Re-Make/Re-Model

When I saw the title, I had expected it to be the musical journey of Roxy Music. I was rather disappointed therefore while half way through, it was still not getting there. I was thinking at several points that if I were the author, I would have be discussing the emerging music scene around that time, or at least a brief summary of it, to give the claim of Roxy Music's 'uniqueness' a more solid musical context. But apparently, this was not what the author had in mind.

But what makes the book less an great read is some of the claims repeatedly made by the author. Well, we all know Roxy Music, don't we? But some of the claims made need more evidence to prove.

The book however is nevertheless a great read, especially if we could adjust our expectation a bit. It is like an oral history that tries to trace the coming into being of an musician who practised the idea of creating pop art in every aspect of it, leading the way of performer being an artistic product in its own overall presentation.

Having recently read a biography of a woodcarver from the 18th century North East England, which includes a good description of the region, the first chapter in the Re-Make/Re-Model feels like a continuation of that discussion, albeit with a jump of two decades. The chapters on the artistic scene in both Reading and London are interesting as well, and provide a lot of historical and cultrual context of the era of great changes.

As my boss is a great fan of Bryan Ferry and hence we would be listening to him 'dancing away his pain' always every few days through her mini speakers connected to her iPod. It was a shock therefore when I played my collection of Roxy Music, and found that it was not until their third album was on that I started to recognise some of its tunes, and their Avalon before I heard all the hits coming out from my boss's iPod.

Listening to them chronologically did seem to prove some of the points critics have made: with the departure of Eno soon after album no 2, how the band had gradually become less avert garde and more of a personal project of leader Bryan Ferry, and by Avalon, the complete merge of the two: a Roxy Music project and his own personal vision/style.

Critics haven't been particularly kind to Bryan's sole project, and my experience of watching his performance in Opera House in Newcastle six or seven years ago with an overcrowded stage packed with 'sexy babes' had more or less damaged his image as a cool artist when you listen to his 'mannered' voice through sound system only. Since the book finishes at the point soon after the release of their first album and the arrival of fame, it has not shed much light on the transformation of the last three decades of an 'artist' who appeared to be leading a musical/artistic revolution of the late 1960s and early 1970s. But what the book has achieved is no small feat nevertheless, though I would have appreciated it a lot more if those interviewed were not so self-important at some points.

Satyajit Ray

The first half an hour is sluggish, and probably because it looks like a black and white melodrama, it reminds me of some of the classics of the first blossom of Chinese cinema, that of the melodramas made in the 1930s to 1940s. But gradually the film picks up its pace and it begins to make sense especially from the point where the husband finds himself losing his job and no longer in the position to dictate his wife's future. The Big City is an incredible film in that it depicts with vivid and acute details in everyday life the shift of power of gender in the family. The performance by the young and gorgeous Madhabi Mukherjee is simply great with her magic transformation from a timid house-bound wife who relies on her husband for nearly everything to that of a woman who dare to stand up to her boss for a fellow saleswoman/competitor.

If Madhabi Mukherjee proves herself to be capable of a starring role on her own right, then The Lonely Wife seems to testify even further that with a good script and a good director, she can carry the film entirely on her own strength as an actress.

But the merit of The Lonely Wife is not just the supreme performance from that of a great actress in her creative peak, a good script and wonderful direction, it is a supreme work as a whole, whichever aspect one chooses to focus on: cinematography, the proms, etc. The scene in the garden, a rare one taken from outside the confine of a upper class house, is one of the most poignant. An apparently overgrown and neglected place, it is however a romantic and beautiful place that seems to be full of potentials, like the heroine who is sadly neglected by the husband and fits in the words corned by husband, 'idle rich'. Leading a self-contained life that awaits for something to happen or to be discovered, she is suddenly transformed into a lively woman that is capable of just anything.

I must have watched no less than three films from Satyajit Ray, but it is the three films grouped together in the first volume of his collected works that won me over. It proves that one shall never give up exploring old and new 'territories'.

Repast

Another film by Mikio Naruse, this time though, not starring his favourite actress Hideko Takemine with whom he had made some of his best, but by Ozu's default lead lady Setsuko Hara, who epitomised the 'ideal woman' in Ozu's masterpieces.

Filmed at the prime of her career, Hara looks every bit as elegant and charming under Ozu, and the character she takes on attractes admiration on her appearance from everybody across the board. However, the look is where the similarities ends. In the world of Ozu, whatever roles she plays, she is that traditional woman; a subordinate on all accounts, whose sole purpose of life is to make everybody around her happy, even at her own expenses. She might have her own thoughts and ideas but she would almost always supress it if it conflicts with those of the others, especially that of her immediate family. Whatever happens, she accepts her fate with a smile and cries of her own pain only when no-one is around.

In Repast however, we encounter a woman who dares to question what she can get out of a life as a housewife. After five years marriage, she finds herself worn out by the domestic drudgery imposed on a housewife, and worse still, her husband does not only never help out at home, but prefers his newspaper than engaging in a conversation with her. While she is making sacrifice to keep the book balanced, her husband takes advance payment to sponsor his selfish niece's fancy daydream when she pays an uninvited visit and overstays her welcome.

Unlike any of the women played by Hara in Ozu's films, Hara's character in Repast decides enough is enough and returns to her native Tokyo to think things through, to seek opportunities and employment, leaving her salaryman husband to look after himself.

The film gets very interesting indeed at this point, not only because it is by then rather clear that her handsome and much better-off cousin is one of her longtime admirers, but more importantly, a woman's voice is heard, raising a very interesting question; where her place should be, that of a self-fulfillment at workplace or tied to the kitchen sink for the rest of her life.

The film however ends with her train journey back home with her husband snoring by her side, accompanied by her voiceover that her happiness is to make her husband happy, because after all, he has been 'bravely' working everyday in order to maintain their home. Given that chance of employment for women seems rather grim, and that her mother's home is in fact not as welcoming as she has anticipated, returning to her husband seems to be the only option for an unemployed married woman. But the ending nevertheless seems too abrupt and too ready to succumb to the convention of the time.

The film was made in 1951, a time when Japan was still struck by extreme poverty after the defeat during the Second World War. What the ending would be if the film was remade?

PS: it has been argued that Naruse and Ozu were rather similar in their approaches at their early careers, but their mature works could not be more different. And indeed, although Ozu has always fixed his camera on the domestic world, Ozu never let it enter the kitchen, and has therefore deprived us any slim chance of learning about the hard labour behind a polished home. In Repast however, Hara is filmed for a number of times as working in the dingy and small kitchen, highlighting her misery as a housewife of a salaryman. The same Hara therefore has a very different experience in Naruse's film from that of the Ozu's.

E M Forster

Morgan: A Biography of E.M. Forster is a fascinating book in which Nicola Beauman assesses in great details how life and fiction were interwoven, or how the former informs the great novels. I am not sure I am entirely convinced by the argument, but a good read it certainly is.

As a result, I decided to revisit his novels (though the only novel I remember reading was Where Angels Fear to Tread, which I found 'difficult' in my university days, and thus probably put me off from his other works - even if they were available back in the mid-1980s in a university library that was strong on 'classics' but weak on anything contemporary). While this needs some organising and input, I have taken the easier option of revisiting the film adaptations to start with.

Thanks to August, an anglophile, I have watched all of the film adaptations, mostly when they were broadcast on a Hong Kong English channel, back in the 1990s. Some of them, A Room with A View and Maurice to be exact, proved to be so popular, that they were shown a number of times on this channel. It came as a real disappointment therefore that both of them are under 'restricted viewing' list in the national library. Having been disappointed many times by the censors here, it is no surprise that Maurice is under this category, but A Room with A View?! There seems to be no logic in it at all.

And so I watched Howards End again last night, which, apart from the two lead actress in it, I could barely remember much from my previous viewing in China. I remain immensely grateful therefore to the biography.

Judex

I cannot believe what I have just done: to watch yet another multi-episodes film from Louis Feuillade.

Made in 1917, Judex still has all the rough edges and chaotic excitements of his last two, but lessons have been learnt, especially in tightening the narrative. The result? A much more satisfactory experience in that the structure and devices resemble those of the contemporary ones and the plots are certainly more logical and tight.

The Louis Feuillade seemed a true pioneer: if Fantomas is a thriller which refuses to settle on who is the monster Fantomas; Les Vampires launching a new genre that continue to inspire many; then Judex is one that pioneers the Superhero genre. And of course like all his works, it also gives us fascinating insight into the taste and fashion of its day.

It lasts for 5.5 hours, but there is not a bored moment.

Sidney Poitier and For love of Ivy

I had picked this one from the shelf because of Sidney Poitier. Probably one of the most elegant man in the world, his performance in In the Heat of the Night, just a year before this one he co-wrote, was immaculate. Together with his two other films, also made in 1967, Sidney established himself as one of the best of actors. I had high hope for both the film and his performance in For Love of Ivy.

I don't think he had let me down in terms of performance as an actor, but the script could certainly be much improved if he or those around him were not so anxious to project a role model for the black community. The protagonist was not exactly those impecable ones as in the three films made in the height of his career, 1967, (including: To Sir, with Love; Guess Who is Coming for Dinner), but still the script-writers appeared too timid and rather reluctant to go beyond the 'an admirable hero with flaws' definition and I also found his co-star, the stylish Abbey Lincoln too well-groomed for a maid whose only ambition was to become a secretary (because she knew not what else she wanted). The normal/tight control of the Hollywood machine was at work, though it was not of Sidney's doing, it did make this particular film rather flat, contrived and lacking in edges. The follow up was an anti-climax.

À nous la liberté

This film by Rene Clair had got a lot of iconic and even comic moments: the prison scene where prisoners were sitting along a long table making models/toys under the suspicious eyes of the prison guards; the many grim factory sequences where workers clocked at the gate, queued up for their shifts; the interior of the factory that bored striking resemblance to that of a prison; the assembly line that kept workers working around the clock; the scene where everybody was trying to grab a big note blowing in the wind; the final shot where the two prison friends found themselves on the road again, having lost everything that belonged to them - dreams, a good life, and the prospect of a home. The film closed on an apparently a sad note, but with their love for a good tune and their appetite for a good laugh, they also seemed the happiest of all human kind.

Made in 1931 when sound was at its infantry, it was fascinating to see how directors then faced up the challenge of sound. In this case, the not so immaculate use of sound actually enhanced its rough charm. The prolong quiet moments interrupted by unexpected dialogues and music usually brought constant surprises as no clues were given as to when/whether there would be a song or a dislogue!

The real shock came when I read the plagiarism charge brought by its producer to the silent movie classic Modern Times, for it was then I realised why those iconic comic scenes seemed so vaguely familiar - although of course, this one was made a few years earlier than the Modern Times... If Charles Chaplin was indeed innocent, then it was a real wonder how close sometimes people's ideas were. Modern Times might be more funny for its gags, but I am most impressed by how fresh À nous la liberté is even today.

Jean Gabin and Pepe le Moko

I watched this Pepe le Moko by Julien last night. The film was fascinating on two accounts: firstly, the setting in the maze like seaside hilly town Casbah where first time visitors were bound to get lost in its many seemingly dead end lanes and multi-layered courtyards; secondary, the title role played by the charming Jean Gabin in his prime.

As marvelled by the police who could not figure out a way to catch Pepe the gangster as long as he stayed in Casbah, this laid back town was a culturally diverse one that looked like an miniature United Nation. Not only its residents were from different ethnic and racial groups, but the style of architecture also reflected it rich cultural heritage of its residents. Always sunny, the cinematography had taken advantage of both the natural light and its interesting architecture styles and turned it one of the most intriguing place ever caught in cinema.

As to Jean Gabin, a veteran film star in French cinema since the 1930s, he was effortlessly the epitome of charisma. I must have seen more than a dozen of films he starred in now, and I am yet to cease to be charmed by the characters he played and the ease he carried in all roles. My favourite moment of his had to be the brief scene in Jean Renoir's French Cancan where we found him sitting backstage tabbing his hands and feet in the rhythm of the music performing on stage. He knew the routine so well by then (though it was the opening performance) that he did not have to watch the stage performance to know what was exactly happening outside. He had a contented look on his face and seemed a man on his most satisfactory moment in life.

Pepe le Moko was said to be the early form of film noir, and indeed, it was, though in a much lighter way.

Gregory Peck

I thought I had watched everything by Hitchcock (the American period at least), but apparently not The Paradine Case. It wasn't even half as good as his best works, mainly, I think due to the weak script. The other disappointment is Gregory Peck who played the defence lawyer. Wooden is the word I would use to describe his performance and I was amazed to find that though his good looks was impeccable, the charm was absent somehow and there seemed to be a void in his brain. Pity is not enough to describe my disappointment because until that point, he was one of my childhood favourite actors, and I would have defended his name regardless of what others have to say about him. Not any longer.

The bad sleep well

I love both the title and the film made in 1960 by Akira Kurosawa. It is more than 2 hours long, but there has never been a dull moment. It captures the Japanese corporate culture vividly (or at least the one, stereotypical ones? that we know of) and explores in depth the true complicity in human: where lust, evil, love and tenderness can be bundled together in the main characters.

The film starts with a group of journalists rushing into a grand hall to observe a wedding in process. Amazingly, in the nearly 15 minutes sequence, the bunch of suit wearing journalists have all remained a respectful distance from the main hall where the invited guests are. They must be what can be called 'paperrazzis', trying to catch the latest development of a corruption scandal. Yet how civil and different they are from the contemporary ones! Even those with cameras have stayed away from the action/main hall and would only take snaps when they are instructed by, apparently, their superiors, who do not seem to carry anything with them! Not even a pen or piece of paper. Those were the days then when strict social and class distinction is still at work, and that although the competitiveness of media industry was already evident, rivals are still sharing their insiders' knowledge.

I have apparently watched a number of films by the lead actor Toshiro Mifane who plays the son-in-law in the film, both in works by the same director and others. On the cover, it says that he played the bandit in Roshomon, but no matter how hard I tried, I just could not figure out which role he was playing in this one! Perhaps this is just a proof of how versatile he had been. I might revisit Red Beard and Spider Web Castle, just for the performance from one of the greatest actor in Japan.

I was not convinced of the proclaimed greatness of Aikra Kurasawa, but after The Bad Sleep Well, I think I might have changed my mind a bit.

Coincidentally I have also got Shakespeare Retold in my pile of DVDs from the library and I would love to see how they differ in adapting Shakespeare in contemporary settings.

Sacret games

I have just finished reading this 'epic' by Vikram Chandra. It is over 900 pages long and it did feel like a journey when I was reading it over many weekends and late nights. It is a book that aims high and tries to engage readers with many layers of the Indian life that crosses two centuries. I enjoyed most of it, especially that on the police force, and in particular mundane encounters of the Sikh policeman. The bits on the gangster, though interesting at the beginning, was a trying later on. Firstly, I was not convinced that the narrative voice was appropriate throughout the novel. But one of the biggest slang had to be the endless preaches from 'guru', which was a bore, and I ended up skipping quite a few pages from the second half of the novel.

This is of a hybrid genre and I wonder what it was like to read his earlier works. Would be interesting to find out.

So far, my favourite novel by Indian authors is still 'The God of Small Things' by Arundhati Roy. Both writers are involved in film-script writings. I image VC's film would be materials for typical Bollywood stuff, when AR's could be more like an European cinema.

A friend of mine once commented that the best writers these days are from India. I think he might have a point here.

Fantomas

Another series of film that lasts for 5.5 hours by Louis Feuillade, made a year or two earlier than Les Vampires. Though the plots were even more 'naive', and at times even more nonsensical than Les Vampires, the tone is considerably lighter and it is more fun to watch.

I was intrigued mostly by the scenes which seemed to be taken in location and therefore provided a lot of historical insights not just in interior design, architeture, but also the way of living in pre-war France. The series also involved the police and a resourceful journalist, but unlike Les Vampires, the focus is more on the police. Again, the police or even the justice system was depicted as quite hopeless and was always outwitted by the criminals!

Interestingly, althought the series was made earier than Les Vampires, the performance was more contemporary in that the actors (or at least in the first of the five episodes) did not make it a point to stare at the camera and mouth their thoughts to the audience.

Fascinating watch!

Burnt by the sun

I experienced a moment of epiphany when I finished watching Burnt by the Sun and hoped its theme music would continue to play, forever.

It is simply one of the best I have watched for a long while.

To my disappointment, I cannot find anything about Nadia Mikhalkov who was the soul of this most touching film.

Les vampires

I watched this 336 minutes long film over three days. This 'legendary' silent thriller by Louis Feuillade is more like a historical document that serves to remind us how conventions, technologies, and tastes have evolved and changed ever since the first of ten episodes was made in 1915.

'Popular' with its contemporary audience, I am sure even a toddler today can spot some of the cracks in the plots. It was also obvious that the technologies of the mid-1910s would not allow shooting in dim light, and therefore all the street scenes at night are identical to those of the day time, making it sometimes rather confusing (even in this rather simple plot story) to follow the sequences of events. The actors, male or female, young or old, all seem extremely athletic and were capable of climing up the walls like a monkey on a tree! In terms of performance, it was a norm for the main characters to share their points of view by looking at the camera for a few seconds and even telling us with silent lips their inner thoughts as if failing to do so would hinder the communication with the audience!

There are things though which remain unchanged despite the thriller has moved on so much with the advance of technologies. For example, pairing the protagonist with a comic sidekick is still the norm, and while the lead has to stand up to scrunity in all aspects (and therefore a bit boring), his sidekick would usually have all the fun for human being, humourous and even naughty. I am charmed by the actor who played the sidekick in this film and found him most endearing and funny.

The major impact though is how the police was represented. It was not just that events evolve around the journalist, his sidekick, and the vampires, and that all the leads of crimes resulted from the (supernatural) instinct, extreme alertness, talents, hard working and integrity of the protagonists, but even at the scenes where police was present, it was them who gave orders to police as if they were their commanding officers!! Alfred Hitchcock never trusted the police, but it was here that they were rendered entirely redundant as if they were a mere group of salaryman in uniform!

The Vampires reminds me of Irma Vep, starring Maggie Cheung and directed by Oliver Assayas. The only thing I can remember the 'remake' of 1996 was how obscure and complicated it was. I wonder if I can understand it a bit better.

Tell no one

Last Saturday afternoon, I spent nearly four hours in one of the viewing rooms in Esplanade to watch two French films: 8 Femmes, and, Tell No One, both are available only for in-house restricted viewing.

It became pretty 'clear' less than half way through why 8 Femmes is on restricted viewing. The culprit is not violence or nudity, but the lack of sense of morality in all characters, and I can see the censors here finding it contradicting severely with the 'shared traditional values' purportedly upheld by the Singapore society. Honestly, it is a film I would not recommend to anyone, unless, like me, they are avid for any things from the stars.

I am never into musical, and I found it horrifying in particular when the 8 femmes, old or young, take turns to spring into a sing and dance routine whenever they delve into their inner selves. The singing episodes interrupt the overall narrative, and also crash with the overall mood of the backdrop of the film - that of the murder of the only patriach figure. Although the victim was revealed at the end as a monstor, and therefore not worthy of any sympathy, it does not 'justify' the singing and dancing acts put on by all characters.

What surprises me most is how come a film of such a bad script and bad taste could attract some of the best actresses in French cinema.

***

I have been looking for Tell No One ever since I was bewitched by a Guillanme Canet in Hunting and Gathering. It is unexplicable because his earlier Love Me if You Dare never made any impression on me. Tell No One is thrilling indeed but the show is stealt by the minor character Bruno, the gangster who rescued the hero when he was on the run from police. I still prefer Hunting and Gathering for its casual charm, and the chemistry between Audrey and Canet.

The last man that knows you

It is less than two minutes long and there is just one phrase which is repeated in chorus many a time: the last man that knows you. I was hooked by this debut album from Beyond when I first heard it back in the early 1990s, and now it still sounds as fresh as it ever was.

The album was in fact a self-financed demo album from the pop band from Hong Kong. I have never heard anything so raw yet so charming and powerful from that territory since. The energy and the drive is not uncommon in the debut albums of some of the most successful bands. The album is named Goodbye Idealism and how sad this seemed to be exactly what they had to do in their pursue for survival and success in Hong Kong pop.

A prison diary

When I heard somebody commented a couple of years ago that it was 'very well-written', I thought 'well, naturally, you have read all of his books'. I had not followed Lord Jeffery Archer's case fully; but it was so high profile that it was unlikely for anyone to be able to miss it if you were living in the UK at that time. He seemed to have acted shamelessly and the idea that he would publish a series of books on his prison experience sounded like daylight robbing and downright disgraceful.

I am now down to its second series (of three), and I realised last night that I had been preferring to miss my films on DVDs rather than missing the chapters. Yes, I find it a problem that he has discussed many a time that the judge had not given him a fair summery and sentence, yet never a word has been uttered on his own act of perjury to lead to his public downfall. But if you can put that aside for a while, it is a very powerful document written with great simplicity, clarity, and fluency. So on one hand, I find myself trying to maintain a critical distance from the writer who had instigated his own fall, on the other, I am eager to find out what would happen to him next - surrounded by social outcasts of violent or severe crimes. I now believe that it was not just for his own sanity that he should keep and publish his diary, but also for the greater good of the inmates and the general public alike. It is his duty as a 'lord', public figure, writer, to raise the profile of those many issues that had frustrated so many on both sides of the high wall. For that, well done.

Mad world, my masters

If reading The Troublesome Offspring of Cardinal Guzman was like navigating in the a pitch dark tunnel, then Mad World, My Masters was like, well, driving a fast car without a fixed destination in mind. It was thrilling, absorbing and time went fast one pages were turned. It was breezy all day yesterday and I could not think of anything better to do except for trying to find out what happen next.

As someone who seldom has television on, or at least not for news, I have never watched Simpson's World or John Simpson's television reporting in great length. But the fame was such that when Have I Got News for You chose to tease him on his outfit in one of his assignments to the middle east, I found it incredible that even a highly respectable journalist (not politician) would get 'treatment' like that.

Then when I reached the recollection on the Hong Kong handover, especially the remarks on what MIGHT be inside the minds of the Chinese mandarins at the function hosted by the Chinese government, which he was not invited, a light shed on my brain and that episode of HIGNFY suddenly seemed to make perfect sense. There he was doing what a professional journalist should have restrained from doing: allowing himself to form a casual generation of a group of people/country/regime he did not know well enough. His opinion was neither new nor strange in Western media; in fact, that attitude and approach of his towards all things to do with Communist China underlies the majority of the British media coverage. In reflection, I was only disappointed because I had expected him to be an exception.

When a man loves a woman

I watched the film version last night and found its script underdeveloped and the performance especially that of the leading actor rather wooden and lacking in depth. It was a waste because the film could go many directions but in the end, it didn't get anywhere at all and ended up being a rather bland one. It almost felt as if the scriptwriter was afraid of its appeal if it were brave enough to treat the subject in depth by showing the gritty bit of real life experiences. Perhaps the fact that it was led by one of the most charismatic leading actor of the time and the then the 'heart of romantic comedy' (of the 1990s) didn't help either because they had their certain images to maintain?

The title song played in full in the opening sequence was also misleading in the way it made the audience to anticipate a rather different type of film. But ultimately, it is a punishment to people like myself who feel at times that since certain actors are in it, then I have the obligation to watch it. This is not the first time it happened, and it won't be the last either.

Sense and Sensibility

There are at least two versions of BBC drama 'Sense and Sensibility' in the public library, one made in 2008 with many new faces, the other in 1981 which looked even less familiar. I had been rather disappointed by the new version, because in comparison to the film adaptation of 1996, a lot of the added or 'modernised' details seemed trivial and insignificant to me. I regarded the film the most loyal to the novel, despite the age gap of Elinor between the two.

When my boss was consulted on it, she urged her husband to pick up the 1981 version without delay. It must be soon after the DVD was returned that I saw it on the 'newly returned' shelf. Her remark prompted me to pick it up and watched it soon afterwards.

Strange how one's opinions could change. Despite being shot in 1981, the images still look rather fresh and appealing, and the actress who played Marianne is the most pretty of the three versions. But the weakness in both the production and the script were rather 'obvious' to me. In comparison, both the film adaptation and the 2008 version take great care when dealing with the implicit psychological impact on the family of the sudden decline in fortune and social status following the death of the patriarch. In both versions, Elinor was the only one who was able to face up its challenges with relative calm and ease. But in the 1981 version, there is no sign of such consideration being taken into account. In addition, it had wiped out Margaret altogether. What a pity considering what the other two versions had done with this minor character in book who was though too young to have any romantic involvements, but a useful one nevertheless to advance the drama or to add humour into the story.

But the 'biggest' failure is in characterisation, especially of Marianne. In the 1981 adaptation, she appeared self-centred until the last episode. Indeed, despite her good looks, she was the least likable of all three variations of Marianne. In the other two versions, she was made to wake up from her errors and selfishness from her sick bed, which seemed more logical, and her change of attitude towards the colonel more natural and human.

In both the film adaptation and the 2008 drama, scriptwriters have taken great pain to make Edward more attractive, or more 'worthy' of the devoted love and affection of Elinor and her family. But I am not sure if the old version had that in mind - which was not a fault in itself because the novel didn't give much space on it either, but shows nevertheless how the time has changed in less than 30 years. The recent producers have wanted audience to identify with Elinor in her love and affection of Edward, while in the 1981 version, it didn't seem to be a concern to the producer. In comparison, this is the only one in which Edward's sister was played by an actress who didn't have a face to match her selfishness.

Update

I watched two black and white films about Second World War recently, one from Hungary, My Way Home (1965?); the other from Japan, Fire on the Plain (1959). Both depicted an attempt to return home of a soldier on the losing side at the end of the war, and in both cases, with sparse dialogues. What strikes me the most though was the landscape in them. Though in stark contrast with each other in terms of the tone and mood, they loomed large in the story as if they were doing the actual talking which were deprived of the skinny young soldiers.

I liked My Way Home in particular which remained me a lot of the Russian novels and films that I came across in school days. The way it related the 'natural' bond and growing friendship between two soldiers on the opposite sides of the war was subtle, effective and convincing. The way the character was portrayed reminded me of a Chinese film made in 1983 by the young Zhang Jundao, a 'Fifth Generation' director, called One and Eight. When One and Eight, shot by the budding cinematographer-turned-director Zhang Yimou, was on television, I had no patience for its slow pace and apparent lack of action, and struggled to understand its critical appeal. And now when I was watching two subtle films of similar subject and style, I seemed to be able to appreciate that Chinese film a little bit better.

Another film that left strong impact on me was Funny Games (1996, the original one). It started like an average film on a middle-class family, but two minutes after the credit sequence, the suspense was already built up and I found myself wanting to switch off the DVD because all seemed rather incredibly crazy. The first half an hour was possibly one of the best suspense/horror film I had ever watched, but after the boy returned to the house following a failed attempt to kill off their torturer, the film seemed to be repeating itself and offered nothing new any more. I finished watching it nevertheless because, as usual, I was also hoping that there would be a twist somewhere. Unable to understand the point of such a film, I turned to the interview in the special feature and found the director was aiming to tell a story about young people from well-to-do background who committed crime just for the sake of it. But if that was the case, then the film was obviously not too keen to make this explicit and had also lost a great opportunity to explore the social and psychological aspects of such criminals.

As to Buffalo Boy, it remained me of a lot of similiar films made in the 1990s in China following the international success of Zhang Yimou's Judo and Raise the Red Lantern. The cinematography was amazingly beautiful, but somehow, the film seemed too eager to conform to a steretypical image of a Vietnam of coloniel times.

The clock

I have watched one film by Liza Minnelli (Cabaret), but none by her parents, Judy Garland and Vincente Minnilli, that is, until yesterday. The Clock was the first film Judy Garland did not sing in and I was happily surprised by its quality and her rather subtle and mature acting.

The Clock interests me mostly though for its 'noises', what was put in 'outside' the main story, namely that of New York city and the people in the street. Joe (played by the young Robert Walker) the soldier was a stranger in the big apple and he was lost there in his 48 hours' leave. In his chance encounters with various people in the street, decent allocation of time was given on the passing individuals who had no consequence on the main events. One of such passersby was a milkman who was on his way for his night shift and offered them a lift and through him, a glimpse of the sleeping city, including a virtuosos performance of a drunkard. Another was a chef in a restaurant after the 'ugly' wedding of the protagonists. He picked a table right next to theirs and during the whole course, he was framed right in the middle of the screen between the two protagonists, rendering his facial expression - that of curious, disdaining and puzzling - the central backdrop of the whole scenario. Such distracting 'noises' added casual but rich and interesting texture to the film, contributing to making the film organic.

Having seen Robert Walker only in Strangers on the Train, I had tried very hard to discern if there was any trace of that character in The Clock and I have to report that yes, but only if you tried very hard - at which point it was questionable if it was induced more by my imagination. I had no answer to that but very sad to read that by The Clock, he had already turned into an alcoholic triggered by the disintegration of his marriage to a Jones, who would become the leading lady of Hollywood for nearly a decade despite her moderate talents.

I am not completely sure now if the fleeting sadness and melancholy on his face was due to his real life event or the character.

Les Cinema de Michel Legrand

I had wanted something light, easy but outstanding last Sunday when I went about my Sunday routine and I found myself reaching the shelf for the 4-CD album Les Cinema de Michel Legrand. It did the trick instantly and for the next four hours or so I was embraced by some of the greatest soundtracks which filled the room with sweet nostagia on a lazy sunny day.

Although I had listened to this album with the booklet in my hand for more than once, for many a moments I still had the urge to check out what was actually being played, or to be exact, which film it was on. The soundtracks were all scored in a short spin of just four years, 1959 to 1963, for a staggering 72 films, and at times, they did sound rather similar to each other, especially those in CD 1 to 3. But this is more a test to my memory and a downside of listening to them all in one go rather than their individual quality.

It was a weird experience when, on one hand, you seemed to know every twist of the score by heart, but on the other, you barely knew anything about the film for which the score was written. And sometimes this could even lead to disappointment. Summer of '42 is a case in point. For years this could easily be one of my favourite tunes, so imagine my excitement when I found the film and the sheer disappointment afterwards!

Luckily though it was not always just disappointment. Coincidentally for instance, I found The Umbrellas of Cherbourg in the library last Saturday and when I put it on the DVD player two days later - it felt as if I was reuniting with some childhood friends when the theme song was coming out from the mouths of the protagonists. Because that was also the first time I understood what the lyrics were about, it felt rather strange as if I had been kept from a heartbroken secret of the dear friend from childhood! It was not a feeling of being cheated but it was certainly a pure magic that we could embrace something without knowing its context or meaning.

I always thought that I have a 'natural' dislike of the genre musical, but I really liked the lighthearted The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, and think the whole film was done beautifully, from the performance, characterisation, use of bright colours, to its simple (deliberately kept?) uncomplicated story, and of course, to its music. Though it was part of a trilogy, I like it better than its predecessor Lola, which was referred to by a character, probably because of the leading actress was more convincing, 'natural' and lovable in the Umbrellas.

It is amazing that such a simple story could work so well and unpretentious on screen. And I believe this has a lot to do with the magic touch French directors are capable of.

Birthday girl

How sterile it is! And what a total waste of an interesting subject! These are some of the thoughts that sprang to my mind when watching Birthday Girl. And I was also wondering how come Nicole Kidman would ever lend herself to such a project without a heart, a project that feels more like one of those sensational stories on a tabloid. The script does not offer any insight into the human and the cultural conflicts, but instead relies heavily on sensations and stock of stereotypes. There is no 'live-in' feel to the setting either. It is a waste of talents on all sides.

I should have asked myself how come I had picked this film among others. And the only answer was perhaps that although I am not a fan of Nicole Kidman (despite The Hours), it was one of those titles that one remembers for no other reasons than the stars in it. And of course, these days one cannot rely on the synpnosis on the DVD. Not only they can get the minute details wrong, but they also on what the film is about.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

I have been visiting the Esplanade library regularly ever since I landed in Singapore some four and a half years ago. I became aware from early on that there are a number of small rooms where one can rent to view a film, but never had I ever been inside or let alone to find out it is so straightforward to gain access to such facilities. The experience of yesterday afternoon took me by surprise.

I noted from my previous visits that the above film was in the state of 'on transit', so yesterday, I tried my luck to see if it was available - only to find that it is on 'restricted viewing'. When I approached the counter as instructed, it took the librarian a little while to find it on her screen, but once she located it, she asked matter-of-factly: 'so you want to watch it now?' By way of explanation, she then added that it was not allowed to take away from the library, but I could use one of the rooms to watch it - at no cost. All she asked of me was but to fill in a form to give my contact details (she didn't bother to check my documents though), and to give her 15 minutes to track down the DVD! I was thrilled.

And so I spent the next two hours there to watch the film... not that it is two hours long, but the DVD controller is rather different and I could not work out how to skip the many trailers before the the start of the film. I was lucky that the room was not as freezing as it normally was, otherwise I could have come out with a cold.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona.
I first heard about it when a colleague asked whether I would like to watch it in the cinema. But by the time we worked out which time that suited us, the film was off the first round of screening in Singapore! A few minutes into the film, I was glad the the failed attempt had relieved me from a possible embarrassment of watching it with a colleague whom I barely know personally.

Sure, it had got most of the Woody Allen trademarks: middle-class well-to-do people who seem to have nothing to care about but their private thoughts and or more spiritual concerns; a voice-over that has developed the the story; an (attempted) murder of passion; endless talks; slightly nerotic people who cannot stop talking; and, of course 'not much action', as a friend puts it in her blog. But that is possibly where the similarities end. It is a very different Woody Allen film, not just that

1 it was not filmed in his beloved native city, NY
2 it did not feature the director (either in person or voice-over)

but also because...

The film is about a whole different generation, the young ones in their twenties or early thirties are now the central characters, rather than say, just a side-kick for being his girlfriend(s) or objects of desire; The story is about free love - not just embodied by nearly all Woody Allen characters, but the central subject matter of the film.

But perhaps the most distinctive differences is that it feels more like a travelogue about Spain with Cosmopilitan type of stories thrown in as an appetiser to keep audience hooked, or the other way round. There is no depth in the characters, and most of the actors, except perhaps for the two Spanish speaking ones, look just like their 'normal selves', and do not give a damn to what they are playing. They are as much as a tourist and in their character roles. What is more, perhaps this is the 'annoying bit', the 'neutral' voice-over is too eager to give out all details so that we can switch off the brains and just 'enjoy the flow'. The easy listening music that plays throughout the film enhances the effect of a travelodge, which helps to make the whole watching experience rather light-hearted, and not at all thought-provoking.

A complete change of tactic in filmmaking for Woody Allen.

Solas

I watched this little gem, English title: Alone, last night. At the beginning I wasn't so sure about it as the heroine seemed too one-sided and a bit of a stereotype: she was short temper, bitter and anguish all the time, whether it was at the hospital when she was given some gentle advice by her father's agreeable doctor, or in her depressingly grim flat where she was supposed to help her visiting mum to settle down between visiting hospital. She had in fact a pretty face (and we were also given a glimpse of her trimmed body many would die to have) but whenever she was in her 'second skin', the loose fitting, masculine and ugly jacket, she shrunk into a trapped animal that matched her dirty little flat: all grim, with no sign of life. When she was on her own, she drank and smoked as if it was her second nature. She was pitiful but she did not deserve our sympathy. Her mother on the other hand was like an angel trapped in an used, out of control body, who took in all the abuse from both her ungrateful daughter and her hospitalised but possessive husband. We didn't know how but gradually she turned the tiny flat, effortlessly, into a place with flowers, warmness and a place to rest. To top that all, she found time to knit for both her undeserving daughter and the doctor's new born, while she was seen quietly developing a friendship with her daughter's downstairs neighbour.

The film didn't give much on how come such a nurturing, and creative in a typical feminine way, mother would have raised such a grumpy and bored daughter, a monster like animal who allowed herself to be consumed by hatred. The only hint, which was repeated on several occasions was the alcoholic and abusive gambling father would hit his offspring whenever the wife was not an immediately available victim. But surely, one would ask, if the mother was so angelic, the relationship between mother and daughter would not have been so frosted and even hostile, and that the caring and creative nature would rub off to the daughter? OK, the mother had let the daughter down in that she had tolerated all her life such a violent husband and seemed powerless when the children were caught in the domestic violence, but why hadn't the daughter picked up something from the resourceful mother? Why the daughter ended up just like her monster father?

But if we can accept that perhaps this is life, that there are times we take after exactly the person we dislike or even hate, then we can start to appreciate the film better. To me, the best parts of the film are the relationship that developed between mother and her daughter's widower neighbour; and that between the neighbour and the daughter after the mother's departure. Both lonely though in different ways, the two elderly soon found comfort in each other's companionship and for a short period, their everyday life evolved with helping each other out in the most mundane yet comforting way as if they were old couples. The performance by Anthony who played the widower was the highlight of the film. He had an expressive face but his performance was always understated but effective. Having lived alone for a while, he developed near 'human' relationship with his dog who understood his master implicitly and would make gestures to console him, which in return gave the widower a natural outlet for his feelings, be it tenderness, excitement, disappointment, frustration or longing for the continuation of the friendship. The relationship between him, a widower and her, a virtual 'widow' was most appropriate of their age and circumstances - who after a lot of sufferings, understood that in spite of themselves, they had to accept life as it was and not to argue with it. They resigned to their obligations and 'fate' but not with too much anguish, or at least not so apparent and strong as what the younger generation, the daughter, who believed she had been done a bad deal by life and hated the whole world for it.

The efforts from the mother's side however eventually left marks on the daughter. When the widower took the first step by visiting her (having been rejected by her mother by a firm promise of any kind), the daughter took the cue to invite him in and a most unexpected but beautiful relationship was developed despite the clashes of their personalities. The last part of the film was one of the most humorous, witty and warm in cinema. Still in her helmet (for believing that she had seen all and that she was the one that had suffered the most), her throne was rounded down bit by bit by the lonely but loving, and indeed handsome widower. It was here that the character of the heroine become more convincing when a more tolerant and human side evolved in the constant fight, negotiation and renegotiation with the widower. The whole scene was shot in the widower's flat which looked warm and inviting, a great contrast to the daughter's flat before her mother's visit.

The Bells at St. Mary

Watched The Bells at St. Mary last night and I understood for the first time why Ingrid Bergman had written to Roberto Rossellini some four years later to offer her service to his project. If roles as in The Bells of St Mary were what a top actress could get back in the mid-40s, then what Roberto was doing at the height of neo-realism Italian cinema was indeed not a breath of fresh air; exciting and adventurously.

Despite the all star cast, the film is dull and the script stagnant. The worst bit though was the scenarios with young children - whose stage performance resembles those of the Chinese counterparts in the dark age of Chinese cinema; between 1949 to 1979 when they were made to talk and behave exactly like adults.

If The Bells was a minor let-down - because I had only picked it up from the shelf thanks to its rather misleading synopsis, then The Bare Foot Countessa could be considered a major disappointment. Probably because of the quality of recording back in the 1940s and his thick voice which made it even more difficult to follow, I have never been able to see the charm of Humphrey Bogart that keeps him 'alive' all these years. What attracted me to it then was Ava Gardner, who, despite her lack of confidence in her acting, was rather good at the job, and I was hoping to find something to convince myself that this was the case.

But the way the story was told put me off entirely: it started from a funeral and ended with a funeral and the part Ava Gardner played was more a case study by her more 'superior' males - all of whom claimed to have some insight knowledge of this female object. In other words, it was a typical example of those films that had been heavily cited and critised by the feminists.

Il Postino

I am surprised that when I google this film, there is not much about it! It was about a journey taken by a fisherman who discovered nature, beauty, metaphors, love, himself and politics through - the poetry by Pablo Neruda (a 'poet of women', he insisted). The music was engaging and Massimo Troisi, who gave his life to the film by delaying his heart replacement surgery, was incredibly authentic in his role of a humble fisherman-cum-postman. And the ever understated Philippe Noiret gave his usual low-key but convincing performance as the exiled Chilean poet.

This was the second time I watched this film. The second taking though was not just because I would like to watch it again, but also because when I saw two copies on the shelf, I could not get over the fact that barely two summers ago, it was on 'restricted' list: which means to borrow it, a letter from the supervisors was required certifying that the title was on the research list of the interested party! And even if the letter was produced, it could only be watched in the library.

At that point, I had already encountered many films, mainly the French ones, whose scenes (usually with a hint of of sex) been erased from the tape, sometimes for up to five scenes and 10 minutes in total in a single film. It was in a quiet Chiswick flat when I could get hold of a copy. Since I presumed it must due to some nude scenes that had offended censored in Singapore, I waited till my friend left his flat before I put the DVD on!

Imagine my puzzle and indeed frustration after watching the film in a sunny summer morning (when one should be taking the advantage of such rare warm weather to walk along the river and admire the swans, black and white). Yes the leading actress sported her sexy curve with revealing low cut dress, and she looked extremely seductive. And yes, there are three sequences where a poem on a naked female body was the centre of the scenes... But so what? It is easy to assume then that it must be the way the Communists had been portrayed - in a human and even favourable light that had led to the restriction.

Whatever the reasons, the lift is a sign of relaxation and progress that should be encouraged and applauded. I celebrated it by watching it again, and when I return it, I will make sure that it is left in the box that marks 'I LIKE it'.

Family matters

I am reading Family Matters by Rohinto Mistry recently and every now and then I have to put the book down because the farce, sorrow and horror in the family drama was such that one has to take a break from it. It dawned to me how similar we humans can be when the social system is identical, in this case, the lack of an established and sound social welfare system that protects the senior citizens and guarantees them the chance to lead a decent life after they lose their earning power.

L'Atalante

L'Atalente was the name L'Atalante is the name of a barge where the story of tender love, jealousy, separation, and reunion between a newly wed young couple. I didn't realise I had watched it some three years ago until when Michel Simon welcomed the bride on board.

Though it was my second viewing, it felt as fresh and powerful as ever. I was impressed with the high calibre performance from all three main actors, in particular that from Dita Parlo whose face and body languages tell a thousand stories. The story was simple but it had a sensuousness and raw touch that never aged - that of human being, the primitive desire that words can never express, and the longing for touch, love, or simply seeing each other and being together. It was also very poetic especially the scene depicting how deeply Jean was missing his wife. Not a word from him about his wife since he abandoned her for jealousy but what a lost soul he had become: he let his beard grow, lost interest in life, and in the end, he plunged his head into a bucket of cold water, and then himself into the river. The 'miracle' - that in water one could see their lovers - was a secret between the couple and therefore his workmates thought it was simply another act of madness from their silent and moody captain. These sequences of Jean's misery, regret and loneliness was almost like a silent movie: the characters of central concern remain quiet silent throughout and all we heard was but occasional expressions of concern from his mates which work more like captions. Yet the power of the image was such that the sentiments of both characters were convened strong and live.

Probably because of its age (made in 1934), the picture looked rather raw but so was its power in reaching the audience. It might be a simple or even a cliche story but the story telling was just magical.

Loves of a blond

There is really no sign of a blond in it; even if the heroine is one, there is no way to tell in this black and white film made in 1965! But this is no complaint at all. It is one of the best films I watched lately. Well scripted and wittily directed, it was perfectly acted with poignant insight of a grim communist state.

There were many highlights and comic moments in this short film. The first was when we saw a civilian with several army officers around a desk. The army officers looked serious and said they had to consult their upper authorities before they could respond. But what was on the table was in fact an invitation to a party. The father figure, who we learnt later on was a manager of a shoe factory was concerned that there were so few boys around that the factory that girls suffered from lack of hugs by men after a hard day's work! The serious faces of the army officers - as if they were considering something of solemn nature - were of great contrast to the shameless behaviours of three army officers who were trying to seduce the girls for a one night stand at the actual party. It says a lot about the hypocrisy of those in the uniform. But it was brilliant also for another reason: the patriarch in the factory manager was the same as that in China barely three decades ago.

The second highlight had to be the party scene when three army 'uncles' (rather than 'boys' as the girls have observed when they alighted the special train) were discussing how to get the three young girls over to sit with them without showing too much interest in them. They called the waiter over and asked him to deliver a bottle of wine to their table but the poor waiter mixed up the tables and gave the bottle to the wrong table where three middle age women were showing signs of boredom and distress for the lack of interest from the roomful of army 'uncles' of their ages who were interested only in girls. And just when they were caught by this surprise gift, one of the 'uncles' marched to the table and grabbed the bottle away!

The climax was the scene at the pianist home when the heroine turned up with a suitcase late at night to everybody's surprise. In the interview included in the DVD, Milos Forman explained that because the couple were played by non-professional actors, all he did was to instruct them to say something to some effect rather than giving them written dialogues. In other words, the wonderfully performed scene of doubt, frustration and anger was largely improvised with the actors composing their own lines! What a genius the woman who played mother was! A human history about the failure of the socialist system across all broad and the more common concerns of a controlling parent could be read in her monologues: disappointment over her husband's earning power, frustration over the gap with her only son, and concerns over his future.

The interview with the director is fascinating to anyone who are interested to compare the film industry of all communist states. Milos was classified, at least through this film, as director leading the 'New Wave' cinema of the early 1960s in Czech. He had wanted something different from the 'socialist realism' cinema around that time, and he wanted to capture the 'real life' of the people he knew so well. With a shoe string budget, he could only have access to two cameras. The solution he came up with to tackle all those 'problems' had actually turned him into an 'innovative' director - or at least so to his contemporaries at home. How similar it was to the circumstances Jia Zhangke found himself in when he first launched his directorial career back in the late 1990s who had got a lot to say (of no interest to mainstream directors!) but not much money to fund his project. What Milos Forman revealed in the interview could well have been written by Jia, especially the bit about improvisation and use of amateur actors. The two were four generations and thousands of miles apart, but they came up with the same ideas, or nearly so.

Jia's Unknown Pleasure has also got a nude scene of the hero, but while the one in his was depressing, the one in Loves of A Blond is both humorous and sexy. That must be the main differences between the two who grew up in socialist countries but in different continents.

The good, the bad and the queen

The more I listen to it, the more I love it.

Don't ask me why. Though it might have a lot to do with the following:
Damon Albarn's voice
the music
the long instrumental piece of the title track at the end

Another album that appears high on my iPod list is At War with the Mystics from The Flaming Lips.

Last weekend, I had also indulged in playing all the Edgar W Froese albums I have got. In the end, I could not tell which is which, and I also lost track of their differences from music from other electronic artists or bands such as Tangerine Dream, Klaus Schulze... But I don't care any more if I remember which is which...

The lady with the dog

A film of former Soviet Union shot in 1960, the cinematography is one of the most artistic of all black and whites. The shades of water when the two protagonists were sitting on a bench by the sea, for example is an memorable one. But the most poignant and poetic is the scene when they meet in Moscow in a wintry day. While they were talking in a room, the camera follows the sound of music and cuts to outside the building where a man is playing flute under the starry night. As the camera is positioned at ground level near the player, the confined space between buildings forms a near V shape and it feels as though he is talking with the twinkling stars above the contained space. Visually the scene is rather dark and bare, leading our imagination to the stars and music which are the stars of that scene.

Inside, the heroine laments that they are like two birds being kept in separate cages. The above scene seems to confirm this in visual forms.

My blueberry nights

I was slightly disappointed by this film: it feels like a diluted version of his previous ones, such as Fallen Angels in its heavy use of night scenes, and Chungking Express, for the repeated sound of a passing train and the lyrics as a diegesis. I have expected something better from Jude Law, and more substantial from Natalie Portman who is brillant in Closer.

As most of his films, the characters are lacking depth and social dimensions. It is like a pop fiction that focuses only on 'now', 'this moment'. And probably due to the constant resort to the soundtrack, it reminds me of A Man and A Woman (1966) from the French director Claude Lelouch which some film critic comments is more like a MTV (born 15 years ahead of its time) than a film!

But does it really matter? After all, not all directors, even the 'greatest ones' have such an knack of how to engage the audience, a sense of rhythm, and are brilliant with improvisation. And maybe for that reason alone, we should give Wong and his gang the due credits.

Jean Renoir

I watched two films by Jean Renoir last week: Toni (1934) and The Rules of the Game (1939). The latter, a flop at its first release, is considered to be the 'best' in cinema history, but to me while it is technically superior to his earlier works, I enjoyed Toni a lot better.

Made in 1934 on shoestring budget, Toni is a rough gem: rough both on the quality of images and the use of largely non-professional actors from the local areas; gem for it is a most delightful works with wonderful sense of rhythm, insightful depiction of human nature, and a great structure that signifies life has a pattern like season and nature. It is 'realistic' both for its use of the natural landscape resulted from location shooting, and for the rich texture of characters brought by the use of non-professional actors. And like some of his other great works of the same period, the characters are never black and white but feel as real as everyday life.

Toni, for its gritty realistic value and sense of poetry reminds me of his other two films that I love: A Day in the Country and The Grand Illusion. Both simple in structure but with great eyes on human nature, they are some of the cinematic greats. The performance in A Day in the Country by Sylvia Bataille is supremely subtle and unforgettable, with a soundtrack working like a brush in creating the mood of the film.

On a different note, Toni reminds me of the early works by a young Chinese director Jia Zhangke who, at the forefront of making gritty realistic films, was actually adopting many methods 'pioneered' by Renoir in his early career, such as working with friends and non-professional actors with strong local accents unintelligible to many, working on un-finished scripts and heavy reliance on improvisation, and location shooting. Different from Renoir though, Jia's insistence on portraying the lower class Chinese living in rural China comes both from his rebelion against the mainstream Chinese cinema and his own experience of growing up in one of the poorest regions in Western China, while Renoir's might have more to do with his artistic and intellectual interests and preference. Jia's early works (Xiao Wu, Platform, Unknown Pleasures) is in a sense a remake of Toni in Chinese contemporary rural context. He is yet to come up with anything as beautiful (and inspirational) as A Day in the Country, or as engaging as The Grand Illusion.

Tess

I watched Tess for the first time soon after its first release. I was rather looking forward to it but after sitting through 172 minutes I was bored and disappointed. Sure the highly praised cinematography is impressive but the film as a whole is lacking in the gripping power I had anticipated from a director who had directed some of my favourites such as Knife in the Water, Repulsion, Cul-de-Sac, Rosemary's Baby and Chinatown. It is probably not the 'fault' of the story per se. An recent adaptation of The Woodlanders deals with similar tragedy owed to steep social gaps and conflicts and yet it is most touching with great performance from Rufus Sewell, who plays the wronged lover.

I suspect that its meritocracy has a lot to do with the performance from the leading lady Nastassja Kinski who though pretty does not carry the weight of a great tragedy. Rather her beauty seems to be too dominating an element and more than often been turned into a clothes rack of the costumes department. The same goes with a number of scenes where the art directors were getting an upper hand of the film. The scene where Tess and her family were evicted from the family home and had to resort to camping in the rough outside 'our church' is a case in point. It was such a showpiece of art design and great photography that it feels more like a bohemian family camping in style rather than a fatal tragedy that would force Tess to return in disgrace to her raper.

That said, my disappointment might well be rooted in other things, such as the hype surrounding it at its first release.

Question time

I am reading Norwegian Wood by a Japanese novelist Haruki Murakami and many a time I caught myself wondering why I was still holding the book. I have never been to Japan and I have only talked with one or two Japanese neighbours, yet I found the characters lifeless and surreal, the story rather trivial and the translation even worse (or should it be the other way round?).

The opening, though sentimental, is enticing enough for me to carry on reading but the conversations between characters - which are used to carry the story through - fail to reflect the differences of age, gender, culture and characters. The protagonist - who is 19 turning 20 feels almost like an middle age salary man who has experienced all and rather disillusioned. Sometimes I thought this novel was more like a bad taste porn movie than a real piece of 'literature' that seems to have gained such a popularity with its home audience.

I have no idea why I would think the characters surreal. Is it because most of my recent 'knowledge' about Japan has mainly come from watching works of Yasujiro Ozu and to a less extent those by his contemporaries before the 1960s?

When I searched on the net to find out more about the novel, I was dismayed to find that it is now being made into a film by a Vietnamese French director... I wonder what I have missed in the book that is so great for a director whose debut was The Scent of Green Papaya.

Coal miner's daughter

I came across a newly digitalised Coal Miner's Daughter. Although I had technically watched it, I grabbed it from the shelf with a rather mixed feeling.

It must be 1984 when I first watched it - during the what must be the first American Film Festival in China. Hungry for anything different and from the English speaking world, we - myself and some of my roommates decided to skip a Chinese class and cycled to the nearest cinema located in a heavy machine factory, now the site of private housing. Five films were on show and that afternoon, it was a double billing for Star War and Coal Miner's Daughter. Star War was too much of a fantasy boy film for me with aliens and strange gadgets flying around the enigmatic universe, and it was the latter that kept me confused for a long time. We were used to the idea that film is supreme and should be didactic. We had never been exposed anything so 'complicated', gritty and realistic. Furthermore, the bedroom scene in her first night, rough and crude, was too suggestive for an eighteen year old raised in a society where sex was a taboo. The impression that the leading actress was not the typical glamorous 'beauty' also puzzled us with little exposure to the outside world. I could not remember what we talked about after the films but surely nobody remembered her much.

That afternoon was memorable - also because it was the first time we took advantage of the freedom that came with being a university student now free from the incessant demand of scoring high marks to get into a good university. The thrill to skip a class was remarkable without realising that some among us had to pay high price for it. At that Chinese class with over 100 students, students were asked to submit an essay at the end of the two hour session. The absentees were penalised twice - for being absent and for not submitting the essay. At the end of the term, I had a 'failure' for one of the assignments never submitted and a pass in Chinese - which disqualified me from being entered a 'Three Distinguished Student' selection (Distinguished in moral, academic study and physical education), the first 'black mark' since I was in Primary four!

The funny thing was ever since then, it didn't seem to matter how 'bad' I scored in all subjects and I had since decided to throw myself into what took my fancy the most - namely, classical music which I listened to whenever I could in the dorm while my roommates were listening to English tapes to improve their listening comprehension; and literature - which I devoured when I was supposed to going over the essays in the textbook.

In those days, I didn't really know the name of the actors except for those highly profiled by the Chinese Popular Cinema, sold millions of copies back in the 1980s. It was not until the last few years when I came across films like Three Women, Bedlands and In the Bedroom that the Sissy Spacek was registered in my brain. Her freckle face - which was a big turn-off for both boys and girls in Chinese culture failed to inspire me to check out who she was when I had to select and show fresh students scenes from Carrie to help them to analyse and write an essay on it. Neither had the film appealed to me and I had never managed to see the symbolic meanings in depicting a teenage girl that way. I was not impressed.

But I have become quite a fan of hers ever since Three Women, and sometimes I wonder if she had a more conventional beauty or glamour, would her stardom be higher, and the eighteen year old me more impressed by her performance in Coal Miner's Daughter.

First memories about films

When I heard people talk about their childhood or their past in great, funny and vivid details, I either get jealous or furiously depressed: I feel I have been treated a bad deal in my share of the capacity of brain cell because sometimes I cannot even figure out whether what I 'remember' was the sheer fiction fuelled by imagination or a combination of fiction and truth. When I hear the questions such as what was my earliest memory, I honestly do not have a clue. I have some vague memories of my childhood living in a mountainous area where the air was fresh, life was gay, and there was a river full of stones right behind my house, but then I cannot work out if the images was in fact constructed the stories from my parents, literature, or really derived from own experience, pure and simple.

But when I watched the Italian film 'Rome, an Open City' and read that the film contains possibly the 'cruelest torture scene' in cinema, I heard myself saying that is Euro centric - because a childhood secret tells me otherwise.

I cannot figure out how old I was, but for a long while, I was seriously worried that if my secret - a recurrent dream - was exposed, I would become a shame and be disowned by my family, my school and anybody else that I know.

That secret of my childhood involved me betraying the top secrets of the 'Party' (inevitably in those days, the Communist Party) in order to save my pitiful self from being tortured to death by the 'enemy' (i.e., the Nationalist Party), and when I woke up from such nightmares, I would usually be very ashamed of myself and wonder why a daughter of a proud Communist was such a coward in front of fire, bullets, or simply all tools of torture. I wanted to behave like those martyrs in films who would rather die than risking the lives of their comrades or undermining the 'great revolutionary cause'.

For a long long time I could not work out what was wrong with me. I kept this recurring dream to myself until I started to read books on psychology and realise it might have a lot to do with the films that I had been exposed to in my childhood. And indeed when I was researching on Chinese cinema some years ago, a figure suggested that when China was first opened up in the late 1978 to 1979, there was a huge surge in the audience number. In fact the figure was a staggering 2.19 billion or something like that which has never been outnumbered. The reason for such a record? Simple: television was just a department of the radio station and the ownership of television was nominal. And there was no other forms of entertainment. So going to the cinema was the main recreation of the whole population who had until that point been starved of films for more than 12 years. The fact that film tickets were cheap and usually handed out free was also a major factor.

However the 'golden year' of cinema had nothing to do with the boom of film making. The films available at that time were predominantly products of the '17 years', namely from 1949 to 1966 - the period between Communist Party first took power and before the Cultural Revolution was launched. And although film scholars would nostalgically described that period as a time of relative freedom for the 'cultural workers', film was used by the ruling party - following Lenin's claim that 'film of all art is the most important' for propaganda, to educate mass the revolutionary past and propagate revolutionary ideas and agendas. And to play safe, the most popular genre was to relate the history of how the Communist Party 'drove away the Anglo-American Imperialists and its running dogs - the Nationalist Party' in the three decades of endless civil wars and 'anti-Japanese Invasion War'. And in such films, the Communists are nearly all immaculate: they do not just look the part in being incredibly handsome and well dressed, but also are 'made of steel that never melt under fire'.

My memory might have played a trick on me, but I do remember going to cinema a lot with my family and that I would usually come out from the cinema and not being able to follow the discussions of my classmates after we were taken to the cinema. But scenes of torture were visual and did not require high intelligence for a 12 year old to understand and these must have triggered those nightmares in which I always begged or cried: 'please don't torture me. Tell me what you want and I will tell all'.

I have been asked how I developed the passion for cinema, has it anything to do with such experience. My answer was of course not. But some events that happened around that same time might have sown the seeds of this passion. Like the mentor in Cinema Paradise, my next door neighbour of many years was an army projectionist. And because my apartment was one of the 'biggest' (for lack of furniture rather than its actual size, and my parents' hospitality), every now and then, my neighbour (who would usually snored at my apartment after lunch) would show films in my apartment - with neighbours cramming into the 200 square feet room, some in the 'stall' on the cold bench or floor, some in the 'circle' on my parents bed. Films being shown include the epic 'From a Slave to General', 'Maple Tree Valley', the singing and dancing 'Five Golden Flowers', 'Liu Shan Jie', 'Ah Si Ma' etc... It was one of the highlights of our lives - not just because of the entertainment, but also because my home would become the centre of the whole block which housed around five households on each of the four floors. Because there was only one projector, half way through, we would have to take a break when the projectionist changed the reels. Sometimes at lunch time, I would spot him mending the broken films at their sewing machine doubled as a worktop and sometimes I could not help but to pick up one of those cut out pieces and kept them in my treasure book so that I could show off to my classmates at school! Until now, I don't think I appreciated what an effort he must have made to keep it from my family from knowing such a shady side of my character!

The poisonwood bible

It has taken me a long time to finish reading The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver, but it is a good read and has an interesting angle to history - through that of five women who followed the head of their household to Congo in the late 1950s at the eve of the independence. Their journeys reveal the many different aspects of colonial and post-colonial history of Africa and make a fascinating introductory to anyone who is interested in the social scenary of the diamond/natural resource rich but poverty striken continent.

On a personal note, reading this book reminds me of a promise to Andrew who has asked me many a time to tell him more about my father, who, like Mr Price, has remained blind to the changes in society, but lead perhaps an extradinary happy life because of that guiding faith throughout his life.

Kenji Mozoguchi and Japanese art

By sheer coincidence, I have watched some of the 'best' by Kenji Mozoguchi: Ugestsu (The Tales of the Pale and Silvery Moon after Rain), Sansho the Bailiff, The Crucified Lovers (A Story of Chikamatsu). They are all black and white works shot between the 1930s to 1950s relating the endless struggles of human beings in feudal society when conditions were harsh and social convention worked constantly against human nature. As I watched them, I did not know a thing about the director and except for The Crucified Lovers, the stories themselves failed to make strong impressions over me. So when I read lately how highly he is regarded by some film scholars, I decide to find more of his works and reassess this 'master of cinema'.

Like his other films, the story of Mis Oyu is rather conventional, but when I watched it last night, I did seem to pick up a lot of things that had escaped me, such as his 'signature' styles which include the aethetic settings and the long still shots. The scene when the hero paid a visit with his aunt to Mrs Oyu when she was offering her first performance is a case in point. It began with a medium/long shot showing Mrs Oyu playing an instrument on the floor with a comment from the hero on the beauty of the 'stage' and her 'wonderful taste'. Then as if to underline his point of view, the camera moved outside the room and stayed in the corridor from which the 'stage' and music became the focal point. The camera stayed there for a long while to allow us to take stock of the story from afar and admire the beauty associated with Mrs Oyu.

There are many scenes where we are let to admire the beauty of season or nature. The opening sequence for instance has the hero wondering about the garden when he is waiting for the arrival of his future bride, and it seems simply the most natural thing for him to fall in love when Mrs Oyu made her first appearance under the new sprout leaves and beautiful cherry blossom. Then when he is struggling between confessing his love to her and supressing his feelings, the backdrop of the scence is an exquisitely maintained garden within the four walls of a typical Japanese house. Such scenes shot in composed manner are visual poems on beauty, natural or cultivated, and remind me what a master Japanese are in the craft of creating beauty with restrains - leaving the impression that such beauty is of minimum human interference.

I wish one day such films will be restored to its full former beauty. Because at their current state, it is difficult to comment on the use of lighting etc.

Fiction

I never thought you would call again.

I should have never done that.

You are an animal.

Animal? Of course not. If I were, what were I? Tiger, dragon or a cat?

You are an animal. You come here, then ignore me completely until you are hungry again. It is humiliating.

I can see your points now. I admit that I am sometimes an animal. But it is not that clearn cut: in between the time when I am here and when, as you put it, I 'ignore' you 'completely', I feel the deep sorrow for what I have done to you. I cannot take you out to theatres, riverside or anywhere for that matter and I feel guilty for treating you like this. But every now and then, I feel the urge again... I have made you a victim in doing so.

Would you like to know what the 'victim' think of it?

Yes.

Well, first of all, she would not like to think of herself as a victim, for she can exercise self-control and in fact, that is why she never initiates any meetings, and when the animal does come around, she would like to think of it sheerly as a meeting of two old friends. Since he went away nearly a year ago, she had been living happily on her own. But it is also ture that she loves the moments that they share. She is not going to complain, because if she chooses, she is capable of self control.

You are a mature woman. Fiction is good because it helps to address issues like this.

Is your urge that of an animal?

Yes.

She was confused.

This was the closest of any hints that he did care for her. And the fact he was so upfront about his 'wrong-doing' seemed to suggest that he meant what he said. But the thought that he only considered his 'urge' that of an animal troubled her. She was not sure if that was to prevent her from hoping or that he had been telling the truth; using her for his animal instinct, and instinct only.

She knew him well by now and has long since stopped harbouring any hope of him being otherwise, such as being romantic, showing more feelings and care when they were not together, getting in touch when he was away...

She was reasonably content being on her own. Having confessed his troubling return to her life to her pal, she has been advised to enjoy all the 'good times' he could possibly offer but keep an 'emotional detachment' towards him. But the more she thought about it, the more this idea sounded disgusting to her. She decided to 'resume' her normal life and was determined not to respond when he contacted. She managed it sometimes, but more often, she just gave up too readily, thinking she should not ridicule herself by making a fuss of an request for as 'innocent' as a 'chat', or watching a film on DVD together at her place.

It dawned to herself one day that what she needed was a serious relationship to keep her stop agreeing to see him. Perhaps that was the answer, but deep down she knew she should have taken initiative rather than to wait till that day or that person to land into her life.

Waiting, waiting, and waiting, that was what she used to do when she was much younger. She didn't find it a problem then to have to wait for a whole week to hear from her then boyfriend because she had got a busy job and not hearing from him in between dates seemed a good way not to get distracted from her filfulling career. But with the benefit of hindsights, it was the lack of intimate contact that had eventually pushed her away. Now when she thought about it, she was amazed this would happen again at this stage of her life.

That he had wanted to meet her only when he felt the animal 'urge' reminded her of a letter from her ex to his new belle some years ago. In it he was responding to her question whether or not he loved her. They had then been together for a good eight months. She could not quite understood at that time if she was playing fire with him, but now she believed she was just behaving like a human being who did not want to be used by a married man. It was incredible how she had come to understand the woman who had 'stolen' the heart of her ex through this.

Fresh look at Ozu

When I visited Beijing two and a half years ago, I got hold of an anthology of Yasujiro Ozu's last 15 films. Their style and quality is consistent and in fact, probably because they tend to focus on domestic issues of the middle class, with roles by his regular actors, it is easy to come to the conclusion that Ozu the director had stayed that way all the time: low camera position, minimum movement both of the camera and the characters, protagonists hardly engaged in matters of monetary nature.

Tokyo Chorus and I Was Born But... change all that. Such delightful and beautiful pearls show a very different Ozu: one that deemed humour one of the key elements in his characters and story telling, one that was obviously heavily influenced by masters like Chaplin (think of the scenes where the father was captured making faces in front of camera), and one that is already a great director with child actors.

Both films have many scenes of children behaving, well, just like children in their most natural state of their age, and it was incredible that Ozu managed to get such brilliant performances from these child actors, with the eldest being no more than eight or nine years old. I Was Born But... stands out in particular as it deals both with children's adaptation to the usually forced new environments (new neighbourhood, new school, new kids, new bullies etc as their fathers' social status changed), and that of the adult world from their prospectives. The latter proves to be especially a fresh and poignant angle to remind us what is being lost from adolescence to adulthood when reality kicks in.

In comparison to the characters in Mikio Naruse's best works, such as When Women Ascend the Stairs and Flouting Clouds, who are all obviously making difficult choices due to the lack of financial stability, those in Ozu's latter and better known films seldom address such issues openly as if they would be resolved on their own. Yet the two films from his silent era suggest another template, one which is not too different from that of Naruse in terms of how the ordinary people are leading their lives when bounded by immediate or long term financial concerns. It is only in the latter period that Ozu dropped such subject matters directly related to one's financial circumstance.

A true master, someone whose early works prove to be a wonderful surprise to those like myself who were introduced to him through his latter works. His works look at the role of a father in the family, especially that in a boy's world. His concern is humane and realistic. But best of all, he has never allowed himself to forget the films are there to entertain in the first instance; his wit and sense of humour are there to captivate us throughout in the two silent films.

The way we were

There are times one just wonders how come some films got made. The Way We Were falls into that category. I knew the song since being an adolescent, and I had watched the film for the sake of Robert Redford. He didn't help the story but he was the only thing that kept me from the switch off control - because a) he was still in his prime despite the disappointing characterisation of his part, and indeed the whole story; b) I couldn't help hoping that he could inject Barbara Streisand some sense of humour, which of course was a tall order.

What a fiasco!

But it dose help me to understand now the crucial part humour plays in keeping the audience tuned.

Sense and Sensibility

I watched Pride and Prejudice adapted by Andrew Davies while I was living in the UK and could not quite grasp why people made such a fuss about Colin Firth and the wet shirt scene. But last year, I got the tenth anniversary edition as a birthday present and fell heads over heels for it. It was well cast (despite the ages of the leading actors/actresses) and the performance was of high standard across the board. It made me pick up the book and revisited both P & P and Sense and Sensibility. In the end, I also rewatched the film of the latter, well adapted by Emma Thompson.

And that was probably why I had not picked up the 2008 adaptation of Sense of Sensibility from the library even though it was adapted by the famed Andrew Davies. After all, when someone had done such a good job of it merely 12 years ago, what else can be added on screen to such a well read novel?

Nevertheless, I took it from the shelf the other day when I wanted a break from the challenging materials that had been playing on my DVD player lately. But familiarity is in short supply from the very beginning of this near three hour television drama. In fact its opening was of such a 'contemporary' nature that I mistook it as a trailer of some glossy Hollywood product which is by default the complete opposite in style, tone and mood of any Jane Austen works! And indeed, despite the familiar story followed immediately after the steamy intro, there were many 'strange' elements in this adaptation: such as the appearance of the son of John Dashwood, the gift given to Elinor by Edwards when they parted at Norland, the use of Byran's poem rather than Shakespeare, that of the many scenes constructed to portray a caring, music loving, and understanding Colonel Brandon... let alone to say the 'bizarre' duel between him and his rival Willougby! At points, I was seriously doubting if granny BBC has gone a bit too far in its attempt to introducing new audience to the classics. And at the end of three hours, the only thing I thought was commendable was the performance of Dan Stevens. Not only he had the look of a most eligible bachelor (unlike Colonel Brandon who looked too serious thorough), he also borne striking resemblance to Hugh Grant who played the same part in Emma Thomson's adaptation.

The dialogue between Andrew Davies and the producer in the special feature then proved rather helpful in that it did not only discuss the sort of small details a casual reader like myself would tend to forget in the book (such as the duel which I still struggle to remember reading it), but also argued rather convincingly why so much screen time had been given to the two men whom the sisters ended up marrying at the end. I still believe though that the film is more subtle and truthful to the book and perhaps it proved once again how difficult it was to accept something different once a popular version had been considered as a master adaptation.

Cleo from 5 to 7

This is an amazing film. At the beginning, it is bland and even tideous as Cleo the singer seems like a spoilt and capricious child in a woman's body. Despite her fame (her songs are on radio), she was listless, and when her composer learns that she is ill, he remarks that she just wants some attention, which seems to be the case.

Then at the middle of rehearsing, she throws temper at the composer and lyricist, gets changed, and goes out on her own to in the late afternoon street.

The mood of the film changes subtly once she leave her companions in the confined and familiar space of her doll like home. Though she has now put on a black dress, she looks more lively, real and human without her elaborate wig. As she is on her own in the Paris street, we are kept in the dark as to what exactly is going on except that from her face, she continues to be self-absorbed and unhappy. There is still a lack of plot here but a caption in the silent movie she is shown later on hinted what the film is about, and indeed, what the heroine is overwhelmed with: the dread of cancer and its impact on her future of the past two days.

The DVD at this point was damaged and by the time it plays properly again, she is dropping off her model friend, directing the taxi driver to drive through a park, then she rambles in a peaceful park, where a stranger comes to her by a mini waterfall. And my, from this moment on, Cleo the doll/dull woman begins to reveal herself gradually as an attractive young lady who is capable of genuine human interactions. Typical of the French new wave cinema of the late 50s and early 60s, the plot is still rather loose, which in itself draws our attention entirely to the dialogues or half of the time, the lack of it between the two of them as they sit on a bench by the water, catch a bus to the hospital, then sit on a bench in a beautiful park of the hospital. The acting is natural but the chemistry between the two is well captured on the black and white film. Antoine Bourseiller the soldier looks like an average young man when he is 'half in uniform', but soon he puts on his jacket and hat, and his irresistable natural charm transforms the last 15 to 20 minutes of the film: - what happens then between the protagonists as they wonder about his familiar quarter of Paris is one of the most romantic and captivating scenes in cinema, which lifts the film from an average new wave work into a memorable experience.

I checked my bible afterwards and the auther did not think much of the film or all of those except Vagaband by the Agnes Varda. But to me, although I accept the point that it is not about 'real life', it however makes a lot more sense than some of the films raved about by the author, say, Paris Belongs to Us by Jacque Riverret of the same period.

And I guess much of the credit should go to Antoine Bourseiller, who could express desire and emotions through just his eyes.

Le Samourai

Ever since becoming a freemale, I have been watching films nearly every night. There are many good ones, the trouble is, my memory is failing me faster than I dare to admit, and there are many a time, especially when the titles are not in English, the DVD on the player is something I have watched not too long ago.

After watching Second Breath by Jean-Pierre Melville, I checked my 'bible' (getting old quickly)' and learnt that the best one from the director was one in his last period with Alain Denon. Since I had no recollection of any of them, I picked up the film from the library and played it last night.

The credit sequence reminded me some of the earlier films by Wong Kai, especially The Days of Being Wild: in a dim room, nothing seems to be happening, except a ray of smoke rising from, a bed, in the centre of a room, on which there seems to be lying a body. The camera reminds static during the whole sequence, and the decor of the room becomes increasingly, as significant as the smoke: though its walls is green, it is not a colour that symbolises life and energy, but more that of decadence and resignation, as if the life of it has been sucked away by time, nature's and paper.

I started to wonder if I might have watched it when I heard the bird chirping, and indeed, once the credit sequence was over and a face was shown, my memory returned.

Like those early films by Sergio Leone that feature a young Clint Eastwood, or Hombre, featuring Paul Newman playing a white man raised by Indians, the film is scarce in dialogues (except when the police chief is on), and the settings, except that in the night club rather rustic, realistic and gritty. It is a film that has its heart set in its character and with a strong sense of style. Or shall we say, a man's film?

Interestingly, the colour of the wall in the opening sequence appears to change its tone with the change of light: for when the curtain is drawn, or the lights are switched on, the greenish wall turns grey, which makes the spartan apartment look even more bare and haunted. And in such a setting, the bird in the cage looks like an illicit orphan deserted by a well-off family. But of course, by the way it is being cared for, it is hinted early on that it is not there just for companionship. It is a security device for its owner.

I cannot place where I saw the actor who plays the policy chief, he is, like those typical French actors, handsome and eloquent. His endless talks and the elaborate manipulation to tail the protagonist though serves only to highlight the contrast between them: a policeman with a 'safe' job who can tred on the line of legal and illegal, and a 'lone wolf' who is on the wrong side of the law. The protagonist who barely speaks, act professionally, guided apparently by instinct. The night club pianist player is also impressive, she looks cool and has an unforgettable face.

But the cream of it all, regardless of his disclosed status of being thief and later, a cold blooded professional killer, is Alain Denon. I have seen him in L'eclisse with Monica Vitte, he is competent there, but it is in this film he looks in his element: a cool handsome face that you just want to put in your own hands, and wouldn't mind risking your life for the sake of its owner. When we saw him at the opening sequence leaving his unglamorous place, he did little with his body, but his eyes say all: the consciousness of being constantly in danger and under surveillance (it turns out both by police and his employers), his calculation whether it is a good time to strike (to steal a car parking by the road) are all written in that turn of his eyes without moving his head. And besides, the trench coat looks great on him!

I have found another title by the same director which also features Alain Denon. I am looking forward to it.

P.S.
Watched 'A cop' last night, an anti-climax to Le Samourai. Yes, Alain Denon played the title role, but the film's focus, as in Second Breath and Le Samourai from the same director, is actually the gangster, the cop's friend Simon with whom they are also rivals in love. The film starts with a seaside town bank robbery, and in the middle of it, a train robbery with detailed portraits of how meticulous and daring the gangster is, who also happens to be knowledgable, decisive and glamourous, while the cop in comparison looks sheer bored, and shallow.

A commentator remarks that the young Alain Denon has a rare and contradictory combination of 'saintly grace' and 'the elegance of a modern young man', but added that 'by 40', his look begins to blur. Le Samourai was made in his mid-30s, and his looks fit that description perfectly. But 'A cop' was made before he turned 40, and his look has already 'blurred'. I wonder why? Is it because he is more suitable for playing characters from the underworld than that represents the law? Or is it more to do with Jean-Pierre Melville? I cannot recall if I have watched his other works, but the three I have are all gangster ones and that the underworld usually features more heavily and in a sense 'positively' by either being loyal to their pals or unusually 'heroic' in their acts. Indeed, not only they have admirers in attractive young ladies, but also in the police chief/superintendant who want to get on top of their criminal acts.