Notes on Films

(1)  The film Critic and the Film Director

The director’s job is to make the movie, give it an imprint distinctly his own. He is in his element while he is working, and later on, when producing the final print which is released to the public. The critic’s job is to carefully analyze the film, in the context of the movie, as well as that of the director (for, most valuable critics have made a thorough study of the director in question), and point out the different finer points which the one-time viewer (who comprise the majority of the viewership) is likely to miss. A critic is also the gatekeeper to the interaction of two entirely different media: film and print. The director is subject to a lot many stresses, besides his own artistic and other doubts ad certainties which finally find expression in the finished movie, whereas a critic hones his skill with each movie he critiques. He creates nothing, except a subjective mass of information which is valuable and often, novel.

What we have is production, and appreciation; not production and consumption, which closes out the product cycle (considering cinema as a product). The critic is a stand-in, more or less; he is not indispensable but he adds value. The critic was, in the 90s, so institutionalized (no reputable newspaper or weekly would be without one) that it is quite safe to say that the critic had a role, albeit insubstantial, in the fate of a movie in the market, at least in western societies.

A director’s medium is film: the movie. What the movie tells is the director, frozen in a particular timeframe, or for all eternity, depending on the philosophical resonances he succeeds in putting across. The critic’s medium is print. The common thing is the movie; but it becomes almost transparent, for the critic assumes that it is life he is talking about.

Is it any wonder, then, that when a great director talks, it is about abstract things which seemingly bear no resemblance to his work at all (Robert Bresson is but one example), and, when some directors ‘crack’ when put under pressure to speak about their ‘work’, they come up with nothing but banalities (Adoor Gopalakrishnan). The true film buff, however, knows what to appreciate: he loves the movie or hates it, according to merit, loves the director nevertheless, and also takes the critique well—often with a pinch of salt. 

Robert Bresson’s Lancelot du lac (1974)

This review has especially to do with one glaring omission in Tony Pipolo's incisive and inclusive treatment of Robert Bresson’s film Lancelot du lac in his book, Bresson: A Passion for Film (2010).

The book is excellent; it is perhaps the finest book ever written on a movie director. The attention to detail, even while focussing on the key issues, which have been recapitulated through years of discussion and agreement between such excellent admirers as Tarkovsky, Schrader, Sontag and others, is almost too good to be believed. Pipolo has not left loose ends about; above all, his rigour and excellent coverage impresses one most. Like Lancelot’s ‘delay’ in consummating his illicit affair with Guinevere, Pipolo has spent such a long time preparing this book that it shows—but the result, fortunately, is very beneficial to us readers.

At any event, my appreciation for the book is too much to be expressed in words. It is one of unqualified appreciation, as I feel there are (if at all) very few books which even approach this masterly work in terms of comprehensiveness, concision (yes, both), and focus. Like in Bresson’s works, the commonly occurring themes are identified and studied in detail, the patterns are brought out, and in the end it all goes down well in understanding Bresson the man; which is what the book sets out to achieve in the first place. The book does the job thoroughly well.

I would, however, take this opportunity to point out one glaring omission Pipolo made in his competent analysis of one of Bresson’s least favoured movies, Lancelot du lac, which also happens to be one of my favourite movies. As he winds his way through the existential maze Lancelot has made for himself and for the others, Pipolo seems to lose sight of one of the things he himself stresses in the analysis: the importance of materials and reality in Bresson’s films. Especially so in this movie, which resounds with ‘the overlapping sounds of clanging armour’ (a reference to Philippe Sarde’s masterly background score, the finest in any chivalry movie)—it seems Bresson has taken some pains to remind us that the materiality is what counts. There is no hint of any supernatural god—at least not in a way we would expect from a reading of the background material. The knights are real and their way of life is real. They kill as a matter of course; it is what they do best. The Round Table (it must be said that nowhere in the movie is there any suggestion of a formal association of knights; they present themselves as a ragtag assortment of rather polished villains with a few innocent ones caught in between—like for instance, Gawain) is a brotherhood of knights.

What is really shown in the film is that the knights have returned from an errand, a rather grandiose chase after the grail, and in the quest the purest among them, Galahad and Percival, have disappeared (or chosen not to return). Bresson makes no more demands from the viewer, that much is known to anyone who speaks English or French. He directly cuts into the guts of the story: the best of the knights, the invincible Lancelot, is carrying on a romance with the Queen, Guinevere. He has returned dissatisfied, and, in the absence of any other distractions, he is bent of renewing his earlier attentions. He is torn between his failure to attain the grail (knightly competence seemed inadequate to procure it); his duty to his fellow knights and to his kind, counterpoised with his all-consuming passion for Guinevere. He is not in a position to continue it physically even though he lusts after her; yet this is enough to undo his resolve to resort to a spiritual quest, which he by now realises, must be the true way to the grail.

Several questions open up at this point already, at least a few of which have not been considered by Pipolo. Lancelot may not really be interested in the grail—for he is a true “champion” knight, bloodthirsty, and by all reckoning, invincible in single combat. This alone might lead him to rather exclusive, selfish thoughts. Not much intelligence is needed (he is a very cunning person, for chivalry is a lot about cunning as well as technique) to see that his king is very much dependent on him.

Yet, he had quested for the grail and failed. In retaliation, did he perhaps finish off his compatriots himself? It is not revealed, but that may well have been the case. Whatever, it is quite possible that Lancelot is not very much interested in the grail.

Into middle age, Lancelot’s thoughts must have been slipping in the other direction (Arthur was well past this age and well into the 50s, hence his exhortation to Gawain, to “pray”). His former life, spent in bloodshed, was a failure. He could have naturally drifted on to the very comforting thought that he could do as he chose with Guinevere, who returned his affections. He was also a favourite of Arthur’s. In every way his position was enviable, yet he was most miserable. Deep within, he fought a losing battle with the different aspects of his personality—torn between loyalty, duty, and love. The end result is that he lies to everyone and keeps none of his promises. Yet, every one of his flawed promises (lies) is backed up by a delayed, yet conclusive action, fearsome in its destructiveness. He is the extreme exponent of the art of chivalry, a monster of his trade, and in modern terms, he had “overgrown the system.”

This, in essence, sums up my point. Chivalry, as a system, was the domain of the landowners, the rulers, the knights, the lords. The common public (the ones we used to identify Robin Hood with, in our early years of limited knowledge of complex English social class and structure) were kept away from these entertainments except as spectators. Yet, it was but a small matter for someone to come up with the idea of a bow and arrow, to perfect it, and then raze the entire rotten system to the ground. And that is the denouement of Lancelot du lac.

Armed with the moral righteousness of his position, Mordred raises an army from the common folk. All archers, it turns out—for he has no supporters among the knights, or perhaps, in his prudence, he saves all his remaining chivalrous friends from the stupidity of facing Lancelot. Instead, he deputes his lowly archers and challenges Arthur.

Little did Arthur know that Mordred, who had until then unsuccessfully tried to belong in a world in which he didn't fit in, had found allies to his liking. And chivalrous Arthur, bolstered by Lancelot’s submission and allegiance, marches off to field. He is greeted not by a row of knights but by a hail of arrows. In quick time, what remained of the brotherhood of knights is quickly finished off. In a breathtaking reinvention of the final battle, Bresson brings history and legend in tune with reality: as chivalry dies gasping, a new era, that of feudalism, announces its arrival, marshalled by the able hands of the puny, invisible distant archer, safe at his post, stringing his arrows to hurl at a massive but vulnerable foe from afar. The age of the projectile had arrived.

In the world of the arrow, it makes no difference if the arrowhead meets Lancelot, horse, armour, or tree-bark. It treats everything the same, with the same impassive coldness that would have done Lancelot proud. And with much the same efficacy, the arrow deals it out. An older technology is conclusively beaten by a newer technology: faster, cheaper, more agile, and deadly. What was once regarded as invincible is quickly defeated by a different force, a different medium, a different reality. The old must make way for the new, and in the event, there is no place for Lancelot’s doubts, or Guinevere’s conscious sacrifice, or Gawain’s innocence. Indeed, when history is made in letters of blood, there is no need to speak—or even think.

[1361]

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Was very late when I started this—close to 04:00 am. Simply had to write this, because this point—which is not so much as referenced in Pipoli's excellent analysis—would have made it more complete. It seemed to me a glaring omission. Bresson is also offering an explanation of why religion went out of people's hearts in the first place. Or, how power corrupts the minds and drives out religion. For, flimsy as it proves in the end, chivalry was preserved purely as a bloodsport by those in power. For, in the end, as the archers prove convincingly, if the object is to kill, then the bow and arrow can kill much more easily, and safely. And when they do, the rules of the game change dramatically. One-to-one becomes 'free-for-all.'

Two Genii and a Ninny

When an Imaginary Idol Meets Reality

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To Raphæl

...When the idol meets reality, when you first face him in person, or through his trace, it's not that you are disappointed, but it is that he simply nullifies himself. And sinks without a trace. This has happened in the case of an iconic (so they say) filmmaker, Aleksandr Sokurov. (But there's one big thing here: he made me write a bit about Bresson and Tarkovsky; though I'm writing entirely from recollection, it is probably accurate at least in the references and true in its drift.)

(And you, of course, know who is the ninny and who are the genii.)

[Aleksandr Sokurov]
The director of films like Russian Ark (that acclaimed 100-minute single take of the Tretyakov Gallery, spiralling back in time in an elaborate costume drama) and Father and Son (with its not totally undeserved disrepute as a homoerotic movie) surely has some beans in him, surely? At least that's what I thought, what I hoped, and indeed, what I prayed. Impostor! Surely, he is a cut above the likes of Spielberg...but we aren't talking about Spielberg-stuff and feel-good realism. (Spielberg won't ever make it into one of my pages other than when I run out of idiots and assorted Uncle Sams, but that's another thing.) But we are talking about a man—the fact that he has made important films does not matter much here—is trying, and trying hard, to pass himself off as Tarkovsky's natural disciple, or descendant, or whatever. What a vain idiot!

[S, B, T]
I am not comparing Tarkovsky and Sokurov; but I take this opportunity to recollect a few things about Tarkovsky. Tarkovsky was a multi-faceted genius who felt compelled to take up cinema as his medium. In his work, the medium is of secondary importance, though it's another matter he made the best use of it as possible. Indeed, some of the insights he presents through film is impossible by any other means. (And, believe me, when he extols the virtues of Bresson, I've often felt why? Why do it? Why extol the virtue of a man who was, though he was a master craftsman, heavily restricted by his choice of screenplay, and decidedly "wrought" by his screenwriter? Professional solidarity, probably; but a more likely possibility is that Andrei probably felt a bit like what I feel when I watch a Bresson film. Follows:)

[Robert Bresson]
Bresson's fame is legendary, yet his persona seems to radiate far outside cinema—indeed, the place where he becomes legendary is definitely outside cinema. He struggled to make each of his films, perhaps more so than Tarkovsky did. With all respect to Bresson, I've always found his films rigid, they never move you (which is an intended end-result, otherwise he would have employed professional actors). Instead, it leaves you with an insipid feeling, and, most of the time, after much thought, you come around to the view that what happened (as Bresson shows in the movie) 'wasn't so bad after all.' In some cases at least, we immediately realise that there's no room for remorse, or feeling, or pity, and that life is not about feelings or sentiments, even when it's all happening close to us, to people close to us. He brings us to face things: situations that terrify you with their nothingness.

It's always the case that Bresson is presenting us with a foretold drama, something that's been written out, something which would unravel at the last moment with divine (serendipitous?) intervention, or a godlike revelation. This is probably the 'religiosity' Bresson is accused of. (Spiritual? Yes. Religious? No. I've found him amoral, and he's perhaps one of the most impartial storytellers I've come across.) Yet, his choice of actors was whimsical (consider his Jeanne, who, even in her ill-fitting rags made out of sack-cloth, drops you dead with her looks, and doesn't even remotely seem a fervent devotee of God. (Indeed, she was most probably an atheist hippie. Florence Delay went on to become a famous author and collector of folk-stories in her own right.) This could hardly be a 'religious' choice. Bresson brings us face to face with the truth, the ringing truth, of an instant: the fact of the moment. At that instance, when it made clear to us, the moment, the act, unfolds in its terrifying isolation: and we feel what the subject feels at the moment of truth. Often, that fact is a terrifying silence which we fill out with our interior monologue (the constant mumblings and commentary of the protagonist of A Man Escaped). Bresson doesn't waste his energies further; the following shots merely dissipate into nothing, he's presented the truth of a moment and done his job. (Recall the burning of Jeanne at the stake—at best described as 'shoddy.')

It is neither art nor realism that wins the tussle in Bresson; something definitely French, something akin to chance, something akin to fate, something immobile, something unmoving, something heavy, something predestined yet not thought of by anyone in the audience. Yet, it is natural yes, it was one among the possibilities—the one possibility we all overlooked. (Recall the climax of Un condamné à mort s'est échappé - 'A Man Escaped'. We all seem to forget, for the entire length of the movie, until he presents it to us, that it is the only logical conclusion of such a heroic escape attempt (let's again forget the symbolic significance of the event, let's forget France and Nazi Germany). When we see the two men clasping each other silently for joy, and walk away briskly in silence into the night, we are suddenly pushed, face on, to the stark reality. And, just like the men who walk away as a matter of course, hardened by the realisation that the job is but half-done, we feel what they're thinking at that moment. He achieves this with about five or six seconds of insight which is neither cinematic nor artistic. Since I am not a believer, may I call it providential (with the secular connotation, of course).

[Andrei Tarkovsky]
Tarkovsky is probably unique in that his films have a drift all their own; there are intensely personal moments that can only come from Tarkovsky where the director is conspicuous by his absence, when the story is led neither by the actor nor any of the crew nor the props. not even by the story. An example of this would be the floating weeds sequence in Solyaris, or the blinding of the men in Andrei Rublyov (indeed, there are countless such occasions in Andrei). At these moments the viewer is probably propelling himself, there are no suggestions from the film⁽ⁱ⁾.

Tarkovsky is a master of the suspense-shot. This is an improvised shot, which cannot otherwise be captured simply with a camera (which is not a journalistic tool, but more an instrument of poetic vision and apocalyptic proscription). His films mostly end with enigmatic shots which however deliver the vision of the director (poet) conclusively:

• Kris Kelvin's home surrounded by the Solyaris ocean;
• The poet in his backyard, cradled by the arching immensity of the Italian cathedral (Nostalghia);
• Stalker's daughter propelling objects by mere sight, even as the train rattles into our auditory field with a decidedly tactile potency;
• Little Man noticing the first blossom on the Japanese tree (a much-acclaimed shot by Sven Nyqvist);
• The legendary 'grazing horses' of Andrei Rublyov, signifying rebirth with the adoption of faith in the Trinity⁽ⁱⁱ⁾.
  
• [And, and...? You seem to be wondering about the two missing films. To be quite frank with you, I don't recall the final shot of Mirror, which I have not viewed seriously, nor made any sense of, yet. Ivan is an altogether different film, which doesn't somehow belong in this discussion.]

In contrast to the single-minded synthetic philosopher Bresson, who always tries to locate his subject and pays no attention to what is external to it, Tarkovsky makes use of different techniques, and metaphors, to add resonances of the main theme to the stream. In Solyaris, the car-ride through the highways of Tokyo—starting out in the early-evening light, and ending up in the completely electric-light night traffic, with the cars resembling glowing worms or fireflies, is a strong metaphor of the increasingly telescopic vision of the space-traveller. The car speeds through the fast lanes, with reverberating sounds underlining the claustrophobia of lonely pilots and space travellers far away from home and family. When it ends, the transformation is complete: the earthy, rustic visions of idyllic life changes completely to the dehumanized world of mindless conquest of other worlds, and the mad rush after scientific truth and excellence, even at the ultimate price. Seldom have I seen such a gradual, but breathtaking, change of scene. It is almost like a long take that leaves you dangling over a precipice staring into certain death.

Claustrophobia, loneliness, and existential despair are the lasting themes in Tarkovsky's later work (starting with Solyaris).

A more complete, if ecstatic, treatment of Tarkovsky's Stalker may be found in my Stalker blog of 2006.

[Unfinished. 1670. 90 min.]

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⁽ⁱ⁾ At such a moment, we feel like, "Well, it's not the actor leading it, it's not the director, nor anything else, it's just life taking its course..."
⁽ⁱⁱ⁾ The inclusion, or non-inclusion, of this shot is often used to quickly identify between the Ruscico and Criterion editions.

I had this coming a long time now. Never suspected that viewing (part of) a documentary by Sokurov (Moloch was another keen disappointment) would so set me off. It made me positively sick. Sokurov is 1% inspiration and 99% respiration (degassing).