Éric Rohmer, Le Rayon vert (Summer), 1986, stills from a color film in 35 mm, 98 minutes.

DELPHINE, the fretful and fussy antiheroine of Éric Rohmer’s Le Rayon vert (The Green Ray, 1986; originally released in North America as Summer), may be at a loss for those all-important July-August vacation plans, but she doesn’t lack for friends and strangers telling her where to go or how to live. Still brittle two years after a broken engagement, which is echoed by a friend’s last-minute change in travel itinerary at the film’s opening, the pale Parisian will find herself, for example, airily defending vegetarianism to a table full of people she barely knows, or watching a Swedish girl she meets on a topless beach trade interminable flirtations with a doofus pickup.

Delphine’s melancholia and loneliness attract the attention of others, but amid these interventions by concerned extroverts, her breakdowns and sudden flights accrue into a portrayal of a not-so-poetic doldrums, even depression. Rohmer makes her mood recognizable from inside and outside through her tetchy clinging to sadness and the frustration of friends trying to help. The bracing, craggy seasides she explores alone, the sandy stretches of anonymous crowds, and the alfresco chats provide little escape. “For Éric Rohmer, leisure is the supreme spiritual test faced by modern men and women,” wrote Phillip Lopate, mostly not kidding.

Shooting on 16 mm, Rohmer catches partly improvised conversations, allowing overlapping dialogue and casual gestures (as when one of Delphine’s friends turns her attention to a magazine on a side table). Played by Marie Rivière, Delphine speaks in a fluttering self-revising rush, vacillating between assertion and confession; whenever she gives up and her tears flow, which happens more than once, it feels unexpected and real, a break in the etiquette of smooth surfaces. And yet her romanticism is just as palpable: When she finally takes steps to dig herself out of a hole, she seems to believe in her success only upon seeing the titular rayon vert, glimpsed for a mere moment at day’s end.

Nicolas Rapold

Le Rayon vert (Summer) will screen at BAMcinématek in New York from June 9–15.

Charles Chaplin, The Great Dictator, 1940, stills from a black-and-white film in 35 mm, 125 minutes.

“LEAVE ME, I WANT TO BE ALONE.” Thus growls a sullen Hitler to one of his attendants in an original trailer for Charlie Chaplin’s The Great Dictator (1940). Slithering down from an unlikely perch high up on a curtain, Der Führer proceeds to stalk an outsize globe, eyeing it greedily and portentously, in lone contemplation of his imminent world dominion. The globe turns out to be a balloon, affording Chaplin some highly amusing pantomime. He bounces and spins it in a comical allegory of arrogant control, until the object pops in his face. The prelude to Richard Wagner’s Lohengrin underscores the mood and the message—and attests to Chaplin’s affinity, shared with Hitler himself, for Wagner’s operas.

Chaplin’s first sound film, The Great Dictator also constituted his most successful commercial venture. He not only wrote, produced, and directed the movie, but also starred in double roles: as both an anonymous Jewish barber and the eponymous tyrant—Adenoid Hynkel—for whom the former is mistaken. The film is perhaps best recalled for the barber’s final speech—an elegy both personal and existential, a mournful dirge and a cautionary homily (“Greed has poisoned men’s souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed . . . ”). Yet if any other scene stands out as strikingly, it is Hynkel’s nonsensical harangue before his minions. Real German words and names—“sauerkraut” and “schnitzel” among them—punctuate a stream of gibberish to no grammatical end. By further inflating Hitler’s over-the-top oratory, Chaplin aimed to deflate his still-exotic menace. A Mussolini-like character, the voluble “Benzino Napaloni”—along with the satirized pageantry of Fascist propaganda—rounds out the film’s send-up of totalitarianism.

Such menace would soon form anything but the stuff of slapstick. Chaplin is said to have later regretted the film’s release, in light of the atrocities to which it only alludes. Still, the rather hackneyed association of freakish eccentricity and megalomaniacal despotism finds, in Chaplin’s work, an incisive parody—one that originated, in part, from the actor’s own physical similarity to the great dictator. The US was still officially at peace with Germany at the time of the film’s debut. Humorous or not, it represented a political intervention, for which Chaplin was criticized by German sympathizers at home. To be sure, the film ventures a broad-strokes diagnosis of the world’s ills, unabashedly humanist in its bright-eyed defiance. Yet given the continued proliferation of dictators on the world stage, and the courage of those still daring to topple them, Chaplin’s film may teach us something yet.

Ara H. Merjian

The Great Dictator is now available on DVD and Blu-ray through the Criterion Collection.

Bible Camp


Terrence Malick, The Tree of Life, 2011, stills from a color film in 35 mm, 138 minutes.

STANLEY KUBRICK made 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) during the minimalist era. Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life (2011) belongs to the period of the mash-up. I’m not sure that anything else needs to be said, and having seen the film only once, I hesitate to go further, but I promised to weigh in on what was the most argued-over movie at Cannes, so here goes.

There are at least two extraordinary sequences in The Tree of Life. One occurs at the opening, just after the introductory inscription from the Book of Job (“Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?”) and the brief image of what I took to be the film’s “great whatsit,” a glowing red object in the middle of the screen. (Is it the heart of the Big Bang, the energy from which all life evolves, or the sign of the Big Guy in the sky who is so mean to Job, or, not to be facetious, the fragment of glass from which Stan Brakhage produced The Text of Light [1974] in its entirety?) And then we depart the Creation of the heavens and the earth to land in the yard of an American suburban house, and the camera is weaving forward through dazzlingly green grass and up and up again and again through the leafy branches of swaying trees, like a light-seeking device, looking for the sun. No one can move the camera like Malick—or, more precisely, no one directs the way Malick directs his great cinematographer, Emmanuel Lubezki, or Lubezki’s operator, Jörg Widmer, to move the camera. Handheld or mounted on a Steadicam, the camera never, as far as I can remember, stops moving throughout what we could call the human (as opposed to the cosmic) sections of the film. Its movement is the corollary of the movement of the human eye and of consciousness, the evocation of the ephemeral nature of all life. It is camera movement as philosophy, morality, biology, and more. If Malick had trusted camera movement to carry the meaning of The Tree of Life . . . but better not to go there yet.

Rather, let’s return to this first glorious sequence where eventually we see a woman who is opening a letter or perhaps a telegram that she has just received. She is standing in the middle of a glassed-in porch and as she begins to read, there is the most startling of all the jump-cuts-on-movement, which is Malick’s standard way of connecting shots. The camera is suddenly high above the woman, and the extreme change of angle lets us experience, kinetically, how the bottom has dropped out of her world, even before she collapses on the floor in tears. The woman is Mrs. O’Brien, aka Mother (Jessica Chastain), the wife of Mr. O’Brien, aka Father (Brad Pitt), and she has just learned that her middle son has died. (How he dies or how old he is when he dies is never specified.)

One of the ways to read The Tree of Life is as a memory piece in which Jack (Sean Penn), the oldest of the three O’Brien sons, tries, decades after the fact, to reconcile himself to the death of his brother, and to put this terrible loss in the perspective of cosmic time and space stretching from the big bang to the extinction of the universe. Thus the film segues between Jack’s childhood in Smithville, Texas, in the 1950s to a depiction of billions of years of evolution that unfortunately resembles too many Discovery Channel science programs, occasionally punctuated by the kind of Old Testament illustrations that made Sunday school an aesthetic nightmare. (At those moments you have to ask if Malick is trying to make a case for intelligent design.) This despite the fact that the special effects were supervised by the legendary Douglas Trumbull and contemporary hotshot Dan Glass, and were partly concocted from old-fashioned materials (paints, smokes, liquids, lighting, high-speed cinematography) and sometimes shot on film, rather than being generated as computer graphics (although there’s much of that too).

The adult Jack (a depressed, Armani-suited architect who lives and works in towering metal and granite buildings that obscure all but the narrowest rays of light) does not appear very often in the film. He is like one of those nearly invisible protagonists in avant-garde “trance” films, the filtering consciousness that “stands in” for that of the filmmaker. If, as the production notes suggest, this is Malick’s “most personal” film, then Jack is the Malick figure. And in that case, I’m glad that at the end of the movie his depression and burden of guilt lift as he “gathers at the river” with all the people he’s known in his life, all of them seemingly metamorphosing from youth to old age and back again—as if he’d dropped some really fine acid.

As you may have surmised by now, The Tree of Life is extremely ambitious but erratic in its realization. Its most poignant, engrossing passages center on the young Jack (Hunter McCracken, tough-hearted and emotionally transparent) as he traverses the liminal zone between childhood and adolescence. And it’s here that the second of the film’s transcendent moments occurs. Jack adores his gentle, nurturing mother who tries to follow in the way of Grace, and he is in a rage at his father, whose way is that of Nature. (This is Malick’s dichotomy, spoken in voice-over early in the film. Fortunately, Pitt, who is superb in his first middle-aged role, and to a lesser extent Chastain, who—not by coincidence alone, I believe—resembles the young Jane Brakhage of Window Water Baby Moving [1959], are sufficiently multifaceted in their characterizations to overcome the designations.) Leaning in close to hand his mother a glass of water that he’s just filled from the garden hose, Jack comes nearly within kissing distance of her bare knees. In a confusion of desire and guilt he storms off, breaks into a neighbor’s house, rifles through the dresser drawers, and steals a silky white slip that he then throws into the river where it spreads out and catches the sun as it floats downstream. The action has a psychological specificity, too often absent in the rest of the film, and it’s also a brilliant metaphor for the way Jack will probably displace his Oedipal confusion onto “next-door neighbors” whom he can violate in fantasy or actuality for the rest of his life. No wonder he’s depressed. His brother’s death doesn’t account for all of his misery.

It’s a pity there aren’t more such moments, or that Malick didn’t trust the expressiveness of his images. Instead he loads the sound track with voice-over, couched between prayerful and preachy, and an overabundance of music—most of it with funereal or religious overtones—that makes the film seem like kitsch, beginning to end. I know that Malick was, in fact, born in 1943, but to depict what is, in the context of this film, the essential family as resembling a Norman Rockwell cover and to locate the moment of childhood innocence in the ’50s and the fall from grace (the death of the middle brother) in the ’60s . . . well, that’s going to give comfort to a lot of very reactionary folk living in 2011. No one could value the profoundly religious films of Robert Bresson and Carl Theodor Dreyer more than I do, but as I fled the theater at the end of The Tree of Life, I blurted out a very old joke: “Thank God I’m an atheist.”

Amy Taubin

The Tree of Life opens in New York on Friday, May 27.

Radu Muntean, Tuesday, After Christmas, 2010, still from a color film in 35 mm, 99 minutes. Paul Hanganu and Raluca (Mimi Brănescu and Maria Popistașu).

RADU MUNTEAN’S Tuesday, After Christmas (2010) is one of the least showy and most finely crafted movies of the Romanian New Wave. Hardly a date movie, it depicts a situation that, given divorce rates, an overwhelming percentage of adult viewers have experienced or will in the future. A married man with a nine-year-old daughter is having an affair with a woman a few years younger than his wife. He didn’t expect the affair to become serious, but it has and he must deal with the fact that he has fallen in love with his girlfriend and does not enjoy living a double life.

Neither melodramatic nor erotic, the film has an odd kind of urgency. It’s as if one is watching a rehearsal or a rerun of one’s own life, but at a remove and drained of the passion that makes one feel, at the moment in which one is deep in the psychodrama of desire and/or betrayal, that nothing like this has ever happened to anyone else. That the behavior of the characters is so mundane and predictable—and utterly true—is in fact what makes the film unique.

Tuesday, After Christmas opens in medias res. Paul (Mimi Brănescu) and Raluca (Maria Popistaşu) are stretched out naked in bed, having, one presumes, just enjoyed an afternoon fuck. Paul is stocky and dark-haired, Raluca is lithe and blonde, and they have a casual intimacy that suggests they’ve been together for a while. It is the Christmas season and they are going to spend it apart, which makes them unhappy. In the next scene, Paul goes Christmas shopping with his wife, Adriana (Mirela Oprişor), an attractive brunette with a lively intelligent face, who clearly hasn’t a clue that her husband is unfaithful, let alone that his lover is their daughter’s orthodontist. Later, in the scene that is the turning point of the movie, the three meet in Raluca’s office; Adriana has at the last minute decided she must look at her daughter’s braces before they are attached. The image of the two women peering into the girl’s mouth while Paul hovers nervously in the doorway might have been, in the hands of a less subtle director, hilarious. Instead, Muntean places us in the uncomfortable position of being aligned with the lovers in their deception of the wife. We know something that she doesn’t. This excellent use of dramatic irony propels the narrative toward the inevitable. Paul, who is not a bad guy (though he has the typical male habit of explaining to the women in his life what they are feeling), comes clean to his wife, who responds with an outpouring of shape-shifting emotions that are like nothing else in the movie.

Shot in scope and composed of long takes with minimal camera movement or editing within sequences, the film gives the actors the responsibility of pacing and shaping each scene, of conveying subtext through silence as well as dialogue. Brilliant acting is what distinguishes most Romanian New Wave movies, and here the interactions of Brănescu, Oprişor, and Popistaşu are exceptional. To risk the kind of metaphor that the movie eschews, Tuesday, After Christmas is much more than a slice of life. It’s an old-fashioned club sandwich in which the three structuring layers of bread are filled with savory and sweet ingredients, juxtaposed to satisfy a contemporary taste.

Amy Taubin

Tuesday, After Christmas runs Wednesday, May 25–Tuesday, June 7 at Film Forum in New York.

Terrence Malick, The Tree of Life, 2011, still from a color film in 35 mm.

IN 2005, the first year I covered the Cannes Film Festival, there was a store in an alley near the studio apartment I shared in the Suquet—the old part of town—called the Crazy Shop. The establishment no longer exists, but its name provides the aptest tagline imaginable for the two-week period in mid-May when thousands of journalists, film stars and directors, movie marketers and executives, paparazzi, D-listers, louche heiresses, hustlers, and swindlers all descend on this beautiful Mediterranean city that transforms into a shrine of international auteurist cinema.

The press corps, many of whom had already unraveled from deadline stress and sleep crimes by the festival’s midpoint, are perhaps the Crazy Shop’s most loyal customers. The past two days have been dominated by a particular kind of film-professional lunacy: trying to predict the winner of the Palme d’Or. “The Sorrentino”—This Must Be the Place, with Sean Penn—“is so bad and so mawkish, it’ll definitely win the top prize,” two esteemed colleagues (and longtime Cannes veterans) assured me yesterday.

Fortunately, the nine-member jury led by Robert De Niro, who received a standing ovation from the crowd assembled at the Lumière Theater for the awards ceremony, proved them wrong: Sorrentino’s movie received none of the seven prizes handed out just moments ago. Rewards went to eight different (out of twenty) titles in Competition; the Grand Prize (the runner-up award) was split between the Dardenne brothers’ The Kid with a Bike and Nuri Bilge Ceylan’s Once upon a Time in Anatolia, a nearly three-hour-long procedural about a search for a corpse. Most astonishingly (or maybe not: “it’s so bad and so mawkish . . . ”), Maïwenn’s Polisse won the Jury Prize (third place, essentially), the first category to be announced in the forty-five-minute ceremony. The long-maned, equine director panted throughout her excessively long acceptance speech (during which presenter Chiara Mastroianni looked up at the ceiling more than once), re-creating the de trop quality of her film.

When De Niro announced Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life as the winner of the Palme d’Or, I realized how completely disjointed my sense of time had become in the Crazy Shop: A film I had seen only six days ago now seemed thousands of years old, eclipsed as it had been just forty-eight hours later by the Lars von Trier hoo-ha. Despite the Danish troublemaker’s exile status, he brought good luck once again to his female lead: Kirsten Dunst, one of the main performers in Melancholia, won the Best Actress prize (the other, Charlotte Gainsbourg, had taken home the award in 2009 for her performance in Antichrist; Björk received the prize in 2000 for Dancer in the Dark). Dunst, visibly nervous, smiled and said, “Wow. What a week it’s been.” The Crazy Shop shutters once again—but we’re already counting the days until it reopens for business.

Melissa Anderson

Left: Paolo Sorrentino, This Must Be the Place, 2011, still from a color film in 35 mm. Right: Nicolas Winding Refn, Drive, 2011, still from a color film in 35 mm, 100 minutes.

THROUGH PERVERSE, coincidental timing, the Nazi theme at Cannes continued today—fewer than twenty-four hours after Lars von Trier’s banishment from the French Riviera—with the 8:30 AM screening of Paolo Sorrentino’s Competition title This Must Be the Place. The film stars Sean Penn—an amalgam of Dorothy Michaels from Tootsie, the Cure’s Robert Smith, and the titular mentally challenged man the actor played in I Am Sam—as Cheyenne, a fey, retired goth rock star who leaves his home in Ireland to return to the US to track down the man who tormented his estranged father in Auschwitz. Unbearably sentimental—one colleague likened it to this year’s Life Is Beautiful—and consistently ridiculous, Sorrentino’s movie was inexplicably met with warm applause (and, as far as I could tell, no boos). There’s no arguing taste (or cultural differences or festival exhaustion), but figuring out the appeal of a film that includes a Holocaust slide show, Penn’s aggressive scenery chewing (“Not having kids has really, really screwed me over!” he weeps at one point), and every lazy American stereotype (fatties, guns, tattooed hillbillies) will remain forever beyond my ken.
“Performing is a fantastic way of communicating,” Charlotte Rampling says in The Look, an insubstantial hagiographic portrait of the legendary actress by Angelina Maccarone, which played in the Cannes Classics sidebar earlier this week. Penn’s way of reaching out is to overplay an already risible role; Ryan Gosling, in contrast, as the laconic, no-named movie stuntman and part-time heist driver in Nicolas Winding Refn’s Competition entry Drive, conveys endless appeal through steely silence. Screening for the press last night at the Salle Debussy, Drive provided, if only temporarily, a welcome change of topic from the von Trier fiasco: Gosling’s smoldering foxiness, which hypnotized several colleagues, regardless of gender or sexual orientation, I spoke with afterward (Queer Palm jurors, take note). Gosling’s heat is just one part of the film’s overall seductiveness. An “existentialist road movie,” in the words of my viewing companion, Drive is such a thrilling, taut, visually dazzling exercise in genre filmmaking that even its more gruesome scenes—such as Gosling crushing a man’s skull with his foot—left all of us giddy.

Melissa Anderson