eXistenZ (1999)

As soon as one starts to interpret eXistenZ, the film falls to the ground as an utterly silly attempt at criticizing some sort of world-alienation. Provided that one does not go into that at all, one can still enjoy the film for what it is (despite Cronenberg's intentions): a funny, perhaps a bit tedious, story about levels of games, and, most of all, bodies that matter-as-matter. The seedy surroundings and Cronenberg's affection for eerie bugs make eXistenZ a quite entertaining film. As a meditation on the state of postmodern society - forget it. In the films, games have been developed so that they make out existences of their own. In the film, we see a process of entering games and exiting games. Gradually, the distinction between the game and "reality" becomes blurred. --- Well, Willem Defoe is fun. eXistenZ presents us with Cronenberg's post-human universe: a blend of technology and flesh, determinism and is-not-morals-only-a-surface (and what's-real-anyway-huh's). As I already said, let's not go into that territory. But, honestly: if I have to choose between the games versus reality-themed Matrix and eXistenZ, I'd rank eXistenZ as a better film simply because it is far less self-important and pompous than Matrix. Plus the bugs. Actually, despite their stupid quasi-philosophical mumbo jumbo, I like the way his films create claustrophobic atmospheres by means of a cinematic style that is rooted in the drab and the ugly.

The Draughtman's Contract (1982)

I am glad I took the chance to watch Greenaway's The Draughtman's contract a second time. What infuriated me the first time around (about ten years ago) I know found both ingenious and charming. It is an exquisitely beautiful film that follows the rules of the period drama with a tasteful grin on its face. The story starts off with a proposition to a self-indulgent artist. The artist is commissioned to make drawings of an upper-class estate. He complies, but makes his own additions to the contract: sexual services. As he starts his work, he takes painstaking measures to free his landscapes of all extraneous elements - with unexpected consequences. Gradually, we find out that the artist is not really the one who controls the situation. The film has as many layers as the characters have charades. On the surface, it is a story about a crime that was or was not committed - on another level, it is a story about what images tell us and the complex relation between the painted image and its context and purpose. It is a great achievement in studying artificiality, beginning from the domesticized garden to sophisticated social games.

Michael Nyman's music provides perfect augmentation of the story without being in the least an attempt to create "emotions". Because if there is anything this film is not, it is a film about realistic emotions. The dialogue is a further example of how Greenaway approaches his own type of formalism with wit and style: these fluffy characters talk in elaborate, long sentences that are complete immersed in the stylized social relations of the 17th century English upper class. What impresses me the most about this film is how it manages to integrate all levels of cinema into one cohesive structure of images, dialogue and sound. 

V toy strane (1997)

Lidia Bubrovka's V toy strane ("In this country") has the hazy cinematography of Sokurov's Mother and Son but rather than elegiac meditations on life and death, the film opts for the quietly burlesque. It is a funny little film with a strong sense for characters and drastic, unexpected humor. The story takes place in a not-so-modern village in the North. Life is grim & people are poor; most people, at least the men, drink as often as they can. One day, the "director" of the village tells one of the villagers, who suffers from a stomach ulcer, that he has been granted a place in a kurort by the sea. This event leads to feeling of disbelief, envy and malaise. From there, the movie dwells on the life of the villagers, and their cattle, by means of a string of loosely connected scenes. I can't really explain what is going on here, but I don't think the film is a mere caricature of the uncivilized ways of the backwoods - the film is too tender to be a caricature. As I said, the style of this film, and the cinematography, bathing in eerie and dreamy light, is really something. There is a peculiar dissonance between content and style which really .... works. I liked this film and it is a shame it is not more well known.

The Scent of Green Papaya (1993)

As I was a few minutes into The Scent of Green Papaya, I was quite sure I’d seen some of the director’s (Tran Anh Hung ) other films. And yes – the visual style is easily recognizable: the slow, fluid camera panning across rooms and yards and walls, a strong sense for the sounds of nature. Even though The Scent of Green Papaya was a good film, it was not as good as Cyclo and Vertical Ray of the Sun (the initial scene of the latter film is sheer beauty). Even though several scenes of the present film made a real impression on me, I couldn’t stop thinking that the film’s aesthetics is too predictable, too pretty, and perhaps a tad contrived. How am I to swallow the obvious nostalgia of the film? I felt that I’ve seen this before: an attempt to capture the past through glowing, tranquil images and sounds, a mildly experimental score, hauntingly beautiful surroundings. Certain images are repeated: ants, frogs, papayas, and start to take on an almost-symbolic meaning. The film starts off with a child who gets a place as a servant in a richer family in Vietnam during the 50’s. The quiet storms of family life is seen from the young servant's perspective: a boy torturing ants, a wife saddened by her husband's infidelity, a grandmother mourns her husband. Rather than scrutinizing colonial structures, The Scent of Green Papaya follows its characters in their joys and miseries, in the routines of work - and all this is evoked in a very sensual way. In the second part of the film the child has, as Ebert puts it, “flowered into a beautiful woman”. Well, you know the rest, you know the score. From here one, I can no longer take this film seriously. My description of this film might sound negative, but for all its compromises and indulgence, this is a captivating cinematic experience where the visual stands in the centerfield.

Beloved (1998)

It’s good to be wrong. A scruffy DVD with the names Danny Glover and Oprah Winfrey didn’t seem to promise much, I mean: Oprah. Contrary to my prejudiced conception, Beloved was not a bad film at al. The film is based on a novel by Toni Morrison. What was striking about it was how the trauma of slavery was interpreted. This film wasn’t at all the sugarcoated and sentimental tale I expected it to be. Beloved is not the typical Hollywood adaptation of a novel: it is too bold for that, the solutions are too independent (I think I can say this without having read the book). Instead of the regular type of condensed and well-behaved Wisdom, I was confronted with a harsh, sometimes idiosyncratic, story about wounds that will not heal, ghosts that will always reappear, and the open-ended character of history. The main character of the film is Sethe, a woman who fled from slave-owners. She now lives with her daughter Denver in a house in which a ghost seems to live. One day, an old acquaintance, Paul D, comes to visit. They have not seen each other for many years. Paul and Sethe become lovers. Another visitor arrives, a girl who seems to be in a trance-like condition. The girl stays with them and somehow she seems to know all about them. Even though there were some things in this film that I did not understand, I appreciated its means of storytelling, the contrast between a past remembered primarily through emotions and the way emotions from the past and of the past are ever-present in the present.  

Drugstore cowboy (1989)

Whether we want it or not, many of us nurse our own special mythological images of the US and A, inspired by music, film and literature. For me, this mythological landscape consists of drab streets and cafes in Portland, Oregon. Gus van Sant, of course, is to blame. I first watched Drugstore cowboy as a kid, and it was an interesting experience to see that it did not feel that dated, though it is many things that make it a film of the 90’s. In other words: I still like this unglamorous, dreamy portrait of what life as a drug addict is like. Van Sant feels no need for moralism. He just tells a story about these people who rob drugstores and engage in dull conversations about strange things (the bad mojo of hats on beds, for example). He doesn’t make their lives appear particularly romantic. Even though the film can be seen as fusing elements from classic outlaw films, we are never tempted to think that wow, these folks are dangerous and cool. Instead, the four main characters roam through their mundane lives in which paranoia and superstition plays no minor part. These characters are not very likeabe, but we accept them.

I don’t know how he does it, but despite its mundane character, I never fail to engage in this story. Rather than being evil, or Fiends of Society, van Sandts anti-heroes are lost, frail and bored. Already in the beginning of the film, we sense that things will go downwards from here, but van Sandt never titillates the viewer with Destiny and how things are bound to Happen. Stuff just happen and something gruesome  situations have to be dealt with. Boredom is one of van Sant’s dearest themes. In scrutinizing the tics of boredom, restlessness and empty time, he manages to show several forms of existential dread that doesn’t really look dreadful, but, precisely, bears the expressionless face of Matt Dillon in this film. – Don’t miss the small role played by William Burroughs.

Visually, Drugstore cowboy mixes the ultrareal with dreamlike sequences. The languid pace of the story and the camera never stands in place of observation. Van Sant is obviously a director that does not need sunsets and shit to create stark moments of beauty. All he need is the woozy view from a train window or a sun-lit motel. - And of course I liked the use of Desmond Dekker's music. Yay for this film and yay! for Gus van Sant.

Sakuran (2006)

Despite its visual beauty, I can’t quite get my head around Sakuran (dir. Ninagawa Mika). In its stunning use of colors, this film is on a par with Godard’s Chinoise. Each frame is constructed with colors as one of the most important element. Colors are used as contrast, as drama, as backdrop, as tension. Almost the entire film baths in bright hues and for that particular reason, a rainy scene with subdued color scales comes as a shock. The camera is mostly static. This fact, plus the intrusive, yet striking, colors makes for a slightly claustrophobic viewing experience – which is precisely the point. The film is about the dream of escape, of freeing oneself from a closed surrounding. This surrounding is a brothel from the Edo period. The center of the story is a young girl who is expected to become a courtesan (or a mere prostitute). She feels trapped, but is included into the routines and norms of the colorful brothel, which contain several hierarchies, both among the workers and the customers. She suceeds in her career, so that she attracts the most important clients, and she falls in love - an impossible thing in this context? The problem with the film, for me, is that I soon lost interest in the story, losing myself in the world of hues and frame composition. That’s why I don’t have much to say about this film, expect that it is original, a Japanese Moulin Rouge perhaps, that creates something unexpected  and contemporary from historical material. This imaginative film comprises many dramatic turns and flashy melodrama (in my opinion, too much).  

Drifting Clouds (1996)

Aki Kaurismäki makes the same movie over and over again. To some, that is a bad thing, an evident lack of imagination and renewal. I have kind of taken a liking to the world of Kaurismäki. Helsinki stripped down to a few bars, empty streets, trams. Conversational exchange no more complicated than "Do you want tea?" "I want coffee." And music, always the music. In one lengthy scene of Drifting clouds, we see a tango band perform. The musicians are elderly gentleman, silverhaired professionals. They perform two songs. The camera does not interrupt. Dubrovnik, a resaurant, is about to close. This is the last, mournful night. The band honors the history of the place. The backbone of the story is a bittersweet tale about capitalism and work. A deep economic crisis leaves the two main characters of the film, a couple, without work. Ilona was headwaiter at Dubrovnik. Lauri drove a tram. Without work, their life falls apart (but interestingly, not their relationship). At the end of the film, a decision is made. They want work, but it is not easy to find oneself a job where one is not fooled. The political message of the film can be interpreted in several ways, but one thing that is clear is that banks cannot be trusted and that Capital and Work are two different spheres: Capital is not interested in work. But if Capital is owned by a kind-hearted individual, things are different. But it is not its politics that make Drifting clouds a beautiful film, it's the style, and Kaurismäki's deadpan and unsentimental sense of humor. It's a heartwarming feel-good film that will probably leave you with a smile on your face. What it is not: it is not character progression, it is not a psychological investigation into the stress that unemployment will result in - and it is not a political film in the sense that it would have anything very interesting to say about economic structures. - On the other hand, this movie is a touching image of love and affection in that the film depicts a relationship that is never emotionally problematic. Yet, as you might have guessed, this is not your ordinary representation of devotion.

L'eclisse (1962)

I am a little embarrassed to admit it, but: I was blown away by the sheer beauty and languid pace of L’eclisse. This is not a film about people. The locations seem to play the main parts. As was the case in Red Desert, all characters are embedded in their surroundings – perhaps not being swallowed by them, but I’d say that just as there is a ghostly non-presence in the locations, the same goes for the characters, of whom we know next to nothing, and which have a habit of appearing and disappearing mysteriously. If I were in a more critical state of mind, I’d say something about the portrayal of the main female character (Vitti) in this film; the capricious, elusive presence/non-presence that of course titillates the male characters. Oh well, females are enigmatic creatures, for sure. What makes me hold back my complaints is the fact that the non-presence of Vitti’s character actually has a point in this film. Or at least I think it does. Alienation, and so on, and so forth. Yes, that. Vitti’s character trusts nobody. We can never be sure whether she is bored, or worried, or something else. Every movement is ambiguous. Vitti is good at that type of tricks; the complex laugh, a fidgety withdrawal, a cautious look, a stare into nowhere. 

Well, somewhere in the film, there’s even a love story. Or, rather, a story about fear of love and intimacy. The romantic encounter doesn’t occur until almost half the film is through. Vitti’s character is courted by a stockbroker. At first, she refuses his romantic suggestions, and when she begins to open up to him, she is once again pulled back – ambiguity is ever-present. But rather than taking an interest in romantic development, Antonioni once again turns to the surroundings, the locations. Vitti’s character and the stockbroker take walks; his car has been stolen, and is dredged from the see (the stockbroker is not worried about the man in the car, rather he thinks about selling his car), a street corner takes on an almost magical meaning (again: meaning riddled with hesitation).

For a film about the modern state of mind, L’Eclisse is surprisingly lush. The contrast between wide-angle images of an empty city and close-ups of faces and interiors work particularly well. Antonioni knows how to appreciate the force of detail. Bric-a-brac, a pinetree, a streetlight, a wall, a doorway. The wind rustles in a tree – Rome goes Twin Peaks. But don’t misunderstand. The film is not dedicated to simple beauty. In a few lengthy scenes, Antonioni takes us to a stock market, where Vitti’s widowed mother tries to make some serious money. The atmosphere in the stock market is dreadful. The place looks almost like a church, with echoes and gigantic colons. People run, shout, talk, smoke, move back and forth. Antonioni makes it clear that just like Vitti’s fidgety girl, we cannot be quite sure what is the ulterior motive of these stockbrokers and potential capitalists. All is caprice. Vitti’s character asks Piero, the lover, about stocks. He talks about passion. Passion for what, Vitti skeptically quizzes. We see two faces of modernity here: the busy atmosphere of the market, and Vitti’s idle strolls in an empty-looking city. Do real people live in that city? For all its romantic (or whatever one should call it) attention to details, there is something highly unnerving about the film’s approach to space. And this is what I appreciate most in it. – It seems only natural that the film ends wordlessly, with a series of haunting images of locations in the film. The main characters are no longer with us - it's just the landscapes. A great ending that hints at emotional apocalypse.