Pine Flat

Beautiful, but troubled. That’s how I describe Sharon Lockhart’s Pine Flat. The film consists of a dozen shots, each ten minutes in length. The film is broken into two sections by a ten minuite intermission. Each shot is composed of a static camera, intensly focused on children posed in lush Northern California wilderness. The soundtrack is a subtle blending of ambient sounds from various times and locations around the Pine Flat area.

Admittedly, Lockhart is a structuralist. A mentee of James Benning, Pine Flat takes on the structure of his more recent films. Between the two of them, the ten minute take is becoming something of a trope. Where Benning captures sky and lakes, Lockhart directs children. Her voice is absent from the soundtrack, but her fingerprints are seen throughout the frame.

I hold nothing against Lockhart for directing her subjects. What disturbs me is her commitment to structure. During the screening’s question and answer session Lockhart told the audience how hard it was for her to trim the film down from 18 wonderfully gorgeous shots to the final 12 shots that make up the film. Feeling that her film had to be two 60 minute blocks, composed of 6 ten minute shots was more important than presenting 6 more images of children and landscape. She puts the structure of the film before her interest in the children. I find this both sad and curious.

Rashomon

Knowing the story, or stories – the questions of justice and human nature, etc – I spent most of the evening entranced by the imagery. Why is it that until just now I never noticed the wonderful use of light and shadow in the forest or the pounding rains? Kurosawa’s cinematography is etched in my memory as being very symmetrical and balanced, but here the images are broken apart by foliage and fluttering bursts of light. In a film about perspective, Rashomon presents as a multi-faceted look at human nature. Now, I must consider these glimpses of beauty that are disembodied. They come neither from the the bandit, the woman, the woodsman or the murdered man. I find them most honest and beautiful.

What I don’t find appealing is the handling of the final lines of the film. Kurosawa does not restrain the dialogue. His priest speaks the moral message of the film.  Where body gesture would suffice, words are used to drive home a philosophical message that once spoken sounds un-natural. It is mis-step of small measure, but none the less in a film where words prove to be troublesome and unbelievable.

Four of the Apocalypse (1975)

Lucio Fulci attempts to combine two Bret Harte stories, but stumbles along the way.

Four cellmates, spared from a town massacre are forced to seek refuge elsewhere. Lead by Stubby Preston, a notorious gamble, the rogue ensemble consists of Bunny, a knocked up prostitute; Clem, a drop-dead alcoholic; and Bud, a delusional fellow who believes he can see the dead. Their trek across the barren desert of Utah becomes a hellish nightmare and the gang of outcasts finds themselves plagued by a crazed gunman named Chaco.

Mark Twain once accused Bret Harte of being artificial¹. The same might be said of Fulci, who like Harte, relies too strongly on pathos. Four of the Apocalypse is as much a spaghetti Western as it is a Greek tragedy or Christian parable, thus making it very akin to the stories Harte told of pioneer era California. Here, Stubby’s desert journey is one of spiritual awakening, set amongst harsh realism. Fulci, like Harte, is capable of creating sympathy for even the lowest dregs of society, but Fulci’s handling of stylistic elements delivers mixed reactions. As expected, Fulci is capable of delivering action, horror, and gore. Most note-worth is the work of cameraman Sergio Salvati, whose imagery provides wonderful golden hued imagery awash in plenty of back-light. Sadly, the decision to use modern, rock ballads as Greek choruses is a bold experiment that falls flat on the side on ridiculousness. Driving home the deeper significance of Stubby’s quest, these incongruent bursts of music distract and disjoint the film. They trump up the emotional worth of the movie. They add romance where there is little. Couple this with poor inflection in the dubbing and a broodish acting and the film falls way shy of realistic. In a word, the film is artificial.

An end-note on perspective: There is a scene, about two-thirds of the way into the picture, where Bunny and Stubby are all that is left of the gang. The two walk through a ghost town, discussing Bud, who has deserted them. It is assumed, that he has gone to join the dead that he was so happy to converse with will living. Shots shift back and forth from one side of the street to the other, the camera often shooting through cracks and gaps in various discarded objects and abandoned structures. Stubby comforts Bunny by telling her that Bud is still with them, watching them. He then points directly at the camera’s lens; first in one shot then the next. Stubby’s finger pierces through the cracks and gaps. It breaks the forth wall and creates a powerful scene that highlights not only the disembodied viewpoint of Bud, but also that of the viewer. If all else had failed in Four of the Apocalypse, this scene alone would make the film worth watching.

Texas, Addio

With the theme song from Companeros still ringing in my head, Texas, Addios had big boots to fill. Sadly, the film just sort of drifs off into the sunset of my mind.

Franco Nero plays Burt Sullivan, a Texas sheriff who heads to Mexico in the hopes of bring back the man who killed his pa. The story is extremely streamlined with only the slightest plot twist; nothing to make the film lose its focus. Nero’s forceful demands of “You’re coming back to Texas” seem laughable. Why not just shoot the bastard?

I suppose a lack of brute force is a way of showing honor. What has me more perplexed is the politics of Mexico. Lacking in a historical knowledge of Mexico I am some what confused by the constant talk of revolution that arises in so many spaghetti westerns. Never explained, I am left wondering if the Italians even attempt to be historically or politically accurate or if revolution is simply a malleable trope. Viva la cliche!

Companeros

Companeros is a full plate. What’s not to love about a spaghetti western that features Jack Palance as a marijuana addicted Americano traipsing about south of the border with his trust falcon and a hand made of wood? For that matter how can you not applaud a film for using a mole, a wicker basket, and a man’s genitals in a torture sequence?

I have always loved the look and feel of spaghetti westerns – gritty, open, violent, but I also get agitated by the forced humor. Being a buddy film, Companeros‘ laughs come from two mis-matched men forced to get along. I often feel that Italian humor often gets lost in the translation. One is never sure if you are laughing at the dubbing or a joke.

I still can’t decide if the film is long or simply dense with action and story. There is an episodic quality to the film. After two hours I grew to like the two main characters so much that I could have watched their tale continue for another two hours, perhaps on a different night.