Internatio-noir: Mother and The Square

Written at the time of the films' American releases. Since then, Bong Joon-ho directed the film Parasite, which won the 2020 Best Picture Oscar, as well as awards for best script and best direction.

"The Knots of the Heart"

 

"A boy's best friend is his mother."

Mother Yoon (Hye-ja Kim) ekes out a living dispensing naturopathic herbs and running an underground acupuncture practice, all for her backward son Do-joon (Bin Won), 28 and a perfect example of not knowing what he doesn't know. With severe ADD, he has problems with memory retention; the least little thing, shiny or not, will distract him. The phrase "Hold that thought" is lost on him, an impossibility with his sieve-like mind. His type never learns.

You'd think his mother would. Mother Yoon watches her son like a hawk, and though she doesn't approve of him running with "a bad crowd," she can do nothing, or else the boy will storm off and get into some other trouble, or go drinking until all hours, or get beat up. Something...and usually bad. The cops know all about him. He's crossed their paths more than once.

So, when a young girl ends up dead on the night Do-joon goes on a bender, the police arrest him and hold him for trial. And he has no answers for what he was doing that night. This sends Mother into a maternal tizzy, and she works the neighborhood, trying to make nice with the victim's family, obtaining the services of a shady lawyer, but when those avenues prove unrewarding, she begins to investigate the case on her own, pursuing every blind alley and path paved with her Good Intentions.

And you know where that leads.

One could say that this is a Hitchcockian nightmare with its themes of dangerous Moms and wrong-man incarcerations, but Mother (aka "Madeo"), directed by Bong Joon-ho (who directed the monster hit The Host) hails from Polanski-town,with its themes of obsessiveness, self-delusion and destruction. As played by the internalized Kim, the title character is so wrapped up in her maternal self-sacrifice that that she doesn't see how much she's giving up to save her son. As she digs deeper into the victim's past, she must come to grips with her own, and for all the searching her final destination is her own Soul.

Sounds grim, and even a little cruel. Cruel, it is. But, Bong—as he showed with his previous monster movie—has created an intricate little trap of a film, with moments of horror and humor combined, sometimes with their arms so tightly wound each other, they could strangle, whether from love or malice. One senses an ironic glee from the director, who keeps inserting little touches of humor into the proceedings to keep things from getting too heavy, and makes one think that maybe God puts us through such trials, because it's such good sport to see us flail.

_______________________________________________________________________________________

"Thank Christ for infidelity, I say"

 

If Bong is having a good time torching the ants in Mother, Australian director Nash Edgerton is chortling and cracking open a Foster's, making life miserable for the denizens of The Square. It, also, is a tightly wound thriller—more in the classic film-noir mode—with its Aussie blue-collar workers effortlessly slipping into "tough-guy" mode. It begins, as many noir's do—with an illicit affair, and the attempt to make it legit—but it soon crumbles around its own foundation, turning into quicksand. Like construction, it's not a good idea to go in and throw away the blue-print.

Foreman Raymond Yale (David Roberts in a fine "everyman" performance) is building a resort of "honeymoon suites" for Hubbard Construction in Sydney, Australia. He's getting a bit of side-work in, as well, (or "a bit of mischief" as is the phrase) in an affair with Carla Smith (Claire van der Boom). Both are trapped in loveless marriages: he's just "middle-age-crazy" and her husband (Anthony Hayes) is a low-life criminal. One day she discovers hubby has stashed a bag of cash in the attic—a sizable sum. She decides to tell Ray in an attempt for them to skip out and start anew with a nest-egg. Ray's hesitant. Carla takes that as a sign that an affair is all it's going to be and dumps him.

And if everything was going to be fine..that's where the movie would end. Ray can't give up Carla, so they plan their escape and to hide the theft of the loot, they arrange to burn down the Smith's house—the evidence of the switched bag will burn up, and no one will be the wiser.

Well, the last part's true, anyway. The Square is a noir deep in the tradition-ditch of such illicit classics as Double Indemnity, The Postman Always Rings Twice, and Body Heat. The perfect plot starts to unravel before it can be set in motion, and soon both Carla and Ray are hip-deep in complications that get worse and worse, and messier and messier—the perfect trial for a relationship. For all the efforts to "make things better," things simply couldn't get worse...until they do.

Director Edgerton, who, before he started turning out short films* worked as a stunt-man, always finds the good angles to shoot from, and is more than happy to lead the audience into several very uncomfortable situations that have a gritty realism to them, all to make the audience squirm as much as the characters do, then tops it off with a neat little irony that twists the knife. Like his protagonists, this director might be too clever for his own good. It will be interesting to see what he does in the future and whether he'll deepen his material. For now, though, as an exercise in noir, this one is pretty special.

* The Square is preceded by Edgerton's 2007 short Spider, which is a good preparation for how sadistic a film-maker he can be to his audience. The less said the better, but don't be surprised if the film leaves you wary of the director, and tempted to walk out before the feature starts.

Caché

Caché (Michael Haneke, 2005) Pronounce it with the accent, please, because it doesn't refer to a hiding place. The french is an attribute, as in "hidden," "secret," or "covert." "Caché" is all of that, and more taking a small situation and blowing it up in the background until it becomes an indictment of a secret sin, not only of an individual but an entire country.
I forget which of the early astronauts said it, but when asked to describe space-flight he drawled: "It's hours of boredom punctuated by moments of blind terror." He could have been talking about life, as well. And so, too, is "Caché," sly enough to take what might be boring for a viewer and turning it into a subtle trick, like the dinner guest depicted in the film who tells a long and involved story only to have it explode in the punch-line. That risk of boredom is the key, for Haneke employs long unbroken takes, sometimes not even moving the camera, but employing a stock-image—a staging area—through which the world and his characters move. The longer it takes, the more anticipation is built up in an audience; one begins to question why one is looking at something for so long, and then to look for the importance of that image and one's senses go on alert: what is that in the corner of the frame?; is it a still image, or is something moving?; one hears the doppler of a car-engine and anticipates its entering the frame. Why are we here, and why are we looking at this, are the questions.*

The answer is a joke and also a key to the suspense of the story. A well-to-do nuclear family—he (Daniel Auteuil) is a televised literary critic and she (Juliette Binoche) is a book publisher, their son, a diffident middle-schooler—begin receiving mysterious video cassettes wrapped in violent child's drawings. Viewing the cassettes, the couple realize they're being targeted and monitored, but they don't have a clue as to why or by whom. The answer must be some secret one or the other is hiding, and soon the couple are quibbling and quarrelling...and keeping their own secrets from each other.

Haneke is an austere film-maker with a trickster's heart—his most controversial film is the sadistic Funny Games which he made in both European (1997) and U.S. (2007) versions—and here, it's basically the same gambit but without the smirking meta-smugness. Here, its about story-telling (and audience puppeteering), his camera moves are controlled, liking riding on a secret rail, formal and distancing, not so much mindful of Hitchcock, as Brian De Palma's magically smooth and impersonal camera-glides, just an extension of those monitoring tapes, coolly surveying.

But the film is punctuated by the rare burst of upsetting violence that occurs quickly (so quickly it takes a moment to register..."Did they just...?") and is usually the end-point of a strategy (real or imagined) by the players. One is left contemplating responsibility as the characters in the play do, with no end (or conclusion) in sight. It's frustrating, but not false, and gives the film the grit of reality...while also keeping an audience on the edge of their chairs waiting for the next shock.

Mon Dieu, où est Waldo?

* One of my favorite shots in Bryan Singer's film-career (there aren't many) occurs in The Usual Suspects, when at one point in the movie there is a short sequence where, once the movie is over, we realize "that was a shot of nothing." No importance, whatsoever, except as a red herring thrown to the audience to play on their suspicions and ability to anticipate plot-points.

The Day of the Dolphin

The Day of the Dolphin (Mike Nichols, 1973) After a series of films in which each one is a bit of an accomplishment in things artistic, cultural and societal (Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, The Graduate, Catch-22, Carnal Knowledge) Mike Nichols lightened up on the weltschmerz--slightly--to present a relatively frothy entertainment, but in a downbeat kind of way. Robert Merle's best-seller was a thick book that delved more into the philosophical and moral issues of teaching dolphins to express themselves in English. But that probably wouldn't do for the movies, so Buck Henry devised a cloak-and-dagger story about operatives training the mammals to blow up the President...something subtle like that.

The implications of ESL for dolphins takes a back-seat for conspiracy and makes one wonder why one would waste such a top-heavy cast of George C. Scott, Trish VanDevere, Paul Sorvino, Edward Herrmann, and Fritz Weaver and talking dolphins on just another spy movie. But waste it, they do.*

Despite Scott's presence (and he's operating on relatively low gear here), the stars are the dolphins, named "Alpha" and "Beta" (or, as they squeak, "Fa" and Bee") In fact, every audience I saw this film with cooed audibly when the first dolphin popped out of the water and breathed "Pah!" in a baby voice at Scott. Like the rudimentary language signed by chimps, the dolphins' grasp of concepts is basic--they know "love," "Ma," "Pa," "Ball," and "Not"—that last one covering a lot of ground from negativity to death.

It all feels a bit gooey and icky, and when Nichols and Henry crank up the melodrama in the final act, one has a tough time taking it with any of the gravity of, say, a "Lassie" movie, probably not what the director intended, making it all for "not."

I do remember one interesting story from the time of the film, from an interview with Nichols at the time the film was made. It has nothing to do with the movie, but is more of a backstage story about the making of it. Nichols found that no matter how well-trained the dolphins were, they were not the most disciplined of performers. Oh, they understood what they had to do, they just didn't really feel like doing it. They were constantly blowing scenes, goofing around, playing—probably stealing donuts from the craft-services table—until tempers got short, and then, they'd do everything on cue--not unlike Peter Bogdanovich's story about directing Tatum O'Neal.

Anyway, on the last day of filming, on the last take the plan was to release the dolphins back into the wild. The crew gets ready. The dolphins swim out and perform their bit perfectly—it's a "Take." Then, as if knowing they weren't needed anymore, they simply left and swam out to sea. "We're outta here." They just swam away. It left Nichols wondering at the creatures he'd been working with, and wondering if he'd done right by them.**

Maybe they decided to quit "The Biz" before the movie was released.

There's a lot of talent behind it, though--production design by Richard Sylbert, cinematography from William A. Fraker and a too-good score by Georges Delerue. But it was all for "Not."

When one considers the possibilities, The Day of the Dolphin was a day wasted.

* The New Yorker's Pauline Kael suggested that if all Nichols and Henry could come up with for a movie was talking dolphins, they should probably retire from movies. Kael was on the right idea, but off the mark (as she could be)—if all Nichols and Henry could come up with for talking dolphins was a plot to blow up the President (even if it was Nixon) then they should have probably made another movie.

**I will always remember a PBS special on dolphins, hosted by Robin Williams. His first encounter with dolphins in open water, he was enthusiastic to bond, and reached out to one of them, only to get thumped by the other, protective dolphin. He went to a research institute where dolphin behavior was studied, and as he was walking around the tank with a rep, a dolphin poked his head out of the water and watched Williams, who went into "perform" mode and became quite manic, which delighted the dolphin. The scene went on for some time, with Williams and the dolphin playing at each other on a basic level, Williams running from one part of the tank to the other, the dolphin following--the two spinning in place, both fascinated with their play-mate. Finally, Williams was told "we're going to another location," and regretfully left, leaving the dolphin leaning its head out of the tank watching him leave, practically love-sick at his new "friend."

Olde Review: The Conversation

This was part of a series of reviews of the ASUW Film series back in the '70's. Except for some punctuation, I haven't changed anything from the way it was presented, giving the snarky, clueless kid I was back in the '70's a break. Any stray thoughts and updates I've included with the inevitable asterisked post-scripts.

The Conversation (Francis Ford Coppola, 1975) Harry Caul (Gene Hackman) is an electronics expert dealing in surveillance. His latest assignment is to record a conversation between two very innocent young people in the park. It's a routine assignment, one that Harry handles with a perfectionist's care. But after he has the raw tape—after he has clarified it and re-channeled it—he hears a whispered fear that these two kids may get killed by Harry's employer. Old haunts plague Harry—past assignments he has carried out that led to his victim's deaths. And so he goes to confession to confess what may be a future sin. Confession—where one's private actions that are considered to be sins are revealed to a priest in order to free the sinner of guilt. But this too, is a surveillance—an invasion of one's privacy—ritualized in the name of religion. Surveillance is a part of our lives, then. And privacy is an illusion.

That scene in the confessional is about as close as Francis Ford Coppola comes to really dealing with surveillance in his film, The Conversation. Despite what many critics have said, Coppola makes no judgements on this subject. Surveillance is simply there as a device to be used for the movie. It's neither good nor bad. It's there to provide Coppola with a means of getting into a rather shallow appearances-are-deceiving mystery story—it's a very weak imitation of Antonioni's Blowup. When Harry Caul is caught in a surveillance trap ala his own devising, are we supposed to feel some satisfaction in this? Just because he's getting screwed, like he screwed all the others? Is surveillance justified in retribution, in other words? No. How can we take satisfaction in that? For surveillance — the ripping open of one's privacy — is being used, and nothing, really, not even revenge should make us condone it.
Awright, already, W______is it a good movie?

Okay, okay. Yeah, it's a good movie. It's...entertaining, in a shock-lull-shock-lull sort of way. Coppola has made a good movie, despite my reservations as to his morality on the subject. It's an o-k script—a little spare at times—with a lot of loose ends, and his direction is always assured. Gene Hackman manages to flesh out Harry Caul enough to make him an interesting person to watch for the couple of hours we do. And there is fine supporting acting from Allen Garfield, John Cazale (the weak brother, Fredo, in The Godfather), Frederic Forrest, Cindy Williams (she's good, despite the fact that she's totally mis-cast) and Robert Duvall (who is on for a very short time and doesn't receive a credit). But, the one thing that is technically outstanding is the sound of the film, produced by the work of its chief editor Walter Murch. Murch also worked on "The Godfathers" for Coppola, and creating what he terms "sound montages" for George Lucas' THX-1138 and American Graffiti. His talents with editing and sound mixing are outstanding,and hopefully Murch will, himself, be directing his own films.

Broadcast on KCMU-FM on January 27-28th, 1976

Murch would, indeed, direct one film (so far)—Return to Oz, in 1985—and it tanked. His intention was to make a genuine adaptation of one of L. Frank Baum's "Oz" books, rather than what the public was expecting—a sequel to the 1939 classic The Wizard of Oz. And his heart-felt, but scary, recreation of Baum's world didn't click with audiences. One would be sad if Murch didn't then personally supervise the entire post-production process of about one film per year. Films like Julia, The Godfather: Part III, Romeo Is Bleeding, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, Ghost, The English Patient, First Knight, The Talented Mr. Ripley, K-19: The Widowmaker, Cold Mountain, Jarhead, and Francis Coppola's latest films. Busy guy. Eclectic talent.

This movie has dogged me my entire career, because it was assumed that, because Harry Caul could electronically filter out steel drums from the background of a murmured recording enough for you to hear what the people were saying that any sound facility could do it, too. No. Not really, you can't. You can tune, you can attenuate, you can try reversing the polarity of a channel to eliminate shared sounds on both channels of a stereo recording, but steel drums? That's a good one. They call that "Movie Magic."

But the kid is right...this is warmed-over Blow-up without the illusion of film-making, or illusion of illusion that makes that film so compelling. At least it's better than cold, left-over Blow-Up like Brian De Palma's Blow OUT (in that, field-audio recorder John Travolta must piece together a Chappaquidick-like incident from his sound-recordings and pictures taken from a "Zapruder"-like film--it doesn't pass the incredulity test). And Coppola has to resort to a "cheat"—he changes the actual recording, the one element in the movie that has to be set in stone, to come up with his conclusions. One could make a case...blah blah blah, the fact is, interpretation or not, he planted a card in the deck.

It is, though, a really good paranoid thriller of the type that seemed to be born of the post-Watergate era. And Hackman's insulated Caul is another example of how that actor can take an under-written part (deliberately, I should say--Caul doesn't talk much on purpose) and make him a living, breathing human being you can recognize and, despite his many failings, sympathize with. There is one actor I didn't mention because I didn't really know who he was...yet. He'd made a living doing parts on television, and done a small role in American Graffiti, but after this film he was about to quit acting and go back to carpentry when a role in a sci-fi movie by Coppola's pal George Lucas changed things for him. Harrison Ford has a small role as "The Director's" menacing assistant.

Oh...the reason I made such a big deal of the confessional scene? I used that to start off the recorded version of this review.

In 1995, The Conversation was chosen to be a part of the National Film Registry by the Library of Congress seeing it as "culturally, historically, or aesthetically significant."