"Steven Spielberg is fortunate that what he loves is then loved by so many people in the world. He is both successful and sincere. An artist must express himself doing what he loves in his own style, without compromise. Those who only want to please cannot aspire to being artists. A little compromise here, a little compromise there, and at what point is the soul lost? Chip, chip. Crack." -Federico Fellini

The Vault #43 Women's Melodrama / Western King Lear Edition: The Furies

The Western, though ostensibly grounded in history, is closer to fantasy than any other genre. Good men and women standing up to the forces of evil at the edges of civilization makes for good entertainment, but it certainly is not reality. Directors like John Ford and Sam Peckinpah explored masculinity and mythology on the frontier, constructing archetypes and moralities all there own. Later, George Roy Hill and Sergie Leone would deconstruct these carefully groomed myths. Some where in the middle is Anthony Mann, a director who neither embraced nor rejected the narrative construct of the Western, but rather used it as a blank slate to present the brutality of natural human instinct. He has little concern with American history - 19th century New Mexico might as well be Middle Earth.

Starting off in B-noir, Anthony Mann is became famous for his "psychological westerns", notably The Naked Spur and Winchester '73. His dream project, however, was a western version of King Lear, entitled simply The King, a sprawling epic he hoped to make in his old age. He hinted at the themes of Lear in a few of his film (Man of the West and  The Man From Laramie come close), but by the time he was making three hour wide-screen epics (El Cid, The Fall of the Roman Empire), the Western was going out of style. As it stands, there is perhaps no film in Mann's catalogue that comes closer to his Texas-sized Lear than The Furies (1950). 

Noted "consarnit!" exclaimer and roustabout Walter Huston plays T.C. Jeffords, a land baron the opening titles tell us "made a kingdom out of cattle", a kingdom that stretches as far as the eye an see, marked with the ominous name "The Furies" (that allusion to Greek tragedy is no coincidence). T.C. literally lords over the land, allowing poor dirt farmers, Mexican and American alike, to live in his environs. In his first scene, T.C. returns to his ranch for the first time in years to make a big show of his family to a man from the bank. There's his Mexican head roper, El Tigre, his ranch manager, Scotty, and his two children, a son we barely see at all, and his daughter, Vance (Barbara Stanwyck). But why is the bank concerned at all? Well, old T.C. has been paying local debts with money he prints himself, and the whole thing is about to collapse like a bunch of sub-prime mortgages.

If T.C. goes under, what will happen the glorious tradition of The Furies? Like Gone with the Wind before it, The Furies is the story of a lone woman attempting to save her family's name and home. Only, this is Barbara Stanwyck we're talking about, so something pure evil must be going on. Within the opening 25 minutes of the film, she's made eyes at her own father, her "old friend" Juan Herrera, and T.C.'s sworn enemy, Rip Darrow. Much like Goneril in King Lear, or any queen from history, at issue is whether control of the kingdom will transfer over to Vance's beau should she become engaged. When Vance seems leaning towards the rare combination of rakishness and spinelessness present in Darrow, she and her father, at first uncomfortably close, find themselves at dangerous cross-purposes.

The Furies might not be a strict adaptation of King Lear, but for its time, it still offers a great deal to unpack. This was Mann's first big-budget film, and he couldn't have had much choice in choosing the stars. By this point in their careers, Huston and Stanwyck were known nation-wide for their bravado and conniving, respectively; yet, while the character might never quite develop, our emotions towards them certainly do. Much of this is owed to Mann's keen psychological sense, his ability to pry apart his character's most concealed fears and desires. Take, for example, the scene where Vance learns her father may be remarrying:

Moments like this give The Furies the quality of a great soap opera or television drama like The Sopranos. Thanks to Stanwyck's astonishing performance, Mann is able to cross-pollinate his first Western epic with plenty of the "women's film" melodrama that was en vogue in Hollywood's Golden Age. This two genre approach with Lear as the skeleton is very reminiscent of Kurosawa's treatment of the same material in Ran (1985) - it's impossible to believe one did not influence the other.

As much as race and gender roles are challenged in The Furies, the time and place in which the film was made is inescapable. Mann seems to have had his hands tied, as things comes all too cleanly to a close, despite more than one party being completely ruined in the climax. The Furies reveals the West to be a corrupt and barbarous world, where brute strength and sniveling dishonor are the only paths to triumph and wealth. When two riders arrive back at The Furies ranch, having claimed it for their own, they smile upon a compromised landscape, one defined by blood and sin, rather than "the virtue and ingenuity of the American spirit". They knew that was fiction all along.

Oscar Movies Orgy Part 3 (I suppose this will get nominated for something): Sherlock Holmes

It's been a bit of an odd decade for the principal participants in Warner Brothers new Sherlock Holmes. Robert Downey Jr. began by getting out of rehab, then reclaiming his place in the pantheon of Hollywood bad boys with intelligent turns in middle-independet fare like  Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and Wonder Boys, culminating in his blockbuster homecoming Iron Man. Director Guy Ritchie made some waves with his second film Snatch, but quickly fell to the scrap heap with Swept Away and Revolver. And Jude Law, well, where's he been? Jude was a little too much of a good thing (remember that 5 movies in 5 months span back in 2004), and has been looking for a decent role ever since.  

It makes sense for all three to be looking for something safe, and slightly prestigious, something that won't offend anyone, but also has a brain. In terms of delivering a palateable vehicle for its two leads and washing that awful remake-starring-Madonna taste from everyone's mouths, Sherlock Holmes is eminently serviceable. Downey does his smirking smart-alec bit, Jude Law is just proper enough to draw a laugh, and Ritchie doesn't do anything over-stylized or homo-erotic (whoops!). Okay, he doesnt do too much of that. In one surprisingly un-obnoxious flourish, we hear Holmes' thoughts at the speed they occur to him, which requires the images to move in slow motion.

London, 18somethingsomething. We enter mid-chase as Holmes and Watson apprehend the evil Lord Blackwood, some sort of satanic magician trying to steal the souls of young women (again, or something). Blackwood is captured and hanged, bringing another case successfully to a close, which for Holmes means going to his windowless laboratory and drinking himself to death, and for Watson, preparing for marriage. Soon however, black deeds begin recurring (perhaps that creepy guy isn't dead) and Holmes passive-aggressively ensnares Watson in another adventure. Black deeds like, dudes in cloaks.

Sherlock Holmes fails, in part, due to  indecision. The first forty minutes or so introduce us to a whole new Holmes, Ritchie-tastic with his knowledge of Marshall arts. If you've seen the ads, you probably expect a kick-ass, graphic novel kind of Sherlock. But as plot becomes more and more of a necessity, Downey and Law are confined by drawing-room scene after drawing-room scene. Okay, secret society. Okay, mysterious guy in a black cloak with a pistol up his sleeve. Okay, love interest Rachel McAdams. If Ritchie wants to make Holmes his own, he shouldn't cow to genre convetions. Action sequences spliced with expository monologues make for a bored and confused audience.

Big ups to Mark Strong, who turns in another strong, if one-dimensional performance as Blackwood (Body of Lies is worth it if only for Strong's take on a Lebanese intelligence officer), but since when is Sherlock Holme's arch nemesis some Voldemort-ish member of Parliament. Ritchie's Holmes makes ample reference to the nefarious professor Moriarity, but it seems only for the purpose of setting up a sequel. In that way, this Sherlock Holmes is a lot like Chris Nolan's Batman Begins; it gives us a cast and a setting, but the story we're really interested in is on hold until we pay two admissions.

Oscar Movies Orgy Part 2: Avatar

James Cameron has been called a "visionary" for his commitment to producing the biggest and most sprawling films of our generation. In some ways, each Cameron film tries to outdo the last one, building upon its incredible technical achievements and moving into new reaches of film and computer technology. Cameron is a megalomaniac; he writes the script, holds final cut, and controls casting, production design and visual effects under his control until the finished product reaches theaters. All of this is to say, James Cameron works with the same sort of tyrant grip as any auteur. It allows him to garner a little more credit than a Michael Bay, who always has Jerry Bruckheimer or Steven Spielberg looking over his shoulder.

Of course, this is a movie review, not a discussion of process. You've probably heard and read a lot about Avatar already. It uses breathtaking new CGI techniques to tell the story of a group of lanky blue aliens whose lush planet is threatened by an evil paramilitary corporation. Okay a few more details; the blue dudes, known as the Navi, sit on top of some resource humans need to survive in this distant future (somewhat sloppily, the use of the substance is never revealed in the film). The corporation (not sure what its name is) is divided into three groups - 1) Drilling crews; 2) Ex-marines hired as mercenaries to "protect" those people and 3) scientists who seem to be the only ones amazed by the fact that we've apparently discovered life in outer space, and they want to study it. The scientists (lead by back-from-the-dead Cameron stalwart Sigourney Weaver) have somehow developed a technology that can transfer the human mind into a cloned (or reanimated or something) body of a Navi and allow humans to live and breathe and explore the planet (called Pandora). Enter Jake Sully (a completely forgettable Sam Worthington), a Marine who happens to be the identical twin of a scientist who met an untimely death - he has to pilot his brother's "avatar" because the genomes have to match between brain and constructed body. Why?

Look at the photo above. The simplest answer to why is: how cool would it be to do a movie with the most human-looking aliens ever? On a planet with limitless forms of alien life? The first hour or so of Avatar reminded me a lot of Peter Jackson's King Kong, the part where the film crew gets lost on the island and all sorts of bugs, wild animals and dinosaurs are paraded across the screen to show that, yes, Peter Jackson and a group of animators had spent time and money creating these animations. Cameron does the exact same thing for a while in Avatar, pointlessly introducing us to various life form native to Pandora.

This sequence is the best in the film, as Jake tries to survive in his Navi body having been separated from Weaver and her crew. Then, of course, he meets a Navi princess and falls in love. Remember The New World?. You don't? Okay, then none of this will seem familiar. Soon enough, Jake ("just another dumb grunt") is pitted up against his society, his army, and his species in a battle for Pandora. (Look how weird the Weaver avatar looks!). Did I mention that the Navi plug into various lifeforms on the planet using their long hair? Or that all creatures in Pandora's homogenous eco-system are linked? Or the prophecy about a chosen warrior? If the script of Avatar were good, I think the premise would still be hard to swallow; with the pages Cameron turned out, one is forced to ignore the story entirely and focus on the pretty images.

Remember in Jurassic Park, when you first get a look at the brontasaurus, and Sam Neill and Laura Dern are all like "whaaaa?" Cameron packs Avatar so full of those moments, those "lookie what I did at my computer", that by the time the final battle comes, we've mostly lost interest. Jurassic Park is a good frame of reference, actually, because I think Avatar will be received quite similarly - it'll be super cool now, and then we'll stop thinking about it forever, until we have kids. Only Avatar isn't for kids.

The problem is, dinosaurs were real, and kids are and will always imagine what it would be like to see a real one. Avatar is just a bunch of made up crap in a CGI rainforest. The fact that it looks better than every other sci-fi movie you've ever seen doesn't make up for its lack of narrative imagination. To continue along the same line, Cameron has often seemed a Spielberg imitator, trying to innovate and entertain while not being at all contoversial. Think Edward Furlong in T2 or the crowd-pleasing romantic adventure of Titanic. The problem is, Steven Spielberg gets the emotional side of engaging the audience (i.e. creating memorable characters); empathy is totally lost on Cameron.

It will not surprise me if Avatar wins best picture - it looks great, it cost a boatload and it's got an epic quality, I guess. But it isn't Cameron's best work, because it fundamentally isn't an action movie. It's barely a movie at all, more like a picture book. But, like, a really really cool looking one, bro. Did I mention just about everything on Pandora glows in the dark?

The Vault #42 Missing in Action: Two Lovers

James Gray cut his teeth with hard-edged New York crime movies, first from the wrong side of the law (The Yards), then the right (We Own the Night). Like fellow Brooklynite Darren Aronofsky, Gray's films are couched in familiarity, both with place and character. However, to keep the audience engaged, his first broke up domestic situations with violent confrontations. Gray's films have alternated between Departed-style thrillers and You Can Count on Me-like indie-family drama.

With Two Lovers, Gray tosses his pulpy side, instead focusing on the emotions and entanglements of one troubled 30-something living with his parents. There's nothing sinister or dangerous about Joaquin Phoenix's Leonard Kratidor. He's overcoming tremendous heart-break, as evidence by his multiple suicide attempts, and his meager life working at the family business (dry-cleaning) in Brighton Beach. By the way, remember this?

That was during the media tour for Two Lovers, which was left for the vultures in the February grave-yard earlier this year. Why isn't clear, because as Letterman notes, Phoenix is a wonderful actor, in truth one of the best working today. His stock has been steadily falling since Walk the Line, culminating in his insane beard-growing and stage-diving. As Leonard, he embodies innocence and depression with equally convincing measure. His vulnerability but essential kindness soon has him to the subject of two women's advances.

This post is entitled Missing in Action not only on Joaquin's account. As long ago as Gladiator seems, remember the hey day of Gwyneth Paltrow? She has her first decent role in year's as Leonard's neighbor, a kept woman for big city lawyer Elias Koteas. When he won't leave his wife, she indulges as a party girl, taking awkward Leonard along for the ride. His parent disapprove, rather wanting him to end up with nice Jewish Girl #1 (Vinessa Shaw). But back to Paltrow? If Hollywood were a map, she would be relegated to the "there be monsters here" edge. Two Lovers is interesting if only to watch her and Phoenix plying their trade without drawing too much attention. Thankfully, however, there's more to this little drama.

Two Lovers feels like a much older movie, like Marty. There's no action at all, at least nothing inherently cinematic, just tremendous dialogue and pacing, as Leonard goes from failed suicide attempts to suddenly deciding between which of two beautiful women to have a relationship with. Why are we watching? The only answer is that Gray and Phoenix are talents, and that the system has pushed them to the side. Two Lovers has the pedigree and production value of an Oscar movie, but none of the issues or agenda. It's quiet, and strangely confident, like it main character. Deserving of all the praise it gets, and a shoe-in for a year end top 10. Coming soon.

Cult Corner: Schizopolis

It needs to be said: Steven Soderbergh is the most underrated director of his generation. He's two Coen brothers in one body. He's played ball in Hollywood (Traffic, Erin Brockovich), taken a high budget risk or two (Solaris, The Good German) and made intelligent comedies (Ocean's 11-13, The Informant), all while keeping in touch with his mumble-core roots (The Girlfriend Experience, Full Frontal). Thinking about Soderbergh's career as a unified whole is extremely difficult; there's no pattern to follow.

Throw onto the heap of his career the beautiful mess Schizopolis and the equation becomes that much harder to balance. Opening in a darkened theater (ostensibly before the premiere of an "important film") a nervous Soderbergh walks out to a microphone to greet the audience and prepare them for what it to come. It's meta-101, and shouldn't be given too much credit. What should be praised, however, is that Soderbergh not only plays himself in the opening scene, but plays the two main characters (who are identical twins?). It's this sort of manic inconsistency that  gives Schizopolis the feeling of a sugar-rush.

Fletcher Munson (Soderbergh) is a corporate nobody, promoted to trusted lackey after the death of one of the higher ups. He's writing a speech for his under siege uber-boss, T. Azimuth Scwitters, renowned author of the self-help philosophy known as "Eventualism". Munson has a meaningless relationship with his wife, with whom he communicates in stock phrases like "appropriate greeting" and "obligation". Unbeknownst to Fletcher, his wife is having an affair with a confident dentist named Jeffrey Korchek (also Soderbergh). Off to the side, an exterminator named Elmo Oxygen is shooting sex-tapes with willing housewives.

Munson's plotline may remind the viewer of Office Space; names like Schwitters and Oxygen unmistakably connote Thomas Pynchon; the doppelganger aspect (at one point Munson seems to transfer his consciousness into Korchek's body) reeks of Charlie Kaufman. Combine all these elements with an editing style reminiscent of Monty Python's And Now For Something Completely Different (the title of the film appears at the beginning on the t-shirt of an escaped, pants-less, mental patient), and your head is swimming within ten minutes.

The film is told in three overlapping sections from different character's perspectives. The dialogue is often stilted and meaningless (Oxygen only communicates in random words). Different kinds of film stock indicate dreams, fantasies and hypotheticals. A psychologist gives a running commentary on the action throughout. One might think this would be very confusing - it is. But making heads or tails of this movie isn't really the point.

Schizopolis might be the king of the "random crap" genre. It's a 90 minute smoothie of non-sequiturs, half-realized characters and one-off sight gags. If it weren't made by such an experimental filmmaker, it might play like a spoof out of the Zucker-Abrams catalog. As it stands, Schizopolis might be the strangest thing to come out of an academy-award winning director.

The Vault #41 Classic Clinic: The Conformist

There may never be a movie quite like The Conformist (1970). All-time great movies are usually notable for one or two of the following reasons - 1) they represent a ground-breaking departure from previous cinematic norms in terms of structure, tone and character; 2) They represent exceptional work by one or more of the major collaborators involved (director, actor, writer, cinematographer, etc); 3) They evoke a world long unknown or vanished that can only be re-discovered on the silver screen; 4) They connote their scenario so convincingly we are hypnotized, lost in the thrills and twists of the plot; or 5) They advance an important philosophical or political point that, while relevant at the time of the film's release, still holds true.

Think of any New Wave movie (from any country) for the first criteria. Consider a Hollywood classic for the second. A historical drama the third. Any decent pot-boiler or summer action movie falls into the fourth. Prestige pictures tend to fall into the third and fifth categories, and if truly great, the second. The Conformist is that rare bird which contends in all five columns.

 Jean Louis-Tritignant plays Marcello Clerici, a man with no apparent conviction caught in the middle of the fascist revolution in Italy before WWII. Not convinces he's trapped? Just check out the stripes on that dress mirroring the light pattern created by the Venetian blinds. This shot comes from one of the first scenes in the movie, in a flashback. Before Marco knew what he was getting into, he was long gone. Mussolini needs an outspoken academic living in Paris murdered for his political views. Marco, a former student of Professor Quadri (an expert in "political philosophy") is the perfect man for the job.

Now, many movies since The Conformist have been structured around a man on his way to commit murder reliving the events that brought him to that point. Few flashbacks have supplied as little rationale as those in Marcello's checkered past. Apparently, he had a confusing encounter with a sailor at a very young age, which in his mind drives him to being as boring and usual as possible (marrying the venomous Giulia being the latest in that series of misguided decisions). Tritignant's performance is one of the many keys to this film's success - nothing about him is remotely attractive or admirable at any point. He's a repressed homosexual who, rather than stand on the sidelines, actively helps his enemies.

So there are the first two categories - structure and performance. However, Tritignant isn't the only one working overtime. Cinematographer Vittorio Storaro (Salvatore Giuliano, Apocalypse Now) and production designer Ferdinando Scarfiotti bring us not only to 1930s Italy, but 1930s Italy as Marcello, dissociated malcontent. Rooms seem too big, light too dim, all manner of architecture threatening and overwhelming. Whether in Italy or France, The Conformist connotes the 30s in the way Wes Anderson connotes the 70s - not realistically, but retrospectively. It's like art deco puked, and that puke designed these sets. Bertolucci's script guides us from the cold, stoic civic architecture of Rome to the cozy sitting rooms of France with the same aloof attitude. Marcello is a man whose only comfort lies in a childhood he can never regain; nothing can sway him. Even an affair with Quadri's much younger and willing wife Anna does cannot change his grim intent. He has no expectation of happiness, so cannot be influenced by the temptation of it.

The question arises: why watch a movie with such a despicable character? Most political films that decry the ills of government and war and so on focus on good people fighting the system; Bertolucci made the bold move to follow the people that uphold the status quo, despite what should be their natural instincts. Marcello Clerici looks back on his life as he travels to a killing and sees all that could have been; when he snaps out of it, he realizes what is and goes on. Not only is it true, but it opened wide the cinematic playing field for a generation of political films (such as The Godfather, and Taxi Driver) that presented unsympathetic characters as their focal point. As much as idealistic fare like All the President's Men and Z speak to what we hope from our public officials and private citizens, The Conformist shows us how most people really are; they will do anything to be left alone, even if it means murder.

As much as the righteous American in us might want Marco to stand up to the Fascists and all they represent (Bertolucci does a good job of just giving us a taste, via a comical Mussolini statue being moved into the lobby of a government building), those are external enemies, and resolving conflict with them belongs to another film altogether. Marco's comeuppance is delivered by every leering eye on the burning streets of Rome when the fascists fall. No matter how well we groom our exterior image, someone will always be able to see the inner turmoil - ourselves.

Review - My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done?

Werner Herzog's latest foray into American insanity, My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? is "presented" by David Lynch. As with anything Lynch related, the question that immediately jumps to mind is "what does that mean?" In his introduction at the IFC Center last night, the german director vehemently denied any direct artistic influence from Lynch, but looking at the finished product, that's a little hard to believe.

Lets just take the plot summary given by IMDB: "inspired by a true crime, a man begins to experience mystifying events that lead him to slay his mother with a sword." The story is told from the point of view of the detectives (Willem Dafoe, Michael Pena) who arrive on the scene, where troubled Brad McCullum has taken hostages following his deranged matricide. The details behind the tragedy come out in a series of interviews by Dafoe, which take on an unmistakeable Kyle McLachlan in Twin Peaks quality. The picture we get is of a non-sequitur-spouting burnout who loves his mother a little too much.

Don't get the impressions that MSMSWHYD is some sort of Psycho rip-off; Norman Bates could at least appear to be a normal human being every once in a while. Michael Shannon is positively extra-terrestrial as Brad, a young man who starts "feeling" the voice of God on a kayaking trip in Peru. He's "changed" as reported by his fiance (Chloe Sevigny) and now has an interest in theatre, which he pursues with renowned weirdo Udo Kier in the form of Greek tragedy. It's while rehearsing the Oresteia that Brad gets the notions about bumping off his mother (Grace Zabriskie).

Okay, enough about the plot, which hardly sounds funny, until you actually see and hear Shannon talking about "a honeymoon on the moon" or his uncle Ted (Brad Dourif) pitching a commercial where an oversized chicken attacks a midget on a pony. This movie is Herzog at his most random and cosmic, finding meaning in airport architecture, mounds of black Jell-o, and a house . Brad is a troubled boy, and he only confounds Dafoe's lazy cliche of "I wonder who's worse - us cops, or the criminals". Unlike the previous Herzog film, Bad Lieutenant, Port of Call: New Orleans, this is no riff on the procedural (protocol is pretty sloppy, when we realize Brad doesn't have any human hostages).

At a minimum, MSMSWHYD is unspeakably strange; giving it the benefit of the doubt, all the theatrics, spooky cello music and straight-at-the-camera frozen stares might mean something. That sound like a charitable reaction I might have to a Lynch movie. There's no question the man with the poofy white hair is involved, but with Herzog holding final cut, My Son avoids genre-bending kitsch and steers towards nervous laughter-horror. In other words, delightful.

The Vault #40 Month of Haneke Edition: Cache

In a few weeks, Michael Haneke's The White Ribbon, which swept Cannes earlier this year, will be released upon the masses. I decided to motor through a box-set of his earlier work to prepare myself; who better to spend the holiday season with than this Austrian super creep? Then I realized I hadn't yet written at length about Cache, despite including the 2005 film in my All-Decade Top Ten. To remedy that problem, and kick off a month of icy commentaries on alienation, here we go:

A Parisian family is receiving strange packages. Each one contains a videotape, which shows uninterrupted footage of their front door. Some contain a creepy picture (seen above), but a child's drawing doesn't upset the status quo quite like the feeling of being watched. As hard as patriarch Georges (Daniel Auteil, in a wonderfully fearful and arrogant performance that hits all the right notes) tries, he can't find where the camera is hidden (this word being the English translation of the title). His loving wife Anne (Juliet Binoche) is getting worried.

The very first action in Cache is at once startling and dissociative; the credits are rolling over an image of the home, when suddenly, the shot begins to rewind, and it is revealed to the audience they have been watching a recording, along with the characters. It's a fairly simple trick (in these digital times) to trick the viewer into assuming they are watching images recorded on film, and then pull the rug out from under them; used in this context, it is bracingly effective.

The technique forces us to consider more closely what we are looking at, more closely than we would even as traditional theatre-attending voyeurs. Cache is a great place to start with Haneke because it is a film about meticulous examination, a theme explored, to greater and lesser degrees, in each and every one of his films. Look at something once, you get an impression. A second time, your first suspicions are confirmed. By the third or fourth confrontation with the same idea, you begin to ask fundamental questions about the subject and exploring avenues you never would have considered upon the initial encounter. Haneke holds certain shots, like the opening one of the house, which will recur throughout the film, just long enough to convincingly disturb the audience, to assure them that all may not be as peaceful as it seems.

Of course, Georges and Anne aren't munching pop-corn on a couch; the tapes constitute an invasive recording of their lives (even if only the exterior). As they begin to pile up, both must consider who is sending the tapes and why. He is a TV intellectual, hosting a literature roundtable (I guess in France, this qualifies as celebrity); she is an assistant publisher, and having an affair with her boss. Don't worry, there's not much more to give away - Haneke might has well be sending the tapes himself. The point of Cache is not who or why, but what directions self-inspection make take both the characters and the audience. Its a film not unlike The Pledge, where madness and unsolved mystery drive Jack Nicholson to near insanity; in Cache, even the slightest run-in with a bike messenger is reason for paranoia, guilt and self-loathing.

Ultimately, the film becomes about the French situation in Algeria, as Georges is convinced his family's former servants must be sending the tapes as means of torture 40 years coming. Of course, this is most likely just panicked, bourgeois guilt; the Algerian man, once a childhood friend, is perplexed by Georges' reappearance into his life.

Many American films have taken the idea of movie (or other narrative) within a movie and had a lot of fun with it (Stranger than Fiction, everything Charlie Kaufman touches). Though Cache is not literally about filmmaking, it does run on the concept of people being put at the center of a story they want no part of, even if that story is of their own creation. The simple appearance of VHS tapes derails the happy existence of half a dozen people due to their own insecurity, distrust and ignorance. For a metafilm, Cache is awfully prescient about humanity when it comes to xenophobia, shame and wrath.

Month of Haneke - The Glaciation Trilogy: 71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance

71 Fragments of a Chronology of Chance is the Austrian at his mass-media-hating best, a film told in commercial-length snippets, usually highlighting insignificant moments. Between news reports about unrest in Haiti, Israel, Northern Ireland and, most ironically, Neverland Ranch, Haneke introduces us to an Army doctor with a black market income, a depressed computer science student, a security guard struggling to support his family, and a Romanian orphan starving on the streets of Vienna (among others).

How are any of these stories related? We're told in the opening credits that on Christmas Eve, 1993, a student walked into a bank and killed three people. So, from the very beginning, the suspense is non-existent. What remains is a films of incredibly subtle, small moments in the style of Robert Altman. Not in sync with Altman are the sometimes maddeningly repetitive scenes, like a college student practicing his ping pong, or an old man on the phone with his family. For all of its scatter and disarray, it is the stasis of certain moments in 71 Fragments that may drive the viewer to the brink.


As with Cache, Haneke pulls the trick of focusing on one thing so long not only do we feel ourselves going mad, we start to see something different. Nowhere is this better achieved than in the ping-pong sequence:


Such focus alienates the action from its significance; the only competitive table tennis we will see in the film comes much later, and appears on a television screen, as a disembodied voice lectures the same player about the finer points of his game. Of course the point does not lie in the actual act on screen, but in its comparison to the others acts. The detachment and repetition we feel watching this shot is mirrored when hearing about another act of violence overseas on the news.

The titles in the opening inform us an act of violence is imminent - however, Haneke saves the shooting for the final minutes of the film. No attempt is made to reconcile the event, or explain it to the victims or their families. Eventually it appears on the news as well, squeezed in between reports on Belfast and Michael Jackson. We change the channel one final time, and the credits roll. From the perspective of the television, there is nothing human or dramatic about these events. They are reported, and forgotten in favor of the next day's calamity.