I went to see this a couple of days ago. I'd read the book last year, so knew what to expect in terms of content, but it brought the book to life in a way that I wasn't really prepared for. I'd heard great things about the film - Mark Kermode (on Radio5Live), thought it should have received the Oscar for best foreign language film, but apparently the French didn't submit it for some bureaucratic reason. Was it becuase it was directed by an American, even thought the subject-matter, and its cast were resolutely French? Ridiculous.
Anyway, it doesn't really matter, because a) Oscars don't matter inthe grand scheme of things, and b) its haunting, lingering quality will resonate for a long time in the hearts and minds of everyone who sees it.
The cinema was about three-quarters full - pretty good for a teatime showing and, as usual at the Watershed, everyone was rapt throughout and sat silently. People usually know how to behave here, but this film wouldn't probably have attracted the casual customer anyway.
The film begins inside Jean-Dominique Bauby's head as he awakes from a coma after a major stroke - his brain, vision and hearing functioning perfectly but realising that he cannot move or speak, or commuicate on any level. We see what he sees; a fragmente, blurred, view of what is directly on front of him, and we share his feelings of isolation. Gradually, with the help of a dedicated speech therapist, he learns to communicate - 1 blink for 'yes', 2 blinks for 'no', and eventually 'writes' a book. I suppose if something like this had to happen to anyone, at least it happened to someone with the gift of irony. He was the editor of Elle magazine; someone in the prime of life; wealthy, successful, celebrated, handsome, with the world at his feet when he was struck down with a stroke that left him with 'locked-in syndrome', when the only muscle that moved was one eyelid.
Jean-Do (as everyone called him) was played, superbly, by Mathieu Amalric, who captured his previous incarnation perfectly. I have a friend who had trouble with the book, as he felt so little sympathy for Bauby and didn't feel particularly impelled to see the film. Well, Amalric brought him to l;ife, and yes, I can't think of anyone who would have ever wanted to be his friend, but the film offered a different angle, a rather more oblique point of view, using music, memory and stunning photography to enable its audience to get inside his head.
Its unsentimental, and unself-pitying, and we leave the cinema thinking about what it is to be human - what is the minimum we need to keep us going.
Another bonus was Max Von Sydow, one of the greatest of film presences, playing Jean-Do's father, who is elderly, crippled and alone. There are 2 wonderful sequences - one when Jean-Do remebers giving him a shave, and the scene encapsulates perfectly what it means to age and become dependent on your children, yet at the same time always feeling responsible for them.
As Philip French notes, 'Jean-Do's experience is what we'll all come to in the end - spectators in our personal galleries of memories'. It's film which touches on the universals of life, and I've rarely found anything as rewarding and fulfilling for a long time.
Friday, 29 February 2008
Friday, 22 February 2008
Even Dwarves Started Small
This is one of Herzog's earliest films, made around 1969, and it's saturated with late-60s revolutionary subtext. I watched once, and found it a gruelling experience, then decided to give it another go, with Herzog's commentary.
It's a punishing, hardcore experience - several dwarves, or midgets, as Herzog calls them, are in some kind of unspecified institution for criminal dwarves, situated on a barren, bleak island (actually Lanzerote). I managed to work out that an insurrection of sorts takes place, but that was about it as far as making any sense of the action went. Various bizarre happenings happen, and that's it. The dwarves shriek obscenities, and rush around the island, and extraordinary, unexplained events occur. It's a profoundly alienating film in many ways, and it's certainly unusual to see a film that makes absolutely no concessions to its audience.
Herzog talks about the making of the film, and the dwarves with enormous affection, and it's obviously something that's very close to his heart. He was only about 26 when he made it, and, above all, it's a product of its time. I remember seeing films like it at college in the late 60s, and at the art college I was at we attempted to make iconoclastic and radical films. It was like that in those days, so I understand the context in which he made it.
He says that the film was received very badly and proved highly controversial, and I'm not surprised. The Left proved the fiercest opponents, and I know that film studies, which really got going in the 60s and 70s, ignored Herzog. The film makes sense in the context of 1968, though, as the mood was very much that of rebellion for the sake of it. I remember after the famous LSE sit-ins in, when was it? 1968? the students at Oxford Polytechnic, my college, staged one - why? because that was what one did. It was all impossibly incoherent, and in many ways Herzog's film captures the spirit of the times better than any other film I've seen.
Anyway, I can't say that I want to see it again, though you never know. It's extraordinary, unlike anything else I've ever seem before. As Herzog says, it's nothing to do with the entertainment industry - it may be ultimately an inaccessible and alienating film, but, as usual, Herzog's cinematography, and music/sound effects are peerless.
It's a punishing, hardcore experience - several dwarves, or midgets, as Herzog calls them, are in some kind of unspecified institution for criminal dwarves, situated on a barren, bleak island (actually Lanzerote). I managed to work out that an insurrection of sorts takes place, but that was about it as far as making any sense of the action went. Various bizarre happenings happen, and that's it. The dwarves shriek obscenities, and rush around the island, and extraordinary, unexplained events occur. It's a profoundly alienating film in many ways, and it's certainly unusual to see a film that makes absolutely no concessions to its audience.
Herzog talks about the making of the film, and the dwarves with enormous affection, and it's obviously something that's very close to his heart. He was only about 26 when he made it, and, above all, it's a product of its time. I remember seeing films like it at college in the late 60s, and at the art college I was at we attempted to make iconoclastic and radical films. It was like that in those days, so I understand the context in which he made it.
He says that the film was received very badly and proved highly controversial, and I'm not surprised. The Left proved the fiercest opponents, and I know that film studies, which really got going in the 60s and 70s, ignored Herzog. The film makes sense in the context of 1968, though, as the mood was very much that of rebellion for the sake of it. I remember after the famous LSE sit-ins in, when was it? 1968? the students at Oxford Polytechnic, my college, staged one - why? because that was what one did. It was all impossibly incoherent, and in many ways Herzog's film captures the spirit of the times better than any other film I've seen.
Anyway, I can't say that I want to see it again, though you never know. It's extraordinary, unlike anything else I've ever seem before. As Herzog says, it's nothing to do with the entertainment industry - it may be ultimately an inaccessible and alienating film, but, as usual, Herzog's cinematography, and music/sound effects are peerless.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Cloverfield
Saw Cloverfield the other day. I might not have bothered to go by myself, but when one of my sons suggested a visit to the local multiplex - well, how could I resist?
Of course it's arrived at cinemas following an avalanche of publicity, the result of JJ Abrams' (of Lost fame) extremely astute marketing campaign, which began with brief, suggestive trailers and the laying of trails over the internet, which ensured that, by the time it was actually released, legions of film fans were breathless with excitement.
Did it live up to the hype? Well, it wasn't aimed at people like me, and I took only a marginal interest in it all, but I was lured into going to see it by some favourable reviews. I had initially suspected it might turn out to be a bit of a Blair Witch Project, i.e. completely underwhelming, but it sounded highly promising. I remember seeing Blair Witch in a packed cinema. A Spanish girl behind me needed every piece of dialogue (such as it was) translated for her. The audience chattered throughout, and ath the end, as everyone got up to go, someone stood up and shouted, 'Well that was a pile of ****!', and I had to agree. Well, Cloverfield was vastly better than that.
I was attracted by it's length, or lack of it - 87 minutes; I agree with Mark Kermode (Radio 5Live's film critic), that far too many films nowadays are excessively and unnecessarily long, and shorter films need to be actively welcomed.
It's a pretty mechanical experience, especially after my recent heavy dose of Herzog's films. It's none the worse for that, though, and far better than some of the bloated blockbusters we've been treated to in recent years. The film's premise is that the wobbly, hand-held footage has been recovered from New York, which has just been devastated by a rampaging monster attack.
The first 15 minutes sets the scene. We're at a party, in a New York apartment, populated by the most irritating set of characters seen in a movie in living memory, so we don't get to care about any of them, which is just as well. One of the partygoers is videoing everything, rather badly, and it's his point of view from which the action takes place. The party is suddenly interrupted by a crash, and something has ripped the head off the Statue of Liberty, which has landed in the street outside, and from now on, it's chaos, as everything collapses.
And that's it, basically. it's definitely a post 9/11 movie, and I can't imagine it would have been made in the same way without all that amateur video footage of the disaster. So it's a fascinating document of the film industry in 2008, and none the worse for that.
Of course it's arrived at cinemas following an avalanche of publicity, the result of JJ Abrams' (of Lost fame) extremely astute marketing campaign, which began with brief, suggestive trailers and the laying of trails over the internet, which ensured that, by the time it was actually released, legions of film fans were breathless with excitement.
Did it live up to the hype? Well, it wasn't aimed at people like me, and I took only a marginal interest in it all, but I was lured into going to see it by some favourable reviews. I had initially suspected it might turn out to be a bit of a Blair Witch Project, i.e. completely underwhelming, but it sounded highly promising. I remember seeing Blair Witch in a packed cinema. A Spanish girl behind me needed every piece of dialogue (such as it was) translated for her. The audience chattered throughout, and ath the end, as everyone got up to go, someone stood up and shouted, 'Well that was a pile of ****!', and I had to agree. Well, Cloverfield was vastly better than that.
I was attracted by it's length, or lack of it - 87 minutes; I agree with Mark Kermode (Radio 5Live's film critic), that far too many films nowadays are excessively and unnecessarily long, and shorter films need to be actively welcomed.
It's a pretty mechanical experience, especially after my recent heavy dose of Herzog's films. It's none the worse for that, though, and far better than some of the bloated blockbusters we've been treated to in recent years. The film's premise is that the wobbly, hand-held footage has been recovered from New York, which has just been devastated by a rampaging monster attack.
The first 15 minutes sets the scene. We're at a party, in a New York apartment, populated by the most irritating set of characters seen in a movie in living memory, so we don't get to care about any of them, which is just as well. One of the partygoers is videoing everything, rather badly, and it's his point of view from which the action takes place. The party is suddenly interrupted by a crash, and something has ripped the head off the Statue of Liberty, which has landed in the street outside, and from now on, it's chaos, as everything collapses.
And that's it, basically. it's definitely a post 9/11 movie, and I can't imagine it would have been made in the same way without all that amateur video footage of the disaster. So it's a fascinating document of the film industry in 2008, and none the worse for that.
Saturday, 16 February 2008
My Best Fiend
I finished off the Herzog/Kinski box set with My Best Fiend, about his relationship with Kinski. It's a fascinating subject; leaving you with as many questions as answers. Herzog describes himself as 'clinically sane', the opposite of Kinski, but it's clear that the two nourished each other, producing their finest work together.
I first saw Kinski in 1965 in Dr Zhivago, though of course I didn't realise it at the time! I was 14 when my mother took me to see it (she had a special fondness for big-screen epics, and we went to see them all in those days). I was old enough (14) to appreciate Kinski's presence - he played a prisoner being shipped off to some unspecified gulag, presumably in Siberia, in the cattle truck transporting Zhivago and his family east after the Revolution. He was an extraordinary presence, and he made a great impression on me.
Anyway, he reappeared in 5 Herzog films, and, looking at his CV on the IMDB, it's clear that, although worked continuosly from 1948 right up to his death in 1991, he really made very little of note outside his work with Herzog; only potboilers. In spite of their tempestuous relationship, they sparked something off in each other, though, as Herzog says, the relationship burnt itself out with Cobra Verde, and it's clear that, while Kinski may have needed Herzog, Herzog didn't need Kinski.
The final scenes are wonderful - Nosferatu lingers over the Isabelle Adjani's body, and morning breaks. The vampire goes to the window and he crumples in the sunlight. Herzog presents the scene as a metaphor for Kinski's life. The film ends on some home-movie footage of Kinski - a butterfly fluuters around him, resting, almost caressing his hand. There's a look of sheer delight on Kinski's face, and as Herzog comments, the butterfly 'doesn't want to leave him'. IThe film finishes on this enchanting scene, and Herzog leaves us with this wholly benign picture of an actor who was demonic, but capable of a rare beauty.
I first saw Kinski in 1965 in Dr Zhivago, though of course I didn't realise it at the time! I was 14 when my mother took me to see it (she had a special fondness for big-screen epics, and we went to see them all in those days). I was old enough (14) to appreciate Kinski's presence - he played a prisoner being shipped off to some unspecified gulag, presumably in Siberia, in the cattle truck transporting Zhivago and his family east after the Revolution. He was an extraordinary presence, and he made a great impression on me.
Anyway, he reappeared in 5 Herzog films, and, looking at his CV on the IMDB, it's clear that, although worked continuosly from 1948 right up to his death in 1991, he really made very little of note outside his work with Herzog; only potboilers. In spite of their tempestuous relationship, they sparked something off in each other, though, as Herzog says, the relationship burnt itself out with Cobra Verde, and it's clear that, while Kinski may have needed Herzog, Herzog didn't need Kinski.
The final scenes are wonderful - Nosferatu lingers over the Isabelle Adjani's body, and morning breaks. The vampire goes to the window and he crumples in the sunlight. Herzog presents the scene as a metaphor for Kinski's life. The film ends on some home-movie footage of Kinski - a butterfly fluuters around him, resting, almost caressing his hand. There's a look of sheer delight on Kinski's face, and as Herzog comments, the butterfly 'doesn't want to leave him'. IThe film finishes on this enchanting scene, and Herzog leaves us with this wholly benign picture of an actor who was demonic, but capable of a rare beauty.
Thursday, 14 February 2008
Cobra Verde
Cobra Verde, the last in the box set devoted to the 5 films made by Herzog starring Klaus Kinski, completed my Herzog marathon. I knew it was Kinski's last film, made in 1987, but that was about all, so I did my usual thing - watched it, then read about it in Herzog's book, then watched it again with Herzog's commentary.
It's a fascinating film, and Kinski is, as usual, extraordinary. However, it's clear that he was closer to the edge than usual, and Herzog is clear in his commentary that his presence was more unsettling and harder to deal with. He was, by now, 'completely bonkers', and 'out of control'. Herzog is still ambivalent about him, recognising his extraordinary presence, but saying, that this time, he brought something unpleasant to the film, 'something I don't like that much'. I know what he means, as he's a deeply weird presence, but it's hard to take your eyes off him, and he gives the film its remarkable, insane quality.
It's based on Bruce Chatwin's Viceroy of Ouidah, one of those books I've never got round to reading, but have always meant to. So it's off to the library to borrow a copy as soon as I can. Chatwin was a bit of a Herzogian character himself - nomadic; carrying all his possession in a 1930s leather rucksack. He managed to see the film not long before he died (of AIDS), and appropriately left Herzog his rucksack, something which has clearly left Herzog with a deep sense of pride
I love the opening sequences - Herzog found a traditional northern Brazilian street singer who sings an extraordinary narrative, accompanied by an ancient fiddle played balanced on his shoulder in a way that seems to come from the dawn of time. The camera then cuts to Kinski's face, in close-up. It's now ravaged by time, deeply-etched with lines. He's Cobra Verde, the notorious bandit, a semi-mythical, stylised figure from whom everyone flees when he appears in a town square. He's barefoot - 'I don't trust shoes' he says. This scene is reminscent of a spaghetti western, with long, slow takes, and Herzog takes his time to tell the story.
He goes into a bar tended by a hunchbaked boy with a remarkable face, lit by the broadest smile I've ever seen. He's another discovery of Herzog's - one of those street people whose qualities he recognises as being exceptionally cinematic. He shows no fear of the bandit, and the scene, lit like a Caravaggio painting, has a wonderful warmth - Kinski's face softens for the only time in the film; 'I never had a friend', he says.
He becomes the overseer of a sugar plantation, and Herzog somehow managed to find one in Colombia where the canes are harvested in the traditional fashion. These scenes are priceless, a window on an unknown, unfamiliar world.
He says in his commentary that all the money is on the screen, he doesn't spend it on huge advances, or expensive pre-publicity, but on finding the right locations and people. He doesn't shoot in widescreen either, which gives a highly specific flavour and atmosphere to his films. He doesn't offer any reasons, saying that there aren't any, it's just a preference, but it's another reason why his films look different from anythone else's.
The film moves on to West Africa; Cobra Verde is sent to buy some slaves, and of course, it's hoped and expected that he'll never return, as it's really a punishment for impregnating the plantation owner's 3 daughters.
The king of Dahomey is played by another Kinski discovery, an actual king, described by Herzog as a 'wonderful man', whose behaviour, and that of his retinue, is apparently entirely authentic. They are marvellous, thrilling scenes, wonderfully orchestrated and filmed, and this film is full of them. At the end, a long line of natives stand on the beach facing the sea, waving huge white flags, signalling a kind of semaphoric message. It looks like an ancient ritual, but Herzog states that the whole scene was entirely his own invention. The band of women singing and dancing at the end, shot in close-up is another masterly scene, but Kinski's final scene, when, now a broken man, he struggles despairingly to drag a boat off the beach out into the sea, collapsing into the surf and letting the sea wash over him, drowning him, is suffused with a lyrical, tragic poetry, especially as it was the Kinski's swansong in a Herzog film. He died a couple of years later, burnt out, 'like a comet', as Herzog says.
I could write much more about this film - it was a profound and moving experience watching it. Film does this to you; you can enjoy a cleverly-marketed phenomenon like Cloverfield, (of which more later), having just seen something like Cobra Verde, which will live with you for ever, and which you'll want to see many times.
It's a fascinating film, and Kinski is, as usual, extraordinary. However, it's clear that he was closer to the edge than usual, and Herzog is clear in his commentary that his presence was more unsettling and harder to deal with. He was, by now, 'completely bonkers', and 'out of control'. Herzog is still ambivalent about him, recognising his extraordinary presence, but saying, that this time, he brought something unpleasant to the film, 'something I don't like that much'. I know what he means, as he's a deeply weird presence, but it's hard to take your eyes off him, and he gives the film its remarkable, insane quality.
It's based on Bruce Chatwin's Viceroy of Ouidah, one of those books I've never got round to reading, but have always meant to. So it's off to the library to borrow a copy as soon as I can. Chatwin was a bit of a Herzogian character himself - nomadic; carrying all his possession in a 1930s leather rucksack. He managed to see the film not long before he died (of AIDS), and appropriately left Herzog his rucksack, something which has clearly left Herzog with a deep sense of pride
I love the opening sequences - Herzog found a traditional northern Brazilian street singer who sings an extraordinary narrative, accompanied by an ancient fiddle played balanced on his shoulder in a way that seems to come from the dawn of time. The camera then cuts to Kinski's face, in close-up. It's now ravaged by time, deeply-etched with lines. He's Cobra Verde, the notorious bandit, a semi-mythical, stylised figure from whom everyone flees when he appears in a town square. He's barefoot - 'I don't trust shoes' he says. This scene is reminscent of a spaghetti western, with long, slow takes, and Herzog takes his time to tell the story.
He goes into a bar tended by a hunchbaked boy with a remarkable face, lit by the broadest smile I've ever seen. He's another discovery of Herzog's - one of those street people whose qualities he recognises as being exceptionally cinematic. He shows no fear of the bandit, and the scene, lit like a Caravaggio painting, has a wonderful warmth - Kinski's face softens for the only time in the film; 'I never had a friend', he says.
He becomes the overseer of a sugar plantation, and Herzog somehow managed to find one in Colombia where the canes are harvested in the traditional fashion. These scenes are priceless, a window on an unknown, unfamiliar world.
He says in his commentary that all the money is on the screen, he doesn't spend it on huge advances, or expensive pre-publicity, but on finding the right locations and people. He doesn't shoot in widescreen either, which gives a highly specific flavour and atmosphere to his films. He doesn't offer any reasons, saying that there aren't any, it's just a preference, but it's another reason why his films look different from anythone else's.
The film moves on to West Africa; Cobra Verde is sent to buy some slaves, and of course, it's hoped and expected that he'll never return, as it's really a punishment for impregnating the plantation owner's 3 daughters.
The king of Dahomey is played by another Kinski discovery, an actual king, described by Herzog as a 'wonderful man', whose behaviour, and that of his retinue, is apparently entirely authentic. They are marvellous, thrilling scenes, wonderfully orchestrated and filmed, and this film is full of them. At the end, a long line of natives stand on the beach facing the sea, waving huge white flags, signalling a kind of semaphoric message. It looks like an ancient ritual, but Herzog states that the whole scene was entirely his own invention. The band of women singing and dancing at the end, shot in close-up is another masterly scene, but Kinski's final scene, when, now a broken man, he struggles despairingly to drag a boat off the beach out into the sea, collapsing into the surf and letting the sea wash over him, drowning him, is suffused with a lyrical, tragic poetry, especially as it was the Kinski's swansong in a Herzog film. He died a couple of years later, burnt out, 'like a comet', as Herzog says.
I could write much more about this film - it was a profound and moving experience watching it. Film does this to you; you can enjoy a cleverly-marketed phenomenon like Cloverfield, (of which more later), having just seen something like Cobra Verde, which will live with you for ever, and which you'll want to see many times.
Monday, 11 February 2008
Woyzeck
I'm on a bit of a Herzog roll at the moment, and watched Woyzeck twice. This was a very different experience from Fitzcarraldo; less accessible and decipherable. Some background reading between the 2 viewings was essential as I have to confess I was somewhat mystified the first time I saw it. It stars Klaus Kinski, and was made immediately after Nosferatu, with some of the same cast and crew.
I wasn't aware that Woyzeck is a famous German play, based on a true story. Herzog assumes some prior knowledge of the story, and spells nothing out for his audience; Vincent Canby's wonderfully perceptive review in the New York Times notes that 'every Herzog film is a record of the director's questions and speculations about his subject'. He goes on to say that 'though the narrative is as straightforward as a fairy tale', it has become 'even more mysterious by the time we reach the end than it is at the beginning'. In another remarkably acute observation, Kinski 'with his deeply lined face that is simultaneously youthful and ancient, looks like death given a reprieve'. He is possessed by demons, and Kinski's physicality makes this visible, as in the scene when, shaving his commanding pofficer, he has to be told to slow down.
The scene in which Woyzeck murders Marie, the local women who bore him a child, one suspects, out of boredom, is painful and hard to watch, not because of violence - there is none visible, but through Kinski's agonising enactment, and Herzog's slow-motion direction.
It's a visually beautiful film - Herzog manages to make the beautiful landscape seem both tranquil and threatening, and the long, long takes are almost static at times. It's hypnotic, and strange, but unmissable.
I wasn't aware that Woyzeck is a famous German play, based on a true story. Herzog assumes some prior knowledge of the story, and spells nothing out for his audience; Vincent Canby's wonderfully perceptive review in the New York Times notes that 'every Herzog film is a record of the director's questions and speculations about his subject'. He goes on to say that 'though the narrative is as straightforward as a fairy tale', it has become 'even more mysterious by the time we reach the end than it is at the beginning'. In another remarkably acute observation, Kinski 'with his deeply lined face that is simultaneously youthful and ancient, looks like death given a reprieve'. He is possessed by demons, and Kinski's physicality makes this visible, as in the scene when, shaving his commanding pofficer, he has to be told to slow down.
The scene in which Woyzeck murders Marie, the local women who bore him a child, one suspects, out of boredom, is painful and hard to watch, not because of violence - there is none visible, but through Kinski's agonising enactment, and Herzog's slow-motion direction.
It's a visually beautiful film - Herzog manages to make the beautiful landscape seem both tranquil and threatening, and the long, long takes are almost static at times. It's hypnotic, and strange, but unmissable.
Tuesday, 5 February 2008
Fitzcarraldo
I watched Fitzcarraldo the other day as part of my Herzog marathon, and today I saw it again with the director's commentary; always essential with Herzog.
I have a memory of seeing the film at the cinema when it was released, around 1982 I think it was; my memory of that time isn't that good, as I was up to my ears in babies and toddlers, but I'm pretty sure I did, and I don't think it's a false memory. I've definitely seen it on TV since then, (though not for some time) so it's a film I know well.
It is, of course, remarkable, and reading Herzog on Herzog and hearing his commentary is fascinating. It's funny, but he had major problems with Klaus Kinski throughout; Kinski's habit of throwing tantrums and exploding on the smallest pretext was becoming habitual, but somehow Herzog coaxed a performance of extraordinary power out of him. It's one that's imbued, as well, with an unusual sweetness. In the commentary Herzog comments on the fact that Kinski smiles in this film. As he says, he's been in around 200 films by this time, but had never smiled - here we see what an enchanting smile he possessed, and, although Fitzcarraldo has a megalomaniacal intensity, Kinski gives him a gentle, idealistic streak which is essential in giving the film credibility, as no-one who was the mad fascist Herzog has been sometimes portrayed as being, could have persuaded so many people to join him in his insane adventure.
Herzog describes Kinski's unpredictable exposions, but says that his 'incredible, mad, energy' made the film possible.
The film was a real labour of love - Herzog spent 3 years in pre-production, and after he'd begun shooting and completed 40%, he encountered a major casting problem before Kinski appeared on the scene, when Jason Robards, scheduled to play Fitzcarraldo, pulled out due to ill-health. The Mick Jagger, playing another major part, pulled out because of concert commitments. So a year's work was wasted and had to be junked.
Herzog's problems didn't end there - when shooting recommenced, in addition to Kinski's presence, severe drought, border wars breaking out between Peru and Ecuador, and snake bites were just a few of the problems Herzog had to contend with, leaving aside Kinski.
It's funny, Herzog says in his commentary that Les Blank's documentary Burden of Dreams, grossly exaggerated the situation, and portrays him as an outrageous daredevil, but it would be hard to disagree with Blank after seeing this film and hearing the commentary.
The film looks even better now, when so much is digitalised these days. Herzog has come out strongly against the reliance on special effects, and one of Fitzcarraldo's glories is the knowledge that the steamship really was hauled over the the slope and dragged down the other side. When watching a Herzog film you know that you can trust your own eyes.
Herzog talks about the ending, which he describes accurately as bitter-sweet. Fitzcarraldo returns, having completed his journey, but failing in his mission to bring opera to the jungle. There's something triumphant about it, though, and Herzog talks of his sense of pride. A red velvet chair is placed on board the ship for Fitzcarraldo on his return, and Herzog says he felt that this was celebrating 'my return; my triumph. He clearly feels a great sense of pride in the film, though it's making had longlasting effects. He was virtually criminalised in the press afterwards, and many false stories, he says, circulated about its making. This cast a long shadow over his career for may years, and it really is only relatively recently that he's regained mainstream credibility.
Anyway, it was good to see this again, and to be reminded what a fantastic film this is.
I have a memory of seeing the film at the cinema when it was released, around 1982 I think it was; my memory of that time isn't that good, as I was up to my ears in babies and toddlers, but I'm pretty sure I did, and I don't think it's a false memory. I've definitely seen it on TV since then, (though not for some time) so it's a film I know well.
It is, of course, remarkable, and reading Herzog on Herzog and hearing his commentary is fascinating. It's funny, but he had major problems with Klaus Kinski throughout; Kinski's habit of throwing tantrums and exploding on the smallest pretext was becoming habitual, but somehow Herzog coaxed a performance of extraordinary power out of him. It's one that's imbued, as well, with an unusual sweetness. In the commentary Herzog comments on the fact that Kinski smiles in this film. As he says, he's been in around 200 films by this time, but had never smiled - here we see what an enchanting smile he possessed, and, although Fitzcarraldo has a megalomaniacal intensity, Kinski gives him a gentle, idealistic streak which is essential in giving the film credibility, as no-one who was the mad fascist Herzog has been sometimes portrayed as being, could have persuaded so many people to join him in his insane adventure.
Herzog describes Kinski's unpredictable exposions, but says that his 'incredible, mad, energy' made the film possible.
The film was a real labour of love - Herzog spent 3 years in pre-production, and after he'd begun shooting and completed 40%, he encountered a major casting problem before Kinski appeared on the scene, when Jason Robards, scheduled to play Fitzcarraldo, pulled out due to ill-health. The Mick Jagger, playing another major part, pulled out because of concert commitments. So a year's work was wasted and had to be junked.
Herzog's problems didn't end there - when shooting recommenced, in addition to Kinski's presence, severe drought, border wars breaking out between Peru and Ecuador, and snake bites were just a few of the problems Herzog had to contend with, leaving aside Kinski.
It's funny, Herzog says in his commentary that Les Blank's documentary Burden of Dreams, grossly exaggerated the situation, and portrays him as an outrageous daredevil, but it would be hard to disagree with Blank after seeing this film and hearing the commentary.
The film looks even better now, when so much is digitalised these days. Herzog has come out strongly against the reliance on special effects, and one of Fitzcarraldo's glories is the knowledge that the steamship really was hauled over the the slope and dragged down the other side. When watching a Herzog film you know that you can trust your own eyes.
Herzog talks about the ending, which he describes accurately as bitter-sweet. Fitzcarraldo returns, having completed his journey, but failing in his mission to bring opera to the jungle. There's something triumphant about it, though, and Herzog talks of his sense of pride. A red velvet chair is placed on board the ship for Fitzcarraldo on his return, and Herzog says he felt that this was celebrating 'my return; my triumph. He clearly feels a great sense of pride in the film, though it's making had longlasting effects. He was virtually criminalised in the press afterwards, and many false stories, he says, circulated about its making. This cast a long shadow over his career for may years, and it really is only relatively recently that he's regained mainstream credibility.
Anyway, it was good to see this again, and to be reminded what a fantastic film this is.
Saturday, 2 February 2008
Spem in Allium
Radio 4 had a programme today on Thomas Tallis' Spem in Allium, one of the greatest pieces of music ever written. It was just some people talking about the work and how it affected them, and it was fascinating. Someone who had spent time working with serious offenders in Alabama told how, at times of extreme stress, he would spend his evenings at his computer with headphones on listening to it over and over again, as no other piece was able to give him such a sense of inner peace. Another speaker talked of how it 'invaded the soul', an entirely accurate description. The writer, Michael Morpurgo, talked about his friendship with Ted Hughes, and his grief at his death. Spem in Allium was played at the funeral, and he described how his feelings of intense sorrow melted away as it was sung. It's not just the music, but the words - Man's lowliness and humility in the face of eternity.
Tallis' work is extraordinary - along with Byrd he was the great musician of the Tudor period, composing amidst almost unimaginable upheavals, political and religious. I first became aware of it relatively recently, when I went with one of my sons to a performance by Brian Eno and Joanna McGregor, in Bath Abbey, as part of the Bath Festival, a few years ago, in which Spem in Allium featured. The piece consists of 40 voices, divided into eight 5-piece choirs and they were ranged all around the packed abbey, in the dark, and Eno had devised a light show to accompany it. The result was unforgettable - music for all time.
Tallis' work is extraordinary - along with Byrd he was the great musician of the Tudor period, composing amidst almost unimaginable upheavals, political and religious. I first became aware of it relatively recently, when I went with one of my sons to a performance by Brian Eno and Joanna McGregor, in Bath Abbey, as part of the Bath Festival, a few years ago, in which Spem in Allium featured. The piece consists of 40 voices, divided into eight 5-piece choirs and they were ranged all around the packed abbey, in the dark, and Eno had devised a light show to accompany it. The result was unforgettable - music for all time.
Friday, 1 February 2008
4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days
This is a remarkable film - it's Romanian; set in 1987, during the dying embers of the Ceausescu regime. Everyone lives sparse, threadbare lives; struggling to retrieve some kind of dignity from their desolate surroundings. It takes place over one afternoon and evening
It's centred around two students; one of them (Gabila) is pregnant (by exactly the length of time in the title) and they attempt to obtain an illegal abortion. The pregnant one catanically passive, pretty clueless,and somewhat manipulative; the other one, (Otilia) fortunately, is energetic, feisty and determined, and the film revolves around her. It's her job to find an illegal abortionist, escort him to a hotel room where Gabila is waiting, get the money together and dispose of the foetus; she is however, faced with a major obstacle; her promise to her boyfriend to attend his mother's birthday party, at which all the family will be present. She turns up, but is so preoccupied with her friend's predicament that she barely notices what's happening, and rushes out, to her boyfriend's bewilderment. The scene in which she hurtles through the dark, ill-lit, empty back streets is unforgettable. She's a wonderful character, and her presence makes a film which could have been grim, somehow uplifting and life-affirming.
Each scene is shot in long takes, often with dialogue delivered off-screen. This is strangely compelling and I found myself riveted throughout. I didn't lose concentration for a moment; it was impossible.
It's centred around two students; one of them (Gabila) is pregnant (by exactly the length of time in the title) and they attempt to obtain an illegal abortion. The pregnant one catanically passive, pretty clueless,and somewhat manipulative; the other one, (Otilia) fortunately, is energetic, feisty and determined, and the film revolves around her. It's her job to find an illegal abortionist, escort him to a hotel room where Gabila is waiting, get the money together and dispose of the foetus; she is however, faced with a major obstacle; her promise to her boyfriend to attend his mother's birthday party, at which all the family will be present. She turns up, but is so preoccupied with her friend's predicament that she barely notices what's happening, and rushes out, to her boyfriend's bewilderment. The scene in which she hurtles through the dark, ill-lit, empty back streets is unforgettable. She's a wonderful character, and her presence makes a film which could have been grim, somehow uplifting and life-affirming.
Each scene is shot in long takes, often with dialogue delivered off-screen. This is strangely compelling and I found myself riveted throughout. I didn't lose concentration for a moment; it was impossible.
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