The Bird with the Crystal Plumage (Dario Argento, 1970) October 31, 2009
Posted by Richard Bolisay in European Films, Festival, Literature.add a comment
Directed by Dario Argento
Written by Bryan Edgar Wallace and Dario Argento
Cast: Tony Musante, Suzy Kendall, Enrico Maria Salerno
For some reason, the vivid image of crawling stays in my mind after watching The Bird With The Crystal Plumage, and up to now, weeks after seeing it, it is still that image that pushes me to write about it. I do remember a lot of crawling, but I can’t remember them specifically, except that scene when the girlfriend is trapped inside the apartment and the killer hacks the door to get in. The girl acts like she was killed already, wailing and not doing much to escape, but she tries to open the window at some point. When she realizes that her death is near, she crawls on the floor and cries. I can’t remember if she fainted, but when her boyfriend arrives, the killer walks away and her savior gets in to rescue her. There is something thrilling about that scene, yet there is also something funny about it—ludicrous even to the point of distraction.
What most fans say about Argento’s first film is not really false. In comparison with his latter films—Suspiria being the most immediate work that comes to mind—The Bird With The Crystal Plumage is too weak to fly, well, if you get the lousy figure of speech. But strangely, I still find it very entertaining. Not that the fans don’t find it entertaining, or my taste gravely matters, but I don’t find it as disappointing as most of them do. The genre that the film belongs to—the giallo, which in Italian means yellow, named after the series of paperback novels of mostly yellowish covers—is remarkable for pushing a tradition of suspense-thriller films that are characterized by their stylish visual elements, often too polished and theatrical, and unconventional use of music. The “cheapness” of the pulp novels is usually emphasized, although when giallo started to be popular in film, the language has been defined to offer an alternative to schlock horror, punctuating the use of technique to help the story achieve a distinct pacing and atmosphere. It is in this context that The Bird With The Crystal Plumage would be appreciated, as an early potent example of the genre.
Yet the crawling could have been Argento himself trying to figure out the aesthetics of giallo. Like his inquisitive main character, who is a writer like himself, he is risking discovery by being nosy, by relentlessly holding on to what he wants even if it means getting killed or, in Argento’s case, reaching failure. It’s helpful that he has two wonderful artists with him to lend a hand: Vittorio Storaro—whose photography moves even when the scene is static, and stays even when the scene is moving—and Ennio Morricone—whose “lalalala” music keeps ringing like a broken record, adding a bizarre texture to Storaro’s strong visuals. It’s more of miscalculation than consistency, come-hitherness than vapidness, and tenderness than stoicism, that make The Bird With The Crystal Plumage work. When the killer’s husband falls from the window, slipping from the hands of the main character, the camera, taking his point of view, falls too. It’s a classic Argento device—playing with the point of view to build up the tension—that still looks fresh and astonishing up to now.
On Street Art and The Works of Italian Artist BLU October 5, 2009
Posted by Richard Bolisay in European Films, Short Cuts, Street Art.1 comment so far
A portion of the wall in Managua, Nicaragua
Words can’t fully express how much I appreciate Blu’s works. I have to shrill and make some childish noises as I look at them, and at times I utter string of incoherent phrases which I myself cannot believe came from my mouth. The mechanism of amazement, as always, innocently humiliates.
So I let my five-year-old niece watch Muto and I look at her as she watches it. She mutters “Angaleng!” countless times and in varying tones and loudness. Her eyes gleam as she exclaims her delight, never wanting to miss a frame by glancing at my direction. She watches first in silence, perhaps allowing the moving images to get into her senses, and after realizing the spark of creativity she’s seeing for the first time, she yells to me her own version of appreciation. After watching the film, she asks if she could see another one. I let her watch Combo and I look at how she reacts again. She is thrilled. This is our little bonding session before she goes to bed.
When she’s set to sleep I ask her what she thinks of the films I showed her. She seems to be pondering what to say but after a brief silence she tells me again, “Angaleng, Tito!” She must love the word. I insist for at least a five-word explanation, but I believe I am being too hard on her so I just let it go and bid her good night. Now I want to write something about Blu’s works, and to express it at least a notch higher than “Angaleng!” or “Gaaaaaarhhh” or “Anganda, Tito, isa pa.” I hope I can manage though, because even a bit of disservice is a shame.
Prato, Italy
FRAGMENTS OF A MUSEUM IN THE CITY
There is not much information to find about Blu on the Internet, except that he is an Italian painter who recently became known in his street art. His graffiti works are marked by an incredible amount of talent and ambition, often breaking the literal and aesthetic boundaries of his canvas. Not only he makes the fullest use of the walls provided to him, he also makes them appear like fragments of a museum brought to the street for the locals to see. Aside from punctuating the value of street art in urban anthropology, Blu’s works also show that the limitations of art could also work at its advantage.
Exposure of works to the metropolis allows discussion on the subject of “consumption”, since the public has little choice not to see them. In the case of museums, one needs to pay, on his own volition, to view art works exhibited in galleries. Century-old questions like, Should art be free? or Does it matter if art is free? or Does it make an artist less of an artist when his works are out in the open? come up and become relevant.
Apparently, the importance of street art doesn’t stop at appreciating its aesthetics. It is also necessary to recognize its role in developing a community, particularly its members’ understanding and judgment of the arts, and the many ways it can challenge common beliefs and practices, as well as educate young and old minds alike, the same way more popular forms of visual arts are regarded.
But how about MMDA art, I ask, how does it make sense to you? Does it reflect our idea of art? Is it a collective concept that we agreed on or just a reflection of our political surroundings?
What makes street art extremely interesting for me is that a great number of people (it’s tempting to say most) look down on it. (Fair enough, some of them, particularly with the one I used above as an example, are based on good reasons.) A graffiti could be anything from the scribbles in the men’s room or the writings on the bleachers in school to the sprawl of histories and splash of emotions painted on the Berlin wall.
Some call it vandalism – - a crappy way to mess up the walls and leave them appallingly untidy – - and they respond to it like a crime committed to their society. I recall having seen a documentary in television about Filipino hobbyists who do street arts by commission. Since it is the head of the community who talked to them, by the time the work was finished, the residents were surprised when they saw it. The documentary eggs on the negative response, with some respondents going out of their way to call what the artists draw an act of visual terrorism. The commissioned street artists are into rap and hip-hop music, so perhaps that is where the prejudice hops from. Still, maybe even if they are not, the people wanted it to be erased.
Barcelona, Spain
THE SPITTING IMAGE OF BLU IS HIS WORKS
One’s understanding of art is the spitting image of his intellectual and emotional ability to distinguish the good from the bad. And taste, which is more of an acquired property than an innate trait, is not something defended to be proven right. It stands on its own as a reflection of one’s mind, its breadth or its lack thereof, its predilections, and its lenience. I don’t think it’s necessary to argue with people who call a certain street art “terrorizing” but a contrary opinion is always welcome to hear, especially when it is well founded. It takes a consensus for a street art to be done, the community being a shared responsibility, because the long-term effect of it goes beyond the “coolness” of seeing it everyday, or the repulsion one feels while looking at it. Balance and choice of location are important factors that the artist must also consider.
There is a particular painting Blu made in Barcelona that I liked, and since then I felt the need to take him seriously. It is a painting of a shark whose body is designed with paper bills. The use of bills makes it appear like the shark is moving, and its green color clearly points out his message. The video that records Blu painting the art is interesting for its conversations, especially the part when the kid mentions, “It shouldn’t be on a wall, it would be better on a billboard. Maybe I’d like it better if it were an ad.”
I find it striking for the insight, and the honesty and the keenness that the kid shows as he reacts with the art being done in front of him. Then an older man, perhaps his father, interrupts, “Look at Goya, Picasso, and Velasquez, all those abstract paintings that make no sense, and still people pay fortune for them.” And so I thought, would it hurt if we talk about something like that without people accusing us of highbrowism? I really believe that if we try to cultivate art appreciation at a young age, the way we look at ourselves and our country’s history would be different.
A short clip called Grottaglie shows Blu on a rooftop, painting a side of an apartment with red and white hues. The design brings to mind a sort of a mythic figure with a covering filled with holes. It records a day-to-night work, and the final shot reveals a view of the painting from afar, situating its location with the neighboring community.
Blu has done numerous works in Italy – - in Grottaglie, Modena, Prato, and Milan – - but he also travels his art with him. He has done paintings in Linares, London, Wroclaw, Eindhoven, Berlin, and a lot more cities, and has made collaborations with other artists as well. Pictures of these works can be viewed in his lovely website.
But talent, even if you are gifted enough to draw with your eyes closed, could not be everything. Blu is also very passionate and devoted to explore the possibilities of street painting. He makes use of wall corners and surfaces, from apartment windows and parking walls to granite doors and metal driveway entrance, to create a sense of movement in his outlines and a stunningly bizarre character in his design. From simple strokes and sketches to elaborate mix of colors and playful textures, he draws like the wall is an infinite universe.
Moreover, his works break the monotony of the city. He makes passing in sidewalks something to look forward to, something which cities in Metro Manila lack: the pleasure in everyday travel, from simple walks to public transportation. I imagine passing by these places just to look at them, to marvel at his figures, to dream of them when I go home, and to come back again the next day to look again.
Muto: An Ambiguous Animation Painted On Public Walls
Animation and Editing by Blu
Assistant: Sibe
Music by Andra Martignoni
But he doesn’t stop at painting. He also creates animation pieces of his projects. His early sketches, from a transforming bulldozer to an exhaust fan that drives a man away, are remarkable in their deadpan humor. Most are only ten seconds long, and the humor is criminally strange. A more recent work called Morphing, which runs for less than a minute, shows a side of a warehouse painted with the signs and symbols of the Euro, the Dollar, the Swastika, and the Hammer and Sickle. He combines these things together to appear as if they are morphing, accompanied by a looping sound of a factory hiss. I find it peculiarly interesting when I notice that at the back of the warehouse is a construction site.
But it is upon seeing Muto when my admiration turns into fanaticism. Like his sketches, Blu morphs into an artist we haven’t seen before, and here he presents a fascinating succession of shapeshifting characters on his favorite world of walls. Painted in Buenos Aires and Baden in Argentina, Muto is memorable in its phantasm, primarily the fusion of visuals and music that creates a stunning fare of entertainment. From headless bodies and huge legs to hands that come out of nowhere and their reproduction of smaller and stranger figures, I am completely awed by the richness of its creativity and imagination. The floor and ceiling are also used, to my surprise and delight. The passing cars along the road can be seen and heard, evoking their participation in the film.
There are two important transitions that Blu has able to maximize in Muto. First, the transition among the figures. Since Muto basically depicts the transformation of one figure to another, the consistency of execution is crucial. It appears to me that while the execution is almost seamless, what holds the piece together is the element of surprise that Blu injects into the transformations, as well as the realization upon watching the painstaking effort it took him to deliver it. Watching the figures taking form unpredictably fast, birthing and devouring, shifting and dissolving, is a visual treat.
Second, the transition among the walls. From left to right and top to bottom, from brick wall to concrete wall, from wall to floor to a small corner to another wall and to the ceiling down to a wall, and from long shots to extreme close-ups, Blu makes a point of emphasizing movement. The wall not only breathes the character: it is the character. The little details you notice in its jumpy continuity only add to its playfulness. Blu is telling a story – - not just feelings, as far as the medium and style are concerned – - and through his transitions he has able to narrate a really tight one.
The images also stick to your mind: the walking pairs of hands and feet in the beginning, the running teeth, the perky diamond, the falling heads, the creepy bugs. But credit also goes to Andrea Martignoni for the ambiance. Her music renders these images elegantly, fittingly, and indescribably surreal without going overboard. The immediacy of the images goes hand in hand with the colorful texture of the music, their details evoking subtle hints on historic events. “Muto” in Italian means “mute,” but apparently Blu wants to make use of contradiction.
Combo: A Collaborative Animation by Blu and David Ellis
Music by Roberto Lange
Made at Fame Festival 2009
While fractals dominate the imagery of Muto, Combo makes particular emphasis on structural space. The trademark figures are still there but Blu sets aside the design to pronounce the confinement. He goes around it, paints the ground, paints wall figures, connects them, makes coltish skits, and rolls with the fun of putting them all together. Whereas before, we have the idea that the wall belongs to the “real world” and the figures painted on it to the “unreal world”, Combo breaks that thought. Everything is on the same plane. Everything is on a parallel universe, effortlessly shown.
The concern on movement moves up, now providing a tangible coexistence of the realistic elements and the “non-realistic.” But the term “non-realistic” is not only insufficient but also not completely true. The paint, the bricks, the scraps of wood – - these are all real. But Blu and David Ellis use them as if they are not. The movement created out of them makes them appear unrealistic. The green laser, the dripping paint, the enormous feet, the wandering hand, they all seem to walk out of the pages of Dave McKean’s illustrations or Svankmajer’s pad of sketches. To top it off, you get to watch the film twice. (By then, the question mark escapes out of our heads. What gives?)
Modena, Italy
APRES-GARDE
The term “avant-garde” is used when describing works that break new ground in arts and culture. Blu’s works are innovative, cutting-edge, and progressive, so is it avant-garde? Absolutely. But with the misuse and overuse of the term in both mainstream and marginal communities I opted not to bring the word up to avoid hanging on the stereotype.
Creativity breaks borders. And perhaps that’s why expounding on Blu’s avant-gardism is needless, if not unimportant. What I find interesting are observations, the response towards his works, the interpretations made by people out of them, and the relevance of these images to their lives. The immediate reaction of my five-year-old niece is not different from the response of my fifty-something mom when I also showed the films to her. They both express their admiration, but only up to a certain extent. They think they are beautifully made and entertaining, but they can’t say why. (Or maybe they do know, they just don’t want to tell me.)
But really, is there more to it than that? Or should there be more to it than that? I don’t mind gibbering when I see a work as amazing as Muto. In fact, I do it most of the time, and I have always believed that the most beautiful films and the most thought-provoking ones (those that move you think to the point that you can’t think anymore) are the hardest to write about. Because really, when you write about it, you are bound to fail. The best review of Blu’s works is the smile you see from someone else’s face while watching them, which you wish you can put into words but you can’t, which you wish you can describe or share with other people but you just can’t. Ah, such pity.
Never mind. Blu needs more paint than reviews. To echo a comment, “For it takes strong shoulder muscles to push that much paint, long health to you, Blu!” And more paintings and animations to come.
* Blu’s website
** Blu’s Youtube site where you can watch his films
The Perfect Human (Jørgen Leth, 1967) September 14, 2009
Posted by Richard Bolisay in European Films, Short Cuts.add a comment
Danish Title: Det perfekte menneske
Directed by Jørgen Leth
Cast: Claus Nissen, Majken Algren Nielsen
Jørgen Leth introduces the perfect human by asking, “How does such a number function? What kind of thing is it?”
And he promises, “We will look into that, we will investigate that.”
The perfect human is represented by two people, a male and a female, each shown doing things as mundane as pulling a belt, applying some lipstick, zippering a shirt, clipping nails, or tying a shoelace. The narrator guides us to the parts of the perfect human’s face and body – - the ears, the knees, the foot, the eyes, and the mouth – - in a deliberate and exquisite use of zoom and closeup. As it continues, the description moves beyond the physical and goes mental. The perfect humans are in bed, naked. Then the male, as he shaves himself, starts to recount an experience. The two of them eat together, still with the voice guiding us, asking what is he thinking, describing to us what they eat, feeding us plain words, asking us questions that are simple yet the answers elude us.
The objective is objectivity. Leth, the narrator, tries to distance himself from his subject to examine it more closely. It comes out as if the perfect human in scrutiny is a specimen in a petri dish waiting for a series of tests, with the narrator as the mad scientist noting the littlest detail of its movement, somewhat considering any observation as development. But despite being scientific in his approach, Leth also gives room to his penchant for metaphysics. He inquires, “How does he fall?” and he answers, “This is how he falls.” He asks again, “How does she lie down?” and he answers, “This is how she lies down. Like this.” His questions aren’t asked to be answered, but to be thought about profoundly, which reveals the nature of his objective. The perfect human is the property; he is smaller than he thinks he is; and as soon as he starts to think, he becomes the property of his thoughts.
When the narrator muses, “The room is boundless and radiant with light. It is an empty room. Here are no boundaries. Here is nothing,” is he merely describing the lack of scenery or has he turned into a poet building castles in the air? Is he presenting the perfect human as an anthropological experiment or is he using it as an excuse to reflect on life and existence? It is always both, the one functioning alongside the other, expressing both the concerns of the material and the immaterial, and without losing the grip on the language of film and the vast horizons of poetry, Leth makes use of the power of words and images to conjure the realm of lucid interval, each filled with uncanny insight and absolute ambiguity.
Basically the reason why The Perfect Human endures as a popular short film, and why it continues to be Leth’s career-defining work, is because it will always be relevant unless one ceases to be human. It is ambitious yet humble, succinct but complete, and worthy without crying out for importance. Its critics would always point their fingers to its shitty artiness and highbrowism – - but with its simplicity and a running time of 13 minutes that covers almost every boundary of pensiveness, how could that be but a blow to their credentials? How could they understand it by explaining it? (Which I did, unfortunately.) How could they hate it by contradicting themselves? How could words be enough?
Echoing Claus Nissen’s immortal words after seeing the film for the nth time: Today, too, I experienced something I hope to understand in a few days. (Or, as it seems to me, in a few years.)
Let The Right One In (Tomas Alfredson, 2008) March 19, 2009
Posted by Richard Bolisay in European Films, Literature.13 comments
Swedish Title: Låt den rätte komma in
Written by John Ajvide Lindqvist
Directed by Tomas Alfredson
Cast: Kare Hedebrant, Lina Leandersson, Per Ragnar, Henrik Dahl
This film from Sweden, which has beat the hell out of audiences around the world, outplays every film released last year. It is horror at its finest: full of corrupting fear that paralyzes, surprises, and thrills. It employs shock and awe without defeating us, for its story aims to figure the vitality of chronic isolation that leads to solitary temperament, especially on kids who are growing up with hatred and violence in a deceivingly peaceful suburban home.
Oskar, a 12-year-old boy, lives with his mother in a drab apartment complex a train away from the city. He is constantly bullied by Conny, a classmate who has two escorts with him. Like any other bullies he makes an effort to torment Oskar, even to the point of whipping his face. When he gets home from school, Oskar dreams of stabbing Conny until he squeals like a pig. One night Oskar has found a companion with Eli, a pale young girl who has moved into the flat next to their home with an old man. They get close despite Oskar knowing that there is something different about her. That she is a vampire, that she has an old man to help her feed on blood, and that she is a 12-year-old girl more or less do not change the affection that Oskar feels for her. Their relationship deepens and their bond becomes almost inseparable, as Eli saves Oskar from the cruel rage of his bullies in the film’s shattering climax.
For a genre film that can easily rely on gore and scream fest, Let The Right One In seduces with a disturbing vibe of calmness. Its incisive look on the nature of violence through a kid who learns it slowly but surely is fascinating. It has able to seam the supernatural elements effortlessly with the vulnerable details of Oskar’s puberty, giving it a certain familiarity out of strangeness. From the moment when Eli speaks to Oskar as he forcefully stabs a tree, which is a way for him to release his fury freely, to that bittersweet end as they exchange virtual kisses, the relationship is striking for its fragility, purity, and impending doom. As he looks at her as she twists the Rubik’s cube, there is that hunger for affection, seeking for warmth to comfort his little troubles, and Eli, on her part, also shows her willingness to fold for Oskar’s sake. That tender scene when Oskar embraces her, after puking the candy she obliged herself to eat, frames a portrait of love that is as indelible as any beautiful childhood memory.
Horror is often related to violence, and violence, even in its mildest form, is always done with intent, which is either to inflict harm or to survive. An individual can have both reasons, depending on the necessity of his will. Violence on Oskar is intended to belittle him, to cripple his wonderful view of the world, to teach him as early as now the reality of things. It is up to him to fight or to accept, but he decides to ignore them and build a fence around himself to numb the pain. His defense is commonly seen as weakness, but an introvert like Oskar, who also tries to socialize (like applying for a weightlifting practice), is doing it for himself to divert his attention, to keep himself unaware of the ugly things around him. He consents to violence until he meets Eli, someone who shakes his idea of subservience. Thus, we connect to his isolation because he does not deserve such treatment.
Eli, on the other hand, needs it to survive. As long as there are people around to help her live, like Hakan, who can be perceived as either his surrogate father or a childhood lover like Oskar who remained faithful to her through the years, the night will always be hers. She is violent like any vampire who cannot control her hunger. It is already common knowledge that vampires kill to live, but Alfredson doesn’t dwell on that. There is also no attempt to humanize Eli’s character, because, well, she is not human. She is presented as a visitor of Oskar’s life, meeting him when he has no one else to turn to, as she eventually becomes the most important person in his life.
The dynamics of the two horrors (or intents of violence) surface with a mighty blow that is more concerned on reflecting the heart of darkness than sporting schlock suspense. The shots are framed delicately, sometimes fearfully distant and at times numbingly close, that they almost force you not to breathe. The sound design is as perfect as any masterful horror film does have; the music is composed and beautifully laid out like notes of a Mozart piece. The symphony of its audio-visual and offscreen elements – - specifically the sound of dripping blood, the noise of Eli’s hunger pangs, the calculated timing of the first murder and the humor that comes after it, the many reflections of Oskar in the mirror, the sight of Eli climbing the walls of the hospital and crossing from Oskar’s window to her home, the feline attack, the astonishing effect of light on the woman who burst into flames (a Nosferatu allusion), the answer to Eli’s ambiguous sexuality validated in just one brief shot, the brimming happiness of Oskar while he is on vacation, the homosexual hints of his father, and the snow as a murder accomplice and not a witness – - reveals that it is less a film than a building with breathtaking architecture. All its ambiguities are beautiful.
Let The Right One In is set in the 80s but it doesn’t feel like one. It feels closer to the present, closer to the smell of a cramped neighborhood in the city where distance is measured emotionally. Or maybe the feeling of reclusion is similar, all the same in every place or time, whether in suburbia or urban settlements, whether before or now. But certainly the surroundings matter in shaping one’s self, unconsciously or otherwise. The people around, the institutions that make up a community, and the circumstances all contribute to one’s individualism, actions that liberate himself more than the society where he belongs. What Lindqvist and Alfredson have achieved, aside from the compelling blend of myth and novelistic appropriateness, is not exactly opposed to collectivism. It crosses the environment of aloofness to go over the milieu of sociological ferment that sometimes goes unnoticed.
It is Schulz through Charlie Brown who said that until it is demonstrated, one forgets the really great difference that exists between the merely competent amateur and the very expert professional. But here it is easy to differentiate. Even when evenings are clear like a sunny day and mornings are always draped in fear, Let The Right One In has proven its authors’ command of both literary and cinematic language. Alfredson and Lindqvist have crafted a landmark work, a shining splinter of come-hither evil that will surely be remembered in the years, or even decades, to come.
Highlights of 2008 March 1, 2009
Posted by Richard Bolisay in Asian Films, Cinema One, Cinemalaya, Cinemanila, European Films, Indie Sine, Noypi, Yearender.14 comments
Like a Mike de Leon film, contemporary Philippine cinema is moving from fairly interesting to diversely brilliant
BEST FILM: Now Showing
The Raya Martin paradox: he is not for everyone; he is for every one. What surprises me is the obvious difference in taste. While European audience is easily proclaiming him a genius, local viewers are dismissing him as an artist incapable of telling a good story. Now Showing runs for five hours and it makes you feel every second of it. We are not anymore in the age of brevity, when punch lines are the best element of fiction. This is the age of tedium; the painful wait describes our lives. For what I believe is an impressive feat on Martin’s part is dividing an audience, not only into camps of believers and non-believers but also into minute groups, the tiniest being the intellectual farters who argue his lack of connection to his audience, his pseudo-highbrowism, and his unabashed insensitivity, but that discussion I reserve for boring blogging days. For now, borrowing Kael’s statement on Godard, this is what I think: it is possible to hate every single film by Martin – - or find it pretentious – - and still, at least in terms of cultural duty, be shattered by his brilliance.
BEST DIRECTOR: Richard Somes (Yanggaw)
Somes’ eye for visual details remains his handsomest trait, but the synergism in Yanggaw all points to his remarkable sleight of hand. First features are the most interesting because they calibrate their filmmakers’ futures, not necessarily determine their fates but their chances and their following. It is also the beginning of every filmmaker’s luck or depression. Somes not only gives you the price of the ticket but he also gives every director in the field a resounding slap on the face. A horror that makes you think will surely eat your brains. A word of caution to Rico Maria Ilarde: better watch out.
BEST PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTOR: Ronnie Lazaro (Yanggaw)
In an article that is definitely one of the best odes ever written to a Filipino actor, practically because we only have a few biographers, Lourd de Veyra believes Lazaro’s “most powerful virtue” is his eyes. “Those are eyes of strange, uneasy, existential depth, a hunger that transcends the physical.” You can change everything in him but not the eyes; ask him to play any role and those eyes will adapt to anything; they will always bring out the best, the unspeakable greatness, from him. In Yanggaw, Lazaro plays the father of the aswang, a principled man faced by the horror of his daughter’s inexplicable disease and torn between killing her or letting her kill the townspeople and, eventually, her own family. Lazaro has perhaps given the character more depth than Somes and Gaston have intended in their script; his skill in delivering every possible nuance in his character, as always, is perfect. He is never calculated, predictable; the only thing you can predict is his overwhelming effect on you (thus the term “The Lazaro Effect”). We, writers, will grow old and die but we will never get tired of recognizing an actor this great; that’s the least consolation we can give to such deity on earth.
BEST PERFORMANCE BY AN ACTRESS: Mylene Dizon (100)
Who can embody a strong woman better than Mylene Dizon? She who, in real life, can have a child with a man whom she already left, and still be happy? Dizon is the femme fatale, the fighter, the alphafemale. She has gone a very long way after that breakthrough film of hers where she plays a young woman who wet-nurses a son of a Japanese who has set her husband free. Chris Martinez shifted gears for the good; his writing style undiminished. While there are some lapses that Martinez has not able to stitch and patch properly, 100 still shines because of Dizon’s effortless whip, her supporting cast amazingly letting her shine. She downplays sentimentality in exchange of graceful prowess; one can easily write a novel out of her piercing stare.
BREAKTHROUGH FILM OF THE YEAR (for first films): Yanggaw
Yanggaw has the feel of a film that has been made a long time ago, yet it possesses a hypnotizing vibe of newness and originality. It reshapes the genre, disguises its stereotypes, and turns them into an impressive reassessment of our values. It is uniquely Filipino, no matter how it becomes difficult to qualify something as such these days, the difficulty even in defining what constitutes our own, what really is Filipino. That to uncover the myths and practices of rural people, Somes relies on popular belief and adds his own, enabling his aswang not only to fly above roofs and trees but also to fly as the most richly-examined horror film in recent years.
BEST SHORT FILM: Anomi
Richard Legaspi’s Ambulancia and Joaquin Valdes’ Bulong, if press releases and recognition abroad should be considered, are the finest but following that idea brings substantial room for debate because both of them lack the spunk that this category requires. Even Antoinette Jadaone’s latest work, Tumbang Preso, fails to match her classic Salingpusa. Sasha Palomares’ Andalusian Bitch almost bowls me over but this year belongs exceptionally to Renei Dimla’s Anomi, a six-minute painted glass animation whose holism accounts for its vision of social stratification, that no matter what happens decay is the fate of every one, of the rich and the poor, of the young and the old, of greedy presidents and ghoulish congressmen. Its intentions aside, its mighty visuals and terrific sound design turn every short film this year into mediocre.
BEST HOLLYWOOD FILM: Wanted
The imports are still doing a great job in American cinema. Back when Marlene Dietrich and Fritz Lang were in Hollywood, these foreigners were on top of their game. And they still are. Mark Millar and James McAvoy are Scottish, Thomas Kretschmann is German, and Timur, as we all know, is Russian. Wanted fires like a speedbullet in the brain; it cuts every line connected to reason, which leaves us with only a little breath to grasp. This is total entertainment; one side of cinema absolutely fulfilled. (And Wall-E is cutely narrowing his eyes for me to add him; so I promised.)
BEST FOREIGN-LANGUAGE (NON-HOLLYWOOD) FILM: California Dreamin’
The sadness of Nemescu’s untimely death in a car crash, along with sound engineer Andrei Toncu, is not only felt after the news came out. His first feature, which turns out to be also his last, speaks of that impairing loss, of that uncomforting truth, that he can never make films again, that he can never make fun of his country’s political maladies ever again. It has loose ends and blank spaces in between, the pitfall of dying while your film is still in the editing room, but Nemescu has stood by the saying that one is only as good as his final work and made sure that by that standard, he is leaving an impressive mark not only in the towering features of the Romanian New Wave but also in the ever-exciting landscape of world cinema. If Mungiu’s 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days has knocked you out, California Dreamin’ will certainly leave you underground, waiting to be unearthed for several days.
BEST FILM NOT FROM THIS YEAR: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly / When Timawa Meets Delgado
Schnabel finally comes in full metamorphosis in The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, cementing his aesthetic and transforming a moving life story into a devastating two-hour viewing experience worthy of eternal remembrance. While almost every acclaimed film in the Oscars last year delves on the darkness of the human heart, his latest work breaks into the most inspiring virtue of existence, that living is not anymore a question of life and death, but the necessity of making sense in the world where words are not enough to fuel one’s spirit. What could better describe its effect than the experience of seeing it with people who cannot force themselves to stand up from their seats minutes after the credits rolled and the lights went out. That’s something I would call “communal bereavement.”
Meanwhile, only few had seen When Timawa Meets Delgado when it premiered in Cinemalaya and was shown commercially in Indie Sine. So much for lacking big-named stars and a clear point of interest to speak of, its obscurity can easily account for its regional background but it is also its strongest trait that sets it apart among the films released last year. Funny, intelligent, and downright affecting, When Timawa Meets Delgado is in the ranks of indie classics.
BEST FILM SEEN IN PIRATED DVD: Blissfully Yours
You get it, then you don’t, then you get it again, then you don’t. In such fickleness, how can it be so astonishingly beautiful? Part-romance, part-mystery, part-nothing, part-everything, Joe’s second feature is beauty to the infinity.
SPECIAL AWARD: Bontoc Eulogy
Marlon Fuentes tries to unravel his roots by starting with a void. The St. Louis Fair of 1904, by all means the most controversial exposition in history, is the most fitting event to characterize the blameless American attitude: accomplishing a crime with the least malice and getting away with it hands clean. In all virtue of self-righteousness, not every race can do that. The call of cultural duty strikes Fuentes as a dire need for personal affirmation. By mixing fact and fiction, history and personal reminiscences, archival footage and quirky recreations, Fuentes has made a depressing document of striking beauty about a country whose identity remains its lifetime treasure but still, after centuries of hunt and chase, has never been truly found.
WORST FILM:
Now throw me your sharpest dagger: The Dark Knight‘s stiffness still puts me off in second viewing; it certainly is the most unlived up hype I have ever encountered. And yes, I would not let this pass, I know Joel Lamangan is loved by industry people but that doesn’t mean he is as good as his image; Walang Kawala, despite its obvious efforts to titillate the queer sense, only intensifies the truth that life can never be fair – - it can only be worse – - and that we are all Murphy’s best friends. It is trash that cannot be recycled; it is not even pleasurable to look at. Five years ago I may find it insulting but now I only have three words for it: Burn the tapes. And out of guilt I would like to say that For the First Time is still unbearable in fast forward and Brutus is a torturous example of political narrowmindedness at its ridiculous worst.
But what’s worse than the worst film? The worst trailer. Don’t blame me for ruining two and a half minutes of your life but admit it, you clicked that Replay button to see it again; it has that pinch of necessity. Like, What was that? Maybe I missed something. And there, you’re hooked, piteous hilarious. Truth is, porn is a gazillion times better than this. A strike of thought: why is porn not shown in local theaters? And this one can survive a week? Are we still on earth? Definitely the line of the year: DON’T YOU THINK I DESERVE AN APOLOGY OR AT LEAST AN EXPLANATION? (with feelings). John Waters must see this. Just the sound of the title is enough to give me a fit.
Strawberry Postcards in Luchino Visconti’s Death in Venice (1971) December 6, 2008
Posted by Richard Bolisay in European Films, Literature, Queer.5 comments
Italian Title: Morte a Venezia
Directed by Luchino Visconti
Cast: Dirk Bogarde, Björn Andrésen, Silvana Mangano
Based on Thomas Mann’s book
I give it to Visconti, Death in Venice is breathtakingly beautiful. For I haven’t read Thomas Mann’s novella I am less obliged to succumb to usual comparisons, seeing it in its bare elegance, the nuances of Mann’s observations impulsively translated into epic equivalence by Visconti’s recreation of the period through lavish art designs and costumes. The beauty it has imparted is similar to Gustav von Aschenbach’s obsession to the chastity of art, it is almost visually perfect, for Visconti’s scrupulousness is felt in every calculated movement, in his trademark zooms, in the overarched vision that seems to mimic the sweep of omniscient observation, without a speck of sloppiness, it is a dream that has successfully traversed the conscious mind, life itself, breathing, talking, loving, paining, dying, which in fitting irony mirrors its subject’s gloomy death, worms of unresolved thoughts never leaving him in peace, eating his soul. Is love just a form of obsession or obsession a form of love? Is love, in all its undeniable shortcomings, only a preoccupation of wishful thoughts that are close to impossible? Everything begins with attraction and obsession only ends with death, which in this case is both literal and figurative. The wordless sequences are insanely provocative and maddeningly obsequious, not to mention the fact that the obsessed and the subject of obsession have never once spoken to each other, only meaningful glances and meetings of the eye. It must be the selfless form of love – - obsession – - but it is also the most effective way to self-destruct.
(When you get used to the idea of watching films as education, however, there comes a point when you go beyond appreciating a work only through aesthetics. Despite my penchant for films that meditate on the virtue and decay of life and death, Death in Venice still leaves me underwhelmed and lacking in its unrelenting highbrowism, and I reckon that is when personal taste comes along. . . no one’s fault, really – - just human irrationality.)
Walking Eyes in Michel Gondry’s Science of Sleep (2006) November 22, 2008
Posted by Richard Bolisay in European Films.3 comments
French Title: La science des rêves
Written and directed by Michel Gondry
Cast: Gael Garcia Bernal, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Alain Chabat
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is a tough act to follow. The law of diminishing returns has predicted it squarely: Gondry’s next film will pale in comparison. A valid argument to raise is that Eternal Sunshine has emphasized more of Kaufman’s brilliance as a scribe than Gondry’s playful direction, but truth is the two work outstandingly well together – - I still have to see Human Nature – - but basing it solely on their second effort, I must say that Gondry is the filmmaker most suited to his eclectic vision, not to diminish the beauty of course of Jonze’s Being John Malkovich and Adaptation, for Gondry himself is a dynamo of tireless ideas, as wonderfully seen in his music videos (my downright favorites are close to everything, no, seriously, Beck’s Deadweight, Cibo Matto’s Sugar Water, White Stripes’ Fell in Love With A Girl, Radiohead’s Knives Out, Björk’s Human Behaviour, Kylie Minogue’s Come Into My World, The Chemical Brothers’ Star Guitar, yeah I guess almost everything, and even those whimsical videos with his band, Oui Oui, never fail to leave me in awe), which gave way to his long-deserved entrance to cinema, far and away from his drowsy contemporaries.
The Science of Sleep may not be the better film but it is pure Gondry from start to finish, stapled in each frame is his knockout sense of humor, turning the absurd and superficial into a profound realization of painful truth. It gives a lot of room to his indulgence, it is refreshingly different, strangely interesting in its wayward lightheartedness – - and it boggles you how the seeming silliness of its idea was presented to a major studio like Warner Bros. and got accepted, without the thought of Gondry bringing all his weird inventions in the pitch and passing them around to studio executives. Fate, after all, is everyone’s god, but talent, no matter how marginal, is innate – - in our own parallel synchronized randomness, it is the true equalizer of success. He is blessed with a child’s eye view of things, that beauty of innocence, yet despite his carefree ideas they are not delivered carelessly, he is a genius in a child’s body unaware of his own brilliance, armed with a peculiarly fascinating vision of love and life. It is easy to mistake Gondry’s overflowing imagination to his lack of pragmatism, but as in every great artist, he knows how to conceal the cynicism of this world in a rather beautiful way.
Dreams represent the purest freedom outside our physical selves. In dreams, emotions are overwhelming, says Stephane, and The Science of Sleep floods us with those emotions of wakelessness, it is as though every frame is made up of dreams, of small and big dreams, of the hopeful and the hopeless, of the meaningful and the absurd, of little nightmares, of the magic of the unreal, the escape to our own heaven, opening the door to the most beautiful place in the world. Stephane and Stephanie’s romance floats, it is far from certain, commitment is an illusion, yet there is something between them (or inside them) that communicates, that facilitates the feelings they cannot express, that relays their intentions – - only Stephane cannot control himself with his jest, his incontainable happiness every time he sees Stephanie – - quite possibly he is Gondry’s alter ego. Gael Garcia Bernal exudes a gifted charm that is difficult to resist – - he may be the jack of all trades and the king of nothing, but he certainly has everything to be called a great actor, someone who chooses his roles very well and dedicates himself to them with all his heart in such a way that you can feel his fulfillment, his enjoyment to his craft, not wasting beautiful opportunities that come along his way, his sight makes you want to carry him, and bring him close to you. Charlotte Gainsbourg gives no effort in showing off; her simplicity is her finest trait, her presence is enough, her eyes speak of emptiness, and even her awkwardness works at her advantage; she is adorable, like one’s childhood crush.
This girl is at once all the women that broke my heart.
When Stephanie asks “Why me?” and Stephane answers “Because everyone else is boring,” it is not anymore a dream, it is the randomness of life working its sublime undertanding, that in this pool of strangers, it is more than magic that brings two people together, something stronger than fate, imagination, it really is, the eternity of it, the castle of dreams inside our minds that proves that happiness is not anymore a pursuit because it has always been there, it never leaves us, it just waits for the proper time to show up, and when it does it can only be the most perfect time, and for Gondry, happiness is everything, his world is different from ours, his optimism sparkles to the point of effervescence that misery becomes a strange choice, the only withered flower in a bouquet of red roses.
The Iceman in Jean-Pierre Melville’s Le Samouraï (1967) November 8, 2008
Posted by Richard Bolisay in European Films, Literature.5 comments
English Title: The Godson
Directed by Jean-Pierre Melville
Cast: Alain Delon, François Périer, Nathalie Delon
That face that can murder oblivion, that face that defies your reverence to mythological gods, that face that can launch a missile to your heart and run you out of air, allowing you to gasp innumerable times, gasp every second of your life while driveling, such handsome package of niceties endowed to a man of supreme attractiveness, his fatal suave in a random twitch of an eye, a stare so lethal it can only be the utmost pleasure of unreciprocated love, how pathetic if you haven’t seen it once in your life – - that face of almightiness – - bestowed on a man who awfully deserves such gift; thus if 60s cinema is divided into two distinct images of men, it will always be Alain Delon and the other, Alain Delon and the other universe of faces, everyone drowns around him. Of course that is not to reduce him into an elegant piece of furniture in a cozy living room, or a spotless plate in a molecular gastronomy presentation, but no way he became an icon just because of his looks; he earned the eminence.
Without reading the synopsis, the stupid in me thought that Delon will hold a samurai the same way Cruise did five years ago in his storybook butchery of Bushido, dishonoring it unforgivably, glorifying it in pretension. Melville’s cutthroat precision, however, decodes the samurai’s creed and presents it in a modern-day tale of a hitman caught in circumstances of vague beginnings and vaguer ends. The mystery pulls you in – - the first act entrances, the middle solidifies that grip – - until it comes to the hardboiled conclusion, the mood so intense and morally affecting that it makes you want to run to the shootout and hug Alain Delon’s corpse. Simplicity is the hardest to achieve in storytelling, yet Melville makes it appear so easy – - he eschews vapid display of action; everything in Le Samouraï moves without you knowing it, because the slow-motion trick is not with the film speed – - it’s in the story, behind those expressionless characters. The treatment gives you the fear of losing a single frame, for such loss costs a lot, perhaps a smile from Costello or a blink of his eye, or a revelation from that enigmatic pianist. If you seek for tedious explanations, then watching this is a wasteful effort, no food for anxieties here. If Alain Delon’s icy presence and the story’s diabolical violence fail to suit you, then you better have your senses checked for your own good. Le Samouraï is for the staunch believer of limitless greatness in cinema, where every second spent is worthy of every ounce of blood that flows from our veins of unquestioning appreciation, our firm loyalty to beautiful films that achieve more by showing less – - and just for that reason we exist.
* for Ayn Dimaya
All The Leaves Are Gold in Cristian Nemescu’s California Dreamin’ (2007) November 4, 2008
Posted by Richard Bolisay in Cinemanila, European Films.add a comment
Romanian Title: Nesfarsit
Directed by Cristian Nemescu
Cast: Armand Assante, Jamie Elman, Razvan Vasilescu, Maria Dinulescu
Everything falls into place in Cristian Nemescu’s first – - and last – - feature film, for what seems like an anti-American sentiment becomes a searing portrait of a country’s fabricated consciousness, giving the most fitting name to an anonymous pain, conjuring a tragic tale of humorous mix-up in the greatest tradition of Renoir and Shakespeare, and skewering manifold facets of war from the Nazis to GIs.
A train said to be carrying strategic equipment for NATO in support of the ongoing war in Yugoslavia is stopped in a small town in Romania for failing to present necessary documents. The station chief, Doiaru, despite receiving orders from the Prime Minister to let them pass, insists on seeing the papers without any sign of giving in. Even the head of the American marines, who is in charge of delivering the freight as soon as possible in a time as urgent as this, walks up to him innumerable times to settle their immediate passage, but no words can stir up Doiaru’s heart: no exceptions, no entry without the documents even if Bill Clinton flies to Romania and talks him out of it. While spending the idlest moments of their lives when they should have been somewhere else shooting rabbits, the American soldiers are invited by the town’s mayor in their founding centenary, specially celebrated for the second time, and the people warmly welcome them with booze and young girls wanting a taste of foreign flesh. Factory workers crash the party with their protest signs – - against Doiaru who wants to bankrupt their place to buy it for a lower price. Meanwhile, Doiaru’s daughter, Monica, engages in a wordless relationship with Sergeant David, shares his solitude and homesickness, and as their brief romance comes to an end, Monica also part ways with her father, who is killed in a riot between the townspeople and the chief of police. As violence wraps the community, the cargo train finally leaves with the soldiers awed by the fireworks prepared for them.
There are deliberate errors and put-ons, either intentional or otherwise, that Nemescu successfully delivers to great effect. Spilling fax papers in a government office where no one is there to receive, the misspelled “Wellcome” word written by the mayor in the blackboard, Monica’s admirer who translates David’s words to her differently, the hilarious replica of the Eiffel Tower in the vicinity, and the orgy in the hotel that leads to a massive blackout, these details add up to the lingering absurdity of war where everything becomes an unredeemable evil farce. One moment it bloats, and in a sudden realization of worthless lapse, it explodes. Nemescu pokes fun without holding back, killing the beast while the enemies are upfront, and still gets away with it, in a controlled temper a little less than Kusturica. That hatred toward Americans seems to stand out, perfectly characterized by Doiaru’s obstinacy – - seemingly implying that every time the Americans arrive, there is always a hint of danger. The Americans come and stir up a bloodbath, stay for long to defend their interests, and leave the warfield with their hands clean – - and in this case, even a fireworks to celebrate their victory. Blameless bastards.
The Second World War subplot, shot in remarkable black-and-white in war-destroyed Romania, strikes with outstanding similarity – - that unmistakable semblance – - to the war in Bosnia and Kosovo, indeed history fulfilling its promise of repeating itself in such a short period of time. It doesn’t feel alienating; the war seems to be the connecting thread among each and every one of us. Later in the middle of the film, a remnant of that war – - a shell hiding underground waiting for its baptism of fire for years – - causes the entire city to grope in darkness, as David and Monica runs hand in hand while the manholes burst open one after another.
A magnificent ensemble of actors enables Nemescu to achieve this posthumous brilliance. Armand Assante’s fierce-looking yet weak-kneed marine captain commands admiration for his humorous stiffness, giving his character a nuanced consistency of a soldier trapped in playful circumstances. Razvan Vasilescu steals the heart of stone and gives it a life of his own as Doiaru, definitely the most memorable creation in this film. TV actor Jamie Elman exudes effortless charm while Maria Dinulescu seduces him with undeniable presence and unwavering sensuality. Their romance, however short it may be, displays a fascinating facet of love’s blindness – - a wordless love, a loveless sex, a passionate intercourse of unknown origin. Ion Sapdaru’s overjoyed mayor mocks every city’s witless statesman, a lovely performance from start to finish.
That the film may have benefited from tighter editing is a valid qualm to raise, that if only Nemescu has survived from his fatal car crash California Dreamin’ will turn out to be a far greater film than it is now – - but less memorable, less affecting, less complete – - because what makes it a goddamn masterwork is that nature of incompleteness, that despite being left unfinished it is still a harrowing gem that fills an empty ocean with water, and afterlife pities the world for the loss of this young filmmaker at the height of his career, his death felt immeasurably by myself – - writing this as my way of recognition. Nemescu may have wanted escape – - escape from what? – - escape to a place where he can make films without limits – - for dying is the only way for you to float free – - and in the background, The Mamas and the Papas sings the ultimate escape song of the Murakami generation – - all the leaves are brown (all the leaves are brown) and the sky is gray (and the sky is gray) – - for there is no song in our world as deeply emotional as it really is, reminding us that all it takes to escape is two minutes and forty-two seconds, nothing less than a millisecond.
The Elixir in Julian Schnabel’s Diving Bell and the Butterfly (2007) October 23, 2008
Posted by Richard Bolisay in Alliance Française, Biopic, Cinemanila, European Films, Literature.add a comment
French Title: Le scaphandre et le papillon
Directed by Julian Schnabel
Cast: Mathieu Amalric, Emmanuelle Seigner, Marie-Josée Croze, Max Von Sydow
Based on Jean-Dominique Bauby’s memoir
The closest thing to being buried alive is running the shortest distance between heaven and earth, the case when you believe both ends of human life, heaven as a euphemism for Lucifer’s den and earth as where all sleeping dogs lie, short enough for the line to blur, as if existing in two far-fetched worlds at the same time can equip you with a stroke of partial omniscience. Schnabel, in his attempt to paint the remaining years of Jean-Dominique Bauby’s life during his “locked-in” state, not only delivers a moving fragment of fate’s indomitable power to tangle disconnected lines but also creates a heartrending document of the endless virtues of human imagination, the purest vision of all, because in this concentric circle where we all walk, there is never enough time to compensate for all the things we have lost – - never really enough time – - because time lies and time kills us all, one second after another.
Schnabel’s interest in filming biographies proves how personal his art can be. He filmed Basquiat because perhaps he was once Basquiat himself; he filmed Reinaldo Arenas because perhaps the writer’s style has influenced him a lot; he filmed Bauby because, well, perhaps the man’s unbelievable hold in the final days of his life inspired him to share it with the world – - quizas, quizas, quizas. Personal expression moves beyond his world, his art, and it becomes a need, a life, an afterlife, like every artist considers his craft is. Basquiat remains to be seen but Before Night Falls fails to win me over; it feels like a ponderous burden from start to finish, even Javier Bardem can’t save it. But there is that unmistakable eye for unconventionality, that disregard for immature ideas, that lapse between beauty and madness, that magnificent anomaly that is difficult to resist, telling you that he will make up for everything in his next work. And yeah, what a promise. In The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, only his third film, everything becomes a culmination of his sweeping power to recall life through death, a breathing record of magnificence – - a paradox that speaks more on who we are not than who we are.
Jean-Dominique Bauby, former editor of Elle magazine, suffered a stroke while driving with his son for a trip. In a coma for twenty days, he woke up with his entire body paralyzed, except for his left eye. His locked-in state deprived him of any movement aside from rolling his eye and blinking his eyelid, looking at the farthest horizon that his eye could ever reach: vegetative, maimed, barely alive. He was still mentally capable – - he could answer yes or no with a blink of an eye, he could form words and sentences through dictation, blinking through letters that his therapist spoke, a feat of immense difficulty, the only way for him to speak his mind. Accomplished as he was, he had few visitors. He had a wife and kids, as well as a girlfriend who failed to visit him. Through letter-by-letter dictation with his interlocutor, Bauby had written his memoir – - Le Schapandre et Le Papillon - – published in 1997, a runaway bestseller which Bauby had only enjoyed for ten days after a fatal pneumonia.
Irony has never been more resounding than this: I felt even more alive after seeing the film. The use of Bauby’s point of view – - his eye, his view of the world, his only window to physical universe – - provides a groundbreaking feat of emotional hinge, it’s as if every wink of his eye is equivalent to a life born, a soul cleansed, a purpose revivified, and an existence justified. That opening sequence is prolonged enough to put the film in its proper pace, we feel what he feels, we see the people through his eyes, we feel his heart cringe, his hopes crash, his dreams fade – - all the visual pain given to us is rewarding; Schnabel’s brush knows exactly what to paint, where to put emphasis, when to furnish the garnish, how to mix the colors of life and death in perfect tone, and the result is a striking portrait of sublimity; it is paralyzingly beautiful. Under such spell I am powerless.
Understandably, controversies arise regarding how faithful it is to Bauby’s life – - can a film ever be faithful to life? – - which part is fact and which part is fiction, how his relationship with his wife and girlfriend is distorted to create a more cinematic scenario, how he managed to have three kids instead of two, how Bauby never really wanted to die in the beginning, even the legalities of adapting Bauby’s memoir based on the ownership of the “droit moral” which basically is “an intellectual right of an artist to protect his work” thus asserted by Bauby’s wife – - all these elaborately written in Beth Arnold’s The truth about “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.”
But the truth is no one really knows what’s going through his head during those two years in vegetative state. No one can claim the exact truth; even Schnabel cannot. But what Schnabel did was take a piece of his life, plant it in his head for years, wait for it to grow, then after some time it flourished, it bore fruits and became one of the most moving works in recent years. Who says nothing can sum up a man’s life in two hours? Schnabel just did. Mathieu Amalric and Max Von Sydow deliver electrifying moments brisk enough to melt you in your seats. And in that magical flashback when Bauby returns home, drives around Paris, and meets his family, in possibly the greatest hommage ever made to 400 Blows, that music of bliss reassures you how comforting it is to live by looking at other people’s failures destroyed by faith, because imprisonment only becomes a choice when you stop fighting against it.
