Lost in Criterion

Spine 607: A Hollis Frampton Odyssey Part 1

Criterion once again brings us a boxset of avant-garde film, this time from American filmmaker Hollis Frampton. A Hollis Frampton Odyssey contains 20 or so shorts of varying length, adding up to 266 minutes of material that we'll be covering over the next three weeks.

In this week's episode we cover what Criterion deems Frampton's "Early Films", all made between 1966 and 1970. Included here are some early musings with light and color, some interesting installation pieces, and one epic alphabet. It's a lot to cover, but we try to keep an open mind, even as Frampton's manner of speaking gives us both a visceral reaction to the man, if not his work.

Films covered:
Manual of Arms (1966 • 17 minutes, 10 seconds • Black & White • Silent)
Process Red (1966 • 3 minutes, 37 seconds • Color • Silent)
Maxwell’s Demon (1968 • 3 minutes, 44 seconds • Color • Mono)
Surface Tension (1968 • 9 minutes, 30 seconds • Color • Mono)
Carrots & Peas (1969 • 5 minutes, 21 seconds • Color • Mono)
Lemon (1969 • 7 minutes, 17 seconds • Color • Silent)
Zorns Lemma (1970 • 59 minutes, 51 seconds • Color • Mono)

Spine 606: Blithe Spirit

Ronald Neames says that after This Happy Breed he and the rest of Cineguild were tired of making war-time films, and were pretty sure audiences were tired of propaganda. But they weren't tired of working with Noel Coward, despite the fact that with each movie in Criterion's David Lean Directs Noel Coward boxset we get new stories of Coward disagreeing with their choices in filming his work.

Blithe Spirit is the final film we'll be covering in the boxset - Brief Encounter, the Lean and Coward masterpiece, is in here too, but we talked about it 11 years ago. A delightful romp about murdering your loved ones, accidentally murdering your loved ones' loved ones, hating your dead wives, and not being too fond of your living wives, Coward told Lean to "just shoot the play" and thankfully Lean didn't totally listen. The film gets worse the more faithful it is to the original, but thankfully Lean and company still have some flourishes to add (that Coward reportedly hated). The most bewildering part of Blithe Spirit is that they still came back together to make another movie afterward.

Spine 605: This Happy Breed

The second film in the David Lean Directs Noel Coward boxset, This Happy Breed is the story of a British Middle Class TM family between the wars. Acting as a sort of "remember when" for British of a certain class, it's also an examination of the rigid structure and code of ethics of this particular pocket of social class which while not the Upper Crust still seems to considers itself above the working people.

Spine 604: In Which We Serve

This "story of a ship" kicks off the David Lean Directs Noel Coward boxset. Lean was an in-demand film editor (and had previously done some uncredited co-direction), and Noel Coward wanted to make a war propaganda film based on his friend Lord Mountbatten's naval exploits. Thus we get In Which We Serve (1942), a biography of the crew of a doomed destroyer told in flashback after the ship sinks in the Battle of Crete. Ronald Neame acts as cinematographer and the film is produced by Anthony Havelock-Allan, who would stick with Lean to form the powerhouse Cineguild Productions by the time they made next week's film This Happy Breed.

 

Spine 602: The War Room

Every time we watch a documentary, we end up talking a lot about the nature of documentary. With Chris Hegedus and D.A. Pennebaker's The War Room (1993), much of that end of the conversation is focused on how Direct Cinema is not a journalistic endeavor, and how the material covered - Bill Clinton's 1992 US Presidential campaign - could have used a journalistic approach. Instead what we get is a collection of some of the worst people in US politics for the last 30 years given free reign to lie to the camera. America: it may not be a perfect system, but it sure is bad.

Spine 601: Letter Never Sent

Mikhail Kalatozov makes some beautiful films, particularly in his work with Sergey Urusevsky, who may just be our favorite cinematographer. Many, many years ago (Spine 146!) we watched their film The Cranes are Flying (1957), and images from that film still grace my dreams. Many, many years from now (Spine 1214!) we will watch I am Cuba (1964), their final collaboration, and we can't wait.

But thankfully between these two masterpieces we get Letter Never Sent (1960), a tale of Soviet vs Nature, a story of love, lust, science, sacrifice, and lots of fire. Raising not only the normal "how did they shoot this?!" questions associated with Urusevsky's work, but new and adjacent "how did they shoot this?!" questions about the special effects.

Spine 600: Anatomy of a Murder

Otto Preminger's ripped-from-the-headlines courtroom drama Anatomy of a Murder (1959) stars a delightful mix of young and old Hollywood, is a big middle finger to the Production Code, and is an ode to manipulating the US legal system. And if that weren't enough, we've got a soundtrack by Duke Ellington and titles by Saul Bass.

Spine 599: Vanya on 42nd Street

Louis Malle reunites with the stars of My Dinner with Andre, Andre Gregory and Wallace Shawn, for a production of Chekhov's Uncle Vanya in a an abandoned theater just off Time Square. Not just a delightful production of Uncle Vanya, but also a look at theater for the sake of theater, squatting and otherwise unmoored from financial obligations.

Spine 598: World on a Wire

Rainer Werner Fassbinder's only sci-fi work, World on a Wire asks the important questions: what if we asked an AI to simulate the Matrix as a 1970s German television miniseries, and then scrapped that garbage and just had a great screenwriter, fantastic cinematographer, and masterful director make it instead. While dealing with the same questions of humanity and existentialism that many tales of virtual prisons do, World on a Wire also gives us a jumping off point to talk about tech innovation, forced consumer trend, treating algorithms like gods, and how cars are bad. It's a pretty amazing production, which is unsurprising from Fassbinder and his phenomenal team behind and in front of the camera.

Spine 597: Tiny Furniture

Lena Dunham has a tendency to say dumb things, and she's garnered quite a backlash during her short career. Because of that the inclusion of her 2010 film Tiny Furniture in the Criterion Collection appears to be often mentioned in the same breath as the likes of Bay's Armageddon and Fincher's The Curious Case of Benjamin Button: that is, with Criterion aficionados asking "why is this here?"

But Lost in Criterion has long held that the Collection seems to have had a particular interest in festival darling interpersonal family dramas in the early 2000s -- of a wide variety! like Lee's bleakly hopeful Secret Sunshine or Assayas' bourgeoisie Summer Hours -- and I'm not convinced Tiny Furniture doesn't fit into that mold.

In any case, this story of a young woman our age graduating college when we did and attempting to feel like an adult and an artist during the Great Recession hits home, and gives us a lot to talk about.

Spine 596: Three Outlaw Samurai

Our friend and samurai-film-fiend Donovan joins us to talk about Hideo Gosha's Three Outlaw Samurai (1964). This origin story for a long-running tv show that seems like it was Gosha's version of the A-Team plays like a more cynical version of a Kurosawa tale. It's also got some fantastic camera work thanks to Tadashi Sakai.

Spine 595: The Moment of Truth

Following the festival successes but domestic box office failures of Salvatore Giuliano (1962) and Hands over the City (1963), Francesco Rosi decided an international picture would fix his money problem, and decided to make a documentary on the Festival of San Fermin in Pamplona, Spain. He didn't end up making exactly that, as The Moment of Truth (1965) is a narrative film with a neo-realist bent, and if you can get over all the ritualistic animal abuse it's probably the best bull fighting movie there is.

Spine 594: Godzilla

We've got sympathy for the Godzilla as guest Jason W. returns to talk with us about the Ishiro Honda's original Godzilla and the American recut of it, Godzilla, King of the Monsters!, the original film's anti-war metaphor (and what gets lost in the Americanization), as well as the media inspired by the film. We've got a lot to cover so save this one for long evening walk.

Spine 593: Belle de Jour

We here at Lost in Criterion love Luis Buñuel, and (currently) this is the last one we have in the Criterion Collection. Belle de Jour (1967) is the story of a middle class woman, wife of a surgeon, who becomes a sex worker in the afternoons. Or it's about a middle class woman who imagines that she's become a sex worker in the afternoons. Buñuel takes a lot of liberties with the source material and imagines a film that is perhaps 100% a character's fantasies, but even if it's not, it's still at least 50% a character's fantasies. And yet, somehow, it's also one of the director's most subdued films.

Spine 592: Design for Living

Noel Coward's Design for Living premiered in Cleveland, Ohio -- apparently the world's bastion of progressive and transgressive theater at the time -- on January 2, 1933. By the end of the month it would be on Broadway, by the end of the year Ernst Lubitsch and Ben Hecht would adapt it into the sexiest film of 1933. Meanwhile, Coward wouldn't stage the play in his native England for nearly another decade. Why? Well, one there's the scandal of even portraying a polyamorous relationship, but then Coward's play, like Truffaut's Jules et Jim (1962), portrays polyamory only to show it not working. That's one of the major changes in Lubitsch's version, and the film is all the more scandalous for it: here the relationship is rocky but in the end works out, maybe. No wonder the Production Code Administration hated it.

Spine 591: 12 Angry Men

Somehow Sidney Lumet is our most watched director on our Patreon bonus episodes, but the actual Criterion Collection has a distinct lack. We get one of his best this week with 12 Angry Men (1957), a film adaptation of a teleplay from the Golden Age of Television (though not from Spine 495: The Golden Age of Television boxset). Our friend Stephen G. joins us to talk about how this is a great movie whose politics are not as great as we'd like and whose understanding of the legal system is going to lead to a mistrial.

Spine 590:Three Colors - Red

The final film in Krzysztof Kieślowski's Three Colors trilogy, and the final film of the director's life, is the capstone to the set and, perhaps, a capstone to his entire career. A story of connection, coupled with the others in the trilogy, we're reminded that without Fraternity - the guiding theme of this film - life is hell. You gotta care. You deserve to be cared about.

Spine 589: Three Colors - White

D.H. Lawrence once said "Never trust the teller, trust the tale" and we fully embrace that as we struggle to step around the obvious political metaphor of a rocky relationship between a French woman and a Polish man in Krzysztof Kieślowski's anti-romantic comedy "Equality" movie Three Colors: White. Kieślowski is rather insistent that these are not political movies, though his collaborator and co-screenwriter Krzysztof Piesiewicz is perhaps less insistent. In either case though, the tale does the talking.

Spine 588: Three Colors - Blue

This week we kick off Krzysztof Kieślowski's Three Colors trilogy with Blue. Each of the three colors, drawn from the colors of the French flag, are also used in the films to represent one of the ideals of the French Revolution: Blue is associated with Liberty, White with Equality, and Red with Fraternity. Ultimately, as we'll discuss in the coming weeks, the films make an argument that without Fraternity, Liberty and Equality are meaningless and even hellish. In Blue we see a woman who has embraced solitude in response to grief.  She believes solitude is liberation from pain, but the film shows that to heal she needs human connection. It's a beautiful and brilliant film, and a masterpiece of synthesizing message and form.

Spine 586: The Island of Lost Souls

Erle C. Kenton's The Island of Lost Souls is a pre-code adaptation of H.G. Wells' The Island of Dr. Moreau, and the Criterion release contains quite possibly the most seemingly erratic and certainly esoteric collection of bonus features to ever be put on one of their discs. The movie itself is a wonder of early make-up effects, but among other things the additional materials bring us commentary from someone involved with a famously bad different adaptation of the work, a band loosely inspired by the film (but not the other band), and a two minute clip of a certain Northern Ohio television goofball interviewing himself.

Spine 585: Identification of a Woman

Listen, we don't get Michelangelo Antonioni. We admit it. Maybe someday we'll watch Blow-Up and kinda like it, but for now we're not there yet. This week we get Identification of a Woman (1982), Antonioni's entry into one of our most hated genres: male film director directs a movie about a male film director's search for a new lover/star/muse. This one is even arguably - and we do! - more self-aware and less misogynistic than others in that genre. It's certainly no less elliptical and enigmatic than previous films of Antonioni we've seen.

Spine 584: Kuroneko

Years after watching the fantastic Onibaba, we once again get an atmospheric horror film from Kaneto Shindo with Kuroneko (1968). Shindo continues to impress with this tale of feline and feminine justice. I just wish we didn't have to wait so long for his next film in the collection.

Spine 583: The Four Feathers

With their 1939 adaptation of The Four Feathers Zoltan Korda seems to have wanted to make a movie critical of British imperialism, while his brother, the film's producer Alexander Korda, seems to have wanted to make a movie in praise of their adopted British homeland. What we end up with is a beautifully shot film that is sometimes biting satire and sometimes unironic Islamophobic white saviorism.

Spine 582: Carlos Part 3

We finish up Olivier Assayas' Carlos with the final episode of the 3-part miniseries. While the original idea for a film about Ilich Ramírez Sánchez was to focus on his ultimate arrest and life just before that, Carlos Part 3 covers that time period with what amounts to a montage of scenes that end in ellipses. Our bonus features this week also reveal some surprises about Assayas' sources, and show that at least Edgar Ramírez understands he's playing a character even as Assayas continues to equivocate whether or not this work is historically accurate.

Spine 582: Carlos Part 2

Our second episode on Olivier Assayas' Carlos (2010) finds the film in overdrive trying to strip away any ideological motivation from its main character and paint him as moving toward purely profit-driven, which is probably the worst thing a Marxist could be. While Disc 2's additional features have our first behind the scenes look with Assayas insisting that he is being true to reality as much as possible, there's already been a lot of speculation that seemingly serves to only depoliticize Carlos' actions. But at least the music is very, very good.