Nói albínói (2003) A Film by Dagur Kari

In movies the coming-of-age genre has been formed, reformed, recycled, copied, and in the case of Noi the Albino, refreshed. In an Icelandic village sitting at the foot of a massive glacier, a bald, skeletal teenage misfit named Nói lives a commonly angst-ridden lifestyle. Amidst his monotonous day-to-day offerings, which are limited to trudging around the frost-bitten streets and sitting devoid of all spirit in his school desk, he finds few serene moments to kick it in his basement's sub-floor space and ponder the existence he wishes he could escape to. When he meets the new gas station attendant Iris and finds her charm nearly irresistible, a slimmer of hope presents itself. However, destined to follow in the footsteps of his slacker father, Nói's attempts at escaping his bleak life are simply clumsy and ill planned.

In a style reminiscent of Jim Jarmusch, Director Dagur Kari finds deadpan humor in depressing and unconventional characters, but also showcases the ability to shift narrative tones with deftness. The film finds a healthy medium between its offbeat, slow-paced romance, its absurdly comic moments, and its tragic digressions. Although Nói is rather methodically-paced as a narrative, it is always enduring. This can be attested to the overall atmosphere of the film, which Kari seems to have a personal relationship with. As I've seen in numerous films and photographs, Iceland is an absolutely gorgeous country. Kari doesn't necessarily fixate on the landscape in the way that a film like Heima did, but he establishes it as a ruthless entity, one that is a living, breathing, but forever stagnate asset to the character's lives. They plan their clothing around it, their jobs, and it seems that their personalities reflect it as well; the village's inhabitants are all calm, introverted, and perhaps cynical. Surely this quiet atmosphere makes it mark on the film, literally when Nói describes the animal museum as being the wildest place in town, and figuratively in the peacefully frigid panoramas set to melancholy guitar picks. Despite the film's mundane surface details, it is continually absorbing and a triumph of independent filmmaking.

La Jetee (1962) A Film by Chris Marker

Told entirely with still photography, unorthodox French filmmaker Chris Marker's 28 minute La Jetee is a chilling evocation of a postwar Paris where radiation endangers the surface of the city, creating an underground laboratory of survival experiments. The remaining humans look into time travel in hopes of salvaging the food and supplies that the past contained. One man is put to the test specifically because of the strong mental image of a woman that he possesses. Admittedly somewhat of a preface to Terry Gilliam's 1995 film Twelve Monkeys, La Jetee makes for an index of great black and white lo-fi photography. It's also a substantially enigmatic work that has left me puzzled through even my second viewing.

Our tragic hero embarks on a quest through his romantic memory bank, visiting the home of his youth, a museum of his youth, and the diversions he enjoyed with the curious girl. In the end, he is forced to decide on a life in the past or in the future, one of which has already offered humanity's solution. He opts to search for the woman on the pier (la jetee), the image that has stained his mind for so long. With a droning voice-over, fascinating sound design that includes incomprehensible whispers, heartbeats, and bird chirps, and an occasional musical score, La Jetee is just as much a story for the ears as it is for the eyes and mind. Marker once said his work was to "question images", so perhaps the shadowy characters who test the man are simply brainwashing him, resulting in a labyrinth of existential continuum. Whatever the message is, there's no doubt that it's fun to be brainwashed by Chris Marker.

Pierrot Le Fou (1965) A Film by Jean-Luc Godard

Pierrot Le Fou, yet another one of Jean-Luc Godard's French New Wave triumphs, is nothing if not a fantastic ode to life and living. This stylish and spontaneous creation by Godard makes for one of the most enjoyable film experiences one could ever imagine. From a filmmaking standpoint, its risky and extemporaneous style does not owe itself to firm calculation or narrative logic; rather, its the ecstatic enthusiasm that Godard conveys through Jean-Pierre Belmondo and Anna Karina that heightens this film. In the first several minutes of the film, we are introduced to Belmondo's character Ferdinand who reads to his daughter in a bathtub the words of the painter Diego Velasquez. Godard excites the senses with visions akin to Belmondo's words. However, in an instant he is interrupted by his wife, whose sudden request for Ferdinand to dress up for a classy adult party comes as no surprise in light of her flashy bourgeois lifestyle.

At the party, Ferdinand is surrounded by "imbeciles", as he puts it, which include the American film director Sam Fuller, who describes the cinema as a battleground of emotions. These uncomfortable diversions lead Ferdinand to leave the party and take off excitedly with the babysitter at his house, Marianne Renior (Anna Karina). From here on out we are in a world of the hyperreal, where Marianne and Ferdinand's actions are venturesome and romanticized. Supporting the "opposites attract" concept, Belmondo plays an apostle of cool and contemplative whereas Marianne is an antsy free-spirit. Her unusual connections with Algerian gangsters continually divert her attention and thus ruin Ferdinand's mad hopes of a simple existence by the Mediterranean Sea, quietly working on his writing and enjoying Marianne's company. Essentially, she destroys him personally, spiritually, and artistically. However, their relationship is so lucid and radiant that he can't abandon her.

They are on an idealized tirade of the French countryside, doing whatever they feel like with no regard to the repercussions, and this is precisely what Godard is doing in a filmic sense. If ever a filmmaker is splashing buckets of paint onto a blank canvas, this is that film. Godard's relentless visual and conceptual ideas are marvelously entertaining, telling the tale with outbursts of emotion in short and often times unconnected sequences. The film is like a memory or a dream, and this notion is further supported by Ferdinand and Marianne's unpunished ruthlessness. Not to mention we get that sense of colors being ultra-saturated to the point of blinding vibrancy with the help of Criterion's dazzling transfer. Raoul Coutard, the cinematographer, uses red and sky blue with such remarkable coherence. I am tempted to say that it's one of the most magnificent uses of color I've ever seen in a film. The imagery of the peaceful abodes by the Mediterranean is ravishing and transcendent, clearly representing the lavish side of life in contrast with the "gangster film" that Karina speaks of in voice-over. Pierrot Le Fou, because of its ecstatic vision and Belmondo and Karina's great chemistry, cannot be missed.

Changeling (2008) A Film by Clint Eastwood

Contrary to pyschological norms, Clint Eastwood's creative instincts have arguably increased in response to aging. As a director he is more calculated than ever, and it shows with his latest film Changeling, the true story of the corrupt L.A.P.D. in the 1940's. His film depicts Christine Collins, a working class mother who is lied to by the police after her son disappears inexplicably, and whose well-being is unceasingly ransacked by the authorities that are in place, whether it's the crooked police captain or the menacing lead psychiatrist of the asylum that she is "thrown" into (or as it is so poignantly put by the captain, "escorted" into). The police return the incorrect son to Ms. Collins and she insists it's not hers ("because a mother would know," she pleads); in her attempts to prove her case to the police, her words are unfairly digested and flip-flopped continually. She is irrationally deemed as socially unacceptable.

These acts are all in the interest of sustaining the public image of the self-conscious department of justice. Without a doubt, you'll find yourself squirming in your seat in disgust and wondering if this could still be relevant with today's authorities. After all, they'd be hiding their flaws. Thanks to Eastwood's undeniable wisdom as a storyteller, we are allowed to sift through this question and an array of others. When the plot broadens to grand scope-juggling several bowling pins and managing to catch them all-there is a growing sense of terror. A heinous killing spree and a several fresh faces are shuffled in, but everything pieces together and maintains focus. This is the type of film that could have been burdened by sentimentality and incessant violence, and besides the forced clincher line that ends the film, Eastwood spares us of both of these Hollywood trademarks. Like Mystic River and his duo of World War II films, he exhibits deftness at handling a powerful drama.

In his earlier years, masculine shoot-out films reigned supreme in his oeuvre, but he has become more level-headed and actually brings to screen a largely feminine tale with Changeling. Angelina Jolie plays Ms. Collins, who Eastwood handles pretty well despite occasionally bordering on unrealistic. For a single mother whose son is presumably her life, she is awfully concerned with her chic wardrobe, and through thick and thin she is adorned by an impenetrable layer of bright red lipstick and dark eyeshadow. She works as the supervisor to a telegram enterprise so surely she can afford these items, but one gets the sense that Jolie just couldn't let her pretty girl image be tampered with in a heavier film.

Her sometimes questionable acting is balanced out by two mammoth performances however. John Malkovich (no surprise!) plays a passionately driven and active evangelist in support of Christine's case. It's rewarding to see him bark at the woman in the psych ward. Also Jason Butler Harner plays a senseless serial killer who is downright disturbing to look at. Tom Stern's Oscar-worthy cinematography is also notable. The lighting is superb in its sharp dark and light shadows, although for a director who recently praised longer screen time for singular images in his Sight and Sound interview, some of the greatest shots are often times quickly left in the dust. Fortunately however, Eastwood's amateur days appear to have disappeared in the dust just like Walter Collins, so there is only a promising future to look forward to.

Ordet (1955) A Film by Carl Th. Dreyer

After viewing two Dreyer films, I'm starting to understand the necessity of his plain and formalized cinematic language. It's certainly not a style that grabs your attention or demands praise. This puts the Scandinavian director's body of work close to two other understated masters who are thought of as the ultimate examples of truth and humanity in film: Robert Bresson and Yasujiro Ozu. With Vampyr and now Ordet under my belt, I just haven't been able to find an affinity with the director's films, something that I achieved instantly upon viewing only one Bresson and Ozu film respectively.

Ordet is the most blatant study of religious faith ever recorded on film. It tells the story of the Borgen's, a Danish family living on a farm who inevitably build towards a spiritual crisis. Each character undergoes a significant transformation in the film: the granddad Morten Borgen begins as a skeptic of prayer and ends as an embracer of the "warmth of life"; the son Johannes believes for a great part of the film that he is the reincarnated Christ and ends freed from his nearly insane behaviors; the son Mikkel begins as an agnostic and ends with perhaps the strongest faith; Anders Borgen clings to the wish of obtaining the tailor's daughter and eventually is fulfilled, and the tailor has an organized fundamentalist belief which he reverses considerably, finally allowing his daughter to marry Anders. These metamorphoses are the foundations of the truly miraculous climax that ensues when the daughter Inger, wife of Mikkel, is rebounding from intense labor.

Although Ordet's ending is magnanimous in its optimistic, faith-supporting religious appeal, I found it to be unrealistic. It was rewarding and moving from a plot standpoint, but it is seen better as a allegory on the excesses of faith than as a palpable occurrence. Nonetheless the film is a complex, sophisticated work of art in light of its incredibly dry but focused vision. Dreyer strips his locations down to the bare minimum, revealing mainly white walls and mundane portraits on the walls (which curiously always seem to mirror the people who own them). He avoids music and manipulative cutting, resulting in hopelessly austere camerawork that usually involves one shot per scene. The visual style that I find has existed in both Vampyr and Ordet is mainly mid-level compositions that continually pan around the room to observe the action. I find myself wishing Dreyer would frame more delicately. I also believe that Bergman's The Seventh Seal was a far more interesting religious exploration, with the use of a pessimistic mood and beautiful cinematography. However, one can't deny Dreyer's place in the maturation of film as an art.

Punch-Drunk Love (2002) A Film by Paul Thomas Anderson

Many of the films of Paul Thomas Anderson are like the characters in Shakespeare plays; they have one fatal flaw. In Punch-Drunk Love, his first and only full blown romantic comedy to date, real human emotion is too often subverted in the interest of all things quirky. With what was called a shockingly serious performance, Adam Sandler plays a nervous and impulsive small businessman who gets himself into trouble when he hands his credit card over to an erotic phone chat company. To me, Sandler plays his normal fidgety self, the one strength being that there is a pinch of him not thinking he's most the most hilarious human on the planet. His character Barry Egan can actually be analyzed as a socially awkward twitch rather than a self-inflated maniac. On an average day, a peculiarly named girl Lena Leonard stumbles upon Barry's workplace and he is struck with affection. Beforehand, he acquires a harmonium off the side of the street, which Anderson strains to connect to the plot, but ends up only portraying a pathetic guy's attachment to the random beeping of notes. By the end, as if by some stroke of miracle, he plays a chord.

This is all meant to be funny I suppose, but Anderson builds each joke up too anxiously with the help of Jon Brion's obtrusive score. The ticking percussion serves its purpose literally; when the tick stops, an awkward characterization springs up and then it starts back up again. The music is absent however for the most baffling line of the film when Lena whispers to Barry, "I wanna chew off the skin on your face." Punch-Drunk Love is overflowing with quirks. Anderson's directorial style in the film is at times admirable but his hope of impressing art film fans feels too self-conscious. There are useless tidbits of tye-dye animations that interrupt the viewing experience once in a while; they seem like a way of affirming that "yes, this is indeed a romantic comedy and is intended to be very flowery despite the frequent spurts of anger." I couldn't make much sense of their true purpose.

The visual style is beautiful and quite Kubrickian, like Anderson has displayed in much of his work, but he fetishizes it to the point of self-indulgence. In the scene where Barry first notices the harmonium on the road, a shot that relishes the grandeur of the long street is on screen. Then Anderson reverses this shot to look the opposite way. As if that wasn't overkill, he then proceeds to show two more wonderful depth of field shots. One of these images for a prolonged amount of time would have worked better for the action that follows the pensive silence. Although Punch-Drunk Love charms frequently and is pretty engaging (something I've left out), Anderson's gimmicks shine through far too much. The film is a declaration to the fact that Anderson matured in a shortage of time to create his masterpiece There Will be Blood.

Brand Upon the Brain! (2006) A Film by Guy Maddin

Guy Maddin is the type of artist whose overwhelming originality leaves audiences feeling powerless and in a state of stunned admiration. With Brand Upon the Brain!, the specific result is a disorienting trip through Maddin's auteurist mind, which has channeled the primitive days of cinema and modernized them to astounding proportions. He has always been an immensely personal filmmaker, leading some to peg him as a self-indulgent, overly arty experimenter. However, someone who takes such an innate fondness to the mythologizing of their youth and rummages the art of film in the process is someone who should never be labeled so negatively.

2006's Brand Upon the Brain! is a pyschosexual expedition through Maddin's zany childhood. Utilizing the techniques of silent film, grand-guignol, and experimental film, he devises a constant mood of menace surrounding the Black Notch Island he inhabited in his youth. His reinvention of these methods is evident in the technically sophisticated breed of editing he presents. Superimpositions, marauded speed-up and slow-down effects, and jump cuts are relentless. One minute, you may feel like you're viewing a student's flashy experimental piece, and the next you'll be in absolute awe by the amount of work that must have been put into it. In a Poe-esque tell-tale way, Isabella Rossellini narrates the fantasy of the fictionalized Guy. His mother is a forever watchful spy, perched at the top of the family's lighthouse, which is also home to a laboratory rat father and a legion of orphans. Guy's heart is melted by the coming of a woman named Wendy who plays a sweet harp, but soon enough she transforms into her brother Chance Hale to pursue Guy's sister. (Wendy's a lesbian.)

Maddin attacks this haunting fantasy with incessantly recurrent imagery such as "The Horn of Chastity", "The Kissing and Undressing Gloves", and "The Harvest of the Nectar", which is perceptibly the juice from the father's orphans. Odd, yes, but also humorous and enchanting. Brand Upon the Brain! feels a bit like childhood story time, except with a dark edge and a discombobulated mood. If you're a fan of David Lynch but also enjoy Charlie Chaplin, you'll find great satisfaction in this visual feast. When it was released, it actually toured live with a full orchestra (the score is a masterpiece on its own) and foley artist - sounds like something that would likely reverse my opinion of theater in general.