Monday, September 03, 2012

Special to Tativille: The Eternal City at Forty: Fellini’s Roma (1972), by Jeremi Szaniawski

Woody Allen will delight his undiscriminating group of fans (but no one else) with yet another sloppy, inept comedy this year, this time located not in Paris, but in Rome—you have such exquisite taste and you like to share it, Woody. Although an event of admittedly lesser importance, another film set in and dedicated to the eternal city turns forty this year: Federico Fellini’s Roma (1972). A germane opportunity to return to an underestimated crepuscular masterpiece, to which, sadly, not all roads have necessarily led since.

I was recently sitting at a café telling my friend, the one-time feature filmmaker, self-published writer and dilettante extraordinaire Patrick de Selys Longchamps, about my enthusiasm upon seeing the film at one of Paris’s repertory theaters this summer. This prompted a fascinating anecdote. Back in the days when he was a dashing, independently wealthy aspiring filmmaker, Patrick had used family connections to spend a day on a Federico Fellini film set, where he reportedly learned much more than he had in film school.[1] The year was 1971 and the film was Roma.

Patrick enthusiastically recalled witnessing Fellini at work, his meticulous approach and authoritative search for perfection, in this case with an elaborate tracking shot across the crowd of diners eating ‘al fresco’ in a typical Roman street filled with restaurants. While the result on the screen might convey, to the inexperienced eye, the appearance of a merry ebullient mess of hungry Italians captured spontaneously (it is its greatness), everything here was rehearsed to the minutest detail, from each of the extras’ positions, timing and movement, to focus pulling. It took a whole day of work to set up this one sweeping tracking movement across the crowd. By the time the crew was ready to shoot, it was late at night already and the residents of this popular neighborhood started complaining about the bright lights and noise generated by the production. The police showed up on the set to stop work for the night, but Fellini was not to be denied his shot: after a brief discussion, growing impatient, the mercurial director exclaimed some insult in Italian and slapped the agent who had dared slow down his work—worse even, threatened to interrupt it as it was picking up and finally acquiring its desired shape. Any other man, probably, would have been arrested and thrown to jail for the night. But this, after all, was Federico Fellini, and at the peak of his artistic powers and reputation as a world cinematic genius, to boot. The policeman left the premises, the shoot was resumed and the shot successfully completed. On the screen, it is one of the many instances of seemingly effortless bravura featured in the film, which is a majestic experience, imperious and, like Fellini, possibly tyrannical and even punishing—but in a sovereign, legitimate way, like a bolt of lightning that the common mortal will admire and thank the Gods for.

Roma is composed of a mosaic of episodes, all connected through electrifying non-sequiturs, rarely returning to previously visited locations, and set in a variety of timescapes, divided among Fellini’s youth in Fascist Italy and the director’s everyday life and entourage in the early 1970s. It constitutes the zenith in the new turn the Italian director’s aesthetics had taken at the time. Initiated in 1969 with another film set partly in Rome, Satyricon, it was continued with equal aplomb (but gradual declining rigor and power) in films such as Amarcord (1973), Casanova (1976) up through And the Ship Sails On (1983). In Roma, Fellini depicts a city that is in turn sublime and decadent, the ideal locale for powerfully evocative images alternating realist and oneiric tones in quick succession, one of the artist’s trademarks. Often, scenes segue into one another almost unexpectedly, even if the general structure is of a progressive lengthening of sequences culminating in the 10 minute long clerical fashion show—one of the summits of Fellini’s collaboration with genius set and costume designer (and notorious substance abuser, something probably in evidence, here) Danilo Donati and legendary composer Nino Rota. In its climax, this hypnotic scene borders on the hallucinatory, as the audience of decadent aristocrats and high rank clerics bow in awe and ecstasy to an uncanny and bespectacled impersonator of the Pope dressed in a garish illuminated garb. Or, where the pomp of the church meets the garishness of the carnival, and a stark critique of idolatry is hammered home. The scene also rhymes and parallels the somewhat sickening parade of grotesque prostitutes in a cheap brothel earlier in the film. All three universes ultimately blend together, as Fellini’s Rome is the Rome of the spectacle, but also the Rome of dirt and decay, of vulgar yet oddly poetic attractions while death and tragedy are at hand, something nowhere better encapsulated than in another one of the film’s centerpieces: the music-hall sequence. In this long and multi-layered sequence, and while the more interesting drama and comedy unfolds in the audience and orchestra pit, half pathetic, half inspired performers do their best to keep the ‘show’ going, as fascist Rome succumbs to the Allied forces’ bombs. The film’s politics are thus never left behind, with the director’s brilliant ridiculing of fascism’s histrionic nature and liberal democracy’s inner contradictions clearly at the fore. Fellini may actually be ultimately less tender with the present than the past, as the nostalgic tone of the film would seem to call for: Italy’s operetta fascism seems less disturbing than the indifference of a dining bourgeois crowd looking on as the police beat a group of peaceful hippies to vacate some historic landmark. All the while exhibiting his intelligent libertarianism, Fellini conducts a corollary self-critique, allowing for his motto, ‘be faithful to yourself’ to take its full expression.

Roma is striking in its apparent refusal of adopting any leading character—even the young Fellini (Peter Gonzales) is only one among the very many characters seen just in passing. It would be incorrect, however, to consider that Rome herself is the main character here, just as it is to state that there is no guiding principle or real structure to the film. Articulated, like a poem, around motifs and themes, of course, Roma also boasts another form of narrative progression. An obvious trajectory is that moving from early childhood to old age (even if this is not done in any strict chronological manner), but there is also a fascinating work at play in the film in terms of modes of enunciation. At first, it seems as though the film is a monological affair—Fellini looking at himself and at the object of his love. Yet things are not that simple, being instead of a different, dialogical nature. The stronger the artifice, the more particular and personal a reminiscence, the more we feel as though we can relate to it. As a consequence, the dialogue between the discreet yet overbearing narrator/image-maker (Fellini) and the viewer makes for a tremendous, almost overpowering experience, allowing us to experience our own childhood (but also to gaze into future departures of all sorts) and our own city of choice through Rome. In this, the film is creating a new connection between techniques of literary modernism and cinema. Many parallels can be established here, from the masters of English modern novel and its stream of consciousness to Proustian recollections. But credit must be given where it is due: the genius behind the genius here is almost certainly the problematic Curzio Malaparte, a writer as admired by some (he was among Stanley Kubrick’s professed favorites) as forced into the vaults by the literary establishment and academia for his discomforting lack of political allegiance. His wartime recollections, deformed and magnified through imagination, yielded a score of semi-grotesque and unforgettable characterizations and representations such as in the extraordinary Kaputt and its companion piece, La Pelle. This way of blending recollections and a strong sense of authenticity with fabrication and a satirical emphasis on details is clearly at play in Fellini. Malaparte’s striking images drawn from wartime Italy have also had a lasting, if substantially repressed influence on another major Italian film director, for that matter. Roberto Rossellini actually plagiarized entire passages of Malaparte’s La Pelle in Paisa and clearly references him in passages of Rome, Open City (1945) and Germany Year Zero (1948). It is not by chance that Jean-Luc Godard elected Malaparte’s beautiful Capri villa to shoot his aptly titled Contempt (1963).

As far as references and intertext go, Roma relates most strongly to two other Fellini films: the pessimistic, resigned yet elegiac tone vis-à-vis lost opportunities in the vibrant eternal city reminds one of La Dolce Vita (1960), while stylistically the film’s treatment of childhood recollections announces Amarcord (set in the director’s native Rimini), with which the opening part of Roma shares a great many attributes, also in terms of tone and casting. But unlike Amarcord, Roma is not exclusively composed of burlesque if poignant reminiscences: it proposes a dual, internal and external view, negotiated formally through the grotesque and parodic bits, and a more ‘objective’ quasi-documentary (yet just as heavily composed and rehearsed) vision of the director and his world. More the latter than the former, indeed: this is Fellini’s Rome, a most personal and idiosyncratic vision, which reduces or derides the ‘academic’ glory of yore. The Rubicon is shown as a small stream whose crossing hardly invokes a fateful or irreversible action; and Julius Caesar is played by an old overly made-up thespian, revered but clearly way past his prime (Fyodor Chaliapin Jr.). As for historical monuments, they are expedited through a slide show shown by a priest to schoolchildren, until the photograph of a naked woman, placed in the sequence by some mischievous hand, short-circuits the proceedings to the children’s irreverent glee.

La Dolce Vita, Roma, Amarcord: all three films (but they are hardly alone in this case in the director’s corpus), riding on their episodic structure, are powerfully invested in the female body and the mother figure, although the latter is always relegated to the fringes of the narrative, indispensable yet covered up, as if in a gesture of respect. In La Dolce Vita, Marcello Rubini (Marcello Mastroianni) compares Rome to a warm jungle where one can hide easily, clearly attributing feminine and womb-like qualities to the city. In one of Roma’s comical scenes, a young Fellini, freshly arrived to Rome, discovers an intricate apartment on a sweltering hot day, peopled with children of all ages, and whose mother is a huge obese slob (at first only heard, as if hidden or displaced) who can’t move out of bed. Roma, whose opening music evokes a sad, brooding lullaby, also invites the spectator to discover the entrails of this city where a multitude of unforgettable women come and go, some grotesque and some mesmerizing. Much like the city, women are endowed with a familiar mystery that men never seem to possess. In this sense, the image that captures the film best might be that of the silhouette of a woman under a bridge at night, in extreme long shot, her shadow as dark as her body, standing still yet filled with the anticipation of the moment, while a siren alerts the people to take shelter from the impending bombings. The stillness and the tension of this tableau are rendered palpable yet elusive, visible yet unknowable. As another silhouette runs to the woman and causes her to motion again, her movements might be panic-stricken and filled with dread, they are nonetheless graceful and intensely captivating in their quasi abstract quality.

It is impossible not to conceive of Roma as an allegory for femininity and motherliness, something announced already in one of its memorable posters (the Romulus and Remus she-wolf replaced by a slender woman on all four and boasting three breasts), but this interpretation does not suffice to explain the film’s appeal. The latter resides also in one of the best meta-commentaries ever made about cinema. The overt references to the proscenium are numerous, here: from stage and cabaret representations to the actual screening of a 1930s peplum that the whole family religiously rushes to. But more importantly, the film embodies the real spirit of cinema in its virtuosic use of movement. Two sequences are little else: one composed of shots of the highway in the rain and the Roman roads, witnessing the heavy traffic and its own brand of sublime while also revealing Fellini and his crew on the car from which the camera and its crane are suspended; and the closing episode, where roaring bikers circle around Rome before leaving town and into the night.

In movement—this very essence of cinema—we find the inevitable corollary: time, for which Rome serves as the paradoxical crucible, as when modern highways and antique buildings are made to co-exist, or old American tourists dress pretty and arrive in flocks, more so to be picked up by young Italian gigolos, making them forget their age, than to photograph ruins that allegorize their own process of decay, and will survive them nonetheless. After all, as Gore Vidal puts it in one of the ‘candid’ interviews the film portrays, Rome is the city where life and death co-exist to the point of becoming non-differentiated. The city becomes a haunted place of a myriad of geological layers of history and stories, which appear as though in a cross-section before us in the contiguity of peace-and-love professing hippies sitting next to the Coliseum. Time, but also tenses are played with here in a variety of ways: the past and present, and perhaps the future, too. In eternity they are all blended and become meaningless. The scene in which bulldozers and drills dig the Roman subway and unearth a Roman villa is a fine illustration of this conundrum: as air penetrates the previously interred place, it destroys the beautiful paintings on the walls. Here the paradox of a time that can be captured and yet cannot escape its own passing in a purportedly eternal city evokes a perpetual present that is also perpetually effaced or covered up, offering a not-so-distant geo-historical equivalent of Deleuze’s crystal image. In a brief yet unforgettable appearance, Anna Magnani, the eternal Mamma Roma, in her final screen role, captures this paradox: refusing to grant an interview to Fellini, she is still captured by his camera. The cinematic icon, this quintessential Roman woman, fierce and nurturing like Romulus’ wolf, although 64 at the time, has the energy of a young woman, married to the experience of a lifetime. Magnani (1908-1973) appears before us like an antique statue suddenly endowed with the gift of movement, rich with a thousand years of experience and the admiration of spectators, a second before it freezes again forever.

Combining the heathen element of epiphany through art (found most clearly in Satyricon) with the angelic intervention of an icon (such as Giulietta Masina’s look at the camera at the end of Nights of Cabiria; 1957), Roma is almost inexplicably, miraculously touched by Grace. Better than any other Fellini film, it combines sheer beauty with grotesque ugliness, cultivating in the process the essence of the Italian master’s cinema, intensely pure and intransigent, fun yet filled with regret, one that we watch with a smile, while a tear wells up our eyes, as this is a cinema of what is lost, and can only be retrieved in the symbolic realm.

Forty years after its release, twenty years after Fellini’s death which it announced better than any other of his films, Roma might have emerged as his most personal and, perhaps, greatest cinematic achievement.

Jeremi Szaniawski holds a PhD in Film Studies from Yale University. The author wishes to thank Michael Cramer for his assistance in editing this piece.

[1] Inspired by Fellini, Patrick directed a remarkable, if uneven, adaptation of Georges Bataille’s ‘L’Histoire de l’oeil’ (Simona, 1972). When the film was confiscated by the Italian authorities on counts of obscenity, Patrick had to resort once again to his family connections, which led directly to the Pope’s confessor, in order to obtain the church’s benediction and a prolonged distribution in the Peninsula. Reportedly, the film, now lost, made a lot of money before falling in the hands of some distributors of ill repute.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

In Remembrance of Tony Scott (1944-2012)

The late Tony Scott, who took his life in his adopted California earlier this week, became the early twenty-first century's most unexpected object of auteurist critical reappraisal on the strength of one of contemporary Hollywood's most distinctive personal stylistic idioms, which reached its visual and moral points of extremum in Man on Fire (2004) and Domino (2005), and on a masterpiece in Déjà Vu (2006) that merits consideration as one of the last decade's absolute blockbuster-mode peaks. (For this writer, only Michael Mann's Collateral [2004] showed an organic rigor and conceptual richness to match the younger Scott brother's career highlight.) My own heightened interest in the British-born director - previously, like many from my Carter-baby cohort I suspect, Scott had been the director of the once culturally ubiquitous Top Gun (1986), as well as of a very fine submarine film from my high school years, Crimson Tide (1995) - in fact began with the great Japanese critic and academic Shigehiko Hasumi's 2006 left-field citation of Déjà Vu's immediate and highly pleasurable predecessor Domino as one of the ten best films of its respective year. One year later, I happened across Christoph Huber and Mark Peranson's outstanding, definitive appreciation of Scott's work and (the still unseen to me at this juncture) Déjà Vu, which would lead not only to my first rapt viewing of the picture, but to my own writing on the film in a piece that I consider my best published work. (It was Scott's art that dictated the piece's quality, much more than any conceptual framework or verbal construction that I brought to the essay.)

In retrospect, Déjà Vu would represent not only Scott's very best work as an audio-visual storyteller, and of course a critical turning-point for yours truly, but also the synthesis of a set of thematic concerns that were born amid his 1990s sub-corpus (and would continue to hold for his two subsequent features). Déjà Vu's small though still quite creditable follow-up The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3 (2009), renews the resurrection iconography that appears most vividly in Déjà Vu, long after the trope made its its first appearance in True Romance (1993), as the director's most decisive intervention against screenwriter Quentin Tarantino's original conceit. Unstoppable (2010), on the other hand, builds on the surveillance subject matter that Déjà Vu borrowed from one of the director's best of the previous decade, Enemy of the State (1998), as well as the 2006 film's post 9/11 engagement with mass tragedy. The Scott of Unstoppable, which for this writer remains the leading candidate for the second best of his career, like the Scott of Déjà Vu, had become one of the very few artists to legitimately concern himself with the America of the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries. He will be sorely missed.

For further reading:

Saturday, August 04, 2012

In Appreciation of Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo (1958), the "Greatest Film of All-Time"

If – as 2012 Sight & Sound poll contributor Trevor Johnston argues – “all celluloid life is present” in five-time defending “greatest film of all-time” Citizen Kane (1941), the newly minted best of them all Vertigo (1958) proves more than a worthy successor not only for its equally encyclopedic approach to moving image forms, but also for its nearly singular annexation of film history. Saturated with optical tricks and techniques that recall the nineteenth century pre-history of the cinematic art, Alfred Hitchcock's late classical masterpiece deconstructs the star-object that provided the core of public interest in the post-World War I popular mode, through an observational form that reverberates with Roberto Rossellini's mobile experiments in dead-time and fellow modernist traveler Luis Buñuel’s expositions of obsessive desire (including the latter's 1955 The Criminal Life of Archibaldo de la Cruz, which features a  ‘Carlota’ of the Spaniard's own). Vertigo in substance as in historical position stands between the classical and the modern.

As a cusp, though still fundamentally classical articulation of cinema’s nascent modernism, Vertigo joins Hitchcock’s more conspicuously self-reflexive Rear Window (1954), the director’s multi-screen, counter-factual play on James Stewart’s alternative romantic futures. Yet, it is not simply that Vertigo ‘joins’ Rear Window in a mode of narration, but that, in part, it earns its own comparative proto-modernism in its response to the earlier film. One might even say that the memory of Rear Window activates Vertigo – a masked (spiritual) sequel that witnesses Stewart’s protagonist actively engaging with the world he only passively received in the earlier masterpiece. John “Scottie” Ferguson is L. B. Jefferies having risen from his wheelchair, his cane and girdle only temporary reminders of the accident that (as with Rear Window’s filmed photographs) opens the picture. When Scottie consequently dives into San Francisco Bay to save the drowning Madeleine Elster (Kim Novak) he exchanges the voyeurism of Rear Window and Vertigo’s first act for a more active agency within Hitchcock’s meta-cinematic world. In effect he becomes involved in the framed world that Jefferies spends most of his time furtively observing.

Following Vertigo’s roof-top prologue, Scottie is introduced in ex-girlfriend Midge’s (Barbara Bel Geddes) San Francisco apartment, a space that provides its own screen-like panorama of its urban environment, with a set of tan roman blinds to match those in Jefferies’ home. Unlike the latter’s relatively spare New York space, where every object possesses thematic weight, lingerie designer Midge’s home studio abounds with images from her profession in what amounts to a comparatively crowded visual field. (Midge’s cantilevered brasserie speaks both to the bust obsession that defined the age of Marilyn and Jayne, while also telegraphing the discourse of false perfection that undergirds Vertigo’s dissection of the female screen star.) In the office of shipbuilder Galvin Elster (Tom Helmore) that immediately succeeds Midge’s bohemian flat, Hitchcock employs the same design density, with the interior’s walls teeming with portraits and paintings of Elster’s city and industry in roughly Victorian fashion. Here as in Midge’s home, Hitchcock’s mise-en-scѐne tends more toward the tableaux than to the aggressively tight framing that defines the director’s prior master-class in shot/reverse-shot staging. Indeed, Vertigo on a fundamental level is a cinema of painting, with the portrait of the Carlotta Valdes and Midge’s re-appropriation (which she will give the Duchamp treatment) both providing significant markers of the roles that Vertigo’s female players will seek to inhabit. 

Hitchcock’s set-design comes to even greater (and far more memorable) effect at Ernie’s, where the red velvet walls provide the most striking of possible contrasts to Madeleine’s rich emerald gown. It is here that Scottie’s hallucinatory fascination commences as he spots Madeleine stepping through one of the doorframes that effectively double the space’s seven-and-a-half foot mirrors. She comes into his world – stepping through what in effect is a mirror – as he will later enter hers, again after he fishes her out of the cold Pacific waters. When the two are finally introduced with Madeleine wearing Scottie’s red robe as her clothes dry before the fire, the male protagonist in effect has been brought into immediate contact with screen object of his fantasies, the perfected blonde star of the 1950s that Vertigo’s final movement confirms to be a construction. Madeleine, who expressly plays the role of Carlotta (the deceased nineteenth century beauty whose insanity led to her suicide), is later revealed to be Judy Barton, a gum-chewing shop-girl from Salina, Kansas with an unglamorous personal history and her fair share of romantic regrets. On the level of the film’s discourse the ideal of the screen is supplanted by a far less alluring alternative.

Of course, both Madeleine and Judy are also creations of Ms. Novak, whether it is the glamorous idealized star in the case of the former or the then very current method-style working class female lead that the latter will prove (and which Madeleine herself employs narratively in coming to occupy Carlotta’s McKittrick House room). Vertigo thus provides a catalogue of period-specific performance strategies.

Ultimately Judy acquiesces to Scottie’s wish to bring his dead Madeleine back to life – it should be pointed out that she was compelled to complete the trajectory demanded by her role – allowing her own specificity to be subsumed by Madeleine’s greater (impossible) perfection. By this juncture it is Judy’s psychology that has become focalized, after Scottie's mentation drove the first two thirds of the narrative (with the profoundly fictional Madeleine’s remaining mostly unknowable) that concludes with the Kafkaesque disavowal of Scottie's masculine potency at Madeleine's inquest. Judy in effect becomes the real woman behind not only the role but the star persona, made to conform on life as on screen to the whims of her romantic partner. Hitchcock’s film is aware of how the art remakes those that it (and he) uses.

This piece was written primarily by Michael J. Anderson with significant input provided by Lisa K. Broad.