Side By Side: L’Eclisse & Me and You and Everyone We Know

I had deja vu a couple of weeks ago during my weekly Italian Cinema screening.  The film was Michelangelo Antonioni’s visually poetic L’Eclisse (Eclipse, 1962).  It’s the story of a man and a woman struggling to connect romantically in a materialistic society.  The film features a poignant moment when Piero (Alain Delon) and Vittoria (Monica Vitti) cross the street at a crosswalk, and he tells her that when they reach the other side he will kiss her.  At one point when methodically crossing they make a point of remarking that they are halfway across.

I couldn’t help but be reminded, when watching the film, of a scene in Miranda July’s 2005 debut Me and You and Everyone We Know, in which Christine (July) and Richard (John Hawkes), virtual strangers, walk together on the sidewalk, and Richard remarks that a sign on the side of the road is the halfway point before he gets to the street where he turns.  Christine suggests that such a landmark is like the point in a relationship where you realize it’s not going to last forever, and in turn the length of the walk is the length of their life together.  Watch the scene here.

In both scenes, the couples’ walks are slow and nerve-wracking, and when they reach the end they hesitate, in suspense of what will happen next.  I think it’s interesting that both films’ themes, as agreed upon by critics and fans, involve the difficulty which people experience when attempting to connect with each other in modern society.  L’Eclisse is the final installment in Antonioni’s “Trilogy of Alienation,” and it certainly expresses such an idea in a captivating manner.  Neither couple go about their courtship in a conventional manner.  This isn’t typical rom-com fodder.

I wonder if July had Antonioni’s text in mind when she made her film.  Maybe it’s only a coincidence.  It just goes to show that films are constantly reinventing each other through similar concepts and imagery, and it’s hard not to recall an older film in a newer one, even if unintentionally.

Both films are definitely worth checking out.

Have You Seen It?: The Conformist

I would consider Bernardo Bertolucci’s The Conformist (1970) to be one of the most visually striking films I’ve ever seen.  The use of innovative camera angles, shot composition, and manipulation of lighting and mise-en-scene is stunning and arresting.  And while the story is, in typical art cinema fashion, confusing and open-ended, I was strangely captivated by the characters and yearned for more information about them.

The film is told in a series of flashbacks.  The plot basically entails a man named Marcello Clerici who becomes entangled with Italian fascism in the 1930s, and is assigned to assassinate a former professor.  Issues of sexuality and normalcy are brought up thematically throughout the film.

The Conformist’s visual style is so eye-catching and effective that I often had a physical reaction to the shots.  The scene in which Marcello arrives at his mother’s house features canted shots that tip the contents of the frame.  While a shot like this is not uncommon, the particular angle, combined with the shot composition, featuring the iron bars of a fence stretching diagonally across the frame, made me physically feel as if I were leaning precariously to one side.  I was captivated by what a strong reaction the shot had on me.  I was even more physically jarred by another sequence in which the use of a hand-held camera gives the feeling of running with Marcello.  The shakey, frantic movement, in addition to the use of diegetic sound, was unsettling.  I felt dizzy and slightly nauseous.  The scene in which Marcello and his partner in crime confront each other in the kitchen of the restaurant is also fascinating and disquieting.  The partner  hits a hanging lamp, and it continues to swing back and forth on the left side of the frame for the remainder of the conversation, rhythmically illuminating them in the dim room.  The motif of flashing lights runs throughout the film from the opening shot, and it contributes to the film’s haunting nature.  The film is unique in its ability to call attention to the visuals, something conventional Hollywood films would avoid so as not to distract from a clear relation of the story.

There were also numerous aspects of the style that captivated me for their sheer beauty, without necessarily inciting a physical reaction.  The close-up of fallen leaves as they dance through the wind, the camera tilting up and tracking forward toward the figures, is stunning and artistic, like a painting in motion.  The set design is also ravishing.  The coldness and starkness of many of the interiors is beautiful and unusual.  The pure size of many of the sets is staggering.  Characters become tiny objects in an ocean of monochrome.  Similarly, the costume design is detailed and intimate.  The character of Anna’s ladybug pin appears in various places on her outfits, from her hat to her lapel to her glove.  It’s a subtle touch that builds character and creates a sense of confidence with the audience.

I found the story vague and sometimes confusing.  While I understood the basic plot, certain details were unclear to me, and the ending was especially ambiguous.  Marcello was a difficult character to read.   This ambiguity led me to desire more information about the characters, so I became captivated by the film’s events.  It pulled me along, teasing me.  While the ending left me unsatisfied at first, after letting the film sink in, I was more impressed by what an effect the film had both intellectually and physically.  The Conformist is quite special in that regard.

Playing Catch-Up: 8 1/2

The second of the movies I checked out from the public library last week is Federico Fellini’s 1963 Italian picture 8 1/2, so named because it was the number of the film on his list of projects so far as a director.

The film is about a director named Guido struggling to make a movie that means something to him while facing pressure from his collaborators to make a more marketable sci-fi film.  He also must deal with his relationships with various women in his life, including his wife, mistress, and leading lady.  Sound familiar?  That’s because the film was adapted into the stage musical Nine (clever title), which was turned into a movie last year.

While watching 8 1/2, I was reminded of Nine‘s catchy song “Cinema Italiano,” sung by Kate Hudson in a fabulous mod get-up.  I found myself wanting to break out singing, “I love the black and white/I love the play of light/The way (Fellini) puts his image through a prism… I love the dark handsome guys with their skinny little ties dressing mod looking out of sight.”  You get the idea.  That’s because 8 1/2 embodies what the song talks about.  The film is stylish and a pleasure to look at.  The black and white is stunning.  Whenever I see a black and white foreign film of the ’60s, I’m reminded of how beautiful black and white can look.  It makes people look ethereally beautiful.  I’m a fan of modern films with black and white cinematography; I think more need to be made.  It’s an aesthetic choice that affects the film’s mood.  Just look at 8 1/2 for proof.  Crisp men’s suits and angular sunglasses look so chic in black and white.  As a fan of fashion, especially that of the ’60s, I love looking at costumes, especially when they’re shot gorgeously.  That’s partly why I’m obsessed with Mad Men.  And black and white brings attention to the fact that you’re watching a film, while emphasizing it as an art form.

And the cinematography in general is fun to witness.  The shot composition is innovative and experimental.  Conventions are broken, and it works.  The fact that we don’t even completely see Guido’s face for the first scene and most of the second is fascinating, and it makes the sudden revelation of his appearance — from his point-of-view as he looks into a mirror — jarring.  Fellini’s style incorporates fantasies, dreams, and visions into an everyday story.  The film opens with a startling sequence in which Guido imagines himself driving in traffic.  The passengers in nearby cars stare at him strangely, and he begins suffocating, pounding on the windows and struggling to escape.  He finally leaves through the top of the car and floats into the clouds.  We then see him suspended on a rope from the beach, like a kite.  Remember, the whole time we don’t see his face.  These strange, often comical visions occur throughout the film.  It’s like on modern sitcoms when people imagine what things would be like (“what if” scenarios) and the actors perform these events, then return to real life.  Except in this case they’re more metaphorical.

The film was worth watching just because of the way it looked.  But the story was also quite good.  The pace was faster than I expected, and there was certainly more dialogue than I thought.  In order to read the subtitles, I had to carefully choose when to look down at my snack.  It definitely demanded my attention.  And I was happy to provide it.

Playing Catch-Up: Cinema Paradiso

How did I go so long without sitting down and watching this film in its entirety?  It’s incredible how many movies I make a mental note to see and am encouraged to see but that somehow never make it into my DVD player.  Cinema Paradiso (1988) was one of them.  But that all changed with a trip to the library.

I’ve already mentioned my love of bargain-shopping, especially for movies, but what I failed to mention was the brilliance of your local library’s DVD collection.  I visited mine yesterday and was reminded of how many great films you can rent for free!  I’d already picked through the selection time and again, so this time I only came away with three titles (I usually grab about ten!), but it’s continuously been a major source of viewing material for me.  I’ve seen classics and newer releases alike on library discs or VHS.  Just yesterday I caught sight of the silent Nosferatu, the classic Young Mr. Lincoln, and the contemporary Lars and the Real Girl, all on the shelves and available to check out.  And if there’s something in particular you’re looking for but your library doesn’t have it, chances are another branch does, and you can order it!  Ah, the power of the public library!

So one of the three movies I checked out is Cinema Paradiso.  I’d seen bits and pieces on TCM a few years ago, but I’d never watched the whole film from beginning to end.  That tends to happen often with me, and as interesting as it is piecing together various fragments of a film viewed on separate occasions, it can’t quite compare to actually seeing it as it’s meant to be seen — without gaps, all at once, and in the proper order.  And my first reaction was: WOW.

The film, from Italy and directed by Giuseppe Tornatore, follows a young man named Salvatore (Toto) from childhood through adolescence/young adulthood until middle age.  The significant constants in his life for most of this time are his quaint town’s local movie theater, the Cinema Paradiso, and the kindly projectionist Alfredo who takes him under his wing and becomes a father figure.  The film is a tribute to the importance and power of movies.  It touches on various topics, from censorship (The town’s priest previews every feature and orders kissing scenes and nudity to be cut out) to the sense of community that develops in a local crowded movie theater.  The characters are vivid and well-drawn, no matter how minor, which gives the film a constant feeling of whimsy.  There’s a man who sleeps through every feature, one who spits from the balcony, and countless more memorable townspeople.  And the scenes in which movies are being shown — which take up a good chunk of the film — are priceless and well-executed.  The featured films, which range from a Jean Renoir picture to the classic Western Stagecoach to a risqué Brigitte Bardot flick, are shown with care and affection, and the viewers’ reactions are a joy to witness.  It’s always thrilling and fascinating to watch someone watching a movie (AFI has a brilliant montage that proves my point), and that’s where Cinema Paradiso gets much of its magic.  Watching people have a powerful reaction to a film, whether it’s fear or tears or laughter, reminds you of the special power of going to the movies and sharing an emotional experience with dozens of other people.

But this film isn’t just about movies.  It’s also about this wonderful relationship between a childless man and a fatherless boy.  Alfredo passes on wisdom and a love of movies to his protegé, Toto.  Philippe Noiret’s performance is splendid and heart-wrenching as Alfredo, and Salvatore Cascio is adorable and precocious as little Toto.  And even as Toto grows up and is played by different actors, he retains the same childlike innocence and appetite for the world and the wonders of movies.

And the ending!  Wow, what an ending!  That goes on my list of best endings ever.  This list doesn’t actually exist, but I’m going to start working on one, and Cinema Paradiso is going to be the first entry.  I was sobbing through the last few minutes.  It was absolutely wonderful.  The film ended and I had to catch my breath and marvel at how amazing that was.  WOW.

And the special edition DVD I checked out has TWO DISCS, one of which has the director’s cut edition, which I’m probably going to devour, along with the jam-packed special features.  YAY!

If you love movies, see Cinema Paradiso.  If you love great, heartfelt, powerful storytelling, see Cinema Paradiso.  In fact, the only reason you need to see this film is that it’s magnificent.  It won Best Foreign Language Film at the Oscars for a reason, people!  And I take Oscars very seriously.