Sex and violence: "Week End" as psychotronic cinema

Earlier this week I wrote about Godard’s Week End (1967) as film that marked a turning point in the history of the French New Wave as well as in Godard’s career.  It can also be seen as a key example of a psychotronic film that blurs the lines between highbrow and lowbrow, avant-garde film and horror film, art-house cinema and paracinema.  Joan Hawkins has argued that these lines were frequently blurred by filmmakers like Mario Bava, Herk Hervey, and Dario Argento, whose films were as likely to get mentioned in the pages of Fangoria as in Film CommentWeek End strikes me as a similar case of a filmmaker working in high- and low-brow registers at the same time, however unintentionally, to create a film that ultimately resists classification or categorization. 

Godard’s 1960s films often flirt playfully at the margins of sexploitation and pornography, usually in order to subvert or frustrate audiences’ desire for sexual titillation.  Vivre Sa Vie (1962), for example, is among the least sexy films ever made about sex—Godard’s point being, of course, that sex is really just a form of economic exchange as calculated and emotionless as any other.  Contempt (1963), too, finds Godard cleverly obstructing the demands put on him by American distributor Joe Levine to exploit the sex appeal of its star, Brigitte Bardot.  In Week End, Godard drops an erotic set piece into the film that’s similarly prankish: he films Mireille Darc, a French sex symbol in her own right (though maybe not on the level of Bardot), delivering a pornographic monologue of some nine minutes.  But her body is almost totally obscured by shadow, her voice is all but drowned out by Antoine Duhamel’s portentous score, and the monologue is only a quotation from Georges Bataille’s Story of the Eye.  It’s an oblique variation on Bibi Andersson’s erotic monologue in Ingmar Bergman’s Persona, released the year before, which Godard had reportedly been struck by.  Both Persona and Week End are highbrow art films that play with, mix up, and in some ways deliver on U.S. audiences’ assumptions about European art films being both more sophisticated and more sexually free than anything that was coming out of mainstream Hollywood (which, to be fair, was probably true).  

Week End: The erotic (?) monologue.
But what struck me more upon re-watching Week End was the way that it anticipates some of the grislier mondo films of the 1970s and early 1980s, particularly the Italian cannibal films of Ruggero Deodato (Jungle Holocaust, Cannibal Holocaust, Cut and Run).  These notorious films, which have gone on to become cult classics, mix scenes of simulated rape and cannibalism, unsimulated footage of animal slaughter, and graphic nudity, all under the guise of faux-ethnography (Deodato’s films pretend to be documentaries, a device that feels in its own way Godardian).  I couldn’t help but think of Deodato as I reflected on the final section of Week End, in which our heroes are beset by a tribe of Maoist cannibals who have set up camp in the French countryside, and in which we’re treated to shots of livestock being butchered on camera.  While Godard doesn’t stoop to the same pornographic shock tactics that Deodato does, both Week End and the Italian cannibal films are akin in their spirit of épater le bourgeoisie.  In their casual ugliness, and their shared attempt to push at the limits of what mainstream cinema will allow, a piece of Eurotrash like Jungle Holocaust and an avant-garde art film like Week End end up meeting in the middle.  Such are the circuitous paths taken by films that defy the straightforward logic of the multiplex.

Exploitation and marketing: posters for Week End and Last Cannibal World (a.k.a. Jungle Holocaust).


The Films of 2017: Personal Shopper

Near the end of Olivier Assayas’ Clouds of Sils Maria the Kristen Stewart character, Valentine, seems to vanish from the film, having wandered away while on a hiking trip with her employer, an insecure and emotionally needy stage actress played by Juliette Binoche. Assayas’ latest is Personal Shopper, a kind of spiritual sequel to Clouds in which Stewart rematerializes as Maureen, assistant to another high-powered and demanding woman very much in the public eye, this time a fashion model and philanthropist based in Paris.  Maureen is revealed to be grappling with heavier traumas than Valentine was: a fledgling spiritualist, she’s anxiously awaiting a sign from the recently deceased twin brother who had promised to contact her from beyond the grave after his death.  But thinking about the broader continuities between the two films becomes helpful in understanding what Assayas is doing here, since Personal Shopper is otherwise such a curious and enigmatic work.  Though it flirts with the tropes of Gothic horror, the film is ultimately about Maureen’s struggle to define herself, her desires, and her relationships within a densely mediated and globalized twenty-first-century world—mediation and globalization being two of the recurrent themes of Assayas’ career. 


Fin de semain, fin de conte, fin de cinema: Godard, "Week End," and endings

Godard’s Week End (1967) is a film of endings and a film about endings—the end of a particularly vibrant and transformative period of French cinema, which had begun in 1959; the end of the French left-wing movements, which were to be squelched the following May; the end of the first phase of Godard’s own career, which constituted an extraordinary run of thirteen films made in almost half as many years.  There is a sense of self-destructive abandon about Week End, a nihilism and a brutality that makes it feel like a final film, in spite of the fact that Godard was only thirty-seven and would continue a career that has extended into his eighties.  Even at the time of its release Week End struck critics as the culmination of something.  “When it comes to Godard, you can only follow and be destroyed,” wrote Pauline Kael.  “Other filmmakers […] can’t walk behind him.  They’ve got to find other ways, because he’s burned up the ground.”  Godard as trail-blazer as well as bridge-burner: not only did he burn up the ground for others in Week End, he burned it up for himself, having gone as far as he could with his experiments with conventional narrative cinema.  Going forward, he would need to forge a new path.      

Flames and apocalypse.

And so it’s also a film that theorizes what comes after an ending.  Week End opens on a Saturday morning, as Roland and Corinne—along with masses of other bourgeois couples and families—risk injury to themselves and each other in their mad dash to get to the countryside (where Our Heroes plan to go about the routine business of poisoning her father for his inheritance).  By Sunday things have devolved into the stuff of apocalyptic nightmare: the roadsides are littered with burning cars and dead bodies, and the forests are teeming with robbers, terrorists, and cannibals.  The film does not end when Monday rolls around, however.  After the weekend is over Godard imagines a future that is something like a return to the past, as the survivors of this apocalypse re-enter a state of nature red in tooth and claw, butchering and eating whatever animals (or people) they can find.  Hardly a happy ending—in fact, one of Godard’s titles announces this as just the opposite.  But it’s typical of Godard’s Marxism that the film ends dialectically, with an ending that is also a beginning of some new chapter in human history, strange and terrible though it may seem.

Life after the week end: the guerillas.

The very last shot of Week End is a close-up of the self-satisfied Corinne (Mireille Darc), perhaps the most hideous of the film’s bourgeois monsters, casually eating the remains of her husband.  She’s only one of a series of would-be femmes fatales in Godard’s 1960s films who regard the destruction of men with a chilling neutrality.  Breathless (1960) and Masculin Feminin (1966) similarly end with close-ups of women left cold by the deaths of their paramours.  Is this an anti-feminist streak that runs throughout the early films?  Is it Godard shaking his fist at the amorality of an entire generation ruined by capitalism?  Both of these interpretations seem out of sync with the tone of Week End, which is more misanthropic than misogynistic, more savage than moralistic, and neither can be said to account for its black comedy.  In Week End in particular we’re made to wonder whether in the next twenty-four hours Corinne the eater will soon become Corinne the eaten.  All three films fade out on shots of the women as victors in some sort of game.  But it’s a game whose rules are random and in which everyone loses in the end.  What happens after that is left for us to determine.     

Closing shots: Jean Seberg in Breathless, Chantal Goya in Masculin Feminin, Mireille Darc in Week End.


The Films of 2017: Beauty and the Beast

Bill Condon’s Beauty and the Beast is the latest in a series of live-action remakes of animated Disney classics, following last year’s The Jungle Book (unseen by me) and 2015’s Cinderella.  The source material for these films, especially the fairy tales, is resilient enough to have survived countless adaptations and retellings over the centuries—maybe because there is, after all, no “original” version of “Cinderella,” variations of which exist in just about every world culture, or of “Beauty and the Beast,” the French lineage of which is attributable to as many as three different authors.  So I’m disinclined to get too bent out of shape over this latest film version, which is manic, overstuffed, and exhausting, and which buries most of the charms of the 1991 version under two tons of ugly-looking CGI.  (Even Howard Ashman and Alan Menken’s award-winning songs don’t get away unscathed—they’re pimped out and auto-tuned almost beyond recognition.)  I console myself by remembering that it is simply one more version of a story the legs of which are long enough to outpace any Hollywood blockbuster.


The moment(s) of "Brokeback"

Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain (2005).

When it was announced in 2004 that Ang Lee’s Brokeback Mountain had gone into production it was already being called the “gay cowboy movie,” and it seemed impossible to believe that it could be anything but a gimmick.  Then the movie opened at the end of 2005, and it became something else entirely—a critics’ darling and an Oscar hopeful, hyped up and buzzed about.  Within certain circles it was being hailed as a watershed film, while for others it was a novelty item with a premise too ripe to resist mocking.  And so it became impossible to see the film for the controversy that attended it.  Brokeback was more than a movie; it was a cultural phenomenon, a sacred cow, a cause célèbre, and a punchline, something on which everyone, myself included, felt the need to weigh in. 

Ennis cradles Jack's shirt: Brokeback as tear-jerker.

After seeing the movie in January of 2006 at Rochester, New York’s Little Theatre (I still remember the male couple seated several rows ahead of me, one with his arm around the shoulders of the other, dressed in army fatigues) I wrote a journal entry in which I decried the film for making its characters into tragic victims: “Brokeback Mountain’s ending locates homosexuality within a stranglehold of impossibility, danger, shame, and secrecy.”  I was a senior in college at the time and heavily into Six Feet Under, which seemed to me a more progressive cultural text.  These sorts of questions were important to me then.  All in all, Brokeback had left me somewhat cold, and I was not among those who were left heartbroken by its loss at the Oscars that March.  I later went on to publish an academic journal article on the film in which I made a sort of peace with it.  The complexity of the film’s relationship to the Western genre, and its playing with notions of space and landscape, insides and outsides, seemed to me more interesting and more valuable than its politics, whatever those could be said to be.  That was in 2009. 

A film about landscapes.

Now that Brokeback Mountain is more than eleven years old it has become easier to see it for what it is, without the distraction of the punditry and the noise of the winter of 2006.  Re-watching it this weekend (I’m teaching it this semester in a course on films about love and sexuality) Brokeback struck me as better made and more emotionally powerful than I had remembered, and its love story infinitely more wrenching.  If my 2006 journal entry is to be believed, I “was moved and even teared up a little” when I first saw it.  This time I found myself crying nearly all the way through.  I cried at things that I didn’t understand back then—at things I couldn’t have understood as a 21-year-old college student just out of the closet, knowing nothing about love or loss or sex, or what it meant to be gay in the world.  I cried to see Ennis cradling that blood-stained shirt, of course (one of the great tear-jerking scenes in movies, it now seems), but I also cried at the moment that Ennis decides, with no little effort, that he will attend his daughter’s wedding, and presumably begin the work of making a bond with the children from which his closeted psyche has kept him alienated.  (The movie also now strikes me as an extraordinary representation of the effects of sexual repression and fear on mental and emotional health; Ennis’ entire self is poisoned by his closetedness.)  I was moved to remember the loss of Heath Ledger, and by the brilliance of Jake Gyllenhaal’s crystal-blue eyes, so full of yearning and desire.   

Gazes of longing: Jake Gyllenhaal as Jack.

The moment that affected me most strongly, though, is one of the loveliest and most poignant in the film—the first of its scenes that can truly be called a love scene, in which Jack draws Ennis to him with the tenderest of embraces, and you see Ennis’ defenses, which are so hardened, stream off him like water.  It’s the purest, most radiantly innocent moment in Jack and Ennis’ love affair, before any outside threat has intruded upon them.  And yet already they have fallen into something that will mean great pain for both of them.  So many of the things about Brokeback that seemed so important in 2005/2006 don’t matter much anymore; what’s left is the love story, raw and urgent and as full of yearning as Jake Gyllenhaal’s eyes.

A love scene.


The Films of 2017: Staying Vertical

Alain Guiraudie’s Stranger by the Lake (2014) was a film in which erotic fantasies kept edging into the stuff of nightmares; his new film Staying Vertical is governed by the same dream logic, and by a similar penchant for the slippage between fantasy and reality, fantasy and terror.  It’s too scattershot to be really great, I think, and it feels like a step backward for Guiraudie.  But its surprises are so unexpected and its plot so unpredictable that it’s never uninteresting.  It’s enough to make you wish that Guiraudie had the discipline to do more careful work—or perhaps the ballsiness to be less careful. 


The Films of 2017: Kedi

In the new documentary Kedi, directed by Turkish filmmaker Ceyda Torun, cats roam the streets of Istanbul like urchins in a Dickens novel, darting down alleyways and clambering up drainpipes, hunting for food scraps and occasionally brushing against the legs of the local vendors and shopkeepers who have become their adoptive caretakers.  The cats make up part of the lifeblood of the city; far from constituting a public nuisance, they are met with warmth and affection by just about everyone who encounters them.  In this urban version of the peaceable kingdom humans and animals live side by side, sharing resources and looking out for one another selflessly.  A generous reading of Kedi would describe it as a portrait not just of the cats but also the people who tend to them, and the urban space they jointly occupy.  


Liberty, equality, fraternity, and "Casablanca"

Casablanca: Laszlo leads "La Marseillaise."

Is Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid) in Casablanca supposed to be Jewish?  We know that he’s Czech, and that he has spent time in a concentration camp before escaping to Morocco with his Norwegian wife Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman).  (Henreid was of Austrian heritage, born in Trieste.)  Laszlo is coded as Jewish in the screenplay but is characterized in such a way that his Jewishness is effaced; it acts as a signifier for his resistance to Nazism and little more.  That is to say that Laszlo’s Jewishness is implied but also ultimately irrelevant.  I got thinking about this question upon re-watching Casablanca this week, because it’s a film in which the figuration of nationality and ethnicity epitomizes classical Hollywood at its most ideologically left-of-center: it recognizes and smiles upon what today would be called “diversity of representation,” so long as everyone, whatever their racial or ethnic stripes, can get behind the values of liberal democracy.  Casablanca is a film both aware/respectful of cultural difference and invested in the idea that Western values can and should cut across cultural lines.      

Laszlo (note facial scar) with Rick (Humphrey Bogart).

Cosmopolitanism becomes a useful word when talking about this film, which takes place in a port city filled with transients from all corners of the globe.  Rick’s Café Americain is presented as a motley place of vagabonds and refugees where there is no official language, only a patois of German, French, English.  Typically, classical Hollywood films reflect America’s long-standing suspicion of cosmopolitanism, a fear of the outsider as other.  At first, then, it seems surprising to realize that Casablanca is relatively un-hysterical—if not necessarily “woke”—in its attitude toward a place where people of so many different cultures have been thrown together like discarded objects in a jumble sale.  Cosmopolitanism is romanticized at points in Casablanca, but more often than not the film adopts the same non-judgmental, matter-of-fact tone that Our Guy Rick (Humphrey Bogart) takes, or seems to take, toward everything and everyone around him.   

"Everybody comes to Rick's": the bar as cosmopolitan hub.

Eventually it becomes clear that Casablanca’s ideology doesn’t break down along the lines of domestic vs. foreign (in a place like Casablanca, everyone is a foreigner).  Rather, it’s about those who are fighting the good fight in the name of liberal democratic values, whether those people be white Americans or Czech Jews or liberal Germans and Russians like the minor characters Carl and Sascha, versus the fascists.  The film continually, and movingly, stages scenes of cross-cultural unity in the name of those liberal democratic values, as in the famous bit when Laszlo strikes up the house band to play an impromptu rendition of “La Marseillaise,” and virtually the whole bar joins in, regardless of their nationality.  (The French national anthem becomes a symbol for the whole Allied cause.)  In other words, the movie doesn’t seem to care who you are or where you come from, as long as you’re on the right side of the fight.  The Americanness of Rick’s Café Americain (which bears no resemblance to any real American nightclub of its time) may have to do with this particular type of of conditional inclusion.  Everyone can come to Rick’s if they agree to play by the house rules.


From the archives: "Working the room"

When I wrote the following review of Gosford Park sometime in early winter, 2002, I had only seen a couple of other Robert Altman films: Nashville, Cookie’s Fortune, and maybe also Short Cuts and The Player, all on smeary VHS tapes that cropped most of the actors out of frame and suffered from such muddy sound mixing that it was impossible to catch the nuances of the dialogue.  In spite of that, I was already an Altman fan.  But seeing Gosford Park in the theater, projected on a big screen in its proper aspect ratio, with decent speakers, I was finally able to see and hear what made his films so special: the vast canvases of people circling each other, and the steady stream of talk—dumb talk, witty talk, come-ons and insults and awkward stammers and barbed quips and subtle evasions.  I loved Gosford Park immediately.  It’s still one of my favorite of Altman’s films; putting in the DVD to take screen captures for this post, I was tempted to re-watch the whole thing.  As I mentioned previously, I was a die-hard “Paulette” at this point in my life, and that shows in the writing here (I still am, of course, but I like to think I no longer ape the style of Ms. Kael’s prose so obviously):

“Altman divides the action between the wealthy guests ‘above stairs’ (refined, quietly loathing one another, gossiping to no end) and the crew of servants below (tireless, embittered, gossiping to no end)—the result is largely comical, and Altman is right to see it all as one big circus, despite the adultery and the murder and the secrets.  He’s too smart to get preachy or even serious now, and too smart to think that we would fall for it, especially coming from him.  It was thirty years ago that he tripped the country music business flat on its face, and now he’s still busy finding farce in the communion of group activities, taking down the pretty masks to unveil the ghouls.  The intimate scenes in his movies are no match for his crowds, because he’s more of a people person than an artist tortured with introversion.  Altman’s genius has always been working the room to catch the silliness, the great stupid irony of it all; he lost in his last films [e.g. Cookie’s Fortune], and now he’s found it again.  He’s in control, and we can feel it. […]

Gosford Park (dir. Robert Altman, 2001).

“It’s strongest in the first half, which culminates in a stunning dinner sequence…As the camera reveals an elegant dining table laid out with all the trimmings, it’s enough to make our mouths water with anticipation, imagining just what will happen when the table fills up with the guests.  And while the lords and their ladies are ambling in with their dinner jackets and gowns, whispering and smoking and shooting glances, sneaking away for affairs in the hallway, the army of servants are cooking and polishing and washing, measuring the distances of the silverware at each place setting.  Thankfully, Altman doesn’t pile on the usual froth about the slaves being nobler than the masters—here, everyone is just as catty and shitty as everyone else.”

Three women: Kirsten Scott-Thomas, Maggie Smith, Kelly MacDonald.


"Potemkin" and its legacies

Battleship Potemkin: the Odessa steps sequence.

Pauline Kael once referred to Battleship Potemkin (1925) as a “cartoon”; we can assume that she was referring not only to this great film’s rudimentary Marxist characterizations (virile, heroic proles vs. grotesque, corrupt figures of authority) but also to its kinetic visual energy.  It’s a polemical film of cartoon heroes and villains cut together at breakneck speed, one in which action and motion are used as tools of cinematic as well as ideological rhetoric.  For all its reputation as a classroom movie—a staple of Intro-to-Film-Studies courses around the world—Potemkin is compulsively watchable, lean and punchy, perhaps because it was designed as a piece of agit-prop made to engage mass audiences.  Woodrow Wilson is alleged to have said that The Birth of a Nation was like “writing history with lightning,” a claim that could just as easily be applied to Potemkin, the violent shorthand rhythms of which resemble other forms of modern discourse: the clackings of the telegraph and the newspaper press, the screaming capital letters of a broadside, the jagged, stabbing repetitions of Stravinsky’s Rite of Spring.     

The plate-smashing sequence: broken crockery and montage editing, a shower of fragments.

Potemkin is an action movie organized around three action set pieces: the mutiny, the massacre on the Odessa steps, and the rendezvous with the squadron.  In these set pieces we can see not only the seeds of the modern action thriller but the creation of an entire language for generating cinematic tension.  The visual vocabulary of something like Game of Thrones’ “Battle of the Bastards,” with its elaborate clashings of individuals and groups, owes everything to Eisenstein (Potemkin as well as Alexander Nevsky); the battle sequences in Peter Jackson’s The Return of the King are structured as a series of miniature narratives much in the same way that Potemkin’s mutiny and massacre are big stories made up of many smaller ones; and one can’t help but think of Hitchcock’s use of close-ups when, during the finale of Potemkin, the barrels of the cannons stare down the eye of the camera like the assassin’s gun in the Albert Hall sequence of The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956 version).  Is it too much of a stretch to see the half-second-long, almost subliminal close-up of the Union soldier being shot in the face by Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind as bearing the influence of Eisenstein’s famous close-up of the bloody woman with the pince-nez?  Perhaps; though the reach of Eisenstein’s influence has been so vast that who can say where it stops?