Movie: Les Rendez-vous d'Anna
Year: 1978
The Akerman FilmFest concludes with the fine "Les Rendez-vous d'Anna." Maybe the most accessible of Akerman's early films--and almost certainly the most autobiographical--the heroine of "Anna" (played by Aurore Clement in a wonderfully restrained, yet taut, performance) was once described by Akerman as "a sort of mutant ... perhaps a heroine of the future."
Much like the mother and son in "Jeanne Dielman," the enigmatic Anna is seemingly devoid of any outward emotion. It's hard to get a read on her; even when she is expresses feelings of care or concern, for example, we aren't really sure whether or not she means it. She is strange and confounding--at times she can seem like a real jerk but at other times she can seem frail, or almost wounded. Anna (like Akerman, whose middle name is Anne by the way) is a movie director and as the film opens she is on a train tour throughout Europe promoting her latest work.
Along the way, Anna meets encounters a string of relations--a couple of nearly-lovers, a stranger on a train would like to be, the mother of a man she was once engaged to and her own mother. In each of these instances, the other party engages Anna in a long monologue (it wouldn't be right to call them conversations, as Anna mostly listens). And Anna does seem like a good listener; she appears to be genuinely interested in what these people are saying (or she may just be faking, again, it's hard to tell). But either way, these people pour out their emotions to Anna, baring their innermost thoughts and feelings.
The strongest scenes are her first encounter with a lonely man named Heinrich (Helmut Griem) and with her mother (Lea Massari). The man is taken with Anna and invites her to his home to meet his five-year-old daughter. A bit awkwardly and nervously, he shares some of his past with Anna--how his wife left him, how much he likes growing flowers and how disillusioned he is with the way he perceives the direction his country, Germany, is taking. Anna listens patiently, saying nothing, joins the family for a meal and leaves Heinrich alone, just as he feared. Anna and her mother are estranged and while there is a certain deep connection, there is a distance too. Anna and her mother decide to get a hotel room for the night rather than go all the way back to the family home. It is there that we learn the most about Anna--as she recounts the details of a lesbian relationship to her mother. Back at the train station the next morning, Anna's mother says "Tell me you love me." Anna replies "I love you," with about as much emotion as if she were saying "It's cloudy." And off she goes to the next stop down the road. Anna finally makes it back to Paris where she lives. And at the end of the day, she is all alone. These other people have wanted to take her closer, to make her a greater part of their lives, but she has rejected them all to some degree. As the film closes, we see Anna on her bed, staring off into space while listening to her answer machine messages. More people wanting to get to know her; more people she will undoubtedly keep at arms length.
Like the other Akerman films I've seen, "Anna" requires great patience on the part of the viewer. It is enjoyable to look at; most of the action takes place on trains, in train stations or in hotel rooms and in that sense, we are treated to a wonderful time capsule of a world gone by. And in a thematic sense, the sterile environments, thrumming noises and clean lines contribute to the sense of alienation and distance that Anna senses. It can't be denied though that Akerman is not for everyone. She herself once said "if I have a reputation of being difficult, it’s because I love the everyday and want to present it. In general, people go to the movies precisely to escape the everyday.” Akerman is not your everyday filmmaker and hers are not everyday films. Confounding, borderline pretentious, yet riveting, gorgeous to look at and ultimately thought-provoking and admirable, Akerman's works stand apart from the crowd--and head and shoulders above many.
Want to talk about "Les Rendez-vous d'Anna?" Leave a comment.
Showing posts with label MMFSWNS. Show all posts
Showing posts with label MMFSWNS. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Chantal Akerman FilmFest: Day 4
Movie: Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles
Year: 1975
First things first. This is a very demanding movie, to say the least. Not a whole lot happens (at least not in the traditional sense) and it's almost 3 1/2 hours long. I don't think any of it's impact would have been lost if had been, say, an hour shorter (although, having said that, the sheer length of the movie adds another layer of quality). It's a challenge and you have to approach watching it with that particular mindset. I've seen it now once and that will be enough to tie me over for a while. Not because it's bad or because I didn't enjoy it--I liked it very much and Akerman is deserving of the praise she's received in the 35 years since its release. I don't feel like I have to watch it repeatedly because it has already ingrained itself into my memory, which is another tribute to Akerman's unstinting vision.
For me, "Jeanne Dielman" is like free jazz. I love jazz in all its forms, but I my relationship with free jazz is decidedly love/hate. So much of it (at least for me) is just a bunch of atonal, self-indulgent noise--not even remotely interesting. Maybe I don't "get it." But on many of the free jazz records in my collection (and I have a fair bit), there are often moments of exquisite beauty and tenderness that come rising out of the murk. The journey is thing, and when you get to a payoff that you have worked hard for, it makes it all that much rewarding.
So it is with "Jeanne Dielman," rightly regarded by critics over the years as a feminist masterpiece. Jeanne (Delphine Seyrig) lives in the apartment of the title with her teenage son Sylvain (Jan Decorte). Much like the characters in other Akerman films, the two don't talk very much. However, it's easy to tell that the widowed Jeanne is a good mother; she spends her days doing things cooking for the two of them, helping Sylvain with his studies and knitting him a sweater. Jeanne and Sylvain are both emotionally closed--although there is clear love between the two of them, there is little warmth. They rarely even look at one another and largely go about their separate ways.
In order to make ends meet, Jeanne turns tricks while her son is at school (and touchingly leaves the money in a little ceramic pot on the table). It's a detestable existence and slowly but surely Jeanne begins to unravel. Outwardly, she is pretty much the same and continues about the mundane duties of her daily routine just as tortoise-steady as ever. But the cracks begin to emerge, driving Jeanne to commit a final, desperate act that ends the movie.
Akerman was 25 when she made this film. Stop and think about that one for a minute. What where you doing when you were 25? I was still living at home, struggling to get my career off the ground after slogging my way through journalism school. No prospects, no vision, nothing. And I'm sure that would be similar for a lot of people. So for Akerman to deliver a statement like this is really amazing. It is a flawed gem, sure, but a gem nevertheless. It is an important, lasting and thought-provoking work that is certainly worth at least one investment in your time.
Want to talk about "Jeanne Dielman?" Leave a comment.
Year: 1975
First things first. This is a very demanding movie, to say the least. Not a whole lot happens (at least not in the traditional sense) and it's almost 3 1/2 hours long. I don't think any of it's impact would have been lost if had been, say, an hour shorter (although, having said that, the sheer length of the movie adds another layer of quality). It's a challenge and you have to approach watching it with that particular mindset. I've seen it now once and that will be enough to tie me over for a while. Not because it's bad or because I didn't enjoy it--I liked it very much and Akerman is deserving of the praise she's received in the 35 years since its release. I don't feel like I have to watch it repeatedly because it has already ingrained itself into my memory, which is another tribute to Akerman's unstinting vision.
For me, "Jeanne Dielman" is like free jazz. I love jazz in all its forms, but I my relationship with free jazz is decidedly love/hate. So much of it (at least for me) is just a bunch of atonal, self-indulgent noise--not even remotely interesting. Maybe I don't "get it." But on many of the free jazz records in my collection (and I have a fair bit), there are often moments of exquisite beauty and tenderness that come rising out of the murk. The journey is thing, and when you get to a payoff that you have worked hard for, it makes it all that much rewarding.
So it is with "Jeanne Dielman," rightly regarded by critics over the years as a feminist masterpiece. Jeanne (Delphine Seyrig) lives in the apartment of the title with her teenage son Sylvain (Jan Decorte). Much like the characters in other Akerman films, the two don't talk very much. However, it's easy to tell that the widowed Jeanne is a good mother; she spends her days doing things cooking for the two of them, helping Sylvain with his studies and knitting him a sweater. Jeanne and Sylvain are both emotionally closed--although there is clear love between the two of them, there is little warmth. They rarely even look at one another and largely go about their separate ways.
In order to make ends meet, Jeanne turns tricks while her son is at school (and touchingly leaves the money in a little ceramic pot on the table). It's a detestable existence and slowly but surely Jeanne begins to unravel. Outwardly, she is pretty much the same and continues about the mundane duties of her daily routine just as tortoise-steady as ever. But the cracks begin to emerge, driving Jeanne to commit a final, desperate act that ends the movie.
Akerman was 25 when she made this film. Stop and think about that one for a minute. What where you doing when you were 25? I was still living at home, struggling to get my career off the ground after slogging my way through journalism school. No prospects, no vision, nothing. And I'm sure that would be similar for a lot of people. So for Akerman to deliver a statement like this is really amazing. It is a flawed gem, sure, but a gem nevertheless. It is an important, lasting and thought-provoking work that is certainly worth at least one investment in your time.
Want to talk about "Jeanne Dielman?" Leave a comment.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Chantal Akerman FilmFest: Day 3
Movie: Je Tu Il Elle (I You He She)
Year: 1974
Pretentious.
Groundbreaking.
Affecting.
Moving.
Weird.
Disturbing.
Stirring.
Warm.
Chilling.
Depending on your mood or your tastes, all of these descriptions apply to "Je Tu Il Elle." This film marked Akerman's first feature and came a year before the highly-successful "Jean Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles." The 23-year-old Akerman's fingerprints are all over the film--she directs, wrote the screenplay and stars as Julie, a tense, seemingly troubled young woman.
We first encounter Julie in a rundown apartment. The voiceover narration wearily guides us through her gauzy existence. She rearranges furniture, eats sugar from a bag and writes a long letter to (presumably) an old flame. She takes off her clothes and looks over her body. At times, the narration doesn't exactly match what's going on onscreen, which adds to the sense of strangeness we see from Julie's behavior. It's at times painful to watch Julie go through what passes for her daily routine, but at times fascinating. Akerman's portrayal of Julie brims with intensity and seriousness and the viewer certainly gets a sense of her isolation and, perhaps even her growing desperation or instability.
The second part of the film--and in my opinion the strongest section--takes place when Julie leaves her apartment and hitches a ride with a truck driver (Niels Arestrup). The truck driver, who represents the "Il" of the title, and Julie immediately form a bond, but an unconventional one. They eat and hang out together but barely talk or even look at each other much. Back in his truck, Julie performs a sexual act on the truck driver per his instructions. After that, the truck driver's words flow more freely and he tells Julie of his marriage, his children and his erotic thoughts and habits. This is not a conversation--Julie doesn't talk, only smiling admiringly from the passenger seat. It is a strong scene though, and is wonderfully photographed. Arestrup is impressive in delivering his monologue--he is certainly a sleaze and almost detached from his actions and thoughts, yet it is hard to take your eyes off of him or not pay attention to what he is saying.
In part three, Julie visits and old girlfriend (the "Elle," played by Claire Wauthion). The two star at each other for long periods of time, Julie shifting about uncomfortably and the girlfriend calmer and more still. The girlfriend tells Julie she doesn't want her to stay but Julie does end up staying and their sexual encounter closes out the movie. Like her session in the truck, this encounter is lacking in any kind of conventional eroticism. In fact, their foreplay is more akin to wrestling than anything else. Although there is an obvious attraction, there is no passion. The lovemaking is not mechanical; you don't get the sense that they are just going through the motions. But there is an overwhelming sense of disaffection that pervades this scene--indeed, the whole movie--and we Julie leaves in the morning we can feel her emptiness and isolation.
Want to discuss "Je Tu Il Elle?" Leave a comment.
Year: 1974
Pretentious.
Groundbreaking.
Affecting.
Moving.
Weird.
Disturbing.
Stirring.
Warm.
Chilling.
Depending on your mood or your tastes, all of these descriptions apply to "Je Tu Il Elle." This film marked Akerman's first feature and came a year before the highly-successful "Jean Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles." The 23-year-old Akerman's fingerprints are all over the film--she directs, wrote the screenplay and stars as Julie, a tense, seemingly troubled young woman.
We first encounter Julie in a rundown apartment. The voiceover narration wearily guides us through her gauzy existence. She rearranges furniture, eats sugar from a bag and writes a long letter to (presumably) an old flame. She takes off her clothes and looks over her body. At times, the narration doesn't exactly match what's going on onscreen, which adds to the sense of strangeness we see from Julie's behavior. It's at times painful to watch Julie go through what passes for her daily routine, but at times fascinating. Akerman's portrayal of Julie brims with intensity and seriousness and the viewer certainly gets a sense of her isolation and, perhaps even her growing desperation or instability.
The second part of the film--and in my opinion the strongest section--takes place when Julie leaves her apartment and hitches a ride with a truck driver (Niels Arestrup). The truck driver, who represents the "Il" of the title, and Julie immediately form a bond, but an unconventional one. They eat and hang out together but barely talk or even look at each other much. Back in his truck, Julie performs a sexual act on the truck driver per his instructions. After that, the truck driver's words flow more freely and he tells Julie of his marriage, his children and his erotic thoughts and habits. This is not a conversation--Julie doesn't talk, only smiling admiringly from the passenger seat. It is a strong scene though, and is wonderfully photographed. Arestrup is impressive in delivering his monologue--he is certainly a sleaze and almost detached from his actions and thoughts, yet it is hard to take your eyes off of him or not pay attention to what he is saying.
In part three, Julie visits and old girlfriend (the "Elle," played by Claire Wauthion). The two star at each other for long periods of time, Julie shifting about uncomfortably and the girlfriend calmer and more still. The girlfriend tells Julie she doesn't want her to stay but Julie does end up staying and their sexual encounter closes out the movie. Like her session in the truck, this encounter is lacking in any kind of conventional eroticism. In fact, their foreplay is more akin to wrestling than anything else. Although there is an obvious attraction, there is no passion. The lovemaking is not mechanical; you don't get the sense that they are just going through the motions. But there is an overwhelming sense of disaffection that pervades this scene--indeed, the whole movie--and we Julie leaves in the morning we can feel her emptiness and isolation.
Want to discuss "Je Tu Il Elle?" Leave a comment.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
FilmFest 3: Chantal Akerman's Early Films
Movie: La Chambre
Year: 1972
and
Movie: Hotel Monterey
Year: 1972
Chantal Akerman was born on June 6, 1950 to an observant Jewish family in Brussels, Belgium. Before she was even born, her life had been touched by tragedy--her grandparents and her mother were sent to the concentration camp in Auschwitz and only her mother returned. This personal experience influenced her work directly. Another early influence on her career the French director Jean-Luc Goddard. After viewing his film "Pierrot le Fou" as a 15-year-old, Akerman said she was moved that very night to become a filmmaker.
In 1971, Akerman moved to New York City, where here career began to take flight. She was like a sponge, soaking up all the influence--cultural and otherwise--on offer in the Big Apple. Akerman was exposed to the work of several of the city's avant-garde filmmaking community and later called the experience "the most determining factor on my cinematography." Of course, the bills had to be paid to and Akerman held down a variety of odd jobs which undoubtedly affected her view as well (including, most interestingly as a sculpture model and as a cashier in a porn theater). A final piece of the puzzle was Akerman meeting Babette Mangolte, a cinematographer who became her collaborator during the early part of her career.
In 1972, the pair worked together on the two self-financed experimental works that comprise the first day of our Akerman FilmFest. The first is "La Chambre," an 11-minute short film. The setting is a cramped tenament apartment. A camera slowly pans around the room moving from right to left. We see images in the room--an old chair, a table with fruit on it, a sink with dirty dishes, a calendar. We also see Akerman too, lying on a bed looking rumpled and perhaps a little dazed. Akerman soon becomes the focus of the panning camera. Each time it returns to her she is doing something different. At one point, she is absentmindedly playing with an apple, next, she is eating it. Then we see Akerman twisting and writhing under the sheets. As her behavior changes, so too does that of the camera. About three-quarters of the way in, the pans change from left to right and become less sweeping, so that Akerman's actions become more prominent and focused. We are forced to concentrate on what she is doing and in doing so, we have allowed ourselves to become swayed by Akerman's vision and ability to construct tension simply through images and camerawork.
"Hotel Monterey" is the longer (slightly more than an hour) and more visceral of the two works. A silent film like "La Chambre," "Hotel" takes place in a tired, run down hotel on the upper West Side. The walls are industrial blue and flaking and the guests look haggard and beaten down to match. Lighting is dim and the elevators are claustrophobic. In short, it's not a pretty place but Akerman manages to convey images of dignity and yes, beauty. According to an essay by Michael Koresky on the Criterion web site, there was little planning before the shooting of this film:
Akerman knew only that she would start filming on the hotel’s main floor and end at the top, and that she wanted to emerge from dark into light, night into day. The shoot lasted one night, approximately fifteen straight hours, during which Akerman and Mangolte would put the camera down wherever it felt right and roll until Akerman’s gut told her to stop. Akerman later explained that “the shots are exactly as long as I had the feeling of them inside myself”; about the overall conception, she said, “I want people to lose themselves in the frame and at the same time to be truly confronting the space.” The result is minimalist yet rich: the viewer, wandering these mostly vacant hallways, elevators, and bedrooms, grows hyperaware of her or his own physical presence. A hotel is a place meant to be occupied, yet this one is largely drained of visible people, so it often seems like a way station on the road to some netherworld.
The final moments of the movie were for me, the most magical. Rising from the grimy darkness of the hotel into the soft morning light on the roof, Akerman's final shots of the city awakening from its sleep are mesmerizing. Akerman has created a vivid time capsule of a New York that doesn't exist anymore (for better or worse). It's a New York before gentrification and a Disney-fied time square. It's a New York of Puerto Rican kids wearing cutoff jean shorts playing stickball in the streets, a New York of hustlers in fur coats and platform shoes running their game, a New York of graffiti and grime. It is evocative and moving and the emotional impact of Akerman's final shots really came out of nowhere to grab me and move. I was interested in the goings-on and impressed by the ideas and creativity on display. But the final shots--when we step out of the darkness of the hotel and into the light of day--are what allow me to recommend this film wholeheartedly. Yes, both of these works are experimental in every sense of the word, but watch with an open mind, concentrate and I think you will be touched on some level.
Want to discuss "La Chambre" or "Hotel Monterey?" Leave a comment.
Year: 1972
and
Movie: Hotel Monterey
Year: 1972
Chantal Akerman was born on June 6, 1950 to an observant Jewish family in Brussels, Belgium. Before she was even born, her life had been touched by tragedy--her grandparents and her mother were sent to the concentration camp in Auschwitz and only her mother returned. This personal experience influenced her work directly. Another early influence on her career the French director Jean-Luc Goddard. After viewing his film "Pierrot le Fou" as a 15-year-old, Akerman said she was moved that very night to become a filmmaker.
In 1971, Akerman moved to New York City, where here career began to take flight. She was like a sponge, soaking up all the influence--cultural and otherwise--on offer in the Big Apple. Akerman was exposed to the work of several of the city's avant-garde filmmaking community and later called the experience "the most determining factor on my cinematography." Of course, the bills had to be paid to and Akerman held down a variety of odd jobs which undoubtedly affected her view as well (including, most interestingly as a sculpture model and as a cashier in a porn theater). A final piece of the puzzle was Akerman meeting Babette Mangolte, a cinematographer who became her collaborator during the early part of her career.
In 1972, the pair worked together on the two self-financed experimental works that comprise the first day of our Akerman FilmFest. The first is "La Chambre," an 11-minute short film. The setting is a cramped tenament apartment. A camera slowly pans around the room moving from right to left. We see images in the room--an old chair, a table with fruit on it, a sink with dirty dishes, a calendar. We also see Akerman too, lying on a bed looking rumpled and perhaps a little dazed. Akerman soon becomes the focus of the panning camera. Each time it returns to her she is doing something different. At one point, she is absentmindedly playing with an apple, next, she is eating it. Then we see Akerman twisting and writhing under the sheets. As her behavior changes, so too does that of the camera. About three-quarters of the way in, the pans change from left to right and become less sweeping, so that Akerman's actions become more prominent and focused. We are forced to concentrate on what she is doing and in doing so, we have allowed ourselves to become swayed by Akerman's vision and ability to construct tension simply through images and camerawork.
"Hotel Monterey" is the longer (slightly more than an hour) and more visceral of the two works. A silent film like "La Chambre," "Hotel" takes place in a tired, run down hotel on the upper West Side. The walls are industrial blue and flaking and the guests look haggard and beaten down to match. Lighting is dim and the elevators are claustrophobic. In short, it's not a pretty place but Akerman manages to convey images of dignity and yes, beauty. According to an essay by Michael Koresky on the Criterion web site, there was little planning before the shooting of this film:
Akerman knew only that she would start filming on the hotel’s main floor and end at the top, and that she wanted to emerge from dark into light, night into day. The shoot lasted one night, approximately fifteen straight hours, during which Akerman and Mangolte would put the camera down wherever it felt right and roll until Akerman’s gut told her to stop. Akerman later explained that “the shots are exactly as long as I had the feeling of them inside myself”; about the overall conception, she said, “I want people to lose themselves in the frame and at the same time to be truly confronting the space.” The result is minimalist yet rich: the viewer, wandering these mostly vacant hallways, elevators, and bedrooms, grows hyperaware of her or his own physical presence. A hotel is a place meant to be occupied, yet this one is largely drained of visible people, so it often seems like a way station on the road to some netherworld.
The final moments of the movie were for me, the most magical. Rising from the grimy darkness of the hotel into the soft morning light on the roof, Akerman's final shots of the city awakening from its sleep are mesmerizing. Akerman has created a vivid time capsule of a New York that doesn't exist anymore (for better or worse). It's a New York before gentrification and a Disney-fied time square. It's a New York of Puerto Rican kids wearing cutoff jean shorts playing stickball in the streets, a New York of hustlers in fur coats and platform shoes running their game, a New York of graffiti and grime. It is evocative and moving and the emotional impact of Akerman's final shots really came out of nowhere to grab me and move. I was interested in the goings-on and impressed by the ideas and creativity on display. But the final shots--when we step out of the darkness of the hotel and into the light of day--are what allow me to recommend this film wholeheartedly. Yes, both of these works are experimental in every sense of the word, but watch with an open mind, concentrate and I think you will be touched on some level.
Want to discuss "La Chambre" or "Hotel Monterey?" Leave a comment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)