Eyes Without a Face

So here I am in Chicago, Illin'-ois. I began this blog about exactly a year ago when I was in a similar state of aimlessness (er, joblessness), so although I'm currently on the hunt for another dead end job, I'm looking forward to some empty hours that I can use getting lost in the cinema.

I discovered this title, as I am wont to do, by performing a Google search for "50s sci-fi" or the like. What I was really looking for was some good old American camp, but I ended up finding this haunting piece of French film instead. It's from 1959, but according to my Criterion insert, Franju operated on a parallel trajectory from the New-wavers. Still, to me, it seems like the ground-breaking nature of this film might put him in a similar arena. Like Godard, Georges Franju had an affinity for American films. He just happened to like our gory B horror films, instead of Humphrey Bogart noir pictures.

Coming Soon

No internet in my apartment yet means no blogging for the mo'. But I do have some new acquisitions to my collection, including David Cronenberg's Naked Lunch, Spike Jonze's Being John Malkovich, and David Lynch's Mulholland Drive, so my blog will not be stalled for long.

Wild Grass

I found Resnais' latest effort every bit as baffling as his New Wave era films. This was only surprising because the reviews made it sound like Wild Grass would reveal a softer side to the philosophical puzzle-master. Apparently, he had set aside his heartless experiments to create something with more feeling, even some narrative. Not that I have never thought of Last Year at Marienbad or Hiroshima Mon Amour as heartless formalism at all. To me, they are deeply moving. Wild Grass may be masked in a narrative of unrequited love (albeit, a circuitous one), but it is still filled with Resnais' calling cards, and then some. Notably, when each character is introduced, it takes a good five minutes for us to see their face; we are stuck in their point of view for a while, within their actions, before we really get a sense of who they are. Is the purpose of this to set up a fusion between character and viewer? Who really knows. In addition, there are many points of view to juggle. There is an omniscient narrator carrying us along, as well as internal monologues, and a camera that sometimes drifts aimlessly as if it has become bored of its subjects.

I honestly don't have enough time to spend on this as I would like (I'm currently taking advantage of friends' hospitality until the 1st when my apartment becomes mine). But here's what I've got:

Chicago Bound and Bueller... Bueller...?

via

In 1 day and about 5 hours I will be relocating from Rochester, NY to Chicago, IL. Could I have picked a more refined cinematic representation of the Windy City? Honestly, this is the first one that came to mind. It's a fantastic representation of the city itself. Also, the longing for such an epic tale of truancy is never far from my heart. It's been a while since I was actually in high school, but everyone has that day when they fantasize about escape. Most people don't manage the style of Ferris, though. Most people call in sick and watch his exploits on TV, because this movie is on every other day. But then again, not everyone has such a fantastic city to play around in, and that's what escapism is all about. Thank you, Ferris Bueller.

p.s. Anyone heard of the Ferris Bueller challenge?

Happy Birthday, Beautiful

Exit Through the Gift Shop and some ravings on representation

On a whim, more because I felt like going out to a particular theater than I felt like seeing a particular film, I saw Exit Through the Gift Shop. It was actually a really rewarding experience, and a unique one. As someone who doesn't generally gravitate towards documentaries, I can say that they are refreshing every one in a while. And just like any film I sit down to, except on rare occasions, I end up being relatively engrossed, traditional narrative or no.

The Gleaners and I

So, as excited as I was to see Metropolis... it ended up slipping my mind completely. I came home from work absolutely starving, and at the prospect of going out for Mexican food, I forgot anything else. I felt very stupid when I realized what I had done, but I don't entirely regret it.

Sad as I was to miss that, I did pick up this Agnes Varda documentary, which I described to everyone around me as "a French documentary about gleaning," revealing that it is no mystery how I end up watching my movies alone on the couch with a mug of coffee. This is a poor description of what this film is, but I guess I didn't bother to elevate its charms much, since I knew I would end up watching it alone, regardless.