Crash (1996) may not be David Cronenberg’s most perfect film, but re-watching it this past weekend it strikes me as upsetting and strange even by the standards of his own work—and that’s saying something, considering that Cronenberg is the man behind such mind-fucks as Videodrome, Dead Ringers, and The Brood. Cronenberg’s perversity cannot be limited to a single genre or type of material; while he is often said to explore “body horror,” only two or three of his films could properly be called horror movies. Others are better classified as science fiction, crime thrillers, or psychological dramas. The one thing they all share is Cronenberg’s uncompromising vision, a determination to probe his subjects, literally and figuratively, past the point of their (and our) comfort.
Most of the great horror stories play on the tension between, on the one hand, the psychological and the realistic and, on the other, the realm of the supernatural. Rosemary’s Baby, for example, surprises us by confirming that the “paranoid” fears of its heroine are actually real. Other horror stories leave such questions open: does the governess in The Turn of the Screw really see ghosts, or has her sanity begun to fray? Is The Shining’s Overlook Hotel haunted by otherworldly beings, or only by the all-too-human demons lurking within the American family? Robert Eggers’ The Witch plays a similar bait-and-switch game with its audience, presenting us with various, sometimes contradictory explanations for the gruesome circumstances that befall its characters. But—unlike in, say, The Turn of the Screw—its ambiguities end up creating more confusion than terror.
Annie Hall is so often listed as one of the great romantic comedies that one is likely to forget—or never to realize—that it’s also a break-up movie. It’s a romance told in flashback, narrated by Woody Allen’s Alvy Singer, who lets us know from the very first shot of the film that he and Diane Keaton’s Annie are no longer together. With Alvy as our guide we spend the next ninety minutes poring over the memories of their ill-fated relationship, until we’re eventually deposited at the Upper West Side café where they have a bittersweet last meeting. I’ve seen Annie Hall dozens of times, very often around Valentine’s Day (when it tends to screen at repertory houses whose programmers also seem to feel that it’s a romantic film); watching it this week in the aftermath of a break-up, its melancholic tone hit me in a way that it never has before.
When Chantal Akerman died last fall I wrote that her films are less esoteric and forbidding than their reputations would suggest. Akerman’s engagement with “big” ideas—migration, feminism, capitalism—is often rooted in familiar domestic environments. With No Home Movie, her final film (it was completed shortly before her death), Akerman has made one of her most accessible and personal works. No Home Movie functions as a documentary portrait of Akerman’s elderly mother Natalia, a Polish Jew who settled in Belgium in the 1940s and who, at the time of filming, lived alone in a modestly furnished Brussels apartment. It also speaks to the broader themes and motifs of Akerman’s body of work as a whole, acting as a kind of summation of her entire career.
I wouldn’t number I Don’t Want To Sleep Alone (2007) among my favorite films by Tsai Ming-Liang, but it contains a moment so emotionally powerful that it stopped me cold. The film is—in typical fashion for Tsai—a bizarre romance set in a vaguely apocalyptic urban environment, where two men (Lee Kang Sheng and Norman Atun) engage in a wordless, possibly sexless love affair catalyzed by their sharing a mattress in a crowded slum. When Lee also strikes up a romance with a female nurse who works in the apartment upstairs, Atun’s jealousy is aroused, and in a fit of passion he threatens to cut Lee’s throat with the sharp edge of a tin can. And then, as Lee’s eyes plead with Atun to spare his life, Atun dissolves into tears. Lee caresses Atun’s face with his hand; Atun presses it to his mouth as the tears run down his cheeks. As Tsai’s films come closer and closer to embracing wordlessness (his short film from last year, No-No Sleep, contains no spoken dialogue at all), he becomes more and more attuned to the power of bodily gestures to speak for themselves.
- 2015 was a quietly satisfying year at the movies, both literally and figuratively. Most of my favorite films of the year could be described as quiet—character- and performance-driven, dialogue-heavy, many of them centering on female characters and relationships. As bombastic, borderline assaultive action blockbusters continue to rule the box office, I found myself gravitating toward subtler, more intimate fare. Even Mad Max: Fury Road, which became one of the year’s most unexpected critical darlings, left me cold—though I did enjoy the yin-and-yang pair of Westerns that ended the year, The Hateful Eight and The Revenant. My favorite cinematic memories of the last twelve months, though, were seeing the Somerville Theatre's Paul Thomas Anderson retrospective over the summer and, more recently, attending a two-day screening of Jacques Rivette’s Out 1 (1971) at the Harvard Film Archive. In addition to being an unforgettable experience, the latter screening proved that Rivette (may he rest in peace) was a better filmmaker—crazier, riskier, more blindingly passionate—than 95% of any of today’s would-be auteurs.
1. Writing in 1974, Jonathan Rosenbaum noted that Jacques Rivette’s thirteen-hour Out 1 (1971) “[had] been screened publicly only once…and remains for all practical purposes an invisible, legendary work.” Now, over forty years later, Out 1 has been made visible: it is available on Blu-ray and for download, and is being exhibited theatrically in select cities. Watching the film this past weekend at the Harvard Film Archive was thrilling, exhausting, and confounding, possibly the most memorable cinematic experience of the year. (It screened in four three-hour intervals over two days, with intermissions and dinner breaks built in.) Coming as it did on the heels of Rivette’s death, the screening felt even more momentous and special than it otherwise might have, as if (to quote the opening remarks by the Archive’s David Pendleton) those of us in attendance were somehow communing with Rivette’s spirit.