1/28/15: Murnau, Nosferatu and the Big ‘What If”

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award winner, based on a true story, Begotten, behind-the-scenes, black-and-white cinematography, Bram Stoker, Cary Elwes, Catherine McCormack, Chris Wyatt, cinema, Count Orlock, Dan Jones, dark comedies, Dracula, drama, E. Elias Merhige, eccentric people, Eddie Izzard, experimental filmmaker, F.W. Murnau, fantasy vs reality, film festival favorite, film reviews, filmmaking, films, Fritz Arno Wagner, Henrik Galeen, horror, horror films, insanity, John Malkovich, legend vs reality, life imitating art, Lou Bogue, Max Schreck, Movies, multiple award nominee, Nosferatu, obsession, period-piece, revisionist history, Ronan Vibert, set in the 1920s, Shadow of the Vampire, silent films, Steven Katz, stylish films, Suspect Zero, Udo Kier, vampire, vampires, Willem Dafoe

If you think about it, it’s been quite the short, strange trip for writer/director E. Elias Merhige. He first came to the public eye with the notoriously grungy, splatterific Begotten (1990), the kind of experimental art film that Kenneth Anger made his domain in the ’60s. Rather legendary among daring genre aficionados, Begotten was the kind of thing that got passed around on bad VHS tapes and posted online in various pieces: equal parts Anger, Lynch, Jodorowsky and Cronenberg, Begotten will never be anyone’s idea of a good time but it ended up being a great calling card for Merhige, since it gave him an unbeatable underground buzz. After following this up with a couple music videos for Marilyn Manson during his “Antichrist Superstar”-era, Merhige would return to the big screen for his most accomplished film, the multiple award nominee/winner Shadow of the Vampire (2000).

After Shadow of the Vampire became a hit, it seemed only natural that Merhige would capitalize on the momentum but it took him four years to follow it up: arriving in 2004, the “serial-killer-killing-serial-killers” flick Suspect Zero had an appropriately pulply, intriguing logline but the film, itself, was universally derided as being strictly by-the-numbers filmmaking. With only one short since that time, Merhige appears to have dropped off the map, leaving us with one semi-legendary experimental film, one bonafide neo-classic and a multiplex fizzle. Despite this incredibly small body of work, however, Merhige has staked out his own unique place in the history of genre filmmaking: any career that includes Shadow of the Vampire could, reasonably, be considered a roaring success.

Existing as a bit of cheeky revisionist history, Merhige’s sophomore movie takes a look at the filmmaking process behind legendary German auteur F.W. Murnau’s Nosferatu (1922). In a gonzo little bit of “what if”-ism, the film posits that Murnau (John Malkovich) actually used a real vampire in the role of Count Orlock, the mysterious, ratlike and boundlessly creepy Max Schreck (Willem Dafoe). Keeping the information from his clueless cast and crew, Murnau seeks to make his vampire film the most realistic it can be, possibly in response to being denied the rights to shoot an adaptation of Dracula by Bram Stoker’s estate.

Murnau passes his “star” off as an eccentric master actor who completely submerses himself into his roles, to the point where he “assumes” the identities of his characters. The cast and crew are to address Schreck as “Count Orlock” and are advised to give him a wide berth when not filming: as Murnau tells them, he has little interest in their conversations, praise or questions, since he’s “chasing his own ghosts.” While this strikes Murnau’s group (consisting of producer Albin Grau (Udo Kier), writer Henrik Galeen (Aden Gillett), cinematographer Wolfgang Muller (Ronan Vibert), assistant camera-man Paul (Nicholas Elliot) and lead actor Gustav von Wangenhein (Eddie Izzard)) as odd, they’re all used to Murnau’s eccentric way of working and just think it’s all just a way to build mood, like his insistence on shooting on location, rather than on a studio set.

As plans go, however, using a real vampire in your vampire film isn’t the greatest and the iron-fisted Murnau ends up running into one set-back after another, not the least of which is the fact that cranky, old vampires make really shitty actors: as Schreck continues to ad-lib, screw up scenes, ask for motivation and complain about countless bits of minutiae, the ever-hassled director watches his project increasingly fall to bits. Under the gun from his high-strung, bottom-line-oriented producer and in constant fear of having the project taken from him, Murnau can’t deal with any more setbacks. After the vampire snacks on Wolfgang, forcing Murnau to replace him with the zany Fritz Arno Wagner (Cary Elwes), however, the exasperated director has had just about enough: after all, the selfish vampire wasn’t even considerate enough to “take the script girl,” as Murnau complains…he went right for the “essential personnel.” As the rest of the cast and crew begin to suspect something’s rotten in Denmark, Murnau and Schreck continue to feint, verbally spar and test one another’s resolves. Things may look dire but Murnau is nothing if not dedicated and he’s determined to make his movie, even if it kills everyone around him…and that this rate…it just might!

From the very beginning, Shadow of the Vampire is a fascinating, visually sumptuous and ingeniously edited film: indeed, the opening 5-minute credit sequence, consisting of various murals and drawings, is like its own mini-film, giving a brief overview of not only key events in the general Dracula mythology but also thematic and underlying elements that will inform the film, itself. I specifically mention the editing, since Chris Wyatt’s work here is some of the most impressive I’ve ever seen: the way in which black and white shots blend into color cinematography is eye-popping but just as impressive are the subtle transitions, the ways in which the still images appear to have their own sense of movement, of life. It’s one of the very few times while watching a film that I’ve actively singled out the editing but it’s so masterfully done that it becomes another aspect of the film, rather than the “invisible” part of the filmmaking machine.

The sense of invention displayed in the opening is omnipresent in the film, leading to some genuinely delightful, weird moments: Murnau’s visit to a stylish sex club/drug den is a highlight, even if the scene, itself, makes little sense and Schreck’s underground “lair” is a marvel of strange production design that appears to include either an enormous spider-web or a gigantic iris…either one would fit, even if neither one make much sense, in context. In some ways, the production design reminds of Ken Russell, in particular his Lair of the White Worm (1988) and the filmmakers make terrific use of their creepy, atmospheric castle location.

As mentioned, one of the film’s most delightful visual quirks is the pronounced separation between the “real world,” which is in vibrant color, and the “filmed world,” which is in black and white. In some case, the film transitions between the two effortlessly, as if the black and white footage is being colorized before our eyes. Other times, we go in the opposite direction, as if the life and color is being bleached from the real world: not a bad symbol for vampirism, if you think about it.

As good as the film looks, however, it’s the extraordinary cast that really takes this all the way. Shadow of the Vampire is filled with vibrant, interesting characters, from Eddie Izzard’s wonderful take on the lunk-headed Gustav to Catherine McCormack’s “flapper with attitude” Greta to the dashing, utterly ridiculous creation that is Elwes’ Fritz Arno Wagner. We get the ever dependable Udo Kier doing his usual take on fastidious distraction, while Aden Gillett does some great work as the ever patient, ever indulgent writer.

The MVPs here, however, are undoubtedly Malkovich and Dafoe, two of the most interesting actors in the history of the medium. While I initially felt as if the roles should have been switched (in my head, I definitely see Dafoe as the dictatorial director, while Malkovich seems like a lock for the creepy, eccentric vampire, although this could also be based on recent roles), there’s no doubt that each actor makes the character his own. Our first sight of Malkovich, wearing tiny black goggles and endlessly cranking his camera, is a real doozy and sets the stage for everything that follows: he’s a constant blur of mischievous energy, all nervous twitches, half-smiles and sudden, angry shouting. The bit where he coaches Gustav through a scene only to force him to cut himself with a knife, for “reality,” is superb and his performance in the finale is suitably unhinged.

While Malkovich is always “Malkovich” in the film, regardless of how awesome that might be, Dafoe is completely unrecognizable as Schreck, which ends up being a nifty hat trick for an actor with such a defined persona as his. Nonetheless, he’s superb: feral, rat-like and even a little sympathetic, at times, Schreck is a magnetic personality and it’s impossible to tear our eyes from him. While the makeup work is absolutely uncanny, it’s the subtlest things that really draw out Dafoe’s performance: in particular, he does so much with just his eyes and posture (our first sight of Schreck, stiff-armed and with talon-like fingernails, is absolutely made by Dafoe’s creepy, weird, stiff-legged gait, makeup notwithstanding) that it immediately reminds us of what a truly talented actor he is. Not surprisingly, Dafoe would go on to be nominated (and win) multiple times for his performance, including an Oscar Nomination which he ultimately lost to Benicio del Toro for Traffic (2000). There’s something completely otherworldly about Dafoe’s performance which helps sell the character of Schreck part-and-parcel.

One of the most interesting aspects of the film is how explicitly humorous it is. While not, technically, a comedy, so much of the film is precipitated on some truly funny scenes (the bit where they struggle to get Schreck to deliver his lines is priceless, as is the truly great scene where Schreck complains about how “unrealistic” Dracula is) that the humor definitely becomes a noticeable part of the film. In certain ways, Shadow of the Vampire melds the behind-the-filmmaking-scenes humor of something like Living in Oblivion (1995) with a more traditional vampire narrative, resulting in a rather unique little combination. Combine this with the way the film effortlessly blurs the lines between fact and fiction (every one of the characters are actually based on real people, even if their individual actions are decidedly suspect) and Shadow of the Vampire ends up being a nicely original, individualistic piece of work.

Ultimately, Shadow of the Vampire is extremely well-made but it’s also a whole lot of fun, which may be the most important factor. While he doesn’t entirely turn his back on his debut (the black and white attack on Greta definitely feels like something from his Begotten-era), Merhige comes up with an intelligent, sassy and, at times, suitably outrageous, little bit of revisionist history that should be right up any genre fan’s alley. When the film is firing on all cylinders, it’s a real marvel. Here’s to hoping that Merhige returns from the woods, one of these days, and that he brings something like Shadow of the Vampire with him: witty, evocative and a real treat for film fans (especially fans of Murnau’s actual Nosferatu), this is one of those rare films that feels a lot older than it actually is, in all of the best possible way.

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12/29/14: Love Hurts

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abortion, Antichrist, attempted rape, auteur theory, BDSM, Best of 2014, Breaking the Waves, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Christian Slater, cinema, coming of age, favorite films, female sexuality, feminism, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, foreign films, graphic films, Jamie Bell, Lars von Trier, Manuel Alberto Claro, Melancholia, Mia Goth, Movies, Nymphomaniac, Rammstein, real sex, sexuality, Shia LeBeouf, Stacy Martin, Stellan Skarsgard, stylish films, Udo Kier, Willem Dafoe, writer-director

Love him or hate him, there’s absolutely no denying what a massively talented filmmaker Danish provocateur Lars Von Trier is: the proof, as they say, is in the pudding. Despite his propensity for incendiary soundbites while on press junkets, Von Trier has been an uncompromising force in the world of film since bursting into the public eye with Breaking the Waves (1996): since that time, Von Trier has given us some of the most unforgettable, amazing art films in the history of the medium – Dancer in the Dark (2000), Dogville (2003), Manderlay (2005), Antichrist (2009) and Melancholia (2011) are all deeply individualistic, exquisitely crafted and endlessly inventive works of art that don’t shy away from big or unpleasant questions while never losing sight of the impish, dark sense of humor that’s characterized all of Von Trier’s productions.

Quite simply, people expect Von Trier to be a shit disturber and the description for his latest venture produced the required amount of consternation: in his daffiest pronouncement yet, Von Trier promised to do no less than completely explore female sexuality, from a female perspective, none the less. The very notion of any male proclaiming to “understand” female sexuality is both ridiculous and more than a little offensive: there’s much more than notions of textbook biology that factor into this, since psychological, societal and familial issues all factor into any understanding of what constitutes female sexuality. There’s also the fact that…well…you know…Lars Von Trier is a guy: what, exactly, makes him any kind of an expert on the female body?

Here’s the thing, though: it’s easy to get riled at Von Trier’s hubris, to scoff at the very notion that any man could purport to craft the end-all-be-all of female sexuality. After all, this is the same guy who gave us the unrelentingly misogynistic Dogville and the gynocidal-themed Antichrist: can we really trust someone like Von Trier to give anything approaching a balanced representation of female sexuality? It’s remarkably easy to talk shit about the whole enterprise until you’re actually face-to-face with the finished product. Is Von Trier’s Nymphomaniac (2014) the “ultimate” representation of female sexuality on the big screen? Probably not. Is it one of the most fascinating, inflammatory and must-see films of the year? Absolutely.

Divided across two halves, eight chapters and roughly 5.5 hours (this review refers to the “uncut director’s edition”), Nymphomaniac is the furthest thing from “rainy day” viewing. This is a film that demands (and rewards) close attention: interested parties are advised to just swallow the pill, devote a day to the proceedings and just let Von Trier take the reins. I’ve never been the biggest fan of binge-watching “large” films, in general, but take my advise: you’ll want to absorb Nymphomaniac in one go, similar to ripping a band-aid off in one pull.

We begin with Seligman (Stellan Skarsgard) finding Joe (Charlotte Gainsbourg) beaten nearly to death in an alley. He spirits her home, sees to her wounds and asks her about the circumstances that led to her dire condition. This, of course, is all a ploy to get us to the main event: the complete life history of our protagonist, Joe. From this point on, Joe relates her life story to the kindly, doting Seligman, a story which focuses predominantly on her sexual awakening and exploits. Although we’ll view it all in seemingly arbitrary order, we’ll follow Joe from her first orgasm, at age 12, all the way to the events that led to her current state. Along the way, we’ll learn about her life-long love-affair with Jerome (Shia Lebouf), her relationship with her scientist father (Christian Slater),  her introduction to BDSM at the hands of the mysterious K (Jamie Bell), her self-administered abortion and eventual mastery of her own libido, after the failure of the various men in her life.

It’s a painful journey, as we’ll see, a journey that involves the loss of Joe’s son, the loss of her beloved father, the loss of control over her own body, the loss of her “true love” and her eventual loss of self. It’s also an enlightening journey, however, as Joe learns to control her own sexuality and understand her body in ways that she never could before. Joe is anything but a victim: for the majority of the film’s runtime, Joe is in complete control of her sexuality and body: even when she doesn’t fully understand the ramifications, Joe is always the one who calls the shots. At the end of the day, can there really be a more progressive, forward-thinking POV than that?

Here’s the thing: as with anything else by Von Trier, love it or hate it, there’s absolutely no denying how amazing Nymphomaniac is…from a sheer filmmaking perspective, the film is an absolute marvel. Stuffed to bursting with gorgeous cinematography, ingenious editing, and some truly marvelous performances, Nymphomaniac is utterly captivating, from beginning to end. I simply cannot stress enough how impressive this is in a film that stretches nearly to the six-hour mark: this seems to fly by in record time.

I would be remiss if I didn’t spend at least a moment or two discussing the film’s sexual content. Ready? Here it goes: you will see lots and lots of penises, vaginas, graphic penetration, fellatio and cunnilingus…if any of this bothers you, this is, without a doubt, not the film for you. I will make the point, however, that the sexuality in Nymphomaniac always comes across as graphic, rather than gratuitous: there’s an important distinction and I feel that Von Trier manages to keep everything on the “proper” side throughout the film’s runtime.

One aspect of the film that adds, immeasurably, to the overall feel is the underlying sense of humor. While very little about Nymphomaniac is explicitly funny, per se, the film is chock-a-block with Von Trier’s patented sense of dark, ironic humor. While much of the humor comes from Seligman’s often inappropriate digressions and asides, one of the film’s purely “funniest” scenes has to be the setpiece where Joe attempts to instigate a threesome with two African men, without speaking their language. The scene acts as a microcosm of the entire film, in a way, expertly blending the slapstick and the obscene, the erotic and the ridiculous, to dizzying effect.

The core of the film, performance-wise, is definitely the combined tour-de-force of Gainsbourg and Skarsgard. While Skarsgard is reliably solid as the inquisitive, kindly scientist, Gainsbourg absolutely owns the film as Joe. There’s a nuance and sense of unpredictability to her performance that is an absolute joy to watch and I’ll be honest: the fact that Gainsbourg wasn’t nominated for any acting awards has more to do with the fact that Von Trier is too much of a hot potato than with real issues…her performance is magnificent and certainly deserved to be celebrated.

Most importantly, Nymphomaniac is an incredibly complex film: from the constant digressions (ala House of Leaves) to the time-line jumping to the theoretical discussions and the ever-prevalent symbolism, there’s an awful lot going on here at any given time. Von Trier manages to imbue everything with its own distinct feel, as befits the various themes: the hospice section has a stark, black-and-white feel that recalls Von Trier’s earliest, most experimental works, while various other portions recall the stunning visuals that characterize latter-day works like Antichrist and Melancholia.

My main issue going into this, to be honest, was the underlying notion that Von Trier really has no business telling this particular story: a film like this needs to come from a female perspective, no two ways about it. Ultimately, however, I find myself torn: Von Trier tells this tale with so much nuance and subtlety that it seems completely reductive to cut him out of the discussion. Von Trier, the man, might not have anything inherent to add to this particular gender discussion but Von Trier, the filmmaker, has plenty to say and it would seem a little remiss not to at least listen.

Ultimately, there’s a lot going on here, more than can, reasonably, be discussed in this kind of a format. While there will always be the question of whether Von Trier has any dog in this race, so to speak, the end-results speak for themselves. At the end of the day, all that we can do is look at the finished product and examine the facts, such as they are. Here are the facts: an uncompromising filmmaker has crafted an uncompromising film and the results demand to be seen and discussed. Is this the final word on gender discussions? Absolutely not…but I don’t think it pretends to be, either. Rather, I think that Von Trier has created a film which frames the discussion of female sexuality in a way that explicitly references not only modern notions of “entertainment” but classical “acceptance” of gender roles and norms.

More than anything, Nymphomaniac asks us to take all of the proffered information and frame it in a distinctly genderless manner: if we wouldn’t bat an eye at a guy doing any of this, why would we look so askance at a woman doing the same thing? In the end, this is Nymphomaniac (and Von Trier’s) greatest victory: we know that it’s “accepted,” but is it right? Nymphomaniac doesn’t think it is and, to be honest, neither should you.

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10/14/15 (Part Two): The Devil’s Dance Floor

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31 Days of Halloween, Alida Valli, auteur theory, ballet, Barbara Magnolfi, cinema, classic films, co-writers, cult classic, dance academy, Daria Nicolodi, Dario Argento, dog attacks, favorite films, Film auteurs, film reviews, films, Flavio Bucci, foreign films, Goblin, Helena Markos, horror films, iconic film scores, Italian cinema, Italian horror films, Jacopo Mariani, Jessica Harper, Joan Bennett, Luciano Tovoli, Movies, opening narrator, Renato Scarpa, Stefania Casini, stylish films, supernatural, Suspiria, Suzy Bannion, Udo Kier, violent films, witches, writer-director

There’s absolutely nothing subtle about Italian giallo-maestro Dario Argento’s classic supernatural shocker Suspiria (1977)…and there’s nothing wrong with that whatsoever, thank you very much. From the opening drum crash that cues Goblin’s iconic prog-rock score to the over-the-top murder setpieces to the near constant use of dramatic colored lighting to heighten mood, Suspiria is one of the all-time great cinematic mood pieces, a ferocious nightmare that has all of the narrative continuity of a fever-dream and is so unabashedly beautiful as to be almost hypnotic. In a 40+ year career filled with more ups and downs than a bakers’ dozen of filmmakers, Suspiria will always stand as not only Argento’s magnum opus but also one of the single most original, visually stunning films in the history of the cinema.

As befits Argento’s supernatural films (of which this was the first), Suspiria only makes as much narrative sense as it absolutely has to. If anything, the film is much more concerned with establishing and maintaining a haunted, skewed fairy-tale atmosphere than it is with ticking off plot points on a sheet of paper. Suffice to say that the plot can be boiled down rather succinctly to the following: Suzy Bannion (Jessica Harper), a naive, young American ballet student, has just arrived at a mysterious dance academy in Germany that may or may not actually be the front for an ancient coven of witches. As Suzy witnesses one strange incident after the other, beginning with the dark and stormy night when she first arrives, it becomes more and more difficult to figure out what’s real and what she might be imagining due to a good, old-fashioned case of the heebie-jeebies. As she continues her investigation, Suzy will gradually come to learn the truth about Miss Tanner (Alida Valli), Madame Blanc (Joan Bennett) and the sinister, unseen Helena Markos, who may (or may not) be the ancient, Satanic evil known as The Black Queen.

While Suspiria isn’t necessarily concerned with connecting the dots from Point A to Point Z, it is absolutely, thoroughly dedicated to immersing the viewer into a completely surreal, eye-popping, nightmarish environment. Argento accomplishes this suffocating sense of atmosphere in many ways, although some of the most notable are the extensive use of colored lighting, tricky camera angles and the near constant, moody score. As mentioned earlier, Suspiria is a gorgeous film, thanks in no small part to the evocative cinematography of veteran DP Luciano Tovoli: there’s one scene in the film, lit with a green light and shot through a light-bulb that is absolutely stunning…it’s doubtful that even Peter Greenaway has been responsible for an image this lovely, which gives some (small) idea how massively impressive Suspiria’s visuals truly are.

As with almost all of Argento’s films, Suspiria is built around a series of escalating, over-the-top set-pieces, sort of like individual rides in one, large amusement park: the opening murder involving multiple stabbings and a stained-glass window…the maggot rain…blind Daniel (Flavio Bucci) and his terrible death at the jaws of his own dog…the extraordinary, red-lit scene where the practice hall is turned into a dormitory and Helena Markos makes her first “appearance”…the stylishly weird scene where the housekeeper and ultra-creepy Albert (Jacopo Mariani) appear to hypnotize Suzy…Sara’s (Stefania Casini) horrible demise via a room full of razor-wire…rather than feeling disjointed or episodic, Suspiria ends up feeling genuinely odd and unsettling. It’s almost as if we’ve been invited to peel back someone’s skull and peer right into the deepest, darkest corners of their fevered imagination.

Those new to the world of ’70s-’80s Italian horror will, undoubtedly, find some of Suspiria’s quirks to be a little off-putting, although they’re nothing if not endemic to that particular style of filmmaking. Some of the performances can come off on the wrong-side of stagey (the excruciating “fight” between Sara and Olga (Barbara Magnolfi) that consists of them sticking out their tongues and hissing at each seems to last for at least a month, if not longer) and some of the dubbing is a little suspect. In one of the most head-scratching moments, the evil Helena Markos is voiced by someone who appears to be channeling a stereotypical street thug by way of Cloris Leachman: it’s a strange, silly choice and has the unfortunate effect of taking you out of the movie, if only for a moment. Again, these aren’t issues that should be new to anyone who’s seen their fair share of Italian horror films but neophytes would be advised to exercise patience with some of the film’s “sillier” contrivances.

Make no bones about it, however: Suspiria is a vicious, hard-hitting film that’s managed to lose none of its power in the 37 years since its release. If I’ve seen the film once, I’ve probably seen it at least a dozen times, but it never fails to pull me in from the very first frame: hell, I get a practically Pavlovian response whenever I hear the score, similar to my extreme love for John Carpenter’s oeuvre. This time around, I tried to view the film as critically as possible, with an eye towards determining whether the film was actually “scary,” at least by modern terms. I may be a little biased here, since I’ve always been in love with the film, but I think that it still possesses all of its feral power, even for a generation that’s become jaded on every sort of cinematic atrocity imaginable. Make no bones about it: the violence in Suspiria is sudden, shocking and extreme, made even more disturbing by the fact that Argento frames everything in such lovely, stunning visuals. Even though the copious blood never manages to look like anything less than thick, red paint, the suspension of disbelief in the film is absolute: Argento, at the height of his power, was (arguably) the greatest European horror writer/director ever (which, of course, makes his fall from grace of the past couple decades even more depressing).

Horror fans tend to be a fairly fickle bunch but there are a few films that appear to be universally respected: Suspiria is certainly one of those. Although Argento would go on to make several exceptional films after Suspiria (very few filmmakers have had a string of quality films like Argento experienced with Profondo Rosso (1975), Suspiria, Inferno (1980), Tenebre (1982), Phenomena (1985) and Opera (1987)), this will always stand as the unholy height of considerable abilities. One of the greatest compliments that I can give the film is to say how completely and utterly jealous I am of anyone who gets to experience this for the first time: believe me when I say that, in all likelihood, it will open your eyes. October just wouldn’t be the same without Argento’s infamous “witch academy” and I wouldn’t have it any other way.