wasn’t simply his ability to transform himself into “monsters” by the use of make-up (tho Chaney himself participated a great deal in the make-up process & was very skilled in this area). His real greatness is the way he makes these “monsters” human—whether he’s playing the Phantom or Quasimodo or an aging, heartbroken clown, no actor seems so thoroughly human as Lon Chaney.

Unfortunately, this film appears hard to come by unless one shells out for the Warner Home Video Lon Chaney Collection, which also contains The Unknown & The Ace of Hearts). As a true believer, I say it’s worth it, but some would probably not agree. Shockingly, this film doesn’t seem to be a NetFlix selection—Netflix is weak when it comes to silent films—& while Turner Classic Movies has a good record of screening Chaney films, it’s not on the schedule the remainder of this year. Of course a video rental shop with a solid collection of silents really should have this. If & when you get a chance to see Laugh, Clown, Laugh, I give it the highest recommendation—Eberle does too!

Octoberflix #3 – “Alphaville”

At long last, here’s the latest Octoberflick for your consideration! What better for an October evening than a tale of a mad scientist who’s seeking world—even intergalactic—domination thru a super computer & enslavement of the population? Of course this brings to mind any number of 1950s B-movies; but it also describes Jean-Luc Godard’s Alphaville.

In fact, Alphaville combines the sci-fi genre with the hard-boiled detective genre in a way that pre-figures films like Blade Runner—the latter film even echoes Alphaville in some of its plot elements, especially in the underlying love story. Alphaville’s narrative concerns Secret Agent Lemmy Caution’s mission to destroy the super computer Alpha-60 & capture or kill its creator, Professor Von Braun. In the course of this, he meets & falls in love with the Professor’s daughter Natasha (played by Ana Karina). Looked at in its bare bones, the storyline indeed could be taken from a B-movie—which is part of Godard’s scheme: he places his character Lemmy Caution in a direct line with Dick Tracy & Flash Gordon during a dialogue between Caution & an older agent Henri Dickson (played by Akim Tamiroff).

But while Lemmy Caution (played by Eddie Constantine, who made a career out of portraying this character in film & television) is a gun-toting, tough-talking agent in a trenchcoat & fedora, a machismo hero who engages in gunplay & car chases, his weapon for destroying Alpha-60 & for saving Natasha is poetry, specifically surrealist Paul Eluard’s Capitale de douleur (this is translated as both “Capital of Pain” & “Capital of Sorrow” in the sub-titles, & both are correct—“douleur” does mean pain in an emotional sense). When he’s interrogated by Alpha-60, they don’t exchange dialogue in typical science fiction fashion—instead, they speak in quotes from Borges & Pascal. At this point, we’ve moved a long way from the realm of genre films.

Reams have been written about Alphaville—it’s the sort of film that actively invites interpretation, & my goal here is to give rather briefly a flavor of the work, not to say anything new & insightful—after all, I’m a musician, not a semiotician. I would say, however, that the world of Alphaville is not easily reducible to plot summaries or other quick summation. It is in fact a world in which action erupts in erratic bursts—as does Paul Misraki’s score or any number of strange beeping sound effects. The dialogue is also “interrupted” in a sense—fragmentary, koan-like (Eberle’s characterization, which I like), with characters’ speech seemingly inhabiting hermetic spaces—this is notable in the dialogue between Caution & Natasha even in the midst of what could be a romantic breakfast in his hotel room—she has said the forbidden word “why” & is obsessed by remembering when she said it, while Caution is obsessed with her remembering her own past in the “Outlands” (“les pays exterieur,” the other “planets,” such as Tokyorama & Nuevo York, where Caution has come from).

In fact, memory is one faculty that is forbidden in Alphaville: Alpha-60 repeats that no one lived in the past & no one will live in the future; there is only the present, which is made of iron (this is a quote from Borges’ essay A Refutation of Time, which also provides the language for the film’s opening, as well as Alpha-60’s “dying” speech). Words are also forbidden: "tenderness," "redbreast," "conscience"—Natasha finds that "conscience" has recently been removed from “the Bible,” which is in fact the continuously updated dictionary (a bellhop brings a new edition when he brings their breakfast). We see in this scene, before the breakfast, that Natasha can be saved, as she admits fondness for these excised words; we also see it when she cries a single tear, made almost luminous in a fade to black, when Caution has been beaten by the Professor’s henchman. She cries this single tear—apparently unnoticed—despite the act that weeping is a capital offense, & they have just gone to witness a public execution—actually a bizarre sporting event in which the condemned are gunned down from a diving board & then pursued thru a swimming pool by knife-wielding bathing beauties. Natasha's tear also reminds us of the Tamiroff character’s dying words to Caution: “Save those who weep.”

I must say something about the film’s mise en scène, because it’s rather remarkable—not remarkable, as we might expect in a contemporary film by being graced with elaborate sets & special effects, but remarkable in fact for the very opposite: Alphaville was filmed in Paris, & Godard transforms the City of Light into a cold, stygian darkness only illuminated with neon signs & fluorescent lights—at one point while Caution is being escorted by the police away from the interrogation chamber, banks of fluorescent lights come on & a policeman remarks: “It’s day.” There is very little natural light in the entire film; sometimes, as in the image to the left, the film is "solarized" to produce a "negative." I believe someone once described the Caution character not as a man of the present in a city of the future, but as a man of the past in a city of the present. Also, tho the film is set at some indeterminate future point, there are a number of references to what was the recent past in 1965: Los Alamos (commentors also point out the connection between “A”-bomb & “Alpha”ville) & Guadalcanal; of course, Professor Von Braun also reminds us of Werner Von Braum, the German rocket scientist. In the final scene, as Caution & Natasha are escaping Alphaville, they are driving thru “intersidereal space” in a Ford Galaxie driven along a nighttime freeway.

This film is difficult—although I’ve watched it many times, Caution’s obsession with photographing everything still puzzles me (just as a for instance)—but to my mind its strengths far out-weigh its opacity—& to a great degree, arise from aspects of this opacity. While it won’t be to everyone’s taste, I recommend giving it a try. You can get a bit of an idea of the film from the clip below, in which Karina recites from La Capitale de la douleur, enumerating those qualities that can provide salvation from the human/inhuman monstrosity of Alphaville—it is crucial I think to the film to remember that this isn’t a story about a good hero toppling an evil villain, but about the struggle between our own “humanity” & “inhumanity.”

Alphaville isn’t scheduled for Turner Classic Movies in the foreseeable future, but it is a Netflix selection & should be available at video rental stores with a good foreign films section. What better time to journey to this city of the “dead,” where people (in Eluard’s words) “die of not dying” (“mourir de ne past mourir”) than this season, when our cinematic thoughts often turn to death & monsters: the death & monsters of Alphaville are indeed the most frightening of all: in potential, ourselves.

OctoberFlix #2 – “Rebecca”

This week’s Halloween film really exists in a world of shadows, a world where identity is continuously cast into question, & a world haunted by a formidable ghost. This is the world of Manderlay, Alfred Hitchcock & (apparently to a lesser degree) David O. Selznick’s film adaptation of Daphne Du Maurier’s novel Rebecca.

Ghost stories concern memory, of course, & Rebecca is no exception. But memory is an unreliable faculty—we take memory to be an exact record of events, but memory is always subjective: what two people recall about the same event usually is different, whether the difference is great or small. The same is true about what we remember concerning a person, & particularly about one who is only accessible thru memory—the story we have constructed about that person in many ways says at least as much about us as it does about the actual remembered person.

This is the situation in Rebecca—not only does the character of the deceased Rebecca De Winter become the biggest presence in the story—despite never appearing onscreen, even in flashbacks—but the way that presence haunts those who continue to live at Manderlay, the sprawling De Winter estate defines each character. The new Mrs. De Winter—played brilliantly by Joan Fontaine—is cowed by the perception that Rebecca was everything she’s not: Rebecca was sophisticated & accomplished, & beautiful, with a sense of elegance & style; of course, Ms Fontaine possessed considerable beauty herself, but she is rendered unglamorous, at least by 1940s Hollywood standards, thru much of the film. Furthermore, she’s convinced that her husband Maxim is still desperately in love with Rebecca & that he constantly compares her to his first wife to her own disadvantage. The fact that Ms Fontaine’s character has no name other than “the second Mrs De Winter” of course speaks volumes about her situation.

Of course, (& this is a bit of a spoiler), the second Mrs De Winter completely misreads her husband’s feelings, to a large degree because he is so secretive & guarded. In fact, Maxim De Winter (played by Sir Laurence Olivier, also very good in this role) despises his first wife’s memory, as he despised her—yet he also lives in fear that Rebecca will be able to strike at him from beyond the grave, destroying his life & any potential for happiness. In fact, this fear precludes any possibility at happiness, either in his life overall or with his new bride once “the honeymoon is over” & they return to Manderlay.

The other character who is largely defined by her memory of Rebecca is the stern housekeeper Miss Danvers—a strong portrayal by Judith Anderson. In fact, Danvers almost completes the equivalent of a love triangle with Maxim & the second Mrs De Winter, in that her passion for Rebecca also reinforces the Fontaine character’s sense of inferiority, & in turn makes it even easier for the second wife to believe that she can never approach Rebecca in her husband’s eyes.

The cinematography in Rebecca is really quite breathtaking, & in fact George Barnes won the 1940 Academy Award for Best Black & White Cinematography—Barnes was a veteran by 1940, with his career having begun in the late ‘teens; he also worked on such notable films as Meet John Doe, Jane Eyre, & Spellbound (I believe this was his only other collaboration with Hitchcock). Perhaps the most notable visual feature is the film’s use of shadows—they dominate the scenes at Manderlay: shadows of all the characters (& especially Miss Danvers’, which seems to elongate supernaturally against the walls), but also shadows of plants & objects. Manderlay is indeed a shadow world: dominated by Rebecca’s shadow, which has in turn rendered the living occupants of the mansion into shadows themselves, shaped by their “memory” of Rebecca.

Daphne Du Maurier described her novel as being about “the relationship between a man who was powerful and a woman who was not.” This is certainly carried on in the film adaptation; the difference in age between Maxim & his second wife is stressed both in the plot line & visually, as Olivier is given graying hair, while everything about Fontaine, from her clothing to her hair style to her awkward bearing speak of an ingénue. In fact, the Fontaine character really falls under everyone’s power—not only Danvers, but also the butler Fritz, dominate her (tho the latter is domineering in a somewhat less sinister fashion). Furthermore, as regards her husband, the story bears distinct hints of the “Bluebeard” tale—the husband’s secret, the forbidden room (in this case a seaside cottage), & the husband’s involvement in Rebecca’s death. Not to give too much away for those who haven’t seen the film, but this role is downplayed in the film adaptation, simply because this was necessitated by the Hollywood Production Code. Given this disparity in power & Maxim De Winter’s brooding proclivity for secrets, one has to question how much hope for this couple there may be—as we know from the beginning narration (the whole film is told as a flashback), the Fontaine character continues to be haunted by Manderlay into some indefinite future.

Rebecca was awarded the Oscar for Best Picture in 1940, in addition to its award for best black & white cinematography. It was nominated for a total of 11 award, including Hitchcock for best director, Fontaine for best leading actress, Olivier for best leading actor, & Anderson for best supporting actress. All of these nominations were richly deserved.

Although it may not be standard Halloween fare, Rebecca is an adult ghost story, a fascinating & compelling of memory & identity. You can watch it at midnight eastern time on Turner Classic Movies on Friday October 24th, & of course it’s available from Netflix as well as any well-stocked video rental shop.

OctoberFlix #1: "Throne of Blood"

One more Halloween-themed series for your reading enjoyment! It occurred to me that it might be fun to look at some films that really fit the Halloween “mood,” but that aren’t thought of so much as the typical Halloween horror fare.

& what better place to start than a movie containing a witchy evil spirit, at least one ghost, a “cobweb” forest & castle, & two characters descent into murderous madness. This is Macbeth set in a feudal Japan filled with Samurai warriors: namely, Akira Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood.

Kurosawa is without doubt one of my very favorite directors, & for me & a number of other folks, Throne of Blood is one of his best films. Shot in stark black-&-white, the characters often shrouded in swirling fog in a forbidding mountain landscape, the tone of austere tragedy is set from the beginning with shots of a wasteland, while singers intone a dirge-like song about the vanity of ambition—one of the film’s central themes. I should add that while Masaru Sato’s soundtrack is used very sparingly, it is always used to chilling effect. When there is no music, we hear the wind, or the sharp rustle of a silk skirt across the floor, or the crows cawing; this time viewing the film I really was struck by the use of these sounds—combined with silence—in creating an aural backdrop; these are punctuated by Sato’s score, which is built on eerie flute & ominous drum.

It is interesting to consider Throne of Blood both as it relates to Macbeth & in the ways it is very different. Although the plot line is quite similar almost to the dénouement, the most radical difference is that Macbeth is woven of words, & Throne of Blood is woven of images & sound. There are many periods of brooding silence—when the characters do engage in dialogue, it’s laconic & formal, whether it’s the language of retainers advising their lord or exchanges between the “Macbeth” & “Lady Macbeth” characters, Taketori Washizu (played by frequent Kurosawa leading man, Toshirô Mifune) & Lady Asaji Washizu (played by Isuzu Yamada). This terseness & formality works to underline even more those scenes where the dialogue reaches emotional peaks—when Washizu & Miki encounter the evil spirit in the woods, when Washizu erupts from a catatonic trance to a bloodthirsty frenzy following his murder of Lord Tsuzuki, or when Lady Asaji hysterically describes trying to wash both the blood stains & the blood odor from her hands.

In a sense, this contrast between tense, formal speech & emotional eruption is echoed not only in the contrast between silence & sound; it’s also enacted in the contrast between the many scenes in which characters are virtually frozen in tableau & those (actually infrequent) times when they explode into frenetic activity. This begins as soon as the sung prologue concludes, with the frantic arrival of the first messenger—after his emotional statement, we see the Lord & his retainers holding stoic poses as if in a still picture—the camera pans in front of them, but they don’t move at all. This contrast is perhaps most effective in the banquet following Miki’s murder; Washizu, Lady Asaji & all the retainers maintain stiffly erect poses; when the serving man pours wine for the retainers, he moves in the most deliberate fashion. However when Washizu sees Miki’s ghost (which no one else can see) he bursts into violent action, shouting & swinging his sword wildly as he careens about the hall.

Movement also conveys so much meaning in Throne of Blood (as in other Kurosawa films); whether it’s the stiff formal gestures used between the samurai or the wildly choreographed battle scenes. One particular motion that’s central to the film’s theme is circling—this begins when Washizu & Miki are lost in the cobweb forest after their impressive victory over rebel forces. They believe an evil spirit is “blocking” them, & no matter how fiercely they try to batter their way thru, they can’t make headway. Finally, they come to the hut of the “evil spirit” herself, where she sits singing & spinning thread; obviously, the wheel is of primary significance, since her song is a sort of sinister take on “vanity of vanities.” Worldly ambition seeks to move in a line—it seeks to construct a forward-moving narrative to explain itself, even as Lady Asaji constantly seeks to construct a narrative to spur on Washizu’s ambitions; the “evil spirit” on the other hand “spins” a narrative that isn’t linear, a narrative that shows how ambition itself ends in dust. The spirit states this is man’s lot, & Washizu’s attempts to break free of this ultimate circle only precipitate the doom he finds in “fulfilling” the spirit’s prophecy.

There are some truly remarkable scenes in this film. Both scenes in which Washizu encounters the spirit (officially billed in English as “the Ghost Woman,” & played by Chieko Naniwa) are very powerful. The scene following Lord Tsuzuki’s murder, in which Yamada, as Lady Asaji moves with frantic energy, her silk robes scraping the floor, while Mifune’s Washizu sits unmoving with a fixed stare is also unforgettable.

In short, Throne of Blood is a film you really should see—it’s not scheduled on TCM, but it is available thru Netflix & no doubt your better neighborhood video stores—& what better time for it than a cold October evening when perhaps there’s a bit of wind whistling outside your own window?

“Heaven…I’m in Heaven…”

Howdy, folks. I’m very sorry to be so inconsistent in posting over the last few days, & I’m also sorry to be pretty sketchy on visits to others’ blogs. Life, as they say, is happening at a somewhat alarming rate, & I’m going thru a bit (or maybe a bit more than a bit) of a creative trough right now. But onward & upward, right? I’m honestly not sure whether I’ll post tomorrow or not, but I do have posts for both Saturday & Sunday in the bank. Thanks for hanging with me.

I love to watch Ginger Rogers & Fred Astaire films—they’re funny & they’re elegant & they feature great songs by the likes of Gershwin & Jerome Kern & Irving Berlin, as well as (for my money) Hollywood’s greatest dance couple, who also happen to be very appealing even when they’re not on the dance floor.

There’s always a great debate about what made them such a dazzling couple—Katherine Hepburn’s famous observation that “He gives her class and she gives him sex” may be seen as a bit left-handed, but it is a starting point; of course Roger Ebert's rejoinder was "They both had class and sex was never the point." This corrects one flaw in Hepburn's quip, because Kate's assessment seems to leave out the very important fact that in addition to her great beauty, Ginger Rogers was a very talented actresses—her comic gifts certainly are on display in the Astaire-Rogers films, but she’s able to portray a wide range of emotions as those who’ve seen such films as Bachelor Mother, Vivacious Lady, Stage Door or Kitty Foyle can attest. I have read commentators who’ve conjectured that Roger’s acting gifts enabled her to be the dancer she was on screen; it’s true that she didn’t have Astaire’s training, but the famous quip about her doing everything he did “backwards & in high heels” has a lot of truth to it, too. Astaire said of Rogers: “Ginger was brilliantly effective. She made everything work for her. Actually she made things very fine for both of us and she deserves most of the credit for our success.” & here’s great character actor Edward Everett Horton’s assessment: "Believe me, Ginger was great. She contributed her full fifty percent in making them such a great team. She could follow Fred as if one brain was thinking. She blended with his every step and mood immaculately. He was able to do dances on screen that would have been impossible to risk if he hadn't had a partner like Ginger - as skillful as she was attractive."

Astaire himself is always elegant—quick with a quip, & obviously a marvelous & graceful dancer. His rhythm & timing are impeccable. I also enjoy both Astaire’s & Rogers singing voices—I know there’s open debate on that subject, particularly about Astaire, but there is always a great presence & engagement in their singing. Listen to what some pretty major composers had to say about Astaire’s singing (per Wikipedia, & with footnotes):

Irving Berlin considered Astaire the equal of any male interpreter of his songs - "as good as Jolson, Crosby or Sinatra, not necessarily because of his voice, but for his conception of projecting a song." Jerome Kern considered him the supreme male interpreter of his songs and Cole Porter and Johnny Mercer also admired his unique treatment of their work.

So for your enjoyment, here’s the Alice in Wonder Band’s tribute to Fred & Ginger—our version of Irving Berlin’s “Cheek to Cheek” recorded at our last ever show, December 2004 at the Alpine Playhouse in McCall, ID. Line-up: Deadre Chase, vocal; Art Troutner, oboe; Bob George, clarinet; Eberle Umbach, concert bells; yours truly, baritone uke. Of course, “Cheek to Cheek” comes from what may be my favorite Astaire-Rogers film, Top Hat (tho my all-time favorite number in that film would be “Isn’t It a Lovely Day to be Caught in the Rain”).

& as an added bonus, following that, check out Ginger & Fred performing this number!

Hope you enjoy, & thanks again everybody!

& Then There’s Nell…. (part 2)

If you recall the lead-off picture from last Friday’s &Then There’s Nell (part 1) post, you’ll recall that Nell Shipman is posing with a dog. That’s a Great Dane named Rex, one of the co-stars of her 1919 Back to God’s Country; Rex played Wapi, a vicious mistreated dog that forms a loving bond with Shipman’s character Dolores LeBeau & one that provides valiant help as she & her husband escape from the villain (in a climactic dog-sled chase scene!)

Rex was a very mild-mannered dog; it was necessary, however, to get shots of a dog who wasn’t mild-mannered, one that could be seen as menacing. Because of this, the Wapi character was portrayed by a second dog as well, a trained guard dog known as Tresore. Tresore was used in scenes where Wapi is agitated & threatening, while Rex was used in scenes that show Wapi as a lovable giant, tamed by affection for Dolores.

According to Idaho Film Collection Director Tom Trusky, one day while shooting Back to God’s Country the filming was moving from a scene where Tresore was straining against his chain, barking viciously, to one in which Rex would be cuddled by Nell. Someone neglected to switch the dogs, however, so Nell made her entrance & hugged & petted the guard dog without incident; Tresore reacted affectionately towards her. Director David Hartford apparently was aware of the mix-up, but seeing that the scene was going smoothly, he kept the cameras rolling. But after the scene was shot, Hartford made some remark about “some guard dog that is,” & walked toward Tresore, at which point the Great Dane went for his throat. Hartford was unharmed (tho presumably gained renewed respect for Tresore). Shipman took this as a definitive sign that she was meant to work with animals.

As you can see in the picture at top, this included bears. In the photo, Nell is seen with one of her beloved bears, Brownie. Brownie acted in several Shipman films, including The Grub Stake. But her films were filled with animal actors—besides bears & dogs, you’ll see raccoons, beavers, cougars, skunks, porcupines, deer, owls & more. In fact, her studio at Priest Lake included a veritable zoo.

But while this is noteworthy, it was hardly unheard of to use animals in films during the silent era. What did make Shipman’s use of animal actors so significant was both her uncanny rapport with animals & her insistence on humane treatment. During this era, animals were often mistreated in films; drugged or abused until they were submissive; shooters were kept on the set, prepared to kill large animals that became threatening. Shipman forbade any mistreatment & banned guns from the set. She believed that animals sensed fear & would react to it in dangerous way; she also believed that animals sensed trust & would react to that in kind. The fact that her filming was never disrupted by any incidents involving her many animal actors is a strong practical recommendation for her humane methods (tho the moral underpinning of her ideas is even more compelling).

This isn’t unconnected from Shipman’s overall vision of the natural world as the place of spiritual regeneration, the locus of spiritual selfhood & connection—“God’s Country” indeed. This is illustrated in The Grub Stake when her character Faith Diggs, hounded by her villanous husband & injured, finds peace & a renewed “faith” (herself) amongst a family of bears after becoming lost in a dark & stormy forest. We see this renewal in her peaceful & playful interaction not only with the bears, but also with porcupines, deer & a wolf; in addition we see her addressing God in the midst of Priest Lake’s breathtaking scenery (brilliantly filmed by legendary cinematographer Joseph Walker); these are Faith’s renewed avowls of "faith."

Nell’s love of the natural world ran very deep, & her feeling for it certainly could be termed “religious” or spiritual. As such she was certainly an inheritor of 19th century romanticism, but her deep cinematic study of this is a singular achievement. As a woman of the (old) west, she portrayed a deep sense of conservation (in a time when this was considered much more than “a personal virtue”); in fact her character Dreena the witch in her Little Dramas from Big Places is seen literally hugging a tree.

In a shameless plug for ourselves, I’ll remind readers that Volume 3 (“At Lionhead Lodge”) of the Idaho Film Collection’s 3-DVD Shipman set contains The Grub Stake with score composed & performed by us—Eberle & me & about 20 instruments. This DVD also contains the surviving Little Dramas from Big Places, which are truly wonderful short films also shot around Priest Lake, Idaho in the early to mid 1920s; & in addition, there’s a fantastic award-winning documentary put together by Idaho Film Collection Director Tom Trusky & Paul Brand (who produced the DVD set) about Shipman’s experience at Lionhead Lodge, her Idaho film studio. The DVD is available here from Boise State bookstore or here from Amazon.com.

The slideshow features a selection from our score for The Grub Stake. Eberle plays the melodica on this one, & I’m playing a hollowbody electric guitar. Joshua Housh did the sound, & dear pal Dani Leone kept everything else afloat during a frantic five-day recording session. The selection occurs early in the film & contains a few themes that are developed throughout the score.

The images of Nell are from her time at Priest Lake, with the exception of the painting which is from 1930. Along with the images of Nell, there's a Bijou Orchestrette publicity shot & a picture of us with Idaho Film Collection (& Shipman maven) Tom Trusky.

Our score was composed with generous assistance from the Idaho Commission on the Arts & the Idaho Film Collection.

Enjoy!

"Dune"

[It’s been a while since we’ve had a film appreciation here, & Eberle has stepped into the cinematic breach with some thoughts about a current favorite—perhaps not a strong enough word—the 1984 David Lynch film, Dune. The film has had a controversial history—it hasn’t fared well with either audiences or critics, & the version Eberle’s writing about is the extended version (once known as the “TV version”), which Lynch disavowed; he used the name “Alan Smithee” on the credits to show he didn’t endorse this cut. Mr Lynch’s personal feelings aside, I’ve always liked the extended version myself, & have long been a fan of this film. Although I’ve mostly written about 1930s screwball comedies in this space, both Eberle & I love sci-fi, so there’s bound to be more to come. Enough for me, tho—here’s Eberle:]

John asked me today if I’d like to write a post for Robert Frost’s Banjo about the 1984 film Dune, adapted from the Frank Herbert novel of the same name—perhaps because over the past couple of weeks I’ve watched it four or five times on my own—perhaps he’s curious why I developed this curious obsession. It‘s quite uncharacteristic—I don’t tend to connect with movies very intensely except during the immediate moments of watching them—in fact, I tend to forget plots almost instantaneously. John is the motivating force behind our movie-watching and I love the way he organizes this for us—not only doing the work of lining up great stuff on the Netflix queue, but choosing from his amazing collection of early twentieth century films on video according to our moods at the end of the day. Sometimes he just takes one look at me and knows that what I need is a low-budget 1950’s sci fi—or that it would finally be the right moment to watch a Lon Chaney sure-to-make-me-cry silent film.

It’s lovely how he does this, and our excursions into the strange cultural mélange that is film have made for some great times together—but I always feel a bit like a traveler from another planet in relation to this medium. For various reasons I never watched many movies until John and I started living together—partly because I spent much of my life in places without movie theatres nearby and usually didn’t have TV. Sometimes I am grateful for this long detachment from mass media, and other times I feel like a cultural mutant. So what was it about Dune that hooked me and made me lose my sense of detachment and self-consciousness?

For those who haven’t seen the movie: it’s set thousands of years in the future when rival royal families (each governing their own planet) are trying to gain control of the most valuable substance in the universe—“the spice.” The spice expands consciousness and enables space travel through the evolution of beings known as Navigators. Spice mining operations are subject to attack by giant worms that live in the harsh open desert of Arrakis, the only planet where spice is known to exist. A race of human computers (the Spacing Guild), an ancient order of women with telepathic powers (the Bene Gesserits), and a secret desert community (the Fremen) are among the forces at play in the struggle to control the spice. Ultimately, the factions that want to control the spice for economic reasons come into battle with those who seek to understand the spice and its mysterious relationship with the giant worms…

The landscape of the movie, first of all, is fantastic. So few movies seem to really create an articulated world that also contains openings to walk into—for me, those gaps and empty spaces are an essential part of any vista that holds enchantment—vague glimpses through distant archways that unfold into mystery rather than explanation. The landscape in Dune seemed entirely real but not entirely explained. Part of this comes from a genius with objects—I have a great respect for any movie that can make a visual world come alive through objects. Blade Runner is another film that I love for the landscape, though I never wanted to watch it over and over. The objects in Dune are completely compelling—the combination of futuristic and antique—the sense of different points in the past and future locking together—medieval touches stand beside art deco technology. I’ll long to see the floating bird-lights again and the quilted interior of the aircraft that went out into the desert, or the equipment used to process worm-bile after the monks wrestled the enormous young worm across the room…With movies I’m always searching after the peak landscape experiences of my youth—reading Wuthering Heights and The Hound of the Baskervilles during school vacations in Idaho, inventing this mysterious place called “the moor,” or the frozen landscape of Mary Shelley’s monster in Frankenstein. It’s hard for anything to live up to these memories, but Dune comes very close.

Then there’s the pace of Dune. I love slow things, things that make me enjoy slowing down. One aspect of getting older I really enjoy is finally being able to simply watch a rainstorm, or look out the window and daydream without a book in hand, without constantly wanting to be doing something else. Dune moves slowly enough to allow time for your own mind to go wandering around the scene without being dragged through it. I like how little the characters speak— their silence seems true to their characters and to the mythic landscape in which they find themselves—it’s coherent—so I can focus on my own imaginings rather than being distracted by layers of self-consciousness in the actors. In passing I will say that although I forget the name of the actor playing the young hero Paul Muad'Dib (and I don’t want to remember it because I will only forget it later and feel traumatized) his face is perfect for my idea of a male hero—sort of dippy and yet transcendent at the same time. So realistic, really.

The female heroine, to my mind, is the child Alia Atreides, born prematurely when her mother Jessica (also the mother of the young adult male hero) drinks the Water of Life to become the spiritual leader of the desert Fremen. Because part of this ritual involves the telepathic transfer of all the experience and wisdom from the previous spiritual leader as she dies, Alia is born with great knowledge and power. When she dances through the battlefield brandishing a knife I lose my heart completely. There are not that many little girl heroines in film and this was definitely part of my obsession with Dune. I had a fascination years ago with the movie Aliens—which also depicted a young girl heroine who battled monsters. The only time I’ve ever wanted to put up a movie image in any room of mine is my present longing for an image of Alia with her knife, dancing…or the image of her quietly walking into the violent storm she has created in order to destroy the villainous Baron Harkonnen.

I also love movie monsters, & I’m especially fond of Ray Harryhausen’s creations. But I will take just about any monster as long as the movie doesn’t involve a lot of gratuitous violence (which limits what I can watch—not all that many films made after 1980.) One of my big complaints is the shortage of ambiguous monsters. This is one reason I like Godzilla movies—the monsters are not always unremittingly evil as they typically are in American films. I always feel a pang when the monsters are killed. The worms in Dune are great monsters in themselves with their sensual and deadly mouths on the end of huge snaky forms, and the way they exist in conjunction with their landscape—traveling deep under the desert surface and sending up ripples and lightning. Though deadly, they have a definite beauty. And they are not evil or ultimately possessed or controlled by humans. They are truly mysterious.

It’s also refreshing to see an adventure film with a spiritual dimension that’s not trivialized and made superficial. I like the series Deep Space Nine for this reason too. Dune's portrayal of the desert men and women, the Fremen, creates a compelling story of an indigenous revolutionary group, with spirituality making part of their struggle against the equivalent of multinational corporate exploitation—a Holy War. There are of course always problems with murder becoming part of a Holy War, even if the warriors are cool enough to ride giant worms… but that’s another discussion.

The VHS of Dune that I’ve been watching was taped by John from TV and included commercials. I watched it so many times that I memorized not only much of the dialogue, but the beginnings of the commercials. I really hated the cut from the embryonic Alia to a plate of bright green jello. Really unfortunate conjunction. John ordered the dvd for us and it just came in the mail. I’m excited about seeing Dune all over once again—sans jello.