Winsor McCay and the Birth of Animation

Despite his claims to the contrary, Winsor McCay did not invent the animated cartoon. But the legendary cartoonist did play a pioneering role, helping to advance, shape and define the nascent art form.

This Saturday Pacific Film Archive will present several films by McCay as part of a presentation by another accomplished cartoonist, John Canemaker.

Canemaker has many achievements to his credit, the latest among them being the Academy Award he won last year for his short film The Moon and the Son. The film depicted an imaginary conversation between Canemaker and his deceased father and featured the voices of John Turturro and Eli Wallach.

Canemaker will be present for a screening of his own films as part of a program entitled “John Canemaker: Marching to a Different Toon” at 5 p.m. Saturday and will follow at 7:30 p.m. with a presentation and discussion of the McCay films.

The presentation on McCay is based on Canemaker’s own biography of the great cartoonist, Winsor McCay: His Life and Art. The book was first published in 1987 but has been newly revised and expanded in a beautiful new edition that presents excellent reproductions of McCay’s artwork along with insightful and scholarly analysis. It is the only comprehensive biography of McCay and will surely play a crucial role in helping to better establish his legacy in print and animated cartooning.

McCay’s range and talent is difficult to comprehend today. He was an extremely prolific artist, creating a number of popular comic strips as well as illustrations, editorial cartoons and animated cartoons, working on many of them simultaneously. The work for which he is most renowned focused on dreams and fantasy and included his most famous and beloved creation, Little Nemo in Slumberland, widely considered one of the greatest comic strips of all time.

Another of his unique, though lesser known, strips is Dream of the Rarebit Fiend. Like Nemo, it relies on a predictable pattern in the creation of a most unpredictable strip. Each week the strip depicted a harrowing nightmare consisting of often surreal and hallucinatory imagery, and each week the strip concluded in precisely the same way: The protagonist would wake up in bed, realize it was just a dream, and exclaim that never again would he eat so much rarebit for dinner.

McCay used the same basic structure for Little Nemo, with the young boy always waking up or falling out of bed in the strip’s final panel, a device later used to great effect by another comic strip artist, Bill Watterson, whose Calvin and Hobbes often featured the wild adventures that take place inside the mind of a highly imaginative 6-year-old boy.

Little Nemo in Slumberland ran as a full page every Sunday at a time when a newspaper page was nearly twice the size of today’s broadsheet pages. The comic strip was a relatively new medium when Nemo debuted in 1905, just 10 years old and still struggling to find its niche. McCay’s superior draftsmanship, wide-ranging imagination and bold use of color took the form to new heights.

Brilliant as his imagination and artwork were, McCay was not without his shortcomings. He never seemed to master dialogue or narrative thrust. His dialogue is trite and redundant, and often crammed into awkward and at times barely legible word balloons. Of course, the word balloon itself was a recent invention, and it took time for artists to learn to incorporate them gracefully into their compositions. But McCay never seemed to fully grasp the concept; in fact, Nemo, even in its second incarnation in the 1920s, still evinced this anomalous flaw.

McCay later turned his attention to animation, and once again, he played a major role in the development of a new art form, using his bold imagination, unparalleled drawing skills and showman’s flair in advancing the new medium. McCay employed wonderfully sophisticated effects and charming characters in his animated work, even taking his films on the road in vaudeville.

“Where McCay differed from his predecessors,” Canemaker writes, “was in his ability to animate his drawings with no sacrifice of linear detail; the fluid motion, naturalistic timing, feeling of weight, and, eventually, the attempts to inject individualistic personality traits into his characters were new qualities that McCay first brought to the animated film medium.”

McCay developed techniques that would later become commonplace and, in stark contrast to other, more secretive artists of the day, refused to patent those techniques, believing that the art form stood a better chance of progressing if artists shared their knowledge.

Saturday’s screening will include four of McCay’s 10 animated films. His first film was Little Nemo, in which Nemo, Flip and the Imp go through a series of fun-house mirror style transformations. At the time, audiences were skeptical and often didn’t believe that the film was hand-drawn.

“It was pronounced very lifelike,” McCay wrote in a 1927 essay, “but my audience declared that it was not a drawing, but that the pictures were photographs of real children.”

So, in his next film, McCay drew something a little more difficult. How a Mosquito Operates, a somewhat twisted presentation that would fit right in today in Spike and Mike’s Sick and Twisted Animation Festival, features a disturbingly oversized mosquito plunging his proboscis again and again into the face of a sleeping man, eventually becoming so bloated with blood that he explodes. Again, the cartoonist encountered skepticism.

“My audiences were pleased,” McCay wrote, “but declared the mosquito was operated by wires to get the effect before the camera.”

So McCay decided to create a character that could not be photographed: Gertie the Dinosaur. Gertie was a popular creation and McCay proceeded to take her on the road in vaudeville with a clever act that consisted of McCay standing beside the screen and commanding Gertie as though she were a trained elephant. He would toss her a pumpkin, crack a trainer’s whip, and even step into the frame himself, disappearing behind the screen and reappearing onscreen as an animated figure riding on the dinosaur’s back, a moment later satirized by Buster Keaton in his first feature film, The Three Ages.

McCay’s next project was his most ambitious. The Sinking of the Lusitania took two years to produce and consisted of nearly 25,000 drawings. It marked the first time McCay used the technique of drawing on transparent cels on separate backgrounds, a technique that not only saved time and work, but also contributed greatly to the film’s dynamics. For the first time, McCay’s animated work took on a more cinematic quality, using dramatic angles to further enhance the action.

Great as his films are and important as his contribution may be, McCay’s defects again hindered his progress. Animated cartoons would soon develop plot and narrative, and, eventually, sound, but without McCay’s help. He played a significant role in nurturing animated film into its adolescence, but it would take other talents to bring it to maturity.

Mr. Arkadin: Orson Welles' Unfinished Puzzle

Criterion's three-disc set of Orson Welles’ long-neglected 1955 film Mr. Arkadin contains a wealth of material documenting the film’s murky history. Just as Criterion gave the deluxe treatment last year to Welles’ 1972 F For Fake, so this year the company has produced a respectful and informative package for Arkadin that does well to salvage the mystery and reputation of this confounding movie. 

The line on Mr. Arkadin is that it is essentially a surrealist version of Citizen Kane, taking the earlier film’s plot and form and elevating every aspect to absurdist heights. Arkadin follows the pattern of Kane by sending a young man off in search of the mysteries of an older man’s life. However, in the case of Mr. Arkadin, the older man is still alive, has in fact commissioned the search, and kills off each witness the younger man uncovers in an attempt to erase his unsavory past, with the goal of protecting his daughter from the disturbing truth behind the family’s wealth. It’s a good enough plot for a pulp movie, but Welles tried to elevate it to something more meaningful and significant, as well as baroque, and that didn’t sit too well with the film’s producer, or its distributors. Eventually, as with so many other Welles projects, the film was taken out of his hands before he could finish it. The result is a film often regarded as his poorest effort. 

Mr. Arkadin has its roots in a weekly English radio show Welles starred in called The Lives of Harry Lime, a series exploiting the character he made famous in the 1949 Carol Reed film The Third Man. In the early 1950s, Welles was working on his screen version of Othello, traipsing all over Europe on a dwindling budget, desperately trying to raise cash to finance the film. An English producer proposed the radio series and Welles seized the opportunity to make some easy money, cranking out these slight entertainments for a year while he continued to make Othello. 

The script for Mr. Arkadin grew from three of these radio shows, and the Criterion DVD includes all of them, providing a fascinating glimpse into the genesis of the film. 

There are any number of published critiques comparing Kane and Arkadin, some merely tracking the similarities between the two, others taking a psychoanalytical approach, positing that Welles himself was burdened by his earlier greatness and was seeking to somehow negate it through the latter film’s perverse fantasy. However, an often overlooked aspect of Arkadin is that it provides something of a blueprint for Welles’ later works, as many of its scenes, and even individual shots prefigure those of Touch of Evil (1958), the would-be B movie that Welles transformed into a noir masterpiece, and The Trial (1962), Welles’ feverish adaptation of Franz Kafka’s nightmarish novel. 

All of these films reflect Welles’ favored themes: power, regret, betrayal among men, and a strong hint of nostalgia. But what’s interesting about Arkadin is that it uses devices and shots that are replicated almost exactly in Welles’ later films. It’s as if he was so disappointed in the failure of Arkadin that he couldn’t bear to abandon some of its finer moments. 

All three films feature Akim Tamiroff in key roles, usually as a sort of clownish character to be abused by Welles’ tyrants. Toward the end of Arkadin, there is a scene in which Welles looms over Tamiroff as Tamiroff lies on a bed, the wrought-iron bedframe decorating the edge of the image. A few years later, Welles, backed this time with Hollywood money, would stage a similar scene much more elaborately in Touch of Evil, with gaudy flashing neon lights illuminating Welles’ Hank Quinlan as he stalks Tamiroff’s Uncle Joe Grande around a hotel room, strangling him and leaving him to wilt over a similarly ornate bedframe. 

Also in Arkadin, Tamiroff, in another hotel room, at one point moves toward a high window, stepping on a chair as though he is about to escape. Again, in Touch of Evil, Tamiroff, in an effort to escape the murderous Quinlan, climbs toward a high window and shatters it in an escape attempt before Welles pulls him back down. 

One more parallel is in each film’s closing scenes. In Mr. Arkadin, Paola Mori, Arkadin’s daughter, offers a stoic and ambiguous epitaph for her deceased father: “He was capable of anything.” The line is uttered almost without inflection—a frequent problem with Mori’s acting, but in this case the tone is intentional. Likewise, Touch of Evil closes with another exotic beauty—this time Marlene Dietrich—eulogizing the fallen Captain Hank Quinlan with another terse remark: “He was some kind of man.” These closing lines are almost Hemingwayesque in their simplicity, providing stark, dry conclusions to otherwise elaborate melodramas. 

Other aspects of Arkadin show up in The Trial, another of Welles’ independent European productions. The film again features Tamiroff in a key role and is edited to resemble a nightmare, with canted camera angles and disorienting cuts from one off-kilter shot to another. Welles had been something of a pioneer in independent filmmaking, demonstrating with his Macbeth that film could be a living, breathing organism, that it didn’t require the polished sheen of Hollywood. He sought to prove that film could be more free-flowing, deviating from scripts and indulging whimsical tangents with improvised shots and dialogue. Usually his experiments paid off. In the case of Mr. Arkadin, they didn’t. 

Welles never finished editing the film before its producer took it out of its hands. It was released in a compromised form, Welles’ elaborate flashback structure having been replaced by a chronological re-ordering of the scenes. The Criterion release presents three versions: the re-edited European version, an even more heavily re-edited American version (re-titled Confidential Report), and a brand new version in which historians and researchers have attempted to restore Welles’ original editing pattern, reconfiguring the picture to reflect, as best as can be determined, what Welles had originally intended. The result is a more coherent and artistic film than heretofore suspected. 

Mr. Arkadin may still be a failure but few directors fail as spectacularly as Orson Welles. The Criterion edition provides beautifully restored prints that showcase its photography, as well as a host of extra features that help to provide a clear picture of just what exactly Welles was striving for with this film and how and why he failed. 

Mr. Arkadin (1955). $49.95. 105 minutes. Criterion. www.criterionco.com.

Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man

What better way to appreciate and pay tribute to the songs of Leonard Cohen than to watch and listen as a cast of his less talented idolaters walk on stage and butcher them? 

This appears to be the premise of Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man, a documentary that just completed its second week at the Albany Twin. 

I had read several reviews beforehand and had some idea what I was in for. I knew, for instance, that the film consists primarily of footage from a 2005 concert in which musicians, famous and otherwise, performed Cohen’s music; I knew that interviews with Cohen would be interspersed throughout, and that the man himself would not step before the mic until the film’s final moments; and I knew that among those paying tribute to Cohen in interviews would be U2’s Bono, a man who, I’ll admit, inspires in me a wholly irrational degree of hostility. But still, I thought, it’s Leonard Cohen, his words, his music, his life … how bad could it be? 

Ay caramba. 

The musicians involved are apparently incapable of appreciating just exactly what makes Cohen’s music unique. They pay homage to his words, which are indeed the most crucial element of his art, but give not a moment’s thought to how exactly those words work, how they should be delivered to accord them the respect they deserve, or how and why they have endured for decades. 

The performance of those words is an art that these lesser talents have yet to grasp. To put those words across means focusing on them, uttering them, cleanly and crisply, with delicacy but with authority. This is poetry after all, and the words speak for themselves. But these singers and musicians instead do Cohen and us a great disservice by cluttering their performances with affectation: they tremble, they squint, they gesture, they wallow, they quaver, they fidget, they clutch at their hearts. They do not so much feel the words and music as put a great deal of sound and fury into the act of convincing us that they feel the words and music. It’s as if they don’t trust each song to convey to us its greatness, but rather proclaim themselves the arbiters of that greatness, and seek to convince us less enlightened souls that, no, really, this is good stuff and you should pay attention. On the other hand, the film did succeed in sending me right home to listen to Cohen’s original records, if only to purge myself of the memory of these overwrought cover versions. 

The only exceptions are the performances of Rufus Wainwright, whose gleefully silly rendition of “Everybody Knows” demonstrates what every other figure in the film, save Cohen himself, utterly lacks: a sense of humor. Wainwright plays up the campy aspects of the song, emphasizing the wit while also taking great pleasure in letting flow the swirling stream of the song’s dizzying and decadent lyrics. 

Cohen’s humor is on display often in the film’s interview segments as he offers insightful tales and self-deprecating remarks about his life and career. Director Lian Lunson, however, is intent on presenting Cohen with the same sort of hyperbolic grandiosity with which the rest of the cast presents him, even using the absurd device of an echo to repeat some of the singer’s more resonant asides. 

When the dapper minimalist finally takes up the microphone, he puts the musicians and the filmmakers to shame, delivering a perfectly dry, perfectly dignified performance of “Tower of Song.” It’s a welcome sight: the aged man in immaculate suit, holding his glasses in his hand as he stand still and distinguished before a glittering, red curtain. Ah, this is the real deal, this is what we paid for. But then the camera pulls back for one last indignity, revealing the backing band: U2. Yes, Bono, the world’s most prolifically sanctimonious and self-aggrandizing showman, has managed yet again to stamp his wrap-around-shade-clad face on another cultural icon. It’s not enough to testify before the United Nations; not enough to stamp his maudlin mug on the Sept. 11 tribute concert; not enough to contribute a cliché-ridden celebratory montage to the finale of last month’s World Cup. Now he’s got to stake his claim to the legacy of Leonard Cohen. 

But Cohen’s music stands alone. It has endured for decades, despite the man’s infrequent releases and even more infrequent performances. It has withstood the test of time, and it can surely withstand this silly movie, just as surely as it can withstand Bono. 

Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man (2006). Directed by Lian Lunson. Featuring Leonard Cohen, U2, Rufus Wainwright, Nick Cave, Linda Thompson and others. 115 minutes. 

Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos

If you’re a soccer fan still looking for a way to get the poisonous image of Zinedine Zidane’s head-butt out of your mind, the solution may have arrived in the form of a new documentary. Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos tells the story of soccer’s arrival in the United States in the late 1970s, when media mogul Steve Ross set out to make the “the beautiful game” a national phenomenon. 

The film opens today at the Lumiere Theater in San Francisco. It’s as yet unclear whether it will come to the East Bay, so the Lumiere engagement may be the only chance to see it before it goes to DVD. 

In the mid 1970s, Ross and a few partners created the North American Soccer League. At the time, soccer was a virtually unknown sport in America, and there wasn’t a single player of professional caliber in the country. 

They knew they’d need a successful franchise in New York in order to get the league off the ground, and to make that franchise successful they would need to attract a marquee name. 

As fate would have it, the greatest player to ever play the game, the Brazillian legend Pelé—winner of a record three World Cup championships—had just announced his retirement from Santos, the Brazillian league team where he had spent his entire career. After tense negotiations, they managed to lure Pelé to the New York Cosmos, telling him that if he chose to play for a European team all he could win was another championship, whereas if he played for the Cosmos he could win an entire country. 

Pelé took the offer and began a second career, which continues to this day, as the game’s greatest ambassador, using his charm, charisma and unparalleled skills to spread the gospel of football. 

What ensued was a circus of soccer, media relations and mayhem that consumed the city of New York and took the world of American sports by storm for several years. The documentary features interviews will the major players in this drama (with the notable exception of Pelé himself), and while some—the less talented American players, at least—are humble and good-natured and still thrilled to have been a part of history and to have shared the field with the great Pelé, it would seem that several others have managed to transfer their competitive energies from the playing field to the pages of history as each tries to put his own particular stamp on the story of the Cosmos. 

This is not a calm, dignified documentary of talking heads respectfully and calmly stating the facts; these are men with axes to grind, and it makes for compelling viewing. 

The story that emerges is one of great drama, great humor, and great potential gone unmet. For the Cosmos, and the North American Soccer League along with it, eventually imploded. The last straw was Ross’ unsuccessful bid to bring the 1986 World Cup to America. When FIFA, soccer’s governing body, instead awarded the tournament to Mexico, NASL and Cosmos executives felt it was a death knell for the game in America, a missed opportunity for FIFA to open up the game’s only remaining unconquered market. 

In the wake of FIFA’s decision, the NASL folded and the tremendous inroads made by Pelé, Franz Beckenbauer, Giorgio Chinaglia and the rest of the New York Cosmos vanished in the dust. 

Just a few years later the United States would qualify for the World Cup for the first time in 40 years, making a respectable showing at the 1990 tournament in Italy. And in 1994, the World Cup finally made it to America, paving the way for the founding of a new league, Major League Soccer. But the momentum had been lost; soccer is still touted in America more for its potential rather than its achievements. It’s an ongoing battle, a struggle to instill within a largely indifferent public the excitement and drama that swelled to a crescendo for a brief, glorious moment in the summer of 1977. 

Once in a Lifetime: The Extraordinary Story of the New York Cosmos (2006). Directed by Paul Crowder and John Dower. Featuring Pelé, Franz Beckenbauer, Giorgio Chinaglia, Henry Kissinger, Mia Hamm. Narrated by Matt Dillon. 

Tributes to Gaynor, Borzage at Pacific Film Archive

Two retrospectives starting today (Friday) at Pacific Film Archive will illuminate the work of actress Janet Gaynor and director Frank Borzage, both sterling talents in their day but unjustly overlooked in ours.

Janet Gaynor worked as an usherette at San Francisco’s Castro Theater soon after it opened in 1922 before heading to Hollywood to work as an extra. Within a few years she not only found her way into starring roles but established herself as one of the industry’s top talents, appearing in some of the era’s best movies and along the way earning herself the Best Actress Oscar at the first Academy Awards in 1929.

“Janet Gaynor: A Centennial Celebration,” running through Aug. 13, is a touring exhibition put together by the Louis B. Mayer Foundation and the UCLA Film and Television Archive. It features her first supporting roles and the three starring performances that earned her the Academy Award, as well as a selection of her sound-era work, including 1937’s A Star is Born.

Gaynor’s signature role was something of a waif, a wide-eyed innocent, fragile but with great moral strength. In a sense, she was like the second coming of “America’s Sweetheart,” Mary Pickford, both of whom were beloved by audiences for their down-to-earth style and pixie-like charm. Gaynor managed to take seemingly limited roles and imbue them with an expressiveness that demonstrated virtue and nobility as well as a delicate vulnerability.

Her most celebrated role is in Sunrise, the first American film by German director F.W. Murnau. Murnau had made a name for himself as one of Germany’s top directors with films as disparate as the horror masterpiece Nosferatu, the Expressionist classic The Last Laugh, and a cinematic retelling of Faust. In America, his varied interests would lead him to further expand his repertoire, directing “women’s pictures” and even documentaries. It is precisely this wide-ranging virtuosity that has caused him to be overlooked by history, as there are few consistent threads running throughout his career to cement his identity in the public consciousness.

With Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans, Murnau brought Germanic technique and a palpable European sensibility to American commercial filmmaking. The film is celebrated for its roaming camerawork, its evocative set design, its emotional range and fable-like qualities. It is considered one of the finest films of the silent era, and Gaynor’s performance is one its greatest virtues.

The movie concerns a young country couple whose happy home is threatened when the husband is tempted by a footloose city flapper. Murnau sets up dichotomies that are almost allegorical: between city and country, love and lust, virtue and temptation. It is melodrama raised to the level of poetry, a fable of love, devotion and redemption.

Some of the performances may seem a bit dramatic to modern eyes, but that is part of the scheme: We’re not simply looking at a couple, we are looking at “two humans,” at archetypes, at people who serve more as symbols than as characters.

Gaynor’s performance, however, is subtle and at times profound. Her graceful, demure character undergoes dramatic changes, from loving and devoted to wounded and disillusioned, to frightened, endangered and mistrustful to redemptive, forgiving and strong. Her supple face and soulful eyes somehow manage to convey a range of thoughts and emotions that pages of dialogue could only suggest.

Gaynor easily made the transition to talkies, her voice matching the public perception of her character, and her career remained steady through the mid-'30s, a span that included a series of 12 films with co-star Charles Farrell, including Street Angel (1928), Lucky Star (1929), Delicious (1931), and a remake of Pickford’s Tess of the Storm Country (1932).

Tonight’s screening of Gaynor’s first pairing with Farrell, Seventh Heaven, marks an overlap with another PFA series looking back at the career of director Frank Borzage.

Borzage captured, perhaps better than any other director, the euphoria of romance. His films may at times seem overly sentimental, but they are remarkably effective, using the simplest of themes, strategically repeated, to make the heart skip a beat. With a skillful blend of light humor and sincere emotions, Borzage’s films manage to be quite stirring.

PFA will present “Frank Borzage’s Philosophy of Desire,” a selection of films spanning both the silent and sound eras, through Aug. 23.

The strengths of Borzage’s work are readily evident in Seventh Heaven: His street scenes are evocative; his interiors are convincing, self-contained worlds unto themselves; his simple themes are threaded throughout each scene; and his actors know their characters well and hit all the right notes. Some of the film’s most notable moments are the shots of the couple walking up the stairs, a scene that is hardly subtle (seven flights to heaven) but certainly charming as the waif timidly follows her benefactor; the humble abode itself, small but warm and inviting, a cozy ramshackle studio beneath the stars, the rent for which would keep a Berkeley landlord in the chips for years to come; and the joy that lights up Gaynor’s face when Farrell finally allows her to stay. Borzage is a master of tone, never losing his grip on the atmospheric and emotional details.

The film may be a bit long, considering its slight and somewhat predictable plot line, but it punches through its mundane source material with strong moments of poignancy and drama. Its fault lies with the fact that Borzage is not content to simply leave those moments alone. Genuine moments that would best be played simply and unfettered are instead restated, often so emphatically that the moment is robbed of its emotional power.

If you intend to see the film and don’t want its conclusion revealed, read no further, for many of Borzage’s virtues and vices are perfectly embodied in the film’s final scenes, and they cannot be discussed without giving too much away.

One of the loveliest but flawed moments in Seventh Heaven provides a perfect example of all that is right and wrong with Borzage’s technique. After Charles Farrell makes his way through the throngs of celebrants in the streets and climbs the seven flights of stairs, he bursts through the door and calls out the name of his beloved. She stands just a few feet away, across the room, and we see his hands reach for her. At that point, Borzage cuts to a shot from behind Gaynor, and we look over her shoulder as she runs to embrace Farrell. In an example of masterful direction, we see that as Gaynor runs to him, Farrell’s eyes do not follow but stay fixed just above the camera, and the realization dawns on us that he has lost his sight. This is superb filmmaking, with details revealed artfully through blocking, direction and editing.

Borzage can’t leave it there, however. The characters then take a few seconds to restate the obvious, drumming it into us with redundant intertitles when a simple reaction closeup of Gaynor’s beautifully expressive face could have done the job much more effectively.

But these are minor quibbles. Borzage worked in a time when such displays of emotion were more acceptable and when subtlety was not often rewarded in commercial moviemaking. His characters were wholesome and pure, with their hearts on their sleeves, overcoming tragedy by the transformative power of love.

The coming of World War II would puncture a hole in that world view, as a new sense of irony and detachment would brand Frank Borzage’s work as nostalgic, sentimental and out of date. And, as with Janet Gaynor, the simplicity and directness of his work would lead to decades of neglect and a lack of appreciation.

Janet Gaynor: A Centennial Celebration

July 21-Aug. 13

Frank Borzage's Philosophy of Desire

July 21-Aug. 23

2575 Pacific Film Archive, Bancroft Ave. www.bampfa.edu.

Déjà vu and Despair: Punishment Park

If you’ve seen or intend to see The Road to Guantanamo, reviewed in this space last week, it might be a good time to revisit Peter Watkins’ 1971 Punishment Park. The two films, 35 years apart, provide perspectives on the abuse of power that are both complementary and contradictory. 

Watkins, an Englishman, came to the United States in 1969 to make a series of documentaries on American history, but the project was eventually canceled. Instead he was inspired by the political turbulence of the era to create Punishment Park, a cinema verité depiction of a government crackdown on Vietnam-era dissidents. The film was released last year on DVD by New Yorker Video as part of a series called “The Cinema of Peter Watkins.” Other films in the series include The War Game, Culloden, The Gladiators and the biopic Edvard Munch. 

Punishment Park imagines a scenario in which President Nixon invokes his rights under the 1950 Internal Security Act and establishes detention camps for dissidents, militants and draft-dodgers—indeed, anyone who has committed an act of “sabotage” or who the government has reasonable cause to believe has the intention of committing such an act. Substitute “terrorism” for “sabotage,” pour yourself a stiff drink, then settle in for 90 minutes of deju vu and despair. 

The storm of criticism unleashed upon the film’s release would be no less anachronistic than the content in today’s heated political climate. The film was assailed as an anti-American polemic, a dangerous and subversive treatise that would provide aid and comfort to the enemy. 

The film cuts back and forth between two lines of action. In the first, a group of detainees faces a right-wing citizen tribunal in a series of improvised confrontations based loosely on the trial of the Chicago Seven. The actors—amateurs selected for their appearance and political views—improvised the dialogue, a creative decision that both helps and hinders the movie, lending the action a degree of immediacy while simultaneously rendering the characters as two-dimensional stereotypes. 

Each prisoner is questioned in turn before each is given the choice of a lengthy prison term or a few days in Punishment Park, a vast expanse of desert in which they will be left to wander while the military police hunt them down in a sort of state-sanctioned version of “The Most Dangerous Game.” 

The contentious environment inside the interrogation tent is further established by the details of photographer Joan Churchill’s framing of the scene: The detainees are disheveled and unkempt and face their interrogators while surrounded by the trappings of power: Guns, billy clubs and uniformed officers lurk always in the background. And while they sit alone in the heat, facing a torrent of abuse, the tribunal’s members pass around a pitcher of ice water, and are later shown taking a break while munching at a catered buffet. 

The second line of action features the previous group of detainees, who have already faced interrogation and have opted for Punishment Park. In a series of interviews with the narrator (voiced by Watkins), the prisoners discuss their predicament as they run from and eventually confront their captors. 

In addition to the cross-cutting and mise-en-scene, the film employs a series of techniques designed to increase the pace and heighten the dramatic tension. The presence of the narrator/filmmaker sets up a confrontational dynamic between the players and the camera, and when the narrator finally drops his objective distance and becomes part of the action, expressing his outrage to the military police who have shot down several detainees in the desert, Watkins raises challenging questions about the role of media, the value of journalistic objectivity, and the civic duty of a democratic citizenry. 

It may be difficult in these times to suspend our disbelief long enough to accept that the federal government would allow media access to such an exercise; Watkins seems not to have anticipated the corporate efficiency or the sheer Orwellian chutzpah of the current administration, which has learned the lessons of the past and imposes severe restrictions on the press. 

The Road to Guantanamo, criticized by some for not telling the government’s side of the story, could not do so because the government simply refuses to tell it. Watkins’ film, on the other hand, is a product of its era, a time when politicians had yet to learn these lessons, allowing their dirty laundry to be aired at the 1968 Democratic Convention, at Kent State, in Vietnam and elsewhere. In that sense, Punishment Park is almost nostalgic. 

The Harrowing Road to Guantanamo

Al Gore may be soaking up the spotlight with his doc du jour An Inconvenient Truth, but The Road to Guantanamo, opening today at Shattuck Cinemas, is a far more incendiary film and one that many Americans would do well to see. 

The Road to Guantanamo tells a harrowing tale, and though it ends happily enough for the young Englishmen whose story it relates, it is full of anguish and anger on behalf of the potentially hundreds of innocent detainees who have not fared as well. 

The film is part documentary, part dramatization. It tells the story of the “Tipton Trio,” three Englishmen of Pakistani origin who set out for their native country so that one of them can get married there. There were actually four of them at the start of the journey, but one vanished somewhere in Afghanistan, where the young men had traveled to be of some help to fellow Muslims caught in the crossfire between the United States and the Taliban. 

They were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, rounded up with a group of alleged Taliban soldiers, arrested by the Northern Alliance, turned over to the American military, and eventually shipped off to Camp X-Ray at Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. They were lucky to even make it that far, but that was far from the end of their troubles. At Guantanamo the trio was subjected to inhumane conditions and repeated interrogations. They were systematically humiliated, beaten, abused and degraded. 

Though the story is dramatized, the action is interspersed with news footage and interviews with the Tipton Trio themselves. The technique may sound clumsy on paper but it works quite well, taking the simple, just-the-facts monologues of the young men and illustrating them with dramatic re-creations of their experiences. 

The dramatized segments feature young actors with little professional experience, chosen because they reflected many of the same traits as the men they portray; they are young, adventurous, brash, not especially religious and certainly apolitical. They are just kids, really, caught up in something too dark and too vast to comprehend, and the casting of these young actors brings those qualities to the fore. 

The film has already sparked controversy for its unflinching portrayal of the trespasses of the U.S. and British governments. Doubtless, its claims will be refuted, written off as politically-charged fantasies. But the tale is real. 

It seems like just a few years ago that tales of abduction, torture, indefinite detention and unlawful imprisonment occurred only in far-off lands: criminal deeds done by lawless, totalitarian governments or shadowy drug cartels in exotic locales. But now the American government is in on the act, if not for the first time then certainly for the first time on such a grand scale. 

Fahrenheit 9-11 kicked off this latest wave of political documentaries, but unlike that film and the many that followed in its wake—Outfoxed, The Corporation, Wal-Mart: The High Price of Low Cost, and even An Inconvenient Truth—Road to Guantanamo is not so easy to dismiss as a politically motivated polemic, especially in light of the recent suicides at Guantanamo. 

The film avoids many of the pitfalls of some of its recent predecessors, keeping the focus on the story itself rather than on the political players; George Bush, Donald Rumsfeld and Tony Blair make only brief appearances. 

The filmmakers spend little time recounting the How and the Why, instead focusing their cameras on their subjects and sticking to the What. Why distract the audience with the pale justifications, obfuscations and moral rationalizations of politicians? Directors Michael Winterbottom and Mat Whitecross dispense with the small talk and get right to the point, knowing that it is far more effective to simply stick to the facts, to simply show what happened to these men and leave spin to others. There is no more effective and affecting story to be told than the disturbing tale of how an unchecked government and an unwinnable war robbed these young men of more than two years of their lives. 

But those two years were not wasted, for these men did not cave in; they did not give in to the temptation to ease their suffering by saying what their captors wanted to hear. 

“It only made me stronger,” one of the men says in an interview, and the line received a round of applause from a recent San Francisco preview audience. This sense of irony is pervasive throughout the film, as we watch burly, ruthless Marines—“Honor-Bound to Defend Freedom,” as their slogan reads—systematically subverting every tenant of their democratic ideals in a misguided effort to protect freedom by destroying it. 

At times the film draws uneasy laughter, as if it were simply a comedy of errors as the big, bad bully misses the forest for the trees, lording his power over the powerless while his world crumbles around him. It is truly bewildering and dispiriting to think of the U.S. Marines wasting the time and resources to ask a few clueless kids, over and over, “Where’s Osama?” 

The film reinforces the realization that bin Laden has in fact achieved a crucial—if “asymmetric”—victory, having reduced the once-mighty United States to a nation of paranoia and recklessness, ruled by an increasingly undemocratic government bent on squandering its vast power and wealth in pursuit of the unattainable goal of an undefined victory over an unseen enemy. 

But the military acts at the behest of our president, and our president prefers to paint with a broad brush, with good represented by white faces and evil represented by brown ones. The Tipton Trio never had a chance. 

Even when evidence to the contrary rests right before their eyes, the Marines at Guantanamo see only what they want to see, choosing to gaze instead through the same polarizing lens favored by al Qaeda. 

And for many Americans, that’s quite all right. “My country, right or wrong,” apologists say. But they never finish the quote, never include the words Missouri Sen. Carl Schurz used to modify the statement: “My country, right or wrong; if right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set right.” 

Kieslowski's Decalogue at PFA

Polish director Krzysztof Kieslowski made The Decalogue, a series of 10 one-hour films based on the Ten Commandments, for Polish television in 1988. Since that time it has rarely been screened commercially, other than in a handful of film festivals.

Pacific Film Archive is providing a rare opportunity to see these great films on the big screen, and over a series of just a few days, which is essential for retaining the mood of the work as a whole. The screenings are part of a larger career retrospective spanning the late Kieslowski’s impressive career.

Each film in The Decalogue is a separate and distinct creation, though they are all of a piece, united by theme and tone. It can be seen as a novel in the form of a series of short stories, like Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio; each film can be appreciated individually, yet together they create a unique and self-contained world, with shared locations and characters establishing each drama as part of a larger framework, as part of the larger drama of humanity.

The notion of a series of films based on the Ten Commandments may sound tedious, suggesting an overly intellectual and theoretical approach to the medium. Like Kieslowski’s Colors Trilogy—Blue, White and Red, each film deriving its theme from the symbolism of the French flag—it may give the impression that the director is more interested in themes than characters. But Kieslowski is not that sort of director and The Decalogue is not that sort of project.

This not an intellectual exercise; these are not merely illustrations of the Commandments. Rather, Kieslowski uses the Commandments as a springboard, a starting point for an examination of universal themes and crises.

Each film in the series is like a finely crafted short story, containing in one hour a remarkably efficient and emotional narrative with fully realized characters and relationships. Each has a plot but the focus is on the people and on the complex web of decisions and relationships that constitutes each life. Much of the action takes place without dialogue. Kieslowski trusts his script, his actors, his cinematographers (a different one for each film), and he trusts his own skills as a director, allowing this collaboration of talents to convey the necessary information with subtlety and grace. Together they find the telling details, those crucial moments and actions that bring a character sharply into focus for the audience and make clear the conflicting emotions that cloud each moral dilemma.

Decalogue 1, for example, features a professor addressing his class from behind a vast lectern while his young son sits among the students. A point-of-view shot demonstrates the feelings of the son as he watches his dad from behind the framework of a projector, catching glimpses of his father as a sort of God-like being holding forth on the rules of the universe. Later, when the grieving father walks into a church and destroys an altar, Kieslowski does not overplay the visual parallel between the altar and the lectern, but rather keeps his camera focused on the man and his emotions. The juxtaposition is there for those who wish to see it and it adds a layer of meaning to the story, but Kieslowski does not belabor the point.

In Decalogue 2 a woman is shown destroying a house plant and breaking a drinking glass out of what seems like sheer perversity. Kieslowski does not explain her actions, but the suggestion seems to be that she is girding herself for the destructive act of having an abortion.

Decalogue 3 features a woman reestablishing contact with her former lover. They are both married and have recently ended their illicit affair, but she draws him out on a mad search for her phantom husband, visiting jail cells and empty subterranean parking garages in the middle of the night. The staging again suggests something deeper at work, as though the man is being forced to venture into the netherworld of his guilty conscience before declaring to his wife, in the closing shot, that he will not be venturing out at night anymore.

Decalogue 5 takes a darker turn with a story of murder and capital punishment. A young man senselessly attacks an older man and a young defense attorney is later assigned the case. Much of the film is shot in a dark sepia tone, while the perimeter of the frame is often shrouded in a murky haze, suggesting the nebulous morality of state-sanctioned execution and the vague boundaries that distinguish it from murder.

Another example of Kieslowki’s technique is in Decalogue 9, where a man learns of his infertility and returns home to break the news to his wife. As they ride together in an elevator, they are engulfed in darkness, with shafts of light briefly illuminating one and then the other. Kieslowski has subtly shown us the rift between them; they are individuals now, not a couple, alone in darkness and unified only by her hand reaching through the blackness to touch his face, to establish contact across the gulf that is widening between them.

It’s not all darkness and brooding however. Decalogue 10 concludes the series on a more humorous note, as two brothers are reunited by their estranged father’s death and find themselves becoming obsessed by his stamp collection. This film is not without its serious themes and moments of suspense and anxiety, but is leavened with a dark humor not seen in the previous pictures.

And all throughout these films run two more unifying threads, one conspicuous and one quite subtle. The first is the recurring appearance of a mysterious young man with a piercing gaze who observes the action but never takes part. He seems to play the role of a sort of mute Greek chorus, offering a silent commentary on the tragedy and absurdity of the dramas playing out before us. The other is the recurring sound of barking dogs, usually somewhere off in the distance and often at crucial moments—a lonely but portentous refrain, suggesting that damnation looms beyond each moral quandary.

There was a time when camera technique meant something, when acute angles or a shaky handheld camera signified something about character or plot. But the language of cinema has become diluted of late, with directors using every flourish and every gimmick imaginable, like a sort of pyrotechnic display: all flash and spectacle but with little substance. in contrast, Kieslowski subjugates his technique to the film, keeping the camera always at the service of the story.

Orson Welles once said that a movie should not reveal all its secrets in a single viewing. We view paintings more than once; we read stories and novels more than once; we listen to a piece of music over and over again throughout our lives. Why should movies not be the same way? Kieslowski seems to adhere to this maxim, creating small but dense portraits of people at crucial turning points in their lives. His films can be seen once and enjoyed, but a second and third viewing reveals the rich, textured layers of his creations, films that lay rooted in modern reality but speak eloquently and timelessly of universal truths.

The Decalogue (1988)

Directed by Krzysztof Kieslowski. Written by Krzysztof Piesiewicz and Kieslowski.

Playing June 1-3 and repeated June 4-11 at at Pacific Film Archive. Discounted tickets for the entire series are available. 2626 Bancroft Way. www.bampfa.berkeley.edu.

Real Face of Baby Face Finally Revealed

Pacific Film Archive’s “A Theater Near You” series is a showcase for films that don’t make it to your local megaplex. This week PFA is featuring an encore screening of Baby Face, the notorious 1933 Pre-Code film that for decades was only seen in a heavily censored version. A negative of the original version was discovered in 2004 and the restored film has been circulating for about a year in advance of its upcoming DVD release. 

Seeing the complete version is a revelation, for not only is it just as salacious as it was long rumored to be, it is also a truly great film. It made the rounds of Bay Area theaters last year, playing at the Castro Theater and the Balboa Theater as well as PFA. But the seats filled up so quickly at the PFA screening that they’ve brought it back for another engagement. 

The film shows at 7 p.m. Friday and again at 5:30 p.m. Sunday. Though it will be available on home video soon enough, this funny, cynical melodrama deserves to be seen with an audience. 

Hollywood began enforcing the Production Code in early 1930s, establishing strict rules of morality on motion pictures in an attempt to put an end to the perceived hedonism that had run rampant during the silent era and during the first few years of talkies. 

Pre-Code usually refers to films made and released before the enforcement of the Production Code, movies that generally contain a great deal more sex, crime and assorted vice than the censored films that followed. But Baby Face is among a rather unique class of Pre-Code films in that it was created before the Code, yet released during the Code’s enforcement. Therefore the film, made under the old rules, was subjected to the new rules before it could be released. 

The result was that the censors took an uncompromising and sordid tale and sanitized it as much as possible. Shots were removed; scenes were toned down; new dialogue was recorded; a new ending was tacked on; and one character’s identity and purpose were entirely reconfigured. 

The new print also features a coda in which the closing credits are followed by a few of the censors’ edits. Seen in context, these changes are particularly hilarious and poorly conceived, transforming a dark and interesting film into run-of-the-mill Hollywood tripe. 

The story concerns one Lily Powers, played by Barbara Stanwyck. Her father runs a speakeasy that caters to steel workers and he makes a little extra money on the side as his daughter’s pimp. Previously excised shots from these early scenes show the father pocketing cash from a local politician in exchange for time alone with Lily, as well as a point-of-view shot as the politician ogles her, the camera moving slowly up the length of her body, lingering at particular points of interest before settling on her jaded and weary face. 

Desperate to escape this bleak existence, Lily seeks guidance from a local cobbler who offers ruthless advice, quoting Nietzsche and encouraging her to use and exploit men in pursuit of her desires. 

Eventually she makes her way to the big city and does just that, taking a job in the mail room of a bank. She starts on the first floor and begins methodically seducing and destroying men who can further her interests. Each conquest is followed by a pan up the side of the building, pulling back from a window on one floor and pushing toward a window on a higher floor, illustrating Lily’s rise up the corporate ladder. Nothing subtle here: Lily’s sleeping her way to the top. 

These are just a few examples of the sort of gleeful frankness Baby Face evinces, treating shady topics with wry cynicism. The crucial ingredient is Stanwyck. Her Lily is smart, cynical and cruel, a hard-luck dame brimming with ambition and a smoldering and dangerous sexuality. The powerful men she sets her eyes on have no chance against her; her withering glances and callous manipulation leave them stammering and defenseless. A young John Wayne even makes an appearance—several years before cementing his reputation as a swaggering tough guy—as a diffident office boy who makes an inept attempt to get a second date with Lily after she has already exhausted his usefulness. 

The irony of the film is that the censors really didn’t need to alter the ending. Though the movie is full of sex and cruelty, Lily Powers really does learn something at the end, demonstrating her humanity and compassion, even without the Code’s prodding. 

But apparently that wasn’t enough; they added an extra scene to further delineate her fate, and the inclusion of this scene after the closing credits in the new print brings the misogyny of the Code quickly into focus for modern audiences: Stay home girls, or somebody’s gonna get hurt. 

Baby Face (1933). Starring Barbara Stanwyck, George Brent, Donald Cook, Alfonse Ethier, Henry Kolker, Theresa Harris. Directed by Alfred E. Green. 

Afghanistan's Fatal Flower

Berkeley filmmakers Cliff Orloff and Olga Shalygin return to the public airwaves this weekend with their latest documentary about Afghanistan after the fall of the Taliban.

Afghanistan’s Fatal Flower, a half-hour look at the opium trade, airs on KQED at Sunday at 2 p.m. and again on KQED World at 9 a.m. and noon on Tuesday, May 23.

Orloff and Shalygin track the production of opium from the poppy fields of Afghanistan to the streets of the world’s urban capitals. The path, like the issue itself, is complex, winding through various strata of society.

Though the reins of power have changed hands, Afghanistan is far from the success story the Bush administration would have us believe. The warlords may have exchanged their fatigues for business suits in an attempt to gain public respectability but their practices have apparently changed little, as they still maintain private militias that are funded primarily by the opium trade. And their opulent lifestyles, in marked contrast to the people they claim to represent, can only be funded—in a country where the average income is well below a dollar a day—by illicit activity.

Afghanistan is responsible for 87 percent of the world’s heroin, which may give an idea of just how much money is to be made in the business, and consequently just how strong the allure of the trade is for the country’s poor farmers. One farmer is quoted as saying that a field of poppies can bring in more than 20 times as much money as a field of cotton.

Gold is still the traditional method of storing one’s wealth, but Fatal Flower shows that opium has become far more lucrative. It essentially serves as Afghanistan’s stock market. From farmers and smugglers to politicians and warlords, everyone along the chain of production socks away stockpiles of opium to sell at a later date when the price is high. In a nation of great uncertainty, the illicit opium trade has filled a gaping void, proving to be not just a seductive and lucrative side business, but one of the few sources of economic and cultural stability.