Forty years after seminal classics like The Maltese Falcon and The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, John Huston made his masterpiece: this faithful (in the best sense of the word) adaptation of James Joyce’s iconic short story. The movie has the simplicity of a master who has nothing left to prove. Set in Dublin in 1904, it’s about a small gathering of friends and family during one bitter winter night. But inside there is great warmth. The setting is specific (there is talk of conservatism and Irish nationalism; emerging socialist rallies, etc.) but the feel is timeless: this could just as easily have taken place in some remote hut in the Middle Ages. The people gathered conjure the lost pleasures of hospitality and tradition. In Huston’s interpretation, they are not fakes—they’re not the petulant frauds of Buñuel’s The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeouisie, unable to leave their table. Their enjoyment, their love of interaction and conversation, is genuine. But just when nostalgia seems to close in on us, something remarkable happens. You begin to see the human cost behind this ancient ritual, behind the idea of contentment and home. These people, with their broken dreams and hopes, their recollections, their laughter, their songs, with all their merriment: these are the dead. This world—this homely prison—is all they know, and they can’t break through the chains. Anjelica Huston is superb as the beautiful middle-aged woman who still clings to the memory of young love, which is more real to her than the present, more real than anything. Her longing threatens to undo her. Life has passed her by, as it has each and every one of them… and most will go into their graves without even this realization. There is a sense that the burgeoning world outside is no longer compatible with the warmth of the hearth. A movie of infinite compassion, it has equal affection for the young and the old, for the rebellious and the traditional, for the women who wither away in the name of servitude, for the monks who consume themselves in prayer. For the living and the dead… if there is such a distinction. This film is an old master’s passionate plea for life.
Lee Chang-dong’s movie about an elderly woman who takes up poetry lessons just as she begins to lose her memory and her grasp on verbs and nouns. Nobody (least of all herself) understands why she’s taken up the course. She inhabits an unintelligible world, replete with sullen, half-mute teenagers who can barely enunciate a word, let alone sort out their feelings; bodies of girls who wash up ashore for unexplained reasons and an entire system determined to shrug it all off. Mija works as a maid to be able to sustain her grandson and herself. But her professor preaches that there is potential beauty in everything, so Mija starts looking at things—starting with her kitchen’s dirty dishes and an apple—trying to see them for what they really are for the first time. (She ends up just eating the apple.) Whether her search for beauty begins as purely selfish escapism is up to the viewer to decide, and there’s a great comic desperation to her enterprise that is both pitiable and admirable. There is a magnificent scene where the old woman goes to the country to meet the mother of a girl who was raped, and she loses herself in the sensual radiance of the bright summer day. She picks up a fallen peach, sensing its “pain”; she feels it was “yearning” to be eaten. In this scene she is childlike, like a young poet for whom even pain is beautiful. She is so caught up in the purity of the moment that when the memory of the unsavory business that brought her there re-enters her mind, it nearly destroys her: beauty comes crashing down under the weight of reality. No other movie expresses the link between beauty and oblivion with this kind of devastating clarity. And there’s a shift. No longer content with just beauty, she now aims for the truth, too.
Yun Jeong-hie’s performance is a masterpiece of intuitiveness and self-discovery. Hers is the most original movie heroine of the 21st century: a poet in a world that’s done with poetry; a victim of Alzheimer’s who refuses to forget (or to even be a victim); an ignored old woman who finds empathy to be a source of infinite personal pleasure. (She might be to this century what Umberto D. was to the last.) One of the most amazing films to come out from South Korea, it has a love of life that’s almost heroic.
Dir. Lee Chang-dong / 2010 / South Korea
Before City of God there was Pixote, Héctor Babenco’s stark lucid account of Brazilian youths growing up in squalor in the 70s. It chronicles the life of 10-year-old Pixote and his companions, from repression and jail time to pickpocketing in Rio to close encounters with prostitution and death. Babenco makes the audience feel the urgency of the present time the way the characters experience it: with the past being too shameful to speak of and the future non-existent, the present, for all its terror, is all that’s left. As the world crumbles all around them and the kids lose respect not just for the lives of others but for their own, the movie’s vitality risks becoming jarring if not outright cruel. But it quickly becomes apparent that the full immersion in the amoral present they share is the closest thing they’ll ever know to redemption: it’s where their camaraderie, their symbiotic relationship with each other, even their shifting sexual confusion are built. And though the movie is clearly an heir to the great neo-realist films of the 40s and 50s, it goes deeper than them. It touches on forbidden, wordless things. When Pixote meets the volatile prostitute Sueli (Marília Pêra, superb) and discovers she’s had an abortion, he is horrified. She feels judged and lashes out at him in a rage, but he’s horrified not for her but for himself—his entire orphaned existence coming into focus. The relationship that builds between the whore-mother and her adopted children is monstrously, inexplicably rich. The very protagonists can’t figure out the nature of it, so they just go through it blindly, until their roles become so confused that they devour each other. For Pixote, it’s a return to the womb from hell. In the movie’s best scene, he goes to the prostitute’s den looking for a mother’s embrace. She tentatively takes on this role. But Pixote is no child and never was. Retreat to innocence is impossible, and he is vomited out one final time. Alone, he isn’t just worthless: he’s not even alive. The film goes beyond surface moral and social indignation. This is an artist’s statement. Yet no matter how hard the implications this movie has a pulse like few others, with the natural energy of the places and the actors giving it its incomparable freshness.
Dir. Héctor Babenco / 1981 / Brazil