Author: John

Still Life (2006)

I first discovered director Jia Zhang-Ke through a recommendation from Chicago Reader critic Jonathan Rosenbaum, who expressed his fondness for Jia’s 2004 film, The World. An engaging, invigorating, and formally captivating film, I looked forward to learning more about this up and coming filmmaker.

His follow-up to The World was 2006’s Still Life, a meditation on the effects—personal, societal, and environmental—that occur during the building of the magnificent Three Gorges Dam across the Yangtze River in central China. As the dam moves closer to completion, more and more water is held back, meaning that low-lying communities close to the dam will soon be underwater. Therefore, a massive “deconstruction” project is underway in these communities, moving people out and tearing down old buildings and ancient neighborhoods.

The beautiful setting amidst a lush, green valley contrasts strongly with the piles of gray rubble scattered throughout the area. And this contrast in the physical world mirrors the contrasts taking place in the two stories Jia weaves together throughout the film: change and stasis, breaking down and putting back together, life and death.

These two stories, simple in their conception and careful in the way they reveal themselves, involve a man and a woman looking for their respective spouses. Neither couple has been together in years. The reasons for leaving remain unclear for most of the film, yet we know that each of these people wants nothing more than to find that spouse—for what, we can only presume.

That Jia allows these stories to develop slowly and makes close observation of their mostly fruitless searching imbues each character with a humanity that rings true. We know these people, or at least people like them—people with hopes and regrets, foibles and virtues. And as the events unfold, as the characters move ever closer to their respective goals, Jia records moments of such purity and poetry that the film strikes at the deepest chords of what it means to be human, summing up the film’s themes and ideas in images that bring contrasts together: out of rubble comes hope; out of death springs life.

Favorite Discoveries of 2008

Things are just the same as they always were, only, you’re the same as you were, too, so I guess things will never be the same again.

-Lucy (Irene Dunne), to her soon-to-be ex-husband Jerry (Cary Grant) in Leo McCarey’s witty, marriage-themed comedy, The Awful Truth

I see a healthy number of films each year, and I enjoy most of them on some level. At the end of the year though, those that come to mind are those that I want to come back to, the films that I can look at and say: you’re that same as you always were, so I guess things will never be the same again. I am thinking of those films that change the way I look at the world or propel me toward greater love and kindness in relationships, those that make me reconsider my commitments or capture something beautiful, true or good. Here are ten discoveries this year that fit that category for me:

3 Bad Men (Ford, 1926)
John Ford’s first masterpiece, this silent film shows early in his career his gift for mythologizing the American west. He brings together melodrama and comedy in such a seamless fashion as the film takes on an epic stature during the lead-up to the Dakota land rush. Here too we see one of the earliest instances in Ford of his “good-bad men” characters, tainted heroes who serve justice and the community even as they remain outside both.

The Awful Truth (McCarey, 1937)
I quoted it above, and its clever, quick-hitting dialogue immediately makes this an enjoyable comedy about a couple on the way to getting a divorce. However, what most impresses me about the film is its commitment to its moral vision—imbuing the marriage of these two selfish people with an almost sacramental reverence, a point that becomes most clear in the film’s final moments.

To Be or Not to Be (Lubitsch, 1942)
Many years ago I saw The Shop Around the Corner and knew that were I in the mood for good comedy, I could trust director Ernst Lubitsch. Sadly, it took me all those years to see another, and this was simply magnificent. The writing is stellar, while the timing and delivery rarely misfire. However, I loved most the deft alternating between screwball comedy and the dark themes of its 1942 Poland locale. Lubitsch, in following this Polish acting troupe as its members attempt to mount resistance to the Nazi invaders, wants us to laugh all the way through, yet never forget the harsh realities of the time.

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Black Narcissus (Powell & Pressberger, 1947)
Black Narcissus marks my first exposure to the directing team of Powell & Pressberger, and I suspect I’ll track down as many of their films as possible in the near future. A story of a small group of nuns traveling to the Himalayas to open a school, the film possesses a profoundly spiritual quality to it, delving into the pursuit of true purity, the roots of evil and discouragement, and most significantly, what it means to humbly serve a people in the name of Christ.

Out of the Past (Tourneur, 1947)
Out of the Past possesses all the key elements of a quintessential film noir—the dame (Jane Greer) in distress who’s more dangerous than she appears, the hard-boiled loner (Robert Mitchum) trying to rise above the corruption, the slick businessman (Kirk Douglas) who really does believe money buys anything, and of course there’s that style—beautiful black and white photography, lonely barrooms and hilltop houses, and dialogue that suggests stores of never-ending confidence or masks deep-seated fears. Director Jacques Tourneur’s mise en scène creates a visual tension that works well in this kind of film–two people talk in a cafe while a mysterious third listens in the background; two lovers meet on a beach near fishing boats and nets, hoping not to get caught; and so on. We wonder as the film rolls on whether Mitchum’s Jeff Bailey can rise above his past, whether he can actually start anew, and all the while a church sits silently in the background of the small town, leaving us wondering if it has anything to offer this poor lost soul.

Early Summer (Ozu, 1951)
I really need to see more Ozu. Every time I see one of his films, I am amazed by the way he uses simple, everyday occurrences among families to create deeply moving stories. The rich characterizations add depth, but Ozu’s camera in particular has a way of capturing the interaction between family members that can emphasize the connectedness they have with one another while subtly revealing the fault lines that threaten to separate them. I especially appreciate Early Summer for its comic handling of his common, familial theme, yet he does so without compromising the emotional depth of their relationships.

I Vitelloni (Fellini, 1953)
I caught up on early Fellini this year, and while I enjoyed them all, I Vittelloni was my favorite of the bunch. It’s quiet and unassuming narrator drifts through the film, often put upon but rarely standing up for himself. Instead, his loud and boisterous friends require constant attention as they get themselves entangled in various troubles. Fellini is just so good at capturing the passions of youth, in all their fleeting joy, but also in the inevitable pain that follows. The ending here, as in most of his 50s films, expresses the poignance and heartache of life in the modern world.

The Sun Shines Bright (Ford, 1953)/ Judge Priest (Ford, 1934)
These are John Ford’s two films based on a series of Judge Priest stories, set in late 19th century Kentucky. The 1934 Will Rogers film is simply delightful, filled with comedy and surprising pathos. However, the lesser-known later film from 1953, starring Charles Winninger, was my favorite viewing experience of the year. The story finds Priest in the midst of a re-election campaign, thus much comedy comes out of him trying to drum up support. However, Ford’s portrayal of the town as a splintered little society, with its drunken failures, judgmental prudes, and people of competing interests. Priest, as a respected citizen, stands in the midst of all this, and finds himself in the role of chief mediator—everyone comes to him to solve their problems, but with a close election expected, he may not be good enough to lead them any longer. As the film follows Priest, we see a story of an aging man, looking out at a town that has largely passed him by, but one that still desperately needs him. His wisdom, courage, and sly sense of humor make Priest one of my favorite characters in film. I would be remiss were I not to mention the film’s formal control, expressed best in its climax. This includes what to my mind is the greatest sequence in any Ford film: a funeral procession that proceeds largely without dialogue for several minutes, ending with a sermon at the church. The poetry of Ford’s cinema is never clearer than in this scene—beautiful and humane.

The Conversation (Coppola, 1974)
The movie Coppola made between the first two Godfather movies, I probably prefer it to both of those more championed films. It’s less epic, to be sure, but its ideas seem more complex. Here we have a man who believes that in secretly recording a conversation, he can discover the truth about the two people he tapes. But as he continues to listen, this simplistic notion of truth begins to disintegrate, causing him to lose his confidence in technology, and ultimately himself. What began as a simple contract job becomes a life-altering event. Coppola’s sound design is always interesting here, as the film uses snippets of the original taped conversation throughout the film to communicate the break-up of this man’s mind. It continues to stand as a profound and surprisingly contemporary commentary on modern society.

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Satantango (Tarr, 1994)
I finally caught up with Bela Tarr’s seven-and-a-half hour masterpiece, and it was everything I’d hoped it would be. Grim, yes, but somehow, through watching the bleak existence of a small group of people, the film reveals some spark, something truly human. Allowing space for more than tragedy, Tarr finds moments for laughter, celebration, and compassion as well. Tarr’s lengthy shots encourage contemplation, and as the human condition plays itself out in this film, there is much to consider about how we see ourselves in these people and how we react to the kinds of people portrayed in this film.

Other discoveries this year: Cat People (Tourneur, 1942), Young Mr. Lincoln (Ford, 1939), They Were Expendable (Ford, 1945), Laura (Preminger, 1944), The Namesake (Nair, 2006)

Since my quotient of recently released movies has dropped off drastically post-progeny, here are five movies from 2007 that I especially enjoyed. Yes, that’s how far behind I am. But who’s complaining?

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(Check back here on January 1, 2010 for my favorite films of 2008!!)

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (Domink, 2007)
Full disclosure: I was put off by the title and avoided this for a while. But once the film began, I was in. Dominik is going for something poetic and the beautiful images cause a number of people to make comparisons to Malick. I call all such comments bunk. Rather, it seems that the film stumbles in its narration, which was too intrusive, too focused on spelling out feelings and events, and in the process pulls the viewer away from the more visceral elements that have been built up by the visuals and the editing. That said, I really did like it. The film admirably plays with the notion of tragedy, prodding us to examine our own reactions to the events of James’ life, and Ford’s place in it.

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Away From Her (Polley, 2007)
I’ve liked Sarah Polley for some time—yes, I’m thinking of you, The Sweet Hereafter—even as she starred in movies that didn’t always utilize her gifts as an actress—yes, I’m thinking of you, Go. But even as a fan, I was blown away by the confidence and sensitivity in her feature film debut about an aging couple dealing with the wife’s Alzheimer’s disease. While the performances shine, it’s the writing and directing I found so invigorating—a willingness to avoid spelling out every little feeling, to have characters say just enough and leave the rest to expression, tone, and the like. Plus, the camera seems to have a voice of its own, through expressive framing, mise en scène, and tracking shots.

I’m Not There (Haynes, 2007)
This Dylan biopic seemed to leave people in one of three camps: loved it, hated it, or confused by it. Consider me in the loved it category. Once I had heard six different actors were portraying Dylan, I gave up all expectations of narrative coherence, instead opting to sit back, enjoy the music, and let the film make its impressions where it would. It’s better, I think, to conceive of this film like a poem—connections between scenes remain opaque, while the vision of Dylan becomes less a historical narrative and more like a piece of music, suggesting emotions and ideas but refusing to put them together into a simple or straightforward narrative.

Lars and the Real Girl (Gillespie, 2007)
The one that most moved me among these “new” films, Lars takes a ridiculous idea for a plot and creates something surprisingly gentle and touching. Gosling’s sensitive portrayal of the withdrawn Lars certainly contributes to that, but I most appreciated the extended reflection on the goodness of his community, both at church and in the wider world. Even as it strained credulity in the closing scenes, I didn’t care, because Lars does something few films these days even attempt: it portrays goodness and offers a vision of what it might actually look like in the world, how it might soothe the pains of modern life and offer something akin to resurrection for those life seems to have passed by.

Manufactured Landscapes (Baichwal, 2007)
I was taken in immediately, during the nearly ten-minute opening tracking shot through that colossal Chinese factory. Based on the photography of Edward Burtynsky, the film examines the effects of manufacturing on the geography of our world. Instead of limestone caves and snow-capped peaks, Burtynsky shoots the gaping remains of iron quarries and mountains of discarded computer chips in Chinese villages, leaving us to think about not only what the endless consumption of products does to the land and sea, but also its impact on the hungry and poor around the world.

This Is Korea! (1951)

In the latter months of 1950, John Ford was asked to make a film for the Navy chronicling the efforts of United States troops in the Korean conflict. Ford, with his love for the rigors, tradition, and camaraderie of military life, quickly agreed. He and a small team of his most trusted photographers took off from California on Christmas Day and arrived in Korea on January 1, 1951. After spending five weeks on the ground, at sea, and in the air, Ford and his men returned to edit the footage, turning in a 50-minute documentary that proved unsuccessful with theater owners and audiences alike. Though it lacked popular success, Ford’s film provides a fascinating insight into the mood of a country (the U.S.) and a shifting Western ethos that continues to this day.

Ford’s team arrived within two months of a major Chinese offensive that had pushed back U.N. troops, so the film ends up carrying a grim tone throughout. Ford uses a series of repeated set pieces that contribute to a dark and aimless vision of the war. Several times we see orphaned Korean children or homeless Koreans; soldiers marching down roads and through villages; naval ships firing their guns; artillery blasting barren hillsides; soldiers encountering yet another hill; planes dropping napalm bombs into wooded areas and villages. In the case of the last two, Ford highlights the repetition by having the narrator point out “another hill,” or “napalm again.”

The unrelenting nature of these realities is only compounded by a significant absence: the enemy. While the repetitions carry on throughout the 50-minute run time, we catch a glimpse of the enemy only once—three men who have been taken captive by the Americans and now are being held for questioning. They say little and threaten nothing. Completely disarmed, one fails to see the real danger of these “enemies.” If the enemy were completely absent, the viewer might imagine the terrible tortures of a war against the communist infidels. However, the weak presence of these men only serves to heighten the question lingering and unspoken throughout the film: Why?

Even more interesting is the strong contrast This Is Korea! makes with Ford’s earlier and masterful World War II documentary, The Battle of Midway. Where Korea offers nothing in the way of a clear enemy, and only a grim and mechanical determinism among the soldiers, Midway provides just the opposite. There we see real purpose and resolve on display, a clear and threatening enemy, and ample heroism on display. Where Midway stands as a document of the unambiguous struggle between good versus evil and the clarity of days gone by, Korea plants us firmly in the contemporary cultural milieu—a world without a collective purpose and only a grim resolve pressing us forward.

Throughout his career, Ford shows himself fascinated with the sense of community and tradition so evident in military life. Yet Korea sees an Army where those good things lose their significance in the face of an amorphous goal. Near the close of the film, U.S. warplanes drop bombs on a village, with the camera so near that it shakes violently at each impact. After two or three of these bombs, narrator John Ireland speaks the following lines as we watch the soldiers move in to clear the village: “For this is Korea, chums. This is Korea. And we go in.” The images combined with that line, from which Ford draws the film’s title, offer a chilling reflection on a post-WWII world—men slinking into a smoky ruin, without any apparent reason.

The Conversation (1974)

Francis Ford Coppola is best known for the Godfather films, but between the first and second installment, he made a small, intimate film called The Conversation. Starring Gene Hackman in a brilliant, understated performance, the film traces a few days in the life of a surveillance expert, Harry Caul. He has recently taped an innocuous conversation between a man and a married woman—probably a case of adultery. But it doesn’t rise above cheap detective work, and clearly Caul’s capabilities for listening to under-the-breath dialogue put him in a class above an average private investigator. When an initial drop of the tape goes badly, Caul begins to think more about the contents of the recording, leading him to question everything he thought he knew.

The Conversation turns out to be a compelling thriller. Coppola’s sound design makes the greatest impact, as snippets of the original conversation find their way into Caul’s memory, and therefore the film, at various moments through the film. Not only do these snippets serve to inform Caul’s psychological state, but they also begin to take on new meaning, shattering like glass throughout every corner of the film, ultimately redirecting the narrative as Caul’s knowledge of the conversation solidifies.

But what is most interesting about the film is the way Caul’s increasingly fragile psychological state mirrors the cultural context of the last century or so. With the continued advancement of technology, we have grown ever more reliant on it for our knowledge and experience of the world. We don’t have conversations the same way we used to. We now have them mediated for us through various media, thus coming to rely ever more on the individual piece of technology for our experience of reality, relationships, and community.

So, while Caul initially believes in his methods, and uses the most sophisticated tools of the day to listen in to the conversation, he finds that simply an accurate recording of the conversation does not yield him the full truth of the situation. Listening to voices through a box only gives him a limited amount of information. He thinks he knows the truth. But when he listens again, the meaning seems to morph. And again. And again. And again. This leads to Caul feeling increasingly disoriented about what he does and doesn’t know. And that disorientation leaves him unmoored from any meaningful community—even though he “listens” better than anyone around.

In our contemporary cultural context, the disintegration of Caul reminds us of the great irony of a common term: the word “connected.” It means that through the various means of technology available to us, we are able to communicate at any time and any place. We can hear them and they can hear us, therefore we have a greater attachment to them. But instead of actually feeling and being connected at a real and fully human level, people have too often fallen into the trap of allowing the tools of technology to be the primary means of relating to one another. That yields a situation in which people become ever more alone and isolated, cut off from the beauty and spontaneity of true and life-giving human community.

Even 35 years later, The Conversation serves as a strikingly contemporary cautionary tale. It reminds us that though the modern world promises that through technology we will come upon an increased connection with and a clearer vision of one another, we must recognize that ultimately, these sources are fatally flawed—we must look elsewhere for truth, for knowledge, and for true community.

The Dark Knight (2008)

The Dark Knight has raked in obscene amounts of money this summer, becoming the most popular movie released in recent years. Capitalizing on the more modest success of its precursor, Batman Begins, the sequel engages the viewer with a terrifying and senseless villain for Batman to tangle with—the Joker.

With an overly-complex plot involving at least five or six different storylines, the ongoing battle between the Joker and Batman sits as the centerpiece of the film. While Batman attempts to pass the baton of crime-fighting on to Harvey Dent, the Joker wants nothing more than to unmask the caped crusader. And the Joker makes clear early on that he will stop at nothing—not destruction of property, not kidnapping, and not even loss of life—to achieve his goal. The violence and destruction that come as a result take on increasingly senseless proportions, given his desired outcome. Using crude and simple technological elements, he exists solely to create chaos, to push against the rules, and to react against the modern, technologically-advanced world.

Batman on the other hand stands as a symbol of justice. He works hard to avoid killing people, uses the latest technology to aid his crime-fighting, and declares that he lives by a set of rules that govern his behavior. In this sense, Batman is that modern hero of yesteryear; the one who inherently knows what justice is and will stop at nothing to make sure he carries it out to the letter. However, as Joker’s attacks become more and more vicious and unsettling, Batman’s entire position and ethos is called into question. Does he allow this killing to continue in the name of conscience and his own personal rule? Or should he kill the Joker and end the suffering of his victims?

The film has no answer to this question, at least explicitly. We are left with a world of confusion and chaos, one in which the Joker still lives. One could presumably make an argument that due to our implicit knowledge of Batman as the “hero,” we know his way is ultimately the right one. This would all be well and good, except for one significant problem. The Joker has shown that his simple rules do not work. Further, at a formal level, the film leads us to sympathize with the Joker. The plans of the Joker are so cleverly wrought and well-carried out, that we are dazzled by the violence that results.

For instance, in the opening bank robbery sequence, one leaves that scene never really worried about all the criminals that got knocked off one by one. Instead, the thought is—what a great plan. We admire the sharp mind it took to conceive of such a raid. This seems true of most of the violence throughout, where we laugh at the Joker walking away from the hospital in a nurse’s uniform, feel the rush of adrenaline at the close-up fight scenes that offer no sense of perspective and no opportunity for contemplation, or chuckle at his deft ability to use a pencil (or was it a pen?). The excitement brought on by the violence in this film troubles me precisely because the ways in which it excites are more formal than content based.

The film has been popular, I think, because it has pinpointed our times. We live in a confusing world, where people have lost a sense what’s right and what’s wrong. We no longer know who we can trust. Our fathers leave. Our leaders lie. And our nations seem headed for self-destruction. Batman portrays a world that has lost its way. Does anyone know the way back?

How Green Was My Valley (1941)

Before 1941’s How Green Was My Valley, John Ford had only utilized vocal narration one time—in his previous film, Tobacco Road. However, while that narration merely opened the film, in Valley, Ford lays in the narration throughout. In doing so, he adds an extra layer of complexity to a film that would likely be merely trite and overly sentimental without it. In the voice over by an older Huw Morgan, a mere child at the time of the events on screen, Huw admits that he is primarily interested in his happy memories of that time, rather than appreciating the full weight of how the passing of time has eroded the firm beauty of the village and its people.

Yet Huw’s admission in light of the disintegration of the Morgan family and the village as a whole creates a dramatic tension that forces reflection on all sides: the family and village embrace of tradition, the extreme reaction of the village youth who push for labor unions and buck the advice of their elders, and finally, Huw’s own sunny memories of the past. With all these competing perspectives, social tensions boil over and the film then poses a difficult question: How does one respond to the inevitable changes that modern society brings? Do you stick with the deeply rooted tradition that got you there? Do you push for radical change in the name of justice? Do you pragmatically slog through it and decide to remember the good times?

Huw’s father prefers to stick with certain principles he has grown up with: sons accept the opinion of their fathers without argument, a man should be paid fairly for an honest day’s work, and that those with opportunities for a better life should take them. However, most of his eldest sons take a second and opposing view: they are distrustful of parental authority, they set themselves against the powers that be in the name of justice, and they place little stock in tradition. Four of the five older Morgan boys plan to make their own way despite their father’s protestations. They eventually leave the valley and the life drains out of it. Who’s at fault here—is it the father’s blind adherence to tradition or the son’s vigor and lack of respect that speeds up the destruction? Or is it something else completely?

Huw’s position offers the opportunity of a third way. He sits between his father and brothers, yet he is given one distinct advantage—an education. With it, he possesses a legitimate way out of the village, one that doesn’t condemn him to a life (and death) in the mines like his eldest brother and father. Neither does it force him to leave the village harboring the distrust and rebellion of his other brothers. He can better his position in the future while remaining closely aligned with the tradition and honor of his father.

The tragedy of Huw’s ultimate choice allows the viewer to see clearly the dual importance of honoring tradition at the core of one’s being while adjusting to the cultural changes that rumble through our modern world. Huw is in this sense an opposing figure to Ford’s Young Abraham Lincoln. Where Lincoln combines the virtues learned in his past with the promise he sees in his quickly advancing future, Huw as a young boy has not the presence of mind to make such a transition. The world as he sees it is too simple, leaving him only two choices—stay and be like his father, or go and reject his family heritage. Of course, Huw misses the middle ground, and in doing so, he misses the way to navigate the two opposing positions. He compensates by embracing a false and simplistic view of the past and giving up the cause of justice. Though his view of his life in the village is framed by happiness, it remains an utter tragedy.

Black Narcissus (1947)

This classic, brilliantly colorful film from Michael Powell and Emeric Pressberger follows five nuns, led by Sister Clodagh, into the Himalayas to start a hospital and school for the local villagers. The battle against the elements and the local culture proves to be a formidable one, though Clodagh’s most difficult tasks comes from within—through the envious Sister Ruth and Clodagh’s own struggle with her calling and commitment.

The women arrive to find that their donated building lies atop a sheer cliff, far above the village in the valley below. This former palace, where the king’s harem was kept, sits among snow-topped peaks and puffy clouds. Simply getting to the place requires either a difficult walk or a hired animal to ride to the top. Therefore, while the sisters offer the villagers medicine and knowledge, the local ruler must still pay his people to get them to make the daily journey uphill for the free services.

Clodagh, no doubt overwhelmed by the immensity of the task before her, strikes a cool and distant posture toward outsiders, especially to the local Englishman, Mr. Dean. Having traveled to work among the people, Clodagh instead retreats within herself, struggling with the memories of better times, seen in striking contrast to the harsh environment that surrounds her now. Dean, who has no particular love for the church, takes on a rancorous attitude toward her, leaving her to struggle with righteous indignation as well.

Often in view, the image of the crucified Christ hangs just outside their building, silently watching Clodagh and the sisters carry on their work. And during these early weeks and months, the sisters seem so insulated, so consumed with their own troubles, that his presence is more an afterthought than a driving focus.

As the film progresses though, Clodagh begins to take on softer, more personal qualities. In a beautiful shot just beneath that same image of Christ, Clodagh meets the young prince and while initially resistant, she invites him to study with them at the school. She takes on a young female boarder, and she begins to take a softer position toward the bitter Dean, realizing his helpful service to them throughout. She also shows growing concern for her struggling sisters, counseling Philippa through her depression and confronting Ruth about her rebellious spirit.

That latter point is especially significant, as Clodagh is able to retain her self-control and concern for Ruth even as the latter grows increasingly spiteful and jealous. This comes to a head in a disturbingly lit sequence that highlights the darkness and anger that drives Ruth. Reds and blacks stream across the screen, highlighting bloodshot eyes and painting her into lonely corners. Yet Clodagh, as she moves through these dark spaces carrying her small lantern, never dwells in self-pity or blame. Rather, she looks after the needs of Ruth for their own sake.

The slow awakening by Clodagh to a more personal, outwardly focused attitude is punctuated by the final moments, as the women descend their mountain retreat, down into the valley full of people. Dean comments to Clodagh that she’s changed—she seems more human since she arrived. This highlights such a beautiful element of this film. These sisters came to serve Christ by serving the poor of this village—a noble goal. And from their beginning on the cold and stony heights high above the village, they eventually descend into the lush and lively valley filled with people. Clodagh, once so distant from others, has learned to come near, to think of the needs of others, and to lead with grace and generosity. This mirrors the descent and service of the one she serves, He who took on human flesh for the sake of others. Black Narcissus stands as a powerful exploration of what it means to live a life of distinctively Christian faith.

Young Mr. Lincoln (1939)

Young Mr. Lincoln tells the story of the president’s early years—as a fledgling political candidate, a young lawyer with a sense for justice, and a community leader who had a way with people. The film, in many ways, portrays his initial, absolute embrace of the past, and his eventual slow turn toward what the future might hold for him. It does this in a number of ways: his seemingly apathetic speech while running for the senate, the exchange with Ann Rutledge, his encounters with Mary Todd, etc.

However, the chief example of the connection between past and future comes in the motherly theme running through the film. Before Lincoln is even on screen, a poem appears, written in the voice of Lincoln’s now deceased mother, Nancy Hanks. In it, she wonders what her boy Abe does now, and if he’s made anything of himself. Appropriately, in light of the poem’s placement at the beginning of the film, Lincoln’s connection to his mother comes up several times throughout, most notably in his relationship with Mrs. Clay, a frontier woman who gives him his first law book and whose boys give him his first trial as a lawyer. She reminds Abe of his mother, a fact he mentions on more than one occasion.

Mrs. Clay connects Abe to both his past and his future. Because she so reminds him of his mom, she leads him to reflect on where he has come from. She keeps him connected to that reality. However, because of the trial involving her boys, she also points him ahead toward his future.

The pivotal scene in this regard occurs when Lincoln quells the lynch mob. Abe sees the boys accused and taken off to jail. More importantly, he sees their mother weeping for her lost boys. As the men of the town decide to kill those boys, Lincoln knows what he must do. He has seen this woman, this visual representation of his mother. She reminds him of who he is and who he has been brought up to be. How can he not act on her behalf–a young man providing assistance to a mother in need? Were there any doubts in his mind about acting on behalf of the boys, her presence put them to rest.

In this scene, Mrs. Clay points him back to his roots, but she also points him forward to his destiny. He then walks over to the jail, stands in front of a battering ram—putting his own life at risk—and guides the mob in front of him to do the right thing. He uses all manner of rhetorical devices at his disposal, from righteous indignation to humor to the calling out of individuals, eventually leading the men to drop their weapons and go home. He reveals, in this moment, the seeds of a character that will only come into full bloom some thirty years later.

Young Mr. Lincoln portrays the life of a man in transition. It presents a man whose embrace of the past leads to his glorious (albeit tragic) future. It depicts a man whose humble and self-effacing nature endears him to people—“high” and “low” in society. And it reveals a man who willingly gives of himself in the service of justice and truth—here in smaller ways, but eventually, even unto his own death.

Sátántangó (1994)

I’ve long been intrigued by the films of Bela Tarr. And while I had since found copies of Werckmeister Harmonies and Damnation, the Holy Grail remained the 431-minute Sátántangó. Finally, thanks to the recent Facets release, I have had the opportunity to see it. It was worth the wait.

Following the members of a failed agricultural commune over a cold and wet three-day period, Tarr’s vision is typically grimy and dreary. While each of the characters has ample screen time, none can seem to rise above the muck and mud that encompasses them. Every one of them expresses some measure of deceit, greed, violence, or promiscuity. Even those that seem clean or well-put together (like the prophetic and charismatic leader, Irimias) arouse suspicion of some darker and more sinister motives.

Throughout, the physical world of the film mirrors the characters that inhabit it. Tarr’s extremely long takes allow one to get the full sense of that physical world—the rain beating people’s faces, the mud that sticks to their shoes, and the cold that seeps through their clothes, a chill they permanently hold within themselves. The single moment of real warmth comes during the titular tango, which takes place during a night of drunken revelry at the only bar in town. Yet rather than letting up on their self-serving pursuits, they are only enhanced during this lengthy dance. Some drink themselves into oblivion. Others play and dance mindlessly. One man pursues another man’s wife in full view of her husband, pawing at her relentlessly. All the while the music plays and the people experience the closest thing to joy in the entire film.

Should these characters be viewed as products of this filthy, freezing, and unsavory world? Or should we see them as bearing the responsibility for who they have become?

Tarr’s sparsely dialogued film offers little specific guidance on this point. However, the film’s conclusion does provide some hint. The doctor, left behind at the commune due to negligence, ventures out of his hut at the sound of bells (the same bells that awaken Futaki at the outset of the film). After a long walk into the countryside, the doctor comes upon a chapel in disrepair that he believes hasn’t had a bell in some years. When he stumbles up the stairs and in, he sees what appears to be a blind monk ringing and calling out that “The Turks are coming!” over and over and over again.

The historical metaphor is clear: An enemy army draws near, thus the need to sound the warning bells. Death is coming to the Hungarian countryside, to this mass of people who have shown themselves to be anything but worthy. And while I suppose one could see this as another in an endless cycle of mindless tragedy that they don’t deserve and can do nothing about, the location of the call in the chapel lends the message a divine authority (not unlike the lengthy Ezekiel quotation in Tarr’s earlier Damnation). Judgment is coming. The people have left their faith in disrepair. And there is nowhere in this bleak and barren countryside to hide.

Away From Her (2007)

Away From Her, a film about the debilitating effects of Alzheimer’s on a several decades-long marriage was more than ably adapted and directed by a young woman not yet thirty—Sarah Polley. Best known for her acting, Polley offers one of the better debuts for a North American writer/director in some time. The film, which tracks the struggles that Fiona and Grant endure as she succumbs to the disease, has a quiet and unassuming way about it. Rather than big emotional breakdowns, we get silence and contemplation, a choice that serves to open the film and allow the audience to connect with it in more personal ways. One scene in particular was especially striking in this regard.

In an early scene, Fiona moves across the kitchen to place a skillet in the freezer, obviously unaware that she is making a mistake. Grant stands at the sink, watching his wife intently, and nearly expressionless. Fiona then completes her task, makes a brief comment to her husband, and leaves the kitchen. Polley shoots the entire sequence from the far end of the kitchen in a single shot, with both actors in medium close-up. The director’s choice here helps to underline the import of the scene in at least two ways.

First, because the whole of the kitchen is covered in the frame, the changing spatial relationship between the actors is highlighted. Thus, as Fiona moves toward the freezer, she moves away from Grant, and the distance between them becomes more than apparent. However, when she returns to Grant and continues speaking to him as if nothing had happened, a kind of closeness returns—except now, because of this new factor in their relationship, it is always mitigated by that skillet in the freezer. And of course, the ice box still sits in the foreground of the shot, not allowing us to forget about its presence.

Second, because Polley uses a single shot for this scene, it allows the silence of Grant to bring extra weight to the exchange. His silence helps to highlight the previous spatial changes, forcing the viewer to pay attention to something other than words. In addition, it also helps us to focus on the actors, especially the character of Grant. And the mix of fear, confusion, and mystery written on his face help to create a compelling moment that likely would have been lost had someone attempted to script lines for him. Though this is our first experience of Fiona’s forgetfulness, we already understand implicitly the struggle that is beginning for the couple. In this case, the wise choice of silence allows the form of the film to communicate when there is no need for words. That Polley utilizes such techniques has me looking forward with anticipation to her next directorial effort.