A DIFFERENT KIND OF TENSION
Krysztof Kieslowski's The Decalogue is a curious piece of work. Impressively subtle, moving, and tender- not to mention a small marvel in ambition and scope- yes, but how much, exactly, does it have to do with those always-controversial Commandments? Created for Polish television in 1988 and set in the present (with Poland still behind the Iron Curtain, which makes the series, for all its apoliticism, seem even more of a feat), each of these one-hour episodes has one of the Ten Commandments as its theme, using them as a launching pad for complicated moral dilemmas, most of which would seem impossible to solve with a hard and fast one-line rule or “commandment.”
What makes it interesting is how, given Kieslowski’s (along with co-writer Krysztof Piesiewicz) keen interest in trying to find a grey morality in a grey world, he proves the Commandments so applicable and open to a multitude of interpretations. Let’s just say he is neither literal and reverent nor sacrilegious, but this is never going to be Pat Robertson’s favorite Old Testament discussion piece. Nobody gets stoned or anything; nobody commits “sins” that we’re allowed to look down on or judge unequivocally.
They’re all varying degrees of gorgeous in visual composition, framing, color, and tone, and the pacing-unhurried, yet sometimes gathering an intense and urgent momentum- the human empathy, the intelligence, and the deadpan humor that infuse these ten films is uplifting, not in the saccharine, PAX-channel way that description usually signifies, but in the sense that seeing someone grapple with the complexities and frustrations of human relationships in such an attentive, observant way makes you feel like you’re not alone in struggling with what our duties are as human beings, to each other and to ourselves.
There isn’t a single episode not worth watching. That being said, I can’t help playing favorites with particular ones that have been more difficult for me to shake than the others. The first- “Thou shalt not have any other Gods before me”- manifests as a story about a little boy and his university professor father, who make a disastrous weather calculation on their computer, which leads to tragedy. The simple interpretation is that Kieslowski sees technology as a “false idol;” the larger is that he sees the poignancy of naive human belief in ourselves and our technology, the idea that we can second-guess, predict, categorize, organize nature away. “Never turn your back on mother earth,” as Sparks once so ambivalently sang- a healthy respect for nature will always take precedence over technological advancement.
My second favorite is number five, “Thou shalt not kill,” which plays like a cross between Elephant and Dead Man Walking, with two crimes- the brutal killing of a taxi driver by a young man and the premeditated killing of the young man by the state- left unjustified and incomprehensible. Very matter-of-fact, unsentimental, and not preachy. The stark, unblinking, inexorable presentation is apt enough, as this is certainly the most bluntly literal commandment.
The Decalogue episode I’d watch again and again, though, is number six, “Though shalt not commit adultery.” Tomek, a nineteen-year-old shrinking violet of a postal worker, is in love with Magda, a frequent postal customer who also lives in the building across from his, within view of his bedroom window (he knows because he spies on her, first with binoculars and then with a stolen telescope). He watches her sleep with many men, and when his stalking finally comes out in the open, the two meet, discuss the nature of love, and strike up an odd relationship much more complicated and painful than Tomek could have imagined from his window (is this the “adultery”- Tomek cheats on his precious fantasy of a woman with the women herself?).
The story, admittedly, probably has more appeal for someone my age, with its themes of unrequited longing and loneliness still freshly resonant on a personal level. It’s so lovingly handled by Kieslowski, and the actors- Olaf Lubaszenko (Tomek) and Grazyna Szopolowska (Magda)- are particularly appealing. It's a peculiar scenario one wouldn't expect to find sweet in a romantic way, but Tomek never seems like a voyeur of the psychotic kind, and Magda isn't merely a slutty sex object; this is due to the vulnerability and presence of the two leads, their ability to convey the compassion of Kieslowski's whole-human-being approach. If you can’t make your local hormone-addled teenage boy watch all ten, this is the one to really push for.
There is a different sort of suspense in the films comprising Kieslowski's Decalogue- it has a little something to do with what happens next, but is more due to the curiosity provoked by the moral back-and-forth the characters live through. How will they be reconciled with their consciences (conscience is clearly a huge concern for Kieslowski)? Will they find their way? Will they be at peace? Will they attain that elusive knowledge of having done the right thing? The answer isn’t always given, at least not directly, but being so literally close to these characters (the films are framed 1:33 for television, and whether Kieslowski is working in warm or cold colors/light, he creates very human on-screen spaces, mostly via variations on medium-close and close-up shots) keeps you intently focused on their fates, however small or fatal; to put it in conventional terms, they each have the “protagonist” and “antagonist” inside them.
Speaking of difficult-to-shake episodes...
I actually remember when Brian De Palma’s Casualties of War was released in 1989. There were posters and newspaper ads which, in light of the film itself, are kind of funny. The posters were like this shadowy two-shot of Michael J. Fox (who plays Private Erikkson) and Sean Penn (Sergeant Meserve), Penn’s mouth fixed in an enraged howl, with the words “FOX” and “PENN,” in giant block type, across the top. Given the film’s themes, it seems likely that this last-name-only advertising gimmick- which, of course, wrongly signified both that the two actors are much bigger “stars” than they were and that the film would be an action-packed thrill-ride- disappointed its share of that segment of the filmgoing population that wouldn’t be satisfied until Terminator II was released a couple of years on.
But if there ever was a cinematic contribution by Mr. Brian de Palma that belongs in the same post with Kieslowski, it’s this, which takes a look at the Vietnam War as a complex morality-play (albeit with some fairly sickening observations about the degeneration of human traits during war). It would be easy to lump it in with those other late-eighties Vietnam-war films, but to contrast it with the best of them (not so fast, Hamburger Hill), where Full Metal Jacket is a precise, at times even cool-glee (oh, Stanley, you were a wicked one... we miss you) satiric precision-force dissection of the War Machine, and Platoon and Born on the Fourth of July have their righteously angry political overtones (and Apocalypse Now, though not from the late eighties, becomes a tour-de-force Heart of Darkness metaphysical journey), de Palma, as usual, is a bit earthier than his peers.
Casualties is based on a true Vietnam War story, first published in the New Yorker in 1969 (is it mere coincidence that Pauline Kael adored this film to the heavens, hardly a unanimous critical reception?), of a squad of young American soldiers who, fed up with the V.C. (and, implicitly, the jerking-around our soldiers got by our own government in ‘Nam), go AWOL, kidnapping a young woman from her village, holding her hostage, raping her repeatedly and eventually murdering her. Sgt. Meserve (Penn) is the ringleader, a man so full of rage that anything in his path is bound to be obliterated, and Pvt. Erikkson (Fox), who has somehow managed to retain a shred of moral compass amidst the moral no-man’s-land of war. Meserve is in charge, so the atrocious acts occur with Pvt. Erikkson looking on, desperately horrified and powerless (shades of Blow Out, where Travolta’s character was similarly impotent against the onward march of murderous events). It eventually becomes a battle of the wills between Erikkson and Meserve, and though Erikkson is undoubtedly on the side of right, it’s hard to decide what’s more horrifying: The horrible crime committed by guys who are effectively not much different than any decent joe six-pack- arising from a sense of lawlessness seemingly due, Lord of the Flies-like, to the removal of socializing factors), the military indifference, extending to the highest level, toward it, or the fact that we’re forced to ask ourselves: Isn’t the sort of unbearable human suffering these soldiers inflict on an innocent young woman both a macrocosm of what America was doing to both its own soldiers and the country of Vietnam, and nothing more than a drop in the bucket of cruelty and bloodshed during wartime?
De Palma’s blunt, garish visual style is in full swing here. There is, of course, the famous “ant-farm” sequence where the camera pans down through the profile of the jungle topography to show us the underground tunnels of the Vietcong, perhaps the most visually clever moment in the film. There are also plenty of split-screens, though de Palma no longer even has to literally divide the screen into two separate boxes; he can simply foreground an action in one half of the screen while another plays out in the background on the other half, and it’s an immediately identifiable mis-en-scene, patented de Palma. This device is used during the murder of the Vietnamese woman, and it has a devastating effect; it emphasizes the powerlessness of Erikkson, or us, to stop it. The only de Palma-ism that doesn’t work- or that needed some significant modification- is the final scene, which contains a line of bad dialogue that would’ve been funny and appropriate, a joke, in any of his other films but feels like a regression in this context, it would’ve been interesting to see the conceit itself, a typical way of ending a de Palma film, modified to fit the film better, and to see how much more elastic de Palma vision could have been.
De Palma eschews his usual cartoonish sex-violence pranks- so outrageously appropriate for his Hitchcock tribute/send-ups- instead focusing his fetishizing impulse on Fox as Erikkson; the camera is as obsessive with showing us Fox’s angelic, horrified countenance at the uncontrollable human misery as it normally is with showing us dreamlike sex, centerfold-nudity, or psyche-stabbing blood ‘n gore (usually in service of a grim joke, and usually a pretty good one). There’s a truly beautiful, rainy extreme close-up of Fox’s face as Penn espouses his philosophy of moral decimation in defense of the kidnapping, rape, and murder, and Erikkson’s physical tininess compared to Meserve, his fellow soldiers, and the jungle is consistently emphasized. De Palma’s camera finds violation magnetic, but it’s used for a different purpose here. He doesn’t sensualize the rape or murder; this story, unlike virtually all of his others, is too “real,” too human, not artificial enough, for that. He knows that the “movie-violation” here, the violation that needs heightening and obsessive explication, is that of Erikkson’s, and our, sense of justice, human decency, and our delusions about our “civilization” and the wars it makes on our behalf.
"MATTERS OF RECEIVED WISDOM, GOOD TASTE, AND LOVE"
Summer of 2001 found me poring over the fascinating sleeve notes to Luke Haines’s shot heard ‘round the world (in my head), The Oliver Twist Manifesto. The album itself was a gauntlet-slamming catalog of trenchant observations from Mr. Haines’s always deliciously poisonous pen, this time directed at those strange and not always so wonderful creatures, past and present, that manage to shove or slouch their way into the unifying (or is that leveling?) spotlight we call popular culture. Clearly, Haines has informed my own view of the world to a significant degree, and within the album’s little four-page booklet, one name after another superimposed over endlessly repeated mug shots of the man himself (in a Clockwork Orange-style bowler cap, no less) is a sort of Luke Haines Hall of (In)fame.
These names intrigued me for obvious reasons, but the one I’m going to discuss today resides in the upper right-hand corner of the second page in: Wyndham Lewis. I didn’t research each name too awful thoroughly, but as I browsed the shelves at Vandewater Books, a little nook in my corner of Seattle that features a surprisingly fine selection of used books, the name leapt out at me from the spine of a 1937 novel, The Revenge for Love. By Wyndham Lewis. An aged Penguin paperback “not for sale in the U.S.A.” I took the little volume home with me, shelved it in its alphabetical slot, and now, only seven or eight months letter, I’ve gone and read it!
The novel is a fairly episodic (the episodes run in domino-effect order) surgical procedure on a diseased body consisting of English artists and Communists in the moral and spiritual vortex of the Spanish Civil War. It’s essentially a tragedy, but full of sardonic comic observations; like Haines, Lewis can spot hypocrisy a thousand miles away, knows it resides somewhere in all of us, finds it extremely amusing, and mines it for all the rich observation he can. Since his the keys of his Olivetti are pounding down upon the worlds of art and politics, rounding up a motley crew comprised of Percy Hardcaster, an embittered yet fiercely devoted English Communist; Jack, an English bourgeois whose insatiable taste for female flesh draws him into the orbit of Gillian, an upper-crust Communist who wears her political “convictions” as just another badge of class superiority; Gillian’s husband Tristy, a painter; Tristy’s friend Victor, also a painter and a decent, naive Australian expatriate trying to do the right thing in a distinctly foreign land with foreign customs; and Victor’s wife Margot, a fragile and earnest wallflower being crushed under the duplicitous worldliness of her milieu.
Lewis straddles that fine line between apoliticism and healthy skepticism- he’s concerned with the issues of the political idealist, but he writes from the vantage point of rancorous disappointment. Communism’s fantastic, impossible aspiration is to transcend the baseness of human nature while retaining the humane, but as Lewis mockingly, despairingly writes (through the eyes of Margot) of the left-wing exemplars that make up his little cast of characters as they engage in the verbal turf war and oh-so-subtle establishment of pecking order common to groups of people everywhere, ideologues or no: “It was a mad notion, but it was just as if they had engaged in a battle of wills, to decide who should possess most reality- just as men fought with each other for money, or fought each other for food.”
The novel’s original title was very apt: False Bottoms. Lewis knew that human failing and flaw is the sort of inescapable contraband that makes it into the secret compartments of even the most airtight and foolproof vehicles.
Shortly to be residing on my nightstand is a present inspired by a more recent entry in the Luke Haines Hit Parade, The Sisters: The Saga of the Mitford Family. Yes, those Mitford sisters!
"IN HEAVEN/EVERYTHING IS FINE/YOU'VE GOT YOUR GOOD THING/AND I'VE GOT MINE"
It’s been a long, long time. Long before the year turned over, many films were viewed, many passages read, with much rumination ensuing, but not a peaceful moment in the eye of an unusually windy holiday-season storm to gather them out and share them with my legion of eager devotees. Until now.
This is just for starters. I’ll honor the film that finally kicked my ass into gear and inspired me to explicate my thoughts...
I received David Lynch’s first feature, 1977’s Eraserhead as perhaps my most-treasured Christmas gift (though a very intuitive friend did give me the book The Sisters: The Saga of the Mitford Family, by Diana Lovell, which runs a close second, and you may expect a review of it very soon). Eraserhead has been very spiffed-up, lovingly restored, and released on disc exclusively through Lynch’s overpriced but still impressive website.
This is one of the most original and bizarre films I’ve ever seen (these words seem to fade even as I type them; almost any viewer would be forced to describe the film as I just did, and I’m sure many before me have). As with Todd Haynes’s similarly underground-legendary Superstar, if this film is not the most accomplished or coherent articulation of its creator's vision, it is still probably the most pure, the rich topsoil out of which the rest of the work has blossomed. The ideas here- the images, the sound, the editing, all of which can clearly be seen, in hindsight, as eternally recurrent in the rest of Lynch- are almost too concentrated. Surely, every disturbing image in the film has some remote correlate in “reality,” but I find that allegorical symbolism doesn’t do Lynch’s work justice. His films are too hermetic in too many ways for this; somewhat similar to Godard, it may actually take viewing more than one David Lynch film to “get” his system of symbols, an emotional and observational lexicon as unironic as it is strange.
There aren’t really words to do justice to the “story” of Eraserhead[, but: A very stifled and anxious-appearing young man named Henry (John Nance) lives in a city that’s all back alleys and industrial anonymity; he loves his girlfriend, Mary (Charlotte Stewart), but the sexual nature of their relationship has led not only to the displeasure of her creepy-catatonic, cloistered-in family, but the birth of a grotesque, inhuman, effluviant “baby”/creature that mocks the now-married young couple from its place on the dresser with its incessant cries and cackles. A dark, mysterious woman from across the hall beckons Henry from his unhappy home. Also, there’s a not-so-nice man in the moon (shades of the homeless man in Mulholland Dr.) and a deformed but angelic lady that lives in the radiator (as with any Lynch movie, the genius is that all this makes perfect sense, in a way- he creates an atmosphere that allows it to make sense).
Lynch’s obsession with orifices and the desperate human discomfort toward the organic rivals that of David Cronenberg's, but where Cronenberg’s version is precise, cerebral, and relatively literal, Lynch’s seems to come from the heart; whether it’s the nebulous planetary and parasitic holes the camera penetrates in Eraserhead or the more recognizable ear canal of Blue Velvet or the “box” in Mulholland Dr., it’s clearly been present from the beginning.
There’s an extremely displaced yet almost comfortingly symbiotic connection in Eraserhead, as in all of Lynch’s work, between the shapes (images, many of which are literally geometric) and patterns (editing), which is a beautiful thing all by itself- it’s self-contained. You could knock yourself out trying to decipher what all the inimitable and unforgettable things you’re seeing “symbolize,” but it works just as well to follow Lynch’s dream-plots through their inspired, sometimes gorgeous convolutions (when everything stops for a moment so the “radiator lady” can appear out of the darkness to sing a simple, soaring little ditty that goes, “In heaven/Everything is fine” on the film’s own smaller-scale version of the controlling-metaphor Mulholland Dr. stage, I was completely transfixed; it has a place in my personal Most Perfect Cinematic Moments). The black-and-white cinematography of Frederick Elmes (who later went on to light Blue Velvet, The Ice Storm, and Storytelling) is wonderful and more key to setting the atmosphere (along with that famous Lynch sound, which sonically saturates Eraserhead); the film looks, period-wise, like something that’s been discovered on reels in someone’s closet and projected for the first time in decades, something simultaneously very familiar and wholly foreign.
In the Eraserhead interview section of the book Lynch on Lynch, ed. Chris Rodley, Lynch elaborated upon the multifarious quarters from which the unequivocal acclaim for the film emanated: “Well, Kubrick paid me the highest compliment. Just before we started shooting The Elephant Man in England, some guys from Lucas Films came over. They stopped in... we were all talking in the hall and they said, “We’re glad we saw you, David, because last night... we met Kubrick, and we were talking, and he said, “Do you guys want to come to my house tonight and see my favourite film?” And so they went, and it was Eraserhead. That was a hair of euphoria. Because I think Kubrick’s one of the all-time greats. Almost every one of his films is in my top ten.”
Later in the same chapter: “John Waters is another guy that helped me out a lot. He did a Q and A or something after a screening of his new film, and he didn’t talk about his new film. He just told people they had to go and see Eraserhead!”
The next widely seen film to even attempt what was evidently Lynch’s ambition for Eraserhead- to let the audience in on your dream, the most insane idealizations and the most demented horrors of it, risking all the revulsion and accusations of pretension or willful obscurantism that inevitably result- was Matthew Barney’s Cremaster 3 (and, to a lesser extent, the others in the Cremaster series), with its similar obsession with cause-and-effect as experienced in dreams; all out of proportion, but with its own immutable, assured logic.
Subscribe to Posts [Atom]