The Humanism of Close-Up

Close-Up (Nema-ye Nazdik, 1990, directed by Abbas Kiarostami)

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0100234/

Few and far between are those films that manage to comment as presciently on the nature of art and the act of creating as Abbas Kiarostami’s Close-Up. The film is a sort-of quasi documentary that tells the true story of Hossein Sabzian, a young man who tricks a family into believing he is the famous director Mohsen Makhmalbaf, who he greatly admires. He is soon discovered and put on trial for fraud, and through his story we witness how art can not only provide an escape from despair but also salvation.

The film itself intercuts past and present, as Kiarostami slowly brings into focus how the situation came about and its consequences. The most talked about aspect of Close-Up is Kiarostami’s use of both real courtroom footage of Sabzian’s trial, as well as the principals of the real life story as they act out for the camera the events of the recent past. As the structure folds in on itself as such, it adds to the pathos and insight of the film.

It so often happens that films with a unique structure or some other form of plot gimmick are praised by critics and filmgoers alike more for their idea than for their content. In Close-Up, that is not the case in the least, as Kiarostami provides us with a portrait of a broken man looking to regain both his self-esteem and the respect of others through art. By the film’s end, the director has completely transcended the fact that he is melding documentary and fiction, which should nevertheless not be forgotten. The fact that the film is not only based on real life, but also uses those involved to retell it gives it an immediate impact.

The courtroom scenes, shot live by Kiarostami during Sabzian’s trial, are stirring, as he is confronted by the family he has deceived. He vigorously attempts to defend himself against charges that his was simply a ploy to rob his victims’ household. Rather, it was the desperate attempt of a man lost in the world to gain some sort of importance for himself. Once he began to pretend he could not stop, even as his acting became more and more difficult by the day.

Sabzian knew how much admiration he felt for Makhmalbaf, and was desperate to be on the receiving end of such feelings; to be able to create something that holds meaning for others. He truly wanted to be a director, having read numerous books on filmmaking. At one point he even admits to the court, if he had had the money available to him, he would have made the film he had promised the family as part of his deceit.

In the film’s most surreal sequence, the real director Makhmalbaf makes an appearance, shuttling Sabzian back to the house of his victims on his motorcycle. It’s a beautifully shot traveling sequence that intimates a new bond between the two men, as Sabzian goes to ask forgiveness for what he has done. The final freeze frame of his profile set against a blooming flower says it all. Close-Up is a humanistic masterpiece.

 

Ethics As First Philosophy

Emmanuel Levinas sought with his philosophy to completely leave behind the parameters of thought articulated by Heidegger and go entirely beyond Being; a true break with all ontology. The goal of Levinas’ philosophy was to posit ethics as a first philosophy, that is, the basis for all subsequent thought. Key to this objective is the notion of the Other—an idea also written about extensively by Sartre and De Beauvoir—and how the complex notions of obligation, responsibility, and desire spring forth from it.

For Levinas, responsibility is only made possible through face-to-face relations, in which desire for the other is felt. These relations are emblematic of his view of oppressed modern existence. He writes of a “mal du siecle,” which is a malaise of existing or a sickness unto being, echoing the sentiments felt throughout Sartre’s great novel Nausea. He tries to confront the horror of living in a world without hope, which demands an escape from Being.

Our first response in the confrontation with the Other is to murder it in order to affirm ourselves, yet it is impossible to ignore the autonomy of the Other, and in this manner responsibility is brought to the fore. It is solely through the Other that morality and an ethics can be properly formed.

One of the keys to this idea is that Levinas calls Being itself into question, and asks, “Does Being suffice for itself?” According to Levinas, Being itself is a source of tragedy and desperation, resulting in the barbarism of civilization. He writes, “The insufficiency of the human condition has never been understood otherwise than as a limitation of Being…” It is an overinvestment in this Being that causes disinterest in the ethical.

This disinterest and aforementioned malaise are what lead to the need for escape, a desire which Levinas calls a fundamental part of human existence. Being gives rise to both shame and disgust within ourselves as we strive to affirm our own Being. All of our life’s projects inherently leave numerous possibilities unrealized. Thus the escape sought does not have a true object as such, but is much more akin to the existential angst Heidegger wrote of in his essay “What Is Metaphysics?” What is left is a feeling that can never truly be gotten rid of, leaving the flight from Being ultimately impossible.

In this way we feel trapped within the constraints of Being, and sometimes experience a revolt. Even though it is impossible, escape remains an internal possibility of Being, to which it is held captive. The only path to transcendence is love, which supersedes both desire and pleasure.

Levinas’ philosophy is complicated because it begins in a way that undermines previous assumptions. Levinas rejects the self-sufficiency of Being, which has been assumed in Western philosophy since Aristotle and through Heidegger. Responsibility precedes and exceeds all else.

Source: A Companion to Continental Philosophy. Ed. Simon Critchley and William R. Schroeder. Blackwell Publishing, 1999.

 

Malick and Martin

Terrence Malick's The New World finally makes its debut in Argentina next week–so they say, cross your fingers. I have been waiting to see it for months. As a primer, here is a short essay from a while back that I wrote on Malick's last film, The Thin Red Line, and its connections to Martin Heidegger.

——————

Terrence Malick’s The Thin Red Line has as its focal point the thoughts of Private Witt as he lives and fights with Charlie Company during the battle of Guadalcanal. His worldview is constantly placed in opposition with that of Sergeant Welsh, his superior officer. Throughout the film, Private Witt is revealed as its Heideggerian center, reflected in his attitude towards death, war, and his fellow men.

There are two utterances by these two diametrically opposed characters that give us the most insight into their thoughts. The first comes during a conversation between the two men. Welsh says that there is no world but this one, and the reply from Witt is that he has seen another world, and that he sees a spark in Welsh. For Witt, this other world is not some divine place capable of being reached through faith, religion, or the like. For Witt, this “spark” that he sees in other people, and in himself, is a mode of Being that stands out from the war. The film is filled with imagery of the beauty of nature, and juxtaposed with the horror and carnage of war it creates a disturbing image. That mode of Being for Witt is a reconciliation of those two types of images. Man has his throwness and his facticity, of which nature is a part. Our modes of Being must take into account all of our facticity, and not simply be a myopic view of the world.

The second comes from Welsh, when during a battle scene he laments that the whole war is only about property. This is exactly the kind of mode of Being of which Witt is speaking when he talks about the spark in us. To focus only on things such as property is to forget our true sense of Being, and to trivialize it. The war that they are fighting, and war itself as a whole, is much too narrow of a worldview, akin to the academic disciplines that get so specific that they forget to step back and look at the question of Being on the whole.

It is for these reasons that in the film Witt always seems to look at the death all around as if from a distance. He is looking at it in a very different way than all of the other soldiers. He sees it as the inevitable end of life that it is, the casualty of the narrow mode of Being characterized by the war. This point of view also provides with insight into the scene of Witt’s death. He has sacrificed himself to save his fellow troops, and he knows that he is doing the right thing. He is unfazed and fearless in the face of death, just as he said he hoped to be in the voiceover at the beginning of the film. He is ready for his death when it comes.

The ultimate message of the film, as told mostly through Private Witt, is that war is a mode of Being that incorrectly encapsulates both man’s facticity and his throwness. In the middle section of the film, after the American soldiers have attacked and destroyed a Japanese village and its soldiers, an American soldier speaks briefly with a wounded Japanese as he prepares to extract one of the man’s teeth. The Japanese, presumably not able to understand the American, says to him (in Japanese) “you will die too.” We all think that we are on the side of Good, something most evident in times of war, and something that is far too narrow-minded in its conception of the world to function with the throwness found in Heidegger.

 

A Low-Key Gem

Going Home (Kikyo, directed by Koji Hagiuda Japan, 2004)

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0440543/

The plot of Going Home is a simple one, and immediately brings to mind all of those films—from The Graduate to Garden State—that revolve around a young man coming back home and finding love and a redemption of sorts in unlikely places. All told, Koji Hagiuda’s often excellent feature lies somewhere in between the schmaltzy Garden State and the classic The Graduate. Haruo lives in the big city—Tokyo—and one day gets a surprising postcard in the mail from his widow mother telling him that she is getting re-married.

His return trip to his small hometown outside of Tokyo includes more than a few surreal scenes and unfolds easily before the viewer. Haruo’s unease at the whole situation is readily apparent but is offset by the comfort level of those around him, including the two old friends he has a drink with after the wedding. This is also the point on which the film’s plot turns, as they run into former female classmate Miyuki, with whom Haruo had a one-night stand eight years before. She now has a young daughter who may or may not be Haruo’s, and when Miyuki disappears the girl is left in Haruo’s hands.

What sounds like a hokey yarn about a grown man’s coming of age and learning about love and responsibility is actually nothing of the sort. It’s a heartfelt film that shows how bonds can form between the unlikeliest of pairs, and what companionship can provide for individuals in emotional need. Koji’s camera is never intrusive, and he views his subjects through medium and long shots that give them space; nothing in this film is harried, even the search for Miyuki unfolds deliberately. The colors are often muted, perfectly matching Haruo’s reserved personality for most of the film.

Burned by Miyuki in the past, he keeps his feelings bottled up, and after she appears to do it to him again at the beginning of the film, he seems to withdraw even further. The most colorful scene of the film matches Haruo’s sudden change in personality as he erupts in anger after he thought he lost Chiharu, Miyuki’s daughter. He immediately realizes his error in scolding her, but he also comes to see something else. It is as if his emotions have been unlocked, with the key coming from the unlikeliest of places. Haruo and Chiharu are not so different after all, and here we see how they are helping one another in the exact same way.

By the films end Haruo has changed for the better, recognizing responsibility and opening himself up to love and meaningful human connection. Koji, however, does not go for the easy out, and leaves the audience with a final shot beautiful in its ambiguity without being a cop-out. This is a heartwarming and satisfying film that shows an emotionally lost man follow the path to self-assurance and human bonding.

 

The Future of Cinema

A Tale of Cinema (Geuk jang jeon, South Korea, 2005)

http://imdb.com/title/tt0461795/

I saw director Sang-soo Hong’s previous film—Woman is the Future of Man—at the Philadelphia International Film Festival in 2005 and was blown away. When I saw that his new film was on the program here I made it one of my top priorities; I was not disappointed. Fans of his previous films will recognize his style right away: lots of slow zoom-ins and –outs, a wandering camera, and beautifully capturing Seoul in almost every scene. A Tale of Cinema has lots in common with Woman is the Future of Man, but it is a testament to Hong’s talent and storytelling acumen that each film is unique and stands alone. Both films concern old friends and the passage of time, and what happens to their lives and relationships after years apart. Although that basic structure and its themes remain in the newer film, Hong brings a new twist to the table and in doing so is able to posit questions about the nature of art and how we relate to it.

As the film begins we follow a college-aged man, Sang-weon, as he walks through the streets of Seoul, where he runs into an old female friend who he has not seen in years. They spend the night together in a motel and, at Sang-weon’s suggestion, casually decide to commit suicide together the next day. The motel scenes are filled with moments that recall Woman is the Future of Man in the way that they perfectly convey the sometimes awkward and fumbling nature of sex and relationships. The overall confusion of both parties involved is palpable and feels real, even as the situation seems somewhat absurd.

After an unsuccessful attempt at popping pills, this thread of the narrative comes to a close as the film folds back on itself, making a subtle shift that is easy to miss at first. Hong cuts to a young woman, the same one from the motel room in the previous scenes, coming out a movie theater. At first it looks as though this is the continuation of the story arc we have just witnessed, but we soon realize instead that the entirety of the film thus far has been a film within a film, starring this young woman, who has just watched herself on the big screen.

From here on out we follow her, Yeong-shil, and another man who was in the theater, Tong-su, as their lives connect, move apart, and surge forward, with the opening mini-film as the launching pad. They reconnect with old acquaintances and begin a new chapter of their lives. The rest of the film follows them for the next 24 hours as they come to mimic almost exactly the actions and story arc of the initial film-within-the-film.

By the time the film has come to an end we have witnessed two similar stories be told from different angles and camera shots, but in the same style that is the director’s trademark. This self-reflexive nature of the film gives rise to questions about how people interact with art and how it affects them on a personal level. The characters’ interactions throughout give insight to their motivations and problems, and we finally see how it is possible to liberate yourself from despair and the wrong-headed notions of self-fulfilling fatalism. The film ends on a triumphant note, one that combines the protagonists’ stories with that of the original director—in his only scene—to show us a promising future that doubles as an escape.

The whole film is understated, and its images stick in your mind long after its over. It feels as though it is impossible to understand the film without letting it first settle in your mind. Looking back on it is its own reward, as one of the film’s final images drives home its humanist message. This is not one to miss.

 

It’s My Party

Stephen Tobolowsky’s Birthday Party (United States, 2005)

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0437489/

You would probably recognize Stephen Tobolowsky if you saw him. He is an actor who has been in something like 150 movies and television shows, and numerous plays. For those of you trying to place him, he played Sammy in Memento. One of his friends, filmmaker Robert Brinkmann, decided that he should make a documentary chronicling one of Stephen’s birthday parties at his house. Stephen is a great storyteller who seems to have lived an extremely interesting life, and the basis for the film is solid. That having been said, I still found it to be somewhat boring and not as fun as I had hoped.

The film starts out really well. It is early afternoon and Stephen talks to the camera on the beach near his home about a previous birthday. It’s clear right away that he knows how to tell a story. We follow him back up to his house as he begins to prepare sausages for the BBQ later on that night for his guests. He cooks, sips on a Heineken, and talks about acting, auditions, life experiences, etc. The cool thing about these early scenes is that it is clear that he is not just telling the stories because he thinks they are neat, he truly mines these experiences for life lessons and insight, which he does a good job of conveying to the viewer.

The film starts to lose steam once the guests arrive. What happens next, and lasts for the rest of the film, basically amounts to filmed theater. Stephen holds court in front of all of his guests and tells stories, some longer than others. The stories themselves are really interesting, detailing various things that have happened to him while making movies or just living his life. There is a hostage situation in a supermarket, a tussle with Mel Gibson during the filming of Bird on a Wire, and a beatdown by Thai Buddhist monks. The stories aren’t the problem.

Once the guests settle in no one else really talks for over an hour, and the gathering doesn’t feel at all like a party. Comments made about the stories are scarce, and it’s hard to tell if the other people there are even really enjoying themselves, or if they have heard these stories a million times before. At first, as we listen to Stephen as he cooks, we get the feeling this is just an introduction, but it turns out the rest of the film is more of the same. It would have been better to just have him hanging out in his kitchen for the entire film, drinking beer, and cooking and eating while telling these stories to the camera. It would have made the film more personal. The whole party facet of the film just feels false. He doesn’t really need another audience because he already has one, in us, the viewers.

In the end I was just unfulfilled by the film, and a little confused as to why it was made the way it was. As I just wrote, the setting was unnecessary. Stephen comes off well though, congenial if a bit ordinary; a guy who just happens to have some amazing stories to tell. The whole affair seems disjointed and not like any actual gathering one would actually have in one’s home, especially for one’s birthday party. One of the user comments on IMDB reveals that it wasn’t actually even his birthday, and that there were a few multiple takes for certain scenes, which—if true—only adds to my points. Still, I would recommend checking it out at least for the stories. They give some insight into LA and the world of movies from the point of view of someone on the periphery, and he tells them smartly. Just don’t expect anything more.

 

Back From the Dead

The lack of recent updates was due to my brother visiting me for the past week, so I didn’t get a chance to do any reading. We did, however, make it to four films at the film festival. Two out of the four were very good, while the other two were mediocre in various ways. I’ll start with the bad today and tomorrow and then continue with the good.

Awakening From the Dead (Budjenje iz mrtvih, Serbia and Montenegro, 2005)
http://imdb.com/title/tt0389823/

Directed by Milos Radivojevic, Awakening From the Dead is set in and around Belgrade in 1999, just as the bombing has started and the countryside and cities are being ravaged. Its concept intrigued me as soon as I first read about it; the story concerns a middle aged former professor named Miki who rises from his grave to revisit those who he left behind in life, including his wife and young son, his ailing father, his former students, and his closest friends. All the while, their country is crumbling and those he knew best are trying to cope. It holds a lot of promise, but ultimately never comes together as Miki encounters the loss and despair of each of the members of his past.

What starts out in vibrant color during his first visit—to his wife and son—gradually changes to rugged and sometimes grainy black and white, with occasional flashes of dull red, in the form of a sweater or a shot of liquor. The film meanders about as Miki, the protagonist, has conversations over drinks with the members of his past. They talk of family, their homeland, the bombings, and the future, and Radivojevic often utilizes fade-ins and fade-outs throughout the course of their conversations in order to connote the characters’ comfort with one another as well as the passage of time. These scenes are usually shot from mid-range, close enough to feel as though we are part of the conversations but far enough away to be able to witness all of the characters’ mannerisms and tics.

It works well to familiarize us with Miki, but the section of the film that comprises these visits tends to meander and lacks cohesion. He is a troubled man who can’t come to grips with the past and how he lived his life, but the personal and political aspects of this guilt aren’t tied together in a strong enough manner, leaving the film feeling disjointed. It only begins to really make its point strongly in the final quarter. The first visit Miki makes in the film is to his father, who is slowly dying from cancer. It is immediately clear that the two of them have a long-troubled relationship. Miki leaves him to make visits to old friends from there, periodically returning to his father’s home.

The final time he returns they engage in a heated conversation about the nature of nationalism and dangers of government, touching on how they have both lived their lives and on their homeland’s relationship with the west. It’s a revealing sequence that gives us a clear view into their pasts, while laying out the perils at hand in their country all in one fell swoop. Miki and his father come from ideologically opposed generations, and the gap between them is on full display here. Previous scenes of Miki catching up with old friends only intermittently exhibit the depth and intensity of this scene, and leave the viewer unchallenged.

This scene of father and son leads to the film’s harrowing conclusion, one which serves to reinforce the despair felt by these two men as they battle to come to grips with their differences. It also provides the closure that Miki has longed for throughout the film, and perhaps throughout his entire life. As he returns to his grave in the film’s final scene, we get the sense that he may finally be at peace, but he is once again leaving a world of which the same cannot be said. It is cynical without being sarcastic, with the director Radivojevic still concerned about the future and what it holds.

 

Pampas-fed beef

I came across this earlier today. As mentioned previously, I live in Buenos Aires, Argentina at the moment. This blog post was written by another outsider living down here, a Polish-by-way-of-the-United States painter named Maciej Ceglowski. It’s more of an essay, as it is quite long, but if you want a fantastic sense of what its like to live here for a while in terms of the food, its a must-read, and hilarious too.

Argentina on two steaks a day: http://www.idlewords.com/2006/04/argentina_on_two_steaks_a_day.htm

 

Cinemania

I bought my guide to the 8th Annual Buenos Aires International Festival of Independent Film today. It starts on the 11th. At first glance there must have been at least 40 films that piqued my interest. It lasts for about two weeks, so I'll have my work cut out for me. Last time I attended this film festival, in 2004, I saw 20 films, but slacked off during the first week, thus reducing the number. This time I'll have to come correct right out of the gate. I'll be back with updates on the films I see throughout the festival, which lasts from April 11th to April 23rd.

 

A Whale of a Time

I saw the film the Squid and the Whale recently. Since it initially came out a while ago I know a lot of people who have seen it, and I’ve heard both that it was great and that it was terrible, so I guess I wasn’t going in with any particular mindset about it. I do like Wes Anderson but felt that the script for The Life Aquatic was weaker than those of his previous films, which may have been because Noah Baumbach—the writer/director of Squid and the Whale—replaced Owen Wilson as Anderson’s writing partner. I was interested to see how Baumbach would tackle a situation so similar to Anderson’s most popular film, The Royal Tenenbaums (although not his best, in my opinion. That would be Rushmore), in addition to being interested in the fact that he based the script on a period of his own youth. Trepidation would be the word that best described my mood as I went into the theater.

Truth be told, after spending a significant amount of time thinking about the film and its impact on me, I still have not made up my mind about it. I certainly enjoyed it, and the writing was quite good. The acting, starting with the superb Jeff Daniels, was also very good. It is adept at showing the awkwardness and the fumbling nature of adolescence, and gives sharp insight into the politics of familial breakup. That having been said, what still bugs me to a certain extent is this: throughout most of the film, nearly every character in the family we are watching—the parents and the two kids—aren’t very sympathetic. Frank comes off better than the others but it is just because he is the youngest, but even he has moments of rebellion and betrayal. The parents are puffed-up self-styled intellectuals who don’t care about anything much other than themselves, and merely use their children as pawns in their divorce. The kids aren’t much better; having learned from their parents they take sides and act out in kind. Walt, the films protagonist and older child, tries to emulate his smug father in every way, and does a fine job, to the detriment of his relationships with those around him. He is self-destructing just as his father has. The problem is that by the time the film ends there is only the cursory sense that Walt has realized all of this and has begun to mature: there is a scene in which he speaks to a psychologist about his early youth, and then makes an attempt to reconnect to his past, a happier time. But this happens very quickly and seems to not be as thought out as the rest of the film. Without this crucial development the film is nothing but a family of misfits who treat everyone they know poorly, and to make a film just to condescend to its characters is not a worthwhile endeavor. It is clear that Baumbach looks back not so fondly on this period of his life, and holds his parents in contempt for the way they acted, but it is necessary to look deeper than to just condemn the participants. Walt is the film’s center, and we see its happenings through his eyes. As an audience we see the effects of the characters’ actions on one another, and we hope that Walt does as well. As the film is a semi-autobiographical account of Baumbach’s own youth in Brooklyn, one has to wonder if he is still acting out the self-righteous defense mechanisms of his father or if he has finally grown up.