FilmVomit

Ok, so I’ve seen it twice now. Appropriately projected on film once, projected on crappy crappy digital once. I don’t really remember much but Mr. Ledger’s performance. I don’t really need to remember much beyond that- the Joker will never be appropriately played again. The pacing, of course, because editing is Mr. Nolan’s forté, is exceptionally good, and surprising in ways that films don’t often surprise me any more. And there is a clever contrast between the limpid cinematography during the Joker’s ultraviolent escapades and the opaquely shot work of the Batman- enough of a contrast to bring Mr. Nolan’s own morality into question, though his other work has frequently done the same, so this is no surprise. The film also borrows a page from P.T. Anderson’s book (and, by proxy, David Lynch’s) in using, instead of overwrought tension-building music, an atmospheric whine at very appropriate junctures, and an utter lack of diegetic sound at others.
The film wants to be something more than it succeeds in being, unfortunately, though Nolan has gotten away with quite a lot. There is a choppiness in the last act- an inability to bring the story to a proper conclusion, that leaves me wanting. It is, by Hollywood standards, an exceptional film. But I prefer not to disrespect the celluloid by holding things up to such a short stick.
On a not completely related but certainly tangentially appropriate note, I would like to know how in g-d’s name they managed to control Mr. Ledger on the set, when he was not in front of the cameras. Had he lost his mind as thoroughly as it seemed? Or did he maintain control until the film wrapped, and then succumb to madness? Because he was mad, this much is clear. So very little of him was apparent in that role that I think he may have erased himself entirely. And that is the sort of thing from which one does not return.

Romantic comedies are terribly boring and terribly predictable no matter what language they are in.

Hors de Prix

Pixar continues to put out adorable, morally upright, exquisitely animated films. I have nothing bad to say about the piece. Even the movie in-jokes were hilarious, though I was frequently the only person in the theater laughing at them- a position to which I am quite accustomed at this point. I especially appreciated the end credits, with their condensed history of art.

WALL-E

Lewis showed three pieces which I do not feel like separating into different entries- The Pharoah’s Belt, Valise, and episode two of The Diptherians. The first two pieces, like much of Lewis’s work, are completely entrenched in his own world of near semaphoric communication- indecipherable except superficially to nearly everyone, and at the same time mesmerizing and beautiful and possessed of a subconscious clarity completely unique to Klahr.
The Diptherians features Willem Dafoe. I don’t really have anything else to say about it.

Lewis Klahr

The world would be a better place if Danny Elfman were to suddenly disappear. I don’t wish any harm upon the man, but I’d really like him to just go away. 
The film would’ve been fascinating in silence. Mr. Morris should’ve taken lessons from Werner when Werner jump-started his career, learned the art of proper reserve. Not that Werner is exceptionally proper or reserved, but he does know when to hold back, when to exercise a modicum of restraint. Generally.

To clarify, I went to a semi-private screening of David Gatten’s work this past Friday- hence the repeated Gatten-related posts. He showed three films- Secret History of the Dividing Line, The Great Art of Knowing, and How to Conduct a Love Affair- in that order. The Great Art of Knowing was followed by a break during which the rest of the audience discussed the first two films. I took that opportunity to sit in the hallway and shake and consider the implications of the work I had been so graciously presented with. I cannot think of any way to address this piece other than in the form of a letter directly to its creator, so you will have to bear with me. Please, feel free to leave off here if you feel so inclined, with the knowledge that the film was good enough that I could not think for a good thirty minutes.

David,
Please know that I mean no disrespect to your other work when I say that The Great Art of Knowing is the most exceptional piece of cinema I have encountered since my first experience with Hart of London or Passage Through: A Ritual. I have not had my faculties so thoroughly removed nor my paradigms so thoroughly shifted since seeing those films.
Your epistemological pondering is, or seems, so thoroughly convergent with my own that I have trouble addressing it appropriately, but I will give it something like a reasonable attempt.
The greatest art of knowing, it would seem, is knowing when an awareness of it is appropriate. There are the hard things, written down in books as a catalogue of information. And there are the soft things, lodged someplace between the diaphragm and the lungs, that you cannot breathe without, or perhaps must breathe in spite of. The contrasts between hard knowledge and soft are endless, and exceptionally permeable- at so many points hard knowledge mingles with soft, in a passionate pursuit of understanding. And yet there must be a line- at which point does hard knowledge no longer play any part? It is easier, of course, to excoriate the hard knowledge from the flesh. Soft knowledge is the flesh itself and cannot be removed.
I am certain that I will have more thoughts on this at some point in the future. Until then, I cannot wring my brain further without doing permanent damage.
With all my affection.
Libi

David Gatten Film

Santosh Sivan has made an almost note-perfect entry into the ever-growing compendium of third cinema inspections into the source, and subversion, of imperialist power in colonial states. The various power dynamics here- between British and Indian, between man and woman, between boss and employee, between man and wife, man and son- tell a tale of delicate balance, and of balance lost.
The primary power dynamic is between Henry Moores and T.K.; the English plantation owner and his Indian right hand man, a Western-educated man who has been occupied, as it were, by British ideals. The interactions between Moores and his wife; between Moores and Sajani, his housekeeper and illicit lover; between Moores and his wife; between Moores and the people of the village, and so forth, all serve to illustrate the same themes to different or lesser degrees.
The themes are, of course, familiar, but only because they must be. There is nothing else for them to be- the occupied colonies are, at a very basic level, all the same. And it is the variation on the themes that is interesting- in this case, an inspection of the damage wreaked by even the most benevolent power. Even a man viewed as gentle, and harmless, is rendered monstrous by his position of power.
And then, of course, there is the film as a visual thing. Sivan as a cinematographer is superb. While at times he is playful to the detriment of the work, generally the film is sumptuous and elegant- quite simply, utterly beautiful.

Before the Rains

This time through was both more and less painful. This perfect little piece of cinema is so achingly beautiful- the subtle colors and the subtle movements, the compositions reminiscent of Edward Weston or of Imogen Cunningham, the pacing reminiscent of nothing I can name save for the beating of my own heart. Like Peter Hutton, David Gatten works in presence and absence- that which is and that which is not. And David does it so very well.

David Gatten Film

I am reminded of Barnett Newman’s Stations of the Cross, the Lema sabachthani, quite strongly. Liminal echoes carry throughout, one foot in public and another in private. The spaces between and behind are well established and forsaken until they are lifted up to the heavens and reborn- and the line that divides here and now from there and then is always wavering- at times more permeable than others.

David Gatten Film

I don’t want to analyze this one too hard, because I enjoyed it so much. I think I was in the mood for cute. There is a lot owed here to other directors and other films, of course- Wes Anderson springs to mind, as does The Dangerous Lives of Altar Boys- and the aesthetic is a familiar one, though not yet entirely worn-out. As a whole the film rests on spindly legs, the threads that tie the segments together are very thin. There is more fluff than substance, but it is rare that music video directors make it in feature-length without feeling a bit vignette-y.
The majority of the charm comes from the relationship between the two boys- Lee Carter and Will Proudfoot- as the rest of the characters are fairly broad caricatures. The moments of childish innocence, Will’s quirky habits most especially, are delightful; and the depiction of kids’-world creativity is dead on. There is something to be said for letting the sheer joy of making something, anything, overwhelm you. If only they had managed to let that joy show through elsewhere, or had gotten someone other than their own characters to write THEIR plot, the boys of Hammer & Tongs would’ve been a bit more on top of the game.

Son of Rambow