Cocodrilo Nit-Pics Flics

Roberto Rossellini, 1950 The details of Roberto's Rossellini's personal life do not suggest strong religiosity. A chain marrier and a film heavyweight, Rossellini seems better poised to espouse the sensuous aesthetic of a European dandy than the self-negation of a monk. Why then did he make a film about Saint Francis? In interviews, Rossellini cites the quest for a certain kind of faith, the need for belief as he struggled through the career-shattering Bergman scandal. This may be true, but affinities deeper than those of faith may have motivated his choice of Francis. For all his personal abnegation, Francis was a man of the world: his devotion to the poor, his compassion for the ill, and his connection to animals all suggest a man supremely concerned with carnal existence. His mission began with the body: he believed that by catering to the physical being, the spiritual one would fall into place. It is possible that Rossellini's worldlin...

directed by Robert Bresson, 1967 Bresson films don’t tell stories: they present blueprints. Mouchette’s rape is a wisp of smoke; her death a ripple on a pond. The rest of the film is a sequence of formal symbols, arranged in chronological order and designed to show how these events ensue. It is a dark, vivid, boring, and unforgettable film. Bresson’s characters never cry on screen, ill-used, abused, or undone though they be. Emotion does not edify: consequence is all. The drama that plays itself out in a Bresson film is deliberately stripped of verisimilitude, reduced to a sequence of significant sentences, inexpressive faces, and long silences. Most stories show both the good and the bad sides of their characters. Mouchette dwells on the bad. There is not a single act of selfless good will in the film. Mouchette dies not because of the bad things that happen to her, but because of the unbearable tedium of such a predictable...

Robert Bresson, 1983 Watching a film by Bresson is a bit like following a long and somewhat tedious proof of a mathematical theorem. In both cases the plot advances through small, logical steps which are as consequent as they are sterile. Where the mathematician strives to relieve each step of his argument from the taint of intuition or vagueness,Bresson obtains the same reduction through the paring of character, drama, and realism, leaving in their place a sequence of abstract forms whose narrative logic we admit even as we struggle tosuppress our craving for color and life. L'Argent is a somber, bloody film. It apparently derives from a story by Tolstoy, another ardent moralist with a weakness for didactic art. This is a curiousdidacticism , however: it does not so much instruct, as sketch, small, bleak segments of human experience starkly constructed with the basic,blocky elements of standard narrative. The story begins begins calmly, the story evolves calmly, the s...

Wenders, 1984 What is a road film? I used to believe it had something to do with travel visuals; after watching Wenders' Paris Texas , I now believe it has nothing to do with travel and everything to do with the investigation of stasis. Travel is only the most obvious way to conduct the inquiry. There are many movies that show lots of road images. I am thinking of films like Easy Rider, films that linger lovingly on bumpers, exult in the sound of big motors, and hope a jittery in-situ camera will emulate the shaky realities of life in the sedan. In general, these movies are low budget, boring, and bad, and almost never road films, au sense plus grand du terme . The real road film is casually, carefully, and obsessively indifferent to the road, allowing it to appear and disappear in its own space and with its own natural sense of timing. The road enters the Road Film like hope enters the heart: inexplicably, necessarily, a natural transformation. A good half of Paris...

Wilder, 1950 A blurb on the IMDB claims that this film is a “hard look at Hollywood when Hollywood was bullied by an absurd censorship.” Hard though the look may be, it can scarcely be as hard as looking at the film itself. Shadows are prototype Adam’s family, the cheese-jeeby electro-lin is verbed into schmalz, Max’s fingers are just that shade of ghoulish white, and Norma’s torso is forever billowing. Ultimately a sad, creepy, unpleasant film, mitigated by the following: Joe Gillis plays a womanizing, opportunistic schmuck whom we find perfectly congenial; the story is related by a corpse; and Gillis’ gives the high hat to both love and fortune, thereby converting the standard Hollywood either/or into a much more delicious neither/nor.

Wilder, 1959 At first glance it is hard to grasp how the psychology responsible for such dark films as “The Lost Weekend” and “Sunset Boulevard” could have also spawned “Some Like It Hot”, a wacky rollick through the ganster-studded turf of hooch, cross-dress, and twenties swing. Yet a closer look at the structural dimensions of the early work reveals an affinity for feel-good: for all his suffering and brutishness, Don Bernam is a loveable cad who looks and charm engender sympathy, while Joe Gillis is a wry and humorous voice who’s vantage as a corpse strips the squalor from isolation and madness. These films seem content to frame and display human suffering, preserving always a slight comic disengagement and letting congenial quirks of personality displace the pathos of true failure. In many ways the same themes are played out in this film. Superficially, the characters are perverse and twisted: Sugar a besotted floozy strung along by streams of saxophonists, Joe and Jerr...

Wilder, 1945 It is interesting to observe how the role of the alcoholic has evolved from amusing chump at the beginning of this century to sick derelict at present. If ‘Chaplin’ is to be believed, Charlie secured his first critical film gig on the strength of his drunk act, and if one might extrapolate from such vintage jewels as The Thin Man, life in the twenties was a series of evanescent cocktails slurped hastily between romantic highjinks. Surely a modern film on alcoholism would wallow in relational dysfunction, physiological attrition, inhumanity and brutishness, ending with a wan smile, if the film were American, or perhaps merely a bloated corpse or two, if the film issued from the Vaterland. Wilder seems to have been ahead of his time, or at least on the vanguard of the shift. ‘The Lost Weekend’ recounts the story of a talented man venting his failure on drink, shattering himself, his talent, and his family in the process. It is a sketch, however benign, of...