tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19389900309116302112024-03-13T09:37:36.898+00:00Modern IllusionsMusic, Film, Art, PhotographyReecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-13257847856410340362009-08-06T20:03:00.001+01:002009-08-06T20:06:05.824+01:00Peter Kowald / Miya Masaoka / Gino Robair - Illuminations<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHImIXLeBUxIS13cLK9JhL-0BbkezJZuHohV4cOI9ETDVJLO015NVoHSgXyhYewrs955EvwZW2N4ry0ArA7vwnfvDR08sr7VbhC0LvDad4i1O2I5BXOsqFzx0g35iYb8givc1SNiUzwsM/s1600-h/500374.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHImIXLeBUxIS13cLK9JhL-0BbkezJZuHohV4cOI9ETDVJLO015NVoHSgXyhYewrs955EvwZW2N4ry0ArA7vwnfvDR08sr7VbhC0LvDad4i1O2I5BXOsqFzx0g35iYb8givc1SNiUzwsM/s320/500374.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5366928551124832450" border="0" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family: verdana;">PETER KOWALD / MIYA MASAOKA / GINO ROBAIR<br />Illuminations<br />Rastascan Records 2004</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/zl9vri">Download</a><br /><br />I suppose Kowald is the big name here – and as ever his presence is colossal – sparking off rich, improvised reactions from the albums two other contributors with his typically dark, abstract bass playing and his wonderful sense of rhythm and texture.<br /><br />I’ve heard two other albums with the percussion work of Gino Robair – both involving British free improv saxophonist, John Butcher and strangely enough one of these albums also involves the third member of this trio – koto player, Miya Masaoka – the only other album I have heard her play on.<br /><br />The pieces on offer here are short, succinct, carefully articulated and defined – suggestive of sparsely drawn sketches composed of a few gentle strokes of the brush. They are miniatures of a large, overall image – not that the music itself is either minimal or sparse. Perhaps quiet and unassuming would be better ways of describing the sounds on offer – there are few manic moments – Kowald’s bass delivers deep, rumbling lines that drive things forward, Masaoka’s smooth koto players twinkles in between like a gentle stream flowing over a cluster of rocks as Robair’s unusual percussive work offers mystery and intrigue. His odd assortment of instruments includes things like the faux daxophone (though I’m still not sure at what point I am actually listening to this) and the act of scraping an ebow across various surfaces.<br /><br />This album is certainly less frantic than the previous two posted here – the lack of a sprawling piano accompaniment places things on a different level where texture often plays a stronger role than colour. The deep bass provides an unusual counterpoint for the higher register of the koto and the careful insertion of the strange sounds of Robair’s electronics and percussion gives the album a kind of otherworldly abstraction and thoughtfulness – not something you always get with free improvisation, which makes it all the more worthwhile to listen to when you do.</span>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-83393762251595413682009-05-28T20:02:00.004+01:002009-06-14T19:01:11.387+01:00Sylvie Courvoisier / Joëlle Léandre / Susie Ibarra - Passaggio<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IGFL48OMxDbrPHOTA0D0fSTeoCwbyRowd4sR0mkRvFLc8LcvTJBErxhCWCZ0jEeUGQRydExtUSExoAuGxvfJAusmacqCQztEaThSr170oYvOladIN1nchA2DOqq4HOnnXlD7n4W6Scc/s1600-h/INT_075.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_IGFL48OMxDbrPHOTA0D0fSTeoCwbyRowd4sR0mkRvFLc8LcvTJBErxhCWCZ0jEeUGQRydExtUSExoAuGxvfJAusmacqCQztEaThSr170oYvOladIN1nchA2DOqq4HOnnXlD7n4W6Scc/s320/INT_075.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340953111304333490" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">SYLVIE COURVOISIER / JOËLLE LÉANDRE / SUSIE IBARRA<br />Passaggio<br />Intakt 2002</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/7j8f7g">Download</a><br /><br />Passaggio according to the ever-reliable Wikipedia is “is a term used in classical singing to describe the pitch ranges in which vocal registration events occur.”<br /><br />OK, so there’s no singing on this album, but the three improvisers here, offer a wide range of tones from Léandre’s scraping bass to Couvoisier’s dramatic jumps from the high notes to the low notes on piano to Ibarra’s shifts from tense cymbal tapping to a single, resonating strike of the bass drum. It’s a sort of deconstruction game as the trio tries to distort and warp the usual sound of their instruments, rumbling in the lower-registers before leaping into high-pitched screeching.<br /><br />There are plenty of these tumultuous passages too, and given the brevity of the tracks, they can at times get a little prickly, like being caught beneath a net of brambles and it’s certainly a more challenging listen than the previous Léandre album posted on here. Expressive and tight with plenty of colour, there’s still a lot to enjoy on this offering and as ever with free improvisation albums, its strength lies its ability to surprise with unusual juxtapositions and striking dynamism.</span>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-66271034638145959462009-05-27T21:03:00.004+01:002009-05-28T20:07:13.041+01:00Joëlle Léandre - Signature<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRWhg64x-QlVBaoNQAXxL3IE9cfFTIxMgYosVaL9j4W26N4i57BGHl5ky3JlXpQd3yD1WGyQYEyWQAPREwdNqQAtSefDdsuWe4FF71lqepv7JzPdlK5gU9syHPD8LNsO-fbn60bxFC_U/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 319px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwRWhg64x-QlVBaoNQAXxL3IE9cfFTIxMgYosVaL9j4W26N4i57BGHl5ky3JlXpQd3yD1WGyQYEyWQAPREwdNqQAtSefDdsuWe4FF71lqepv7JzPdlK5gU9syHPD8LNsO-fbn60bxFC_U/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340596953660360130" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">JOËLLE LÉANDRE<br />Signature<br />Red Toucan Records 2002</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/345nik">Download, Part One</a><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/lrc0km">Download, Part Two</a><br /><br />Bonus Post 2. Whilst I have a few free moments, I might as well try and keep up my May post count and raise it to the grand total of 3. Superb set of duets from Joëlle Léandre joined by Masahiko Satoh for the first set and Yuji Takahashi for the second, both on piano. Leandre for those who have never experienced the virtuosity of her bass playing is one of the lesser-known figures on the free improv circuit, but to my mind certainly one of the best. But having said that, Léandre also has a strong background in classical music and working with contemporary classical composers, such as, Boulez, Cage and Scelsi so her credentials are certainly impressive. The pieces here are a great introduction to her talents, ranging from haunting Ligeti-esque chamber pieces to lively Bartók-esque folk dances. <br /><br />There is a strong echo of Japanese mysticism in the music as on certain occasions where Léandre’s lightness of touch is delicately balanced by Satoh’s sprinkling of Takemitsu-esque notes, carefully woven into a meditative like trance. Her set with Takahashi is more severe than Satoh’s; the spaces are wider apart, the notes are sparser, that sense of spiritual emptiness is perhaps greater, but it also reminds me of recent avant-garde European music – the likes of Salvatore Sciarrino – itself deeply routed in atonality expressed by composers from Schoenberg through to Scelsi. But tradition aside, the strength of this album comes from the brilliance of the playing, faultless, expressive, rich.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-3457127384591304932009-05-26T23:03:00.003+01:002009-05-28T20:07:40.475+01:00Derek Bailey / Han Bennink - ICP 004<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBFNjw8YnpSH6l6kBqV6Wnx64WWWXr3MN0K0MGCdQXGz3XaqQvmIKIK_r_P2dme5gBtuA5ghngwlbssctfhkxyK5ouNAWUS-WishPzCcudXECXSy-WA475bF2OiM1bmfqA1Eu_gLz2tMw/s1600-h/R-1447416-1237413217.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBFNjw8YnpSH6l6kBqV6Wnx64WWWXr3MN0K0MGCdQXGz3XaqQvmIKIK_r_P2dme5gBtuA5ghngwlbssctfhkxyK5ouNAWUS-WishPzCcudXECXSy-WA475bF2OiM1bmfqA1Eu_gLz2tMw/s320/R-1447416-1237413217.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340256946278348242" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">DEREK BAILEY / HAN BENNINK<br />ICP 004<br />Instant Composers Pool 1969</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/85ogj0">Download</a><br /><br />Bonus Post. Those already familiar with Derek Bailey and Han Bennink should know what to expect from these two great free improv players, but this partnership really surprised me. I think this may be the first time they recorded together, but I could be wrong. Anyway, the year is 1969 so it pre-dates the only <a href="http://www.discogs.com/Derek-Bailey-Han-Bennink-Derek-Bailey-Han-Bennink/release/50227">other duo</a> between them by 3 years. This album is remarkably fresh feeling with both improvisers exploring space and timbre in a surprisingly sophisticated way. Layers of tonal space are deconstructed, broken down and twisted, chaotically into atonal dissonance – Bennink’s rolling drum beats shift from steady pulses to all out attacks, pushing Bailey’s dynamics in all kinds of directions. Semblances of structure are crushed over time, blown to pieces and disseminated by strong winds, loud, fast and energetic.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-49954701645771590232009-05-26T19:21:00.005+01:002009-05-28T20:07:55.999+01:00Tatsuya Nakatani & Peter Kowald - 13 Definitions of Truth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitI7SwbwxjU4phF6KJl7NFnz3Qy6c3M6yBNHnA9QBvPaa15jbIg5TqZmNVTY2ud-jv-5lTRLm8GwXjfw8hm8qHevBXnAfztlvHzPOVZ0TdNFwP4T_PsuV_XUEIJROwR508V1trwEHBdeE/s1600-h/477042.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitI7SwbwxjU4phF6KJl7NFnz3Qy6c3M6yBNHnA9QBvPaa15jbIg5TqZmNVTY2ud-jv-5lTRLm8GwXjfw8hm8qHevBXnAfztlvHzPOVZ0TdNFwP4T_PsuV_XUEIJROwR508V1trwEHBdeE/s320/477042.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5340200467083883698" /></a><br /><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">TATSUYA NAKATANI & PETER KOWALD<br />13 Definitions of Truth<br />Locust 2003</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/pql2p5">Download</a><br /><br />First new post for a while and with fewer words than usual. Still, this one’s certainly worth a listen – Kowalds droning bass and Nakatani’s tribal percussion makes me think of ancient rituals, lost in time – the kind of open-endedness I enjoy when listening to all this free improv stuff.<br /><br />Tension is high. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Track 2</span> treads carefully, making sure not to wake the sleeping giant as portrayed by the breathing sounds of the almost snoring bass. Next there’s the gentle patter of light rain or the consistent dripping of running water, followed by a flurry, a bell, panic then calm, tension and release.<br /><br />The impressive relationship between the two improvisers wonderfully comes across in their synchronised ability to maintain that tension, which is wound tight and strong, before beautifully releasing everything a flurry of dissonant sounds. The approach made me think of a ship adrift in a ferocious sea, creaking, rolling, thrown from side to side – running between cabins attempting to hold on as waves break against the side, flooding the deck until calm – the aftermath – a new dawn, a strange new world, a brave new world.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Track 9</span> builds into a heavy wall of sound before tapering off into the distance, leaving the bass alone, swirling and rumbling into the last track with its deep and rich, meditative chanting and the constant sound of bells – in what can probably be described as Kowald actually carving the air with his bass – in what is by far the best track on the album. A mini masterpiece in itself – the end of the road, the path to truth, nirvana, enlightenment – and an overwhelming blast of noise.<br /></span>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-4467926359354178482009-04-09T22:57:00.005+01:002009-05-28T20:08:11.230+01:00Frode Gjerstad Trio - Last First<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfhWkjCuGm1INI1_kSH-TKJjlbKnXX0_SbHvFaKQG-IDu68tcGolaIbFY1fdtsegOsNr0ElX9EJu_nypyRHDtez4MDdqozn3dRVtUlP8yYkG4gFdsAoPAqbp-2gMiEcyv4u7bZE0MW9Q/s1600-h/2536346520_f6f4a65915.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSfhWkjCuGm1INI1_kSH-TKJjlbKnXX0_SbHvFaKQG-IDu68tcGolaIbFY1fdtsegOsNr0ElX9EJu_nypyRHDtez4MDdqozn3dRVtUlP8yYkG4gFdsAoPAqbp-2gMiEcyv4u7bZE0MW9Q/s320/2536346520_f6f4a65915.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322815599634329218" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">FRODE GJERSTAD TRIO<br />Last First<br />Falçata-Galia 2001</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/svifo6">Download</a><br /><br />The great Norwegian king of free improvisation, Frode Gjerstad has gone through a few changes to his trio line-up working with the legendary William Parker & Hamid Drake to the lesser known British musicians John Edwards and Mark Sanders and on this release with two young musicians from his home country of Norway - Øyvind Storesund and Paal Nilssen-Love. One of the good things about this shifting line-up is the different approach the new musicians bring to the sessions and here there's that wonderful feel of energy, vibrant and vitalic. Nilssen-Love in particular (who seems to have emerged as one of the great all-time drummers) is nothing short of impressive with his abstruse rhythms, unexpected time changes and carefully placed press rolls and cymbal taps to keep things moving.<br /><br />I don't know much about Øyvind Storesund, except that he doesn't seem to have done much outside of Norway, which is a shame because back in 1999 when the trio played this session, his bass playing is solid and well-balanced and he even manages to squeeze himself into the spaces left exposed by Nilssen-Love and Gjerstad. Just listen to the way he manages to burst through the tight rhythms of Nilssen-Love's drumming and Gjerstad's high trills on the saxophone on 'Part 3' - his bass really swells, swinging back and forth between the other two like a giant snake carefully winding its way across a densely covered forest floor, always keeping ahold on what's going on around him. This is intelligent playing even if he doesn't quite possess that dramatic daring of someone like William Parker who's really able to really tear things up.<br /><br />Gjerstad for his part proves once again why he's becoming such a regular player on my stereo. Like John Butcher, he has a great range, his playing is dynamic and versatile, not just in terms of texture, but also colour as well. On 'Part 8' for instance, which starts off fairly mundanely for all of 20 seconds where he plays in short, sharp trills before Nilssen-Love's pulsating rhythms push him into flights of Eric Dolphy like abstraction, rising and falling between the highest register of his alto-sax and longer held mid-range tones. Perhaps less dynamic on alto-flute in 'Part 9', but the higher range acts as a nice counterbalance for Storesund's rich, wavering bass lines and produces probably the albums most melodious sections.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-77182353176911135832009-04-07T19:48:00.005+01:002009-05-28T20:08:20.099+01:00Spontaneous Music Orchestra - Plus Equals<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCQn-1xy-tsxDEmQTtT9A7VpgH37rGVl0cm9yKe986eowt9EF9pDQamagngBO3YrijQLSLf5R_SJ1rvGyS9sZZ4813qo9ToKPi2VZ3sCb7PSoQycMrX-H721PYicT9CdOjML725PlmmU/s1600-h/R-797439-1159798866.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCQn-1xy-tsxDEmQTtT9A7VpgH37rGVl0cm9yKe986eowt9EF9pDQamagngBO3YrijQLSLf5R_SJ1rvGyS9sZZ4813qo9ToKPi2VZ3sCb7PSoQycMrX-H721PYicT9CdOjML725PlmmU/s320/R-797439-1159798866.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322025261581187426" /></a><strong style="font-family:verdana;">SPONTANEOUS MUSIC ORCHESTRA<br />Plus Equals<br />Emanem 2001<br />Reissue from A Records 1975</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/gpt3pg">Download</a><br /><br />What do you get if you add more musicians to the improvisational, avant-garde Spontaneous Music Ensemble outfit? Well like this album says - Spontaneous Music Ensemble + = Spontaneous Music Orchestra. More members equals more sounds, more variety, more unusual juxtapositions as the rattling drums of group director John Stevens cut sharply into the wavering strings of Nigel Coombes' violin like a rippling earthquake. The only thing is whether or not all that extra improvisational madness adds anything to the mix that the previous musicians weren't capable of. Does it push the direction of free improvisation further into a cacophonic nightmare of trills, squeaks, squawks and drumbeats in a taking no prisoners, all-or-nothing grand finale? The beginning of the end, or perhaps the end of the end, because where else can you go? How do you get out of this mess, if you want to call it a mess?<br /><br />On albums like Withdrawal and A New Distance SME retained some semblance of structure, improvising around central themes, converging and then wandering off in various directions as each musician played in their own space for a while, still of course, well aware of how the other musicians were playing in their space - there was certainly no horrible playground-esque crash of boyish football into girlish skipping into a naive game of awkward kiss chase here. But this kind of play, this understanding between musicians falling into place, merging with one another without thinking is what makes albums like Withdrawal so exciting - spontaneous being the key word here. Which is perhaps why when the ensemble grows, you inevitably feel as though it's bursting or worse still burst at its seams. <br /><br />Plus Equals isn't so chaotic. It's simply a little messier - there's a lot more going on and you really have to pay more attention and stay focused to get any sense out of it - if that's not besides the point of the album. Free Improvisation is a great idea, it's one of my favourite forms of music - the clash between different instruments of opposing styles can be really exciting and despite the removal of rhythm and tempo, there remains a faint structure, or perhaps more appropriately, there emerges a faint structure almost at random. <br /><br />What's so engaging about listening to SME is their knack for dramatic shifts, from exploding clicks and splatters of short trills and taps to longer, sparser, more droning sections which rise unexpectedly through Evan Parker's or Trevor Watts' quavering Soprano Sax or plunge into some darker depths through Ian Brighton's rumbling, electric guitar. The title piece is a 40 minute journey through these shifts, evolving slowly with high horn sounds as the less experienced workshop musicians play John Stevens' 'Search and Reflect' composition. Five minutes in the more experienced musicians filter into the mix, playing droning, sustained notes climaxing with Evan Parker's soaring Sax about half way through before erupting into a powerful climax, lead by Trevor Watts. Everything is in flux, stasis is completely destroyed as if a huge rock has begun a long descent down an initially shallow decline before picking up so much speed it becomes relentless, unflagging and unstoppable. <br /><br />The second piece on the album tumbles headfirst into that cacophonic nightmare - a mixture of manic Sax and Trumpet blowing, trampling on the strings which struggle to find their place in the confusion. This is chaotic. What emerges isn't the same sprawling descent into maelstrom that gave the title track its somehow graceful beauty, but a restless brawl of hyperactive, where Stevens ends up pounding his drums almost in frustration. Maybe this one's a matter of taste, or a test of patience to discover those wonderful passages of unexpected layers of sound or noise or drone - there are some, they're just not as noticeable. <br /><br />SME have, I've recently discovered, a huge discography - but they were after all, one of the seminal European free improv groups that emerged in the late 60s and early 70s and along with AMM have had a long history (with plenty of line-up changes) of pushing avant-garde music into evermore new directions. Sometimes they miss the mark, but mostly they've always been able to amaze and surprise, constantly exploring the limits of music and further still of sound.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-59239649394407895192009-04-07T19:44:00.006+01:002009-05-28T20:08:38.567+01:00Starbird - Nanook of the North<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvv3yuEFyTX5TeC8EHIQmrMtp2WWQsKuJf1kNW1M1X9ELvS_i2nsacPAvjrCl-VcmEamfPUIjpbQCUT39usnn8j83DSnHEkSv3rWFDQP2oj_q2nrFN43c_q750L2v5FDXc5PRBkT-YdU/s1600-h/cvr.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 314px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOvv3yuEFyTX5TeC8EHIQmrMtp2WWQsKuJf1kNW1M1X9ELvS_i2nsacPAvjrCl-VcmEamfPUIjpbQCUT39usnn8j83DSnHEkSv3rWFDQP2oj_q2nrFN43c_q750L2v5FDXc5PRBkT-YdU/s320/cvr.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322024840211611890" /></a><strong style="font-family:verdana;">STARBIRD<br />Nanook of the North<br />Sloow Tapes – Hazuki 2007</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/qgtkyt">Download</a><br /><br />Here's a nice bit of free-folk / drone to lose yourself in. A sprawling wilderness of infinite metaphors and that kind of thing with plenty of otherworldly percussion, ethereal bells, gentle cymbals, xylophones, enticing flutes etc. etc. It opens as if inside a chamber of echoes, carved in ice, sheltered from the chilling, wintry winds, sounds drift forwards and disappear leaving ghostly traces in the air as wildlife calls to one another in the distance. <br /><br />In Inuit mythology, Nanook (ᓇᓄᖅ) is the master of bears, the word itself derived from the inuit for polar bear, and Nanook as master of the bears decided the fate of Inuit hunters, rewarding an observant and appreciative hunter following the applicable taboos with a rich bounty and punishing those who did not. In a 1922 documentary by Robert J. Flaherty entitled 'Nanook of the North' the filmmaker follows an Inuit named Nanook and his family as they hunt, fish and migrate across the Arctic. It is a cold and harsh environment. <br /><br />That documentary is the inspiration behind Carson Arnold's album. Arnold's effort seems to breath in time with the life of Nanook and his family. Through careful observation he is able to evoke the difficulty, the beauty and the spirituality of Nanook's life from brief respite 'Somewhere the Sun is Shining Over Her' to mystical ritual 'Feathers in Smoke' to the constant journeying through harsh conditions 'Tracks'. 'Walrus Hunt' has a strong tribal drumbeat for the most part, before the guitar kicks in about half way through - the climax of the chase - waiting to make a move, then death as footsteps are heard in the final part of the track as if the hunter is dragging a dead walrus back to his home. <br /><br />There are moments when you're completely caught up in that struggle for survival like half way into the album, lost deep in the depths of winter there is an overwhelming bleakness, a powerful sense of yourself trapped, death blowing across the tundra all around you as layers of reverb heavy sounds drone long through the night and drench the day with cold, cold, cold... An ominous rumble breaks the monotony, followed by a higher note, a clearing and a way out of the darkness of winter as 'Nanook's Vision' implies the start of a new year, freshness and the coming of spring. <br /><br />And then there is the 'Edge of World'... The final drones of sound that wash away into the void, somewhere beyond the precipice, into the endless white. It's with albums like this one that somehow allow you to get carried away with grand metaphors about life, death and everything in between. It's a great accompaniment to the film at little under an hour it's just ten minutes short of the original documentary, but with a bit of adjustment you can play both simultaneously to great effect - only trouble is getting on a hold of the film - but of course there's always karagarga.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-70260108168321557642009-03-25T22:05:00.004+00:002009-03-25T22:29:04.918+00:00Dreams in Celluloid, Part VIII<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">35.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MICHAEL POWELL & EMERIC PRESSBURGER</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-q6XEnVKwTXgNdB_ML4qiseesLkU-SVOq2cHtj6tfOdTNJo0ma4ZkBKOthY9hxk2MPoe9Op1W9A6cU03NCleHuBkyKhTz68L2QCkYtO_uv53DNN0z6Tcsnhiw2B3my7_ajssk1JpZuS0/s1600-h/black+naricussus.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-q6XEnVKwTXgNdB_ML4qiseesLkU-SVOq2cHtj6tfOdTNJo0ma4ZkBKOthY9hxk2MPoe9Op1W9A6cU03NCleHuBkyKhTz68L2QCkYtO_uv53DNN0z6Tcsnhiw2B3my7_ajssk1JpZuS0/s320/black+naricussus.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317251989669771746" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Black Narcissus </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1947)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Big budget sets, great acting and fantastic cinematography (thanks to Jack Cardiff), Powell & Pressburger were two of the most influential filmmakers of the 1940s. OK, so maybe their films have dated a bit, but there's still a dark, psychological intensity that few contemporary films are able to emulate. <br /><br />Just ahead of The Red Shoes, Black Narcissus is certainly my favourite Powell & Pressburger flick with all its awkward charm. Five young nuns travel to a distant Himalayan mountain, converting a former concubine-filled pleasure palace of some dead general to the convent of Saint Faith Order and begin to teach children and tend to the sick. The isolation, the emptiness, the exoticism of the place all has an overwhelming intensity that slowly seeps into the emotional framework of the young sisters, stirring up passions in a place where austerity is held above all else (just look at how grey the nunnery is compared with the vivid landscape). The contrasts between each of the nuns from Sister Clodagh’s gentleness to Sister Ruth’s wildness is captured beautifully by the directors and not a moment passes where you’re not considering the everyday struggle of the nuns and the local villagers, as well as the greater overall struggles (both practical and spiritual) of having to live in such a place.<br /></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Ui4XXO2BYfGZcVwSs_pm_Rt0vVAdmsIdTpAcnSvVYHV2SGkLzbkRnGU9-Zmo7wRN0P0u7sE_XTMK057vWWdFLhtdbnwcjpM1A34GuU9Yu-sapuZeqyXxfysitiWMS0cOw0zbKNCsUSs/s1600-h/black-narcissus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Ui4XXO2BYfGZcVwSs_pm_Rt0vVAdmsIdTpAcnSvVYHV2SGkLzbkRnGU9-Zmo7wRN0P0u7sE_XTMK057vWWdFLhtdbnwcjpM1A34GuU9Yu-sapuZeqyXxfysitiWMS0cOw0zbKNCsUSs/s320/black-narcissus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317255283815056146" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">34.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MAX OPHÜLS</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaI1oyod9-zcS44RdrxyvZvclU-5suh-IDzgztv7IGBwSqQOT3b6MqbxlGoAEVN562Yd2pQaZXmZHxAT4P99VCXdnyGiecxMaUieOjQqHZst7uVTsSbKv-F9uaKfc5o5fcsl1v0IWCcIg/s1600-h/a+le+plaisir+max+ophuls+Le+Plaisir-3(1).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaI1oyod9-zcS44RdrxyvZvclU-5suh-IDzgztv7IGBwSqQOT3b6MqbxlGoAEVN562Yd2pQaZXmZHxAT4P99VCXdnyGiecxMaUieOjQqHZst7uVTsSbKv-F9uaKfc5o5fcsl1v0IWCcIg/s320/a+le+plaisir+max+ophuls+Le+Plaisir-3(1).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317252004214473218" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Le Plaisir </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1952)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Ophül’s masterpiece, Le Plaisir – literally ‘the pleasure’ and there’s certainly a great deal of pleasure to be had from such a film. Taking three of Guy de Maupassant’s short stories as a the basis for three short films, Le Plaisir is striking in its assumed simplicity and love of life – the joie de vivre is captured exquisitely in a film which teases and tempts us, draws us into the bawdy world of 19th century France where the line between happiness and misery runs thin and the quick transition from pleasure to pain is found on every street corner. <br /><br />From the swinging Palais de la Dance in the first story to the Madame Tellier’s brothel in the second, (closed for a night so the girls can travel to the countryside) and finally to the studio of a frustrated painter and his luscious model in the last, Ophüls demonstrates his appreciation of human weakness with a sensitivity that perfectly suits Maupassant’s naturalistic dénouements. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdkFU9gonXmQ9GSxntKTD-BK1zxzsjpU7pIyzSmnAKpX2WNFv35HdNKWqh-A1i1wG4jOkl4sa3nmduEZCV4IB6CCVo2jJoCI8tjVJKGIb3xqKvbHZxlgiMsEiLMF2jAC7Ed9LXZbcBkU/s1600-h/9785_plaisir-2.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTdkFU9gonXmQ9GSxntKTD-BK1zxzsjpU7pIyzSmnAKpX2WNFv35HdNKWqh-A1i1wG4jOkl4sa3nmduEZCV4IB6CCVo2jJoCI8tjVJKGIb3xqKvbHZxlgiMsEiLMF2jAC7Ed9LXZbcBkU/s320/9785_plaisir-2.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317255271573372018" /></a><br /><br />The first of the three tales opens with the narrator (Maupassant) announcing that, “I’m so happy to be talking in the dark as if I were beside you,” and with dry wit adds, “and maybe I am.” And straightaway, Ophüls launches us into the heart of the 19th century ball de magnificence where youth meets age in a continual game of pleasure and denial as the central figure dances with a young girl only to collapse with exhaustion and has to be carried home to his wife. The second story and longest of all three follows the travels of a brothel madame, who closes her establishment (a place we are denied entry into) and takes her girls to the country for her niece’s first communion – the beautiful church scene – where the profane meets with the sacred, lust turns to gaiety and innocent fun, and pleasure and love combine in the most touching narrative. And the third, a snapshot of an ambitious artist who falls in love with his model, marries and discovers that lust doesn’t automatically lead to love and happiness can be as short-lived as success.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">33.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">JEAN RENOIR</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3EI5DMBDo2TD7OsJ1qoagOEGfWMHWcIvmzMAOOpNpyTKu8a98IAk4euyOPp9Z_PJWZB_bWOa6CnYCFj6FsJs3N_c-amHAp2LF2PGP8MVXJ-20rzzFQJAuGNT9ddmN1GEfdZAvElM_vo0/s1600-h/sjff_01_img0204.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3EI5DMBDo2TD7OsJ1qoagOEGfWMHWcIvmzMAOOpNpyTKu8a98IAk4euyOPp9Z_PJWZB_bWOa6CnYCFj6FsJs3N_c-amHAp2LF2PGP8MVXJ-20rzzFQJAuGNT9ddmN1GEfdZAvElM_vo0/s320/sjff_01_img0204.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317252000909588722" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">La Grande Illusion </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1937)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">War films are pretty difficult to make because of all the madness that surrounds war itself. Of course the easy way out would be to take a simple Hollywood angle, throw in a hero, have him overcome his own fear and save the day. Renoir neither romanticises nor belittles his characters, instead he provides them with complexity through careful observation (a skill no doubt picked up from his own father, the great Auguste Renoir) and a well-developed plot. Each individual remains focused on their own goals and ambitions to some extent, but outside of the obvious (escape for the PoWs and keeping guard for the Nazi prison officers) Renoir provides them with hazy intention.<br /><br />La Grande Illusion is a film about struggle in a world which is quickly beginning to crumble, where old codes are disappearing and the future is uncertain, the present is unstable and the past is past. One of Renoir’s greatest achievements in this film (and to some extent also in La Règle du Jeu and Partie de Campagne) is his ability to capture this sense of change, illustrated beautifully between the two opposing aristocratic officers, the German Rosenthal and the French Boeldieu, both under no illusion that the rules of war have changed – it is no longer about a gentleman’s fight, but the fight of the common man. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7o2oTt2uKi1A8KoKQCt6uFTrSr86nRfnVzFUU4GSC0ed-sL0jqPd8MiKs5-phvPqEWo4E2ktjG4oBbTQqjUwBmdAIvHtGEyNP0-DQIDf1VbIBWW3LfYq0d1RwOgTGrThR5ajM072Eh0/s1600-h/sjff_03_img1093.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7o2oTt2uKi1A8KoKQCt6uFTrSr86nRfnVzFUU4GSC0ed-sL0jqPd8MiKs5-phvPqEWo4E2ktjG4oBbTQqjUwBmdAIvHtGEyNP0-DQIDf1VbIBWW3LfYq0d1RwOgTGrThR5ajM072Eh0/s320/sjff_03_img1093.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317255292041220738" /></a><br /><br />The communication between the prisoners and the guards is minimal, and all the more striking for it when for example the German guard gives his harmonica to the imprisoned Maréchal. And Renoir as always has a great sympathy and sensitivity to the figures caught up in this fight, even the German guards who despite their apparent freedom are just as trapped within a regime where the individual is easily lost within the wider aims of the whole. They all want to be re-united with their families, return home to cooked meals and loving wives, not living as they do in isolation and emptiness. What Renoir questions with La Grande Illusion is the necessity of war and how the new rules that defined World War I completely changed the way war was fought. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">32.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">WERNER HERZOG</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiJq3cSa8Q-mzmVsWVWUSHi_D9058vsu28hms4hK2bF-qgoMV7_-jxD2r6rcRDnJHb6hHBxLPxipy63RvOcD-p8TkfFVZdnctCHpxNuwolZN8us1AcAb2MLkXa2eVNwFcdogTj1VgDYc/s1600-h/aguirre3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiJq3cSa8Q-mzmVsWVWUSHi_D9058vsu28hms4hK2bF-qgoMV7_-jxD2r6rcRDnJHb6hHBxLPxipy63RvOcD-p8TkfFVZdnctCHpxNuwolZN8us1AcAb2MLkXa2eVNwFcdogTj1VgDYc/s320/aguirre3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317251987998444066" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Aguirre, Wrath of God </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1972)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Director Werner Herzog and actor Klaus Kinski had that special kind of love/hate relationship that gives all of the films they make together that special edge. They made several films together, and Aguirre is the most powerful of the bunch. The sheer intensity of Kinski's acting and onscreen descent into madness as he searches aimlessly for El Dorado is captured perfectly by Herzog. He really pushed his actors to their limits (still does as Rescue Dawn proves), and it really shows in Aguirre, Kinski is practically burning with a passionate rage.<br /><br />Herzog’s films are always slow and heavy, this is no light offering of feel-good entertainment, this is a full-on dive into philosophical enquiries, continually questioning the nature of life, from the metaphorical spiritualism of Heart of Glass to the insane and obsessive journey of Fitzcarraldo through the Peruvian jungle to build an opera house. But Aguirre is probably his most realised vision – the brooding, dangerous Don Lope de Aguirre relentlessly searches at any cost, disregarding everything else through the Amazon, (home of the recently annihilated Incas) on journey to find gold and wealth – the legendary El Dorado. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBP7pj1eUUEudmSio3LznPnWnovGXdjApQhg-zUOGxvb515Dw8AwEu2Htmpb_SVQiP0ChqrZkPdCY38ZCxH4mfh5S_xgcIrKCm8uG8AYdUkVlcfH-DJ7cgXDQxXbLUcJLXLY1HA7zHiM/s1600-h/helena-rojo-in-aguirre-wrath-of-god1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFBP7pj1eUUEudmSio3LznPnWnovGXdjApQhg-zUOGxvb515Dw8AwEu2Htmpb_SVQiP0ChqrZkPdCY38ZCxH4mfh5S_xgcIrKCm8uG8AYdUkVlcfH-DJ7cgXDQxXbLUcJLXLY1HA7zHiM/s320/helena-rojo-in-aguirre-wrath-of-god1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317255290361480386" /></a><br /><br />From the outset, you quickly realise that this is going to be a powerful film – opening with a beautiful tracking shot of the mountains slowly revealing the band of men making their way steadily, dangerously, precariously through the impressive surroundings. With the power of God behind them, the Spanish soldiers (Don Fernando representing the royal house of Spain) along with Brother Gaspar de Carajal (on a mission to convert the remaining pagans) descend upon the Amazonian jungle with full armour, out of place, lost, overwhelmed, exhausted…</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">31.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">APICHATPONG WEERASETHAKUL</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiprYM9zCCJBgXXeJy_lSFitJfvoViW_cGprHKX91XdatFkQrtqnHvsCdJ4Ceq49ih-WusxQTEkmwWGD-tfZq3Z3Yh7IqIWLpvGPA1PAWLzFYfDUJH2OyZVySO_Y5EhZp_WNbC9kwluykI/s1600-h/tropical_malady3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 165px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiprYM9zCCJBgXXeJy_lSFitJfvoViW_cGprHKX91XdatFkQrtqnHvsCdJ4Ceq49ih-WusxQTEkmwWGD-tfZq3Z3Yh7IqIWLpvGPA1PAWLzFYfDUJH2OyZVySO_Y5EhZp_WNbC9kwluykI/s320/tropical_malady3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317251997519905026" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Tropical Malady </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(2004)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Even now cinema has the power to astonish. Watching the second part of Tropical Malady as a soldier crawls through the jungle haunted by dreams is one of the most magical sequences in film of recent years. Weerasethakul isn't afraid to experiment, sometimes with a playful sense of humour and sometimes with mystical edge.<br /><br />Tropical Malady is a film split into two distinct parts about the life of a soldier under almost opposing circumstances – reality and fantasy. The film opens with the corpse as a group of soldiers, intrigued by the dead man, stand around and take photographs with carefree exuberance. Amongst them is Keng, a soldier who in the first sequence falls in love with a young country boy who dreams of becoming a soldier. Together with the same carefree nature of the soldiers in the earlier scene, they explore the local area, telling one another stories and gradually, tentatively grow closer together, though whether the local boy is actually in love with Keng or with the idea of being a soldier is difficult to decide. <br /><br />The second part of a film takes place in darkness, in rain, in thick jungle foliage as Keng stalks through the vegetation in search of the thing, whatever it is that has been killing the local cows. This is a beautiful dreamlike episode, sensory cinema at its finest, following the fears and hallucinations of a single character in pursuit of an uncertain enemy. The parallels between the two segments aren’t immediately apparent, but they are certainly there. It is a film about desire and mystery, discovering something for the first time and searching for something sometimes in vein, but always with passion. <br /></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/roCHnapHNzc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/roCHnapHNzc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-75806354588734190252009-03-17T23:16:00.003+00:002009-05-28T20:08:43.167+01:00Christian Marclay / Elliott Sharp - High Noon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVV5MJG6ilEQ4Dd_9lHrK69FsST0f2ogJ1T_ekVilmPZVYVJbkRFbnghYY9p27g8A-qMbXnFbLo4RWvTyb0SPa6aUm2wWCH1gF987VN9dL_NmeOhtORDuKAPXaH5qajjKpBznoguMcjKg/s1600-h/R-1084737-1190892128.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVV5MJG6ilEQ4Dd_9lHrK69FsST0f2ogJ1T_ekVilmPZVYVJbkRFbnghYY9p27g8A-qMbXnFbLo4RWvTyb0SPa6aUm2wWCH1gF987VN9dL_NmeOhtORDuKAPXaH5qajjKpBznoguMcjKg/s320/R-1084737-1190892128.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314300212327066322" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">CHRISTIAN MARCLAY / ELLIOTT SHARP<br />High Noon<br />Intakt Records 2000</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/qgtkyt">Download</a><br /><br />On High Noon, electronic sampling, cut-up wizard Christian Marclay and multi-instrumentalist Elliott Sharp have fun messing around with the sounds and atmosphere of the Spaghetti Western, deconstructing, obliterating, reworking and updating them through sonic interplay as each musician pushes the other into submission like two old, scarred and dirt-trodden gunslingers meeting one last time for an impressive, final showdown. Marclay's electronics are warm, fuzzy, soaked in a dense, earthy quality simulating sheep bells, billowing wind and the dust and heat of the desert. Sharp's various instruments are minimal and abstract, his guitar plucking on opener 'Blinding Shadow' is sparing and slick evoking the distant memory of some 19th century outlaw folk ballad, later to be accompanied by a similar kind of jaunty piano tune, barely recognisable after Marclay's electronic dissection, warping the traditional into the digital present. <br /><br />I remember watching High Noon as a child, impressed by the films use of real time to create tension and suspense, waiting for the clock to strike noon and Miller and his gang to come and have his day and take revenge on abandoned sheriff Will Kane. Marclay and Sharp manage to maintain this stylistic tension through a combination of rapid beats (that sound like clocks ticking, chiming, wearing down time itself as that fateful hour approaches) played off against slower instrumentation from Sharp like on the beginning of 'I'll Come Out... Let Her Go!'. The onslaught of sampling comes quick and fast like a gunman drifting from one town to the next, causing trouble, having his way with the local women, upsetting the simple townsfolk and disappearing into a desert of ever-changing rhythms, walls of sound, all-out feedback and twisted electronics, until the haunting finale plays itself out with long, slow guitar drones over a tumbleweed-esque breeze of microtonal clicks and beats.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-7185262024996501012009-03-16T17:41:00.008+00:002009-05-28T20:08:59.705+01:00Michel Chion - Requiem<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHPzyQSp7eD8Q73BixEhM4KuVp9DPZQR7HQvTzFEm3kbpaRb9E9w6HJPD3_e2D-AAy2BDKrtPn91IzANBv7BiheoUVHZtlLTe8IxdmSWxUm0P-tGUhsGzAKLrkB2m5ixhKWq6Vfhfms8/s1600-h/chion.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 308px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFHPzyQSp7eD8Q73BixEhM4KuVp9DPZQR7HQvTzFEm3kbpaRb9E9w6HJPD3_e2D-AAy2BDKrtPn91IzANBv7BiheoUVHZtlLTe8IxdmSWxUm0P-tGUhsGzAKLrkB2m5ixhKWq6Vfhfms8/s320/chion.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313849382978534626" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">MICHEL CHION<br />Requiem<br />INA-GRM 1978</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/9ffh7l">Download</a><br /><br />Chion's Requiem probably represents one of the defining moments of the musique concrète canon, a work all other pieces must be judged by and one of the few absolute masterpieces of the genre. Things begin with a high pitched tone soon joined by an electro-acoustic, echoing wind and then just after 40 seconds, silence, a man narrating a few lines in French and the start of a slow buzzing, chant-like humming, dripping water, echoes, reverbs and more French vocals repeating the words 'Requiem Aeternam'. And all of this is only two and half minutes into this labyrinthine construction which comes close to nearly annihilating the standard structure of a requiem. Traces of the traditional Funeral Mass remain (largely through the titles of the various movements), but have been so brutally deconstructed that it's very difficult to know exactly at which point in the proceedings you are experiencing. In fact, it's almost as if Chion wants to create all moments at once, stopping time so that everything and anything can happen simultaneously, purposefully disorientating and confusing the listener.<br /><br />Chion himself has stated that the work is a test of the listener's memory and challenges their ability to be able to connect all the various fragments together in their head. At one moment, you find yourself assaulted by an artillery of static, overwhelmed and confused to then a few moments later be suddenly freed, caught by a single tone, then a fractured libretto (which seems to be transmitted from the nether regions of space), and finally thrown onto an oscillating radiophonic pulse, a powerful wave of sound and whispered vocals, which seem to evoke the passage through time, a calling from another world, the transition from one life to the next. Initially familiar sounds repeat themselves like the three second choral passage introduced in the 'Dies Irae', but slowly as time passes and the journey spins into the unknown depths, those familiar sounds being to dissolve, becoming more and more impossible to cling onto. Towards the end of the piece, after traveling through a maze of sound, disorientated now, the last few minutes of the journey seem to take place alone - the familiar patterns of the beginning have all but disappeared now and through pounding drums, the start of a new harmony emerges. Childlike voices break through from distant realms, as the final waves draw to a close, floating slowly and cautiously with a final flourish before the subdued finale, laughter and then silence.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-51878262878701321802009-03-12T22:00:00.009+00:002009-05-28T20:09:05.127+01:00Bobby Previte - The 23 Constellations of Joan Miró<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQ7yFL38_2DJJbhNka26wlE2HWORV_JjjF6Q1DQ6NoPjoRsuxCiAMqgHU1QpKLkbM8J1rUl0854ESw9tzaGQuRrcNwosysTMNbPFcSShiyGOKJX8mxxezpO_FUaBkJFAHTokk3JaO2XY/s1600-h/51XsRlL-aXL._SS400_.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRQ7yFL38_2DJJbhNka26wlE2HWORV_JjjF6Q1DQ6NoPjoRsuxCiAMqgHU1QpKLkbM8J1rUl0854ESw9tzaGQuRrcNwosysTMNbPFcSShiyGOKJX8mxxezpO_FUaBkJFAHTokk3JaO2XY/s320/51XsRlL-aXL._SS400_.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312425640432359266" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">BOBBY PREVITE<br />The 23 Constellations of Joan Miró<br />Tzadik 2001</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/fhvnjo">Download</a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-style:italic;">“It was about the time that the war broke out, I felt a deep desire to escape. I closed myself within myself purposely. The night, music and the stars began to play a major role in suggesting my paintings.”</span> <br /></div><div><div style="text-align: right;">Joan Miró<br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">This piece was originally composed for a multimedia event held in Birmingham, UK in 2004, inspired by unsurprisingly given the title by the 'Constellations' of artist, Joan Miró. Bobby Previte (who I've always found extremely hit and miss as both a composer and drummer/percussionist) was - so the story goes - so amazed by Miró's series after seeing them at a Miró Retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art in 1993 that he felt almost compelled to write a series of his own musical interpretations of the work.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Each of Previte's compositions reflects not only the instability of the gouche paintings, but also the size of each constellation as well (15 by 18 inches) - in quick improvisations, giving a strong immediacy to the music. The major problem for any musician attempting to translate visual art into the aural realm is how to maintain the substance the of the original work, and offer something distinctive in itself. Something I don't think anyone has ever come as close to as Morton Feldman with his beautiful Rothko Chapel compositions.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Looking at art is inevitably more immediate - you can in almost one glance get a sense of the image as a whole - music takes longer to form and to sink into your head, but at the same time to really understand (as far as possible) a painting or other such static visual work you have to spend time looking at it, taking everything in. The image as whole is only a starting point, after that where you go is up to you - your eyes may dart from one detail to the next, they may try to find connections, pick out symmetry or other such arrangements of space, but ultimately this is a very personal response. So what Bobby Previte does brilliantly is reverse this process - so instead of starting out with a whole, you start off with little details, he makes connections, introduces new elements to reflect changes in colour, changes in shape and slowly over the course of his compositions a whole image is formed that somehow stands as equal to the image of the original Miró.</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO69VvQKKLoYwv0Mc0_RRLj9AUJ9KnavRvOPAhRnqjpKeN4R6u3Rc-QsAMKehLRL741DW57a0xvyVVxQSFIFT3S_t1w8NwmVpHZboZNkDoPCsXJoNN_LzqIgY09zTObNe3d27Itm0SUU8/s1600-h/03-Personnages.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO69VvQKKLoYwv0Mc0_RRLj9AUJ9KnavRvOPAhRnqjpKeN4R6u3Rc-QsAMKehLRL741DW57a0xvyVVxQSFIFT3S_t1w8NwmVpHZboZNkDoPCsXJoNN_LzqIgY09zTObNe3d27Itm0SUU8/s320/03-Personnages.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312454529532856114" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;"><center>Joan Miró, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Personnages dans la nuit guidés par les traces phosphorescentes des escargots</span>, 1959</center></span></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Like Miró's work, Previte's compositions seem to float, a kind reflection of the stars that Miró was so in love with. And like the paintings, Previte's music pulses, wavers, occasionally blisters and bursts through ostinati and glissandi. I suppose it helps that Miró's paintings are in the first place like the work of other artists like Kandinsky similar inspired by musical origins.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Previte does well to maintain a careful balance and harmony created by well-timed counterpoints - 'Acrobatic Dancers' jump around lightly (vibraphone), float in air crafted by the trumpets of Ralph Alessi and Lew Soloff and then quicken their pace as Previte pounds his drums, before eventually returning to ground as Elizabeth Panzer's harp glides celestially from one track to the next - beginning the soft, mournful sounds of 'The Nightingale's Song At Midnight And Morning Rain'. At times, there's a dense cacophony of sounds like those on 'Wounded Personage where Wayne Horvitz's electronics add a sort of 70s retro-futuristic chic to the mix and at others the music becomes reminiscent of a late-night, Eastern European bar room, comic shanty as witness on 'The Poetess'.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Joe Barbato's accordian on 'The Poetess' certainly adds a lighthearted touch, but the composition still maintains the dark undertones, which run throughout Miró's work. The power of which seems to stem from their inherent instability, and their ability to oscillate between light and dark, being paradoxically both welcoming and disquieting in order to reflect the ever changing flux of the world itself. Imagination is the most powerful force behind Miró's work and Previte manages, with each of his compositional responses, to tap into that force, offering a textural tour-de-force of colliding sounds in brief sketches - the longest of which is just over three minutes - which can switch unexpectedly from the gaiety of a major key to the sobriety of minor, opening up the Universe before your ears.<br /></div></span></p></p>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-16769568945806654582009-03-10T20:09:00.005+00:002009-03-10T22:56:05.488+00:00Dreams in Celluloid, Part VII<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">40.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ALEJANDRO JODOROWSKY</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2u8ZpydMV6O_8RFoL-5YdHDLtBJmL72ofdFx2UjQVkxm4gffij_LN16V4kvm3TfAw-o4qjAeEicAKBTywQMnKBBytXuQEufyKlIBXXvqb6ibg-b2FCHJJ7a33drbnxD0rxIDHkTwR-8/s1600-h/el_topo.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 195px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2u8ZpydMV6O_8RFoL-5YdHDLtBJmL72ofdFx2UjQVkxm4gffij_LN16V4kvm3TfAw-o4qjAeEicAKBTywQMnKBBytXuQEufyKlIBXXvqb6ibg-b2FCHJJ7a33drbnxD0rxIDHkTwR-8/s320/el_topo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311667684864799874" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">El Topo </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1970)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The king of cult and all things strange. Plenty of violence, nudity, fantastical sets, non sequiturs, allegorical allusions to myths and religions and a mountain’s worth of – at least attempted – spirituality all served on an esoteric platter in the surrealist manner. Jodorowsky is one of those filmmakers that divides people between the familiar line of love or hate – indifference is not offered. The film starts with the gunfighter, El Topo and his small boy riding through a massacred village in a kind of spaghetti western style, technicolour cowboy sequence. But any comparisons with the Italian genre immediately cease as El Topo embarks on a mystical mission to slay the four gunmen of the desert, meeting a medley of circus-like freaks along the way. Meaning is always elusive, never straightforward or necessarily there in the first place, but I did find an excellent article over at <a href="http://archive.sensesofcinema.com/contents/directors/07/jodorowsky.html">Senses of Cinema</a> for anyone who cares to read a rather pertinent analysis of Jodorowsky’s work.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.dvdrama.com/imagescrit/el_topo_1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="http://www.dvdrama.com/imagescrit/el_topo_1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">39.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">BELA TARR</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kK2G2xa9xoSZbLX5V-rb3Fr_g6YFUubMF6gMwTQjhmi5jSLvhqf8Sad21E527qhTipzkO-Xhfk9eLXDEUpFyPY2zdbs2KnBQMDlt40GY3JZ7NNj_TjKdAJmHB8yObR6VFoIV53j8r-c/s1600-h/medium_werckmeister-harmonies_1.2-777715.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5kK2G2xa9xoSZbLX5V-rb3Fr_g6YFUubMF6gMwTQjhmi5jSLvhqf8Sad21E527qhTipzkO-Xhfk9eLXDEUpFyPY2zdbs2KnBQMDlt40GY3JZ7NNj_TjKdAJmHB8yObR6VFoIV53j8r-c/s320/medium_werckmeister-harmonies_1.2-777715.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311668411057314130" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Werckmeister Harmonies </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(2000)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Sometimes being so self-consciously aware of the tradition which has lead up to a certain in point in time can overwhelm and consume an artists own identity – but Bela Tarr seems to take all that in his stride as he manages to find his niche within the avant-garde filmmaking tradition, nodding heavily to the likes of Tarkovsky along the way. They say that patience is a virtue and if there’s one thing that Bela Tarr’s film manage to provide the patient viewer it’s awe as his lingering camera stays with a scene long after the action has passed if indeed there was any action at all. I’m tempted to say that this technique gives the film an almost immediately magical quality as it opens with a scene in which the protagonist, János, explains with the theatrical involvement the members of the local bar the origins of the universe. <br /><br />The other noticeable quality that the slow-paced direction provides is the keen attention to detail when framing shots to the point that even once the action (if any has actually occurred) has passed the visual image we are left with remains surprisingly strong. The camera tells the story in such a way as to be nearly unconcerned with what is actually going and far more interested in what isn’t going on, leaving you as the viewer to fill in the gaps for yourself. As the film unrolls, you catch glimpses of what is going on around you, but are never actually given the inherent right to know what is happening. You are an observer as much as the characters are instruments of their fate. <br /><br />If Tarr perhaps suffers, it is only because the weight of Tarkovsky presses down heavily upon him – but the hospital scene in Werckmeister Harmonies is up there with the Russian masters best. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/VFmu7BYbthY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/VFmu7BYbthY&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">38.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">LARS VON TRIER</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://crashmagazine.co.uk/modernillusions/Film%20Stills/dogville_grace.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="http://crashmagazine.co.uk/modernillusions/Film%20Stills/dogville_grace.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Dogville </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(2003)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The One thing I certainly admire about Von Trier is his commitment to a single aesthetic – his <a href="http://cinetext.philo.at/reports/dogme_ct.html">Dogme 95</a> manifesto and his determination to create and develop a new style of filmmaking. He may not always get it right, Dancer in the Dark left me a little cold, but when everything falls into place you get the impression that you’re watching something wholly unique. <br /><br />Initially Dogville (which isn’t as strict as a Dogme 95 style film like Breaking the Waves) felt a little too staged and a little too contrived. Everything from the lack of set and the restricted space to the voiceover narration all seemed a touch too theatrical and not cinematic enough for my liking, so when you’re completely hooked into a film despite your initial fears you start to see things a lot differently and come to appreciate just how inventive von Trier is. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://choros.epfl.ch/webdav/site/ladyt/shared/ScienceVilles/Dogville-Grundriss2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://choros.epfl.ch/webdav/site/ladyt/shared/ScienceVilles/Dogville-Grundriss2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Watching Dogville it soon becomes clear that this new play/film hybrid (though essentially this is film through and through) has a powerful charge of its own – pushing simple storytelling to the fore as it guides the eyes of the viewer through glimpsed fragments into the increasingly corrupt town of Dogville. There’s a powerful message behind this which ever if you disagree with you can’t help admitting that von Trier has presented a wonderful film in which to deliver it. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3QdUIsoO_4w&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3QdUIsoO_4w&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">37.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">GILLO PONTECORVO</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://crashmagazine.co.uk/modernillusions/Film%20Stills/P-1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://crashmagazine.co.uk/modernillusions/Film%20Stills/P-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">The Battle of Algiers </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1966)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">This film seems as appropriate today as it did over 40 years ago. It has something of the timeless quality that works like Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent still possess when it comes to dealing with conflict and terrorism. The power of the film lies in both its simplicity and its realistic style. The claustrophobia of the tight-knit streets of the Algiers ghetto, the dirtiness of the city and the anxiety of the lives of its inhabitants contrasted against the cheerfulness of the French in their own quarter draws you wonderfully in to present a story of many sides, where sympathy becomes too troubled an emotion to place with any single character.<br /><br />The Battle of Algiers succeeds beautifully in making you feel uncomfortable, gently guiding you through the decisions of all characters involved – from their vulnerability to their nervousness to their ambition and independent struggle against so many forever expanding factors that push and pull them from one action to the next. This is a story without a straightforward message that continually questions whether the end result is worth the struggle and the fight it takes to realise it. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://davidderrick.files.wordpress.com/2007/07/battle-algiers-2.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://davidderrick.files.wordpress.com/2007/07/battle-algiers-2.gif" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />When the French army - who march with machine-like efficiency through the winding streets of Algiers - threaten to undermine your very existence, destroying your homes and uprooting your families, then difficult decisions must be made and resistant Algerian fighters prepare to defend themselves by any means. And when innocent French people start dying in cafés and along crowded streets then action must surely be taken by the military to make those responsible pay for their injustices? And if both sides understood the reasons for the aggressive actions of the other would they ever stop all the fighting? Belief in a cause is a powerful motive.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">36.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">TERENCE DAVIES</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://crashmagazine.co.uk/modernillusions/Film%20Stills/distant%20voices.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 190px;" src="http://crashmagazine.co.uk/modernillusions/Film%20Stills/distant%20voices.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Distant Voices, Still Lives </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1988)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Terence Davies makes me angry and depressed. Is that what you really want from a film? I'm not sure I could handle watching his entire output back to back. It's all so grey and dreary, but despite all this, Distant Voices, Still Lives is beautifully composed and directed. If you're prepared to watch a no holds barred examination of Northern English life that avoids the clichés of more modern British films (not everyone's a gangster) then you'll be surprised just how much this film (and his others) get under your skin.</span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5_AvNfAuhZI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5_AvNfAuhZI&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-31809733432980697462009-03-10T19:38:00.007+00:002009-05-28T20:09:24.669+01:00Zu / Spaceways Incorporated - Radiale<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrba6T9s6NhpAsxtYvlOZ0pvqgP2iXbp_TS6iraCTQR7-bHdAN0dfzghGDCEybv8iKDIJ4h-KI_9K3D2xfGuM0bVQCSLlfTkCKXMLry_AyTkC_DkgJA5XwqVkMoNH2V_z2mLXQlbie4F4/s1600-h/spaceways.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrba6T9s6NhpAsxtYvlOZ0pvqgP2iXbp_TS6iraCTQR7-bHdAN0dfzghGDCEybv8iKDIJ4h-KI_9K3D2xfGuM0bVQCSLlfTkCKXMLry_AyTkC_DkgJA5XwqVkMoNH2V_z2mLXQlbie4F4/s320/spaceways.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311653304954349394" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">ZU / SPACEWAYS INCORPORATED<br />Radiale<br />Atavistic 2004</strong> <br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/za5zkj">Download</a><br /><br />This time it's a collision of continents as Chicago trio Spaceways (Ken Vandermark, Hamid Drake, and Nate McBride) crash head first, fists flying, kicking and screaming straight into Italian Jazz-Rock-Dub trio Zu (Massimo Pupillo, Jacopo Battaglia, and Luca Tommaso Mai). The result is a blast of dark, heavy, rumbling bass, pierced by squealing saxophone and reed playing and rock-orientated, beat-heavy drum bashing. <br /><br />The two drummers (Battaglia and Drake) and the two bassists (Pupillo and McBride) split the album down the middle as the Zu members take the first half of the album and the Spaceways crew the second. Luca Tommaso Mai on Saxophone and Ken Vandermark on Reeds are the two main players each vying for space throughout, launching into at times aggressive melodies trying to outdo the other in a constant game of push and shove often turning into wonderful cacophony if at times a little too brief like towards the end of 'Thanatocracy.' <br /><br />The last thing I heard Pupillo play on was a new Peter Brötzmann recording from the Bimhaus in Amsterdam and there's actually some strong similarity between the two sessions - though <i>Radiale</i> is certainly less intense. His bass rings out like a buzz saw at times finding a little room now and again to really stand out as Battaglia pounds his drum with military like precision. On 'Pharmakon' Battaglia builds up slowly, maintaining a steady beat though at times I did find his playing a little too predictable following a strong rock-style structure, but when it works it works really well and allows Mai and Vandermark to show off their skills in the foreground. <br /><br />As you'd expect the second half of the album with the switch around of bassist and drummer is a more jazz-orientated affair, especially Drake's drumming, which never ceases to impress me. McBride who I don't really know that much about keeps a steady rhythm without driving as much as Pupillo (whose playing is definitely beginning to grow on me). <br /><br />The second half also features a cover of that Art Ensemble classic - 'Theme de Yoyo' which seemed to me to emphasise the importance of the vocals in the original, though the breakdown is still strong and Mai and Vandermark add about 10 seconds (a little short for my liking) of impressive improvising in the middle. And finishing with the Sun Ra cover I think works really well. Again this is a song that takes its time to get going, but allows the players, especially Drake and McBride more freedom to improvise and set the scene until about half way through the familiar rhythm kicks in and everyone follows suit, rolling happily into its almost Krautrock-esque jam band finale.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-30122707578546746782009-03-10T07:45:00.007+00:002009-03-10T08:00:24.398+00:00CRASH: The Magazine<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://madisoncamerunning.com/248/CRASH52A.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 233px;" src="http://madisoncamerunning.com/248/CRASH52A.JPG" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><p style="text-align: left;">On March 9th 2009, <a href="http://crashmagazine.co.uk">CRASH magazine</a> went online. From now on, most of my articles on art, film, photography and other such subjects along with some creative work will now be posted over there.<p><br /><p style="text-align: left;">From the website:<br /><br /><em>‘Crash’ is an aesthetic quality in opposition to the formulaic, the sterile and the life lived automatically. <br /><br />Captured by an artistic production, it is the point at which forces converge to produce a moment of clarity which challenges the way we see the world. <br /><br />Instances of ‘crash’ are not limited to a single artistic movement, but found in great art of all ages and all places. <br /><br />Crash Magazine aims to report, review and creatively explore these moments.</em><br /><br /><br />That means that this blog will now be almost exclusively dedicated to music. I will however finally finish my film list for anybody that's interested.<br /><br />Posts of the future: <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrJBU49NlKo4uLQ3EC2lvF67P5Ysx0WhrynDQ4PXUDlMxywa4JJruD64AEBh-2_NfHtYupwcayBH0KbiqZs-Jakwk7f7W_qjC8b37PcCBUrL-eybKGHrEbuwISCcgGeaHn71NWk5P2Ks/s1600-h/51XsRlL-aXL._SS400_.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:left;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinrJBU49NlKo4uLQ3EC2lvF67P5Ysx0WhrynDQ4PXUDlMxywa4JJruD64AEBh-2_NfHtYupwcayBH0KbiqZs-Jakwk7f7W_qjC8b37PcCBUrL-eybKGHrEbuwISCcgGeaHn71NWk5P2Ks/s200/51XsRlL-aXL._SS400_.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311464685470541458" /></a><br />Bobby Previte - <span style="font-style:italic;">The 23 Constellations of Joan Miró </span>(Tzadik 2002)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGE4AhZLB3v0JohCLF5bMsNRvN_CxLKwbINPheoJfOmJ3NrIf3qFLFZT26SshgWYaPraepBULu3rrI1pXYzhK7pa-ePJqruRLFQxEJZMb1BO2cwQv7fPrWnaNMc5ynNvkfFGI3kPnOIlQ/s1600-h/R-1024692-1185343798.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:left;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGE4AhZLB3v0JohCLF5bMsNRvN_CxLKwbINPheoJfOmJ3NrIf3qFLFZT26SshgWYaPraepBULu3rrI1pXYzhK7pa-ePJqruRLFQxEJZMb1BO2cwQv7fPrWnaNMc5ynNvkfFGI3kPnOIlQ/s200/R-1024692-1185343798.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311464686723882146" /></a><br />Zu / Spaceways Incorporated - <span style="font-style:italic;">Radiale (Atavistic</span> 2004)Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-65221303521891468222009-03-06T18:20:00.006+00:002009-03-09T21:51:18.139+00:00John Zorn / George Lewis / Bill Frisell - News For Lulu (Hat Hut Records 1988)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzprrwwm1p8IzS8VmytYLGXk6C4I3kmIaG94Ihf7CGxYKrd8qB4FX4eXxMyS1d13kZtzDCs2edkxkPC0mnqWFlYNZO-XjFIp4CgqH7mvk1axy0O7PNvO7Y6nMYSwuhMMqMVAnx-W4_hAU/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzprrwwm1p8IzS8VmytYLGXk6C4I3kmIaG94Ihf7CGxYKrd8qB4FX4eXxMyS1d13kZtzDCs2edkxkPC0mnqWFlYNZO-XjFIp4CgqH7mvk1axy0O7PNvO7Y6nMYSwuhMMqMVAnx-W4_hAU/s320/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310152304840267026" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">JOHN ZORN / GEORGE LEWIS / BILL FRISELL<br />News For Lulu<br />Hat Hut Records 1988</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/2vdnwz">Download</a><br /><br />Since it's stopped raining and the sun is out and the air is gradually becoming warm and fresh, I thought I'd move away from the free improv antics of the British crew and switch to the American post-modern, Zorn and co. tribute to 50s hard bop. <i>News for Lulu</i> is a far more relaxed record than previous ones posted as everything from the Louise Brookes cover photo to the laid-back, New Orleans style smokey jazz playing and improv breakouts breaths in cool. <br /><br />With Zorn on alto sax, George Lewis on trombone and Bill Frissell on guitar, this is the kind of 'Keroaucian, <i>On the Road</i>, drive from bar to bar in top down, borrowed Cadillacs or other such jalopies, getting a little bit high and hanging out in small smokey bars, chatting to strangers and exchanging stories' type of jazz. <br /><br />I'm always impressed by Zorn's diversity and while I admire his Naked City outfit tongue-in-cheek style of jazz, I prefer his Masada work and his numerous tribute albums to jazz legends like Sonny Clark, and some of his Film soundtracks aren't bad. But what he does best is take the old, give it a little twist and stay largely true to the original which in this case happens to be the classic hard bop of Kenny Dorham, Hank Mobley, Sonny Clark and Freddie Redd. And as long as it stays away from the 80s cheese jazz elevator music it's even better.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-86654361139466554892009-03-05T23:00:00.003+00:002009-03-06T19:01:14.406+00:00Evan Parker / Keith Rowe / Barry Guy / Eddie Prévost - Supersession (Matchless Recordings 1988)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDFEYWTAqX7_5WD5QwL1D7L96GgcQmo-NzT_f95i_8xd_TR7c4wlnS8_K0lYSDSxcF5LVSvf7CQNDQNN4T8rN6HYo-Eluap7pcptoRQ3anW-lxCII3rUeF9Zz5c6hm3AE0M8ZpqTXiMQ/s1600-h/R-872397-1167764432.jpeg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 318px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQDFEYWTAqX7_5WD5QwL1D7L96GgcQmo-NzT_f95i_8xd_TR7c4wlnS8_K0lYSDSxcF5LVSvf7CQNDQNN4T8rN6HYo-Eluap7pcptoRQ3anW-lxCII3rUeF9Zz5c6hm3AE0M8ZpqTXiMQ/s320/R-872397-1167764432.jpeg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309843009653619122" /></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">EVAN PARKER / KEITH ROWE / BARRY GUY / EDDIE PRÉVOST<br />Supersession<br />Matchless Recordings 1988</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/cvpff7">Download</a><br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:georgia;">Anyone with reservations about the use of the prefix 'Super' when applied to a recording should throw all their ideas about New Pornographer style supergroups playing power chords and falling horribly short of expectations out of the window. This is the kind of quartet you only wish you'd been around to see when they first got together, sat down, stood up, started throwing ideas around and improvised live in front of a small, but I'm guessing highly appreciative audience back in the 80s. They'd already been doing this kind of thing way before I was born so you'd think that maybe soon, someday they're going to run out of ideas, but each of the musicians on this recording seems to be like an endless spring, forever flowing with music that drenches your expectations in pure bliss.<br /><br />Like the Gustafsson record, this is one that beautifully crafts space, exploring the silence with a never-ending array of ideas from dissonant noise to hypnotic conical sax solos. The experience of the musicians means that they already know what works and what doesn't, but that doesn't stop them from trying out new things, breaking into a chaotic drum thrashing together with Parker's crystal shattering sax playing, Guy's scraping bass plucking and Rowe's eerie, harsh electronics. In the end it's all part of the artistic process and the way this unfolds means that you can listen on repeat for hours and still fail to understand the complexity behind their playing.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-50119691378745006922009-03-03T14:56:00.000+00:002009-03-05T23:22:09.422+00:00Mats Gustafsson - Impropositions (Phono Suecia 1997)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJCKBbiysTrmwpds0zvfz9mLES4NDCtUp6-MfD-TCEeQ80tFRa8taN8bAXnNu8T84p8iXvfTqKWDNub70xH6H6K8SfXU8SwOihOV_KoKdZiKMRy7nJE7mtogy2czpsEtsncoMwhxF4RLY/s1600-h/177806474_1f3b4e9e6d.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 188px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJCKBbiysTrmwpds0zvfz9mLES4NDCtUp6-MfD-TCEeQ80tFRa8taN8bAXnNu8T84p8iXvfTqKWDNub70xH6H6K8SfXU8SwOihOV_KoKdZiKMRy7nJE7mtogy2czpsEtsncoMwhxF4RLY/s320/177806474_1f3b4e9e6d.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309100006236998034"></a><br /><strong style="font-family:verdana;">MATS GUSTAFSSON<br />Impropositions<br />Phono Suecia 1997<br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://www.sendspace.com/file/45sjz4">Download</a><br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:georgia;">A brief interlude from my extensive and rather time-consuming Favourite FIlms list - a task I can't ever seem to get around to completing partly because I end up watching half the films I'm trying to write about and constantly changing my mind about what should go where and partly because I just don't have enough free time. Perhaps I should give up sleeping altogether. One of my new year resolutions was to slowly reduce the amount of sleep I had to give me more time to do more important things, but it's something I'm still working on. <br /><br />Anyway, I should move on to the reason for this post. One of the things I love best about rain is the ability it has to hold my attention for long periods of time just looking through a window upon a framed world gradually becoming soaked in water. This gazing can be misinterpreted as daydreaming, but that would imply that my mind was wondering elsewhere and not really thinking about the rain before me and that isn't true - well most of the time that isn't true. So what does that have to do with Mats Gustafsson? Well, listening to <i>Impropositions</i> is a bit like watching the rain - the process is slow, almost meditative, there is a beauty about it that isn't immediate and it takes a while to fully appreciate the complexity and the beauty behind that process.<br /><br /><i>Impropositions</i> bears a striking resemblance to John Butcher's <i>Resonant Spaces</i> of last year - there is an emptiness which lingers within a loosely defined space as notes scrape out of Gustafsson's various instruments (Soprano, Baritone and Tenor Sax, Alto Flute, Flageolet and his own specially made Fluteophone which comprises of a mouthpiece attached to a flute body). What I imagine as I listen to Gustafsson's complex patterns and harmonies is a large room, at first silent until water begins to drip through the cracks - the first drop, splash, ripple emphasises the silence and shortly another follows and then another in a sequence that reminds me of the end of Tarkovsky's <i>Stalker</i> as the three men reach their destination. Notes then pour out and every now and then explode as Gustafsson pushes a big breath of air right through the instrument. At times it sounds as though Gustafsson is fighting with his instruments. At others he seems to step back and let long notes hang suspended in the air. <br /><br />Compared with two of my other favourite Saxophone improvisors - Evan Parker and John Butcher - Gustafsson's improvisation through advanced circular breathing and technical prowess rather more disturbs than seduces the listener, often opening up the space around you only to suddenly close you in, trapping you in a powerful jarring section that dissects the fragility of the preceding silence the same way a brief spell of hard, heavy rain, blown by a gust of wind crunches against the window. It's something that certainly requires patience to appreciate, but when you're in one of those observant moods it's a real pleasure to listen to something so spellbinding.</span></strong><strong style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:georgia;"></span></strong>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-29133681948741502112009-01-18T16:55:00.002+00:002009-03-25T22:05:12.617+00:00Dreams in Celluloid, Part VI<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">50.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">PETER WATKINS</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8xJZQzNh_ExCIi-6jtYdHZG7zwoB4Bun-KnDLpC18St0plYiLSis-u571GI0rYPnwnyJB2ILwdR1qFJxINmx5E-YDKEzlOgIja9CxTzTsF_lYCJLsPZ0IPm8jUXrDLSVczePDVi1Ohw/s1600-h/punishment-park-desert-hell1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 221px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi8xJZQzNh_ExCIi-6jtYdHZG7zwoB4Bun-KnDLpC18St0plYiLSis-u571GI0rYPnwnyJB2ILwdR1qFJxINmx5E-YDKEzlOgIja9CxTzTsF_lYCJLsPZ0IPm8jUXrDLSVczePDVi1Ohw/s320/punishment-park-desert-hell1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298306266635839698" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Punishment Park </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1971)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Normally I don’t go for the pseudo-documentary thing, sure Spinal Tap was funny, but I couldn’t help being constantly aware of the fact that it’s actually just a script – but with Peter Watkins, the reverse seems to be true. So convincing is the documentary aspect of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Punishment Park</span> that rather than being constantly aware of its pseudo nature masquerading as factual, I had to keep telling myself that it’s not actually happening. All well and good you might say, but throw that in along with the powerful, reactionary scenario that involves free-thinking liberals arrested as criminals and forced to cross a desert to attain freedom whilst being chased by trigger-happy guards, things start to get a lot tenser. A highbrow Running Man? </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">49.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ROMAN POLANSKI</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5vO3smNKqT27n0DlZjaKz8m6B1vXgFyjKEFudnTBykUQhMW811p0E06TJrp9vE7udX8TeHIgSwm9VEDCFY7nt0rYxkKYY9AxFQggeIIxbGrP6pht4B69jqTBjwJwKcrhV4hcct0I0mU/s1600-h/90544-004-128EF4D3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 241px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ5vO3smNKqT27n0DlZjaKz8m6B1vXgFyjKEFudnTBykUQhMW811p0E06TJrp9vE7udX8TeHIgSwm9VEDCFY7nt0rYxkKYY9AxFQggeIIxbGrP6pht4B69jqTBjwJwKcrhV4hcct0I0mU/s320/90544-004-128EF4D3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298324846197602354" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Chinatown </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1974)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">By 1974 you would have thought that Film Noir-style, detective, crime films were dead and buried, reborn in camp splendour as television dramas with snappy dialogue, fast cars and casual gunplay. But Polanski manages to pull <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Chinatown</span> out of a heavily moth bitten bag and proves that you can actually do quite a lot with a well constructed plot. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">48.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">SERGIO LEONE</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPg-tOGje5u-THqzcxW0osk3tokM1_i0yo_rmSSciHAhoxiDO70vLnXSfddvAh-GoUBtuYBAuka2n6VIQIwSaEexNzTfHtAKooFxYgf4G9pJkA5DwNYt5t33wTVJqRTr_NHpfCDyqqXLk/s1600-h/once-upon-a-time.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 211px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPg-tOGje5u-THqzcxW0osk3tokM1_i0yo_rmSSciHAhoxiDO70vLnXSfddvAh-GoUBtuYBAuka2n6VIQIwSaEexNzTfHtAKooFxYgf4G9pJkA5DwNYt5t33wTVJqRTr_NHpfCDyqqXLk/s320/once-upon-a-time.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298325200481501090" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Once Upon A Time In The West </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1968)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I love Westerns. I love the desert, the emptiness, the perfect cerulean skies, the idea of riding around as the kind of fictional cowboy the genre seemed to invent – knocking off a few ruffians here, seducing a few dames there – it’s all good. What makes things a whole lot better though is a Western with substance. I’m all for glitzy style if my love of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Kill Bill</span> is anything to go by, but style will only go so far and for all its showy grandeur <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Once Upon a Time in the Wes</span>t also comes with an excellent storyline. And no Clint Eastwood either – Charles Bronson takes the lead, shows off his harmonica skills and proves that yeah, he can shoot too. And in the middle of everything - which certainly helps a film like this – Claudia Cardinale swans about like the love lost dame. Also recommended is Leone’s underappreciated Fistful of Dynamite for revolution on an epic scale – no Eastwood in that one either. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">47.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">CHRIS MARKER</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOV17Ao1J_WQzpoMgUrkU4ZLMjCkbfZWyGEyGME1MJl4a6Aw5ujk8UPQSc5Py6G5zOcCY_V8dm1ABuirfG8VZSquhOtLTFDdxSTLu5VZG3WmlVfaylo5eWC5tfF_1m2lvqTS3HAP7dBsc/s1600-h/a+sans+soliel+PDVD_028.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOV17Ao1J_WQzpoMgUrkU4ZLMjCkbfZWyGEyGME1MJl4a6Aw5ujk8UPQSc5Py6G5zOcCY_V8dm1ABuirfG8VZSquhOtLTFDdxSTLu5VZG3WmlVfaylo5eWC5tfF_1m2lvqTS3HAP7dBsc/s320/a+sans+soliel+PDVD_028.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298325661023694594" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Sans Soleil </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1983)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">ve watched this film several times now – each time I get a little bit closer to understanding what Marker’s wonderful documentary is actually about. But this is a film with highly protean meanings and depending on what you’re looking for (or expecting) it’s going to throw up something to catch your attention. See-sawing between Japan and Guinea-Bissau, Marker explores trans-continental ways of living, coping, reacting to and fitting in with the modern world. But actually he never really gets away from his own thoughts, his own reactions and responses to the stimulus presented by these polar environments. This is a very personal film-essay – perhaps let down by a lack of structure, but thoughts rarely are structured. Fascinating given the patience. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/qJqPo4LmLx8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/qJqPo4LmLx8&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">46.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">LOUIS MALLE</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgvVss9tmYDIEoWmBBrtfFw6Sjw9u2RViey1CCSTAUwpcxL2hcuPUvl_XL0aveT4kGIPk6j-SzRfR6Q6IGE1ziWFn-b6wghof-7MIXyvnUHAnrmPIGL3g0U1sMjHSCHOjVaBK7wMPkEk/s1600-h/feu-follet-1963.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 231px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgvVss9tmYDIEoWmBBrtfFw6Sjw9u2RViey1CCSTAUwpcxL2hcuPUvl_XL0aveT4kGIPk6j-SzRfR6Q6IGE1ziWFn-b6wghof-7MIXyvnUHAnrmPIGL3g0U1sMjHSCHOjVaBK7wMPkEk/s320/feu-follet-1963.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298326122717121010" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Le Feu Follet </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1963)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">After watching several of Malle’s films back to back, I got the impression that he was a bit of a scizophrenic filmmaker unable to decide what genre he really belonged to and trying to cover as much ground as possible from Film Noir (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Lift to the Scaffold</span>) to spoof (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Zazie on the Metro</span>). What he did do however was approach each film from scratch with intelligence and subtlety. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Le Feu Follet</span> was the one that attracted me the most however as Malle’s study of a writer deciding to kill himself has a psychological intensity rarely seen in his others films and Maurice Ronet’s poignant performance is near perfect. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">45.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">HAYAO MIYAZAKI</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhi9X1JZgLCAwzVSU2uVp4l4ifmW9dj-UxK3qn3NB5I6FAgvA7DMKFNKy7Os7WMgFBitLv3tgfWRp2Sk-nMH37qlP3hZnc_cGwrRjWZJAQnR2TOBdFAcl3nJvb4jBmIcLbJZFA9Nt_HA/s1600-h/SpiritedAway.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 173px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyhi9X1JZgLCAwzVSU2uVp4l4ifmW9dj-UxK3qn3NB5I6FAgvA7DMKFNKy7Os7WMgFBitLv3tgfWRp2Sk-nMH37qlP3hZnc_cGwrRjWZJAQnR2TOBdFAcl3nJvb4jBmIcLbJZFA9Nt_HA/s320/SpiritedAway.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298329455698185746" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Spirited Away </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(2001)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I have to say I’m not a big fan of animation. Sure I got my kicks from Disney when I was young, but since then I haven’t really been able to connect with animated films in the same way as non-animated. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Akira</span> was OK, but it never really grabbed me. So I was pleasantly surprised when I first a Miyazaki film – <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Princess Monoke</span> – and was casually drawn in by it. And then I saw <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Spirited Away</span> at the cinema and I was amazed. The richness of the film, the wonder of his world, the plot, everything about this film was enthralling.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">44.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ROBERT BRESSON</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsl0wV7XH8o8vNlnWqw6l77jHMYv5qY-a3KEygF6nAP4y8D1J0bq7mBW_H4aDI_TP1og7SgNDuGZ4bnr64_pHy6q6yQ9ePj-rxrIPXWNVsFkrkM23l2OegBpdqhNzwW2BBVMlw5Ty1db8/s1600-h/dames2.jpg.asset_rgb.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsl0wV7XH8o8vNlnWqw6l77jHMYv5qY-a3KEygF6nAP4y8D1J0bq7mBW_H4aDI_TP1og7SgNDuGZ4bnr64_pHy6q6yQ9ePj-rxrIPXWNVsFkrkM23l2OegBpdqhNzwW2BBVMlw5Ty1db8/s320/dames2.jpg.asset_rgb.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298329459627134690" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1945)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Two types of film: those that employ<br />the resources of the theater (actors, direction, etc.)<br />and use the camera in order to reproduce;<br />those that employ the resources of cinematography<br />and use the camera to create.<br />Cinematography: a new way of writing, therefore of feeling.</span><br />–Bresson, Notes on Cinematography<br /><br />I suppose that pretty much sums up what Bresson was about. He had a great feel for cinematography. His films practically re-wrote its language. Initially I was turned off by Bresson’s extreme asceticism, for me it took some getting used to, but soon I was absorbed into his fearless world and <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Les Dames Du Bois Boulogne</span> was the film that did it for me. It’s far from Bresson at his best, the plot is a simple revenge narrative, but the film itself gave me an insight into Bresson’s cinematic style that allowed me to appreciate his later films. And my favourite? Well that would probably be <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The Trial of Joan of Arc</span>.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">43.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ROBERTO ROSSELLINI</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYLFse1iRmOiIdvSYuJ7AK7yWOE4VUxIMVvnl5zWDcnWAY7HjhaBGvmT5YgMIVTfWl8vyh_wyk0j6DUnJWhSh5prRqYuPTC7ATwuyeKjVSEIgwUENmbeCGtckN-CyakjQP_CLUcqf54g/s1600-h/FOTO1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYLFse1iRmOiIdvSYuJ7AK7yWOE4VUxIMVvnl5zWDcnWAY7HjhaBGvmT5YgMIVTfWl8vyh_wyk0j6DUnJWhSh5prRqYuPTC7ATwuyeKjVSEIgwUENmbeCGtckN-CyakjQP_CLUcqf54g/s320/FOTO1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298329467219367570" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Francesco, giullare di Dio </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1950)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Simple and striking are two good words to describe Rossellini’s Neo-realist masterpiece – a brief vignette of the life of St. Francis and his fellow monks. It might not be as groundbreaking as <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Roma, città aper</span>ta was from 1945, but Rossellini’s development over those five years gave <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Francesco, guillare di Dio</span> a much greater naturalism, echoing his maxim that truth was found wholly in reality – an ethos beautifully captured in Francesco through his simplicity, his humility and his grace from the powerful scene with the leper to the light-hearted antics of Giovanni, known as “the Simpleton”. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">42.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">JEAN COCTEAU</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0T8iODAGFAqxx8dhErQQExYoa3_H2BtyuaTybr5jZeeJ8USZOA7mevonD2t6ZaGAQhsfs-A8l5zoASpUe4lJR8t7FY60OMTGg5bmSt6Zfgtnu2UkWP9YDAIRfZEKpwCwoOxcjihZS2ok/s1600-h/orphee.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 235px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0T8iODAGFAqxx8dhErQQExYoa3_H2BtyuaTybr5jZeeJ8USZOA7mevonD2t6ZaGAQhsfs-A8l5zoASpUe4lJR8t7FY60OMTGg5bmSt6Zfgtnu2UkWP9YDAIRfZEKpwCwoOxcjihZS2ok/s320/orphee.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298329477373935218" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Orphée </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1950)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Like Pasolini, Cocteau’s legacy is a result of his protean shifting from one form of art to another, perhaps never feeling completely at ease with any of them, but ever persistent to innovate and experiment. Drawing upon the Greek myth, Cocteau’s <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Orphée</span> merges surrealist-inspired symbolism, cinematic poetry and a sprinkling of autobiography with a kind of magical inspiration and quietly ushers the viewer into a dreamlike meditation on life and death – surely a sight to behold. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;">41.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">WIM WENDERS</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78rWsba7AXB3wYVGVguERyVCC5UPfWcr3GolrIlAA2xC8fIw51Tv-d7IuYX4eSV3fAMgTXiEGINbGIuDxPz6EmnZ5LgOUXXPX8anYA9qMnCm8p5MWdsDRqkmAhexuDeUY8yxwIyImxvo/s1600-h/dvd_aliceinthecities_alice.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg78rWsba7AXB3wYVGVguERyVCC5UPfWcr3GolrIlAA2xC8fIw51Tv-d7IuYX4eSV3fAMgTXiEGINbGIuDxPz6EmnZ5LgOUXXPX8anYA9qMnCm8p5MWdsDRqkmAhexuDeUY8yxwIyImxvo/s320/dvd_aliceinthecities_alice.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298329501322575074" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">Alice in the Cities </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;">(1974)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">If there’s one thing that instantly drew me into <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Alice in the Cities</span> it’s the fact that it’s shot on 16mm black and white film, so far so good, but what really held my attention on top of this was the charming sequence of chance encounters of gentle humour of the two protagonists – nine year old Alice, suddenly abandoned by her mother and left in the care of disenchanted photojournalist, Philip Winter. So it’s essentially a ‘buddy movie’ – an unlikely pairing of two lost souls travelling across America in the hope of finding something worthwhile, but like Cassavetes’s <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Gloria</span>, the relationship between the man and the little girl avoids awkward cliché and remains touching and above all believable. </span>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-77435853606442633652008-11-27T12:20:00.003+00:002009-03-25T22:03:56.242+00:00Dreams in Celluloid, Part V<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >60.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">CARL THEODOR DREYER</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9-h4Kl6HGr73GoV5fSE6G1lzentIgNK1IsYtUhyz4IjoEIrJGLRKWy8CNyr9WX029Fq4uP5SMDLzoKauCERw9ilEzbtBgOwH3VPV136TyTRae6IjqCwi1keZacKHpbnOc-ATrxlrpCo/s1600-h/bfi+carl+dreyer+day+of+wrath+dvd+review+2950.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9-h4Kl6HGr73GoV5fSE6G1lzentIgNK1IsYtUhyz4IjoEIrJGLRKWy8CNyr9WX029Fq4uP5SMDLzoKauCERw9ilEzbtBgOwH3VPV136TyTRae6IjqCwi1keZacKHpbnOc-ATrxlrpCo/s320/bfi+carl+dreyer+day+of+wrath+dvd+review+2950.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292680466522085906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Day of Wrath </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1943)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Dreyer is a master of minimal filmmaking. What he can do with minimal effort is astonishing – a technique which lends itself well to re-creating religious hysteria and moral ambiguities of his characters. The paranoia inherent within The Day of Wrath fills every scene with a quiet tension and overall sense of helplessness – a reflection of the Nazi’s occupation of Dreyer’s homeland of Denmark during the time of filming no doubt accentuated this effect. Few other directors are capable of recreating that sense of simmering disquiet with quite the same style. The closest I can think of is Clouzot’s Le Corbeau, but it lacks the intensity of Dreyer’s masterpiece. </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Cfui9mu-FqatroVMA8s8XrMtSr-N5yGHyVvz9tm6YBxG9nnIVDOEaVxGColQkMGlYA-M6WJfYm1jM4MwoW1GJJ3hoJa6b3DjuuEDAGSuxay5SNf7d4C67FfU_lTxZ3LtFxTFbvdOS8M/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Cfui9mu-FqatroVMA8s8XrMtSr-N5yGHyVvz9tm6YBxG9nnIVDOEaVxGColQkMGlYA-M6WJfYm1jM4MwoW1GJJ3hoJa6b3DjuuEDAGSuxay5SNf7d4C67FfU_lTxZ3LtFxTFbvdOS8M/s320/Picture+1.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292681302385087698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >59.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">FRANCIS FORD COPPOLA</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUlsjbgQ_w4zRINqkCzwce2Z2nGbQOYYcsckZDvdy_twBzwAkKu6HcEEw3Ewdtchlc2qeajqnKomQYVOKlEyVPaqxA-r5ZSBYQGbnBL8qLLL0_Wxq7GuM6PqpzQWCg_LpCdmlM9269ww/s1600-h/apocalypse_now_xl_01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUlsjbgQ_w4zRINqkCzwce2Z2nGbQOYYcsckZDvdy_twBzwAkKu6HcEEw3Ewdtchlc2qeajqnKomQYVOKlEyVPaqxA-r5ZSBYQGbnBL8qLLL0_Wxq7GuM6PqpzQWCg_LpCdmlM9269ww/s320/apocalypse_now_xl_01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292682266044074498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Apocalypse Now </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1979)</span><br /></div><br />“Terminate with extreme prejudice.”<br /><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Everything about this films screams big, the opening shots of the exploding jungle, the Vietnam setting, the foreboding song by The Doors, but then it suddenly jumps to a single soldier with a single mission and the proceeding storyline takes place on a much darker and more personal level. Captain Benjamin L. Willard narrates his journey up the Nung River to assassinate the infamous, renegade Colonel – Walter E. Kurtz. Very few films ever do justice to the book that inspired them, especially such a literary work as Heart of Darkness so all credit to Coppola for being able to transplant it to Vietnam and retain the depth and intrigue of the original novel. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >58.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">PIER PASOLINI</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxEMQOgVLnFYe3nQNrmVGJtJhX2l_fB5YXlwNIkNgOXzlJ_S8e9W40I_Mf3OLlq4zUv8QypXVJ27lTmYEl1dhKSU1dyfGjwi9r3ls4axNZ8jFBW862ZLpBcPw1n4n7aSoQaikzJv05kM/s1600-h/decameron.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 186px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXxEMQOgVLnFYe3nQNrmVGJtJhX2l_fB5YXlwNIkNgOXzlJ_S8e9W40I_Mf3OLlq4zUv8QypXVJ27lTmYEl1dhKSU1dyfGjwi9r3ls4axNZ8jFBW862ZLpBcPw1n4n7aSoQaikzJv05kM/s320/decameron.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292683670204951474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The Decameron </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1971)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The controversial Pasolini made four (epic) films in the 1970s. I find them tough to watch. They are unflinching, dark in subject matter, but above all, unbearably human. Watching Sado for the first time made me feel ill – to be honest I wasn’t expecting much, after reading the book I remember thinking that there’s no way this can be turned into a film without becoming some kind of poor quality hardcore porn flick. Turns out it can, but not only that, Pasolini has an extraordinary sense of disquiet so it’s not the individual acts of cruelty which feel sickening, but the oppressive nature of the whole thing. The Decameron whilst retaining Pasolini’s trademark approach to sex and nudity is certainly less graphic, but no less powerful. Based on Boccaccio’s collection of short stories, Pasolini creates one of his most straightforward and honest films. The painterly nature of the film (Pasolini even plays the part of late Gothic, Florentine painter Giotto) is nothing less than sublime in the truest sense of the word – inspiring awe through fear.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >57.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">CLAUDE CHABROL</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrgXBl9UzAxb41XTu4GBP6ohECr5bs55r2K_qeLSJhRuAknBcaxHlTTy3ncag9Gz44dXaYKd5BCdVKO2zixZDqQ3ep6p_o2rjKZhl4ULJhE9X8P7ezFB1bkptzj0pPUrB62p9xd94AskY/s1600-h/les+bonnes+femmes.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrgXBl9UzAxb41XTu4GBP6ohECr5bs55r2K_qeLSJhRuAknBcaxHlTTy3ncag9Gz44dXaYKd5BCdVKO2zixZDqQ3ep6p_o2rjKZhl4ULJhE9X8P7ezFB1bkptzj0pPUrB62p9xd94AskY/s320/les+bonnes+femmes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292684289425186338" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Les Bonnes Femmes </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1960)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I rarely watch Chabrol films. Perhaps he shouldn’t be on this list at all, but then again I rarely listen to Evan Parker’s Conic Sections and that’s a sure beast of an album, so rare isn’t necessarily bad. It’s not that I find Chabrol’s films particularly intense in a Tarkovsky or Resnais-esque manner, but I find them particularly unnerving without any real breathing space. So I chose Les Bonnes Femmes because being an early Chabrol flick it has more of a New Wave charm, although depending on your point of view it’s also Charbol’s most biting film, fully exploiting his sharp sense of irony and cynicism to throw everything back at the viewer. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >56.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">PAUL THOMAS ANDERSON</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOEFJtMh0SEiATizr_-bVI4C-SoVytjGvqpMekTGScerMpdFLU2wSEX4OZymIX_YHc3PBykpJlDj0gb_-F0lABq0W6WxkeI0GxUGLjcYef6_XGQ-EtrE219VjdHcaVGOh4C9rJZMWD0o8/s1600-h/there-will-be-blood-photo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOEFJtMh0SEiATizr_-bVI4C-SoVytjGvqpMekTGScerMpdFLU2wSEX4OZymIX_YHc3PBykpJlDj0gb_-F0lABq0W6WxkeI0GxUGLjcYef6_XGQ-EtrE219VjdHcaVGOh4C9rJZMWD0o8/s320/there-will-be-blood-photo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292684811894475426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >There Will Be Blood </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(2007)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And just when I thought films had completely moved away from the all embracing, no holds barred, psychological examination of a single figure, There Will Be Blood comes along and kicks me where it hurts. So this is what happens when you get that magical click between actor and director. Because Daniel Day Lewis really gives Paul Thomas Anderson something along the lines of what Klaus Kinski did for Werner Herzog in Aguirre: Wrath of God. Slowly worked towards a melting frenzy is just what I enjoy in my power-crazed characters and Daniel Plainview hits the mark completely. A far cry from the perhaps self-indulgent Magnolia, but nevertheless Anderson isn’t a director afraid to take risks.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >55.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MICHEL HANECKE</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlk238bOpPyvprlmAWcIW62Ersb3j7rEuqaBZgOrRVk44_-4WwPYNdbAqWRU1bMPgs7485pXJFcUp3LIv8Cl4tIFGt-ebkSKxIEcbyu278o48wnrLgHD1TPYrXnwFTUWCdnpoz2y2Lnqs/s1600-h/code.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlk238bOpPyvprlmAWcIW62Ersb3j7rEuqaBZgOrRVk44_-4WwPYNdbAqWRU1bMPgs7485pXJFcUp3LIv8Cl4tIFGt-ebkSKxIEcbyu278o48wnrLgHD1TPYrXnwFTUWCdnpoz2y2Lnqs/s320/code.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292685828942348002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Code Unknown </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(2000)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Haneke is one of those directors who have a strange knack for delivering powerful slices of an often decaying family life that hit the viewer with an uncanny sense of unease. Hidden was like an intense shot of adrenalin, brutal and straight to the point. Time of the Wolf let things unravel with unease in its post-apocalyptic setting. But Code Unknown is the high point in his deconstruction and collapse of the family environment in a world where communication seems to have completely broken down. If only he hadn’t remade Funny Games to suit the Hollywood criterion, but perhaps he needed the money?</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >54.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">SERGEI PARAJANOV</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtElQxC640L_nyp4u4M-8rRvMmA0Wu1wRxrsT25X1iikawpd7WNNWhLdlYJJdS2nf9uYOn_3o2ChtlCqEixcljFvbm2YtNScrLlz3iFZAgl8M1pDeJ74yIBJY2BMXWPIhGX8N0vWm-7U/s1600-h/shadows+of+forgotten+ancestors.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAtElQxC640L_nyp4u4M-8rRvMmA0Wu1wRxrsT25X1iikawpd7WNNWhLdlYJJdS2nf9uYOn_3o2ChtlCqEixcljFvbm2YtNScrLlz3iFZAgl8M1pDeJ74yIBJY2BMXWPIhGX8N0vWm-7U/s320/shadows+of+forgotten+ancestors.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292686348910560946" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1964)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Who is Sergei Parajanov? Good question. He was one of many suppressed Soviet Russian filmmakers that refused to adhere to the conventions of Social Realism. He also had a passion for Pasolini, Tarkovsky and Fellini and as a result his films are like a combination of all three, but no second rate imitation and amazing in their own right. "Beauty will save the world," he once said. Watch any of his films and maybe you’ll begin to understand why. Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors is a deeply symbolic, folkloric, magical tale of lovers, jealously and betrayal, slipping between dream and reality like every good fairy tale. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KvZLJ3cw96M&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KvZLJ3cw96M&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >53.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MAYA DEREN</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTgAmNzYxIYvopULUL7Lp-11h9_coWsJay4K17ikcn9mE94kg5ArAaBzSdxZHR2t1nx4OuyEvFUzuuZOAcOknt-HxI20d7HddoNzbYeHAM8WMiZRKVoewEcfi8Z58HWTz4aPfbWFH83A/s1600-h/kudlacek_07_body.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 230px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRTgAmNzYxIYvopULUL7Lp-11h9_coWsJay4K17ikcn9mE94kg5ArAaBzSdxZHR2t1nx4OuyEvFUzuuZOAcOknt-HxI20d7HddoNzbYeHAM8WMiZRKVoewEcfi8Z58HWTz4aPfbWFH83A/s320/kudlacek_07_body.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292687050549374082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Meshes of the Afternoon </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1943)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The anti-Hollywood filmmaker par excellence. Everything one can possibly hate about Hollywood is nowhere to be seen in Deren’s experimental short films, which were artistic, creative, intelligent and above all else compellingly enigmatic. One thing I find so fascinating about Deren’s films is the beautiful dance-like camerawork and sense of rhythm and space. Deren was also a dancer/choreographer which no doubt helped considerably, but there’s also a wonderful poetry to her shorts that few filmmakers ever achieve. Meshes of the Afternoon is probably her most famous film (incidentally Teijo Ito created the music), but I think it’s also her most perfect combination of symbolism, movement and experimentation. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YPi9i3gfSAM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YPi9i3gfSAM&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >52.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">TERRY GILLIAM</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig0QaNw_PoeEMdkMmGuqHb0157dvQZfE-HbwSa92y0v_oBVRsHDkK8GNh0ig_HZYLd45ri_g7ajXznRl41hZ6uJ30wMdlj_LNy-nPXei4uktcScB-5OvoRvt76r2o3NsHX95qOu3tW4-8/s1600-h/brazil5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig0QaNw_PoeEMdkMmGuqHb0157dvQZfE-HbwSa92y0v_oBVRsHDkK8GNh0ig_HZYLd45ri_g7ajXznRl41hZ6uJ30wMdlj_LNy-nPXei4uktcScB-5OvoRvt76r2o3NsHX95qOu3tW4-8/s320/brazil5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292687530741276722" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Brazil </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1985)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Hurrah for dystopian future worlds, escapist, dreamy, black comedies with flying men, Rube Goldberg machines, facial stretching and credit card obsessed robots. When you watch a Terry Gilliam movie, you know that nothing is going to be the same again. Imagination always wins the day. Oh and there’s also the satirical point of view. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >51.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">F. W. MURNAU</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8OB00tPMqwtJqrnIEydhd8P0w6j0_UXenOTVnrSlykKyV9KSyOffd2tWyoXUDalxnWbI-I5zvKan5FdEoy7bdq500ieSouT15k3Uy6daBHl2KtkVNJ5XL14WqyHaW0Y_VZZnUP0rOVnc/s1600-h/sunrise.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8OB00tPMqwtJqrnIEydhd8P0w6j0_UXenOTVnrSlykKyV9KSyOffd2tWyoXUDalxnWbI-I5zvKan5FdEoy7bdq500ieSouT15k3Uy6daBHl2KtkVNJ5XL14WqyHaW0Y_VZZnUP0rOVnc/s320/sunrise.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292688058909259634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1927)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">And yet another film about the enduring power of human love – and this is silent film at its best with Murnau at his peak. Sunrise may well be the most influential film of all German Expressionist cinema (but there’s also Lang’s Metropolis so it’s hard to say). This is a film about love with all its sticky problems (and I don’t necessarily mean bedroom ‘sticky’), but mostly devoid of melodrama, there is a powerful realism to Murnau’s story that takes account of the inherent difficulties two people face when it comes to expressing themselves. And watching this film in retrospect of 80 years of cinema, its influence is remarkable. </span>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-31578591921167217312008-11-27T12:19:00.002+00:002009-03-25T22:02:38.382+00:00Dreams in Celluloid, Part IV<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >70.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">JURAJ HERZ</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Vfkw5R6rdWk7Vx-ziaCWDR7SvmdlfaiVD8Zhw34dEh8U7IHp3JtEyCHx5nNZiiHIZ9gB4rDlnQCRQIHC7GjCPMa3aVc-FB-uSlhnx-UyocxKbvSDYUlklgzq2Kc-G0YcaqpEL9fQL9w/s1600-h/the+cremator.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 192px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Vfkw5R6rdWk7Vx-ziaCWDR7SvmdlfaiVD8Zhw34dEh8U7IHp3JtEyCHx5nNZiiHIZ9gB4rDlnQCRQIHC7GjCPMa3aVc-FB-uSlhnx-UyocxKbvSDYUlklgzq2Kc-G0YcaqpEL9fQL9w/s320/the+cremator.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289085173278988514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The Cremator </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1969)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Hypnotic camera work, a charming though ultimately disquieting protagonist and a particularly sinister undertone. Herz didn't make all that many films, but <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cremator</span> ranks as one of the greatest of all time. Herz manages to capture the claustrophobic, uneasy atmosphere of a Czech nation about to be taken over by Hitler and he does so with a wicked sense of dark humour. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cremator</span> is a man obsessed with death it is constantly haunting him. Surrealist horror with a strong message. Great transitions between scenes too.<br /></span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/nQeMvEzEpvU&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/nQeMvEzEpvU&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >69.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">COEN BROTHERS</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhmSKSq1iBAYgNJpCv0TeB4FbYtUGfyfk6ez5_kDd1zNQEZnqERzgv5iy2LszbrvK3S4peuD8aaYTICVS4QxxuOhvV5vsUd9H7mD-K92oSh_m9FKBiEKPB5qv3ITOpb66B6kHUH4RkvY/s1600-h/fargo_l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzhmSKSq1iBAYgNJpCv0TeB4FbYtUGfyfk6ez5_kDd1zNQEZnqERzgv5iy2LszbrvK3S4peuD8aaYTICVS4QxxuOhvV5vsUd9H7mD-K92oSh_m9FKBiEKPB5qv3ITOpb66B6kHUH4RkvY/s320/fargo_l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289086715623162690" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Fargo </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1996)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Over the years the Coen Brothers seem to swing a lot from the amazing kind to the ‘what were you thinking’ kind of films. Take <span style="font-style: italic;">No Country For Old Men</span> and the recent <span style="font-style: italic;">Burn After Reading</span> and there’s definitely something lacking in the latter. But still, when they hit the mark, they hit the mark and few other American directors can touch them. And <span style="font-style: italic;">Fargo</span> is a pretty damn special kind of film that only the Coen Brothers are capable of with their dark sense of humour and sense of drama. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >68.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">WONG KAR-WAI</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37i3VIfW9QirU7i9c3W1BGAHEqPOPledF2h7I4NPHmG9zGuuW46XIH_BdMjZhBtWzEPegnLW-VjCOBLJb0lreuHBnWB4Brb3o7CHF5fxiJR6Gj7ZsAHCkat6tzaEpxVq445899aI39TQ/s1600-h/jksl-5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg37i3VIfW9QirU7i9c3W1BGAHEqPOPledF2h7I4NPHmG9zGuuW46XIH_BdMjZhBtWzEPegnLW-VjCOBLJb0lreuHBnWB4Brb3o7CHF5fxiJR6Gj7ZsAHCkat6tzaEpxVq445899aI39TQ/s320/jksl-5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289087867086150866" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Chungking Express </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1994)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">If there’s one thing I love above all else in film, it’s the ability it has to completely overwhelm you with a series of beautiful images. And Wong Kar-wai certainly knows how to enrapture his audience with his highly stylised, strikingly shot films. Coupled with that <span style="font-style: italic;">Chungking Express</span> is one of my favourite modern love stories – a little bit quirky sure, but is full of unusual moments and interesting insights into one of the most hectic cities in the world. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >67.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">JIM JARMUSCH</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGDDxNXZf9e6zvg76PLbaTSJsc33xLafImMdn6wN1xrtML3TxYiKpAqrHWQCOJV8J8DT4feDpUSG9qBPZIZA8vRfCYzqt7Gs1RHyQ-jpkA8KhLEBSs33oy2AuIKmknDc1EENc2idb6Y7Q/s1600-h/dead2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGDDxNXZf9e6zvg76PLbaTSJsc33xLafImMdn6wN1xrtML3TxYiKpAqrHWQCOJV8J8DT4feDpUSG9qBPZIZA8vRfCYzqt7Gs1RHyQ-jpkA8KhLEBSs33oy2AuIKmknDc1EENc2idb6Y7Q/s320/dead2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289088096293933874" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Dead Man </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1995)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">If anyone can make a film about death, fill it full of subtle symbolism and metaphor, throw in a bit of existential musing and write a narrative in the form of a western then Jarmusch is the man. Of course Jonny Depp is great as the deadpan accountant on the run following a little bit of murder, but that’s not really what the film’s about – as always with Jarmusch, his effort to understand how different people see the world gives the film a strong intellectual backbone and philosophical tension. Maybe he’s become a little bit too hip in recent years – I mean <span style="font-style: italic;">Coffee & Cigarettes</span> features just about everyone who’s considered cool from Tom Waits & Iggy Pop to Steve Buscemi & Bill Murray. Then again, that film is pretty damn funny. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >66.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">BERNARDO BERTOLUCCI</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgws-KAwvYAuXFAFWu6hcSsAgJNkIt4In5h16znwJHer1l-J6jylq5g9VQ0srN8HWti2kj9UTvAslMuIEcaSXy2bwiJleihYblnpxZ9_kh7nj0RrfJid56P0Ht_C5ZosZA-YBxODK_hcfE/s1600-h/conformist_01.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 179px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgws-KAwvYAuXFAFWu6hcSsAgJNkIt4In5h16znwJHer1l-J6jylq5g9VQ0srN8HWti2kj9UTvAslMuIEcaSXy2bwiJleihYblnpxZ9_kh7nj0RrfJid56P0Ht_C5ZosZA-YBxODK_hcfE/s320/conformist_01.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289088817115678146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The Conformist </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1970)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Bertolucci is maybe best known for his provocative Last Tango In Paris, but it’s <span style="font-style: italic;">The Conformist</span> which seems to excite all the critics and I guess they’ve got a point. It’s based on Alberto Moravia’s novel of the same name – the writer incidentally also inspired Godard to turn his novel, <span style="font-style: italic;">Contempt</span> into the directors most popular film – except Bertolucci demonstrating his control over his medium, re-arranges the narrative and fills his film with an almost labyrinthine series of flashbacks. A powerful examination of political unrest and psychological disturbance.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >65.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">EMIR KUSTURICA</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7yCHQE-sa3hGneRLWklmgoRyHJGEg8zyis_Kn_hWSlbSPLkNg3BteGe-_vfAZN7qkZAIku-DpzLZ0r91MnbrpdMOlx-r-b18OXupJz3yUsn5uBg-CSVwN4sR_KC581w1FORlQ-o6gjk/s1600-h/underground.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim7yCHQE-sa3hGneRLWklmgoRyHJGEg8zyis_Kn_hWSlbSPLkNg3BteGe-_vfAZN7qkZAIku-DpzLZ0r91MnbrpdMOlx-r-b18OXupJz3yUsn5uBg-CSVwN4sR_KC581w1FORlQ-o6gjk/s320/underground.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290118739661083858" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Underground </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1995)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">One thing that really hits you when you’re watching a Kusturica film is the sense of fun. There’s usually a Yugoslavian gypsy band trawling through each scene, dancing and drinking, bizarre relationship ménage a trois’s, bawdy humour etc. etc. <span style="font-style: italic;">Underground</span> was my first experience of Kusturica’s colourful world and I couldn’t help but admire his artistic vision and sense of grandeur. Certainly it’s epic, with a little bit of a <span style="font-style: italic;">Godfather</span> trait as the generations pass and one character usurps another, but this is entirely Kusturica’s world and anything is possible. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >64.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">LOUIS FEUILLADE</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSVA4T5KHoOpU74FcoQj-T5xSwT9Ig3pXwD1v_Lv0XuDXBKUrWfb_whIqrMgeYsiBf2rH8n_XOGgxJug_V12olr46fuSMkc93tJSvqe4kzt3UMAyBAH_KRzhUtoFl3g2i7_S-tLzgB3E/s1600-h/Les+Vampyrs.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSVA4T5KHoOpU74FcoQj-T5xSwT9Ig3pXwD1v_Lv0XuDXBKUrWfb_whIqrMgeYsiBf2rH8n_XOGgxJug_V12olr46fuSMkc93tJSvqe4kzt3UMAyBAH_KRzhUtoFl3g2i7_S-tLzgB3E/s320/Les+Vampyrs.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290120175747234610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Les Vampires </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1915)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Feuillade was a prolific filmmaker – he made something like 800 (though the numbers differ depending on where you look) films over the course of 20 or so years. So you’d think that due to the sheer quantity there’d be little room for quality and the final results might have something of an Ed Wood ‘so bad they’re good’ kind of feeling. Feuillade certainly had a certain ridiculousness to his filmmaking – impeded by the war his series <span style="font-style: italic;">Les Vampires</span> has an almost illogical progression as actors were drafted into the army and locations were limited. But Feuillade obviously had a very definite knack for turning out both bizarre yet intriguing films. Along with <span style="font-style: italic;">Fantomas</span>,<span style="font-style: italic;"> Les Vampires</span> is one of the most entertaining early criminal mastermind series out there. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >63.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">LUCHINO VISCONTI</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv6_XPReEPfzGYbjJRhmBiF06hm9kPwaoklc13eqZByLG4q_xjQItL-OOr_7Cc9ut9y3JDjOvBqrb7f51aQZgC4zznNl3MlsJ6EOM9uY7ZHgdFqpJPF413X5es4cGXq37TVqf7eWRUg5w/s1600-h/le+notti+bianche.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv6_XPReEPfzGYbjJRhmBiF06hm9kPwaoklc13eqZByLG4q_xjQItL-OOr_7Cc9ut9y3JDjOvBqrb7f51aQZgC4zznNl3MlsJ6EOM9uY7ZHgdFqpJPF413X5es4cGXq37TVqf7eWRUg5w/s320/le+notti+bianche.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290120891830604914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Le Notti Bianche </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1957)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The Italian Count who decided to make some films. Mostly epic like <span style="font-style: italic;">The Leopard</span> – two of my favourite shots in cinema (the house) and the shot of the family’s faces in church – but before all that, he made <span style="font-style: italic;">Le Notti Bianche</span> with stylish Marcello Mastroianni playing a decidedly less cool character. Full of emptiness, Visconti successfully twists the Dostoyevsky short story on which the film is based into something as equally psychologically engaging. It’s a film about obsession and lust as the despondent Mario meets an upset Natalia (Maria Schnell) one evening. As always with Visconti, there is a real sense of poetry as the two characters begin to talk to one another, but as always with Visconti, there is an underlying fragility beneath it all, which wins the day.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >62.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">GEORGES FRANJU</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgRBDHba6t8yfWliViZlcdGrBf1qq9utyh4W-zfvyDb6SKRvnnMIXGkE51szBfYYebIG4JH4Wx7bSPTOLLU04cB102-1Yuu79ZxNXkkraKWsD3K1DXAsrbsl2cg5RO3A6PWDsY1khBvs/s1600-h/bscap0000ld9.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 197px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqgRBDHba6t8yfWliViZlcdGrBf1qq9utyh4W-zfvyDb6SKRvnnMIXGkE51szBfYYebIG4JH4Wx7bSPTOLLU04cB102-1Yuu79ZxNXkkraKWsD3K1DXAsrbsl2cg5RO3A6PWDsY1khBvs/s320/bscap0000ld9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290121340357249938" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Judex </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1963)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Franju is probably most famous for <span style="font-style: italic;">Les Yeux sans visage</span> – a film about an obsessed doctor attempting to discover a method of facial transplantation, told with fairy-talesque horror, sinister carnival music and expressionistic filmmaking techniques. But one step further into psychological (psychosexual call it what you will) meltdown is <span style="font-style: italic;">Judex</span> – a film full of symbolic references, haunting characters and poetic metaphor. Franju’s film is a tribute to, but also a re-invention of silent French cinema, especially Feuillard’s 1916 film of the same name and has something of the magical quality of Cocteau’s best work. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_HM_hN6uDvk&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_HM_hN6uDvk&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >61.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MANOEL DE OLIVEIRA</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwi07YCrrt8YKlDAEhWDcny0ldpLG05iyidNJgdKPZ7RXID6XY3RyBl0nN_CuwfkLAD6Ekd61UlBpQ-L0HvYh9VQGoRkUJ58gvBNmXUsJXXio9Hcy3OMQ0hT_aoS6uXV1kTbY1Aa2oYyA/s1600-h/Abrahams_Valley.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwi07YCrrt8YKlDAEhWDcny0ldpLG05iyidNJgdKPZ7RXID6XY3RyBl0nN_CuwfkLAD6Ekd61UlBpQ-L0HvYh9VQGoRkUJ58gvBNmXUsJXXio9Hcy3OMQ0hT_aoS6uXV1kTbY1Aa2oYyA/s320/Abrahams_Valley.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290122162122748674" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Abraham's Valley </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1993)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">A beautiful film. Oliveira surely deserves wider recognition in the film world. <span style="font-style: italic;">Abraham’s Valley</span> is similar in feeling to Rivette’s early 90s films - that same kind of delicate, nuanced approach to filmmaking, and since Oliveira’s film is based on Flaubert’s famous <span style="font-style: italic;">Madame Bovary</span>, the naturalistic method is well suited in capturing the power of the book.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-56113924096001981652008-11-19T12:06:00.002+00:002009-03-25T20:58:06.086+00:00Dreams in Celluloid, Part III<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >80.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">JULES DASSIN</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4IQlbqWH5qmgeomshamVppp4FvlH2P_CEosBqr1HuGhJQJzn96xNff5i44sFUrzuKDjYFWmfcvMlGgCbthSED78Sa9Jlog0Mad-nNl66wMHcrZSaXNZUxfmyjatDuPfNMIQp-CM8ct8/s1600-h/rififi-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW4IQlbqWH5qmgeomshamVppp4FvlH2P_CEosBqr1HuGhJQJzn96xNff5i44sFUrzuKDjYFWmfcvMlGgCbthSED78Sa9Jlog0Mad-nNl66wMHcrZSaXNZUxfmyjatDuPfNMIQp-CM8ct8/s320/rififi-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274553329625070162" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Rififi </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1955)</span><br /></div><br />‘Out of the worst crime novels I ever read, Jules Dassin has made the best crime film I've ever seen.’ François Truffaut. Blacklisted by Hollywood in the 1950s, Dassin went to France where he made one of the greatest Film Noir style crime films ever. This is the film that includes the now infamous twenty-three minute silent robbery scene. A big influence on later French crime films, especially Melville, not to mention the countless Hollywood crime capers.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >79.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">JOSEF VON STERNBERG</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT15DzoAn1CYXHeJyuBiPil0cFBWCVnpNyDV2KJTbY4wScxtm2tlqd5uUvOu8EI0OjgvA0WrBDZ1IIyKJaepfNRmtxyupneZkIRQi55D7MFT4uBIR3pwVopVnXa5nUk9-ajrgSqyLLpAE/s1600-h/the_scarlet_empress_0PDVD_012001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT15DzoAn1CYXHeJyuBiPil0cFBWCVnpNyDV2KJTbY4wScxtm2tlqd5uUvOu8EI0OjgvA0WrBDZ1IIyKJaepfNRmtxyupneZkIRQi55D7MFT4uBIR3pwVopVnXa5nUk9-ajrgSqyLLpAE/s320/the_scarlet_empress_0PDVD_012001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274553926166967378" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The Scarlet Empress </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1934)</span><br /></div><br />Visually this film is stunning with all the hallmarks of Sternberg's lush, expressionistic style, but what gives it the edge of works like The Blue Angel and Shanghai Express is how far Sternberg was willing to push these elements. Dietrich certainly wasn’t the best actress of her time, but what she did bring to a film was incredible presence. She sure did have charisma. And Sternberg was the director who could make the most of that. Dietrich was so comfortable in Sternberg’s presence that she barely had to do anything and he was able to capture exactly what he was after. The dialogue may be a little awkward, but as a visual spectacle it's something else.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >78.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">KEN LOACH</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7PXl1UueFLShxxeCmlx-ikwfsmkVZfuz5uzsaEHk_6rMLm0AX-Ew8j70QIivbRJjnb7X6UrXDb6SmEBgN67iWpRlPwcLeBQ-Al7U0eKBa73GH7xabikaqTcfWecG8AvWvwtMlxTweTb4/s1600-h/kes1_400x300_072520080203.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7PXl1UueFLShxxeCmlx-ikwfsmkVZfuz5uzsaEHk_6rMLm0AX-Ew8j70QIivbRJjnb7X6UrXDb6SmEBgN67iWpRlPwcLeBQ-Al7U0eKBa73GH7xabikaqTcfWecG8AvWvwtMlxTweTb4/s320/kes1_400x300_072520080203.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274554985918550802" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Kes </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1969)</span><br /></div><br />Ah, to be a kid growing up in the sixties in working class Barnsley, Northen England. While Godard and Truffaut were making light-hearted New Wave cinema in Paris, Ken Loach was making dark, grim and gritty social realist films in Northern England, where even the briefest of hopes seems out of reach.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >77.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ZHANG KE JIA</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSluam-Pw6yHfVTuvr5BcuVq_iK4hWZHuF66FnOpUtiF1nV2BPYlUUuIT37-oa04Qqj9et-K3fA9QladrQ4MwYmxxfgHICxu023msjUvKhyrw5PopSHpc8RZh-7uzwGwEQHG2H7I5d3E/s1600-h/Still_Life_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 226px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGSluam-Pw6yHfVTuvr5BcuVq_iK4hWZHuF66FnOpUtiF1nV2BPYlUUuIT37-oa04Qqj9et-K3fA9QladrQ4MwYmxxfgHICxu023msjUvKhyrw5PopSHpc8RZh-7uzwGwEQHG2H7I5d3E/s320/Still_Life_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274556777618989026" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Still Life </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(2006)</span><br /></div><br />I can’t say I’ve seen that many Chinese films and Still Life certainly has a European film to it, mostly because of its slow Antonioni style pacing, but despite that this film is still very much about China and the specifically the effect of the Three Gorges project, which continues to split the country, divide communities and isolate families. And Still Life captures that specifically Eastern style of searching for something from the past as a coalminer travels to Shanxi to look for his ex-wife he hasn’t seen in 16 years and a nurse Fengjie to look for a husband who hasn’t returned home for 2 years. Still Life is highly evocative of the human cost China’s global emergence has led to.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/XPZTPQ40M9E&;hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XPZTPQ40M9E&;hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >76.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">JACQUES BECKER</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcx9UCgytDZk-iif9Zu5cNur2LSKUitxhePXy6YaitpnlSsAJCJA4DB69UWHAGWRtbJd_YTC0MasfTFZ4X4M4Fo5ov8cwhgYeJuPeP_xPqSAunDzUFM-MxZ66GJvTy1a3XvLTKLMafxCc/s1600-h/casque+d%27or.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcx9UCgytDZk-iif9Zu5cNur2LSKUitxhePXy6YaitpnlSsAJCJA4DB69UWHAGWRtbJd_YTC0MasfTFZ4X4M4Fo5ov8cwhgYeJuPeP_xPqSAunDzUFM-MxZ66GJvTy1a3XvLTKLMafxCc/s320/casque+d%27or.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274557518213440466" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Casque d'Or </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1952)</span><br /></div><br />In the 1930s, Becker worked as Renoir’s assistant on some of his most memorable films, but during the 40s and 50s, Becker became an interesting director in his own right. So there are a few perhaps inevitable similarities between Becker and Renoir, but the former had a much more direct approach to cinema. Above all else, Becker was an observer. There’s a lot to enjoy about any of his three most accomplished films (Casque d’Or, Touchez Pas Au Grisbi, and Le Trou), the dappled impressionistic light, his poetic touches, the lightness of his style. So Casque d’Or has a particularly simple love plot, about a former crook trying to go straight, but there’s a lot of charm, which reminds me in particular of Jean Vigo at his best.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >75.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">PATRICE LECONTE</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ23FHm-bYsfjOxq9RjOb99_7mnsHolsBx4wfqIw4f6b8a9N2XyvMFTY3UFhIg9mME_wQMdQzKRDLlEe0hXFPthVD6zqHi8yGzv6GXiAaWNI5BBI_zwAUsxuSDmOv2fu7ysEbBUENQV0c/s1600-h/p7p.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ23FHm-bYsfjOxq9RjOb99_7mnsHolsBx4wfqIw4f6b8a9N2XyvMFTY3UFhIg9mME_wQMdQzKRDLlEe0hXFPthVD6zqHi8yGzv6GXiAaWNI5BBI_zwAUsxuSDmOv2fu7ysEbBUENQV0c/s320/p7p.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274558751479246130" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >L'Homme Du Train </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(2002)</span><br /></div><br />Fed up with your own life, then why not become someone else. Easier said than done, right? Well, that’s the idea that Leconte explores in [i]L’Homme du Train[/i], though I could probably have picked any number of Leconte’s films and they’d explore similar issues – mistaken identity, strange relationships, characters longing to be someone else – but L’Homme du Train is perhaps his greatest realisation of these ideas. There is something inherently French about his films that I don’t think any other country is capable of producing, and while the pacing is slow and subtle, the depth of character and plot are incredibly strong. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >74.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">SAM PECKENPAH</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYcsCZhI3h2FxkkdvraPVi9qZgI9rCge2dv56_g2cVxuXVo1V61GuyfnxSWp_4aCJcJxJjBtRlo0FdXUZFLx2BTGNxrWRSLdEDKLS7cbrwdzjsk79nHC3mzbS8stEgeNfJP4IvfE5qE1U/s1600-h/straw_dogs1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 158px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYcsCZhI3h2FxkkdvraPVi9qZgI9rCge2dv56_g2cVxuXVo1V61GuyfnxSWp_4aCJcJxJjBtRlo0FdXUZFLx2BTGNxrWRSLdEDKLS7cbrwdzjsk79nHC3mzbS8stEgeNfJP4IvfE5qE1U/s320/straw_dogs1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274559312837124226" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Straw Dogs </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1971)</span><br /></div><br />If ever you want to build and maintain tension in a film then watch Straw Dogs. Few other films are capable of such punishing conflict. And even if Dustin Hoffman was only doing it for the money, his portrayal of David Summer as the quiet, geeky professor is perfect. And there’s a good reason for Peckenpah’s association with violence on screen – just watching the opening sequence of the The Wild Bunch is exhilarating.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >73.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">D.W. GRIFFITH</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlkpDFA8zyC9Z61czYkroi66Sw1d12-oO9QGB6iuCKdVANZS2VuDwOgZXeimoajVUmhHne2QtRpR7LyYuICq_yazBVm8ERdFRLhnA4qz73u28kVWhrYe_-xBpppk38HmhAKSvBZsy6Gg/s1600-h/OrphansoftheStorm1921-01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSlkpDFA8zyC9Z61czYkroi66Sw1d12-oO9QGB6iuCKdVANZS2VuDwOgZXeimoajVUmhHne2QtRpR7LyYuICq_yazBVm8ERdFRLhnA4qz73u28kVWhrYe_-xBpppk38HmhAKSvBZsy6Gg/s320/OrphansoftheStorm1921-01.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274560907546466290" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Orphans of the Storm </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1921)</span><br /></div>There’s something very beautiful about watching a film by D. W. Griffith. I think it’s partly because of the very timeless quality of his films and the sense that they cannot be recreated in the same way other silent era films can be pastiched or reworked in the present. Orphans of the Storm has a typically strong plot, exquisite staging, and some of the best acting I’ve seen in a silent film by the Gish sisters. Of course it’s still a stylised melodrama, but it’s one of the best.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >72.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">GUY MADDIN</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBHLZk6HS8rM6t2w08aM6nNTn7LL_pLG6WMs4eJmb_4plmaQW8a2QKMPfGLOMVwu4PJrFEYSwWxKIIymIaK39MM1C-GatxJDLA23ld6Wi2kUugHe2fc2GsFjIIs_BaeZK53Q-Q4gnEdLw/s1600-h/maddin_capture07.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 176px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBHLZk6HS8rM6t2w08aM6nNTn7LL_pLG6WMs4eJmb_4plmaQW8a2QKMPfGLOMVwu4PJrFEYSwWxKIIymIaK39MM1C-GatxJDLA23ld6Wi2kUugHe2fc2GsFjIIs_BaeZK53Q-Q4gnEdLw/s320/maddin_capture07.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274561704575215362" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The Heart of the World </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(2000)</span><br /></div>And talking of silent film pastiche, are there any other contemporary directors able to do it with such understanding and originality as Guy Maddin? The key to avoiding plagiarism is innovation and Maddin is certainly an innovator. Taking silent films as a foundation, he uses their highly distinctive brand of filmmaking to explore his own bizarre, psychosexual, surrealist narratives and situations. Love triangles, mistaken genders, incest, it’s all in there. <br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >71.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MAYSLES BROTHERS</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFPfE4P41gjJina5FEG25NhrIv0lPDYFUkA2oMvGH5oYFqq-IIT0eunI2BQ5b1_mRTBjN-YatJ4xxItmZC_vG-AccMMsABTw_y-dGAEcOQ2VmNJ54SN4Ic-wMCXRPXlZstk_qJxKstCE/s1600-h/grey+gardens.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqFPfE4P41gjJina5FEG25NhrIv0lPDYFUkA2oMvGH5oYFqq-IIT0eunI2BQ5b1_mRTBjN-YatJ4xxItmZC_vG-AccMMsABTw_y-dGAEcOQ2VmNJ54SN4Ic-wMCXRPXlZstk_qJxKstCE/s320/grey+gardens.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5274562558935094210" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Grey Gardens </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1975)</span><br /></div><br />The film that's been remade all over the place, but no remake is going to equal the weirdness of the original documentary. And how do people become so crazy? Publicity, money, power? It’s a very sad film in a way, but the Maysles Brothers manage to keep just the right balance between sympathy and absurdity. Judge for yourself.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-15255593200055153832008-11-19T10:57:00.002+00:002009-03-25T20:56:54.199+00:00Dreams in Celluloid, Part IIThis is the second installment of an extensive list I'm currently compiling about my favourite directors. For the previous 10 click <a href="http://modern-illusions.blogspot.com/2008/11/dreams-in-celluloid-part-i.html">here.</a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >90.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">FATIH AKIN</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4bGCf6AZF_PrRLH7Nzl0Dmc0tmvw97jtQs-2l4uAAMkp_VlFf8W8Ex3LUAHe0GlV9vv1odXKCoHvKt19iMAQ0lGw211xIOhO02G8adGUL1NQMxtOfCWyY2ZtiVGfUuaCJUKy_9sxbXtU/s1600-h/06kuli-600.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 168px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4bGCf6AZF_PrRLH7Nzl0Dmc0tmvw97jtQs-2l4uAAMkp_VlFf8W8Ex3LUAHe0GlV9vv1odXKCoHvKt19iMAQ0lGw211xIOhO02G8adGUL1NQMxtOfCWyY2ZtiVGfUuaCJUKy_9sxbXtU/s320/06kuli-600.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270322216043740754" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Edge of Heaven </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(2007)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Akin is a pretty interesting director and one of the few contemporary filmmakers who manage to deal with the issue of race and cultural differences without falling into that horrible clichéd ridden pit of political correctness. I suppose the lack of sentimentality about such subjects is partly due to him being Turkish and living in Germany. So the few films I’ve seen by him all have that cross-cultural dichotomy between an increasingly liberal Germany and an increasingly global Turkey. His most recent film Edge of Heaven is by far his best and shows just how much he’s matured since <span style="font-style: italic;">Head On</span>, which was good, but didn’t quite have the same amount of kick.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >89.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">FRANTISEK VLÁCIL</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSE64MhNHo6OvdspgtqLY0k7v4ZJY8JQCb6v1wml8kBdfsj0-yooQibqyzH9uVR9YHUU8xti-_Vl8JAkuy2_hXf_-2T80mw0LK4xR65-IHrZLbBnL0KjGBLn-lCiZtfsNayqXidPZV6UA/s1600-h/1249085-franti-ek-vlacil-magda-va-aryova-jako-marketa-lazarova.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSE64MhNHo6OvdspgtqLY0k7v4ZJY8JQCb6v1wml8kBdfsj0-yooQibqyzH9uVR9YHUU8xti-_Vl8JAkuy2_hXf_-2T80mw0LK4xR65-IHrZLbBnL0KjGBLn-lCiZtfsNayqXidPZV6UA/s320/1249085-franti-ek-vlacil-magda-va-aryova-jako-marketa-lazarova.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270323523503530402" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Marketa Lazarová </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1967)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Long Czech epic set in the 13th-century as Christianity begins to replace the old Pagan cults. Beautiful black and white imagery, a complex storyline, profound insights, it’s almost like no other, almost… but then of course there’s that other film which has the same majestic grandeur set in turbulent times, you know the one, about the painter. Anyway, I haven’t seen any of Vlácil’s other films, but had to include him, because this film is a spectacle of all things grand. And impressively spiritual for such an epic. Bring on the Czech New Wave.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >88.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MIKIO NARUSE</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid2gjOvzZW3VwK5b8pwsrwQavtc5eu3Oi3Dh_v8hj6N5a4JoruT8z2CxKcA3eLekUGIOXcfXSBCiEdAjPNSaDAbwU7U2J11Rx4gyc6PoYKLti38LoZDu35ANl7JRsZe07DIf6VEbMtQB8/s1600-h/nagareru1956narusedvdri1go.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 233px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid2gjOvzZW3VwK5b8pwsrwQavtc5eu3Oi3Dh_v8hj6N5a4JoruT8z2CxKcA3eLekUGIOXcfXSBCiEdAjPNSaDAbwU7U2J11Rx4gyc6PoYKLti38LoZDu35ANl7JRsZe07DIf6VEbMtQB8/s320/nagareru1956narusedvdri1go.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270324423397925170" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Nagareru </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1957)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Naruse is probably one of the lesser-known post-war Japanese directors, but after recent revivals, he’s sure to get his day, which is only fair since his films have that same quiet beauty as his counterparts like Ozu and Mizoguchi. Quiet is a good way to describe <span style="font-style: italic;">Nagareru</span> the best of Naruse’s films that I’ve seen. Everything is very formal, which lends itself quite easily to a kind of Buddhist spirituality, but Naruse is particularly discerning in what he does and doesn’t show as we watch the old world of the Japanese Geisha house come crumbling down. And surprise, surprise, it’s about as far removed from <span style="font-style: italic;">Memoirs of a Geisha</span> as possible. The clip below is from <span style="font-style: italic;">When a Woman Ascends the Stairs</span>.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >87.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ANDRZEJ WAJDA</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZAPsi2-c-nmPoO3MeN9blqk4ZyEioUbnsg725deHuX2nUvkw8CLayfy82GOJHN4OiUADO7GK5-t3xsGUy5e4UIAPITN8uiPon0TFujGgzNs39GMru2Tt0_19Xi0ZMbcyrbIJUXypR34/s1600-h/ashes_and_diamonds.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 245px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPZAPsi2-c-nmPoO3MeN9blqk4ZyEioUbnsg725deHuX2nUvkw8CLayfy82GOJHN4OiUADO7GK5-t3xsGUy5e4UIAPITN8uiPon0TFujGgzNs39GMru2Tt0_19Xi0ZMbcyrbIJUXypR34/s320/ashes_and_diamonds.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270336590382244514" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Ashes and Diamonds </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1958)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Wajda was an important figure in Polish New Wave cinema of the late 50s and early 60s, but subsequently seems to have sunk into obscurity, which is a shame because he made so many great films and is surely one of the precursors to later Polish filmmakers like Kieslowski. His films are notably centred on the history of his own country, but <span style="font-style: italic;">Ashes and Diamonds</span> is his most, well, fierce. </span><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><object height="275" width="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ffk65gyrj5A&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Ffk65gyrj5A&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="275" width="350"></embed></object></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >86.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">TERENCE MALICK</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhROmkl4XOg4CJTgTXe6DnPz-DfMLnm0Sb98fZgkIGq2L9lhYk-lK6AhBWYE7SeLyam7u-OIRl61Vam9XGnrqlLrmv0YR-ZAJw-abGbfimWwqlqRBfbbMyto7eQBf-gC4tr__8k7RKYz6c/s1600-h/badlands.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhROmkl4XOg4CJTgTXe6DnPz-DfMLnm0Sb98fZgkIGq2L9lhYk-lK6AhBWYE7SeLyam7u-OIRl61Vam9XGnrqlLrmv0YR-ZAJw-abGbfimWwqlqRBfbbMyto7eQBf-gC4tr__8k7RKYz6c/s320/badlands.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270336881756578210" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Badlands </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1973)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">The tagline to this film says it all really: ‘He was 25 years old. He combed his hair like James Dean. She was 15. She took music lessons and could twirl a baton. For a while they lived together in a tree house. In 1959, she watched while he killed a lot of people.’ That’s it more or less. Very straightforward almost to the point where it turns into black comedy, I say almost, because it’s actually quite shocking despite its lighter moments. Malick seems to be one of those directors who only made a handful of films and gained a largely mixed reception, but there’s always something to admire in his slow paced, remote style of filmmaking. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Thin Red Line</span> also deserves a nod for being one of the better Hollywood war films, if only because it’s a far cry from the sentimental, patriotism of anything by Spielberg or Stone. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >85.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MARTIN SCORCESE</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAyXFk4baMwRNamb2izzLSXDxcatajvHcFOnbV65X512r8FvKSDrB_V3HSrGJxNlBn398lb5h-gyRtygQIheMyzBHzInzc-XZggnW7F856IYiFesn6U2iH83kTDGZzGRmkXvxmpvVF_s/s1600-h/21701762_taxi2_s2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 246px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSAyXFk4baMwRNamb2izzLSXDxcatajvHcFOnbV65X512r8FvKSDrB_V3HSrGJxNlBn398lb5h-gyRtygQIheMyzBHzInzc-XZggnW7F856IYiFesn6U2iH83kTDGZzGRmkXvxmpvVF_s/s320/21701762_taxi2_s2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270336063514569298" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Taxi Driver </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1976)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">I suppose there are some similarities between this film and Badlands, the slightly psychotic protagonist, his rather endearing affection for a particular girl, his apparent rationalisation of everything around him, and how to in the end none of that really matters. This is one of the more disturbing American films along with the obvious <span style="font-style: italic;">Silence of the Lambs</span>, but it’s far more powerful in its message because everything about the film is so human. You can sympathise with Travis where you can’t with Hannibal Lector. Scorcese went on to make a whole host of films with De Niro, but I don’t think he ever quite managed to reach this level again, not even <span style="font-style: italic;">Goodfellas</span> has the same amount of psychological depth. </span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >84.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">YEVGENI BAUER</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtHpb5YQ_Kq03fkKuerGSCwmRv2i3DLn6Rbk5hjrnCqbamFa2zuwbeWsLnPFMLDpviViQllD_Nx4m6Zkxn0QvFPbGcYeoEmLg7SCzb-zlSxlhqu82g-GCTHA0MLZRCm8H5t-QdeleQjc/s1600-h/yevgenii+bauer+-+mad+love.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtHpb5YQ_Kq03fkKuerGSCwmRv2i3DLn6Rbk5hjrnCqbamFa2zuwbeWsLnPFMLDpviViQllD_Nx4m6Zkxn0QvFPbGcYeoEmLg7SCzb-zlSxlhqu82g-GCTHA0MLZRCm8H5t-QdeleQjc/s320/yevgenii+bauer+-+mad+love.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270337032712152146" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >The Dying Swan </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1917)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Bauer was undoubtedly the master of early Russian cinema. Very much a precursor of the great German expressionist cinema of the 1920s. His films are some of the strangest, darkest vignettes into the lives of madmen, murderers, artists and dancers. They’re full of sex and death, jealously, obsession, strange habits. Bauer also was also one of the earliest filmmakers to use cinematic lighting with highly dramatic effects as opposed to the more stage-like conventions of other directors.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >83.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MARCEL CARNÉ</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm17PXVOgtHYKgtVGjzLDaBFNWBKb2CZaOqROnxMCumrne-fXdlzcWc-NMDjcnlqX17HKCUpR2F9A0krwwa4S6nVZJUZMfGuqYjKKsbBtsQ0xM5DV32S1mBAwSRhq0-_nGWoXKYxwQTFE/s1600-h/les_enfants_lg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 255px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm17PXVOgtHYKgtVGjzLDaBFNWBKb2CZaOqROnxMCumrne-fXdlzcWc-NMDjcnlqX17HKCUpR2F9A0krwwa4S6nVZJUZMfGuqYjKKsbBtsQ0xM5DV32S1mBAwSRhq0-_nGWoXKYxwQTFE/s320/les_enfants_lg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270338119410673906" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Les Enfants Du Paradis </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1945)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">A three-hour masterpiece and perfectly executed plot centred on the Parisian Theatre des Funambules during the 1840s. The film is awash with heavy symbolism and metaphor, from the dichotomy between artifice and reality, the nature of art, the clash between the classes and the need for escape. From the arrogant aristocrat to the devious criminal to the romantic mime artist, the characters avoid their typical stereotypes and stand as testament to the films awe. And at the heart of everything is the graceful, streetwalker Garance.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >82.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">ABBAS KIAROSTAMI</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQTVJesXYCEtO9Am4GsFQdoJYJPjxS-nAK3eVXUu06-YOY4epBBWD_dYZlBbkeCSnHlfiD-bNT4DSMHBMkS56qWoOStUwOuM6IRvR4IhsWXnhqt8FULmoYsLnQsc_N-HlIbkkOYduzHE/s1600-h/close-up.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggQTVJesXYCEtO9Am4GsFQdoJYJPjxS-nAK3eVXUu06-YOY4epBBWD_dYZlBbkeCSnHlfiD-bNT4DSMHBMkS56qWoOStUwOuM6IRvR4IhsWXnhqt8FULmoYsLnQsc_N-HlIbkkOYduzHE/s320/close-up.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270336739648121570" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Close-Up </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1990)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">In the early 90s, Godard said that, ‘Film begins with DW Griffith and ends with Abbas Kiarostami.’ Recently Kiarostami has said that he doesn’t believe Godard would still agree with his own statement, but if the great French auteur makes such a grand statement about another director, you have to reckon there’s something special going on somewhere. And <span style="font-style: italic;">Close-Up</span> is pretty damn special. Half-documentary, half-fiction, Kiarostami weaves an intriguing tale around the trial of Hossain Sabzian, an Iranian who was arrested for impersonating the Iranian director, Mohsen Makhmalbaf. And there are plenty of fascinating insights thrown up by the film into everything from identity to culture to our place within society.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >81.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">MARCO TULIO GIORDANA</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPb8RNpVKl9S54ZECRmwHl4IR3iqtEgRHtktLg7FtfUodtMgtJtgDImG8CM97XrqYRXs7mIqSEKl_d76x-_axcSHsmQdnBXiayMC9QEVzRh2zYDvk4WV2pN9AELxiExYFp1jh9KJSwnKw/s1600-h/best_of_youth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPb8RNpVKl9S54ZECRmwHl4IR3iqtEgRHtktLg7FtfUodtMgtJtgDImG8CM97XrqYRXs7mIqSEKl_d76x-_axcSHsmQdnBXiayMC9QEVzRh2zYDvk4WV2pN9AELxiExYFp1jh9KJSwnKw/s320/best_of_youth.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270338030104739634" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >Best of Youth </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(2003)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">A six hour epic, following the Italian Carati family from the 60s to the present day. Picking up where Visconti left off, Giordana seems to be happy to fill the gap for long dramas left empty since the great Italian filmmaker's death in 1976. Giordana shows remarkable flair in constantly maintaining the films focus through his varied cast of characters. If you’re going to make a long epic that spans several decades it’s so important to keep a good sense of rhythm, and this Giordana does very well. Switching from political turbulence to domestic family affairs and complex personal decisions, <span style="font-style: italic;">Best of Youth </span>is entertaining on every level. </span>Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-58327349201131616622008-11-12T14:41:00.002+00:002009-03-25T20:47:18.521+00:00Dreams in Celluloid, Part IThis is the first installment of an extensive list I'm currently compiling about my favourite directors. I tried to limit the list to 50, but that was just impossible. There are simply too many great films. So in the end, I enlarged it to cover 100 directors with my favourite film by each of them. There are still directors I would have liked to have included - Mike Leigh, Harmony Korine and Nuri Bilge Ceylan for instance - but when I really thought about the films that have made the greatest impression it's those in the top 100 are the films that continue to make me fall in love with cinema. I also avoided included filmmakers, whose work doesn't lie predominantly in film, so for example, while I admire the film work of Marcel Duchamp and Fernard Léger and their influence on later film, I consider them first and foremost artists. That said, I do view film as art and the directors I've included are all primarily concerned with furthering the limits of filmmaking as an art form. Some of the choices may perhaps be obvious to film lovers, but hopefully there are few strange names that reflect my own personal experience with cinema.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >100.</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> </span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">CLAIRE DENIS</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSE8SFVrQ5EuvkmPj1ZW3o3VMtgUMaPCsbNvZpIIJ4PC7UC4zPggtZ0zkRqw2tZU1g9qM6lnjrL4e-HLOSbVh2_-wOtHOwGDRQsWAnq18hSKeUXN0obCPNuR28WDdRjyThV0kyl1GCG0/s1600-h/s_en_fout_la_mort_01.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 201px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSE8SFVrQ5EuvkmPj1ZW3o3VMtgUMaPCsbNvZpIIJ4PC7UC4zPggtZ0zkRqw2tZU1g9qM6lnjrL4e-HLOSbVh2_-wOtHOwGDRQsWAnq18hSKeUXN0obCPNuR28WDdRjyThV0kyl1GCG0/s320/s_en_fout_la_mort_01.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267785955873765586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >S'en fout la mort </span><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >(1990)</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:georgia;">Claire Denis is a filmmaker who certainly puts cinematography over narrative. Her films work best when nobody is talking and camera does all the work and it’s quite impressive the tension she can build up this way. She’s like a better version of Lynne Ramsay, and probably a big influence on her as well. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >S’en fout la mort</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> is about cockfighting, but it’s not really about cockfighting because that’s just a front for everything else that’s going on… or something like that.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">99. ROY ANDERSSON</span><br /></span><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhsD7VWI9riAGwm_KoiUZQpKGltEVLfc1PAy0ZN3hkn23bOyc_xU9dDnEuoTTD9_6pMbhNX1kRCm9wQPFVt75JPXU7drz4bvtavpqOsjzCDUn-4gDj0_epKV6EefrUHvw4OvCWXUd4us/s1600-h/Songs_from_the_second_floor-2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBhsD7VWI9riAGwm_KoiUZQpKGltEVLfc1PAy0ZN3hkn23bOyc_xU9dDnEuoTTD9_6pMbhNX1kRCm9wQPFVt75JPXU7drz4bvtavpqOsjzCDUn-4gDj0_epKV6EefrUHvw4OvCWXUd4us/s320/Songs_from_the_second_floor-2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267790655787439090" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Songs from the Second Floor</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (2000)</span><br /></div><br />Andersson is probably one of the few, contemporary directors who can actually make an interesting surreal/satirical film. <span style="font-style: italic;">Songs from the Second Floor</span> is hilarious. The characters are all awful, self-obsessed crazies, who have no regard for anything else going on around them. There’s some singing on a train as well.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">98. JURAJ JAKUBISKO</span><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIoKj5SB3qlrDsx9jdno6m_YlCRAur5vXdnpD8Gm9ZjqoR3HzsYrBvsqR-CmYQyAhC8ggY438-RKRSV0MW02Drd9a9qBFw8IEUhHEcIBjhip5LhqXAi0qVQ2bkPHX1N3nUwkVFQXH8iU/s1600-h/pti20.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 185px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKIoKj5SB3qlrDsx9jdno6m_YlCRAur5vXdnpD8Gm9ZjqoR3HzsYrBvsqR-CmYQyAhC8ggY438-RKRSV0MW02Drd9a9qBFw8IEUhHEcIBjhip5LhqXAi0qVQ2bkPHX1N3nUwkVFQXH8iU/s320/pti20.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267793296946804498" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Birds, Orphans and Fools</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (1969)</span></div><br />Strange, farcical and surreal. They’re all mad. The characters, the filmmaker, hell, even the viewers end up mad. So it’s a little bit all over the place and perhaps Jakubisko wants to say too many things at once – a little bit of social commentary, a big of drug abuse, a ménage-a-trois storyline. But, it’s the first Jakubisko film I saw, and while his later films may undoubtedly be greater realisations of his skills as a director, I still have certain fondness for this trippy tale.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >97. THEODOROS ANGELOPOULOS</span><br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_6anK8ypb0Cl2tlcRbHIOzSXxxTQnovTIitBA20yHe6NrCcSQ3DA3EHSdGJmGFtI4Kz1tf5QCf_yrlBykuFDDVSUBNiTaYmJ9GiAgAPnCsgfEgCgf82RQuCzGe_hWG5LlxvqH7C277a0/s1600-h/trilogy-the-weeping-meadow_420.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 152px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_6anK8ypb0Cl2tlcRbHIOzSXxxTQnovTIitBA20yHe6NrCcSQ3DA3EHSdGJmGFtI4Kz1tf5QCf_yrlBykuFDDVSUBNiTaYmJ9GiAgAPnCsgfEgCgf82RQuCzGe_hWG5LlxvqH7C277a0/s320/trilogy-the-weeping-meadow_420.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267794980839720018" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Weeping Meadow </span><span style="font-size:85%;">(2004)</span><br /></div><br />Angelopoulos is a brilliant photographer, I’m not sure I would have enjoyed this film without the sheer magnificence of every shot. The stories not as wild as anything by Kuristica, the characters lack structure and there’s little philosophical insight into the plight of the Greek refugees when compared with his earlier films, yet there’s something highly original about Angelopoulos’ various depictions of his country’s history that stands as testament to his ability as an inventive auteur. Maybe you have to know about Greek history beforehand to really appreciate his funereal storytelling, but regardless of that one of my favourite things about film is cinematography. If it’s got enough pretty pictures, I’m taken (as this list probably demonstrates), so <span style="font-style: italic;">Weeping Meadow</span> pretty much forces itself onto this list through images alone.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">96. QUENTIN TARANTINO</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGDnlNNKsx6jemcbX1wijmH_N1UUDVrZOHJp0fUUY95kx4K_9knLL_CT20xbH6LFsH92QGRHimJgUc1A_oRd08md7qZwOfbrKxGBl-IOtJyuy6CZ5A2AKuIcBhyhHyom6MGIS3bjDSds/s1600-h/17191__pulp_fiction_l.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSGDnlNNKsx6jemcbX1wijmH_N1UUDVrZOHJp0fUUY95kx4K_9knLL_CT20xbH6LFsH92QGRHimJgUc1A_oRd08md7qZwOfbrKxGBl-IOtJyuy6CZ5A2AKuIcBhyhHyom6MGIS3bjDSds/s320/17191__pulp_fiction_l.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267802788899611890" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Pulp Fiction</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (1994)</span><br /></div><br />There are few other filmmakers that have the kind of cult appeal to mass audiences as Tarantino. There’s definitely something very cool about his films, which so many others only dream of, and the coolest of them all has to be <span style="font-style: italic;">Pulp Fiction</span>. Witty dialogue, good music, a little bit of storyline, and now countless spoofs. ‘<span style="font-style: italic;">Bring out the Gimp.</span>’<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">95. JACQUES DEMY</span><br /></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaNVas1OnnZc4Ro_jabgN6d4ayeusNFng0eoRVMgPUAc90rw1JFmYm1AhVdk3BRpGxMSeJd5xQn89lMk9yE4LsuBA-def5rGoqGTGWff25Dhx613ioHVf2prqi9WvYWBr8HO241Jkrr6U/s1600-h/052008_ciclos_demy_lola.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 187px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaNVas1OnnZc4Ro_jabgN6d4ayeusNFng0eoRVMgPUAc90rw1JFmYm1AhVdk3BRpGxMSeJd5xQn89lMk9yE4LsuBA-def5rGoqGTGWff25Dhx613ioHVf2prqi9WvYWBr8HO241Jkrr6U/s320/052008_ciclos_demy_lola.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267805060605430642" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Lola</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (1961)</span><br /></div><br />Oh it’s got dancing and cabaret and the beautiful Anouk Aimée and it’s very, very French, you know a little bit camp, a little bit silly, but exquisitely charming. It’s also a little bit less Hollywood musical inspired than Demy’s later features like <span style="font-style: italic;">The Umbrellas of Cherbourg</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">The Young Girls of Rochefort</span> which I like, just not as much as <span style="font-style: italic;">Lola</span>. Again beautiful, seductive black and white cinematography.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >94. PEDRO ALMODÓVAR</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7nHewyV8Mi-6iRtUF0-LUJvi38_swRZHt1hCIdDUJel6U9FY035rrdWy49Mz6paAFqTQUkXcQCqS9XAbYbNFsX1Vh8HVJ2AYuOn23mY3WBN3z7dfefBRjsr8SF42mY441ie0hFgcWiQ/s1600-h/talk+to+her.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7nHewyV8Mi-6iRtUF0-LUJvi38_swRZHt1hCIdDUJel6U9FY035rrdWy49Mz6paAFqTQUkXcQCqS9XAbYbNFsX1Vh8HVJ2AYuOn23mY3WBN3z7dfefBRjsr8SF42mY441ie0hFgcWiQ/s320/talk+to+her.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267805919357179138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Talk to Her</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (2002)</span><br /></div><br />Let’s make a film about a comatose patient and her nurse, but make sure it’s funny, and throw in a few surreal, dreamlike passages to really hook people, but above all let’s make it an emotionally wrought drama, which fringes on something psycho-sexual or what not. At least, that’s what I imagine Almodóvar was thinking before he made this one. And yes I prefer <span style="font-style: italic;">Talk to Her</span> over <span style="font-style: italic;">All About my Mother.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >93. DEREK JARMAN</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1xBo4EUEaU9_yzcOnGhx3n1m94CDF_5OCf-oIxcfXnZkSU7LH9xMMY-x1pHDd15B8jBJJ-H-GwI2y8gD77I9SJgmbKcWgSVhAUOGFwdp0koOz27YKzx9S17n1KpMj9XSlITtmKXvgIo/s1600-h/Picture+2.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 198px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix1xBo4EUEaU9_yzcOnGhx3n1m94CDF_5OCf-oIxcfXnZkSU7LH9xMMY-x1pHDd15B8jBJJ-H-GwI2y8gD77I9SJgmbKcWgSVhAUOGFwdp0koOz27YKzx9S17n1KpMj9XSlITtmKXvgIo/s320/Picture+2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267806792059997666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >The Garden</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (1990)</span><br /></div><br />One thing to do when you told you’re HIV positive is to buy a small house with a garden and make a film where the Virgin Mary is a modern day celebrity, Mary Magdalene is a past-it drag queen, three Santa Clauses pay baby Jesus a visit and Judas makes credit card adverts. Read into the symbolism what you will, but few others would dare to make such an outrageous, but particularly personal film about homosexuality as this. Jarman’s other films are equally creative, especially <span style="font-style: italic;">Blue</span>, which is one of the most poignant films I’ve ever seen and some people don’t even consider it a film.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >92. KANETO SHINDÔ</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfwvbNVtVDPhgZlLFj1rO_XEEoGDawYcxLlEG7-uGJXiM8SgZ4I0qnjTjuCCBQELdeXDbqQrlubn1JMrPbnPaIyGcrKxQWjU2_B0UDxjkSrtBt8yRYIeyryC0V6lLh6FgBetTAESn46ZE/s1600-h/onibaba1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfwvbNVtVDPhgZlLFj1rO_XEEoGDawYcxLlEG7-uGJXiM8SgZ4I0qnjTjuCCBQELdeXDbqQrlubn1JMrPbnPaIyGcrKxQWjU2_B0UDxjkSrtBt8yRYIeyryC0V6lLh6FgBetTAESn46ZE/s320/onibaba1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267810218260525954" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Onibaba</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (1964)</span><br /></div><br />Sexual tension runs riot in Shindô’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Onibaba</span>, packed full with plenty of erotic symbolism from the swirling reeds to the dark pit, and then there’s also the bitter jealousy between mother and daughter, intrigue in a wayward soldier and plenty of dark, atmospheric horror. Shindô’s other films never quite reach the same intensity, but are beautiful in their own right, from his quietly moving, family drama <span style="font-style: italic;">Naked Island</span> to his powerful look at a Japan devastated by the A-bomb in <span style="font-style: italic;">Children of Hiroshima</span>.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >91. MICHEL GONDRY</span><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_jzE0fXCNidKi9W7-OTkO6caZCw60zw9YUQ-_DdBF5d2C1megvoqeezxmQ6rDgr-EG5w0QUwZw2TiF54JrJjEBq_qDqo8nOlTYCy0gGZyDzGcPbcCCs7pbqcnz6WeMHHoUiDVWuWNCY/s1600-h/ScienceSleep2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 178px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv_jzE0fXCNidKi9W7-OTkO6caZCw60zw9YUQ-_DdBF5d2C1megvoqeezxmQ6rDgr-EG5w0QUwZw2TiF54JrJjEBq_qDqo8nOlTYCy0gGZyDzGcPbcCCs7pbqcnz6WeMHHoUiDVWuWNCY/s320/ScienceSleep2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267810412328118594" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >The Science of Sleep</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> (2006)</span><br /></div><br />I had low expectations for this film when it was recommended to me. Another surrealist look at dreams and what not. Yeah, right… And then I watched it and I felt bad for doubting that it could be so amazing. Sure, it’s light-hearted, but it’s also very entertaining and not in a trashy way either. Gondry has some serious points to make to, but what really makes the film are the more endearing moments in the relationship between Stéphane and Stéphanie. I suppose he also made <span style="font-style: italic;">Eternal Sunshine of a Spotless Mind</span>, but I assumed that most of the creativity was from Kaufmann, how very wrong I was.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1938990030911630211.post-22550369543698578712008-10-24T12:43:00.002+01:002009-03-17T18:04:45.786+00:00Misha Alperin - Her First Dance (ECM 2008)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxU0PdQu798nrIU_4iAu_pVCeGk5oLE96iJgWI6b0SDLlR9FqgR2eV5CZs-DQw5MtTe3oeP7gih_TpFjytnFVFJmaXbEDFWFVP7j-Rzej8xzmXWs9OBkAcDpWsDWGDn_2-1raZuhx0EOw/s1600-h/0602517167421.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxU0PdQu798nrIU_4iAu_pVCeGk5oLE96iJgWI6b0SDLlR9FqgR2eV5CZs-DQw5MtTe3oeP7gih_TpFjytnFVFJmaXbEDFWFVP7j-Rzej8xzmXWs9OBkAcDpWsDWGDn_2-1raZuhx0EOw/s320/0602517167421.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5260685059183946386" border="0" /></a><strong style="font-family: verdana;" face="verdana">MISHA ALPERIN<br />Her First Dance<br />ECM 2008<br />4/5</strong><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Listen: </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.mediafire.com/file/i3mvzmw2mzh/02%20Her%20First%20Dance.m4a">Her First Dance</a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:georgia;">A distant clock strikes midnight as I stroll through falling snow along deserted Parisian streets. Getting lost in the whiteness of winter, I stumble upon an alley where a masked figure in a dinner jacket beckons to me, inviting me to come over as if he had been expecting me for some time. His manner is reserved, but polite and soon he is pushing me through a door at the end of the alley where I emerge in a dusty room where an old painting of some forgotten Count licking his lips watches over me. Smoke washes the deep purple velvet walls of this antechamber, performing elaborate pirouettes and dissolving into air. Beyond a heavy red curtain I hear the faint sounds of piano notes and find myself drawn towards the simple melody. Pushing back the heavy red curtain, I step into a small hall where a stage lies before me and at its centre rests an impressively sized grand piano. Sitting with her back to me, black hair tied up neatly into a bun in a sort of Oriental fashion, wearing a long dark green gown is the pianist playing that ethereal melody. She pays me no attention, but as she twists her neck towards the hall, I see that she too is wearing a mask, birdlike and glittering with gold and silver, and the faint trace of a devious smile marks the edge of her lips, scarlet red and incredibly appealing. Scattered throughout are several more masked figures, the men in neat and tidy, stylish suits and the women wearing various gowns of subdued colours or perhaps it is the smoke in the room which makes them appear subdued when they are normally vivid and striking. What strikes me as strange is that the handful of figures all sit apart at small circular tables, but perhaps this is a necessity since there is no more than one chair at each table. The majority of them hold long cigarette holders and exhale with dreamy puffs of smoke in time to the rhythm of the pianist. The hall itself is French fin-de-seicle Art Nouveau, predominantly red with gold detailing of playful cherubs, freely frolicking against golden plants that twist and curl around pilasters and up, up towards the arching roof, to the centre where an exquisite chandelier hangs proudly, illuminating faintly with flickering red candles. I take off my jacket and sit down at one of the empty tables towards the back of the room and moments later another sound, deeper than the piano, weaves itself in between the sparse Satie-esque notes of the pianist. Unsure of where it comes from, I scan the hall until I notice yet another masked figure stood with arching back in hazy light atop the central balcony over the stage, moving his hands hypnotically up and down the horn he is playing. As the performance continues the room turns cooler. More and more smoke fills the air. Then I hear the sound of the cello, the rich, earthy sound of the plucked strings that echo the melody of the pianist as a rich counterbalance and despite the haze around me, my thoughts turn surprisingly lucid and then in a light and breezy moment, I imagine that I am hearing the sounds of an animal left out of Saint-Saens’ Carnival, an owl perhaps or a snake of some kind, a nocturnal hunter. Through the waltzing smoke that obscures my vision I can just about make out the deep red stage curtains being pulled back, revealing, behind the pianist, the slender figure of a woman wearing a simple black dress, below which the criss-cross pattern of fishnet stockings shimmers across her pale skin and down her legs to a pair of plain, black ballet shoes. Her eyes are like jewels and from her forehead emerges an extravagant headdress of exotic feathers and golden embroidery. She turns, smiles at the dreaming audience and steps forward to the edge of the stage. After a deep breath, she closes her eyes, spins slowly on her tips of her toes and falls back. At the exact moment she begins to fall another figure emerges from the shadows and catches her in his arms. He is assertive, strong, a great magician of a thousand spells, who wears an elegant waistcoat offset with a grey and silver paisley cravat. As he rises from the floor he twirls the girl into the air and she revolves around him. They embrace and begin to dance. The show progresses, movements become more entrancing, his muscular body marks a striking contrast with the delicate, butterfly like motions of his female companion, the musicians weave melodies in celestial whispers, ghostly communications, the audience, enraptured, hold their breath in anticipation and I gaze intently at the beautiful, dancing couple who seem to have shed their earthly qualities. At one moment, they leap like leaves through the air and hang suspended for what appears to be a long length of time, though I must confess that I have by this point lost all sense of time. At the next moment they fall into one another, consuming each other as their limbs contort, twist and bend. And then they disappear into dust as if an illusion all along. And the pianist, she turns towards me and smiles with those delicious lips, then quickly turns away as the light in the room begins to dim until completely extinguished and in the blackness a few lingering notes hang solemnly in the cold air. In the silence I think of all the things I have seen this evening, now unsure of whether or not I am still dreaming if I ever was dreaming and I can only recollect vague images, but what I remember most clearly are the simple melodies of the evening as the last few notes play themselves out, the final key becoming a reflective reminder of everything that has passed, before dissolving into nothing so only blackness remains.Reecehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07442286741933652602noreply@blogger.com0