Matty

“I don’t trust nobody.” The anti-Rocky (which probably would not have been made if Rocky didn’t exist). Raging Bull is not a film about boxing matches, but about the struggles inside the head of a man who is bugged by the fact that he has small hands. Because of his bullish nature, Jake gradually loses his fame, power and money, as well as the trust of others, from whom he demands the respect that he cannot show for himself. He is dragged down by his inability to prove what he is convinced of, that he ranks among the best. Success in the ring is not enough for him, as he needs to assert his dominance and control over situations also in his home environment. He thus inflicts the hardest blows on those closest to him. The key people on the painful path to finally accepting his own sins are his brother and second wife. Vickie initially represents for him an unapproachable goddess, whose beauty also thoroughly intoxicates the camera, and whom Jake at most takes the liberty of only timidly caressing. He willingly transforms himself from a raging bull into her obedient boy (for which he is rewarded with a “Mother’s Little Helper” apron in one of the contrastingly idyllic family videos). After he realises that Vickie is not just a mother figure to him and that he has to share her with others and thus put his manhood at risk, he begins to see her as his private, untouchable property. And he also treats her like property in the very brutal scenes of domestic violence. He truly behaves like an animal that is unable to control its instincts (animalistic screams also accompany the boxing matches). Conscious of the irredeemable nature of his sins, he at least tries to recast his defeat in self-pitying joking in the brutally disheartening conclusion.  However, it is clear that he cannot fall any farther. I must also mention that Scorsese’s justifiably ponderous film also has captivating cinematography, unrivalled editing at least in the boxing scenes (the dialogue scenes in the bar are chaotic in places) and, as its focal point, one of the most tenacious acting performances in modern cinema. 85%

A concert film with which the Stones – supported behind the scenes by the agile director, who happens to be their peer – will definitely win you over, regardless of what you think about them. The show belongs solely to the quartet (and a few guests) on the stage. We are spared any shots of the audience and the off-stage atmosphere is not in any way determinative (as it was in the case of Woodstock, for example). The night belongs to the Rolling Stones, to whom Scorsese expresses thanks by bringing them into his cinematic universe among other immortal heroes through an admittedly “synthetic” prologue and epilogue. Two hours of Jagger’s hyperactive showing off, still just as lively as Scorsese’s films, will give you more energy than any number of hours of bellowing by many a whippersnapper two generations younger. With just a little exaggeration, we can also view this high-octane record of two concerts, edited together with precision in line with the rhythm of the music, as a bold celebration of active old age. 85%

A diligent interpretation of one of the most hackneyed themes in the horror genre, namely the “fragile heroine in danger”. Just as Sarah, the blind protagonist, gets her bearings mainly thanks to objects in the setting, the props are also crucial for building suspense. They serve as clues, which are sometimes false (the vase on the staircase, the gardener’s shoes), as to what might happen and what might be important for the narrative. Viewers’ frustration arises from the inability to warn the protagonist of the dangers that are seen, as well in the ostentation with which the film conceals from us a key piece of information, namely the killer’s identity. All we are shown of him is his feet, and that is unfortunately not utilised to make a more imaginative point (when we would know who the killer is based on his shoes, whereas the other characters would remain unaware). The deviations from the central, substantially uneven duel, whether toward romance or western (!) are not atmospherically as well-thought-out as Fleischer’s work with the enclosed space. However, I consider the very poor clarification of the motive for the crime committed to be a fundamental failure. Everything essential about the killer’s damaged mind is conveyed to us in the prologue as the opening credits roll (violent films, violent toys), which may have carried a certain weight in Britain in the 1970s, but today it can be seen as a mockery of all of the serious research that has since been carried out in field of violent behaviour. 65%

The overwrought opening scene, which would be more suitable for a sci-fi/horror B-movie, serves Chabrol as a jumping-off point for another caustic psycho(patho)logical study, this time limited mainly by the space of a particular boarding house where people come and go like people visiting the post office. No one is a saint, especially those who live beyond their means. The sharing of information isn’t managed with directorial sympathy for any of the characters,  but based solely on the requirement of the conveyed message about the corruptibility and mendacity of the human race. The tension in the narrative is rooted in the inconstancy of the roles that the characters are forced to portray to those around them. The central victim of the conspiracy was given the least opportunity to express himself. The cynical Chabrol is more interested in the process of forming lies and spreading superstitions than the feelings of the mother in danger. A film about the investigation of the crime(s) committed in the introduction is thus absurdly turned into a film about committing a different crime. The misuse of the initial situation to somewhat deceive the viewer is directly related to the previously mentioned lack of sympathy, without which it is easy to bend the rules of the genre. However, Chabrol isn’t imaginatively cunning enough to make the contrived plot a strength of the film. The problem is that if we leave aside the plot, which is cheaply shocking and sensationally stupid in the last third, all that The Breach has in reserve is a few minor jokes in the mise-en-scéne and the acting of the typically miscast Stephane Audran with her roughly five expressions. 50%

Malena is undoubtedly valuable study material for all voyeurs, but it fails as a treatise on the moral transgressions of “respectable” people. Together with the entire population of a small town, Tornatore spends a good hour drooling over Bellucci’s breasts, which is disingenuously excused by taking on the point of view of a boy with raging hormones and, furthermore, degraded with farcical scenes from home. Like young Renato, however, the director only immerses himself in the beauty of the title character, but does nothing in her defence and offers no arguments that would support what we subconsciously suspect – that Malena was pushed into her role as a whore by the people around her. Though believable in light of the different perception of single and taken women in Sicily, the epilogue, which is empathetic toward Malena, is only forcibly tacked on to the film. The sudden change of attitude toward the protagonist, who has not been allowed a single defensive counterpoint throughout the film, is as hypocritical of the director as the change in the behaviour of the locals. In fact, it would be very lenient to describe Malena as American Pie filtered through the lens of nostalgia. The latter film, though comparatively lewd, at least didn’t suffer from such narrative repetitiveness (watching Malena on the street, watching Malena in her private space, masturbating...and again from the top). Perhaps I made a mistake by watching the director's cut first, but I find it inappropriate to in any way compare it to the much more colourful Amarcord, of which I am definitely not a passionate defender. 50%

A sociological experiment – can you tolerate watching people you don’t know for one hundred minutes? Because the director doesn’t want us to get to know them; instead, he prevents us from doing so through “unempathetic” filming from a greater distance and in long, static shots. We often don’t see the faces of the characters as they speak and we rarely know their names. Sometimes the distance and the impression of eavesdropping are enhanced by filming the characters in a reflection (a mirror, the side of a car) or – in one case – by “filtering” them through a computer camera. The only thing we can do is silently watch them. The witnesses in the film behave in the same way. And the consequence? The innocent become victims and the guilty remain unpunished. Each of us has probably found ourselves in one of the depicted situations. The film manages to elicit feelings of guilt. It’s a very cruel approach – both to the characters and to viewers – but it forces us to think. It’s a shame about the two unnecessary deviations from the drily observational style to a more standard narrative (one brief pan during the scene involving harassment on a bus and a later flashback). Or were these meant to serve as a reminder – for those who have given in to the illusion of a film without a narrator – that there is someone behind the camera manipulating us a little? It’s hard to say. It’s also hard not to give in. 75%

After being trained by Roger Corman in the art of rapid-fire directing (Boxcar Bertha), Scorsese got his dazzling filmography off to a good start. Together with story elements from Rocco and His Brothers, this dusky buddy movie contains most of Scorsese’s trademarks: rock songs, slow-motion shots (though it’s sometimes hard to determine the motivation for them) and disturbingly smooth camerawork that’s observational in the manner of a documentary. The semi-improvised acting in the style of films by John Cassavetes doesn’t create any tension with the chosen style (as in the later New York, New York); on the contrary, it superbly serves the dramaturgically loose story, or rather series of stories that have to be “resolved” through a deus ex machina by the director himself (who is not mentioned in the credits). From the group of friends who are sometimes too aggressive in defending their turf, Keitel’s Charlie stands out (and in the individual shots where a place in the centre suits him). He is better able than the unpredictable Johnny Boy to restrain his need to assert his male dominance and, because he is in a more serious relationship, he isn’t entirely committed to a life of high stakes and major losses. Keitel portrays the tension between cultivating a romantic relationship and professional growth without theatrical gestures, only with occasional, and thus all the more effective, outburst of anger. On the surface, the torn nature of Charlie and the other characters, their attitude shifting between “I am the master of the world” and “I'll be a good boy now, mommy”, is manifested differently in their confident behaviour at the bar, bathed in a hellishly red light that adds to their insolence, and on the street, where they live their other, normal lives and are obviously more vulnerable. The precise study of characters and relationships within one closed group prevails over a cohesive story that advances from one point to the next. Some may find that this absence of fixed points of reference in the narrative makes Mean Streets a more arduous viewing experience. Its very stylish exterior conceals a handful of more serious themes like the early and later autobiographically conceived films based on what the director was living through at the given time and the excellent actors serve as comprehensible conduits of complex emotional states. Mean Streets is not just a warm-up for the great films that followed; it’s Scorsese already operating at the top of his game. 80%

Mud wrestling, a MacGuffin in the form of a necklace, beautiful legs, pretty faces, inclinations toward the musical genre and lesbian sex. The team of screenwriters packed all kind of things into their work – which, with the passage of time, seems to have been mainly for marketing purposes – but not much neorealism remained as a result. For a film noir movie that would have elicited the bitter laughter of the original Italian title, Riso amaro (riso = past participle of ridere, to laugh), there are melodramatic moments that are too seriously intended and a preponderance of women who do not control anyone’s destiny, but only passively submit to brute masculine power. Bitter Rice compelled me to see De Santis not as a leading representative of the post-war neorealism school, revealing and changing, but as a pioneer of pink neorealism, which used social issues and leftist ideals only as a front for straightforward commercial entertainment. 65%

The ladies’ spelunking adventure continues. Those who ruin it are exclusively men. And the sharp-toothed freaks, from whom blood spurts wildly and is always beautifully visible compared to everything else bathed in darkness. If the first film was a descent into darkness, the sequel is a descent into shit. But it admittedly isn’t trying to be anything more noble than that. I was perversely amused, perhaps because I simply didn’t give a damn about how much muscle tissue any of the characters lost. 55%

A mistake squared – a bad adaptation of a bad book (or rather a book that tries too hard). The literariness is manifested from the opening minutes through the voice-over, though this time it finds its justification in the nature of Oskar, who communicates mainly with himself. Daldry didn’t manage to emulate the book’s expressive richness. Compared to the book, the story in the film is told in an incomprehensibly conventional manner as an inverted Oedipal (melo)drama with a very clear aim (exalting the motif of seeking/expedition), recast in material form just to be sure. The Oedipal aspect is inverted only on the surface, as Oskar declares when lashing out that he would prefer that his mother had died instead of his father, his notional arch-enemy, but the father-son issue is dealt with throughout the film. Whereas the book managed to be gripping at least in the passages that take on the perspective of Oskar’s grandparents, the film filters events exclusively through the young boy’s naïve point of view. So, Oskar certainly knows more than his peers, but – as in the book – it isn’t clear if this involves memorised facts or if he is a little genius. The protagonist is unreadable and strange only in a way that suits the filmmakers’ purposes. The film’s atmosphere is also characterised by vagueness, as on the one hand it contains moments of levity (often unintentional, e.g. when Sandra Bullock reveals her parallel mission, which not even an elite CIA agent would be ashamed to carry out) and, on the other hand, it is unable to view the subject of death from a distance, without the burden of charged emotions. Oskar’s statement that “I don’t know a single thing that I didn’t know when I started” applies equally to him and to us, as the film is infected with the fear of remembering what actually happened. It only re-enacts a national tragedy without in any way deconstructing it. The delay in revealing information that pushes the plot forward in a direction that is already known to us is thus all the more tiresome. I had thought that such tenderness and false compassion in relation to 9/11 were already passé. Apparently, I was wrong. 45%