Seconds [1966]

 Seconds – the nightmarish final chapter in John Frankenheimer’s ‘Paranoia Trilogy’ – wasn’t an overly political film, unlike the two that preceded it, viz. The Manchurian Candidate and Seven Days in May. It was, instead, a bleak and discordant foray into mid-life crisis and existential disillusionment, along with an unsettling study on the malleability of identity – through the dystopian premise of “rebirth” via next-gen plastic surgery – that recalled Georges Franju’s Eyes Without A Face and Hiroshi Teshigahara’s The Face of Another; this latter facet, incidentally, would keep recuring in both future arthouse films (e.g. Pedro Almodóvar’s The Skin I Live In) and mainstream movies (e.g. John Woo’s Face/Off). However, that said, it wasn’t without political undertones thanks to its sharp critique of the American Dream that’s supported by conventional suburban family, corporate job, material wealth, consumerist desires and heteronormative existence. This was clearly a work of two halves. In the brilliantly constructed first half, middle-aged, well-off and deeply dissatisfied New York banking exec Arthur Hamilton (John Randolph) is lured by a shady company – through hilariously sleazy salesmanship (by Jeff Corey), spurious smooth-talking (by Will Greer) and wicked entrapment – into agreeing to shed his current identity and transform into bohemian Malibu-residing artist Tony Wilson (Rock Hudson), in lieu of a steep price that they exact in return. In the rather formless second half, Tony struggles to adjust in his new persona and life – finding it equally empty and meaningless – and faces a horrific destiny in the memorably macabre closing sequence. The film’s visceral mood was amplified by the expressionistic B/W cinematography and jazzy score which, along with its free-flowing Kafkaesque segments, made it feel closer to a European than an American film.

Director: John Frankenheimer

Genre: Thriller/Psychological Thriller/Sci-Fi

Language: English

Country: US

Seven Days in May [1964]

 The Cold War, a period marked by paranoia and political conspiracy, saw the US playing a particularly fiendish role in “spreading democracy” to other countries, while undermining it internally in the name of battling “red terror”. American filmmakers memorably responded to this anxiety-ridden atmosphere with multiple fine movies, with three in 1964 alone by Stanley Kubrick, Sydney Lumet and John Frankenheimer. The latter filmmaker, who’d made the baroque and unsettling political thriller The Manchurian Candidate two years back, took that ahead with Seven Days in May – the middle chapter in his ‘Paranoia Trilogy’, which he’d conclude with Seconds – that refocussed from McCarthy-era hysteria to murky machinations during the nuclear age. When pacifist US President Lyman (Fredric March), in a courageous but unpopular decision, signs a nuclear disarmament treaty with the Soviet Union, the highly decorated, megalomaniacal and right-wing zealot Air Force General James Scott (Burt Lancaster) plots a nefarious coup d'état to replace the elected government with a military junta, as he believes that the President is undermining America’s strength and power by going soft on Communism. Colonel “Jiggs” (Kirk Douglas), who reports to Scott, uncovers the ploy from a series of suspicious clues, and takes the difficult call of choosing insubordination over allowing constitutional principles to be trampled. Though tad heavy on verbal exchanges at times, it wasn’t short of crackerjack thrills and intrigue, and was propelled by a menacing turn by Lancaster that was reminiscent of the chilling masterpiece Sweet Smell of Success. The storyline bore additional self-reflexive irony given how the United States frequently enabled military coups during the 20^th century, while Lancaster would star in another similar conspiracy thriller a decade later with Executive Action.

Director: John Frankenheimer

Genre: Thriller/Political Thriller

Language: English

Country: US

The Train [1964]

 Watching The Sorrow and the Pity and The Train within a few days of each other was rather ironic, given how the former demythologized the idea of widespread French resistance during the German occupation while the latter emphatically celebrated it. John Frankenheimer, who took charge after Burt Lancaster got Arthur Penn fired, dramatically altered Penn’s script – which was more character-driven and primarily focussed on the value of art – into a kinetic, action-packed movie foregrounded on the titular locomotives. Along the lines of John Sturges’ The Great Escape from a year back, this too was fiction spun around facts – or “faction”, as one might call it – set during WW2, and was a similarly rip-roaring war film that nevertheless retained tangible character developments and political stances. It’s August 1944 and Colonel Waldheim (Paul Scofield), an “aesthete Nazi” who loves “degenerate” modern art, decides to take the crème de la crème of artworks housed in Jeu de Paume to Berlin – at any costs necessary – upon sensing Paris’ imminent liberation by the Allies. The museum’s desperate curator appeals to the French Resistance to prevent this given their incalculable cultural significance. Labiche (Lancaster), a railway inspector at the station from which this prized cargo will depart and leader of the local Resistance cell down to its last three men, reluctantly agrees to sabotage Waldheim’s plans despite not caring much for art. Stunningly photographed in B/W – deploying a mix of wide-angles, deep focus, and ingenious single takes – the battle of wits between the two men, manically driven by contrasting objectives, was matched by thrilling set-pieces involving authentic trains. The fine support cast included the striking Jeanne Moreau as a brusque inn-keeper forced into chooses sides.

Director: John Frankenheimer

Genre: Action/Thriller/War

Language: English

Country: US

El Sur (The South) [1983]

 El Sur, Victor Erice’s first film in a decade since his unforgettable debut with The Spirit of the Beehive – his next narrative feature, Close Your Eyes, would come half a century later – is that rare cinematic gem that succeeded in becoming one despite being an unfinished film… or maybe, because it was one. Adapted by Erice from the novella of the same name by his wife Adelaida García Morales, this sublime exploration of memories, disillusionment, loss and the inescapable ravages of time – awash in painterly beauty and profound melancholy – was supposed to have a runtime of 2-½ hours, but was stopped short at roughly the two-third mark by its producer Elías Querejeta citing that funds had extinguished, but real reasons never fully disclosed. The film as it stood, however, turned into a particularly haunting longing for the mythical “south” of the title as the final part – that was supposed to finally take us there – never got made. Life the earlier work, this too was a coming-of-age tale told from the perspective of a young, lonely and imaginative girl, and was underscored with the desolate remnants of the Spanish Civil War and Franco’s totalitarian regime. Estrella (marvellously played by Sonsoles Aranguren and Icíar Bollaín as the initial 8-year-old and the later 15-year-old, respectively), who stays in a remote house in northern Spain with her parents Agustín (Omero Antonutti) and Julia (Lola Cardona) – they were both anti-Francoists and never seen speaking to each other now – is fascinated by her taciturn dad and entranced by the magical “sur”. Hypnotically photographed by José Luis Alcaine, the film’s standout central moment featured a rapturous single-take dance between father and daughter to paso doble music.

Director: Victor Erice

Genre: Drama/Psychological Drama/Coming-of-Age

Language: Spanish

Country: Spain

One or Two Questions [2018]

 The wave of military dictatorships that spread through Latin America during the 20^th century, competed with one another on state-sponsored repression, human rights abuses, extra-judicial punishments, and most notably, enforced disappearances. The one that ruled Uruguay for over a decade – it began with the 1973 coup d'état and brutal crackdown on the Marxist-Leninist Tapamaros, and finally ended in 1985 following massive demonstrations and strikes – was no less draconian. Hence, when an amnesty law was passed by the government in 1986, shielding the armed forces from prosecutions, it inevitably led to widespread protests by the civil society and human rights groups against it, which ultimately paved the way for a country-wide referendum in 1989. This remarkable 4-hour-long documentary – shot between 1987 and 1989 on the streets of Montevideo and neighbouring towns and villages; and finally released nearly 3 decades later – provided a rare glimpse of the wheels of democracy and the voice of journalism in action as the event, and associated political forces, unfolded. Two journalists, María Barhoum and Graciela Salsamendi, interviewed multiple everyday folks for Swiss television – both those favouring the amnesty, for reasons ranging from fascist beliefs, apologia and apathy to underlying fear of fresh retributions, and those steadfastly opposing it – and the recorded footage was edited by globetrotting Swiss documentarian Kristina Konrad into this 4-hour-long reportage on the shifting meanings of “peace” and “justice”, and a nuanced investigation into political trauma, anger and amnesia. The interviews were interspersed with electoral television commercials from that period, which added ironic qualities to the engrossing audio-visual collage. The docu remains part of an ever-growing pantheon of powerful Latin American political documentaries and films connected by their shared refusal to forget.

Director: Kristina Konrad

Genre: Documentary/Essay Film/Political History/Reportage

Language: Spanish

Country: Uruguay

Man of Iron [1981]

 Andrzej Wajda stumbled upon the idea for Man of Iron – the remarkable sequel to Man of Marble, thus concluding his ‘Solidarity Films’ diptych – when a worker at the Lenin Gdańsk Shipyard, the birthplace of the Polish ‘Solidarity’ trade union movement in 1980, asked him to make a film about them. Leveraging a brief thaw in censorships – it would subsequently be banned and forced the filmmaker into exile – Wajda painted a simultaneously vivid, thrilling and solemn picture of the movement’s genesis through the life of Tomczyk (Jerzy Radziwiłowicz), the son of the previous film’s protagonist Birkut (Radziwiłowicz). Modelled on Lech Wałęsa, Tomczyk was a former student activist and a worker at the shipyard who – upon his father’s death during the December 1970 protests and his dismissal from the job later – plays a leading role in the 1980 shipyard strike that founded the Solidarity movement. Like Birkut, his story of his life is also constructed through multiple perspectives – in particular, his old college friend (Bogusław Linda), and Agnieszka (Krystyna Janda), who left filmmaking for political activism upon marrying Tomczyk – but this time by Winkel (Marian Opania), a once radical radio journalist who’s now an alcoholic and a lackey for the authorities. He’s ordered to dig out compromising information about the firebrand leader, for slandering his reputation, but starts regaining his lost dissidence as he learns more about the man’s defiant political journey. Rippling with apitprop, insolence, vitality and a throbbing zeitgeist, the gripping political mosaic unfolded through alternations of a framing narrative, multiple flashbacks and archival footage, and comprised of two haunting protest songs, viz. the elegiac unofficial anthem of the striking workers and a furious ballad performed by Janda herself.

Director: Andrzej Wajda

Genre: Drama/Political Drama/Docu Drama/Film a Clef

Language: Polish

Country: Poland

Man of Marble [1977]

 Man of Marble – the first chapter in Andrzej Wajda’s electrifying diptych of ‘Solidarity Films’ along with Man of Iron – was a dazzling assemblage of political critique, formal audacity, and deconstructive meta-narration, making it both a vivid historical document and thrilling investigative reportage. Both films recalled Orson Welles’ Citizen Kane and Francesco Rosi’s Mattei Affair in that they constructed their eponymous individuals’ lives through subjective memories and objective evidences. The individual in question here is Birkut (Jerzy Radziwiłowicz), a simple bricklayer who shot to stardom as a Stakhanovite symbol upon accomplishing a superlative feat of labour during the Stalinist era, but over the years fell out of political favour, became a persona non grata, and slipped into obscurity. Agnieszka (Krystyna Janda), a brash young film school student, has defiantly selected this enigmatic man for her graduation project, and goes about making that by interviewing people who knew him in the past – a festival-hopping director who’d once made state propaganda films on Birkut; a former state security agent who tailed Birkut when he became increasingly outspoken and disillusioned; his oldest comrade (Michał Tarkowski) who was arrested during the purges and has become a dodgy bureaucrat post his rehabilitation; and Birkut’s estranged, self-hating wife – as well as archival news and film footage to piece together the jigsaw puzzle about this now forgotten socialist hero of unknown whereabouts. Flamboyantly shot through a mix of wide-angles, low-angles, close-ups, dynamic hand-held cameras and vivid colours, which complemented the wan backdrops and flat B/W reels, and accompanied by a pulsating, idiosyncratic score interspersed with old socialist songs, the film – aside from its stylistic bravura and edgy political commentaries – remains a fascinating depiction of subversive, guerilla filmmaking.

p.s. This is a revisit. My earlier review of this film can be found here.

Director: Andrzej Wajda

Genre: Drama/Political Drama/Film a Clef

Language: Polish

Country: Poland

The Sorrow and the Pity [1969]

 Few films have so powerfully combatted collective historical amnesia like Marcel Ophüls’ monumental 4-½-hour-long documentary did by dismantling the carefully established Gaullist myth – much to everyone’s chagrin – that the French populace had resisted the Nazi Occupation en masse and were tragically martyred by it. No wonder, he had to secure funding from German and Swiss television after the French network refused to support an exercise as unpalatable as this, and a French release was made finally possible at a small left bank theatre thanks to Truffaut. This engrossing work – its colossal runtime notwithstanding – was a complex, multi-perspective investigation into the puppet, autocratic and collaborationist regime that was helmed by Philippe Pétain and Pierre Laval, which made France the sole occupied country during WW2 that had a functioning government that actively cooperated with German occupiers. Ophüls documented this dark chapter through an assemblage of diverse personal testimonies, memories and reflections – perpetrators, apologists and bystanders, as well as heroes, dissidents, and those who realized their folly on hindsight; fascists and antifascists; French people, of course, but also former Wehrmacht officers and British agents – which made this a simultaneously lucid, desolate and devastating oral history. Broken into two halves – “The Collapse” covered France’s rapid surrender, armistice, the disgraceful Vichy government, and how most people were okay with it; “The Choice” focussed on the active and passive collaborators, fearless members of Resistance groups, and the murky liberation process – its most unforgettable section comprised of a freewheeling conversation with working-class former Resistance fighters who melancholically share how easily everyone had embraced virulent racism, anti-Communism and xenophobia, the associated moral rot, the futility of seeking revenge against informants, and the eventual whitewashing of wartime culpability.

Director: Marcel Ophuls

Genre: Documentary/War

Language: French/German/English

Country: France

Ludwig [1973]

 Luchino Visconti’s ambitious opus Ludwig – butchered by distributers during its release and restored to its mammoth original runtime of 4 hours four years after the director’s demise – was a sprawling and operatic study on doomed idealism, extravagant folly, and obsessions bordering on madness. The final chapter in the Italian maestro’s formally dazzling and thematically complex ‘German Trilogy’ – following the unhinged brilliance of The Damned and the smouldering melancholy of Death in Venice, with all three ending with images of death – reminds one of his towering masterpiece The Leopard for its elegy to lavish opulence and Senso for its paean to self-destructive passions. Ludwig II, the “Mad King” of Bavaria, was an inveterate romantic, aesthete and nonconformist who was besotted with Richard Wagner (Trevor Howard), splurged extravagantly to appease the temperamental and opportunistic composer’s egotistic whims, hosted ostentatious operas, and constructed spectacular castles and palaces; he was heartbroken by his unrequited love for his vivacious older cousin sister Elisabeth (whose enigmatic beauty was gloriously evoked by Romy Schneider, having portrayed “Sissi” thrice in the past), pursued his repressed homosexuality as he grew older, and refused to either marry or partake in politics or fight wars. Covering his tormented life from his coronation in 1864 until his mysterious death shortly after his deposition in 1886, the film – in a fascinating narrative choice – was set mostly indoors, largely avoiding any explicit historical depictions and resorting to verbal citations instead, and the proceedings were interspersed with sombre talking-head witnesses by his ministers and inner coterie at a tribunal to judge his mental fitness. Ludwig’s androgynous grace, tormented loneliness, conflicted sexuality, and descent into lunacy was magnetically portrayed by Visconti’s then lover Helmut Berger.

Director: Luchino Visconti

Genre: Drama/Biopic/Historical Biopic

Language: German/Italian

Country: Italy

Death in Venice [1971]

 Luchino Visconti adapted Death in Venice from Thomas Mann’s novella – the vaunted central chapter in his ‘German Trilogy’, sandwiched between The Damned’s pungent provocations and Ludwig’s sprawling ambitions – with meticulous rigour and controlled audacity. He both accentuated the book’s sensual and disconcerting queer undercurrents borne out of a middle-aged man’s forbidden infatuation with a teenage boy, and tampered that with solemnity of tone, a pervading air of melancholy, the anxiety of a choleric outbreak, and Venice’s decaying grandeur gorgeously photographed by Pasqualino De Santis, for a bristling meditation on art, beauty, self-destructive longings and mortality. Gustav von Aschenbach (Dirk Bogarde), an allusion to Austrian composer Gustav Mahler, has come over to Venice for rest and self-exile in order to recover from debilitating health concerns and a dreadful concert. While staying in the luxurious Grand Hotel des Bains in Venice Lido, he notices the pubescent Polish boy Tadzio (Björn Andrésen), who comes to embody for him the epitome of physical beauty, and becomes obsessed with him to the detriment of his own wellbeing. The fastidious composer, ironically, had earlier preferred form over aesthetics, as indicated through the flashbacks, which were a tad jarring vis-à-vis the “present” captured through limpid, deliberately-paced and exceptionally composed mise-en-scène. He silently follows Tadzio, as if hypnotized, in the hotel’s dining room, at the adjacent beach, and through the city’s winding alleys, who in turn starts subtly responding to the attention. Accompanied by Mahler’s music, this film was led by Bograde’s magnificent turn – the muted passions and tragic vulnerability that he brought in reminded me heavily of Gian Maria Volonté in Francesco Rosi’s Christ Stopped at Eboli – and closed with one of cinema’s bleakest on-screen deaths.

Director: Luchino Visconti

Genre: Drama/Historical Drama/Romantic Drama

Language: English

Country: Italy

The Damned [1969]

 The Damned was a scintillating outlier in Luchino Visconti’s oeuvre. Daringly provocative and subversive, packed with outré plot developments, shot in lurid colours, and driven by the unholy tussle between decadence and depravity, it bore the undercurrents of an exploitation movie, and was therefore radically removed from the Italian trailblazer’s customary stately forms and elegant compositions. The first chapter in his acclaimed “German Trilogy” – it was followed by Death in Venice and Ludwig – told the contrapuntal story of the disintegration of the aristocratic von Essenbeck family that owns a massive steel corporation, and Hitler’s consolidation of power. The family patriarch Joachim (Albrecht Schönhals) hates the Nazis, as does Herbert (Umberto Orsini) who’s married to Joachim’s niece (Charlotte Rampling). Not surprisingly, the former is murdered and the latter falsely framed over the course of an elaborately staged opening segment featuring a family gathering during Joachim’s birthday. Those present, a microcosm of the country, include the brutish Konstantin (Reinhard Kolldehoff), a member of the SA that enabled Hitler’s rise but would soon fall out of his favour; Joachim’s crafty and cunning daughter-in-law Sophie (Ingrid Thulin); her slimy social climber fiancé Friedrich (Dirk Bogarde); his cold and ruthless friend Aschenbach (Helmut Griem), who’s part of the SS and pits one family faction against another; Sophie’s paedophilic, incestuous and easily manipulated viper of a son Martin (Helmut Berger); and Konstantin’s artistically-inclined son. Over the course of the turbulent narrative that unfolds, the violent machinations within the family paralleled the corruption, moral rot and grotesquerie that the Nazis embodied, while its showpiece segment – that divided the film into two halves – graphically recreated ‘The Night of the Long Knives’ when the SS massacred the “Brownshirts”.

Director: Luchino Visconti

Genre: Drama/Historical Drama/Political Drama/Family Drama

Language: Italian

Country: Italy

La Terra Trema [1948]

 Luchino Visconti, whose superb debut film Ossessione launched Italian Neorealism, made perhaps that movement’s purest expression with his second film La Terra Trema. Intending to adapt Giovanni Verga's novel I Malavoglia, he travelled to the impoverished Sicilian coastal village of Aci Trezza, and shot, over a staggering seven months in company of cinematographer G. R. Aldo, a slightly reworked version of the book. What made this desolate and exceedingly moving film an especially rare expression of authenticity and empathy was that, Visconti cast real fishermen in this story examining their daily struggles and their terrible exploitation by price-gouging wholesalers. That also made this the “Red Count’s” most enduring expression of his Marxist sympathies and therefore a eloquent political manifesto. Initially planned as the first chapter of a trilogy on the plight of the rural working-class – the next two would’ve focussed on peasants and miners, but unfortunately never got made – it portrayed their life through the story of a courageous, but ultimately crushed, rebellion led by Ntoni (Antonio Arcidiacono), the Valastro family’s firebrand eldest son, who wants to break free of the wholesalers and rouse his comrades from the fishing community. His journey back to down south, after his war duties, counterpointed the Parondi family’s journey up north in the masterful Rocco and His Brothers twelve years later, as well as that of Ntoni’s younger brother who, upon the family’s plunge into utter despair after a brief sliver of hope, joins a shady gang and moves out. The fabulously shot wide-angled B/W images took the viewers right into the gritty life of the defeated hero that ended on a tragic note of resignation while carrying memories of what could’ve been.

Director: Luchino Visconti

Genre: Drama/Rural Drama

Language: Italian/Sicilian

Country: Italy

Secret Défense [1998]

 Jacques Rivette, in a rare foray into genre cinema with Secret Défense, made the narrative both freer and more expansive while also retaining the brooding atmosphere that one associates with slow-burn crime movies. The resulting work was a compelling exercise in psychological suspense that succeeded, over a generous runtime of nearly three hours, in being a taut thriller as well as a meditation on secrets, obsessions, modernity and solitude. Rivette’s smouldering emphasis on the moments and spaces between actions made the film particularly intriguing, and that was exhibited through the near-real-time sequences involving Paris metro rides, and – in perhaps the film’s most riveting segment – an anxiety-ridden 20-minute train ride sequence. Sylvie (Sandrine Bonnaire), a research scientist still getting over her father’s death five years back, gets an unanticipated visit from her troubled younger brother Paul (Grégoire Colin) – they haven’t spoken since the funeral – who tells her that their dad’s death wasn’t accidental; he’s convinced their dad’s former business partner Walser (Jerzy Radziwilowicz), who’s taken over his company, stays in the sprawling mansion where they’d grown up, and maintains a discomfiting proximity with their mother (Françoise Fabian), has murdered their dad, and he therefore intends to exact a bloody revenge. Sylvie isn’t fully convinced but jolted enough, and decides to do the job herself so that Paul is spared the agony. Things, however, become messy when she accidentally kills Walser’s stunning young secretary/lover (Laure Marsac), only for her sister (also played by Marsac) to start looking for her missing sister. The formally rigorous work was marked by visual interplay between technological modernity of life in Paris vis-à-vis ominous serenity of the country, and excellent turns by both Bonnaire and Radziwilowicz.

Director: Jacques Rivette

Genre: Thriller/Crime Thriller/Mystery

Language: French

Country: France

The Spirit of the Beehive [1973]

 Victor Erice’s celebrated debut feature The Spirit of the Beehive remains both a seminal Spanish film and an exceptional chronicling from a child’s POV. Made during Franco’s fascist regime – which was notorious for suppressing “non-compliant” works of art – Erice was compelled to express his critiques and disillusionment through elliptical, allegorical and allusive means; one therefore must engage in critical readings of the film to interpret its brooding political undertones. What remains unambiguous, however, is that this was a haunting and ethereal masterpiece, and a sublime text on how cinema can be a distillation of magic, poetry, memory, politics and defiance rolled into one. Set in a rundown village in 1940 – with the devastating Civil War having just ended with the Republicans’ defeat – the moody, minimalist and delicately weaved narrative is centred around wide-eyed six-year-old Ana (Ana Torrent). Her ageing father (Fernando Fernán Gómez) remains absorbed in beehives, while her mother is lost reminiscing about someone she’s lost in the war. Her closest friend is her sister Isabel (Isabel Tellería), who loves playing little pranks on her naïveté. When James Whales’ Frankenstein is screened at a rundown theatre which the sisters watch in awe, Ana becomes fixated by the misunderstood monster – more so, when Isabel teasingly convinces her that he exists as a disembodied ghost at an isolated cabin nearby. Consequently, upon encountering a wounded Republican soldier who’s taken refuge there, she helps him assuming he’s the spirit’s manifestation, and is deeply scarred when he’s killed. Torrent, who’d star in Saura’s equally haunting masterpiece Cria Cuervos 3 years later, and Tellería were unforgettable, as was the magnificent, washed-out cinematography by Luis Cuadrado who started losing his eyesight during the filming.

p.s. This is a revisit. My earlier review of this film can be found here.

p.p.s. This also happens to be my 2000th film review at Cinemascope.

Director: Victor Erice

Genre: Drama/Coming-of-Age/Fantasy

Language: Spanish

Country: Spain

The Hawks and the Sparrows [1966]

 The Hawks and the Sparrows ingeniously harboured parallel tracks, as it was both informed by the austere aesthetics and social commitment of neorealist cinema that Pier Paolo Pasolini had a strong background in, and was expressive of the radical, modernist, and asinine aspects of his subsequent filmography. This picaresque road movie, Marxist parable, and darkly funny commentary on social inequality demonstrated that pivot. Its farcical, eccentric and subversive whimsy were evident from the get-go as it began with an amusing song, accompanying the opening title credits and introducing the cast and the crew, including how producer Alfredo Bini might’ve “endangered his position and reputation” by backing this work. An idiosyncratic father-son duo – played by the celebrated thespian Totò as the elderly, droopy-eyed, Chaplinesque dad, and Ninetto Davoli, Pasolini’s lover and frequent collaborator, as the goofy, curly-haired, skirt-chasing son – are on an ambling walk through the gritty countryside of Rome, albeit going nowhere, and meeting oddball characters and having offbeat encounters along the way. They’re joined in their peregrinations by the Crow, a talking raven and left-wing intellectual. He spouts gentle advices, wry reflections, and philosophical musings, and chronicles an allegorical tale involving two monks (also played by Totò and Davoli) who’re asked by St. Francis – presented as a Marxist cleric keenly conscious of class conflicts, and reminiscent of Pasolini’s celebrated preceding narrative feature The Gospel According to St. Matthew – to preach the gospel to the haughty, powerful hawks and the humble, vulnerable sparrows. Filmed in sparkling B/W and irreverently scored by Ennio Moricone, it interplayed between political satire and dialectical analysis, and contained an homage to just-deceased Italian Communist leader Palmiro Togliatti through a stirring montage of news footage.

Director: Pier Paolo Pasolini

Genre: Black Comedy/Social Satire/Political Satire/Road Movie/Fantasy

Language: Italian

Country: Italy

Close-Up [1990]

 Abbas Kiarostami, right from his 1973 debut feature The Experience till the end of 1980s – Homework was his last film of that decade – had been making narrative films with underlying documentary attributes and documentaries with discernible performative elements. With Close-Up, he blurred the already porous boundaries between the two into something indistinguishable. That he also crafted a work that was simultaneously audacious in its formal conception and deceptively simple in its execution, playfully self-conscious and profoundly humane, radically metatextual and deeply moving, made this an extraordinary gem. The film’s unforgettable protagonist is Hossain Sabzian, a poor and unassuming cinephile who impersonated the well-known Iranian filmmaker Mohsen Makhmalbaf, and faced trial and a short jail-term when the Ahankhahs – a well-off Tehran family who he promised to cast in the fictious film that he was supposedly planning to make – caught his fraudulence. Kiarostami cast Sabzian, members of the Ahankhah family and Farazmand – a journalist who too was drawn to the story – as themselves for recreating the interactions and moments that formed the backstory, as well as convinced the compassionate judge to allow him to shoot the trial – which he did using two 16mm cameras and where he casually inserted himself into the cross-examinations. Through this extraordinarily hybrid approach, an absorbing multilayered meditation unfolded on art, cinema, identity, representation, and originality vis-à-vis artifice, and perhaps paved the way for Makhmalbaf’s own similarly hybrid and beguiling masterpiece A Moment of Innocence. The film, interestingly, comprised of impish asides – as in the remarkable opening taxi-ride sequence –, an emotionally naked evocation of Sabzian for whom truth is subjective and art is absolute, and a haunting coda when the fake and real Makhmalbafs finally meet.

p.s. This is a revisit. My earlier review of the film can be found here.

Director: Abbas Kiarostami

Genre: Documentary/Drama

Language: Persian

Country: Iran

Fellow Citizen [1983]

 Fellow Citizen was Abbas Kiarostami’s first full-length work foregrounded on cars, aside from being his first longform documentary. Cars blur the boundaries between the private and the public, representing a liminal space coalescing the two, and that facet became an absorbing motif in his cinema hereon, which made this playful, deadpan, and deceptively observational essay a significant entry for aficionados of his filmography. The Iranian giant had incidentally worked as part-time traffic cop during his student days at the University of Tehran, to support his studies, and that injected a personal connect into this work that was steadfastly focused on traffic officer Reza Mansouri. Owing to traffic woes, the city’s authorities decided in 1980 to impose a limited hours’ ban on private cars in the city centre. Kiarostami, sensing the possibility of drama within the mundane, and the battle of wits between regulation and disorderliness, set up his camera to capture – through close-ups using telephoto lens – the mix of matter-of-fact, amusing, conciliatory, exasperated and argumentative conversations between Mansouri – whose role is being a gatekeeper to the forbidden zone – and a flurry of automobile drivers cajoling, coaxing and convincing him to let them through as an exception. There was, therefore, also this fascinating element of performativity as the citizens try using a variety of techniques – from drawing his sympathy and laying importance to his position of power, even though he’s in essence a simple cop, to impromptu storytelling and even demonstrating their social positions – in order to be allowed into the forbidden zone. The series of impassively recorded interactions, consequently, ended up taking deceptively layered allegories. The documented vignettes, by the way, were edited from over 18 hours of footage!

Director: Abbas Kiarostami

Genre: Documentary

Language: Persian

Country: Iran

The Report [1977]

 The Report may well be the frostiest and harshest work of Abbas Kiarostami’s oeuvre, devoid of either the infectious playfulness or philosophic inquiries or wry ironies that one associates with his films. Made during the final days of Iran’s corrupt and hated imperial regime, which was soon to be upended by an oppressive theocratic state, most of its copies were destroyed during the Iranian Revolution and was banned thereafter; this was also a rare foray for him outside “Kanoon”, which he returned to with his fascinating and experimental next film First Case, Second Case. Influenced by his own marital troubles which eventually led to divorce – making it a rather caustic self-portrait – this was an unsentimental and downbeat examination of a miserable middle-class couple stuck in toxic matrimony. The husband, Mahmad (Kurosh Afsharpanah), is an unlikeable civil servant who’s accused of taking bribes, and loves spending his time outside work drinking, gambling and even engaging with prostitutes in company of his two buddies; the wife, Azam (Shohreh Aghdashloo), has come to disdain everything about him – his emotional apathy, avoidance of familial responsibilities, denial, and spending hours away from home – and vacillates between anger and irritation bordering on hysteria, intent of leaving, and suicidal tendencies. The film’s depiction of a fractured marriage, consequently, had a dystopian quality about it, informed as much by Kiarostami’s own personal woes as by the political turmoil brewing outside the frames. He would direct another film centred on marriage 33 years later – viz. the fabulous and beguiling masterpiece Certified Copy – but the two couldn’t be further apart in their tones, forms and structures; this was, instead, a closer precursor to Asghar Farhadi’s compelling film A Separation.

Director: Abbas Kiarostami

Genre: Drama/Marital Drama/Social Drama

Language: Persian

Country: Iran

The Traveller [1974]

 The Traveller, Abbas Kiarostami’s second full-length feature – or first, depending on whether you consider his evocative and poetic preceding work The Experience as one – was an absorbing, madcap and quixotic paean to childhood and adolescence. It was, in turn, the Iranian master’s love letter to a kid’s impudence, exuberance and non-conformism, which’re invariably bound to be heavily frowned upon by adults and viewed as reckless folly and insubordination. What the movies represented for Antoine Doinel in François Truffaut’s unforgettable The 400 Blows – as much a brewing passion and a beautiful dream as a means for adventure and escape from the dreariness of existence – football played that role for this film’s impish, 12-year-old pint-sized dynamite Qassem (Hassan Darabi). Obsessed with the game, he freely disobeys his desperate parents and dogmatic teachers to play football in the alleys with his buddies. His obsession reaches a state of monomania upon deciding to embark on the seemingly crazy quest to collect enough money to sponsor a trip to Tehran and catch a game of his favourite team at Azadi Stadium. He demonstrates exceptional doggedness, ingenuity and resourcefulness, and freely crosses ethical quandaries to fund his odyssey – including, in arguably the film’s most memorable segment, taking money from kids and their parents by staging a fake photoshoot using a broken camera – with the help of his loyal friend Akbar who truly wants Qassem to succeed. Shot in grainy B/W with a blend of frenetic energy, playful irony and empathy, and with storytelling flair vividly complemented by documentary realism, this was a joyous act of solidarity against stifling impositions and restrictions, while the insouciant, irrepressible and rebellious kid remains an indelible creation in Kiarostami’s oeuvre.

Director: Abbas Kiarostami

Genre: Comedy/Slice-of-Life

Language: Persian

Country: Iran

The Experience [1973]

 Abbas Kiarostami’s gently observational feature-length debut The Experience – produced by the filmmaking department of ‘Centre for the Intellectual Development of Child and Adolescent’ (“Kanoon”) that he’d helped found – was informed by the neorealist form, Iran’s social realist milieu, and Kiarostami’s deep empathy for nonconformist kids and adolescents living in the margins, for a tender, impish and poetic subversion of the ‘poor boy falls for rich girl’ trope. Gorgeously photographed in richly composed B/W frames, with images often shot through glass panes which gave them a subtly voyeuristic quality, we follow a day and a half in the life of an impoverished teenager whose dreams add a sliver of hope and escapist joys into his tough Dickensian existence. The orphaned Mamad works as a lowly factotum in a photography studio – serving tea, brooming the floors, assisting with developing the negatives – where he also sleeps at night. Though constantly scolded by his middle-aged employer, more so when he indulges in acts of pubescent naughtiness by creating a cut-out from a signboard featuring an attractive model, he keeps getting drawn towards small acts of playfulness and rebellion. He’s also, in the meantime, become enamoured with a lovely girl slightly older to him; she’s far beyond his social station, but that doesn’t stop him from blushing at her sight, or day-dreaming about her, or crafting a little plan to get closer to her. He's therefore the quintessential Kiarostami kid who’ll indulge in bolder and more reckless displays of mischief and disobedience in the magnificent run of films that he’d make featuring young actors. This delicately-strung work, incidentally, was nearly devoid of any dialogues, which made it all the more affecting, meditative and impressionistic.

Director: Abbas Kiarostami

Genre: Drama/Social Drama

Language: Persian

Country: Iran