To the Wonder (Terrence Malick)

The love that loves us.

Infamously known for taking an awful lot of time between projects, Terrence Malick has uncharacteristically weaved a quick follow-up (a little more than a year) to his critical hit "The Tree of Life" in the form of "To the Wonder", a solemn rumination on how love affects the lives of those who search for it. Faster than a bullet train, many have immediately predicted the film's unanimous critical triumph. But sadly, what happened was quite the opposite, as "To the Wonder" finally proved that Terrence Malick, one of the more beloved art film directors today, can also truly divide. 

     

Met with mixed amounts of laughter, applause and boos during its Venice Film Festival premiere, saying that "To the Wonder" is polarizing is quite an understatement. Perhaps some have grown tired of Malick's loose-structured style, while some may have seen through the grave pretense of his themes. As for me, "To the Wonder" proved to be quite a transcendent experience. 

     

To state the fact, it's not, in any way, a 'movie' in the most intrinsic sense of the word. Dominantly, "To the Wonder" is more of a feature-length mood piece. And like a sweeter Alain Resnais, Terrence Malick, through the use of deeply pleading narrations and breathtaking yet fragmented imagery, explores love at its most trying and at its most pure. From a Parisian woman's (Olga Kurylenko) search for the meaning of her romance with an American man, played by Ben Affleck with a sort of detached silence, to a Spanish priest's (Javier Bardem) quest to make one with his spirituality, the film approaches the many forms of love with articulate questions and wandering thoughts that it has delivered through the profound nuances of the French and Spanish language. 

     

By doing so, the film takes on a more personal level. As the film continues on with its various reflections, the film becomes less and less about love in general and more and more like a silently thankful prayer. And just like "The Tree of Life", "To the Wonder" is a highly personal project for Terrence Malick, as he himself, from what I've read, is basically the Ben Affleck character in the film. So in many respects, "To the Wonder's" creation is basically a form of unhindered personal expression. For an artist like him, expressing whatever he feels through written words is certainly not enough.

     

Like a well-wrought diary entry, "To the Wonder" is Malick's remedy to his various emotional ellipses. And although the film is as ambiguous and baffling as the next artsy fartsy film, its emotional content, as far as I'm concerned, is as coherent as it can be. The film may be branded as an utter piece of pretentious art, but what it cannot be accused of is deluding the audience's emotions. Like a beautiful romantic symphony, "To the Wonder" is a film that you just can't help but stop and hum along with. 

     

Terrence Malick, unlike any directors of any kind out there, treats cinema as his personal poetry book, and I couldn't be more thankful about it. Ultimately, 'thankful' is the key word here. Lyrical, elegiac and also quite life-affirming even despite its perceived ambiguity, "To the Wonder" is a film that speaks more truth about love than some 30 romantic films combined. "To the love that loves us, thank you."

FINAL RATING

Cries and Whispers (Ingmar Bergman)

Anna the housekeeper.

"Cries and Whispers", released in 1972 and is certainly one of Ingmar Bergman's more accessible films, is an emotionally moody and atmospheric work so raw and scarring that it's the closest a human drama can get to terrifying. And its story, my friends, isn't your typical Jane Austen.

     

In simple terms, the film is an emotional horror story between three sisters, one dying (named Agnes) and two (named Maria and Karin) in utter disconnect, and how they all try, as reluctant as they may be in doing so, to mend their fractured relationships. Oh, and there's also the maid named Anna (Kari Sylwan in a sublimely affecting performance), the person who has been the most caring towards Agnes yet isn't really being given much importance or attention by the sisters simply because she is just, well, a housekeeper. But is she, in the eyes of the terminally ill Agnes, really just that? 

     

"Cries and Whispers", for me, is easily the most frightening of Bergman's works simply because it has eerily established, with its masterful use of dream-like flashbacks and painfully ingraining dialogue ("it's all a tissue of lies"), the wounded core of an ostensibly functional family. Evidently, familial dysfunction is one of Bergman's most favorite issues to explore in most of his films, and here in "Cries and Whispers", I do think that it has reached its most destructive zenith. 

     

In a way, the film can easily be compared to his later, equally masterful "Fanny and Alexander" simply because they have both examined the hidden perversions and emotional hollowness of an otherwise happy and affluent family in a way that's both realistic and stunningly metaphysical. But for me, "Cries and Whispers" is much closer, both in style and in intent, to Bergman's earlier "The Silence", likewise an ambiguous tale of two emotionally strained sisters and their effort (or the lack thereof) to try and connect with each other in sexually abstract ways that only Bergman (and his legendary cinematographer Sven Nykvist) can capably and eloquently capture on-camera with so much dramatic force.  And just like the said 1963 film, "Cries and Whispers" is also extremely claustrophobic, be it in its literal 'mansion' location comprised mainly of narrow hallways and red-draped rooms or in Sven Nykvists's dramatically suffocating camera work. 

     

The film, in its immediate essence, is a darkly consummate chamber drama, but typical of Bergman, such simplicity is but a veneer. In ways more than one, I do think that this film is a definitive representation of who he really is as a filmmaker in respect to what he can present visually and thematically. For the former, this film, as usual, is an exquisite costume drama, and for the latter, it is a flinching account of how memories can forever scar the deepest recesses of the 'soul'; an aspect of existence which Bergman himself has imagined as a "damp membrane in varying shades of red" (the reason for the film's crimson visual motif). Even in the casting, headed by regulars Liv Ullmann, Harriet Andersson and Ingrid Thulin (three of the most stunning actresses the cinema has ever seen), the film is typical Bergman. 

     

Often framed in stark close-up shots, the three actresses effectively convey, through the most anguishing of facial expressions, the very shadowy extent of the soul. And in one of the film's most enigmatic sequences, we see the younger Maria (Liv Ullmann) circling around and caressing the older Karin (Ingrid Thulin) as if she's trying to convince her to give in, but to what? It is here then where the ambiguous questions of 'homoeroticism' and 'incest' come to play. But on the other hand, to accept such a perspective, as what others are claiming, is but a betraying over-simplification of what the film is really all about. 

     

"Cries and Whispers", essentially, is an ambiguous film about love regardless of context, and whether or not you see the relationships between the characters as homosexual or not is quite irrelevant because although the film is littered with potentially sexual images, love is really the film's central focus, and Bergman is quite comfortable in not letting his audience know where that 'love' is coming from, how it came to be, or why is it such a mysterious and elusive force in the first place. 

     

But aside from that, the film is also about trying to build a bridge between two cold souls (Maria and Karin) and the inability of such a bridge, built in the most hastened of ways, to instantly translate into a pure form of affection. Here then is where Bergman's often used concept of the 'Silent God' enters the scene; that even though we can call to Him all we want, there will always be this underlying current of futility in doing so because, well, humans, and the relationships they create, are just either too fragile or already damaged from the get-go to be mended in an instant, even by an all-knowing God. 

     

In conclusion, although I would highly recommend "Cries and Whispers" to every single cinephile out there, I wouldn't go my way as to immediately force it down the throat of a Bergman tenderfoot. Exploring his oeuvre, in my view, should be treated as a journey, and honestly speaking, "Cries and Whispers" is never the preferable starting point. But still, if you're looking for a peculiarly intense yet visually elegant drama, then look further, you must not.

FINAL RATING

Au Hasard Balthazar (Robert Bresson)

Two saints.

Considered by cinephiles as one of the greatest films of all time, "Au Hasard Balthazar" is Robert Bresson's lyrical meditation on spirituality, martyrdom and human cruelty, and after so many years, it still stands the test of time as one of the most truly reflective Christian films without overtly highlighting the fact that it is indeed one. Bresson, known for his minimalist approach to filmmaking, is never too easy to resort to cheap emotions and utter sentimentalism. Instead of examining the inhumanity of man through the eyes of the human characters, he has filtered everything through the primitive perspective of a work-burdened donkey named Balthazar, a symbolic manifestation of sainthood, and is also the silent absorber of all of the characters' worldly sins. The donkey, indeed with all his hardships and misfortunes as he gets passed on from one owner to another, is on the receiving end of a film that is really human nature itself, in all its ugly glory, in a nutshell. As what Jean-Luc Godard has once said about "Au Hasard Balthazar": "…this film is really the world in an hour and a half". Well, I do not know if he has just said that to impress Anne Wiazemsky (the film's lead, which Godard would marry a year later), but nonetheless, his comment on the film really is as truthful as you can get. 

     

The film, for all the critical accolades that it has received, should not be looked upon as a fine piece of narrative filmmaking. On the contrary, "Au Hasard Balthazar" is unusually clunky in its exposition, characterization and camera work. Sometimes, it even suffers from unwarranted scene jumps that are quite frustrating to sit through, especially when the film itself really calls for a more 'observant' approach to cinematography. While the characters, although it is given that majority of them are representative of man's cruelty to things and creations that they consider to be comparably inferior to them, are quite caricature-like. A specific example is the Gerard character (played by François Lafarge), a typical delinquent who seems to go through every waking moments of his life with a penchant to hurt those around him, including the girl Marie (Anne Wiazemsky), Balthazar's original owner, and the only person he seems to be interested in. 

     

Also, the whole 'legal' angle that Marie's farmer of a father was deeply involved in wasn't given enough emphasis, which, along the way, has resulted in some uncalled-for unevenness in the plot and some blurry character motivations. 

     

But in all fairness, all those shortcomings do not really distract from the uncannily spiritual experience that "Au Hasard Balthazar" has to offer. After all, the film is an emotional event and not a narrative one, and is more a visual reflection on the quiet beauty of Christian faith rather than being a story about it. For starters, I do think that I will remember this film not because of its story but because of its inspired, poetic and almost fable-like visual realization of faith and kindness within a subtle theological context. 

     

As a Christian, when I think of the words 'passion' and 'martyrdom', an image of a sweltering and exhausted donkey would have been the last thing to materialize in my mind. But after watching "Au Hasard Balthazar", as much as it is quite awkward to analogize a donkey's everyday plight to the soul-saving hardships that Jesus Christ himself has went through, I thought, well, why not? After all, the world, in all its evils, can indeed crucify a hapless soul in ways more than one, and who can better endure such an infliction by people 'who do not know what they're doing' than a pure, wordless donkey who neither does. As what the Blessed Mother Teresa has said, "God is the friend of silence". 

     

In my honest opinion, I do think that no other film in existence has tackled Christian faith in such a non-preaching light, and Bresson, for whatever deficiencies he seems to have had in the film in terms of storytelling, has created a cinematic piece of such innocent glow. Indeed, "Au Hasard Balthazar" is a film that has successfully tackled the essence of Christian faith without even looking like a religious film. And without an overtly Christian aspect to spice it up, the film has managed to overcome religious boundaries to tell a simplistic tale of purity and saintliness in a manner that is powerful yet very humbling. It may not turn you into a man of religion overnight, but it will certainly convince you to reflect on your way of life and on your beliefs, and to ask yourself the question of "Have I been good enough?" Such is the power of "Au Hasard Balthazar".

FINAL RATING

The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (Rainer Werner Fassbinder)

Petra and Karin.

My second Fassbinder film, "The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant" has caught me off-guard on how insightful its screenplay really is in terms of examining the painful nuances of love. Mounted by Fassbinder as something akin to a theatrical play (it was, after all, made to be one), the film chronicles, in an almost real-time fashion, the emotional complexities of a certain Petra von Kant (played by Margit Carstensen with an otherworldly sense of controlled lunacy), a renowned yet romantically jaded fashion designer who, after an unsuccessful marriage with a certain Frank, has decided to lead a loveless life. That is, until she meets an aspiring fashion model named Karin (Hanna Schygulla), a young woman who will simultaneously prove to be the best and worst thing to ever come to her life. 

     

Although Karin states that she indeed likes Petra, she can never say that she loves her with a straight face and with a full, unhindered conviction. Is she only drawn to Petra because of her fame and because of her money? Is she just fascinated by Petra's manipulative character? Or is it something more humanly unexplainable? Rainer Werner Fassbinder, a most emotionally articulate auteur in the tradition of John Cassavetes, seems unsure himself, but so are the characters. After all, the film's focus is not on the spark that has ignited such a romance but on the tearful aftermath of such a heavily conditional affair. 

     

Set entirely in a small but evidently lush apartment space, the film then explores, using long shots, deep focus and slow tracking shots, Petra's metamorphosis from a relatively sane yet possessive woman to a terribly lovesick sap who's just inches away from utter romantic lunacy. Fassbinder, through his powerfully amoral and emotionally insular screenplay (which he has written while he's on a 12-hour flight from Berlin to Los Angeles), has created an aura of detachment between the characters that populate the film and the audience, which makes for a more compelling viewing as we ourselves question the very reason as to why we stay on to watch such a cold, manipulative woman cry her hearts out for 2 hours. The answer for that, ironically enough, resides in the film's most crucial character bar Petra von Kant herself: Marlene (Irm Hermann), Petra's secretary and co-designer who sees in Petra an untamed dominatrix who she is more than willing to masochistically submit to. 

     

In a way, because of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's deceptively simple scenario and intelligent but admittedly self-destructive ruminations on love, we, the audience, were able to channel Marlene's unconditional subservience to Petra, and we are fascinated by it. But at the same time, we (or I am, at least) are also equally fascinated by our inclination to watch the Petra character unravel in front of our very eyes. 

     

Sure, we are abhorred by Petra's whiskey-a-minute behavior, telephone-centric existence and her constant bossiness towards Marlene the silent slave, but we just can't look away. Thanks to Fassbinder's subtle yet incisive portrayal of a lovesick woman who, at the same time, is also quite sick of love, our inclination and affinity to witness the film's developments and emotional devolution transcends that of a typical film viewer. Instead, we are drawn into Fassbinder's simplistic approach that's as melancholic as it is full of sound and fury simply because it speaks some truth. 

     

For a film that is composed mainly of painfully long shots and is set entirely in one location, "The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant" may prove to be a very challenging piece of work to sit through. But honestly speaking, I never felt the 2-hour running time simply because I was very engrossed on anticipating how Petra may ultimately turn out to be. Sure, she is such an alienating character in the fashion of all those 'rich and ruthless' film characters out there, but deep inside, her emotionally devastated heart is a core that we can all identify with. Love is a real bitch, you know, and Fassbinder (and each and every one of us) knows that. A quote from him: "Whether the state exploits patriotism, or whether in a couple relationship, one partner destroys the other." 

     

There was a theory on a great IMDb discussion thread that I have read which states that Petra and Marlene, figuratively and essentially, are one and the same, and that (SPOILERS) Marlene leaving Petra in the end is the symbol of their emotional deliverance, and is therefore adhered to the 'Stoicist' philosophical school of thought ("to be free from anger, envy, and jealousy"); an existential framework which is also specifically applicable in the context of the interpersonal relationship between Petra the master and Marlene the mastered (to accept even slaves and those that are considered inferior as "equals of other men, because all men alike are products of nature"). Although a film that is admittedly not everyone's cup of tea, "The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant" is a very rewarding piece of cinema. It may not give out the most concise feelings and the most reassuring of answers, but hell, isn't that what great films are all about?

FINAL RATING

Drowning by Numbers (Peter Greenaway)

Swimming.

If Kubrick's attention to visual composition as a photographer shows in his masterful films, then I can say just the same for Peter Greenaway, whose artistic sensibilities as a painter bleed through the constructions of his films' imagery. Take for example the scene here in "Drowning by Numbers" where a man, after drowning, lies peacefully in the pavement, with the camera looking at him from his feet. The scene, a moment of surprising serenity in a film that's filled with sexual and psychological oddities, religiously echoes its source inspiration, which is Andrea Mantegna's "The Lamentation over the Dead Christ". 

     

Such moments, for me, are what make Peter Greenaway's films more endearing to the audience, despite the fact they are often times filled with macabre violence and are adamant in its departure from conventional storytelling. But as what Greenaway has once said, he is drawn towards a form of cinema that is truly non-narrative, and here in "Drowning by Numbers", a truly challenging film that plays a macabre numbers game on sex and death, it is very much evident. 

     

Suggestive of the film's title, it is indeed, on surface level, about numbers and about drowning. But with Peter Greenaway, a filmmaker who, a year later, was able to create a cannibalistic parable in the form of "The Cook, the Thief, His Wife and Her Lover" and subtly analogize it with the evils of Thatcherism, the thematic assumptions that's represented by the film's "Drowning by Numbers" title is just too deceptively simple and misleading. 

     

But of course, the film sure has a semblance of a plot: A harmless-looking mother (Joan Plowright) and her two daughters (Juliet Stevenson and Joely Richardson), all of which are named Cissie, have this strange, almost fetishistic inclination of drowning their respective husbands and lovers. Along then comes Madgett (Bernard Hill), the local coroner who, because of his belief that the women will repay him with rich sexual favors, decides to help them in covering up their murderous deeds via falsely declared causes of deaths (heart attack and death by misadventure seem to be his favorites). 

     

Again, the story seems so deceptively light and, in true noir tradition, formulaic. But let's again be reminded that Peter Greenaway is on the helm, so expect him to play cinema, a form that he has long believed to have died many years ago, into his utmost advantage and in complete conformity to his one-of-a-kind vision. With numbers 1 to 100 appearing randomly (but chronologically) all throughout the film, be it in the shirts of quirky joggers or tattooed into the skins of forlorn cows, Greenaway is, in a way, making his audience aware of the uncomfortable fact that death is always around the corner and that it is not a scythe-holding, black-hooded man that may bring it to us but mere numerals. This, from where I look at it, stays true to Greenaway's fear that "The pretence that numbers are not the humble creation of man, but are the exacting language of the Universe and therefore possess the secret of all things, is comforting, terrifying and mesmeric.”

      

With his visual and thematic approach for this film, his apprehensive look at numbers surely and clearly shows, all while some calmly fatal horseplay of sex and murder proceeds in the foreground, not to mention some consistent feminist undertones that are reminiscent of femme fatale films of years past. 

     

Interesting enough, what makes "Drowning by Numbers" such a resonant art film is not its utter thematic seriousness but its morbid playfulness that can be aptly mistaken as a form of harsh humor. Specifically, I'm talking about the film's unique integration of bizarre games (invented specifically for the film), all of which are explained in aching detail (by Madgett's son Smut, played by Jason Edwards), into the story. Granted, it may or may not be truly integral to the whole film, but then again, that's one of those artistic liberties that separate a true visionary like Greenaway from all the others. Adamant of not taking the easy way out, he was able to punctuate the film's claim that 'death' can be liken to a game in a very exciting and fresh manner (partnered with Michael Nyman's classical scoring). 

     

Also, "Drowning by Numbers'" use of enforced repetition, which, for some, is quite discomforting in the context of storytelling, is fitting for the film's wholly playful nature. Some even argue that the film's story could have been easily told in 1 hour, but keep in mind that Peter Greenaway, essentially, is not a narrative filmmaker so the joke's on whoever said that. After all, Greenaway clings on to the belief that every medium has to undergo a kind of redevelopment and evolution. "Drowning by Numbers", by deconstructing the traditional means of telling a story, is a textbook example of such.

     

As a parting quote, Peter Greenaway has once stated that "We do have some ability to manipulate sex nowadays. We have no ability, and never will have, to manipulate death." Surely, that may be the case for our final hurrahs, but such is not the same case for film as an art form because it is independently powerful in its own right, and some form of manipulation, so as to attain a higher form of message transmission, emotional evocation and expression, wouldn't really hurt. Greenaway is quite aware of that fact.

FINAL RATING

Last Year at Marienbad (Alain Resnais)

Remember.

"Last Year at Marienbad", certainly one of the most enigmatic motion pictures in all of cinema history, is an exhilarating piece of art whose main intent is not to tell a coherent story but to evoke a multitude of moods, feelings and states of mind. Its director, Alain Resnais, is not much concerned with narratives of any kind but on the utmost potential of film as an art form when there's little to none. His earlier film, "Hiroshima Mon Amour", has a slight semblance of a story but instead capitalizes on the emotional landscapes of the characters. This one on the other hand, a pure masterpiece of modern cinema, is a journey of shifting moods and of the ever-changing nature of memory wrapped in the poetic repetitiveness of a love story that may or may not have been.

     

Set within the confines of a lavish chateau populated by high society people luxuriating in certain stagnant joys (card games and endless drinks), "Last Year at Marienbad" is about two people, a man ('X') and a woman ('A'), and their struggle to remember a romantic affair that they, according to the man, might have had 'last year at Marienbad'. Oh, and there's also another character ('M'), the man that may or may not be the woman's husband/lover. Mysteriously code-named like parts of a mathematical equation, these three characters are involved in an emotionally treacherous attempt to make sense of events that are eye-deep in abstraction. Can they even arrive at something akin to certainty?

     

Through the use of exquisite editing, "Last Year at Marienbad" was able to channel a hauntingly cerebral texture, which makes the film even more mysterious than it already is. And by merging flashbacks (or are they?) with the inferred reality of the film (or is it?), the film was able to take on a very dream-like feel which ultimately speaks of the utter unreliability of memory and the consequences of not having remembered much.

     

As with all avant-garde films, "Last Year at Marienbad" is a highly divisive picture that may either be branded as a stunning masterpiece or merely as a highly-ornamented piece of pretentious gunk. For one, it is clearly understandable for some viewers to categorize the film in the latter, with the film's lack of narrative being one of the primary culprits why it can easily be labeled as nothing but a pseudo-profound waste of time. But still, no one can deny the film's powerful simulation of what goes on inside a person's mind when love (especially a forbidden one) is painfully involved.

     

But then again, "Last Year at Marienbad" may really not be about love just like how "Hiroshima Mon Amour" is not simply about a happenstance romance. At least for me, the film's lasting effect is not really about how memories twist reality but about how love twists life itself. And in this elliptical masterpiece that is "Last Year at Marienbad", the ultimate victim is the mind.

     

Alain Resnais, one of the seminal movers of the French New Wave (although indirectly at that), has created his ultimate masterpiece in the form of this film, a hauntingly nightmarish depiction of the fragility of memory, of a love affair that really wasn't, and of a reality that betrays. "Last Year at Marienbad" is, at least for me, a profoundly anomalous take on how the phrase 'last year' could have easily been 'last month', 'last week' or even 'last hour or so'; it plays a bitter puzzle game on its three main characters and, ultimately, on us, the viewers. How did we come to participate on it? I have the slightest bit of clue. Perhaps the game just ceased to be.

FINAL RATING

The Silence (Ingmar Bergman)

Johan.

Not fortunate enough to have a copy of Bergman's "Winter Light", I immediately jumped into this aptly-titled film of his that's also the final film in his "Silence of God" trilogy. If "Through a Glass Darkly" is a religiously probing yet spiritually reassuring film, "The Silence", in a way, is its brooding half-brother. Expecting something reflectively eloquent, "The Silence" has instead caught me off-guard with its coldness. With minimal dialogue and the recurring sound of a ticking clock, this film may just be Ingmar Bergman's most emotionally distant and alienating film. 

With a plot that's very elliptical in nature and with characters that seem to act in vague, incomprehensible ways, it's a film that's quite difficult to grasp and be emotionally involved in. Yet strangely, its dark sexual spell, devastating performances (specifically by Ingrid Thulin) and Bergman's maestro-like handling of the profound landscapes of the human face makes "The Silence" a masterful mood piece that's definitely hard not to admire. 

The story, forged in simplicity, is about two sisters, Anna (Gunnel Lindblom) and Ester (Ingrid Thulin), and their complex relationship that teeters between affection and downright contempt. In the middle is Anna's son Johan (Jörgen Lindström), whose naivety makes him the perfect observer in the film. 

Compared to "Through a Glass Darkly", "The Silence's" spiritual and religious allusions are more inconspicuous, which makes it even harder to absorb and analyze on the basis of the trilogy's theme that is God's silence. 

With Bergman being a filmmaker that's more artistically inclined in capturing his actors' performances on silent, relatively empty locations, "The Silence" is a genuine challenge for him and cinematographer Sven Nykvist because they are compelled to shoot numerous scenes in busy street corners. But as expected, the film still came out to be visually stunning. 

Setting-wise, "The Silence" is primarily split into three locations: the hotel room where the three characters are currently staying at, the finely-carpeted hotel corridors and the streets. Tricky as it may seem to be, Bergman was able to convey the personalities of Anna, Ester and Johan by placing them in specific locations that reflect them as characters. 

Anna, the confused younger sister, is placed mainly on the busy streets to highlight her passively carefree attitude. Ester, the ill, emotionally tormented older sister, is perennially situated within the hotel room to emphasize her physical and emotional limitations. Johan, on the other hand, is constantly placed on the corridors to underline the fact that he is in the 'middle' of it all. Notice how he was never shown roaming the streets along with her mother. Look at how every time Anna is inside the hotel room with Ester and Johan, tension ensues. Despite of their familial ties, Bergman may have been suggesting that God seems to have given the three of them their respective planes of existence (the hotel room, the corridors and the streets) so that balance can be observed. But by integrating the concept of 'God is love' that's also present in "Through a Glass Darkly", Bergman complicates things again. 

In one key scene, he has suggestively shown that Ester is 'romantically' invested to her sister Anna. Clearly, her love for her younger sister transcends sibling affection. This therefore distorts things even more and again, the question of whether or not god and love being one and the same is truly a positive thing enters the scene. 

If God is love and love is what Ester is feeling towards Anna, then why is the former still under pain and suffering? If God embodies love, then why is it that the relationship between Ester and Anna angst-ridden, ambiguous and confused? Where is the guiding light? 

Amid all of these questions, Bergman's thematic God merely looks at the ultimate unraveling in deep silence. Perhaps Ester's love is invalid and wrong. Well, if that is the case, then God, as far as "The Silence" is concerned, is not really love in every sense of the word. The film seems to suggest that, to be more exact, it should not be 'God is love' but 'God is love...with some exceptions'. 

Arguably, Bergman is at his most emotionally nihilistic in this film. He took the concept of 'God is love' and smashed it right in front of us like some useless ornamental vase. "The Silence" is that shard in the shattered mess that cuts so deep it leaves quite a beautiful scar.

FINAL RATING

Through a Glass Darkly (Ingmar Bergman)

Revelations.

Ingmar Bergman, bar none one of the best filmmakers who have ever lived, has just proved here in "Through a Glass Darkly" that one does not need a complex set-up to convey something powerfully meditative. Merely utilizing the sterile landscapes of the island of Faro in Sweden, he, with the aid of the more than able hands of legendary cinematographer and frequent collaborator Sven Nykvist, has made a film that deeply questions religion yet also explores the painful beauty (yes, you read that right) of insanity. 

If John Cassavetes' 1974 film "A Woman Under the Influence" has presented insanity as something akin to a suburban necessity by showing how it can keep a family together in the most trying of times, "Through a Glass Darkly" depicts it as something that seems to border on the artistic. Bergman, by equal amounts probing and observant in his approach, portrays insanity not as a terrible mental disease but as a symphonic descent into the unknown. This, I think, is the only film that I have seen concerning mental illness in which I do not really pity the character's psychological condition but instead, in a strangely perverse way, envies it. What is she seeing that we don't? 

The film, a true landmark in simple yet reflective storytelling, is about a small family living on a quiet island and how their lives and own states of mind are being drastically affected by the only woman in the family's troubling mental health. Her name is Karin (Harriet Andersson), daughter to Martin (Gunnar Björnstrand), sister to Minus (Lars Passgård) and wife to Martin (Max Von Sydow). At times a seemingly naïve lass but more often a behaviorally mercurial woman who, as if summoned by a mysterious voice, waits so eagerly for the arrival of what he thinks is 'God' himself, her unpredictability causes general alarm to the family members. What is it that she is waiting for that they are all oblivious about? 

Through this simple dichotomy of insanity and the otherwise, Bergman is able to construct, in true auteur fashion, a philosophical statement about both the futility of religion and the intrinsic role of love in human existence. 

"Through a Glass Darkly", though not necessarily a film that's conspicuous in its optimism, still offers a subtly positive outlook. Despite of the film's increasingly despairing situation as Karin careens into psychological oblivion and as she finally finds out the true, beastly nature of the 'God' whose arrival she so patiently awaits, "Through a Glass Darkly" was still able to find light by utilizing some logical fallacies that solidifies Bergman's faith in human faith itself. 

There's this scene in the end where Minus and his father David, while contemplating Karin's fate, unexpectedly swerves into a melancholic conversation about the true connection between 'God' and 'love'. David, the classic image of a jaded yet hopeful human being, blurts out his belief that God and love is the same thing, and being equipped with that comforting idea makes him feel less empty inside. 

But with that, Minus, on the other hand the classic image of a naïvely confused young man, asks his father back that if God is love, then Karin, his mentally unstable sister, is surrounded by God because they all love her so much. With that thought, Minus then asks his father: "Can that help her?" (pertaining to Karin's condition) 

Bergman, at that moment the classic representation of an artist questioning the extent of God's power, initially may have intended to leave some of the film's doors relatively open. It could have ended right at that very moment but Bergman, immediately shifting gears from skepticism to enlightened assurance, made the father answer his son with the line "I believe so". 

With that dialogue, Bergman seems to put his own way of religious thinking in perspective. Not that sure, not that certain, but definitely adhering to some kind of light and hope, that line highlights what "Through a Glass Darkly", at least for me, is all about. Despite of Karin's description of the 'God' that she has seen as something akin to a monstrous spider, David, with his final answer to Minus' inquiry about the whole 'God is love' thing, is a testament of faith, however futile, amid weighing questions. "Through a Glass Darkly", religious-wise, is a film that raises doubts yet also enlightens. Only a few filmmakers can do that. Well, maybe only Ingmar Bergman can.

FINAL RATING

La Jetée (The Pier) (Chris Marker)

The moment.

If pictures can paint a thousand words, then "La Jetée", directed by the late Chris Marker, has solidly proven that putting them in succession can also tell a story that's way ahead of time and can also impart a futuristic idea that's both thematically transcendent and deeply human. Let Terry Gilliam's "Twelve Monkeys" serve as the main testament of the film's far-reaching influence. 

     

Composed only of black and white stills and a moody narration (by Jean Négroni), "La Jetée" is a surprising proof of the power of cinematic narrative even when there are no literal movements on screen. It's also a film that treads the territories of hard science fiction, the elliptical tendencies of time and some probing existentialism. Although the narration was structured like that of a poem, it has not fallen in the clutches of vagueness. 

     

The use of the photographs has also fascinated me because it has given the film an otherworldly feel, a sense of ironic calm (even amid its apocalyptic premise) and its own distinct identity as an art piece. Even with the utter simplicity of its execution, the film was still very successful in telling a complex story of humanity trapped within the cycle of life and death, memories and time. Well, maybe we will never see a film quite like "La Jetée" again.

FINAL RATING

 

Stalker (Andrei Tarkovsky)

Crown.

For the record, this is the first time that I have watched an Andrei Tarkovsky film and I must say that it was quite a spellbinding first encounter. Both confusing and enthralling at the same time, "Stalker" is a timeless meditation on beliefs that contradict what's empirically perceived and is also a deep exploration of intellectual apprehension. Part-fantasy, part-science fiction and, in some ways, a quasi-religious discourse, this film is unique not just because of the otherworldly concepts that has established the film's visual texture but also because of the density of what it speaks of. 

     

Although painfully slow in its pacing, "Stalker" is never boring because of the quite stunning ideas that it presents. The film, about two tormented intellectuals and how they are guided by the titular character towards the 'Zone' (a place that is said to have the ability to grant wishes), is an adventure of immense consequences. It is a soul-searching trek towards a proverbial 'end of a rainbow' yet it is also a melancholic journey made infinitely more compelling by the characters' constant polemics. 

     

At times, I even found the conversations and arguments between the three characters to be even more fascinating than what their mission awaits them. This, I think, is the thing that makes auteurs like Tarkovsky very, very exceptional. Aside from their command of the visuals, they are also in control of which language their films would speak. And in "Stalker's" case, Tarkovsky mainly chose the language of metaphysics to further the film's profound abstraction. 

     

With the film mainly concerned about the unanswerable inquiries about the meaning of life and the anxiety of both knowing and feeling too much (represented by the two intellectuals, one a writer and the other a physicist), it was quite obvious at certain times that the characters' utterances are personal musings coming from Tarkovsky himself. At one point, the film has even discoursed about the unselfishness of art and the shallowness of technology (the writer character claimed that technology is nothing but an 'artificial limb' which makes people work less and eat more); with Tarkovsky the auteur at the helm, that particular statement is obviously all too personal that it seem out of place in a film that deals with monolithic ideas about life in the context of despair. But nonetheless, it's also all too refreshing. This is why true auteurs and no one else can best capture intimate artistry both at its most divine and at its most turbulent; they just know it all too well. 

     

Now if there's a term that would best describe the feat of creating this film, then I think it would be 'miraculous'. A convergence of imagery and content, "Stalker" is masterful not just because of the technical craftsmanship that comes with it or the weight of its ideas but because of the equal distribution of both and the patience of how they were balanced.  And then there are also the locations that have made the film even more special. With the 'Zone' seemingly taking on a life and character of its own as the film progresses, the way the place was visually presented is quite impressive because of how three-dimensional it was. With a naturally pervading sense of unpredictability, acute danger and, ultimately, of spiritual transcendence, the 'Zone' has been the strong backbone of the film. 

     

Shooting in ruins, dank tunnels and dark sewers, Tarkovsky and company has molded the reality (or unreality) of the 'Zone' in a way that's mystical yet also consistently dystopian. Also, there were some great performances in it too, particularly that of Aleksandr Kaydanovskiy as the 'stalker' himself. 

     

In some ways, the film's final minutes, at least for me, seems to be a subtle commentary regarding the irrationality of religion (with that enduring image of one of the characters wearing a crown of thorns on his head as if emulating Christ) and the outlandish belief towards both the unknown and the unseen. But despite of the film's flowing cynicism, "Stalker" still echoes hope even at its subtlest. Amid the film's overwhelming sense of intellectualism, it has at least succeeded to be emotionally eloquent. Though the film has left many questions in its wake, it offers closure on an emotional level. That, for me, is what's more important.

FINAL RATING

 

Hiroshima Mon Amour (Alain Resnais)

Affection.

Bleak, moody and scarred, "Hiroshima Mon Amour" is a film of uncommon power that treads both the emotional trauma of love and the ravages of war. Amid post-war Hiroshima, the film has maintained a deeply soulful dialogue between two lost people desperately trying to feel, to fall in love overnight, and to understand. But this isn't "Before Sunrise" here. 

     

"Hiroshima Mon Amour" is just one of those legendary films whose allure can never be easily diminished. Yes, it is a truly impressive exercise in innovative filmmaking technique (it is the film that has deeply influenced the French New Wave), but buried deep within all its picturesque framings and compositions is a beating heart and a crying soul. 

     

With a quietly affectionate screenplay written by Marguerite Duras that contains stream of consciousness dialogues that’s as romantically longing as they are emotionally detached, "Hiroshima Mon Amour" conveys its power through its two main characters' internal articulacy. They speak in a manner that transcends the limitations of the tongue. They speak as if their feelings overlap their vocabularies. They converse as if they see through each other's hearts. A French actress (Emmanuelle Riva) and a Japanese architect (Eiji Okada): the two of them represent the confusion we call love and the despairing post-romantic reality we call pain. They both know that they want each other but they just can't admit it to themselves. 

     

In the film's early scenes, we see how happy the French actress is when she's with the architect (shot in effective close-ups). But slowly and effectively, director Alain Resnais was able to construct her ironically fractured past by way of fragmentary flashbacks in Nevers, France that's as dream-like as the cityscapes of post-war Hiroshima. Sporting a haircut like that of Maria Falconetti in "The Passion of Joan of Arc" in the past, the French actress, just like the aforementioned saint, is a martyr, but not in the context of religion but of love. 

     

Resnais has highlighted the fact that, like all women, the French actress just wants to feel love more than anything else but is deeply scarred to try yet again. She consummates the meager sexual pleasures with the architect but she's too afraid to go beyond that. She wants to feel once more. She wants to erase the past, forget and fall in love again but just can't because she knows that she won't be ready yet. 

     

There's this powerful scene in the film where the actress is telling the architect the story of how she once loved a German soldier back in Nevers, France when suddenly, the architect seems to take on the identity of the deceased German lover as he identifies more and more with the story. The actress, on the other hand, lost in her own romantic recollection, unconsciously talks back to the architect as if she's talking to the German himself. Despite of her new-found connection with the Japanese gentleman, she still struggles to see herself together with other men other than her tragic lover. She's a captive of her own painful memories.

     

With a slightly upbeat musical score that seems to mock the utter desperation in the French actress and the Japanese architect's happenstance romance, "Hiroshima Mon Amour" is a film that does not scoff at the idea of love outside marriage but instead seems to mourn the idea as to why should this limitation exist. Although that's just a mere observation from yours truly, I just can't help but feel that aside from the French actress' inescapably scarred past, what may also be holding them back is the simple fact that they are both married. 

     

There's this scene in the film where both of them, standing quietly across each other in a living room, straightforwardly expressed their utmost admiration for their respective husband and wife. Sure, for some reasons explainable only by the heart, they want to be with each other, but they are also aware of the fact that their marriages are too good to be on the losing end of their intended romantic transgression. 

     

In another key scene, notice how the architect is chasing the actress through the streets of Hiroshima yet the latter keeps on moving and the former, uncharacteristic for a person who wants to catch up with someone, merely preferred to trail her. They want to hold each other yet they also want distance and space. "You're destroying me. You're good for me," the actress told the architect while they are presumably making love in the earlier moments of the film; there's the paradox of their romance right there. 

     

"Hiroshima Mon Amour", aside from being a landmark film that has launched an entire cinematic movement, is an unforgettable love story not of two people but of two longing souls who, because of circumstances, just can't be together. "You saw nothing in Hiroshima," the Japanese architect said to the actress in the film's early scenes. Maybe that's what they need to believe in to properly move on.

FINAL RATING

The Double Life of Véronique (Krzysztof Kieslowski)

Irene Jacob as Weronika and Véronique.

Fresh from a blockbuster overload after watching “The Dark Knight Rises” a couple of times (and “The Amazing Spider-Man” before that), it’s a bit off for me to immediately jump back to my more esoteric inclinations. Now, here’s Krzysztof Kieslowski’s enigmatic “The Double Life of Veronique”, a film that, like the movements of the marionettes shown in the film, unveils its story with a certain hypnotic vibe. Honestly, I’m not quite sure if what I have seen is really something deeply meditative or merely a pretentious piece, but it is nonetheless an artful ride. 

     

Just like a typical Kieslowski film, “The Double Life of Veronique” appears as if little to nothing is going to happen and as if the main characters’ feelings are operating within the confines of an emotional plane alien to ordinary viewers like us. But with the Kieslowki’s usual sleight-of-hand at play here, and with that I mean his penchant for integrating deeply affecting concepts about love and identity within the visual limitations of a subtle drama film, “The Double Life of Veronique” is quite successful in a handful of levels. 

     

First, it is a well-crafted cinematic amalgamation of music and imagery (thanks to Kieslowski’s frequent collaborators Zbigniew Preisner and Slawomir Idziak). Second, it is a film particularly memorable because of Irene Jacob’s natural, iridescent charm and quietly devastating performance. And third, well, this is where the more ambiguous things come in. As an abstract film both in emotions and meaning, it is meritorious in just letting its own visual and auditory mood take over the reins of telling the film’s story (or the reins of justifying the lack thereof). But unlike your usually plotless art film, “The Double Life of Veronique” has an involving narrative working to its own advantage. 

     

Well, the story is quite simplistic. It concerns two women who look very much alike: Weronika, who lives in Poland, and Veronique, who lives in Paris. Both characters are played by Irene Jacob. From the hair to their dressing preference, they are the spitting images of one another. Hell, they’re not even related. 

     

Not aware of each other’s existence, the film’s metaphysical powers are slowly creating a bridge; slowly, we are seeing the connection between them. But Kieslowski, arguably at his subtlest, won’t let his film be tarnished by some clichéd chance encounters or life-affirming vis a vis between the two. Instead, Kieslowski has spatially set both characters apart from each other to first let their independent stories be told. Weronika, a considerably free-spirited young woman, is just inches away from attaining success in the world of opera singing. Veronique, on the other hand, is a music teacher in search of a meaningful love. From these simple stories of existence, the film is quite surprising in how it slowly widens its conceptual plane as it progresses. From simply being a drama film about two look-alikes, “The Double Life of Veronique” slowly turns into a meditation about distant duality and the spiritual and emotional connection between two people created in the same physical mould.

     

So, maybe this is where God enters this little humanist circus. Does Kieslowski perceive God as a playful master creator? An omniscient being that brings dead ringers into existence, intentionally integrates them into the stream of life and then watch the sparks fly? Is there some sort of energy that these two share that when one of them dies, the other gets weaker and emptier inside? Kieslowski’s vision for this picture is just too far-reaching and, at the same time, so wonderfully ambiguous that its idea just won’t end where this film already has. Take “Another Earth” as an ideal example. I believe that the said film is “The Double Life of Veronique” all over again. 

     

Adding a sci-fi element by incorporating a ‘mirror’ earth that is said to be inhabited by parallel versions of ourselves, “Another Earth” just took this film’s whole concept and made it a notch more complicated but a notch less fascinating. But do not get me wrong, I think that “Another Earth”, as a film, has its own merits. But at the end of the day, I very much prefer Kieslowski’s masterly stroke of using nothing as his ultimate explanation to everything. Though this might be considered as a pretentious cop-out on his part, leaving everything unanswered has made the film even more compelling and reflective than it should have been. Although we all have different takes on it, we do not hold the key to what it’s really all about. Perhaps life itself does, and we just aren’t looking closely.

FINAL RATING

Three Colors: Blue (Krzysztof Kieslowski)

Calm waters.

Even though I am clueless regarding Krzysztof Kieslowski's other works before I even laid my eyes on "Three Colors: Blue", and even though how frustratingly misleading the little summary on the back of the DVD really is, I still immensely liked the film. But not in a way how I may like a straightforwardly well-written film.

Deviating from filmic conventions, although it is in fact a very linear film, "Three Colors: Blue" manages to convey the deepest of emotions not much through storytelling but more through calculated camera movements and stunning cinematography (by Slawomir Idziak). And with that, the film has managed to make me appreciate its wholeness in much the same way how a beautifully experimental musical piece may capture a music lover's heart.

With a title that suggests immediate melancholy and visuals that further this emotional atmosphere even more, "Three Colors: Blue" is more of a mood piece than it is an immediate narrative. It is, as it flexes its finely-toned existential muscles, an emotional spectrum subjectively seen through the eyes of a middle-aged woman named Julie, played by Oscar winner Juliette Binoche, who, after being involved in a car accident which claimed the lives of both her husband and child, decided to completely remove herself from the life that she has always cherished and loved.

Starting her aimless goal by selling their house, all the other things in it, and burning the difficult concert piece that her composer husband has written to commemorate the unification of Europe but sadly hasn't finished, Julie rented an apartment in a not-so-affluent part of Paris and started to live her life in utter isolation, save for some slight interactions with other people here and there (with a young prostitute being the most notable).

But even though she wants solitude, there's Olivier (Benoit Regent), a colleague of Julie's husband, who constantly shows his love for Julie but is seemingly contented by the quite sad fact that he can only show it in futile admiration. But despite of that, he is always ready to support her in the midst of her emotional plight and is also eager to finish her late husband's concert piece. For a film (again, back on the DVD's summary fiasco) that has promised utmost 'mystery' and 'seduction', "Blue" is surprisingly warm and affectionate in its romantic notions and never, even for once, stooped down to an extremely sensationalist, 'sex for the sake of it' level.

The film is also quite rich in its visual interpretation of emotional alienation and frustration. With Kieslowski uniquely using sudden fades into black in scenes whenever Julie is met with the difficulty of answering questions that may unveil what she's really feeling at moments, and ingeniously injecting blue-colored objects to enforce the film's recurring color motif, "Three Colors: Blue", as it progresses, patiently develops into a purer form of art house cinema that criss-crosses between realistic human emotions and esoteric overtones.

Form and content, message and execution, these are the most basic requirements for a film to be considered as an artistic whole. For this film, Kieslowski balances both on a very thin wire as if a cerebral circus performer, seemingly experimenting as he paces along, even with one outweighing the other, but nonetheless, a walk that is not without a clear finish.

"Three Colors: Blue", as a whole, surely is a fine piece of foreign cinema that seeks to inform its audience that there's no such thing as a generalized emotional milieu for a certain societal stream. 'Existence is isolation', Kieslowski, in part, may have had in mind as he works with this film, but it can never be denied that he has created the film with a concrete glimmer of hope and a beautiful melody somewhere in his mind.

"Blue", the first chapter of Kieslowski's "Three Colors" trilogy, is a very effective drama film about tragedy and artistry. But more evidently, it is an ideal example of how brilliant the art of cinematographic composition, partnered with some achingly beautiful music, can really be when skillfully pushed to absolute perfection.

FINAL RATING

Sleeping Beauty (Julia Leigh)

Slumber.

Things happened. Mysteries were unraveled. A woman's adventurous desires and curiosities were explored. Yet first-time director Julia Leigh's "Sleeping Beauty" felt like nothing has occurred in its entirety. With its sterile cinematography that surprisingly enhances the film's numerous scenes and effectively infuses a certain fascinating spell into its very mood, this visual stagnation that seems to pull "Sleeping Beauty" into the more elitist forays of art house self-indulgence, ironically, has also been its most appealing quality.

With a thematic feel that somehow reminds me of "Belle de Jour" and a bit of "Eyes Wide Shut", this film deeps its fingers into the dark waters of moral decadence, that which involves prostitution, without articulating much explicitly about it. Though it sure shows high-class hedonism brought into the extremes and has initiated Emily Browning's character Lucy into a world of worldly desires and emotional abstractions, Julia Leigh has able to handle all of these heavy-handed subject matters with finesse, therefore highlighting the film's very elemental issue of sexual and psychological adventurism without visually going over-the-top.

With enough reason, I sure did expect this film to be a bit more daring than it actually was, based on its compelling gist, some hearsay, and Emily Browning's intent to flex her indie muscles, which more or less suggests that it's a given that she will delve into nudity. Admittedly, the film sure had its issues, particularly its sudden transitions from one pointless scene to another that really shouts of incoherence. But in many moments, Emily Browning's uninhibitedly strong performance subtly redeems all of these missteps. Of course, it's hard to rescue a film, however great its starring actors or actresses are, from narrative imperfections. Even the characterization of Lucy had its major flaws, specifically the fact that she did the things that she has done in the film without any concrete motivations.

Was it for money? Then why did she burned one during a scene? Is it for carnal pleasures? Then why is she constantly hesitant and unsure of what she's doing? Ultimately, maybe Julia Leigh is too set on molding a very complex character that she has unwittingly brought Lucy into a place with a tad too much questions without clear signs of answering them, let alone some tries to do so. But to redundantly express myself, Emily Browning sure has delivered a stellar performance in this film that completely erases her earlier fiasco in Zack Snyder's "Sucker Punch".

Now, to consider another perspective, Maybe Julia Leigh has intentionally painted Lucy's character in an obviously abstract form simply because she wants to convey her female protagonist's boundless alienation, both from her immediate environment and from us, the audience. "Sleeping Beauty" is, after all, a tale of a woman's aimless descent not into some cliched madness, but into a conscious reality of submitting to depravity.

But as deficient as the film may be in terms of its certainty for narrative goals, a scene halfway into the film has stood out the most on how it has perfectly deviated from the film's overall nature of existential aimlessness with its all too vulnerably human voice. It's the scene where this old client, as he gets ready for his 'turn' for the sleeping Lucy, poignantly recounts a short story to the madame, Clara (played by Rachael Blake), that relates to his existence.

He expressed the fact that all his life, he didn't have any 'broken bones' (symbolically presenting his mundane, all too normal and restricted existence) but merely pretended. And now that he's broken down and wearily old, he has regretfully conceded to the fact that they are now, sensing that everything's too late, that time cannot be turned, and it is only from this carnal retreat (in the form of Lucy) that he may find momentary peace.

This sequence really did struck a chord and left a relatively powerful impression within me with its assurance that at least in a film filled with meaningless encounters with sexuality, perversity and whatnot, there's someone who's indeed in the mix not for the utter senselessness of it all but for a tired admittance of defeat. A film that is truly not for everyone, and I mean it.

FINAL RATING

Antichrist (Lars von Trier)

'He' and a 'Hailstorm'.

"Antichrist" is, beyond Lars von Trier's titular allusion to religion, a harsh, denigrating and sadomasochistic exploration of the psycho-sexual landscape. At certain points, as far as descriptive cliches are concerned, this film is like a combination of Raimi's solitary horror (as displayed in "Evil Dead") and some gutsy bits of de Sade. It's relentless in its graphic nature, uninhibited in its sexuality, yet particularly hopeful in its catharsis.

Lars von Trier, who recently stated that he'll never make another film with a happy ending, convincingly pulled off a satisfying conclusion to such a crazy, debauchery-filled film such as "Antichrist". It's Dante's Inferno all over again, filled with ambiguously disturbing psychological insights that may not translate well into reality (it's a bizarre fantasy, after all), but still a balanced approach to human nature's unpredictability.

The film opened with a slow-motion, black-and-white, 'perfume commercial'-like sequence of 'He' and 'She's' lovemaking. Unbeknown to them, their infant son is already climbing into a table and reaching into a window. The child then accidentally falls into his death. Through this ironic juxtaposition, von Trier has captured it with a sense of hypocritical artistry. As 'He' and 'She' are engaging in a charged, 'not-a-care-in-the-world' intercourse, it was accompanied by a beautiful heavenly music. While on the other hand, 'death' is happening in the other room, with the child symbolically shoving the figures of the three beggars (representing 'grief', 'pain', and 'despair') atop the table down to the floor.

The lack of care was highlighted as the two characters' sexual vigor completely engulfs their care for their child. Is it a pitiful tragedy on their part or not? For 'She', it was unbearable, so the couple went into their cabin in the woods for some reflection and, hopefully, to cleanse off the tragic residues and heal emotional wounds.

With the main 'woods' setting simply labeled as "Eden", and the two characters solely called as 'He' and 'She' (Willem Dafoe and Charlotte Gainsbourg in such unrestricted performances), von Trier is seemingly up to no good. With too many thematic possibilities out there to tread, he chose to mercilessly destroy the idea of the thousand-year parable of "Genesis". But in the film's context, it's not the fruit that has turned the two characters into sinners but the raw fragility of the mind. He (von Trier) snobs the cliches that 'dreams' are the catalysts of psychology and goes straight into abstraction; he blended reality with the subconscious materialization of the psyche, resulting in a bluntly caustic depiction of a gender-dictated netherworld of phobias and fantasies that even went into the extremes of gynocidal fanaticism.

"Antichrist" is not your typical 'horror' film or 'psychological thriller' (IMDb being clever and knowing enough not to label it as 'horror'), it's way more than that. At certain moments, it even tackled the pathetic consequences of misled fatalism. The film is such a thematically layered piece of auteur work that just happens to be masquerading as a show-off of 'shock-a-minute' senselessness.

"Antichrist" is never biblical nor a religious challenge to the higher echelons of Christianity. And though admittedly blasphemous at times, it never ridicules the idea of it. Von Trier and his film is too consummately drawn into the powerful magnet of dark psychological stirs and its toll on the rationality of man that it dared not to look back.

To the detractors, you may ask, "why is this film even in contention to win the Palme d'Or in 2009?" To be honest, upon my initial look into this film, I also asked myself the same. But after looking thoroughly deep enough into what this film has got to say, the question has since faded. "Antichrist" is truly gut-churning as it is an exercise of strange cinematic eloquence.

FINAL RATING

Enter the Void (Gaspar Noe)

Existence in Tokyo in full, living (literally) color.

Gaspar Noe, an underground master auteur, continues his visceral exploration of raw human drama with "Enter the Void", an epic surrealist film with touches of the supernatural interspersed with unsettling colors and images going askew into a territory where despair is a way of life. Going as ambiguous as possible with the theme of 'incest' prevalent throughout the film, Noe combines the 'in-your-face' emotional gut wrench of "Irreversible" and the aforementioned theme in the psychologically disturbing "I Stand Alone".

With both approaches from these two previous films utilized, we have, in our hands, an assault to the senses that is also a dire though sweet cinematic discourse about sibling love paired with a bit of mental conflict.

The film was labeled as a 'Psychedelic Melodrama', which is of course an absolutely perfect description. But "Enter the Void" is also a perfect example of an experimental film made by a filmmaker with an imagination going through constant permutations. Its story concerns that of a deceased drug dealer named Oscar (played by new-comer Nathaniel Brown) and his transcendent observation of his sister's (played by Paz de la Huerta) life through transitions of fires and lights in the calmly transgressive night life in Tokyo.

Gaspar Noe already used reverse chronology, 'shock' filmmaking and continuous shots in his previous works. This time, he initially used first person point of view, then suddenly transforming into shots behind the protagonist's back. Not only does it provide a closer look into the film's degrading drama of sex and drugs, nor is it just a senselessly voyeuristic perception of the more sexually-charged sequences. It's also an emotional narrative device of how those people around the protagonist look to be too close to touch yet too far away to feel.

It's Oscar's sentiment; a feeling that could have been bastardized by over-exposition. But the film has captured it in a fairly simplistic manner by this unorthodox cinematic style that is also a product of an affluent dedication to the craft. Amidst the complex imagery and hovering eagle's viewpoint that explores the moody qualms of Tokyo, Japan, "Enter the Void" is also about an individual's alienation about those around him resulted by a stigmatic past and the endlessly agonizing consequences of unguided existence.

Films like these, although it may find a more positive general response from time to time, will always fall into two categorizations: Either be perceived as a pornographic exploitation wrapped in vibrant pretense or be particularly viewed as an essential piece of cinema. Either way, "Enter the Void" inspires divisiveness, which is what 'true' cinema is all about.

Modifying Truffaut, a film must either be about the joy or agony of making it. This film dealt with love and pain and strife and life. It grabs the middle ground and never lets go.

FINAL RATING