Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Somewhere in the Night (Joseph L. Manciewicz, 1946)

How had I never heard of this film before? It might not be in the absolute first rank of noirs – it did come out the same year as The Big Sleep which is about as demanding as competition gets – but it's very good indeed. Some splendid cinematography, very fine performances from some faces that were to become familiar, and a suitably convoluted plot. The amnesia theme may seem rather well-trodden, but it's effectively used, especially in a remarkable scene between John Hodiak and Elizabeth Conroy in which, to begin with, its is being recognised that proves profoundly bewildering for the protagonist, but is then followed by a denial ("You don't know me, don't worry – I never saw you before, I lied") which, diegetically, is emotionally motivated but gains in intensity for the audience because we can't at first be entirely sure that we're not meant to take it literally (is she, too, in the pay of the villains?). Certainly at the end things become a little gratuitously twisty, and gathering everybody in the same room is uncomfortably Agatha Christie (although this device is at least undercut somewhat so it doesn't undermine the film the way it does The Blue Dahlia), but on the whole everything is adroitly handled; some details that appear superfluous (the facial bandages at the beginning; a certain character's past as a private eye) become neater in retrospect. There are some very fine versions of some staple locations such as working class housing (with a very funny sequence of dialogue on the doorstep) and a sinister sanatorium. There's also a good level of self-aware humour (comments about detectives' hats and about lighting; the line "Oh, we're having repartee, are we?") that show how quickly the genre – if it is a genre – was able to satirise itself (which is to say pretty much immediately) but that are lightly enough handled not to become too arch or smugly knowing. Well worth tracking down.

Friday, May 04, 2018

Pitfall (Andre de Toth, 1948)

I confess to never even having heard of this until very recently, but it's very fine indeed. A melodrama in film noir clothing, even at this relatively early stage in the genre the film is able to play with the conventions – there's a femme fatale who isn't one, as well as forgotten briefcase that doesn't turn out to be the fatal mistake we assume it will be, and the first violence comes from a source that is only predictable in retrospect. Much as I like Dick Powell in films like Murder, My Sweet he's a more convincing ordinary man who willingly gets himself into trouble (because he thinks it won't really be that much trouble) than he is a Philip Marlowe. Lizabeth Scott, Jane Wyatt and Raymond Burr are all strong and effective. Dramatic photography is used sparingly and non-gratuitously. The "non-femme fatale" is thrown away rather cruelly at the end, but though this saves the middle class marriage, I think one could make a case that the film does at least raise the question of whether it's a price worth paying, and for whom.

Friday, April 13, 2018

Naked Fire Gesture: brief thoughts on Cecil Taylor's dialectical detail (2005)

[The following was originally published on the website dispatx in 2005. 
Many thanks to David Stent, Oliver Luker and Vanessa Oniboni. 
Many thanks also to David Grundy who discovered a copy of it lurking on his computer, when I had long since lost track of it. 
I repost it here now in tribute to Cecil Percival Taylor, March 25, 1929 – April 5, 2018.]

Naked Fire Gesture

Brief Thoughts on Cecil Taylor's Dialectical Detail

'one mineral crystalizing / one mineral into another'
[Cecil Taylor, 'Chinampas', Leo Records CD LR 153. track 3]

The metamorphic dialectics of Cecil Taylor's pianism are pithily expressed by this line from his only piano-free recording, 'Chinampas', a studio session of poetry and percussion recorded in 1987. Like the crystallizing mineral, melodic and rhythmic shapes coalesce and emerge in Taylor's music from disparate material, pause, restate themselves, and somehow in the process become other than they were, propelling the performance along with an unmistakable momentum. Taylor's work has, since his earliest recordings (and increasingly so over the 50 years of his recording career), been based on energy, on its rise and fall (as Ekkehard Jost points out in his 1972 book, 'Free Jazz'). Energy is not a euphemism for loud, fast and undifferentiated ecstatic improvisation. It refers very precisely to the convergence (or crystallization, perhaps?) of dynamic, register, rate and density of activity and more in Taylor's work, a convergence whose rates of change are controlled with the utmost precision by the pianist - with the grace of the dancer or athlete, in fact, who must admit the spontaneous and the unplanned amidst their iron control. They must work with rather than against gravity or fall over, but to engage with this risk is where the beauty lies - as Taylor writes in the utterly extraordinary liner notes to his 1966 recording 'Unit Structures' (Blue Note 84237), 'ballet is the studied manipulation of extremities, a calisthenic procedure away from body center'. It is somehow characteristic of the range of Taylor’s music that metaphors derived from chemistry and from dance seem equally apposite as routes into his work. And yet what has been underemphasised in discussion about Taylor is the importance of the hiatus in his work. In the 'Unit Structures' notes he says 'measurement of sound is its silences'. The pause between phrases is a moment of recovery that is also the moment of preparation, just like the dancer’s pause and gathering of energy before the leap or the static build up in a chemical substance to a rapid change of state. This moment allows one to hear Taylor melodic 'cells' as just that; it is the space in which one moment can be heard to stand in relation to all the others, that allows one to hear the dialectical detail that drives his performances.

The Podewil, Berlin, is dark and silent. It continues to be so for what seems like an age. Even polite Germans begin to get restless – ‘good show’ shouts one, with heavy irony. Then an old man, vibrantly dressed (somewhat like a psychedelic aerobics instructor) hobbles onto the stage. He reaches the piano. It is the 7th November 2003. The first notes begin to sound and in the gloom we see Tony Oxley seated behind, and surprisingly high above, his drums. He seems disconcertingly nonchalant – bored even – in counterpoint to the utter precision of the sounds he is producing. The lights come up very, very slowly, matching the ascent of the music. Cecil now looks 20 rather than 70. Oxley smiles. The music fills the room, a maelstrom made up of pinpoints of sound, vibrantly weaving against and into one another.

'elements geometric and chromatic'
['Chinampas', track 5]

'Unit Structures', from the album of the same name, seem to be Taylor's own term for the musical cells or quanta (take your metaphor from biology or physics as you wish) that form the microstructure of his music. Yet they are not merely little building blocks, they are alchemical formulae that enable him to create his music ('angle of incidence / being matter ignited' - the opening words of 'Chinampas'). They are 'unit', but they are also 'structures', implying the relationship of smaller parts to a larger whole - a hierarchy not predetermined but nonetheless present, just as Taylor usually refers to his bands as the 'Cecil Taylor Unit'. Like the fractal, the unit can contain in embryo, or at least relate metonymically to, all that occurs over the longer scale. ('a substitution of part for the whole' Taylor recites in a fabulously faux-pompous voice on track 7 of 'Chinampas'). Taylor's cells are basically riffs - but sometimes obviously so, such as the thundering Monk/Basie-like bass parts he sometimes tosses in, sometimes less so. They pile on top of one another and after one another, sometimes fulfilling all that the riff is supposed to (rhythmic propulsion, melodic hooks), sometimes being so multiple that they go beyond this into new musical areas, only to be all the more effective when they recur in identifiable form. And they are recognisable, instantly - such as the root - flat five - octave - root - flat five - major seventh figure found in kaleidoscopic but always identifiable form across Taylor's recorded oeuvre. Yet these are much more than merely the licks by which Taylor provides himself with an improvising vocabulary. Rather, they express the dialectic between improvisation and composition in Taylor's work - he is both improviser and composer or perhaps better, not exactly either, when he plays his own music. Brian Morton called him 'an epic singer' in the Wire 242, de-emphasizing 'originality at source while placing a radical new emphasis on the synthesizing skill of the improvisor'. Listen to Taylor's epic encounter with guitarist Derek Bailey from Berlin in 1988, 'Pleistozaen Mit Wasser' (FMP CD 16), and you hear the improviser at work. Taylor plays directly on the piano strings (something very rare now in his own groups), and when he comes to the keyboard uses far fewer of his 'licks' than one might expect, dealing directly with the material musical relationship between himself and Bailey. Then turn to the trio recording 'Celebrated Blazons' (FMP CD 58), also from Berlin and only three years later, and really listen to those 'licks'. Here is the master composer/improviser at work in the medium he himself has built from the ground up. (His bandmembers - bassist William Parker and drummer/percussionist Tony Oxley - inspire, cajole, reinforce and contradict Taylors pianism, but the framework in which they do so is clearly Taylor's alone.) His 'Unit Structures' are much longer than one might imagine - not just a mere couple of notes strung together, but more extended shapes, characterized by pitch, rhythm and texture. Following these shapes, one can begin to predict where Taylor will go next, only to be all the more surprised as he ducks the expected consequent to what we have come to hear as an antecedent. The internal shape of the unit structures, geometric and chromatic, is an integral part of their dialectical character.

The musical whirl continues to fill the Podewil. Time begins to lose meaning. We think we have the measure of the performance – we’ve reached a climax now, things will wind down (at least temporarily). But they continue climbing. Another peak has become visible as Taylor and Oxley mount what we thought must have been the summit. The audience begins to be exhausted, as well as exhilarated. Then it stops – midnight. Oxley announces that they will return for even more! We wait another half hour in a confusion of moods, and then they do return, for fifteen minutes of exquisite music. The energy and intensity is still there but there are other mountains to climb and the melodic strands now gleam in a way they could not in the midst of the tumultuous whirlpool we heard before.

'the apex being equinox'
['Chinampas', track 3]

Cecil Taylor’s music is filled with tiny vibrant details. But what most often strikes listeners unfamiliar with his performances are their scale – the sheer length of his marathon journeys into sound. In fact, through his mastery of detail, Taylor has mastered the long form also. 'Geometry' parallels the 'chromatic'. Taylor's forms are not empty, inert, waiting to be filled with musical material. They are unfolding, dynamic: 'form is possibility', say the notes to 'Unit Structures'. The energies pent up in the small-scale structures are explosively released and channeled in an improvised dance of forces. A single note might be an increase in intensity from the note preceding it, yet it might make up part of a phrase in which the energy of the preceding phrase is somewhat dissipated. These two phrases, however, may be part of a larger - say, ten minute - arc of steadily building intensity. Taylor's forms are spontaneous and both self-similar and self-dissimilar. Experiencing them in the heightened moment of the live performance, one can continually shift ones attention between the different scales at play (as Taylor says, in contrasting voices, on track 2 of 'Chinampas': 'traffic in one scale / in one what? / scale'). There is a characteristic moment in Taylor's performances where the energy suddenly drops. The audience is left (for a second, ten seconds, a minute) unsure whether this drop in energy is an interlude in an otherwise continually intense passage, or a moment of structural pivot, a change in direction on a larger scale. The apex may also be the equinox.

The Royal Festival Hall in London is shadowy and not quite silent. A restless murmur is beginning. ‘Get on with it!’ rings out from the back of the hall. An old man shuffles onto the stage. The ritual is repeating itself. It is the 15th November 2004. The same and yet different in every detail. Cecil begins alone at the piano – we have already heard solos from Tony Oxley and veteran trumpeter Bill Dixon. Sustained and sun-stained notes hang gently in the air. Then shorter, punchier tones begin to tumble into one another, crushed in on themselves, turning round and catching their own tails. Plenty of pauses – hiatuses - short and long as the music spins on a complex gyroscopic fulcrum. Eventually the others join in and we take off again. The same and yet totally different.

Rhythm is life the space of time danced through'
[liner notes to 'Unit Structures']

All Cecil Taylor’s activities militate against making rigid distinctions between music and the rest of life, as the liner notes to 'Unit Structures' clearly express. Practicing one's instrument is not merely the preparation to an act of entertainment (or even art), but an intermingling of body and mind wherein the self may not only express, but define and articulate itself: 'Practice is speech to one's self out of that self metamorphosing life's 'act' a musical subject having become 'which' that has placement in creation language is arrived at. ... There are not separate parts: one body and the mind enclosed.' A related intermingling, communication and spur to action take place when musicians improvise, not alone, but together: 'Joint energy disposed in parts of singular feeding. A recharge; group chain reaction.' Mind and body, past, present and future all find their concrete expression now in action that changes the world: ' ... light rain / about to fall not fallen yet / distances - light differential – between nourished impulse and act ...' Hence politics and music are not disparate activities but both founded in minute details that, through self-defining physical/mental action move outwards into the world and alter it. The title of Taylor's 'Unit Structures' notes expresses this exactly: 'Sound Structure of Subculture Become Major Breath / Naked Fire Gesture'.

We can break this down:
• 'Sound Structure' - minute phrase or form of an entire piece
• 'Subculture' - for Taylor the African-American and gay communities, but we all belong to social units on a smaller scale than the culture at large
• 'Become Major Breath' - oxygen enables life (or, better, lives) to come into being, grow and develop
• 'Naked' - bodily, honest, sensual
• 'Fire Gesture' - passionate, dynamic, and semantic - and hence, remembering the linguistic metaphors in the third sentence of this paragraph, meaningful.

This meaningfulness is enacted in Cecil Taylor’s performances – the abstract collapses into the concrete in the heightened moment. The heading to this section mirrors this process in the way its subjects and metaphors collapse into one another: music (‘rhythm’), space, time, and the action that occupies, fills and defines this space and time all cohere in the moment, but if one tries to pull them apart too far and ‘de-code’ them the semantics collapse. It is only in activity and through time that they cohere; splayed out synchronously like a medical specimen they needs must die. So Cecil must keep playing music, keep performing, re-enacting the ritual – or the adventure into the unknown – by which his and our physicality and intellect can be brought into meaningful, living juxtaposition.

Sunday, January 21, 2018

The Banishment (Andrey Zvyagintsev, 2007)

I found the opening sequence of this completely gripping. A speeding car passes from an idyllic countryside to a rain-sodden city. The driver – we learn this at the point when he is forced to stop at a level crossing to allow a train to pass – has a wounded arm that he's tourniqued with a belt. Is some kind of dystopian crime drama in the offing? Unfortunately after this things rather fall away, and all that remains of such a drama are the vaguest background hints. The driver, Mark (played by Aleksandr Baluev) turns out to be our protagonist's brother, Alex (Konstantin Lavroneko), who soon returns to the idyllic countryside with his family – wife, son and daughter – to their country house there. It isn't long before it becomes clear that allegory is on the cards. With a vengeance! The film offers such a compote of allegories that we're left largely with muddle. Specifically, the two children are aligned with Adam and Eve – the son, Kir, is given the power to name a young foal; the daughter is called Eva and is even at one point told to pass her mother an apple! The film's title, Izgnanie in Russian is, as Tony Wood points out in his New Left Review article on Zvyagintsev, the Russian word used to refer to the expulsion from Eden. But this was clearly not enough allegory for Zvyagintsev, so the mother is also pregnant, with an unspecified father. At one point, to help us out if we've not spotted the allusion yet, the children construct a jigsaw of the Annunciation.(Things seem to have been even clunkier in the source novel, which I have not read: the protagonist of William Saroyan's The Laughing Matter is called Evan Nazarenus.) What sense we are to make of Mary and Joseph being the parents of Adam and Eve is unclear (to complicate matters still further there seem to me to be indications that the two brothers are in a sense two sides of the same person); Wood quotes the director as saying that Alex is "a 'new Joseph', who wants to expel Mary for the Immaculate Conception [he must mean the virgin birth], but in this case is tragically 'unable to hear the voice of the angel that is speaking to him' ... 'we are all of us Eves and Adams', and the banishment of the film's title is not a single event but a permanent human condition: 'we have all of us been banished'." Despite the fine acting the indefiniteness of setting, with regard both to location and to time, hamstrings the possibility of focusing on characters and narrative on their own terms. It's also stylistically self-regarding, chock full of aggressively shallow focus and explicit nods to Tarkovsky, in particular. It all adds up to the kind of thing that allows some film scholars to claim that there's such a thing as an "art cinema" genre (is there a genre of painting called "art painting"?). Darren Aaronovsky's Mother! may be a much sillier film than this, but if you want a confused muddle of allegories, at least it's also much more fun.

Saturday, January 20, 2018

Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri (Martin McDonagh, 2017)

I rather came away here with the impression of a cast outclassing their script. Three Billboards outside Ebbing, Missouri certainly contains a host of very fine performances, is indubitably engaging and often very funny, but it also suffers from the kind of "neatness" that plagues a certain style of playwriting. The film thinks that it is – among other things – a fairly serious look at certain phenomena, chiefly rape, murder, racism and the police responses (and of course contributions) to them. For maybe its first third I thought that the most interesting aspect of it was not the issues it confronts explicitly, but rather its examination of the nature and consequences of political action, considered in the broadest sense. The specific political action in question involves the messages that Frances McDormand's character, Mildred Hayes, puts up on the eponymous billboards, demanding – this is a spoiler, but only of about the first five minutes of the film – why the police have made no progress in solving her daughter's rape and murder. The responses she receives of "we're all with you, but we don't want you to actually do anything about your situation" have all sorts of resonances. But for the film to really explore the political in this sense it would have had to sustain the kind of general credibility maintained by something like Manchester By The Sea, whose Lucas Hedges also crops up here as McDormand's son; it would also certainly have had to include some fleshed-out black characters, which it almost resolutely refuses to do. Instead, although it ends on what I found to be a pleasingly ambiguous note, the film descends into a series of increasingly contrived set-pieces which undermine its claim to any genuine seriousness, political or of any other kind – and this even before we get to the question of the redemption that Sam Rockwell's character seems to be allowed (something which has become, I think rightly, controversial).

Wednesday, December 06, 2017

Happy End (Michael Haneke, 2017)

A curious beast, this. As a number of critics have said, all the expected Haneke manoeuvres are present and correct, but rather too present and correct. (A bit like "Haneke's greatest hits", somebody said to me.) The filming is as beautifully meticulous as ever, but I was also pedantically irritated by the opening cameraphone shots, which show us the entire screen of the young daughter's smartphone, with running commentary in text message but nary a thumb to be seen. How exactly is she supposed to be typing the messages, then?!? Fantine Harduin as the 13-year old Eve is in fact one of the best things about the film – understated but not quite pathologically so – and Trintignant gives a wryly precise performance; Huppert and Toby Jones, watchable as they both are, are never required to break a sweat. But my general impression during the film was largely one of Haneke spinning his wheels. And yet when it closed on an overtly comic treatment of attempted suicide I found myself reconsidering. It is made clear, earlier on, that the film is in some senses a sequel to Amour, but the comedy (which surfaces intermittently throughout) made me reconsider the other references to Haneke's own work. What had seemed worryingly derivative (clichés are clichés, even if they're your own – just look at Tarkovsky's last two films) now seemed so blatant as to be clearly deliberate: there is, for example, a conversation in the middle distance that we can't hear and a sudden, shocking eruption of violence (conflating two scenes from Caché), and a woman involved in a sadomasochistic affair turns out to be a musician (The Piano Teacher). Is this latter fact an actual joke? Seeing reflexivity rather than mere repetition also caused me to reconsider the film's relative gentleness, which some have seen as bland or disappointing; horrible events are telegraphed but do not happen, and two excruciating social situations are only mildly excruciating. Is this, too, to be seen in relation to Haneke's preceding films, a comment on his own method? Is it deliberate bathos rather than a failed attempt at intensity? Is the whole thing poking fun at his own body of work, at the notion that film is an appropriate means for a traumatic working through of hypocrisy? Does this explain why the migrant crisis is quite so peripheral to the film, as well as the crudeness of its one major appearance in the narrative? Is Haneke, perhaps, satirising his own bourgeois filmmaking here as much as the bourgeousie in general? After just one viewing, I'm not at all sure, but Haneke is surely far too intelligent not to have considered all this, and so it definitely merits a subsequent viewing (something I didn't think I'd say half way through) and some more pondering.

P.S. Interesting remark by Haneke in an interview in Cineaste (Winter 2017, pp. 4-9: 4).
"Nasty commentators have said this is a "best of" compilation of my work. It is, in fact, a kind of summation. It also has something comical - in the sense of a farce - which makes it easy to reference other films. That was fun. This gets noticed only by insiders. They get the jokes that, nevertheless, don't change the seriousness of the narrative."

Friday, December 01, 2017

Chimes at Midnight (Orson Welles, 1965)

It must be a dilemma for almost any production of Shakespeare, whether on stage or screen – why are we bothering with all this business of staging, blocking, scenery? Why not just have the audience close their eyes and the actors deliver the lines, given that we're dealing with some of the richest poetry ever written, in the English language or any other? The parts of the plays that Orson Welles fillets to produce his Chimes at Midnight may not contain the very richest of Shakespeare's poetry, but still, the director's solution is admirable in its simplicity: he simply ignores the fact that there might be a problem at all. The slight divergence between image and sound produced by overdubbing suggest that one might do well to watch this film with the sound off, as well as to listen to it in the absence of the images, such is its richness in both dimensions. Welles resists using the images to simplify, clarify or even comment on the language, and simply develops both aspects to the best of his ability in the service of the narrative. The visuals are quite magnificent, with beautiful camera movements married to some at times quite startling editing that never allows the choreography, in itself, to become the point. Of course it recalls nothing so much as Welles, but Bergman, Tarkovsky and even Eisenstein all come to mind at times, as well as some pre-echoes of Béla Tarr, surprisingly, and particularly Aleksei German's Hard to Be a God. (The battle scene is very fine indeed.) And Welles' own performance is quite magnificent, his voice never more precisely deployed. It's instructive to put his Falstaff here against the eponymous Mr. Arkadin (1955) to see all that is best and worst in Welles as an actor. In the earlier film, boldness becomes mannerism, preposterousness and overexplicitness; here, minute attention to detail and great subtlety never become precious or self-regarding, and broadness does not exactly become delicate but is handled with as much delicacy as the delicate aspects themselves. Subtlety does not become an obstacle to directness, but neither do broad strokes do away with nuance and ambiguity. In Chimes at Midnight, this is true of Welles' acting and of his directing both.