Three Favorite Films From Some of my Favorite Directors Much Annotated And This is Part 3

"If your fidelity to perfectionism is too high, you never do anything." -- David Foster Wallace

Here is what I said before part one of this series which I have by the way decided will have three parts:
The title says it. I take a favorite director and pick my three favorite films he's done or did. Then I write something though sometimes off topic and not necessarily about all three films. I'm calling this part one which suggests that there will be parts to follow. When I don't know. Who can know such things. Truly. 
There was -- as you may have guessed -- a part two which preceded this un and followed the first part. I'm very ordered. (Anal?)

Lars von Trier. Europa (1991). Melancholia (2011). Breaking the Waves (1996). Long nights of wondrous moonlight and paintings produced before your very eyes while you contemplate that concerto and the ethereal beauty of a lover in repose. Stories of revolution and death and contemplations of forever and musings on never. A play at understanding and an acceptance of the unknown and a wink a the unknowable. von Trier iconic enigmatic and challenging and there have been some misfires but oh what home runs he has hit.

Francis Ford Coppola. The Godfather (1972). The Godfather: Part II (1974). Apocalypse Now (1979). Beyond these three masterpieces he made one other great film (The Conversation) and all in an eight year span. And then....But once you've made these kind of movies you are forever in the pantheon of legendary film makers. Period.

Jean-Luc Godard. Vivre Sa Vie (1962). Band of Outsiders (1964). Breathless (1960). Mister New Wave, A career that has stretched on for five decades and has included some real howlers. The self indulgent film maker showing off. But when he's gotten it right -- and boy howdy has he gotten it right -- there are some shiny golden nuggets of cinema. Those fast cuts that narration those dances that spontaneous action. The more out of bounds Godard goes the more real his stories seem. They capture not just a time that was but a time that is with us still and always. There is the willingness to experiment or perhaps it is a need but it is done and it fun.

Vittoria De Sica. Umberto D (1952). Two Women (1960).  Bicycle Thieves (1948). Mister Neo Realism. He seems to say that this is story and you may not be pleased with how it ends but consider how it gets there. Consider the truth of it. The courage to make stories true to the characters and their circumstances. De Sica's stories feature the young the old the unlucky and the unhappy but they also feature people trying. Trying to survive and prosper and to hell with the odds. Beautiful.

Howard Hawks. The Big Sleep (1946). His Girl Friday (1940). Red River (1948). Mr. Everything. You want a noir you got one you want a western that's done who's looking for a screwball comedy because we got it right here. He could even toss in a gangster film, Whatever you need. Hawks was extraordinary for a prolific career that featured most of the stars of the day. Muni Grant Hepburn Barrymore (John) Lombard Cooper Arthur Monroe Robinson McCrea Hayworth and Bacall.

Joel and Ethan Coen. No Country For Old Men (2007). A Serious Man (2009). The Man Who Wasn't There (2001). Whatever will they think of next? However will they tell us this next story? Such clever lads but not in love with their talents but with what their talents can produce. And they are meticulous. There is an attention to detail and details that grab our attention. Their are characters that stretch bounds and help us access the story and the wonders of these amazing story tellers.

Preston Sturges. Sullivan's Travels (1941). The Lady Eve (1941). Hail the Conquering Hero (1944). Six great films made in five years with nothing to speak of before or after. But what greatness he used up in that short time. Whacky characters and stories but never silly. Often pointed. Stanwyck Lake McCrea Fonda Colbert and a cast of reliably entertaining regulars led by Demarest Pangborn and Donlevy. Sturges made comedies without cheap laughter he was smart enough to appeal to smart audiences. He also had some points to make and make them he did. He was a comet.

Rainer Werner Fassbinder. Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974). The Marriage of Maria Braun (1979). The Bitter Tears of Petra von Kant (1972). The mad German. A prolific director writer addict wild man who poured everything into anything he did. Thankfully this included the films he made and there were some doozies. His stories could be a bit strange and unpredictable just like their director. But they were compelling for their lack of self consciousness and their forward movement. Propelled toward waiting denouements of 
Well that's rather the point isn't it.
It could be a kiss or a murder of a melancholy moment of reflex....You know.

(If I were doing more parts of this -- which I am not -- I would have included directors such as Josef von Sternberg Akira Kurosawa Quentin Tarantino King Vidor Fritz Lang Luis Bunuel Jean-Pierre Melville and John Huston.

Three Favorite Films From Some of my Favorite Directors Much Annotated And This is Part 2

Here I am trying to live, or rather, I am trying to teach the death within me how to live.- Jean Cocteau

Here is what I said before part one of this series which I have by the way decided will have three parts:
The title says it. I take a favorite director and pick my three favorite films he's done or did. Then I write something though sometimes off topic and not necessarily about all three films. I'm calling this part one which suggests that there will be parts to follow. When I don't know. Who can know such things. Truly.

Roberto Rossellini. Roma, citti aperta (1945). Stromboli (1950). The Flowers of Saint Francis (1950). Neo realism as it was meant to be. The human drama. In World War II. In a lonely fishing village. Among monks. The evil the beatified the depraved the tortured. I've never seen a spectacular shot within a Rossellini film but I've seen the spectacular. How do you film desperation or fear or moral decay or certitude? Seems impossible but he did it. There was magic in his style in that he created such depth and drama so effortlessly to our eyes and senses. It just sank in. Sinks. His films don't won't age.

William Wellman. Wild Boys of the Road (1933). Heroes For Sale (1933). Westward the Women (1951). Someone asked me the other day what films most captured the spirit of John Dos Passos and his novels that comprised the USA Trilogy. I said the pre code films of William Wellman which include Wild Boys and Heroes. Like Dos Passos these stories had the power of relevance truth honesty and authentic American style characters often bucking up against the rich and powerful. The struggle of individuals to survive in a cold mechanized and heartless society. Usually finding strength and comfort in numbers. Wellman was a truly American film maker who never bent his films in the direction of easy popularity. He didn't soften characters or stories. There is a timeless quality in his films just as there is in the novels of Dos Passos.

Stanley Kubrick. A Clockwork Orange (1971). 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968). Barry Lyndon (1975). Here comes the kitchen sink. Stanley did not play ladies and gents. Everything went into the picture all his energy and creativity and attention to detail. And it showed. What spectacular visions. Creations of worlds. Beautiful to behold even when what was taking place in the was repellant. The people were props used masterfully. Kubrick had a way of exaggerating characters to help fill the frame and fill out the story. Films that lasted in your mind and heart and ideas and wow.

Louis Malle. Au Revoir Les Enfants (1987). Elevator to the Gallows (1958). Murmur of the Heart (1971). What is he? New Wave? Noir? There are war pictures. Romances. Family drama. Philosophical meditations. There is Jeanne Moreau in the rain. There is a young Jewish boy being taken away by Nazis. There is oedipus. Lurking lurching loving and leaving and moving and heaving. Camera left and stage right and the eyes of man wandering the city. The artful director and the precise moment captured that lives a lifetime in our memory and can never be wiped away. That indelible moment. That moment. The expression. That sigh. That sign. That director. That man Malle.

Aki Kaurismaki. Ariel (1988). Le Havre (2011). Lights in the Dusk 2006). My Finnish brother. don't come to his films looking for beautiful people or action scenes or special effects. Come for the humanity and the simplicity and the beauty of human experience. The luck good and bad of being alive and going through whatever comes. How people handle the mundane and the interruption of that by the wildly unexpected. Dude is very Finnish. My father told me the Finnish proverb about a man being chased by a bear. He is relieved to come upon a river knowing the Bear won't follow him. Half way across the river he sees another bear waiting for him on the other side. He laughs.

Frank Capra. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939). Meet. John Doe (1941). It's A Wonderful Life (1946). A softer gentler America then Wellman but a liberal sentimental fighting underdog loving one. Capra was a Republican but his films were often about battles with powerful establishment figures. A neo fascist tycoon in John Doe a predatory banker businessman in IAWL and a corrupt political machine in Smith. One man taking on the vested interest against impossible odds. Very American characters played by the likes of Gary Cooper Barbara Stanwyck James Stewart and Donna Reed. Good clean believable dialog. Easy to root for stories.

Francois Truffaut. Jules and Jim (1962). Shoot the Piano Player (1960). 400 Blows (1959). Exuberant and stylish but never showy. An attention to the little movements and the short seconds that can fly by unattended. But he was a joyful director with a free floating and happy camera. Grounded in his art and telling the story just so. Just so that we would appreciate -- almost like he did -- what an amazing story he was telling.

Charlie Chaplin. City Lights (1931). Modern Times (1936). The Great Dictator (1940). The pathos. The little tramp. The comic genius. The pratfalls the chases the choreography the cute man the pretty girl the darling child the adorable mutt the pulling of heart strings...the tear -- never two. Then the silents ended and Charlie adapted but never yielded. Still mostly silent realizing that words can be so limiting. The sheer brilliance of the above three films. The painstaking attention to detail that created the  large gaps between pictures but resulted in such fine craftsmanship. Such great art. No one to compare him with before during or after.

Three Favorite Films From Favorite Directors Much Annotated And This is Part 1

"Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo."
 - From 'The Love Song of J. Alfred Pufrock' by. T.S. Eliot.

The title says it. I take a favorite director and pick my three favorite films he's done or did. Then I write something though sometimes off topic and not necessarily about all three films. I'm calling this part one which suggests that there will be parts to follow. When I don't know. Who can know such things. Truly.

Ingmar Bergman. The Seventh Seal (1957), Winter Light (1963), Fanny and Alexander (1982). I started with my favorite of my favorite directors and immediately see that three is not enough but that rules are rules. I could have a dozen easily for Bergman. Woody Allen called The Seventh Seal one of the few perfect films and I make it a point never to argue with Woody Allen. Winter Light is a small picture could say bleak -- very black and white --  which could say about god's silence. While. Fanny and Alexander is a huge picture full of color and people and drama and laughter and life and villains and heroes. Opposites attract. Bergman films don't make me think they allow me the option of it. They do make me feel. Feel good. I love the depth and the humanity and oh the faces.

Federico Fellini. Amarcord (1973), La Dolce Vita (1960), Nights of Cabrira (1957). The broken record is saying there are so many that could have should have would have been here. His films so Felliniesque you might say. The drama never too heavy but inescapable. The humor never blaring just there to find and to hold. The characters so rich and wonderful. And life so very much on display and never gray. Just touchable. Films like a great meal with many courses. Faces again. The greats appreciate them.

Woody Allen. Manhattan (1979). Midnight in Paris (2011) Crimes and Misdemeanors (1989). Wry smiles and broad jokes and the sound of Sidney Bechet or Benny Goodman or Cole Porter for crissakes. Pathos. The distracted love of the pixilated. Pondering the imponderable but always. Discordant but happy. Keaton Farrow Johannsson Cruz Cotillard. Beautiful vulnerable soft but strong. Bergman made the most great films but Allen has made the most good ones. That opening of Manhattan with Gershwin announcing and the skyline and the narration and then to the restaurant and oh my.

Michelangelo Antonioni. L' Eclisse (1962). Red Desert (1964). L'avventura (1960). Enchanting miles of drivers distracted confused by unspoken poetry. Lyrics of songs dying as the vipers in their engines devour large swaths of deaths for them. We linger on moonlight nights in soft winds of our fingers. Feelings not spoke only hinted at by the obtuse. So long the days of our splendor and the wonder of our confusion. Everyday. To be beautiful. Distracted. And thinking. All at once. So lonely. So ill-timed the forgetfulness of our sated sorrow. And still yesterday approaches.

Alfred Hitchcock. The 39 Steps (1935). Notorious (1946). Foreign Correspondent (1940). Wow what a list you could make what arguments you could have what fun it is to discover Hitch and then re-discover him. Master of Suspense is somewhat limiting a moniker. There is suspense created sure but there is also character and content and a camera that surprises titillates and amuses and dramatizes and captures. We start from the top of the stairs as we take a long trip to visit a key in a woman's hand. Masterful.

John Ford. Grapes of Wrath (1940). The Searchers (1956). Stagecoach (1939). Soliders of dignity. Women of valor. Horses. Monument Valley. Tough guys with dimensions. Stories well told. Never angry stories never preachy stories. Always so wonderful to look at and regard. Maybe the ultimate maker of American stories. Exposing what's under the rock without stating that its there just the showing of it. A genius with a goddam camera if there ever was one. Placing it just so and just so wonderfully. Mmmm. Grapes of Wrath a film worthy of a great book -- that's a rarity. Stagecoach the ultimate Western of the first half of the 20th century and The Searchers the ultimate Western of the second half of the same century. But his stories are more than Westerns. Yeah. They're fucking great.

Jean Renoir. La Grande Illusion (1937). Rules of the Game (1939). The Lower Depths (1936). Grand Illusion is another film Woody Allen said was perfect. The man knows a perfect film when he sees one. How Renoir slaps classism in the face. How unafraid he is of his audience -- but how he respects them -- how faithful he is to ideas. Good ideas. That ennoble us by tearing down what is facile and corrupt and depraved. The flourish is not evident but the precision is and the craftsmanship and the message and the story. Always the story. Glory.

Martin Scorsese. Goodfellas (1990). Raging Bull (1980). The Aviator (2004). Look at me everybody. I put The Aviator ahead of Taxi Driver and Mean Streets and for that matter The King of Comedy. I'm a nut! But I say and write what I think because to do otherwise is lying. Scorsese at his best does not lie. He is an honest filmmaker telling true stories. True in the sense that they are meant to be.....A man who loves loves loves films and loves loves loves to make them and does so with verve and panache but most of all with honesty. Sometimes brutally so. The violence in Goodfellas the anger in Raging Bull the brilliant madness in the Aviator.

RIP Roger Ebert An Appreciation for A Man Who Helped Film Lovers Love Films

He helped me love movies.

Whenever I watch a film -- especially if its for the first time -- I always drop by the movie's IMDb page to read a little bit about it. I'm always happy when there's Some words from Roger Ebert among the external reviews.

Roger did the most important thing a film critic can do. No I'm not talking about recommending or steering people away from a film. I refer to his ability to shed light on it and enhance one's appreciation. If I loved a movie and he did too then I loved it more because he helped me understand where that love came from.

Love.

The man was great because he loved movies. Passionately. He reviewed them for over 40 years. His reviews betrayed none of the arrogance or ego that come through in so many other critic's reviews. There was a blunt honesty. A truth telling. A witnessing. And it was articulate.

The fact that he was a recovering alcoholic is not coincident to his ability -- his need -- to share with readers his experience strength and hope about films.

I think I've read his review of every movie that we've both enjoyed and some we both hated. When his reaction to a film was different than mine I ignored his review. Why should friends share differences over a damn movie anyway? Friends? We never met of course. But Roger was around for so long that I felt as if I knew the man. Personally. (I feel the same about a few other famous people such as Dick Cavett and David Letterman. In all cases I have a lot in common with my famous "friend." Letterman Ebert and I have all given up alcohol after having previously over indulged.)

Roger loved films because he understood them. He was a thoughtful watcher who understood the art and craft of film making and story telling. He also loved to write and wrote well. He knew movies so well and writing so well that he was quite naturally the ideal film critic. Never has anyone combined two passions so successfully.

The internet has been a positive boon to cinephiles. It has allowed us access to reviews from all over the world and in the case of critics like Roger we've gained access to the full archive of a reviewers work. Roger also blogged and not just about films. When it came to politics I might have even agreed with him more than I did about movies. When I took to twitter Roger was one of the first people I followed. He proved well capable of being articulate in 140 characters or less. Plus he linked all manner of interesting pieces by others.

For years I've been aware that because of his cancer Roger's time with us was going to run out sooner than we would hope and I better get used to the day when we would have to make do without his words. That day has come and I'm not prepared for it despite my preparations.

When my father died it was easy enough to turn from mourning his passing to appreciating that he had spent so much time with his and had lived a full and mostly happy life. So too with Roger's passing we can be thankful that there are 40 years worth of reviews and countless blog posts and articles and op ads that will live forever.

Thanks Roger.

The Only Thing We Are Responsible For is Being Offensive and Then I Tell a Story

“The humblest citizen in all the land, when clad in the armour of a righteous cause, is stronger than all the hosts of error."  -- John Dos Passos, The 42nd Parallel

Mired in sophistry. People dulling their minds with trivial debates and debating trivia while empires crumble civilizations tumble and hunger

Got sucked into it myself today for a bit. An article on a city news site about a poorly attended rally for pedestrian safety. The organizer was quoted as complaining of apathy and dangerous driving in Berkeley. I couldn't resist posting a comment (mistake!) pointing out that Berkeley could hardly be accused of apathy (the least of its faults to be sure) and that drivers were no more reckless within our borders than any place else. The quoted responded to my comment by saying that I had offended all of Berkeley's pedestrians and was lacking in reading comprehension skills. Well of course. I rebutted that I had in that case offended myself as a Berkeley pedestrian and that I was in turn offended by his attack on my reading skills. "Offenses for everyone!" I concluded.

The subject of offense-taking has been a theme of mine of late on this blog. Never did I think that I would be accused of offending pedestrians. A group of which I am a proud member. Poor pedestrians we are just another beleaguered minority. No one --  it seems --  is immune from offense taking or giving.

You blaggard! You scoundrel! You ruffian! You cad! You roustabout! Or how about this: you person of another color! Or you person of a differing sexual orientation or of a gender or religious belief or lack thereof or weight or personality type. Or you person of a differing opinion! Put 'em up!

"Nobody calls a Firefly an upstart!" - Groucho Marx as Rufus T. Firefly in Duck Soup.

I swear this society is headed back to the days of dueling. Throwing down of gloves slaps across the face and perhaps even ten paces and fire!

A popular target group of offensive remarks that has been getting an especially spirited defense of late is fat people.  You see its not their fault that they are constantly inhaling milkshakes and 98 ounce sodas. No of course not. No one is to blame for anything. Racists can't help it they were raised to believe in the inferiority of other plus these poor people are ignorant. Leave em alone. Drug addicts and alcoholics have a disease they were born with. Homicidal maniacs have serious mental issues that are not to be made light of. Polish people were born of Polish descent. No one is responsible for where they are or any aberrant behavior they engage in. We are all victims of what we are and we are all every one of us precious and not to be made fun of. Humor is offensive. Satire is rude. Observations are risky. Sarcasm must be eliminated.  Opinions are noxious. Art is dangerous. Self expression an abomination.

The only thing we are responsible for is being offensive.

Not to change the subject but....

Ted and Martha thought that they should drop by. You know at least make an appearance. For appearances sake. They were pretty good friends with Chuck and Lisa and it would be wrong not to stop in and say hello even if they didn't really know anyone in Chuck's family -- Lisa's family was all back East -- or most of their other friends. They made a point to be half an hour late knowing that most people would be fashionably late. They left earlier than they should have but killed some time by stopping for a bottle of wine. Nothing cheap but nothing too expensive either. They were still early so they circled the neighborhood which they had to admit was a pretty nice one. Chuck had done well for himself and apparently Lisa's real estate business was doing okay after all. Ted had predicted it would be a bust but as Martha reminded him he'd been wrong before.

They arrived exactly a half hour late. Ted and Martha found the hosts and gave each a quick hug and a peck on the cheek (well Ted didn't give Chuck a peck). They complimented their hosts on how nice the house looked and how they appreciated the invitation. Chuck and Lisa were busy hosting so couldn't chit chat for long but promised to catch up later in the afternoon. So Ted and Martha helped themselves at the buffet table and got themselves a glass of wine. They separated and each looked for people they knew. Ted saw a few familiar faces but they were mostly already deep in conversations. He wondered if coming so late was such a good idea after all. He managed to talk for a few minutes with Lyle Conklin about yesterday's game but Lyle was just a casual fan and had nothing of particular interest to say.

Martha could find none of her dear friends but was introduced to a Tanya Mickleson who had a shared interested in quilting. They had a nice chat before Tanya was called away to meet someone else. She then found herself talking to Laura Dugard who she really didn't like. Laura was full of opinions and never took a breath from offering them to hear what anyone else might say. Ted's luck was no better as he found himself talking to someone named Zeke who mostly bragged about his sail boat.

Eventually Ted and Martha found each other again and shared their mutual disappointment with the  party. Ted asked if it was too soon to go. Martha suggested that they should really give the gathering a bit more time and that things might pick up yet. Martha warned Ted not to have too much wine which annoyed Ted who rarely had a drop more than he should -- at least in his mind. Martha sensed Ted's irritation and worried that she'd just pushed Ted toward actually having a drink or three too many. She gave him a tender squeeze in hopes that it would help matters between them. The fact was that Martha had felt a strain in their relationship of late. Ted was clearly battling depression though he would't talk about nor would he get help. Ted was indeed suffering from severe bouts of depression and was troubled by his failure to earn a promotion at work though he was sure the two issues weren't linked. They weren't.

They ultimately decided to mingle some more and Martha fell into conversation with a woman named Cheri with whom she had a number of mutual acquaintances. They ended up gossiping and having a gay time and it was Martha who had more than her share of wine. Meanwhile Ted found someone to talk sports about and then finally got to chat with Chuck who gave him some good investment advice.

Around 9:00 people started leaving so Ted and Martha said their goodbyes and drove home. They agreed that it was a nice evening after all and it was good that they went. At home Ted settled in front of the TV and watched an old World War II movie for about the fifth time. He always got a kick out of it. Martha was still tipsy and made some phone calls to a sister and cousin then showered and read in bed for a few minutes before falling a sleep. She was snoring loudly when Ted climbed into bed next to her. He settled in under the comforter and remembered the pretty young black prostitute he slept with in New Orleans when he was in the service. He felt a weird mixture of excitement and guilt and hoped that her life turned out well. It was an hour before he could turn his mind off from distant memories and fall asleep.

One Week Off 13 Movies Watched

Have had the past week off. With a big vacation trip in the offing I thought it best to stick around the house this week limiting travel to the gym and movie theaters and other points within Berkeley. Starting with the Friday preceding my vacation week and ending with today -- the day before I return to the salt mines -- I had time to watch 13 movies. That was five days of one film and four days of double features. If it weren't for those other annoying interests and errands I'd have doubled that total.

The films I enjoyed were either from Netflix my own DVD collection seen in theaters or in one case via Amazon Instant. Here are the lucky 13 -- presented in order watched -- followed by brief comments.

Le Havre (2011). Saw this when it first came to theaters and was suitably impressed. It was a surprise birthday gift from the missus. A gorgeous Criterion edition. And a much better film the second time. I imagine it will be even better with repeat viewings. Some movies are like that. The director is my fellow Finn Aki Kaurismaki. Understated subtle ironic touching and real. Him the movie and Finns in general. Kaurismaki eschews broad action big stars zingers sensational sex and dazzling special effects. If there's a fight its likely a case of the hapless hero getting what for. I have not seen a Kaurismaki film I haven't liked. This one is set in the French city of the title with a French cast speaking French. The director speaks very good English (all Finns do) but no French. Of course.

Heaven's Gate (1980). I first saw this film on New Year's Day and immediately wrote about it on this here blog. This was also a birthday gift from the missus though not a surprise as I practically begged for it. Was I as dazzled by the second viewing? Yes. It's a crying shame that the director Michael Cimino was essentially black balled after making Heaven's Gate. Think what else he could have created. See New York Times film critic Manohala Dargis' article on the film in today's Times.

The Thin Red Line (1998). I saw it during its initial run and was not impressed. Fifteen years later I thought it was time to give Terrance Malick's World War II film another look. Especially in light of all the glowing comments about it I've heard and read from fellow cinephiles over the years. There have been a lot of highly regarded films I haven't liked the first time but fell in love with the second time. Then Thin Red Line does not fit into that category. I found the voice over narration variously annoying boring and ridiculous. And I loved Tree of Life and liked New World. Both by Malcik. This one not so much. Happens.

Black Narcisccus (1947) The first of two Powell/Pressuberger films I viewed. I loved Deborah Kerr and co star Kathleen Byron as much as the much ballyhooed scenery. I could also tell this was a film that required repeat viewings to fully appreciate and I'm willing to eventually invest the time. This first look was more about following the basic plot outline and admiring the "look of the film." And what a look!

Ruggles of Red Gap (1935). My first of two Charles Laughton films during the week. Goodness he was a terrific actor. This is not your typical 1930s film. Laughton plays Ruggles a valet lost in a poker game by his British nobleman boss (Roland Young) to a pair of rich hicks from the fictional Red Gap, Washington. This all takes place in Paris. But then the scene shifts to Red Gap where all kind of shenanigans and hijinks end with Ruggles running a restaurant with a love interest played by...Zazu Pitts. Of course! RORG is an absolute delight from beginning to end and Laughton proves that he could do comedy with the best of 'em. Directed by the vastly underrated Leo McCraey.

Amour (2012). This was technically a 2012 release but it didn't get to these part until mid January and not in Berkeley until last week. Had I caught in December it would have topped my top ten films list for the year. I especially appreciate the fact that director Michael Haenke has such great respect for audiences and is willing to allow viewers to make decisions for themselves and think and contemplate and fill in gaps. Production line Hollywood films treat movie goers like small children who need to be told a nice tidy story with a beginning middle and end and no ambiguity.

No (2012) This is the story of the 1988 plebiscite in Chile in which voters were asked to vote YES! for more of Augusto Pinochet -- who seized power in a CIA backed military coup from democratically elected socialist Salvador Allende -- or NO! for a fresh start. The charismatic Gael Garcia Bernal plays the ad executive who handles the No campaign. Its an interesting and important story and a perfectly nice film but not a film I'd bother with a second time. Kind of like Argo only better. Thanks the same and well done lads.

Hobson's Choice (1954). My second Laughton film of the week was this one which  -- in my most humble opinion -- stunk. Okay you like the film so just ignore what I write here and move on to the next film. Go on you won't miss anything. Laughton plays the unlikeable Hobson who battles his unlikeable oldest daughter who marries an initially likable man who himself is unlikable by the end of the film. David Lean directed some good some very good and some great films and this one. Yuck.

The Red Shoes (1948).  All right if you're one of this film's many admirers you should move on. This was my second Powell/Pressburger film. It is much loved but not by me. The two protagonists were as interesting as yawning accountants. I wish the woman had leapt to her death in the first reel and taken her boyfriend with her. Half way through this insipid silly film I was playing words with friends. Much more engaging.

Lore (2012) Somehow this is an Australian film though it was done by starred Germans and Austrians. World War II has proven to be an endless source of movies including some of the greatest ever made. Of course many of these films explore some of the countless victims of the war. We're familiar with the tragedy visited upon people throughout Europe and Asia especially Jews Russians and other innocents in invaded countries. But citizens of conquering countries also suffered. Imagine the children of Germany even those whose parents were devoted followers of Hitler. Lore does exactly that. Following five young sibling (one a baby) led by the titular character oldest daughter Lore. It might be hard to feel for the progeny of Nazis when so much horror was visited on others but these children are victims too. Lore the character is a remarkable teenager who undergoes a dramatic transformation as a result of her trek. Well worth seeing.

Pulp Fiction (1994). Pulp Fiction is for me like sushi. I love sushi when I'm enjoying it but need to step away for awhile after indulging. What I noticed this time around was the manner in which Jackson Travolta Thurman Kietel and Rhames relished their lines. Director Tarantino benefits greatly from the work of screenwriter Tarantino (two Oscars for it). When you get such juicy dialogue to sink your teeth into your bound to make the most of your screen time. We're nearing Pulp Fiction's 20th anniversary and it is aging well.

The Awful Truth (1937). My second McCray film of the week and this is a real rarity because it is film stolen right from under star Cary Grant -- the grandmaster of the screwball comedy. The thief is his co star Irene Dunne. She accomplishes this feat in the scene in which she drops in Grant's and his fiancé and her family and pretends to be his sister. Grant is of course a delight throughout as he is in so many films. But Dunne walks away it. Let me offerYou can't make up stuff like that couldn't if you tried. Priceless.

The White Ribbon (2009)

"A cottage small is all I'm after,Not one that's spacious and wide.A house that rings with joy and laughterand the ones you love inside.
Some like the high road, I like the low road,Free from the care and strife.Sounds corny and seedy, but yes, indeed-y; Give me the simple life." Lyrics by Rube Bloom and Harry Ruby

My second Haenke of the week and my second viewing of this extraordinary film. Whodunit? What was going on in this German village in 1913-1914 that was disturbing the idyllic small town peace? Ghastly crimes. Burning a barn. Mutilating a disabled child. Setting a trip wire for a motorbike. And children seemingly always at the center of events. This is a Haenke film so there are no easy answers and not even many revealing clues. What there is a stunning visual show and loads of imponderable to ponder. In a week that included a few duds and a few masterpieces and a few better than average films it was nice to end on such a strong note.

Twas a week well spent.

On Growing Up Finnish American in the '60s

On most weekends of my childhood my family would go to some sort of Finnish gathering. This could be a dinner with relatives or a ski trip or a barbecue or an extended family party. There were also functions held by the local Finnish Brotherhood Hall in my hometown of Berkeley. There were sometimes soft religious undertones to these, but as Finland is a Lutheran nation, there was nothing terribly overt. Maybe just a passing reference to god and a short prayer. Mostly there would be food and revelry and live accordion music and dancing. Wherever it was a point was being made for everyone to have a good time and forget whatever cares might be troubling them. The old and the young alike were treated with respect and dignity. Women were generally responsible for preparing meals and took on a greater share of the set up and cleaning, but this was in line with the times. I have never felt that my upbringing was especially sexist, certainly not relative to the rest of the world at the time. Women's voices were heard and respected.

I had a strong sense that everyone was happy. In fact that was rather the point of weekends. Finns are a notoriously hard working people. The proclivity to drunkenness usually manifests on weekends and often in the form of binges. Work gets done and quite efficiently thank you. The Finns of my parents' generation were enjoying the fruits of post war America. As a carpenter -- like seemingly every other Finnish American of our community -- my dad was benefitting enormously from the building boom. He always had work. The union was strong and he made enough that my mother didn't need to work yet we owned a home and two cars and my father was able to invest in and help build apartments in Lake Tahoe. The United States that I grew up in was a sharp contrast to the Finland where my dad was raised. His family was never poor but they did struggle and consumer goods were not readily available nor was the latest technology. So the Finns in the Bay Area of the late '40s '50s '60s and even into the '70s had cause for constant celebration. They were enjoying the American dream and homesickness was alleviated by the strong Finnish community around them. (Of course today Finland has the most respected education system in the world and was ranked by Newsweek magazine as the best overall country in the world to live in. Meanwhile in the US middle class homes usually require both parents to work and union power is fading and the economy...you get the picture. Times change.)

My father, Aimo Hourula*

It was a warm and happy and comfortable cocoon for me to grow up in. Besides my folks and big brother I had grandparents aunts uncles and cousins and family friends who were like relatives. There was no indoctrination, just an exposure to the culture of my forebearers. I had an amazing amount of freedom. Children were to be looked after and indulged and loved unconditionally. They were not -- however -- to be treated as square pegs to be jammed into holes round or otherwise. Today's children are often more programmed than raised, given an endless string of clubs teams organizations and groups to join. Their non school hours are so precisely scheduled that they even are assigned play dates. Many parents build their lives around their children sacrificing much of what made them unique before parenthood. In the Finnish community I grew up in parents made accommodations for their children and included them as part of their lives. Children were honored not deified. Unlike many children of today we did not feel we were the center of the universe just a valued part of it.

Of course this was no earthly paradise. Marital problems were not brought up beyond the tightest inner circle. Alcoholism and mental and emotional problems were closely held secrets. There were such strictures on mentioning them that even the sufferer was unable to admit it to themselves. Thus my poor old mom. She developed what was likely schizophrenia which coupled with alcoholism shattered her life in such a profound way that she could not even recognize anything was amiss. Paranoia gripped her like a vise.  I doubt that there were anything more than whispers when my father started turning up alone at social gatherings. Even as evidence came to light of my mother's serious issues there was probably never much but idle gossip. Finns of that generation had no mechanism to cope with such issues. My father himself was at a loss to help her or even himself. It was a situation that was not within his ability to grasp. Part of him simply died I think. I know part of me did. Eventually he met another woman and divorced my mom who lived on for another 28 very sad years. Undiagnosed and alone. The world I grew up was reluctant to acknowledge difficulties especially ones so exotic as my mom's. They were in a boat that was not to be rocked.

While liberal in most senses of the word Finnish Americans were troubled by protesters whether for Black equality or against the Vietnam war. They had such a good thing going they wanted no one suggesting anything was wrong anywhere for anybody.

I've made a point in my life not to idealize my youth, my culture, my family or anything else. Having a mother go mad will do that. But I do look back with great fondness at my childhood and the manner in which I was shaped and comforted by my Finnish identity. It is a powerful and useful and positive drug to have a strong sense of group and to participate in it fully. To work hard and achieve and give back and to enjoy. That's really what sticks out for me. People getting together and having fun. I had an uncle -- a younger brother of my dad's -- who I'll always remember with this impossibly large smile beaming from his handsome face. I'll also remember his powerful and frequently released laugh and his incomparable kindness to me. He built himself a big house in the suburbs and loved to host parties in it. Christmas Eve there was magic. Some of the great memories of my childhood are from holidays, get-togethers and bashes held there. I'd play with my cousins, eat a magnificent meal prepared by my aunt and feel an overwhelming sense of the world being a safe and wonderful place because it was not just the kids who were having a great time, but the adults too. Ya can't beat that.

If anyone reading this enjoyed it then it's dedicated to my late great big brother, Robert. If you didn't enjoy it then leave my brother out of it.

*Photo from my niece Matlena Hourula's website. You should totally check out her work.

We are Wonderful We are Contradictory

Every life is many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love. But always meeting ourselves. -- James Joyce, Ulysses.

There's a certain glamor that can attach itself to stories recovering addicts and alcoholics tell about themselves. They create a narrative which makes them tragic romantic heroic figures with rich colorful pasts and inherit wisdom that normal people can't possibly understand. These self glorifying drunks and junkies use their diseases to imbue themselves with a glorious wisdom deserving reverence. These people are -- of course -- full of shit. What they have in bravado they lack in humility.

Humility is precious. A drop of it is worth pounds of gold. And lest you think I don't know what I'm talking about I'm talking about what I've been for much of the past decades. Wearing a checkered past like a badge of courage and honor. I crawled out of the pit of hell and now bestride sobriety like a colossus.

Humility is the recognition the understanding and the acceptance that we are part of a whole and while we're different we're no better than anyone else no matter what we do.

Of course a lot of us spend our whole lives smugly being different than everyone else. We are not normal not regular not ordinary we are fucking awesome and other people are just too dumb to now it. We have a special vision seeing what others cannot. Experiencing life more meaningfully. Sure we suffer for our self bestowed beatitudes. Addiction and mental quirks -- ranging from idiosyncrasies  to manic depression -- are some of the prices we pay for our heightened senses of awareness. Mere mortals can not possibly understand. How we suffer for our state of grace.

There are 12 step programs that can help wash away some of our self righteousness. But we can practices certain principles in all our affairs and still feel deep down that we are above it all. Deep down and above. Our wonderfully contradictory spiral into the depths of ourselves.

Life is a process. There is no finer aspiration than to pursue progress and not perfection. It's all we have really. Taking steps forward even if the winds of misfortune are blowing us backwards. There is much to be said for the person who gets up everyday and takes that shower and eats that breakfast and heads for that job and takes care of business and doesn't just rail and scream impotently at injustices small and large but does something. Keep on truckin' is not such a silly notion.

If you hang in there putting one foot before the other you'll surely be rewarded. Just being part of the world is a miracle. To experience love and friendship and art and beauty and nourishment and light and ideas...what gifts! By allowing ourselves to be part of it all we then can truly see that while we are all unique and special we are not of a superior quality no matter what we know and what we've experienced and what we've learned and who we've known. Cherishing who we are without deifying ourselves is an art best mastered in order to know true happiness.

It's all ridiculously easy and impossibly hard and wonderfully ambiguous and we are all fully capable and sorely lacking. We are the contradictions we seek in the world whether we're looking for them or not.

Thoughtless Commuters The Overweight and Compelling Sports Stories

Commute home on BART the other day I notice a guy standing next to me who looked to be about 90 years old. His cane barely keeps him from toppling over into a heap. No one was offering Methuselah a seat. The reasoning must have been that he's going to die pretty soon anyway so what's the point. Save the comfort of sitting for those young and healthy enough to enjoy it. I've seen pregnant women left to stand too. Why give a seat to someone who might be going into labor any minute? It would be that much harder to get her off the train and to the hospital from a sitting position. You could be a one-legged pregnant octogenarian and not be given a seat. Then again I see some people demand the seats by the door that are reserved for the old infirm and expecting. They've every right too. Recently however I saw a woman demand a seat from someone who looked younger than her. She was neither in a family way nor disabled. She was however fat. So because you're fat you can demand a seat? I'd have been like: "hell no I'm not giving up my seat to you just because you eat donuts by the box and drink coke by the liter." But that's me. I am not awash with sympathy for the obese especially when I see them coming out of ice cream shops or ordering a danish with their coffee. Should I have to make accommodations for smokers or drunks? I've been both and my message to addicts including those whose drug of choice is pastry: get some fucking help. There's plenty of it. I'm sorry you have an addiction I know what its like but this one's on you. No one gets clean or slender or off cigarettes unless they want to and no one is living in addiction for very long who doesn't know and hasn't thought about getting out.

It is our foibles and weaknesses and flaws and defects and mistakes and accidents that make us such compelling viewing. Perfection is boring. Give me stories of defeat and loss and tragedy and fatal error and you're giving me something to reflect on to learn from to be inspired by. My hero is Muhammad Ali. It would have been nice if he'd retired from boxing several losses before he did and never suffered from Parkinson's Syndrome but one has to admit that his story has taken on the shadings of Greek Tragedy as a consequence. Also that first loss to Frazier along with being exiled from boxing set Ali up for his greatest triumph -- reclaiming the heavyweight crown not once but twice. There was an other world quality to Ali's string of victories his beauty his poetry his politics. But ultimately he proved mortal.

I never much cared for Lance Armstrong. There was far too much perfection in his ceaseless winning. (Besides it was just riding a damn bicycle.) I sensed something amiss about him and was not at all surprised when it all come tumbling down and he was exposed as a lying cheat. Suddenly I was interested in him. Now instead of not giving a damn I actually could work some really strong animus. His story was far more interesting.

John Wooden was a much admired college basketball coach who racked up a string of national titles several earned by unbeaten teams. He and his team generally carried themselves with class and there was not a whiff of scandal around his UCLA programs. Yawn. Coaches and players can learn a lot from the late great Wizard of Westwood but what a snooze of a story.

In sports it is defeat that defines character. I have reveled in my favorite baseball team's (SF Giants) two World Series titles these past three seasons. But I am lucky to have suffered from so many near misses from the time I was a wee child through adulthood. Those crushing defeats merely strengthened my love for the team and made their first two titles of my lifetime so much sweeter.

Without agony ecstasy has little meaning. There are some who toss their team aside after bitter disappointment or an embarrassing pratfall. I've had two teams I love suffer shocking defeats recently. First of all you get used to it and can and should remind yourself that yes it is in fact only a game. (It is amazing for how many years I refused to accept that it was not just a game and would have an entire weekend ruined by a team's loss.) But also those losses make the wins meaningful and precious.

Sports are cruel if you measure success only in terms of championships. Locally the 49ers pro football team reached the conference title game last season and the Super Bowl this one. In both instances they lost and in excruciating fashion that brought out an endless cacophony of could haves should haves would haves. But goodness they had great seasons in both instances -- particularly given a long string of bad ones that preceded. It seemed impossible for locals to appreciate their accomplishments instead boo hooing the final loss. Perspective is everything and is often missing in the what have you done for me lately mindset of sports fans.

Okay my writing is spent for now. Can't think of a clever way to wrap this up so I reckon maybe I should just stop....