Che: Part One

I knew very little of Che Guevara before I saw the first part of Steven Soderbergh's documentary-like take on the man, and now that I've seen it there is one one thing I know for absolute certain: there's absolutely no way in the world I'll be watching part 2.

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Catch Up With The Classics? Part Two - Killer of Sheep

Taking over from where my previous post left off, why have we had to wait until 2007 for this film, an undoubted classic, to appear on the big screen and receive a full distribution? The answer appears to be that the music rights were too expensive, because the soundtrack features famous American artists like Paul Robeson, Dinah Washington and Elmore James. What? How much were the rights eventually bought for in the end (thanks, in part, to a donation by Steven Soderbergh)? $150,000. What? Are you seriously telling me that no Hollywood studio could afford to spend $150,000 dollars on some music rights when - to pick a few random examples - Saw 4 had a budget of $10 Million, Cradle 2 the Grave had a budget of $25 Million and Book of Shadows: Blair Witch 2 had a budget of $25 Million. Not buying that one at all. Here we have the selective tradition at work again, the process by which great works, Whitman grass-level cultural artifacts, become lost in the cultural ether because of the strange choices and decisions of certain powers that be. At least Killer of Sheep has now been saved and is available to buy on DVD. It is a shame that it only saw a limited cinematic release in 2007, 30 years after it was first made, it deserves a much wider audience.

This is a film where nothing really happens but nothing happens brilliantly. The film is as invigorating as the first summer rains or the sight of a single star shining bright through a city's smog, dust and ether. The narrative loosely follows Stan (Henry Gayle Sanders) as, in what amounts to a series of vignettes, his life drifts aimlessly on through the Los Angeles ghetto of Watts, where he works in a slaughterhouse. Other characters drift in and out (it reminded me of the Thin Red Line, which is perhaps one reason I loved it so much) and Stan's relationship with his unnamed wife (Kaycee Moore) provides some of the most beautiful and perfect moments of simple, everyday, tenderness that have ever been seen of screen. One scene where the pair dance to Dinah Washington's 'This Bitter Earth' is a perfect symbiosis of musical and cinematic soul and might have made it into my top 25 scenes of all time, but I don't have the heart - yet - to start again. This moment of everyday beauty encapsulates both the film and human life at its most beautiful, its most tender and its most shy.

Burnett clearly has an eye for the brilliant and the beautiful. The cinematography - done by Burnett himself - here is stunning. Although notable for looking strikingly everyday, the film's images retain a power that transcends the everyday. One shot of the local kids playing and running across train lines (see above) more than resembles a war zone, surely no accident given the year (1977) this was filmed and, therefore, its global context. Striking image follows striking image and the black and white only adds to the depth, beauty and realism of the whole thing. Burnett also said that he wanted the film to stand as a testament to the history of African-American music. That's a grand claim and it clearly doesn't live up to it (the film is, after all, only 81 minutes long), however, this does not detract from the amazing symmetry between sight and sound, as though the music is plumbed deep into the veins and lifeblood of the film's rhythmic and soulful heartbeat.

Aside from Sanders and Moore and the children in the film (one of which was played by Burnett's daughter, Angela), the rest of the performances are pretty bad or simply appalling, though none are in the film long enough to tarnish it, nor are any as bad as Charlton Heston's 'effort' in A Touch Of Evil. Sanders invests Stan with a quiet, meandering, dignity and charm and every look and expression reflect the feel of a man whose life is a self-defined struggle and whose quest for purpose and meaning is lost in the depression- and-isolation-scarred landscapes and tenements and found only in life's tender little moments, like the pressing of a warm teacup against a cheek. You really feel for Stan and that is some achievement (to be shared by Gayle and Burnett), given the total lack of narrative or plot of the film. Killer of Sheep is just life.

This is a classic example of brilliantly drawn realism. Realist films don't tend to be considered 'high' culture, perhaps being, in their very essence, too gritty, pavement-centred and down-to-earth. What becomes 'high culture' and why? No one really understands this, especially, perhaps, with cinema, because the infinitesimally small-level, ants-eye, processes by which films get selected, made, produced, distributed, reviewed are totally beyond the sight of both films critics and those of us who form the general film-going population. The same is true of literature, theatre and art (among other things). We just will never know in the vast majority of cases primarily, of course, because the inner processes of selection and choice go on in the privacy of the mind, which can only be shared by communication and, in such cases, rarely is shared. If Killer of Sheep has remained hidden for thirty odd years, what other gems lie unearthed in film-school vaults and studio filing cabinets? Perhaps I can suggest that Indy 5 should be called 'Indiana Jones and the Quest for the Lost Reels', where Indy battles evil film executives, producers and critics to give the world a true view of global culture now lost and hidden.

In the meantime, I'll just have to enjoy Killer of Sheep. And enjoy it again I will. I'm sure this will make it into my top 25 of all time, I've already watched it twice and might watch it again this weekend. A stunning, unusual, imperfect, tender, beautiful film, unlike any other you have ever seen, even other classically 'realist' films. Killer of Sheep and Burnett as a film-maker stand on their own. Not least in the fact that the film is unique in - ultimately - surviving the dreaded clutches of the selective tradition.

Killer of Sheep: A+

Cinematography of the Year

2000

(NB I couldn't find an appropriate picture from the winner which would do it justice, so I thought it best not to include one).

Thought I'd start a new thread with a new award - for the best cinematography of the year, starting back in the year 2000 and moving on. And what a year to start with! No easy award this.

First a word on cinemtography in general. I am of the view, and I think my colleague probably is as well, that great cinematography can really make a film. A case in point - last year's The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. Roger Deakins' memorable photography added an extra layer of beauty and brilliance to what was already an incredibly beautiful and brilliant film and the light and backdrops reflected the film's enclosing claustrophobia and taught mood. Not that good cinematography can make a rubbish film good (last year's appauling, but somehow critically lauded, Stellet Licht (Silent Light) is an excellent case in point) but the fact that it looks great, and that the light, shadow, filtration and backdrop reflect the film's mood and tone, can tip an already very good film over into greatness. For instance, it was partly (though not totally) Deakins' brilliance that - for me - meant that Jesse James won the battle of the J's over Jindabyne and Juno. How a picture looks is arguably as vital a part of its meaning, plot, pace and drive as anything else, including the performances and direction. Controversial perhaps, but, that, for me, is just how important the look of a film can be.

The year 2000 presents a hard choice indeed. Looking over my top 5 for the year, and the other films I've seen from 2000, I struggled to separate some stunning efforts. A good year for films and certainly a good year for cinematography. So who to single out? Peter Pau's oscar-winning, sometimes mindblowing, effort in Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon? Edward Lachman for his dreamy, hazy, ethereal wonderland in the underrated Virgin Suicides? Yu Wang's clangy, industrial, mechanic backdrop to the excellent Chinese Noir, Suzhou River? Tim Orr's Americana, pastel-tinged, otherworld in David Gordon Green's beautiful indie debut, George Washington? And there are others - Cast Away looks great, my colleague would not forgive me, I think, for failing to mention Gladiator and I should also give a mention in despatches to Matthew Libatique's dark, distressed and claustrophobic world in Reqiuem for a Dream which perfectly matches the film's mood.

So, after some agonising, I have settled on Steven Soderberg who self-photographed Traffic. Traffic stands as a true testament to the 'auteur' vision (a director having total creative control over a picture) made famous and championed by the likes of Francis Ford Coppola and Terrence Malick in the 1970's. Sure, Soderberg has help - particularly from Steven Mirrione's snappy editing - but Traffic just has that majestic, everyday, look which adds a great tone and shade of reality to its epic, panoramic, scope. From the streets of LA to the Mexican deserts and streets of Tijuana, Traffic just looks great and, as I say, bridges that often impassible gap which means that the audience can sense, touch and breath the reality of the dusty streets and sun-bleached deserts. Stephen Gaghan, who wrote the screenplay, gave a similar lightness to Syriana, which will surely come into contention for similar reasons when I get to 2005. It's a real achievement to Soderberg that Traffic should be singled out in such a strong year. Kudos to him and to all those cinematographers who made 2000 such a vintage year for their incredibly difficult, but vital, artform.

Top 25 Scenes of All Time

# 23: The Swimming Pool Scene (Traffic) (2000)

A very understated scene that lives long in the memory. From its very beginning, with the superbly limned awkward faces on the American cops' faces as they stand uncomfortably in the light-blue water chosen by the magnificent Benicio Del Toro's Javier as a safe haven to chat, this scene eats the screen alive and is for me the film's pivotal moment.

I suspect many readers would find this a surprising choice, at first glance, perhaps a scene many people have not thought twice about. However, much is at stake here. Javier is putting his life at risk and, importantly, the prejudiced Americans naturally assume that this is for money or some other personal gain. The looks on their faces are classic and priceless when he starts going on about baseball.

Although I'm obviously going to say that this is Del Toro's scene as much as it is his film, the two bit-part, lesser known actors, who play the American cops, are brilliant and bring the scene to life with the looks on their faces. So much acting is credited for dialogue delivery, but this just serves to remind you (like some other forthcoming scenes in my list) that non verbal communication and expression is just as important. Kudos too, for Steven Soderbergh and his intelligent and measured direction, which is spot on and brilliantly done.

So, baseball, then. I have written previously about cinema's relationship to morality and ethical thinking and will write about this again. Traffic is, to me, one of the most important ethical and political statements to have been made by Hollywood in the past decade or so, rivalling, perhaps even surpassing, the end of The Dark Knight. Traffic reminds you of the power images and stories have in terms of delivering a moral message, surely, at least in my view, surpassing that of academic philosophers (controversial!), not least because a successful firm can only be successful if it shares the same intersubjective mental environment and therefore typically has far greater potential for speaking to (and, of course, with) the masses than academic moral philosophy. The swimming pool scene is key to this, not fully hitting home until the final scene as Javier sits, quietly and unsassumingly, in the stands, watching a baseball match he was responsible for bringing about. It's a strong point. Poverty can bring people down, even into the hard crime depicted in Traffic, especially when they don't have opportunities, even simple leisure opportunities, something different to do in the evening. Javier knows this and his sacrifice is all the more compelling in that stunningly beautiful final scene, which I've only not included in my list because I think the one I have included is the scene that really, in the final analysis, makes that one so special. Stunning, emotional and thoughtful, a scene that lives as long in the memory as the flash of a snowflake caught falling in a moonbeam formed by the first echoes of winter.