foreign

Phantasmagoria Under the Sign of Wojciech Has

Gary Lucas — Mon, 08 Apr 2024 00:23:22 +0000

Phantasmagoria Under the Sign of Wojciech Has Gary Lucas April 7, 2024 - 20:23

Topics

Film Review

Tags

foreign

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream

—from Edgar Allan Poe's Dream Within a Dream (1850)

Old rope, maybe (Poe was a laudanum devotee)—or one of the oldest tropes in surrealist film and literature.

Episodic stories told through a framing device, stories that refer to and fold in on themselves in defiance of both logic and the space-time continuum—mythological dreams within dreams, in other words—can most likely be traced back in literature to the Epic of Gilgamesh (2150 B.C.E.).

To that, we might add Homer's The Iliad and The Odyssey (*00 B.C.E.), Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, Boccaccio's The Decameron, Petronius's Satyricon, the Arabian Nights, Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, and its sundry magic-realism spinoffs—and especially for our purposes here, two towering works by Polish authors: Count Jan Potocki's 1815 The Manuscript Found in Saragossa…and Polish-Jewish author Bruno Schulz's limited but profoundly impressive body of interlocking stories published in 1934 as Cinnamon Shops a/k/a Street of Crocodiles, and also his 1937 novel Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass.

In film, Luis Bunuel and Salvador Dali's radical dream opus, 1928's Un Chien Andalou, set the pace. Bunuel carried on this dream within a dream tradition in much of his work, culminating in his late '60s and early '70s cinematic trifecta comprising 1969's The Milky Way, 1972's The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, and 1974's The Phantom of Liberty.

Other films in the tradition include Carl Dreyer's 1932 wispy-through-a gauze, darkly ectoplasmic fever dream Vampyr, the multipartite U.K. ghost story anthology 1945's Dead of Night, John Parker's and Bruno VeSota's 1955 Dementia (a/k/a Daughter of Horror), any of the Hammer and Amicus horror anthologies beginning with Tales From the Crypt through Asylum, most of David Lynch's films (especially Mulholland Drive)—and of course, Federico Fellini's full-on retinal assault 1969's Fellini Satyricon, and for me, his most magical confection, 1976's Fellini Casanova.

Special mention should be made to Alain Resnais's 1961 Last Year at Marienbad, Louis Malle's zany, discontinuous 1960 Zazie Dans le Metro, Vera Chytilova's 1966 Daisies, and Patrick McGoohan's 1967 Kafka-goes-Mod television anthology The Prisoner, which set the bar high for sheer wtf-ness that contemporary shows like Lost can only hint at.

For me, though, the ne plus ultra of dream cinema was always master Polish filmmaker Wojciech Has's 1965 The Saragossa Manuscript, a black and white adaptation of the aforementioned Count Potocki's literary magnum opus, a hodgepodge of cabalistic magic, military derring-do, esoteric lore, European folk tales, and occult conspiracies. Rich in madcap visual invention, with startling time-shifts and numerous stories within stories within stories, it is no accident that this was one of Jerry Garcia's favorite films, along with directors Luis Bunuel, Francis Ford Coppola, Martin Scorsese, and Lars Von Trier.

I say "was always"…that is until I finally bore witness to what I can only describe as Has's 1973 magnum opus, The Hourglass Sanatorium, a/k/a Sandglass, which doubles down on the dream logic throughout in a two-and-a-half hour cinematic phantasmagoria containing multitudes within.

Ostensibly a film about Josef, a 19th-century traveler played by well-known Polish actor Jan Nowicki, who takes a long train journey through the Polish night to a creepy, dilapidated sanatorium surrounded by a graveyard in order to visit his dying father, the film erupts after Josef is put to sleep by a sinister Doctor and his nubile nurse into a riot of dream fugues which so scramble the space-time dialectic that the audience at Lincoln Center's Walter Reade Theater the other night was cowed into silence—not a word was spoken during its unspooling, not a single soul got up to use the facilities—all focus was on this film.

In fact, the only response during the entire 2 1/2 hours was one collective audience guffaw at a deliberate play on the words "new Mexico" in contrast to "old Mexico" by a child philatelist playing a younger version of Josef interacting with his grown-up self.

Reminiscent in parts of an American International vintage '60s Poe film (Daniel Haller-like sets, Floyd Crosby-esque ultra-fluid cinematography), Peter Brook's infernal 1967 Marat/Sade, a late Fellini film gone mad, and any number of Marc Chagall paintings, with a heavy "Golden Age of Czech animation" influence (the fantastic assemblages of Jan Sjvankmajer and Karel Zeman come to mind), Has's film is a relentless mind-blowing assault on the senses. It deserves to be seen—in fact, begs to be seen again—multiple times if only to even partially unlock his rich and strange mise-en-scene and scenario.

Setting the stories of Bruno Schulz to the big screen should have been an impossible task. Schulz's writing is so singular and imaginative one basks in his overall way with words; his multi-dimensional surrealist imagery glows on the page in glittering jewels of thought. His prose style is so luxurious and fabulistic, like the Kabbalah itself, that it should be proscribed reading, not engaged with by rabbinical diktat until the reader hits the ripe old age of 40 (just kidding). This is to say that there has never been a writer quite like Bruno Schulz.

But Has was more than up to the task of translating Schulz to the wide-screen canvas. Here, he cherry-picked some of the best tales from Cinnamon Shops and Hourglass and added his emphasis on overtly Jewish themes that are absent (or, more appositely, well-hidden) in Schulz's original tales. Has also introduced a pronounced erotic component only hinted at in the original stories, which he would undoubtedly be chastised for today—if not canceled outright.

This fate nearly befell this film in general, which the Polish government tried to suppress, partially because of the overtly Jewish content throughout but also because of the film's depiction of the run-down sanatorium and surrounding grounds, which might be taken as a commentary on Poland's at the time semi-ruined infrastructure. Had it not been for a single print smuggled out of the country and shipped to the Cannes Film Festival, where it won the Jury Prize in 1973, this film might never have been exhibited anywhere.

This extra-Jewish quality apparently was Has's reaction to Bruno Schulz's Jewish identity (although Schulz spent most of his life in a small town in Poland on the Ukrainian border as a non-observant Jew who also loved Catholic rituals. He was murdered by a Nazi officer for wandering out of the Dohobrych Ghetto into the "Aryan Area" in 1942)—and also his reaction to the ensuing Polish clampdown on Jews and Jewish culture in 1968, itself a kind of reactionary fallout from the Prague Spring flourishing next door in Czechoslovakia. This world-historical episode terrified Poland's then-Russian overlords, who blamed the revolutionary fervor on the International Jewish Conspiracy from Hell and accordingly clamped down on the Polish Jewish community, many members of which emigrated en masse to Israel, Europe, and the U.S.

From the opening sequence on the train, with its eerie foreshadowing of the trains to Polish-based concentration camps, to a heart-stopping scene near the end in which a tumultuous herd of panic-stricken Jews hurtle past the camera in a mad dash, dragging their meager possessions behind them while trying to escape an off-screen angry mob with a deadly pogrom on their agenda, Has repeatedly ramps up the Jewish quotient in the service of near Proustian poetic themes: the inevitable passing of time, glimpses of a lost era in Polish Jewish history, fragmented memories of happier days, and endless nights.

Some of the panoramic scenes here displaying crowds of dancing Chasidim in colorful but dark, very dark shtetl settings (reminiscent of contemporary Krakow's Kazimierz district, a kind of Potemkin Village recreation of old Jewish Poland) resemble nothing so much as a Bizarro World version of Norman Jewison's 1971 Fiddler on the Roof mega-hit, with traces of Abraham Polonsky's 1971 Romance of a Horsethief. Mention should be made of the influence of Michal Wasynski's spectral 1937 supernatural fairytale The Dybbuk, particularly the weird Wedding Dance sequence, which Has, one of the icons of the 1960s New Polish Cinema alongside such directorial giants as Jerzy Skolimowski, Roman Polanski, and Andrej Wajda would have known very well—an essential work in the history of Polish filmmaking.

Special thanks to Prof. Annette Insdorf's exceptionally informative pre-screening talk, which contextualized the film. Her excellent book Intimations: The Cinema of Wojciech Has contains valuable information on Has's impressive career.

There is so much more to unpack about this particular film. I really cannot wait to see it again: https://vinegarsyndrome.com/products/the-hourglass-sanatorium

Add new comment

Where’s Dante When You Need Him?

Brandon Judell — Sat, 01 Nov 2014 05:15:40 +0000

Where’s Dante When You Need Him? Brandon Judell November 1, 2014 - 01:15

Topics

Film Review

Tags

foreign

While viewing Sion Sono's Why Don’t You Play in Hell?, at times I couldn’t tell if the Japanese director was a deliciously inept fan of Tarantino and Jerry Lewis or a bizarro pro gleefully upending a genre or two or three. Not until I checked out his credits on IMDB (over 31 features), and sat down with two of his earlier features, could I assume here’s a gent at top of his game, whatever that game might be.

Sono's The Land of Hope (2012), for instance, is a poignant, well-acted, straightforward drama detailing a nuclear plant’s rupture after an earthquake and its devastating aftereffects on the lives of a small town’s residents.

The “unforgettable” Strange Circus (2005), a Grand Guignol of an entertainment, chronicles a school principal’s incestuous relationship with his twelve-year-old daughter, whom he sometimes encases in a cello case with peepholes, so she can watch him making love to her mother. The young girl, Mitsuko, starts believing she is her mother Sayuri to distance herself from the sex abuse she’s experiencing. But are these females real or just characters in the books of the best-selling, sex-addicted, wheelchair-bound novelist Taeko -- or is Taeko really Mitsuko or is she Sayuri? And who’s living in the cello case in Taeko’s apartment? And who gets his or her limbs cut off? And is that a real guillotine that keeps popping up? Only Netflix will supply you with the answer.

Back to Hell? This ode to the joys of filmmaking will no way ever be confused with Cinema Paradiso.

The film begins with a beautiful, little girl, Mitsuko, in a tooth paste commercial, singing her heart out. Shortly afterwards, four hit men from the Kitagawa yakuza gang try to slaughter her dad, Taizo Muto, head of the yakuza Muto clan. They fail after Mrs. Muto, Mitsuko’s mom, starts knifing them to death.

On the other side of town, The Fuck Bombers, four teens who dream of making an action masterpiece, start shooting their epic. They don’t get very far.

Jump a decade ahead. Mrs. Muto is about to be released from prison in ten days, and all she can dream about is seeing the movie starring her daughter that Taizo has been telling her about. There’s a problem. There is no such product. To remedy the situation, The Fuck Bombers, who are still together, are called into action. Their task: Complete a film before Mrs. Muto gets released or face death. Also, instead of hiring actors and utilizing a screenplay, an actual battle with swords between the Muto and Kitagawa gangs will be the centerpiece of this extravaganza.

The plot is actually much more complex than the one I have shared with you. For example, the grownup Mitsuko stuffs broken glass into the mouth of an ex-boyfriend and then tongue-kisses him while her fake boyfriend for the day, Koji, a gentle soul, watches in shock.

Then there’s Ikegami, an assassin with a Lolita-complex, who’s been in love with Mitsuko from her dental ad days, which is more than a bit creepy if you don’t live Japan. He becomes head of the Kiragawas and makes all his hoods wear kimonos.

The whole over-the-top on-screen affair is chaotic, with loads of crosscutting that lead up to an outrageous half-hour skirmish with so much blood on the screen you can imagine you’re watching a tour of a Heinz ketchup factory.

The tone, as you’ve guessed, is fairly comic throughout, the acting is reminiscent of Pauly Shore’s, and if you have a few beers by your side, some cold pizza, and a bag of chips, and if you are caught up on all of your Downton Abbeys, this might just be the ideal entertainment for you. Sadly, I don’t drink.

Seeking the Heart through the Stomach

Brandon Judell — Tue, 04 Feb 2014 09:53:59 +0000

Seeking the Heart through the Stomach Brandon Judell February 4, 2014 - 04:53

Topics

Film Review

Tags

foreign

We're barely into the new year and one of the top ten films of 2014 has already arrived.

"Isn't it a bit too soon?" you are asking. "Is this pundit just chomping at the bit in an inexcusably neurotic manner just to break away from the 2013 moviola pageantry that won’t end until the last Oscar is handed out by someone encased in a Givenchy gown and a Harry Winston tiara?"

I don’t believe so. Clearly, instantly, and with applaudable panache, Ritesh Batra's The Lunchbox unspools across the screen with the same brilliance as Her, The Act of Killing, and The Missing Picture did last year.

Lensed in Mumbai, here is a tale of true yearning between two folks who should never logically have encountered each other.

Saajan (Irrfan Khan), a widowed accountant, is about to retire from a company where he’s just a featureless entity, a dependable pencil pusher who’s never committed an error in all his decades of employment. You know and he knows he won’t be missed the second he packs up his erasers.

A long train ride away, in the far side of the city, Ila (Nimrat Kaur), a young mother spends her days cooking and cleaning and yelling through the kitchen window to her ancient aunt who lives above her for recipe tips. Ila thought marriage would be more than this, but she would be satisfied if her spouse showered an iota of appreciation on her -- but to him, she is little more than a servant.

There’s a line in Ernest Hemingway’s posthumous The Garden of Eden, where Catherine, the slightly unhinged heroine, wisely notes, "It’s terrible to be in bed together and be lonely." This is Ila’s state of affairs.

So how do a pair of isolated souls who inhabit disparate worlds connect?

Blame it on the Dabbawallah, which according to the film’s production notes are a "community of 5000 dabba (lunchbox) deliverymen. It is a hereditary profession. Every morning the Dabbawallahs deliver hot meals from the kitchens of housewives to the offices of their husbands, and then return the empty lunchboxes back to the housewives in the afternoon." And these impoverished, uneducated gents have been doing so for 120 years with very few missteps.

Well, one day a slip-up does understandably occur, and the edibles meant for Ila's husband arrives on Saajan's desk. The accountant, who orders his meals from a cheap restaurant, can’t believe the delicacies presented to him. And this occurs day after day until Ila realizes her spouse is not receiving the meals she so slavishly concocts so she includes a note within the lunchbox she sends out so diligently. And Saajan responds. And Ila writes back. And so on.

Yes, both sides of this duo, each so alone, have discovered someone they can share their secrets with, but will scrawled therapy sessions turn into amour? And will amour evolve into a life together?

This feature debut by writer/director Batra keeps you guessing and hoping romance will win out while simultaneously exposing the inner workings of a society that is frenetically paced yet unrelentingly rigid in the manner with which it wants to control its members. The Lunchbox is marvelously acted and shot; experiencing it is like being exposed to your first Truffaut. You know here’s an artist you’re going to have a long, prosperous relationship with.

The Power of a Jingle

Brandon Judell — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 04:59:38 +0000

The Power of a Jingle Brandon Judell January 15, 2013 - 23:59

Topics

Film Review

Tags

foreign

In 1988, Michael Jackson's Moonwalk biography was released, as was the baseball classic Bull Durham starring Susan Sarandon, and Iran Air Flight 655 was shot down by U.S. missiles. Pablo Larrain's masterful Oscar nominee for Best Foreign Film, NO, however, has chosen to concentrate on the Chilean military dictator Augusto Pinochet and his overthrow by an advertising executive, Rene Saavedra.

You see, after Pinochet and his thugs tortured and slaughtered several thousand of his citizens with the implicit approval of the United States and other international powers, the world at large developed a conscience of sorts and pressured the Chilean leader to hold a plebiscite on his presidency. The populace was to vote "YES" in support of Pinochet or "NO" to get rid of the tyrant. But how fair could such a referendum be? After all, Pinochet controlled the media and the streets.

Well, to be cordial, let's supply the opposition with 15 minutes of free air time daily for a month to make its argument. A quarter of an hour of late night TV? Will anyone stay up to watch these segments?

Now there's a challenge to puzzle over. How can the Nay-sayers make use of their free TV exposure to win over voters who might be afraid of change? Clearly not everyone was a fan of Pinochet's predecessor, Allende. Even his enemies will have to admit not everything Pinochet accomplished during his reign from 1973 to 1990 was heinous. He did lay the groundwork for Chile's modern market economy.

I know. We'll hire Saavedra to design a campaign that sidesteps Pinochet's atrocities -- and we'll package human rights like Coke packages their soft drinks USA-style. We'll compose a catchy jingle, show attractive folks singing, dancing, and picnicking, and then design a logo with a rainbow. We'll make democracy seem like fun.

But can such a campaign be triumphant? Saavedra, who at the same time is trying to popularize a new contraption called the "microwave oven," insists such tactics will win the battle. Of course, a few cameos in the ads with such stars as Jane Fonda, Christopher Reeve, and Richard Dreyfus won't hurt either.

Well, if you know your history, you know the end result. But as with Argo, you will be on the edge of your seats nonetheless. This has much do with Larrain's superb direction, Pedro Peirano's canny adaptation of Antonio Skarmeta's play The Referendum, and Sergio Armstrong's astute cinematography that reproduces the cinematic look of the time, thus allowing actual footage to be seamlessly intercut into the final "product." But the conflicted Saavedra as portrayed by Gael Garcia Bernal carries the entire enterprise on his shoulders. As the skateboarding father of a young boy, as the abandoned husband of an activist, as a top adman who knows shallow sells, his Saavedra suddenly finds himself in a politically menacing world that might at any moment topple the world he's so cleverly built with one trite soap opera ad campaign after another. His battle and his triumph makes NO the first great film of 2013, and Bernal's performance the one that will be the hardest to outshine.