LOVE IS COLDER THAN DEATH (GERMANY/1969/RAINER WERNER FASSBINDER)

Rainer Werner Fassbinder’s first feature film is quite a spectacle, demonstrating a surprisingly advanced cinematic style apparently not appreciated in its own time. Flaunting a heavy influence from the theatre, in particular the colder aspects of Bertolt Brecht’s oeuvre, Love Is Colder Than Death feels as revolutionary as Reservoir Dogs but is nowhere near as boisterous. Fassbinder himself plays Franz, a petty criminal who resists the lure of a secure position in the mob in favour of a life free of a higher power. Shortly after, we are introduced to Bruno, a man in a similar position who seems more interested in Franz’s decision than his own. Along with Franz’s moll Joanna, they circulate the city on a restrained crime spree, ultimately challenging their own relationships more than the law.

The film often feels too aloof for its own good, but there are moments of natural warmth, particularly with the musical choices, and it does successfully pastiche the less fluent gangster flicks of bygone years. The three leads play their roles with élan, harking back to the better nouvelle vague pictures, and demonstrating what was to be a fruitful rapport between Fassbinder and his two main actors, Hanna Schygulla and Ulli Lommel. Those dreading a completely stoical experience will be happy to learn that the film does elicit a few laughs, particularly when the trio loot their way through a supermarket to a bizarre interpretation of Strauss’ Der Rosenkavalier, but whether this was the original intended effect is another matter.

ISKWATERPANGK (PHILIPPINES/2007/KHAVN)

Utilising a wistfully grungy soundtrack to suit a visual style straight from the Nirvana videography, Khavn paints an ambiguous portrait of a group of fun-loving pubescent scamps (‘Squatterpunks’) living in an impoverished slum. There is no chronology to speak of, more a series of giddy, licentious vignettes, presenting these kids’ lives as endless bouts of hedonism. Khavn wisely avoids imbuing the feature with guilt-tripping facts and figures, instead lionising his subjects as if they were MTV’s latest artists du jour. The only subtitles provide helpful translations for graffiti and T-shirt slogans which say more than perhaps personal accounts could. On the other hand, it does sometimes feel like Khavn is stifling these children, their voices only heard at moments when the music dies down. Sure, they might exemplify the more venerable facets of the punk movement, but it is a comparison that one should work out independently, rather than being spoon-fed it.

There is a disturbingly hypnotic sequence repeated through the film where three kids sat in discarded tyres sniff heavily from bags of glue, but it is hard to infer exactly what was meant to be communicated. For the most part, the camera frolics around as if part of the clique, neither judging nor advocating their behaviour, so when we take a step back to witness their drug abuse like shocked parents, its profundity is uprooted by the happy sequence following it. A fascinating entry to the documentary genre, but one whose message is obscured by the aesthetic it employs.

MU ZAN E (JAPAN/1999/DAISUKE YAMANOUCHI)

Exploiting a theme so often seen in grungy horror films that it has all but lost its shock value, Mu Zan E is unlikely to be remembered even by diehard gore hounds. The trite story begins with an unnamed female TV presenter taking us unconvincingly through her latest exposé on snuff films. Initially, the worst she manages to uncover are niche porn films involving liberal amounts of menstrual blood, but the more people she interviews, the more she is reeled into their world. Eventually, she unearths the hyper-brutal snuff porn ring she had presumably been anticipating for her entire professional career... and she is not disappointed. As her curiosity burgeons, she gets perhaps a little too close to the action, resulting in some rather unpleasant sights.

While the film never pretends to be anything more than a curt exercise in grisliness, it still fails to fulfil its desired reactions. The presenter’s testimonies are delivered on a cheap DV camera, an effect which actually ruins the illusion of realism by eschewing decent production values. The interviews are unlikely to fool anyone given the insipid performances of the subjects. In addition, the final denouement desperately lacks sequential credibility, in spite of the nauseatingly lavish effects. To the film’s credit, it does build up intrigue from the pixelisation of the women’s faces, but sadly this may be less of a conscious creative choice by the director, and more another sorry attempt to reach that “realism” it so sorely needed to have any impact.

DOWN BY LAW (USA/1986/JIM JARMUSCH)

Down By Law, Jim Jarmusch’s jailbreak movie, is an unparalleled joy to watch for the first time. Starring Jarmusch regulars Tom Waits, John Lurie and Roberto Benigni, it tells the story of three men who form an alliance after meeting in prison. Zack (Waits) is a distracted radio DJ who is led to the slammer by his desire to make a quick buck, having agreed to caddy a Mercedes out of town, unaware of its contents. Jack (Lurie) is an amateur pimp whose clumsiness and greed eventually lead him to the same fate and, eventually, the same cell. Taking cue from one another, the two men puff out their chests, determined not to be seen as the weaker of the pair. All this changes dramatically when a third criminal, Bob (Benigni), joins them. With his enthusiasm for human interaction and constant repetition of trite English idioms, Bob’s presence is initially met with scepticism, but opinions quickly change once he brews an escape plan. Soon the three are on the run in the open air, the group hierarchy constantly shifting as they traverse the twilit bayou outside.

While escape stories are often entertaining, Jarmusch acknowledges that his characters are far more interesting than their predicaments. The three lead actors make this experience more than worthwhile, particularly Benigni, whose ravings at times become bigger than the film itself. Combining a magnetic and frequently funny script with a rich canvas of light, this is a film that all budding cineastes need to watch.

JUDEX (FRANCE/1916/LOUIS FEUILLADE)

Following ethical criticisms about his earlier crime serials, prolific director Louis Feuillade created Judex, a quirky, shadowy hero with an underground lair and secret identity (not unlike Batman). The film begins in much the same way as Feuillade’s other works, with Judex targeting a wealthy banker. However, we soon discover that his motives aren’t so much led by personal politics as personal feelings – he has fallen for the banker’s daughter. This sets the scene for the rest of the serial, a piece quite remarkably astute in the emotional responses it expects. Further exploration of Judex’s psyche comes from the rather sombre seventh installment, wherein we discover more about his mother’s desire for revenge. While tonally discordant with other episodes, its style anticipates the suspense-ridden horror classics of the twenties, adding another facet to the project.

What does detract from the series is the use of the Licorice Kid, a child parallel to Judex, a character conceivably worked in for younger audiences. This was to sadly set a loathsome precedent for the thriller genre. On the other hand, the photography is consistently spectacular, the light playing more than an ancillary role. One moment in the penultimate episode looks like it could have been extracted from a Bergman film, and another, which lingers on a sunlit seascape, enthrals the viewer using very little action. The tints too are used excellently, sometimes deliberately jarring with the tone of the scene. It comes as no surprise to learn that Feuillade was revered by Surrealists.