207. Raging Bull

Song - Halt Mich (Herbert Grönemeyer)

Movie: Raging Bull (Martin Scorsese, 1980)

As Jake LaMotta (Robert De Niro) walks his date, soon-to-be-wife, Vicky (Cathy Moriarty) around his house, he notes the dining table and points out "that's the dining room". He then gestures towards a birdcage, stating "that's a bird, or was a bird, it's dead now, I think." It's hard to conceive a better line that would more effectively show how completely devoid of an inner life Jake LaMotta is, and it's of course delivered perfectly by De Niro, presenting it with a complete lack of irony, passsion or interest, as if he is doing this because he knows that sex needs to be preceded by some sort of perfunctory conversation and this is his best attempt at it. It makes it a little hard to buy the film's final act when we see Jake LaMotta as a downtrodden stage actor entertaining bar patons by reciting works from Shakespeare, Budd Schulberg and Tennessee Williams. My bigger problem is that I also don't buy the final fight scene. The suggestion that LaMotta lets himself get beaten up by Sugar Ray as punishment for his sins, implies a thoughtfullness that he seems to completely lack, and feels like Scorsese projecting his own thoughts on the boxer. 

I am a big fan of Scorsese and I would agree that he is the most important living American filmmaker. I also think that one of the most controversial decisions in Oscar history, Ordinary People winning over Raging Bull, is the correct one, though it speaks for Scorsese that Raging Bull manages to be both more grandiosely tragic, and funnier. But I just can't quite get into it; there is only so much you can do when you don't accept the core idea of the film - I simply find it hard to believe that the LaMotta we see here is capable of thinking about sin and his own immorality, let alone understanding that he may have to be punished for it. Scorsese and De Niro may be too good at showcasing how far ahead a completely hollow man, unable to communicate any complicated thought or emotions, can get through sheer power and violence, and his complete lack of tools to express himself when power and violence can't get the job done anymore. They did so similarly in The Irishman, with I think more interesting results. In both films there is one classic scene (the phone call in The Irishman, the television antenna in Raging Bull) where this inabiilty to adress one's fears, feelings and demons in a productive way becomes viscerrally uncomfortable. And in both films Robert De Niro has moments that are the absolute pinnacle of film acting. 

Both films, though Raging Bull more than The Irishman, can also get a bit monotonous. The aforementioned dead bird scene is pretty much perfect and tells you everthing you need to know about LaMotta. Much of the rest of the film contains a lot of similarly well realised scenes that convey much of the same information about LaMotta and the relationships he has with his wife, his brother Joey (a thoroughly wonderful Joe Pesci) and the boxing establishment. It can get frustrating to watch a film built around such an empty void, and here again I prefer The Irishman; it takes a lot of panache to make a 3,5 hour epic about how American society is shaped by men who are completely indifferetn to their actions and lives. De Niro is great at playing such characters, and I very nuch like his portrayal of LaMotta as someone who is incapable of considering something beyond sex or violence, and even incapable of considering why he has sex or commits violence. The film shows that this gives him power, but whether he truly craves or realises that is questionable. Raging Bull is at its best when it suggests that we are pretty much seeing a full picture of LaMotta, that he is not capable of doing, or even thinking of doing, anything beyond what we see here. 

206. Hiroshima Mon Amour

Song - Question (Moody Blues)

Movie: Hiroshima Mon Amour (Alain Resnais, 1959)

Another example of a classic 'high-art' film that's far more accessible than its reputation suggests. It is also far more instinctive and risky than I expected. The romance between Emannuelle Riva and Eiji Okada (only credited as 'Her' and 'Him') is not treated as some sort of McGuffin for a pre-conceived fully fleshed out intellectualised treatise on the relationship between love, war and memory. Rather, the romance is the core of the film, and its philosophical considerations arise (mostly) organically from, and often take a backseat to, the romantic shenanigans of its two leads and Resnais' plauful stylisation. The fun he has weaving in and out of flashbacks and in-between current-day Hiroshima and war-time Nevers is palpable and makes for a very dynamic film that's constantly moving and probing around, seeking out thought-provoking situations, considerations and characterisations. 

Late in the film, Riva and Okada go to a bar called Casablanca; a fun reference, as they are pretty much the opposite of Bogart and Bergman. For them, their love and potential obstacles in consuming it, amount to much more than a hill of beans. Resnais never lets his heroes think or consder anything that is not related to their romantic feelings, except in the stunning opening scene, when, in bed with her lover, Riva attempts to reflect on Hiroshima in the direct aftermath of the atomic bomb, while Okada keeps emphasising to her that as she wasn't there, she will never be able to understand the event or the city. During all this, close-ups of Him and Her in a naked embrace are interspersed with images of panicked, hurt, disformed and bewildered people trying and failing to make sense of their destroyed city and their lives. It is a mindblowingly provocative sequence signalling that this film is indeed going to be what its reputation suggests. But the bomb is barely mentioned afterwards and our two lovers spend the rest of their time discussling their personal feelings and romantic desires, without paying much mind to the event that has come to define Hiroshima. 

Riva plays an actress who has come to Hiroshima for a movie about peace, arguing that "they make commercials about soap, why not about peace?" That line shows well some of the intentions behind Resnais' approach. When Okada comes to visit her on set, they are filming a large protest against nuclear proliferation with a lot of Japanese people holding protest signs written in French, and carrying enlarged shocking images of the bombing aftermath. Some extras seem to have large wounds and scars, but it's unclear if these are real or the result of great make-up aritsts. Nothing we see of the nuclear disaster is presented as something that is directly viewed by any of the characters. We see it through photographs, newsreel images, museum pieces and model reconstructions. And while in Riva's film Hiroshima is filled with anti-nuclear protestors, the bomb is not mentioned off-set. As Riva and Okada romantically stroll around, we see Hiroshima as a lively city with an active night scene where life goes on in tea houses, theaters, restaurants and hotels, without it being defined by the bomb. I find it hard to believe that this isn't a somewhat too optimistic representation of Hiroshima in 1959, but that only strengthens the idea of film being an inadequate and inauthentic representation of horror. 

There is a line of thought in film criticism that argues that making films about the Holocaust is inherently immoral, whatever the intentions of these films may be. As I remember, some proponents of this idea are willing to make an exception for Resnais' documentary Night and Fog. I haven't seen it, but based on this film I understand where the thought could come from. In this context though, I can also imagine moral objections to Hiroshima Mon Amour - Wikipedia notes in fact that it was controversial and excluded from the official selection at the Cannes Film Festival. The centerpiece of the film is a long semi-monologue by Riva remembering her youth in Nevers, when she fell in love with a German solider and was ostracized by her community for it. She was placed in solitary confinement only to be left out when France was liberated, just in time to see her Nazi lover being killed. For his part, Okada early on in the film mentions that he wasn't in Hiroshima when the bomb fell, because he was out fighting for his country. Neither Riva nor Okada is presented as having or supporting fascist ideas, but they can't exactly be called Nazi-resisters. They certainly have some regrets, but if these were real-life people it wouldn't be surprising to find them having some ugly thoughts when pressed. I found this ambigutiy the most surprising and striking aspect of the film. 

205. On the Waterfront

Song - The Boxer (Simon & Garfunkel)

Movie: On the Waterfront (Elia Kazan, 1954)

I always enjoy 1950's classic Hollywood movies starring up-and-coming actors, some of them on the brink of superstardom, influenced by The Actors Studio and method acting. It's interesting to see the clash between the theatrical and expressionist filmmaking style and the naturalistic, psychologically grounded acting of the new talents. It's productive too, especially as many of these films are about the (generational) unease caused by the societal transformations taking place between the Second World War and thhe 1960's. I really liked On the Waterfront, but as one of the founders of The Actors Studio, Elia Kazan has no trouble adjusting his style to the likes of Brando and Steiger, making it a bit more of a straightforward realistic film, lacking the fascinating disbalanced energy of something like Rebel Without A Cause (a far more interesting film than I gave it credit for in a very early entry of this blog). 

Kazan is evidently very good at making straightforward realistic films though. He barely makes use of any sets and the entire film is set on the streets of Hoboken, New Jersey, and more specifically its harbor, where longshoremen struggle to get work. Each wide shot is filled with so much (background) detail, you get the idea the film knows every nook and cranny of the area, creating a sensc of immediacy and urgency. That is further developed by Kazan's unadorned and direct shooting style. Most of his shots are elegant and pretty, but barely stylised, only conveying the most relevant information. One notable exception is the moment when Father Barry (a really great Karl Malden) is lifted off a ship's hull, rising above the many admiring longshoremen on his way back to the deck.  Story-wise, the film has a lot of patience showing the work of the longshoremen and how they are affected by the corruption of their union. 

Elia Kazan was the most prominent director to testify in front of the House of Un-American Activittees committee, branding many of his colleagues (some of them even wrongly) as communists, consequently ruining their careers. In On the Waterfront, Terry Malloy (Marlon Brando, giving a great performance that currently plays like the blueprint for Jack Nicholson's entire career) is an informer, who by testifying against Lee J. Cobb's Johnny Friendly (unfortunately it seems this name was not an inspiration for Johnny Rotten of the Sex Pistols) becomes a hero who brings down the corrupt union bossess. Understandably, because of this, the film has come to be seen  by some as Kazan's apologia/justification for his own testimony. While this was obviously on Kazan's mind, the film deserves to stand on its own. Aside from testifying and being ostracised for it, the situations Kazan and Terry find themseelves in are very different. The film is based on real cases of corruption along the docks of New Jersey and New York, and it looks at this world with great moral and journalistic clarity. Nothing here plays as a strained metaphor, or as propaganda, and any critical viewer should be able to easily make the argument that Terry's actions were justified, while Kazan's were not.