#34 Denmark — Michael (1924)

This one is a bit dubious with regards to country-of-origin, but I'm counting it because Dreyer was Danish.


I never thought that a film about a homosexual relationship could be made in the '20s until I saw Michael. By today's standards all the allusions are incredibly subtle, but by the those of the day, it's incredible that the film was even released.


The titular character is a young model who catapulted an older artist to fame and now lives with him as an adopted son/lover. As the film progresses, he becomes more distant from his painter and closer to a princess whom his master is capturing.


Perhaps the most striking aspect of the film is the art direction. The architecture and decoration of the rooms are astoundingly beautiful; the giant head statue, the water fountain and many other features make the mansion feel very grandiose and a work of art in itself.


The art is all excellently captured by the cinematography, which makes strong use of deep focus (anyone who says that Citizen Kane invented deep focus simply hasn't seen enough early German cinema) to create complex framings and give the large rooms a greater sense of space. As Dreyer would go on to perfect in his later films (most notably The Passion of Joan of Arc), close-ups are put to good use, effectively capturing all the emotion in the character's faces.


Unfortunately, the aforementioned emotion doesn't really take any skill to capture, which brings me to my main gripe about the film: the melodrama. The whole film is rife with super-sentimentality and overacting. It seems impossible that the same man who made this film would go on to direct an incredibly subtle performance, decades ahead of its time only four years later, or show such a masterful understanding of the depths and intricacies of emotion in Ordet (which is his masterpiece in my humble opinion). For all of Michael's beauty and historical intrigue, it is forced to be a minor film in Dreyer's oeuvre with its uncharacteristic presentation style.


It would, however, be a mistake to avoid the film just because of the melodrama, as there are a number of important and well explored themes contained within. I love films about artists, as I always feel they are in some way autobiographical for the director (being a firm believer in auteur theory) and reflect their views of art and the problems with creating it. Michael is no different and gives very interesting insight into the way that an artist interacts with their subjects and how the painter-model or director-actor relationship affects them in their private lives. Youth is also an important theme, especially the understanding of others due to the stage of life that one is at and how different ages view people and the world in different ways.


Although the over-sentimentality does damage the film somewhat, Michael is still worth watching as an interesting example of early gay cinema, a work of great aesthetic beauty and a great study of the relationship between an artist and their subject.


Also recommended from Denmark:
Other films by Carl Theodore Dreyer (Vampyr, The Passion of Joan of Arc, Ordet)
Lars Von Trier (Dancer in the Dark, Breaking the Waves, Europa)
Thomas Vinterberg (Festen)
Benjamin Christensen (Häxan)
Gabriel Axel (Babette's Feast)

#32 China — Raise the Red Lantern (1991)

Sorry for the delay, I had to take a whole day out to travel to Ipswich and back for an Undergraduate of the Year assessment. Should be back on schedule from now.


Although more famous for his recent wuxia films such as The House of Flying Daggers and Hero, Yimou made some rather excellent dramas earlier in his career — and boy are they pretty. Raise the Red Lantern is one of the latter and perhaps his best, alongside his 1994 epic To Live.


Polygamy in films is something that I have found interesting since watching a few African films. The interplay between the wives is completely alien to my Western mind and is ofter fascinating. Raise the Red Lantern is no different and is a particularly great example of this. The four wives of a rich and powerful lord in 1920s China are the focus of the film. They are constantly vying for his love and attention whilst attempting to maintain tenuous friendships. When I say "focus", I mean focus. We never even see the lord's face because his character isn't important to the proceedings, only what his character represents.


The cinematography is fantastic, coupling a very naturally beautiful lighting style and a more emotionless ultra-symmetric and thoughtfully composed framing method. This style emphasises the properness expected of the wives and the near mathematical ways in which they live. The framing also shows how trapped the fourth wife (Gong Li) is in this world by only showing the sky a number of times you could count on one hand. Colour filters are put to very good use (anyone who has read my Red Desert review will know that it is very rare for me to say that) and go together with the rich colour palate to create a fairly dense symbolic language which often says more than the characters do.


Culturally, the film may pose a challenge for some viewers. The aforementioned polygamy, coupled with the completely Eastern opera singing present a very different view of the world and make it more difficult to pick up on some of the subtleties which a greater understanding of the environment would give. If you are like me, however, you will find this a fascinating window into what seems like another world.


The acting is fantastic all round. Characters are played with equal measures of restraint and subtle expressivity. This compliments the soft lighting and measured pace very well, creating a fairly relaxed but involving atmosphere.


Although the slow development and lack of particularly relatable characters sometimes causes the narrative to drag slightly, the other aspects more than make up for it. Those interested in different cultures, or viewers who just enjoy a well crafted film will definitely appreciate Raise the Red Lantern. Even if synopses you find don't seem particularly engaging, I'd still recommend giving this film a watch.


Also recommended from China:
Other films by Zhang Yimou (Hero, To Live, The House of Flying Daggers)
Stephen Chow (Shaolin Soccer, Kung Fu Hustle)
Spring in a Small Town
Song at Midnight

#30 Romania — Four Months, Three Weeks and Two Days (2007)

A Romanian friend of mine told me that she saw this film with a male friend of her's. His reaction upon coming out of the cinema was "My ovaries hurt". That pretty much sums up my reaction both times I've seen the film.


Four Months... is not subtle. It doesn't "suggest" themes, it takes them, shapes them into a nice big boot and delivers a swift kick to the balls. Repeatedly. The main themes are found in the abortion which serves as the central plot element and the value of life, which the characters (and the viewer) are forced to contemplate afterwards. These are not shown in a morally ambiguous way for the viewer to interpret; the film is, at heart, almost a propaganda film.


It is set during the 1980s in Romania, when abortions were illegal. We are dragged along behind two young women, one who wants their pregnancy aborted. What follows is shocking and hard to watch, but is given a very humanistic slant by creating strong, believable characters whose feelings are very easy to empathise with.


The direction is stellar; there is nothing to distract the viewer from the core of the film, it is very well paced and has a number of phenomenal scenes which are among the best of the decade. In particular, a static dinner party shot which lasts around 10 minutes is perhaps one of the most simple but deep and heartbreaking shots in modern cinema.


The cold and raw cinematography goes along with the stark and uncompromising presentation. It doesn't adhere to any one style, instead shifting between them as necessary. For example, a long hand-held camera journey through dark and ominous alleys is just as accomplished as the aforementioned static dinner shot.


Both leads put in excellent performances. Their characters are very real and subtly emotive; their naivety and confusion seem very organic and unforced.


Although the focus is very much on the central themes, the deliberate pacing gives the viewer a lot of time to contemplate the more universal applications of the content. Because of this, it isn't just a film about abortion, it's a film about the choices we make for good or bad, friendship, the strains which relationships go through when difficult situations arise and much more.


Four Months... is not an easy film to watch, but it's one which will stay with you for the rest of your life. Perhaps the effect is comparable to that of Requiem for a Dream. I could not imagine anyone taking hard drugs after watching that film, nor can I imagine anyone getting an abortion after seeing this one. It was one of the most important and powerful films of the noughties and I'm sure it will maintain a strong reputation in years to come. Recommended to anyone who can stomach the content or thinking about getting an abortion.

#29 Georgia — Kin-Dza-Dza! (1986)

Ku. Ku; ku. Ku. Ku? Ku! If we were on the planet Pluke in the Kin-Dza-Dza galaxy, I could have just said nearly anything, so long as it didn't involve matches or bells that hang from one's nose.


If the above paragraph made absolutely no sense, but you found it kind of amusing, then Kin-Dza-Dza! is the film for you. It starts on Earth, where a man named Vladimir Nikolaevich is told to get some groceries. On his way, he gets sidetracked by a man professing to be an alien who doesn't know where he his. Vladimir accidentally gets teleported to the planet Pluke alongside a violin-carrying passer-by and they must both figure out what the hell is going on.


The world of Pluke is excellently crafted. We learn of its language (mainly consisting of the word "ku"), its class system (decided by which light turns on when a device is pointed at you and what colour trousers you wear) and customs. All of these are wildly imaginative and very funny.


The film isn't just all laughs either. There's a wealth of subtext about social divides, cultural differences, racism, life philosophy etc. These don't bog things down though; the film still keeps most of the emphasis on the surreal sci-fi and absurdist comedy elements.


Most of the technical aspects of the film are simply average. The editing and cinematography are passable, but nothing special. The acting is similarly bland and the cgi is plain awful. The art direction, however is inspired. The pseudo-cyberpunk ships and locations are very well crafted and lend the world a lot of character. The music is also great, it's quirky and bouncy, and compliments the tone of the film perfectly.


Kin-Dza-Dza! will appeal to both those looking for some light sci-fi, and those who want a heady comedy. Allegedly it has a huge cult following in the post-soviet states and I can see why; the dialogue is frequently hilarious and quotable, and the world is very vivid. I would certainly recommend this film to anyone who likes their films with a big splash of absurdity, regardless of genre tastes.


Also recommended from Georgia:
13 Tzameti

#28 Poland — The Double Life of Veronique (1991)

I actually started writing a review of Wojciech Has' post-surrealist masterpiece The Hourglass Sanatorium, but decided it was a lost battle trying to write anything on the film whilst assuming limited prior knowledge. So instead you get to hear (read) me gush about colour use and music for 500 words or so. Lucky you.


There are very few directors who can claim the same consistency and mastery of an art form that Kieslowski had. He made five of the most important and arguably best works of the nineties in a row, until retiring and tragically dying of a heart attack at the age of 54.


I don't know of any director with a better control of colour and music. The Double Life of Veronique and the Three Colours Trilogy demonstrate an almost perfect attunement to their use.


In this film, the use of a greeny-yellow colour filter gives everything a gorgeous autumnal feel as opposed to just washing everything else out (cf. A Very Long Engagement). The reds and greens in the frame seem to slowly separate out over the film as Veronique moves towards some understanding of her life. These go together to give a magical, fantastical air to proceedings. The cinematographical flairs present throughout give a virtuosic finish to the film's visual style.


The music is hauntingly beautiful and is a definite contender for my favourite musical score (perhaps equal with Joe Hisaishi's accompaniment to Hana-Bi). Zbigniew Preisner (yes, I had to look up the spelling) constructed a very dramatic soundtrack which blends with the content perfectly. Themes pop up every now and then to show vague memories or feelings that Veronica has. It is similar to Blue's usage of music, but a bit more subtle (I'm not saying anything against Blue here, that utilisation fits well in the themes of the film).


Irène Jacob is captivating as the double lead. She plays the characters with innocence, grace, tenderness and inquisitivity. The viewer can't help but fall in love with her and pray that her situations come to a happy end. The fact that she's utterly gorgeous does help her case somewhat. The rest of the cast put in good performances, but all are overshadowed by Jacob and the focus Kieslowski puts on her characters.


I don't want to spoil any of the plot, as it is very interesting to watch unfold. Lets just say it involves double lives, musicians and lots of Irène Jacob.


Although I could sit and appreciate the film just for the acting, cinematography and music, there is a lot of depth which becomes more and more apparent on multiple viewings. Anyone who enjoys humanistic films will have a field day here. The themes of human connections and relationships are deeply and profoundly explored. There is also the feeling of chance and fate which Kieslowski would come to focus on in Red. Due to the openness of the plot and depth of the main character(s), the experience is a very personal one; someone else may take something completely different out of their viewing from me. This increases the connection which one — or I, at least — has with the work.


The Double Life of Veronique is one of the few films which seems to get everything right. I can't find a flaw in any of its aspects, although some may argue that the plot gets a bit complicated at points. It is a film which goes for the heart, mind and soul in equal measures and hits all three. If you appreciate art, watch this.


Also recommended from Poland:
Other films by Kieslowski (Three Colours Trilogy, Dekalog, Camera Buff)
Wojciech Has (The Hourglass Sanatorium, The Saragossa Manuscript)
Roman Polanski (Repulsion, A Knife in the Water)
Andrzej Zulawski (Possession, The Third Part of the Night)
Andrzej Wajda (War Trilogy)
Wladyslaw Starewicz (The Cameraman's Revenge, The Mascot)
Zbigniew Rybczynski (Tango)

#27 Uruguay — Whisky (2004)

Comedy is probably the genre I have the most loose taste in. People are often surprised to hear that I love films like Anchorman, Airplane and Hot Shots Part Deux as well as the films of Buster Keaton or Chaplin when most of my favourite films are fairly depressing. The one thing in comedy I really can't stand is the awkward comedy, the film or TV show that delights in making you squirm in discomfort. Whisky is a well made film, but near enough epitomises this niche.


When Jacobo, a socially-awkward sock factory owner, hears that his successful brother is coming to visit him, he asks his similarly introverted employee, Marta, to pose as his wife to make him appear well-to-do.


Each character is well fleshed out and superbly acted. The distance between the two brothers is painfully felt and Marta's difficulty in communication is shown to hide a childlike compassion and warmth. The technical aspects of the film are all well executed. The slow pace wrings out every last drop of discomfort from the scenes and the stark, cold cinematography emphasises the emptiness in the character's lives.


The directing duo do a superb job here, the film is subtly well-observed and focused solely on the three main characters. There is no dressing up or contrived sub-plots here, and the film is all the better for it.


Personally I didn't enjoy Whisky. By the halfway point, I was waiting for it to end so I could watch something a bit less awkward. It is certainly not a bad film though. Many will find joy in the Coenesque repetition coupled with very real characters. Fans of Jim Jarmush, Aki Kaurismaki should definitely look this up. If my earlier review of Noi Albonoi made you watch the film and you enjoyed it, give this a try too.


Note: The film is called Whisky as it is the word used to make people smile for photographs.

#24 Turkey — Climates (2006)

Why I chose this: I discovered Ceylan around the same time I saw my first Bela Tarr film. Since then, he has been one of my favourite modern directors. I got Climates on DVD as a Birthday present, but never got round to watching it. This series is turning into a great way to watch DVDs I've had for too long.


Climates stands as another testament to Ceylan's painfully astute understanding of relationship breakdowns. Sitting between the phenomenal Uzak's exploration of a damaged brotherly connection and Three Monkey's examination of a family unit under siege, Climates studies a man-woman (it's not revealed if they are married, unless there was an obvious wedding ring I missed) relationship in its most sorry state.


Ceylan is often lumped into the Contemporary Contemplative Cinema "movement". Although he shares a common approach with a few of his peers — most notably Andrei Zvyagintsev — he has much more in common with the works of Michaelangelo Antonioni. His work demonstrates a profound knowledge of modern society's effects on human relationships, which makes his films very easy to connect with, if you can get past the slow pace.


Ceylan's choice to cast himself and his wife as the main characters is both brave and thought-provoking. How autobiographical is this film? The strength and believability of both performances gives saddening clues.


Although the cinematography isn't quite as stunning as Uzak, it is used as a storytelling device more effectively. It goes together with the mise en scene to reinforce the emotions and connections present in the shot. Physical space and actor positioning is used to show emotional distance between characters and depth-of-field is altered to show disassociation with a character's surroundings.


Music is used sparingly and is all connected to the diegesis in clever ways (cf The Big Lebowski). It sometimes borders on manipulative depressiveness, but never quite crosses the boundary and so remains sincere. However, the weather changing to fit the mood of the scenes sometimes feels fake and obvious, but this doesn't heavily detract from the experience.


The characters feel very real and well developed, and the presentation is painfully honest, but I still didn't find the film to be as great as Uzak or Three Monkeys. Perhaps the main character's boorish insensitivity prevented me from properly connecting with him, or his wife's childish aloofness from understanding the original attraction.


I do have a few gripes, but in general, Climates is a great, if depressing, view of the disintegration of love and how it still leaves pieces of itself behind. Perhaps not necessary viewing, but definitely worth a watch for fans of Ceylan's other work or of slow, humanist cinema in general.


Also recommended from Turkey:
Other films of Nuri Bilge Ceylan (Uzak, Three Monkeys)
Fatih Akin (The Edge of Heaven, Head-On)

#22 France — The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting (1979)

Why I chose this: I flip-flopped a lot here. I watched a number of French films in the last few weeks; Rivette's surreal Celine and Julie Go Boating, a re-watch of Last Year at Marienbad — a personal favourite — and a relatively unknown 70s production called The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting. Another possibility would be Les Enfants Du Paradis, which I think is the best standard-style film ever made. Eventually I settled on the least known one; there's nothing I love more than finding hidden gems, so hopefully I'll satisfy others with this interest.


The late Raoul Ruiz was an unfortunate victim of chance. Despite making over 100 features and possessing a film-making skill to rival all of cinema's best, he never achieved the worldwide recognition of, say, Bunuel or Godard.


The Hypothesis of the Stolen Painting is, on the surface, a film where two narrators — one seen and one unseen — discuss progressively contrived theories of how a series of paintings join up. Further down, it is a very wry satire on art criticism and interpretation.


I don't think I have ever second-guessed myself more than I did watching this. I myself formulated convoluted ideas on what the film was trying to say, then realised the more that I thought about them and the more obscure they got, the more I was falling into the film's trap and doing exactly what it was satirising. There is a sort of meta-irony in there that would make this film a hipster's wet dream.


The cinematography by frequent Resnais and Greenaway collaborator, Sacha Vierny is stunning. The frames are sharp, shadowy and thoughtfully composed, presenting tableux vivants of the eponymous paintings. Vierny's work on Last Year at Marienbad is felt many times, although never quite reaching the utter perfection of Marienbad's images.


The narrative structure is effective and surreal. We move through the paintings, one by one, before witnessing a kind of snapshot of the paintings intertwined at the end. This compliments the absurdity of the theories in a similar fashion to Bunuel's narratives running alongside the crazy lives of the bourgeoisie.


Although one could discuss theories about the film until Ruiz started rolling in his grave, this would completely miss the point of the film. The satire is fairly subtle, but executed in a way that shows these critics or theorists to be childishly endearing rather than simply calling them idiots. I think they — myself included, as I probably fall under this banner — would perhaps prefer the latter, however. Even if one doesn't catch/pay attention to this facet of the film, they can easily get swept along by the excellent cinematography, surreal atmosphere and complex theorising.


Also recommended from France:
Marcel Carne (Les Enfants du Paradis, Port of Shadows)
Alain Resnais (Last Year At Marienbad, Hiroshima Mon Amour, Night and Fog)
Jean-Luc Godard (Pierrot Le Fou, Breathless)
Jean-Pierre Melville (Le Samourai, Army of Shadows)
Jaques Tati (Play Time, Mon Oncle)
Krzystof Kieslowski (Three Colours Trilogy)

#20 Armenia — The Colour of Pomegranates (1968)

Why I chose this: I'm not familiar with any other Armenian works than those of Sergei Parajanov. I'm still to see his other films, but I felt that The Colour of Pomegranates needed to be rewatched, so it seemed like a good choice for this review.


The Colour of Pomegranates is not a conventional biopic. Rather than being a simple dramatisation of key points in the subject's life (e.g. Senna, Ray), it is a visual representation of their work interspersed with poeticised versions of their life, all played out in stunning tableau vivant. The subject in this case is the Armenian poet and bard Sayat Nova (King of Songs).


Unless you've seen another Parajanov film, I can guarantee you've never seen anything like this. Each shot is a work of beautifully surreal art. The image composition is bizarre but striking. Look at the picture at the top of the page. Almost every frame has the same quality as that.


The excellent soundtrack consists of Armenian folk music of many varieties. Every piece is very musically interesting and complements the exotic images perfectly.


The film is not just pretty pictures, there is an incredible amount of symbolism ingrained into the images. Some can be interpreted literally, while some require more thought. No matter how deep into the complex metaphors one wishes to delve, it is impossible to not find any food for thought, which sets it apart from many other visually driven films (such as Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives in the previous review). Some may find some of the symbols too overt, and I may have agreed with them if this were a standard narrative film. In this case, the symbolism is the narrative, so the blatant nature of some metaphors is entirely necessary.


Perhaps the only gripe I have with the film is that it is too short. I own the fantastic Second Run transfer, which has a running time of 70 minutes; I could watch this for hours! I have managed to acquire the rushes of the film, which comes to four hours long, but has no sound. I'll get round to watching this despite this at some point (if anyone wants to know where they can get this, leave a comment).


The Colour of Pomegranates is one of the most dizzyingly original films ever produced. It's beauty and poetic nature are matched by very few and grows with multiple viewings. Anyone who appreciates cinema as art simply must see this film as it stands as one of the highest points that film has ever reached.

#19 Thailand — Uncle Boonmee Who Can Recall His Past Lives (2010)

Why I chose this: Apichatpong (or Joe as he likes to be called) is one of my favourite contemporary directors. This week was the first time I got a chance to see his Palme D'Or winning 2010 feature, so what better film to review for my Thailand segment?


Joe is a master of duality and context. In Syndromes and a Century, the juxtaposition of two similar stories set in different places/times makes a perfectly normal trip to the dentist a heartbreaking allegory for the breakdown of brotherhood in the modern world. In Tropical Malady, the placing of a feverish nightmare hunting segment after a love story gives it insane depths of new meaning. In Uncle Boonmee, a princess having sex with a catfish is put alongside visits from a red-eyed monkey-spirit to show... Nope, lost me.


Perhaps there is actually a wealth of hidden meaning in this film. Perhaps I'm just not in tune with the director, or am too simple to understand what's going on. Or perhaps Joe has just created a film with as little concrete meaning as possible in the vein of early Bunuel or Kiarostami's characters and dressed it up with pretty images and mysticism to make us think it's deep. Let us not forget that it was Tim Burton who presented this with Cannes greatest prize; a director to whom "style over substance" is a way of life.


That is not to say that I didn't find anything to take out of Uncle Boonmee, nor does it mean that I didn't enjoy it. The film follows a stream of consciousness through a dying man's memories of his other lives — think of a less substantial implementation of Tarkovsky's Zerkalo — which invokes themes of the power of memory, nostalgia and the essence of life along the way. These themes aren't so much explored as they are vaguely suggested, but the idea of themes is that you at least give us some direction to go in (cf. Antonioni), not just say "think about memory for a minute. Good, now think about erotic fish".


One aspect which is not lost from his other films is the visuals; the images are still breathtakingly beautiful, the trees still an incredible shade of green, the light still shifting and parting over the frame. Another is the mystical and dreamy atmosphere, constructed by the languid pacing, free-form editing and otherworldly imagery. If you found yourself captivated by the second half of Tropical Malady, or hypnotised by the camera's hospital wanderings in Syndromes and a Century, you will be transfixed once again.


Uncle Boonmee is both astonishingly beautiful and unnecesarily opaque. Viewers may fall in love with the style of the film, but there's only so much that two hours of pretty pictures can do without anything to back them up.


Also recommended from Thailand:
Ong Bak
The Last Life in the Universe
Shutter


I also watched Scorpio Rising this week, which was great. That's one down on my New Years Film Challenge, 29 to go.

#16 Christmas Special: Macedonia — Goodbye, 20th Century!

Why I chose this: I was originally planning on reviewing the 1994 war drama Before the Rain for Macedonia. When I was pointed towards a film which the press release describes as "a film about the merry Santa Claus who in rage destroys our world", I changed my mind instantly.

I went into Goodbye, 20th Century! expecting a camp B-movie about Santa Claus going on a killing spree. What I got was one of the most energetic, inventive, bizarre and visually impressive films I've seen.

The action is split into two main parts with a brief interlude. The first is set in a post-apocalyptic 2019. It is implied that man had been judged unworthy to live on the Earth and something similar to the Flood in the book of Genesis accrued. This section follows Guzman, a man who is sentenced to death for fornicating with a saint. At his execution, he discovers his immortality and embarks on a journey do discover how he can finally die for his sins.

In part two, Santa Claus returns from work to his rented flat on New Year's Eve, 1999, where a wake is taking place. They exchange ideas about what will happen when the new century begins, such as all human decency being eradicated or that the world will begin a new era where nothing is the same. Santa gets increasingly distressed about the state of human kind as the night goes on and decides to do something about it as the century turns.

Whilst some plot points are quite incomprehensible, the film is a whirlwind of visual flair and creative ideas. The cinematography is at once flowing and angular; dutch shots are used extensively but transitions are smooth. This strengthens the bizarre imagery of the religious execution at the beginning and the unexplained operatic performance in abandoned ruins. The editing is erratic, but never jarring and adds to the madness inherent in every other facet of the film.

The film's tone fluctuates wildly between humorous, sadistic and generally weird in a similar way to the films of Emir Kustrurica and Alejandro Jodorowsky (incidentally, Lazar Ristovski who plays Santa Claus also features in Kusturica's Underground). This lends an energetic intensity to proceedings and throws raw emotions out at the viewer regularly.

A hypnotic quality is maintained throughout by the combination of the mentioned techniques and the fantastic music. When applied to the first section it invokes Jodorowsky's El Topo, but makes the latter part more Lynchian in nature.

Some may find the incoherence of the narrative off-putting, but those well versed in visually evocative and abstract cinema should make it their mission to watch this film.

Also recommended from Macedonia:

Before the Rain

#15 Norway — Cool and Crazy (2001)

Sorry for the delay, Christmas and all that jazz.


Why I chose this: I decided to walk into the university library, find an Artificial Eye published DVD from a country I hadn't seen a film from and review it. This article is the result.


Cool and Crazy takes a snapshot of the members in a Norwegian all-male choir from a small fishing villiage. We learn about their loves, life and reasons for being in the choir. They come from all walks of life — a businessman, a drug addict, fishermen etc. — and their ages range from early 20s to late 90s. It is fascinating to see completely different men come together to create such beautiful and sad music.


If one is making a documentary, it is important to decide how visible the team are when shooting footage. Perhaps a Michael Moore-like style will be chosen, where the interviewer is as important as the interviewee. The crew may be silent as the subjects talk to the camera, or a fly-on-the-wall approach may be used. If you feel the need to mix and match these techniques, it should be done in a way which complements the content and message. Cool and Crazy has the potential to be a great film, but rings false due to not following that last step.


For the majority of the film, the crew stay silent and allow the choir members to sing and talk to the camera. A false note is struck (pun not intended), however, when the choir sing out in the frozen plains. These scenes, while aesthetically beautiful, feel very forced. The choir have no reason to sing in the cold like that, other than for the director to get some pretty shots, and the voices are obviously re-recorded in a cosy studio. One of the eldest members literally has icicles hanging off his nose during the last scene.


One of the highlights is the political conflict which arises when going to Russia as part of a tour and the concert which they sing in when they arrive. The difference in the members lives is very obvious during the trip; one member is a strong-willed communist, some are completely the opposite and others would be more concerned with Bjorn from the fisher's union. These differences are then set aside for the concert and the choir execute a fantastic rendition of the Russian folk piece, "Korobeiniki" (some may know it as the Tetris 1-A music).


While the documentary style of Cool and Crazy seems at odds with it sometimes, the music is beautiful, the lives of the members are interesting to hear about and the meandering pace maintains a calm atmosphere. Those interested in choirs, or music in general will come out of the film feeling rather fulfilled, others may find little substance beneath the songs.


Also recommended from Norway:
Elling
Pinchcliffe Grand Prix
Troll Hunter

#14 Germany — Fitzcarraldo (1982)

This time, the jungle through the eyes of a German via an Irishman.


Why I chose this: After being left a bit cold by Aguirre, but thoroughly enjoying Bad Lieutenant, Fitzcarraldo was the next Herzog step for me.


Fitzcarraldo is the story of an opera-obsessed Irishman, Brian Sweeny Fitzgerald, whose dream to bring the music of Caruso to the Amazonian jungle. After failing to find funding among the rubber barons of his town, he sets out on a quest to tap the rubber supply of a large expanse of untouched land, protected by harsh nature and superstitious natives.


Few films have scenes which have an incredible visceral impact and make me truly feel the sweat on the brows of the characters. Action films are generally far too ridiculous and shallow for me to really get drawn in to. The only scenes which immediately come to mind for this are the bell casting in Andrei Rublev, the shelter building in Dersu Uzala, the chase through the woods in Diamonds of the Night and now the arduous dragging of a 300 ton steamship over a mountain in Fitzcarraldo. Fitzgerald decides that this is the best way to get to the rubber, rather than braving the rapids which would surely mean death.


The main reason Fitzcarraldo has its incredible impact is that Herzog is a madman. Only someone who stole his first camera, got shot in an interview and carried on, threatened to kill his actor if he didn't finish a scene and jumped into a cactus and ate his own shoe due to bets would decide that the best way to film a boat being dragged over a mountain was to drag a boat over a mountain. The picture gets its raw intensity from the singular vision of its artist. The only thing more ambitious than Fitzgerald's idea is the film itself.


Klaus Kinski is a miracle as the quirky and quite possibly insane lead. His character consists of little more than pure drive towards his goal, which Kinski displays perfectly with his sporadic relationship with Molly (the beautiful Claudia Cardinale) and his outbursts when obstacles appear which threaten the realisation of his dream.


Fitzcarraldo is a film which aims to do one thing and do it well. It succeeds at this admirably, presenting an amazingly focused and ironic exploration of blind ambition. Viewers looking for a film which is in equal measures an entertaining adventure and an intelligent thematic study will find few films above this.


Also recommended from Germany:
Fritz Lang (M, Metropolis, Dr. Mabuse)
F.W. Murnau (Nosferatu, Sunrise, Faust)
Robert Weine (The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari)

#13 Ukraine — Zvenigora (1928)

Why I chose this: It was described to me as a poetic propaganda film in an online forum. I thought it sounded interesting and the DVD was produced by a favourite of mine, Mr. Bongo, so why not?


Watching a film labeled as "avant-garde" is like looking for precious metals in a mass of discarded art history essays — sometimes you strike gold, but more often than not, you end up with a pile of pretentious rubbish. Zvenigora most definitely lies under the first umbrella.


Filmed in 1928 under Soviet rule as the first part of his Ukraine Trilogy, Dovzhenko referred to Zvenigora as his "party membership card". Although it savagely attacks the european bourgeoisie and praises the beauty of Ukranian landscapes and industrialism, Zvenigora is much more than a simple propaganda film.


What little story there is follows an old man whom tells his grandson of a great Viking treasure buried in the mountains of Zvenigora which they both search out for most of their lives. The plot stays in the background for the majority of the film, eclipsed behind the dreamlike imagery, symbolic editing and poetic narrative. The influence of this can be seen in the likes of Tarkovsky's Zerkalo and Antonioni's L'Eclisse.


Using multiple exposures for image superimposition is a technique which has sadly fallen out of use due to the wide use of CGI. Such a simple tool can be put to great use with a bit of imagination, such as in the regrettably forgotten Dreams of a Rarebit Fiend, the films of George Melies and Buster Keaton's The Playhouse. Zvenigora uses it in the Viking flashback scene to put a beautiful dream-like haze over proceedings, which makes it one of the most memorable and inventive scenes in a film which is full of them.


Although the film may sound similar to Soy Cuba, the propaganda aspects are less in-your-face — the reason for which the film gained little appreciation by the government despite its underlying beliefs — which makes it much easier to enjoy simply as a "cinematographical poem" than as a mainly political picture. Viewers who like their surrealism a bit more subtle than what the French would produce in the following years will find a lot to like, as will fans of poetic, contemplative cinema a la Tarkovsky.


Also recommended from Ukraine:
Arsenal
Earth
Ballad of a Soldier
Shadows of Our Forgotten Ancestors

#12 Cuba — Soy Cuba (1964)

Why I Chose This: Cinematography is one of my greatest loves in the world of cinema. After seeing many state that Soy Cuba has the best cinematography of any film they've seen, I was instantly interested in seeing it.


After watching so many pictures and seeing so many cinematic techniques near perfected over a number of films, it is rare to see something which truly makes one re-discover the magical nature of cinema. Soy Cuba is a work which not only made me embrace the magic, but also changed how I look at cinema.


The cinematography in Soy Cuba reminds me of a quote I once read from Werner Herzog regarding Fitzcarraldo. In it, he says that even children nowadays can tell if something has been computer generated or digitally tampered with, but when the boat is dragged up that hill, you know it's real and are witnessing something special. The same is true here; the shots aren't digitally put together like in Children of Men, or cuts hidden behind peoples backs as in Rope (as impressive as both those films are), these are real, and that gives them a power like no other.


The camera seems as much a part of the world as the characters themselves, and displays empathy towards them. In the club dance scene, the camera flows delicately around the room with the soulful singer, before tossing around chaotically along side the empassioned and confused bar dancer. Perhaps the most impressive shot is during the funeral scene, where the camera climbs up a building, crosses the street in the air into the window of a cigar factory, travels the length of the room and back out into the street where it delicately floats above the proceedings.


Every shot is beautifully composed on top of the acrobatic movements. Frames of sugar cane fields, waterfalls and cloudy landscapes are like warm chocolate for the eyes. The extensive use of dutched shots adds to the dreamlike quality of the shots, contrasting with the harsh reality of the content.


The story is split into four vignettes, each attacking Batista's Cuba or glorifying the Cuban Revolution. The first is about a girl named Maria who lives in a shanty town and hopes to marry her fruit-selling boyfriend. Due to Batista's rule, nothing can save them from starvation except becoming a bar dancer and drug dealer respectively.


The second story concerns an old sugar cane farmer who's harvest is the best in years. During the harvest, he is told that his land has been sold to a fruit corperation and that he must leave.


The first two sections are both heart-breaking, sincere and very human. The viewer connects with the characters after a short period of time and feels for their plight. The next two, however, are more obviously politically minded and feature very heavy-handed messages about the revolution and Batista's rule. Since this is primarily a propaganda film, this is to be expected, but it may impact some audiences opinions of it somewhat.


In the penultimate story, a student becomes a martyr for the cause after him and his friends get very involved in the revolution. Although the content is not as compelling as the first two stories, some of the scenes are incredibly visceral and the cinematography especially excellent.


A small family in the mountains where the rebels are fighting are the focus of the concluding section. After their home is bombed by the current government, the father takes up arms to protect his wife and children.


Although the political message is about as subtle as a Michael Bay film, Soy Cuba is perhaps the most visually stunning work I have witnessed. If you can stand being beat about the face with communism for a few hours for the sake of hypnotically beautiful art, then this is a film for you. If not, maybe try The Cranes Are Flying instead.

#11 Serbia — Underground (1995)

This time, a Serbian film. But not A Serbian Film.


Why I chose this: Because watching and reviewing a film by a genius is much more fun, interesting and sanity-preserving than watching a baby get raped (as featured in A Serbian Film).


Emir Kusturica is among very few directors to have won two Palme D'Ors at the Cannes film festival and has been making exciting, energetic films for thirty years. It is therefore a shame that his name isn't more well known among film lovers. The first film of his which I saw was his more simple-minded, but completely bonkers comedy, Black Cat, White Cat. Although it is an excellent film which revives the thought that there are still comedies being made that can live up to the golden ages of Keaton and Chaplin, Monty Python and Zucker, Abrahams, Zucker, it pales in comparison to Kusturica's sprawling epic of a few years earlier.


This is one of the rare films which manages to blend and swap multiple genres seamlessly. Like in Lindsay Anderson's If... where I couldn't pinpoint the moment when it changes from a startlingly real depiction of youthful repression and an highly surreal revenge story, I only realised that Underground had stopped being a comedy when someone had hung themself from a bell tower whilst a wheelchair-bound man and his wife were set on fire.


Underground is a surreal epic comedy war drama in three parts - set in World War 2, the Cold War and the Yugoslav Wars respectively. The story is very large and complex, but mainly revolves around Blacky and Marko, two friends in Yugoslavia - an area now part of Serbia - who are both in love with the same woman and hateful of the Germans who repeatedly bomb them and attempt to steal away that same woman. It follows them from being petty thieves, to high government officials and all the way to war profiteers and army commanders.


One of Kusturica's greatest assets is his mastery of tone. The same things which were side-splittingly hilarious in the first half are made incredibly haunting in the latter. He achieves this with a wide array of tools; music, colour palate, characters and settings all morph alongside each other to convey the feeling of the action and the minds of our anti-heroes.


If I had to pick one favourite aspect of the film, it would have to be the Gypsy brass band which follow Blacky around for the first two thirds of the film. They not only add much to the surreality, comedy and mood of the film, but the energetic and virtuosic music they play - written by Goran Bregović - is absolutely amazing.


The performances by the leading cast are all excellent, particularly Mirjana Jokovic, who plays the love interest with equal measures of confusion, lust and sensuality. The monkey who plays Soni also gives a great performance as a monkey.


There are so many complex themes in Underground that it seems impossible to deal with them all in one review. It has explorations of patriotism, cultural identity, the effects of war, escapism from hostile environments, love, friendship, man's self-destructive nature, oppression and even more. On top of this, the film seems cuttingly allegorical in places, raising questions about governments in effect when the film was made.


Underground remains one of the most original films ever created, one which is so packed full of questions, answers, laughs, sobs and real characters that it demands multiple viewings to be fully appreciated. Recommended to anyone who enjoys films which do something different.


Also recommended from Serbia:
Other films by Emir Kusturica (Black Cat White Cat, Time of the Gypsies, When Father Was Away on Business)

#10 Senegal — Moolaadé (2004)

Into unknown territory for me with a film from Africa.


Why I chose this: Easily the most famous Senegalese film-maker and accredited by many as the father of African film, Ousmane Sembène was an easy choice for director. Moolaadé had been on my watchlist for some time, so I decided that this was the perfect time to watch it.


This marked a milestone in my film-viewing in that it was the first African film I had ever seen. After years of watching more Russian and Japanese films than any Scotsman should have business seeing, I found it very interesting to be introduced to a culture completely different from that which I am used to. What could push a Westerner out of their comfort zone more than a film about female circumcision?


Collé is the second of her husband's three wives. When four young girls who have escaped the "purification" ceremony come to her, she grants them Moolaadé (meaning 'magical protection' in Bamanankan), which prevents other villagers from entering the lot on pain of divine wrath. Thus begins a political, philosophical and moral battle with her community to protect not only the girls in her trust, but also future generations who would otherwise be subjected to the awful ceremony.


Moolaadé is not a subtle film - but how could it be? Sembène unrelentingly attacks the tradition at any chance he gets, attempting to expose all of its horrors. Whenever the elders are questioned as to the advantages of such an act, they simply reply that it's traditional, or that it is required by Islam (exposed as a complete falsehood by the end of the film). It isn't unnecessarily graphic, but shows you enough for just your imagination to make some scenes sickening. 


The film is beautiful and virtuosic, coming in equal parts from the sweeping shots of the village's colourful, alien vistas and the just as colourful folk score. These are enhanced by the wonderful garbs worn by the women, making the film a visual and aural pleasure.


Although, on the surface Sembène simply deals head on with the subject matter, the themes are far more universal than that. Most anyone will be able to identify with a people held back by pointless tradition and an unwillingness to embrace the future, be it in your country or even within your family.


Moolaadé is a great piece of political and educational film-making, succeeding both as an argument and as visual art. Although some viewers may raise issue with the intensely one-sided view which the film takes, or perhaps with the brutality of the subject matter, it is inarguably an important work which will hopefully be observed and taken to heart in years to come.

#9 Iceland — Nói Albínói (2003)

For review number nine, I chose Iceland, because I can.


Why I chose this: I'm not going to lie here, this was the only Icelandic film I had on my watchlist and I think the only one I'd actually heard of. If someone is outraged at my ignorance of Icelandic cinema, please let me know and give me films to watch.


I started my Red Desert review with a rant about use of colour in films. I hope you will forgive me in doing the same here by saying AAAAAHHH, COLOUR FILTERS! WHYYY!? Seriously, Nói Albínói would be an incredibly beautiful film if the team would stop screwing around with different filters and turning the contrast settings up to 11.


I feel bad about starting the review on such a negative note, as this is actually a great film. The story follows Nói, a troubled Icelandic teenager as he struggles with love, family and his future. He is always in trouble at school for the lack of effort which he puts in, but seems to have hidden depths of intelligence. His main concern, however, is with Iris - the new cashier at the garage shop which he frequents.


It is very subtley observed but filled with wry humour and a painfully acute sense of irony. Most of the scenes are very simple and slow paced, showing every facet of Nói's life. Although most of the focus is put on Nói, I found his father, Kiddi, to be the most interesting and real character. He is an alcoholic, drinking himself further from reconciliation and his son, as he realises more and more that he made all the wrong choices in life, all of which he wants Nói to be spared from. Þröstur Gunnarsson absolutely nails this part, where the rest of the cast put in simply passable performances. Particularly touching is his karaoke scene with him trying to have fun and connect with his son, while Nói gets thrown out of the building for underage drinking. We never see Kiddi's reaction, but just thinking about it is heartbreaking.


The music - by the director's band, Slowblow - is amazingly beautiful and complements the film perfectly. The minimalistic melodies fit the serene landscapes like a glove and contribute to the soothing tone of the film.


The themes of alienation through being different, family conflicts and yearning for a better place are all well developed, especially at the film's sobering, abrupt ending.


Nói Albínói won't change anyone's life, but it is a touching and amusing film which is well worth a watch. Recommended to fans of Jim Jarmusch, Aki Kaurismäki and snow.


Also recommended from Iceland:
Sorry, I've got nothing

#7/#8 Iran/Mexico — Taste of Cherry/Japón (1997/2002)

Why I chose Taste of Cherry:
Kiarostami is arguably the most famous name in the Iranian New Wave. Having seen The Wind Will Carry Us previously, I was eager to see some of his other works and Taste of Cherry seemed as good a place to start as any.


Why I chose Japón:
I had originally planned to review one of Alejandro Jodorosky's films, as they are mainly produced and made in Mexico. After watching Japón because I liked an image I saw of it online, I decided that I can sneak Jodorosky in under Chile as this film needs to be better known.


Iran has an exceptional and mature independant film industry, in spite (or perhaps because of) the draconian restrictions placed on it. Kiarostami's humanist style of cinema has thus far evaded the fate of politically-minded film-makers such as Mohammad Rasoulof and Jafar Panahi (a different article entirely).


Carlos Reygadas is a director to watch in the coming years. Winning a number of prestigious awards such as the Cannes Jury prize for his films, he is beginning to make a name for himself among cinephiles. He is very much a disciple of Tarkovsky, making contemplative and beautiful films about human issues.


Why am I joining these two reviews together? I watched the films back-to-back with no prior knowledge of what they would be about. They turned out to have near enough identical stories; a man wants to commit suicide for an unknown reason and seeks help to carry it out. In Taste of Cherry, the help needed is in the form of someone to come and bury Mr. Baadi after he commits the deed, while in Japón, the un-named man seeks the peace and quiet of a small canyon-side village to ease his mind before he joins the choir invisible (or more likely the gnashing teeth painfully real).


Japón combines glacial pacing with some of the most beautiful images committed to celluloid, a slowly drifting camera and atmospheric music. This gives the film a hypnotic quality which feels surreal and magical. Conversely, Taste of Cherry is very firmly rooted in reality. The pacing is directly associated with the main character, instead of being used as a technique for inspiring contemplation as in Japón. This means there are slow sections of car rides around town, contrasted with dialog-heavy encounters with other characters.


Kiarostami seems hell-bent on keeping every facet of the story and character interpretable by the audience. He seems to observe the action rather than direct it (except for one moment which anyone who has seen the film will be able to identify). He does not tell us what to feel, nor does he tell us what the character is thinking or even what happens in the end. This is very admirable and viewers who look for films which provoke completely independant thought will find much to like. Reygadas is more concrete, giving insight into the mysterious man through dream sequences and more overtly suggestive scenes. However, saying that someone has made a film which is more objective than Kiarostami is like suggesting that it might rain in Scotland; Japón is still a very subtle film which will reward multiple-viewings.


The characters in both films are very similar, being both mysterious and passive. Mr. Baadi has an expressionless face for nearly all the film; is this a byproduct of Kiarostami's views on audience participation and projection, or is it an organic reflection of a man with no emotion left? Japón's man-with-no-name is slightly more reactive. He spends the majority of the film in a similar state to Mr. Baadi, but there are moments which break through his blank mask, such as his breakdown on the bed. It is arguable which is the most real character. I would say that Mr. Baadi seems more like a placeholder for the audience and that Kiarostami's adversity to strong objectively emotional moments prevents his character from breathing in the film world. Mr. Unnamed has the same passive quality, but his reactions to his surroundings seem less affected by the director's agenda, which is rather ironic when you think about it.


Although Taste of Cherry is undeniably more innovative and personal, it lacks the intense atmosphere and emotional impact of Japón. Many viewers may (and do) prefer the near-blank canvas which it allows the audience to project themselves onto, the ultra-subtlety prevents it from having the incredibly moving scenes present in its Mexican cousin. Ultimately, which you enjoy and prefer will come down to the person you are; how you empathise with people and your views on life. What I will say is that anyone who isn't blown away by the beauty of Japón's final scene is either incredibly jaded or has no poetry in their soul.


Also recommended from Iran and Mexico:
Other films by Kiarostami (Close Up, Through the Olive Trees, The Wind Will Carry Us)
Jafar Panahi (Offside, The White Balloon)
Alfonso Cuarón (Y Tu Mamá También, A Little Princess)

Guillermo Del Toro (The Devil's Backbone, Pan's Labyrinth)

#6 Czech Republic/Slovakia ‒ The Cremator (1969)

A note about the country: perhaps I am cheating here by lumping the two countries together, but the film was made when Czechoslovakia existed in Prague (which is now in the Czech Republic), the dialog is in Czech, but the director is Slovak. The film is also considered part of the Czechoslovak New Wave, so I think you'll allow me to join the two.


Why I chose this: I've only been getting into Czechoslovak cinema recently, despite the love for Jan Svankmajer's shorts which I developed years ago. The Cremator seems to be a perfect mix between the visual style of Svankmajer, coupled with the political mindset and absurdist humor of the New Wave. I hope it will lead more people into discovering another pocket of cinema.


The Cremator is a hard film to place. It is so original and bizarre that it is difficult to pidgeon-hole it into a certain genre or even mood. If I had to describe it in one sentence, it would be something like "A pitch-black surrealist, political horror-comedy". 


It follows the titular cremator, Kopfrkingl, as he slowly gets dragged into the arms of Nazism and descends into madness. He is obsessed with his duties; believing - due to his love of Bardo Thodol, the Tibetan Book of the Dead - that by cremating the deceased, he is freeing their souls to go up into the ether. Prolific Czech actor Rudolf Hrusínský plays him absolutely perfectly. His voice fits the film to a tee; it is dark, deep and monotonous, but also sadistically gleeful, like a child past his years burning ants with a magnifying glass. 


Kopfrkingl's voice and mannerisms coupled with the stark, angular image compositions and surreal imagery create an atmosphere which is very dense and chilling, but the dialog and absurd characters underline it with a delishiously dark sense of humour; a husband gets frustrated by a wife whom bursts into tears for ridiculous reasons whenever he takes her anywhere and Kopfrkingl repeats sentence fragments throughout the film in a very Coenesque fashion. The comedy works in a similar way to that in cult classic Man Bites Dog, in that it will revolt some and greatly amuse others. 


The sets and cinematography are stunning. Clearly influenced by German expressionism and the absurdo-Gothic trappings of Svankmajer. Each image is thoughtfully composed and some - like the Brothers Quay state in their introduction to the film - are like daggers to the eyes.


The editing work is fantastically eccentric. If Black God, White Devil (#3 in the series) was edited by Edward Scissorhands, this was edited by a brilliant, mad surgeon who forgot to take his pills. Shot lengths are all over the place, some lasting half a minute or so and some, not even a tenth of a second. This plays on the madness of the central character beautifully and adds to the unnerving atmosphere.


The film works in equal measures as a cutting political and historical portrait, a disturbing exploration of madness and (literal) God complex, a blacker-than-black comedy and an atmospheric and chilling horror. If any of the above appeal to you, then put The Cremator right to the top of your watchlist; it is not a work to be missed.


Also recommended from Czech Republic/Slovakia:
Jan Svankmajer (Pretty much all of his films are worth a watch)
Jaromil Jires (Valerie and her Week of Wonders, The Joke)
Frantisek Vlacil (Marketa Lazarova, Adelheid)
Jiří Barta (The Pied Piper of Hamelin, The Vanished World of Gloves)
Oldřich Lipský (Happy End, Lemonade Joe)
Jan Nemek (Diamonds of the Night, The Party and the Guests)