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DSLRevolution: the video "film-look"

Low budget "film"making is undergoing an interesting transformation. The means of production have recently changed in a way no one really anticipated. With the emergence of Digital SLRs (1,2,3) capable of recording high-definition, 24-frame-per-second video, the most adept videographers can create images that come closer to the much sought after "veiled look" of 35mm motion-picture film with significantly less overhead on prosumer-level equipment.

So now, essentially out of no where, we have light, compact cameras capable of taking both stunning digital photographs and more than merely passable video, both worlds in the same housing for under 2,000 dollars. Aside from media journalism and indie film, DSLRs have been embraced by many commercial and music video productions, as well as fully absorbed into the productions of several TV shows, including "24." Not to say that the DSLR video revolution doesn't come with a number of often debilitating limitations. Oddly enough these limitations don't even exist in some of the cheapest single-chip consumer-level video cameras. At the end of the day, though, for most projects the Pros outweigh the Cons. Here's a taste of that list.

Just as a caveat: I'm a filmmaker with a preference for 16mm motion picture. This article is primarily written for those filmmakers accustomed to shoe-string motion-picture productions and unfamiliar (as I was and still am) with digital still photography, as well as those somewhat unaware of the imminent (for better or for worse) DSLR video revolution. 

Pros:

Beside a competitive price-range, one of the primary benefits of DSLR video is the option to interchanging lenses, which is a feature few prosumer-level HD cameras provide without the need for creative or pricey modifications. On top of that, you're working with 35mm still photography lenses, the optics of which can be superior to even the best fixed video zoom lenses. When it comes to making video look as "filmic" as possible, optics are high on the list along with image resolution and exposure latitude. While we're on the topic, it's worth mentioning that some videographers have managed to attach 35mm motion-picture lenses to these DSLR bodies (i.e. a prime Cooke lens on a modified Canon 7D [video sample]) without too much hassle. With a little bit of post-production work, results have fooled even the most seasoned viewers. 

Next is resolution and speed. The better DSLRs are capable of recording up to 1080p at 24 frames, and 720p at 24 and 60. This is up to par with most prosumer-level video cameras. ISO,or film speed, which is often fixed for video at roughly 320, can be set at a number of different speeds on DSLR cameras, including those familiar film speeds: 100, 200, 250, 400, 500, and 800. The Canon 7D can reach up to 6400 ISO (not that you would, but you could), for documenting action in even the darkest of places (with significant and compromising grain). Shutter speed options are just as numerous, with film-like shutters ranging from 1/24-1/125. For me, the magic number is 1/50 (closest to 1/48, the "default" shutter speed of motion-picture film). Best of all, videographers can adjust white balance, exposure, shutter speed and ISO while recording on certain DSLRs such as the Canon 7D.

Video is notorious for "giving itself away" in both under- and over-exposed regions of the image. Unlike film, the exposure latitude of video is much smaller, so over-exposed areas blow out and lose detail completely after just a few stops above the set exposure. Plus, highlights in a video image are significantly less flattering than those on film. Underexposure on film yields pure black tones, as opposed to a sort of flat dark-blue on video, coated in digital noise. In many ways the same can be said about DSLRs, but some of these cameras allow users modify the picture style and increase the dynamic range and by doing so improve latitude, resulting in a stock that behaves more similarly to negative film. Basically you'll get more detail in those over- and under-exposed regions of your image. Additionally, using these film-like picture styles, the raw footage coming out of the camera is ideal for post-production grading.

Cons:

That said there are quite a few drawbacks worth noting, and for the more fundamentalist cinematographers the cons list might make it a deal breaker. The main problem is nearly unavoidable, and it's called rolling shutter (causes). At mostly longer focal lengths, camera movement such as pans, either by hand or on a fluid-head tripod, creates a warped distortion most noticeable with vertical lines such as window and door frames. When forms don't maintain their true structural integrity the image is arguably compromised. The more drastic the movement, and the longer the focal length, the greater the degree of distortion. Moreover, videographers have to be constantly vigilant of potential moiré distortion. Any time the DSLR captures fixed patterns -- like striped shirts, window blinds, roof shingles, and sometimes even brick -- at wide angles, an interference pattern is created that is pretty much beyond repair. These limitations, both rolling shutter and moiré distortion, will ultimately affect what videographers choose to capture and how they choose to capture it. 

Another issue is weight. I still cannot really comprehend how such a small device delivers full HD video, but the fact is that a DSLR's light weight poses a problem when it comes to stabilization with anything other than a tripod. The aforementioned rolling shutter effect is most apparent when holding the camera in-hand, without counterweights of any kind. It's so light that any minute hand jerk caused by repositioning results in a sudden and disagreeable warp in the image. Tacking on accessories, such as viewfinders, follow focuses, matte boxes, playback monitors and audio recording devices adds much-needed weight. At the end of the day, however, the camera should not be operated without the use of a tripod, a monopod, or some sort of counterweight or body mount. Otherwise the distortion is just unacceptable. 

Some DSLR lenses are specifically tailored for HD video, silencing focus and zoom rings and providing an image stabilization option. For certain scenarios the image stabilization feature is ideal, but be warned: a kind of digital ghosting effect results that may be too much for some, especially with longer focal lengths and more dramatic camera tilts and pans. The silenced lens rings are a definite plus (if you're stuck having to use the on-board camera microphone) but I don't recommend making lens adjustment directly on the lens themselves, as it can often compromise image stability and give the pull-focus "illusion" away. Investing in a basic follow focus system, or making one yourself, is essentially an imperative. Too many hands by the controls will only over-clutter an already small device.

Then there's overheating to consider. In my experience with the Canon 7D, I've found the fact that it systematically shuts down due to overheating the most debilitating problem to deal with. It's a factory-set feature that happens when the LCD viewfinder on the camera body has been on for too long. Worst of all is that the camera does not make an exception when it's recording; it will simply shut off in mid take. So while actors benefit from the technically limitless data storage (more opportunities to land a take without stressing over how much footage one can allot to any given setup, so long as you have the time), many great takes are completely compromised if the camera suddenly decides to turn itself off. It's my guess that this can be avoided either by periodically turning the screen off or using an external playback screen for monitoring instead. But the cheap/perfectionist videographer always needs reference and doesn't always have the budget for a screen.

There's no doubt that video is taking over the entire industry. In fact, with Arriflex's recent release of a new line of professional "35mm" digital cameras, the blogosphere has officially recognized 2010 as the year motion-picture film will die. Whether that's the case or not, the video changeover is changing the way movies are made in both the independent and studio spheres. Time will tell if it's a change for the better, but by democratizing the tools of production and making them easier to use, you risk losing the discipline developed by having to respect materials and finite resources. For filmmakers such as myself, it always boils down to price, and DSLR video is too affordable to simply overlook. My experience with the 7D has been overwhelmingly positive and with a few workarounds the issues I've thus far faced can eventually be dealt with effectively. I intend to shoot my next project on DSLR video, and at this point it's really tough to say if I'll ever go back to analog. 

FMS Faculty Screening: Works & Works in Progress (Carlos)

On April 16, the Film & Media Studies Program hosted a screening of Works & Works in Progress by the program's four faculty filmmakers. The audience in attendance was a mix of both university students and the general local public, and a reception after the showcase brought the evening to an agreeable close.

Filmmaker John Mann opened the screening with an excerpt from a documentary entitled, Shelter, which concerns the experiences of homeless men living in shelters in Kansas and North Carolina. Shot in only six weeks, the film is structured around of a series of sit-down interviews. In one interview a man speaks about having participated in a study where he was paid to allow for his heart to be stopped and revived. In another, a man confesses that while anchored to his socio-economic status he feels little self-worth. Mann joked that the most critical responses to the documentary centered around the fact that it "provided no viable solution to homelessness," although that was hardly his intent. Afterward he screened an excerpt from Locust Point, which represents a departure from the traditional documentary form. Comprised of exquisitely composed reenactments over narrated journal entries and personal letters, the film portrays experiences of immigrants living in the Baltimore neighborhood during the early 1900s. Lastly Mann presented his most recent -- and what he suspects to be his last -- documentary, Running to Keep from Falling. As a reaction to the notion of the hyper real ever present in modern life, the film clearly delineates the trajectory Mann's directorial career has followed. Over static shots of descending elevators, ascending escalators, and passing trains, a series of automated phone messages and voicemail entries are assembled -among other things- as dialogue exchanges and statements addressed to the viewer. The content of these messages either clashes with or recontextualizes the associated image, and the coupling demands active spectatorship to arrive at meaning with respect to the whole. 

Filmmaker John Mann listens intently. (Photo courtesy of Hannah Spangler)

Writer/director and photographer Matthew Porterfield, who teaches screenwriting and film production, presented test footage of actors and location studies for his next film, slated to begin production this summer. Entitled, Metal Gods, Porterfield’s second feature is best described as, "exploitation meets the art house genre." Set in southeast Baltimore during the reign of metal music, the period piece explores a week in the lives of Sean and his older brother, Trevor, as they are forced to rectify a conflict disturbing their social sphere. The filmmaker has been casting since November of last year, and has thus far held over 400 open auditions. What has resulted from months of work is an eclectic cast of largely non-professional actors. While Porterfield normally skipped to the best segments of each audition screened, he insisted on playing one video all the way through. In it, an audition with a young non-professional prospect on his front porch is cut short by a phone call from the kid's mother. From behind the camera we hear Porterfield on a cellphone as he struggles to quell the concerns of a woman having an understandably hard time with a stranger videotaping her son. The accidental material makes the audition a short in and of itself. Afterward he screened test footage of a few location studies, including an abandoned paintball field and a pipeline on the side of the road that seemed to recede infinitely. Porterfield has managed to generate positive interest in Metal Gods well before its production.

Writer/director Matthew Porterfield.

Animator and videographer Karen Yasinsky teaches both animation and visual language courses at the university. Yasinsky first screened a stop motion animation short entitled, I Choose Darkness, which adapts its subject matter from Robert Bresson's Au Hasard Balthazar. Yasinsky combines fluid animation, emotive and expressive lighting design, and a rich and engaging soundtrack of carefully foleyed effects to both evoke and echo the sense of filmic realism characteristic of the Bresson feature. Yasinsky has also created a live action animation short that derives its subject from the opening of Jean Vigo's L'Atalante. While her works are often adapted from live active feature films, the filmmaker frequently takes the narrative in different directions, establishing similarities while subverting expectation for the astute viewer familiar with its source material. The adjustments and modifications always service the medium and acknowledge that the practice of adaptation has its own set of complexities. Since she prefers to steer clear of spoken word, gesticulation is a high priority. She noted that the subjects of her animations express themselves through different modes of rubbing, or physical interaction. Once accustomed to this unique gestural vocabulary the result is affective. Yasinsky humorously admits she finds comfort in the work she does and the discipline it entails because it aligns naturally with her tendency to stay indoors and willfully removed from social settings. She says the work ethic associated with both stop motion and line drawn animation conforms to her obsessive personality as well as her sensitivity to detail. Yasinsky's acclaimed shorts will also be featured at the upcoming Maryland film festival this year.

The most recent addition to the Hopkins Film program faculty is Douglas Sadler, who co-teaches narrative production, a course offered to both MICA and JHU students. Sadler presented three distinct works that mark a clear transformation in both aesthetic and thematic preoccupations. Demonstrating directorial range, Sadler began by presenting an excerpt from a student film depicting a charged dream-state experience. The second excerpt screened was from a Samuel Beckett teleplay of Ey, Joe?. Influenced by the Dogme95 movement, Sadler's next excerpt from a digital feature entitled, Riders, illustrated the extent to which a shoe-string budget, a small crew, limited technical means can deliver a gratifying cinematic experience. The fourth, a mainstream narrative feature film entitled, Swimmers, which garnered a number of festival awards during its run. The most mesmerizing of the set was the clip of Joe, in which the subject is depicted in one take listening to a voice addressing him off screen. The take is uninterrupted and eight minutes long. Abiding by the strict stage direction presented in the original script, the subject was not permitted to blink for the entirety of the take.

Animator Karen Yasinsky makes a gesture. (Photo courtesy of Hannah Spangler)

A wine and cheese reception provided the ideal setting for students and locals to exchange a few words with these active and award-winning contemporary filmmakers. We look forward to similar showcases in the future as faculty members continue to develop their bodies of work.

Concept to celluloid: First post (Carlos)

So my name is Carlos and I'm a film major working on my third year at Hopkins. This Spring semester I've taken up an Independent Study course within my major, which means I get to put together the first half of a year-long short form film project. This is very exciting for me...

And I've been asked to log the process from concept to completed work on this very esteemed blog as a kind of, sort of student-production diary. This is initially helpful for me because I get to consolidate all the pre-production elements into one overarching framework, rather than having them haphazardly scattered all over the floor on crumpled post-it notes and deli napkins...

As a heads up expect some cool posts -- if I can keep up with it. I'll be uploading excerpts from shooting scripts and shot lists, maybe even some location shots (as I scout about), wardrobe/exposure tests and, fingers crossed, some clips of the short once footage starts rolling in. I'll also try to log about day-to-day experiences once I slip into production. Trust me I cut plenty of corners given time restraints and a shoestring budget, so my process is definitely not one to model. Fair warning.

No need to draw this out any further, so I'm just going to get started by giving a general overview of what's been developed so far.

The Concept

The original idea was to develop a short film (roughly 30-35 mins. in length) throughout the course of one year, documenting the seasons from February to November. This got me thinking that it would be neat to create natural partitions within the story, sort of like assigning each season a unique and distinct chapter. The more I tried to flesh it out the more I felt cubby-holed into a formula I had imposed on myself, so I took a step back and started from the top, keeping in mind the appeal of toying with the narrative's structure.

Long story short I convinced myself that the structure should be informed primarily by the logistics of production -- I have Spring and Fall semesters to put together a senior project and at the end of each I need to have some sort of work to show. Finally I decided on two somewhat mutually exclusive parts and that got me thinking about structuralism and then I was off...

Now that I had binary oppositions on my mind I started listing out a few and settled on one in particular: Conciousness/Unconsciousness. It was too primal and appealing to pass up. A film theory course at Hopkins brought to mind the relationship between spectator and projected image. In "The Ideological Effects of the Cinematographic Apparatus," Jean-Loius Baudry says the following:

"A parallel between dream and cinema had often been noticed: common sense perceived it right away. The cinematographic projection is reminiscent of dream, would appear to be a kind of dream, really a dream, a parallelism often noticed by the dreamer when, about to describe his dream, he is compelled to say 'It was like in a movie...'"

I decided to make Part 1 of the short film the lucid dream experience of its central character. The mid-century American film noirs (notably) were particularly attractive to proponents of Psychoanalysis because they saw these films as illustrative of the unconscious drives and desires of its filmmakers, reflecting the psychology of American society as a whole. This is really interesting to me...

It felt very natural and admittedly appealing to make Part 1 a stylized period piece -- a crime noir seen through the psychoanalytic lens. In the development of the story, it also felt wise to precede Part 1 with a short prologue, which would introduce central characters and establish the conscious plane, set in a naturalistically portrayed waking-state real world. After delving into the protagonist's artificially-induced dream state (the unbridled world of her unconscious) in Part 1, we return to the conscious plane of the prologue -- the day after. From top to bottom these parts will be distinct, I'm talking all the elements: direction, cinematography, camera work, production design, character performances, and ultimately how it's cut together.

Why? Why not? I have this crazy idea that it'll be fun to play with different approaches to storytelling within the medium, to question (and negate) prevailing notions and shake up an arguably stagnant creative community. I too often come across filmmakers who limit their scope in pursuit of a kind of general consistency either within one work or across an entire body of work.  I don't have too many films under my belt, but I want to challenge myself early on to try things I otherwise wouldn't. I'm looking forward to making many mistakes... at this point that's kind of the idea.

That's basically my way of saying that this script is a significant departure from the way I would normally do things, and the story's substantively edgier than what I'm used to adapting to screen. That said I'll be brutally honest about the myriad problems I expect to encounter along the way, because in the end this is more a learning experience than anything else.

Next time, a full out treatment, casting, location scouting and maybe a few excerpts from the script. Who knows?

Against the Odds - Chris & Don: A Love Story (Carlos)

You could argue that “Chris & Don: A Love Story” is a documentary about two gay men who serendipitously meet and fall in love. You could also say that it's about a thirty-plus year relationship between two individuals thirty years of age apart. It's also about an acclaimed and accomplished novelist who takes a young lover under his wing and inspires him to become a prolific portrait artist. The filmmakers contend that these aspects, while relevant, are merely incidental: the documentary at its core is a moving story about two people who felt an ineffable connection to one another and fell madly in love, and a lot of good can come from just that.

British author Christopher Isherwood (The Berlin Stories) meets 18-year-old LA-native Don Bachardy at a Santa Monica beach on Valentine's Day 1953. He and Chris hit it off with a bang: their clumsy first kiss smashed a glass window. This event was the start of an unconventional thirty-four year relationship between two openly gay men embedded in Hollywood society at a time where such a thing was strictly taboo. 

 

Don Bachardy recalls the early years as ecstasy. Despite the jeers and homophobic remarks from such people as actor Joseph Cotton, who regarded Chris and Don as "half-men" (never to Chris's face, of course), the electric couple was blissfully happy, each man confessing that they'd finally felt complete. Don explains that although he was born and bred in California, he began to develop a British accent and a heightened tone of speaking, as a result of spending so much time with Chris during those years. He likened himself to a chameleon, unconsciously mimicking his lover, idol, and father figure. As the documentary states, Don had successfully cloned himself... "In some weird way." 

 

“Chris & Don” is peppered with enriching anecdotes, of both the relevant and extraneous sort. One of the more memorable stories involves Bachardy's first encounter with hashish on a trip to Morocco with Isherwood. The drug doesn't sit well with him and he spends the rest of the night in a state of horrific paranoia. Curled up in bed, Chris holds and comforts Don throughout the night. Filmmakers Guido Santi and Tina Mascara have chosen all the right events to recount. Moments like these are particularly poignant in that they illustrate a truly affectionate and unconditional romance between two men who care deeply for one another. 

 

What make the film a treat to watch are the featured clips of home movies captured by Chris and Don themselves. The 16mm color film footage is vibrant and pristine -- without any evidence of deterioration or discoloration. It looked as though it could have been shot yesterday. After the screening the directors concurred it was miracle the footage had survived all this time. Don had "stored" them for years at room temperature, in the living room cabinet, facing the ocean. The footage documents the couple passing time with friends and traveling together, giving all the talk about a loyal and loving relationship weight and texture. Also interwoven are animated sequences reflecting Chris’s and Don's correspondences in which each was assigned a symbolic animal: a horse and a kitten, respectfully. Over these sequences we hear their letters spoken. What first appears to be a silly and playful exercise develops into a device demonstrating stalwart devotion and mutual respect, introducing a dimension of tenderness that continues to resonate throughout the length of the film. 

 

A brilliant and thoughtful move by the filmmakers was their approach to documenting Isherwood's passing. Stricken with prostate cancer, the last months of Chris's life were tough on the couple. Don stayed very close and tended to Chris's every need. He continued to sketch portraits of Chris until his dying day -- sometimes up to nine or ten drawings a day. Over Don's narration, the documentary runs through these intimate portraits and the result is incredibly moving. Don asserts that as an artist he cannot help but identify with his subjects, and in Chris's case Don was dying alongside him. 

 

Always in the shadow of his accomplished significant other, it was very difficult for Don Bachardy during the early years of their relationship. It was only until Don established himself as a gifted portrait artist that he was able to overcome this stigma. The tail end of the film documents Don's prolific artistic career, which was spurred by Chris's insistence that he attend art school. Even today, at 74 Don continues to paint and sketch portraits, most notably of celebrities and other painters. It's clear Don's talent is all his own; the filmmakers confirm for any lingering doubters that “Chris & Don” is a story about not one, but two extraordinary men in their own right. 

 

“Chris & Don” for others may be about two gay men triumphing over constraining societal conventions, but for me it stands well enough as a touching love story that craftily and elegantly pulls at the heart strings and convinces viewers to acknowledge, quite persuasively, that love can happen between anyone, and if you give it your all it gives back plenty.

 

"Chris & Don: A Love Story" (2007). 90 minutes. Directed by Guido Santi and Tina Mascara

Truffaut's "The Wild Child" (Carlos)

Recently Truffaut’s L’Enfant sauvage (The Wild Child, 1970) has found its way back into theaters. Over thirty years later it’s fresh and engaging, a testament to its timeless relevance. The film introduces the wild child by distant observation. For several minutes we watch a filthy kid with an apelike posture maneuver through dense forest and adeptly climb tall trees. He puts up a fight against two hunting dogs, disabling one before disappearing into a sea of foliage. Once caught, he’s mocked by the villagers and dragged through town by a leash tethered to his ankle. In these moments it's difficult to tell the civilized apart from the savage.

Doctor Itard, played by writer-actor-director Francois Truffaut, takes the purportedly deaf and mute child in and decides to civilize him. They name him Victor. The wild child sniffs at a mirror - an unknown object. Itard comes from behind with an apple, presenting it to the Victor through the mirror. The child reaches for the reflection until he realizes the stunt. Victor finally grabs the real apple, demonstrating a capacity to learn.

"The Wild Child" doesn't present us with melodramatic close-ups or a swelling musical score. It is directed with the same patience and simple dignity reflected in Truffaut's understated performance. A particularly touching montage involves the doctor's attempts at teaching Victor how to speak. He takes Victor's fore- and middle-fingers and presses them against his own larynx as he goes through the vowels. In another static shot he sits with Victor in front of a mirror. They practice pronunciation by lit candlewick that flickers with every utterance.

Truffaut craftily pulls at our strings by structuring the film with constant ups and downs. Whenever it seems like Doctor Itard's attempts at educating and socializing the boy are mere exercises in futility, the wild child's next move both surprises and impresses us. He develops a fondness for order, and learns how to ask for things he wants. It is particularly poignant that the first word Victor learns is "lait" (milk in French). The savage is suddenly humanized, and we're made to acknowledge a childhood bereft of nurturing and proper sustenance. Even at his most "uncivilized,” however, Victor conveys a connectedness to the natural world that the civilized will never experience or comprehend. Itard frequently observes Victor standing in the rain, rocking back and forth. He performs a similar ritualistic dance under the moonlight. The filmmaker affectionately develops Victor from a barbaric idiot into a dignified being with a reverence for the natural world.

One of my favorite moments is a brief cutaway to a deaf mute child at the institution sitting on a windowsill. He relays to a peer what the wild child is like. Using big, expressive gestures, he describes his teeth, the dirt covering his body, how he bites and claws out of fear; all the ways he differs from them. Scenes like these give the scenario depth and dimensionality. Viewers are permitted to witness multiple perspectives as Truffaut illustrates his fascination with children and their distinct world views.

The most surprising aspect of the film is how convincing Jean-Pierre Cargol is in the title role. Only a few times does his behavior seem contrived or rehearsed. Otherwise he shifts abruptly from quiet, wide-eyed observance to unrestrained animalistic ferocity. Later in the film Doctor Itard enters Victor’s room at night. Victor sits up in bed, taking Itard’s hand and resting it on different sections of his face. Voiceover confirms this is Victor’s way of communicating. It’s arguably a more effective mode than language could ever be. Cargol sustains a blank expression as the camera pulls in for a close-up. His performance is as touching here as it is when tears run down his face.

"The Wild Child" has plenty to say about childhood development. Nothing gives Dr. Itard, and arguably Truffaut, more joy in the process than witnessing Victor's discovery of invention -- he makes himself a chalk holder. Itard regards this as one of the more significant steps in development. Later he teaches Victor how to retrieve objects on command. He points to “marteau” on the board and Victor brings him a hammer. If he achieves the task successfully Itard rewards him with a glass of water. He concludes that if Victor fails, he corrects himself out of fear of punishment and not out of a sense of moral order. Itard decides to test his moral code by punishing him for a successful completion. Victor bites him in rebellion and Itard regards this as the biggest success. Following the act we see Victor more contemplative, and from then on there is weight and reason to his behavior.

In a moment of disenchantment, Doctor Itard concedes that his experiment has failed. The film cuts to Victor, curiously observing the small flame of a lit candle. He tests the heat with the palms of his hands and runs over the quivering flame with fluttering fingers. Victor is fascinated by fire – the cornerstone of civilization. He is learning how to control it. Candlelight serves as a motif in "The Wild Child," as it represents the taming of feral forces. Cinematographer Néstor Almendros (revered for his work in Days of Heaven) takes advantage and paints dark interiors with soft, flickering light. The stunning black and white was more a stylistic choice than a necessity.

Normally I have issues with voice over, but in "The Wild Child," Dr. Itard’s spoken journal entries provide a necessary backbone. The film is comprised of scenes established as vignettes, each opening and closing with a pinhole effect. Presented as series of episodes, the film itself plays like a string of journal entries. It doesn’t end with closure because it’s not about whether or not Victor will be “fixed.” The WIld Child is more I think about what it means to indoctrinate individuals into accepting and obeying societal conventions. It also sheds light on how substantive the early years are in the formation of a human being. Whatever the reason, it’s strongly recommended.

The Wild Child (French: L’enfant sauvage) [1970] 83 minutes. 1.66:1 Aspect. Written and directed by Francois Truffaut. Starring Jean-Pierre Cargol and Francois Truffaut. Available on DVD.

 

 

Patience pays off - The Grocer's Son (Carlos)

It’s an age-old story:  the prodigal son returns home on account of his bed-ridden father. How many permutations of this have we come across before? Some might argue we’ve run that well dry, both in the novel and film form. It was with some reluctance that I entered the theater seeking a French independent feature setting out to rehash a subject worn thin countless times in the past.  The result was surprisingly refreshing. 

30 year-old Antoine (Nicholás Cazalé) is struggling to make ends meet. His father (Daniel Duval), whom he severed ties with years ago, has a heart attack and Antoine begrudgingly returns to Provençe at mother’s request. In light of his illness, the family grocery store is in need of a cart driver and Antoine’s older brother, François (Stéphan Guérin-Tillié) insists that for once Antoine lend a helping hand. Accompanied by next-door neighbor and love interest, Claire (Clotilde Hesme) our surly protagonist begins a slow process of reflection and self-exploration, coming of age late in the game, but gracefully against a backdrop of the beautiful French countryside.

That’s one way of putting it. The point, however, won’t be found in the narrative. What resonate are the quiet, ineffable, and undeniably filmic moments that mold the film into what it is: a patient and rustic reflection of life and family embraced by the calm permanence of a pastoral landscape.

The film opens in a blur. Home movies shot on super-8 projected and pulsating; we’re in such a tight close-up that the shaky footage becomes broad brushstrokes of warm hues – the aesthetic of intimacy. We cut on swish pans to Antoine at the subway station, trains scream by in blurs.  In the first few minutes director Eric Guirado bridges the bleak tones of a glum urban world and the tender, nostalgic imagery of childhood. As Antoine returns to the home he fled from ten years earlier, the rushing subway cars evoke memories of the faded celluloid that intimately documented his youth. It’s a really nice intro.

Antoine’s first foray into selling groceries door-to-door doesn’t go well at all. He’s got an attitude; he’s incredibly unfriendly and blunt. All of Provençe’s inhabitants are in their winter years – slow moving and hard of hearing. It doesn’t help that Antoine’s as cold and unapproachable as Camus’ Mersault. In fact, the most unpleasant thing about the film is its protagonist. Thankfully, The Grocer’s Son makes all the right turns and Antoine learns a thing or two about kindness and hospitality, transformed by the third act from a stone faced stoic into an affable young man who might be ready for a commitment or two.

Director Guirado develops a rich cast of characters (most notably the old folks) who engage in seemingly trivial interactions, but as the film adeptly demonstrates, it’s those moments in between that breathe life into the story, give the subjects dimensionality, and compel us to feel compassion for and identify with the faces we see on screen.

“The Grocer’s Son” (French: “Le Fils de l'épicier”) 2007. 96 minutes, 1.85:1 Aspect. Starring Nicholás Cazalé, Clotilde Hesme, Stéphan Guérin-Tillié. Directed and Co-written by Eric Guirado.Now playing at the Charles Theatre. 

 

 

 

Anti-Epic - Aguirre: the Wrath of God (Carlos)

Imagine five weeks spent under the weight of heavy leather, steel chest plates and helmets, slogging through sludge and dodging volatile rapids in the dizzying heat and humidity of the Amazonian jungle. Writer-director Werner Herzog’s third feature, Aguirre: the Wrath of God is a well-lauded masterwork, its success due in part to Herzog’s unbridled approach to production. 

The film opens with a master shot of the Andes Mountains, small dots trickle down a lush green mountainside, and the camera zooms in to reveal a line of conquistadors and enslaved Indians struggling with every step as they descend from Quito into dense jungle. The shot overwhelms the viscera because what we observe is a documented event -- the film’s cast and crew relive the sweat and toil of the historical moment, and the result is astounding. 

“The story takes place in the Peruvian jungle – you have to go there, there’s no alternative to that.” 

With a budget of $360,000, a stolen camera, and a crew of no more than eight people at a time, Werner Herzog makes one of the most important and relevant works of recent history, committing images to celluloid that would eventually inspire Coppola’s Apocalypse Now and arguably Mallick’s entire oeuvre. Aguirre: the Wrath of God covers the tale of an ambitious and impossible Spanish expedition led by conquistador Gonzalo Pizarro in search of El Dorado, the lost city of gold. Convinced that they’ve veered off path, Pizarro puts together a small group of men, led by aristocrat Don Pedro de Ursua (Ruy Guerra, an accomplished Brazilian filmmaker in his own right) with Don Lope de Aguirre (Klaus Kinski) as second in command, to continue traveling along the river before the expedition is terminated for good. The group includes the asinine Fernando de Guzman, Padre Gaspar de Carvajal, and Aguirre’s beautiful daughter Inez, along with a handful of slaves and soldiers. Eventually Aguirre will undermine Ursua’s power and lead the group by force, threatening any dissidents with death. Handheld camera follows at eye level, observing the group as they fumble through thick foliage and muddy swampland. Four of the Indians are forced to carry (and balance) a ridiculous sedan chair housing the beautiful Flores (Helena Rojo), wife of Ursua. There is an immediate sense of disconnect between subject and setting that remains throughout the length of the film. 

Hardly anything is known about Lope de Aguirre. At most fifteen pages worth of material exist on the historical figure, giving Herzog enough room to create moments within which characters are developed filmically. Freed from the constraint of historicity, Herzog creates believable scenarios intended not to advance the storyline necessarily, but to convey an inner mood by testing the limits of physical and mental endurance against all odds. He admits to having done little to no research prior to writing the script (which in prose form was swiftly finished within two days), which is mind-boggling. The filmmaker entrusts location with the task of spurring undeniably authentic moments, the life of the film exists within the individual’s relationship to the surrounding environment. 

Furious nature gains an independent life in the close up. Herzog deviates from the narrative and closes on a raging river; the shot is held for about a minute. By slowly pulling into focus, cinematographer Thomas Mauch calls attention to the entropic movement of the murky, rolling waves. A mesmerizing and haunting soundtrack by long-time collaborators Popol Vuh links the landscape to the mindscape, and we begin to observe the group’s inevitable downward spiral as Aguirre loses his mind in favor of megalomania and delusions of grandeur. 

Camera as participant 

On a turbulent trip down a river, one of the large rafts gets stuck in an eddy. The rest of the group waits on shore for the cornering current to give way. Several shots are fired overnight and the following morning everyone on the raft is dead, while two native oarsmen are missing. This event as observed is never given a proper explanation; it remains as mysterious an occurrence to the viewer as it was for the rest of the group. 

Herzog advances the notion of the Unseen by deliberately keeping the enemy out of view. The Indians are present but never seen, and there is a sense that the spectator is also not safe. A soldier trekking through the forest steps into a trap and is swept up and out of frame. The only indication of murder is a sprinkle of arterial blood against a bright green leaf, as observed by another soldier who runs in a panic to warn the others. 

Pizarro’s men awake to find the river has risen fifteen feet overnight. The rafts they’ve built have drifted away. This was not staged – the river had indeed risen during the shoot and the rafts were lost. Herzog understood it was necessary to make this problem a part of the film. Having conflicts such as this arise organically results in sincere expressions of confusion and frustration as the men scrounge for iron with which to hold new rafts together. 

One of my favorite moments is when Aguirre stands against the edge of the frame opposite a slave playing a panpipe. Beside the music, everything is silent, Aguirre is thinking. This shot serves little purpose in the context of the story, but it is essential to advancing the inner mood. Klaus’ face in this respect is pivotal to the impact of the film. Often the camera stops to observe his expression, which becomes more and more unhinged as we move farther into the jungle.

Aguirre: the Wrath of God follows a doomed mission. When the men march down the steep mountainside they are descending into the depths of hell. Hunger, isolation, exhaustion and fear will soon drive them to death or madness. In the face of impossible odds, to the very end Aguirre’s eyes express an insatiable greed and want of power; he looks toward the horizon with confidence as everything crumbles. 

There will be a screening of Aguirre: the Wrath of God on Thursday, October 30 in Hodson 303. Don't miss it!

Aguirre: the Wrath of God (1972). Written and directed by Werner Herzog. Starring Klaus Kinski, Del Negro, Ruy Guerra, and Helena Rojo. 100 minutes. Available on DVD, presented in its original 1.33:1 aspect ratio.

The Ultimate Good: Godard’s dystopian crime-noir Alphaville. (Carlos)

It is a daunting task to write anything about the consistently innovative and compulsively prolific auteur Jean-Luc Godard. His early films were determined to bend and shatter cinematic conventions,and the oftentimes cryptic Alphaville (1965) is no exception. I don't claim to be able to fully decipher the film, or any Godard picture for that matter, but I’ll begin to peel back the outermost layers of this dense and multifaceted work.

Silence. Logic. Security. Prudence.

Lemmy Caution (Eddie Constantine) is Secret Agent 003, sent from the Outlands to Alphaville, the capital of the Galaxy, to apprehend its designer Professor Vonbraun (Howard Vernon) and track down missing Agent Henri Dickson. Posing as a journalist he works his way through labyrinthine corridors and systematized networks of officials to  undermine Vonbraun's control and destroy Alphaville itself. Along the way he falls in love with Vonbraun’s purported daughter Natasha (Anna Karina), and opts to save her from the system. Alphaville represents a society where, to paraphrase Natasha, no one has lived in the past or the future. Its inhabitants are caught in an infinite loop that simply ensures a controlled and sustainable society. In Orwellian fashion, the technocratic dictatorship has systematically stripped its people of individualist concepts such as love, conscience, emotion and poetry. Everyone keeps a “Bible,” a periodically edited dictionary of permissible words, and the catalog shrinks on a daily basis.

On the surface Alphaville is an exercise in genre. Godard crafts this story for the screen by synergizing the science fiction and crime-noir genres, calling attention to each by hyperbolizing the essential ingredients of their respective recipes. Within the first ten minutes Godard throws at us the typical elements of crime pulp in rapid procession. The objectification of women, brutality and barbarism, confrontation and gunplay are all displayed within the same electric scene through a single take. Often labeled as the Godard film for those who don’t like Godard, Alphaville is undeniably fun. It constantly engages the viscera, whether or not we’re out to penetrate the profound.

An uncanny, throaty voice gurgles from every wall and ceiling. A sentient cluster of supercomputers that go by the name of Alpha60 governs over Alphaville as judge, jury, and executioner. To Caution and the viewer it represents the inhumane and militantly logical, but to most of Alphaville’s citizens Alpha60 is unquestionably just and in its heuristic calculations utterly infallible.  Alpha60 interrogates Caution during a mandatory examination at Resident Control. A pulsating, incandescent bulb that fills the frame in a close-up is the cinematic ancestor of the iconic HAL 9000 camera-eye -- cold, calculating and unwaveringly logical. (It is duly noted that before Alpha60 there was Big Brother.) When Alpha60 asks Caution what illuminates the night he responds, “la poésie.” Caution replies to administered questions that anticipate laconic responses and “yes,” or “no,” answers with emotively-driven poetic expressions. He manages to puzzle Alpha60, and we are suddenly confronted with a clash between human language and computer language, light and electricity, human intuition and logical calculations.

The female inhabitants of Alphaville have it the worst. A striking young blonde in a loose coat shows Lemmy to his room. Along the way she caters to his every need and offers to join him in the bath. As she strips down to her undergarments we see a serial number tattooed across her shoulder. In Alphaville women have been programmed into domicile objects at the service of men, deprived of individualism and free thought. Godard develops this point to such an absurd degree that later a pack of scientists indifferently stroll past a nude woman displayed in a glass case. It is pure objectification.

Godard sets Alphaville in the late-twentieth century. Lemmy Caution says he’s a Guadalcanal Veteran, which references the naval battle in 1947. Much of the film (primarily due to budgetary reasons I’m sure) was shot on-location in mid-1960s Paris, and the filmmakers do little to conceal it. These decisions are clearly deliberate and intended to suggest that Alphaville’s dystopian future is happening in the present, at least in essence. What it lends visually is unique and unprecedented when you consider for example that  Caution’s "space vessel" is a white Ford Mustang. We’ll get back to set design in a bit.

Brilliantly lensed by Raoul Cotard (Godard’s long-time cinematographer), the use of black-and-white stock in the style of noir informs the viewer’s experience of the film in several ways. The bleak, monochromatic image here reflects the constraint and rigidity of computer language, a binary world comprised of ones and zeroes. I felt at once the sensation of being crammed inside a chassis of humming circuitry; an affect derived also from confining, frame-within-a-frame compositions and tenebrous, low-key lighting.

It is when the Alpha system begins to self-destruct that we become most aware of the film’s claustrophobic frame. Without Alpha60 its citizens lose all sense of cognizance and social construction, tumbling through corridors and pressing up against walls as if attempting to pass through them. Caution drags Natasha out of the crumbling construct and tells her to think of the word love, otherwise she’s as “lost as the dead of Alphaville.” They head for the Outlands on an intersidereal highway, surrounded by the vastness of space, and the film builds to a satisfying close on the stunning Anna Karina as she learns to say for herself: “I love you.” Good stuff, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

 “Ah! The day breaks.”

Flickering cathode tubes above illuminate a clinical corridor. The architectural style of “super modernity” emerges as Alphaville’s visual grammar: the transitional space of instructions, notices, and signs. Godard summons the work of French anthropologist Marc Augé to inform his vision of a bleak and empty existence: a space that is neither relational nor historical, and without any sense of identity is described as an empty zone, or non-place. Corridors, elevators, and lobbies comprise the bulk of Alphaville’s filmed locations, suggesting that the city consists entirely of such non-places. Slaves to logic, the inhabitants of Alphaville have relinquished their culture and ancestry, down to the architecture that surrounds them.

The systematic breakdown of signifier and significance pervades the diegesis and the film’s construction itself. We are frequently faced with graphic close-ups of arrows, always pointing rightward. They are the arrows of direction and momentum, a reflection maybe of a consistent narrative current persistently moving forward. Sometimes we cut to equations and certainties of the physical universe, such as a neon sign flickering E=mc². Several returns to these signifiers incite the deterioration of associative meaning. If this is indeed the case the reasoning is clear. We are as much a part of the world of Alphaville as its deluded citizens.

All these layers of meaning and modes of expression Godard masterfully weaves into a definitive vision of a crumbling dystopian empire. For a first time viewer the result may be jarring, but stay with it. It pays off plenty in the end.

Alphaville (1965). Written and directed by Jean-Luc Godard. Starring Eddie Constantine, Anna Karina, and Howard Vernon. 99 minutes. Available on Criterion Collection DVD, presented in its original 1.33:1 aspect ratio.

 

Tell No One: A prototypical and tone-perfect American thriller...from France. (Carlos)

The crime novels of Chandler and Hammett laid the foundation for American film noir, with their veritable list of eclectic characters and convoluted narratives, filled with enough edge-of-seat twists and turns to keep viewers attached from the retina. Along the same cinematic vein lies director Guilamme Canet’s gripping new thriller Tell No One, which through economy of imagery and swift, expert direction keeps this sweltering murder mystery at a cool and succinct two hours length.

Alex Beck (François Cluzet) is an amiable pediatrician madly in love with his childhood sweetheart and wife Margot (Marie-Josée Croze, Diving Bell) who in the course of the exposition is violently murdered during one of their many nostalgic visits to a beautiful and private lakeside getaway. The bulk of the film is set eight years after the incident, when pipeline work around Lake Charmaine exhumes two bodies belonging to the purported murderers thought to have fled after the killing. On one of the bodies police find the key to a safety deposit box containing a bloodied hunting rifle and photographs of a domestically abused Margot. The news brings the many holes in the old and dusty criminal case to light and Alex, who hasn’t yet gotten over his wife’s untimely death, thrusts himself into the role of self-prescribed detective. He immediately becomes the primary suspect, believed to have been after Margot’s life insurance policy, making the mission to solve the murders himself even more pressing. All the while he begins receiving cryptic emails containing surveillance footage of Margot alive and well, and messages like “TELL NO ONE,” and “WE ARE BEING WATCHED.” In several interview scenes reminiscent of those in Citizen Kane, he visits friends and family, one by one, asking them to recall the events preceding her death. He soon discovers that many layers of deception and misinformation barricaded him from unveiling the truth.

“Tell No One” is gorgeous. Fluid camerawork becomes a welcomed stylistic conceit, and many scenes set in domestic interiors are shot hand-held and lit only by practicals. The mix of styles never compromises tone, as Canet is clearly aware of what works and when it works. The numerous montages, often enriched by a largely American pop soundtrack including, quite memorably, U2’s “With or Without You,” contain all the necessary elements of a prototypical sequence of the sort, swiftly edited and rife with spotless graphic match cuts. And yes, just the right number of zooms.

At times Canet and cinematographer Christophe Offenstein momentarily depart from the narrative flow to capture moving images of filmic beauty, which so happen to run parallel to the main current of action. When we first meet Alex’s sister Anne (Marina Hands), we watch her gracefully jump over hurdles on horseback, images so captivating that when Alex tells her he loves to watch her ride we're simply inclined to agree. The film is full of such welcomed respites that encourage the viewer for just a moment to reflect on the purely aesthetic.

The picture is so multifaceted that several themes emerge from the get-go. One is the examination of the relations between the different classes in French society, which is an addition to the story absent in the American novel. Another is the potential for lies and secrets -- especially those harbored among the elite, it seems – to birth a snowballing number of violent crimes. The most notable aspect of the film, however, is what it says about the authenticity and credibility of the moving image. More important than what it tells us is what it intentionally leaves out. “Tell No One” succeeds as a mystery because often the information divulged represents either a shade of the truth or downright deception. Canet makes the point, whether he means to or not, that when viewers are presented with captured moving images they are inclined to believe what is seen (given enough reason to suspend disbelief). It is this quality of cinema that allows for writhing suspense and effective plot twists. This idea is explored within the diegesis of the film as well. Margot’s presence on real time surveillance footage gives Alex enough reason to believe she is still alive. When Captain Levkowich (Francois Berléand) presents Alex with photographic evidence of Margot’s bruised body, we begin for the first time to wonder if he can be trusted, despite overwhelming evidence in his favor. The captured moment becomes for us irrefutable.

“Tell No One” is an impeccable study of the American thriller and murder mystery. Canet makes his homage to the American system clear in the opening scene, where a fluid, meandering frame sways as if dancing around a table of good friends, one with child and the others, young and in love. “Lilac Wine” by Jeff Buckley plays over warm, angelic smiles and hearty laughter. What could possibly go wrong? From then on it contains all the necessary tropes and develops them with deftness. Alex’s love for his wife is so strong and pure, and Cuzet is so affable an actor (too many people have mentioned to me that he looks like Dustin Hoffman, so I can’t leave that out), that we have little reason to question his motives. Captain Levkowich is the figure of authority sympathetic to Alex’s hopeless plight, willing to openly oppose confident claims by others of the man’s guilt. An almost skeletal woman with a knack for pressure points plays the role of an eccentric thug seeking out Margot and Alex for reasons that aren’t immediately clear. The list goes on. The film is not entirely clothed in American modus operandi, however. At times the film cuts off its soundtrack in mid-melody to affirm we are watching a carefully crafted and calculated thriller -- a product of the cutting room. Godard has not been abandoned.

In many ways, “Tell No One” is one part Big Sleep and one part The Wrong Man. It contains an insatiable and ever-twisting narrative characteristic of Chandler’s definitive novel (the Hawks film does it justice) and the craftsmanship and surging momentum of a Hitchcock picture. It doesn't strike the chord of a classic but it may be too soon to tell. What is clear however, is the skillfulness and technical proficiency of young actor-director (and co-writer) Canet and the tremendous talent of its all-star French cast.

I’ve left out quite a bit of the good stuff, so be sure to catch this great movie still playing at The Charles Theatre before it leaves the big screen for good.

“Tell No One” (French: “Ne le dis à personne”) was released in 2006 (France) and 2008 (USA). 125 minutes, 2.35:1 Aspect. Based on the 2001 novel by Harlan Cobel. Starring Francois Cluzet, Kristin Scott Thomas, Marina Hands, Marie-Josee Croze, André Dussollier. Co-written and directed by Guillaume Canet. It is his second film, following the comedy “Mon Idole” (2002).