review

With its meditations on the nature of humanity, the arrival of Wonder Woman couldn’t be more timely

 

Diana, Princess of Themyscira, is (in)famously the only leading woman of a comic book film since 2005’s Elektra. The invisibility of women in superhero films is endemic and so entrenched it has become the norm (try and imagine a 12 year absence of male led superhero films being entertained). In the hands of director Patty Jenkins (Monster, 2003) Wonder Woman delivers a suspenseful story dynamically told.

 

Diana Prince is given the context and history of an origin story, as an only child of the Amazon Queen nipping at the heels of her impressive and ferocious fighting sisters, her idols. Relationships are explored between mother and daughter, friends and siblings on this woman only paradise.

 

A harmonious life, it is abruptly disrupted by the interruption of Chris Pine’s WW1 pilot. Diana is compelled to leave the confines of Themyscira with him, aggrieved at his stories of war and suffering.

 

There are light touches of humour deftly played by Lucy Davies as Pine’s secretary (cue the response to her job description, “We call them slaves”) which pitch against the horrors of war and Diana’s earnest outrage. This is where Wonder Woman departs from superheroes before her, in her significant capacity for compassion and empathy. Gadot imbues this fierce warrior with a warmth that enriches both character and story.

 

In a plot which sees mortals developing chemical weapons,  and enact mass killing at the German front, it is the goddess who ends up bringing a humanity to proceedings.

 

The palette of the film evokes vintage footage and steeliness,  so that in full Wonder Woman action, Diana does not look so incongruous on the battlefield as one might think.

 

There are pointed moments of deliberate attempts at ‘girl powered’  dialogue and attitudes, which mostly succeed. However,  a throwaway line describing Diana as being distracting sits poorly – there doesn’t need to be any reinforcement of the idea that men can’t help themselves when a woman is around, even if she is this wonderful. The token slightly sleazy companion who seems included to reflect more regressive male attitudes also detracted, even though this same character delivers a bold statement on racism that was a welcome one. This unevenness in the treatment of the character may reflect the writing and story team (male only). For a film which will undoubtedly reach a young female audience, there is no need to tell them that men find women fighting each other a turn on. It would have been better to see Diana have more female characters to interact with, Peggy Carter and Diana taking on WW2 together is a tantalising idea for example. For now, this writer remains pleased that attempts to tether Diana to a male love interest were brief and her story remains one of a journey to discovering her own powers and purpose.

 

Jenkins’ assured direction of this anticipated and much needed addition to the world of film balances thrilling action with a humanity that should leave us all wondering how we could better navigate a difficult time in our history by looking towards the qualities of this wonder woman.
This film passes the Bechdel test (due to conversations between Diana and her mother). 
Emc

Winter Sleep

Winter Sleep Director Nuri Bilge Ceylan  Cast Haluk Bilginer, Melisa Sozen, Demet Akbag Turkey, 2014, 3h16m, 15.

Across the past two decades, the landscape of Turkish cinema has seen the emergence of leading names onto the international film scene. Sharing stylistic and aesthetic visual qualities, this crop of filmmakers have converged on themes of family, and isolation, as explored in the work of Zeki Demirkubuz in Fate (2001), an adaptation of Camus’ L’Étranger and particularly in Semih Kaplanoglu’s childhood trilogy, culminating in Bal (Honey) (2010).  The role of nature and the landscape observed in Bal, as a framework within which human foibles unfold, resonates when viewed alongside Ceylan’s oeuvre.

Ceylan’s most recent film prior to Winter Sleep was the equally measured Once Upon a Time in Anatolia (2010), which brought not only visual expanses and seemingly undramatic moments to the screen, but also the reward of the Grand jury Prize at Cannes in 2011. Roger Ebert observed of this film that Ceylan “…doesn’t slap us with the big dramatic moments, but allows us to live along with his characters as things occur to them.” [1] It is this undramatic yet simultaneously eventful quality which reflects the approaches of Ceylan’s self-confessed influences Yasujiro Ozu and Robert Bresson. [2] Films by these directors, in which a naturalistic exploration of life as it unfolds, are described by Andrew Klevan in Disclosure of the Everyday: undramatic achievement in narrative film, as types of film which have the capacity to “uncover profundity by structuring narrative around a range of life experiences…based in the everyday, that is in the routine or repetitive, in the parently banal or mundane, the uneventful.” [3] He goes on to clarify that such a style does not preclude “visually emphatic” images, a balance of seemingly opposed stylistic choices which converge in Winter Sleep; seen in the dramatic looming ‘steppes’, and the tempestuous weather system, unfolding alongside family discussion, routine habits, and otherwise emotive events (a hand smashed into a window, left to bleed) conveyed with stark lack of ceremony.

The pervasive panoramic vistas of …Anatolia punctuate Winter Sleep further, providing an integral minimalistic sparseness which not only permeates the look of the film, but also ties the characters inexorably to the landscape. The capture of these towering formations in their wide establishing shots can be linked to Ceylan’s interest in photography, sparked by a gift of a book on the skill which he was given as a child. [4] Building his own dark room and printing photographs, he developed his interest in the art, the results of which can be seen in his photographic series “Turkey Cinemascope” (2004) [5]. Here, the panoramic lens is turned to city streets and plains, revealing an ongoing fascination with this visual perspective.

The stillness captured in these photographs is transposed to the screen, wide shots used frequently, as a smaller detail placed centrally in the frame focuses the attention. Howling winds and the cry of a bird barely accompany the opening shots of the ancient and unmoving steppes in Winter Sleep, in amongst which the solitary figure of Aydin stands. His diminution against this overwhelming landscape establishes swiftly a collection of ideas which will be explored throughout the film, including isolation, disconnection, and the tension between that which changes and that which remains static and unmoving.

Symbolism is utilised with precision in Winter Sleep, as a smashed car window renders the passenger hidden and fragmented behind fractured cracks. Both Aydin and his wife Nihal are often caught looking out of windows, trapped inside, or filmed reflected in mirrors, both alluding to notions of perspective, barriers, and the question of transparency. Their peering through various looking glasses recurs throughout the film as it delves into the relationships between Ayid and his wife, and also his sister, Necla. Despite literal cracks and longing looks, there is energy and vitality as embodied in the wild horses on the local plains. The process of capture and ‘breaking-in’ required to tame the wild animal speaks more widely to the various battles for freedom and dominance which ensue across the film.

The contrasting stillness of the landscape as opposed to the active human lives within is conveyed in the predominantly static camera style, as it steadily frames the unfolding ructions. The disparity of scenes being given a chance to breathe while the characters may be suffocating further heightens the tension between what may have been dreamed or hoped for, and what is. One exchange between Ayid and his sister Necla, taking place as he writes his weekly column for the local newspaper, Necla resting on the sofa, explores the contention in their relationship in a scene lasting eighteen minutes. Not only does the frankness of the discussion capture the type of no-holds-barred honesty possible in familial relationships, it also demonstrates the impact embodied when there is seemingly no ‘action’ taking place.

Ceylan’s references to Chekhovian influences throughout the years potentially plays not only into the film as a whole, but also the theatricality Aydin embodies (himself once an aspiring thespian, not ‘actor’, as he corrects a guest on the appropriate term). The title of the film itself alludes to a frozen permanence, a Shakespearean “sleep of death” even. While mists turn to rain, and rain to snow, the relationships under scrutiny, likes branches stripped bare, become further exposed. As the characters face the complexities of each other and themselves, amidst the harsh winter, the explorations undertaken across Winter Sleep reveal a richness of character, if a cyclical inevitability in their circumstances.

Originally published on glasowfilm.org

Ebert, Roger (07/03/12) http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/once-upon-a-time-in-anatolia-2012

Bradshaw, Peter (13/11/14), http://www.theguardian.com/film/2014/nov/13/nuri-bilge-ceylan-winter-sleep

Klevan, Andrew (2000) Disclosure of the Everyday: undramatic achievement in narrative film, Trowbridge, Wiltshire: Flicks Books. p.12

Andrew, Geoff (06/02/2009) http://www.theguardian.com/film/2009/feb/06/nuri-bilge-ceylan-interview-transcript

Ceylan, Nuri Bilge (2014) http://www.nuribilgeceylan.com/photography/turkeycinemascope1.php?sid=1

White God

White God
Director Kornél Mundruczó Cast Zsófia Psotta, Sándor Zsótér, Body and Luke Hungary/Germany/Sweden, 2014, 1h57m, 15.

Writer and director Kornél Mundruczó has observed an imbalance of power and a political shift in his home nation of Hungary, and seized upon it to frame the subject of his latest feature, White God.  Ostensibly a story of a pet dog, Hagen, cut loose from his owner Lili (Zsófia Psotta) and embarking on a journey back to her, the socio-political allegory within bares its teeth in equal measure. Winning the Un Certain Regard prize at Cannes in 2014, White God captures a pervasive mood of discontent.

It is ten years since his previous film to feature in the same category at Cannes screened (Johanna, 2005). In the meantime, diverse material has inspired him, including a foray into retelling Shelley’s Frankenstein. Here, however, a more pressing motivation caught him. While visiting an animal shelter, Mundruczó felt moved by the opposition at work, as he occupied the free side of the fence, while the dogs were captured on the other side. His part in ‘the system’ became starkly apparent. He describes this experience further, saying “I’m also the white god that makes the decisions to help them, and I felt really ashamed. And I decided to create a movie out of it.”1

The relationship between Lili and Hagen is one of devotion, trust and heart. Lili is left with her abattoir employed Dad, while her Mum goes to work overseas. Hagen is not welcome in his new home, and finds himself banished to the bathroom for the night. Lili disobeys her father to sleep in the bath to comfort her beloved pet, serenading him with a novel lullaby as she plays the trumpet. Their relationship, separation and his consequent attempt to return evokes fellow waggy tales such as Lassie and Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey.

The theorist Claude Lévi-Strauss suggested that “animals are good to think”; bonne a penser.  2 In this context the statement can be taken to mean that they are good to think through. Long a symbol for groups of people, animals have the capacity to reflect not just our similarities, but also our differences. Within their own structures and hierarchies they provide a vehicle through which to examine our own behaviours. It is in this way that Hagen and his pack come to represent the underrepresented. Cross-breed Hagen (portrayed by Labrador/Shepherd/Shar Pei mixes Body and Luke) is the subject of a mixed breed (or ‘mutt’) tax. Such a tax was proposed in Hungary in reality, whereby pure bred Hungarian dogs would invite no fee, and thereafter, depending on the mix, varying charges would apply. Allusions to the issues of race, immigration, and scape-goats assigned by arbitrary criteria, are pertinent.

While investigating human social structures and the balance of power, Mundruczó also raises questions of the human treatment of animals. “The consequence of most human-animal encounters is the expression of harm via the pathways of power,” Malamud asserts.3 Such a statement is visually supported by opening scenes set in the abattoir, coolly documenting the processing of carcasses that will later be consumed. He continues, “If we try to think about these animals outside the proscribed, subservient two-dimensional role to which they are

almost always relegated in our culture, we may arrive at some interesting and insightful realisation about ourselves and about how much we do not know about animals.”4 The director attempts to offer such an additional dimension by investing the dogs with agency. He does this by sharing the animal’s perspective, increasingly returning the camera to a Hagen level point of view and directly placing the viewer in his position. Such orientation is utilised at the highest moments of tension – when he is first cut loose from his owner, captured by a stranger, or released into a dog fighting ring – when the animal is most vulnerable. Identification is therefore conferred when it is best employed.

Running on parallel tracks, Lili and Hagen’s narratives go off the rails into their respective difficulties. While Lili navigates adolescence without her faithful companion, Hagen is submitted to a harmful dog-fight training regime. Subject to such brutalisation, feral behaviour begins to brew. The sharp impacts of his mistreatment at the hands of humans, and his new reliance on wild instincts to survive, brings to mind the journeys charted in Jack London’s The Call of the Wild, and White Fang. Even Black Beauty offers reference points, such are the number of hands through which the animal has passed. It is at this turning point that the film realigns itself, blurring genre boundaries. The naturalistic realism of the early scenes gives way to an altogether darker, horror infused tone. As Hagen’s wild instincts are reawakened, the film appears to descend into a dystopian nightmare. The dogs have more than one bone to pick with their oppressors.

Despite their divergent paths, one element of the filmmaking unites both Hagen and Lili in their now separate worlds. Classical music bridges their distance, from Lili continuing with her orchestra practice, to a Tom and Jerry concerto skit on the television which Hagen eyes with interest. In this way, despite the shift in tone and look to the film, a link between the two is maintained. While there are multiple metaphors at play, the music appears to represent a common language, or common humanity. Such a symbol goes on to perform a crucial role in the film, and imparts a greater message about focusing on what we share, rather than what we don’t. A timely modern parable, drawing on the best aspects of its predecessors, White God imploringly asks for understanding, acceptance and unity across differences.

Originally published on glasowfilm.org  Feb 2105

[1]http://www.slate.com/blogs/browbeat/2015/01/30/white_god_director_korn_l_mundrucz_on_the_movie_s_animal_rights_message.html

[2] Claude Lévi-Strauss, Le Totemisme Aujourd’hui (1962)

[3] Randy Malamud, An Introduction to Animals and Visual Culture p. 71 (2012)

[4] Randy Malamud, An Introduction to Animals and Visual Culture,  p. 24 (2012)