In the long pre-history to this blog, I’ve already written about this film after seeing it on the big screen back in 2007, and even posted it here. Revisiting it again for this project, I am reminded that I find Buñuel’s style, especially in these later French films, both beguiling and maddening in equal measure: short scenes, people wandering into and out of rooms, little attempt to always make any narrative connections or explicate “meaning”. That, plus the very 70s ways of working through issues of desire — by which I mean not just a certain normalisation of elderly male attention to young women, but casual domestic violence. Of course, Mathieu is hardly intended to be sympathetic — part of the ‘comedy’ is that Mathieu’s calm explanations to his fellow train passengers (the film is largely told by him in flashback) of how he’s in the right are undercut by what we see of his behaviour — and the terrorist conflagrations which periodically engulf the film (and which consume it ultimately) seem to be a sort of wilful erasure of Mathieu’s aggressive desires. Still, Conchita never comes across as much more than a surface onto which Mathieu’s confused desires are projected, though casting two actors in the role (the aloof Carole Bouquet and more sensuous Ángela Molina) does come across as something of a masterful stroke (however it was intended by Buñuel).
FILM REVIEW: Criterion Collection Director Luis Buñuel; Writers Buñuel and Jean-Claude Carrière (inspired by the novel La Femme et le pantin by Pierre Louÿs); Cinematographer Edmond Richard; Starring Fernando Rey, Ángela Molina, Carole Bouquet; Length 99 minutes.
Seen at National Film Theatre, London, Wednesday 28 February 2007 (and earlier on VHS at home, Wellington, August 2000, and most recently on DVD at a friend’s home, London, Sunday 12 February 2017).
This film was presented at the London Film Festival, introduced by its director, who did a Q&A afterwards.
It’s not been uncommon over the last couple of decades for French films to mine a disturbing terrain of imagery and emotion, but the problem I’ve had with directors like Gaspar Noé and Bruno Dumont is quite often that their cinema of transgression tends to rely on nasty, bloody, vicious things like rape, torture and murder. But perhaps, the slender œuvre of Lucile Hadzihalilovic suggests, nothing is quite so transgressive as life. After a wait of over ten years since her last film Innocence comes Evolution (already a fondness for titles which work in both English and French), which has something of a similar trajectory in dealing with that liminal stage in which children move into being teenagers. Hadzihalilovic has a way of converting societal expectations around protecting children from the adult world into something more tangibly oppressive: where in Innocence it was the girls’ boarding school, where new students entered in a coffin, here it’s an isolated island town with only boys (of whom Max Brebant is the protagonist) being looked after by mother figures, who seem to be participants in some kind of communal procreative rite backed up by a medicalised procedure to ensure their sons never become men. It’s this medical aspect which is most disturbing, suggesting eugenics and involving some kind of invasive surgical experimentation. At the same time, there’s a blurred boundary around gender identity and procreation: we never see any men, the women on the island don’t appear to have sexual organs, and the surgical procedures call into question exactly who is gestating the foetuses and how they are being brought to term. Of course none of this is intended to make literal sense — throughout the film, there’s an eeriness to the lighting and colours that imparts a distinctly oneiric quality, especially combined with the non-expressive acting, its female leads apparently chosen for the blank mask-like faces (particularly that of Roxane Duran as Stella, a nurse with a strange connection to Max’s character). And so the story has more of a timeless, mythical quality, much like the director’s first film. I can only hope there won’t be another 11 year wait for the next one.
FILM FESTIVAL FILM REVIEW: London Film Festival Director Lucile Hadžihalilović | Writer Lucile Hadžihalilović and Alanté Kavaïté | Cinematographer Manuel Dacosse | Starring Max Brebant, Roxane Duran | Length 81 minutes || Seen at Vue West End, London, Tuesday 13 October 2015
Herewith some brief thoughts about films I saw in May which I didn’t review in full. Find reviews for the following below the cut:
Aru Kyohaku (Intimidation) (1960, Japan) Aventurera (1950, Mexico) Belle Époque (1992, Spain) The Expendables (2010, USA) Hanna (2011, UK/USA/Germany) Hit So Hard (2011, USA) John Wick (2014, USA) Mad Max: Fury Road (2015, Australia/USA) Plemya (The Tribe) (2014, Ukraine/Netherlands) Tomboy (2011, France)
NEW RELEASE FILM REVIEW || Director/Writer Pablo Berger (based on the fairytale Schneewittchen [Snow White] by the Brothers Grimm) | Cinematographer Kiko de la Rica | Starring Maribel Verdú, Macarena García, Ángela Molina | Length 105 minutes | Seen at Renoir, London, Sunday 14 July 2013 || My Rating excellent
Are silent films now a thing that people do? Is it a trend? Technically pre-dating the Oscars™ success of The Artist (2012) is this Spanish film, now on general release in the UK after some festival appearances, which to my mind is a far more nuanced and interesting take on the silent film form, though certainly darker in tone than that other famous recent silent. It’s also a more sympathetic pastiche (for a start, there’s no diegetic sound), yet swiftly moves beyond mere slavish hommage in crafting a rounded film that plays to all the strengths of this antique form.
Of course, over the 80 or so years since sound film came to pre-eminence, there have been periodic throwbacks to the specially-moving qualities of the silent film form. There are those which reference the era within otherwise mainstream (sound) films like Singin’ in the Rain (1952), and then there are those which imitate the style, like the fantasias of Guy Maddin or the overly-grim lugubriousness of Aki Kaurismäki’s Juha (1999), amongst several others, most rather more experimental in form. So, whether these recent few films constitute a real trend is up for debate.
If there’s more interest in silent cinema now — and, from a capital city perspective, my friend Pam’s Silent London site is some small evidence of that (there are plenty of other silent-film-specific blogs to suit your tastes) — I don’t think a handful of films really does constitute a trend exactly. However, it’s nevertheless pleasing to see filmmakers (and audiences, since these films would hardly exist if there weren’t an audience for them) respond to the peculiar joys of voiceless cinematic art. I say ‘voiceless’ of course, since as we all know now, these films are not really silent: there’s a lot that can be done with a good score and expressive acting. For Blancanieves, Alfonso de Vilallonga provides the music; he’s not a name I’m familiar with, but his score leans heavily on traditions of silent-film accompaniment that will be familiar to anyone who’s seen a live screening.
I’m on holiday in France this week, so I’m re-posting some reviews (of French films, naturally) that I wrote many years ago when I was on LiveJournal, back when I was watching a lot more arthouse films.
ARCHIVAL FILM REVIEW: French Film Week || Director Luis Buñuel | Writers Luis Buñuel and Jean-Claude Carrière (inspired by the novel La Femme et le pantin by Pierre Louÿs) | Cinematographer Edmond Richard | Starring Fernando Rey, Ángela Molina, Carole Bouquet | Length 99 minutes | Seen at National Film Theatre, London, Wednesday 28 February 2007 | Originally posted on 1 March 2007 (with slight amendments) || My Rating good
One of the lovely things about the NFT is that it produces film notes for every film it screens. I have quite a file of these now, and I can only imagine what the NFT’s archives are like. However, putting a spoiler warning at the top of them just seems a bit condescending to me. In any case, I hardly think a work by so astute or experienced a director as Luis Buñuel can ever really be ‘spoiled’ by mere narrative clues, just as it can’t really be summed up by them. Much of the pleasure is not in what happens (an older man falls in love with a younger woman, who leads him on while resisting his baser desires) as in the wit and flair with which it is expressed.
Here, Fernando Rey (so wonderful as the ambassador in Buñuel’s earlier The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie  amongst many other works) is the older man lusting after Conchita, played interchangably by the willowy and cold Carole Bouquet, and the lusty and vibrant Ángela Molina. The whole scenario is an extended apologia for some misogynistic behaviour — Rey’s character Mathieu pours a bucket of water over the battered Conchita to the amazement of his fellow train passengers, then narrates a story which, he assures them, proves that he was in the right. However, at the same time as making Mathieu the central character, Buñuel undercuts all his calm protestations of innocence in flashbacks where Mathieu is a leering casanova, who goes so far as to bribe Conchita’s mother to procure her for his advances.
It adds up to a consistently amusing film filled with recurring surreal touches and motifs, shot plainly, the last film of one of cinema’s great directors.