Just so there is no pretense of objectivity in this review, I must concede that I am an absurdly huge Quentin Tarantino fan. I have not one, but two Pulp Fiction posters in my room, and I’ve seen and enjoyed all of his movies (yes, even Death Proof and Jackie Brown) multiple times. If you find his works overly violent, his long scenes of dialogue pretentious, or (especially) his construction of reality ridiculous, this is not the film for you. Even though Inglourious Basterds is a World War II film, it is more likely to remind you of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, or maybe even Grimm’s Fairy Tales, than The Longest Day.
Now that that’s out of the way, I am very pleased to say that Inglourious Basterds is among Tarantino’s best efforts, perhaps his best since Pulp Fiction. From the moment the opening title card tells you “Once Upon a Time… in Nazi-occupied France,” you know this film will be unlike anything you have seen before, for better or for worse. The titular Basterds are 8 Jewish-American soldiers led by Lt. Aldo Raine (Brad Pitt, slightly campy but very funny). They are sent into WWII-era France to kill any and all Nazis they find in the most brutal ways they can (warning: Lt Raine’s introductory demand for 100 Nazi scalps does not go unheeded, and scalping is one of the milder forms of cruelty the Basterds inflict).
These Basterds are, somewhat misleadingly, absent from much of the film, as we follow the two other main characters: Shosanna Dreyfus (a great Melanie Laurent), a French Jew running a Parisian cinema under an assumed identity, and Col. Hans Landa a.k.a. the Jew Hunter (Christoph Waltz), the main antagonist of both Shosanna and the Basterds. They both set up separate plots to kill most of the Nazi high command by burning down Shosanna’s theatre on the premiere night of Joseph Goebbels’s (Slyvester Groth) newest film.
It’s unfortunate that, for the sake of brevity, I can only spend a small amount of time extolling the virtues of Waltz’s performance. Out of the three great leads (Laurent, Pitt, and Waltz), he easily turns in the best performance. He is charming, funny, intelligent, and thus more horrifying than any Nazi I have seen on the big screen. He effortlessly controls the screen, no matter whom he is talking to, or which of his 4 languages he is speaking. The film’s biggest problem may be trying to measure up to the fantastic introductory scene, which is essentially just Waltz controlling a conversation for almost 30 minutes. Waltz’s pitch-perfect performance ensures that, not only does the film’s shocking finale makes sense, but actually seems like the only logical ending.
This is not to say that the other performances don’t hold up. Brad Pitt’s Lt. Aldo Raine may be slightly over-the-top, but this is not a film that cares about restraint. Pitt garners the film’s biggest laughs (and yes, there are many) and fits in perfectly with the idiosyncratic tone Tarantino strives for. Melanie Laurent essentially is the straight women, but she brings an emotional strength to her deeply wounded, vengeful yet still sympathetic Shosanna that makes her the moral center of the film. Out of the supporting cast, Til Schweiger deserves mentioning as the psychopathic German soldier-turned-Basterd whose intense nature is both hysterical and intimidating. Director Eli Roth, best known for his “torture-porn” Hostel films, is utilized effectively by Tarantino, as he has little to do but look gleefully insane, something he does quite well. Also, watch (and listen) for cameos by Mike Myers and Tarantino regulars Samuel L. Jackson and Harvey Keitel.
Stylistically, Quentin Tarantino described Basterds as a spaghetti western about World War II, and I couldn’t agree more. The opening sequence contains a visual homage to John Ford’s The Searchers, and Tarantino uses countless pieces of music by composer Sergio Leone (Once Upon a Time in the West, The Good, The Bad, The Ugly). There are multiple Mexican standoffs in the film, although that is as much a trademark of Tarantino films as it is of Westerns. Admittedly, this is a Tarantino film, so it’s a spaghetti western where characters talk about King Kong and where a David Bowie song indicates the beginning of the final act (yes, Bowie in 1944).
Standing in stark contrast to the very unique tone of the film, its structure is, especially for Tarantino, relatively simple. Time progresses linearly, chapter titles break up the film, and the action takes place in just a few venues. The cinematography is simple yet elegant, often relying on simple shot-reverse shot patterns to establish tension during many conversations. The set design works quite well for the film, as they are all establishments that very well could have existed during WWII, but none of which have a true “war-film” feel. From the opening at a small farmhouse to the closing at an elegant theatre, all of the locales blend to create a war-film that is unlike any you’ve seen before.
As for the narrative itself, it may cause frustration among some viewers. Although the film builds to a fantastic (yet potentially divisive) finale, much of the events that come before may seem irrelevant. This is no way meant to say that the film drags; indeed, it is one of the shortest 2 and a half hour films I’ve ever seen. However, the film’s first and fourth chapters (there are 5) may seem to be almost inconsequential to the grand narrative. While this may be true, they are part of what makes the film great. These self-contained sequences ratchet up the tension so gradually and effectively that I could only sit back and stare in awe. In the first, Col. Landa interrogates a farmer accused of hiding Jews, and watching the tension build, and Tarantino constantly shifts the direction and keeps the audience on their toes. The fourth, a routine bar-scene meeting with a contact gone horribly awry, is miraculously effective as well, although it lacks the character strength that Landa brings to first. On their own, they are both masterful short films. Viewed in the context of the film, they work to effectively show the dangers of WWII.
The major problems some will have with the film are the moral quandaries it poses, both directly and indirectly. Can you, as an audience member, find horrific violence against Nazis not only permissible, but even entertaining? Is it wrong to laugh at a man’s death by baseball bat? Is rewriting history acceptable because it’s the only logical end to the narrative? Tarantino sets up these questions, and then (in my opinion, purposefully) leaves them unanswered. It is not a coincidence that Tarantino inserts Nazis cheering on their own propaganda film in his own enjoyably violent film, nor is it a coincidence that he cast a director (Eli Roth) known for turning violence into pornography in a significant role. It would not be unfair to call him morally irresponsible, treating perhaps the most serious events of the 20th century with such levity and distortion. Such controversies are bound to happen if you make Jewish-Allied soldiers more brutal and sociopathic than the Nazis.
These way Tarantino poses these questions is what I believe is his greatest success. For two and a half hours, the viewer is easily entertained by witty, well-executed dialogue and heart-pounding action. It has all of the upsides of a pure blockbuster film. Upon reflection, though, Basterds appears to be an art film, filled with unorthodox characterizations, moral questions left unanswered, and a complete subversion of expectations. Viewed from this perspective (and I must admit, one could simply believe that Tarantino is merely an amoral “basterd” himself), Basterds is one of the most widely accessible art films ever made.
Should you see Inglourious Basterds? Absolutely. Although the violence and outright butchering of historical fact may offend some, it should not take away from the accomplishments of the film. Tarantino’s dialogue, while perhaps a shade less below both Pulp Fiction and Reservoir Dogs, is still top-notch. It is one of the most entertaining films of the year, and it is equally successful at inspiring debate. Even if you are not a Tarantino fan, you should still see Basterds, if only to see Christoph Waltz’s phenomenal acting job. If you skip it, you will be missing one of the year’s best films, and the year’s best performance.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Friday, September 4, 2009
Cinema Paradiso as a classic narrative
David Bordwell’s “The Art Cinema As a Mode of Film Practice” attempts to provide a clear dichotomy between classic narrative cinema and “art films.” Bordwell is not attempting to address every convention of both types of films, but he does want to provide some basic framework. He gives many distinctions between, but the basic ones are these:
1) Classic Narrative Cinema has clear cause-effect logic, using conventions of editing such as the 30 and 180 degree rules (no cuts between two character should be more than 180 degrees or less than 30 degrees)
2) Art films, conversely, have much looser linkages between cause and effect
3) Fundamentally, art cinema motivates its narrative by realism and authorial expressivity
In my mind, there is no doubt that, using Bordwell’s description, Cinema Paradiso is a classical Hollywood film. Indeed, the entire point of the movie is to evoke the glory of those classic films. From the score by Ennio Morricone, who wrote the scores for Sergio Leone’s “spaghetti western” films and many, many others, to the resemblance Elena (Agnese Nano) bears to famous Hollywood sirens such as Rita Hayworth, every detail of the film illuminates the wonder created by classic cinema. The Paradiso, a theatre in a small Sicilian town, does not show Ingmar Bergman or Michaelangelo Antonioni films. It shows comedies by Buster Keaton and Charlie Chapman. Cinema Paradiso, the film and the theatre, is preoccupied with the wide appeal and simple beauty of classical films.
Yes, this may all be true, but can’t Cinema Paradiso be an art film about classical films? While this could indeed be true, it is not true of Cinema Paradiso. Cinema Paradiso may play with some of the conventions of a classical narrative, but it follows them nonetheless. At least in the shortened version, the film’s love story is not about Elena. Elena is a transient part of Salvatore’s (played, in increasing order of age, by Salvatore Cascio, Marco Leonardi, and Jacques Perrin) life. She appears in the middle of his life, his film, and leaves far before the conclusion, both in terms of the film’s length and the span of his life. His true love is the cinema. His final embrace is not with some elusive woman, but with the many embraces in movies themselves.
The narrative structure of the film is, while not strictly linear, certainly close to the structure of traditional Hollywood films. The film’s use of narrative space is traditional, and its edits are never noticeably abnormal or disorienting. As for its slightly unorthodox time structure, classics such as “Citizen Kane” utilize similar flashback structures to show the life of their protagonists. Perhaps the only sequence that toys with our idea of time is the very brief sequence of Salvatore in the military. However, brief montages that represent longer periods of time are common in Hollywood cinema. Again, “Citizen Kane” springs to mind, but the technique is a common one, used in films as different as “Rocky IV” (and, incidentally, almost every other Sylvester Stallone film) and “Casablanca.” The time structure of “Cinema Paradiso” is quite straightforward.
So, if “Cinema Paradiso” has a straightforward usage of narrative time and space as well as a love story (albeit a slightly atypical one), does it fit in with Bordwell’s fundamental dichotomy between “art films” and classical narrative cinema? Namely, is it concerned with realism and authorial expressivity? Well, “Cinema Paradiso” does not seem to be preoccupied with realism as Borwell describes it. “Cinema Paradiso’s” narrative is nothing if not focused, with a very clear progression of action. The events are completely realistic, yes, but the movie deals with Toto’s grander problems, his ultimate destiny as a successful director. As for the psychological reality, while the film certainly deals with the internal emotional conflicts Toto has, it does not preoccupy itself with any sort of existential angst that lies at the heart of art films such as “The Seventh Seal.” So while the film is certainly realistic, it does not have the same sense of realism that art films have, at least as Bordwell describes it.
The final definition of an art film, as opposed to a classic narrative, is the most troublesome when it comes to Cinema Paradiso. Does the film have authorial expressivity? Absolutely. The film is clearly a personal one. And how could it not be? Director Giuseppe Tornatore is making a film about a director who loves film. Even if the events are not drawn from his own life, there necessarily are some parallels between Salvatore and himself. However, does the film have those specific flourishes that makes Tornatore unique? This is not an easy question, as Tornatore is not a tremendously well-known director (at least on the level of a Fellini or a Woody Allen, perhaps a “Hollywood art film” director), nor have I seen any of his other movies. Judging from this film alone, though, he does not seem to use music, cuts or character in any very unique way. He doesn’t have a signature that I can discern, unlike, say, Stanley Kubrick using happy songs in depressing situations.
The unfortunate part of writing such a specific blog is that I cannot fully explain how much I love this film. It has such an emotional impact (especially the bittersweet final scene, although it is much more impactful if you have seen the director’s cut, where you find out about a link between Elena and Alfredo (Phillippe Noiret)), and the performances are almost uniformly fantastic. I actually never got to mention the beautiful relationship between Alfredo and Salvatore. In fact, I never spoke of Alfredo once before this concluding paragraph (eek!)! It clearly is a piece of classic narrative cinema, but regardless of what type of movie it is, it is one that anyone and everyone should see (not to sound like a broken record, but preferably the director’s cut. Still, both versions are fantastic.)
1) Classic Narrative Cinema has clear cause-effect logic, using conventions of editing such as the 30 and 180 degree rules (no cuts between two character should be more than 180 degrees or less than 30 degrees)
2) Art films, conversely, have much looser linkages between cause and effect
3) Fundamentally, art cinema motivates its narrative by realism and authorial expressivity
In my mind, there is no doubt that, using Bordwell’s description, Cinema Paradiso is a classical Hollywood film. Indeed, the entire point of the movie is to evoke the glory of those classic films. From the score by Ennio Morricone, who wrote the scores for Sergio Leone’s “spaghetti western” films and many, many others, to the resemblance Elena (Agnese Nano) bears to famous Hollywood sirens such as Rita Hayworth, every detail of the film illuminates the wonder created by classic cinema. The Paradiso, a theatre in a small Sicilian town, does not show Ingmar Bergman or Michaelangelo Antonioni films. It shows comedies by Buster Keaton and Charlie Chapman. Cinema Paradiso, the film and the theatre, is preoccupied with the wide appeal and simple beauty of classical films.
Yes, this may all be true, but can’t Cinema Paradiso be an art film about classical films? While this could indeed be true, it is not true of Cinema Paradiso. Cinema Paradiso may play with some of the conventions of a classical narrative, but it follows them nonetheless. At least in the shortened version, the film’s love story is not about Elena. Elena is a transient part of Salvatore’s (played, in increasing order of age, by Salvatore Cascio, Marco Leonardi, and Jacques Perrin) life. She appears in the middle of his life, his film, and leaves far before the conclusion, both in terms of the film’s length and the span of his life. His true love is the cinema. His final embrace is not with some elusive woman, but with the many embraces in movies themselves.
The narrative structure of the film is, while not strictly linear, certainly close to the structure of traditional Hollywood films. The film’s use of narrative space is traditional, and its edits are never noticeably abnormal or disorienting. As for its slightly unorthodox time structure, classics such as “Citizen Kane” utilize similar flashback structures to show the life of their protagonists. Perhaps the only sequence that toys with our idea of time is the very brief sequence of Salvatore in the military. However, brief montages that represent longer periods of time are common in Hollywood cinema. Again, “Citizen Kane” springs to mind, but the technique is a common one, used in films as different as “Rocky IV” (and, incidentally, almost every other Sylvester Stallone film) and “Casablanca.” The time structure of “Cinema Paradiso” is quite straightforward.
So, if “Cinema Paradiso” has a straightforward usage of narrative time and space as well as a love story (albeit a slightly atypical one), does it fit in with Bordwell’s fundamental dichotomy between “art films” and classical narrative cinema? Namely, is it concerned with realism and authorial expressivity? Well, “Cinema Paradiso” does not seem to be preoccupied with realism as Borwell describes it. “Cinema Paradiso’s” narrative is nothing if not focused, with a very clear progression of action. The events are completely realistic, yes, but the movie deals with Toto’s grander problems, his ultimate destiny as a successful director. As for the psychological reality, while the film certainly deals with the internal emotional conflicts Toto has, it does not preoccupy itself with any sort of existential angst that lies at the heart of art films such as “The Seventh Seal.” So while the film is certainly realistic, it does not have the same sense of realism that art films have, at least as Bordwell describes it.
The final definition of an art film, as opposed to a classic narrative, is the most troublesome when it comes to Cinema Paradiso. Does the film have authorial expressivity? Absolutely. The film is clearly a personal one. And how could it not be? Director Giuseppe Tornatore is making a film about a director who loves film. Even if the events are not drawn from his own life, there necessarily are some parallels between Salvatore and himself. However, does the film have those specific flourishes that makes Tornatore unique? This is not an easy question, as Tornatore is not a tremendously well-known director (at least on the level of a Fellini or a Woody Allen, perhaps a “Hollywood art film” director), nor have I seen any of his other movies. Judging from this film alone, though, he does not seem to use music, cuts or character in any very unique way. He doesn’t have a signature that I can discern, unlike, say, Stanley Kubrick using happy songs in depressing situations.
The unfortunate part of writing such a specific blog is that I cannot fully explain how much I love this film. It has such an emotional impact (especially the bittersweet final scene, although it is much more impactful if you have seen the director’s cut, where you find out about a link between Elena and Alfredo (Phillippe Noiret)), and the performances are almost uniformly fantastic. I actually never got to mention the beautiful relationship between Alfredo and Salvatore. In fact, I never spoke of Alfredo once before this concluding paragraph (eek!)! It clearly is a piece of classic narrative cinema, but regardless of what type of movie it is, it is one that anyone and everyone should see (not to sound like a broken record, but preferably the director’s cut. Still, both versions are fantastic.)
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