I Lived, But ...

Kazuo Inoue's documentary on the director Yasujiro Ozu, I Lived, But ... (1983), is a stunning achievement. It represents a comprehensive and compelling summary of his filmography and a touching portrayal of the director's personal life. The mystery surrounding the kanji mu (embedded on Ozu's grave) is also nicely explored.

Through clips of actual behind-the-scenes footage, interviews and thousands of photos, Inoue manages to build a truly brilliant biography of the great director. Especially the interviews of the stars of his films are essential and Sugimura's interview gives the film the required sentimental touch which makes it more unforgettable than any other documentary. There's also a great deal of imagery used a bit like Ozu's pillow shots accompanied with great music. They serve in a nicely cathartic way along with giving the documentary a relaxing pace and mood.

The name is not only a clever reference to Ozu's early filmography, but it also captures the possible internal conflict of the director's loneliness. Inoue employs a number of little subtle things like this to get under the viewer's skin and manages to move us by the end of the film by giving Ozu the respect he deserves.

Score: 10 out of 10

Evening Classes

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Nicolas Ribowski's short film Evening Classes (1967) is solely built around Jacques Tati's famous character, Mr. Hulot. The director lets Tati loose for long takes in which he demonstrates his wide range of acting capabilities by teaching an acting class for eager (but hilariously dumb) students.

The film relies solely on the gags within the 30-minute running time and they are clearly hit-or-miss. Whenever Tati has nothing to do, the film is a real letdown because the other actors simply can't keep up with his great performance. The direction lacks the same sort of inspiration although it's rewarding because it gives most of its attention for Tati's performance by not distracting the viewer from it.

If anything, Evening Classes is a nice extra for the Criterion release of Tati's Playtime (1967).

Score: 6 out of 10

Singin' in the Rain

Stanley Donen's and Gene Kelly's Singin' in the Rain (1952) is generally considered one of the greatest musical films of all time, but I have never watched the film for some reason. I decided to erase this peculiarity from my knowledge on cinema by watching this legendary movie - and I don't regret it. Essentially the film is about actors struggling with new cinematic innovations (most importantly, sound) and love. In the musical tradition, they often break into long and complex song and dance numbers that captivate the audience.

I was surprised by how intricate and deep its exploration of cinema and acting was. Even though most of the songs performed in the film are quite corny, they fit well into the film's context and serve as a great source of entertainment. The narrative is really hyperactive because of the physical acting and vast number of musical bits. There's also a breathtaking, long musical sequence near the end of the film that baffled me a bit because it was almost distracting in its epic scale.

Most of the film's brilliance stems from the manic form, perfect acting (especially the physical acting is stunning) and intricate dance choreographies that left me in awe. It's not a surprise why most of the songs have become so popular - and why the Singin' in the Rain sequence is so famous (because Gene Kelly's performance is GODLY).

Even though I wouldn't consider Singin' in the Rain one of the greatest cinematic achievements of all time, it certainly works very well under its genre's restrictions and it's great for what it is.

Score: 9 out of 10

The Sacrifice

Andrei Tarkovsky's The Sacrifice (1986) was the last film the legendary Russian film director ever made. Its focus is on a Swedish actor who spends time with his family after he has retired from acting. By the midpoint of the film, the film's tone becomes more menacing - towards a possible apocalypse.

Tarkovsky's trademark, meditative and philosophical content, is used yet again. Initially the film is about the actor's and his postman's ramblings on existence, but after the plot turn the film becomes an observation of people in despair. The characters enter a nearly surrealistic void that is hard to escape. And the results are rather unexpected. The film's thematics are a fine conclusion to Tarkovsky's filmography because it brings together a lot of his ideas in a gripping way.

With Sven Nykvist as the director of photography, Tarkovsky's camerawork is even more wonderful to look at. The imagery is stunning and thought-provoking (especially in the opening and the ending) and I can guarantee you that the soundtrack is astounding.

Even though The Sacrifice isn't exactly on par with Tarkovsky's best films (such as Stalker and Andrei Rublev), it is still magnificent on its own merits.

Score: 10 out of 10

Double Review: "A Story of Floating Weeds" & "Floating Weeds"

I watched Yasujiro Ozu's A Story of Floating Weeds (1934) and Floating Weeds (1959) back-to-back. A Story of Floating Weeds is one of Ozu's final silent films. Basically the film is a family drama involving a lot of characters: the leader of an acting troupe, his lover, one of his actresses, his ex-lover and her son. Floating Weeds is Ozu's own remake of A Story of Floating Weeds in sound and color. The story is the same, but it has been subtly altered and (arguably) it is more complex.

Both of the films offer Ozu's yet another take on family dynamics. His observations are interesting - as always. What is the most interesting thing about these two films is to compare them. A Story of Floating Weeds was made before the World War II and Floating Weeds was made after it. Ozu emphasizes a few (more or less) subtle changes. For example, public behaviour is a lot more open and straightforward in Floating Weeds, which is one of the indirect results of Japan's loss in World War II.

It is also interesting to take a look at the form because Ozu changes his approach to a few scenes drastically in the remake. While Ozu's form is already fine in the silent film, the remake fares even better. Ozu's trademark to revisit same compositions (or at least similar) is visible in both films, but it is executed better and more precisely in Floating Weeds. Also, the film has even a bigger impact with sound because it gives the performances more resonance. In general, acting was a bit more intriguing in the remake although it's possibly only because the characters were not as stiff as in the original.

In overall, both of these films are very good. I prefer the remake, but that might partly be due to the fact that I watched it right after the original - the compositions and the story were more powerful that way.

Scores:

A Story of Floating Weeds (1934): 8 out of 10
Floating Weeds (1959): 9 out of 10