Entries associated with the tag "Hou Hsiao-hsien":

Unfortunately missing from the Film Center's current Manoel de Oliveira retrospective (apparently because it's available on DVD, if that's any excuse) is The Convent (1995), which Jonathan Rosenbaum's recently described as "boring" and most other reviewers haven't been too crazy about either.

Frankly I don't get it. If I had to pick one Oliveira film as an accessible primer that at the same time embodies his richly connotative aesthetic in something like full dosage, The Convent would be it, the whole symbolist schmear in one elegantly distilled package. Because there's not a frame in this comparatively short feature (for Oliveira anyway) that doesn't direct you elsewhere, to allusions and cultural entities beyond the phenomenological surfaces of things, a Bachelardian parsing that subverts every impulse to narrative explication. If Hou Hsiao-hsien's the ultimate film literalist (everything exactly as you see it—but what exactly is that everything?), then Oliveira's his nonliteral opposite: just a host of flickering impressions on the walls of Plato's cave. So we have Catherine Deneuve emerging from the ocean like a Botticellian vision, or fishermen's skiffs bobbing on an opalescent sea (marinescapes by Courbet?), or arcane sculptural riffs in a monastery courtyard that, to me anyway, suggest Brancusi's studio in Paris, with its endlessly receding columns and enigmatic glyphs of stone. Not to mention Malkovich's sardonic channeling of Shakespeare (and, more playfully, Caliban), or the mystery mandala that prompts assorted characters to shield their eyes, a sinister luminosity (Milton's satanic light bearer?) that none dare face directly. Evocations, gnomic references, and whatnot, the thematic afterimages of a thousand years of Western literature and art, all packed and resonating, like a swarm of elementary particles in a cultural cloud chamber. Plato's cave never seemed more inviting--or more protective of its obscure insights. Which, of course, are never more remote than when just beyond our grasp.

Though finally it's about balance, an almost perfect equipoise—or art aspiring to the condition of music, as intrepid philosophers used to theorize a century or more ago. Eureka, I think I've got it! ... almost.

Tried baiting the hook re Hou Hsiao-hsien in my April 9 post, but nobody's been biting so I guess a more direct approach is in order ...

A lot of what we typically get from Hou—e.g., the "crowd scene [that] swallows its own visual cues" (so you don't know how to parse it out), actors who "declaim with their backs to the camera"—are exactly the kinds of things they warn you against in film school. Of course, in Hou's case they're indisputable proofs of "genius," whereas for you or me or, let's say, feckless Mexican primitives of the 30s, they're just as indisputably the opposite. So why the double standard? And is it really a double standard at all?

Let's start with a comparison, between Hou's films and Manoel de Oliveira's, that inexhaustible nonagenarian Portuguese. Superficially they're similar, especially in their commitment to long, static takes, but in terms of film philosophy, the ways in which their works imply a specific view of the world, they're more like light-years apart. Hou's the phenomenological "realist," an artist of interpretable surfaces without symbolic content: his only "revelations" are what the camera immediately sets out in front of you. But Oliveira's the eternal symbolist, spinning out images from the depths of Plato's cave: what his camera reveals is a cover for nonmaterial "essence," that exists beyond appearances, beyond the literal/accessible surfaces of things.

For Hou though, these surfaces are everything, or maybe the only thing—there's no "beyond" to connote, only a tangibility that the camera inevitably throws back in your face. The basic riddle in all this is what these "antisymbols" are up to—in other words, what exactly are we looking at ("is this a dagger that I see before me?"—that kind of material-inflected puzzle), and how do you actually read the images the camera dishes up?

Which is what makes Hou's camera just another underprivileged observer, with no more access to "truth" than any of the film's human principals. Only what the lens gives you, just as, for post-Newtonian empiricists like ourselves, there's only what's in front of our eyes. Which isn't the way movie cameras tend to operate, being more or less intrusive, seeing from every possible angle with a kind of infinite fluidity: we can go here, even if we're not right now. So, e.g., in Hitchcock's Notorious the camera glides effortlessly past the wine-cellar door without hesitation in an all-seeking quest. But in Hou's Flowers of Shanghai (1998, pictured above), a closed door stops the camera cold, as it might any human witness: only a sliver of light from under the locked panel, with voices bickering in the mysterious room beyond. The camera records, it doesn't penetrate or arrange—which is why we get lost in the crowded frames, watch the backs of receding speakers, etc. Or, again as in Flowers, get stuck at the wrong end of a banquet room when all the significant action is taking place in the street. 

So the camera has limits, as palpable and physical as our own, and in Hou's work these limits are self-created—though since Millennium Mambo (2001) he's added an extra wrinkle: still only revealed surfaces, but now without implied focus or direction, as a kind of ur-sensual, aleatory riff (unlike Flowers, where we know what we should be looking at, even if we can't quite make it out). Eschew the abstract, the manipulation of meaning, seems the mantra of the hour. Or make of it what you will, a free-form surface that incrementally unfolds, that insists on its own material thereness. Not something they're likely to teach you in film class.

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Hou's latest feature, The Flight of the Red Balloon (2007), opens this Friday at the Music Box; showtimes are here.

Schlepped out to the U. of C. last Thursday for the opening-night screening in Doc Films' new "Golden Age of Mexican Cinema" series. Not that there's anything remotely new about it, since the films are all venerable antiques, dating from the 1930s through early '40s—also, based on a handful of viewings (and leaving Emilio Fernandez "poetically" aside), relatively unwatchable, at least in the narrowly modern sense of narratives that cohere, of cinematography, blocking, performances, etc, that conform to fussbudgety notions of cinematic excellence. But who cares, it's all marvelously seductive, a raw celluloid rush ...

Also terra incognita for at least one viewer, since I'm hardly familiar with this period ethnicity at all. Like an archaeological dig in a forgotten corner of the planet, where even the lowliest potsherd becomes a vehicle for transcendence, the rapt "illumination" of the gods, exploring cross-cultural mind-sets and ad hoc vizualizations that may never see the light of day again. So when a crowd scene swallows its own visual cues and actors declaim with their backs to the camera—as happened a couple of times in the first-night's program—it's almost like reconnecting with the Lumieres: cinema language in its baby-steps phase, which more often than not leads to an evolutionary dead end. When Hou Hsiao-hsien does it, of course, it's genius. But in 30s Mexico it's just filmmaking on the verge ...

But opening night did yield a fascinating relic—not the film originally scheduled (La Llorona, a pioneering entry in the indigenous "crying woman" genre, which never showed at all) but Adolfo Best Maugard's La Mancha de Sangre (1937), an exotic combination of professional Hollywood savvy (multiple camera setups, haphazard bursts of soft-focus expressionism, etc), vanished reels, and pure howling ineptitude. Its claim to notoriety, both then and now, is a full-frontal nude striptease that aroused the Mexican censors' ire (try imagining that even in precode Hollywood!), though a later scene with Estela Inda (the mother in Buñuel's Los Olvidados) dusting her apartment in a negligee is, if anything, even more inspirational. Or maybe I should say mystifying—shot apparently for the cleavage (except the camera's set back too far for that), it's a time-and-motion study of domesticity run rampant, filmed in literal duration without significant breaks or edits. Like Jeanne Dielman before the fact, you could argue—or maybe it's just a bizarre "film grammar" experiment gone horribly/deliciously wrong.

Among series highlights to come: El Fantasma del Convento (April 10) and Dos Monjes (April 17), both exploring the perennial Mexican theme of haunted clergymen on the loose, and a trio of groundbreaking westerns cum rancheras—Vamonos con Pancho Villa (May 1), Alla en el Rancho Grande (May 8), La Zandunga (May 22)—by Fernando de Fuentes, aka the "Mexican John Ford" (an opinion I don't share, but what the hell, it's what he's sometimes called). Also, more or less inevitably, Emilio Fernandez's Maria Candelaria (May 29), our southern neighbor's gift to American art-house tastes, plus an encore screening of La Mancha de Sangre (tentatively May 15) and a selection of titles/filmmakers I barely recognize that seems pretty inviting anyway (for complete schedule with times, click here).

And maybe La Llorona will show up yet. When I asked Doc Films about it last week, they promised they'd give it a try ...