Dir. Carl Dreyer
1928
n/a
I was raised a Christian, a Catholic no less, but I turned out OK (I guess that's a matter of opinion). I went through all the motions straight up through my Catechism where I was supposed to enter into the church as an adult. I chose not to. My ability to string along with the false piety (or worse: enviable exuberance) of my fellow young Christians failed me. I have one rather strong, distressing memory of my Catechism. We met each week on Sunday nights in small groups. We mostly read the Bible, discussed our faith and wasted time. On this night though our stand-in teacher posed a discriminating and frightful question. Making reference to the school shootings at Columbine High School and the rumor that one of the shooters had put a gun to a student's head and asked him if he believed in God and when he answered “Yes”, shot and killed the student, the teacher asked us what we would have done in that same scenario knowing a 'Yes' would end our life and a 'No' might save it, at the potential cost of our soul. As the pious and lazy youth swung their affirmation around the room the question came to me. I replied that I wouldn't; that I would want to live. I've wrangled with this situation for many years, trying to figure out why I answered the way I did. Was it because I actually don't believe in God? Was it because I am selfish? Was it because I wanted to make a scene? To this day I don't know, but years in the church have familiarized me with the psychological atrocities inflicted by those with piety and power. History books will tell of the Crusades and millions of deaths in the name of God, but, as Joan (Renee Jeanne Falconetti) in The Passion of Joan of Arc illustrates so clearly, it can be just as painful to live in the midst of a lie, as it is to die because of one.
The Passion of Joan of Arc chronicles the trial and subsequent execution of Joan of Arc. It is one of the most excruciatingly painful film experiences ever witnessed, as Joan undergoes significant amounts of physical and psychological torture by a body of theologians and cruel guardsmen. The theologians are outraged at Joan's conviction that she has been sent by God to expel the English from France. They are contemptuous of her because they are threatened by her dignity and the fact that she is a woman who claims to be doing God's work. Director Carl Dreyer captures the intensity of the event through studious use of close ups which highlight the exquisite (and sometimes revolting) facial expressions employed by his actors, especially Falconetti. Her performance stands apart from the rest of the film and in many respects the rest of the film world. Her passion is unbound and her sentiments so perfectly articulated that she does simply capture Joan of Arc, she is Joan of Arc. There are few performances as convincing and even fewer as powerful as Falconetti's, which would be her second and final appearance on the silver screen.
With The Passion of Joan of Arc, Dreyer designed a complex and uncomfortable scenario. Apocryphal and hypocritical ardor is not uncommon, but it is difficult subject to deal with. Dreyer makes his theologians look ugly (extreme closeups of their faces reveal wrinkles and warts) and immature (they question why Joan is dressed in men's clothing), but they are in a position of power, so these outwardly degrading features do nothing in the favor of Joan's cause. This scenario still exists today and is a prominent reason as to why The Passion of Joan of Arc is still, and will likely always be, a truly timeless piece of cinema. Far too often, in the church, priests and worshipers of God will use God as the vessel in which to transmit their own messages on morality and faith, rather than the other way around (see: Pope Benedict's recent statements equating the dangers of homosexuality to those of deforestation). They believe themselves to be pious, but outwardly betray that dogma by using subversive tactics to influence the church-going community. Threats of excommunication, torture and death abound from the shouting mouths of the priests and monks in The Passion of Joan of Arc. And why? So that she might renounce her claim of being the daughter of God. All that hate in order to defeat one woman's selfless faith in God.
While Dreyer's religious epic is slightly more recondite than my own traumatic experiences in the church, the principle is much the same. The Christian faith was based on a solid foundation but the structure that has been built on top of that foundation is far too often ugly and useless; cruel to the point of savagery. His film captures the church in one of its most insightfully brutal moments, branding it with a stamp of malice. The final moments of the film are dreadfully powerful. The screen is full of images of fire and violence, the terrifying end to those who have failed to live by their own rhetoric. The film supplies a post script with a brief tribute to Joan of Arc, telling how the fire shielded Joan's soul as it soared into Heaven that day. Whether or not this is true is not for us to know. That is just for Joan.
Showing posts with label 1920s. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1920s. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Battleship Potemkin
Dir. Sergei Eisenstein
1925
n/a
Battleship Potemkin is a spiritual film. Not spiritual in the religious sense but rather in a universally human way. Spirituality is not confined to the church or the temple. It extends over all people who look to something larger than themselves for inspiration and guidance. If history is any indication, the spirit is often inversely related to the quality of life. The more a man is oppressed, the greater his commitment to himself and his fellow man becomes. The triumph comes when the defeat of the body is near. Battleship Potemkin is about just that. It demonstrates the nobility of the persecuted man's soul and the power that says “No” to the muzzle of a loaded gun. More than anything though it is a stunning piece of propaganda, and is as much a tribute to genuine emotion as it is to inventive, manipulative film making.
The thing about being manipulated is that no one ever wants to admit that they are or have been, probably because so few people realize they're being used or persuaded. That's propaganda at its very best (see: the relentlessness of modern advertising and it's effects on purchasing trends). However, Battleship Potemkin is not full up on affectations of sincerity, in fact it can't afford to be. Director Sergei Eisenstein draws on a largely historical event (the revolt on the battleship Potemkin) with elements of fiction (the massacre on the Odessa steps) mixed in to make a cinematic melting pot of emotion. In such a stew Eisenstein's revolutionary use of montage to increase audience reaction is the spice that enhances the intensity of the film's emotive core, rather than counter-act it. This is a delicate equilibrium. Had Eisenstein gone too heavy on the 'glorious revolution' imagery his intent would have been transparent and likely met by skepticism and cynicism in his audience. However, too light and the film would have been an un-affecting war film about revolution, rather than what it is: a revolutionary film about war. Eisenstein poured all his heart and technical prowess into this film and the end result is a masterpiece of cinema: a completely engaging spectacle who's intensity builds exponentially as the film progresses towards its ultimate, ennobling conclusion.
Battleship Potemkin is revolutionary both in content and in context. Upon it's premier it was banned in several countries for it's risk as a potential inflamer of serious uprising, which is an accurate understanding of the power of the film. Having lived in Russia until the mid 1920s, since his birth on the eve of the 20th century, Eisenstein surely understood the rallying power of propaganda. His methods were innovative, his medium new and excited, but his message was one chiseled into the stone of human history. Wherever there is tyranny there will be men who can draw the oppressed together. In one of the film's most memorable scenes a crew of 'petty officers' is about to fire upon a group of dissenters, tired of the poor living conditions on the vessel, when a sailor, Vakulynchuk, yells “Brothers! Who are you shooting at?” whereupon the ship's crew begins it's revolt against the exalted and insolent higher officers. The intensity of this scene is blood-boiling. The score screams with trumpets and strings as the camera bounces from face to face, tips of rifles to butts of crosses, fear to determination. What must happen happens, and the relatively small revolt aboard the battleship escalates and spreads. Eisenstein's visual interpretation of revolution is both highly accurate and highly condensed in order to create the largest impact. In that respect he was not only a great artist of propaganda, but a great filmmaker as well. His timing throughout the film is immaculate. The pacing is rigorous, but the idea is simple enough to not require extraneous amounts of explanation. In fact the arc of the narrative from the initial dissent to the joining of fellow brothers-in-arms is surprisingly predictable. This works heavily in Eisenstein's favor, as the understanding of the narrative on the part of the audience allows him the opportunity to influence and shape the perception of the revolutionary spirit that he is portraying. It is that spirit that Eisenstein captures so magnificently that ultimately makes the film as impressive and incisive as it is. Spirituality is something everyone, despite difference of religion and upbringing, can believe in if they choose to. And if they don't, chances are they can be convinced to.
1925
n/a
Battleship Potemkin is a spiritual film. Not spiritual in the religious sense but rather in a universally human way. Spirituality is not confined to the church or the temple. It extends over all people who look to something larger than themselves for inspiration and guidance. If history is any indication, the spirit is often inversely related to the quality of life. The more a man is oppressed, the greater his commitment to himself and his fellow man becomes. The triumph comes when the defeat of the body is near. Battleship Potemkin is about just that. It demonstrates the nobility of the persecuted man's soul and the power that says “No” to the muzzle of a loaded gun. More than anything though it is a stunning piece of propaganda, and is as much a tribute to genuine emotion as it is to inventive, manipulative film making.
The thing about being manipulated is that no one ever wants to admit that they are or have been, probably because so few people realize they're being used or persuaded. That's propaganda at its very best (see: the relentlessness of modern advertising and it's effects on purchasing trends). However, Battleship Potemkin is not full up on affectations of sincerity, in fact it can't afford to be. Director Sergei Eisenstein draws on a largely historical event (the revolt on the battleship Potemkin) with elements of fiction (the massacre on the Odessa steps) mixed in to make a cinematic melting pot of emotion. In such a stew Eisenstein's revolutionary use of montage to increase audience reaction is the spice that enhances the intensity of the film's emotive core, rather than counter-act it. This is a delicate equilibrium. Had Eisenstein gone too heavy on the 'glorious revolution' imagery his intent would have been transparent and likely met by skepticism and cynicism in his audience. However, too light and the film would have been an un-affecting war film about revolution, rather than what it is: a revolutionary film about war. Eisenstein poured all his heart and technical prowess into this film and the end result is a masterpiece of cinema: a completely engaging spectacle who's intensity builds exponentially as the film progresses towards its ultimate, ennobling conclusion.
Battleship Potemkin is revolutionary both in content and in context. Upon it's premier it was banned in several countries for it's risk as a potential inflamer of serious uprising, which is an accurate understanding of the power of the film. Having lived in Russia until the mid 1920s, since his birth on the eve of the 20th century, Eisenstein surely understood the rallying power of propaganda. His methods were innovative, his medium new and excited, but his message was one chiseled into the stone of human history. Wherever there is tyranny there will be men who can draw the oppressed together. In one of the film's most memorable scenes a crew of 'petty officers' is about to fire upon a group of dissenters, tired of the poor living conditions on the vessel, when a sailor, Vakulynchuk, yells “Brothers! Who are you shooting at?” whereupon the ship's crew begins it's revolt against the exalted and insolent higher officers. The intensity of this scene is blood-boiling. The score screams with trumpets and strings as the camera bounces from face to face, tips of rifles to butts of crosses, fear to determination. What must happen happens, and the relatively small revolt aboard the battleship escalates and spreads. Eisenstein's visual interpretation of revolution is both highly accurate and highly condensed in order to create the largest impact. In that respect he was not only a great artist of propaganda, but a great filmmaker as well. His timing throughout the film is immaculate. The pacing is rigorous, but the idea is simple enough to not require extraneous amounts of explanation. In fact the arc of the narrative from the initial dissent to the joining of fellow brothers-in-arms is surprisingly predictable. This works heavily in Eisenstein's favor, as the understanding of the narrative on the part of the audience allows him the opportunity to influence and shape the perception of the revolutionary spirit that he is portraying. It is that spirit that Eisenstein captures so magnificently that ultimately makes the film as impressive and incisive as it is. Spirituality is something everyone, despite difference of religion and upbringing, can believe in if they choose to. And if they don't, chances are they can be convinced to.
Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans
Dir. F.W. Murnau
1927
n/a
The first silent film I ever saw was Fritz Lang's terrifying, post-apocalyptic Metropolis. Even as a relatively well watched movie enthusiast, I had my reservations about silent films. I figured they'd be slow and methodical; boring and terribly linear. I was proved wrong then and in watching F.W. Murnau's Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans I have been proved wrong again. What the great silent films of the teens and twenties lacked in their audio tracks (which hardly lack considering the air progressiveness and sensitivity in the musical scores of both Metropolis and Sunrise) they make up for in their visual inventiveness and superb understanding of dramatic structure. One might argue that the medium does not dictate the quality of a product, and this is true but only to a certain extent. Without being able to communicate through words directly to their audience, actors had to utilize a more theatrical style of acting so that their actions could replace their unheard words. Directors had to paint a crystal clear picture, without precarious over-simplification, so that the viewer didn't spend half the film looking at title cards. Still, the silent era was not all limiting. Directors like Murnau rose to the challenge of making insightful and provocative pictures while pushing the boundaries of visual aesthetics in the formative early years of cinema.
Sunrise is haunting. It is a tale of the corrupting and revitalizing power of love. It is about the triumph of good over evil and the tranquility of acceptance. The film follows a simple farmer's (George O'Brien) initial attempt to murder his wife (Janet Gaynor) in order to run off to the city with another woman (Margaret Livingston), and his subsequent failure to do so. It chronicles his attempts to prove his love for her and repent for his sinful ways. He follows her into the nearby city where the two are swept up in the fervor and rejoicing of a night on the town. Along the way Murnau uses both subtle and radical cinematic tools to present the man and woman as being two apart from the glamor and sophistication of the city. The woman and man both act in simple and naïve ways. The woman shyly avoids the sexual come-ons of a stranger, while the man pays for all his expenses not out of a wallet, but a small change purse. Cinematically, Murnau appropriates a tactic of superimposing two visuals (and in many scenes two disparate audio tracks) on top of one another to further the metaphorical separation of the country and city folk. The city is presented as a sensational, opulent carnival complete with fireworks, roller coasters, music, dancing and noise noise noise that would drive the Grinch, were he present for all of it, fucking crazy. It is absurd to the point of satire. In one particularly disheartening but brilliant scene the city people have the man and woman dance to a “folk tune” after the man successfully captures an escaped and drunken pig. The couple move in a way that is a far cry from the shake and jive of the city's take on the swinging jazz big band era. The funny thing is that while the rift is very real and visible, the man and woman seem to either not notice it, or take no offense to it. I am supposing the latter. The two are in love and as anyone who's really been in love before can tell you: when you're in it you just can't be bothered to give a damn about anything else.
Sunrise is a powerhouse of romance and histrionics. It is paramount piece of dramatic cinema and one of the best of the comparatively short lived silent era. Murnau brings together a wide range of tricks, skills and genuine inspiration to create a perfect pastiche. It is a film whose narrative fluidity is never disturbed by the seismic emotional quakes that occur throughout. It tugs you along by your heart strings and plucks and mutes them tenderly, creating a regular symphony of emotive affections, from bitter to cathartic. The film paints a vivid picture of love and redemption and does so without the pretense that causes so many other films to fail. It is a complex picture of devotion and seduction and how one can counteract the other, but most of all it is a film about appreciating what has always been there for you and never forgetting what attracted you to it in the first place. Sunrise is love in 90 minutes.
1927
n/a
The first silent film I ever saw was Fritz Lang's terrifying, post-apocalyptic Metropolis. Even as a relatively well watched movie enthusiast, I had my reservations about silent films. I figured they'd be slow and methodical; boring and terribly linear. I was proved wrong then and in watching F.W. Murnau's Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans I have been proved wrong again. What the great silent films of the teens and twenties lacked in their audio tracks (which hardly lack considering the air progressiveness and sensitivity in the musical scores of both Metropolis and Sunrise) they make up for in their visual inventiveness and superb understanding of dramatic structure. One might argue that the medium does not dictate the quality of a product, and this is true but only to a certain extent. Without being able to communicate through words directly to their audience, actors had to utilize a more theatrical style of acting so that their actions could replace their unheard words. Directors had to paint a crystal clear picture, without precarious over-simplification, so that the viewer didn't spend half the film looking at title cards. Still, the silent era was not all limiting. Directors like Murnau rose to the challenge of making insightful and provocative pictures while pushing the boundaries of visual aesthetics in the formative early years of cinema.
Sunrise is haunting. It is a tale of the corrupting and revitalizing power of love. It is about the triumph of good over evil and the tranquility of acceptance. The film follows a simple farmer's (George O'Brien) initial attempt to murder his wife (Janet Gaynor) in order to run off to the city with another woman (Margaret Livingston), and his subsequent failure to do so. It chronicles his attempts to prove his love for her and repent for his sinful ways. He follows her into the nearby city where the two are swept up in the fervor and rejoicing of a night on the town. Along the way Murnau uses both subtle and radical cinematic tools to present the man and woman as being two apart from the glamor and sophistication of the city. The woman and man both act in simple and naïve ways. The woman shyly avoids the sexual come-ons of a stranger, while the man pays for all his expenses not out of a wallet, but a small change purse. Cinematically, Murnau appropriates a tactic of superimposing two visuals (and in many scenes two disparate audio tracks) on top of one another to further the metaphorical separation of the country and city folk. The city is presented as a sensational, opulent carnival complete with fireworks, roller coasters, music, dancing and noise noise noise that would drive the Grinch, were he present for all of it, fucking crazy. It is absurd to the point of satire. In one particularly disheartening but brilliant scene the city people have the man and woman dance to a “folk tune” after the man successfully captures an escaped and drunken pig. The couple move in a way that is a far cry from the shake and jive of the city's take on the swinging jazz big band era. The funny thing is that while the rift is very real and visible, the man and woman seem to either not notice it, or take no offense to it. I am supposing the latter. The two are in love and as anyone who's really been in love before can tell you: when you're in it you just can't be bothered to give a damn about anything else.
Sunrise is a powerhouse of romance and histrionics. It is paramount piece of dramatic cinema and one of the best of the comparatively short lived silent era. Murnau brings together a wide range of tricks, skills and genuine inspiration to create a perfect pastiche. It is a film whose narrative fluidity is never disturbed by the seismic emotional quakes that occur throughout. It tugs you along by your heart strings and plucks and mutes them tenderly, creating a regular symphony of emotive affections, from bitter to cathartic. The film paints a vivid picture of love and redemption and does so without the pretense that causes so many other films to fail. It is a complex picture of devotion and seduction and how one can counteract the other, but most of all it is a film about appreciating what has always been there for you and never forgetting what attracted you to it in the first place. Sunrise is love in 90 minutes.
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