23 items found for your search. If no results were found please broaden your search.
(11/14/19 11:00am)
Tackling the tumultuous life of controversial cinematic pioneer Luis Buñuel, the animated film “Buñuel in the Labyrinth of the Turtles” brought a pensive side to the Hirschfield Film Series on Saturday, Nov. 9.
Director Salvador Simó Busom crafts a narrative around Buñuel filming his documentary, “Las Hurdes: Land without Bread.” In the aftermath of his fall from grace with L’Age d’Or ushering in considerable scandal, Buñuel is left with a slough of insecurities interspersed with doubts about his split from former colleague, surrealist artist Salvador Dalí. The opportunity for filming comes as a surprise when Ramón Acín, fellow artist and friend, wins a lottery and decides to invest in Buñuel’s dramatized documentary expounding on the poverty and barren state of Las Hurdes, a remote town located up in the mountains of Spain.
Busom renders the physical journey and creative process in hues of yellow and purple. Riddled with isolated guitar, piano and accordion chords to bring dimension to the film, Buñuel in the Labyrinth of the Turtles is eerily atmospheric. In its essence, it strangely captures the surrealist world as we see an exaggerated take on the frustrations Buñuel undergoes. The gorgeous color palette highlights every warm sunset and melancholic rainstorm as the crew trek through the shell-studded cliffside and explore the depths of destitution.
The film’s stunning palette and simple, flattened animation capture the abstraction and surrealism behind Buñuel’s process, but the emphasis proves to be a double-edged sword. On one hand, it fully reflects the deliberation behind capturing Buñuel’s underlying vulnerability through dreams, particularly in the scenes that dive into his psyche. Busom doesn’t shy away from incorporating provocative scenes displaying murder or vulnerability and, in that, builds towards a complex sketch of Buñuel. The film opens up with a flashback as a young Buñuel fears disappointing his father and tiptoes around him, granting audiences a tender rendering of his childhood isolation.
With the emphasis on capturing Buñuel’s surreal blend of thoughts and emotions interspersed with each other, the film grows rather difficult to understand and leaves room for questions. To this effect, watching Buñuel may prove to be rather frustrating in its purposeful ambiguity. Especially when portraying an artist of his nature, Luis Buñuel isn’t the easiest, most predictable subject. The push for authenticity is refreshing, however — and, in that, linear storytelling is compromised for beauty and depth. Buñuel is a film that requires you to care about the artist: not just what he creates, but why he does it all.
To his credit, Busom ultimately lightens the heavy introspection by dispersing humor throughout the film. Additionally, the film’s show-stopping cinematography lightens its weighty subject matter. Viewers are almost tempted to forget about undercurrents of political and emotional grief as they take in the beauty of every frame. The film deftly incorporates elements of the documentary as well, seamlessly blending in snapshots of the past and present to draw viewers directly in.
Dramatization through Luis’ eyes shows through almost inceptively — take animal murder, for example. In the transition, humor first comes through as characters poke at one another, refusing to murder a rooster on a string. The vendor unintentionally jests as well — “Which one?” he asks, in response to being offered payment to kill “it,” directing his query to the people rather than the animal. Right as the audience almost forgets the presence of death in the lighthearted jest, however, the film fuses into black and white, plunging us dramatically in a transition to violently emphasized slaughter.
It is not easy to capture the complexities underlying severed relationships between oneself and others. Frankly, an hour and a half is far too short to do so, especially when dealing with subject matter of unresolved trauma and self-doubt. There will indubitably be questions unanswered, emotional volatility felt and an overarching cloud of frustration left behind as viewers, previously immersed in Buñuel’s world just a minute ago, are left to comprehend. Nevertheless, the exposition of emotion and suffering is a commendable effort and the film is thoughtful in its unapologetic curiosity.
(11/07/19 11:00am)
“Even though it’s idealized, it felt pretty real.”— Donovan Compton ’23
In the best of ways, this film brings us back into a simultaneously dreamy, yet dreary world of reimagining sexuality in our society. Director Céline Sciamma orchestrates a gorgeous French historical drama in “Portrait of a Lady on Fire.” Brought to the college by the Hirschfield Film Series on Nov. 2, “Portrait” reinterprets the Greek myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, tugging at your heartstrings in a mixture of wry humor, beautiful cinematography and tender shifts in understanding love. In the best of ways, leads Marianne (Noémie Merland) and Héloïse (Adèle Haenel) dance around each other in a passionate performance.
“Portrait” takes place within the 18th century through the memories of Marianne, an artist both teaching and posing for her class, advising students as they sketch her. Emotions begin to run high as a student brings out a portrait of a woman by the sea, garbed in a burning blue gown, painted by Marianne herself. The eponymous painting “Portrait of a Lady on Fire” transports Marianne back to years prior, starting with her journey to the memory.
Here, the story begins to unfold on a tumultuous boat trip to a remote island, where she is commissioned to paint a wedding portrait for a notoriously uncooperative subject, Héloïse. Vehemently opposed to being married off, Héloïse thus refuses to sit for a portrait and is introduced to us in sombre rigidity, eyes cloudy and cold. Thus, as Marianne masquerades as her companion on the island, hoping to familiarize herself with her features so as to paint in secret, viewers are guided through the fascinating push and pull of forces that join and sever the duo. Albeit a definite exaggeration of the autonomy of femininity, the stark contrast of this narrative from portrayals of women in other period films is refreshing.
Merland and Haenel encompass the subtle beauty of their relationship in the little details that shift with their bond. Growing past the stiffness, we are introduced to Héloïse the blues of her eyes grow warm with mirth, dark with passion and unreadably pensive as the film progresses. Likewise, Merland captures the role of the brooding, impassioned artist as she renders Marianne with a full honesty that engulfs her in the performance. As the memory unfolds, so does the depth of the story — beyond the leading women, “Portrait” examines forms of female empowerment.
Through tongue-in-cheek humor at the desperation to be unburdened with fulfilling traditional familial roles, independence is a driving force as the film chronicles the trials of Sophie, a maid, trying for an abortion with the aid of Marianne and Héloïse by her side. It’s almost wacky — between watching the trio try remedies such as pushing Sophie to sprint to watching a group of women chant as Marianne and Héloïse battle feelings across a hearth, the multidimensionality of empowerment is highlighted in their agency. You are greeted with a new sense of love; companionship, art and community are highlighted as Sciamma strays from the conventions of recapturing individuality.
Visually, the film stuns as characters traverse a background of blues evolving through coldness and warmth in conjunction to the shifts between Héloïse and her mother. Set on the cliffside, the manor adopts a pensive aura with walls of blue, slivers of mahogany sconces cleverly designed to hint at warmth. Candlelight flickers at every corner, adding to the ambiance and solitude that amplifies every emotion in their rawness. “Portrait” hits its stride with its aesthetics as viewers are easily immersed in a vignette of their universe. By displaying women of the time with a certain freedom that would never have been realized elsewhere, a new perspective is ultimately fostered in the audience as Sciamma revitalizes possibilities to define oneself within an era that leaves no room elsewhere to breathe.
(10/31/19 10:00am)
The movie “Clemency” opens without mercy. An execution scene lays bare the somber, cold world of a prison.
Directed by Chinonye Chukwu, “Clemency,” the Hirschfield Film screened on Saturday, Oct. 26, follows Bernadine Williams (Alfre Woodard), a prison warden caught between worlds as two executions invade her personal life, revealing the unstable foundations on which she has built her stoic façade.
As the film moves inside, viewers see a contemplative side of Bernadine as she watches the empty straitjacket in thought but makes nothing more of it when she later observes the man strapped in. Standing closely by the seat, she gazes on as he is violently subdued. The man convulses, thrashing in pain as she shows little emotion, cloaked in shades of blue under stark lighting. Here, within the detachment between the warden and the executed, we see the true countenance she tries to bear.
What makes “Clemency” particularly insightful is Chukwu’s framing of narrative duality. This duality is encompassed by both Bernadine and Anthony Woods (Aldis Hodge), a central character on death row for an armed robbery gone wrong. From the get-go, we’re supposed to side with Anthony. Lawyer Lumetta (Richard Schiff) is sympathetic but believes he’s fighting for a lost cause, while Anthony is still hopeful, believing he may have a fighting chance with Lumetta by his side. But Bernadine remains immovable, almost apathetic, even when she persists against Lumetta’s pleas, signifying that her stance is concrete on not granting clemency to Anthony.
Things turn sour when Bernadine goes home to her husband, Jonathan (Wendell Pierce). She watches the news, looking at Anthony’s case in the comfort and softness of her own home. Curled up on the couch, Woodard embodies a different side to Bernadine: a troubled insomniac, a hyperventilating wife bedridden with nightmares of work. Recurrent dreams mirroring her underlying empathy for Anthony touch the hearts of the audience, and solidify the case for clemency despite of Bernadine’s loyalty to stoicism. The film hits its stride here when Bernadine battles with trouble from all sides: from her work, in the bar and on her anniversary. Despite her internalized conflict, Jonathan says he’s had enough of this “shell of a wife!”
But what about Anthony Woods? All this time, we see him meandering the confined walls of the prison, hands cuffed as he is boxed inside. Aldis Hodge crafts a beautiful performance, eyes wild and contemplative as he gazes at the drawings of birds on his cell wall, clustered in papers of yellow and soft white. Vulnerable and afraid, Woods descends into desperation, doing anything to release his anguish within his suffocated, lonesome state. We grapple with the ultimate question of whether clemency will be granted throughout the duration of the film, as varying sides to the debate are revealed, and protesters, family and overall visages of hope crowd the scene.
In engaging with intimate moments of central characters dealing with their own thoughts, Chukwu also collaborates with cinematographer Eric Branco particularly well. Warm yellows, harsh blues and stark whites are interspersed to create visions of conflict behind the minds of viewers and characters alike. This stylistic choice evokes multiple sides of characters’ sympathies and creates a languid stream of contemplation. Looking at the film from a technical standpoint, “Clemency” is well-constructed and feels real — frankly, all too real. Chukwu seizes every chance to highlight the emotional rollercoasters characters ride. It could take as little as the noise of an electrocardiograph to the verbose interactions of family members to draw out your frustrations.
Although the film progresses slowly, “Clemency” pulls us in with its reflection. It might not be a film you can view casually, but there’s value in asking ourselves whether it’s possible to seal off internal conflicts of ethics and morality. Ultimately, Chukwu brings dimension to the coldness of execution and the executioners. With this narrative, we push to reflect on freedoms, dualities of others’ lives and the caging narratives with which we imprison ourselves.