Jimmy Carter: Man From Plains

Jimmy Carter is more active in his 80s than I was at any time during my 20s. If that’s an exaggeration it’s not much of one. The man’s zest for life is well known, but it is still awe-inspiring to see. In addition to his work with Habitat for Humanity and the Carter Center and a writing career that results in a book per year, the man somehow manages to find time to paint, preach, hike, bicycle and travel the world.

And that seems to be at least one of the points director Jonathan Demme is trying to make with his new film, Jimmy Carter: Man From Plains.

The film follows Carter during his 2006 book tour after the publication of his best-selling book Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid. Demme and his crew tracked Carter across the country as he answered myriad questions on countless radio and television shows, defending his positions and clarifying his arguments in the face of a storm of controversy. Usually the debate in these appearances centers on the title of the book, since that is as far as most of these media types, and, it seems, many of Carter’s critics, have read. The result, as so often happens in discussions of the Middle East, is a debate that can quickly degenerate into name-calling and deeper entrenchment into opposing camps. Throughout the film Carter is seen struggling to keep honest debate alive, never allowing himself the luxury of the tactics chosen by many of his critics.

Demme too has problems with his title, for one might easily get the impression that the film will provide an overview of Carter’s life and career, or at least his post-presidency career. Nothing doing. The film might well have been titled Palestine: Peace Not Apartheid — The Movie. If you subscribe to the Hemingwayesque notion that a man is best defined by his performance under pressure, the film does indeed provide something of a portrait of the man, with plenty of evidence of his honesty, his optimism, his sincerity and his mettle. And though it touches on the depth and range of Carter’s work, with side trips to Habitat for Humanity projects in New Orleans and to meetings of the Carter Center board, the film consists primarily of countless scenes of media interviews and behind-the-scenes chatter in transit to and from those interviews. Most of it is fun and fascinating, but some of it is simply repetitive, and at 126 minutes, the film drags a bit, with Demme at times losing sight of any larger purpose for the production.

Still, it is instructive and inspiring to see Carter in action, still working for a better world at a time when most of his fellow former presidents were content to while away the hours on a golf course.

Jimmy Carter: Man From Plains (2007). Directed by Jonathan Demme. 126 minutes.

Sergio Leone: Once Upon a Time in the West

Sergio Leone is often thought of as an ironic filmmaker, a mischievous genre deconstructionist. But though his films have plenty of humor and wit, they also contain great beauty and depth and insight. Though he may have worked most famously in a genre largely considered pulp—the Western—Leone was one of the great cinematic artists.

Pacific Film Archive is presenting seven of Leone’s best films, starting Saturday and running through Oct. 28.

Leone is best known for his films with Clint Eastwood, the so-called “spaghetti westerns” in which the director deconstructed and built upon the traditions of a uniquely American genre. The “Dollars Trilogy” culminated in perhaps his most beloved film, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1967). But his masterpiece is Once Upon a Time in the West, (1968) a nearly three-hour epic that re-imagines the great myths and imagery of western expansion.

Leone did not merely deconstruct and caricature the Western, he revitalized it, bringing a greater depth and mystery to its vistas and villains. He delved into the roots of the form’s archetypes, digging up the primal thoughts, emotions and characters that inhabited the landscape. And then he magnified it all; he distilled the genre to its essence and then spread it on thick in deep sepia tones.

But it is the faces of his characters, even more than the dramatic Monument Valley backdrop, that provide Once Upon a Time in the West’s most enduring images. Leone deepened the impact of the close-up, juxtaposing and equating the rugged terrain of the landscape with the equally rugged terrain of the human face, each giving greater significance to the other. The eyes of his sweat-soaked, sun-scarred outlaws reflect the landscape and imbue it with meaning, and the landscape shapes the characters who survey it.

Though the widescreen format is ideal for shooting vast panoramic landscapes, it poses problems for photographing people. Close-ups must crop the face above the eye, and yet they still leave wide swaths of wasted open space on either side. Leone made use of these limitations, however, bringing his camera in even tighter and expertly balancing close-up faces on one side of the frame with open vistas on the other.

Leone’s masterful use of the widescreen format is particularly evident in the scene where Jill arrives at the McBain ranch to find the bodies of her husband and his children laid out on tables in the dooryard. The body of her husband, his head in the lower left corner of the frame, slants upwards across the frame to where Jill’s grief-stricken face is positioned in the upper right. Across the frame to the left of her is a group of attentive neighbors dressed in black, and behind them the rugged hills as backdrop. In one expertly composed image, Leone tells the whole story.

Leone knew how to move his camera as well. One of the most stirring moments in any Western comes when Jill first arrives in Flagstone, hoping to find her new husband waiting for her at the train station. She waits and watches in vain as the throng of passengers moves past until she finally heads into the station office. And here begins a brilliant marriage of form and content: Leone’s camera follows her to the door and then watches through the window as she asks for directions from the station agent. The agent guides her through a door on the opposite side of the building as Leone lifts his camera above the window, up the wall and over the roof, and as the music swells we get our first look at the town, all construction and bustling activity. It is the birth of the West, and we encounter it along with Jill, who is soon to become its guiding feminine life force. Indeed, it is as if the town only comes to life once she lays eyes on it. It is a shot full of the promise, the legend, the myth and the glory of the West, achieved with simple but masterful technique.

Claudia Cardinale, as Jill, is in fact the cornerstone of the film. Though the photogenic Italian’s voice was dubbed by an actress with a better grasp of English, Cardinale was not cast simply as eye candy, but for her expressive face and her ability to project a mix of weariness and determination. In the scene at the station and again toward the end of the film, when Harmonica walks into the house only to announce his departure, Cardinale demonstrates her talent in a close-ups that sees her effortlessly transition from joyful anticipation to crestfallen disillusionment to iron-willed perseverance. Her face is beautiful yet damaged, once by the life she has escaped and again here while she watches as the life she hoped to escape to is ripped from her grasp. And again Leone demonstrates his knowledge and faith in the terrain of the human face, patiently holding the camera’s gaze on Jill as the emotional change overtakes her features.

As the New Orleans hooker turned pioneer homesteader, Jill may at first seem like a mere variation on a stock Western character. But Leone is after something else here. Throughout the film, Jill is consistently associated with water—the water that runs beneath the dream of a town that will be known as Sweetwater; the water that will fuel the heaving, churning steam train that represents progress; the water she heats for the weary Cheyenne’s coffee; the hot bath with which she renews herself after suffering the world’s degradations; and the water she brings to the thirsty railroad workers in the film’s closing shot. She is the life force of this brave new world, the madonna that gives birth to this new land. And though the moments when her clothing is torn or barely held together by flimsy string may seem at first like simple exploitation, there is greater significance in these images. For in the end it will be her strength and determination that shines through the dust and violence, just as it is her beauty and courage that are unleashed once her dandified city clothes are torn apart, the phony veneer of sophistication and respectability giving way to the earthy mother of the West.

Berkeley Video and Film Festival 2007

The Berkeley Film and Video Festivals marks its 16th year this weekend with another vast and varied program of independent productions. If there’s a theme to the annual festival, the theme is that there is no theme; it simply showcases independent film in all its unruly diversity, from the brilliant to the silly, from mainstream to left field, from documentaries and drama to comedy and cutting-edge avant garde.

The festival, put on annually by the East Bay Media Center, runs today (Friday) through Sunday at Landmark’s California Theater in downtown Berkeley.

Festival Director Mel Vapour takes pride in one participant’s description of the festival as a bastion of artistic integrity among film festivals, and one that remains blissfully celebrity-free. This year’s program is no exception, providing a feast of cinematic pleasures untouched by commercial considerations.

One of the most extraordinary films on this year’s program is George Aguilar’s Diary of Niclas Gheiler. Aguilar has created what he terms a “documentary mashup,” consisting of old family photographs and found footage combined with words from his grandfather’s diary. The result is a stirring poetic reverie on his grandfather’s life in Germany from World War I, when he served alongside a young Adolf Hitler, and the rise of Hitler and the Nazis in the run-up to World War II. It’s a 32-minute tour de force that approaches history from a deeply personal perspective.

The Big Game, by L A Wood, presents a sympathetic view of the Memorial Stadium oak grove tree-sit. Regardless of where you come down on the myriad issues surrounding the UC Berkeley’s plan to build an athletic performance facility along the stadium’s western wall, this entertaining 30-minute film is sure to provide grist for your political mill. Though university officials declined Wood’s invitation to comment on camera, he does little to fill that gap in the narrative, at no point providing the viewer with an account of the university’s reasoning behind its plans or its responses to the protest. The result is a film which may be endearing to the like-minded, but which will only fuel the ire of those on the other side of the debate, encouraging rather than tempering the tendencies of each side to paint the other in broad strokes. Familiar faces abound; in fact, the film is a veritable who’s who of Berkeley Daily Planet opinion page contributors.

Henry Ferrini and Ken Riaf’s Polis is This: Charles Olson and the Persistence of Place provides a compassionate portrait of the larger-than-life poet—his work, his humanity and his influence—using archival footage and audio along with testimonials from friends and colleagues. The central narrative concerns Olson’s quest to preserve the unique qualities of his hometown, a quest one fellow poet likens to a Superbowl match-up between the Minnesota Vikings and the Miami Dolphins, in which the Dolphins abandoned their game plan in favor of tactical improvisation that reached the level of poetry. It’s an analogy many tree-sitters would be loathe to accept, but in the context of Olson’s all-encompassing, all-embracing, big-picture view of life and community, such supposed polarities as football vs. poetry are exposed as meaningless.

Other films from this weekend’s program:

• Orit Schwartz’s The Frank Anderson, a sharp comedic short (featuring several familiar faces from larger-budget Hollywood productions), tells the story of an insurance agent who pays a price when he denies coverage for a man’s breast reduction surgery while enthusiastically offering to pay for enhancement surgery for a woman he hopes to bed.

• Flaming Chicken, Gerald Varney’s 20-minute impressionistic musing on San Francisco, is comprised largely of hitherto unseen footage Varney shot while working as a Bay Area journalist in the ‘60s and ‘70s.

• Silhouettes, a seven-minute short by Acalanes High School (Lafayette) students Patrick Ouziel and Kevin Walker, details the plight of a teen whose shadow, which takes the form of a rabbit, leads to bullying from his peers.

• Chronicles of Impeccable Sportsmanship, Erika Tasini’s excellent silent short that depicts curious dynamics among a rooftop-dwelling family.

• The Homecoming, a solemn and mysterious 10-minute film, consists of evocative scenes that almost play like trailers from longer films.

• Tile M for Murder, an absurd, almost cartoonish comedy, features a hostile couple squaring off over a game of Scrabble on a sweltering summer day. “It’s a hot day and I hate my wife,” says the husband, and off we go on a bile-fueled ride in which the words spelled out on the board dictate the course of events.

• Mark Hammond’s feature film Johnny Was boasts an excellent performance by Vinnie Jones as a former Irish Republican Army fighter hiding out in London. The film also features the screen debuts of boxer Lennox Lewis and former Who frontman Roger Daltrey.

But this sampling just scratches the surface. There are simply too many films on the program to do justice to them in the space allotted here. Suffice it to say, this is a film lover’s film festival, one that eschews the predictable fare that so often passes for independent film these days in an effort to present an engaging and wide-ranging program of cinema artistry.

Melting Pot Comes to a Boil: Sacco and Vanzetti, Blood in the Face

The names and their general significance may still be familiar, but the details of the lives and trials of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti have faded over time. The names have become shorthand for injustice, for political persecution, for America’s tendency to at times fall disastrously short of its ideals. Yet while these two men remain potent symbols, symbols do not live and breathe.

Sacco and Vanzetti, an excellent documentary by Peter Miller, newly released on DVD, restores the humanity to these men, these Italian immigrants who came to America in search of the land of liberty and opportunity, only to find that much of the American Dream was just that.

They found themselves faced with the conundrum of a nation of immigrants that despised immigrants, and Italians were ranked among the lowest of the low. They found a land where economic exploitation was rampant, and where opportunity was plentiful only for those who could afford it.

The film uses photographs and archival footage of Sacco and Vanzetti as well as first-hand accounts and impassioned testimony from historians to paint a picture of the men, the times, the turmoil and fallout of their trial and persecution. But the most moving device is the readings, by John Turturro and Tony Shalhoub, of eloquent letters written by the two men from their prison cells. 

Vanzetti at one point wrote to his sister back home in Italy, telling her, “This is no longer the America that excited your imagination. America, dear sister, is called the land of liberty, but in no other country on Earth does a man tremble before his fellow man like here.” Other letters to family and friends reveal the two as men of great dignity and resilience, facing death with bravery, honor and sadness—sadness not for themselves but for their loved ones and for the wayward path of their adopted homeland. 

They were anarchists, non-violent as best anyone can tell, whose politics stemmed from first-hand experience of capitalism run amok. They came with dreams of democracy, liberty, opportunity and, perhaps above all, fairness and the rule of law. Yet what they discovered was the grim reality behind the facade, and in their search for answers to these vexing problems they settled on anarchism as the ideal solution.

Some details may come as a surprise to many viewers. For instance, though it is readily apparent that neither of the men was involved in the murder for which they were convicted, it is not only possible that they knew the murderers but that they may have had knowledge of the crime before it occurred. The fact is, much of the case is still shrouded in mystery.

What is known, however, is that two men were targeted for their ethnicity and their political beliefs, that evidence against them was falsified, and that neither man received anything resembling a fair trial. The story, of course, contains many parallels with modern-day America, links that are clear and obvious. But that doesn’t stop the filmmakers from hitting the point with excessive force in the final moment. It is a forgivable misstep in an otherwise fluid and informative documentary that gives shape, shading and meaning to one of the most egregious miscarriages of justice in the land of the First Amendment.

Blood in the Face, another documentary examining the face of American bigotry, just released on DVD, was made in 1991. And if its subject matter no longer seems shocking or even surprising, that’s hardly the filmmakers’ fault. A film about neo-nazis and the threat of terrorism from within America’s heartland just doesn’t pack quite the punch in might have in the days before the Oklahoma City bombing.

The title comes from a racist leader’s description of who should control America: white people, he says, those who can “show blood in the face,” and he demonstrates this by slapping his cheek to bring about a rosy blush.

Filmmakers Anne Bohlen, Kevin Rafferty and James Ridgeway enlisted the newly famous Michael Moore to assist in interviewing a stunningly ignorant group of American fascists, but don’t expect a Michael Moore film here by any means. In fact, the man is barely recognizable in voice or profile. There is a bit of humor here, some confrontation and some point-blank questioning, but nothing like the style Moore has employed since 1989’s Roger and Me. It’s just not necessary. This is a group of people so misguided, so foolish, so narrow-minded and mean, that all one has to do is give them the rhetorical rope and let them hang themselves from their own burning crucifixes. So we just watch and wait and sigh as these self-proclaimed chosen ones struggle to choose their words, stumbling more often than not into rhetorical labyrinths that twist and turn and fold back on themselves, eventually spitting the speaker out at exactly the point where he entered. “Why are whites superior?” they ask themselves, and the answer, distilled from rambling rants about Hitler, the Bible and Manifest Destiny, repeats the question: “Because they’re white.” Or, more accurately, “Because I’m white,” as, oddly enough, there seems to be little support for their cause among non-whites.

The Two of Us: A Bucolic Dream Amid the Horror of the Holocaust

As newlyweds working their way through college while living in Berkeley's Elmwood District in the late 1960s, my parents had little money to spare. The only forms of entertainment they could afford were the occasional game of Video Pong at Dream Fluff Donuts and a monthly visit to the Elmwood Theater. At the time it was an arthouse theater, and the eclectic programming opened up a whole new world of cinema to two young folks raised on Hollywood fare.

Ten years ago or more, my father recalled to me the pleasures of the Elmwood Theater in those days, and rattled off a list of great films that played there. But the most moving film he saw was one whose title he had long forgotten. All he could remember was that it was a simple and endearing story about the friendship between an old man and a young boy.

Last week, about halfway through Claude Berri’s debut film The Two of Us (1967), newly released on DVD by Criterion, I realized that this was the film I had heard about all those years before, and that it more than lives up to my father’s fond memory.

The story takes place during World War II, when a young Jewish boy in Nazi-occupied Paris is sent by his parents to the countryside to live with a family friend’s parents—a Catholic and wholly anti-Semitic elderly couple. The boy is instructed by his parents to conceal his true identity and pass himself off as Catholic, adopting a new name, learning the Lord’s Prayer, and by all means concealing any sign of tell-tale surgical procedures.

The boy’s new “Grampa” is strident in his opinions about the war that is tearing his country apart, railing against the Communists, the Freemasons, the Brits and the Jews, his ire fueled by the ranting editorials of Philippe Henriot, “the French Goebbels,” to whose Radio Paris broadcasts the old man listens with rapt attention. Against all odds, the old man and the boy, Claude, become inseparable companions, the boy patiently listening to the man’s bigoted speeches and at times playfully debunking them.

The film begins with sadness and uncertainty as the parents put their boy on a train, unsure whether they’ll ever see him again, but quickly gives way to bucolic depictions of a pastoral summer spent tending rabbits and chasing chickens amid the joy and companionship of a blossoming friendship. Berri’s direction, aided by a wonderful score by Georges Delerue, paints a lyrical portrait of childhood, both in the form of Claude and in the second wind his presence gives to the old man, whose heart has grown weary amid warfare and old age.

Berri visited Paris schools in search of a boy to play the role and found Alain Cohen, who delivers one of the great child performances. For the old man he cast Michel Simon, a beloved French actor who had fallen on hard times, his career essentially washed up. The Two of Us was a comeback of sorts for him, giving him one of his most memorable roles late in life. Simon’s sensitive portrayal of Grampa delves far deeper than the usual depictions of racists and bigots, revealing the old man as a gentle soul, a kind, generous man whose only real fault is ignorance. When Alain Cohen’s mother showed him a picture of the man he would be acting with and asked the boy if he was nervous about the meeting, Cohen couldn’t understand her meaning. How could anyone be afraid of this big “chocolate cake of a man,” an adorable teddy bear who looked like Santa Claus?

Much of the film’s power is in its subtlety, for once the action shifts to the farm, the war and all its attendant horrors are barely mentioned. Aside from the old man’s radio, the global context for the tale is merely suggested. But the subtext is nevertheless clear in every scene, providing a quiet undercurrent of solemnity.

Claude Berri based the movie on his own experience. As a young boy he spent the last six months of the war in hiding on a farm in the countryside with an elderly couple, and The Two of Us is his attempt to capture that magical period of his life. And his choice of Cohen was fortuitous, as the boy, despite his youth, was well aware of the tragedies of the war, his grandparents having perished at Auschwitz.

French New Wave director Francois Truffaut hailed The Two of Us upon its release. For 20 years, he said, he had been waiting for “the real film” about World War II France—not a story not about those who collaborated with their Nazi occupiers, nor about the Resistance, but about the vast majority who simply waited out the war, those “who did nothing, either good or bad.”

Criterion’s new disc features a beautiful transfer and plenty of extra features, including a new interview with Alain Cohen, 1967 interviews with Claude Berri and Michel Simon, a 1975 television show featuring Berri and the woman who secured his family’s safety during the war, and essays by Truffaut and critic David Sterritt.

But the best addition to the release is his Le poulet (The Chicken), Berri’s Oscar-winning 1962 short film, in which the roots of his style are evident. It’s a charming little story of a boy who seeks to save the life of his beloved pet rooster by sneaking out each night to place an egg in its nest in hopes of persuading his parents that it’s a hen. Berri’s affection for the conceits of childhood and his talent for bringing them to the screen are clearly on display here, and he would master the method in his debut feature.

The Two of Us (1967). Written and directed by Claude Berri. Starring Michel Simon and Alain Cohen. Music by Georges Delerue. $39.95. 87 minutes. In French with English subtitles. www.criterion.com.

The Meditative Art of Kiarostami

It’s a perverse world that lets the name of Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami remain obscure to the vast Western film-going public. He is considered by many to among the three or four greatest artists in cinema today, the creative force behind some of the most thoughtful and compelling films of the past 25 years.

Pacific Film Archive and Berkeley Art Museum are celebrating his career with an exhibition of his work entitled “Abbas Kiarostami: Image Maker,” consisting of screenings of his movies at PFA and an exhibition of his photography at BAM. The films series runs through Aug. 30; the photography exhibit is on view through Sept. 23.

Much of Kiarostami’s cinema consists of contemplative, intelligent films that probe into the thoughts and souls of his characters, using non-professional actors selected for their faces and for their innate character. He began his career making documentaries about the lives of children in Iran, later fusing documentary work with fiction in the creation of dynamic hybrid films. But it was with 1999’s Taste of Cherry that Kiarostami firmly cemented his international reputation, becoming the first Iranian filmmaker to win the Palme d’or at the Cannes film festival.

Taste of Cherry, showing Aug. 11, is a slow, meditative film about a man, Mr. Badii, trolling through the outskirts of Tehran in search of someone to help him committ suicide. He has dug a hole in a dusty mountainside and intends to take an overdose of sleeping pills and settle into the pit one night, never to wake up. But he worries that he might survive, and so he goes looking for someone who will agree to check on him in the morning and either rescue or bury him.

The film consists primarily of Badii driving around Tehran in his beat-up Range Rover, scanning the faces of work-soliciting day laborers, of scroungers and hitchhikers and passersby, looking for a sympathetic and competent assistant. He finds three prospects along the way: a young soldier, a middle-aged seminarian, and an aging taxidermist. Badii engages in long discussions with each as they drive along, contemplating life and death and trying to persuade them to help him.

It is a thoughtful tale infused with philosophical dialogue and simple symbolic devices. We never learn the secret of Badii’s despair, for it is irrelevant. What Kiarostami is really aiming for is allegory. Badii, in the form of his passengers, is taken from youth through old age, from fear and naiveté to religious conviction to aged wisdom and practicality. All the while the truck slowly navigates meandering, desolate roads on its way up the mountain.

The film closes with an ambiguous shot of Badii withdrawing into the hole, closing his eyes and receding into darkness as a storm gathers above him. Kiarostami gives no signal as to whether Badii lives or dies, and some critics have questioned this decision. But there really is no other appropriate conclusion; the ending can only be ambiguous, as this is not simply the story of Badii’s suicide attempt but a discussion of suicide in general, and specifically in a religious society that forbids it. It is likewise just as much a story about the passengers that share Badii’s Range Rover and the ways in which his plan forces them to confront their own beliefs and values, as well as an invitation to ponder such thoughts ourselves, thereby making us complicit in the exercise. “I believe in a cinema which gives more possibilities and more time to its viewer,” Kiarostami told film critic Jonathan Rosenbaum, “a half-fabricated cinema, an unfinished cinema that is completed by the creative spirit of the viewer, [so that] all of a sudden we have a hundred films.”

There has always been a contingent of directors who have fought against the inherent passivity of the cinematic experience. Live theater requires audience participation in the suspension of disbelief in the face of fabricated sets, as well as the necessity of response via laughter or applause. In its golden age in the 1930s and ’40s, radio, the so-called “theater of the mind,” enlisted the imagination of the listener to fill in the gaps left by the lack of visuals. Even silent film required the use of that imagination, requiring audiences to imagine voices and sound effects to accompany the action on the screen.

But full-color, sound-era cinema supplies nearly all that is necessary, and thus the experience requires far less of the viewer. Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry instead asks the audience to take part, to contemplate the value of life, the nature of suicide, and the search for meaning in the face of despair.

But what critics of the film have found most baffling about it is the coda which follows Badii’s ambiguous fate. After 890 minutes of meditative imagery and philosophic discussion, the appearance of behind-the-scenes footage is jarring. We see the lead actor passing a cigarette to Kiarostami, technicians positioning microphones, and a group of soldiers from an early scene in the film are given the OK to call it a day and relax. At first it may seem like an ironic distancing measure, a shallow gesture to simply remind the audience that, after all, it’s just a movie. But the coda is far more compelling and profound than that, for it serves as a life-affirming counterpoint to the bleakness that preceded it.

The presence of soldiers in the shot recalls Badii’s earlier reminiscence about his military service, where he met his closest friends and took part in a group dynamic, as opposed to the action of the film, in which he is largely alone, and never in the company of more than one person at a time. What Kiarostami shows us with this final scene is the reality behind the story of Badii—that filmmaking is a communal experience, consisting of comrades taking pleasure in community, in art, in craft, and in the simple act of lounging together in the grass, with shots of the soldiers taking a break from their soldiering, enjoying each other’s company beneath blooming trees and clear skies. Yet all this takes place to the strains of Louis Armstrong’s recording of “St. James Infirmary,” a song about impending death. It is a gentle reminder, an endorsement of the views of Badii’s final passenger, that simple moments are what defines a life. “Would you give up the taste of cherries?” he had asked Badii, and here Kiarostami gives us that taste, demonstrating in effect that there is much to be appreciated in this life if one is willing to reach for it, and than even a despairing conversation along a dusty road in a beat-up Range Rover is an experience not to be missed.

"Abbas Kiarostami: Image Maker"

Through Aug. 30 at Pacific Film archive; through Sept. 23 at Berkeley Art Museum. www.bampfa.edu.

Photo caption: Homayoun Ershadi as Mr. Badii in Abbas Kiarostami’s Taste of Cherry.

Tough Old Broad: A Barbara Stanwyck Centennial Retrospective

You’d think a beautiful young woman with a name like Ruby Stevens would have had it made in 1930s Hollywood. And she very well might have; the name conjures images of a bright-eyed ingenue, lovely, ambitious and 100 percent red-blooded American.

But that’s exactly what Barbara Stanwyck wanted to avoid, and thus, on the advice of a Broadway director, she changed her name, adopting a moniker that better suited her unique blend of strength, beauty, class and seductive allure.

The name suited the woman as well as the actress, for Stanwyck was already the woman she would soon portray: a tough, hard-luck dame, clawing her way to the top. Orphaned at a young age, she was raised in a series of foster homes, working as a fashion model and Broadway chorus girl before landing a theatrical role that caused the movie industry to take notice.

“I’m a tough old broad from Brooklyn,” Stanwyck once said. “I intend to go on acting until I’m 90 and they won’t need to paste my face with make-up.” She didn’t quite make it to 90, but she did work well into her 70s in a career that spanned nearly 60 years and earned her four Academy Award nominations, an honorary Oscar in 1982, and the American Film Institute’s Lifetime Achievement Award in 1987.

Pacific Film Archive is presenting a retrospective of some of the actress’ best work in honor of the centennial of her birth. The series runs through July 31 and begins Friday with Night Nurse (1931), a Pre-Code classic that pairs Stanwyck with the brassy Joan Blondell, and Stella Dallas (1937), considered by many to be Stanwyck’s best.

Stanwyck’s early career is full of commanding, riveting performances as working-class femme fatales struggling to survive and conquer in a man’s world. Baby Face (1933) and Ladies They Talk About (1933) are essentially companion pieces, telling similar tales accompanied by the same musical theme—the drawling, bawdy, jazz-era strains of “St. Louis Blues.” In both films Stanwyck’s character uses her body, her grace and her wit to manipulate men in pursuit of her material desires; she knows full well what they want and how to entice them with it, cynically selling notions of romance and passion in which she has long since ceased to believe. Stanwyck was judicious with her contempt though; she not only looked on her victims with disdain, but always managed to imbue her gutsy golddiggers with an undercurrent of self-loathing, an awareness that the dirty business of life soils everyone it touches, and that the path to the top runs through more than a few fetid swamps of vice.

There was much more to Stanwyck than sex, however. Few actors could convey as much with just their eyes. “Eyes are the greatest tool in film,” Director Frank Capra told her, and she put the advice to good use. Her gaze was piercing and challenging, while simultaneously conveying the bemusement and weariness of a woman long tired of playing the fantasy object for legions of sweaty old businessmen in rumpled suits. She was also a gifted comedienne, comfortable in the delivery of droll putdowns and flirtatious witticisms. Yet she was fully capable of more overtly comedic roles, as in The Lady Eve (1941), in which she played a con-artist trying to play it straight but needing all her vice and cunning to get there. “My only problem,” Stanwyck said in response to a question about her signature roles, “is finding a way to play my fortieth fallen female in a different way from my thirty-ninth.”

As good as she was, the movie industry was not altogether kind to its young stars, and many actresses saw their careers vanish as the studios ditched them at the first signs of middle age. But Stanwyck’s startling talent, screen presence and behind-the-scenes negotiating prowess gave her an edge. By avoiding long contracts, she was never bound to any one studio, keeping her career and her paychecks healthy as a prolific freelancer.

Thus few actresses progressed as smoothly from eye-candy vixens to middle-aged dramatic roles. Double Indemnity (1944), for instance, saw her updating Baby Face’s Lily Powers by moving her to the upper class enclaves of the Hollywood Hills, now as a kept woman looking for adventure to stave off her domestic boredom—a door-to-door salesman’s wet dream, who lures insurance man Fred MacMurray into a lurid web of murder and intrigue. And still again she updated the portrait in Fritz Lang’s Clash By Night (1952). Here Stanwyck presents a stirring portrait of the opportunistic dame, but older now and tired of living a rootless life. Whereas the younger Stanwyck played women in dire or mundane circumstances looking for a way out, here she plays a woman on her way back home, returning to her humble origins on Monterey’s Cannery Row with the hope that she can finally set aside her nagging restlessness by embracing a simple domestic life. Yet her eyes belie the painful truth, revealing the jaded intelligence that knows her dissatisfaction is innate, that whatever she has is never enough, no matter how good the man and how safe the home he provides.

It’s a compelling picture of a complex woman, requiring the sort of feminine insight that director Lang was entirely incapable of throughout his long career, resulting in a fascinating case of professional role reversal, with a talented actor bringing out heretofore untapped talents in her director. And all in marked contrast to her co-star, a young Marilyn Monroe, who might have led a much different life had she adopted just a bit of Stanwyck’s steely resolve.

"Ball of Fire: A Barbara Stanwyck Centennial Retrospective." Friday, July 6 through Tuesday, July 31 at Pacific Film Archive. 2575 Bancroft Way. 642-5249. www.bampfa.berkeley.edu.

The Boss of it All: Shifting Alliances and Realities

Lars von Trier’s The Boss of It All, opening this weekend at Shattuck Cinemas, is something of a departure for the Danish director. He has returned to Denmark and the Danish language to produce, for the first time, a comedy, and a rather light-hearted comedy at that. No politics, no commentary, no overarching cinematic code of ideals to weigh down his creation—just a clever idea, a witty script and a talented cast.

An unemployed hack actor (Jens Albinus) is hired to impersonate a non-existent corporate boss in order to facilitate the sale of an information technology firm. Trouble is, the actor’s benefactor (Ravn, played by Peter Gantzler) is the true owner and has been masquerading as an employee for 10 years, manipulating his colleagues to his own ends while blaming his unpopular decisions on the never-seen CEO, a faceless entity named Kristoffer who has been running the company by e-mail from the United States.

When the hapless actor is brought in to sign away the company in a private meeting with an Icelandic buyer, a firestorm of nationalistic tensions interrupts the negotiation and spills out into a corridor where the company’s employees catch their first glimpse of the man they believe is “the boss of it all.” And thus begins a convoluted series of interactions in which “Kristoffer” is constantly forced to improvise, trying to match his performance to the various preconceptions of the employees, all of whom think they have developed some sort or relationship with the man via e-mail, though in fact all of those interactions were with puppetmaster Ravn. At times Kristoffer benefits from these situations, and at times he suffers; he finds himself sexually involved with one employee, romantically linked to another, and the source of anxiety and anger for several more.

Ravn starts off allowing Kristoffer a great deal of leeway in shaping his character, but increasingly tries to usurp more and more control. The actor of course rebels as he gains confidence in the role, pompously delving deeper and deeper into his character’s motivation until, with the help of his ex-wife, who coincidentally works as an attorney for the Icelandic buyer, he finally taps into a few crucial insights that will allow him to alter the course of the intra-office melodrama. That said, he doesn’t necessarily glean much insight into himself, and one of the closing scenes features a hilarious episode in which the actor essentially holds up the plot’s resolution for an extended meditation on his character’s motivation, the obvious point of which is merely to draw attention to himself and his self-proclaimed mastery of his craft. 

It all makes for an entertaining film, a clever comedy that uses the familiar construct of mistaken identity to stage a more complicated self-reflexive commentary on film and theater, on acting, directing and filmmaking. 

Von Trier breaks the fourth wall in the first shot by introducing himself and the principal characters, following with a vow to dispense with artsiness for the duration of this “harmless” comedy. Yet this is a particularly artsy method of poking fun at all things artsy, and the director continues to emphasize the artifice of the film at crucial junctures, at one point taking center stage to announce that he has decided to add a new character to the mix just to further complicate the plot. Thus von Trier never lets us forget who is really the boss of it all.

Von Trier uses many of the principles of the stripped-down Dogme school of film that he co-founded, but with a lighter, less didactic approach. He eschews artificial lighting, makeup and scoring, for instance, but employs a unique and decidedly un-Dogme-like technique for photographing the film called Automavision. Von Trier selected each camera setup, but then employed a computer to randomly select various parameters for the shot, tilting the camera, changing the focal length or shifiting the composition. The computer controlled a similar set of parameters for the sound recording. The result is a film that is constantly shifting, as though through a series of jump cuts, giving the impression that the scenes and dialogue were patched together in the editing process. 

But what we’re really seeing is a framing device that has removed the human element and replaced it with computerized randomness. Most viewers won’t notice the technique on a conscious level, conditioned as we’ve become over the years to hand-held cameras, jump cuts and disjointed editing. But thematically it works, as the constantly shifting perspectives mirror the shifting alliances and realities of the characters, adding to the confusion and chaos of a situation over which the principal players—and to some extent the director—have lost control.

The Boss of it All (2007). Written and directed by Lars von Trier. Cinematography by Automavision. Starring Jens Albinus, Peter Gantzler, Thor Fridriksson, Benedikt Erlingsson, Iben Hjejle, Henrik Prip, Mia Lyhne, Casper Christensen, Louise Mieritz, Jean-Marc Barr, Anders Hove. 99 minutes. Not rated. In Danish with English subtitles. 

Stumbling After The Third Man

Everyone talks about Harry Lime. He’s one of the most charismatic and cynical of movie villains, a cad who plays the people and police for suckers while justifying his crimes with glib insouciance.

By the time the racketeer finally makes his appearance in Carol Reed's The Third Man (1949), everyone in the film has been talking about him for nearly an hour. And audiences and critics have been talking about him ever since.

Neither has there has been any shortage of commentary on Reed’s brilliant direction and pacing; on Graham Greene’s finely crafted original screenplay; on Robert Krasker’s stunning black and white photography that presents a wet, murky portrait of post-war Vienna; on Anton Karas’ zither score and its effortless transitions from the jauntiness of Lime’s theme to suspense to romance to its wistful conclusion; on Orson Welles’ brief but riveting performance as Lime; on the famous scenes in the Vienna sewers, atop the Prater’s Ferris wheel, and in the shadowy nighttime streets; and on the strong performances of Trevor Howard and Alida Valli, as well as a number of supporting actors in sharply etched character parts.

But what often gets overlooked in discussions of The Third Man is its leading man, Joseph Cotten.

Cotten’s portrayal of the naive and blundering Holly Martins isn’t the flashiest role in the film, but it is the most crucial, for it is through his eyes that we see the labyrinthine plot unfold. He plays both the hero and the fool, stumbling about blindly through a foreign city and its web of blackmarket intrigue. He’s a heel, a well-meaning dweeb, a “dumb decoy duck,” as he describes himself in the end, and what a deft delineation of character Cotten achieves.

Martins is a writer of cheap western novels who sees the world in the simplistic black-and-white, good-vs.-evil terms of his fiction. Martins arrives in Vienna to find that his friend Harry Lime is dead, and when a cop (Trevor Howard’s Major Calloway) speaks ill of Lime over drinks, Martins bristles, attempts to punch the major, and then seizes the opportunity to play the hero by investigating the circumstances surrounding Lime’s death in order to clear his friend’s name and expose the corruption of Calloway.

Though he sees himself as a swaggering tough in search of justice, Martins is hardly noble, and he knows it. He moons after his best friend’s girl, aimlessly wanders through the rubble-strewn city, and even becomes responsible for the deaths of two innocent men along the way.

All the while director Reed keeps us just as bewildered as Martins, with off-kilter images, foreign-language dialogue left untranslated, and a breathless pace that keeps us moving from scene to scene before all the implications have set in.

Writer Graham Greene seems to have taken great pleasure in presenting Martins as the Ugly American—not to mention clumsy, naive and potentially dangerous. Greene himself may have been settling a score with this characterization. In an essay in the liner notes of Criterion's new two-disc edition of the film, Philip Kerr posits that Greene based the character on Robert Buckner, a producer and screenwriter responsible for a botched film adaptation of Greene’s novel The Confidential Agent. Buckner was also a writer of cheap western novels, thus Kerr explains the incessant mockery of Martins’ taste, talent and intellect.

Whatever the source, Greene and Reed gleefully point up the folly of Holly at every turn. In the opening scenes, Martins cluelessly walks under a ladder, setting up a string of bad luck that will run throughout the picture; other characters damn his novels with faint praise or are completely unaware of them; and Calloway finally chastises Martins with the blistering put-down, “This isn’t Santa Fe, I’m not a sheriff and you’re not a cowboy.” Even in the final sequence amid the sewer, in a shootout situation that would have presumably been one of the staples of his fiction, Martins is oblivious to the danger of the situation, wandering out into the middle of a tunnel where he could easily be caught in the crossfire. He’s a liability and his naiveté eventually proves costly.

It is in the sewer that Martins finally gets his chance to carry out his delusional fantasy. But when he takes gun in hand and tracks wounded Lime through the damp tunnels, he again botches his chance at heroism by playing not the cowboy but the loyal patsy, short-circuiting the pursuit of justice by taking down his friend in a mercy killing.

His silly adventure culminates in the elegiac sigh of the film’s closing shot, as the disillusioned Martins, having lost his best friend and his self-respect, finally and with finality loses the girl. The somber fadeout leaves us with a pathetic solitary figure on an empty road, showing up the inadequacy of the cowboy’s simplistic mindset when confronted with foreign cultures and a determined criminal underworld—an all-to-relevant theme in these times.

The new Criterion edition is rich in supplemental features that illuminate much of the on- and off-screen intrigue of the film, including all the features from the company’s previous edition: archival footage of the Vienna sewers; an introduction by Peter Bogdanovich; a radio adaptation, starring Cotten; and an episode of “The Adventures of Harry Lime,” a weekly British radio series from 1952 starring Orson Welles as Lime, this time recast as a cosmopolitan confidence man and hero. The set also features several new documentaries on the film and its creation and two commentaries: One, by film scholar Dana Polan, is excellent, examining the inherent polarities in the film (noir vs. romance, comedy vs. drama, etc.) with an emphasis on the thematic and structural tensions in the film; the other, by director Steven Soderbergh and screenwriter Tony Gilroy, is less informative, as many of Soderbergh’s facts are contradicted by materials elsewhere in the collection, and the casual, off-the-cuff nature of the discussion comes across as amateurish and ill-prepared.

The Third Man (1949). Directed by Carol Reed. Written by Graham Greene. Photographed by Robert Krasker. Starring Joseph Cotten, Alida Valli, Trevor Howard and Orson Welles. 104 minutes. $39.95. www.criterion.com.

Brand Upon the Brain!

Guy Maddin’s latest film is another avant garde piece, a pseudo-silent film that employs striking imagery, dubbed sound effects, intertitles and spoken narration in the creation of a unique and fascinating experience. Brand Upon the Brain! is a strange film that seems to exist in no particular era or idiom. It is both timeless and out of time, a film and a story that seemingly could have occurred anytime and anyplace, yet in no particular time or place that ever existed.

Maddin uses some of the effects of the silent era, but filters them through memory, through the ravages of time. While films of the silent era were generally of excellent photographic quality, easily on a par with much of today’s imagery, they have been most often seen by succeeding generations only in degraded, shabby prints, with soft images, blurry text, and unseemly jumps where frames have been misplaced or simply disintegrated. Maddin takes this approach to his film, deliberately infusing his images with a shadowy, high-contrast glow and jump cuts that suggest the movie was found in a long-forgotten vault rather than produced in modern times. The effect is that Brand Upon the Brain! harkens back not so much to the golden-era silents of the 1920s but to the German Expressionist films of the late 1910s, such as Nosferatu and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.

Even the intertitles and chapter headings flash quickly in blurry letters, and repeat themselves as though the negative fell in pieces to the cutting room floor and was hastily stitched back together by an errant hand.

The story starts simply and progresses to absurdity, embracing the melodramatic aesthetic of the German Expressionist classics, yet with a decidedly 21st century attitude. The protagonist, Guy Maddin (played in his youth by Sullivan Brown and in adulthood by Erik Steffen Maahs), returns to his childhood home, an orphanage run by his parents on a remote, fog-shrouded island. He is there to grant his mother’s last wish, that he return to the island and give the lighthouse and orphanage a couple of fresh coats of paint. The walls are dirty and scarred with the troubled memories of his youth, and no amount of paint can cover the pain of those remembrances as they come flooding back in a mad rush. And thus begins a strange tale told in flashback of Maddin and his sister (San Francisco native Maya Lawson) and their mad, mad parents.

The film is not a true silent. There are plenty of sound effects, which grant the proceedings an eerie and evocative atmosphere. The sounds are stylized however, not realistic; they are isolated sounds that suggest the dream-like reveries of memory, in which only the most necessary sounds are supplied while ambient noise recedes and disappears. An excellent score by Jason Staczek brings a strong atmosphere to the film as well, lending it a classical air.

But most effective of all the elements Maddin throws into this eclectic mix may very be the spoken narration provided by Isabella Rossellini, in which the actress sometimes repeats the intertitles but more often complements the onscreen words with fuller description, emphasis and affect. This technique comes from another quadrant of silent film history, from a Japanese tradition in which an actor, known as a benshi, would accompany the film with live narration and dialogue, acting out the roles of each character on the screen and relating the action to the audience.

Taken together, these disparate ingredients form a highly original whole, one that deserves a far greater audience than it is likely to reach.

Brand Upon the Brain! Directed by Guy Maddin. Photographed by Benjamin Kasulke. Edited by John Gurdebeke. Starring Erik Steffen Maahs, Sullivan Brown, Maya Lawson, Gretchen Krich, Katherine E. Scharhon, Andrew Loviska. 96 minutes. Not rated.