While the past 12 months has been a particularly rich one for
new films, many of the best films I saw for the first time in 2014 were
actually made many years ago. My cinema visits this year were divided almost
equally between new releases and revivals, and the below list is intended as a
celebration of the diverse and exciting repertory cinema scene in London. I had
been waiting to see some of these films for years while others were completely
unknown to me until the opportunity to see them arose, but all of them act as
reminders of how much there is still to discover in cinema’s past. If you live
in London and haven’t explored its many rep cinemas, I hope the below
list will encourage you to seek out some great screenings in 2015.
25 - Ragtime (Milos Forman, 1981) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
Robert Altman almost directed this screen adaptation of E.L.
Doctorow’s novel – a tantalising prospect – but Milos Forman’s ambitious
portrait of life in America in the first part of the 20th century is
still something to behold on the big screen. Forman’s direction is elegant and
full of evocative period details, and he draws excellent work from his
ensemble cast, even if some of the supporting players feel underdeveloped as
the film works to pack so much into its 2½-hour running time (a director’s cut
of this film would be most welcome). Ragtime is at its strongest when focusing
on the experiences of Coalhouse Walker, Jr. (Howard E. Rollins, Jr.), a young
jazz pianist whose attempts to maintain his dignity in the face of racial
hostility escalates into a siege that can only end in tragedy. The film also
provides a terrific swansong for James Cagney as the police chief called in to
negotiate with Walker. He was 81 years old and consigned to a wheelchair when
Ragtime was filmed, but he had lost none of his fire and charisma.
24 - Edward II (Derek Jarman, 1991) - BFI Southbank, Digital
The highlights of the BFI’s two-month Derek Jarman
retrospective were a screening of his singular Blue at the BFI IMAX, his original and timeless Sebastiane, and this fascinating take on British history, with Jarman
using the story of the ill-fated monarch to confront bigotry throughout the
ages. Shot on just a handful of sparsely decorated sets, there is a sense of
theatricality to Edward II but Jarman uses the space available to him so
skilfully and creates a powerful sense of intimacy with his fine actors (Steven Waddington is brilliant), with
an interlude set to Annie Lennox singing Every Time We Say Goodbye being
particularly memorable. This is also a film with a clear political purpose, and
Jarman brings the story right up-to-date by including protest sequences that
feature gay rights activists in contemporary clothing. Edward II is the most
accomplished film from a difficult and daring artist who was gone too soon.
23 - The Cremaster Cycle (Matthew Barney, 1995 - 2002) Whitechapel Gallery, Digital
Over the course of a single day at the Whitechapel Gallery I
entered the very odd universe of Matthew Barney, and when I emerged some nine
hours later I was simultaneously exhausted, disoriented, exhilarated and trying
to comprehend what I had just seen. These five films, made out of order and
over the course of seven years, are full of extraordinary images and they are
a total feast for the senses, even if the point of what Barney is trying to do
is often impenetrable. The highlight of the whole experience was Cremaster 3, a
three-hour odyssey which largely takes the form of a bizarrely attired Barney climbing
the levels of the Guggenheim Museum to complete various challenges. The rest of
the films may lack Cremaster 3’s sense of shape and purpose (and Barney’s
filmmaking ability and ambition increases dramatically over the cycle's chronological
development), but each episode has something strange, vivid and unforgettable to
offer us, and the cycle as a whole is a remarkable realisation of one artist’s
unique vision of the world.
22 - True Stories (David Byrne, 1986) - Tate Modern, 35mm
On the evidence of True Stories, David Byrne’s filmmaking
sensibility is as idiosyncratic and endearing as his music, and it’s a real
shame that this is the only feature he has directed to date. Byrne’s approach seems to
anticipate the later works of filmmaker such as Hal Hartley, Wes Anderson and
Alexander Payne with its depiction of the sometimes quirky nature of life in
the smalltown America, but Byrne’s generous vision is very much his own. The
director himself, driving a Cadillac and wearing a Stetson, acts as our guide through a series of vignettes following the residents of Virgil, Texas as the
town prepares for its sesquicentennial celebrations. In one of his first major
roles, John Goodman stands out as a lovelorn singleton hoping to find love
through the personal ads (“I'm 6'3", and maintain a very consistent panda
bear shape.”), and Byrne shows a sure directorial touch in handling both the
film’s deadpan comedy and its more surreal moments, and of course it boasts some great
musical numbers.
21 - Donkey Skin (Jacques Demy, 1970) - Ciné lumière, Digital
This is one very strange movie. Ostensibly a film for children - and I watched it with a very appreciate audience of kids - Donkey Skin tells the story of a princess (Catherine Deneuve) who
must flee her luxurious life and live in the woods in order to escape an
incestuous marriage with her own father (!), and she does so by wearing the
skin of a recently killed donkey (!!), that possessed the ability to shit diamonds (!!!). Based on a 17th century story, the film is Demy’s
homage to Cocteau (with Jean Marais playing the king), but it is also very much a Jacques
Demy picture, distinguished by a gorgeous use of colour, fun musical sequences
and a sly sense of humour, with a number of double-entendres being slipped in
for the enjoyment of adult viewers. Even if it never quite reaches the glorious
heights of his earlier work, Donkey Skin is consistently terrific entertainment
with a level of weirdness that makes it compelling viewing. It also has the
undeniable bonus of Delphine Seyrig, who is surely the sexiest Fairy Godmother
to ever cast a spell.
20 - Born in Flames (Lizzie Borden, 1983) - BFI Southbank, 16mm
The most arresting thing about Lizzie Borden’s Born in
Flames is how current it feels. Made in 1983, this futuristic faux-documentary about
a group of radical feminists tackles women’s rights, racism, the class divide
and police corruption, and it has sequences that speak immediately to the way
we live now. Borden presents us with a world that pays lip service to equality,
but she then shows us the often insidious way in which old attitudes still divide and
oppress large portions of society. There’s a rough-around-the-edges quality to
Borden’s filmmaking and some stiffness in the performances given by her young
cast of amateur actors, but what matters is the ideas being explored and the
passion with which they are expressed. The film has a variety of viewpoints and
messages that ultimately coalesce into a call for solidarity and action that
remains as clear and vital now as it was over 30 years ago. I had never heard
of Born in Flames before it was programmed as part of the BFI’s excellent
Afrofuturism season, but it’s a film that deserves to be sought out and
discussed.
19 - Lucía (Humberto Solás, 1968) - Tate Modern, 35mm
In his ambitious film, Humberto Solás uses three women called Lucía as the entry point into depictions of three periods in
Cuban history. In 1895 war with Spain, Lucía (Raquel Revuelta) falls in love
with an enemy soldier; in the 1930s, well-to-do Lucía (Eslinda Núñez) leaves
her comofortable life to join a band of revolutionaries, and in the 1960s we
find Lucía (Adela Legrá) experiencing a happy honeymoon period with her new
husband, which soon ends when he becomes obsessively jealous and locks her at
home. All three stories are struggles of independence and Solás finds a
different cinematic approach for each segment of his triptych, with the
haunting quality of the first film’s descent into madness giving way to a more
composed style in part two, while the climactic section plays out as a dark
domestic comedy. Lucía is melodramatic and sometimes hysterical, but it’s a stimulating
and involving picture that frequently astounds with its epic scope and
filmmaking nous.
18 - The Horse Thief (Tian Zhuangzhuang, 1986) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
The Horse Thief is a film that I had been aware of ever since Martin Scorsese named it
as one of his favourite films of the 1990s (the film having taken some years to
reach US cinemas), and it certainly lived up to his high praise. An engrossing
drama in which dialogue takes second place to breathtaking visuals, the
film is essentially the simple tale of a horse thief banished from his
clan and forced to take his family out into the wilderness, but what makes the
film special is how Tian completely immerses us into the culture and customs of
the people it depicts. There are some truly staggering images here, not only in
the way the filmmakers use the spectacular landscape but in the way rituals are
woven into the film. Tian doesn't offer us any guide or explain the
significance of these rituals, instead he just invites us to bear witness, and watching the film with patience and an open, curious mind is an enormously rewarding experience.
The Horse Thief is a true spiritual journey, and I felt privileged to take it.
17 - Why Be Good? (William A. Seiter, 1929) - BFI Southbank, Digital
This was my introduction to silent star Colleen Moore and it's so good
it makes me even more upset that many of her films have been lost forever due
to neglect. This is probably the reason why Moore isn't as well-known today as
other stars of that era, but hopefully screenings of this film will kick-start
a revival of interest in her films. We are certainly lucky to have this picture
restored complete with its jazzy Vitaphone soundtrack, which is cleverly
utilised in one scene with honking car horns representing the singing of two
drunkards. Moore is a radiant presence in this fun romantic comedy about a
shopgirl who falls for her new boss, and she is clearly intended to represent
the independent, modern women of the Flapper age – as she tells her fusty old
father at one point, "This is 1929, not 1899!" Why Be Good? is a
solid comedy, directed with some smart touches by William A. Seiter, and it
even manages to sneak some progressive commentary on sexual politics, notably
when Moore's character Pert chastises her husband-to-be and men in general for
the hypocrisy and double-standards she sees in their attitude towards women.
All in all she's quite a character, and I hope we get to see more of her.
16 - The Connection (Shirley Clarke, 1962) - Barbican, Digital
Having only just discovered the work of Shirley Clarke through her
singular Portrait of Jason, I was delighted to have the opportunity to see two
more of her thrillingly unconventional and independent features this year. Her
documentary profile Ornette: Made in America is bold and imaginative,
but the real revelation this year was her earlier film The Connection. An
adaptation of a stage play, this single-set study of jazz musicians awaiting
their drug supplier initially feels a little too stagebound in its presentation,
but Clarke's lively camerawork and the intense performances from the
inexperienced ensemble soon allays those fears. The presence of a filmmaker
attempting to exploit the needs of these addicts for his own art who finds
himself being sucked into their world adds a fascinating extra layer to the
drama (the whole film is presented as footage captured and then turned over to
the cameraman by this director). This is an anxious, riveting and unique film,
and I'm delighted that Milestone Films is dedicated to restoring and sharing
Clarke's considerable body of work, but I have one caveat. The texture and
function of film itself is such a factor in Clarke's aesthetic (at least in
this film and Portrait of Jason), I wish that these remarkable pictures were
available to be seen on prints rather than just digital.
15 - Golden Eighties (Chantal Akerman, 1986) - ICA, 35mm
The great À Nos Amours Chantal Akerman retrospective rolled
on throughout 2014 with a number of great screenings (including Les Rendez-vous d’Anna and a gorgeous 35mm print of Nuit et jour), but the standout for me
was her 1986 musical Golden Eighties. The film nods to classic MGM musicals and
the work of Jacques Demy, but Akerman makes it her own with her particular
sense of composition and movement, and of course with a central role for the inimitable Delphine
Seyrig. The film playfully sends up musical conventions but it is also played
with utter sincerity by Akerman and her cast, and the brightly coloured hijinks
are given a melancholy undertone. I’d also like to take this opportunity to
direct fans of Golden Eighties to Les années 80, a 1983 film that Akerman made in
part to help secure funding for her planned musical. This document is little
more than a collection of rehearsal footage and tests, but in Akerman’s hands
it becomes a mini-masterpiece about the act of creating art in its own right.
14 - Something Wild (Jack Garfein, 1961) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
Jack Garfein’s Something Wild begins with one of the most
extraordinary depictions of rape that I’ve ever seen in cinema. In an almost
wordless opening twenty minutes, Mary Ann (Carroll Baker) is attacked on her
way home from college. When she returns home we watch her quietly walk upstairs and
methodically bathe her body before cutting her clothes into tiny pieces and
flushing them down the toilet. She is traumatised but she buries her trauma,
only for it to emerge at unpredictable moments later on – when she is crowded
on a bus, for example. The film takes an unexpected turn when she is saved
from a suicide attempt by Mike (Ralph Meeker), who takes her home and
essentially imprisons her, hoping she’ll become his wife. Something Wild is
engrossing right up to its contentious ending, with complicated characterisations and tight direction, and it’s a real pity that Garfein didn’t direct again (his 1957 debut The Strange One was another impressive 2014 discovery for me).
Baker – who I also loved in Baby Doll this year– is magnificent here, and the
film’s craft is top-notch: music by Aaron Copland, cinematography by Eugen
Schüfftan, editing by Carl Lerner, titles by Saul Bass.
13 - King Lear (Jean-Luc Godard, 1987) - Ciné lumière, 35mm
In the same year that Jean-Luc Godard opened our eyes to the possibilities
of 3D with his latest film Goodbye to Language, I finally got to see the film that many
Godard fans rate as his best – indeed, a film cited by some as the best ever
made. I can't get on board with those claims – in truth, I don't really know
what to make of it – but this is a stimulating, challenging and highly
entertaining piece of work, and I'm glad I experienced it. Godard's film has
Norman Mailer angrily scribbling in his hotel room, a post-Chernobyl wasteland
in which all arts and culture has been lost, Woody Allen toiling in an editing
suite, Godard himself appearing as Professor Pluggy, and seagulls. Lots of
seagulls. As is often the case with Godard's work, I found the overall
experience confounding with moments of startling beauty and clarity breaking through, and I was left with the familiar post-Godard desire to read about the film and
revisit it later to see if I can grasp more of what's being said, or not said. At the
screening we attended, Woody Allen's climactic scene was interrupted by some
members of the cinema staff thinking the film was over and assembling a lectern
on the stage before being shouted down. I suspect Jean-Luc would have been
amused.
12 - Employees' Entrance (Roy Del Ruth, 1933) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
I don't think I enjoyed any performance this year more than Warren
William's deliciously malevolent turn in Employees' Entrance. As the Machiavellian
manager of a huge department store, William is in his element, with his snide
delivery and lustful glances making Kurt Anderson one of the great screen
bastards – just when you think a cute little dog might make his cold heart
melt, he grabs the poor pup and throws him in the dustbin. This was one of the
gems in the BFI's glorious season of pre-Code films, and it exemplifies not
only the attitudes of that era but also the skilful, tight filmmaking that old
hands like Roy Del Ruth (credited with 6 films in 1933!) could bring to even
minor studio projects that makes them feel special by today's standards. Aside
from William, the film has many other virtues. The screenplay is cleverly structured and full of sharp dialogue; Loretta Young and the always-welcome Alice
White are terrific as the dames in Anderson's life, and one balloon-popping
gag – so simple in its setup and execution – still makes me chuckle to recall
it months later.
11 - Liebelei (Max Ophüls, 1933) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
This was the last film Max Ophüls before leaving Germany for France and
then the USA, and while it doesn't quite stand alongside his acknowledged masterpieces,
you can definitely see in this film the seeds of the cinematic giant that he
would become. The camerawork doesn't yet feel as entirely free as it did later,
but Liebelei is a film distinguished by a series of beautiful shots and
compositions, and by the director's ability to communicate complex emotions through a
single image. His direction finds a light comedy in the romantic entanglements of
these young characters in the first half of the film before segueing into
darker territory. Few directors in the history of cinema ever captured romance,
sadness and loss with such elegance and piercing immpact,
and the manner in which Ophüls handles the duel that brings this film to an end
is an early sign of his brilliance.
10 - The Margin (Walerian Borowczyk, 1976) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
Walerian Borowczyk enjoyed a renaissance in 2014 with a BFI
retrospective and a handsome blu-ray release, but I’d argue that his best film
is one of his least seen and most atypical. The Margin unites two
icons of 1970s sex cinema in Joe Dallesandro and Sylvia Kristel for a moody, nocturnal
romance about a young man’s brief encounter with a prostitute. The two leads
reveal layers of emotion and complexity that their other roles rarely allowed them to reach (marking this
out from Kristel’s body of work, despite it being repackaged as Emmanuelle ’77 upon
release), and the film has a rich, potent atmosphere, with Borowczyk
brilliantly evoking a sense of longing amid the sleazy Parisian backstreets.
The Margin should be regarded as a film on a level with similarly themed works
such as Last Tango in Paris and Eyes Wide Shut, and it also boasts a remarkably
eclectic and memorable soundtrack, with contributions from Elton John, 10cc and
Pink Floyd.
9 - Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean (Robert Altman, 1982) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
Here’s a sad state of affairs. At the 2014 London Film
Festival, only one film (from 248 features) was screened from a 35mm print.
That film was Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean, one of
the pictures made by Robert Altman during his post-Popeye Hollywood exile, and
finally getting to experience this picture on the big screen was a real thrill.
Set in a single location, there’s something consciously theatrical about the
film, but Altman also makes this a truly cinematic work by letting a single
mirror act as a conduit between the past and the present, constantly adding
extra dimensions to our understanding of these characters and their
relationships as Pierre Mignot’s superb camerawork circles skilfully around
them. The film has a wonderful all-female cast too, with Cher and Sandy Dennis
dominating the picture until Karen Black, as the mysterious Joanne, enters the
drama with some bombshells ready to be dropped. Even so, there’s still time for
Kathy Bates to almost steal the whole picture with a single, perfect line
delivery: “I AM happy!”
8 - Salt of the Earth (Herbert Biberman, 1954) - ICA, 16mm
Salt of the Earth is both an involving human drama about a miners' strike in New Mexico and, by its very existence, a powerful act of defiance. Most of the cast had been involved in the real strike that the film takes its narrative from just a few years earlier, while much of the crew were blacklisted by Hollywood when they worked on this film. The FBI made frequent attempts to shut the production down – including deporting the lead actress – and even after it was made cinemas were pressured to not screen the film. The fact that Salt of the Earth survived at all is remarkable; the fact that such a brilliant film emerged from these conditions feels almost miraculous. Acted with conviction and shot with a dynamic style that still feels fresh, this is an invigorating polemic for workers' rights that also explores issues of discrimination and feminism, with the women in the camp becoming a more vital presence and ultimately swapping traditional roles with their husbands as the strike continues. It's hard to think of many other films in which the themes of the picture and the manner in which it was made are so inextricably linked, and watching it is a reminder of what courageous cinema really is.
7 - The Breaking Point (Michael Curtiz, 1950) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
The most famous adaptation of Ernest Hemingway’s To Have and
Have Not is the 1944 Howard Hawks film starring Humphrey Bogart and Lauren
Bacall, but it’s not the best version of the story. While Hawks’ picture made
significant changes to the plot, this later version directed by Michael Curtiz
remained largely faithful to Hemingway’s text, and it works as a exceptional thriller
with a powerful sucker-punch ending. In his penultimate role, John Garfield
brings his customary intensity to the role of the morally conflicted fishing
boat captain at the centre of the film, but the supporting players aren’t
overshadowed, with Patricia Neal and Phyllis Thaxter excelling as the two women
in his life (the scene in which Thaxter gets a haircut is brilliant and
heartbreaking). Curtiz’s direction is perfectly judged, giving the story and
his actors all the room they need while keeping a tight hand on the film’s
tension, and he pulls off a masterstroke right at the end. The final shot of
the movie brings a hitherto minor character into the spotlight, and speaks
volumes about race and privilege in a single unforgettable image.
6 - Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Rouben Mamoulian, 1931) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
This is surely the finest screen version of Robert Louis
Stevenson’s story, and it’s hard to see how any subsequent adaptation could top
it. The film gets its claws into us right from the opening moments, with an
inspired sequence shot from Dr. Jekyll's perspective, and Rouben Mamoulian’s direction throughout is
supremely witty and inventive. The film rests on its lead performance, of course,
and Fredric March’s deservedly Oscar-winning work (tied with Wallace Beery) is
still staggering. It’s not just the makeup that defines him, but the complete
physical transformation that March undergoes, creating two characters so
distinct it’s almost hard to believe that they are played by the same man. This
being a pre-Code Hollywood film, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is absolutely dripping
with sex and suggestiveness, with Mr. Hyde being an embodiment of the doctor’s
suppressed carnal desires, while Miriam Hopkin’s swinging bare leg has the
power to hypnotise us as surely as it does Dr. Jekyll.
5 - Mughal-e-Azam (K. Asif, 1960) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
After exploring the films of Satyajit Ray in 2013 I am keen to learn more
about Indian cinema beyond his brilliant body of work, and the Bollywood musical is an area I am
particularly ignorant of. In fact, my viewings this year of Pakeezah and Mughal-E-Azam were my first, and I doubt I'll
see many better or bigger than K. Asif's historical epic. An astonishingly lavish affair, the making
of the film has become legendary in itself, with the shoot dragging on for more
than a decade, individual scenes often costing more than the average budget for
a whole Indian film at the time, and the death of a lead actor midway through production.
But I wasn't just overwhelmed by the scale of Mughal-E-Azam, I was captivated
by the story of the forbidden love between a prince and a dancer in 16th
century India. Asif effortlessly holds our attention for the full 200 minutes
and proves equally adept whether handling huge action sequences or more
intimate romantic scenes between his two leads. It helps, of course, that one
of his leads is Madhubala, a bewitching actress whose defiant musical
performance in front of the king is the film's high point of emotion and
spectacle. I saw Mughal-E-Azam on a black-and-white print, but this sequence
exploded from the screen in eye-popping colour, and its impact left me reeling.
4 - The Arch (Cecile Tang Shu-shuen, 1969) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
A funny thing happened at our screening of The Arch. A few minutes after the film had started, it became apparent that the print provided was missing subtitles, a problem that continued right through the first reel. Subtitles did appear as soon as the second reel started, but even if the whole film had been lacking translation I expect I might have been able to follow it anyway, because Cecile Tang’s direction is a masterclass in visual storytelling. As the lead character Madam Tung (Lisa Lu) struggles to cope with her feelings and the love triangle she has become embroiled in with a visiting soldier and her daughter, Tang utilises Nouvelle Vague-inspired editing (by les Blank) and dazzling cinematography (by Subrata Mitra) to express her turmoil. When the subtitles vanished again for the film’s closing reel I barely noticed, so engrossed was I in this simple but devastating tale. This is one of cinema’s all-time great debuts, and Tang’s second feature China Behind is a similarly impressive piece of work, one that was shot covertly and earned the director a long ban from filmmaking by the authorities.
3 - L'Eclisse (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1962) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
Having finally now seen the third and final part of Michelangelo
Antonioni's alienation trilogy, I think my preference is for La Notte (while
acknowledging that I need to re-watch L'Avventura for the first time in many
years), but that's just splitting hairs. L'Eclisse is a masterpiece by any
measure, with Antonioni on peak form, Alain Delon and Monica Vitti at their
most enigmatic and seductive, and the great Gianni Di Venanzo producing images
that sear themselves into your memory. There is a plot, of sorts, with Vitti's
character Vittoria leaving one relationship and hesitantly drifting towards
another, with Delon's Piero, but the film isn't about that. L'Eclisse is about
people connected and disconnected, it's about the spaces and buildings we
inhabit, it's about moments and gestures, it's about the way the light falls on
Monica Vitti's face. It's also a film with one of the great endings; a
climactic montage of the places where these lovers have shared times together,
but this time they are nowhere to be found. Only in the hands of a master filmmaker
can an ordinary images of everyday life achieve transcendent, heart-stopping
splendour.
2 - Sátántangó (Béla Tarr, 1994) - ICA, 35mm
Some films demand to be experienced on the big screen, not only for their epic nature but for
their length. I bought a copy of Béla Tarr’s Sátántangó on DVD a couple of
years ago but I kept putting off watching it, in the hope that I might have an
opportunity to see it projected. My chance came this year and the experience
was every bit as amazing as I had hoped it would be. There’s barely a moment in
this 450-minute saga that I didn’t find entrancing. Tarr’s orchestration of
long takes is consistently astounding; whether his camera following, circling
or statically observing the characters, he always finds striking ways to
capture the action. Sátántangó is a film full of unforgettable sequences – a doctor's
drunken late-night wander through the forest, for example, or a lonely child's
torturous games with her pet cat – and while Tarr's films have a forbidding
reputation, what surprised about this picture is how accessible, human and even
funny it is. Watching Sátántangó on a freshly restored 35mm print is something I'll always savour, and now I'm glad I've got that DVD handy to
revisit individual parts of the film and appreciate new details whenever I feel the desire.
1 - Je t'aime, je t'aime (Alain Resnais, 1968) - BFI Southbank, 35mm
I can't get Je t'aime, je t'aime out of my head. Alain Resnais'
bafflingly neglected 1968 masterpiece has been rattling around inside my brain
ever since I saw it, but unlike most films, in which certain shots stay with me, here
it's the cuts between shots that keep leaping back into my thoughts. Je t'aime,
je t'aime is the story of a suicidal war veteran who is invited to be a guinea
pig for a group of scientists embarking on a time travel experiment. The idea
is that Claude (Claude Rich) will be sent back to relive one minute of his
life, but instead he gets lost within his own memories, bouncing around from
one past encounter to another with wild abandon. Claude relives moments both
banal and significant, with most of his memories revolving around his doomed relationship
with a lost lover, and the manner in which Resnais cuts between these moments is
truly stunning. Every edit in this film has a startling impact; disorienting
us, enlightening us, reshaping our understanding of what we are watching and
drawing us further into Claude's circular experience. The film is fragmented
and moves at bewildering pace, but we always get the sense that Resnais is in
control and the emotional power that these accumulated memories finally create
is incredibly potent. As soon as I walked out of Je t'aime, je t'aime I felt
the urgent need to watch it again, but given the paucity of screenings and the
scandalous lack of proper blu-ray distribution I wonder when I'll get that
chance. Until then, I just have my memories.
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