I'm just about to embark on a review of one of cinema's most revered films. Don't shoot me.
Sergei Parajanov occupies a strange place in public perception; lauded to the high heavens by critics and cinephiles as one of the greatest filmmakers of all time, yet seemingly unknown to 99% of the population. Perhaps it is his Armenian background, not exactly a hotbed of household figures. Or maybe it's because of the censorship and imprisonment that hindered his career? Fortunately Parajanov seems to be gaining some more exposure in recent years; there has been an upswell in interest in lost filmic gems, signaled by Scorsese's film restorations.
Parajanov certainly deserves his reputation, despite any qualms I might have with some of his work. His films have a visual style almost completely unique to any other; how many filmmakers could you say that about? The Colour of Pomegranates is his most praised and famous film. It is an unconventional biopic of the Armenian poet Sayat Nova. Instead of telling a linear story of Nova's life, trodding through his ups and downs, Parajanov uses an elliptic editing style, making use of static tableaux shots and poetic flights of fancy.
In fact, you would be hard pressed to find a distinctive story to grasp onto. We begin seeing through a child's point of view, flashes of colour in a rustic town. It is reminiscent of Tarkovsky's Mirror and the recent The Tree of Life, dwelling on moments of beauty and revelling in Nova's childlike wonder. Parajanov has little interest in telling a classical story, but creating a piece of work that reflects Nova's own poetry.
Nova ends his life in a monastery, but this is not particularly important. There is little dialogue, and the acting is fairly muted. Having seen a few of Parajanov's films now, I would say that the performances are less about expressing themselves as human beings, more vessels for Parajanov's overall vision. Parajanov was influenced by "Armenian illuminated miniatures", which explains why each frame feels more like a intricate painting than a cinematic image. Costumes and mise en scene are lovingly handcrafted by Parajanov, creating some of the most beautiful frames in cinema.
I have to confess, although Pomegranates is visually stunning, I prefer the swashbuckling, roaming cinematography of Shadow of Forgotten Ancestors, an earlier film. The Kalatozov style camera work coupled with the mise en scene in that film created some extraordinary sequences.
Tuesday 8 November 2011
Sleeping Sickness, LFF 2011
There are some films/filmmakers who revel in their weirdness. Audiences going into watch the new David Lynch readily expect an explosion of surrealism. A sinister midget? Cross country lawnmowers? Oh David, you do spoil us. But then again, there are those peculiar films which lull you into a false sense of security, then BAM! A hippopotamus walks on screen. Yes, you heard me.
Which leads me into Sleeping Sickness, upcoming German director Ulrich Kohler's Cameroonian set film. The film starts off fairly dryly, with our introduction to doctor Ebbo Velten (Pierre Bokma), who is working in a remote hospital dealing with 'sleeping sickness'. Sleeping sickness manifests itself with bouts of insomnia and fatigue, causing the sufferer severe disorientation. The film structurally tries to reflect this condition, in its elliptic editing and humid visuals.
Velten and his family are about to return back to Germany, after a long stint in Africa, and one critic has described the film as a representation of the displacement felt by moving between the continents. Personally, I felt it difficult to assign a particular message or theme to the film, such is its surreal, subtle allure. Halfway through the film, without warning, the focus shifts onto a young French-Congolese doctor named Nzila (Jean- Christophe Folly), who is embarking on a similar mission to Velten. He meets Velten there, and sees that the white doctor has become a shell of his former self.
I mentioned David Lynch earlier, and there are some parallels to be drawn with the disorientating structure and fluid, interchanging characters. Yet Sleeping Sickness is perhaps more unsettling because it often feels like a conventional observational drama akin to Claire Denis, then sidesteps you with a moment of absurdism. I can't say I thought Sleeping Sickness was a great film, because it was slightly unsatisfying in its elusiveness. But this is also why it stays with you after the credits roll.
Which leads me into Sleeping Sickness, upcoming German director Ulrich Kohler's Cameroonian set film. The film starts off fairly dryly, with our introduction to doctor Ebbo Velten (Pierre Bokma), who is working in a remote hospital dealing with 'sleeping sickness'. Sleeping sickness manifests itself with bouts of insomnia and fatigue, causing the sufferer severe disorientation. The film structurally tries to reflect this condition, in its elliptic editing and humid visuals.
Velten and his family are about to return back to Germany, after a long stint in Africa, and one critic has described the film as a representation of the displacement felt by moving between the continents. Personally, I felt it difficult to assign a particular message or theme to the film, such is its surreal, subtle allure. Halfway through the film, without warning, the focus shifts onto a young French-Congolese doctor named Nzila (Jean- Christophe Folly), who is embarking on a similar mission to Velten. He meets Velten there, and sees that the white doctor has become a shell of his former self.
I mentioned David Lynch earlier, and there are some parallels to be drawn with the disorientating structure and fluid, interchanging characters. Yet Sleeping Sickness is perhaps more unsettling because it often feels like a conventional observational drama akin to Claire Denis, then sidesteps you with a moment of absurdism. I can't say I thought Sleeping Sickness was a great film, because it was slightly unsatisfying in its elusiveness. But this is also why it stays with you after the credits roll.
Elena, LFF 2011
Elena is the third feature film by Russian director Andrei Zvyagintsev. He came to prominence with his startling debut The Return, an enigmatic, visually striking film about a family road trip. His reputation was sealed with an assured sophomore effort entitled The Banishment (you can see he has a penchant for mysterious titles) and whispers of an heir to Tarkovsky were heard. So Elena comes with a hefty set of expectations attached.
This parable-like tale concerns Elena (Nadezhda Markina), a steely housewife, caught between her rich husband Vladimir (Andrey Smirnov) and layabout son Sergey (Aleksey Rozin). Elena used to care for Vladimir, but has now been married to him for 10 years. The couple live in a luxurious city apartment, while Sergey and his family live in poverty in a small deadbeat town. The director effectively juxtaposes these two opposing existences, perhaps making a point about the gap between the wealthy and the poor in modern day Russia.
Sergey urges his mother to ween money from Vladimir, his stepfather, in order to pay for his obnoxious son to go to uni. Vladimir, a grumpy, stingy man, balks at Sergey's laziness and refuses to cave in to the demands, not even to sate his wife. Elena is caught between two stubborn men, and when Vladimir starts to fall ill, she faces a dilemma about whose side she is going to take. Added into the mix is Vladimir's estranged, hedonistic daughter Katerina (a sharp-eyed Yelena Lyadova).
The performances are routinely impressive, Markina especially working with a difficult, nuanced portrayal of loyalty and guilt. The film as a whole feels very enigmatic, very unshowy. At various points there are references to religion, and morality seems to be the major theme of the film. Aesthetically and thematically I would say this this is weaker than Zvyagintsev's previous two films; the bleached out, expressive landscapes have been replaced with a more banal urban look. Despite this, the film is very accomplished, and compelling, the understated moralistic dilemmas leaving it a quiet power.
This parable-like tale concerns Elena (Nadezhda Markina), a steely housewife, caught between her rich husband Vladimir (Andrey Smirnov) and layabout son Sergey (Aleksey Rozin). Elena used to care for Vladimir, but has now been married to him for 10 years. The couple live in a luxurious city apartment, while Sergey and his family live in poverty in a small deadbeat town. The director effectively juxtaposes these two opposing existences, perhaps making a point about the gap between the wealthy and the poor in modern day Russia.
Sergey urges his mother to ween money from Vladimir, his stepfather, in order to pay for his obnoxious son to go to uni. Vladimir, a grumpy, stingy man, balks at Sergey's laziness and refuses to cave in to the demands, not even to sate his wife. Elena is caught between two stubborn men, and when Vladimir starts to fall ill, she faces a dilemma about whose side she is going to take. Added into the mix is Vladimir's estranged, hedonistic daughter Katerina (a sharp-eyed Yelena Lyadova).
The performances are routinely impressive, Markina especially working with a difficult, nuanced portrayal of loyalty and guilt. The film as a whole feels very enigmatic, very unshowy. At various points there are references to religion, and morality seems to be the major theme of the film. Aesthetically and thematically I would say this this is weaker than Zvyagintsev's previous two films; the bleached out, expressive landscapes have been replaced with a more banal urban look. Despite this, the film is very accomplished, and compelling, the understated moralistic dilemmas leaving it a quiet power.
Tuesday 1 November 2011
Into the abyss, BFI London FIlm Festival 2011
Interest in death row is nothing new. I would wager that most people would confess a morbid interest in the inmates and crimes. Only recently documentarian Louis Theroux visited various different high security prisons in America. So what can Werner Herzog bring to the table?
Herzog brings experience. We never see him, just hear his voice as he interviews his subjects. He talks to people with compassion, rarely straying into prejudice. He asks penetrating questions, and receives honest, emotionally open answers. People trust in him, more than a charming, bespectacled English reporter.
The film essentially comprises of a series of a number of interviews, mostly static talking heads, interspersed with original footage of the chilling crime scene tapes. Instead of collecting a wide array of interviews from various inmates, Herzog focuses on one subject named Michael Perry, and the people surrounding the crime.
In the film, Perry is due to be executed in 8 days, for the murder of 3 people, over a sports car that he and his accomplices desired. When we first see him, filmed through a pane of protective glass, it is hard to equate him with a merciless killer. He is smiley and goofy, and could pass for a 17 year old. He seems oddly bouncy, somewhat in denial of his impending fate. It is fairly tragic, his futile hope for some kind of miracle. We as an audience realise that we are by now watching someone who has already passed on.
We meet the relatives of the victims. Both siblings of the deceased, and irreparably scarred by their losses, and the nature of the deaths. Both of their lives (they are from different families) are racked with tragedy. Suicides, illnesses, convictions are rife in their bloodlines. We begin to get a picture of the kind of lives that people live with in this corner of the world. Tragedy seems to be carved into the landscape.
Jason Burkett, Perry's accomplice, is serving a life sentence, and has married a death row 'groupie'. A rare moment of (dark) humour in the film, his partner describes how she fell in love while working on his case. In one of the most heartbreaking/disturbing revelations of the film, we learn that Burkett's father is serving 40 years in a jail directly opposite Jason's. The father racked, with grief and regret, describes having Thanksgiving dinner with his two sons (the other is also incarcerated in a local prison), and contemplating his failures. What is really striking is the cycle of violence and misdemeanour that seems to riddle the families. It would seem like this is a common occurrence.
The film works well because Herzog lets the stories tell themselves, lets the subjects unload their emotional baggage. It is an intense, emotional piece of work. Herzog is a stern but fair interviewer, never manipulated by his subjects nor condemning them too harshly. An incredible film.
Herzog brings experience. We never see him, just hear his voice as he interviews his subjects. He talks to people with compassion, rarely straying into prejudice. He asks penetrating questions, and receives honest, emotionally open answers. People trust in him, more than a charming, bespectacled English reporter.
The film essentially comprises of a series of a number of interviews, mostly static talking heads, interspersed with original footage of the chilling crime scene tapes. Instead of collecting a wide array of interviews from various inmates, Herzog focuses on one subject named Michael Perry, and the people surrounding the crime.
In the film, Perry is due to be executed in 8 days, for the murder of 3 people, over a sports car that he and his accomplices desired. When we first see him, filmed through a pane of protective glass, it is hard to equate him with a merciless killer. He is smiley and goofy, and could pass for a 17 year old. He seems oddly bouncy, somewhat in denial of his impending fate. It is fairly tragic, his futile hope for some kind of miracle. We as an audience realise that we are by now watching someone who has already passed on.
We meet the relatives of the victims. Both siblings of the deceased, and irreparably scarred by their losses, and the nature of the deaths. Both of their lives (they are from different families) are racked with tragedy. Suicides, illnesses, convictions are rife in their bloodlines. We begin to get a picture of the kind of lives that people live with in this corner of the world. Tragedy seems to be carved into the landscape.
Jason Burkett, Perry's accomplice, is serving a life sentence, and has married a death row 'groupie'. A rare moment of (dark) humour in the film, his partner describes how she fell in love while working on his case. In one of the most heartbreaking/disturbing revelations of the film, we learn that Burkett's father is serving 40 years in a jail directly opposite Jason's. The father racked, with grief and regret, describes having Thanksgiving dinner with his two sons (the other is also incarcerated in a local prison), and contemplating his failures. What is really striking is the cycle of violence and misdemeanour that seems to riddle the families. It would seem like this is a common occurrence.
The film works well because Herzog lets the stories tell themselves, lets the subjects unload their emotional baggage. It is an intense, emotional piece of work. Herzog is a stern but fair interviewer, never manipulated by his subjects nor condemning them too harshly. An incredible film.
Last Winter, BFI London Film Festival 2011
I'm in two minds about Last Winter, the debut feature of John Shank. On one hand, you've got an accomplished, serious, occasionally visually striking drama about a young farmer coming to terms with the loss of his industry/world. One the other hand, it feels like a film that's predictable from start to finish, from every single character to every plot movement. There is nothing new here.
We are introduced to johann, who is toiling alone on the farm that he inherited from his dead father. It is based in small village in central France, a stark, blustery landscape, bringing to mind some of Bruno Dumont's film terrains. He is evidently dedicated to his work and revels in the environment. Shank shows him milling in idyllic rivers and tending to sun-glazed animals. He is supported by a local girlfriend, who waits each night for him to climb into bed. All rosy so far.
The edenic existence is shattered, however, by the realisation that the farming co-op that Johann is part of, is suffering. As the head of the co-op, it's Johann's ultimate decision whether to give in to Helier, the middle man between the co-op and the larger foreign companies who want to dictate the farmers work. Johann, ever stubborn, is reluctant to adapt to modern demands.
Coming from a rural background, these issues are not unfamiliar to me, and there are many news reports about farms capitulating under bankruptcy, and even suicides. This is clearly a serious issue and one that I have not seen represented on screen much, if at all. Yet, it might be this familiarity that with the subject that makes the film slightly staid for me.
Perhaps it is because the director Shank, American born, was not already engrained in the culture that he is depicting; does his outsider status perhaps make the film feel a little inauthentic? Altogether the film feels somewhat by the numbers. His girlfriend is of little or no consequence, barely saying a few words across the film. There is the inexplicable presence of his mentally disturbed sibling, a strange staple of independent dramas ('What's eating Gilbert Grape?', a small Hungarian drama named 'Lost Times'), who's only role seems to be to inject unnecessary angst to the story and bludgeon home how compassionate the protagonist is.
There are elements of Malick in the idyllic shots of nature and landscape, but these are mostly drowned out by the gloomy middle section. There is a particular sequence which seems indebted to Days of Heaven's famous locust spectacle. Bruno Dumont appears to be another reference point, with his stark portrayals of rural French life. Last Winter unfortunately feels like a lite version of these auteurs films, neither beautiful or otherworldly enough for Malick, or gritty and compelling enough to be a Dumont.
By the end I was pleading for Shank to refrain from an 'open ending'. Once a thoughtful, challenging part of many tremendous films, it now seems to be a weapon for lazy filmmakers unsure of how to end their story. Often there might not be a 'right' ending, but I think Last Winter had the choice of two interesting paths. It chose the middle road.
We are introduced to johann, who is toiling alone on the farm that he inherited from his dead father. It is based in small village in central France, a stark, blustery landscape, bringing to mind some of Bruno Dumont's film terrains. He is evidently dedicated to his work and revels in the environment. Shank shows him milling in idyllic rivers and tending to sun-glazed animals. He is supported by a local girlfriend, who waits each night for him to climb into bed. All rosy so far.
The edenic existence is shattered, however, by the realisation that the farming co-op that Johann is part of, is suffering. As the head of the co-op, it's Johann's ultimate decision whether to give in to Helier, the middle man between the co-op and the larger foreign companies who want to dictate the farmers work. Johann, ever stubborn, is reluctant to adapt to modern demands.
Coming from a rural background, these issues are not unfamiliar to me, and there are many news reports about farms capitulating under bankruptcy, and even suicides. This is clearly a serious issue and one that I have not seen represented on screen much, if at all. Yet, it might be this familiarity that with the subject that makes the film slightly staid for me.
Perhaps it is because the director Shank, American born, was not already engrained in the culture that he is depicting; does his outsider status perhaps make the film feel a little inauthentic? Altogether the film feels somewhat by the numbers. His girlfriend is of little or no consequence, barely saying a few words across the film. There is the inexplicable presence of his mentally disturbed sibling, a strange staple of independent dramas ('What's eating Gilbert Grape?', a small Hungarian drama named 'Lost Times'), who's only role seems to be to inject unnecessary angst to the story and bludgeon home how compassionate the protagonist is.
There are elements of Malick in the idyllic shots of nature and landscape, but these are mostly drowned out by the gloomy middle section. There is a particular sequence which seems indebted to Days of Heaven's famous locust spectacle. Bruno Dumont appears to be another reference point, with his stark portrayals of rural French life. Last Winter unfortunately feels like a lite version of these auteurs films, neither beautiful or otherworldly enough for Malick, or gritty and compelling enough to be a Dumont.
By the end I was pleading for Shank to refrain from an 'open ending'. Once a thoughtful, challenging part of many tremendous films, it now seems to be a weapon for lazy filmmakers unsure of how to end their story. Often there might not be a 'right' ending, but I think Last Winter had the choice of two interesting paths. It chose the middle road.
Monday 5 September 2011
Somewhere
‘Somewhere’, the fourth film by Sofia Coppola begins with a car racing in and out of frame on a small, circular racetrack. The camera lingers on this scene for a good time, allowing the audience time to reflect on what the next couple of hours will bring. Will it be a miraculous change of direction for Coppola, a gritty, abrasive about two resentful family members? Or maybe, just maybe, Francis’ daughter will stick to her tried and tested cocktail of disaffected privileged people and studied ambience…
Yes, this is ANOTHER one of those films. But, as always, you can’t help but be compelled by the hypnotic mini-tragedies that Coppola presents us with. Here, the comfortably numb protagonist is played by Stephen Dorff, playing not-so-out-of-type as a bored film star in LA. When his casting was first announced I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who puzzled over his choice. Stephen Dorff isn’t a prestige actor, a name actor or someone with indie credibility. He’s just a minor movie star; which is absolutely perfect for the role. He has the movie star looks and presence, but offset with a rough and tired demeanour. One of the interesting things about his performance is the lack of emotion eminating from him-he feels like he’s coasting on neutral. Yes, this is a large aspect of many of Coppola’s central characters, but here it feels even more neutered, and for the audience, more of a challenge.
The film, like her previous works, plays in cycles and repetition, illuminating the mundanity and narrowness of Marco’s life. We see him smoking in his bedroom, in a restaurant, on his balcony, fooling around with girls, driving his shiny black sports car. Harry Savides, the legendary cinematographer (he worked with Francis among others), brings a casual, observational style to these ‘nothing’ scenes, letting Marco’s complacency ring out across the cinema. In particular, the awkward framing of a couple of showgirls performing privately for Marco leaves the viewer anything but tillitated. This particular scene is evidence of Coppola’s distinctive ability to find the wry humour and sadness in a situation.
Marco is mildly awakened from his slumber by the arrival back into his life of his daughter Cleo, plaed by Elle Fanning. Cleo, a bright, good natured girl is the juxtaposing purity to the seediness of Marco’s life. Is this perhaps a little contrived on Coppola’s part? Perhaps, but it works; without Elle, Marco, and the audience, would have nothing to live on. As some critics have noted, Elle, like the rest of the characters in the film, rarely ever challenges Marco’s lifestyle. One might say this is one of the most bittersweet and truthful aspects of the film; people are too wary to criticise and hurt people around them for fear of irreparably damaging them. It doesn’t hinder Marco that he is a famous film star, of course.
It’s hard to say what ‘Somewhere’ is really trying to tell us. Is it simply another film of alienated souls, or is there something more going on? One strong notable theme seems to be the representaion and sexualisation of women. Coming from a female director in particular, the scenes of Marco seducing numerous faceless women appear to be a strong indictment of the way women have been overly sexualised and demeaned in media and society. Coppola also points to the realtionship he has with women being an integral part to his own unhappiness. There is one small hint at unrest with his mother; we hear him on the phone onto his agent about a book that she has written about him.
Other than that, though, this is standard Coppola. Lost in Translation may have explored all these themes and ideas in a more potent and concise way, but Somewhere is still a compelling and enjoyable expansion on these points. It brings to mind Wim Wender’s excellent ‘Alice in the cities’ in both situation and style, but doesn’t quite live up to the standard of that particular film or her own previous work. It is, though, another welcome addition to her canon.
Yes, this is ANOTHER one of those films. But, as always, you can’t help but be compelled by the hypnotic mini-tragedies that Coppola presents us with. Here, the comfortably numb protagonist is played by Stephen Dorff, playing not-so-out-of-type as a bored film star in LA. When his casting was first announced I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who puzzled over his choice. Stephen Dorff isn’t a prestige actor, a name actor or someone with indie credibility. He’s just a minor movie star; which is absolutely perfect for the role. He has the movie star looks and presence, but offset with a rough and tired demeanour. One of the interesting things about his performance is the lack of emotion eminating from him-he feels like he’s coasting on neutral. Yes, this is a large aspect of many of Coppola’s central characters, but here it feels even more neutered, and for the audience, more of a challenge.
The film, like her previous works, plays in cycles and repetition, illuminating the mundanity and narrowness of Marco’s life. We see him smoking in his bedroom, in a restaurant, on his balcony, fooling around with girls, driving his shiny black sports car. Harry Savides, the legendary cinematographer (he worked with Francis among others), brings a casual, observational style to these ‘nothing’ scenes, letting Marco’s complacency ring out across the cinema. In particular, the awkward framing of a couple of showgirls performing privately for Marco leaves the viewer anything but tillitated. This particular scene is evidence of Coppola’s distinctive ability to find the wry humour and sadness in a situation.
Marco is mildly awakened from his slumber by the arrival back into his life of his daughter Cleo, plaed by Elle Fanning. Cleo, a bright, good natured girl is the juxtaposing purity to the seediness of Marco’s life. Is this perhaps a little contrived on Coppola’s part? Perhaps, but it works; without Elle, Marco, and the audience, would have nothing to live on. As some critics have noted, Elle, like the rest of the characters in the film, rarely ever challenges Marco’s lifestyle. One might say this is one of the most bittersweet and truthful aspects of the film; people are too wary to criticise and hurt people around them for fear of irreparably damaging them. It doesn’t hinder Marco that he is a famous film star, of course.
It’s hard to say what ‘Somewhere’ is really trying to tell us. Is it simply another film of alienated souls, or is there something more going on? One strong notable theme seems to be the representaion and sexualisation of women. Coming from a female director in particular, the scenes of Marco seducing numerous faceless women appear to be a strong indictment of the way women have been overly sexualised and demeaned in media and society. Coppola also points to the realtionship he has with women being an integral part to his own unhappiness. There is one small hint at unrest with his mother; we hear him on the phone onto his agent about a book that she has written about him.
Other than that, though, this is standard Coppola. Lost in Translation may have explored all these themes and ideas in a more potent and concise way, but Somewhere is still a compelling and enjoyable expansion on these points. It brings to mind Wim Wender’s excellent ‘Alice in the cities’ in both situation and style, but doesn’t quite live up to the standard of that particular film or her own previous work. It is, though, another welcome addition to her canon.
Nightwatching + Peter Greenaway Q & A
Nightwatching, apparently Greenaway’s 15th film proper, tells the story of Rembrandt Van Rijn’s painting ‘The Nightwatch’ and its conception. In the British director’s version of events, Rembrandt reluctantly took on the task of painting an ensemble portrait of a group of Dutch dignitaries, but is tormented by the idea of glorifying a bunch of men with an array of sordid and unsavoury backgrounds. Thus, Rembrandt conspires to decorate the painting with subtle hints of their crimes, in order to expose their criminality and maintain his integrity as a painter. These hints include the appearance of an abused maid, a banished soldier and a fired gun- all evidence of corrupt activities.
Greenaway’s films have often been concerned with conspiracies and mysteries, so Nightwatching is in good company. I think the most able comparison for the film is his early feature The Draughtsman’s Contract, where a painter becomes entangled in a country house murder mystery. His new film is possibly one of his most accessible; in the Q & A he stated that he was encouraged to do A (commercial) and B (artistic) films in rotation, and this was considered by his backers as an A film.
How does it match up to his previous work? Well, I’d say it was up there with his best. Not quite up to the standards of The Cook, the thief…, but equal to Draughtsman’s and A Z and Two Noughts. It is one of his most warm, comedic films; the characters are actually very well drawn out and there are signs of genuine emotion. Martin Freeman is very good in the lead role, drawing on his comic capabilities as a put-upon man, while demonstrating a more dramatic pathos as well. The supporting cast is reliably excellent, although I was a little bemused by Nathalie Press’ performance; unneringly precious and slightly eerie in its execution.
But more importantly, as we’re talking about an artist filmmaker here, is that it looks absolutely stunning. Almost every interior is lit exquisitely like a Rembrandt painting. The period is accurately rendered in the production design, while the dramatic lighting gives the sets and the actors a resolutely painterly appearance. One of the standout scenes for me was an early scene where the house dines round circular tables, each person draped in shadow and with the slightly grainy texture of a painting. It is arguably his most visually resplendent film since Sacha Vierny’s death.
Another departed collaborator in Michael Nyman is hardly missed; his Polish successor conjuring Nyman’s propulsive and alternately serene passages, but in a new form. Nyman’s scoring is always something to look forward to, but here he has a capable substitute. One interesting thing Greenaway said was that one of the reasons he got into film was because he wanted to put paintings to music, and couldn’t do it anywhere else. Furthermore, instead of combining the visuals and aural aspects seamlessly into the narrative, he has always been determined to make the audience extremely aware of each element of production.
Greenaway was a compelling subject. He spoke with an actors booming voice and authority, somewhat pretentious some might say, talking into the heavens like a bonafide academic. I got the feeling, being that this was probably one of his first encounters with a British audience for a while, that he was using it as a platform for himself, and perhaps even wanted to prove something. He has often spoken out about the constraints of the British film industry, particularly for himself, and rightly so. One of the most pertinent questions was ‘Where can we get hold of your films?’, a damning indictment of Greenway’s reception in the UK. Much of the discussion centred around the future of cinema-it’s dead, apparently- and Greenaway’s multimedia work. He showed us a short clip of his work with ‘The Last Supper’, which used computer graphics to distort and play with the image. Frankly, it looked pretty silly and not far from an 80’s educational science video.
Stick to the feature films, Peter.
Greenaway’s films have often been concerned with conspiracies and mysteries, so Nightwatching is in good company. I think the most able comparison for the film is his early feature The Draughtsman’s Contract, where a painter becomes entangled in a country house murder mystery. His new film is possibly one of his most accessible; in the Q & A he stated that he was encouraged to do A (commercial) and B (artistic) films in rotation, and this was considered by his backers as an A film.
How does it match up to his previous work? Well, I’d say it was up there with his best. Not quite up to the standards of The Cook, the thief…, but equal to Draughtsman’s and A Z and Two Noughts. It is one of his most warm, comedic films; the characters are actually very well drawn out and there are signs of genuine emotion. Martin Freeman is very good in the lead role, drawing on his comic capabilities as a put-upon man, while demonstrating a more dramatic pathos as well. The supporting cast is reliably excellent, although I was a little bemused by Nathalie Press’ performance; unneringly precious and slightly eerie in its execution.
But more importantly, as we’re talking about an artist filmmaker here, is that it looks absolutely stunning. Almost every interior is lit exquisitely like a Rembrandt painting. The period is accurately rendered in the production design, while the dramatic lighting gives the sets and the actors a resolutely painterly appearance. One of the standout scenes for me was an early scene where the house dines round circular tables, each person draped in shadow and with the slightly grainy texture of a painting. It is arguably his most visually resplendent film since Sacha Vierny’s death.
Another departed collaborator in Michael Nyman is hardly missed; his Polish successor conjuring Nyman’s propulsive and alternately serene passages, but in a new form. Nyman’s scoring is always something to look forward to, but here he has a capable substitute. One interesting thing Greenaway said was that one of the reasons he got into film was because he wanted to put paintings to music, and couldn’t do it anywhere else. Furthermore, instead of combining the visuals and aural aspects seamlessly into the narrative, he has always been determined to make the audience extremely aware of each element of production.
Greenaway was a compelling subject. He spoke with an actors booming voice and authority, somewhat pretentious some might say, talking into the heavens like a bonafide academic. I got the feeling, being that this was probably one of his first encounters with a British audience for a while, that he was using it as a platform for himself, and perhaps even wanted to prove something. He has often spoken out about the constraints of the British film industry, particularly for himself, and rightly so. One of the most pertinent questions was ‘Where can we get hold of your films?’, a damning indictment of Greenway’s reception in the UK. Much of the discussion centred around the future of cinema-it’s dead, apparently- and Greenaway’s multimedia work. He showed us a short clip of his work with ‘The Last Supper’, which used computer graphics to distort and play with the image. Frankly, it looked pretty silly and not far from an 80’s educational science video.
Stick to the feature films, Peter.
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