On somewhat the same topic, last night I saw Stonewall Uprising and I have two things to discuss: first, I did not think the film was v good. I thought the filmmakers spent too much time setting the "riots" up. I understand that this was a film that spent some time on The American Experience and had to really really really spell out how awful and suicidal our culture made gays feel prior to Stonewall. Most straight society in this country even in 2011 have no clue what our gay/lesbian godparents went through. (Even now, many straights do not get it, still.) But for the filmmakers to make such an effort to describe the uprising in numerous details, incl using animation, and yet cram all of that in to the last twenty minutes was confusing and frustrating to this viewer.
The other thing I would like to talk about re Stonewall Uprising relates to Gus van Sant's, Milk. The reason that Milk is ultimately a failure to me, despite its' many virtues, is the opening title sequence. Van Sant opens his film with documentary footage of gays, hiding their faces, being turned out of gay clubs, arrested, etc, ... And that, for me, was by far, the most moving part of the picture.
Maurice Conchis from Fowles' novel, The Magus, states flatly that he stopped reading fiction ages ago. As awful as Conchis is, I am on the same boat re fiction and non-fiction. How can van Sant expect us to seriously consider his "story" (based on someone's real life) after submitting us to that kind of poignant, sorrowful, infuriating prologue? Sure, as a Major Hollywood Entertainment it satisfies (and the Oscar for Sean Penn was a swooning plum) but in terms of being a moving, serious statement about an unsung, great American's life it fails.
I am sticking to the Oscar winning documentary, The Times of Harvey Milk (1984). Seeing the real Diane Fienstein confront the press after the horror is much better than any Hollywood slow motion death scene.
And the good news is that The Times of Harvey Milk will be coming out on blu-ray from Criterion very soon.
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(I know, I know) but I finally saw Grand Illusion. Jean Renoir may be the finest filmmaker ever. No one gets at the subtleties and nuances of real human life better than him. No one else understands how complicated life is and expresses that complexity better on film. Philosophers are constantly wrestling with paradoxes. It is their life. It is what we expect from them and pay them for. Renoir is the master of negative capability. (And I am using Keats' definition of the term, which I feel best defines this esoteric, pretentious sensibility.) He is able to show every side of the story in a refreshing, honest humanistic way that constantly uplifts the spirit and makes one thrilled to be alive. The most obvious tool he uses to achieve this is his revolutionary use of deep-focus. But it is those scripts and stories that constantly challenge me politically, make me walk in my enemies' shoes. And Renoir does it as if I am enjoying a meal at a three star Michelin restaurant. Genius. Yet nearly artless. The true master of panache by Ardent Henry's standard.
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I had the delicious pleasure of enjoying Grand Illusion as part of TCMs 31 Days of Oscar. I also had the supreme treat of watching Amadeus on the day Renee got the job. So, even though she thinks Amadeus is an overwrought rococo creation, she was so busy celebrating real-time on her cell that I had the film at my leisure.
I have seen Amadeus innumerable times. I have always loved it. I loved it a week ago, too. The music is first rate, natch. F Murray Abraham deserved his Oscar. Tom Hulce is brill. (What is he doing now?) Cynthia Nixon is so young, so vulnerable. Simon Callow was such a good sport and is still so good. The vaudeville scenes are treasures, making an olde theatre boie (like myself) hurt.
But the reason I love this film so much is that like the seminal Masterpiece Theater series, I, Claudius, Amadeus makes you feel as if you were there, that life really has not changed that fucking much in all the years that have passed. You can take your iPads, iPods, MacMinis, Kabletown, teevees, and all the rest, and really we are all still the same. We are still hearts beating, arms reaching, theater-going, book-reading, elated, (sometimes) sorrowful souls walking the pavements which have not much changed.
As wonderful as Amadeus is, my favorite Forman film will always be Loves of a Blonde. Amadeus was a prodigal son story. Forman returns to Czechoslovakia and turns Prague in to Vienna. Loves of a Blonde was shot by the same man as Amadeus. Loves of a Blonde captures the mittel-european sense of humor better than any film I have seen. (Still fucking waiting for the US release of Cristian Mungiu's, Tales of the Golden Age.) And the scene where the kids flood the dance hall will live with me forever.
Loves of a Blonde is like the Stones' song, Factory Girl. But a lot better.
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| City boy meets factory girl in Loves of a Blonde |
But right around the time I was born (and MLK was assassinated) the Soviet tanks rolled in to Prague and the Czech New Wave was dead. Forman ran off to New York (good for him) and made films like One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Hair, and Amadeus. His return to Prague was seen as a major triumph and this was before Havel's Velvet Revolution.
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There is more to come: discussions on The Pink Floyd, Giant Sand, and the Wisconsin situation. I love you all, Mwah!, ...
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