Digital Delights (?)

Good news folks - Little White Lies (arguably the most lust-inducing film magazine currently in circulation) has unleashed their sexy new digital edition. Granted, nothing can beat curling up somewhere comfy and browsing through its art-filled pages at leisure, but for those who are too poor to fork out for the pages themselves (or a hefty overseas postage cost), the next best thing can be lapped up here. There's also some nifty link action that hooks you up with selected clips and trailers. You won't be able to wallpaper your living room with the digital pages, but perhaps that's for the best... and er, good for the environment, innit.

‘All that remains is time’: Béla Tarr’s simple truth

Yes, yes, it’s a film that’s (rather shockingly) a good nine years old now, but I treated myself to a second viewing of Werckmeister harmóniák (2000) last night and feel compelled to share the joy, as always.

Besides, there’s always a chance that there are people out there who, like me, have heard little of what I reckon must be Hungary’s – nay, Europe’s – best living filmmaker in our very midst. Part of the reason for this is because, quite simply, his work hasn’t been in a great hurry to get itself translated and exported over here and elsewhere; but now that is it available I urge anyone interested in ‘film’ (rather than ‘movies’) to put your life on hold until you are able to bask in Tarr’s style of filmic greatness.

Béla Tarr does not tell stories; he aims for something simpler, clearer. Ultimately, he wants to show humanity, to bring the audience closer to the people on screen. Verbal communication is secondary to the physical presence of his characters, which is why we are graced with long takes, slow, brooding camerawork, and bleak, beautiful landscapes in which these people can move and breathe. Tarr claims that this unhurried approach is an attempt to follow an underlying logic that lies in not in what is said, but in the smaller details within a scene – Tarr avoids the ‘usual’ style of editing (which he describes as being information – cut – information) as although that approach can follow the logic of a story, it doesn’t follow the ‘logic of life’.

Although often compared to Tarkovsky, Tarr has no interest in religious, political, or even philosophical matters. Werckmeister harmóniák is perplexing if you try to rationalise it – is it an allegory? A rumination on political opportunisim, collective anxiety, chaos? Existential terror? No. Apparently it is exactly how it appears on the screen: “this guy who is walking up and down the village and has seen this whale.”

He may use literature as his source material, but Tarr sees film as speaking a more primitive language. “We take a novel and ruin it. And then our work is to find the right locations and bring life to it. We have to rediscover everything – and that reality must be ours.” Tarr wants you to use your eyes: “Watch. That’s important. Don’t think about it too much. Everyone can understand it if they don’t complicate it.”

“If you get closer to the people you saw on the screen; touched by the beauty of the destitute, then we’ve achieved something.” So if you haven’t already, go find yourself a copy of Werckmeister harmóniák and simply watch it, and take pleasure in it’s stark and simple beauty.

*Any of the un-linked quotations came from the interview on my lovely DVD

Cinematic Poetry (it can happen)

The other evening I had the distinct pleasure of encountering the delights of Guy Maddin’s My Winnipeg. Since it’s been winging its way around the US festival circuit since April, I shall shunt my lyrical waxings elsewhere, and instead talk about something shiny and new, but nonetheless related.

Winnipeg does what film should aspire to: using the medium to create something personal, distinct and engaging – and, not being a literary expert in any shape or form, I can, in my relative naivety, squash the words ‘cinematic’ and ‘poetry’ together in celebration of what Maddin’s film achieves. Whether the words and phrases used in the film hold much poetic weight on their own matters not, since the overall experience comes from the layering of image, sound and narration.

I’m not the only one throwing around this particular label; the UK’s foremost pithy critic, Mark Kermode, has recently sung the praises of Terence Davies’ Of Time and the City (‘lyrical’ and ‘transcendent’ being the key words). Davies speaks of his love of the small things that reveal ‘the greater truth’ of loss, nostalgia and the city. This rendering of what critics have described as both a love song and a eulogy was achieved through initial mute edits, to ensure that the images ‘speak’ on their own terms; extracts of (very carefully) chosen music and poetry were added later as a counterpoint. Whether this approach renders the end result less of a personal expression than Maddin’s film remains to be seen. I’m not sure how much I can love a snowless snippet of docu-memory, but Kermode assures us all that Davies’ mesmerising tones will more than make up for this oversight. It makes its US debut in January, so if you liked Winnipeg, be sure to track down ‘Liverpool’ - and let me know how the two compare.

You, The Living (dir. Roy Andersson)

"Be pleased then, you, the living, in your delightfully warmed bed, before Lethe's ice-cold wave will lick your escaping foot."

And so begins what superior critic Anton Bitel enticingly describes as ‘a litany of human disconnection, misery, frustration and despair’- but the kind that sees humour in the apparent futility of our day to day mishaps and misunderstandings that bind us together in our collective angst.

Conventional narrative is replaced with a series of living tableaux; our hapless characters shuffle around ineffectually – forlorn and resigned - some in silent anguish, others more vocal in their pain. It could make for decidedly grim viewing if not for the rather jaunty music provided by members of a marching band, and for the distance created between ourselves and the characters which enables us to see humour in their absurdity. And yet, somehow, there remains the tiniest glimmer of humanity within it all.

Andersson is gifted with a distinctive visual style: everything is in long shot, the static camera moving only once or twice throughout. Every scene is composed like a painting, the heavy ashen make-up and muted palette serving to enhance this aesthetic. The director explains: ‘I want light that has not much shadow because I want light where people can’t hide in – light without mercy.’ The pared down result is beautifully stark; the lack of distraction allows us to savour the texture of the utilitarian architecture and weather worn streets in all their gritty glory.

The film may well be a master class in mise en scene, but there is a philosophical core lurking not far beneath the surface: think understated rather than startlingly profound. Either way, this collection of deliciously droll vignettes is something you have to see for yourself.