Binder Challenge #3: Masculin, Féminin (1966)

After two or three aborted attempts to watch CONTEMPT (a film I plan to revisit sooner rather that later) I decided to continue both the Binder Challenge and my Jean-Luc Godard education with MASCULIN, FÉMININ, his 1966 portrait of the youth culture in Paris in the months leading up to the 1965 presidential election. Working from his own screenplay, a loose interpretation on two short stories from Guy de Mauspassant, MASCULIN, FÉMININ is a flurry of different visual and aural ideas cut together and framed in a off-kilter documentary style whose purpose isn't anything like a straight narrative, but rather an empathetic if distanced view of the lives of the young men and women Godard found himself surrounded by in Paris. As my third Godard film, after the wonderful BREATHLESS and BAND OF OUTSIDERS (reviewed here and here), MASCULIN, FÉMININ feels like a change of gears - although many of the same pieces are in place from those earlier films, the intent here is more observation than to participation.

The scenes have that improvisatory ring that are a benchmark of Godard's writing style: get the idea, work it out on the spot - either right before or during filming of the scene in question. Paul is a young, idealistic kid, obsessed with revolution and the larger questions of his day, even though the majority of the movie finds him worrying and depressed because of his love for Madeleine, a sweet young Yé-yé girl who admits in an early scene that she is the center of her world, a world where her biggest concern is where her single will land on the charts. During the course of the movie Paul (played by Jean-Pierre Léaud, the lead in François Truffaut's Antoine Doinel films beginning with THE 400 BLOWS, as well as a Godard regular) expounds regularly on socialism, the elitism of the upper class, and the plight of the workers, and patronizes those around him with questions that serve little purpose other than to show that people don't know as much as he does.  Yet for all that, Paul's actual action seems to consist of little more than spray-painting slogans on walls and cars, and moping over his relationship with the carefree Madeleine.

In fact, most of the characters are divided according to their sex - Paul and his friend Robert talk all day of revolution and politics, thinking little of the skirts they chase - Madeleine for Paul, Elizabeth (who coincidentally likes Paul) for Robert.  The girls, on the other hand - Madeleine, Elizabeth, and their friend Catherine, are hardly impressed by all the lofty intellectual talk, preferring what they can see and hear around them.  But instead of this coming across as shallow, or the boys coming off as tortured and lofty, Godard sits back and observes everyone for what they truly are - kids trying to find their place in the world that makes little sense to them.

The film hammers this point home in a number of different ways.  Certain scenes are punctuated with violence that springs out of nowhere.  Early on, when Paul and Madeleine meet for the first time, a woman storms out of the cafe with a man and child after a loud argument.  She suddenly shoots the man, drops the gun and goes off with the child with no explanation or follow-up.  Later, on a train ride, Paul and Madeleine witness a woman shoot the two black passengers she's been arguing with.  In perhaps the most bizarre scene, a man threatens Paul with a knife in an arcade, then without warning stabs himself in the stomach, leaving Paul to carry him off the street.  These sudden bursts of violence are accentuated by piercing bangs on the audio track, and served to express (to me, anyway, I have no idea if this is correct or not) the unseen violence that was permeating the world at the time, in Vietnam, in China, in Cuba, and at home.

Then there's the matter of MASCULIN, FÉMININ's subtitle: 15 Precise Facts.  Title cards with sayings are spread throughout the film, the most famous of which refers to the characters and the Parisian youth in general as "the children of Marx and Coca-Cola."  It's a perfect summation of youth - not just during the moments of Godard's film but for most kids around the world - that fragile when you're armed with enough knowledge to begin the slow process of really defining who you are, a large part of which are those sweet, sugary things you grew up with - music, the movies, the boy or the girl you saw on the bus that day, or in the cafe sitting next to you.  To these kids, everything - regardless of content - is vitally important to their being, whether it's the chart position of a new single, the correct aspect ratio for framing a film (in a classic moment), or the petty jealousies and insecurities about a trip to the country.

The end of MASCULIN, FÉMININ comes as a bit of a shock, as we get a small taste of Paul and Madeleine's future. There's no real resolution of any story points, since the story wasn't the thing in the first place.  Is Godard commenting on the future of the generation he's observing?  Does it speak to the eventual demise of the ideals and juxtaposition of, as the card says, Marx and Coca-Cola?  I don't really know, and although MASCULIN, FÉMININ didn't leave me with the instant love BREATHLESS or BAND OF OUTSIDERS did, it left me more intrigued to re-visit, to see and understand the film better or, at the very least, differently than I do now.  And that's a very good thing.

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When I finished writing this and began to snag some screenshots, I realized I didn't mention anything about the acting, particularly of Chantal Goya, the real life Yé-yé girl who plays Madeleine in the film.  MASCULIN, FÉMININ comes off the heels of Godard's divorce from Anna Karina, the petite beauty who starred in a number of his films.  Goya has much of same easy charm, although there's a depth in Karina's eyes that Goya can't replace.  One of the things I've noticed watching Godard is his incredible eye for casting, particularly (again) women.  I don't know that she went on to do much after this, but she,along with everyone else in the film, fits in to Godard's vision perfectly.

Binder Challenge #1: I'm a Cyborg, But That's OK

Small cheat: I actually started the Binder Challenge on my personal blog a few weeks ago, so as I get the latest one ready here's the kick-off, a smaller-seen "tweener" film for Korean superstar Park-Chan wook.

Coming off the heels of LADY VENGEANCE, the final entry in the critically acclaimed Vengeance Trilogy (the other two films being SYMPATHY FOR MR. VENGEANCE and the global phenomenon OLDBOY), Park Chan-wook decided to travel off the well worn path of revenge thrillers and brutal violence and move in an unexpected direction: a romantic comedy. of course, this being a Park Chan-wook film, it's a romantic comedy filled with brutal violence and revenge.

Did you expect anything less?

I'M A CYBORG, BUT THAT'S OK is a bit of a mouthful, barely mentioned in his Wikipedia entry, and a disappointment at the Korean box office. On the surface this seems a bit odd, as the film is filled with his signature style: everything is framed wonderfully, the camera zipping along inhabiting the world as if it's its own character. Chan-wook employs a color palette, and the film is peopled by an oddball cast that are all given their small moments to develop and shine. And of course there's the violence - played for laughs, sure, but still readily apparent. So all the boxes are checked and we're on target to be blown away. But unlike his other films, and unlike the films I'M A CYBORG... brings to mind (I was specifically reminded of the works of Terry Gilliam, Stephen Chow, and Jean-Pierre Jeunet), the images and moments fade away almost as soon as the credits roll.

It's an interesting premise: Young-goon is a timid factory worker who, in the opening scene, attempts to "charge" herself by slitting her wrist, inserting exposed copper wires and then plugging herself into a wall outlet. You see, she thinks she's a cyborg (but that's OK), and needs to charge her batteries instead of eating food. It's a gorgeously choreographed sequenced, mixing the humor of the situation with a visceral punch as the blood flows down her arm. Young-goon is admitted to an asylum where, in typical movie fashion she comes across an motley crew of misfit patients, including Park Il-sun (played by SPEED RACER/NINJA ASSASSIN/Asian singing sensation Rain in his debut film), a bunny mask-wearing kleptomaniac who "steals" the problems of his fellow inmates.

The meet cute/fall in love plot-line is confounded by Young-goon's insistence that not only is she a cyborg, but that she needs to charge up so she can fulfill her mission to kill all the "white-uns" for taking her grandmother away from her. Park Chan-wook shoots a number of fantasy sequences where Young-goon's fingertips open up to display gun barrels, allowing her to blow everyone away in the hospital as her mouth spits out empty shells. Park Il-sun, barely equipped to handle his own psychological problems, uses Young-goon's delusions to keep her safe as they both fall in love.

The film comes together in a few quiet, beautiful moments, such as Park Il-sun "implanting" a food converter Young-goon's back. Even as you acknowledge the absurdity of the situation, the care and delicate movements serve what would in another film be a bland, typical love scene. Later, both are locked in confinement, and their method of communication demonstrates a playfulness and innocence that shines in even the darkest portions of Chan-wook's other films. But those moments are few and far between, and large sections of the movie go by that, while visually dazzling and "cool" (the first time you see Young-goon go into her Terminator mode it's hard not to gasp with geek delight) don't leave much of an impression when the scene ends.

Just writing about the movie makes me almost think I liked it better than I did. The problem is, for all the dazzling visuals and comedic beats, I'M A CYBORG, BUT THAT'S OK feels flat when all is said and done. There's nothing particularly wrong with it, but it's missing the spark that fused his other films together, leaving this as a footnote in an otherwise exemplary career.

Band of Outsiders (1964)

It's strange, but until watching BAND OF OUTSIDERS last night, my only exposure to Jean-Luc Godard was BREATHLESS (reviewed here), which kicked off Celluloid Moon's quasi "launch" back in January. Kind of a long wait between films, especially after the wonderful taste BREATHLESS left in my mouth, but that wait may have made my feelings toward BAND OF OUTSIDERS a little sweeter than they would have been otherwise.

Coming four years after his debut, and off of his first real flop (LES CARABINIERS), BAND OF OUTSIDERS feels like the younger, more accessible brother to BREATHLESS - an exuberant movie about youth and crime, embracing everything Godard loves about the classic American cinema of the 30s and 40s while at the same time continuing the cues and tricks that signalled the French New Wave was not a flash in the pan movement. The "jump-cutting" isn't the presence it was in his debut (I'm hard pressed now, only a day later, to recall any in fact), but Godard, again relying on cinematographer Raoul Coutard to shoot in a lovely, natural documentary feel, inserts his references in other, oftentimes more subtle ways. Lines of dialog, characters names, even the credits are lovingly crafted from his influences and friends at the time.

Godard's "outsiders" are Franz, Arthur, and the beautiful innocent Odile, who all meet in an English Language class. Franz and Arthur are two sides of the same coin: Franz is always thinking, always looking inward and debating, while for Arthur there is only the moment, the black and white of his wants and desires. They dream of the outlaw life: would-be gangsters on the lookout for a big score, mimicking the gunfights of Billy the Kids and wanting to go away to someplace, anyplace more exotic than where they are now. Odile, played by Godard's wife Anna Karina, is the shy flower, living with her aunt and a lodger, Mr. Stolz. She's the image of young beauty, trying to prove she's worldly and knowledgeable even as she betrays her naivete when asked to show that she knows how to kiss:

The basic plot is that these three come together when Odile lets slip that the lodger who stays with her and her aunt, a Mr, Stolz, has a bureau filled with money. Arthur is determined to steal the money with Franz and Odile's help. Things get complicated as Odile begins to regret throwing her lot in with Arthur, and the film moves along to its perhaps inevitable conclusion with a shootout, the band torn apart, and the inklings of a new life and a continuing story. But simply following the plot isn't what Godard intended, and indeed BAND OF OUTSIDERS works best as a series of wonderful diversions, rather than anything so serious as a crime film. So much of it has become the stuff of film legend, starting with the "Madison" sequence, which starts with the "Moment of Silence" - the sound is completely cut off as the three attempt (unsuccessfully, it turns out) to observe a moment of silence. But then we get to the famous dance sequence, where the entire world seems to stop as Odile, Franz and Arthur dance:

The music swells and cuts as the narrator (Godard) provides insight into the heart of each person. It's a lovely scene, at odds with what we think the movie's supposed to be about: why would three would-be thieves stop to dance? Ask Quentin Tarantino, who does the same thing in PULP FICTION and whose production company is called Band Apart which, incidentally, is the French title (spelled slightly different) for BAND OF OUSIDERS.¹

And then there's the run through the Louvre. I think this moment, more than the Madison sequence, speaks to the unrestrained joy that Godard and others in the French New Wave were able to capture so delicately, timeless no matter when you see it:

Looking through the scenes again, I can't help but again comment on how spectacular BAND OF OUTSIDERS looks. Shooting on location, Coutard manages to convey a look that is both immediate in its realism and still maintain a sense of the unreal that lets you slip away into the fiction of the story. It's a aesthetic shared by his contemporaries, and it never fails to fill me with wonder whenever I see it done with this level of care and craft, like in BREATHLESS, and the films of Françios Truffaut and, over on our side of the pond, Nicholas Ray.

It may not have the impact and sense of importance that its older brother does, but BAND OF OUTSIDERS is still a treasure of a film, taken on whatever level you wish to bring to it. Criterion's release is excellent (as expected), and if you have a chance to watch it be sure to also check out the visual glossary, which goes through the film scene by scene, commenting on the various inside references and jokes Godard made a habit of inserting in his films.

I have an inkling my next Godard film is going to come a lot quicker than eight months...

¹ I realize full well that the above has been a well-known fact for years. But since I only saw the film last night, and didn't know anything else about it, it was fresh and exciting to make that discovery. One of the benefits of being kept in the dark about certain films for whatever reason, I guess.

Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1971)

Dario Argento is generally held high on the shoulders of horror fandom for the vibrant visual palette he brings to his horror films, particularly his series of giallo films. FOUR FLIES ON GREY VELVET was his third film, considered "lost" due to its long absence on DVD, and it's a crazy ride into many of the visual themes and cues he would use to later effect in more classic films like DEEP RED and SUSPIRIA.

It's interesting that DEEP RED came only a few years and one film after FOUR FLIES, which was originally supposed to be Argento's goodbye to the giallo genre. You can watch the two in sitting (as I did) and really see FOUR FLIES as a kind of workprint for what Argento would do cleaner and more impactful in DEEP RED. Because for all its wonderful moments, including an amazing rock and roll soundtrack by Ennio Morricone, beautiful use of colors and moving cameras, and some excellent ahead of its time POV shots, FOUR FLIES ON GREY VELVET is an absolute mess as far as story is concerned. Essentially, it's about a drummer in a rock band (Michael Brandon) named Roberto who is being stalked by a mysterious man in black, with a glorious, full and bushy mustache (I bring this up because it was a bad-ass mustache). Roberto confronts the gentleman in an abandoned playhouse, a struggle ensues, a knife comes out, and the stalker crashes to the stage, seemingly stabbed by mistake in the struggle. High above in the balcony, a figure wearing a mask shaped like a doll's head snaps pictures. Soon Roberto is terrorized by the new stranger, and as he attempts to figure out what's going on, one by one those who attempt to help him are murdered.

Don't bother trying to figure out what the dreams of decapitation mean, or the whirling scenes that take place in a padded cell. Forget the obvious and sometimes hysterical homosexual under (and over-) tones of the characters and just revel in how masterly Argento controls the action on the screen. It doesn't make a lot of sense, and when you find out who the killer is, you'll probably be as stumped as I am with trying to understand why they went through all of the trouble of doing what they did in the beginning if they only wanted to kill Roberto in the end. Even the scene that finally explains the title of the movie: wonderful to look at, really inconsequential in the grand scheme of the story. Argento basically directs the hell out of a movie that's light as a feather, but watched in conjunction with DEEP RED, FOUR FLIES ON GREY VELVET gets better when you think of it as a sort of proving ground for what he would accomplish in the later film.

All in all, nice to finally have it out on DVD, but I think this one is more of a curiosity for those who want to catch all of Argento rather than anything like a lost classic.

Movie #9: Let the Right One In (2008)

Our introduction to Oskar gives us everything we need to understand his character. The screen is black, but we can hear threats, disturbingly reminiscent of DELIVERANCE: "Squeal! You squeal!" It is the sound of anger, of fear unbottled as rage. But when we actually see Oskar, we are confronted with the truth: a scared, pale, almost feminine boy standing in his room in his underwear, stabbing repeatedly at the air and wishing it were the local bully at his school. It's the first of many beautifully unguarded moments that implicitly understand childhood and the tentative steps we take when we move into adolescence.

It's certainly not the traditional beginning to a vampire film, but then, LET THE RIGHT ONE IN is anything but a traditional vampire film.

Directed with care and restraint by Tomas Alfredson and written by John Ajvide Lindqvist based on his novel, LET THE RIGHT ONE IN delicately captures the shy, innocent fumblings of friendship and first love for Oskar, who has been beaten down at age 12 by his life. His parents are divorced: his mother distracted, his father distant and possibly struggling with burgeoning feelings of his own. Oskar feels invisible, his paleness blending into the stark whiteness of Sweden, where the films takes place. The only one to pay him any mind is Conny, the school bully whom Oskar imagines stabbing in the beginning of the film.

That feeling of invisibility ends when he meets Eli, a dark shamble of hair and eyes large as saucers. She suddenly appears standing on the jungle gym outside Oskar's apartment complex. She's recently moved in next door, she explains. Their interactions late at night, outside, are poignant and really the heart of the movie. How does a 12-year old show his affection? Oskar gives Eli his Rubik's Cube after Eli shows him how to solve it. They learn Morse code so they can communicate with each other through the walls of the apartment. And for Eli, who has been twelve "for a while now," the questions of how to relate to Oskar is doubly confusing, which makes their repeated connections and their situation at the film's end wonderfully reached.

However, Alfredsen doesn't let you forget that this is also a film about a creature that subsists on the blood of the living, and without resorting to a more Westernized series of action set pieces he fills LET THE RIGHT ONE IN with a multitude of eerie moments: a figure scurrying up the side of the building, brief flashes of elongated tongues and faces that, for a split second, are infinitely older than at first imagined. Blood? Check, and lots of it. Sometimes with a quiet humor (a poodle and a bunch of cats get some good laughs) and sometimes for shock (the exquisite climactic "pool" scene), the movie never fails to surround itself in a shroud of winter that keeps everything in a suitably somber mood.

A quick note: both in print and online there are numerous attempt to compare LET THE RIGHT ONE IN to TWILIGHT, oftentimes asserting (one way or the other) that one is the "superior" vampire film. But that's a severe disservice: LET THE RIGHT ONE IN is simply one the best films of 2008.

It just also happens to be a vampire film.

Movie #1: Breathless (1959)

BREATHLESS may not have been the movie to "officially" kick off the French New Wave, but after its release there was little doubt it would be the standard bearer for the movement. Written and directed by Jean-Luc Godard based off a treatment by Francois Truffaut, BREATHLESS leaps off the screen and tears into its story with a youthful exuberance that embraces its roots in American genre films while gleefully tearing apart the staid tenets of how those films are structured.

This was my introduction to Godard, and watching it for the first time I was amazed at how fresh and exciting it feels almost 50 years after its initial release. Roger Ebert hails it as the beginning of the modern movie, and the most influential debut since Orson Welles and CITIZEN KANE, and it's hard not to think the same. The story centers on Michel, a small time gangster who idolizes Humphrey Bogart and the materialistic freedoms of America - the cars, the movies, and the women. BREATHLESS opens with Michel nonchalantly stealing a car, and as he tears through the countryside Godard demonstrates what makes this a "modern" movie - Michel's mouth motors as quick as his car, and as he goes from topic to topic Godard's "jump cutting" technique is introduced - the editing almost seems to stutter, catching the dialog just after it begin only to clip just before it ends. The technique forces the viewer to become a participant in the conversation, desperately trying to keep up with what Michel is saying - a hopeless cause. For a brief moment he even turns to the camera, breaking the fourth wall and even more directly drawing the viewer into his world before he's off again, daring us to catch up. Soon he's stopped by the police and, having found a gun in the glove compartment, suddenly kills the patrolman in what looks to be a quick, gut reaction to getting caught. This sets up the rest of the story as Michel attempts to collect enough money to leave the country with Patricia, an American girl he fancies after a brief fling some time before.

But while the actual plot points of BREATHLESS are ripped directly from the Western gangster films of the 40s and 50s, the execution of the plot is anything but a retread. The editing is wonder at both ends of the spectrum - the jump cutting is continuously used to great effect, acting as a visual companion to the pace and tone of Michel's comments and eyeline. During a cab ride he tells Patricia how beautiful she is; the editing not only clips the dialog into brief, aural impressions but visually accents her face, her neck, wherever his eyes roam.

But what also stands out are the long, uninterrupted takes that echo the languid, bored moods of Michel and Patricia, especially in one particular scene up in her apartment. Michel spends the majority of the time trying to convince Patricia to sleep with him, but the movement and pacing betrays his boredom by not cutting away and focusing on his slow body movements and the endless little bits of distractions between them. The lighting is mostly natural, sunlight filtering through cigarette smoke in a haze that further enhances the feeling of emptiness insider the characters.

BREATHLESS also plays with unconventional methods of communicating the story. Michel walks down a street and the camera lingers on a passing sign that reads, "Live Dangerously Until the End!" Rather than show the police closing in on Michel, Godard uses newspapers and scrolling marquee signs flashing bulletins as Michel coincidentally drives by to signal their progress. And in perhaps the most ironic moment of the movie, a passerby who recognizes Michel and points him out to police is none other than Godard himself, thus directing the course of the film simultaneously in front of and behind the camera.

Would this movie have worked with different actors? It's hard to say, because what Jean-Paul Belmondo brings to Michel is an oddball electricity that would be hard to replace. Big, pouty lips and a broad nose, up close he looks far from the typical matinee idol, but his lithe movements and boundless charm make it easy to understand why he was a top drawer in France for so many years. His Michel is all sheen and bravado up front with a frightened kid just below the skin, and nowhere after the first five minutes of the film is it believed he's as tough as he claims to be. Even his tough guy actions - the initial murder, the muggings and bullying threats, betray a scared indecision, a life purposely without direction.

And the first moment Jean Seberg appears on-screen, walking up and down the street selling newspapers with her New York Herald t-shirt, it's impossible to look away. She's gorgeous and enigmatic and in her own way just as empty inside as Michel. There's a weird detachment to her actions and words that speaks to a coldness Michel never recognizes until it's too late. She announces she's pregnant, but the way she says it feels clinical, as if looking for a reaction from Michel. Is it true? She speaks to a friend and potential lover earlier where her condition is perhaps obliquely referenced, but that may have been a lie as well. Later, she coldly manipulates Michel's capture because, her thinking goes, if she can do something bad to him, it proves that she doesn't really love him. This sets up the wonderfully iconic ending, and one of the best last lines in movies, as Michel meets his end and maybe gets a glimpse of reality before the movie ends.

All together, BREATHLESS works to create a fresh and clear starting line for many of the things taken for granted on modern films. It celebrates American cinema even as it makes a case for the new wave of French cinema. The plot, characters, and style all coalesce into something where, for once, the reputation is less than adequate.