Persona

I have at least two other posts on this movie on my blogs. This is my third or fourth viewing, first since college. I first saw this probably too soon -- probably early high school, probably one of the first foreign movies I'd seen, if not the first. I don't think I had any idea what to do with it, but maybe I liked the atmosphere (see other recent posts for discussion of atmosphere). Then in college I put it beside The Seventh Seal as my favorite Bergman movies I'd seen. They're very different.

After Scenes from a Marriage I commented it was not as artistically or conceptually interesting as his other movies I remembered. Indeed, Persona is far more interesting to me, and I prefer it. Scenes is upsetting and empty; maybe if I felt more sympathetic to their love (as I used to in Blue Valentine) it would have been a beautiful experience, but as is I didn't take much away, other than knowledge of a relationship and of a cinematic triumph. Persona is so much easier to justify: it's artistically and conceptually interesting. There's much more to chew on. I didn't even reconsider relationships after Scenes (maybe this depends on the viewer's state of life). Persona leaves plenty of questions. Persona rewards rewatches.

There's more to mine. Even the plot is confounding. There's allegorical potential. There's esoteric artistry. I like how Persona is 90 minutes -- sometimes you need to deliver a compact package. It touches each subject with subtlety and elegance, without bludgeoning the viewer out of wonder. It's impressions. Scenes was arguably long-winded. Tarkovsky is tough. Persona glides. There's no way this movie can tire me -- it's dense and pleasant. What more can you ask for?

Next day:

I like impressions, vignettes, portraits that introduce original experience but leave closure to the audience. It reminds me of those models of knowledge in which one person is a capital T (no depth in most areas, intense depth in one) and another is a comb (reasonable depth in a diverse array). An artwork could hammer home its point (beat a dead horse) to guarantee audience understanding, but that's not very artistic -- leave that to science, I guess (but exclude modern physics). Art should be subtle (my post) and interpretive; it should leave room for the viewer, rather than pummel subjectivity with objectivity. That's not to say it lacks clarity or coherence -- Persona's obscurity isn't required -- but it leaves room for interpretation if not multiple interpretations. Let's say it takes you 70% there -- even if it has one definite goal, it lets you finish it, but 70% also means there could be multiple possible goals. Back to models of knowledge, Persona is a rich array of impressions: even if it has a certain goal, it doesn't drive it unambiguously. It lets you finish the story, if not make your own. It seems most great art has vision and direction but allows audience participation in the application, or even in the conceptual completion. Even Pollock had vision. 2001: A Space Odyssey doesn't complete the circle, conceptually, but it gets you far enough on an original vision to take something away, if you're attentive and original yourself. Great art seems to require artistry from the audience; it doesn't fill in the gaps; if it did, the audience wouldn't have an artistic experience -- they'd have an experience of art; the pleasure of great art is then not only the experience of art but the creation as well; creating art is inherently pleasant; participating must be too. Persona doesn't fill in the gaps -- it allow creativity on your part, or the pleasure of chaos if you choose not to seek solutions. Sometimes losing grip is pleasurable.

I like Persona for its subtlety. As I've explained before (Art post, 22 A Million post?) subtlety needn't be soft or austere. Sonic screeches and black splatter can both be subtle. Persona is abrasive at times, but conceptually, it's gently lobbing some rich context. These aren't fastballs. My metaphors are flying off the rails as I try to define subtlety subtly, meaning I can't get you all the way there -- I have to babble around a subject, but I need vision. I'm setting satellites in orbit, and you can imagine what's at the center. How could I do this without metaphors? So much of our language is founded on metaphors. "Abrasive" is an adjective. It can be applied to sound (I always thought of Yeezus as abrasive), but really, unless there's a deeper etymology ("deep" is another example), it's about surface granularity ("granularity" is another example). Our colloquial language relies on metaphors so much that they stop being metaphors and become new definitions (see my post on a different blog regarding "vicious circles"). Anyway, I'm not trying to be lazy or dense by failing to find the gravitational center of my point. I'm trying to guide my audience without doing all the work for -- and seizing creativity's pleasure from -- them. Subtle art is not lazy or dense, because it offers original vision. It's hard to be original. When you're original, you can formally teach your audience, but now you're a scientist, which is fine. If you want to be an artist on the other hand, you need to associate your vision with beauty, and leave some of that beauty of creation for your audience as they become momentary disciples in your direction.

Can longer works be subtle? Yes. Though I haven't read much of Ulysses; though its style appears unsubtle and idiosyncratic; though it appears long-winded; though it may lack vision; still it may have consistent and subtle vision. Persona is short, digestible, but long enough to deliver a vision and explore it a little.

Scenes from a Marriage

(Bergman's theatrical version)

I perhaps haven't seen Bergman in 6.5 years?

The title is appropriate: these are just scenes. As far as I can tell, there's nothing higher going on. And the scenes aren't about the disintegration of a marriage as I thought beforehand -- that happens early and abruptly. Most of the movie is post-apocalypse. Blue is the Warmest Colour is about the disintegration of a relationship, and it's gut-wrenching as I recall, as hope is gradually ground to ash. Scenes from a Marriage features the eruption but mostly explores the ashy aftermath. This really reflavors the movie, since enduring a slow eruption, with hope of escape, differs greatly from a sudden eruption and a lot of dead time trying to rebuild. To me, much of Scenes from a Marriage was more depressing than sad. The eruption was sad, but the rest was bleak.

This movie immediately and finally surprised me by its normalcy. I'm not sure whether you could call the relationship abnormal, given divorce rates, just like I'm not sure when abnormal psychology becomes normal. But in any case, this is so much more normal than other Bergman I remember. It's highly realistic, not just aesthetically, but all the way through -- which seems unique among Bergman I've seen. I wonder if the premise and legacy of the movie are primarily its intimate realism: here's a long movie almost exclusively of closeups of two characters as they talk incessantly, intimately, and believably. I wonder whether such intimacy x realism was original at the time. It's probably been done much more, recently (like Blue is the Warmest Colour, maybe Blue Valentine). Other Bergman I remember being stylish and philosophical. Scenes from a Marriage is artsy in concept but not style, and it's not really philosophical. I like the concept: microscope examination of a relationship. But without style or philosophy, you're leaving a lot of justification to the viewer's ability to connect with the characters, i.e. the viewer's history. I could connect with some of this, but it's still a little tough to justify. What did I gain? Probably some empathy, and a broader vision of cinema. I don't regret it. I like it.

But I don't love it. It wasn't emotional enough for me to justify the lack of style and moral. It was very sad to me a couple times, and depressing or relieving elsewhere, but the spectrum wasn't quite broad enough to be rich. It's a good cinematic study though, and I was continuously attentive to their dialogue.

This is the least child-appropriate PG movie I've ever seen (2001 is G). Sex abounds -- it's almost the orbital center to all the other clutter. Even without it, these are very mature themes.

I'm pretty sympathetic to Marianne. It's a little crushing when Johan leaves her, so whatever happens after that is framed in terms of her redemption, which doesn't really come. Ultimately he's the one who left -- however much he suffered was founded on his choice, while her suffering wasn't founded on a particular choice or fault of hers. I wanted victory for Marianne, and humbling for Johan. The humbling came around, but not the victory I hoped for. She's permanently scarred, without enough redemption for me to leave with a good feeling.

I appreciate Liv Ullmann's performance. Who has been more exposed? Just Adele in Blue? And this is 1973, when movies are more guarded. She's valiant, hiding behind no beard or black iris. Everything about her is naked and abandoned, and to do it for so long, with so many lines, delivered to such a close camera, is stunning. I could say some similar things of the male lead, but I get a totally different sensation with him, his character being despicable to me where hers isn't, and him being male where she isn't. I've loved movies that explore naked and abandoned males, but for various reasons my sympathy is low with Johan. Liv of course I remember from other movies -- I think she's the silent one in Persona -- so I was impressed by her exceedingly normal, vulnerable role.

Edit: I just read about the film. Critics seem to agree, Ullmann's performance is the heroic, though Josephson's is also complex and true. It's hard not to feel the greater sympathy for the victim, who is also the more beautiful of the pair. See my old post On my favorite "people" in cinema -- my perception of the character and of the performance are deeply linked. Here, there's no question Ullmann's is the taller performance as it's linked with her character. She seemed to get more praise and awards than he.

Critics also seem to roughly share my perspective on the value of this movie. When I was rambling about it not being philosophical earlier, I now recall what I was measuring it against: his "silence of God" themes. Those are absent, and it's just a marriage story.

Phantom Thread

Reviewed last year

I really like this movie. I like the style and characters. In my recent Mirror post I discussed the importance of atmosphere. Phantom Thread has an immersive atmosphere for me. I'm lost in the glamor and the micro-interactions. It's thrilling like the first firelit confrontation of Michael Fassbender and Mia Wasikowska as Rochester and Jane Eyre: that was engrossing from the top down: from the haunted pastoral setting to the electricity in the subjects' eyes. Phantom Thread is also a study of characters; the plot is as dull as a child could imagine, yet the dynamics are lightning. I feel these interactions deeply; maybe some people watch this movie feeling Woodcock is irredeemable; personally I related to him. Perhaps this is just another example of Paul Thomas Anderson movies striking my soft spots. I really believed every bit of it. My empathy was torn between the two characters. Ultimately Alma is the protagonist, like Jane Eyre, but I relate at least as much with the Byron.

I appreciated bits of humor more this time than last. It's essential; without intermittent relief -- without Alma brushing off his abuse with light retort -- this movie would be insufferable. Imagine her crying every time she's offended. She reminds us not to take it all too seriously, that we can enjoy the movie, though this lesson is delicate. I don't want to over-excuse him -- he's an asshole at best, and maybe concerningly abusive -- but I've learned in the last few years not to be so serious, and that it's okay for people to have different severities of expression. Some people I knew in New Jersey would come off as rude in Wisconsin, though they're no less kind. Woodcock is an asshole -- but how seriously do we need to take him? We could be hurt every time he scolds or neglects us, or we can say "fuck off" like he does and move on with our day -- or "your moaning hurts my ears" like Cyril. When dealing with an everlasting asshole it becomes the recipient's choice how sensitive to be. This movie could have been miserable, if Alma was too sensitive, and Cyril never stood her ground. Thankfully Woodcock is at times reduced to juvenility, not by his actions but by the reactions of others. Nothing is more childish than getting mad at someone who doesn't give a shit. The lightness of such moments saves the movie. That's not to mention the actual humor, which is rare but unmistakable. But speaking of childishness, I like how we're left, eventually, with the question: who's the real toddler? Though some woman asks Woodcock what it's like to marry a toddler, the irony buzzes.

Maybe I would have been a good English aristocrat. I enjoyed these two hours of smug banter, like a parlor game. It's interesting what can entertain us, and the abstract ways we'll spend our time. Phantom Thread is for people who are doing pretty well by Maslow.

Mirror (Tarkovsky)

This may be my mildest Tarkovsky experience so far. The exquisite imagery was there, and some philosophical rambling, but I couldn't make much more of it, and the atmosphere was milder. Solaris, Stalker, and (as I recall) Rublev have the atmospheric boon: space, supernatural, and medieval, respectively. Mirror feels surprisingly modern and down-to-earth after those three, which may hinder the mystique built by the imagery, sound, and writing. Solaris and Stalker have the consummate atmosphere of mystique. It's almost horror. It feels otherwordly, like the lunar monolith in 2001. There's a visceral terror propped equally on the atmosphere and the existential consequences of the alien. Mirror misses that sensation. The glaciation of nebulousness that is a Tarkovsky movie needs the intensity of the unknown. I first noticed the relative sobriety of Mirror watching Natalia's hyper-modern facial expressions: she could have been an American teen in the 2000s. There's nothing like that in the other movies. It sort of rips you out of the Tarkovsky dream. I think the dream was flowing well for a while... maybe my attention waned, but I really fell out of it toward the end. In any case, how could Mirror be as interesting? I don't fully understand it, and want to read about it, but isn't it essentially just an autobiography? Should I be that interested in studying Tarkovsky the man? Is it offering anything else, other than technical/visual feats and feasts? I can't say I disliked it, or found it vacuous, but I was even less sure what to grasp than in the others. As I mentioned, at least those forced singular experiences, even when one lost rational grip. Mirror preserved their tone (slow, inscrutable) but not their atmosphere.

I'll have to read about it.

Maybe this would all make more sense if I was a little more keen with visuals. My longtime passion for movies is ironic given that deficiency.

Now that I think about it, I didn't do the visuals enough justice. I actually watched the first 16 minutes in 240p, because I assumed that's all I had available... so much for the "most beautiful movie ever made." Even after I found it in 720 the screen was small and resolution not quite adequate. I'm sure that hurt more than my visual appreciation, but the general immersion too.

Horror

I haven't seen a lot of horror, and those I have seen have generally been artsy or intellectual.

I like Kubrick and Lars Von Trier.

The Unborn was one of the first and only conventional (as I recall) horror movies I've seen, but that was 8th grade and PG-13. I also saw It (2017) in 2018.

I watched Silence of the Lambs in college. I think I have a review of that on one of my two blogs. I don't remember loving it, but I don't really remember it.

I've seen The Shining (Kubrick's) a few times. I like it. Lots of Kubrick flirts with horror, even 2001 which is rated G.

Directors like Tarkovsky, Bergman, and Lynch sort of flirt with horror. I love Solaris and Mulholland Drive. Maybe I don't actually know what horror is.

Refn can be very disturbing (e.g. Only God Forgives), but that's probably not horror.

I've been recommended some recent movies like Midsommar and The Lighthouse. I could consider watching those, though I'm not sure why people watch movies to feel horrified. Maybe in these cases they don't. I didn't watch Antichrist to feel horrified.

Growing up I was terrified by many movies. Like Mission Impossible. Definitely not horror, but kept me up multiple nights. No Country for Old Men ruined showers for me for a while. That must have been 7th grade.

At one point I considered whether Synecdoche was sort of psychological horror, which is my favorite movie. But there are many problems with that classification. I guess Anomalisa gets the same conflict.

I'm not sure what to call Apichatpong Weerasethakul. Probably not horror.

I liked Shutter Island, which is one of the closest movies I've seen to horror.

I saw Dogtooth around high school, because the DVD case attracted me at the library. I shut it off fairly quick (my purity complex was strong those days). I think I tried it again after a couple years or something. I'm not sure I finished it that time either. I don't think I hated it or was mortified, but disturbed.

Obviously I haven't seen much horror, since I'm really stretching here, and can count on one or two hands the number of unambiguous horror movies I've seen.

The Great Dictator

My second Chaplin endeavor made a little more sense than my first, but the 23 years between them helped. The Immigrant felt remote but inherently familiar, as though I could comprehend a language I never learned. The Great Dictator is familiar in that one easily charts its course toward more modern movies like Dr. Strangelove. The Great Dictator feels remarkably nearer than The Immigrant, partly due to its humor, cultural context, and diegetic sound. Its honesty cut deeper, actualized in its final unexpected moments. It was darker and more poignant. The Immigrant was like a routine, while The Great Dictator was a movie, with the breadth and depth of modern cinema. It's still largely physical, belying its rich subject matter, but at times it confronts those themes maturely. Hitler dancing for silent minutes with a balloon globe is its best example of balancing the physical and the dramatic. Elsewhere a scene is dedicated to nothing but Hitler playing the piano. Such moments are sincere if not poignant. The ending sheds all comedy for bravery. The optimism is tragic to the modern viewer who knows what the next five years held in store. Apparently Chaplin later said he couldn't have made the movie if he'd known the extremity of the situation. I can empathize: while his take on the situation is appreciated, the satire is difficult to stomach knowing what we know now, and I'm half a century removed -- imagine the buzzkill back then as they learned what was happening in Hitler's empire. There's a ton of Trump comedy these days that would turn grotesque if he was revealed to orchestrate mass sex slavery or something. I suppose part of The Great Dictator's legacy is its poise between two Wars -- between innocence fighting for its life and innocence's extermination. Chaplin's spirit is humbled enough for a brave satire that would be impossible a few years later. His perspective on the times, encapsulated in The Great Dictator, is admirable, elevating the movie above slapstick. I enjoyed the comedy and appreciated the thematic content.

The Immigrant (Chaplin)

Not much to say here... this is my first Chaplin movie. It doesn't seem as artistically interesting as historically interesting, although I wonder whether it's so uniformly unsurprising because it's just part of my modern American consciousness. I suppose I've seen silent era slapstick many times in the unconscious periphery. The movie felt familiar in the way my recent introduction to The Carter Family felt familiar, though I'd never heard their music. It's just elemental, so it doesn't sound revolutionary. What one hardly appreciates is the parallel universe that was never granted said elements.

Were viewers invested in the emotional arc? Did they cry? Did they laugh out loud? Or was this just entertainment -- arresting their attention for 25 minutes in a novel medium? If Avatar inspired such awe in 2009, I'm sure Chaplin could have in 1917 with his deeper artistry and his blooming medium.

I'm interested, poised to admire. I wouldn't mind watching another. Familiarity with Chaplin seems valuable, as a ruler and trivia boon. The movie wasn't unenjoyable, just a little tired, so I'm hoping the longer and later features are also richer. Otherwise it'll be tough. But I value the frame of reference in contextualizing the rest of film.

Solaris

Seen twice in college

Hari is the load-bearing element for me. Without her, this is a lot of visual and discursive wandering. Characters in Solaris and Stalker sway loosely when they speak nihilistically. Maybe there's a Russian social habit in there. The point is these movies can be nonchalant to the point of emptiness. They're still provocative and profound to me, but cadaverous. Hari injects blood straight from her own confused heart. It distinguishes this from Stalker, for which I had negligible interpersonal empathy (and the only woman was the pathetic archetype). Solaris without Hari is still fascinating, but Solaris with Hari weighs on me. She's a tragic but noble sacrifice -- "she", meaning whatever persists through her incarnations, suffers sorely in representing the holographic power of the Ocean. She endures extreme pain, the terrifying absence of identity, and finally, willful nonexistence. And she makes me feel all of this, which impresses me given the historical-cultural context of the film. After Stalker, which is actually seven years later than Solaris, I wouldn't expect ardent empathy to hit me in this film. I even loved the character and what she represented. She isn't wholly human, but I feared Kris expelling her, me feeling more empathy for her than anyone else -- which is perhaps deliberately ironic. This has been done before, though I don't remember where -- the least human character gets the most empathy.

It's a singular cinematic romance. She's some form of hallucination, very sentient, piecing identity and humanity together as she's killed and resurrected several times. As she builds awareness he sinks to blissful ignorance. Briefly they meet in the middle and are happy. Then she almost transcends his humanity with a selfless choice to abandon him. The choices of Kris for the surreal Hari are original in film as far as I know.

This sounds like corny sci-fi, but tone matters. Per other Tarkovsky, it's radically meditative. It can't be corny because nothing is cliché. Tarkovsky seems intentionally esoteric and scholarly -- though again, the Hari element inserts heart into an otherwise academic thesis.

The tone, themes, and pathos merge for an affecting picture, if you can stomach it.

Punch-Drunk Love

A couple months ago I pulled up Punch-Drunk Love and stopped after about 20 seconds. Those 20 seconds recalled memories of vague discomfort, eccentricities, a tone I'm not usually seeking when I'm just in the mood to watch a movie. I think I watched the exceedingly cinematic Macbeth instead. Tonight didn't seem any different -- if anything less fit for a movie given my exhaustion -- and beyond expectation I thoroughly enjoyed Punch-Drunk Love. It's been many years. Maybe early college, or earlier. I probably saw it a couple or few times back then. I remember really liking it, placing it in my high class of movies that connect with me, beside other Paul Thomas Anderson features with that keen emotive intelligence. I think I explained this in a post in the past year. Something about empathy and intelligence converging in a way suitable to my taste. Something about Paul Thomas Anderson being my soul mate. Or maybe being myself in a parallel universe. I just can't go wrong with him. His tone just seems right for me -- especially everything after Boogie Nights. Boogie Nights is a little more questionable, though I like it. Anyway, I remember liking Punch-Drunk Love, and connecting with it, and feeling dreamy. I didn't expect those feelings would revive. But I truly enjoyed it tonight. Much of it was dreamy in the sense of chaotic nonlinear dreams that are neither good nor bad, just amusing to recall. That would define Punch-Drunk Love's place in cinema, I guess. But there's this massive heart I somehow connect with, despite all the superficial discomfort, which makes it a wonderful sort of dream. It's unexpected, since I don't think I feel particular affection for Barry. It's hard for me to feel affection for Adam Sandler. He's just so confusing. Even the way he looks and speaks is weird and uncomfortable, and his movies are mind-blowingly successful. I don't get the Adam Sandler phenomenon at all. Nor do I get how he pulled this movie off, nor why he got the role. Somehow it seems to work. It may even be a great performance -- it's hard for me to tell. Given the rest of his repertoire, he seems to kind of crush this one. Yet he's still Adam Sandler. I wonder whether I'd prefer this movie with a better-looking actor, or at least a more sympathetic-looking one. For one, it would make me less uncomfortable looking at him, and for two, it would make the romance more believable. As much as I've seen Emily Watson before and never swooned, the foil with Barry (and really with the entire movie) is extremely powerful in rosying her up. She's a downright bombshell in the world of this movie! And worth loving -- she's very warm and kind and accepting toward a character with the warmth of a razor's edge. It's a little uncomfortable to watch -- why is she being an angel to this guy? Maybe I'm ill with envy -- not necessarily of him for her, but of him for the circumstance and the unequivocal goodness of the relationship. How does he deserve such an angelic presence in such a menial world as this movie? What was PTA's premise for this movie? Put this really uncomfortable guy in this really uncomfortable world and give him an angel? It's hard to imagine writing this movie. But it seems to work. I really liked it. I found the relationship beautiful and admirable. Everything was thrilling and fun -- every little detail. There are so many details that don't seem to contribute to the larger purpose, but if the purpose is tone, then they sure do, and the tone is classic and unique. It all kept me amused, long enough to eventually knock me down. Maybe I have to be in the mood to put up with idiosyncratic Sandler. Or at least not not in the mood. Yet I really liked this movie.

As much as I appreciate the subtlety and austerity of his more recent, more serious movies (There Will Be Blood, Phantom Thread), his filmography's greatness wouldn't be so comprehensive without his earlier frenetic passion projects, wherein he threw every idea at the wall in energetic succession (Boogie Nights, Magnolia, Punch-Drunk Love). I don't know how a person writes movies like these, but clearly he was a fountain of ideas. In 95 minutes Punch-Drunk Love is at least three movies: pudding scheme, identity theft, guy with complex social and emotional problems finds love, maybe the harmonium bit... but the fountain of ideas doesn't end there. It really flows through every minute of the movie, in every shot, musical flair, conversation... Reading the Wikipedia plot summary is unique enough, but even ignoring the plot, every moment of the movie has something unique to offer. I just can't help but call the filmmaker brilliant -- such a prolific and passionate spring of ideas. Even if the movies don't agree with one's taste, the inspiration is inspiring.