Federico Fellini vs. Michelangelo Antonioni
Trying to give this series a little diversity, I knew that I wanted to write about a European art director, but that was by far the hardest category for me to find someone I didn’t adore. I was slow to click with French poetic realism and I almost choose Jean Renoir (with Marcel Carne as the preferred candidate), but I’ve gradually converted during the last few years as I see some of his lesser work. Even Fellini is a bit of a stretch, since I’ve only disliked one film by him (“Amarcord,” if you’re interested). Much like Ozu, my sense that we don’t connect comes from the discrepancy between my mild enthusiasm and the critical establishment’s thunderous praise.
Fellini has a lot going for him in my book. Whether in black and white or in color, he has preternatural sense for constructing powerful visual impressions. He’s a gifted surrealist, with a fantastic imagination full of rich minutiae and rapturous flights. Although sometimes overly given to ponderous symbolism for its own sake, his ability to drape layer after layer of meaning (personal, religious, political, psychological, sexual) onto his imagery turns his films into exhilarating intellectual carnivals.
It’s his early work that I think is least arresting. In “Nights of Cabiria” and “La Strada” he’s still too held back by neorealism and it clashes with his use of fatalism and expressionism. I think he also made a mistake in casting his wife, Giulietta Masina, in these and other films. Her acting is too theatrical, with exaggerated emotions painted broadly across her face. The way Fellini idealizes naivety, both in Masina’s characters and in the youths of “Amarcord,” strikes me as false.
I’m more a fan of Fellini’s later work, when he began to adopt a flamboyant style with hallucinatory dream imagery and striking coloration (thought to benefit from a disorder called synesthesia where words, concepts and sounds have involuntary color associations). Around the same time, his collaborations with Marcello Mastroianni took the acting to a higher level.
Still, there’s seemed to be a barrier between me and Fellini. I’d describe it as almost a personality difference. I just don’t share his fascinations, like his absorption with social spheres, sexual conquest and gaudy luxury. It always seems to me that even as he satirizes and unmasks the shallowness of the decadent rich with their idleness, gossip, pettiness, vanities, affairs and orgies, he was also inextricably drawn to it. Like how so many action and war films that try to expose the terribleness of violence ends up glorifying it. The stunning beauty with which Fellini renders the parties, banquets and orchestras drains the venom from his fangs.
Michelangelo Antonioni was Fellini’s contemporary, an Italian art film director who also focused on the wealthy elite. He also shared a fondness for casting Mastroianni. I think the big difference is that Antonioni’s films are more austere in their visuals and more ambiguous in their symbolism. He’s arguably harder to watch and to enjoy.
Fellini had a talent for bringing dreams, memories and fears to vivid life, while Antonioni keeps his characters introspective, repressed and demure. One finds clues into their emotional states in the texture, framing and architecture rather than in expressions and words. Fellini uses the instantaneous impact of images to get raw reactions from the audience (and I should note he does this very well) while Antonioni has a delicacy and precision that requires the viewer to investigate the image. This gives Antonioni’s work a more gradual buildup of meanings rather than an overwhelming glut. I love Fellini’s intensity, but I often find it more rewarding to mull over and rewatch Antonioni’s films.
There is also more potency in Antonioni’s criticism. His assaults on shallowness and decadence show less mercy. When Antonioni’s camera shows up at a party, it doesn’t enjoy itself. Every amusement is shown to be vacuous. Every smile is revealed to be serpentine. One can hardly blame his characters for fleeing in disgust. They’re left wandering lonely streets with doubts about their purpose; existential quandaries that lead to depression and apathy or journeys for truth down blind alleys.
I also enjoy Antonioni’s unusual sense of mystery. Not in the whodunit sense, but in an airy philosophical way. Not only are his characters inscrutable enigmas, but their crises often take the form of quests for some unarticulated inner grail. In films like “The Adventure” and “Blow-Up,” there is a semi-concrete mystery to be solved, but at the heart the real subject is always more abstract. The question, sometimes never even fully formed, usually involves the search for identity, meaning or fulfillment.
This is the closest competition in this series. I actually like both directors quite a bit and admire their talent. I’d actually say Fellini is nearer to the typical type of director I champion and he has more films left that I’m interested in watching. It may have influenced my preference for Antonioni that I took a class on his work, studying it closely and at length (I still find him frequently impenetrable). If I had to choose someone who may really outshine Fellini, it’d be Wojciech Has, but I’ve only seen a few of his films.
Showing posts with label Let's Just Be Friends. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Let's Just Be Friends. Show all posts
Friday, September 12, 2008
Monday, September 1, 2008
Let's Just Be Friends: Woody Allen
Woody Allen vs. Hal Hartley
Woody Allen is a bit of an unusual case for me. I’ve seen more films by him than any other director in this series (about 20) and I count at least five of his films amongst my favorites (“Annie Hall,” “Manhattan,” “The Purple Rose of Cairo,” “Stardust Memories” and “Zelig”). Given that, it does feel a little odd for me to be saying I’ve never really liked him, but let’s just say I think he’s rather overrated.
Perhaps the most obvious place to start is with Woody Allen the actor. Like John Wayne, he is only capable of playing one role: himself. There are minor variations, but really it’s always the same sputtering, neurotic, egotistical intellectual. Always Jewish. Always a New York native. Always part of the arts and entertainment milieu. Always inexplicably and somewhat creepily partnered with gorgeous women. It just gets old after a while.
It hampers his scripts whenever he writes himself in. He becomes overly focused on himself, but with too much familiarity for introspection. It’s closer to stealing the spotlight: hoarding all the jokes, crying out for sympathy and fantasizing that everyone finds his shtick charming, witty and magnetic. In his ensemble films, this creates an imbalance that leaves the other roles serving as sounding boards for developing Allen’s character and setting up his retorts. At their worst, his films collapse into alternating autobiographies of self-congratulation and self-pity.
At their best, his films are insightful investigations of modern society that can be both humorous send-ups and searing indictments of romance, art and philosophy. I think this tends to work better when Allen confronts himself head-on (“Annie Hall,” “Manhattan,” “Stardust Memories”) or stays behind the camera completely (“Purple Rose of Cairo”). I’d place his parodies (“What’s Up, Tiger Lily?” “Love and Death,” “Sleeper”) and his ensemble tragicomic films (“Crimes and Misdemeanors,” “Hannah and Her Sisters,” “Husbands and Wives”) somewhere in the middle. At the bottom would be his attempts at traditional drama (“The Curse of the Jade Scorpion,” “Mighty Aphrodite,” “Scoop”). Like most critics, I see his best period as taking place in his first two decades, with the most recent ones sliding into an abyss.
Woody Allen, along with Federico Fellini, tends to be one of the first highbrow auteurs that budding film nerds gravitate towards. It’s not hard to see why. His films are funny, dialogue-driven and full of clever references to literature and art. His immersion in the intellectual world can be as refreshing as that first year of college exposure, especially if you’ve been raised on mind-numbing blockbusters. Yet in terms of drama and comedy, style and form, he remains accessible.
My problems came after that early glow of discovery faded. I began to sense that the drama was contrived and superficial, as if all of the non-Allen characters were just pawns destined for mockery and tragedy. Then, too, I felt something ingratiating in the jokes and references, like a class clown who craves attention and laughter and doesn’t know when to stop. This is all very intuitive unsupportable stuff of the kind I usually avoid, like when critics complain that a director is insincere. I wish I could put it in more concrete terms. It’s a bit like admiring how clever and sarcastic an older kid is, and then one day realizing that they’re just a self-centered snob.
Given his popularity – especially amongst people quite similar to myself – I’m sure I’ve already pissed off a ton of readers, so I might as well go one step further. Here it goes: I don’t agree with Allen that Manhattan is the center of the universe or the sole owner of art, architecture, theater, fashion, liberalism, the immigrant experience, multiculturalism, trendiness, romance, crime, national tragedy, coincidences, taxis, cafes and the rest of culture in general. I get it: you love NYC. That’s awesome for you.
Hal Hartley is also a New York native and a director of highbrow indie comedies notable for their character interactions and clever dialogue. I was introduced to his work long after Allen, but immediately became a fan. When I asked Katie why we both like Hartley more than Allen, her answer was immediate: “He’s our generation.” Maybe that’s it in a nutshell. Allen was considered more hip in the 1970’s than Hartley ever rose to in the 90’s, but Allen’s star has largely set while Hartley may still have a couple comebacks left.
Hartley’s sense of humor is more understated and modest than Allen’s. Hartley is part of the wave of American deadpan comedians that includes Jim Jarmusch and Wes Anderson, all of whom were influenced by Woody Allen (especially with regard to the mixing of humor and heavy drama) while managing to find distinct voices. I think each of them exceeds Allen in creating distinct characters, often rejecting naturalism outright, as with Hartley’s absurd prose and stilted delivery. It probably helps that they don’t risk the conflict of interest that can emerge while acting and directing.
Hal Hartley’s also one of the rare directors who frequently works with suburban settings, which I probably unconsciously relate to better than Allen’s lively urban spaces. Hartley’s characters cover the spectrum of intelligence, but are always treated respectfully rather than condescendingly. We come to like characters who are eccentric poets, unsuccessful geniuses, earnest ditzes or quiet loners. When Hartley makes nods to older films he does so with visual echoes that possess their own beauty and atmosphere, rather than the shortcut of having cultured characters constantly dropping references.
So is it a generation gap or a difference in talent? The former, as I think Allen easily holds his own in cinematography, staging and (at his height) writing. Both Allen and Hartley have had triumphs and flops, but both have proven themselves in my eyes on several occasions. I’d say my greater love for Hartley and the other deadpanners is predominantly based on taste.
Woody Allen is a bit of an unusual case for me. I’ve seen more films by him than any other director in this series (about 20) and I count at least five of his films amongst my favorites (“Annie Hall,” “Manhattan,” “The Purple Rose of Cairo,” “Stardust Memories” and “Zelig”). Given that, it does feel a little odd for me to be saying I’ve never really liked him, but let’s just say I think he’s rather overrated.
Perhaps the most obvious place to start is with Woody Allen the actor. Like John Wayne, he is only capable of playing one role: himself. There are minor variations, but really it’s always the same sputtering, neurotic, egotistical intellectual. Always Jewish. Always a New York native. Always part of the arts and entertainment milieu. Always inexplicably and somewhat creepily partnered with gorgeous women. It just gets old after a while.
It hampers his scripts whenever he writes himself in. He becomes overly focused on himself, but with too much familiarity for introspection. It’s closer to stealing the spotlight: hoarding all the jokes, crying out for sympathy and fantasizing that everyone finds his shtick charming, witty and magnetic. In his ensemble films, this creates an imbalance that leaves the other roles serving as sounding boards for developing Allen’s character and setting up his retorts. At their worst, his films collapse into alternating autobiographies of self-congratulation and self-pity.
At their best, his films are insightful investigations of modern society that can be both humorous send-ups and searing indictments of romance, art and philosophy. I think this tends to work better when Allen confronts himself head-on (“Annie Hall,” “Manhattan,” “Stardust Memories”) or stays behind the camera completely (“Purple Rose of Cairo”). I’d place his parodies (“What’s Up, Tiger Lily?” “Love and Death,” “Sleeper”) and his ensemble tragicomic films (“Crimes and Misdemeanors,” “Hannah and Her Sisters,” “Husbands and Wives”) somewhere in the middle. At the bottom would be his attempts at traditional drama (“The Curse of the Jade Scorpion,” “Mighty Aphrodite,” “Scoop”). Like most critics, I see his best period as taking place in his first two decades, with the most recent ones sliding into an abyss.
Woody Allen, along with Federico Fellini, tends to be one of the first highbrow auteurs that budding film nerds gravitate towards. It’s not hard to see why. His films are funny, dialogue-driven and full of clever references to literature and art. His immersion in the intellectual world can be as refreshing as that first year of college exposure, especially if you’ve been raised on mind-numbing blockbusters. Yet in terms of drama and comedy, style and form, he remains accessible.
My problems came after that early glow of discovery faded. I began to sense that the drama was contrived and superficial, as if all of the non-Allen characters were just pawns destined for mockery and tragedy. Then, too, I felt something ingratiating in the jokes and references, like a class clown who craves attention and laughter and doesn’t know when to stop. This is all very intuitive unsupportable stuff of the kind I usually avoid, like when critics complain that a director is insincere. I wish I could put it in more concrete terms. It’s a bit like admiring how clever and sarcastic an older kid is, and then one day realizing that they’re just a self-centered snob.
Given his popularity – especially amongst people quite similar to myself – I’m sure I’ve already pissed off a ton of readers, so I might as well go one step further. Here it goes: I don’t agree with Allen that Manhattan is the center of the universe or the sole owner of art, architecture, theater, fashion, liberalism, the immigrant experience, multiculturalism, trendiness, romance, crime, national tragedy, coincidences, taxis, cafes and the rest of culture in general. I get it: you love NYC. That’s awesome for you.
Hal Hartley is also a New York native and a director of highbrow indie comedies notable for their character interactions and clever dialogue. I was introduced to his work long after Allen, but immediately became a fan. When I asked Katie why we both like Hartley more than Allen, her answer was immediate: “He’s our generation.” Maybe that’s it in a nutshell. Allen was considered more hip in the 1970’s than Hartley ever rose to in the 90’s, but Allen’s star has largely set while Hartley may still have a couple comebacks left.
Hartley’s sense of humor is more understated and modest than Allen’s. Hartley is part of the wave of American deadpan comedians that includes Jim Jarmusch and Wes Anderson, all of whom were influenced by Woody Allen (especially with regard to the mixing of humor and heavy drama) while managing to find distinct voices. I think each of them exceeds Allen in creating distinct characters, often rejecting naturalism outright, as with Hartley’s absurd prose and stilted delivery. It probably helps that they don’t risk the conflict of interest that can emerge while acting and directing.
Hal Hartley’s also one of the rare directors who frequently works with suburban settings, which I probably unconsciously relate to better than Allen’s lively urban spaces. Hartley’s characters cover the spectrum of intelligence, but are always treated respectfully rather than condescendingly. We come to like characters who are eccentric poets, unsuccessful geniuses, earnest ditzes or quiet loners. When Hartley makes nods to older films he does so with visual echoes that possess their own beauty and atmosphere, rather than the shortcut of having cultured characters constantly dropping references.
So is it a generation gap or a difference in talent? The former, as I think Allen easily holds his own in cinematography, staging and (at his height) writing. Both Allen and Hartley have had triumphs and flops, but both have proven themselves in my eyes on several occasions. I’d say my greater love for Hartley and the other deadpanners is predominantly based on taste.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Let's Just Be Friends: John Ford
John Ford vs. Anthony Mann
John Ford may be the most influential and respected director ever. He was universally well-regarded by his peers. He won best director Oscars four times (a record) and has 18 films, more than any other director, on the TSPDT top 1000 films, the largest compilation of critics’ lists from around the world. He also holds the record, at 10, for most films I’ve disliked.
Ford and I were just never meant to be. His specialty, classical westerns, is one of the very, very few genres that I don’t particularly like. His stock company includes some of my least favorite actors of all time, from leading man John Wayne to character actors like Victor McLaglen. I hate (not dislike) his taste in music. I find that his themes of courage, honor and manliness are undermined by his jingoism, hawkishness and chauvinism. I’m bothered by many of his reoccurring motifs, like favorable depictions of alcoholism, advocacy of boxing/brawling to settle differences and his use of extended dancing scenes.
I’m sure a lot people reading that last paragraph are thinking, “Wow. That’s just a list of personal hang-ups.” Yup. Pretty much.
I just don’t get the whole cowboys versus Indians infatuation. I don’t fall in with the cavalry uniform fetishism, the manifest destiny bravado or the gung-ho militarism. I can’t accept Wayne’s iron-jawed stoicism and paternal dictatorship as the American ideal. I can’t stand his condescending attitude towards women, which occasionally crosses over into outright misogyny (see “The Quiet Man”). Ironically, I think Ford did a better job casting women than men (who act about as real as toy soldiers), but he forced them to bear up under restrictive, monotonous roles.
Do I have anything good to say about John Ford? Yeah. I like his gorgeous outdoor photography. One can hardly overestimate the importance of moving the shooting location from the creaky sound stages of most studio westerns – where a fire in the foreground, a cardboard cactus in the midground and a painted backdrop were considered good enough – to the awe-inspiring vistas of Monument valley.
There’s also a few Ford films I can tolerate, namely “The Grapes of Wrath” (because it is so fantastically well-shot) and “Stagecoach” (for its neatness, balance and efficiency). Of what I’ve seen, I consider “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” to be his only masterpiece.
My preferred alternative to Ford would have to be Anthony Mann. Mann shares the predilection for westerns and built up his own reputation for location shooting. Though Mann entered the genre decades after Ford, their careers overlapped and cross-influenced. They are both famous for their work with James Stewart, though they gave him markedly different roles.
Anthony Mann’s background in noir, a genre I really savor, certainly helped give his westerns an inflection I could appreciate. His heroes have doubts, flaws, fears, troubled pasts, questionable motives and dangerous obsessions. The old west isn’t [as] idealized, and anyone wishing to survive there has to contend with more than just Indians. There’s vicious bandits, unscrupulous business partners and corrupt lawmen, not to mention the harsh landscape, tight economy and “frontier justice.” Add a host of inner demons like revenge, addiction and lust, and you’ve finally mussed up the western’s buttoned-up, waxed-mustache image.
Though John Ford was a self-proclaimed progressive, his films tend to implicitly embrace a conservative agenda. Mann’s films come off as more concerned with the personal than the political, with a more ambivalent stance towards the government, military and society. This emphasis on the lone character has an existential quality I enjoy.
Mann doesn’t shy away from complicated plots and unusual structures. He often covers multiple winding lines of action with characters forced to fight or unite in unexpected combinations. His “Winchester ’73” is a good example of his structural innovation, following a rifle as the protagonist as it passes through the hands of men who cheat and kill to possess it. However, his dark and unusual spins on the western genre made him less popular than Ford, who was better tuned to the type of “good old-fashion” entertainment and classical Americana mythology that audiences loved.
Mann clearly borrows a lot of his cinematography from Ford, particularly in the triumph of capital-n Nature. Both directors held the opinion that the great outdoors was not to be tamed; rather it should be respected as an indomitable force that spared only the resourceful. They also knew its beauty and majesty, its faithful companionship and its generous gifts of food, shelter, hideouts and gold. To my mind, Mann took things a step further than Ford, adding to his visual toolbox by delving into the shadows and crevasses of the countryside and contrasting deep-focus close-ups of human faces with landscape long-shots that diminished men to decals.
I’ve mentioned before that I consider Anthony Mann the bridge from classical westerns to revisionist ones. He was the forward patrol that explored territory later settled by Sergio Leone and Sergio Corbucci. Ford fits into the lineage as well, and I can acknowledge that he is a necessary step, even a foundational one, in the evolution of an important American genre, yet I doubt I’ll ever be able to bring myself to idolize him as a grandmaster on the level of Welles, Hawks, Huston, et al.
John Ford may be the most influential and respected director ever. He was universally well-regarded by his peers. He won best director Oscars four times (a record) and has 18 films, more than any other director, on the TSPDT top 1000 films, the largest compilation of critics’ lists from around the world. He also holds the record, at 10, for most films I’ve disliked.
Ford and I were just never meant to be. His specialty, classical westerns, is one of the very, very few genres that I don’t particularly like. His stock company includes some of my least favorite actors of all time, from leading man John Wayne to character actors like Victor McLaglen. I hate (not dislike) his taste in music. I find that his themes of courage, honor and manliness are undermined by his jingoism, hawkishness and chauvinism. I’m bothered by many of his reoccurring motifs, like favorable depictions of alcoholism, advocacy of boxing/brawling to settle differences and his use of extended dancing scenes.
I’m sure a lot people reading that last paragraph are thinking, “Wow. That’s just a list of personal hang-ups.” Yup. Pretty much.
I just don’t get the whole cowboys versus Indians infatuation. I don’t fall in with the cavalry uniform fetishism, the manifest destiny bravado or the gung-ho militarism. I can’t accept Wayne’s iron-jawed stoicism and paternal dictatorship as the American ideal. I can’t stand his condescending attitude towards women, which occasionally crosses over into outright misogyny (see “The Quiet Man”). Ironically, I think Ford did a better job casting women than men (who act about as real as toy soldiers), but he forced them to bear up under restrictive, monotonous roles.
Do I have anything good to say about John Ford? Yeah. I like his gorgeous outdoor photography. One can hardly overestimate the importance of moving the shooting location from the creaky sound stages of most studio westerns – where a fire in the foreground, a cardboard cactus in the midground and a painted backdrop were considered good enough – to the awe-inspiring vistas of Monument valley.
There’s also a few Ford films I can tolerate, namely “The Grapes of Wrath” (because it is so fantastically well-shot) and “Stagecoach” (for its neatness, balance and efficiency). Of what I’ve seen, I consider “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” to be his only masterpiece.
My preferred alternative to Ford would have to be Anthony Mann. Mann shares the predilection for westerns and built up his own reputation for location shooting. Though Mann entered the genre decades after Ford, their careers overlapped and cross-influenced. They are both famous for their work with James Stewart, though they gave him markedly different roles.
Anthony Mann’s background in noir, a genre I really savor, certainly helped give his westerns an inflection I could appreciate. His heroes have doubts, flaws, fears, troubled pasts, questionable motives and dangerous obsessions. The old west isn’t [as] idealized, and anyone wishing to survive there has to contend with more than just Indians. There’s vicious bandits, unscrupulous business partners and corrupt lawmen, not to mention the harsh landscape, tight economy and “frontier justice.” Add a host of inner demons like revenge, addiction and lust, and you’ve finally mussed up the western’s buttoned-up, waxed-mustache image.
Though John Ford was a self-proclaimed progressive, his films tend to implicitly embrace a conservative agenda. Mann’s films come off as more concerned with the personal than the political, with a more ambivalent stance towards the government, military and society. This emphasis on the lone character has an existential quality I enjoy.
Mann doesn’t shy away from complicated plots and unusual structures. He often covers multiple winding lines of action with characters forced to fight or unite in unexpected combinations. His “Winchester ’73” is a good example of his structural innovation, following a rifle as the protagonist as it passes through the hands of men who cheat and kill to possess it. However, his dark and unusual spins on the western genre made him less popular than Ford, who was better tuned to the type of “good old-fashion” entertainment and classical Americana mythology that audiences loved.
Mann clearly borrows a lot of his cinematography from Ford, particularly in the triumph of capital-n Nature. Both directors held the opinion that the great outdoors was not to be tamed; rather it should be respected as an indomitable force that spared only the resourceful. They also knew its beauty and majesty, its faithful companionship and its generous gifts of food, shelter, hideouts and gold. To my mind, Mann took things a step further than Ford, adding to his visual toolbox by delving into the shadows and crevasses of the countryside and contrasting deep-focus close-ups of human faces with landscape long-shots that diminished men to decals.
I’ve mentioned before that I consider Anthony Mann the bridge from classical westerns to revisionist ones. He was the forward patrol that explored territory later settled by Sergio Leone and Sergio Corbucci. Ford fits into the lineage as well, and I can acknowledge that he is a necessary step, even a foundational one, in the evolution of an important American genre, yet I doubt I’ll ever be able to bring myself to idolize him as a grandmaster on the level of Welles, Hawks, Huston, et al.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Let's Just Be Friends: Yasujiro Ozu
Yasujiro Ozu vs. Kenji Mizoguchi
Amongst the film writers that I most admire, speaking ill of Yasujiro Ozu is about like saying black and white films are no longer relevant. I’m given the impression that not loving Ozu means my taste hasn’t yet matured. In some ways this may be true.
Ozu international standing has only grown in the last few decades and he’s one of the most respected auteurs by both critics and directors (including many of my favorites of both). His unconventional, but highly-consistent, style has brought him to the attention of alternative film theorists and his deeply-felt, quiet humanism has earned him a great reputation even outside of film-nerd circles.
Despite all this, if I’m absolutely honest I have to admit that I don’t really connect with Ozu. When I first started watching his films I took them as gentle domestic dramas with a refreshing amount of genuine sincerity, but little lasting substance. As I began to appreciate his craft and study his career, I took more pleasure in examining his compositions (especially in his color films) and admiring his breaks with traditional editing methods. Still, my praise remained at the level of a decently charming romantic comedy, not a masterpiece by a timeless master. I have the nagging feeling that I’m missing the point.
I think part of the problem may be my disconnection from the 1930’s-1950’s middle-class Japanese setting that Ozu favors. As someone who was born in the midst of consumer culture, it’s tough for me to appreciate the clash of values and traditions during the transition period Ozu tends to feature. Typical of his generation, Ozu expresses skepticism for modern technology, rapid change and personal independence while whole-heartedly embracing family, community and the essential goodness of humanity. It probably makes me sound like a horrible person to say I’m pretty much the reverse: embracing the first group and regarding the latter with skepticism.
While I can recognize much of the humor and emotion (even the “uniquely Japanese” quality of mono no aware, the melancholic acceptance that all things are transient) in Ozu’s films, I find myself unable to connect with the naivety of his characters. Many of Ozu’s favorite roles, the demanding kids, the reticent grandparents, the self-sacrificing young adult on one hand and the selfish ones on the other, the sweet unmarried ingénue, the corporate climber, the sake-swigging old-timer, etc. all seem as stereotypical as American equivalents and I consider these cliches underserving of special treatment. For me, their impossible simplicity and minimal range make them difficult to accept as real regardless of whether it’s historical accurate. Their inability to express their desires, often times the only real crisis that provides the story arc, can be so frustrating for me to watch that I lack sympathy.
After trying to gain a better appreciation of his films, I’m now faced with the problem of Ozu Fatigue. Each additional film I watch by him seems more familiar, more tied to the same aesthetic choices and less shocking in its innovations. I find that the movies merge together in my mind, their stories and characters increasingly indistinguishable in retrospect. And all those season titles! “Early Spring,” “Early Summer,” “Late Summer,” “Early Autumn,” “Late Autumn,” “An Autumn Afternoon,” etc.
My enthusiasm for Kenji Mizoguchi, a contemporary of Ozu, somewhat contradicts my fear that I’m simply too far detached from the time period or the culture. Mizoguchi was also a technical virtuoso, particularly with regard to long takes and exquisite staging, though his style shows more flexibility and scope. A master of precise compositions in his own right, Mizoguchi tends to work with a more diverse set of tools and a freer camera. High angle shots and camera movement, almost never welcome in Ozu films, are staples of his work.
There isn’t any doubt that part of my preference comes from Mizoguchi’s more story-driven scripts, with involved plots and more shifts in setting. Mizoguchi’s films are often set in the past and cover long stretches of time. His characters evolve and take part in major journeys, scandals and tragedies, none of which tends to happen in Ozu’s work. Even Mizoguchi’s blighted wretches and doomed heroes seem more relatable to me than Ozu’s contented families. Even if I don’t agree with their pride, arrogance, stubbornness, self-pity or whatever, at least they grow, suffer, learn, and express multiple sides of their personalities.
I don’t think my emotional involvement in his films is much higher than in Ozu’s oeuvre, but Mizoguchi is less dependent on it. I’m still missing out on some of the pleasures of melodrama that both directors excel at, but I’m left more satisfied and enlightened by Mizoguchi. It may be that my personality is simply incompatible with Ozu’s, and that our relationship will always be just friends. However, I think there’s at least some chance that as I grow older, I’ll come to empathize with his humanism and reach that pseudo-spiritual relationship that can be glimpsed in the affection for Ozu shown by others.
Amongst the film writers that I most admire, speaking ill of Yasujiro Ozu is about like saying black and white films are no longer relevant. I’m given the impression that not loving Ozu means my taste hasn’t yet matured. In some ways this may be true.
Ozu international standing has only grown in the last few decades and he’s one of the most respected auteurs by both critics and directors (including many of my favorites of both). His unconventional, but highly-consistent, style has brought him to the attention of alternative film theorists and his deeply-felt, quiet humanism has earned him a great reputation even outside of film-nerd circles.
Despite all this, if I’m absolutely honest I have to admit that I don’t really connect with Ozu. When I first started watching his films I took them as gentle domestic dramas with a refreshing amount of genuine sincerity, but little lasting substance. As I began to appreciate his craft and study his career, I took more pleasure in examining his compositions (especially in his color films) and admiring his breaks with traditional editing methods. Still, my praise remained at the level of a decently charming romantic comedy, not a masterpiece by a timeless master. I have the nagging feeling that I’m missing the point.
I think part of the problem may be my disconnection from the 1930’s-1950’s middle-class Japanese setting that Ozu favors. As someone who was born in the midst of consumer culture, it’s tough for me to appreciate the clash of values and traditions during the transition period Ozu tends to feature. Typical of his generation, Ozu expresses skepticism for modern technology, rapid change and personal independence while whole-heartedly embracing family, community and the essential goodness of humanity. It probably makes me sound like a horrible person to say I’m pretty much the reverse: embracing the first group and regarding the latter with skepticism.
While I can recognize much of the humor and emotion (even the “uniquely Japanese” quality of mono no aware, the melancholic acceptance that all things are transient) in Ozu’s films, I find myself unable to connect with the naivety of his characters. Many of Ozu’s favorite roles, the demanding kids, the reticent grandparents, the self-sacrificing young adult on one hand and the selfish ones on the other, the sweet unmarried ingénue, the corporate climber, the sake-swigging old-timer, etc. all seem as stereotypical as American equivalents and I consider these cliches underserving of special treatment. For me, their impossible simplicity and minimal range make them difficult to accept as real regardless of whether it’s historical accurate. Their inability to express their desires, often times the only real crisis that provides the story arc, can be so frustrating for me to watch that I lack sympathy.
After trying to gain a better appreciation of his films, I’m now faced with the problem of Ozu Fatigue. Each additional film I watch by him seems more familiar, more tied to the same aesthetic choices and less shocking in its innovations. I find that the movies merge together in my mind, their stories and characters increasingly indistinguishable in retrospect. And all those season titles! “Early Spring,” “Early Summer,” “Late Summer,” “Early Autumn,” “Late Autumn,” “An Autumn Afternoon,” etc.
My enthusiasm for Kenji Mizoguchi, a contemporary of Ozu, somewhat contradicts my fear that I’m simply too far detached from the time period or the culture. Mizoguchi was also a technical virtuoso, particularly with regard to long takes and exquisite staging, though his style shows more flexibility and scope. A master of precise compositions in his own right, Mizoguchi tends to work with a more diverse set of tools and a freer camera. High angle shots and camera movement, almost never welcome in Ozu films, are staples of his work.
There isn’t any doubt that part of my preference comes from Mizoguchi’s more story-driven scripts, with involved plots and more shifts in setting. Mizoguchi’s films are often set in the past and cover long stretches of time. His characters evolve and take part in major journeys, scandals and tragedies, none of which tends to happen in Ozu’s work. Even Mizoguchi’s blighted wretches and doomed heroes seem more relatable to me than Ozu’s contented families. Even if I don’t agree with their pride, arrogance, stubbornness, self-pity or whatever, at least they grow, suffer, learn, and express multiple sides of their personalities.
I don’t think my emotional involvement in his films is much higher than in Ozu’s oeuvre, but Mizoguchi is less dependent on it. I’m still missing out on some of the pleasures of melodrama that both directors excel at, but I’m left more satisfied and enlightened by Mizoguchi. It may be that my personality is simply incompatible with Ozu’s, and that our relationship will always be just friends. However, I think there’s at least some chance that as I grow older, I’ll come to empathize with his humanism and reach that pseudo-spiritual relationship that can be glimpsed in the affection for Ozu shown by others.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Let's Just Be Friends: Mel Brooks
Mel Brooks vs. Terry Gilliam
I’m starting out with what I consider an easy one. Sense of humor is generally so involuntary and so tied to each individual that one can hardly blame someone for not connecting with one comedian and not another.
Basically, I don’t think Mel Brooks is funny and that hurdle is a mile high. I’ve never been big into the prepackaged joke/gag/skit style humor. Parody, on the other hand, is a mode I’ve liked from a very young age and I was initially flattered by Brooks’ nods and winks, his trust that I would appreciate his send-ups of clichés and recognize his references to movies. Today, it all seems a little too easy. The inversions are just so obvious; too frequently reliant on crudity rather than creativity. With long, contrived windups and go-for-the-gut humor that works only on a single level, I end up seeing the punchlines coming, waiting for them to arrive and then sighing at their delivery.
Even when conflicting senses of humor crash, a film can still be salvaged if it has a solid core of characters, story and technical craft. “Young Frankenstein” (my favorite by Brooks) and “Blazing Saddles” both have characters that [just barely] manage to establish themselves as more than pale parody shadows, but the same can’t be said for most of his work. The plots are similarly bare and derivative (only “The Producers” manages an original premise), and although this may be intentional, it is not a requirement of parody. The recent work of Edgar Wright (“Shaun of the Dead,” “Hot Fuzz”) is a great example of how to make fun of a genre while still taking advantage of its pleasures. As for artistic merit, Brooks is too concerned with setting up gags to bother with beauty or style.
Terry Gilliam is my pick for a better alternative, though they might not initially seem similar. Gilliam has also worked in the skit format (Monty Python and the Flying Circus) and in feature-length parody (Monty Python and the Holy Grail), but his films are characterized by the type of humor I particularly enjoy: absurdity, anarchy and unpredictability.
Both directors have used ironic post-modern endings: Mel Brooks in “Blazing Saddles” and “Spaceballs”; Terry Gilliam in “Holy Grail”, “Time Bandits” and “Brazil.” Yet Gilliam’s endings possess deeper meaning and emotional weight, whereas Brooks – planning only as far as the next episodic skit – blunders into abrupt pitfalls by failing to develop characters, prepare a climax or decide on a resolution. He finds himself in dead ends, ultimately climbing over the fourth wall to escape.
However, the top reason Gilliam always engages me more is his ability to creatively balance comedy with quality. His sense of atmosphere, for instance, is so encompassing that it’s like walking into a time period that never happened. Rather than comically undermining well-recognized archetypes like Mel Brooks, Gilliam invents characters like none we’ve ever met, and does so without sacrificing our desire to relate and cheer for them. His stories are full of originality, imagination and ingenuity, with humor rising out of a network of fresh ideas. Mel Brooks picks through well-worn material, turning genre clichés on their heads and roughly shaking the humor out.
I’m starting out with what I consider an easy one. Sense of humor is generally so involuntary and so tied to each individual that one can hardly blame someone for not connecting with one comedian and not another.
Basically, I don’t think Mel Brooks is funny and that hurdle is a mile high. I’ve never been big into the prepackaged joke/gag/skit style humor. Parody, on the other hand, is a mode I’ve liked from a very young age and I was initially flattered by Brooks’ nods and winks, his trust that I would appreciate his send-ups of clichés and recognize his references to movies. Today, it all seems a little too easy. The inversions are just so obvious; too frequently reliant on crudity rather than creativity. With long, contrived windups and go-for-the-gut humor that works only on a single level, I end up seeing the punchlines coming, waiting for them to arrive and then sighing at their delivery.
Even when conflicting senses of humor crash, a film can still be salvaged if it has a solid core of characters, story and technical craft. “Young Frankenstein” (my favorite by Brooks) and “Blazing Saddles” both have characters that [just barely] manage to establish themselves as more than pale parody shadows, but the same can’t be said for most of his work. The plots are similarly bare and derivative (only “The Producers” manages an original premise), and although this may be intentional, it is not a requirement of parody. The recent work of Edgar Wright (“Shaun of the Dead,” “Hot Fuzz”) is a great example of how to make fun of a genre while still taking advantage of its pleasures. As for artistic merit, Brooks is too concerned with setting up gags to bother with beauty or style.
Terry Gilliam is my pick for a better alternative, though they might not initially seem similar. Gilliam has also worked in the skit format (Monty Python and the Flying Circus) and in feature-length parody (Monty Python and the Holy Grail), but his films are characterized by the type of humor I particularly enjoy: absurdity, anarchy and unpredictability.
Both directors have used ironic post-modern endings: Mel Brooks in “Blazing Saddles” and “Spaceballs”; Terry Gilliam in “Holy Grail”, “Time Bandits” and “Brazil.” Yet Gilliam’s endings possess deeper meaning and emotional weight, whereas Brooks – planning only as far as the next episodic skit – blunders into abrupt pitfalls by failing to develop characters, prepare a climax or decide on a resolution. He finds himself in dead ends, ultimately climbing over the fourth wall to escape.
However, the top reason Gilliam always engages me more is his ability to creatively balance comedy with quality. His sense of atmosphere, for instance, is so encompassing that it’s like walking into a time period that never happened. Rather than comically undermining well-recognized archetypes like Mel Brooks, Gilliam invents characters like none we’ve ever met, and does so without sacrificing our desire to relate and cheer for them. His stories are full of originality, imagination and ingenuity, with humor rising out of a network of fresh ideas. Mel Brooks picks through well-worn material, turning genre clichés on their heads and roughly shaking the humor out.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Let's Just Be Friends: Directors I Don't Love
I hate hating films and I’d rather not do it, but I don’t intend to lower my standards and I don’t think Hollywood has any immediate plans to raise theirs. Fortunately I’ve trained myself to smell crap from a long way off, so having my bile rise due to a film I outright loathe is pretty rare. Far more often is a reaction of mild dislike or unimpressed ambivalence.
Having these negative reactions to collectively reviled films is neither unexpected nor particularly bothersome to me, but I am often troubled by failing to connect with a famous or highly-praised work. This happens to everyone, though never with the same set of films, and by now we should have all learned to just accept these differences of opinion and move on. Of course, we don’t. We get angry, frustrated and defensive. We start flame wars, disseminate diatribes and log into our favorite review aggregators to correct people about how “boring and stupid” their favorite films are.
Every once in a while you see someone trying to work through their dislike for a film without resorting to the usual rant rhetoric. Rarer still is the reviewer who can break things down into the specific subjective and objective elements that turn them off and analyze them with honesty, humility and insightfulness. Nick Davis over at NicksFlickPicks is one such reviewer. I've found myself reading his great review of “The Travelling Players” several times over the years and relating to his description of the special pain and embarrassment that come with being a film critics and admitting that you don’t like a highly-praised or long-canonized film:
“Even fessing up to an underwhelmed reaction is only a first step, frequently compromised by the self-abasing rhetoric of bad break-ups: the problem isn't you, Orson, it's me (even though it's totally you, you know I think it's you!) For all I know, Edward Yang's Yi Yi (A One and a Two...) and Hou Hsaio-hsien's The Puppetmaster really are sublime experiences, but I found them dull dull dull. Still, there's that cautious inner voice, bred by the desire to learn and to be challenged, nourished by the Time Out Film Guide and the National Society of Film Critics, that urges appreciation even when it isn't fully felt. Maybe it's true that that which bores us but does not kill us really does make us stronger? Is it true that some cinema is just good for you, despite the medicinal taste?”
In addition to inspiring this series, I’m also borrowing Nick’s metaphor of bad break-ups. Hence the title “Let’s Just Be Friends.”
However, instead of looking at specific well-regarded films that disappointed me, I'm going to look at well-regarded directors. Usually I can find one or two films with the sparkle of brilliance that leaves others rapt, but some auteurs just don’t earn their reputations in my eyes. These cases are usually rare enough for me that I can find close facsimiles I prefer, and it recently struck me that this could be useful tool for figuring out why some directors just don’t click with me.
So as part of a new series I’m going to stand pairs of directors next to each other. One will be a famous director I don’t connect with and the other will be a similar director I prefer. One of my goals is to make this an interesting confessional and analytic experiment rather than just a whiny rant.
As I’ve mentioned before, I tend to prefer spotlighting great unsung films/filmmakers rather than wasting words tearing apart what I don’t like. Combine that with open-mindedness, a willingness to extend the benefit of the doubt and a natural desire to focus in on the best aspects of every film, and you can see how I get disproportionately positive about cinema. In that spirit, I want to emphasize that the directors I single out are not necessarily artists that I “hate,” just ones that I don’t love. We can still be friends.
One last point. I have not seen every film by any of the directors in this series and I am far from being an expert on their careers. To ensure that I’ve given each director at least a fair chance, I’m restricting my choices to those auteurs for whom I’ve seen at least five films.
I acknowledge that in many cases I just “don’t get it,” but I’m not content to leave things there. I’m endeavoring to run these comparisons honestly and intelligently. I’ll try to be explicit about whether my critiques are a matter of my taste versus their talent. If you are an adamant fan of these directors, your insights and rebuttals may help enlighten me, especially if presented in good faith. Nevertheless, I welcome any comments regardless of their temperament.
Having these negative reactions to collectively reviled films is neither unexpected nor particularly bothersome to me, but I am often troubled by failing to connect with a famous or highly-praised work. This happens to everyone, though never with the same set of films, and by now we should have all learned to just accept these differences of opinion and move on. Of course, we don’t. We get angry, frustrated and defensive. We start flame wars, disseminate diatribes and log into our favorite review aggregators to correct people about how “boring and stupid” their favorite films are.
Every once in a while you see someone trying to work through their dislike for a film without resorting to the usual rant rhetoric. Rarer still is the reviewer who can break things down into the specific subjective and objective elements that turn them off and analyze them with honesty, humility and insightfulness. Nick Davis over at NicksFlickPicks is one such reviewer. I've found myself reading his great review of “The Travelling Players” several times over the years and relating to his description of the special pain and embarrassment that come with being a film critics and admitting that you don’t like a highly-praised or long-canonized film:
“Even fessing up to an underwhelmed reaction is only a first step, frequently compromised by the self-abasing rhetoric of bad break-ups: the problem isn't you, Orson, it's me (even though it's totally you, you know I think it's you!) For all I know, Edward Yang's Yi Yi (A One and a Two...) and Hou Hsaio-hsien's The Puppetmaster really are sublime experiences, but I found them dull dull dull. Still, there's that cautious inner voice, bred by the desire to learn and to be challenged, nourished by the Time Out Film Guide and the National Society of Film Critics, that urges appreciation even when it isn't fully felt. Maybe it's true that that which bores us but does not kill us really does make us stronger? Is it true that some cinema is just good for you, despite the medicinal taste?”
In addition to inspiring this series, I’m also borrowing Nick’s metaphor of bad break-ups. Hence the title “Let’s Just Be Friends.”
However, instead of looking at specific well-regarded films that disappointed me, I'm going to look at well-regarded directors. Usually I can find one or two films with the sparkle of brilliance that leaves others rapt, but some auteurs just don’t earn their reputations in my eyes. These cases are usually rare enough for me that I can find close facsimiles I prefer, and it recently struck me that this could be useful tool for figuring out why some directors just don’t click with me.
So as part of a new series I’m going to stand pairs of directors next to each other. One will be a famous director I don’t connect with and the other will be a similar director I prefer. One of my goals is to make this an interesting confessional and analytic experiment rather than just a whiny rant.
As I’ve mentioned before, I tend to prefer spotlighting great unsung films/filmmakers rather than wasting words tearing apart what I don’t like. Combine that with open-mindedness, a willingness to extend the benefit of the doubt and a natural desire to focus in on the best aspects of every film, and you can see how I get disproportionately positive about cinema. In that spirit, I want to emphasize that the directors I single out are not necessarily artists that I “hate,” just ones that I don’t love. We can still be friends.
One last point. I have not seen every film by any of the directors in this series and I am far from being an expert on their careers. To ensure that I’ve given each director at least a fair chance, I’m restricting my choices to those auteurs for whom I’ve seen at least five films.
I acknowledge that in many cases I just “don’t get it,” but I’m not content to leave things there. I’m endeavoring to run these comparisons honestly and intelligently. I’ll try to be explicit about whether my critiques are a matter of my taste versus their talent. If you are an adamant fan of these directors, your insights and rebuttals may help enlighten me, especially if presented in good faith. Nevertheless, I welcome any comments regardless of their temperament.
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