What Happened Was... (Tom Noonan, 1993)

(note: this will be my last regular blog before the Godard marathon, which will be starting Monday)

Tom Noonan has, for a long time now, been one of the most recognizable and ominous of all character actors. Tall, slim, and balding, with an icily vacant yet omniscient stare, as if he has intimate knowledge of every fact about you and plans on using it for the most sinister of reasons, Noonan is probably best known for his breakthrough role as the murderous Frances Dollarhyde in Manhunter, Michael Mann's 1986 adaptation of the Thomas Harris novel Red Dragon. In addition to his two films with Mann (he also has a small but important role in Heat), the list of directors Noonan has worked with is quite awesome; Cassavetes, Cimino, Jarmusch, Sean Penn, David Gordon Green and Charlie Kaufman, among others. That impressively high pedigree of collaborative history aside, a lesser known but equally as interesting (at least to me) fact about Noonan is that he actually stepped behind the camera twice himself, writing and directing a pair of early nineties independent films, the first being 1993's What Happened Was... , a wonderfully beguiling look at a troubled first date.

This date takes place over a single night in real time, involving Jackie (Karen Sillas), a secretary for an unnamed New York law firm, and Michael (Noonan), a paralegal who works with her. Jackie has had an eye for Michael since she started working for the firm, and has finally made the move to ask him out. As the film opens, she's cleaning her apartment and downing wine in equal measure as she awaits Michael's arrival. The entire movie will take place in this apartment, and after Michael arrives, everything initially goes just fine. They enjoy dinner and an abundance of wine. Michael, an intellectual with a Harvard background, has an answer for everything, and nonchalantly tosses his high-minded opinions around as Jackie becomes simultaneously more impressed and intimidated by him. Michael reveals, after some probing, that he is in the process of writing a tell-all book that will expose the law firm they work for as a corrupt, heartless, money-siphoning machine. Karen eventually reveals that she writes as well; not only that, but she's actually been published. She leads Michael to a small, dark room in the back of her apartment to read him one of her stories, which turns out to be a gruesome modern day fairy tale in the Brothers Grimm tradition. And while it may not be quite apparent at first, this scene is in many ways the turning point of the movie. Watch Michael's face as Jackie reads aloud; his smug demeanor twists into an unsure, nervous pause. He drips sweat, as his eyes dart around the room with an intense caution. From here the rest of the night will take on a kind of volatile life of its own, as we watch and wonder with increasing interest where these two awkward souls will ultimately land.

Cassavetes biographer Ray Carney apparently once deemed Noonan "the greatest living American director", and watching Noonan's screenplay slowly strip the Jackie and Michael characters of their mundane surfaces - revealing the throbbing, naked and frightened humanity beneath - it is awfully tough to not be reminded of what Cassavetes did in his often astonishing work. The acting from both Noonan and Silas is quite marvellous as we slowly watch these two characters' insecurities morph, shift, and eventually converge; they are the key to the movie, and are truly worthy of being called tour-de-force performances. What Happened Was... is also admirable for the way it closes with a certain authenticity; no questions are answered, no easy truths are arrived at, and we are left with a very palpable sense of two people caught in the balance, hanging on for dear life. If it is not apparent by now, let me be clear: I absolutely loved this movie. Unfortunately, Noonan has since directed only one other film (1994's The Wife, unseen by me, but by most accounts equal in quality), before seemingly shifting his sole focus back to his exquisite work as a character actor. Whatever the case may be, What Happened Was... remains a film to seek out and treasure, not only as a top-flight character study, but also as a precursor to a wonderful directing career that sadly never materialized.

Preparing For A Godard Marathon

I have been fascinated by Jean-Luc Godard, both the man and his work, since I first made a concerted effort to familiarize myself with his films a couple of years ago. I started out with Breathless, enjoyed it quite a bit, read up on Godard and his highly intriguing life/career, and became quite curious to view more of his stuff. I wanted to see if I could get a better handle on this director who many have proclaimed as the greatest of all living.

Over the subsequent twenty or so months, I routinely sought out new Godard films to watch. I bounced around the different decades for my selections, with little knowledge or regard for how the given film I had chose fit into the arc of Godard's overall career. I almost always left the experience equally baffled and tickled; here was a person making movies like none I had ever seen before, but in some cases, I had no idea what to make of what I had just viewed. A few times I came away feeling like I had just seen a near- masterpiece, and one instance in particular provided me with what is now one of my very favorite all-time movies (Contempt). However, occasionally the movie would fly over my head completely, its dense and seemingly impenetrable political and philosophical musings leaving me with nothing to hold onto other than some stunning and gorgeous imagery. Yet I remained fascinated and thirsty for insight, grasping for some kind of thread of consistency, something I could use to identify the shape of this man's body of work; something that would make sense of it all.

And so to be frank, I feel like something is eluding me. I have, to date, seen ten Godard films in total. Some of those ten I've now seen multiple times. With most directors, ten films would normally be enough to cement one's opinion of the filmmaker. But with Godard, I honestly still have a deep ambivalence towards his work, along with a lingering, great curiosity. I want to know why, after ten films, do I still feel as though I am no closer to figuring out this filmmaker than I was at the beginning? Incidentally, I have really no clue what "figuring out" a filmmaker even means, but I nevertheless have this feeling that I'm missing something, some kind of fundamental understanding.

And so, with the help of a couple of Godard enthusiasts (including Only The Cinema's Ed Howard, who was gracious enough to lend me some counsel), I've put together a list of 27 Godard films, representing the essentials from each decade, that I plan on watching in chronological order. I've pooled my resources and have obtained a copy of each film. I also have a copy of Richard Brody's book Everything Is Cinema: The Working Life Of Jean-Luc Godard that I have ordered through my school and should be (hopefully) arriving by the end of the week. I will be using this book as something of a reference guide, to consult after each film viewing, with the hopes that this will aid me and provide some clarity in the (likely many) instances where I feel that I am out of my depth.

I will be starting the marathon soon after I receive the Brody book. My plan is to watch two films a day until I've finished the entire list. Obviously, there is such a thing as real life, and this will almost inevitably make it difficult for me to strictly adhere to this two-film-a-day schedule, but I will do my best. Some days, if I can watch more than two, I will. The plan is also to document my experience on this blog. Seeing as how the primary focus for me will be digesting the films and supplementing the experience through reading, thus (hopefully) coming to a greater, richer appreciation and understanding of Godard, documenting my experience on this blog may very likely entail little more than brief, initial, and mostly first, impressions of the films. I do not plan on devoting a ton of time to lengthy writeups (the viewing experience in and of itself will be draining and time consuming enough). But I do hope to give my thoughts on the films, and an accurate documentation of how the process and progression is going, and if it does, in fact, (as intended) give me some further insight into the enigma that is Jean-Luc Godard.

Afterschool (Antonio Campos, 2008)

Here is one of the most refreshing and compelling directorial debut's to come along in quite awhile. Antonio Campos was only 24 when he directed (from his own screenplay) Afterschool, the prep school drama that has drawn him comparisons to heavyweights such as Gus Van Sant, Stanley Kubrick and Michelangelo Antonioni, among others. Told mainly in carefully composed static shots, often with the action contained to the periphery, Afterschool gives us the story of Rob (Ezra Miller), a distanced, affectless tenth grade student at Brighton, an upper crust New England private school, who spends his spare time watching viral videos online and putting up with his cocaine addict/dealer roommate (and likely best friend) Dave. At Brighton, an extra-curricular course is required of the students, and instead of going the popular sports route, the meek and introverted Rob decides to join the video club. One day, while shooting some footage in an empty hallway for class, Rob inadvertently captures the drug overdose and subsequent death of the Talbert sisters, twins from a well-to-do family. Instead of calling for help, Rob leaves the camera in place, walks over to the sisters, and cradles one in his arms as she takes her final breath. No points for guessing that - Surprise!- Rob now finds himself the center of the latest online viral video.

Afterschool is fascinating for myriad reasons, but the central point of dramatic interest seems to be Rob himself. The main question being, why is he so frighteningly unaffected by everything? Is he merely the latest casualty of the YouTube generation, desensitized and alienated from his surroundings, conditioned only to respond to moments of "purity", moments that capture something "real"? One of the best sequences in the film plays off this notion, as Rob sits down with the school principal to view a tribute video he's been asked to create for the deceased twins. However, instead of the sappy over-sentimentalized piece expected of him, Rob creates a patchwork of "real" moments as he sees them, moments of people expressing pity, disgust, or even complete indifference towards the twins. An interview with a friend of the girls shows that he didn't even really know them, and was distanced by a kind of awestruck worship. Moments, in other words, that you would never regularly see in a video of this kind. At another point in the film, Rob, armed with his video camera, grabs his girlfriend by the throat, emulating a violent porno he watched earlier, and we get the impression that his obsession with online videos can no longer simply be contained to his consciousness.

It's only with a final, fleeting moment of shock and realization that we truly see what Afterschool is going for, and it's a startling, haunting sentiment that Campos has no reservations expressing. This is a film to watch and absorb, not only for its deeply engrossing story and sleek, distinct visual style, but also because of what it has to say in regard to the age of gluttonous, unprecedentedly accessible media we live in, and the effect it could have on an already solipsistic-prone demographic. If Afterschool is any indication, Campos is a major talent, and I certainly look forward to seeing what he will provide us with next.

ivansxtc. (dir. Bernard Rose, 2002)

Bernard Rose's 2002 feature ivansxtc. (based on Tolstoy's The Death of Ivan Ilyich) begins with the funeral of Ivan Beckman (Danny Huston), talent agent extraordinaire. We see the news of his passing from cancer ripple through the agency he worked for, and while everyone was clueless as to Ivan's medical condition, no one seems surprised nor particularly phased by his death. His clients are informed, and they too can muster only the slightest of mournful responses before it's back to business. And as everyone scrambles to pick up the pieces, we wait with baited breath (or growing impatience in my case) for the inevitable flashback showing us what kind of human could have left behind so much success, have met such a sad end and still inspired this much curious indifference.

We soon get our answer. Ivan, as they say, lived in the fastlane. As his story begins, he is on the verge of signing one of the biggest actors in the country, the obnoxious Don West (Peter Weller). After Ivan successfully closes the deal, he and West hit the town for a night out, and we get our first glimpse of many into the wild life he led, which includes every hard-partying cliche in the book (even the renowned line of cocaine snorted off an attractive blonde's genital area). At work the next morning, he is greeted with a standing ovation from his entire office, and a Variety headline celebrating his acquisition. And just as it seems that life can't get any better, as so often happens in the movies, life throws him a curveball. His doctor wants him to come into the office immediately. A chest x-ray taken at a recent appointment shows an ominous spot in his lungs, and all signs point to cancer, which is soon confirmed with the massive amounts of blood Ivan begins coughing up in the mornings.

And now here is where the film finally takes off and becomes compelling. First off, Danny Huston is absolutely brilliant. As Ivan, he exudes a real charm and likability behind the slick Hollywood veneer, but also a profound sadness that becomes readily apparent as we soon realize that for all the clout and attention Ivan receives, he doesn't have a single genuine relationship in his life, and no one to confide in. As the graveness of his condition becomes impossible to ignore, Ivan makes the decision to plunge headfirst into excess of every kind, as he watches his last days fly by in a chemically induced haze. Here is a man who had the world by the balls his entire adult life, and who now, presented with a situation entirely out of his grasp, crumbles with disturbing ease. The toughest scene to watch involves a pair of hookers Ivan hires, and what begins as a drug fueled orgy quickly turns into a session of soul baring for Ivan, who finally breaks down in front of these two girls, who can only stare at this lonely, withering soul helplessly, and offer hollow sentiments while they attempt to get the fuck out of there as fast as they can. The next morning, Ivan is rushed to the hospital and will never return home.

The film has a distinctly verite style, which works mostly in its favor. Ivan is utterly fascinating and heartbreaking to watch, and the documentary-like feel of his scenes have a raw, honest urgency to them. Huston is so good that it creates an entire other problem for the film; the rest of the acting is almost across the board awful, and the scenes without him are simply painful to endure. All of Ivan's associates and clients are played as petulant, reprehensible caricatures, and I found myself rolling my eyes at their over top behavior and exaggerated performances numerous times. Luckily these people remain on the periphery of the story for the most part, but still, we get it, Hollywood is filled with self-serving, opportunistic sleazebags, let's move on please. My advice would be to skip the pointless first twenty minutes, the funeral segment and all of that. It's boring, drags on way too long, and will even make you mad at its inclusion when you reflect on the fact that you were unnecessarily denied Huston's magnificent performance for nearly a quarter of the films running time.

It should also be worth noting that, in addition to the Tolstoy novel, ivansxtc. was based off the life of Hollywood agent Jay Moloney who, like Ivan, seemingly had it all. He represented some of the biggest stars in the world and dated some of the most beautiful women, before his cocaine addiction cost him his job and eventually led him to take his own life. It is worth keeping this in mind, as Huston undoubtedly drew upon the addiction-driven desperation and loneliness that surely played a hand in reducing Moloney's promisng life to merely another Hollywood cautionary tale. ivansxtc. is certainly rough around the edges, very rough in some instances, but has some profound things to say about mortality, addiction and loneliness, and is anchored by one of the best performances of the 00's.

Black Moon (dir. Louis Malle, 1975)

Black Moon is a chimerical, hallucinatory concoction from French director Louis Malle. Malle's work includes, among many other notable films, the ultimate conversation movie My Dinner With Andre, which I cite for a very specific reason. Andre is one of the quaintest, most economically sound movies you will ever come across; a feature length display of good old fashioned conversation between two friends enjoying a fine dinner, each others company and the simple pleasures of the spoken word. Now, if you will, traverse the cinematic panorama to its other side. On this side of the landscape, oblique paths twist in on one another. Plots hover in the air and trail off, shapeless objects dripping acid. Phantoms abound, and it always seems to be cloudy. You are now in the land of Black Moon. Meet Louis Malle, cinematic trekker. His versatility is not to be denied.

In only the very loosest sense of the word is a "plot" present in Black Moon. It involves a young woman named Lily (Cathryn Harrison), who is on the run in a world where a literal war between the sexes is taking place. Overcast skies fill the screen as Lily stumbles upon a group of women in army drags beating a male prisoner around and laughing. Male soldiers gun down defenseless women in the streets, their army tank looming in the middle of the road like an over sized reaper. Lily flees from both scenes with equal fervor, and soon finds herself in a strange forest where she sees a few odd things, among them an overweight unicorn and a herd of naked children chasing around a massive pig. She follows these harbingers to a lonesome house, and from here the strangeness gets turned up quite a few notches. In this house dwells a loony old lady in a bed (Therese Giehse), babbling incoherency and trying to communicate on an old radio. Odd animals of all shapes and sizes and linguistic talents roam around the manor, as do a silent young man and woman (Joe Dallesandro and Alexandra Stewart) also named Lily (yes both of them). The couple appear to care for both the old lady - a disturbing breastfeeding is included - as well as the children, and their erratic behavior is alternately compulsive and calculated as they communicate with Lily in the barest, most abstract of ways as she tries to figure out the puzzle that is this mysterious situation she's found herself in.

There are indications throughout the movie that all of this is taking place in the head of Lily. The highly coincidental names of the silent strangers aside, there are a few instances where Lily is engaged in an activity with the strange animals and children, only to have the camera cut to a point of view showing her all alone, her behavior suddenly taking on a psychotic tint. Indeed, the inclination while watching Black Moon is to approach it in the same vein as something like Mulholland Drive or Repulsion, as an abstract and/or allegorical treatise of a disturbed woman slowly losing her mind. However the movie ultimately comes across as such a hodgepodge of symbols and ideas (it invokes- among other things - Alice In Wonderland, Tristan & Isolde, Garden of Eden mythos, medieval imagery, Alchemical symbolism etc.) that it feels ultimately futile to attach any significance or psychological underpinnings to the images presented. This borderline freeform melange is certainly interesting and occasionally fascinating, but it's madness never quite gels into a whole as interesting as its parts.

In many ways, Black Moon also plays out as something of a grab bag of elements from other surrealist masterpieces that Malle has clearly drawn from. The wordless opening 15 minutes, with its stark open roads, background war noises and images of quiet, left behind fires simmer with an apocalyptic quality that is clearly an homage to Godard's Weekend; the cast of random animals sauntering in and around the house with more moxie than its occupants recalls Bunuel's The Exterminating Angel; and the extraordinary house, a character itself, with its strange, ghoulish inhabitants and untold secrets feels like a relative of the house so important to the mystery at the center of the great Rivette film Celine & Julie Go Boating. That one of the names given a writing credit on the film is Joyce Bunuel should come as no great shock.

Malle is clearly indulging himself with Black Moon. He is having fun throwing this assortment onto the screen while simultaneously paying respect to those whose own creations inspired it, and what the movie lacks in resonance and coherency it makes up for with a charming, unabashed exhibition of imagination and appreciation. It also feels like an extremely personal film from Malle, the exorcism of a distinct creative impulse bred from the verve of the Nouvelle Vague movement and a thirsty, exploratory movie mind. It didn't surprise me at all to learn that the house and property used in the movie belonged to Malle himself. It'd be tough if you didn't know better to peg Black Moon as the director's work, but sure enough, there he is in every frame.