Love Is The Devil (1998)

love-is-the-devil-study-for-a-portrait-of-francis-bacon-34217

First time with John Maybury. A study for a portrait as much of George Dyer as it is of Francis Bacon – which is great, because Dyer’s is a fascinating story. The film this put me most in mind of was Fox and His Friends: the complex antagonism of the bonds that bind the couple, against the gaps which divide them, stretches their mental states in painful directions until one of them really snaps. Keeping GD relatively centre-stage is appealing because it bolsters the comment that FB really didn’t acquit himself well personally in this period: their sadomasochistic dynamic is cruelly inverted away from the bedroom, with FB and his cabal of cackling grotesques bullying GD into dependency and internal destitution. FB describes the liberating ecstasy of entirely abdicating one’s will in the service of another man, but the tragedy of the bigger picture is that people can’t stay irreducibly small forever.

The film’s other strength is its refraction of GD’s mental decline through improvised Baconian imagery (the artist’s estate wouldn’t permit JM the use of any of his actual work). It suggests that Bacon was a feeder, witnessing his visions vicariously. GD’s haunting premonitions of abstracted destruction – a man hunched and bloodied all over with a handkerchief hat, slipping off a beam into darkness – evokes William Blake’s sketch of soul of a flea. Other ice-bath moments of second sight include a narcotically shot nightmare (awakening No!) and a shrinking into darkness which reminded me of Glazer’s effects in Under The Skin. I could have handled more of the feverish effects, either as A Field In England-style psychedelics or Jarman’s absurd vignettes.

Jacobi is uncanny, visually, as Bacon, and revels in a revolting Capote-esque haughtiness hammed up with affectations towards tragedy. Next to Craig’s gurning fits of convulsions his painterly reveries come off a bit Simon from Spaced at times. The highlight is a patiently shot morning routine, with toothpaste giving way to polish for hair and extensive make up, figuring Bacon’s self-fashioning as congruent with his art. His shakespearian interior monologues form intriguingly illustrative if sometimes opaque interludes.

Like Jarman it’s very visual, and the script is at times a little stiff. Not sure I was entirely happy with the accents on show either.

Great score from Ryuichi Sakamoto.

7

Advertisements

Lolita (1962)

085745ea48c141c3212ca89337d06490.jpg

Adapting this book from such a distinctively wordy author, a book with such a quotable opening, Kubrick holds off on the narration rather ostentatiously. The first half breezes through snippets and vignettes in a way which emphasises suggestion and unspoken thoughts. The Haze household – which surely ranks as the most bewitching set here, above the briefly glittering Kane-esque clutter of Clare Quilty’s mansion – has a distinct upstairs/downstairs dynamic which evokes the Overlook: Charlotte seems largely confined to the lower half, unable to rein in the secrets and impulses which simmer behind the locked doors and drawers in the bedrooms.

Launching the film in this environment, again, points to questions of repression and secrecy. The line which kept tugging at me throughout Lolita was race. Charlotte’s opening spiel – a pitch for Humbert’s tenancy – flaunts the “Dutch and English stock” of the New Hampshire neighbourhood. She is nevertheless reliant on Louise, the peripheral figure of the black maid who leans across one shot in service and isn’t seen again. She is one of a cast of bit-part African American characters, all of which act as help, each more damaging to Humbert’s cause than the last. The comic porter at the hotel is the most obvious, refusing to keep his voice down during the slapstick routine of erecting the makeshift campbed at Lolita’s feet in which H will inevitably have to sleep. Later, at the hospital, a black nurse physically restrains H as he writhes at the discovery of his stepdaughter’s kidnapping. Their position as manual workers emphasises the way their labour, their presence, underpins and reinforces the elaborate social structures above them. They’re the clockwork behind the frontispiece, to be heard but not seen. Guilty consciences.

Charlotte – symbolic of the religiously tormented, mortally devoted, repressed and industrious middle class – takes the weight of the film’s racial critique of America: her daughter’s ironic sieg heil sticks out in this context. Opposite her is the film’s European influence, embodied most extravagantly in Peter Sellers’ psychologist persona – basically a dry run for his Nazi Strangelove with his clipped but leering anatomical obsessions (“she has got ze curvatures…”). 20th Century European racialism, a fixation for the jewish Kubrick until Schindler’s List put paid to his frustrated plans for a holocaust picture, is sublimated into a clownish act, a mask which any fool should see through (H’s earnest and concessionary responses are integral to the comedy of the scene). Charlotte’s racism, on the other hand, is never less than coldly and understatedly sinister. It’s a striking binary which I think (having not read L) plays into the theme of H’s character: that real villainy is not the kind which comes with a warning label; it’s complicated and insidious and there’s a bit of it inside everyone (Quilty obsessively and ironically labelling H as “normal”).

Elsewhere: that domestic setting really is awesome; love the vertical panning every time someone uses the stairs. C trapped in a memory palace like an unsympathetic Juliet of the Spirits. Sellers is awesome, while Sue Lyon’s performance grows and twists with the changes of scenery and season. Made a load of notes but I can’t remember what any of the rest of them mean.

Second-tier? I assumed so but I’m not sure now.

8

La Verité (1960)

la-verite-poster_332034_23612

Watched this one a little while back. First time with Henri-Georges Clouzot I believe. Got a bit of Roeg’s Bad Timing about it, especially with the sense that its a culture or a social bracket on trial here rather than an individual. HGC is super even-handed, though: the absolute highlight for me was Gilbert’s first, ecstatic go conducting the orchestra, feeding off Dominique’s unseen presence. Watching the bank of fiddles cut up and down in unison as the horns blare is unapologetically thrilling and a great way to divide our sympathies midway through. Bardot is pretty amazing in the smooth way she goes from defensively withholding emotion to screaming it out and back (she herself attempted suicide by the same method as her character in the year of LV‘s release). Despite a regenerative freshness attained by varying the length of the flashback cuts – inviting us to scrutinise the courtroom presentation of the past despite its apparently faithful presentation – the film tends to lose its flavour through over two-hours of often-unfortunate self-similarity, which itself can dampen each of the vignettes. Ending therefore came as a real shock: devastating last words and a seriously cruel coda with the advocates so apathetic after such impassioned performances.

7

Under The Volcano (1984)

9kriwcz4nmgtbdhqyqm3sd9jvew

The start is totally mesmerising: AF staggering through the Day Of The Dead reverences at a local graveyard (whose eerie adornments reminded me of Pictures of the Old World), totally incongruous but shot patiently and poignantly by JH (his drunkenness is revealed through focus on his shoes). Firmin reaches compassionately for a whimpering dog beneath him, evoking the last line of the novel (which is a) one of the most terrifying I can remember reading and b) not mirrored in the ending here). F’s condemnation is already sealed.

Continuing through a bar showing a Peter Lorre movie. “Some things you can’t apologise for.” F’s futility is entirely a 20th-century one: alongside Hugh he is trapped by the rage in Spain and between the horrors of his military past and their unsettling echoes in the future. “People just don’t go around putting other people into furnaces” he protests, before amping the anecdote up with each telling until he has become the culprit. At the fiesta he chides Hugh for suggesting that there are new wars, rather than repetitions of the same one. Credit to the film for capably emulating ML’s refraction of this hellish continual condemnation through a preposterous, Greeneian postcolonial setup.

The preposterousness of this setup – as it is manifested in the interactions between Yvonne and Hugh and the Mexican locals – scans as pastiche initially, with a sort of Casablanca-esque lateness to every romantic reinvolvement (as well as frequent illustrations of unachievable pastoral dreams in the manner of Steinbeck). At times the secondary acting appears less knowingly hammy, clashing in particular with the patently ridiculous Oxbridge encounter.

Just as F is sucked down from the pageantry into his pit of alcoholism, so too did I find myself nearly getting the shakes whenever Finney wasn’t onscreen. Straight blustery and Burton the whole way, fearlessly outer-body in a way somehow comparable to Emannuelle Riva’s deterioration in Amour. He seems to float around in his world like a tethered balloon:

There’s nothing really holding you here any more.

Magic.

Interesting that JH’s adaptation bypasses the quite-densely flowing stream-of-consciousness lens of ML while still sticking overtly to his plot. The story works best in all cases when its projected on the inside of F’s forehead. There’s an amazing bit where, before leaving with Y for the first time, he asks how anyone, if they do not drink as he does, can appreciate the sight of an old Indian woman playing dominoes with a chicken. His eskimo rant is a wild ride, too, and he blends faultlessly into the lynchian bordello, the setpiece all dutch angles and grotesque malice.

A distinctive if slightly unsatisfying take, folded around a bonkers but titanic central performance.

7

My Struggle: Book 4 (2015)

71yc3kgj1tl

1,986 pages / 6.5 shelf-inches into the series now. Opened 4 the day before catching a train to Ox to start a first full-time job in a new town by myself; found Karl Ove Knausgaard catching a train to the north to start a first full-time job in a new town by himself. 4 lauded in the praise section as his most well-arced, which is true despite the same typically engrossing internal eddies and fizzling of vignettes and echoing events. However this sense of structure is surely derived also from the embedded reminiscence back to KOK’s final year at school, which occupies 4‘s middle third at least. Reading this on holiday in Mont was less circumstantially satisfying but still I found myself reading my own moments and memories in his level but mystified way.

If the defining image of 3 was “the interplay of two worlds, often one of light versus one of shadow” then here the two worlds are of inside and outside, and the fear comes not from experience but exposure and openness. The town of Håfjord is introduced immediately as having a silence which “was not oppressive … but open” (15), an atmosphere which seeps into its affably engaging but also disarmingly candid inhabitants. In an autobiographical series which epitomises “openness” (and in the volume which certainly most embodies its much-laud quality of lacerating self-exposure), KOK struggles to reconcile his sociable extroversions, guarded fledging literary efforts, and (painfully) personal experiences of humiliation with this cultural transparency.

Of particular importance in 4 are drunkenness and girls, KOK’s twin preoccupations in this period. Anticipating later graduation excesses and even-later indulgences in H, he recounts early experiments with hard drinking, “I had disappeared, I was empty, I was in the void of my soul … it felt as if I had been let loose in the town, I could have done anything…” (118). This exposure enacts a trip to the “ghost world” (120) in an explicit echo of the penumbral duality of 3. His carelessness is replaced by shame and terror in H:

The worst was probably the notion that others saw me, that I put on a show for them, and that the side of me I displayed then was reflected in the way they looked at me every day. (370)

Alcohol is a violent negotiation between individual freedom/confidence and sexual b/pathos. Women mock him by being “accessible to the eye but in no other way.” (123) He’s constantly tasting ashes in his dreams and imagination, especially as his desperation increases, leading towards the (13-y/o?) pupil Andrea who seems to haunt the school which he prowls out-of-hours:

I hardly knew I had these thoughts, they lived in a kind of no-man’s-land … Everything that came from the outside was dangerous. (438)

The nexus of joyful self-expression and sexualised frustration is KOK’s first literary efforts, which are exposed both to us and to critical friends and family. Apotheosis 463-4 when housemates prank him by adding a graphically parodic passage to a WIP:

It wasn’t just a text he had tampered wth, that wouldn’t have offended me in the slightest, it was something else, much more than that, there was a soul in it, my soul. And when he tampered with that, I could feel it. It  looked different from the outside than  from the inside, and it was perhaps that which lay at the heart of my despair. What I wrote was worthless. So that meant I was worthless too.

Especially poignant given metatextual references to other published works, and memories from 3 (29) (see also 364-5 for memory of tv surgery, Mannian human excavation). Criticism and writing-the-self; another more-direct angle on the Struggle.

Stress on detail again here, flattened coexistence of abstraction and particularity definitely anticipating ‘seasons’ series. Just as young KOK in 3 learned lessons of empathy here he is taught the significance of the differing weights assigned by people to events and elements of life; see particularly appeal of dad of fat kid 460.

What is different is that this is less empirical than 3, more introspective and passionate. Experience is more obviously already memory in a way that confirms praise of experience of being this age. Memories made of this:

Half an hour later we were walking up the hill from the flat. I was drunk in that pure joyful way you can be from white wine, when your thoughts collide with one another like bubbles and what emerges when they burst is pleasure.

We had been at my place, I thought, and this filled me with pleasure.

We were colleagues and on our way to becoming friends, I reflected.

And I had written a damn good short story.

Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure.

And then there was this light, dim down among humans and things human, attended by a kind of finely honed darkness which became diffused in the light though did not possess or control it, only muted or softened it, high up in the sky it was gleamingly clear and clean.

Pleasure.

And there was this silence. The murmur of the sea, our foot-steps on the gravel, the occasional noise coming from somewhere, a door being opened or a shout, all embraced by the silence, which seemed to rise from the ground, rise from objects and surround us in a way which I didn’t formulate as primordial, though I sensed it was, for I thought of the silence in Sørbøvåg on summer mornings when I was a child there, the silence above the fjord beneath the immense Lihesten Mountain, half hidden by the mist. The silence of the world. It was here, too, as I walked uphill, drunk with my new friends, and although neither it nor the light we walked in was the main event of the evening it played its part.

Pleasure.

Eighteen years old and on my way to a party. (105-6)

Happy to read that line as a self-evaluation not just in the past but also, satisfied, from the present – think he’s caught an adolescent evolution of attention here. This bit goes on to -112 as an evocation of lonely sociability at a party, blending-in but not quite, slipping over the fault-lines of acceptance and isolation. Not surprised that this is the volume of MS in which KOK discovers hash (327).

More stuff on anticipation of self-writing through experience of memory:

One evening we went to the primary school I had once attended, not so far from the their house. I had been twelve when I left, now I was seventeen. The five years felt like an eternity there was almost nothing then connected me with the person I had been, and I remembered next to nothing of what I had done then.

But when I saw the school before us, hovering in the its and darkness, my memories exploded inside me. I let go of Cecilie’s hand, approached the building, and pressed my hand against the black timbers. The school really existed, it wasn’t merely a place in my imagination. My eyes were moist with emotion, it was as though the whole bounteous world that had been my childhood had returned for an instant. (282)

Chimes with discussion elsewhere about need to let personal memories take shape through (ie. pushing through) literary recollection.

What’s left to say is that KOK is a total dickhead in 4. After the estival departure from the end of 3 he has pupated into an ugly creature of teenagerhood; he thoroughly exorcises memories of exploitation, sexual humiliation, pettiness, egregious adolescent self-importance. In a way the grotesque ending is fascinating: its a culmination of My Struggle as perceived by a 19-y/o KOK, and therefore also a cathartically self-accusatory completion of the section of the grander task of MS that 4 represents: revisiting the unrevisitable (he repeatedly assures us from both the past and the present that he will never physically return to H).

On reflection 4 is a fascinating companion to 3 in terms of its stylistic shift as well as the chronologically continuous but qualitatively disjunctive development of KOK’s character; this despite being singular in the series for its grotesqueness and unflinching commitment to necessary structural redundancy and repetition.

8

David Lynch: The Art Life (2016)

image_evento_final_25510_2017-04-19_17_52_30

Documentary by Jon Nguyen piecing 20 intimate conversations with the director together into a portrait of his early years and experiments with painting up until the production of Eraserhead.

First time I’ve seen him talk at length about anything and he’s a fascinating storyteller. Amazing ability to inspire laughter and creep you out, which I think both come from imagination and timing. He feels every line – and it does sound like lines, as his memories return to him in fragments and he circles around images, people or places in a very poetic way (first best example is his description of his wonderfully permissive and encouraging mother, although the opening illustration of playing in mud as a small boy is hilarious as well as nicely tying in the theme of painting).

Watching him paint today in his open-plan studio, manipulating gooey and rough material or drilling holes and bending wires – tactility evoked in the recollections too. Each recollection is a warped and crafted piece like the interstitial and illustrative artworks which are distributed liberally here. His predominant painterly style is somewhere between Bacon and Stanley Donwood, faces framed or scrubbed out with charcoal darkness, screaming with arms leering, sinking towards scrawled trees or strangers. In their raw, expressionistic simplicity they reach back towards childhood and adolescence as he gives us verbal vignettes which are always very engrossing – an unrecountable childhood horror, his first artistic inspirations, his father striding off to work in a ten-gallon hat, his father’s hilarious reaction to his experiments with “dead birds” and “different stages of fruit” (“David, don’t have kids.”)

Reaching back into this underexplored period in his development dredges up the germs of images from his later work: a formative encounter with a bloodied and naked woman on a lawn which clearly informed BV; experience of dead bodies and imagining their stories in the same way that we imagine Laura Palmer’s when she’s wrapped in plastic; Bob Dylan hateful and miniscule like any number of shrunken grotesques in his films. Despite this connectivity – and the way we watch the Super 8 footage of suburban lawns and fences through his later representations – JN’s film develops a distinctive style and atmosphere (though partly by taking off from DL’s quite different painting work). Excellent score echoes bluesy heat of Lost Highway and Badalamenti’s ambient threat but also blends the industrial nightmare of Lynch’s Philadelphia with noisey clatter which evokes Mika Vainio.

8

Alphaville (1965)

42ce7bf80d6ea0c5aa9fc1b76a935892-1420692

The opening sequences are excellent; thinking forward to Bladerunner with the noir pastiches, then the tracking shots of sullen Caution in the hotel (terminuses, outposts, a little of Ashes and Diamonds). Then the bedroom scene is absolute gold: brash, wild, hilarious, perfect introduction to the way LC punctures this world of perverted efficiency with his ruthless, provincial, illogical violence. Some incredible camerawork here out, too, particularly in externally tracking a glass lift down a floor.

The grimness and the systemic absurdity put this in a Russian mode for me; maybe Zamyatin or Roadside Picnic. The world is, at times, as intensely refractive as Cléo de 5 a 7‘s Paris; loved watching LC track his own plot through the lobbies and dimly lit streets. At the same time, the whirring and spinning technology on show here is fascinating, humanised in its visual mechanics unlike today’s abstracted and occluded digital computing.

Then the script really bulks up, and A begins to drag its heels. There are interminable hotel scenes where the dynamics of the political setup are simplified (after some opaque narration by the central tracheotomic HAL character Alpha 60) into generic binaries of technology/humanity, rationality/sensation, trans/humanism. Begins to lose its flavour in spite of frenetic accelerations and a pulpy, destructive climax. By the time the inevitable disruptive editing effects kick in they feel like excessive seasoning.

Perhaps because I connect it most closely, as a holistic piece, to Marker’s superior La Jetée, which seems wordless in spite of its narration. Would seriously consider watching again with no sound (despite an excellently menacing score) or at least no subs.

100th note.

7