It was all my fault, too. We could have seen In A World ... instead, but I, for whatever misguided reason, thought that Prisoners with its power packed cast would be a fun popcorn munching thriller.
"Where's my daughter?! I am Wolverine!"
Boy, was I wrong. And, I apologized to my Wife already for dragging her to this travesty. So many loose ends, so many unbelievable plot points, lots and lots of completely gratuitous violence and car chase mayhem. Maria Bello? What were you thinking? She spends the entire film in a drugged out stupor. Hugh Jackman is so bad. Jake Gyllenhall is alright, and Melissa Leo and Paul Dano were the best things in it. Do not, I repeat, do not see this motion picture.
This is the French Canadian director's first film in English. Maybe this film is much better in French?
Jeanne has dinner and some Belgian ale with her son.
First off, there is the absurdity of whether I should reveal spoilers for the "plot" of this film in this space. It is almost absurd because of the type of film it is in the first place. And the length of the film. And, honestly, because as much as I adore this motion picture made in 1975 about a widow living in Brussels, I know so few people that I could legitimately recommend the film to.
This motion picture all about the domestic rituals of a widowed mother in Belgium in the Seventies has had a profound effect on my personal life in a couple of ways. To wit,
I have begun to pay closer attention to the sound of my personal solitude, and have come to treasure it. In a nowadays culture bombarded with the stimulation of screens and music and teevee blare, it is refreshing to turn it all off, and read, and hear the noise of the wind, or the electric fan, or children speaking to their parents, or the noise it makes when I insert my keycard in to the washing machine, or the sound of my footsteps, or our kitty, Nora's permanent purr, the sound of a car wheel on gravel, birdsong, etc, ...
Moreover, I have now realized the potential for a new personal ritual of my own, associated with this film. I am normally off Sundays and Mondays, so last Saturday evening I took this film "to bed" with me, and fell asleep to its majestic and banal beauty. I woke when the film ended, as I often do, and restarted it, and fell asleep again. It was playing as I woke up for the morning. I watched it unspool as the Wife did her Sunday rituals, and I did my own. Then, before the Wife left, I moved the film in to the living room, and started it over again, just as I performed my Sunday domestic rituals (laundry, trash, recycling, breakfast, tea, the newspaper, magazines, books, etc, ... ) at home. I am v eager to maintain this ritual, which is so comforting, reassuring and blissful to me. Tranquil.
How does one recommend this film to others? It is two-hundred minutes long. It concerns itself exclusively with the domestic rituals, and life, of a widow, her neighbors, and her son. And others. It is composed of exquisite, yet static shots. Many of the shots do not contain a human subject, yet most do. There are lengthy shots of Delphine Seyrig, as Ms Dielman, peeling potatoes. Or making meatloaf. Or making coffee. Or "watching" the neighbor's infant, as Seyrig sits in a chair, doing nothing. It is a film about the private inner monologue of Seyrig as she goes about her ways over three days in her life. The inner monologue is only expressed through Seyrig's face, body posture, body language, or her relationship to the environment she is currently in. There is very little dialogue. And nearly all of it, is of a very stilted, heavily stylized, and rote nature. There are surprises. But, once again, should I share them? The film itself seems to suggest to me that I should reveal all. But that goes against my artistic sensibilities. This film stands in contrast to my and most others artistic or film-going sensibilities.
Much like my budding new Saturday night/Sunday morning ritual with this film, I would also like to have this film play on a loop at my house. Permanently, never ending. It would give me comfort to go about my day with always the opportunity to see what Jeanne was up to at any particular moment. There Jeanne goes, making breaded veal. There she is listening to the radio. There she is at the market. There she is with her son at the dinner table. There she is making the bed. There she is taking a bath. There she is turning another trick. (Oh dear, I have given something away.)
I wonder if Chantal Akerman, the director, would feel alright with another powerful reason that I love this film. Is Ms Akerman okay with the idea that I have sort of fallen in love with Jeanne? I love her smock when she is cooking. I love the black stockings and chunky black character shoes. I love the click click noise those shoes make on the wooden floors as she walks. I love her somewhat stern, smothering relationship with her son. I love her auburn hair. Her cardigan sweaters. I love her blue eye shadow and red lipstick. I love her solitude. Her quiet repose. Her posture. Her womanliness. Her face as she listens. I love near everything about her. Watch the film and think what that says about her and me.
On that Sunday morning that I spoke of the neighbors above started playing Led Zeppelin. It was not too loud. It was at a normal volume. But I was furious. Because my shared solitude with Jeanne had been shattered. Our quiet sacred time of Sunday morning ritual had been intruded upon by outside media and forces. The neighbors left after just a few songs, and Jeanne and I breathed a sigh of relief. I had some tea. Ms Dielman had some coffee from a thermos.
When I did finally turn the film off that Sunday morning. I was saddened, and actually found myself missing her for a couple of moments.
Another of the most eloquent, lovely, and powerful things about the film is the lighting at the house Jeanne lives in. It is immaculately accurate to what time of the day it should be. And in the evening scenes, you can see the street life reflect on the back and side walls with projections of light and movement. It is as if there is a whole other life, "film", playing on the walls of their room as they conduct their own film at 23, quai du Commerce 1080 Bruxelles. Jeanne and her son do have some contact with that other film. But we know very little about it. It is just one of the splendid extra mysteries of this magical film.
Lastly, I know her name is pronounced zhahn. But, I have given her a nickname. I like to call her genie.
(This very brief post is a response I made to a friend on friendface, re whether I preferred Coach over Woody.)
Diane trivia: What is the name of Diane's unpublished novel? And, what Edward Albee play did she perform the lead in in college? Answers below.
Actually, Meghan, I marginally prefer Woody over Coach. But, even though I admire Cheers' ability to stay hilarious and great throughout its entire run, I do prefer the Diane years to the Rebecca ones. I thought the writing was much smarter and more adult when Shelley Long was on the program. And, the sexual tension between Long and Ted Danson was palpable, real, and grown-up. The Rebecca years, though v funny, became more reliant on a broader type of humor, that I am less fond of. Still, Cheers, is obv an American teevee treasure.
Ardent
Answers: Diane's novel was called Jocasta's Conundrum. And she played the lead in Albee's Tiny Alice.
Mike Lee and Rafael Cruz, taking the government hostage for freedom! (or something.)
Cruz's errand is the definition of a fool's. Cruz insisted yesterday that Harry Reid should raise the threshold to sixty votes in the Senate to take the defund Obamacare amendment off the CR to fund the government. It is, natch, something Reid would never do. And, even if Reid, for whatever insane inexplicable reason, did decide to raise the threshold to sixty votes, this particular rule change would have to be approved by the full Senate one-hundred votes to zero.
Ain't never gonna happen.
That puts Cruz and Lee in the very awkward position of having to filibuster the GOP House approved CR that currently has the Defund Obamacare provision in it. Cruz will be filibustering against his own party's legislation.
I know. It is so flipping confusing, and annoying. And, much of this crap would never occur if we only returned to the real honest to gosh old Talking Filibuster rules that the Senate had in the first place.
Anyhoo, Obamacare will not be defunded, and whether the government shuts down on October 1 is anybody's guess. But, I can guarantee that some deal between the GOP Senate "big boys" and the White House will happen, and it will not be pretty for liberals (or for the country.)
And, then we get to do this again with the debt ceiling. And, the next time we need to fund the government, and then again, and again, etc, ...
This is what happens when you do not vote in local and state elections, or "off-year" elections, like 2010. Flipping vote in every election, people.
What with Thomas Pynchon's latest novel, Bleeding Edge, being released. And the new eponymously titled MGMT record released, as well.
One savvy reviewer of the MGMT record even mentioned the word entropy in their review. He must be like me, seeing the harmonic convergence of these two events on the same day. And, a Pynchon fan to boot, most likely.
And speaking of reviews, the NYT Bleeding Edge review written by Jonathon Letham is one of the finest reviews I have read in a very long time -- for any type of art. Letham totally gets Pynchon, but at a distance, and he is not a slobbering fan, or pretentious Pynchon freak like so many others. Plus, anybody who mentions Hakim Bey and T.A.Z.: The Temporary Autonomous Zone in a review of Pynchon is super fine in my book.
Work sucks today, but these two things will brighten my mood, but double quick!
I am not crazy about The Office. It is alternately cloyingly saccharine, or weirdly mean-spirited and dark. Plus, Dwight is not as nearly as funny as every one thinks he is.
Anyhoo, I am glad The Wife made me watch this. It is brilliant.
Here in the trenches of the Great Documentary War between Nick C and myself, I had been "up" on Nick C by having watched West of Memphis. He had not seen it yet, but he was "up" on me, because he had seen Dear Zachary, and I hadn't.
But then he did see West of Memphis, and the Wife and I did watch Dear Zachary (Dear Zachary is a gripping sober cautionary tale about families and mental instability -- and is highly recommended -- but be warned, you will alternately be heartbroken and angry all the way through the film), and then Nick C finally watched The Most Dangerous Man in America, so I had to do something last night! And then bam.
Alright Nick C. The ball is back in your court, because I watched Sarah Polley's The Stories We Tell.
The Stories We Tell has got to go right up on the dais with West of Memphis and What Maisie Knew as one of the three best films I have seen this year. (Frances Ha, Blue Jasmine, History of the Eagles, and The World's End are all honorable mention.) Ms Polley has crafted a deeply moving documentary about her own life that challenges her audience to try and see many different versions of a story all at the same time. She has created a cubist film, if you will. And, she has done it with such grace and elegance and panache that you feel as if you were watching a conjurer on stage.
I really can not say more than that. You really have to see it. I am still under its spell this morning, and I desperately do not want to ruin anything for any one who has not seen it yet.
Great stuff.
Ardent
PS: Nick C, I still think you should watch History of the Eagles, though I know you never will.
About this little French truffle of a film. But these period romcoms, so heavy on style, are right in my wheelhouse. It is playing for only one week in the City, starting on the thirteenth. Hopefully we will be able to get out there and see it before it moves along to the next town.
(By the by, I love the new Bay Bridge. I give it an A grade!)
Thanks to Matthew L, Marcus M, and the blog Dangerous Minds for pointing this to my direction. And, to Josiv5 for pulling it from Beatles Rock Band and putting it together.
And say that the idea of bombing Syria right now is really just about the shittiest, stupidest idea ever.
It is especially a shitty idea right now. When Congress gets back to business next week, and votes yes on this awful "Targeted Strike" resolution, then, right after that, the GOP will do every thing in its power to wipe out food stamps all together, and will be holding the country hostage on the debt ceiling, trying to get all the good parts of Obamacare repealed in return.
You got that right. Plenty of dosh for bombing innocent civilians in a far off country that is in a region where the United States should have an indefinite Time Out punishment. Meanwhile, folks in this country who desperately need assistance with making ends meet, and getting affordable health care, well, Fuck you. Get a job, hippie!
No matter who you vote for, the government always gets in.
Well, gosh, I guess Harmony Korine is just too meta for me. I wish I was as smart and hep as Korine, smart and hep enough to appreciate this masterpiece of tedium and schlock, but I fear I never will be.
Look at the pastel colors! What a splendid soundtrack! What genius to stretch out a twenty minute film to feature length! Dang, if there is not some real Spring Breakin' drunken foolishness footage cut in between the drama, too! Whoa, did you catch that? Korine uses slow motion! (A lot.) And, he is literally blowing my mind, jumping us backwards and forwards in time with editing! Has any one ever done that before? Damn! And he uses the sound of a gun being reloaded for punctuation at the end of nearly every single scene! That is filmmaking! Oh, I almost forgot! The Terrence Malick-like use of endlessly repeated voice-over juxtaposed with beautiful nature images! Wait a minute! Is there a Scarface poster on the gangsta's wall? Is Scarface really running on a loop at the gangsta's house? That is so impressive! Is there anything Korine can not do?
Yeah, make a good film, apparently.
I guess the rules have changed in our post-post-modern, death of irony culture today. But, back in the day, even if you made a surrealist, fantasy, farcical, or satirical film, it still had to be grounded in reality. Otherwise, it does not work, because the audience does not believe, and does not care. An obvious example is Masculin Feminin by Godard. Korine has ripped off the sound design of Masculin Feminin, which uses the sound of gunfire to punctuate scene changes, yet Godard's film is an authentic anti-war, anti-Capitalist masterpiece about Parisian youth culture. Precisely because you believe in all those characters in Masculin Feminin.
Nowadays, it seems irony truly is dead. Artists like Korine seem compelled to provoke merely by displaying awfulness without any artistic distance between the artist and the creation. Korine, and other artists like him, seem to suggest that those who do not appreciate the vapid, tedious, ugliness that they put upon us are fools. Fools for not recognizing that their art -- to them, at least -- is an accurate description of real life.
That is crap. I am not deluded. I am not naive. These are not rose-colored glasses I am looking through. And, what a perverted, warped way to treat your audience.
Man, watch Masculin feminin instead.
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PS: My favorite customer review of Spring Breakers on iTunes was: "Don't watch, don't buy, stay away."
xxxoooxxx,
Go Rangers! I'm going to the game today!,
Michael
