Smart as Hitchcock, incisive as Wilder, and independently minded as Cassavetes, Otto Preminger remained largely peerless during his career. He was one of the first Hollywood auteurs to challenge censorship rules and explore his own vision—one populated with honest studies of drug addiction, sexual deviance, and corrupt politics. As an establishment director, he introduced an anti-cinema subversion that inspired the Cahiers du Cinema crew. Unfortunately, many will only remember him for his role as Mr. Freeze in the original Batman TV show. Film historian Chris Fujiwara’s exceptional biography aims to change that with an analysis that achieves the seemingly impossible: It actually manages to inspire the reader to take another look at Exodus.
Author: Christopher Hontos
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Printmaking from Soviet Estonia
When Estonia fell under Soviet rule in 1940, art became heavily censored. That was the case with “major” art forms like painting and writing, at least, but the apparatchiks largely ignored printmaking. In retrospect this seems ironic, given how the medium is suited to mass production and has a history as a tool of dissent. That’s exactly the point of this exhibition; culled from a collection at Rutgers University, its forty-one works from 1922–91 range from the surreal folk art of Jüri Arrak to the geometrical abstractions of Leonhard Lapin and Raul Meel—clear evidence of how artists in this medium persisted and even thrived under the radar of state-sanctioned Socialist Realism. The exhibit’s highlight and its clearest critique of force-fed Russian culture are Vello Vinn’s scathing, Ernst-like photomontages. The show runs simultaneously with (and is fittingly located a floor beneath ) an exhibit of Russian Impressionism.
Museum of Russian Art, 5500 Stevens Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-821-9045.
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Jonathan Richman and Vic Chesnutt
This odd but spectacular double-header pairs two veteran singer/songwriters from opposite sides of the emotional spectrum. At one end is the naively optimistic Jonathan Richman, known for his playful and charmingly inane simplicity. Even if he doesn’t dive into his classic songbook from his days with the Modern Lovers, he can draw upon nearly thirty years of consistently wonderful solo albums. At the other pole is the noted cynic Vic Chesnutt. His albums are significantly darker and deeper, traits stemming at least in part from his perspective as a paraplegic. This date will be an intimate solo appearance, without the members of Godspeed You! Black Emperor and Fugazi, who helped transform Chesnutt’s latest record into a moving and chaotic masterpiece.
Cedar Cultural Center, 416 Cedar Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-338-2674.
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4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days
Ever since Bruno Dumont was bequeathed the honors of the Cannes festival jury (including two grand prize awards for this and this film), I have been doubtful of just how significant the honor is. That is not to say that Dumont didn’t deserve the awards (he did) but that they had almost no effect whatsoever on the mass shitting that all his movies, save his debut, have wrongfully received. Somehow, I don’t think 4 Months, 3 Weeks, 2 Days will have that problem. It was the surprise winner of the Palme D’or for 2007 and it’s easy to understand why – Its eloquently affecting power is too moving to ignore and too tenacious to be misunderstood. The film is already getting its due both critically and commercially, in fact it will soon open in the area via Landmark theatres. I suggest you see it, but be warned – it’s not the kind of date movie that will result in a pleasant romp later in the evening. Then again, that disclaimer should be self evident under consideration that the film is being referred to as “that Romanian abortion movie.”
The film documents a day in the life of two college roommates. Gabita is the underprepared pregnant one and Otilia is her friend who, it turns out, is willing to do almost anything to help her. The girls prepare for the illegal abortion like they would an exam – with a sort of dignified verve. They overcome some small setbacks only to be faced with some much bigger ones. The overcome those, then a short diversion and then the procedure and the clean up. Finally they are left to face the reality of what they just did. This is where we leave the characters and their struggle in the film’s beautiful final moment. In strictly real time we experience these events and the transformations that they cause, and this is where the power of the story rises above any particular cinematic aesthetic.
The style is not necessarily anything new. Michael Haneke, the Dardenne brothers, Bella Tarr, Lars Von Trier, Bruno Dumont, and many more have successfully stripped realism to its rudimentary core when approaching modern subjects. What this film contributes to that towering (and intimidating) canon measures in at least two traits. First, it’s a story about abortion. Not a message, but a topic that is contextualized within the milieu of post-Ceausescu Romania. Of course framing the story in an oppressive political state also carries strong political implications. But Mungiu downplays them and renders significance in the way that they are not ever specifically mentioned, only alluded to. It is consistent with the realist tradition that the context is explored only in the implications of the films primary characters. The second quality is revealed in the moments of black irony that will somehow make you laugh in the midst of such real pain and difficulty (particularly if you’re Romanian, I’m told). Notice the dizzying dinner table conversation that logically progresses from raising children and family values to the idea of waiting 9 months for a soldier to come home. The camera is focused intently on Otilia and the audience experiences the implications of the painfully clinical abortion scene that just occurred right with her. At one point the phone quietly rings in the background. She hears it, and we hear it – has something gone wrong at the hotel or is it nothing? Is someone going to answer it? The scene is simultaneously excruciating and mischievous. And, it’s devastating, as is almost every scene in the film. (For definitive evidence of black irony pay attention to the meal that Gabita eats in the final scene after expunging her child)
It’s textbook realism, yes, but it’s also the moment where Mungiu reveals his cards and stakes claim as the commanding director that he is. His scenes frame the incidental narratives that drift in and out of people’s lives in such a way that he bestows the utmost effect on the viewer using tiny hints of activity drawn from our collective prosaic activities. It’s this subtle yet potent statement in the midst of a brutally real and painfully accurate story that speaks to Mungiu’s power as a great director. And it indicates his truly grand sense of irony, suggested so intuitively onto the screen. 4 Months also proclaims the vitality of the emergent Romanian New Wave (now that’s a catchphrase to watch out for!) better than anything else associated with the “movement” so far. But if you need further proof of its actual vitality, check out the Walker’s February 8th screening of the late Cristian Nemescu’s exceptional final film California Dreamin’ (Endless).
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Cat Power
Last
time Charlyn Marshall played Minneapolis, her set was half songs and half
nervous chatter, owing to the notorious self- consciousness that occasionally
overshadows the subtle beauty in her music. But her 2006 triumph, The Greatest,
has given the shy and sad kid a renewed sense of confidence that will only be
further buttressed by her pro backing band, The Dirty Delta Blues. Expect
plenty of The Greatest, along with a generous assortment of masterfully
evocative tunes from her new Jukebox, which, like The Covers Record from 2000,
consists of stark interpretations of an array
of old classics. If nothing else, count on the beguiling Marshall to
deliver more bangs for your buck.First Avenue, 701 First Avenue North, Minneapolis; 612-338-8388.
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There Will Be Blood, There May Be Disappointment
I finally saw Paul Thomas
Anderson’s There Will Be Blood last
week. I was impressed, but the twelve others in the audience didn’t seem to digest
it as well. Several left during the less exciting last hour of the film. Others
derisively asked "whose idea was it to see this movie?" as they were leaving.
It is a divisive movie to be sure, not unlike No
Country For Old Men, but it is one with such a beautiful cinematic power
that I couldn’t help but think the others had sadly missed the point. Here are some notes on the "point" of the film, as I see it.The film’s incredible opening
sequence simply and brilliantly sets up the long story to come, and it burns
with cinematic genius. The sense of danger in the oil wells is palpable and
overpowering. The still landscape shots are reminiscent of Antonioni, and like his environments they carry a menacing weight that reflects the characters that inhabit them. There are shocking scenes of violence (not superfluous or overly
grotesque), that set up the psychic landscape of the film — a place where the
worst can happen instantly and where men wait nervously for it to happen. The
stunning soundtrack swells with atonal screeches of orchestral strings and
textures. Imagine Penderecki’s "Threnody For The Victims Of
Hiroshima" played against the ominous presence of a Sergio Leone
desert. Johnny Greenwood (Radiohead’s guitarist) creates a sound world that embodies
and accentuates the dread and the sense of potential in what Willa Cather
called “the raw materials out of which a country is made.” PT Anderson’s visionary
and seemingly effortless direction is enough to carry the film alone, but he
also has an enthralling script and at least two magnificent performances to
work with.At dualistic odds are self-made oil baron
Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day-Lewis) and a young preacher (Paul Dano). Each of
them is drunk with power and self-gratitude. Each of them worships his own self-destructive god. The towering presence of Plainview’s oil derricks even
mirror that of a crucifix, and they attain a sort of overbearing presence of
control as all life and activity centers around them. Part of this is thanks to the set
and costume designers who create an ascetic, yet richly evocative landscape.
One scene, in which an oil derrick explodes with both tragic and promising
consequences, is a marvel of cinematic design and direction. The camera moves
swiftly, in what feels like a single tracking shot but actually isn’t. It captures so many events, right before your eyes and with so many implications — both
physically and psychically transformative — that we are left breathless.The film’s thematic scope is as narrow-mindedly focused as its main character (speaking almost exclusively to the nature of
power) and yet its breadth seems so epic that it exacts a mesmeric reverence
out of the land, the oil, the men, the business, and the pursuit of power.
Unfortunately, the idea that Anderson could have done something with a deeper political metaphor is present. But Blood is a film about a very specific
man with a single-minded and self-destructive desire for power, not the nature
of the oil business, capitalism, or even Christianity. The parallel between the two men and the two
power structures they represent is understated — which may be good, because any greater
social or political theme would have detracted from the incredibly magnetic
performances of Day-Lewis and Dano.As the film ends, we see the
natural, logical conclusion that attends a psychopath like Plainview. He emerges out of his alcoholic
slumber for one last opportunity to one-up his rival, Sunday. Afterward, we are
left to imagine him crawling back into the alcoholic death that is his huge,
empty mansion. It’s hard for me to imagine viewers getting upset with
this ending, although there are sure to be many. It is a pitch-perfect
transformation of the film’s main subject into the cinematic embodiment of his
character. Cold, ruthless, abrupt and deceptive, Blood is a dogged parable that
achieves an awesome power. If the film isn’t perfect (which it isn’t), it
doesn’t matter because it is awe-inspiringly successful in its execution.