Jean Vigo’s Poetic Vision: L’Atalante

Consult countless lists of the greatest films of all time and you will find this 1934 French classic. Considered to be director Jean Vigo’s masterpiece, L’Atalante is a surrealist love story for the ages. It is also a testament to Vigo’s artistic passion—he was deathly ill as he made it, often directing from a stretcher. He died shortly after filming was completed and could not edit the film himself. Instead, the editing task fell to some overenthusiastic Gaumont editors who cut the film from 89 to 65 minutes; somewhat damaging the film’s overall artistic composition. Thankfully, it was restored in 1990 and now truly resembles Vigo’s vision.

The beginning of the film finds handsome barge captain Jean (Jean Daste) marrying his proper girlfriend Juliette (Dita Parlo). Whoever said the honeymoon can’t last forever must have been thinking of poor Juliette, because she doesn’t get one. Instead, she and her new husband immediately board their humble floating abode, the L’Atalante, where they also share quarters with the rough Jules (Michel Simon) and his assortment of cats, as well as a cabin boy. Basically, this is a story about a simple man who wants simple things and a fanciful young woman who dreams of seeing Paris.  The story takes a dramatic turn when the barge docks in Paris and Juliette goes ashore without telling her husband. When he finds her gone he doesn’t wait for her return; instead, he angrily take the L’Atalante out of port—leaving his provincial wife to fend for herself in the big city.

There are many things to enjoy about this film. Using his signature style of poetic realism, Vigo captures both the sensual, tender relationship between Jean and Juliette in an almost ethereal sense, as well as capturing the grunginess of a cramped barge and the squalor of Depression-era Paris in a direct, unflinching manner. The love that the couple share is Vigo’s conception of beauty, while most of the outside world represents his vision of all that is crude. When they are together on the barge, even when they are fighting about soiled sheets and unkempt, crude Jules, they are truly happy. It is only when they are both physically and emotionally separated that the couple truly feels anguish and pain.

The most striking sequence in the film comes about due to this separation. Remembering that Juliette had once told him that she had opened her eyes under water to find her true love and had seen his face before she had ever met him, Jean jumps into freezing water and finds a smiling Juliette below the surface. When he returns to the boat he holds tight to a block of ice as if it were Juliette. It is a touching, spectacular scene to watch.  This is one of many great images that cinematographer Boris Kaufman captures. Truly, the film is a visual marvel, especially for 1934.

While both Parlo and Daste are more than memorable in this film, the one standout performer is Michel Simon as Jules. A master crafter of character, Simon always makes you believe he is his character. Still a relatively young man when he took on this role, Simon embodies the image of a sea-worn, old sailor who has seen and done everything.  In addition, his strange relationship with Juliette is something to behold. He is at once crass and lecherous, and in the next moment sweet and thoughtful. Capturing Jules’ dual nature, Vigo created a spectacular image of Simon, through the use of dissolved exposures, when Jules wrestles himself on deck, which comes across as two ghosts fighting over his body.

Francois Truffaut wrote that this was one of the films that shaped his own cinematic vision. It is easy to see why. Loaded with breathtaking images, as well as a tender love story, L’Atalante is a truly entertaining film.

Gangsters of the New World in Kinji Fukasaku’s “Battles Without Honor and Humanity”

A former soldier, Shozo Hirono (Bunta Sugawara), is living among the chaotic streets of Hiroshima following the second World War. When one of his fellow soldiers is apparently attacked, Hirono and others initiate a bloody retribution that results in Hirono gunning down a man in the open air of the black markets. He is imprisoned for the crime, where he meets and befriends yakuza (gangster) Wakasugi (Tatsuo Umemiya). Upon his release, Hirono is asked to join the yakuza, and he is subsequently thrown into a world in which men prove their loyalty with murder. Rival yakuza gangs wage war against one another, and life becomes less about finding a place to stand in the midst of constantly shifting power, and more about survival of the individual.

Kinji Fukasaku’s 1973 Battles Without Honor and Humanity (original title:仁義なき戦, anglicized as Jingi naki tatakai) popularized the yakuza film genre in Japan. Yakuza, a Japanese criminal organization or a member of such an organization (and typically equated -- at least in the U.S. -- with the mafia), were an alternative to the samurai who dominated Japanese cinema screens. However, some of the early yakuza films displayed similar characteristics as the samurai. These films, known as ninkyo eiga (“chivalry films”), told stories of men who were yakuza but were also men of honor. The films took place before the war, with the men still brandishing swords.

Though Fukasaku had previously tackled the yakuza genre with 1971’s Sympathy for the Underdog (Bakuto gaijin butai/aka Gamblers in Okinawa) and Street Mobster (Gendai yakuza: hitokiri yota) the following year, Battles Without Honor and Humanity was the biggest commercial and critical success and would change the face of the genre. The title alone is letting the audience know that the jingi (“honor”) upheld by the previous cinematic yakuza is a thing of the past. The world has changed, epitomized by its Hiroshima setting, in the aftermath of World War II (Fukasaku begins the movie with footage of an atomic bomb’s mushroom cloud). One of Fukasaku’s most notable points in restructuring the yakuza genre is the reason that Hirono is sent to prison: for shooting and killing a man armed with a sword, a man who seems to belong in a ninkyo film.

Battles Without Honor and Humanity, like many of Fukasaku’s yakuza films, is shot in the style of a documentary. There’s a steady impression of a camera trailing behind and around the characters, like a cameraman literally chasing the action. The movie is teeming with characters, and although the significant characters are presented with an inter-title and a freeze frame, there remains a feeling of a rushed introduction before continuing with the story. In Fukasaku’s world, violent outbursts are sudden and sharp, and they are only intensified within the context of an already rapidly paced movie. Like in real life, violence seems to come out of nowhere before quickly disappearing, everything changing in a single unexpected moment. There are even instances of humor among the violence, such as the dark but amusing sequence when Hirono is preparing for yubitsume (amputating a little finger by way of an apology for an offense), and, in a room full of tough yakuza, it is the seemingly meek and modest wife of a yakuza who explains how best to slice through the finger. Fukasaku’s filmmaking is aggressive and kinetic, and it is sometimes exhausting to watch.

Battles Without Honor and Humanity was immensely popular and initiated a series of films, beginning with the first sequel, Hiroshima Deathmatch, in 1973, and followed by Proxy War that same year and Police Tactics and Final Episode in 1974 (each was a subtitle to Battles Without Honor and Humanity). Fukasaku directed and Sugawara starred in all five films. Fukasaku also helmed a three-movie series titled New Battles Without Honor and Humanity (1974-76), with Sugawara appearing in each film. (The Battles Without Honor and Humanity five-part series was released on U.S. DVD in 2004 as The Yakuza Papers.)

Actor Bunta Sugawara, although unfortunately typecast in yakuza roles, displays unprecedented charisma. He’s an engaging actor, turning the simple act of lighting a cigarette into a stylized maneuver. In addition to Fukasaku’s jingi movies, Sugawara also starred in the director’s Street Mobster and 1975’s Cops vs. Thugs (Kenkai tai soshiki boryoku) -- actually playing a cop in the latter film, though he was no more ethical than the yakuza. More recently, he provided the voice for Kamajii (the spider-esque old man) in Hayao Miyazaki’s outstanding and hugely successful 2001 anime, Spirited Away (but not, of course, for the English dub) and made an appearance in Takashi Miike’s winsome, family-friendly The Great Yokai War (2005).
Kinji Fukasaku stayed mostly in the yakuza film genre, but as the genre became less popular, he did direct samurai films and movies of other genres. Though most fans consider Battles Without Honor and Humanity his masterpiece, the director nearly eclipsed himself with Battle Royale in 2000. The story of young students forced to play a game in which they must kill one another (the last surviving player sent home a “winner”), the film was a rousing triumph, both in its native land and overseas. Production for a sequel was barely underway when Kinji Fukasaku succumbed to cancer in January 2003. The movie, Battle Royale II: Requiem, was completed and released that year, directed by Fukasaku’s son, Kenta Fukasaku, who has since become a filmmaker in his own right.

Battles Without Honor and Humanity is frenetic filmmaking at its best. But there is order to Fukasaku’s chaos. Underneath the layers of fists, blood and gunfire are magnetic characters, enveloped in a world presented to viewers at breakneck speed. Such is the cinema of Kinji Fukasaku. Sit down, take a breath, and enjoy the ride.

The Road Down Memory Lane Leads to Ingmar Bergman’s “Wild Strawberries”

Professor Isak Borg (Victor Sjöström), an aging physician and widower, is to receive an honorary degree from his alma mater, Lund University. After having a disconcerting dream of a lonely street, a clock with no hands, and a horse-drawn carriage (transporting a coffin with the professor’s lifeless body inside), Isak leaves for the ceremony earlier than planned, much to the dismay of his sassy but nimble housekeeper, Miss Agda (Jullan Kindahl). Traveling by car, Isak begins his journey with his daughter-in-law, Marianne (Ingrid Thulin), stopping at the summer home from his childhood and encountering a trio of youngsters, including a girl who reminds him of his first love (both named Sara and both played by Bibi Andersson). Plagued by more dreams, Isak’s trip becomes a catharsis, as he must comes to terms with his apathy towards others, his estranged son, and his despondent marriage.

Swedish filmmaker Ingmar Bergman was known for his somber movies, such as The Virgin Spring (1960), Hour of the Wolf (1968), and Cries and Whispers (1973), many of them wrought with misery and tortured characters. Considering this, the director’s 1957 Wild Strawberries (original title: Smultronstället) is refreshingly optimistic. Isak’s dreams are unmistakable representations of his fears: loneliness, his impending death, and his days of elation to forever remain distant memories. Once on the road, Marianne ruthlessly informs the professor that his son hates him, reminding Isak of the cold manner in which he allowed his daughter-in-law to stay with him (insinuating that problems between the couple were not his concern) and a loan that his son is slowly paying back (Marianne believing that the wealthy professor does not need the money). Isak is also forced to remember that his deceased wife, Karin, was an unhappy woman, which she blames on the man’s detachment and passivity.

Notwithstanding the dismal dreams and recollections of a rueful life, Bergman’s film is encouraging, for the simple fact that Isak is acknowledging that his uncaring behavior is a character flaw. Furthermore, he is experiencing an emotion he has likely never previously felt: guilt. Perhaps for the first time, Isak is seeing how his dispassion has affected the people in his life. When Isak and Marianne visit his mother, the professor sees the coldness in his mother that he has shown to his wife, his son and his daughter-in-law. The elderly lady rummages through a box filled with items of the past, her memories nothing more than keepsakes. It’s a sad scene, but one in which Isak recognizes that he does not want souvenirs of his youth but rather the happiness associated with it. More importantly, he does not wish upon his son memories of sorrow and pain.

There are a number of uplifting moments in Wild Strawberries. The young Sara is not simply an expression of Isak’s carefree childhood, but, with her genuine enthusiasm over seeing the professor awarded his honorary degree, she likewise represents happiness that remains within reach. In one sequence, the group stops at a gas station, where the attendant (Max von Sydow) fondly recalls Isak, who once had an office nearby. The man so admires the professor that he refuses payment, and as he praises the man’s kindness to his wife, the typically doleful Marianne flashes a bright, honest smile.

Wild Strawberries was awarded the Golden Bear at the Berlin International Film Festival, won for Best Film and Best Actor at the Mar del Plata Film Festival, and won a Best Foreign Film Golden Globe (Samuel Goldwyn International Award), along with four other films that year. It was also nominated for an Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay.

Thulin, Andersson and von Sydow were frequent collaborators with Bergman, appearing in a number of the Swedish director’s movies. Sjöström was a prominent film director in Sweden during the silent film era and directed a number of U.S. films (under the Americanized name of Victor Seastrom). He only made a few talkies before focusing his efforts as artistic director of the production company, Svensk Filmindustri, in the 1940s and acting in theatrical productions. This was the final film for Sjöström as either actor or director. He died a little more than two years later in 1960.

Although not an official remake, Woody Allen’s film, Another Woman (1988), borrows several thematic elements from Wild Strawberries and is generally considered an homage to Bergman’s movie. Similarly, the very basic plot to Allen’s film, Deconstructing Harry (1997), resembles both Wild Strawberries and another Bergman film, Through a Glass Darkly (1961). This is typical of Allen’s movies, as he often makes what can be considered his version of an European film, including yet another Bergman movie, 1955’s Smiles of a Summer Night (Allen’s 1982 A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy), as well as films from Italian director Federico Fellini (e.g., Allen’s 1980 Stardust Memories being his take on Fellini’s 1963 8½).

It is abundantly clear by the film’s end that Isak wishes to make a change in his life and hopes that it will spark changes in other people’s lives as well. The interaction between Isak and Miss Agda is pleasantly droll, but the most rewarding relationship in the film is the one between the professor and his daughter-in-law. They are the two characters who develop the most throughout the film, both stubborn people who gradually find contentment, shared and personal alike. The title refers to the wild strawberries growing in a field near Isak’s childhood home, but it is not merely a hint of childhood and nostalgia. The strawberries are wild because they are free, unburdened by regret and not restrained by old-world ways and traditions or fearing what is to come. They find their peace in simple existence.

Bunuel’s Depiction of Hell on Earth: Las Hurdes (Land Without Bread)

This 1933 documentary by Luis Bunuel is strange, but not unwatchable. Filmed in a poor region of Spain known as Las Hurdes Altas, this documentary presents the dire conditions faced by the region’s inhabitants through a surrealist lens. Hence, why I found this movie disturbingly strange at times. I just don’t know how one can effectively use surrealism to document the true hardships of a people without violating the documentarian’s unspoken code of neutrality—perhaps Michal Moore is a fan of Bunuel?

The English title of this film is Land Without Bread because bread was nowhere to be found in Las Hurdes—it had to be brought in as a luxury item. Tucked away in a mountainous region, Las Hurdes Altas has poor soil that yields very few crops. The one foodstuff they have an abundance of is honey, and even this isn’t very good—unless, of course, you want to smear a sickly jackass with it and watch bees swarm.

Like in most Bunuel films, the Catholic Church is portrayed as decadent and unmoved by the plight of the poor. Using one of his favorite cinematic tools, juxtaposition, Bunuel goes from depicting malnourished, impoverished people to showcasing the lushness of an abandoned convent.

As a completely isolated region, Las Hurdes Altas suffers from not only bodily starvation but intellectual starvation as well. There are no arts to speak of, and the people practice inbreeding, which in turn contributes to a number of mentally challenged and handicapped people. As I watched Bunuel’s portrayal of these people, I kept asking myself if he could find them why hadn’t the 20th century somehow nudged itself into this horrible place? I suppose that was Bunuel’s point: no one cared if they lived in almost medieval conditions.

I often find it difficult to believe that Bunuel came from a wealthy background. He has an almost searing hatred of everything bourgeois and traditional. In addition, his depiction of his homeland (Spain) is often extremely vitriolic. This, no doubt, contributed to his expatriation under Franco.

Under a half an hour long, Las Hurdes is a disturbing look at a people and region that time forgot. Through shocking images, such as decapitated chickens and countless shots of filth and disease, Bunuel forces his viewer to see, in his words, “hell on earth”.

Jean Vigo’s Surrealistic Zero De Conduite (Zero for Conduct)

I am not a big fan of surrealism and this 1933 French film is pretty darn surreal.

Under 45-minutes long, this Jean Vigo film was based on his own childhood experiences in a French boarding school. Vigo examines the struggle between freedom and authority. He uses his own unique style of poetic realism to create an allegory about the way the lower rungs of society view those who hold all the power. It must have been a thinly veiled allegory, because it was quickly banned in France.

The storyline of this film about school children revolting against their teachers plays a secondary role to the visual elements presented by Vigo. At times it can be difficult to determine what is truly taking place. The children have a number of internal thoughts that are presented as happening in the external. It sometimes takes a moment to realize that what has happened is a farce. For example, when the children have their big “revolution” on the school roof and throw garbage and cans at alumnae at an alumni ceremony, it takes you a second to realize that the alumnae are just dressed up dummies—literally.

The most famous image from Zero De Conduite is the slow-motion pillow fight. With feathers slowly floating through the air, the children eerily march as though they are an army caught in a snowstorm. I must admit, this innovative shot makes this film almost bearable—almost.

Not nearly as bad as other surreal “classics”, such as Bunuel’s Un Chien Andalou (1928)http://1001moviesblog.blogspot.com/2010/01/un-chien-andalou-1928.html and L’Age D’Or (1930 http://1001moviesblog.blogspot.com/2010/01/lage-dor-1930.html, Zero De Conduite just isn’t the type of film I enjoy. However, Vigo did make one surrealist film that I do like, L’Atalante (1934). Although Vigo only completed four short films before he died from blood poisoning at age 29, his work was highly influential on the French New Wave. Some critics believe that Francois Truffaut’s 400 Blows was a direct descendant of Zero De Conduite.

Giulietta Masina, a Bright Light in Federico Fellini’s “Nights of Cabiria”

Cabiria (Giulietta Masina) is spending a day with her boyfriend, Giorgio. When they approach a river, Giorgio snatches Cabiria’s purse and pushes the woman into the water. Cabiria is saved from drowning by several locals, but, refusing to believe that Giorgio has simply stolen her money, she returns to her home to find him. Such is the life of Cabiria, who earns her living as a prostitute. She endures hardship and heartbreak, maintaining a firm grasp on the notion that one day she will find a true companion, a generous and selfless man who will shower her with love.

Federico Fellini’s Nights of Cabiria (aka Le notte di Cabiria/1957) is sometimes viewed as a bleak, often depressing film. Cabiria suffers through life’s adversities, which is not always easy to watch, compounded by the fact that she seems naive and so desperate for affection. She encounters men who are disrespectful or self-centered. She wanders into situations which ultimately leave her embarrassed or humiliated. There are times when Cabiria is alone, inside her small house or walking the barren land just outside the city, and a sense of loneliness will betray the woman’s confidence.

But what makes Fellini’s movie anything but a tragedy is Cabiria herself. Despite a childlike exterior, Cabiria is undoubtedly experienced and intelligent. Rather than let herself become overwhelmed with sadness, she retains hope with a smile and a spring in her step. Soon after Giorgio’s treachery, Cabiria is on the streets with others in her profession, dancing to music. Even after another woman insinuates that Giorgio is her man and Cabiria attacks her, the woman’s fury does not linger, and before long, she’s once again dancing in the street. She sees the beauty in so many things, a woman who is proud of the tiny house that she owns and whose happiness cannot be washed away in the pouring rain. The title is certainly appropriate: as the night blankets everything in darkness, Cabiria stands there, forever shining brightly.

Masina, who was married to the director for many years until his death in 1993, was a tremendous actress and provides Nights of Cabiria with a beautiful and unforgettable performance. Many of Fellini’s films either contained a circus or were reminiscent of one, with a motley assortment of characters, each with his/her own distinctive qualities and in a world that had no choice but to embrace every single person. Masina, quite suitably, was much like a clown. She could move from comedy to tragedy with the greatest of ease, and her face was incredibly expressive. Her grins radiate with joy, and her frowns are shrouded in sorrow. Her character in an earlier Fellini film, La strada (1954), played a clown, but that attribute is clear even without the makeup.

In 1998, Nights of Cabiria was restored by Rialto Pictures and was re-released in theaters. In addition to improving the overall quality of the film’s images, a seven-minute sequence with a character usually referred to as “the man with the sack” was included. The previously cut scene involved Cabiria, walking home alone in the early morning, seeing the man pull up in his car. Curious, she watches as he brings food and clothing to people living in what looked to be holes (translated in the subtitles as “caves”). It enhances the film greatly, as Cabiria meets a charitable man who seems to represent what she desires. Likewise, one of the people in the caves is a former prostitute whom Cabiria recognizes, and the woman, once wealthy from the spoils of her profession, is the embodiment of what Cabiria fears.

Nights of Cabiria won an Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, and Masina was awarded the Best Actress prize at the Cannes Film Festival and the Zulueta Prize at the San Sebastián International Film Festival held in Spain. Fellini was awarded the Best Foreign Language Film Oscar three additional times, for La strada, 8½ (1963), and Amarcord (1973). His actress wife was also nominated for a BAFTA for both La strada and Nights of Cabiria.

Nights of Cabiria editor Leo Catozzo, who had worked on other films with Fellini, designed and patented the CIR-Catozzo Self-Perforating Adhesive Tape Film Splicer (sometimes called the CIRO and/or guillotine splicer). He was awarded an Academy Award for Technical Achievement in 1990.

Federico Fellini had begun making films during the movement known as Italian Neorealism, which can essentially be defined as social commentary presented in a realistic manner (e.g., shooting on location, amateur performers, etc.). Certainly later in his career, Fellini moved beyond neorealism, with 8½ as a clear turning point, much more surreal than based in reality. However, even Fellini’s earlier movies rejected the notion of realism. There was a poetic and spiritual quality to his films, and this is prevalent in Nights of Cabiria. The film concludes with a violation of the fourth wall, a lyrical moment which gives the movie bittersweet closure, and just a little more sweet than bitter.

Zatoichi, the Blind Swordsman

Not as poetic as Akira Kurosawa's samurai films. Not as savagely stylistic as the Lone Wolf & Cub series. Those are the only reasons I can give for the lack of popularity of the Zatoichi films in the U.S. In Japan, though, these films about a blind samuari were an institution, with 25 of them appearing between 1962 and 1973 (a 26th installment was made in 1989). There was also a 1976 television series that ran for four seasons.

The Tale of Zatoichi established the simple premise: Ichi (Zato is a title) is a former masseur who, tired of being treated without respect, became a master swordsman. He describes himself as a "lowly gangster" and makes a living by gambling--and with his sword. His opponents often underestimate him, not accounting for his remarkable heightened senses.

The first film finds Ichi staying as a guest at the home of Sukegoro, a gangster who runs gambling houses. Sukegoro's hospitality is not an act of kindness. He anticipates an all-out war with his rival, a fellow gambling czar named Shigezo. After learning that Shigezo has hired a samurai, Sukegoro figured he needed a samuari on his side, too.

While fishing one day, Ichi meets Hirate, an introspective soul whom Ichi senses is seriously ill. The two men become friends almost immediately, even though it's soon clear that Hirate is the samurai working for Shigezo.

Hirate and Ichi meet while fishing.

As with Kurosawa's films, there are battle scenes and a climatic showdown--but this is a character-driven drama. Ichi recognizes instantly that Sukegoro's men are common riffraff. When he enters a room where they're gambling with dice, he notes aloud that it smells like filth and sweat. Later, he refuses to give a swordplay demonstration for Sukegoro's guests, explaining flatly: "My skill is not for entertainment." Clearly, Ichi has no respect for Sukegoro--even though he accepts money and free lodging from the gangster. (His skillful negotiation with Sukegoro is one of the film's best scenes, ending with: "My life does not come cheap.")

It's easy to see why the Ichi character appealed to audiences. Here was a man who became a master swordman to gain respect--but still lacks self-respect. Yet, he always acts with honor: rescuing a young woman, showing kindness to a man he admires, treating the elderly with respect, etc.


Ichi sheaths his sword after a slicing a
burning candle in mid-air.

 As Ichi, Shintaro Katsu gives a masterful portrayal, conveying the character's cunning and physical skills with a minimum of movement. In addition to portraying Ichi in all 26 of the original films (and directing the final one), Katsu produced the Lone Wolf & Cub movies which starred his brother Tomisaburo Wakayama. They are better films, but that's taking nothing away from the Zatoichi movies.

Although you may not have experienced a Zatoichi picture, you may have seen Blind Fury (1989) with Rutger Hauer. It was a remake of Zatoichi Challenged, the 17th film in the original series.

Jean Renoir's La Chienne

This controversial 1931 French drama was director Jean Renoir’s first sound film. Filmed primarily on location in Renoir’s hometown of Montmartre, this film finally brought Renoir the recognition he was denied as a silent film director. Stark and unrelenting (and, oh, so French), this film showcases both Renoir’s visual and spatial acuity, as well as his ability to avoid oversentimentality while unflinchingly staring at human baseness. This film was the beginning of the style that is most associated with Renoir: poetic realism.

Legendary French actor Michel Simon (in his first starring role) plays a henpecked bank clerk named Legrand who falls in love with Lulu (Janie Mareze) after rescuing her from a man beating her on the street. What Lulu neglects to tell Legrand is that she’s a prostitute and that the man who was beating her, Dede (Georges Flamant), is her boyfriend/pimp. Married to a complete harpy (Magdeleine Berubet) who controls their finances and won’t allow him to paint in the house, Legrand finds comfort in Lulu’s “innocence” and sweet nature. He sets her up in an apartment that he finances by stealing from both his wife and his work. When this money doesn’t suffice, Dede begins selling Legrand’s paintings under the name Clara Wood to finance his own café and gambling habits. Unaware that the sales of his artwork are financing Lulu’s pimp, Legrand is not angry when he learns that she’s selling his paintings. It is not until Legrand disentangles himself from his wife and shows up unexpectedly to tell Lulu that he’s going to be all hers that he discovers her deceit. In the end, Lulu meets with a tragic end and Dede gets his comeuppance at the hands of an executioner.

Based on a novel by Fouchardiere, this film was banned in the United States for forty years due to its sexual theme, crude language, and unpunished crime. After watching the scene where Lulu’s true nature is revealed to Legrand, I can see why some people were shocked by the film’s content. As Legrand is proclaiming his love for her and forgiving her indiscretions, Lulu sadistically belittles and laughs at him. This sets up the moment where you figure out why the film’s title is La Chienne. Having had enough of her deceit, he declares: “You’re no woman—you’re a bitch!” And, then some unpleasant things happen with a letter opener. It was 1931, so you have to admit that’s pretty daring. While this film wasn’t shown in the United States until 1975, American audiences did get to see a remake of it, Scarlet Street (1945). Directed by Fritz Lang and starring Edward G. Robinson and Joan Bennett, this film was a MUCH more toned down version.

Overall, the story is interesting to watch. Michel Simon does a nice job of playing an unhappy man who comes to life after falling for a much younger woman and then mentally cracks after he realizes it was all an illusion of happiness. Not my favorite Renoir film, but it serves as a good example of how his style developed and allowed him to go on to make masterpieces like Grand Illusion and The Rules of the Game (http://classic-film-tv.blogspot.com/2010/11/rules-of-game-everyone-has-their.html).

The Rules of the Game: Everyone Has Their Reasons

Entire books have been devoted to analyzing Jean Renoir's 1939 masterpiece, so it's impossible to do justice to this French classic in a single film review. However, I am constantly surprised by the number of film buffs who haven't seen it, so I feel compelled to promote it as part of the Cafe's Foreign Film Festival--well that, plus it's been a personal favorite since I watched it in college long ago.

Best described as a "comic tragedy," The Rules of the Game focuses on three themes: the relationship between and among the frivilous upper-class and their servants; the complex emotions between men and women; and the boundaries and expectations of society (the "rules of the game").

The film opens with the arrival of Andre Jurieux, a courageous aviator who has just completed a 23-hour solo flight across the Atlantic. As the public stands ready to hear about his heroic exploits, Andre uses the opportunity to whine that he did it all for a woman who didn't bother to be there and greet him. It doesn't matter to Andre that Christine, the woman in question, is married.

Octave explains the "rules" to Andre.

Andre's best friend, Octave (Renoir), has a long-standing friendship with Christine (Nora Gregor). He uses his influence to secure Andre an invitation to La Coliniere, a country estate owned by Christine and her husband Robert (Marcel Dalio). Robert is hesitant to agree at first, but Octave convinces him by agreeing to find a husband for Robert's mistress Geneviève (Mila Parely).

At the country gathering of friends, relationships change amidst an avalanche of mixed messages and misunderstandings. A confused Christine contemplates an affair with a stranger, then confesses her love for Andre before realizing that her friendship with Octave may be much more. Meanwhile, her maid Lisette ignores her husband, the gamekeeper, and flirts with both Octave and a poacher-turned-servant named Marceau. It's a classical French farce on the surface, but it's undercut by a condemnation of the bourgeois and concludes with an unexpected tragedy.

Geneviève participates in the hunt.

Clearly, Renoir wants to expose the emptiness and thoughtless cruelty of the upper classes, the latter conveyed in the film's most famous scene: a hunting party that slaughters dozens of rabbits and pheasants. As if this sequence (which is difficult to watch) needed more conviction, Renoir forsakes his typical long takes for cramming in 51 shots in less than four minutes. The violence is shocking and the analogy--that the bourgeois are indifferently destroying an unsuspecting society--is all the more potent.

It's no coincidence that the only likable members of Renoir's bourgeois are "outsiders." Several of Robert and Christine's "friends" feel sorry for Christine because she's Austrian. Later, we learn that Robert's father was a "Rosenthal from Frankfort"--meaning that he was Jewish. This allows us to feel empathy for them while still accepting that their vacuous life of luxury is no different from their guests.

Renoir's trademark use of deep focus--
Andre and Robert chat as Lisette watches
in the background.

In Renoir's world, both upper-class and servant classes understand the conventions of society, even though they break them. Octave stresses to Andre that "society has rules." And one of the house maids, upon learning Christine allowed Andre to sit next to her at dinner, expresses concern because "etiquette is etiquette."

It's ironic that the two most pathetic characters--Andre and Geneviève--are the ones who follow the rules at the risk of their own unhappiness. Andre may come across as a lovestruck fool, but he truly loves Christine and knows what he wants. Likewise, Geneviève understands that she doesn't want to lose Robert, although she confesses that "I don't know if it's love or force of habit." In contrast, Christine, Octave, and Robert struggle with trying to figure out what they really want. In the end, their actions seem foolish and perhaps even tragic, but as Octave explains to Robert at one point: "Everyone has their reasons."

Robert apologizes to his guests
after the tragedy.

The history of The Rules of the Game is almost as fascinating as the film itself. Two of Renoir's previous two films--La bête humaine and Grand Illusion--were big commercial and critical successes (Illusion even earned an Oscar nomintaion as Best Film...not Best Foreign-Language Film). So, it was a tremendous disappointment when Rules of the Games flopped miserably. Renoir even re-edited the film, trimming its running time from 96 minutes to 81. During World War II, the Nazis destroyed all known negatives. Then, in 1959, a restored 109-minute version of the film was released. Renoir approved this version, although it's important to note that he was not involved in the restoration.

Based on shooting scripts, film historians have compared the 81-minute and 109-minute versions. They contend that the shorter film was a harsher indictment of the upper classes, since it reduced or eliminated scenes that fleshed out the characters of Octave and Robert.

Since 1952, Sight and Sound magazine has done a poll of the 100 Greatest Films every decade. The Rules of the Game entered the 1952 poll as #10 and has been  #2 or #3 in every decade since then. The only film to rank above it: Citizen Kane.

The Penultimate French Tearjerker: Les Parapluies De Cherbourg

Before her role in director Jacques Demy’s 1964 classic musical, Les Parapluies De Cherbourg, Catherine Deneuve was best known for giving birth to Roger Vadim’s illegitimate son. In a way, this was good preparation for her portrayal of an unmarried, 17-year-old who finds herself pregnant by a boyfriend serving in the Algerian War. Just twenty-years old when this film made her an international star, Deneuve’s melancholic performance was greatly enhanced by an unforgettable Michel Legrand musical score. Nominated for five Academy Awards, including Best Foreign Language Film, Best Screenplay, and Best Musical Score, this film won the Golden Palm and the OCIC.

Les Parapluies De Cherbourg is my all-time favorite film. I was in graduate school, studying French history, when a colleague asked what I thought of the French New Wave. This discussion naturally included the French’s love of jazz and films with unhappy endings. This, of course, was a perfect time for my colleague to mention that there was a film that encompassed both of these elements: Les Parapluies De Cherbourg. A lover of musicals since childhood, I jumped at the chance to watch this film once a copy could be procured. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw.

I suspect I was just as shocked as the audience at the 1964 Cannes Film Festival when I realized that the ENTIRE film is sung (in French, of course)—there is no “traditional” dialogue. Instead, it is a modern day (popular) opera, set primarily to a jazz score. This tends to create a problem for American audiences who overwhelmingly dislike reading subtitles at “normal” speed, let alone at song-lyric speed. About fifteen minutes into watching I turned the subtitles off. My French was passable at the time, so I could mostly keep up with what was being sung.

Legendary French songwriter Michel Legrand, with the aid of Demy and others, wrote a musical soundtrack/script that is at times playful, romantic, and haunting. The most famous song is the title song, “Les Parapluies De Cherbourg” (more commonly known in English as “I Will Wait for You”). The instrumental version, which closes the film in heart-wrenching fashion (you will never forget it once you experience it), is brilliant all by itself. Then, when you set effortless lyrics to the score, it is a phenomenal love song. The closing pass of the song (finished off with a rousing violin-drenched crescendo) is:

Ils se sont séparés sur le quai d'un gare

Ils se sont éloignés dans un dernier regard

Oh je t'aim' ne me quitte pas

Loosely translated, from French to English:

They separated on the platform of a station

They moved away in one last look

Oh I love you does not leave me

The best recorded version of this song is by the Greek diva-extraordinaire Nana Mouskouri. Often imitated but never surpassed by countless covers (by such artists as Tony Bennett and Carlo Berardinucci), it is a timeless song that even after 45+ years doesn’t sound dated. In addition to this gem there are other seamless songs that carry the film along to its eventual devastating conclusion.

Another startling element of the film is the way Demy uses color to carry the story. Cherbourg is an often rainy and dreary port city in Normandy, so the bright blues, oranges, pinks, reds, and yellows that Demy uses in the clothing and overall set design is far from a realistic portrait of the title city. Yet, the virtual Technicolor world that he creates, with bright swatches of color, serves as a co-conspirator in the film. For example, in the beginning of the film everything jumps with color, which corresponds to the happy state of young lovers Genevieve (Deneuve) and Guy (Nino Castelnuovo). In a way the bright pastels serve as blinders—the young, impetuous lovers are surrounded by bright, clear color, but they can’t truly see what lies ahead. However, by the end of the film, when the now irrevocably parted lovers meet by chance one snowy night, there is a notable absence of color. Agnes Varda, Demy’s wife (and a director in her own right) has said that Demy’s use of color was aimed at portraying the violence and the cruelty of the story.

For those who like to see happy endings, there is no crueler ending than what you are given in this film. I have often contemplated why the ending is so emotionally jarring. I think it has a lot to do with the youthful exuberance shown by Genevieve and Guy, who are so much in love at the start of the film. It is a pure and innocent love, which in any other film would have come off as sickeningly saccharin. Then, your heart absolutely breaks at the famous train scene where Guy goes off to Algeria with a teary-eyed Genevieve on the train platform. But that’s okay, because the movie is only half over and you know they are going to get married and have a child named Francoise as soon as he returns—right? After all, she did sing she would wait for him! Oh, but she finds out she’s pregnant and Guy doesn’t write and the next thing you know she’s marrying that wealthy jewel smuggler (Marc Michel) from Lola (another Demy musical, from 1961) who you felt so bad for when his romantic hopes were crushed by that slut Anouk Aimee! Yet, still somewhere in your mind is the thought that Guy will come home and save Genevieve from a loveless marriage and all will be right in Cherbourg. But, alas, that’s not what happens.

Instead, you learn the bittersweet lessons that love does not always conquer all and that not everyone (especially you the viewer) gets a happy ending. Instead, people settle. Genevieve settles for wealth and security; Guy settles for companionship and loyalty. The one small detail that the viewer can take solace in is the unforgettable final scene, where by revealing the names of their respective children, both named Francoise, the couple are somehow still connected—even if they are living different lives they need only say the name of their child and some semblance of what once was pure love remains: “Oh I love you does not leave me.”

This movie made Deneuve a star. Her Genevieve was innocence personified. Called upon to display every emotion, from love to despair, she transforms a naïve, love-struck teenager into a resigned, world-weary woman who accepts that life isn’t always fair. Of course, Roman Polanski and Luis Bunuel couldn’t wait to tarnish that innocence, but that’s a story for another day.