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SCREENING LOG
- 12/3-12/9, 2001
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I watched American Psycho, The Color of Pomegranates,
Oceans 11 (2001), Cleo from 5 to 7, and Hungarian Rhapsody.
In order of preference:
The Color of Pomegranates (1969, Sergei Parajanov)
A mind-blowing work that cost its director his freedom, this
is perhaps as close as one can get to cinema as poetry. Ostensibly
an ode to Armenian poet Sayat Nova but just as much a celebration
of Armenian culture, this film is bursting with colors, sounds
and images not easily forgotten. The fusion of mise-en-scene
with music creates startling sensations, and ultimately, a
new kind of language. I watched a restored VHS version transfered
from an original directors' cut (the Soviets chopped it up
upon its first release) -- I'm sure that on DVD the experience
is amazing.
Cleo from 5 to 7 (1961, Agnes Varda)
Why is it that people talk about Godard's MY LIFE TO LIVE
but never mention this film, which came first and is as good,
if not better? The story that charts, almost in real-time,
the two hours in which a pop singer deals with a possible
diagnosis of cancer, is catchy in its New Wave style but far
more valuable in how its cataloguing of everyday moments cumulates
in a prolonged epiphany over the value of one's life. Highly
recommended.
Hungarian Rhapsody (1979, Miklos Jancso)
A bewilderingly unique take on the Hungarian proletarian
movement in the early 20th century, by one of Eastern Europe's
most important filmmakers. Jancso is renowned for his use
of beautifully choreaographed long takes driven by stirring
music. Sort of like Tarkovsky on pot, the film is beautiful,
funky and had me in a kind of stupor by the end.
American Psycho (2000, Mary Harron)
A satire on 80s male corporate culture whose many moments
of hilariousness undermines its attempts at being deep. Christian
Bale is a gas as the psychopathically narcisisstic lead.
Oceans 11 (2001, Steven Tarantinobergh)
It's official, Steven Soderbergh is a hack. Full of the
hip, wisecracking buffoonery that passes as smart filmmaking
among teenagers, this film has little to offer besides a disposable
entertainment built on the illusion that you too can share
in the decadent exploits of celebrities who could care less
about people not in their clique. In other words, it's little
different from the 1961 Rat Pack version -- much slicker and
more entertaining, but no less empty and elitist. The film's
sneering amoral thesis is that if you have enough money and
can fake your way in and out of anything, the world, including
women-objects (Julia Roberts, who apparently doesn't mind
being treated like a pawn if it's in the hands of her fave
director) is yours for the having. If you can allow yourself
to be duped by the fakery, I'm sure you'll have a ball.
I also re-watched part of The Matrix, and not surprisingly,
much of my comments on OCEANS 11 can be applied here as well.
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