Short Reflections from the Silver Screen: Don’t Look Now

Don-t-Look-Now

Don’t Look Now

UK. 1973. Nicolas Roeg.

This film leaves a scar deep beneath the surface; Roeg renders the subconscious state of the cinematic with absolute accomplishment.

This psychic thriller is about a man’s (John Baxter) overwhelming grief for the death of his daughter and the feelings of guilt that supersede it. John vacates to Venice with his wife Laura to direct the reconstruction of a local church. There is a fine line between the symbolism of religion and death, as the church serves for plenty of John’s deranged fear of guilt and entrapment. Further signs draw links between various characters that implement the most unsettling outcomes. The film builds itself up to a chilling climax that resonates amidst our conscious minds and filters through to the subconscious.

The cinematography is essential to filling each frame with dread and creating each magnificently threatening composition. Venice looks ice cold and bleak and represents the maze that John’s mind is trying to map. The narrow alleys, identical bridges and claustrophobic buildings all transmit John’s confusion and mounting anxiety. It’s hard to imagine the film being shot anywhere else.

 

*All reflections are from my film journal.

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The Arbor, The Selfish Giant and Clio Barnard

Clio Barnard

I was fortunate enough to attend Clio Bernard’s lecture on her work the other day, she truly shows the promising signs of a filmmaker who understands their vision and has the passion, tenacity and talent to contribute a thorough standpoint in cinema. Her first two films have been seminal works in the last few years of British film, gaining Clio multiple awards internationally and 2 BAFTA nominations for the outstanding debut category.

Clio’s underlying themes of memory, authenticity and imagination are rich from the outset, although masked in the provincial poverty and the battle of human life that she so credibly conceives. The Arbor is her first feature length piece of work that simulates layers of reality to a shattering and enthralling effect. It is raw and lucid, and some critics have complained of its downward spiral of depression and heartache, at times there is little space for breath. Yet, on the contrary, Clio utilises innovative filmmaking tools to remind the viewer that this is simply a retelling of a story that is being remembered in more ways than one. There is the simulation of Andrew Dunbar’s play acted out in the estate yard; there is the reflection of Dunbar’s family (of authentic voices lip-synced to actors – a magical feat and by no means obtrusive), the fictionalised reenactment of events and the factual archive footage of interviews with Andrea herself. It is a true expression of Brechtian technique (from the epic theatre) and thus a remarkably fresh insight into the documentary form and the form of cinematic expression itself.

The selfish giant

Following on from this great success, Clio emerged with another tale of heartache and grief imaginatively interpreted from Oscar Wilde’s fable The Selfish Giant. Clio also drew inspiration from The Arbor and the cycle of power and greed constructed within working-class Yorkshire (Bradford). The poor are undermined by society and the audience innately experiences the cycle of poverty through the young eyes of a 14 year old boy (ironically called Arbor) trying to make ends meet for his detached and deprived family. It is a striking film with beautiful and sometimes magical cinematography, powerful and admirable acting and, of course, the instinctive and precise direction of Clio.

Clio came from a background in fine art and it was her sequential drawings that drew her to the cinematic form. She became interested in what it would be like to construct these drawings into a storyboard form, if you like, ultimately, the moving image. Clio began making short films of the experimental and artistry kind. She screened part of an intriguing short film she made in 1998 called Random acts of Intimacy which, like The Arbor, blended authentic voices with actors miming. In this case, irrational sexual acts (usually of one’s fantasy or imagination) were explained in detail and filtrated with shots from actual pornographic films. The audience wishes to seek out the vulnerability and the anonymity of lip-syncing makes this a frustrating and highly captivating task.

Clio continued to experiment with the medium, constantly looking for new ways to explore authenticity and connect with the real. However, she assertively believes that it is wholly risky to believe in the authenticity of film. Though, her social-realist style in The Selfish Giant may proclaim otherwise, it is after all inaugurated from a little fable of greed that resolves in receipt.

I am fascinated to find out where Clio will take her filmmaking journey next, she hinted she was in the writing process at the moment, nothing more. She has explored the boundaries of documentary and narrative filmmaking, both transcending the screen, one with Brechtian motives and the other via pure cinema. What’s next Clio?

Short Reflections from the Silver Screen: The Human Centipede

The-Human-Centipede

The Human Centipede: First Sequence

Netherlands. 2009. Tom Six.

Whenever I reflect on this movie, I feel my inside organs coil and wretch. It truly is sick. Yet what continues to amaze me is Tom Six’s audacious ability to bring his utterly perverted idea to life with such a powerful execution.

Not for one moment does this film strike a vocal cord for laughter (often an easy escape route for horror), instead I remained engrossed inside the world of The Human Centipede. This is respectably due to Dieter Laser’s harrowingly impressive performance as the mad and clearly off-color scientist who speaks like a Nazi. He revels at his operational work in an introverted manner under his umbrella of sheer perversity.

Can such a film appeal to anyone other than exploitative midnight horror freaks? I believe anyone who is brave enough to turn up or press play will be locked in for the sick ride. But, how can one possibly accredit such a film? It may pull many outside their comfort zone, but it beckons an achievement in emphatically opening up the dark artistic soul of its director.

 

The Human Centipede: Full Sequence

Netherlands. 2011. Tom Six.

If there ever was a way to make a sequel unique and truly perverted, this is the one. I was inevitably left completely grossed out, but still intrigued by the clever concept this film toys with.

Fat and troubled loner Martin (Lawrence R. Harvey) is obsessed by the movie (the First Sequence). It ignites a drive and dream deep down amidst his black and warped soul to create his own 12-person centipede – overshadowing the great German scientist (his icon) by times four. Almost without any hesitation, Martin begins to collect his victims, bashing them over the head with a wrench, and realise his sick fantasy as it transcends unnervingly into his own reality.

What follows is enough masochism and wounds to the head to enflame the greatest of ‘shock’ cinema fans. Shot in black and white (actually looking quite nice), the blood isn’t so repulsing rather it is Martin’s true sense of perverted pleasure and vile domesticity that unearths the skin.

It is a fine piece of exploitation cinema, but perhaps give it a miss if you found the First Sequence too much.

 

*All reflections are from my film journal.