August 2024

The Conversation (1974)

Forgive me, Coppola, for I have sinned: I've never actually seen The Godfather. Any of them. Yes, it's my most concealed, cinematic shame that embarrassingly looms over me; perhaps then I could be feeling a bit like Harry Caul in Coppola's brilliantly twisty tale of paranoia - The Conversation.

The palpable, brewing sense of Catholic guilt is close to bursting from the seams of the frame, as Gene Hackman's constantly ill-at-ease Harry delves deeper into a tightening web of voyeuristic deception: the automaton clicks and ghostly whispers from his surveillance tech, his apprehension to destroy a Virgin Mary statue and the chillingly ominous saxophone playing from his barren apartment is observed superbly. The subtle mannerisms from Hackman's physicality combined with Coppola's audio-visual invention communicates a suppressed, muffled scream of isolation: All this guy has is his faith - the deafening tension comes when he wrestles with the clashing morality of passively performing his job versus his all-consuming beliefs slowly rising to the precipice.

Although I've only seen Apocalypse Now, this is certainly my favourite work of the Francis Ford wheelhouse. Cannot wait for Megalopolis next month Imao.

Husbands (1970)

The guys are being dudes a little too hard.

John Cassavetes is one of my favourite filmmakers: his vulnerable, unglamorous, yet compassionate sincerity and kitchen-sink rawness I found instantly captivating with a viewing of A Woman Under the Influence, a film that reached me at the exact, right time I needed to see it. However, Husbands (much like another early work, Faces) is Cassavetes at perhaps his most ill-disciplined: you can almost feel the vaporous plumes of testosterone exude by the three leads, as their torturously quarrelsome hornets-nests of vicious noise dominate most of the movie. It's almost documentarian, letting the grief-stricken cast improv and wallow in an abrasive pugnacity of extreme masculinity - I'd be very surprised if this didn't serve as a genetic heritage to Thomas Vinterberg's Another Round.

Witnessing Cassavetes in full 'not-give-a-shit' mode and letting the camera simply spectate is definitely admirable, however ones viewing enjoyment is perhaps hindered by the sheer, sometimes unwatchable guerilla-ness of it all. The more controlled and balanced Cassavetes, such as the aforementioned A Woman Under the Influence and Opening Night, are certainly more my speed, with their austere blending of plot and character, as well as the trademark truculent chaos. Husbands, by comparison, is all chaos.

A Brighter Summer Day (1991) (Rewatch)

2024 will stand as the year I finally 'got' Edward Yang. After being lulled by the methodical metatextuality of Terrorizers, and a rewatch of Yi Yi being an indelible antidote in a time of mourning, I felt it was only natural to don the blood-stained school shirt and pipe-up the Elvis records, and re-tackle his behemoth - A Brighter Summer Day.

At 4 hours long, the film is a beast. The colossal, labyrinthine narrative, the crafting of an entire adolescent social system, is no less than a stunning feat: I could not do what that man did... any utterance of 'but' after that lathering of praise of Yang's masterwork would be blasphemy, right? Like defecating on the Mona Lisa? Like flipping off the Sistine Chapel? Like only looking at A Brighter Summer Day and (using redundant numerical values) blurting out "7/10"?! Well, yes: it's because I more respect this one, rather than feel it.

The gargantuan runtime is home to many long, drawn-out vistas of very little intrigue for me; unlike Yi Yi’s imperative of 'every scene is the best scene', the immersive aimlessness of a lot of Summer Day really starts to wane on my emotional attachment. However, gems are certainly abound - a fantastically ruthless climax, Cat's singing voice and (the thing everyone loves to say) 'the reflective door shot', are cinematic ecstasy: just getting to them is a potentially gruelling trial of patience. Again, it's a film I respect more than I enjoy.

If you want to get into Edward Yang, start with Yi Yi: it's a film I could recommend to pretty much anyone.

Multiple Maniacs (1970)

As Amanda Bynes once said, "Bring in the dancing lobsters!"

This was a seminal moment for me, a cinephile rite of passage: experiencing a John Waters film with a crowd. I'm a big fan of the malodorous terrors that the Trash Maestro curses to celluloid, but my viewings have exclusively been solo expeditions. Believe me: witnessing a 'rosary-job', the full-on kaiju-ification of Divine and a climax that'll put you off shellfish for life, all while the repulsed howls and wince-fuelled applause rang through that picture house was an intoxicating, vomitus joy.

Multiple Maniacs continues Waters' ability to present you with the grisliest grotesquerie where you initially laugh hysterically, but then lingers and lurks to the point of extreme discomfort - I used to find this technique tedious, but somehow, here, it's strangely novel. It's indie filmmaking at its most gonzo: an egalitarian, exhibitionist world of outcasts, soaking and indulging in their glorious weirdness onscreen. And amongst the endless, literal cavalcade of perversion, I felt a sense of comforting inspiration...although coupled with an overwhelming sadness of realising that I'll never write a line as good as "I love you so fucking much...I could SHIT".

If you want to get into John Waters, there is his more mainstream work such as Serial Mom and Hairspray, but I would recommend starting with Female Trouble, then Multiple Maniacs, and lastly Pink Flamingos (just make sure you have your barf bag for that one).

Popeye (1980)

My current Altman obsession continues with a venturing into the sneered-upon, black sheep of his filmography: the one that drew his career to a brief standstill. But it's the one I'm gonna vouch for. Because it is, in fact, one of my new favourites of his.

There's something that's just so hypnotically, sweetly earnest about Popeye. The fantastical artifice of the character's cartoonish physics and animated logic amongst a zany orchestra of boinks, whizzes and bird-song is already steeped in charm, but Altman then fascinatingly juxtaposes that with his typically pastoral atmosphere and moments of quiet humanism. And it works! For as ridiculously hyperbolic Popeye, Olive Oyl and this abstract seascape town feel, Williams and Duvall (along with Robert Altman's direction) portray them with real flesh, blood and a ridiculously zealous helping of heart. Look no further than a tranquil duet between the two, followed by Shelley Duvall's now iconic 'He Needs Me' song: My own heart was liquid. It's a film that lets its campy, nonsense nature just soberly vibe, and in a post Barbie, Josie and the Pussycats and Speed Racer world, I believe Popeye DESERVES its midnight-cult medal of honour: I loved this film.