A group of cattle is herded around an enclosure in relative silence, until the familiar rambling of a rodeo announcer intrudes upon the scene. This relationship between man and animal is enforced repeatedly throughout legendary documentarian Frederick Wiseman’s study of packing plants, Meat. Humans hide behind gigantic, intimidating machines, often heard but not as often seen. Cows and sheep are processed rather than raised, clamped between pieces of metal and hung on large hooks. Occasionally the camera takes a break from the killing floors to sit amongst those who deal in meat. Men on phones, some clad in ten-gallon hats as if fulfilling a stereotype, seduce potential buyers with misleading statistics. At one moment in the film, a group of Japanese tourists are taken around the plant, slavishly jotting down even the most frivolous details.
As usual, Wiseman does not offer any singular commentary, and with a subject matter which is a constant hot button in many circles, even rivalling some human rights issues, one gets the feeling that Wiseman deliberately avoided being more pronounced in his critique of the more inhumane practices of these packing plants. However, it is important to remember that Wiseman had previously documented more shocking animal cruelty in a research lab in Primate, an institution with arguably more responsibility towards their subjects. While Wiseman’s film does grant the viewer exclusive access to the domain of its subject, it does not feel like a particularly unique perspective, nor does it compare with Wiseman’s other in-depth documentaries.
The residents of Belene, a small Bulgarian town, have been waiting for the construction of a nuclear power plant for over twenty years, and watch the cranes and clouds of smoke in anticipation. Aside from the sudden influence of industrialisation, the townspeople only seem to have one problem – a mosquito infestation. Some residents have found innovative ways to deal with them, such as switching on a high-power fan or vacuuming the air at random intervals, but before long it becomes clear that this fixation is a mask for a number of other problems which lie just beneath the surface. The camera takes on the role of casual observer, allowing each resident to tell their story to the audience.
Andrey Paounov’s shrewd documentary asks many questions and leaves the answers, if any, to the viewer, and as a result it is difficult to understand the intended effect. Each interviewee offers a unique perspective on the town’s many issues, and the cumulative effect is somewhat depressing. A sinister commentary is made on the town’s future when it is revealed that the ex-mayor, the man who was responsible for much of Belene’s city planning and industrial development, also played a key role in the local Communist-era labour camp. While the film does concern itself heavily with the impossibility of leaving the past behind, Paounov does not forget to balance his piece with humour and wit, and at times it feels as if Christopher Guest and his team have taken on small-town Eastern Europe.
In the tradition of films such as Of Time and the City and My Winnipeg, Helsinki, Forever is a sedate mood piece paying tribute to the Finnish capital through fragments of the country’s visual arts. More than just a bricolage piece, the film takes on the structure of a metaphysical journey, links being made between shots, locations, time periods – trams enter screen in the 1930s and leave it in the 1960s. Commentary from a man and a woman (the man’s voice is director Peter von Bagh) propel the visual essay through its twists and turns, only interrupted by smatterings of Finnish pop music.
Peter von Bagh is better known by some as a film historian, and this project displays as deep a love for cinema as it does for Helsinki. Many of the films shown share superficial elements in common – long shadows, minimal movement – and while technical aspects of the film are never brought up, the film functions as a history of Finnish cinema. The one issue here is in the editing – given von Bagh’s access to previously unfamiliar films, one wonders if we’re seeing the clips that best fulfil the film’s intent or if the visual connections are too enjoyable to pass up. In this sense, Helsinki, Forever falls short of the likes of Sans Soleil in creating a compelling film essay, but it nonetheless manages to hold one’s attention. Wistful at times, joyful at others, Helsinki, Forever manages to brim with vivacity through a reconnection with the past.
Margrét Dagmar Ericsdóttir is an Icelandic producer whose son Keli experiences a particularly severe form of autism. Margrét worked with famed Icelandic director Friðrik Þór Friðriksson to create a documentary in which she talked to experts and other parents of autistic children to understand the condition better for herself. Margrét visits professor of animal sciences Dr. Temple Grandin, who stands as living proof that one can achieve goals despite being diagnosed with autism at a young age. Other interviewees explain how they or their relatives have overcome their problems through openly embracing the comforting aspects of sensory stimulation.
What marks The Sunshine Boy apart from other documentaries of a similar nature is that the filmmaker herself has a personal connection to the subject, but chooses to learn through examining others in her position. Essentially, the journey of the film is one of reflection, and it is to Margrét’s credit that we as an audience are never allowed to wallow in pity. The range of experts deal with autism in different ways, some apparently more effective than others, and the suggestion is that a parent could feasibly teach these methods at home to give the child the best opportunities in life. What perhaps doesn’t work so well is the choice of music – the use of Björk’s song Human Behaviour in particular is a little insensitive. Additionally, Kate Winslet’s narration is quite unnecessary – for a documentary about overcoming communication problems, it’s unusual that the investigator should be dubbed by a famous actress.
Frederick Wiseman’s Welfare opens with a montage of people having their photograph taken and then being told to ‘have a seat please’. The people appear to come from diverse backgrounds and all of them look apprehensive. The setting here is a welfare centre, crowded with people in varying degrees of desperation trying to claim benefits for their circumstances. The camera sits in on consultations, learning the ins and outs of individual problems, the government’s representatives trying their best to deal with each case humanely but fairly. Sparks fly between agitated claimants and black policemen, with deeply racist accusations forming the basis of pointless arguments.
At almost three hours, Welfare is an intense experience, and it’s clear that Wiseman had a wealth of good footage to sift through. Although the camera often gets uncomfortably close to its subjects, few are conscious of its presence and a lot of personal information is exchanged, making for a documentary rawer than Wiseman’s earlier works. We as the audience spend enough time with each claimant to share their pain and frustration with the benefits system. Welfare shows off Wiseman’s photographic bent, his portraits of people in trouble echoing the work of great photographers such as Manuel Rivera-Ortiz. Given the length of the film, there are several opportunities for one to question the necessity of Wiseman’s neutrality, which occasionally borders on inactivity, but it is important to remember that these subjects are halfway between situations, and it would be unfair, even wrong, for Wiseman to interfere.
In multimedia artist Péter Forgács’ fiction film Own Death, the protagonist is heard and often not seen, presented to the viewer through found footage and photographs as he describes his life after the near-death experience of a heart attack. The protagonist, assumed to be a publisher or printer, is very aware of his physical vulnerability and often refers to his reaction to his environment (sweat and muscular pains being particular favourites). But as he unravels each moment of pain or suffocation, the images suggest a secret joie de vivre, a longing to fulfil the dreams he had almost lost forever. Occasional segments of text, echoing the narration, appear across the screen in a typewriter serif.
Forgács’ interpretation of Péter Nádas’ novella is reminiscent of Peter Greenaway, creating a new text from several existing texts, and the bricolage of dozens of people’s lives hint at reincarnation or a desire to be anyone else. Newly shot footage flows adds motion to an otherwise sedentary slideshow, and intimacy is afforded to images of fingers and faces through use of gentle musique concrète, care of Béla Tarr’s frequent collaborator Mihály Víg. Whether deliberate or not, the narration is frustratingly anodyne and monotone, and one wonders if we are meant to celebrate the protagonist’s ability to articulate his pain, or to merely suffer with him. Moreover, the man’s thoughts often feel repetitive and steal the footage of some great mythic potential. An intriguing experiment, but one that never leaps off the screen as it should.
A facsimile of American Idol, Super Girls is a music competition which drew in an alarming 400 million viewers at its peak before being banned by the government. This matter-of-fact documentary follows the lives of aspiring contestants hoping to replicate the success of former winner Li Yuching, who for many young viewers exemplified the modern, westernised China that the government had tried to restrain. One girl, underage but in possession of a fake ID, sells pens to her competitors to make some cash on the side, while another has quit her job with confidence, asserting that she would pay a large sum of money if it granted her fame. But while their life may be interesting for the outside world, these girls’ dreams and desires are wonderfully uncomplicated – to become a Super Girl.
About five minutes into Super, Girls!, one realises how striking it is to experience a Chinese vox pop, with statements coming from the heart rather than the state. Relics of the ancient appear in the girls’ habits and beliefs – the word ‘destiny’ is frequently mentioned – but their image is very modern. Director Jian Yi conducts interviews with a range of relevant people rather than riffing on the starry-eyed teenager repeatedly, and it’s interesting to hear the perspective of the parents who seem to doubt their own children’s prospects. Though brilliant commentary abounds, the film requires a little more structuring as some conversations cut short, but for what it is, Super, Girls! is a fascinating slice of life.
Primate sees realist documentarian Frederick Wiseman hone his lens on the inmates of the Yerkes Primate Research Centre. A representative scientist explains the aims and outcomes of the organisation, describing the mating habits and relationships of the animals. Wiseman’s camera never intrudes or probes – the film could easily be seen as a pamphlet for the centre – but we learn a lot about the treatment of the animals just by watching wordlessly. A baby chimp, wearing a fresh nappy, is forced to hold onto a wire and a piece of cloth simultaneously while a scientist times how long it takes for her to fall. Experiments take place without description, and only the occasional observation is made.
Due to Wiseman’s direct style, it is often easy to watch his films without questioning them, but the focus of Primate means that the suggestion of animal cruelty is rife. Wiseman’s earlier Titicut Follies, which studies the residents of a hospital for the criminally insane, frequently comes to mind, particularly in what one is meant to take away from the film, but in Primates the subjects are unable to speak for themselves. In this respect, Primate elicits a stronger emotional response from the audience. The success of the film may be down to the fact that the humans featured do not feel that there is anything wrong with their way of working, meaning it is up to the viewer to raise the important questions. Horrific but unflinching, Primate is the objective documentary at its best.
Best known for his marathon ultra-realist documentaries, filmmaker Wang Bing is representative of the ‘other’ face of China, and his most recent work Man With No Name epitomises this well. The subject of this film not only has no name, he is also ageless, voiceless and of unknown ethnicity. We follow this anonymous man as he goes about his daily duties, supporting his self-sufficient lifestyle on the very fringe of society. One moment, he is digging dirt on a wintry day, the next he is harvesting dung for fertiliser in summer. The man’s abode is a dingy cave of his own making, and while there is the odd echo of civilisation – a noodle packet is seen at one moment – his life is one of absolute solitude.
Though formally simple, Man With No Name is a complex work. We see the nameless man alone on screen, but his story is universalised by the mundanity of his routine, suggesting that there are many others like him. As in his earlier Tie Xi Qu and Crude Oil, Wang does not give his subject much provenance, forcing the audience to relate to him on a basic human level by participating in his lifestyle. It is easy to forget that Wang and his crew are present filming, testament to his artful restraint in the editing process as well as his direct, unpretentious dialogue with his audience. Perhaps dwarfed by the ambition of other Chinese ‘underground’ films, Man With No Name is nonetheless a vital film.
Shot and produced in France by Mauritanian expatriate filmmaker and actor Med Hondo, Soleil Ô has been variously described as the first African avant-garde film and the most significant film made about African émigrés. The abstract film essay, incorporating elements of melodrama and comedy, takes the form of a series of vignettes decrying the treatment of Africans in France. A character seeking employment is met with prejudice and derision from almost everyone, causing him to question the intrinsically French hendiatris of “liberty, equality, fraternity”. Another scene sees a circle of men seek divine forgiveness for speaking in their native tongues, suggesting they could only hope to be granted consideration by Christ once shed of their African identities.
From its bizarre animated opening to its darkly comic subversion of icons (crucifixes are converted into swords at one point), Soleil Ô makes no bones about its agenda and Hondo clarifies the importance of his message through subverting the gaze of the viewer. While the film designates itself as a pamphlet, the focus is more on the reconstruction of identity than the loss of it, and Hondo does not discriminate in his description of blackness. As Djibril Diop Mambéty was to later achieve with his surreal Touki Bouki, Hondo interprets film through the context of African oral storytelling, acknowledging that to recontextualise cinema for an African perspective is to reinterpret the medium. Satirical but fiercely humanistic, Soleil Ô is a film essay whose importance can never be overstated, and deserves a contemporary rediscovery.
In the same vein as Capturing The Friedmans, Must Read After My Death is a documentary which tells its story through family footage and recordings. The focus here is the faltering relationship of Allis and Charley, the deceased grandparents of director Morgan Dews. Dews came across the recordings in his grandmother’s house shortly after she died, and came to truly understand their issues through the editing process. Charley, suave but troubled, worked in Australia for a third of the year, leaving Allis at home with their four children, and it becomes clear that this is what put a strain on the relationship. Through Dictaphone correspondence, we learn of Charley’s alcoholism and popularity with the women, as well as Allis’ struggles to keep her family happy.
Though clearly meant as a tribute to his own grandparents, Dews has essentially created a moving portrait of any American family striving to keep up appearances. Inadequacy is a frequent topic, as if Allis and Charley lived their entire lives benchmarking themselves against ‘the American dream’. What is fascinating about the film is what isn’t shown – Allis talks a little about her first marriage but Charley avoids discussing his. Whether it was Dews’ decision to exclude any reference to these issues or if there simply wasn’t any discussion of it, it contributes greatly to the viewer’s understanding of this couple as human beings. A daringly personal project, Must Read After My Death is a beautiful, caring tribute to Dews’ grandparents, brimming with love and nostalgia.
Thomas Köner is a German media artist who works in both video and music, combining the two to create unique ambient experiences. His area of fascination seems to be the North Pole, and all of his installations focus intently on the natural beauty of this area. This project, Nuuk, comprises a series of desaturated images of the Greenlandic capital, ice sheets dominating the screen, and the framing often suggests that these stills could have been culled from CCTV footage. One image, taking in a snow-covered street lined with drab apartment blocks, slowly mutates into a nocturnal scene, coloured lights emerging from windows. The music gently sweeps the viewer through the experience, using a variegated wall of electronically produced tones.
If it had to be categorised, Nuuk would best align itself with the voyeuristic works of James Benning and Sharon Lockhart, its wordless presentation encouraging the viewer to let go of all previous understanding of cinema and enjoy the experience. One is led to feel as if the music is somehow being produced by the ice itself, as there is a deep, raw quality to the soundtrack that defies musical classification, and the texture of the video harmonises with this. Though successful, it is tempting to consider what effect the film would have if there was movement in each ‘still’, for example if a person were to be seen walking through the city scene. Not for the impatient, Nuuk is a twenty-minute film in name only, and deserves one’s full attention.
A follow-up to Liu Jiayin’s debut feature, Oxhide II continues the set-up as the director and her parents go about an average day in the house. This time around, the family sit around the table for a dinner of dumplings, discussing problems and the wavering future of their handbag stall. Mother and Father prepare the food at a leisurely pace, perhaps preoccupied with the worries of tomorrow, while Daughter joins in only at the instruction of her Mother. Despite the almost ceremonial diligence the ingredients are treated with, the completed meal arrives on the table with little fanfare, and conversation stays on the subject of Daughter’s inadequacy and clumsiness.
It is easiest to say that Oxhide II is deceptively simple. In keeping her camera static, Liu ensures that the family (and their cats) are the only moving objects, and our focus is thus drawn to their actions alone. Unfortunately, its simplicity is also its downfall, as an attempt to form a more minimalist narrative removes some of the heart that was seen in the film’s predecessor. An exceptionally long take in which Daughter chops vegetables carries a certain cultural relevance as well as establishing her status in the family, but may not have needed to last as long in order to make an impact. Nonetheless, there is something new to Oxhide II as a basic daily ritual is given a feature-length presentation, and the viewer is left to ponder how much one can learn about life if they look closer.
The Mesa is an unusual community of four hundred people living in the desert five miles away from the Rio Grande, whose life ‘off the grid’ means existing outside the law, but also not having access to electricity or running water. The community is founded a survivalist attitude towards the modern world – as one resident puts it, “we don’t dial 911, we dial 357 – .357 Magnum”. The group interprets the space they inhabit as the last corner of America which is truly free, and revel in a do-it-yourself approach which sees houses made from mutilated car wrecks and food cooked over log fires. Some of the members served in the military in a previous life, and their reason for living in the Mesa is clearly bred from a disillusionment with the intents of the U.S. government. While most of the community is of sound mind, a few residents testify to the potential to go insane in such an environment.
At just over an hour in length, Off The Grid: Life On The Mesa is essentially a glimpse of the subject rather than an in-depth documentary, but there is still a lot of ground covered. The residents are quite open to explain the source of their emotional struggles, which helps to demystify their reasons for living in such circumstances. The Mesa itself is halfway between a batty micronation and a peaceful, nurturing community, and while it may not seem desirable for living, it does have a loving heart at its centre.
Challenging the tenets of the documentary, Sharon Lockhart’s hour-long film Goshogaoka portrays a routine performed by a girls’ high school basketball team. The film opens with the team running laps of their school hall-cum-gymnasium, introducing the stage space of this balletic piece as well as its ‘characters’. To a repetitive chant, the girls warm up their bodies with a series of exercises. The monotone of the chant serves to underline the functionality of the drills, with only minor slip-ups in keeping the rhythm together. The exercises progress for about forty minutes before the girls change into tracksuits to act out preparation for a match. The film comprises six still shots more or less equal in length, and the camera never moves from its fixed position, the closed red theatre curtains looming over like a spectator.
Though minimalist in terms of how it operates as a film, Goshogaoka appears to reference other borderline cinematic works, such as Frederick Wiseman’s documentary High School, or Matthew Barney’s Cremaster 1. Lockhart worked closely with ballet choreographer Stephen Galloway to produce a routine for the girls to perform that looked realistic but also benefitted the film’s aesthetics, and the effect is convincing. One interesting shot sees pairs of basketball players throwing the balls to one another, a practice which gradually falls out of rhythm and becomes a piece of visual syncopation. Beautifully composed with subtle yet sinister sound design, Goshogaoka is an unclassifiable piece of art, deceptive in its role but a nonetheless magnetising watch.
The Aum Shinrikyo group, now known as Aleph, are a cult religion in Japan whose central tenets combine elements of Christianity and Buddhism. In 1995, the group was reviled for a sarin attack they carried out on a Tokyo underground train, which killed at least twelve people. The attack was supposedly arranged by the cult’s leader Shoko Asahara in response to rumours that the police had planned to raid his headquarters. In his documentary A, investigative filmmaker Tatsuya Mori managed to integrate himself into the cult’s headquarters shortly after the attack, spending time with members to understand them as people. Spokesperson Hiroshi Araki cuts a bashful image, and one wonders how, if at all, he was selected as a representative given his relative ignorance to the origin of the attacks.
The film plays out as a sort of press pack, arranging interviews and news items chronologically to measure the repercussions of the attack. Rather than sensationalising events unnecessarily, Mori remains as neutral as possible, an approach which allows the subjects to loosen up and contently discuss their beliefs. For the first half of the film, it is hard to conceive of the dangers of a cult represented in the media by someone like Araki, but as Mori probes deeper, he unexpectedly uncovers a stash of chemicals in a storeroom, instantly changing the audience’s perception of the film. At 133 minutes, it may be a little longer than necessary, but A is otherwise a respectably unobtrusive profile of a terrifying sect.
Jonas Mekas is one of the most prolific artists working with film, and even to this day he keeps himself occupied with projects at the grand old age of eighty-seven. His four-hour magnum opus As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses Of Beauty narrates the past thirty years of his life through a careful compilation of family footage, accompanied by commentary, music and audio clips. Through Mekas’ meticulous editing, positioning disparate events side by side, precious memories lose their preciousness and become performances of ‘real life’ – a family excursion is no longer a fun day out, rather a beautiful silent play of light and colour.
Mekas, a man haunted by the spectre of memory, achieves the rare feat of putting himself on camera without needing to be in front of it. His juxtaposition of images is never gratuitous or sentimental, even as flowers superimpose images of children, and although names of relatives and friends are mentioned, the priority is never to learn exactly what role these people play in his life, rather to learn what sort of people they are or were. Any budding artist working in 8mm and 16mm would do well to watch Mekas’ work to learn how to make true meaning of home video footage. In spite of, or perhaps thanks to its extensive length, As I Was Moving Ahead is a wholly immersive experience – while these may not be memories from our own lives, they will be by the end of the film.
Breakfast is an important meal. It sets you up for the day and gives you the required nutrients, no more, no less - it's a square meal. And this, in a way, is what this film review blog is meant to do. No matter what sort of film it is, every review gets exactly 250 words - just enough to get your RDA of plot, background info and critique.
I try my best to watch and review films from all over the place, in the same way I might have French toast one morning, and Coco Pops the next. Anyway, I'll leave you to get stuck in. Feel free to give me feedback, ask me where to find films, tell me off for unfair comments... I'm all ears. Bon appétit!
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