30th 09 - 2013 | 9 comments »

CIFF 2013: The Invisible Collection (A Coleção Invisível, 2012)

Director/Coscreenwriter: Bernard Attal

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By Marilyn Ferdinand

“Life is a casting off,” Arthur Miller wrote for the character of Linda Loman in his towering play Death of a Salesman. In context, Linda is consoling her despondent husband Willie about the fact that his favorite son Biff will not inherit their house when they die to raise his own family because he has done nothing to establish a life for himself. Linda reminds him that we gradually lose everything, and in the end, have no real say about what future generations do with what we have left behind. “It’s always that way,” she says. But is there no way for something to endure? The Invisible Collection suggests that the one thing that remains after all else has fallen away is memory, and that remembering that which we love has particular power.

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Beto (Vladimir Brichta) is a young Brazilian who is enjoying life in Salvador with his circle of 20-something friends. They smoke pot, joke with each other, drink, and dance like young people everywhere. After playing a game of telling what they’d like to be reincarnated as, they go clubbing. When they are ready to move on to another hot spot, Beto is called out of his car by some guys to whom he owes money for hauling his sound equipment around. His friends decide to drive off without him. The next time he sees them, they are lying under white sheets, all dead following a horrific car crash. Overcome with feelings of grief and survivor guilt, Beto is given an opportunity to get out of Salvador and earn some money for his financially struggling mother Iolande (Conceição Senna) by coaxing a former customer of his dead father’s antique store to part with some valuable prints for a German exhibitor.

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He travels to the town of Itajuípe in a region filled with cocoa plantations, where the rich collector lives. When he gets there, he finds that a fungus the locals call “the witch plague” has decimated the cocoa fields. His wealthy plantation owner/collector, Mr. Samir (Walmor Chagas), is now blind and financially strapped, and his daughter Clara (Clarisse Abujamra) is keeping what’s left of the plantation going with a skeleton crew. With Clara and her mother Saada (Ludmila Rosa) openly hostile to Beto’s attempts to meet with Samir, the young man seems unlikely to fulfill his mission. Eventually, his stalking of the plantation house bears fruit, as he spies Samir on the veranda and approaches him. Evoking his father’s friendship with Samir, Beto gets an invitation from the old man to come back the following day to view his prized collection of prints. What awaits him will help assuage his grief and motivate him to return to his life in Salvador.

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Memory is a slippery thing. I’ve discovered more than once that I remember an incident from my childhood that my brother has forgotten entirely, or that we remember an incident differently. It’s hard to know why memories fog and change, but without them, life doesn’t seem worth living—just ask people who are slowly going blank from Alzheimer’s disease. Many people try to achieve immortality through their works and monuments—novels written, wings of hospitals funded and named, appearances in movies made. Yet it is the personal relationships that we forge over a lifetime that carry on our legacy in a hundred large and small ways. My voice sounds like my mother’s. My neighbor inherits and carries on the family business with the same customer service she learned from her parents. A friendship forged years ago fuels the hubby’s interest in poetry. An A+ grade a teacher gave me on my unconventional approach to a writing assignment gave me the confidence to write in my own way. Conversely, a comment I made on a high school student’s blog has stayed with him and informed his outlook as he goes on to become a filmmaker. When we speak with our authentic voices and feel with our authentic feelings, the threads we send out anchor us to the world far better than a weathered statue with a name that, in time, only historians will recognize.

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Beto experiences the churning of memory during his stay in Itajuípa. He awakens groggy and disoriented from a dream of his friends dancing in the nightclub on the day of their death. He reminisces with a cab driver who hauls him to the plantation day after day about coming to the region with his father. Later, Beto dreams of one of those trips, an incident in which Clara angrily soils his shirt with fermented cocoa turned into messy snacking in the back seat of his father’s car. Director Attal understands the meaning of certain dream appearances that soothe us with fond memories of things past and connect us with our present.

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Not all things past are soothing, of course. As Beto wanders through the empty workers’ quarters on the plantation, with a living reminder of the minority workers who must have slaved for the white plantation owners embodied in the person of Wesley (Wesley Macedo), a poor, black kid who tags along with Beto, the harshness of history edges into the picture—an invisible collection of a different kind. This movie is not, however, terribly interested in making any strong political statements; it is more of a piece with such films as Satyajit Ray’s The Music Room (1958), an elegy for a formerly grand lifestyle in which art means more to Samir than his plantation. When we reach the climactic scene in which Samir examines his collection in his mind’s eye with the joy of one who has memorized every line, color, and figure in every matchless piece of art, we can’t help but be moved by the love that brightens his world of blindness. Clara and Saada see that by trying to shield him from sharing his collection with Beto or anyone else, they have been robbing him of the memories that express his humanity at its best.

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I was profoundly moved by the genial performance of Chagas, and enjoyed watching Brichta unwrap his character both from his carelessness before the accident and his distance after it. I thought the women in this film were treated with less understanding and logic. Iolande is characterized mainly as an unstable, selfish woman, Saada as a rude and unreasonable caretaker, and Clara, a mass of anger and hardness. It takes Beto to set them all to right, though Iolande seems a lost cause, and that tinge of sexism mars the film for me—but not enough to turn a blind eye to the film’s poignant pleasures. The Invisible Collection has left me with a fond memory of my own.

The Invisible Collection screens Thursday, October 17, 8:40 p.m., Friday, October 18, 6:15 p.m., and Tuesday, October 22, 3:30 p.m at the AMC River East 21, 322 E. Illinois St. in Chicago. Director Bernard Attal is scheduled to attend the Thursday and Friday screenings. www.chicagofilmfestival.com

Previous coverage

Stranger by the Lake: A lake in summer is the setting for a close exploration of the mating rituals of gay cruisers and the fatal attraction that envelopes one of the regulars to the lake. (France)


2nd 09 - 2013 | no comment »

Muriel, or The Time of Return (1963)

Director: Alain Resnais

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By Marilyn Ferdinand

Alain Resnais can rightly be called the grandmaster of French cinema. At 91, he continues to work and create films of bold experimentation and a deep feeling for the joys and suffering of being alive. Deeply marked by the traumas of war, his films have examined the psychic meaning of both World War II and the Algerian War for independence, conflicts that drove a wedge into France’s self-image, reawakening the fissures within the country that had led to the French Revolution of 1789. Royalists, sometimes eugenic in their belief in the hereditary superiority of the aristocracy, pitted against the common folk in France and its colonies belie the myth of a united country fostered by Charles De Gaulle and the Popular Front during the 20th century. The myth may have been necessary to prevent France from plunging into another bloody civil war over the betrayals of Vichy, but the roiling undercurrent of rage and animosity would not be quelled, particularly among France’s filmmakers. The “quality” films against which the French New Wave rebelled were a meager attempt to calm nerves and ease suffering through a headlong plunge into nostalgia. The New Wave would have none of it, though the appropriation of another country’s reaction to postwar malaise—what the critics of the French New Wave dubbed “film noir”—was still another form of avoidance for a country that had not found a language to speak the unspeakable.

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As artists often do, Resnais tuned into the cultural zeitgeist and his own unease as a witness to the outrages of Vichy and Algeria and crafted a series of films that offered both a visual catharsis and a pointed critique of attempts to erase the past by confusing reality with a less precise and damning narrative: Hiroshima Mon Amour (1959), Last Year in Marienbad (1961), and the film under consideration here, Muriel, or The Time of Return. The first film was explicit, if not graphic, about the human cost to life and love of World War II, and the second an examination of memory and the fracturing of the simplicity of love that was a hallmark of pre-WWII life and a symbol of France to the world. With Muriel, Resnais develops and marries those themes in a film that commands one’s interest through the urgency of its emotion.

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The story is simple. The widowed Hélène (Delphine Seyrig) and her stepson Bernard (Jean-Baptiste Thiérrée) await the arrival of Hélène’s old flame Alphonse (Jean-Pierre Kérien), whom Hélène has asked to come to see her at her home in Boulogne Sur Mer. Hélène and Alphonse were lovers in 1939, just before the Nazis invaded France, and Bernard has recently returned from military service in Algeria. While Hélène perhaps hopes that she and Alphonse can return to a time before conflict tore them apart, Bernard is haunted by what he has witnessed and participated in while serving in Algeria. The film chronicles the attempts of Hélène and Bernard to assuage their pain by coming to terms with the past.

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The strategies Resnais uses to expose the psychological traumas his characters have suffered reflect the fractured nature of their reality. Bernard has given Hélène the impression that he is engaged to a woman named Muriel and is forever disappearing from the flat he and Hélène share to visit her. In fact, Muriel is a horrific memory that he feels compelled to revisit time and again by watching some film he shot while in Algeria in his ramshackle studio above a stable. Wracked by guilt over what he and the men in his unit did to her, he tries to amass evidence of the incident, though it is unclear what he intends to do with it. It seems more important for him to keep the memory alive, to avoid the trap of forgetfulness or putting the war behind him, as his comrade Robert (Philippe Laudenbach) has. Thus, Bernard constellates the France that cannot forgive and forget the Vichy collaborators and the horrors they visited on their brothers and sisters, as well as the France that condemns the widespread colonial torments of a “noble” France against the Algerian people.

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Hélène, too, is haunted by the past, and the perhaps too obvious metaphor for her nostalgia is the antique store she runs out of her home, living with and using furniture and decorative items she intends to sell in the careful, provisional manner one holds memories in one’s mind. (Indeed, Boulogne is a similarly provisional abode, a town bombed near to flat, with pockets of the old world juxtaposed with modern architecture.) Hélène’s reunion with Alphonse has an odd tenor to it, with Alphonse wanting to embrace and kiss her, but Hélène avoiding both, still stung by Alphonse’s abandonment of her. Like Bernard, she wants to find out what happened, to get her facts straight so that she can move forward without the nagging doubt that something important was missed. Like Robert, Alphonse has seen fit to paper over the truth to mooch off whatever marks are near at hand, including the attentions of his mistress Françoise (Nita Klein), who accompanies him as his “niece,” and approbation for his service to his country during the Second World War and Algeria. In fact, Alphonse is a bigot who never went to Algeria, and he fails to note his real relationship with Françoise or his marital status to Hélène.

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Françoise is an interesting character to ponder. More than 20 years younger than Alphonse, Françoise is a Parisienne, instantly recognizable as such to the provincial residents of Boulogne, a sophisticate who thinks it would be, to use today’s parlance, “funny” to meet her lover’s old girlfriend. She tells Bernard, who has seen through her ruse, that there was just something about Alphonse that she responded to, and the fact that he was married seemed little more than a detail. The French tradition of men having a wife and a mistress is a long one, but in this instance, the illicit relationship seems a conjoining of habitual liars. When faced with the pain and earnest questioning of Hélène, Françoise comes to loathe the day they met. It’s hard to face the past, even when it’s not your own.

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Resnais uses quick cuts at the start of the film to confound the usual establishing shot—we may eventually figure out where we are, but what Resnais seems more interested in establishing is a subjective point of view, our location, the monkey mind that records and randomly rolls through images and thoughts both immediate and distant. Similarly, the passage of time is imprecise, and the melancholy Hélène may display in one scene immediately cuts to a festive dinner, as though to show her state of mind while in the midst of everyday activities. Seyrig expertly balances her character’s various depths, making the abrupt cutting more coherent than it might have been, and her haunted compulsion to visit the town’s casino seems a physical need as strong as a junkie’s for heroin. Beside the callous obviousness of such characters as Alphonse, Robert, and Françoise, she ably shows what becomes of a broken heart. While less skilled than Seyrig, Thiérrée’s conscience provides another touchpoint of truth in a film filled with mendacity. Further, Resnais’ use of the elements, particularly when Bernard goes horseback riding on the bluffs looking across the water toward England, grounds the film in a reassuring timelessness that helps stabilize the audience in this highly unstable scenario.

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While Muriel is the work of a developing filmmaker and has a certain obviousness in some places, for example, a view of Bernard through a kaleidoscope that shows him fractured, it is nonetheless an honest film that accomplishes its mission to bear witness to some uncomfortable truths by helping its audience share the emotions of its vulnerable and sensitive protagonists. Better than a talking cure, Muriel offers a symbolic release. It’s a beautiful and still urgently needed film.


13th 08 - 2006 | 2 comments »

The Singing Detective (TV, 1986)

Director: Jon Amiel
Writer: Dennis Potter

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By Marilyn Ferdinand

There are songs to sing, there are feelings to feel, there are thoughts to think. That makes three things, and you can’t do three things at the same time. The singing is easy, syrup in my mouth, and the thinking comes with the tune, so that leaves only the feelings. Am I right, or am I right? I can sing the singing. I can think the thinking. But you’re not going to catch me feeling the feeling. No, sir. —Detective Philip Marlow, The Singing Detective

In 1986, the 6-part miniseries The Singing Detective exploded onto British TV screens like a bomb during the Blitz—a bold, inventive exploration into the heart of darkness and the rise to redemption of one man, Philip E. Marlow, a writer of detective novels who suffers from a horrifying case of psoriatic arthropathy. Reactions were equally strong, and mixed. Some viewers decried the play (as writer Dennis Potter and his colleagues always called them) as obscene and an unpleasant way to relax at home. Others were moved by the raw emotional journey of a deeply troubled man. When the series came to U.S. television the following year, the raves were unanimous. Dennis Potter had conquered America.

Dennis Potter was the son of a miner who grew up in the Forest of Dean, on the English side of the border with Wales in Glochestershire. A rural, isolated place with a unique, archaic dialect, the Forest was Potter’s refuge and creative source after he had left it for an education at Oxford and a successful career as a writer of television plays during the golden age of television drama at the BBC. While all of Potter’s plays deal with his obsessions, particularly sex, The Singing Detective is his most autobiographical work.

Potter suffered from chronic psoriatic arthropathy, a disfiguring illness characterized by inflamed, flaking skin and pain and stiffness in the joints. Potter had to wear pajamas under his clothes with their pantlegs tucked into his socks to prevent a trail of dead skin from following him wherever he went. He spent considerable time in hospital, and that is where his stand-in, Marlow (Michael Gambon), spends the duration of this series, lost in a sea of memories, fever-induced delirium, and battles with patients, doctors, nurses, and his wife Nicola (Janet Suzman).

When we first encounter Marlow, it is on his admittance to the mockingly named Sherpa Tensay ward of a London hospital inhabited primarily by cardiac patients. Most have been confined to their beds there for a long time, and their peculiarities are on full display. Mr. Hall (David Ryall) is a fussy, lonely complainer who is irritated routinely with Reginald (Gerard Horan), whose bed is next to Hall’s but who constantly has his nose in a detective novel. (Later, Reggie and Hall will be surprised that the author of the book Reggie is reading, The Singing Detective, has been sharing their ward with them.) We get an immediate sense of the boredom and rhythms of the ward as Hall squabbles to a half-listening Reggie and mumbles across the room at the loathsome Nurse White (Imelda Staunton), who has yet again started the beverage trolley rounds on the other side of the room.

Marlow arrives bellowing in pain and yelling at the orderly to draw the curtains around his bed as he changes into his pajama top. When we see the horrible flaking on his back, we understand the humiliation Marlow must be feeling. It is compounded when the pretty Nurse Mills (Joanne Whalley) rubs grease on his thighs, causing him to have an erection and climax on her. He tries to explain, but only succeeds in embarrassing her and himself more. Marlow is emotionally and sexually repressed, and it is tempting to consider his outward appearance a reflection of an inner filth.

Soon thereafter, a team of doctors comes to visit him. The senior physician asks questions of Marlow, only to be answered by the attending doctors who flank him. In a fit of pique, Marlow interjects, “Why is it when you lose your health the entire medical profession takes it as axiomatic you’ve also lost your mind?” and then begins a tearful, impassioned plea for understanding. The doctors, bone dry of the milk of human kindness, immediately discuss a mental health consult and start naming medications to improve his attitude. At this point, Marlow hallucinates an incredible production number to the song “Dry Bones” and featuring lip-synching and dancing doctors, nurses in white showgirl costumes, and gaudy lighting.

The musical numbers are a large part of this work, all songs from the 30s, and all lip-synched as Marlow’s father used to do at a local Forest pub. Potter was a man who believed in the ideals expressed in these songs, that life really was full of love and purest longing. The contrasting of such tunes as “After You’ve Gone,” “The Teddy Bear Picnic,” and “We’ll Meet Again,” with the harsh realities of the ward, Marlow’s condition, and the crucible traumas Marlow suffered as a boy both reflect and deflect real events.

Marlow also writes a new Singing Detective novel in his head to pass the time, a tale of espionage that involves a client named Mark Binney (Patrick Malahide) who comes to the character of Detective Marlow after a Russian whore he met the night before in the Skinskapes nighclub and slept with ends up dead in the Thames. The imaginative scenes use the language of a Raymond Chandler novel, not the sort of thing Marlow had set out to write. When asked by Dr. Gibbon (Bill Paterson), the psychotherapist he finally agrees to see, what sort of writer he really would have wanted to be, Marlow gives the somewhat surprising answer that he would have wanted to write praises to a loving and merciful god. Yet he heaps contempt upon some evangelical Christians led by one of the doctors who invade the ward for a revival meeting. When the doctor loses his temper and says, “those who are not with us are against us,” we realize that Marlow may not be as jaded as he seems and can smell a phony a mile away.

Or can he? He is also filled with paranoia, particularly toward his wife, whom he believes is trying to steal a screenplay from him for her lover, Finney (Malahide), to pass off as his own to a Hollywood producer. This paranoid fantasy intercuts with memories Dr. Gibbon stirs of his childhood in the Forest, his parents’ unhappy marriage, and an injustice he committed against a schoolmate that has haunted him all his life. The series intercuts each thread–the present, the hallucinations, the past, and the novel–as a kind of detective story of its own. We try to piece together the “truth” along with Marlow, and are fed clues—fragments of scenes that grow longer and more revealing as the series moves along and we watch Marlow progress physically and emotionally. It boggles the mind how Potter sustained and expanded upon all these threads over the course of nearly seven hours. The writing is literate and absolutely brilliant, and the cinematography and direction give us parallel movements (a raised hand reminds Marlow of his father [Jim Carter] waving good-bye at a train station) and line readings that can be interpreted in more than one way. He even leaves us with one “truth” about Philip’s mother of which we may never be sure.

The cast is first-rate. I found Lyndon Davies, the young actor who plays Philip at age 10, particularly spellbinding. His earnest, open feelings and sad face while he prays to God from the top of a tree give the poignancy needed to feel sympathy for the adult Marlow at his most venomous. Michael Gambon’s tour de force performance ranks among the finest you will ever see on stage, screen, or television.

A work of this magnitude has many, many surprises and rewards I will leave for the viewer to discover, not the least of which is the exquisite evocation of the Forest of Dean and its people. What is most important about The Singing Detective is the profoundly unsparing humanity it offers its audience. No, this is not a show of escapism. This is meat and sinew, bone and blood. This is nourishment for the mind and the soul, both of which were deeply precious to Potter. Thank goodness there was a time when television writers talked up, not down, to their audience. Let’s hope such a time comes again.

Dennis Potter contributed the screenplay for the 2003 film The Singing Detective, starring Robert Downey, Jr. This is a highly truncated, but still interesting work that I enjoyed. DVD recordings of The Singing Detective miniseries are available. The BBC Video version has a nice extras disc with reactions to the show from the time, an interview with Potter, and a short documentary about Potter, among other features. Finally, a viewing of Dennis Potter: The Last Interview is a must.


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