I have a long way to go towards becoming well-versed in the work of the late Sven Nykvist, but suffice to say that Fanny and Alexander could be one of the most brilliant movies I've ever seen (a double meaning, to be sure). Cries and Whispers, for its part, is high in the last as well. His AP obituary stating that Nykvist suffered from dementia, I hope he did not suffer a bad end. Goodbye, Sven.
I had hoped to write a piece on Ozu's Early Summer by now, but it never materalized. I've been perhaps a bit overhwelmed. In the past month or so I've seen The Conformist (on the big screen, none the less), the aforementioned Early Summer, The Power of Kangwon Province, and My Night at Maud's. I have no idea where to begin, but maybe Ugetsu will get my fingers typing later this week.
This blog shall not fester. A short piece on Ozu's Early Summer is forthcoming very soon, but first I must briefly mention something else, something from the category of things that make you feel embarrassed though you bear no responsibility for them whatsoever. It's a shame over being alive, I guess. Yet, an associate and I still have a minor obsession.
Recently I was at Blockbuster and I overheard, very dryly, "'His road, his rules.' This sounds pretty good." It was absolutely amazing. Behold: the tag line. Not only the tag line in full bloom, but the tag line demonstrating both its narrative efficiency and its allure. Imagine, then, my excitement over the tag line for the movie shown on the poster above: "One goal. A second chance." The symbolic grandeur cannot be understated. It is Jesus Christ scoring a fucking touchdown.
So, if you've actually read this far along, share with me one of your favorite tag lines, and be sure to tell me what movie it's from.
It is the mark of a watered-down social criticism to take recourse to tropes—reciting them without second thought but with a degree of self-satisfaction. Disaffected youth, consumerism, and milquetoast suburbanites—these themes are dull as they are abundant. But this does not mean they are wholly illegitimate; clichés are not to be completely discarded, though the Orwell in us may sometimes lash out. On the contrary, these matters—far from off-limits—demand a wealth of care when taken-up, not avoidance. A lazy observer only contributes to an already voluminous and enervated accumulation of work. The space grows increasingly crowded and the problem itself suffers. But shrewd observers are able to take the thing and position it in a brand new light. They have that unique and special ability to make us give pause and re-examine our own opinions, even though we may not give voice to a given doubt.
Three young people (Vicky and 2 males friends) are on holiday from Tapei. They have ventured to a snowy locale. They play outside in the snow; it appears to be Vicky’s first time, and she is delighted. But symbolically, what is not at work here is the yearning for a child’s innocence; this is a not a portrait of salvation or reprieve from the sins of the city (e.g., casual sex, drug abuse, indolence, etc.) on a virgin white backdrop. No, but this is something otherwise natal. What has value here is bringing something into the world—for leaving one’s mark on it. The modern city stifles one into oblivion and anonymity, be it filed away in an apartment stacked upon and under more apartments, as a listless passenger on a train, destination and origin unknown, or crammed into the seemingly collective, breathing, sweating, and pulsating of a dance club at capacity. Removed from all of that, Vicky and her friend playfully plant their faces into a snowdrift. Pulling away, giggly wildly from the cold on their faces, an impression remains. This is a metaphor which reflects not just a visage, but alienation as well.
The image is central to Hou Hsiao-Hsien’s Millennium Mambo. It is all it takes for Hou to prove his astuteness and insist on not insulting us with another ready-made critique of youth culture. The faces in the snow—the newness that is brought forth by their creators—is the contrasting force that tugs in the opposite direction of nostalgia for how things used to be, for "back then." And it is also a symbol of our homelessness, of the possibility that we will not recognize ourselves anywhere in our lives: in work, in social circles, in politics, even in our own art. As noted above with respect to the modern city’s mammoth and impersonal structures, the megalopolis has a consuming dimension that drowns the individual into a condemned insignificance and namelessness. When we go about in our daily lives, toiling in these mazes, how effective can we be in choosing the direction of our own lives? And if we cannot be particularly effective, what might this engender in people?
Hou transplants Vicky from Taipei to emphasize the importance of our milieu. It is not to make any deterministic point, settling the old debate on the side of nurture, but to demand recognition of the fact that we live in situations. There, in the snow—literally, with their faces in the snow—it is about these people and their struggle to affect the world. It is a question of people and time and place. Here we are faced with Hou’s most difficult and haunting question. That question is not, “Whatever shall we do with the bored inertia of today’s youth?” or “How can we reclaim the great spirit of the past?” It is: do they recognize themselves in the snow? Could someone else?
In Ozu’s Tokyo Story, the old police chief Numata, drunk and introspective, says, “To lose your children is hard. But living with them isn’t always easy, either. A real dilemma.” Shukishi’s reply will show us, though, that this is not a simple matter of “can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em,” or, to give it a more sophisticated ring, vive la différence—only substituting kids for women. Numata, in his drunken ramblings, forgets about men and their situation. He takes his values and his life lessons and applies them to students of a different school. “Times have changed,” says Shukishi, “We have to face it.” He clearly feels a similar disappointment, but it is mixed with acceptance and legitimate resignation. It is informed by the acknowledgement of time and change. Indeed, Hou’s latest, Three Times, expounds on this idea with deep, almost sociological, focus, showing us Taiwan in 1911, 1966, and 2005. The problem of generational friction and conflict is universal; it is certainly greater than any one city and any 1 epoch (or 3 of them).
I have a long way to go towards becoming well-versed in the work of the late Sven Nykvist, but suffice to say that Fanny and Alexander could be one of the most brilliant movies I've ever seen (a double meaning, to be sure). Cries and Whispers, for its part, is high in the last as well. His AP obituary stating that Nykvist suffered from dementia, I hope he did not suffer a bad end. Goodbye, Sven.
