PFA Screens Two Italian Art House Classics

A fascinating pair of Italian films will screen this weekend at Pacific Film Archive. The first, Il Posto (1961), could be seen as a sequel to Francois Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, presenting another quietly observant portrait of a young man suffering through a rite of passage. It’s as though the 13-year-old Antoine Donel of the earlier film has now grown into the 18-year-old Domenico Cantoni, sent by his parents into the big city of Milan to find a job.

Directed by Ermanno Olmi, Il Posto fits in with the Italian neo-realism school of filmmaking in its presentation of a humanistic tale of youthful dreams and ambitions sacrificed at the altar of security and conformism.

Domenico seems to dread his entry into the working world, a world presented as one of time-worn adults marking time in soulless, dreary employment. However, a ray of light appears in the form of a young woman named Antonietta (Loredana Detto), and her sparkling presence illuminates the screen as well as the life of the hero. Together they navigate the job application process and take pleasure in each other’s company, the two bright-eyed youths constituting a slightly subversive presence in an otherwise stale maze of corridors, offices and standard-issue furniture.

The key to the film is Sandro Panseri, a non-professional actor with soulful eyes and the gentle, timid face of a youth trying to comprehend and master the ways of a foreign territory. He’s a small, skinny waif masquerading as a grown-up in ill-fitting grown-up clothing. He hits all the right notes and Olmi captures each one, showing us in wordless close-ups the fear, uncertainty, shyness and delight that flitter across the face of the young protagonist.

But about three-quarters into the film, Olmi suddenly abandons the main character for an extended sequence in which we learn something of the personal lives of each one of a number of accountants at the unnamed firm where Domenico has landed. It may seem like a tangent at first, but the sequence marks the opening salvo in a tour de force closing sequence that drives home the film’s major themes.

Domenico is promoted, and in an uncharacteristic but highly effective montage, Olmi shows us why. One of the accountants we’ve encountered has passed away, possibly by suicide, and his desk is turned over to Domenico, much to the dismay of his new colleagues. One, a 20-year veteran, complains to the manager, and when Domenico agrees to move to a desk in the back of the room, a frenzied and ruthless rush ensues as the other accountants begin a mad dash to claim the desk immediately in front of their own, a desperate game of musical chairs for which they’ve apparently been waiting for decades.

The final shot shows Domenico watching a man at the front of the room as he cranks what appears to be a mimeograph machine, feeding paper into one end and removing it from the other as a deafening mechanical whirr dominates the soundtrack. The grind has begun.

Yet as bleak as this conclusion may seem, it is also somewhat ambiguous, for throughout the film we have seen Domenico warmly befriended by the adults in his new environment, receiving a series of reassurances that a simpler life of lower expectations is not all bad but is in fact full of small pleasures. With these gentle moments of camaraderie and kindness, Olmi provides a welcome softening of the film’s sharp edge.

Domenico may have found himself in a dispiriting situation, but there is still energy and vivaciousness and curiosity in his face, a sign that although life is certainly capable of pummeling the spirit out of a young man, he still has a choice—plenty of choices, really—and retains the power to shape his own destiny. And the fact that Domenico is able to so clearly see his predicament in the closing scene leaves us with hope that he has the strength and determination to overcome it, now that he finally understands it.

Federico Fellini’s La Strada (1954) similarly focuses on a main character with enormously expressive eyes in the form of Gelsomina (Giulietta Masina), another youthful spirit facing dire circumstances. But the style and delivery of the tale could not be more different from the observational calm of Olmi’s Il Posto.

La Strada tells the tale of a boorish brute of a traveling sideshow performer, Zampano, played by Anthony Quinn. When his wife dies, he travels back to her remote, impoverished village and essentially purchases her younger sister to take her place. Gelsomina has a clown-like countenance, and eventually she takes on the makeup of a clown, too. Her childish innocence calls to mind silent film comedian Harry Langdon, blending an adult body with an infantile purity that at times confounds us with its ambiguity.

And despite its rather simple story, the film is full of ambiguities. Gelsominia is at once innocent and deeply aware of her place in Zampano’s life. And the Fool, a character capable of both cruelty and martyrdom, provides lessons in life and love for the main characters while treating them with a degree of contempt.

The film itself seems to straddle two realms, leaning at times toward realism and at times toward a sort of fable-like fantasy. Beneath its circus settings, desolate stretches of beach and never-ending highways, it is a simple love story about a man who cannot admit his feelings and a child-like woman who is entirely governed by her own.

La Strada concludes with a powerful shot of Zampano alone on the beach after learning that his dismissal of Gelsomina has led her to madness and death. As he faces the open sea, he glances upwards for a moment, as though discovering God for the first time and begging his forgiveness. And it seems like the first time that he has lifted his brooding gaze from the ground, the first time we have seen the whites of his eyes. But it is too late now, and Zampano simply crumbles to the ground as though merging with the brittle sand.

The two films are showing as part of PFA’s tribute to Janus Films, the American distributor responsible for bringing so many foreign art house films to the United States in the 1950s and '60s. The series concludes next week with a screening of Mario Monicelli’s The Organizer (1963).

Il Posto (1961)

Directed by Ermanno Olmi. 93 minutes. 6:30 p.m. Friday.

La Strada (1956)

Directed by Federico Fellini. 108 minutes. 5 p.m. Saturday.

Pacific Film Archive, 2575 Bancroft Way. $4-$8. www.bampfa.berkeley.edu.

Samurai Classics at Pacific Film Archive

Pacific Film Archive will present a series of seven samurai films beginning today and running through Dec. 17.

Most of the films come courtesy of Janus Films, the great American distributor of foreign arthouse cinema whose 50th anniversary PFA has been honoring in another ongoing series.

But the samurai series ain’t quite as highbrow as all that. Not on the surface, at least. These are popular entertainments, full of action and humor. But look closer and you’ll see films full of art and artistry, of complex themes and human struggle worthy of the highest forms of art, here dressed in violent period melodrama.

Of course no samurai series would be complete without the biggest samurai film of them all, Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai (1954). Seven Samurai gave rise to an American version, The Magnificent Seven, but the western version pales in comparison with the original. Kurosawa takes his time with each character, presenting a fuller, richer, more engaging ensemble than the swaggering icons played by Yul Brynner et al.

Kurosawa is represented in the series by two other films as well: Throne of Blood (1957), his samurai adaptation of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, and Yojimbo (1961), a brilliant and funny film inspired by American westerns and later remade as a western, albeit an Italian western: Sergio Leone’s Fistful of Dollars.

But most enlightening films in the series are the lesser-known classics of the genre.

The series starts with this weekend with two films by Masaki Kobayashi, Samurai Rebellion (1967) and Harakiri (1962).

Harakiri is a stunning film, a gradually unfolding tale of heartbreak and misfortune that builds toward a climactic act of revenge. Most of the film consists of conversations in which the characters play out a tense, strategic battle of wills, yet now and then the slow-burning tone is punctuated with scenes of sudden violence.

Kobayashi and photographer Yoshio Miyajima establish themselves quickly as masters of interiors with an opening credits sequence of slow tracking shots which delineate the architectural splendor of a great mansion. The pattern continues throughout the film with beautiful but discreet compositions and graceful tracking shots through corridors and into rooms, with pillars and doors and windows and figures arranged perfectly like stones in a garden.

Kobayashi often maintains a certain distance from his subjects, unobtrusively watching them as they go about their business. But when the action starts and the tone shifts, so too does the camera, zooming in like a Sergio Leone telephoto shot or tilting toward canted angles a la Orson Welles, signaling a shift in the dramatic action as well as the strategic repositioning of characters within fragile alliances. But Kobayashi also demonstrates his talent for outdoor shots with a one-on-one battle on a windswept plain that contains echoes of Bergman.

The plot concerns the requisite lone samurai, this time seeking to destroy the facade of nobility and honor maintained by a great clan, and he does so, for the most part, without action but with words. It is like one of those extended endgame scenes in a James Bond movie where the villain stops the show to explicate in great detail for the hero’s benefit the machinations of his nefarious scheme. Only here it lasts two hours and results in a tour de force of swordfight choreography as Tatsuya Nakadai takes on the house’s company of samurai and by extension the entire feudal system. He smashes down doors, breaks through walls, smears the house insignia with the blood of his enemies and dismantles the interiors that Kobayashi had photographed with such care throughout the film, the architecture that had sustained the house and masked its cowardice.

The series also features two films by director Kihachi Okamoto: Kill! (1968) and Sword of Doom (1966).

While Kobayashi’s work embodies much of what of what is best in the samurai genre, the films of Kihachi Okamoto elaborately deconstruct these elements in gleeful parodies that, like the Italian westerns of Leone, are equal parts satire and homage. Okamoto’s Kill!, made just six years after Harakiri, picks apart the genre’s stock features and embellishes its humor-laced plot with a score that deconstructs the genre’s musical themes as well, combining Japanese instrumentation with the cartoonishly grand orchestrations of the spaghetti western scores of the 1960s.

For more information on the samurai series, see Pacific Film Archive’s website: www.bampfa.berkeley.edu.

Examining the Most Notorious Expletive

Steve Anderson’s new documentary Fuck takes a thorough look at the most multi-faceted of expletives—at its murky, myth-laden origins, its many conjugations, its cathartic, emotive power as well as its power to offend. 

While the film contains clips from controversial performances by comedians Lenny Bruce and George Carlin, as well as animations by Bill Plympton and excerpts from dozens of Hollywood films, it is essentially a talking-head documentary, a string of interviews examining the word from all sides. 

But what a collection of talking heads. From sociologists and linguists to comedians and porn stars, Fuck runs the gamut, for who can’t claim some level of expertise with the word and at least one of its myriad meanings? It’s one of the most democratic words in the English language. Television writer/producer Steven Bochco relates tales of clashes with censors over “NYPD Blue”; 1950s wholesome heartthrob Pat Boone shares his G-rated alternative expletive (“Boone!”), while Ice T consequently ridicules it; moralists like Judith “Miss Manners” Martin and radio talk show hosts Alan Keyes and Dennis Prager rail against the prevalence of the word in popular culture, while Bill Maher decries the hypocrisy of the Christian right as he and other comedians and performers defend their right to use it; and Hunter S. Thompson … well, I’m not sure what the hell Thompson was mumbling about between swigs of whiskey and the compulsive adjusting of his transparent blue “Las Vegas” visor, but I’m sure it was fascinating. 

The movie is fun but ultimately it has little insight. Indeed there is more to learn about profanity, self-expression, censorship and the First Amendment by spending more time with the performances the film excerpts, namely those of Lenny Bruce and George Carlin. Bruce of course is the iconic image most associated with the topic, having been arrested onstage nine times for his use of profanity and convicted twice, events which hastened the downward spiral which resulted in his death by drug overdose. If you want a better, more moving and insightful glimpse into the topic, check out Bruce’s recordings, or perhaps Dustin Hoffman’s performance as Bruce in Lenny and you’ll get a more compelling portrait of the power of language. 

Or try one of Carlin’s performances, either on video or on one of his old records. Occupation: Foole, his 1973 album, is excerpted in the documentary and it’s a good place to start, for not only do you get Carlin’s riff on the seven infamous words, you also get his comedic take specifically on the word fuck—its drama, its passion and its hurtfulness. 

Fuck provides an interesting and entertaining overview of the word but ultimately the film is far less insightful than its director probably hoped it to be. 

Fuck (2006). Directed by Steve Anderson. 93 minutes. 

Photo caption: An array of experts weigh in: Musician Evan Seinfeld and adult film star Tera Patrick, singer Pat Boone, rapper Chuck D, newsman Sam Donaldson, radio talk show host Dennis Prager, late gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson, comedian Bill Maher, comedian Drew Carey and talk show host and political candidate Alan Keyes.

PFA Screens a New Wave Classic

The films of Agnes Varda and her husband Jacques Demy could not be more different.

Demy, best known for The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, was both part of and apart from the French New Wave. Enamored with Hollywood’s golden age musicals, he is sometimes referred to as France’s answer to Busby Berkeley: sweet but trite stories, artfully decorated but too slight for the tastes of his contemporaries.

Varda, on the other hand, is New Wave through and through. There are no gunfights, no car crashes, no dramatic chages of heart. Varda made small, insightful films about complex young characters. She represents the feminine side of the New Wave, a movement largely dominated by male directors. And while the male directors for the most part did a fair job of portraying women, Varda’s female characters have a depth and profundity unmatched in the work of her male counterparts.

Cleo From 5 to 7 details two hours in the life of its heroine in real time, though the timing is not exact and may not be quite realistic; it’s an action-packed two hours of supposedly everyday life. In that short span, the young pop singer protagonist manages a shopping trip, a rehearsal, a visit with a friend and an encounter with a stranger, not to mention bus and taxi trips all over Paris.

But this is hardly the point. What we’re watching is the psychological processes Cleo undergoes as she awaits the results of a medical test that will tell her just how serious her condition is. She has cancer; we don’t know what kind, we don’t know how serious. We only know that this beautiful, spoiled princess of a woman is suddenly dealing with something she is not accustomed to: hardship and pain.

How she deals with it tells us almost as much about her as the trappings of her privileged life—her furs, her hats, the adulation of her acquaintances. She approaches her illness with as much self-absorbed intensity as she presumably approached her pre-illness life; she draws people to her, collects them as small testaments to her beauty. But this is not portrayed with condescension; we do not feel contempt for her. Rather we are witnessing the sudden, painful expansion of a young woman’s consciousness as she learns that she is not the center of the world, a notion beautifully expressed in a scene where she plays her latest hit on a cafe jukebox and realizes that no one is paying attention. And, in an encounter with a young soldier about to return to battle in Algeria, she finally gives something of herself to another, offering companionship and conversation to a kindred spirit who also carries a burden.

The conclusion is typical of the New Wave; there is no big Hollywood–style conclusion, no tearful dramatic close or happy finale, but rather just a small revelation, the flicker of heightened consciousness across Cleo’s face. It is not a big change, not a life-altering change, and in fact the change may prove to be fleeting. But the drama in Cleo From 5 to 7 is not in the action, it is in the mind of its heroine. Such drama is difficult to express as an actor and difficult to photograph for a director, but Varda and her star make it as evident as any Hollywood car crash.

The film is showing at Pacific Film Archive as part of the 50th anniversary celebration of Janus Films and is available on DVD as part of the Criterion Collection’s 50 Years of Essential Arthouse box set.

Cleo From 5 To 7 (France, 1961)

Directed by Agnes Varda. Starring Corinne Marchand and featuring the music of Michel Legrand. 3 p.m. Sunday at Pacific Film Archive, 2575 Bancroft Way. 642-0808. www.bampfa.berkeley.edu.

www.criterionco.com.

Iraq in Fragments: A Stirring, Poetic Portrait of Life During Wartime

Now that the midterm election is over, with all its slogans and clichés and simplistic solutions for myriad complex problems, along comes a documentary that provides a solid, sobering dose of geopolitical reality. 

Iraq in Fragments, opening today at Shattuck Cinemas, is like a Terrence Malick celluloid tone poem, an epic tale in three chapters examining the hope, despair, fear and tragedy of occupied Iraq. But most of all it is about humanity, about people of all ages and walks of life reflecting on what it means to be an Iraqi under the most difficult and tenuous of circumstances. 

Director James Longley has fashioned a documentary that plays like the most meticulously planned fictional narrative, taking the words of Iraqis and draping them over his lush photography. Lines of great beauty and poignancy adorn a continuous stream of stunning imagery that captures the essence of the land and its people at a time when the nation’s fate is at best uncertain. 

Longley’s compositions are lovely, his images haunting, and his subjects are the most engaging of characters. The film could not be more striking and affecting had it been crafted with great foresight and care in a Hollywood studio. 

Longley himself never intrudes, not upon the images and certainly not upon the words. There is no narration other than the words spoken by the Iraqis onscreen; the photography never draws attention to the photographer, the images never betray his presence. It is easy to forget there is a camera there at all; it’s as though we are simply catching glimpses into everyday lives, the lives of anonymous everyday Iraqis, the poor and the powerless, people whose names will never spread beyond their small villages, but lives which, under the patient gaze of Longley’s lens, take on epic proportions. Iraq in Fragments elevates each life by respecting its inherent dignity and beauty. 

The film recalls Malick’s Thin Red Line, the 1998 movie that tracked soldiers in battle in World War II and made audible their private thoughts, memories and fears. Iraq in Fragments has that quality; the words of the subjects almost seem to be flowing directly from their minds to ours, as though we are not hearing them but receiving them—a sort of stream-of-consciousness documentary. 

There have been many documentaries made by filmmakers who have spent time in Iraq over the past few years, and several of them have been excellent. But none has covered the terrain staked out by James Longley in this film. He has adopted much of the cinema verité style while bringing to it an eye for imagery that calls to mind the dramatic landscapes of Godfrey Reggio’s Koyaanisqatsi trilogy. He has transformed the words and lives and visuals of the Iraqi people into poetic incantations that provide an impressionistic glimpse of the struggle to retain one’s dignity and humanity in the face of global machinations over which they have no control. 

Iraq in Fragments (2006). Written, directed and photographed by James Longley. 94 minutes. 

The Great Chase: Buster Keaton's The General

In 1998, amid an orgy of end-of-the-millenium top 100 lists, the American Film Institute released its list of the 100 best American films, a list that included three Charlie Chaplin movies but inexplicably no Buster Keaton films, despite the fact that several of his works, most notably The General (1926), rank among the silent era’s best and frequently hover near the top of many critics’ lists of the best films ever made.

But this has been Keaton’s lot in life, both during his career and since his death: to toil away in the shadow of the most famous comedian who ever lived. Though a late-career rediscovery of his work saw Keaton hailed as a cinematic genius, even Chaplin’s superior as a director, Keaton still retains his underdog status.

Pacific Film Archive will show The General and One Week (1921), Keaton’s first independent film, as the first installments in a new series: “Movie Matinees For All Ages.” The series debuts at 2 p.m. Saturday with Keaton and will be followed over the next couple of Saturdays with the Marx Brothers’ Horse Feathers (1932) and Victor Fleming’s The Wizard of Oz (1939).

The General is essentially one big chase sequence, brilliantly constructed and expanded to feature length. The story, based on a true incident from the Civil War, concerns a Southern train stolen by Northern soldiers, who spirit the engine back into Northern territory, burning bridges and destroying telegraph wires as they go. Buster, as Johnnie Grey, is the General’s engineer, and sets out to recapture his beloved locomotive. Along the way, Keaton stages a series of beautifully choreographed and increasingly dangerous stunts until he arrives in enemy territory, rescues his train—and, almost by accident, his girl—and then heads back to Southern territory while hounded by Northern soldiers. Thus the chase folds back on itself, like an arc that delivers Keaton back where he began—the “Keaton Curve,” as critic Walter Kerr put it—with gags and stunts from the first half now expanded upon in the second.

The General and Chaplin’s The Gold Rush (1925) are unique among screen comedies in that they combine two seemingly incongruous genres: the comedy and the epic. Such a pairing had never been attempted before, as the grand scale of the epic seemed at odds with the smaller, more personal nature of character-based comedy. But whereas Chaplin’s film only contained a few outdoor shots in the early scenes before retreating to the comfort of studio sets, Keaton preferred to shoot on location; few of his comedies take place in studio sets. And though location shooting and period costumes were nothing new in Keaton’s work, The General dwarfs his previous efforts in scale and detail. Many critics consider it the most convincing celluloid recreation of the Civil War, the imagery recalling Matthew Brady’s photographs from the period.

Keaton instructed his crew to make it “so authentic it hurts” and carefully replicated the trains, uniforms, styles and terrain of the era. There were no special effects; Keaton’s desire for authenticity extended to every shot, culminating in the dramatic scene in which a train crashes through a burning bridge as scores of Northern soldiers pour over the hillside to converge on the Southern army’s front lines.

Critical reception was mixed. Some thought it a solid picture while others considered it Keaton’s weakest effort, taking offense at the notion of making light of the Civil War. Ultimately the considerable expense of the production caused Joseph Schenk, Keaton’s producer, to intervene with the usually autonomous director-star, requiring that his next feature be decidedly less extravagant. Keaton dutifully followed up with College (1927), one of his most restrained efforts, before embarking on the more elaborate Steamboat Bill, Jr (1928). It was while making Steamboat that Keaton learned that Schenk had sold his contract to MGM, bringing an end to Keaton’s independent career.

Under MGM, Keaton struggled to keep control over his work but quickly became subsumed by the studio system after his first feature, The Cameraman (1928). Thus Keaton, like Erich von Stroheim before him and Orson Welles after him, became something of a victim of his own success as the expense of and lack of contemporary public appreciation for his greatest achievement ultimately undermined his career.

PFA’s screening of The General will be preceded by One Week, the first two-reeler Keaton released as an independent artist after his apprenticeship with Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle. One Week was hailed as the year’s best comedy upon its release, establishing Keaton as one of cinema’s most innovative artists. The film is an excellent introduction to Keaton’s work as it features many of the characteristics that would become his hallmarks: a fascination with machinery, a semi-surrealist perspective, trains, and of course, the Keaton Curve, as the efforts of Buster and his bride to construct a pre-fabricated house eventually leave them homeless once again.

Jonestown: The Life and Death of People's Temple

Oakland director Stanley Nelson will attend screenings tonight (Friday) at Shattuck Cinemas for his new film, Jonestown: The Life and Death of People’s Temple. 

It’s the harrowing tale of the Rev. Jim Jones, an Indiana outcast drawn to the preacher’s life, who founded a temple, moved it to the Bay Area, and then when trouble came in the form of public scrutiny and allegations of financial corruption and physical and sexual abuse, flew his flock to Guyana where he built Jonestown, a supposed utopia where he and his followers could live free of “persecution.” 

It’s a story that, to Northern Californians, may seem at once both familiar and mysterious, a story we may have lived through but one that has been clouded by myths, misconceptions and gallows humor over the ensuing decades. Nelson’s film brings much unseen footage and documentation to the tale, including footage of Jones in the pulpit, audio and film from inside the Jonestown camp in Guyana, and even footage from the fateful day when Jones ordered the murder of Congressman Leo Ryan. 

Rep. Jackie Speier, aid to Ryan at the time, took a bullet that day and tells her story in one of the film’s many compelling and deeply emotional interviews. The footage from the assault was photographed by a cameraman who lost his life during the episode, essentially recording his own death. 

Other victims and followers of Jones tell their tales, candidly, passionately, tearfully and even at times with humor. It is a tribute to Nelson and co-producer Noland Walker that these people, after all they have gone through, are so comfortable before the camera. 

“For many, this was their best chance to talk to someone who would listen,” Nelson told the Berkeley Daily Planet. Jim Jones, Jr. is one of the participants. He discusses the mixed feelings he still harbors for his infamous father. “This is the man who took him out of an orphanage,” Nelson says, “who taught him to shoot a basketball, who taught him how to read.” Yet he was also the manipulative megalomaniac who led 900 people to their deaths, a fate his son only survived by chance, having absented himself to play in a basketball tournament that day. 

It’s a gruesome tale and a difficult one to relive. It is Elmer Gantry come to life, only more violent and pathological, the sunglasses-clad rock star/preacher taking advantage of the vulnerability of people in need, of starry-eyed optimists looking for a home, for community, for friendship and love. “People’s Temple grew and became successful by promising many things and delivering on those promises: an integrated community, care for the elderly and social activism,” says Nelson. 

“If you want to see me as your father, I’ll be your father,” Jones told his flock. “If you want me to be your god, I’ll be your god.” He would be their Charon as well, whether they asked for it or not, shepherding them across international borders to a commune that would serve as their prison and as their graveyard. 

Nelson uses no narration to lead us through his film. Instead he allows his subjects to tell the story in their own words. And he provides never-before-heard audio of People’s Temple, final days, recently declassified by the CIA, in which a woman challenges Jones’ order to drink the poisoned Kool-Aid. Jones can be heard pleading with his followers. “Don’t be like this,” he says and assures them they are just “crossing over.” 

Nelson will attend one of the Friday evening screenings and will take questions and will be joined for the following screening by Jim Jones Jr. 

Revisiting Casablanca

Casablanca may seem like something of a cliché these days. Its reputation is so prevalent that for the viewer who rents a copy to take home, either for the first time or the thirty-first time, it may be a rather underwhelming experience. The film may seem dated and filled with overly familiar scenes, rendering the movie a sort of post-modern compendium of oft-quoted lines. 

But Casablanca on the big screen is an entirely different experience. The film will screen as part of the grand re-opening of the Cerrito Theater, El Cerrito's long dormant 1937 movie house.

To see the Casablanca projected larger than life in a room full of fellow moviegoers, and in an authentic theater from the era which likely showed the film in its original run in 1942, is to set aside the decades of lionization and all the baggage containing the myths of its now legendary stars, and immerse oneself in one of the most satisfying products of Hollywood’s regimented studio system. 

It’s an unlikely classic. The movie is often used as an example to undermine the auteur theory, the notion put forward by the critics and filmmakers of the French New Wave that a director is the sole author of a film. Casablanca is fascinating in that it was never meant to be a great film; in fact, many of those working on it at the time considered it something of a lemon, a contractual obligation they would be happy to put behind them. 

But what emerged was a film that embodied all that was best in the studio system, with excellent screenwriters reshaping the film until the last minute; a sure-handed director making the most of his sets and players; fine actors transforming two-dimensional characters with compelling performances. If you’ve only seen it on video, in the isolation of a private living room, Casablanca, like many great films of the past, can be underwhelming. There is something lost on the small screen, no matter how big that small screen may be. Movies of this era were meant to be seen on the big screen, not because they contained big action sequence or special effects, but because they contained big emotions. 

Humphrey Bogart’s talents are arguably better displayed in other films; he’s tougher and grittier in the Maltese Falcon; he’s darker and more sardonic in his films opposite Lauren Bacall and in the lesser known and underrated In a Lonely Place. But Casablanca is where Bogart truly made the big time, stepping up to play a complex romantic leading man after only having played thugs and tough-talking detectives. And Ingrid Bergman delivers one of her finest performances, conveying deep undercurrents of longing and regret even without saying a word. And the direction of Michael Curtiz and the photography of Arthur Edeson lends an evocative sheen to the melodrama, with dark shadows and probing searchlights piercing through the obfuscations of characters embroiled in a forlorn mix of politics, war and love.

The Cerrito opens Wednesday with Pulp Fiction at 5 p.m. and 8:30 p.m. and Casblanca at 6 and 9 p.m. The schedule will be repeated on Thursday. For more information, see www.picturepubpizza.com. For information on the restoration or to join the Friends of the Cerrito Theater, see www.cerritotheater.org. 

Restored Cerrito Theater Re-Opens After 40 Years

The Cerrito Theater opens Wednesday for the first time in more than 40 years, operated by Speakeasy Theaters, the same folks who run Oakland’s Parkway Theater. 

Speakeasy is kicking things off with a signature blend of classic and contemporary screenings: Michael Curtiz’s 1942 classic Casablanca and Quentin Tarantino’s 1994 breakthrough Pulp Fiction. 

The theater was built in 1937 by the Blumenfeld family, owners of a chain of Bay Area movie theaters. They built the Oaks Theater on Solano Avenue and operated Berkeley’s Shattuck Cinemas, as well as a host of other theaters in Marin, Solano, Contra Costa and Alameda counties. The Cerrito was designed by architect William B. David. 

The drive to restore and reopen the Cerrito Theater began in 2001. The theater had shut down in the early ’60s and had, for most of the intervening 40 years, been used as a storage facility for Keifer’s furniture store. When the building finally went on the market and locals were allowed into the vacated building, they found the original art deco murals still intact. An advocacy group, Friends of the Cerrito Theater, was formed and the group then persuaded the city to purchase the building. Soon after, Speakeasy Theaters, operators of Oakland’s Parkway Theater near Lake Merritt, were enlisted to run the venue. And thus began a community-driven restoration process that has seen the interior details restored, a second theater added upstairs, and the installation of a brand new marquee, lit for the first time last week. 

Catherine and Kyle Fischer, co-founder of Speakeasy Theaters, were excited by the opportunity to not only open a new theater, but to be part of a community effort to revitalize a long-forgotten treasure. Fischer says the partnership is a good fit. “We’re known for building community,” she says. “And we’re a lot of fun!” 

Fischer says the Cerrito will feature many of the same popular hallmarks as the Parkway: food and beverages (including alcohol), couches, table seating as well as traditional theater seats, and over the next few months, Fischer says, the theater will roll out some of its popular programming features, such as the Baby Brigade, a night for parents with babies. The Parkway bases much of its programming on community input, and the Cerrito will do the same, taking feedback from their customers in shaping a schedule that will likely include a blend of new and classic films, family films, and festivals. 

The Cerrito opens Wednesday with Pulp Fiction at 5 p.m. and 8:30 p.m. and Casblanca at 6 and 9 p.m. The schedule will be repeated on Thursday. For more information, see www.picturepubpizza.com. For information on the restoration or to join the Friends of the Cerrito Theater, see www.cerritotheater.org. 

Photo by Richard Brenneman for the Berkeley Daily Planet.

Schultze Gets the Blues

Last year Schultze Gets the Blues, a German film, played in Berkeley theaters for just a week and to generally small audiences. After one matinee screening, a group of women walked out casting sideways glances at each other and rolling their eyes. “What did you think?” one asked another. “I don’t knowwwww…..” was the response. 

Taste is subjective of course, but I couldn’t help but feel that an opportunity had been missed, for Schultze is a film of rare intelligence and grace, the sort of film that is not often made in America today. It is not only an excellent film and a far deeper one than may be first evident, but a superb opportunity for the film novice who is just beginning to take an interest in the possibilities of cinematic language. Schultze is full of simple, subtle visual cues—composition, lighting, editing and juxtaposition—expertly used to reveal character, plot and subtext. 

And now that the dust has settled around the first anniversary of Hurricane Katrina, having been kicked up by the media rushing back into the beleaguered city for a series of breathless updates, it seems a good time to revisit the image of New Orleans that we had before disaster struck; a chance to look back, with affection, nostalgia and sadness, at the myths and legends of the city, myths and legends that we once believed in and hope to one day believe in again. 

The story itself is simple: Schultze, a staid, unadventurous man, retires after a life spent working in the salt mines of Germany only to find that he has little to occupy his time. Until, that is, he discovers Zydeco music, a happy accident that leads to a life-altering journey. 

Our first glimpse of the man comes in the film’s opening shot. A solitary windmill turns slowly above a flat horizon as Schultze, in silhouette, traverses the frame on his bicycle. We then get a series of scenes with little dialogue that establish Schultze as something of a non-entity. His two friends do most of the talking while Schultze sits silently and watches. He is merely a sidekick to more charismatic men, a mute witness to the lives and passions of others. He is inscrutable, distant, dutiful and bland, his face often concealed by the brim of his hat, and expressionless when not. Director Michael Schorr composes his frames carefully, often keeping the horizon and his characters low in the frame to show that it is a big world and Schultze is just one small part of it, an inconsequential figure amid a vast landscape. 

It is a good 25 minutes before we finally get a good look at his face. When Schultze discovers Zydeco he comes into the foreground for the first time and finally looms large before us, his face illuminated by the glow of the golden light of the radio dial: the magic of Zydeco by way of a magic Philco. He has finally become a presence, a personality rather than a mere figure occupying space. 

And suddenly life begins to take shape for him. He immediately picks up his accordion to play his usual polka, but soon begins playing faster and faster until he has achieved something resembling Zydeco. He is no longer merely a vessel for the continuation of his traditional polkas and waltzes; Zydeco has transformed him. 

Eventually Schultze makes his way to America to play in a Texas music festival, but Texas doesn’t have what he’s looking for and he soon heads for New Orleans. The fact that he manages to secure himself a boat and sets off down the Mississippi River is the cue that the film has now taken another direction. This is no longer a simple road trip but a hero’s journey into a mythical city. Schultze becomes a sort of Huck Finn, or even a Marlowe perhaps, but he is not venturing into some dark and brooding heart of darkness but deeper into his own dreams and hopes in search of the joy and love and music and passion that has lain dormant within him for so many years. He has risen from the dark of the mineshaft into the golden light of music, and is finally releasing himself into the lowdown, muddy swamps of pleasure and camaraderie. 

Once the river journey begins it may it may seem that Schorr is indulging in stereotypes, as Schultze is taken in by an earthy black mother of a fatherless child, a woman who welcomes him without question and cooks him soul food—the very picture of the spiritual African-American so often idealized in trite Hollywood movies. But bear in mind here, this is no longer a trip through the American South or through the Louisiana Delta as it truly exists, but rather through the delta as seen through the prism of folklore. We are witnessing the South as seen through the eyes of a man who has never before left his German homeland and who has only vague and romanticized notions of what he may find. Whether his vision is true is hardly the point; it only matters that it is true for him, that he has found a world in which he wants and needs to believe, a sort of final reward for a life of duty, hard work and quiet diligence. 

Schultze’s stay in New Orleans concludes with a wistful closing shot of silhouettes dancing in silence to the joyous rhythms of Zydeco and fades out with a gentle sigh, the contented exultation of a man who has seen the promised land and found peace. It is a glimpse of the myths and legends of the New Orleans we believed in until the levees broke and reality came flooding in. Schorr then finishes the film as he began it, with the steady, timeless whirl of the windmill above a landscape as silhouetted figures continue on their way, a quiet reminder that life goes on, and that the gentle, impish spirit of joy and passion will endure. 

Schultze Gets the Blues (2003). Written and directed by Michael Schorr. Starring Horst Krause. In German with English subtitles. Paramount. 114 mimutes. $29.98.