C.W. Winter and Anders Edström, The Anchorage, 2009, stills from a color film in 35 mm, 87 minutes. (Photos: Anders Edström)
FIFTY-SOMETHING ULLA (Ulla Edström) lives in an isolated cottage on the Stockholm archipelago, her life punctuated by routine, including the walk she takes every morning through a leaf-rustling woods to the sea where her day begins with a brief, nude swim. She keeps a diary, and through it we learn that she’s a widow; she talks to friends on the phone and fills the house with the constant report of news radio, but otherwise her loneliness is interrupted only by visits from daughter Elin (Elin Hamrén) and her boyfriend Marcus (Marcus Harrling).
This is the extremely skeletal plot of The Anchorage, the debut feature of directors C. W. Winter (American) and Anders Edström (Swedish, son of Ulla). Like several other recent titles on the more adventurous side of the art-house roster (e.g., Lake Tahoe, Liverpool, Birdsong [all 2008]), The Anchorage patiently observes the unfolding of events as they slowly cohere into a subtly discernible narrative. The stakes aren’t immediately evident. There are long, nearly dialogue-free shots of the film’s few characters engaging in the most humdrum of activities: rowing on the water, playing ping-pong, gutting fish, shopping. Certain events—such as the departure of Elin and Marcus—seem significant, but not necessarily all that much more than anything else. While one or two compositions stand out for their foreboding beauty—the faint light glimpsed from a deeply darkened windowsill, for instance—the film maintains a consistently muted tone, even when Ulla’s calm existence is eerily disrupted by the presence of a deer hunter literally lurking at the edges of the frame.
Films in the style of The Anchorage can easily evaporate into thin air, their focus on the rhythms of quotidian life an excuse for a lack of daring and substance. The Anchorage doesn’t simply avoid this trap: Its mysteries are uncommonly profound and deeply felt; its depiction of a woman entrenched in solitude is not just contemplative but unbearably tense. And Winter and Edström don’t simply evoke transience and fragility, dread and fortitude; they capture these invisible states through delicate yet haunting images that render them startlingly visible.
The Anchorage runs at Anthology Film Archives in New York September 17–23. For more details, click here.
Lionel Rogosin, On the Bowery, 1957, stills from a black-and-white film in 35 mm, 114 minutes.
LIONEL ROGOSIN’S On the Bowery (1957) inhabits two netherworlds: Manhattan’s storied skid row and the nascent independent American cinema. Filmed mostly in the shadows of the old Third Avenue elevated train, Rogosin’s frank depiction of proletarian down-and-outers was deplored by establishment critics of its era as dispiriting and inept, even anti-American. To watch it now, as with walking today’s Bowery, is to see it in more flattering light—in the film’s case, as a daring trip into the wrong part of town that paved the way for John Cassavetes (who singled out On the Bowery as a major influence) and countless others.
The faces in On the Bowery are far from pretty: Bristled, drawn, swollen, and dented from hard luck and probably even harder drinking, they’re portraits from what a priest in the film calls “the saddest and maddest street in the world,” and they tell the real story. The tale that Rogosin scripted with Mark Sufrin (about a railroad worker from Kentucky who drifts through and an old-timer who latches on to him) gives the film a thin plot. You can feel some of its raw poetry leeching away during the staged scenes.
Still, the spontaneous and scripted elements are remarkably integrated overall. Rogosin (who died in 2000) largely learned how to direct during shooting, and although he claimed he was “motivated by life and not by films,” On the Bowery belongs to the rough but beautiful traditions of Italian Neorealism and Robert Flaherty’s celebrated 1934 depiction of weather-beaten Irish, Man of Aran.
The footage of snarling drunks that Rogosin and his cinematographer, Richard Bagley, captured inside a raucous Bowery bar is a minor miracle, and not a pleasant one. A scene of Hogarthian urban dissolution, its sourness almost sticks to your clothes. Contrast that bedlam with the quieter mornings on the Bowery, when sacklike bodies drag themselves up off the sidewalk and slouch away, and you begin to get an idea of the sad rhythms of the gutter, a place that Rogosin had the temerity to believe 1950s America needed to see and hear.
A new 35-mm restoration of On the Bowery plays September 17–23 at Film Forum in New York. For more details, click here.
LESBIAN BLOODSUCKERS have long populated vampire movies, appearing as early as 1936 in the Hollywood studio film Dracula’s Daughter and resurfacing several decades later in the pleasingly tawdry Euro productions The Vampire Lovers (1970), Daughters of Darkness (1971), and Vampyros Lesbos (1971). But Tony Scott’s The Hunger (1983) gave the genre its most enduring sapphic icon: Catherine Deneuve’s Miriam Blaylock.
The Hunger was the first feature helmed by Scott, who had directed commercials for two decades. Oozing with stylish pansexual chic, the film pairs Deneuve’s vampiress, thousands of years old but forever young, with infamously gender-tweaking, AC/DC David Bowie, playing her bloodsucking but rapidly aging husband, John. After snacking on some new-wave cuties they picked up in a Bauhaus-headlining dance club, Miriam and John return to their Upper East Side marble palazzo, where sheer curtains blow, doves cry, corpses pile up—and straight women fall into Miriam’s mirrored bed.
Miriam’s latest conquest is progeria expert Sarah Roberts (Susan Sarandon), initially sought out by John, who’s desperate to stop withering away. Paying a house call, Sarah is greeted at the door by Mrs. Blaylock; the scientist is so dazed by the undead’s beauty that she’s almost run over by an eighteen-wheeler. When Sarah returns, Miriam, with perfectly marcelled hair pulled back in a chignon, follows the etiquette of the aristocratic, lavender-leaning, bloodthirsty seductress: She offers her guest sherry and plays her extracts from Lakmé on her piano. Though the love scene that follows looks like the slo-mo, heavily art-directed soft-core that was a staple on Cinemax for years, Deneuve’s high-femme hauteur and Sarandon’s soft-butch bi-curiosity slowly ignite into sweaty lust on-screen.
“She’s just that kind of woman. She’s . . . European,” Sarah, still feverish with dyke desire, will later describe Miriam in not-so-coded language to her suspicious boyfriend. Part of Miriam’s allure, of course, is that she is played by the world’s most famous Frenchwoman—a position Deneuve still holds almost thirty years later. (The actress was thirty-nine when Scott’s film was released.) The Hunger wasn’t Deneuve’s first foray into same-sexing—there are hints of lesbian frisson in Buñuel’s Belle de Jour (1967)—or her last (see André Téchiné’s 1996 Thieves and François Ozon’s 8 Women from 2002). But flawless, intoxicating lady-killer Miriam Blaylock remains Deneuve’s signature lez role—and a reminder of the debauched fun vampires used to have before the virginal teens of Twilight took over.
The Hunger plays at BAMcinématek in Brooklyn September 15 as part of the series “Bela Lugosi’s Dead, Vampires Live Forever.” For more details, click here.
Michèle Hozer and Peter Raymont, Genius Within: The Inner Life of Glenn Gould, 2009, black-and-white and color film, 109 minutes. Left: Cornelia Foss and Glenn Gould on the cruise ship the R.M.S. Segwun, Lake Muskoka, Ontario, June 1968. Personal photo of Christopher Foss. Right: Glenn Gould in Nassau, Bahamas, 1956. Photo: Jock Carroll.
ASIDE FROM THE ABSURD TITLE and what has become a conventional—but in my book, cavalier—use of re-creations, Michèle Hozer and Peter Raymont’s documentary about Glenn Gould is both an excellent primer and a reminder of just how revelatory it was to hear, for the first time, Gould’s Bach recordings. By foregrounding the structure of the music, he made the Baroque sound utterly modern. (I’d say the same for his readings of Beethoven, although others might disagree.)
As more than a few of the authoritative talking heads attest in Genius Within: The Inner Life of Glenn Gould—it really is a laughable title—the Canadian pianist was one of the twentieth century’s greatest keyboard artists. He gave his first solo recital in Toronto in 1947 at age fourteen and made his New York debut eight years later. His instant stardom was attributable to his dazzling piano technique and a musical intelligence that allowed him to radically rethink and hear afresh the warhorses of the classical repertory. It didn’t hurt that he was wildly handsome and, like many shy people, clownishly funny, and that his method of fingering the keys—he used a custom-made piano chair that was only fourteen inches high and allowed him to attack the piano from below—was as weird as it was effective. He also sang quite loudly when he played, as if his voice could coax from the piano exactly the sound he heard in his head.
The day after his first New York appearance, he signed an exclusive recording contract with Columbia. The movie includes an amusing and touching sequence of Gould in the Columbia studio telling a skeptical producer that he’s going to begin with the Goldberg Variations. The recording became a classical best seller. In 1981, a year before his death at age fifty, Gould made a second, very different recording of the same work. The two bookend his career and in retrospect become a meditation on mortality.
Hozer and Raymont’s movie is a fast-moving clip job, but it is no less fascinating for it. There are about a half dozen documentaries about Gould, as well as an archive of radio and television programs that Gould himself produced after 1964, when he stopped performing live, explaining that he hated playing on strange pianos in strange halls and having to deal with various conductors, some of whom could not comprehend what he was doing. At the opening of the film Gould describes himself as existing entirely within media, and in the second half of his career, he took control of the analog recording studio in a way that prefigures the digital age. An illuminating sequence has Gould and his audio engineer at work, Gould hovering over the mixing board offering suggestions and then taking control of the dials himself.
The filmmakers claim that they have substantial new material from Russian archives of Gould’s 1957 Soviet Union concert tour, which put him on the international map and, according to another piano giant, Vladimir Ashkenazy, was an amazing experience both for him and for the more than capacity audiences. Still, aside from the Ashkenazy interview, a few photos, and some very brief moving-image sequences, there’s not enough material here to justify a new movie about Gould.
The real journalistic coup is an interview with Cornelia Foss, who only recently publicly acknowledged her long love affair with Gould. She and her husband, the composer/conductor/pianist Lukas Foss, became friends with Gould in 1962. Soon after, her involvement with Gould turned romantic. In 1968, she left her husband and, with their two children, moved to Toronto. She and Gould planned to marry, but after five years, she left him to return to Lukas. Her lucid account of this period and the affectionate memories that the children, who are now middle-aged, have of their substitute father refute previous portraits of the undeniably eccentric pianist as an ascetic recluse or, conversely, shagging groupies like a rock star. What is extremely sad is Cornelia’s description of Gould’s descent into paranoia during the years they spent together, his psychological instability likely exacerbated by his use of prescription drugs including antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds. The film achieves its stated aim of “humanizing” a great artist and a great star while eschewing pop psychology.
Still, I have one serious caveat. Having considerably more audio than visual material, the filmmakers resort to the common but questionable technique of re-created imagery. In shot after shot, a Gould stand-in is shown at a distance and with his face turned from the camera, walking alone through the city, the countryside, and, ridiculously, through the lobby of a New York hotel after the first unsuccessful attempt to revive the relationship with Foss, and along a beach in the Hamptons after a second attempt ends in failure. Much more heartrending is a close-up of the log Gould kept of his compulsive attempts to reach his ex-lover by phone.
Gould, who dressed regardless of the weather in a cap and a long overcoat, his neck swathed in a woolen muffler, his hands protected by thick mittens, is an easy figure to simulate. But to what end? If the filmmakers want to suggest his loneliness, the impression is negated by the presence of the camera and the unseen crew behind it. How could these shots have possibly come into being? Wouldn’t the media-savvy Gould have been aware of being tailed by paparazzi? Wouldn’t he have objected? The re-creations make no sense emotionally or psychologically, and what’s more, Gould almost certainly would have hated them.
AMONG THE MANY virtues of Get Out of the Car, Thom Andersen’s latest essay-film–cum-travelogue, is the often funny commentary provided by folks curious about the reasons why the filmmaker and CalArts professor is so interested in the ephemera that catch his eye. At one point, a gentleman understandably asks why Andersen is filming an empty billboard structure. By way of reply, Andersen wonders aloud whether he might be making “a movie about absence.” Says the passerby in his best deadpan: “When you make a movie about something, call me.”
Viewers who flock to the Toronto International Film Festival for the latest Oscar bait would no doubt have a similar reaction to other components of Wavelengths, the festival’s tenth annual sidebar of avant-garde film and video. Indeed, the works showcased here frequently appear to lack a familiar “something”—narrative, for one, though there are certainly stories aplenty. And for those patrons eager to discover what’s really transpiring on-screen—the studies of spaces real and invented, the questions of time and perception, the mystery and materiality of the cinematic medium and its digital descendants—Wavelengths’s selections prove to be more stimulating than the more easily recognizable fare on offer elsewhere.
A lively “city symphony” of sights and signage that is a worthy companion piece to Andersen’s Los Angeles Plays Itself (2005), Get Out of the Car is one of several major new works to receive world or North American premieres at Wavelengths. Andersen’s 16-mm film is also presented as part of Wavelengths’s first-night program of urban-oriented short pieces ranging from Callum Cooper’s Victoria, George, Edward & Thatcher (a frantically paced, iPhone-shot survey of near-identical London row houses) and Landscape, semi-surround (the latest in a series of dauntingly intricate frame-by-frame animated pieces by Japanese artist Eriko Sonoda) to Everywhere Was the Same, in which Beirut-based artist Basma Al-Sharif conveys the horror of an air strike on Gaza via an enigmatic mix of narration and slide show.
There are three more tightly curated programs, as well as evenings devoted to new work by two longtime residents of cinema’s outer limits: James Benning and Nathaniel Dorsky. Benning’s Ruhr, filmed on high-definition video in the titular German industrial region, somehow seems a Bela Tarr–like epic of durational cinema, even though it lasts only two hours. The first hour comprises several lengthy, fixed-camera shots that reveal such locations as the interiors of a steelworks and a mosque. (In another sequence, a worker removes graffiti from what turns out to be a sculpture by Richard Serra.) The second hour invites diligent viewers to study every wisp of smoke that emerges from a stack at a Coke factory. Thus do memories of Andy Warhol’s Empire mingle with reveries about empires in decay.
Less arduous is the program of three new films by the transcendentally minded Dorsky, which mark his final efforts to make something on Kodachrome stock, his long-preferred (and recently discontinued) medium. Fellow alchemist Peter Tscherkassky also debuts Coming Attractions, a typically cunning twenty-five-minute piece that interweaves references to the early cinema trickery of Méliès and Léger, glimpses of later masterpieces (Taxi Driver, Pasolini’s Decameron), and the repeated gestures and expressions of unknown actors in the outtake reels of long-forgotten commercials. Just as kinetic are new offerings by Italian master Paolo Gioli—whose Photo Finish Figures (Il finish delle figure) is a rapturous procession of faces, eyes, and assorted shapes—and the one and only Ken Jacobs—who dazzles with two doses of strobophobic excess, including a dance-happy tribute to his friend Jonas Mekas. Like many of the veteran filmmakers represented at Wavelengths, these deans of experimental cinema are eager to show off the spring in their steps.
Wavelengths runs September 10–13 at the Art Gallery of Ontario’s Jackman Hall at the Toronto International Film Festival.
SIMULTANEOUSLY CELEBRATED and overshadowed, My Uncle (1958) represents the peak of pantomime genius Jacques Tati’s career and yet earns a place in his sparse filmography as a transitional film. Located in between the earthy yet moribund “traditional France” satirized in Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday (1953) and the insulated postmodern fun house of 1967 debacle/masterpiece Playtime, the setting of My Uncle depicts the former world giving way to the latter, with outdoor markets and quaint three-story walk-ups slowly being replaced by automated houses and efficient industrial plants. The contrast is especially marked in the shorter, reedited version of the 1958 original, featuring alternate takes and English dubbing that further accentuate Tati’s signature theme of globalized uniformity.
Lanky, befuddled, and moving with a staggeringly stiff gait that can best be described as hastily hesitant, Tati’s Monsieur Hulot is, of course, the bumbling refugee from a simpler era who must navigate the film’s different worlds. But whereas Buster Keaton’s The Electric House (1922) or Charlie Chaplin’s Modern Times (1936) commented on the disorienting modern industrial era by employing jolting, even violent slapstick, Tati’s stategy is relatively subdued in its amusement. Like much of the Tati universe, My Uncle centers around the sight gag more than the physical gag, and the film’s real protagonist turns out to be the antiseptic, button-operated home of Hulot’s bourgeois, socialite sister Madame Arpel (Adrienne Servantie), with its inconvenient, surrealistically streamlined aesthetic—a garden that must be tiptoed through via haphazard paths, a fish-shaped fountain spewing too-blue water, a kitchen that looks and functions like a dentist’s office.
Comfortably situated in his dilapidated yet close-knit working-class environs, raincoat-attired, pipe-smoking Hulot causes chaos when placed in front of anything slightly modern, though just as often the supporting players find themselves flummoxed by the gadgets with which they’ve surrounded themselves. Disasters and visual puns patiently unfold in perfectly choreographed long shots that subordinate human beings to architecture, give precedence to aural rhythms (sci-fi hums, squeaks, and swooshes) over platitudinous dialogue, and allow the simultaneous occurrence of multiple planes of action (and bold, Pop art color, a first for Tati). As with Holiday and Playtime, the film reaches a high point in a posh party that disintegrates into anarchy as one accoutrement after another is destroyed or else wittily reconfigured for alternate use. Laugh-out-loud moments are rare but well earned; “aha” moments in which one recognizes the follies of technological absurdity are constant.
Though My Uncle’s pokes at the encroaching ersatz values and mindless consumerism of postwar France can be occasionally blunt (a drab, suburbanite couple offers another couple some plastic flowers as a gift), and though it views a vanishing era through a somewhat nostalgic lens (Hulot’s nephew breaks free from his mother and father’s materialistic existence to join a band of creatively mischievous kids who seem to have come from another time), Tati’s humor isn’t merely in the service of a reactionary Luddism. “You just have to get used to these things,” exclaims Arpel to her hopelessly old-fashioned maid in one of the film’s few important lines of dialogue. A decade later, Playtime would realize in the most radical, innovative terms Tati’s vision of a society completely overwhelmed by machines designed to make life easier, but in My Uncle he was already demonstrating that “getting used to” social estrangement—not to mention its accompanying bafflement—may be nearly impossible, even if the things that cause it are the stuff of comic malleability.