The French Connection (1971)

Directed by William Friedkin
Screenplay by Ernest Tidyman
Based on the novel by Robin Moore

Rating: 7.00/10.00 or ***

The French Connection is known primarily for two things: the jumpstart to Gene Hackman's career and the car-train chase. There is no doubt that each of these is appropriate to remember after watching the film, but we also see that the movie brings about a new kind of crime thriller. In many ways, The French Connection was innovative. Now, the cops can be just as dirty as the villains.

The plot of the film is secondary. It involves a high-stakes heroin smuggling operation involving French and American criminals, with center of American operations in overcast New York City. Jimmy Doyle (Hackman) and Buddy Russo (Roy Scheider) are two detectives who stumble into the operation during surveillance and petty crimes busts. Doyle needs a high-profile bust; his career is on the rocks. Russo is more by the books. He trusts his partner and will work with him on whatever he wants -- but we sense he knows Doyle is consumed by his job rather than driven by it.

Friedkin and Hackman give Doyle a nearly insane personality. He doesn't want to catch the criminals for the well-being of the city. He simply wants to catch the criminals, no matter the cost. During the famous car-train chase sequence, we see numerous pedestrians and drivers in peril based on Doyle's ferocious chase of a train with a clear track and no pedestrians in sight. In fact, Doyle does not care if pedestrians are in harm's way.

The chase sequence is clever because the train is at a clear advantage and because it emphasizes Doyle's obsession with his job. Sure, we want the criminals to be caught, but do we want Doyle to win? This makes the whole series of shots unnerving. It's a chase without a winner, and innocent victims are the collateral damage.

Hackman's performance is simply exceptional. He gives Doyle such a cold, fierce edge. Each scene feels like the cut of a knife. He is hard-boiled, racist, and brutal. His brute force tactics in the line of duty clearly gives him a winning edge, but at an enormous cost. His reputation is well-known and not respected by his peers, or the criminals he chases.

Meanwhile, Scheider wisely stays more subtle. He gives Hackman the limelight. Any other method of acting would have been a distraction, and a costly one. Scheider's more benevolent, matter-of-factness to his portrayal makes his Russo seem like a loyal but cautious sidekick. There is one scene where two cops discuss Doyle and how his "good hunches" cost the life of a good cop. Russo cuts in, but we sense not because he wants to, but instead because he has to. Russo is fiercely loyal in his words, but his facial expression is not nearly so obvious.

The French Connection won numerous Oscars. It won Best Picture and Director awards, Hackman rightfully won a Best Actor Oscar, and Best Screenplay and Editing Oscars. The screenplay is not talked about as much, which is a shame since the movie is superbly written. The power in the editing is obvious, especially with the action sequences. However, I am hesitant to call this a great film.

The French Connection is fast-paced, and appropriately so. It is about the endless chase and Doyle. But this leaves all of the other players in their wake. Sometimes, this makes following the story difficult. It took me two viewings to establish most of the players' roles in the crime spree, and by then, I cared very little. Although the support in the movie is first-rate, it is also treated secondarily. Appropriate, but costly to the impact of "big moments" of the chase. The chase is scary but impersonal, dangerous but not thrilling. A better movie would have controlled the pacing to make these impacts more comprehensible.

There are moments of brilliance, however. One of them is the ending, which is wonderfully ambiguous. A clear winner is established, but the ending is not happy. Instead, it is as brutally honest as its development. We see a cop so obsessed with his investigations that he is now in an endless chase through the hell of New York's infinite streets, under the gloomy skies and in the drab exteriors of a cold world. Doyle is in a personal hell that he cannot chase his way out of. Consequently, neither can the viewer.

Saraband (2003)

Written and Directed by Ingmar Bergman

Rating: 7.75/10.00 or *** 1/2

This is Ingmar Bergman's coda. To call Saraband his swan song is not appropriate. There is nothing peaceful about this film. There is a sadness, but it is tinged with bitterness and guilt. Bergman's uncompromising sequel to Scenes from a Marriage shows a couple, nearly 30 years after they've last seen each other, grasping to their last moments in life. She is alone, and he cannot be. She comes for solace; he gives his brutal, unenviable life.

Saraband stars Liv Ullmann as Marianne and Erland Josephson as Johan. We last see them clinging to love in a life that will not have it. Now, we see the consequences of their separation. Marianne's daughters are gone, one mentally and the other physically. Johan's son is still there, clinging to his father for money but vengeful to his father for his lack of love. Johan's son is named Henrik (Borje Ahlstedt). He is financially incapable of leaving his father but emotionally nearing the breaking point of their hate-hate relationship. Henrik has a daughter named Karin (Julia Dufvenius). Johan likes her; Henrik adores her. She is a cellist, and a pretty good one. She has had prestigious offers, and one can sense she wants to leave as fast as she can. Who wouldn't?

Henrik's relationship with her borders on the incestuous. They sleep in the same bed. He traps her into his life. Johan is surely aware of this, which only adds to the resentment he has for him. One wonders how this relationship existed when Henrik's wife Anna was alive. Clearly, things were not as bad when she was alive. Johan loved her, and Karin was not trapped under Henrik's obsessive need for her to stay. We can sense the feelings were under the surface -- just not nearly as unraveled as they are now.

Bergman presents this family hell in a series of one-on-one clips. Each scene features an extended conversation between the two parties. Eventually, each person will talk to the other. All sides of this bitter entanglement are presented with bluntness and clarity. There is no one who is happy, and no one is willing to change the situation.

Bergman's point, I think, is that humans prefer permanence rather than happiness. The situation would be so much better if Karin and Henrik moved away, from Johan and each other. Clearly, Henrik needs Karin because of Johan's bitterness and the loss of Anna. Johan needs Henrik to keep his status as father figure, to keep his power intact. Karin seems afraid to make the next step, to grow up. But do they really need these things? Or have they convinced themselves they can live no other way?

Marianne listens to all of this, partly in sadness and partly in empathy. All she has are pictures sprawled on a table. Memories of her daughters so long ago. She is alone and sad. Does she have to be? Why does she not move to Australia with her healthy daughter? Or see her sick daughter, no matter how painful? The pain of loneliness only promotes more loneliness.

The acting is superb. Ullman and Josephson, longtime Bergman collaborators, are terrific in their subtlety. Ahlstedt has a scene with Ullman that is unnervingly powerful. See how Ullman reacts to his behavior, so quietly and yet so powerfully. And Dufvenius holds her own against the elders, making her scenes profound. Her scene with Ullmann feels like a revelation -- finally, Karin has somebody to unload the years of resentment, an uneasy and unwanted childhood now unleashed on the world.

Bergman's films are not easy to watch. Bergman has no hope in this film, only a hateful melancholy. There is no way out of this nightmare. The players refuse to change. They are comforted in their bitterness, rather than enlightened by their dreams, however unattainable. The victim is Karin, or maybe Henrik, or maybe Johan, or maybe Marianne. Or maybe all of them, or none of them. They are human, and they have erred. And none of them are divine.

Ed. Note: Saraband is stand-alone film. It is not necessary to see Scenes from a Marriage before watching this film, though it is recommended for higher impact.

Annie Hall (1977)

Directed by Woody Allen
Written by Woody Allen and Marshall Brickman

Rating: 8.00/10.00 or *** 1/2

"Boy, the food at this place is really terrible."
"Yeah, I know, and in such small proportions."

Woody Allen introduces us to his film with this joke. And we are introduced to Woody Allen's golden age of directing, which would last until 1990. His films before Annie Hall were funny, but minor. His films after 1990 were not funny and forgettable. Allen's touch is best when his tone matches his material, and Annie Hall is a stirring example of such a wonderful combination.

The joke is appropriate because it describes Alvy Singer (Allen) to a tee. One of the most famous lines from the film is one borrowed from Groucho Marx: "I would never want to belong to any club that would have someone like me for a member." Perhaps this explains why Singer's longest-lasting, and most enduring, love has ended. Because Annie (Diane Keaton) accepted him into her club.

Alvy Singer has not had many women in his life, but he's had enough to know what he wants and what he does not. He's neurotic, nervous, clumsy. But he's also charming to his ladies in a quirky sort of way. He's approachable because he's got a gift for the witty observation (Singer is a stand-up comedian), he's well-read, and he's a great storyteller. Annie likes these traits, perhaps because she's got many of them. She's wrapped up in life, tangent in her needs and goals, and uncertain if what she is doing is what she wants to be doing.

What makes Alvy and Annie click is their remarkably mutual appreciation for their single language. No one speaks, thinks, or observes like Annie and Alvy. Roger Ebert's review of the film gives a classic example of this:

Alvy: Entomology is a rapidly growing field.
Annie: You don't want me to live with you.

Every conversation they have seems like a challenge for their superior intelligence. Or a cat-and-mouse game. Consider another example:

Alvy: I don't want to put a wad of white powder in my nose. There's the nasal membrane...
Annie: You never want to try anything new, Alvy.
Alvy: How can you say that? Whose idea was it? I said that you, I and that girl from your acting class should sleep together in a threesome.
Annie: Well, that's sick.
Alvy: Yeah, I know it's sick, but it's new. You didn't say it couldn't be sick.

Allen's movie works because his observations supplement the story, but also explain it. We see an event in Alvy's life, we get Alvy's interpretation of the event (or perhaps a story deriving from it), then we go to the next scene -- which often shows a consequence of Alvy's behavior. When Alvy is annoyed by a man standing in line talking pretentiously about film directors, he has a tangent that includes a cameo from one of them. Back in reality, we can sense Annie's frustration. She agrees with him, but is also annoyed that he cannot get over it.

Alvy also describes to us his other relationships, including the hard-core liberal (Carol Kane) and the Rolling Stone contributor (Shelley Duvall). These stories/revelations are diversions. Annie is always kept at the center. But these diversions are important because they show how unwilling Alvy is to ignore the ignorable (or minor) characteristics/flaws in another. Who cares if Pam (Duvall) is Rosicrucian? Or if Allison's thoughts on JFK's assassination are off-kilter? Well, Alvy does.

Woody Allen is excellent in the film. Of course, I wonder how much acting is really involved. Allen in the 1970s and 1980s had a semi-permanent character, like Chaplin. He's far more outgoing (like Buster Keaton) but almost desires being outside of everything (like The Tramp). Clearly, he is influenced by Chaplin and Keaton, especially with his comical vignettes amidst a baseline plot. Diane Keaton nails her role, solidifying her as a character actress. Supporting roles are all stellar, especially from Duvall and Tony Roberts (as Alvy's friend Rob).

But, I keep coming back to that quote from Groucho Marx. Alvy won't stay with a woman because he would never want to join a club that would have him as a member. So, when we see the relationship of Annie and Alvy grow, we sense a growing doom. We know the downfall is coming, and Alvy can sense it, too. But he senses it because he knows it's of his own doing. His neuroticism and his paradoxical needs in a relationship cannot withstand permanency in any of the women of his life.

Annie Hall is clever, sometimes hysterically funny. It is full of quips and one-liners, but strangely, there is a sadness behind all of it. In a sense, we feel Alvy is doomed to be funny. His obsessive observations blind him to the things that really matter, or don't matter at all. He observes the irrelevant without looking at anything even remotely important. Alvy Singer is a man who sees the grass in the forest.

Solaris (2002)

Written and Directed by Steven Soderbergh
Based on the novel by Stanislaw Lem

Rating: 6.75/10.00 or ***

He enters a space station without any idea what's going on inside it. He receives a cryptic message from a friend of his, urgently pleaing for his help. He knows what's going on is bad, but he cannot fathom what he is about to experience. One member of the crew makes no sense when he describes the scenario; the other won't tell him. "Until it starts happening to you, there's really no point in discussing it." The question is, once it does start happening to him, are we urged to think about it?

Director Steven Soderbergh is a unique one. He goes for the amazingly mainstream (Ocean's Eleven), the feel-good story (Erin Brockovich), the pretentiously modern independent yarn (Full Frontal), the societal exploitation (Traffic), and the comedy-noir-caper (Out of Sight). Of these, Out of Sight is best, but Soderbergh tends to get preachy when the material is substantive. And then he just lets alleged substance get in the way of conveying a point (Full Frontal). But, at least his resume is filled with variety.

This remake of the 1972 film is a sci-fi thinkfest. It is not an action film. In fact, there is very little action whatsoever. Solaris is a film of slow, methodical revelation. Chris Kelvin (George Clooney) is alone. He's a psychiatrist encouraged to go to a space station to investigate what is happening to a crew unwilling to disclose it to anyone else. The scenes leading up to this message are telling. He works, and then he sits in his apartment. Slices some food, walks around with a pensive stare. Soderbergh gives the film a rusty look here, enhancing the bleakness of Kelvin's world.

When Kelvin reaches the station, Soderbergh shows a long sequence of a space ship joining the space station. It is strongly reminiscent of 2001: A Space Odyssey, which serves as a nice homage and as a setting of tone. It is here that we understand this film is not science fiction; it is philosophical. The music here is glorious and remains so throughout the film. It is nearly unmelodic, melancholy, and otherworldly. Cliff Martinez performs the score, but it reminded me of Philip Glass (only good).

The other setting of tone here is with the pacing. Everything is slow to transpire, almost excruciatingly so. Conversations are andante and staccato. See how Kelvin first meets Snow (Jeremy Davies).

Snow: How much sleep do you need, Kelvin?
(long pause)
Kelvin: How much sleep?
Snow: Yeah. (pause) Um, how long do you think you can go without sleep?

Conversations are short but amplified. Often, conversations take a while for their substance to come to the surface. Kelvin meets Gordon (the wonderful Viola Davis):

Kelvin: Why haven't you come home? What happened here? What did you find?
Gordon: Who are you representing exactly?

When Kelvin soon discovers the disturbing goings-on in the space ship, Soderbergh intelligently has the characters discuss the matter without openly stating it.

Kelvin: How are you doing?
Gordon: Depression along with bouts of hypomania and primary insomnia, suggestions of agoraphobia, obsessive-compulsive disorder, shock, fatigue, denial.
Kelvin: None of which is unusual given the circumstances.

***For those who want to experience the film unspoiled...stop reading here.

Kelvin eventually does fall asleep. We see a dream? Flashback? Something. There's a woman he meets. Her name is Rheya (Natascha McElhone). He sees her on public transit. He talks to her at a party. They hit it off. They have sex. But, she's on the space station, too. They have sex there, too. Soderbergh interestingly has a number of shots looking at various portions of a sleeping Kelvin. He's dreaming both of this. But, then, he wakes up...and she's there.

There's a problem with this, see, because she wasn't a member of the crew, and she didn't come with Kelvin to the space station. As it turns out, she's dead. So why is she here?

This is what is happening to the members of the crew, which appears to have led to one member's death and everyone's leap toward insanity. It is believed that the planet of Solaris is involved. Alien intelligence creating a physical entity for each member of the crew? Why? How are they creating this entity?

We sense they are creating this entity based on the memories/dreams of the members of the crew. The crew members think so. But these physical entities are, well, physical. So who are they? Is Rheya actually Rheya, or Kelvin's image of Rheya, or Kelvin projected by Rheya? These indeed are the questions of the film, and they are presented in an engaging manner.

But the film suffers at least three major problems. First, the film's pacing is simply too slow. Although it sets tone appropriately, some sequences are excruciatingly slow to transpire. This is not easy to take when the film does not, once, change the pacing. After a while, it feels like enduring an hour-long lecture from a monotone speaker on a not-easily-accessible topic. Thus, this film is not for the impatient, antsy, or easily bored audience. There are moments when I get slightly impatient with the style of presentation.

Second, Clooney gives an appropriately "neutral" performance, but I feel it is too much so. With so many profound moments going on, I felt a bit more flair was appropriate in some spots. McElhone is much more convincing in this regard. She soon realizes what "she" is or is not, and her reaction is a combination of confusion and anger. Emotion, however, is lacking overall in the film, which makes the impacts of the scenes muffled.

Third, the revelations in the film are not completely developed, or are not given enough attention. The circumstances surrounding Rheya's death are apparent but lack weight because we are given so little material to go on. We sense the tragedy in her death and the complete derailment of Kelvin, but we may not totally comprehend it. This could have been done with more use of time filling in the details than leaving so much space in the film for the "slow pacing". This is an editing problem, and a source of consternation when I actually want to care for these characters.

There are moments of genius in the film, however. There is one sequence where Kelvin dreams/thinks of Rheya, and we are given numerous images of recognizable locations with Rheya in the foreground. It is eerie how Soderbergh and McElhone make Rheya seem completely unreal (fake) in this series of images. Even her smile, her image appear false. This is easily the most effective sequence in the film. The ending is appropriately ambiguous, leaving interpretation to the viewer. What has Kelvin become? What is Rheya now? Where are they? The real impact of the movie occurs after the film is over.

After multiple viewings, I've slowly grown to at least admire the film. I'm not sure if I like Soderbergh's entry into the "what is self" philosophy, but at least it asks the question in an intelligent matter. I wonder, though, if the impact of the film would have been more profound, and the material more provocative, if the characters were more accessible, the pacing more variable, and the action more complete. Solaris makes you think, but maybe at the expense of remembering the film itself.

There Will Be Blood (2007)

Written and Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson
Based on the novel Oil! by Upton Sinclair

Rating: 6.00/10.00 or ** 1/2

There Will Be Blood is, in a word, overrated. I think Paul Thomas Anderson films are so graciously received by critics because it is easy to sense Anderson's excitement making/directing a film. His movies are ambitious, bigger-than-life, artistic, visionary. All the qualities of great movies. Except every time I've seen an Anderson film (besides Punch Drunk Love, his most underrated), I leave the theater with a feeling of hollow disappointment.

Daniel Day-Lewis (who is masterful, as always) plays Daniel Plainview, a working man who searches for gold, finds liquid gold, and becomes a towering businessman in the oil biz. He competes so well because he makes every situation one to his advantage. Plainview talks the talk, sounding sincere in his confidence but sinister in his swagger. When a boy named Paul (Paul Dano, of Little Miss Sunshine fame) finds Plainview and notifies him of a wealth of oil on his family's property, Plainview and son go to the family (named, humorously, Sunday) and whisk the land away from them. Other son Eli (also played by Paul Dano) finds him a threat, and wants to use Plainview's interest in the property to fund his church. It is clear that Plainview is godless, but we soon realize Anderson is comparing the two individuals in a similar vein.

In essence, this becomes a war of personalities and beliefs between Daniel and Eli. Daniel's overwhelming wealth and power become his downfall. He falls into madness after several life-changing incidents. His son loses his hearing due to an explosion, his unknown long-lost brother finds him, he loses dignity (but not money) in Eli's church, his closest ally betrays him, etc.

But Eli also falls into madness. He is wildly popular with his church, but his hatred for Plainview consumes him. After several incidents in which Plainview ignores his wishes or embarrasses him, Eli's sense of vengeance overtakes him. The ending features the last clash between the two, but by this point, only Eli remains interesting. Anderson writes off Daniel as a stereotypical larger-than-life, completely pure villain. Day-Lewis relishes the role, but by this point, Anderson makes the character predictable and boring.

The ending left me sour. The ending is pure madness, which is the only way the ending could be, but this is not a credit to Anderson. Instead, it is a criticism, and a big one. The film could have ended better if it was developed better. Instead, we are left with the rubble of insanity. An artistic, potentially pretentious, portrait of a man whose wealth and power were his undoing. This story has been told before, and far better. Consider The Godfather II, Raging Bull, and Lawrence of Arabia.

Anderson has much symbolism and substance to his film, including the hypocrisy of religious zealots, the paradoxical goals of business, the insanity of isolation, the greed of those in need, etc. Many of these are well-presented. I thought the character of Eli Sunday was particularly convincing in this regard, and Dano is superb in his portrayal of a young man who believes what he preaches but thinks what he despises.

However, other great qualities of the film detracted from other potential ones. The great performance by Day-Lewis completely overshadows any supporting characters besides Dano. No one comes close to his greatness, making the rest of the characters entirely forgettable. Despite earnest acting performances and profound incidents that transpire in the film, no character approaches likability, stifling any potential emotional impact.

Anderson is a visionary filmmaker. I will always anticipate his next feature, because there are no films like his. But his films remain deeply flawed. I think a part of this is that Anderson becomes obsessed with his works to the point where he ignores needed characteristics of films like accessibility, empathetic/sympathetic characters, and substance. A friend recently said that he disliked Magnolia because the coincidences/linkages between the characters were minor and/or unimportant. This is a great criticism. It was interesting how the characters were interwoven so purposefully, but there was little behind the interconnections.

It seems as if Anderson cares so much that they ARE interwoven that he forgot about why that was important. Some argue that the last hour of the film answers these questions, but I disagree. I still feel that the point was that they were interconnected; Anderson did not convince me why their connections were important or relevant.

In There Will Be Blood, we see the rise and fall of a man who made an environment conducive to his downfall. But, in the end, we get a larger-than-life artistic portrait of literary symbolism -- not a man broken by madness.