Movie Review: Summer Hours

A few years ago I saw the movie Clean starring Maggie Cheung as a ex-con junkie musician who somehow manages to pull her life back together after losing her partner, custody of her child and any sense of identity that may have come from her former life. It gave me a new perspective on film, one that expressed the idea of the global citizen, living a life where borders no longer rule the lives of people who harbor the dream of communicating with other human beings. It was a truly international film, traversing across various cultures and continents as if their inherent differences no longer existed, not in a Jason Bourne I am the king of the universe kind of way but rather in a more mundane fact of modern day life type of existence. It really captured the soul of the 21st century and it was also my introduction to the world of Olivier Assayas.

Assayas was born of the cinema and like so many others who grew up immersed in the world film, it became a natural medium for him to explore. Obviously influenced by many of the great French artists of the 60's and 70's, La Nouvelle Vague; Truffaut, Godard, Chabrol. Rohmer; Assayas captures a sensibility in life that actually considers the true nature of our human emotions. He came to prominence as a filmmaker after writing for Cahier du Cinema for a few years during the early 80's and is highly regarded in Europe, though his films have always had trouble finding a large audience here in the States. This is unfortunate because his movies are rich and beautiful and realistic and complex, worthy of recognition, but there's no shortcuts here, only heartfelt interactions that feel like something that you just experienced the last time you were with friends or family.

The Criterion Collection has made available a special edition DVD of Assayas 2008 film “Summer Hours” and it's a perfect opportunity for him to connect with some new viewers. Filled with interviews with Assayas and actors Charles Berling and Juliette Binoche, as well as a documentary that explores the film's approach to art in the cinema, it's a movie that should be on the queue of anyone who looks for thoughtful and emotionally resonate filmmaking when they press the play button on their remote.

Summer Hours follows three well-to-do siblings as they deal with the passing of their mother. The film opens with her 75th birthday party out at the family estate where they've all come together for the first time in awhile. We get an intimate glimpse into the heart of the family, spanning three generations, through this very ordinary gathering in the home of their youth. Assayas uses a deft and honest tone to immerse us into their world and wonderful dialogue to help us understand how they all got there, without actually making it feel like it's being narrated to us. This type of expression is where Assayas excels in filmmaking. Throughout the rest of the film we share wine and tears, laughter and conversation with the family as they address the unpleasant task of handling their mother's estate after she's died. Often a scene tends to linger on moments where it seems so hard to let go; two brothers refusing to say goodbye as they stand in the rain, a wife attempting to comfort her husband in a dark room, the grief of loss stranded on the side of the road under the shadows of overhanging branches. Each frame holding onto the delicate nature of their lives with the warmth and beauty of a precious painting, masterpieces for the halls of museums.

An important aspect of the film resides within the evaluation of worth regarding the things that we collect in our lives and eventually leave behind for those who remain. The matriarch has spent a lifetime surrounding herself with beautiful and valuable art pieces. From famous paintings to gorgeous furniture, from impressionist sculptures to a post-modern vase, these objects of inheritance can end up becoming burdens in the end. How many times have we stopped in on an estate sale to marvel at the collection of stuff people have left for others to deal with? It's shocking to see and hardly anything will ever be cherished with the same feelings as of the original owner. In the case of this esteemed French family, we are taken to a much more elevated extreme of this idea and most of the conflict between the siblings comes down to how they can accommodate their inheritance equitably and with respect to their mother's legacy. Played by Charles Berling, Juliette Binoche and Jeremie Renier respectively, they bring poise and a nuanced air to their roles that we ultimately recognize as love for one another. They are polite, honest and ambitious, which reflects on the way that they were raised, another gift passed on by their mother. Though many of her collected works do end up in a museum, looking spare and beautiful, there's a longing that yearns for the utilitarian necessity of the past when these objects were still useful; a vase that should be filled with flowers or a desk in need of clutter.

What do we cherish after all is said and done, after a life has been fulfilled? Assayas reveals what is at the heart of the matter by the way the narrative moves through the film. We pass from the perspective of the Grandmother at the beginning of the movie, then become ensconced in the lives of her children as they come to terms with her death and finally we end with the grandchildren and a big bash they hold for their friends shortly before the ancestral home is to be sold. Assayas hands off the responsibility of life through each generation as if it's a baton, these memories and feelings that cling to us after all the years. This third generation cares for the objects of the past least of all but that doesn't mean that they are callous to what is passing.

When Sylvie, the oldest grandchild, pauses in a meadow with her boyfriend, she recalls how her Grandmother often brought her there when she was younger. She's struck by the power of the place and it overwhelms her heart so much that quiet tears spring out of her. She truly understands what has become lost here. It's a moment that is so pure and silent that it only belongs to her, not even her boyfriend knows how to penetrate her delicate space. The moment passes as all moments do and Sylvie quickly tries to escape any intrusion to her thoughts, but every time you break away from that intimate caress with the past and with each passing day, those memories become less clear, like an old unattended country home that has grown thick with vines and moss and weeds.

Movie Concept #4

Kontrol

So here’s what I think.

We should make a movie that is filmed entirely in the Budapest subway system. Simply because it is so intricately unique and amazing that we won’t need to focus on more demanding issues such as plot. The subway is such a wonderful character all on its own that we won’t even need fully developed characters in our film!

Well, wait, we need to have at least one character and he will represent all of humanity. He will be the limitless potential and disappointment that embodies all of us. His story will simply be one huge metaphor for how we, as human beings, must delve into the underground recesses of our souls to deal with the duality of human nature, Narrowed down to that one ultimate question we must all face.

Good v.s. Evil.

How do we respond?

We represent his evil side with an ominous hooded stranger that pushes people in front of trains and his good side? Why a beautiful young woman who is ready to swoon magically and poetically of course! They are constantly struggling with his psyche; the angel and devil on his shoulders and depending on who wins he will either fall deeper into the pits of hell (aka the bowels of the Budapest subway system) or ascend to the bright world above and find redemption.

Which way should I go? Which way should I go? Murderer or lover? Genius or leper? It all seems so black and white, this question of good versus evil. But is the choice ever as simple as apples and oranges?

2 Stars-At least there's a beautiful girl to pull us out of the doldrums

MOVIE CRITIQUE #3

The United States of Leland

Our culture is schizophrenic.

I watched the superbowl this year and unfortunately was bombarded with paid advertising of the worst kind (enormous amounts of money for a few paltry seconds). There was a commercial by Godaddy.com that mocked the talk of censorship by fanatical reactionaries that has filled the media landscape since Janet Jackson’s wardrobe malfunction from the year before. In the spot, a well-endowed young woman is trying to persuade a government hearing on indecency that her commercial is suitable for viewing, but while she shows them what she’s going to do in the commercial a shoulder strap breaks and she almost spills out of her halter top. Meanwhile the grumpy old men hem and haw as they desperately scramble for their oxygen masks. It was quite amusing and worked as a lighthearted attempt to show the absurd idea that a few decrepit souls are deciding what decency means for the rest of us. Well, apparently that commercial was supposed to run later in the game, but a worn-out old guy with power (who was obviously offended, I don’t know why?) decided that it wasn’t appropriate viewing for the innocent families out there watching the most violent sport in Amerika (besides boxing, but can you really call two guys beating the crap out of each other truly a sport?). I guess he failed to understand the important message hidden deep within the content, perhaps he was only able to focus on the more obvious aspects of this 30-second spot. The crazy thing about it is that there was at least one other commercial that had a woman revealing even more of her indecency, but since it was the type of advertising that we find on our television, our billboards, our magazines, our newspapers, our computers, everywhere everyday then no one bothered to get hot under the collar.

My cousin recently got back from Kiribati. She realized that many of the aspects of our culture are very twisted seen through the eyes of others. It took immersing herself completely within another society for her to understand that things she completely accepted before were actually quite destructive. One of the great flaws of the Amerikan mentality is that “our way is best”. Our government is trying to spread the idea of democracy to all corners of the globe, just as long as it’s our version of democracy. Missionaries push their version of the truth on natives everywhere, without opening their hearts to the value that already exists within these various cultures. This is something she experienced first hand when she was forced to wear a dual-skirt-short outfit so as not to reveal any part of her crotch area, which was deemed unsuitable by the Mormon missionaries that settled there. Why do we get to decide for the rest of the world what is good or bad, right or wrong, decent or indecent? What is it about our way of life that makes it superior to all others? Why are we so goddamn arrogant?

If a society is the best wouldn’t the people of that society reflect the wonder and greatness for the entire world to see? If a culture is so fabulous then why would they have to do so much to convince others how wonderful it is? Shouldn’t the example be enough? None of it makes sense when you look around and see so much sadness. It’s infused in our society. We constantly take drugs to counteract the problem but more and more people are getting depressed every year. We put on masks of happiness while our eyes show what’s really going on inside. We go around acting civil but then listen when the devil on our shoulder convinces us to destroy that civility. Suddenly were in compromising situations that require even more dishonest activity, anything to avoid responsibility. Many people who support the Anti-gay marriage constitutional amendment have been married more than once. Many of the people who oppose abortion support the death penalty or the war agenda. Most of the people who are against providing a reasonable wage to the working class are the biggest supporters of corporate welfare. Many of those who are against the separation of church and state only think that it should pertain to their religion. Many of the leading advocates for “family values” would prefer that public education be abolished. We are told to believe in freedom but can’t make decisions on our own about what is indecent. We are constantly being bombarded by hypocrisy and we are constantly struggling to fight against the apathy that it creates within us. If we are going to succeed we have to fight against the message of confusion that haunts our culture. We must struggle to live the ideals that this country was founded on so that one-day others may see the wonders of our civilization with their own eyes. We won’t have to convince them of anything.

Or we can do what Leland does. We can kill someone who represents the complete frustration that we feel in ourselves. We can murder someone retarded.

(C-) --maybe...if you don't have to pay for it

MOVIE RAP #2

8 Mile

There’s a place where guys wear ski-caps even when there ain’t no snow and two-bit academy award winning actresses save their lives by winning at bingo.
It ain’t perfect and everyone wants to leave, somehow-someway, hoping they won’t be stuck there for eternity.
But you got friends you can count on and a boss that you hate, and you rhyme and you rap instead of debate and if you’re good enough you just might clear the slate.

There’s this guy, his name’s rabbit, and he learned long ago to remain empty and blank and just let the insults flow.
To keep his face quiet and still just like a ghost until it’s his time to be an ungracious host
And shut you up, slap you down using words as a weapon 'til you look like a clown with a frown that don’t know what happened.
Then your ears fill with ridicule, taunts and laughter, and all you can do is slink off, tail between your legs, into the hereafter.
And why is this guy with the ghost-stare so fucking together, raised by a rundown brainless deadbeat mother no matter the weather?
She’s jobless, phoneless, makes mistakes, is being evicted. Shit, she can even get her young stud to lick it.
Meanwhile her daughter hides under the table without a father 'til Rabbit comes home and acts the noble brother,
Being the dad she never had, or wait, maybe he’s the dad and that’s why he’s always beating mom’s boys and doesn’t want his friends over at his pad.

I suppose I should be grateful that my life ain’t like his, but let me sum it up real quick, it’s like this.
A constant struggle to keep your anger in check, and falling in love with a girl who looks like a wreck,
A cadaverous whore searching for the best guy to pork who might get her the fastest ticket to New York.
Until a final revelation reminds you that you’re all alone, and can only count on yourself if you want to atone
And move forward in life until you finally get enough respect to get a movie made about you that the masses won’t reject.

(D+) --don't waste your time

MOVIE DREAM #1

Mulholland Drive

Dreams, hallucinations, in a town where dreams are bought and sold on a whim. How can someone who aches for love, knows it, lives it then loses it…go on living? How will they dream? Is love only a dream that is buried under sheets or stuffed in the back of the closet or tucked between the pages of a book. This desire growing within us before we can even see, before we even know what to look for. But imagine touching it, tasting it with all that you are, all that you ever imagined but more, then being told that it means nothing. Laughed at, shoved down, disgraced. Maybe it was only a dream. Maybe that’s all it could ever be.

A dream I had last night. The movie still a fingerprint on my mind.

I see myself sitting at a table. People I know are there. People who raised me. People who I was raised with. The table is round and I can see everyone who sits at the table with me. They are all younger than I am. They seem so young. A saint is feeding me with eyes that always smile…no cackle. Maybe she’s a witch. She serves me pita bread filled with a dark soft substance. “It’s snake,” she says and hands me a small container, “sprinkle this cheese over it. It’s okay.” I trust her but I don’t know why. Her progeny sit around me with mouths that chew and grin. I try to eat the pita but the bottom falls out spilling the food back onto my plate. This time when I look up I see someone new. She wasn’t there before, a young girl with wholesome eyes. The ache I feel when I look into her eyes, I know that I will fall in love when I see them in real life. But then they pierce me. They say, “You don’t know how to see. Look again.” Then I understand. It isn’t love that I will see. It will be hope.

Quite often this dream is lost on ideas like success, ambition and victorious triumph. In reality it is riding along with us in everything we do. It gazes at the world with wonder. It sprinkles sparkle in our desire, and simmers lurking after the wind when the cold has overtaken us. It is beyond our thoughts and it never is completely lost, even in despair. It is much more than a hallucination and we do not exist in it alone.

There is a place that wants to pull this dream from your grasp. A place that conceals love in the nightstand drawer in the name of a gun. This place devours hope to satiate its hunger. It salivates at the sound of failure and laps at the tears spilled upon its skin. It burns to earn and conquer and take. It doesn’t understand that the fresh face across the table with wide eyes is the very reason this place exists. It’s hope! Hope that we can all be seen with wonder. Hope that we can love the way that our hearts have always promised. Hope that there is more to life than what it seems. Hope beyond all this naked hatred.

All of this may be true. Somewhere…but not here. Not this place. This is L.A. for chrissakes!

(A) --you must rent this DVD