Why do I wake up? Good thing anyway because DK set his alarm for 8:00PM instead of 8:00 AM.
The hotel breakfast buffet is a travesty. The milk and orange juice are room temperature. There is no meat. I never thought of kim-bap as an early morning food, but there it is. I’m confused by the jelly packet. “What am I supposed to do with this thing,” I ask DK. “Fold it in half and squeeze the two sides together.” Okay. The thing explodes all over my suit and white shirt. There’s a flaw in the design of the jelly containers they have in this country. As I’m dabbing the jelly with cold water and a napkin, the red print from the hotel napkin bleeds onto my shirt. The jelly comes right out; the dye does not.
(DK: The ineptitude with which DJ handles modern conveniences such as tissues or jelly packs makes me fearful for the evening meal when we are almost assured of encountering wet naps.)
The ticket situation so far is quite improved from yesterday’s sopping and confused wait. I’m second in line and the dry, cool weather is nothing short of glorious. It’s actually pleasant to stand in a line for forty-five minutes with nothing to do but wait and look. I notice Harpo again. I suppose it should come as no surprise that I would see the same people in line every morning, but somehow her get-up and uncanny, unfortunate resemblance to the mute Marx brother is always surprising.
Hotel interlude. It occurs to me that I say “diddly” far too often. Let us hope that admission is the first step to recovery.
(DK: I forego the early screening in anticipation of an industry event later in the afternoon where I will dress up in a suit and masquerade as a grownup professional in hopes of generating some sort of interest for our Theater project. My plan is to arm myself with impressive documents and to smile and bow a lot.
Although I am not hopeful, I know that relying on DJ to accomplish any sort of productive human interaction is suicide. Simply suicide.)
The Nine Muses (2010, English, John Akomfrah)
I can tell you what I saw, but I don’t think I can tell you what this movie is about after one viewing. Akomfrah uses three basic ingredients: gorgeous digital photography of what must be Alaska or northern Canada, archive footage which deals mostly with black in England in the 1960’s though there is also some footage of Indians in England as well and intertitles and voiceover narration consisting almost entirely of Western Literature from Homer to Shakespeare to Beckett. It was all very interesting I just can’t say what it adds up to. I was taken with the DV sections that almost always showed a single person from behind looking out over a snowy landscape. I don’t know how the Western Literature contextualized those images, but they were always quite striking. The idea conflict of culture that results from the displacement of Africans was evident in the juxtaposition of the narration and intertitles to the images of Afro-English Diaspora, but on a first viewing, I have more questions than insights.
DK is convinced that we have time to eat bi-bim-bap before the Claire Denis program. Alas, they are closed, so now we really have to move fast. Somehow we decide that we have time for sushi. After sitting there for about twenty minutes I mention that almost every other table in the restaurant has been served since we sat down. We timed this poorly. DK runs up and cancels our order, as it is now twenty minutes to 2:00. I don’t know what any of the street food is, and there are lines everywhere anyway, so we have convenience store food. I had a 1000 won Snickers and a 1300 won sandwich. I guess I can accept that price structure.
(DK: The uncomfortable subtext to our entire expedition is that I am somehow here to merely feed, shelter and entertain DJ. He complains incessantly about things that are out of my control, such as the availability of a certain type of noodle or the barometric pressure.
Were it not for the fact that we are about to go see Claire Denis in person and that I am thus impervious to his negativity, I would seriously consider putting out a hit on him. Also, I haven’t really been keeping notes during the screenings.)
35 Shots of Rum (2008, French, Claire Denis)
You see this is why I have no time for artists that I have given a fair shot, but who do not hold my interest because they are one-dimensional or overrated. There are too many great filmmakers that I don’t know yet, and when I discover them, I have to dive in. So, to all my friends who want me to watch more movies by Paul Thomas Anderson, David Lynch and Charlie Kaufman – to give these guys yet another chance, I have to say, sorry, but I just discovered Claire Denis.
(DK: I want to be more rigorous, explicit and mechanical in my explication of Denis’ genius, but her films inspire only adjectival hyperbole–masterfully assured! dizzyingly sensuous! subtly complex! You leave the theater feeling drunk on fine wine.
With a nod to Ozu’s Late Spring, Denis conjures another rhapsodic meditation on bodies, love and solitude. As always, attention to narrative exposition falls secondary to the exploration of individuals and behavior; yet 35 Shots feels more deeply personal and assured for Denis, as well. The way the camera and the characters revolve around the taciturn central figure of the father (Alex Descas) resonates with a kind of respectful adulation, while celebrating his masculine mystery. She delves freely into this little-seen West-African French milieu without a hint of self-consciousness. She makes black skin appear positively luminous. Rather than rely on plot, motivations and resolution, she appears confident in the ability of an accumulation of vivid details and the occasional non-narrative discursion–such as handheld shots of railroad tracks taken from the driver’s cabin–to complete the film’s emotional arc.
She is quite simply our greatest cinematic poet of human touch. Like Cassavetes or Wong Kar-Wai, she does not merely show people in contact, embracing, dancing, exploring or lashing out–she creates a palpable pulse of sensation and frisson through her heightened visual attention, long takes, close-ups and music. This is no more evident than in the virtuoso central dance sequence that also neatly serves to illustrate the complex confluence of plot, theme and character that is her signature. Watch the embrace between father and daughter (Mati Diop), the graceful exchange of partners, the first delicate clasp of hands between Josephine and Noe (Gregoire Colin), Lionel’s conflicted gaze, then Noe’s undoing of Josephine’s hair and her slight stiffening leading to his kiss and her firm break and re-direction as she gently, insistently pulls him down to sit beside her, intimate but estranged. This is a symphony of meaningful gestures, a ballet of significant touches.
As always, I could go on and on when it comes to her films, but I’ll let the work do the talking… and the moving… and the crooning…)
Lecture and discussion – what they call a “Masterclass” here at JIFF. DK split for an industry event to try to find someone who will give us money to open a physical Cinema Underground so we can show some movies and offer free film school. Interesting. I notice that Chris Fujiwara is the moderator. I know that name from somewhere. As they are getting set up, Claire smashes her head on the bottom of the screen. This trauma does not stop her from saying one brilliant thing after another and from turning bad questions to gold. After watching Kidlat Tahimik the night before, I get the sense that this is a skill you have to develop if you submit to these kinds of things.
Here are some quotes:
“I love a festival because that’s the best school for filmmaking. There’s nothing better [for young filmmakers] than watching films.”
“I always say more in my films than what I can express after.”
When asked about rooting her characters to their jobs: “As an audience [member] I like to know what is their job. I don’t feel secure when I don’t know where the money comes from.”
“Love is not given like a solid thing; it is made of movement.”
“Metaphor is sometimes a little puerile. I would not make a film around a metaphor and I wouldn’t advise anyone to do so.”
If you’ve read the Cinema Underground Provisional Manifesto, you should have a good idea of what we think of film criticism and film critics in general. We both recognized Chris Fujiwara’s name, but since neither DK nor myself could think of anything he wrote I assumed the worst. In fact, when DK handed him our card I immediately thought I should go to my website and make sure that I didn’t eviscerate him in my review of the Tarkovsky Anthology. After confirming that I was safe on that front, I looked him up online and found this: http://www.insanemute.com/.
I cannot recommend his writing highly enough. In criticism I am as attracted to the salient dismantling of mediocrity as I am to insightful analysis of genius, perhaps to a fault. At least that’s my litmus test. So when I saw headings for Magnolia and Steven Soderberg’s Solaris, I went straight to them to see if Fujiwara would distinguish himself from the majority. I am happy to say that he did and does, and I am very glad to have made the acquaintance of one of the best film critics on the planet.
(DK: As usual when it comes to socialization, I was the one who had to initiate contact with Chris Fujiwara, make small-talk and contextualize our visit to Jeonju so as to make us appear as somewhat social equals. We chatted briefly about festivals and the exhibition scene in Tokyo, while I gave him my card and hinted about our theater project. At some point, I motioned to DJ as my “business partner” whereupon I think he blurted something about “I like movie!” effectively obliterating our dignity.)
Looking for the best bi-bim-bap? Get in a cab and ask the driver where he would eat. This might be better than the best bi-bim-bap ever from the first day. There’s certainly more bonchon, and that’s crucial. They even brought us some special paste that they apparently don’t give to everyone. The one thing this place does not have going for it: Harpo is here! It’s one thing to see the same eccentric in line with use every day, but what are the odds that she would end up in this restaurant that we only found out about from asking the cab driver? She’s like a real Marx brother, turning up where you would never expect.
The Turin Horse (2011, Hungarian, Béla Tarr)
First things first, the atmosphere in here reminds me of camping in Missouri in July. That’s not an ideal state to view such a slow movie. The entire audience fights against nodding off. I’m going to have to write a longer review of this film. It was deliberately grueling experience. I’ve seen nothing like it except maybe Sokurov’s Second Circle another film that, coincidentally, takes the mystery of death as its subject as well. I thought about what Claire Denis said about not making a movie out of a metaphor, and I wonder if that’s what Tarr has done.
(DK: The movie and its subject were relentlessly brutal–but not altogether dis-pleasing. It’s my first Bela Tarr movie and I feel intuitively I know where he’s coming from. He wants us to feel the terrible inertia of mortality, the dark terror of spiritual barrenness. And the theater is hot like a bloody sauna, while wild wind blows constantly over the soundtrack. It’s the kind of film that I know will grow in stature after I leave the discomfort of my immediate experience.)
Whatever it was, The Turin Horse is not uplifting, and I thought it would be disrespectful to go out partying afterwards. I don’t think it’s the kind of film you should ignore. Then again, who knows when we’ll be here again, so I agree to Miller Time on the condition that we agree not to talk about the movie. Should I be surprised that as we take our seats I see Harpo come in the front door? We had some really horrendous bar food and I believe that between the bar and the Hoegaardens in the hotel room we ended up drinking more than the previous two nights.
(DK: My reaction to the crushing gravitas of the Tarr film is to offer to shake it off with a few drinks and a few laughs in front of the local university. DJ’s reaction is to shun and denounce all form of pleasure or enjoyment. We compromise by going to a bar that we know will suck.)
The last day went off without a hitch. We had only one program to attend, so we took breakfast rather leisurely before checking out and setting off for the JIFF Project digital video program.
(DK: The JIFF Digital Project is the centerpiece of the festival as it represents the artistic culmination of JIFF’s commitment to digital filmmaking. Every year three renowned directors are chosen to receive US$150k funding to create a digital short to be premiered at the following year’s festival. The works are shown together as part of a single program and also distributed through DVD and screened at other festivals and venues. Previous participating filmmakers include Pedro Costa, Tsai Ming-Liang, Harun Farocki, Jia Zhang-ke and Bong Joon-ho.)
The first short was ludicrous. It was by Jean-Marie Straub, a veteran filmmaker whose works I have never had a chance to see. His early works make a significant appearance in Amos Vogel’s Film As a Subversive Art, so I will reserve judgment until I see a few more, because I do trust Vogel for the most part. DK said that An Heir is why people have a bad impression of art movies. I just thought there was no idea behind it, as if they had given him the money and he couldn’t think of anything so he filmed three shots of a guy talking.
(DK: An unbearably pretentious piece of shit. If I was JIFF, I would ask for the remaining US$149k back from Straub.)
Denis’ To the Devil is much more interesting. It’s pretty straight-forward documentary, but it tells a story you probably haven’t heard.
(DK: Denis has an arch taste, it seems, for misunderstood bad boys. It is why the delicately handsome Gregoire Colin figures so prominently in her works and also why, I suspect, she became so engrossed in this story of the outlaw Jean Bena. The film’s most telling moment is captured when Denis offers the man, now over 40 and seemingly engorged by a life of hardship, a photo of himself as a young idealist 20 years earlier. “Look at this young Jean Bena,” Bena beams with a mixture of pride and regret. The toll on the man is as apparent as the ground from which he and his associates strip-mine for gold.)
Memories of a Morning by José Luis Guerín was the standout work of the program. Like last night’s The Turin Horse it was also about death, but approached the matter from a completely different angle and with a lighter touch to put it mildly. Here is another filmmaker whose works I must now seek out.
(DK: Densely-layered, humorous and poignant. As unexpected a film about death as one could imagine.)
After the film Denis and Guerín where on hand to field questions, but everything was in French, Spanish and Korean, so I can’t say much about that particular discussion. I’ll leave it to DK and his parenthetical responses.
I see no need to bookend this tale with a description of our trip back, so I’ll draw this to a close. JeonJu was a great success for Cinema Underground. We met some filmmakers, saw some great movies and ate like kings for three days. Stay tuned for various articles about the specific films.
Nenette and Boni (Claire Denis, 1996)
(Cinema Underground is walking on air right now! We have just returned from the 12th Jeonju International Film Festival where we met, listened to and flirted with Claire Denis! So beguiling, so impassioned and yet so unpretentious. We think we are in love.)
I could write for days and days about the cinema of Claire Denis. About how this tiny French woman makes movies about foreigners, Africans and Blacks where they are not “other” but herself (Chocolat, I Can’t Sleep, 35 Shots of Rum); about how so few heterosexual filmmakers, let alone a woman, make such knowing, erotic films about men (Beau Travail, Friday Night); about how she weaves so masterfully, so seamlessly and potently between dream and reality, between document and desire.
But then what will I tell her when we meet again to prove that my interests in her cinema are not merely intellectual? 🙂
So I will limit my discussion within the confines of our narrowest category: a single moment from one of her films. In this case, a scene from Nenette and Boni where the Baker (Vincent Gallo) as a young sailor first sets eyes upon the woman (Valeria Bruni-Tedeschi) he will marry. I don’t know that much more context is necessary. Everything I wish to discuss about her cinema is evident in the clip.
THE BAKER MEETS HIS WIFE
To understand the greatness of Claire Denis, you have only to imagine what a lesser director would do in her place. In the case of a scene like the above, it shouldn’t be too hard. Hollywood dreck is filled with such starstruck “love at first sight” moments. They usually employ attractive stars and catchy soundtracks just like Denis’ scene. However, often there is some inherent comic incongruence or stylistically heightened significance. In Hollywood parlance it’s called a “meet-cute” with an emphasis on a kind of attractive fatalism.
But what does Denis do?
First, the scene is a detour from the narrative proper–not merely a flashback but something more akin to an aside. It occurs outside the central narrative frame of either Nenette or Boni’s actions and concerns, delving into the background of the object of Boni’s obsession. But what is it? Is it a flashback from the Baker’s Wife’s consciousness? Such a strange lateral shift in the diegisis! At no other time is her character afforded anything like this central focus. Is it another of Boni’s fantasies? But why should Boni contrive such a convincing and sensitive portrait of a relationship he would be better served to parody?
Music begins the scene and the music is prominent, despite the fact that the Baker/Sailor only puts money in the jukebox part way into the scene. So the scene gains the significance of memory through its minor subversion of simple cause and effect but, more importantly, the song (“God Only Knows” by the Beach Boys) tells its own story.
However, she is distinctly NOT making a music video. We know this because the music does not merely symbolize or accentuate the meaning of the action. She does not edit or choreograph expressly to the music’s rhythm. Rather, the song acts as a separate, distinct but additional stream of significance to the action, coloring or inflecting it. This is the very meaning of complexity and Denis expects her viewers to be able to contend with both disparate but complementary discourses. Image and sound perform a delicate dance, if you will.
But maybe I’m getting ahead of myself because her actors and her camera perform an even more bewitching number.
In this one scene, Denis basically gives the lie to the critical legacy of hogwash about “objectification” and the tyranny of the “male gaze.” It was always bullshit to begin with, silly formulas for stupid academics to frame films in their own image.
Denis’ gaze is nothing but her own and, far from objectifying, comes close to articulating the living, breathing soul of her actors through her signature lingering, close inspection of appearance and behavior. Her camera explores rather than indicates. She ably allows for depth to emerge from the surfaces.
Note the pan along Gallo’s arm and up his chest before settling in ECU on his face. This is the kind of shot usually reserved for women as seen from a male POV. Yet, here Denis seems willing enough to “objectify” her subject, utterly absorbed in Gallo’s angular face, his haphazard facial hair and his sleepy, sexual stare. Is Gallo even conventionally handsome enough to warrant this kind of attention? Denis does not care and this is where “objectification” falls apart. It is not his (perceived) beauty which makes him worthy to be subject to her camera; it is the (genuine) performance of himself that makes him, to Denis, beautiful.
Denis blurs the line between actor and character, between performance and documentary. Are we watching the Baker/Sailor in this scene or is Denis simply watching Vincent Gallo? The shot conveys a kind of intimacy and immediacy that subverts such simple formulation. Significantly, the camera is too close to correspond to a literal POV for anyone other than perhaps Agnes Godard, Denis’ DoP. The whole POV game is simply insufficient for understanding something so complex as the meaning of Gallo’s measured breathing or the flitting movement of his eyes. What is the “meaning” of the blueness of Gallo’s eyes? Denis’ fondly loitering camera ensures we meditate on this significant point.
Can the answer to that question can be found in the blueness of Bruni-Tedeschi’s low-cut blouse?
But, no, surely her little vignette only serves to elucidate the Baker’s Wife’s charms and subsequently charm the viewer into sympathizing with the couple’s inevitable union. But for that to be the case, as it would for most romantic comedies, Bruni-Tedeschi would have to be actually DOING something, no? Or, if appearance was her primary virtue, surely Denis could have cast someone more conventionally beautiful.
Yet, I can’t think of a woman in film more enchanting than Bruni-Tedeschi for these sixty seconds. Again, it’s unclear whether we are now watching the character or the actor, so varied and spontaneous are her expressions and so unembellished is their documentation. In just under a minute of screen time, she manages to suggest a fleeting galaxy of emotions–from affected indifference to mild embarrassment to joyful submission to bold reassertion. And while the actor deserves credit for such a seemingly unaffected performance, it is Denis’ inspiration to let her simply BE, confident in the power of the relationship between the viewer and the viewed to create such a complex dance of meaning.
This is what makes Claire Denis so great.
In a scene that is ostensibly about two people meeting, she dispenses with POV. Instead of jumping predictably between subjects from his view to hers, she shifts mercurially between modes–between memory and fantasy, between the viewer and the viewed, between indifference and desire. Her stillness animates, while her silence speaks volumes. Her play is not merely the bilateral shot-reverse-shot between characters but the far richer interplay between herself, the viewer and her subject. Finally, she delivers that rarest of cinematic promises: the revelation of a real lived experience. God only knows how.