Frances Ha (Noah Baumbach)

Girls just want to have fun.

It's one thing for a film to show life's heartaches in all its tearful, emotional glory, but it's altogether another for it to look at everything as if they're all but punchlines of a very funny story. The latter, I think, is always the more difficult one to pull off, and "Frances Ha" did just that without even figuratively letting out sweat. Throughout the film, there are hints about love and sex and relationship, but it's really more about the bumbling life of this girl named Frances, played with an entertaining kind of passive-aggressiveness by Greta Gerwig, and her bittersweet struggles through the 'black and white' metropolis of existence, all while these three crumble in front of her very eyes. 

Despite it being a story of a modern woman who we can pretentiously brand as some kind of a bird whose feather is just too bright for her own good, the film is unexpectedly brimming with so much naivety that you can excuse her foibles not just because it's cute and all but because we can understand her blunders. Frances may not necessarily be likable in the same way the characters portrayed by Katherine Heigl and Jennifer Aniston (then again, I'm not saying that you should like them in the first place) in all those junk chick-flicks out there are, but in her, I can sense someone real and breathing and very, very tangible. She's the kind of character who you can normally bump into on some busy avenue, share a brief smile with, and then be both on your way. 

As far as I'm concerned, Frances is as real as any modern female character can get, and it's very smart to show this honesty without reducing and locking her up within a basic 'girl meets boy' plot. "Frances Ha" is, for the record, a love story, but not between two very specific people but more with life itself, and how just wandering through it, sans responsibilities, will inevitably lead you into finding both what you really are and what you're not. And though I have this great urge to brand "Frances Ha" as a film about 'friendship' (between Frances and her best friend, Sophie), really, it's not. I even want to go out of my way and label the film as a comedy but it's really more concerned with the honest-to-goodness dramatic bummers of a twenty-something woman and not with some of her inconsequential quirks ala Wes Anderson. In retrospect, "Frances Ha" really is a film that's almost impossible to categorize simply because it works as some kind of a romance-drama-comedy genre hybrid without really being any of them because it's really just, all along, about this carefree woman who's merely being herself.     

As much as possible, I don't want to reference Woody Allen in my reviews of dramedy films because it's just too ho-hum to do so, but "Frances Ha", minus the almost disturbing dose of neurosis and cynicism, is perhaps what a Woody Allen film may look like if he's a little less world-weary, less redundantly psychoanalytical, and, yes, a tad less sexual. Directed by "The Squid and the Whale's" Noah Baumbach, the film is, just like the aforementioned 2005 indie sleeper, is virtually plotless and its cast not much acting but merely being themselves while saying trivial things that, when you think of it, actually matters. Case in point: The scene where Frances describes, half-drunk,what she really wants in a relationship. That's just pure movie magic right there. 

The script (co-written by Gerwig herself), in all its looseness, is very effective in impeccably highlighting Frances' aimless pursuit of dancing and, subsequently, happiness as a whole. Though some women may not like it if I declare Frances as 'what a modern woman should look and act like" (especially today where the archetypal 'empowered woman' is the 'in' thing this side of the glass ceiling), I think it is but right to brandish her with such a label because, hey, she's as imperfect as imperfect can be, and isn't modern living?

In "Frances Ha", there's no story but only Frances' life, there's no love but only her idealized concept of it, and there's no actual, concrete friendship but only her dreams of, one day, having such that would never go away. And her goal? To dance and choreograph. Perhaps she's too naive and awkward and a notch too 'undateable' to choreograph and orchestrate an entire production number let alone her very life as it happens, but Frances couldn't care less. Sometimes, at least for her, to want something without ever enacting upon it may just be enough because, sooner or later, it CAN just happen, all while she's having fun with herself and making fun of what she is and what she cannot be. As one of the staple sayings of this 'Tumblr' generation goes: "She saved everyone but couldn't save herself." But wait, Frances is not the martyr type, and no, she's really not keen on saving anyone, so read that quote again the other way around and you will pretty much have the idea of what Frances' "aimless goal" in life ultimately is. Shite. Freakin' oxymoron right there. 

Undateable.

FINAL RATING

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

Scenes from a Marriage (Ingmar Bergman)

A couple.

Originally aired on television as a six-part miniseries, Ingmar Bergman's "Scenes from a Marriage" is an epic chronicle of the on and off marriage between Johan (Erland Josephson) and Marianne (Liv Ullmann), two middle-aged professionals, and how their relationship, throughout the years, has transitioned from the superficial to the heavily conditional to the beautifully transcendental. 

The film, which is Ingmar Bergman's highly intelligent and realistic examination of the complexity of modern marriage, is, so far, the most honest and thorough 'marriage' film that I've ever seen. And thanks to the neutral emotional reality that the film has presented, I was able to watch the film objectively and without any gender-related predilections. The film, after all, is never about some sort of war between sexes. What "Scenes from a Marriage" is in fact all about is the idea that giving up on a marriage doesn't necessarily mean that you're also giving up on love. 

Sometimes, as what the film ironically and controversially suggests, to remove oneself from the conventions of a superficial marriage may result on love in a deeper context. Johan and Marianne, two romantic souls who initially thought that they have grown tired and contemptuous of each other and that they can be happy again in the arms of other people, have discovered, in a very hard way, that it's not each other that they are tired of but the mere shackles of their humdrum of a marriage; and that in the end, even though it's some other people they want, it's only each other that they truly need. 

Highly unusual for Ingmar Bergman, "Scenes from a Marriage" never delves into visual and thematic profundity perhaps because its ideas are expressed not through stunning images and moods but through spoken words. Even Sven Nykvist, known for his masterful, almost dream-like approach to cinematography, takes on a more urgent and simple style for this one. After all, with this project, it was Bergman's utilitarian intent to reach a wider audience, and indeed, he has succeeded; so much that he was ultimately forced to change his telephone number so as to avoid countless random calls from couples seeking marriage advice. 

As for the performances, it's but given for both Liv Ullmann and Erland Josephson (both Bergman regulars) to deliver multifaceted performances that are as incendiary as they are tender. And although by no means am I saying that both Ms. Ullmann and Mr. Josephson are unattractive (Ullmann is in fact one of the most luminous faces in all of cinema), they have both embodied the personalities of the married couple in a way that they wouldn't care less on how they would look in a dingy pajama or in a business attire. Unlike other 'marriage' films nowadays where actors are chosen based on their looks and how their face values would help in endearing the story to the audience, which almost always results in disastrous alienation, "Scenes from a Marriage" begs to differ. By presenting Johan and Marianne in a very non-special way, both physically and emotionally (they were even branded as 'emotional illiterates'), the audience, with its television success as withstanding proof, were able to connect easily with the couple in all their vulnerabilities and imperfections. 

"Scenes from a Marriage", with its almost 3 hours running time, may prove to be quite infuriating to watch for some, especially because of the fact that it's a dialogue-driven, often visually static film. But do watch it for the performances, the energy and the insights. Believe me, it will be one of the most realistically introspective films you'll ever see about relationships and, ultimately, about love after marriage. This is Bergman channeling his inner marital therapist, and he does not disappoint.

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

Chungking Express (Wong Kar-wai)

Femme fatale.

In the same year that Quentin Tarantino's "Pulp Fiction" has unexpectedly revolutionized an entire film culture, a film entitled "Chungking Express", directed by one of Tarantino's film heroes, Wong Kar-wai, came forth with a similarly unique visual flair but on a wholly different emotional scale, and the rest, folks, is cinema history. With an imagery that resembles that of paintings created by the most turbulent-minded of artists and with an emotional center that seems so innocent yet so knowing, the film is a stimulating reminder of how nice it is to live and, more importantly, to love. Well, and also maybe some hints of how lovely it really is to eat (the film, after all, is filled with endless shots of food). 

     

Shot mostly within the confines of a cheap but suggestively lucrative lunch shack named "Midnight Express", the film chronicles, in achingly beautiful sounds and colors, the story of two lovelorn police officers, Cop 223 (Takeshi Kaneshiro) and Cop 663 (Tony Leung Chiu Wai), and how they painfully (and humorously) cope up with their romantic grief via their own personal idiosyncrasies. The first, a mid-twenties officer, is so pained by the estrangement of a certain girlfriend named May that he decides to buy a can of pineapple every single night until it piles up to 30. But the catch is that he only buys the ones that have an expiry date of May 1 (his birthday) so that when the said date finally comes and 'May' is still not back in his arms, it's only then that he can arrive at the conclusion that she really doesn't want him anymore, and that those fast-expiring pineapples need some desperate eating. 

The second one, an officer literally living beside the airport, is silently devastated when her stewardess of a girlfriend has suddenly left him alone, needy and slightly schizophrenic, as he begins to talk to his stuff toys, console his towels and scold his soaps, among others. 

     

But with utter disconnect, naturally, also comes a chance to connect anew. First, there's the mysterious, blond-wigged woman (Brigitte Lin), possibly a high-class low-life who has caught 223's love-hungry eyes. And then there's the infinitely quirkier Faye (Faye Wong), a short-haired young woman who's got this idiosyncratic affinity with the song "California Dreamin'". By emotionally patching these characters together to cope up with an increasingly apathetic Metropolitan existence with all their personal frustrations, vulnerabilities and imperfections intact, Wong Kar-wai has cleverly toned down "Chungking Express'" potentially overbearing angle on love to the point that the film itself is not anymore a dual tale of love but simply, in itself, a mere cinematic slice of life. 

     

Well, granted, a more stylized version of life, that is, but still, with Wong Kar-wai's wisely organic yet weirdly fascinating approach on characterization and his purely artistic sensibility of merging his sometimes frantic but often times observant imagery with stirring music to create an audiovisual kaleidoscope, "Chungking Express" has attained a cinematic form that is wholly its own. Is the film a romantic fare? Sure, but it has something more to say than that. Is the film, then, an existential feature? Perhaps, but the film evokes so much joy and naïve wonder that problems of existence just cannot seem to feign its enthusiasm and vigor for life (and love) at all. 

     

With those certain indecisions about the film's real categorization, I think it's more than safe to assume that "Chungking Express", in the process, has created a new, specific type of cinematic language, specifically on how it has meandered and reflected on the qualms of love and life yet preserves its pristine affinity to just breathe, hope and desire. If "Chungking Express'" main intent is to shake me out of my apathy and convince me into wandering the streets of wherever to search for a person who may or may not repay the love that I may offer, then the film has failed. The film, after all, is never an operational 'how to' guide on finding a lost soul to connect to. Instead, it is, more significantly, a film that shows the leaps and bounds of how a certain love is lost and once again found; of a life merely wasted and a life well-lived. "Chungking Express" is just a reminder of how beautiful and reassuring it is to know that in every stream of people you may come across, there's always that one person who may just return your smile with an even bigger, more luminescent one. And better yet, there may also be that someone who may just go their way to draw you a crude boarding pass that may bring you somewhere worthwhile. 

     

"Chungking Express", with its one-of-a-kind cinematic approach, is more concerned, in the context of love and existence, on how to say things rather than what to say, how to feel than what to feel, and how to properly enunciate emotions rather than how to choose the right words for it. And for that, I fully commend it. Only few films can make you feel so alive, and only few films, simply put, can make you feel very fortunate of having seen them. This counts as one, and I hope that its ability to make people feel may last more than 223's pineapples.

FINAL RATING

Thy Womb (Brillante Mendoza)

Love and marriage.

Although the most highly-honored Filipino film director of all time (he has won the Best Director award at the Cannes Film Festival back in 2009), Brillante Mendoza is without a doubt also the most divisive one. With a body of work that range from the sexually controversial "Serbis" to the shockingly violent "Kinatay", Mendoza is, in a way, an icon of cinematic polarization. Some see him as a maverick hack, but some (including yours truly) also see him as a most important filmmaker whose cinematic unpredictability and rough-edged approach to filmmaking exemplify what modern, eye-opening cinema should be. 

     

"Here is a film that forces me to apologize to Vincent Gallo for calling "The Brown Bunny" the worst film in the history of the Cannes Film Festival," says Roger Ebert, arguably the most famous film critic in the world, while pertaining to Mendoza's "Kinatay". In a way, the negative reception that his films often receive can fairly be attributed to his film's elliptical nature and explicit content. But his latest film "Thy Womb", an official Metro Manila Film Festival Entry and is also a return acting effort from Nora Aunor, may very well be a solid proof of how visually and thematically eloquent Brillante Mendoza really is as a filmmaker even without venturing into the world of violence and fornication. Well, to be exact, he has already exercised his prowess as an intrinsically fine filmmaker by way of his earlier films like "Kaleldo" and "Lola". But for the record, "Thy Womb" is his first film in a very long time that does not wear poverty as some kind of an exploitative mask. Instead, what it has truthfully donned is the entirety of a culture and a tradition, and I can't say that I was disappointed by how he has pulled it off. 

     

Set in a fishing village in Tawi-Tawi, "Thy Womb" is an inexorably rich and humanistic portrait of the island's humble beauty. On paper, it seems that Brillante Mendoza, a most rugged filmmaker, may just be, well, too visually 'rough' to handle a story that's set in a place of such delicate and picturesque beauty. On the contrary, his style proves to be just perfect, and so are the principal actors involved. Bembol Roco, for example, who for the past years has been merely relegated to villainous roles, is very, very believable as Bangas-An, a Badjao fisherman who, along with his infertile midwife of a spouse Shaleha (Nora Aunor), embarks on a search for a new bride who will hopefully bear their first child. Yes, you've heard that correctly, "Thy Womb" is a story of a couple searching for a fertile second wife. 

     

Often laborious but also, to a certain extent, quite humorous, their small adventure to find a second wife is marked with a hint of inevitability and such calm resolve that it's almost impossible not to feel awkward while witnessing how the couple's story unfolds. Now, compare that to its MMFF competition "One More Try"; an almost similar story, same dilemma (kind of), but two different emotional responses: silent acceptance from Nora Aunor's character; mouth-foaming diatribes from Angelica Panganiban's. That's cultural disparity right there. 

     

Nora Aunor, one of the greatest actresses of our time, plays the infertile wife with such hopefulness and acceptance (seen mainly through her ever-eloquent eyes) that, sometimes, watching her brave great lengths just to find her husband a new wife is a bit painful to sit through. Some may even brand her character as a full-fledged martyr by doing so, but we must also bear in mind that she is a devout Muslim, and what she is doing is not just according to her heart's content but also to her religion's. So with an objective camera lens to capture it all, Brillante Mendoza, armed with an uncharacteristically poetic visual sensibility, makes us feel the strains of such a situation without handing down any judgments. 

     

For a country of great religious divide like the Philippines, it's almost impossible to sanction acts in a univocal light, and "Thy Womb" just goes to show that an extramarital scandal in one religion can just be interpreted as nothing but pure tradition in another. And for Brillante Mendoza, a filmmaker whose works are characterized by images of great sociopolitical decay, it's refreshing to see that he has finally took on a story of great sociocultural relevance. "Thy Womb", despite its tendencies to beat around the bushes, is a lyrical film that resonates far beyond its geographic boundaries. Finally, Brillante Mendoza has graduated from poverty porn to do something entirely different but just as powerful. Well, hopefully at least.

FINAL RATING

Let the Right One In (Tomas Alfredson)

Eli.

Hindered by an unrelenting flow of school works and an unexpected visit of a debilitating headache, my film viewing momentum, as compared to last month, was relatively slowed down, to say the least. But nonetheless, I was still able to muster enough strength to watch two films, and this one counts as the first. Of course, with "Let the Right One In" being about a gothic love story between a bullied pre-adolescent boy and an isolated vampire girl, jokes about how this film is 'a much better love story than "Twilight"' will surely enter the discourse, which is, by the way, increasingly becoming very irritating. 

     

In more ways than one, "Let the Right One In", a film that merely runs for no longer than two hours, has perhaps captured the essence of a bloodthirsty romance without much narrative stretching (recall the "Twilight" 'saga') and unneeded sparkles. Starring two completely unknown actors, the film, set in the frozen landscapes of Blackeberg (in Stockholm), is about a deeply unsettling yet strangely charming romance between two youngsters, the introvert Oskar (Kåre Hedebrant) and the enigmatic Eli (Lina Leandersson), and how it affects, in unpredictable and horrific ways, the seemingly sterile existence of those around them. 

     

With Tomas Alfredson being a filmmaker that prioritizes unnerving silence, motionlessness and deliberate yet tense pacing (which is also evident in his later film "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy") more than uncalled-for thrills and cheap cinematic trickeries, "Let the Right One In" was able to channel the story's highly supernatural premise with an infinitely more organic feel. With Alfredson being quite open about his nonchalant perspective towards the vampire mythos, he has completely removed the devilishly mythological aura that encapsulates the iconic vampire persona (only retaining the most basic ones, such as how the creature is easily burnt by sunlight, how they are quite immortal etc.) and instead overpowers it only with the very core essence of what motivates vampires to kill: their unquenchable thirst for blood. 

     

With only these vampiric elements intact, Tomas Alfredson, although still conscious of the legendary stature of the creature he is tackling, has unexpectedly created something "John Hughes-esque" in the process, which easily connects with the audience on an emotional and personal level despite the fact that the film is centered on the blood trails of a young vampire. Alas, "Let the Right One In", a film that balances out the drama, comedy and uneasy love found deep within the heart of pre-adolescent existence, is indeed a very affectionate coming-of-age drama. And amid the film's shocking displays of blood-drenched violence, the film's themes were still compelling enough to power through the film's surface horrors and tell what might be, in a relatively long while, the most weirdly endearing tale of young love there is and also realize one of the most visually and thematically provocative explorations of a perfect yet seemingly improbable romantic connection found at the unlikeliest of situations (the film, after all, is based on a novel). 

     

But if there ever was an aspect that I admire most about "Let the Right One In", then it is how it has managed to make a vampire as formidably scary as possible yet was also able to tread the possibility that, after all, those vampiric hearts that vampire hunters keep on stabbing may just be beating cold meats waiting to let the right warmth in. Regardless of their highly distorted outlook on man-woman relationships, perhaps the likes of Count Orlok can truly attest to that, and so can Eli, a blood-thirsty (not to mention immortal) young girl who may have just ironically found her salvation, purpose and emotional growth in a most mortal love.

FINAL RATING

 

Beasts of the Southern Wild (Benh Zeitlin)

Hushpuppy.

As far as back as I can remember, there's always that one 'Sundance' film that gets a token Oscar nod for 'Best Picture' every year. But naturally, it usually does not have any chance of winning despite the fact that it is often far superior to half of its competition. For me, that's the Oscars subtly telling the independent film scene that "that's as far as you can go". Such is the case for "Beasts of the Southern Wild", a quasi-fantasy, coming-of-age film that really isn't (based on the stage play "Juicy and Delicious" by Lucy Alibar). 

     

With some sheds of "Pan's Labyrinth" in how it has seamlessly enjoined both fantasy and reality in a single continuum, the film is certainly quite refreshing and original. Being a film that's really quite hard to describe, just imagine this: What if a less cynical Werner Herzog and a less abstract Terrence Malick decide to team up and co-direct a children's film? Can you picture it? It's with a kind of profound narration and transcendental music, right? Yeah, that's pretty much how "Beasts of the Southern Wild" looks and feels like. 

     

For a film whose visuals rely heavily on images of poverty and semi-submerged squalor, "Beasts of the Southern Wilds" surprisingly lacks any embedded social messages. Instead, what the film has done is substitute a potentially pedestrian tackling of poverty with a completely unique exploration of innocence and pride that's finely fitted within an engrossing, quasi-magical atmosphere. 

     

Throughout the film, there's a relatively fascinating establishment of the return of the aurochs, an ancient group of giant wild boars that has lived millions of years ago, presumably for a kind of reckoning. But to first set the record straight, aurochs are actually direct ancestors of the modern cattle and not of wild boars, which is quite puzzling to me as to why the makers of the film did not fully rename the creature instead. But at this point, we do not care anymore because one, the film is utterly justified in this aspect because it is structured within a reality of its own, and two, because the film has a far more important angle to cover, and that is the roller coaster relationship between Hushpuppy (Quvenzhané Wallis) and his hot-headed father Wink (Dwight Henry). 

     

Together, both characters, thanks to Benh Zietlin's involving direction and both actors' heart-aching performances (Dwight Henry should have received an Oscar nod for Best Supporting Actor. Am I asking for too much?), dance in the rhythm of great dramatic chemistry without really trying hard to do so, all while the film's more fantastical nature unravels quite masterfully on the side. But then again, the very same 'fantasy elements' that have been laid down piece by piece with such care is the very same aspect that has quite disappointed me. For a person who has expected an equal distribution of both fantasy and reality, I ended up asking for more from the former. But if you come to think of it, the presence of the aurochs in the film is never intended to be quite literal just like how Aslan in the "Chronicles of Narnia" is. What it actually is, at least in my view, is a mountainously symbolic representation of Hushpuppy's ultimate 'test' before she can actually, as what the plot summary states, 'learn the way of courage and love', and it's quite effective because it gives the film a heightened sense of mythological resonance. 

     

"Beasts of the Southern Wild", an uncommon film of visual and thematic grace, is forged out of a unique cinematic spirit and genuine human warmth. The people of Baththub (that's what the film's water-surrounded town is called), although burdened by their difficult and relatively uncivilized way of life and are constantly being antagonized by welfare workers trying to get them out of there, is certainly a proud lot, and Hushpuppy, a girl that knows and feels more than the average kid, is slowly learning that pride, after all, is not that of a bad thing. While Wink, his father, has learned that crying is not a sign of emasculation but a vital proof of life. Indeed, the characters have learned something throughout the course of the film, and so have I.

FINAL RATING

 

Jules and Jim (Francois Truffaut)

A bridge run.

If one would want to witness the sheer complexity of love without the utter abundance of unnecessary despair, then I believe that one should not look any further than this film. Although a visually joyful film, "Jules and Jim", based on the novel by Henri-Pierre Roche, is ironically all about the slow decay of a freewheeling love affair. The film's central focus, of course as suggested by the title, revolves around a friendship between two men and how time (or war) can never undo such a strong knot. But then again, the film is also about how a friendship can easily fall prey to the idiocy of romance, the bipolarity of love and the captivating beauty of a woman before they can even know what has hit them.

     

Effortlessly becoming the best of friends immediately after their first meeting, Jules and Jim's friendship is suddenly drawn into a moody yet, to a certain extent, wonderful ride of both love and life via an adventurously unpredictable woman named Catherine (perhaps a prelude to the character trope we now know as 'The Manic Pixie Dream Girl'). 

     

Francois Truffaut, a most visually playful auteur, is dead set on exploring love with a sure grasp of irony and relentless energy. "Jules and Jim", with its constant visual frolics and overall feel, is really hard to categorize within a single genre. Part-comedy, part-drama and part-romance (with some hints of war-time dramatics), the film is everything a cinephile can ask for. For the entirety of the film's almost 2 hours of running time, I was just engrossed with what I'm seeing, and it's not just about the film's pioneering visuals. Even when the three central characters are just talking, exchanging reflective remarks and laughing, one can still sense the same tight energy that was fully evident in the film's fast-lipped narration, silent film-like music and playful cinematography. This is definitely because of how well-realized and inspired the performances in the film really are, specifically by the centerpiece threesome comprised of Oskar Werner (Jules), Henri Serre (Jim) and Jeanne Moreau (Catherine). 

     

Despite the film tackling a relatively heavy-handed tale about romantic deceit, Truffaut was able to inject a sense of childish gayness in it all. And it is in this childishness that the film was able to separate itself from other films of its kind. 

     

For me, what makes "Jules and Jim" stand out and be rightfully heralded as one of the best films of all time is how it has took on infidelity and romantic apprehension with such carefree warmth and transcendental tenderness. Truffaut, one of the ultimate film intellectuals in cinema history, has relied solely on one concept and it has repaid him and "Jules and Jim" a hundredfold: Optimism. 

     

Even in the face of tragedy and melancholy, Truffaut was hopeful enough to make us feel that the pursuit of love, no matter the context, the situation and even the consequences, is something that is just truly wonderful to be denied an entry into our hearts. But in the end, he was also able to highlight the fact that obsession, even in the context of love, is an entirely different matter. "Is it the pursuit of an elusive, on and off love or the subtle pains of moving on?" That, for me, is the film's ultimate question. "Jules and Jim" is about how something's got to give.

FINAL RATING

L'Eclisse (Michelangelo Antonioni)

Aliens.

Deemed by Martin Scorsese as the 'boldest' film in Michelangelo Antonioni's trilogy of emotional isolation (the other two films being "L'Avventura" and "La Notte"), "L'Eclisse", especially in its final moments, has displayed just that and has also solidified, at least in my eyes, Antonioni's status as one of the greatest filmmakers of all time. 

     

Enhanced by Monica Vitti's powerfully disillusioning and mercurial performance as Vittoria and Alain Delon's animated turn as her overly passionate (but I doubt that this is the right term for his character) stockbroker of a lover named Piero, "L'Eclisse" is an exemplary depiction of the qualms of leading an ennui-ridden life in a materialistic world. As highlighted by the film's almost nauseating visualization of the stock market, Antonioni is eager in exposing the chaotic repercussions of money. But more importantly, I think that, more or less, the film is truly an ambitious meditation on loneliness. 

     

Throughout the film, we see Vittoria do all sorts of recreational things to alleviate her angst-ridden state of mind. From riding a plane, dancing in the tune of a native African music to chasing dogs, she has done it all. But still, empty she was. Along then came Piero, an aggressive, over-materialistic lad whose advances to Vittoria was first received with coldness, and then with passionate abandon. Both slightly cautious at first, they then began to have a series of brief romantic encounters that has neither meaning nor worth. 

     

In many ways, "L'Eclisse" is a thoroughly pessimistic view on modern romance and how it's just impossible to maintain one in a money-driven world. In its majority, the film is exclusive in its observation of Vittoria's alienation. But by the end of the film, by way of a conclusive montage that has a certain power only a few scenes from a select number of films can muster, Antonioni suddenly transfers the alienation from Vittoria to us, the viewers. 

     

By focusing mainly on a mundane street corner, its various trivialities and several 'alien' faces while completely removing Vittoria and even Piero from the whole picture, we ourselves are lost. 'Where have the characters gone?' 'Who are these people?' 'Where am I?' These are the questions that Antonioni has sparked within me as the montage kicks in. Through this striking sequence, Antonioni lets us feel that particular feeling of isolation and fear of not being able to perceive and interpret the things we're seeing. The resulting feeling, at least for me, is truly transcendent and somehow spine-chilling. 

     

As those final minutes play out, I was literally lost for words; I can't decipher the holistic meaning of the images because the scene, I believe, is really meant to be 'incommunicable'. Bar none, "L'Eclisse" is certainly one of the most emotionally and perceptively unique cinematic experiences of my life. 50 years after its creation, its themes are still supremely relevant. At the end of the day, I think it's either "L'Eclisse" is truly a timeless masterwork or our everyday living hasn't really changed that much after all. For me, I think it's a great combination of both. Despite of "L'Eclisse's" esoteric quality, it has an emotional and reflective appeal that transcends cinematic barriers. This is auteurism at its best.

FINAL RATING

 

L'Avventura (Michelangelo Antonioni)

Claudia.

Before anything else, let me first, for the record, state that I love Michelangelo Antonioni's films. Be it the psychological enigma that is "Blowup", the mysterious identity thriller that is "The Passenger" or the marital woe-laden "La Notte", he has always been a hit to me. Without exaggeration, I consider him as one of the greatest auteurs of all time, and I'm not even halfway through his sterling filmography yet. So with that in mind, I went on to watch "L'Avventura", the first film in his informal 'Incommunicability Trilogy', with an expectation of being blown away once more. But alas, it has not happened. 

     

Hailed as a cinematic work that has revolutionized the way films are structured and executed, "L'Avventura" is quite a disappointment for me as far as Michelangelo Antonioni and his films are concerned. But then again, maybe that is the film's point. After all, the film is a prolonged observation of emotional detachment, which is the same thing that I have felt while watching the film. 

     

Though I understand where the characters are coming from, the film has still alienated me to high heavens. If perhaps that is Mr. Antonioni's ultimate intent, then I am impressed once more. If it's not, then maybe I deserve to be sentenced to an eternal cinematic damnation for not liking a film that everyone seems to love. But kidding aside, I think that "L'Avventura" is really that kind of film that is quite difficult to like but is easy to admire.

     

Antonioni, being the existentialist filmmaker that he is, is more concerned not with the film's literal mystery (the sudden disappearance of one of the characters) but with the emotional enigma that pervades throughout. The primary premise is simple enough: After the shocking disappearance of her friend Anna (Lea Massari) during a yacht trip, Claudia (Monica Vitt) suddenly finds herself trying to resist the urge of falling in love with Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti), the man that's no less than Anna's current lover. But still, fell she did. 

     

All throughout the film, Michelangelo Antonioni finely questions the validity of the romance between Claudia and Sandro and invites us to witness the subtle awkwardness of it all. We see them kiss and hug in hotel rooms and on discreet street corners. We can sense that, somehow, they look fine together, but what about Anna? 

     

As the film progresses, Antonioni lays down the question of whether or not we should take Anna's disappearance literally or symbolically. Whatever our personal answers regarding it may be, it is quite evident that Antonioni has used Anna's sudden absence as a device to further explore the emotional uncertainties of the kind of love that mushrooms from such situation rather than as a shallow means to compel and excite. 

     

Despite of its slow pacing, bloated running time and alienating characters, "L'Avventura" is still a seminal film that is worthy of great veneration mainly because of how it has changed the way how cinema can communicate such things as love, existence and the feeling of being lost. I may not have liked the film that much compared to Michelangelo Antonioni's other works, but I sure do respect it for what it has contributed to the artistic progression of cinema as a whole. By creating this film, Antonioni has proven that cinema has no limitations, that it is not necessarily all about the plot and the payoff, and that cinema can exist outside the four corners of a tightly-structured narrative; the shackles are no more.

FINAL RATING

 

In the Mood for Love (Wong Kar-wai)

Mr. Chow and Mrs. Chan.

It is quite well-known that Wong Kar-wai's filmography is one of great cinematic essence, so as a long-time film fan, I am quite ashamed to say that this is the first film of his that I have ever seen. But what I have felt right at the very moment the film has started is one of immediate admiration. "In the Mood for Love", a film of quiet romantic power, is really not about love at its most denotative sense. Instead, like the later "Lost in Translation", it is a film of how romance transforms into something more than the usual hugs and kisses. Sometimes, it is not strictly eternal love that people look for but simple human connection, and in this film, it was displayed in a way that fully evokes the particular emptiness that asks for it and the gentle emotional force that attempts to fill it up. 

     

The film's premise, about two lost souls and their sudden romantic spark after finding out that their respective better halves are cheating on them, is a subtle observation about the pain of extramarital affairs. And with Wong Kar-wai's choice of not showing the two characters' cheating husband and wife's faces, the film takes on a more absolute form. They know that they wouldn't be together for a long time, but they are aware of the feelings that will permeate across time years after they part ways. And in this brief time that they share together, how comforting it is to feel that all of it shall last forever. 

     

But wait, how about their marriages? Isn't this a form of cheating as well? Well, maybe that is the case, but Wong Kar-wai highlights the fact (through precise cinematographic compositions and haunting musical score) that their romance is in no way a form of transgression; hell, it's not even romantic revenge per se. Instead, it is quite simply because of human impulse, of our tendencies to look for a hand to hold on to in our perennial struggle to find answers to our questions, and of our adherence to the concept of love no matter the emotional price we may subsequently pay. We are born to love, but hell, we are also born to be hurt; "In the Mood for Love" dwells somewhere in the middle. 

     

Stars Tony Leung Chiu-Wai (playing Mr. Chow) and Maggie Cheung (playing Mrs. Chan) are evidently perfect in their roles. In the film's earlier moments, their body language perfectly conveys their utter indifference to one another. But as the film progresses, especially at the moment when they both realize that the love they have found is something that cannot be cherished for a longer time (their husband and wife are merely on a business trip in Japan, presumably consummating their own secret love), their faces show something that suggests contemplative sadness. They hate to see each other go but they nonetheless accept it. They both hate to cut their romance short but they know that it is wrong to prolong it even more. They both know that they need each other but they just can't continue on doing so. And in one of the film's most powerful scenes, we see how they rehearse their final farewells and the subsequent pain that comes along with it. Saying goodbye is indeed a hard thing to do especially if the one you're uttering it to is the final person you'll ever wish to be on its receiving end. 

     

It is from this complex set-up that I was able to see through Wong Kar-wai's emotional maturity as a filmmaker. He is quite aware of the fact that human connection always arises from the most unexpected of situations and that love is a mercurial aspect of life that's easy to feel yet slides so easily from the palm of the hands. He is also quite articulate about the sheer transience of time and its role in reminding us that moments may fade but feelings just wouldn't. "In the Mood for Love", an artful amalgamation of style and substance, is a symphonic film about the unpredictability of love, the persistence of memory, and the gentle, bittersweet pain of harboring a beautiful secret. Welcome to my film-watching consciousness, Mr. Wong Kar-wai.

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

Three Colors: Red (Krzysztof Kieslowski)

Destiny.

With its beautifully multi-layered drama and its great sense of closure, "Three Colors: Red" is quite easily the best film in Krzysztof Kieslowski's "Three Colors" trilogy. It stars the beautiful Irene Jacob as Valentine, an easy-going fashion model, and Jean-Louis Trintignant ("The Conformist") as an enigmatic retired judge who eavesdrops on his neighbors' private lives by way of wire-tapping their telephones and successively playing them in his speakers as if a series of radio shows. Although the relationship between Valentine and the judge is peppered with psychosexual tension, which my more cynical mind, to a certain extent, reminds me a lot of the relationship between Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter, the film, albeit the enveloping intrigue and mystery that surrounds the whole film's premise, is a hopeful exercise in love and human warmth.

Out of the three films, I think that "Three Colors: Red" is the most immediately relatable but at the same time also the most cryptic (the questionable actions of the retired judge). We can relate with the adventurous Valentine because, unconsciously, we are also her because by any chance our car may ran over a dog and find out that the wounded animal has a name tag with an address in it, we will immediately return it to the owner, which in this case is the judge. This is how Valentine and the mysterious judge met, therefore forming a bond forged out of curiosity and developed out of the immediacy of human connection.

For some filmmakers, with this kind of characters, a twenty-something girl and a sixty-something man, it's enough grounds to create a relatively pretentious romance. But Kieslowski, himself about to reach sixty years of existence himself (which he never did when he suddenly died in 1996) by the time this film, his last one, was released, knows better by instead playing this type of character relationship with dramatic assurance, wisdom and lots of heart. Of course, it's not without a hint of tragedy and a sense of isolation, which both "Three Colors: Blue" and "Three Colors: White" has finely established in different perspectives.

But aside from this filmic relationship, Kieslowski also has something much trickier to pull off: how to coherently tie up the three films while also giving his current characters enough breathing space to wrap up their own situation.

On one side, we have the budding emotional involvement between Valentine and the privacy-invading judge. On the other, there's also a young judge named Auguste (Jean-Pierre Lorit), whose life, in many ways, closely mirrors that of the judge's and who's currently involved in a run-of-the-mill romance with a personal weather reporter.

At surface viewing, "Three Colors: Red" may look like your typical film by way of how it tackles love and existence at different viewpoints, sometimes in bliss, sometimes in pain. But Kieslowski has created his characters to fit an urgent inevitability to unconsciously interconnect. In this idea of intertwining of fates, Kieslowski has already gave us a tease by mistakenly letting Julie (from "Three Colors: Blue") enter the courtroom where the divorce trial between Karol and Dominique is taking place in the beginning of "Three Colors: White". There's also the hunched old lady (who appeared in all three films) immersed in a mundane difficulty: The camera and the characters always catch her laboriously trying to put an empty bottle inside a trash bin; a prominent figure in the whole trilogy that has been, in a way, the barometer of the protagonists' characters. (Julie merely looked at her in puzzled sadness while Karol minutely smirked at her predicament. Only Valentine has the basic courtesy to help her put the bottle in the bin).

In this film, it has truly, as they say, come in full circle.

But not in the way how a generic ensemble film may. Sure, the film may have discoursed about the general outlook of love by way of those two (bliss and pain) extremes, but the film is a minuscule observation of love and life at the same time as it is a far-reaching, 'what if' meditation on time. In the end, "Three Colors: Red" relies on the singular choices and plans of its characters instead of giving the responsibility to an invisibly omniscient hand to move the likes of Valentine and the judge as if indifferent chess pieces. And for that, the film was uniquely pragmatic.

After 'liberty' and 'equality' were tackled through individualistic perspectives by way of Julie and Karol in the two previous films, "Three Colors: Red" was able to brilliantly put these stories, stories of people striving through all too human flaws, in a holistic harmony even in the midst of a tragedy. This may very well be the significance of 'fraternity' in the whole film, but "Three Colors: Red" is also quite aware of another infinitely more transcendent thing: destiny. Again, with its fascinating visionary depth and articulate human drama, "Three Colors: Red" is the best film in the trilogy, and is also a fitting swan song for Krzysztof Kieslowski, who sadly passed away far too soon.

FINAL RATING