17th 07 - 2015 | 2 comments »

Foolish Wives (1922)

Director/Screenwriter: Erich von Stroheim


By Roderick Heath

Amongst the giants of silent cinema, Erich von Stroheim looms very large. Not so much for his work, vital as it is, but for his legend, his persona. Von Stroheim all but created the iconography of the larger-than-life, dictatorial, obsessively visionary filmmaker that has echoed in many dimensions through the history of cinema. In his repeated, ultimately degrading clashes with movie chiefs who literally cut several of his great labours to pieces, he helped define two mirroring clichés still readily detectable in pop culture: the great genius brought down by vulgar moneymen and the egomaniacal poseur incinerating cash to make extravagant follies. Stroheim, son of middle-class Austrian-Jewish parents, carved himself a place in the United States by affecting the style of an strident, Germanic aristocrat and aesthete. He developed a persona in his acting work that played exactly to a certain brand of New World perception of an Old World nabob, a corrupting and depraved roué under a surface of martial rigour and gilded pretence. Stroheim played on the blend of fascination and distaste for such a persona in the American psyche as it entered the First World War, when it wanted to be accepted as a grown-up superpower yearning for the dauntingly elevated aura symbolised by European culture whilst quietly longing to prove native virtues. Stroheim understood this dualism perfectly well, because he was in thrall to it, too, both assimilating himself into the allure of classes to which he didn’t belong and appropriating their glamour whilst relentlessly subverting and despoiling them with an immigrant outsider’s vitriol.


Stroheim found fame as an actor, his performances as German officers in wartime films earning him the immortal tag of “The Man You Love to Hate.” Such roles included his infamous turn in The Heart of Humanity (1918), where his embodiment of the most unrestrained propaganda poster’s idea of a villainous Hun, killing babies and ravishing nurses, enthralled viewers in a manner not dissimilar to later iconic bad guys like Darth Vader and Hannibal Lecter. He simultaneously gained filmmaking experience working for D.W. Griffith, and quickly parlayed his fame and clout into a directing career. That career was relatively brief, but it swung through poles of great success and total ignominy with such force and clamour in the young industry that it still echoes with ring of myth.


Stroheim repeatedly went all-in on a bet that later seemed like the essence of uncommercial imprudence, but wasn’t actually so unreasonable at the time: that Hollywood could support a wing of ambition similar to the burgeoning European film scene. There, in the early ’20s, it wasn’t uncommon for respected master filmmakers like Abel Gance and Fritz Lang to make multi-episode films that attracted crowds of people willing and ready to be immersed in grand acts of creation. That cultural model was completely opposed to Hollywood’s self-image as a stud farm turning out well-shod, successful sprinters, the model that would win out. Stroheim also sensed that cinema was a drug of allure as well as reflection, a place people went to be delivered from the ordinary, and like Cecil B. DeMille, knew a dialogue of idealism and indulged depravity was part of the appeal. So, Stroheim was happy to extend his established persona in his first two films, Blind Husbands (1919) and Foolish Wives (1922), and sate that desire. With Greed (1924), Stroheim would reveal his deepest, most adamant artistic convictions, and paid a heavy price for them: the scornful drollery Stroheim exhibited as a director at first was scratched to reveal a much more properly dark and rigorous interest in human degradation viewed through art’s transformative prisms. But well before that tragic escapade, Foolish Wives had already been brutally cut down from the epic Stroheim proposed and was the subject of boardroom arguments with young, newly installed executive Irving Thalberg over its grossly inflated cost, mostly stemming from Stroheim’s fanatical attention to detail. Naturally, however, the off-screen controversy was transmuted into gleeful marketing, with the poster declaring that this was the first “million dollar movie”: Stroheim sold the lifestyle of the rich as the stuff of silver screen dreams. However ruefully, Hollywood played along.


Foolish Wives is much stranger and denser than its sexy melodrama essentials suggest, as Stroheim’s pitch-black humour and fascination with transgressive urges constantly despoils the neat edges of familiar narrative. The filmmaker toys with artistic ideas that still had no name at the time, signalled most unmistakably when, within a film called Foolish Wives by Erich von Stroheim, a character reads a book called Foolish Wives by Erich von Stroheim. Stroheim uses this device to suggest levels of reality in his work, even perhaps to indict it as something the eponymous imprudent hausfraus might hallucinate in the sun after a full day sipping cocktails and thumbing romance novels, their own gleeful vision of depravity on the sunny shores of the Cote d’Azur. Or is it Stroheim molesting those daydreams? He uses this device to insert commentaries that have overt, proto-Brechtian quotation marks around them, highlighting them as distinct from the texture of the work and yet part of them.


From the opening iris shot, the film has the quality of the dark fairytale it is, depicting as it does two relatively innocent characters taking a path into a shady stretch of the forest in search of experience and encountering imps who live off fat American babes in the woods—except that Stroheim prefers the perspective of his imps, casting himself as Count Wladislaw Sergius Karamzin, supposedly a White Russian aristocrat exiled in Monaco. Stroheim never quite elucidates whether or not Karamzin is a phony, that is, a man born to be a user of other people or a convert to the creed. But his so-called cousins “Princess” Vera (Mae Busch) and “Her Highness” Olga Petchnikoff (Maud George) are his mistresses and confederates in maintaining their lavish lifestyle through con artistry, backed up by bogus cash supplied by counterfeiter Cesare Ventucci (Cesare Gravina).


Stroheim introduces this coterie of reprobates in his opening scene, a sudden plunge into a little world at the Villa Amorosa, where the perverse is instantly rendered cozy, as Stroheim notes the two women taking their place at the breakfast table with their light, jockeying bitchiness, whilst Karamzin is out performing his morning exercise of target-shooting by the sea. He returns to his villa and indulges what the intertitles call his “cereal” and “coffee,” that is, caviar and ox blood. Ventucci arrives to dole out more of his counterfeit cash, with his feeble-minded but fully-grown daughter Marietta (Malvina Polo) in tow. Olga tells off servant Maruschka (Dale Fuller) by grasping and viciously twisting the flesh of her arm. Karamzin greedily eyes doll-clutching, goggle-eyed Marietta and gives her a bottle of his aftershave as a bauble to remember him by (or whatever it is: Karamzin dabs some of it behind his ears and then tastes it for good measure). This gaudy little crew operate through two-pronged attacks, zeroing in on wealthy, naïve couples, with Karamzin going after the wife and his “cousins” the husband as prelude to seducing and fleecing them. The newspapers announce the arrival of a seemingly perfect mark: the new U.S. Commissioner Plenipotentiary to Monaco Andrew J. Hughes (Rudolph Christians) and his wife Helen (Miss DuPont). The lucky couple are brought into town on a U.S. cruiser and greeted on arrival by Prince Albert I (C.J. Allen). Watching from afar, Karamzin formulates his battle plan, and arranges to meet Helen in an outdoor café where she sits reading (yes, Foolish Wives), paying a busboy to page him and make him seem like a big shot. Karamzin swoops in for the chance to do a gallant turn in rescuing one of Helen’s wind-stirred gloves, to which Helen turns up her nose. A French officer and friend of the Hughes’ gives the pair a proper introduction, and soon he is fully accepted as a friend of the new arrivals, albeit with Andrew’s slightly sceptical regard.


From the start of Foolish Wives, the clock is ticking for Karamzin and company, as their many sins gallop to catch up with them. The most pathetic character is Maruschka, but she is also the one holding unrealised power. Karamzin had made her another of his household concubines on a promise to marry her, a promise he, of course, perpetually wriggles out of. “I am, as they say, free, white, and twenty-one,” Helen declares to her husband at one point, making remarkably plain her nascent determination to get a little adventure. Andrew wryly retorts with a salute before slinking off to his separate bedroom: “Well, I’m married—sunburned—and forty-one…but—my eyes are pretty good yet.” Much of the narrative (reminiscent of Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa Harlowe) is built around whether Helen will be seduced by Karamzin into giving him her money, body, or both, willingly or unwillingly, but Stroheim plies no sense of endangered innocence. A glimpse of Stroheim’s “book” in the film offers a diegetic comment that Americans’ obsession with making money leaves them uninterested in the social games that obsess Europeans, which could be seen as the director finding an ingenious way to insult his audience but is also a spur to Helen’s adventuring as she reads the book over and over again; by the finale, it gives a sop that contradicts this possible slight, as Andrew stands up for his moral code and Karamzin’s adherence to his proves utterly hollow. A wry, slightly horrifying sequence sees Karamzin at the height of his bantam cock parading wowing Helen and a crowd in a sport-shooting contest using live pigeons released from boxes, leaving little doubt about Karamzin’s ability to shoot down anything not likely to shoot back. Once he’s ingratiated himself sufficiently into the Hughes’ company, he contrives to drag Helen off with him to the Hotel des Rêves, a small, out-of-the-way rendezvous.


Stroheim’s acid wit is apparent from the outset in Foolish Wives, and the film often has the tone of an extended dirty joke, a semi-Sadean comedy of manners and immorality. The overtones of cruelty and phoniness intimated in the opening scene at the Villa Amorosa (that name a sarcasm that grows ever more vicious as the film goes on) and the vivid strangeness of the characters border on surreal; Karamzin and the Ventuccis seem to have crawled out of some Gogol-esque fantasia. Stroheim intercuts Andrew being received by Prince Albert with Helen’s introduction to Karamzin, both meeting figures who exemplify the local society and creed, the cockroach scuttling under the gilt. The core sequence when Karamzin takes Helen for a day out in the country becomes an epic burlesque of Victorian romantic fiction. The “hotel of dreams” is a waystation engineered for an adventure into pastoral territory that Karamzin knows so well he “was soon able to get himself — ‘hopelessly lost!’” Weather aids Karamzin’s schemes, as a powerful storm blows in whilst he and Helen are struggling through marshy reeds on the edge of a stream. Lightning shatters the footbridge over the waterway, and Karamzin tries to transport them over in a rowboat, only for it to spring a leak and sink. He plucks Helen up and carries her to shore, transformed into exactly the sort of gallant cavalier he strives so assiduously to look like whilst never actually giving a damn for it. They take refuge in an old woman’s cabin, one that Karamzin has used so often for this sort of thing Olga calls it “Mother Garoupe’s Hotel,” a den of picturesque crudity and pastoral filth. Karamzin hovers while Helen dries off and is installed in the owner’s bed. What should be the moment of irrepressible passion is instead a drooling conman waiting for his chance to leap in between the sheets with the blowsy Yankee lady.


Just as he gets his chance, however (in a scene blurred almost to incoherence to avoid censor furore, but critics still rose to the bait in calling the film as a whole a “slur on American womanhood”), a monk caught in the storm looking for shelter pokes his head through the window and eyes the scene suspiciously. The monk enters and settles down for the night, forcing Karamzin to bitterly nurse a serious case of blue balls in the armchair by the fire until dawn. Throughout this sequence, Stroheim is merciless in mocking not just romantic fancy, but also the kind of idealised rustic melodrama that most other filmmakers, including even Murnau five years later with Sunrise (1927), would ply with ripe sentiment. Olga covers for the duo by phoning the ambassador from the Hotel des Rêves, and once returned to her apartment in the morning, Helen sneaks back into her bedroom. Andrew had responded to her absence the night before with a weirdly patient grin anyway, as if ruefully testing his own limits of tolerance. Stroheim’s reputation as an obsessive craftsman of authenticity has somewhat obscured his great, influential visual talent, though that effort certainly pays off in depicting the teeming street life hovering on the streets of Monaco, brass bands and horse guards turning out to greet the new ambassador amidst gawking tourists, and the central, mammoth recreation of the Monte Carlo Grand Casino. Stroheim’s realistic method represented an alternate tack from the emerging German approach of expressionism, and today might seem to anticipate such later, rigorous, maximalist filmmakers as Kubrick, Leone, or Cimino.


Stroheim’s often vertiginously geometric graphics, seen at their strongest in the opening and in studying the humans with godlike disdain inside the casino, anticipate Orson Welles at his most baroque and invoke Stroheim’s recurring obsession with humans in relation to one another—class, broadly, but also invoking other forms of power and subordination. Stroheim alternates such shots with densely tangled mural-like framings, with faces, flowers, rococo architecture and stray dust specks all privileged to the point of animation, pointing on to the shot-by-shot deliberation, densely illustrative, of Greed. Yet, the photography of Foolish Wives is as vividly chiaroscuro and drenched in inky murk as anything the expressionists were doing, and Stroheim’s filmmaking often seems as fervently mythological as Lang’s Die Nibelungen, complete with his mock fairytale castle consumed by flames, the rustic hovel a den of stygian lightplay, and a character’s suicide filmed as a towering shadowplay against the rising sun on the sea. A scene in which Ventucci ushers Karamzin into his daughter’s bedroom as she lies sleeping is shot as a peak moment of visual beauty. Beams of light slanting through the room’s shutters illuminate dust teeming in the air, suggesting something at once unkempt and numinous about the abode and the way Ventucci enshrines the girl he promises to defend at all costs. Ventucci unfolds a knife and jabs neurotically at the air, miming for Karamzin’s edification and perhaps warning. Stroheim was a realist in the same way Dostoyevsky, Dickens, and Zola were, providing a fervent, boiling mass of magnified human strangeness emerging from vividly depicted backdrops. Stroheim is often regarded as a filmmaker who tried to force more mature artistic values in American cinema. Here this pretence manifests as literary awareness, both in the nascent modernist joke of the meta-narrative and also in the weird, fragmented intertitles that appear throughout the film, written with a quality close to stream-of-consciousness. These titles provide a witty approximation of some imagined, talented, poet-layabout expatriate steeped in the local habitués and muttering acerbically beautiful notes (perhaps the “Erich von Stroheim” who wrote the book Foolish Wives): “Mondaine — Cocotta — Kings and Crooks — Amoura! Amoura! — And Suicides!” or “Again morning — sun-draped terrace — Sapphire sea — all the world on a holiday — Rifle Fire — Brooding doves — Brutality of man — and still the sun.”


Karamzin’s success in assaulting Helen’s reputation and good sense on their rural exploit and failure to actually get what he’s after proves a turning point, after which Karamzin’s decline begins. Karamzin’s hunger for erotic satisfaction constantly exceeds his interest in his other projects, whilst his use of other people purely to meet his own desires reaches a hyperbolic point when he manipulates Maruschka into giving him her life savings—a paltry amount by his usual standards, but enough to get him through a night at the gaming tables. Karamzin is at his most entertaining the worse he gets, as when he drips wine on a tablecloth to make Maruschka think he’s crying. Stroheim wasn’t anyone’s idea of a matinee idol, and yet he inhabits his character with such outsized swagger and charisma that he pulls off his own charade of devastating gigolo, his bulbous head, flaring nostrils, and rubbery, sensuous lips like some caricaturist’s attempt to sketch lust, the deadly sin personified—which indeed they often did on film posters. Stroheim plays his role as Stroheim with a glee that’s striking, and hard to find a likeness for in later cinema: he’s just as egotistically masochistic as the wave of Method stars like Brando that would come up much later, always hungry to be nailed up on their crosses, but so willing to play the fiend without a hint of sympathy for the devil, in a drama that takes Mephistopheles from supporting character to centre frame. Obsessed with amorality as it is, though, Foolish Wives is no monument to it—far from it. Stroheim is equally gleeful in tracking his bad characters to ignominious ends and depicting the moments when the worms turn. Actually, Stroheim’s moral compass was rigorous, and to a certain extent, his films boil down to simple lessons—greed is bad, stick with your spouse, marry for love and not gain, etc.—made rich by his realisation, his feel for the contradictory impulses that consume people and poison societies.


Most crucial and disturbing is his feel for how people often subordinate themselves to characters like Karamzin in their desire for him to give them something they lack—here, sexual pleasure and social status—and the way people like him exploit others endlessly. Stroheim would later take up the theme of sexuality coupled with avarice most intensely in Greed, but inverted; there repression fuels the hunger for money as a malformed need. An earlier vignette of an American soldier who failed to rescue the glove Karamzin retrieved is taken up later when the same man neglects to hold the casino door for her; she rears on him irritably, only to realise the veteran has lost his arms. Stroheim’s irony about appearances and the real nature of soldierly duty is obvious, but serves the purpose of radically shifting the film’s tone. Stroheim takes it a step further as Helen wraps herself in the man’s limp jacket arms and weeps on his shoulder. This scene becomes at once a perverse approximation of a lover’s tryst and a sentimental paean that mirrors the emotional amputees seen everywhere else in the film; it is even shot through an undercurrent of morbid eroticism.


Stroheim sarcastically restages the Russian Revolution in miniature as domestic-erotic revolt, as Karamzin’s insults to the desperate, fraying Maruschka, drive the servant to lunacy and revenge. This pivotal moment comes as Stroheim depicts her weeping on her bed in her dingy servant’s room, and then zooms in to capture the moment when infernal inspiration takes hold. This camera move was one of Stroheim’s signature touches, the closing in of the camera’s gaze mimicking entrance into the private emotional experience of his characters, and here, coupled with Fuller’s performance, the effect is electrifying. Karamzin pushes his plan closer to fruition during a night on the town, as he has his “cousins” cordon off Andrew at the casino tables whilst he gambles with Helen: she wins a huge wad of cash, and Karamzin coaxes Helen to the villa, where he lays on her basically the same sob story he told Maruschka to get her winnings. Maruschka, however, her wits snapped, sets fire to the villa, entrapping the couple on a high floor.


The fire department rushes to the scene, along with a mass of rubberneckers, whereupon Karamzin jumps into the waiting canvas ahead of Helen. Sarcastically asked by his soldier friends about town why he did this, he replies coolly that he had to show Helen it was safe. But Andrew, discovering the note Karamzin sent Helen to get her there in the first place, confronts him in the casino. Once Karamzin removes his monocle at his request and tells him, “Go to hell!”, Andrew wallops him so hard he crashes to the floor. During the film’s production, Allen died suddenly, and rather than reshoot his scenes with another actor, Stroheim instead employed a body double. That’s not surprising, as Allen’s performance, subtly comic and intelligent, is excellent. Karmazin tries to brush off Andrew’s humiliation of him, but is left to wander the streets alone at night, disgraced and essentially penniless and homeless, whilst his mistresses quickly pack up their belongings in the villa and flee. Justice, when it comes, is deserved, but merciless: the two women are picked up by fraud police who have been tracking them, stripped of their blonde flapper wigs to reveal the coal-coloured bobs beneath.


Karamzin, on the hunt for some sort of satisfaction, steals into Marietta’s bedroom in Ventucci’s house. Here, the punitive editing the film was subjected to most clearly affected Stroheim’s concluding ironies and epiphanies. Karamzin’s sexual assault on Mariette was cut, as was Ventucci’s vengeful killing of him: the incident is instead merely suggested as Ventucci is depicted dragging Karamzin’s corpse down to dump in a sewer. The point remains, however muted: Karamzin’s gross rapacity finally destroyed him, and his journey to the bottom is completed in the most undignified way possible, anticipating the gangster antiheroes of the early ’30s and their sticky ends. Stroheim also intended to depict Karamzin’s departure as the rhyme to the reconciliation of the Hughes and Helen giving birth, suggesting the cyclical nature of life. This denouement, like much of Stroheim’s oeuvre, is lost to time and rumour. What’s left of Foolish Wives testifies to a great cinematic talent clearing his throat just in time to have it cut.

9th 10 - 2009 | 5 comments »

2009 CIFF: Who’s Afraid of the Wolf (Kdopak by se vlka bál, 2008)

Director/Screenwriter: Maria Procházková

2009 Chicago International Film Festival


By Marilyn Ferdinand

Six-year-old Terezka (Dorata Dedková) is obsessed with the tale of Little Red Riding Hood, or so her mother (Jitka Cvancarová) says. She makes her mother read it to her night after night. Terezka has bad dreams about the wolf. Blink your eyes very quickly, says her mother, and your fear will vanish. It works! But what will take care of the wolf that is entering Terezka’s home—Patrik (Martin Hofman), her natural father come back to win her mother away from her dad (Pavel Reznicek)?

Who’s Afraid of the Wolf, a great film from the Czech Republic, sets out to tell an all-too-common story for adults and children these days using that magic device of childhood—the fairytale. Markers of Red Riding Hood are all over this film, from the insinuation of Patrik into Terezka’s world, to a trip to grandmother’s (Jana Krausová) with a basket of goodies, to a wolflike German Shepherd sent to find Terezka when she runs away. But this film, largely told through the imaginative eyes of Terezka, remains realistic, exploring the threat of divorce and the tension between work and home faced by most modern families in the developed world as a child might experience them.


Terezka’s cartoon punctuation on the people around her—a crown for Gábinka (Marie Boková), a disliked classmate who acts like a princess, green alien arms drawn over her mother’s arms (drawn and animated by the director, an award-winning animator)—allow us to see through her eyes. When she talks with her best friend Simon (Matous Kratina) during nap time, she listens to his sage advice as any of us would a trusted friend.


Simon puts the problems in Terezka’s home down to her mother being an alien, voicing a common concern of all children that they might be adopted. Terezka takes this advice on its face and plans to test her mother. If she doesn’t bleed, says Simon, she’s an alien. It’s horrifying to see Terezka put a fork under her pillow and then lay calmly listening to her mother read Red Riding Hood to her, waiting for the right moment to stab her. Seen another way, Terezka’s fork test is doubtless an expression of her anger with her mother for entertaining the advances of her former lover, a self-centered cellist who left her before he knew she was pregnant and only now wishes to have an instant family.


Dedková is an energetic, intelligent child who makes us believe in Terezka and her view of life—we deeply care what happens to her. Her mother’s husband, beautifully played by Reznicek, loves her completely and is a wonderful father. The big tension he contributes to his family is that he’s always working at his job as head of airport security, using the excuse of increased security concerns to avoid facing people like his mother-in-law, who disapproves of her daughter giving up her singing career for family life and partly blames him. For her part, Terezka’s mother has denied her own stifled creativity and ambition. Old clippings announcing her retirement fascinate Terezka and haunt her mother. Patrik’s return has forced this couple to confront their problems.

I was captivated by the interplay of fantasy and reality in this film. Procházková confidently intercuts between Terezka’s fantasies of being Little Red Riding Hood and her real-life activities. Terezka’s clever escape from the airport to avoid leaving with Patrik and her mother for Japan is a small masterpiece of choreography and alternating realities.


Terezka’s mother, disenchanted with Patrik because of his shallow indifference to Terezka’s disappearance, tears the earrings he gave her out of her ears. When Terezka is found and sees the blood drying on her mother’s ear, she—and we—know that maybe everything will be all right after all. It’s a wonderful feeling indeed. l


2nd 06 - 2008 | 16 comments »

The Fall (2006)

Director: Tarsem


By Marilyn Ferdinand

Yesterday, I had one of the most pleasurable experiences I’ve ever had at the movies. The hubby and I took a short drive to a clean and modern theatre with great sound not far from our home—normally, we have to drive into the city for the films we want to see. We found parking instantly, went into the theatre, and watched one of the most seriously joyous films on offer today, The Fall. After the film, we had the opportunity to share an extremely informal Q&A session with director Tarsem (he has dropped the Singh Dhandwar), with all of us, including the director, sitting on the floor of the theatre’s lounge. More on that later.

The film takes place in Los Angeles in 1915. The opening credits, a gorgeous duotone, slow-motion sequence, show us a confusing scene involving two men splashing in water below a train trestle, a handsome couple in a rowboat, and a crane on top of the trestle. After a few moments, the crane lifts a horse from the river below and moves it across the frame.

Soon we are in a hospital, where 6-year-old Alexandria (Catinca Untaru), her right arm wrapped in a cast and suspended straight out from her body, moves restlessly through the children’s ward and yells down to Nurse Evelyn (Justine Waddell) that she has a note for her, in English, which she is just learning. Alexandria tosses the note, but it does not reach its destination. She runs down the stairs, holding a thin box from her suspended hand, and discovers that the note has landed in the lap of a young man. She is angry that he is reading it, but he says he didn’t know it wasn’t for him. Trying to calm her down, he says his name is Roy (Lee Pace). She tell him her name, and he tries another ploy to encourage her confidence. “You were named for Alexander the Great?” The girl says yes, without really seeming to know what he’s talking about, and leaves.

She returns the next day, however, and asks him more about Alexander the Great (Kim Uylenbroek). In the first picture-book sequence, she pictures Alexander on a horse, trapped in a courtyard. Roy corrects her, saying he was abandoned in a desert with a few of his troops. The image immediately shifts to great red dunes and parch-lipped men who are out of drinking water. Roy says that a messenger (Aiden Lithgow) rides to Alexander with a helmet full of water—the last Alexander’s army has left. Alexander takes the helmet and pours all of the water on the ground. Alexandria says, “That’s stupid.” Roy tries to explain that dumping the water made all of the men, including the emperor, equal. “I would give every soldier a little bit,” says Alexandria, and she departs.


Soon, Alexandria and Roy are daily companions, as she comes to his room for a story he builds upon for her. The basic story is the fight against Governor Odious (Daniel Altagirone) by five brave men, each with a different reason for hating the governor. Luigi (Robin Smith) hates Odious for killing his brother and has vowed revenge. An Indian (Jeetu Verma)—pictured as a man from the subcontinent rather than the Native American Roy intends—hates Odious for kidnapping his beautiful squaw (Ayesha Verman) and causing her to commit suicide by locking her in the Labyrinth of Despair. Runaway slave Otto Benga (Marcus Wesley), a mystic (Julian Bleach) who emerges from the trunk of a tree that the men have seen burst into flames, and Charles Darwin (Leo Bill) and his monkey Wallace, each with beefs of their own, round out the vengeful band. The band swears an oath in front of a sacred banner that they will kill Odious—mystically, the tremendously tall, white banner stains red with flowing blood.

The tragedies of the girl and man are soon revealed. The girl’s father is dead following the theft of their horse and the burning of her home. (It’s never clear exactly where this happened—I imagined that she and her mother and sisters were refugees from World War I who were settled in California to pick oranges for American farmers.) Roy, a stuntman working on his first movie, lost the use of his legs in the stunt we saw in the opening sequence. While Alexandria’s bones will mend, Roy may never recover. He is additionally burdened by the loss of his girl to the star of the film he was working on. Roy, in fact, is suicidal and refuses to tell more of the story until Alexandria fetches him some morphine pills from the dispensary that he can use to end his life.

The film builds in intensity, as Roy’s despair ratchets up even as Alexandria grows closer and closer to him. In an attempt to destroy her feelings for him, the fairytale goes very poorly for our heroes. “Why are you killing everyone?” Alexandria cries. “It’s my story,” says Roy. “It’s my story, too,” Alexandria says angrily. This central truth—that audiences make stories every bit as much as their tellers—lies beneath Tarsem’s obsession to make this movie. His emotional catharsis becomes ours as well as he allows us to end the story the way we want to.

The story of this film’s birth is fascinating. The screenplay is very loosely based on a Bulgarian film whose title translates as Yo Ho Ho, and explores the idea of upended fairytales; as Tarsem explained, fairytales as we know them proceed in predictable ways toward happy endings, and he wanted to make a serious film in which “Santa Claus gets cancer.” He mentioned that Ponette was an inspiration for his use of a child in the film. After 23 years of planning, scouting locations in the four corners of the Earth while on commercial shoots, and waiting for the right child for the lead to be born, Tarsem finally finished the film in 2006. It took two more years and the help of Spike Jonze and David Fincher, personal friends of Tarsem’s, to get it a limited theatrical release. Tarsem has been doing personal appearances and publicity tirelessly to help get the word out. A greater spokesperson could not be found.


Among the topics we discussed was the visual splendor of the film made possible by location shooting and the dazzling costumes of Oscar winner Eiko Ishioka (due for another one for this film). According to Tarsem, the film was shot in at least 24 countries, and none of the visual effects were computer-generated. An image I and others were sure was computer-generated was of Governor Odious’ troops running down a series of zigzag staircases. In fact, these staircases actually are wells that were built with several horizontal lines to mark the water level, an indication of how much to tax the wells’ users. The wells are disused, ancient structures found all over India for which Indians had little regard. Tarsem found one exposed enough in an area experiencing drought and hired extras to play the troops—according to Tarsem, it’s cheaper in India to use real extras than to create images electronically. Now, the wells are showing up more and more in Indian films and commercials. In another example, a shot of an iridescent-blue butterfly dissolves to the very real Butterfly Reef:

In one scene, Alexandria has to translate between her mother and her doctor. For a while, she does it properly. Then, she gets tired of it. Her mother says something lengthy to the doctor, and Alexandria says, “She says, ‘OK.”” To the doctor’s disbelief, she merely says, “That’s how we say it.” This incident was taken from Tarsem’s own experience of translating for his illiterate grandmother. It got a big laugh in the theatre and at the Q&A.


Tarsem told of shooting in the sacred Indian city of Rajasthan, where the only color that houses are allowed to be painted is blue. During scouting, Tarsem thought the color of the buildings was too faded to pop on screen. He offered the people of the town free paint and the chance to paint their homes any color they chose. Naturally, they all chose blue and freshened up his location with a new coat of paint.

The film includes a montage at the end of dangerous stunts performed during the silent era. Tarsem said he actually wanted to make a film set in contemporary times, but he could not afford to get permission to use stunts from current films. Because silent films are in the public domain, he used those. He thought to have Alexandria age to the present, but his young star could not do an older voice and adding an older actress just didn’t work. Therefore, he kept the film within Alexandria’s childhood.

The hardest part of the film for Tarsem was finding the right child. He said he sent people he knew out with cameras to shoot video of children all over the world. He originally conceived of the part as that of a boy, but when he saw Untaru, he was blown away. Once he secured her services, he shot for 12 weeks in sequence. Untaru spoke very little English at first and imitated him, which basically left her with Indian-accented English, but picked up the language very quickly. He did from one to three takes of her scenes, “because she got cutesy after that.” Her chemistry with Pace is incredible through their semi-improvised scenes, and Tarsem thought after seeing them together that he might just make a straight drama and cut out all the storytelling sequences. I agreed that the reality-based scenes were much stronger and very emotional, but the story grew on me and permutated to reflect Roy’s troubles in an interesting and story-enhancing way.

Unaccountably, the film received an “R” rating in the United States, for what I’m not sure, but perhaps for a very short scene of Alexandria hearing a noise (her nurse and a doctor having sex) and going over to investigate. The rating is a real tragedy, because this is a perfect film for parents and children of about 10 years old and up. Children like stories that seem real to them even as they are being entertained by a fantasy. Parents, take your kids—you have nothing to fear from this age-appropriate film. Adults who are young at heart, check out this wonderful adventure with a brain.


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