After the death of her parents, Ewa, a young polish woman, and her sister, Magna, head to America in search of a new start. When they reach Ellis Island, doctors discover that Magda suffers from lung disease, and the two women are seperated. Ewa is released onto the mean streets of Manhattan under the care of Bruno, a charming but wicked man who forces her into prostitution as a way to make the money necessary to help her sister Magda. James Gray's The Immigrant is a beautifully crafted narrative that captures this dark time-period with unequivocal accuracy. The Immigrant is a tough story to watch but in the end it's a story of forgiveness and hope. There are no true bad guys in The Immigrant, with each character having their own faults, each doing whatever they feel is necessary to survive during this cruel time period. Bruno is one of the most fascinating characters in recent memory, a man whose no doubt vile when we first meet him, but the transition that he makes as the narrative unfolds is truly resonant. Through Ewa, The Immigrant captures the distrust in everything that this life breeds to the point that even Orlando, a man who shows great affection for Ewa, cannot be trusted. I loved the dynamic between Bruno and his cousin Orlando, and as the film progresses Gray subverts the viewers expectations about these two men. Orlando seems to be a man with only good intentions but if you watch and listen closely you begin to question even his interest in helping Ewa. I found myself wondering if he even cared for Ewa, with his fascination possibly being more to do with taking something from his cousin than her overall well-being. Much like life itself no character's moral compass is set in stone, with every character motivation and decision feeling authentic and genuine. Featuring absolutely beautiful cinematography that perfectly places the viewer in the time period, fully-dimensioned characters, and a beautiful narrative, James Gray's The Immigrant is a film that should be seen.
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In the mid seventies, surrealist filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky, who had great success in creating the idea of midnight movies with El Topo and The Holy Mountain, began work on his most ambitious film project yet, an adaption of Frank Herbert's classic sci-fi novel Dune. Assembling a team of artists such as Orson Welles, Mick Jagger, David Carradine, Salvador Dali, HR Giger, etc., Jodorowsky aimed to create a film that would change the world, though his artist ambitions would ultimately fail under the capitalist driven movie industry. Frank Pavich's Jodorowsky's Dune gives a detailed look into the making of one of the most celebrated films to never actually be made. The style of the documentary is rather generic, consisting almost entirely of talking heads, but Alejandro Jodorowsky is such a fascinating man that I barely cared. Jodorowsky's Dune captures the constant tug-and-pull between art and commerce as it pertains to filmmaking, with Jodorowsky himself being a man that simply dreams of being able to put what's in his mind on celluloid no matter what the cost. At its core, Jodorowsky's Dune is a film about the creative process of filmmaking, capturing the working style of an enigmatic artist in Jodorowsky who frankly lives on a different plane of consciousness from most of us. Dune is a film that was never made, but the ripples of this collaborative process have been incredibly influential in dozens of films since. This is what I found most fascinating about the whole film, the idea that in creating art, sometimes your biggest perceived failures can in actuality become your greatest successes. Hirata, an ambitious young film director, dreams of nothing but making a masterpiece of cinema. He and his crew (The Fuck Bombers) routinely film amateurish footage on video, hoping to one day get the chance to make a "real" movie on 35 mm. Meanwhile, Muto, a yakuza crime boss, dreams of granting his wife Shizue's wish of having their daughter Michiko appear in the movies. Hirata and Muto's paths intertwine, with Hirata's slight deception of being a master filmmaker giving him the opportunity to direct the yakuza bosses film. Shion Sono's Why Don't You Play in Hell is an affectionate and completely bonkers love letter to cinema and the process of filmmaking. This is a film bristling with chaotic and passionate energy, with Sono creating a playful romp that manages to put his passion for filmmaking on the screen for all to see. We see how the filmmaking process brings people together, whether it be rival Yakuza clans who agree to work together for the sake of the film, or a budding romance between Koji, a complete introvert, and Michiko. Sono celebrates the power of cinema on nearly every level with this film, leading to an absurdly violent climax that's as funny as it's violent. Personally, I tend to find films about cinema to be a tedious and over-done but with Why Don't We Play In Hell, Sono has created a truly unique love letter that's incredibly entertaining, hilarious, thrilling, and endearing, somehow managing to capture the various emotions which cinema can bring to an audience. |
AuthorLove of all things cinema brought me here. Archives
June 2023
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