1949 – Scene by Green

Stray Dog (1949)

Akira Kurosawa | 2hr 2min

The covert, labyrinthine path through Tokyo’s seedy underbelly that police officer Murakami follows in Stray Dog is a strenuous enough journey on its own, even without considering the sweltering heatwave bearing down on the city. That this quest to recover his stolen pistol lands right in the middle of summer only makes it that much more exacting, dialling up the pressure to find the man who has bought it off the black market, and is now using it to commit a string of crimes. While the rest of the city is watching baseball games and relaxing, both sides of the law remain restless in their isolated pursuits, drawing ever closer under Akira Kurosawa’s sharp, observant gaze.

Handheld and electric fans are constant motifs here, cooling down those desperately trying to escape the heat, though the crowded blocking doesn’t help to ease the discomfort. When Murakami descends into the decadent nightclubs of Tokyo, Josef von Sternberg’s influence emerges in Kurosawa’s cluttering of the frame, filled with lights, smoke, décor, and bodies dripping with sweat. This is a world inhabited by illicit arms dealers and violent gangsters, and if Murakami is to find this disturbed gunman, he must fully immerse himself in its sleazy, lawless decadence.

*Electric fans obstructing frames, becoming a visual motif in the sweltering summer heat.*

*Hand fans too are used by the characters, but do little to ease the pressure off of the smothering mise-en-scène.*

*Josef von Sternberg style designs in the cluttered clubs of Tokyo – a world of lawless excess.*

Kurosawa’s methodical approach to unravelling this investigation is a stepping stone towards the sprawling procedural he would later conduct in High and Low, yet Stray Dog nevertheless remains an immense accomplishment in his early career. Tokyo takes on vibrant textures as Murakami navigates its streets and buildings, giving way to marvellously edited montages of a city scrutinised beneath his watchful eyes in a double exposure effect, and traversed in patient tracking shots. The visual storytelling is tremendous as he tails the pickpocket for several days, wearing her down until she points him towards Honda, the notorious gunrunner she sold his weapon to.

*There is real texture to Kurosawa’s world, exploring every hidden corner of Tokyo in preparation for High and Low.*

*Crowded blocking and silent visual storytelling as Murakami pursues a suspect through trams and streets.*

*An intense double exposure effect imposing Murakami’s eyes over montages of the city – little escapes his piercing gaze.*

When Honda’s girlfriend is taken in for questioning, she proves much tougher to break, and so the arrival of veteran detective Satō is timely indeed. In his playbook, charm is a far greater tool than intimidation, casually winning her over with ice blocks and cigarettes. In one superbly blocked composition, Kurosawa mirrors this new hierarchy too by pushing Murakami behind his older colleague, and foregrounding the girlfriend’s guilty profile as Satō interrogates her.

*Satō’s gentler interrogation tactics become the focus of the scene through Kurosawa’s staggered blocking, pushing Murakami to the background as an observer.*

The buddy cop dynamic which emerges here would later set the stage for David Fincher’s Se7en, similarly playing on the contrast between a fresh-faced detective and his older, wiser companion. Kurosawa’s casting of the highly-strung Toshiro Mifune and unflappable Takashi Shimura is incredibly inspired here, drawing an ideological divide which separates those younger generations directly affected by the traumas of World War II from those whose views are rooted in Japan’s traditional, stoic values. The more that both learn about their target Yusa, the more the cops’ differences come to light as well, making for a compelling discussion one night when Satō invites Murakami over for drinks.

*Two men of different generations mirrored, their worldviews colliding.*

“They say there’s no such thing as a bad man. Only bad situations,” Murakami deliberates, reflecting on the disturbed diary entries they found in Yusa’s shabby, filthy home earlier that day. Men become monsters in war, he believes, warped by inhuman orders from a government that neglects them as soon as they return home. He is not surprised that such a man has now fallen in with the yakuza, though seeing how this sort of nuance wracks Murakami with self-doubt, Satō is not so forgiving. “You can’t be this tense all the time if you want to be a cop,” he responds. War may have turned Yusa into a wild, untamed beast, but now that this monster is loose in society with a gun, it is up to them to capture him. “A mad dog sees only straight paths. Yusa sees only straight paths now,” Satō expounds, clinically reasoning that the only way to get to him is through his girlfriend.

“He’s in love with Harumi Namiki. She’s the only thing he sees.”

*The titular stray dog is an apt metaphor for both Murakami and the man he is pursuing, set up in the film’s very first shot.*

*Kurosawa’s compositions are outstanding, using his depth of field to draw our eye to characters further back in the frame.*

When applied to Murakami as well, this metaphor continues to ring true. He is blinded by his focus on Yusa, which itself is fed by his guilt over losing that gun in the first place. This rookie cop acts on impulse, often heading straight into danger without backup and hoping that he might stop Yusa from wreaking further devastation across Tokyo.

It is only inevitable that the heatwave that has accompanied this investigation should eventually break, and being a master of using weather as symbolism, Kurosawa carries it out with incredible formal purpose and style. While Satō is following a lead to Yusa’s hotel, Murakami is pressing Harumi to give up her boyfriend, wearing away at the worldly bitterness which he has imparted on her. It’s the world’s fault he has resorted to theft, she asserts, while slipping into a dress he has stolen for her – yet the guilt she suppresses is too strong. As she begins to cry, the skies finally open up, and Kurosawa traps her and Murakami within a confining, melancholy frame behind the falling rain.

*Melancholy hangs in the air of this shot, isolating Murakami from those around him.*

*A master of using weather patterns for cinematic power, Kurosawa breaks the heatwave with a violent downpour at a key narrative turning point, and weaves its texture into this poignant frame.*

Meanwhile, as the distance Satō and Yusa narrows, so too does the furious deluge mark their meeting with dramatic tension. While trying to call Murakami from the hotel phone booth, Satō remains unaware of an armed Yusa standing just outside, who fearfully realises that he is a police officer. The outlaw’s attempt on his life is fortunately non-lethal, though his shoulder wound is enough to tip an inconsolable Murakami over the edge, and ultimately convince Harumi that her boyfriend must be stopped.

*Satō and Murakami pushed to their lowest points yet, their faces shielded from the camera as they slump on the floor and stairs.*

As our bold, young protagonist sets out on his own one last time to confront the dangerous gunman, Kurosawa displays supreme confidence in his visual storytelling. The weather has stabilised – no longer is Murakami caught in the stifling grip of a heatwave, and neither does rain douse his spirits. “Don’t panic. Calm down,” his inner voice instructs him, taking on Satō’s cool composure as he searches the train station for a 28-year-old man in a white linen suit and muddy pants. Kurosawa’s camera possesses the patience of Hitchcock as it slowly passes across a line of legs, before eventually settling on a pair of filthy shoes and tilting up to the rest of the body. His taut editing soon comes into play as well, cutting between both their faces until Yusa confirms Murakami’s suspicions by using his left hand to strike a match – and from there, the final stand begins.

*A suspenseful, continuous tracking shot along a row of feet, searching for muddy white trousers – and eventually landing on them.*

*Cop and criminal in a frame – the stalker and his subject locked in his sights.*

Through the train yard and into a forest, Murakami daringly chases his target, though for now he holds off from shooting. He remembers exactly how many bullets were in his gun when it was stolen, and by deducing clues from each crime scene, he knows how many have been used. It is immensely satisfying seeing his sharp wits play into this set piece, and even more so knowing that it is Satō’s influence that has taught him self-control, further demonstrated in a close-up of his unshaken, bloody hand after his arm is shot. Two more wasted bullets from Yusa’s pistol, and Murakami is ready to bet his life that the barrel is now empty, rushing forward to apprehend the panicked, defenceless outlaw.

*The forest makes for a superb set piece, standing both sides of the law off against each other.*

*Leone-style editing long before Leone even made his first film, seeing Murakami patiently wait for the right moment to shoot.*

It isn’t that Murakami no longer understands Yusa’s trauma, nor that Satō completely disregards empathy, but he is right that these feelings must be put aside in their line of work. “The more you arrest them, the less sentimental you’ll feel,” he remarks – not that this pragmatism necessarily fixes the problem at the heart of a troubled society. Even with Yusa and the illicit arms dealer Honda brought to justice, Kurosawa’s cynicism lingers in his ending, acknowledging the countless disturbing cases that Murakami will continue to face throughout his career. For better or worse, this line of work allows little room for moral ambiguity, yet Murakami remains fully conscious of the bitter, underlying irony – the stray dog that finds purpose in saving lives is not so dissimilar from the one which takes them away.

*Two men reduced to exhausted heaps on the ground – mirrors of each other, alike yet morally opposed.*

Stray Dog is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

She Wore a Yellow Ribbon (1949)

John Ford | 1hr 43min

When the niece of Major Allshard first dons a yellow ribbon in her hair, there is much chatter among the men at Fort Starke regarding who it is for. As lyricised in the folk song which gives this film its name, it is traditionally worn as a symbol of love and loyalty to a man fighting in war, although Olivia is not so open about the identity of her sweetheart. As such, a rivalry is born between Lieutenants Ross and Flint, incidentally tempering the harsh nature of their larger mission at hand with lighter touches of romance and humour.

For a film that places such a great emphasis on duty and honour, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon is brimming with warmth in its side characters and subplots, though this should be no surprise to those familiar with John Ford’s mythos of America. After all, what are these Frontier Army troops really fighting for, if not the prosperity of their families back home? As for honourable men like Captain Nathan Brittles who have suffered great loss, grief does not wither their hearts, but rather gives them even greater reason to fight for the happiness of others. Consequently, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon meets him during a significant time of his life indeed – ruefully facing down retirement from the only thing that gives his him purpose.

*A yellow ribbon in Olivia’s hair hints at a sweetheart among the young cavalrymen, weaving romance and humour into this otherwise high-stakes tale.*

*Blue and yellow uniforms stand out against the red, earthy tones of the desert, and even more so thanks to Ford’s rigorous blocking.*

Brittles’ last detail comes in the wake of 1876’s Battle of Little Big Horn, which saw Native American warriors overwhelm the United States Army and break free of their reservations. War is brewing in the West, and Fort Starke is no longer the sanctuary it once was. Not only must he and his troop of cavalry soldiers drive them back home, but they must also escort Olivia and her aunt Abby to an eastbound stagecoach, which will take them to safety. The stakes are immense, and with Brittles’ last day of service approaching, there is an acute pressure to fulfil his assignment before bidding farewell to the only life he has ever known since his wife’s passing.

*Brittles’ backstory lends his final mission personal stakes, as he prepares to farewell the only life he has known since his wife’s passing.*

*Ford and his cinematographer Winton C. Hoch are laying the groundwork for The Searchers, shooting Monument Valley in Technicolor for the first time and crafting these stunning landscapes.*

Besides the native tribes and the petty divisions among his own men, there is another adversary the ageing captain must contend with, taking the form of America’s rugged wilderness. This was not the first time Ford shot among the astounding vistas of Monument Valley, and he was already well acquainted with colour filmmaking by 1949, yet She Wore a Yellow Ribbon marks the union of both. Much of the bold beauty here is thanks to the genius of cinematographer Winton C. Hoch, whose proficiency in Technicolor photography far surpassed his peers in 1940s Hollywood, though Ford’s own eye for composition should not be underrated. Blood-red sunrises silhouette the company’s bugler as plays a brassy melody to herald the new day, while the land of vast plains and towering buttes draws deep, earthy tones through the mise-en-scène, swallowing up armies of blue-uniformed specks in spectacular establishing shots.

*A blazing red sunrise cuts out the bugler’s silhouette – an image of patriotism and remembrance.*

*High horizons use the red rock valleys as mise-en-scène, here situating us behind a Native American surveying the view.*

*Low horizons stretch the blue, cloudy skies out over the cavalrymen, putting them at the mercy of the elements.*

Perhaps most breathtaking though are those visions of Monument Valley that impressionably shift with the weather, beating down the travelling cavalry beneath the scorching sun and later shrouding its rocky outcrops in grey, ghostly clouds. Even after spotting a thunderstorm brewing in the distance, Ford reportedly demanded that they continue rolling, forcing both his cast and crew to trudge through slurries of mud. It is surely no coincidence that this led to one of the film’s most memorable and visually striking scenes – there is a raw, practical authenticity to such imagery which connects Brittles’ quest to the land itself, accordingly revealing the sheer perseverance of those who seek to navigate its formidable challenges.

*Fog hangs low around the buttes of Monument Valley, offering an unusually ghostly atmosphere.*

*Lightning strikes and rain pours during this thunderstorm, yet Brittles’ men and Ford’s crew persevere through the natural challenges thrown their way.*

This admirable quality is perhaps most plainly illustrated though in Brittles’ attempted peace talks, careful manoeuvring, and resistance to unnecessary bloodshed. Nonviolent offence is clearly the preferred tactic here, especially given that hostile conquest would only spur on further aggression, but even then victory is not guaranteed. The burned-out remains of another military fort shake Brittles’ men to their core, and their failure to keep firearms out of the hands of Native Americans drastically shifts the odds against them further, eventually driving the entire troop back to Fort Starke in shame-faced defeat.

*Excellent blocking of actors in this expansive landscape, trailing these Native Americans along the top of a hill and against the sky.*

*Ravaged villages and innocent lives lost – this is a mission of many failures, testing Brittles’ mettle as a leader.*

Brittles’ final hours as Captain are approaching, yet the prospect of letting his men continue this mission without an effective plan or assured leadership is difficult to stomach. The silver pocket watch they gift him as a farewell present certainly doesn’t help to ease the sorrow either, earning a moment of genuine poignancy as John Wayne tears up – a rare sight to behold in any Western, let alone one directed by Ford.

Still, when else does one’s dutiful commitment shine brighter than at one’s lowest point? Against all else, this is the American ideal that She Wore a Yellow Ribbon holds in greatest esteem, especially when Brittles resolves to launch one last campaign before he is officially retired. At 12 minutes to midnight, he orders his bugler sound the charge and leads his troop into the Native American camp of renegades – not to inflict violence, but to scatter their horses into the wild. Silhouetted against the clouds of dust being kicked up behind them, Brittles’ cavalry rides swiftly with the stampede, grounding what is one of Ford’s finest set pieces in peace rather than subjugation. With no herd, these tribes have no means of mounting attacks, and are consequently forced to return to their reservations on foot rather than stoking further conflict.

*A grand set piece in the dead of night – no blood is spilt as Brittles and his men drive the renegades’ horses into the wild, accomplishing their mission with peaceful diplomacy and tact.*

Even in the aftermath, Ford continues to flex his mastery of sweeping landscapes as Brittles riding off into a red and purple sunset and towards new settlements in California, though this new civilian life is fleeting. As an officer delivers a letter recalling him to duty as Chief of Scouts, She Wore a Yellow Ribbon optimistically upholds that those who seek to serve their country will always find a place among the ranks of their fellow soldiers. After all, there is still much joy to be found in this community at Fort Starke, especially with Olivia and Flint finally announcing their engagement and becoming a perfect picture of an American idealism worth defending. “Wherever they rode and whatever they fought for, that place became the United States,” the closing voiceover proudly proclaims – and for all its dewy-eyed patriotism, Ford’s grand mythologising of historic archetypes cannot be criticised for a lack of sincere, rousing conviction.

*Riding off into a jaw-dropping sunset, painting the frame with shades of red, orange, and purple that all bleed into each other.*

She Wore a Yellow Ribbon is currently available to purchase on Apple TV and Amazon Video.

Thirst (1949)

Ingmar Bergman | 1hr 23min

The austere, psychological fantasies that Ingmar Bergman would explore at the height of his filmmaking career were still a long way off for him in 1949, and yet even so, the uneasy flashbacks of Thirst still bring a faintly nightmarish edge to the festered love at its centre. This contempt between married spouses would continue as a source of fascination for him in later projects like Scenes from a Marriage, and although there is nothing here quite on the level of that domestic epic, the vitriol that Rut and Bertil spit at each other is vicious nonetheless. These “prisoners in chains” are bound to each other in sickness and in health, and as they ride a train through a war-ravaged Europe, old heartbreaks rise to the surface, splitting our focus between their parallel traumas and nostalgic affairs.

Given how much of Thirst is spent following these alternating perspectives, it takes a fair bit of time for their context in the present day to emerge, and there is additionally some formal messiness in Bergman’s narrative construction. Specifically within Bertil’s memories, many scenes take place around his widowed mistress, Viola, where he is altogether absent. As a character though, she is a powerful testament to the failing of a patriarchal culture on many levels, from her struggling to stay afloat financially following the death of her husband, to the manipulative abuse of her psychiatrist Dr. Rosengren, thereby creating an opening for former ballerina Valborg to seduce her away from the world of men. Almost like a mirror held up to the opening scene of Bergman’s previous film, this young woman approaches the edge of a pier with the intent to drown herself, but where Port of Call’s Berit was unsuccessful, there is no one around to rescue Viola.

The camera only follows her so far though, eventually resting on the still reflection of a ship in the water, and just as the ripples of her jump gently disturb its image, so too does the impact of her suicide reverberate through Thirst with a haunting melancholy. It does not just occupy the thoughts of Bertil, whose love for her persists, but it also leaves a hopeless void in this allegory of Europe’s lost innocence. Outside the train windows in the present day, crowds of men and women whose lives have been disrupted by war and poverty reach up to the passengers onboard, begging for food scraps. Rut and Bertil may placate their requests, but it isn’t long before they are speeding off on the train again, submerged back in their own drama.

It is frequently in these intimate scenes of claustrophobic interiors where Bergman’s filmmaking flourishes, forcing the camera into delicately framed close-ups of his actors as they pour their frustrations out onto each other and themselves. As Dr Rosengren imposes himself upon Viola, Bergman shoots the profile of her insecure expression with his face behind hers, composing a distinctive shot that he would most famously return to later in Persona. Here though, the camera rotates around their heads in an enchanting swirl, moving into a shot of duelling faces on either side of the frame before letting Viola dominate the image, reflecting the scene’s shift in power dynamics with a single, fluid take. Similarly, the lighting of the train scenes also manifest the deep derision shared between Bertil and Rut, casting shadows and the train’s blinking lights across faces as the foundation of their misery surfaces.

“I hate you so much that I want to live just to make your life miserable. Raoul was brutal. You took away my lust for life.”

There is no downplaying the agony of Rut’s past, which saw her become another man’s mistress and suffer a botched abortion, and yet it is her current husband whose insistent longing for the deceased Viola which torments her the most. Conversely, it is Rut’s own history with her past lover Raoul which plagues Bertil’s mind too, setting up a pair of intangible obstacles that neither can move past. Both are at an impasse, taking snarky jabs at each other by complaining that “There’s too much nudity in this marriage,” but also degrading themselves with harsh, demeaning language.

“Nothing takes root in me. I’m all filth and sludge inside.”

The final, psychological departure from reality that sees Bertil kill his wife with a bottle to the head does not spill over in a moment of anger, but even more chillingly punctuates a cold silence. Once again, close-ups are Bergman’s chosen aesthetic in framing this violent outburst, though in separating them into their own shots there is a disconnection in the action. We see Bertil’s slow turn and sudden attack, and we also see Rut collapse a few seconds later, but the surreal discontinuity in the framing and delay hints at the action taking place purely within a dark, eerie dream state.

With both their previous love lives lying in tatters, further destruction is not the answer for these loveless partners. Perhaps these is a tinge of studio interference in the happy reconciliation that comes about, but if this couple is to represent the disrepair of Europe in the wake of war, then their decision to pursue a more hopeful future together at least expresses an optimism for the continent’s social and economic recovery. For Bergman, it is also slightly closer to the magical realism he would pioneer in future decades, even if it is not fully present yet in his narrative. Still, his dynamic camerawork and framing is enough to visually manifest the wistful temptation to escape into one’s mind from grim realities, especially when that reality is a morose, resentful marriage.

Thirst is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

White Heat (1949)

Raoul Walsh | 1hr 54min

Before there was Norman Bates and his psychotic mother, there was Cody and Ma Jarrett – two halves of one criminal mind, operating illegal schemes from within their small mob and sharing a co-dependent love which stretches our belief in its platonic foundations. Though Cody is married to the wily, blonde Verna and places full trust in his right-hand man, Big Ed, both associates recognise that their respective relationships with him will never approach the same depths as this mother-son bond, which holds sway over virtually every aspect of his life. Perhaps more than anything else, it is this stunted maturity which erodes their faith in him, pushing them to eliminate Ma when her back is turned and thereby robbing him of his greatest source of comfort. The law’s concerted efforts to track him down may be directly responsible for Cody’s eventual downfall, but it is only when Ma is finally out of the picture that he finds himself truly defeated.

Not that Cody would ever admit that. He’s on his way to the “Top of the world,” according to his Ma, and her early death only sees him cling closer to that idea than ever. White Heat might almost be a tragedy if its central character was not such a despicable human being, though with an actor like James Cagney in this role commanding a heavy, magnetic screen presence, Cody begs for at least some of the audience’s pity. With a jaw that juts out from a scowling face and the physique of a stocky brawler, Cagney’s gangster looks like a tougher, more violent take on the classic Wellesian antihero, not unlike Charles Foster Kane in his great ambition, or George Amberson Minafer in his Freudian inclinations. For Cody, it is not one fatal flaw earning his place among the greatest cinematic characters of the 1940s, but a whole multitude of them, each one tied back to that insecure, volatile ego which places his mother on a pedestal and punishes anyone who even hints at threatening their unhinged relationship.

*Great staging of bodies and faces, placing Cody and Ma in their own shared world.*

*A well-placed long dissolve over Cody and Ma’s faces, visually and psychologically binding the two together.*

Raoul Walsh’s slick direction is well-suited to the abundant subtext of this twisted dynamic, blocking his actors in compositions that insulate Cody and Ma in their own lonely world, and later blending close-ups of both their faces in a well-timed long dissolve. This childlike bond brings a surprising layer of vulnerability to an otherwise harsh character, especially when Cody finds himself dolefully separated from his Ma in prison. The scene in which he learns of her death from his fellow inmates was originally going to take place in a small chapel due to the cheaper setup, but Walsh’s push for the mess hall set filled with hundreds of extras brilliantly pays off as the humiliating location for his hysterical breakdown. As the camera follows the whispers along a table in one long parallel tracking shot, we anxiously anticipate the reaction that awaits it at the other end, where Cody’s agonising screams and sobs finally destroy the hardened image he had cultivated over the years.

*Cody’s breakdown upon learning of Ma’s death is set against this backdrop of hundreds of extras, blowing his emotions up to a magnificent scale.*

As a crafter of truly spectacular set pieces such as these, Walsh expertly matches the huge emotions of his characters with kinetic pacing and an impressive coordination of action, bookending White Heat with a pair of robberies that, on some level, both send Cody soaring to the “top of the world”. The first is a resounding success for his gang, offering this mobster film a hint of the western genre as they hold up a train, kill its crew, and leave with their earnings, setting an extraordinary level of ruthlessness in its characterisations and tightness in its editing. The final set piece closing out White Heat is even more explosive, as Cody sets out to infiltrate a chemical plant with a tanker full of his men to steal its payroll, while unwittingly collaborating with an undercover police officer, Hank, whose plans steadily derail his own.

*A superb depth of field in Walsh’s blocking, building excellent character dynamics via the levels in his frame.*

Some brisk intercutting and a swift barrage of long dissolves efficiently narrow the police in on Cody’s “Trojan tanker” while this narrative drives towards its climax, and when the two sides of the law finally converge at the plant, Walsh makes remarkable use of its labyrinthine layout and industrial architecture to stage the thrilling final showdown. From high and low angles alike, frames are crowded by winding, metal pipes, and Walsh exhilaratingly sends Cody hurtling through offices and corridors, until he reaches a field of gas storage tanks.

*A barrage of long dissolves in a montage driving towards the climactic conclusion.*

*An excellent use of industrial architecture in the final pursuit between cops and gangsters, combining thrillingly staged action with shadows and sharp editing.*

Though he is the last man standing and finds himself surrounded by police, Cody is still dementedly giggling as he climbs one of the globe-shaped structures, elevating himself above everyone else. “Made it Ma! Top of the world!” he madly shouts as he shoots at the tank beneath his feet, going out in a literal blaze of glory. The following line which virtually explains the metaphor to those who missed it is an unfortunate misstep, though it only barely dulls the impact of this dazzling finale. In Walsh’s tight construction of this marvellously compelling character study, White Heat recognises that such ambitious, extravagant grandeur will only ever be fleeting for men as vile and deeply troubled as Cody Jarrett.

*One of the great endings of the 1940s – violently and explosively poetic.*

White Heat is currently available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Amazon Video.

Jour de Fête (1949)

Jacques Tati | 1hr 26min

Before Monsieur Hulot took over as Jacques Tati’s silent character of choice in the 50s, we had François the postman – not quite as a distinct a comedic icon as the lurching, overgrown child that would appear in his later films, but still operating on a clever enough level to send up western modernity through a Keaton-esque, full-bodied commitment to visual gags. As the small French village where he resides is setting up its Bastille Day celebrations in Jour de Fête, talk of America’s efficient mailing system has also arrived in town, and with it, François finds a new challenge: keep up with the times, or be left behind.

Along with being a skilled director of silent comedy, Tati has also proven himself to be a master of magnificent set pieces, reflected in the architecture of his later films ranging from quirky sculptures to monstrous dioramas. Perhaps he did not yet have the budget for these fantastic displays of visual grandeur, or maybe he had not developed his own artistic voice yet to understand their potential, but at times Jour de Fête feels slightly limited without bouncing Tati’s hilariously physical performance off these constructions. As it is, what we get is something a little more modest in ambition, yet also remarkably resourceful, making jokes out of a fence coming between a drunk François and his bike while he tries to mount it, or later a boom gate incidentally lifting it up out of sight.

*Who would have guessed how many gags you could get out one bike – Tati’s style of comedy is endlessly inventive.*

In true silent fashion, dialogue is kept to a minimum so that music and sound effects can take over, leading us lightly through comedic episodes with accordions, vibraphones, trumpets, and a chamber of jovial strings. Within this soundscape, François is given his own motif in the form of the rattling bike bell, announcing his presence like his own whimsical, ringing musical theme.

Though he is hopelessly devoted to his neighbours and is always sure to offer a helping hand wherever he can, François is also the butt of many jokes, and thus feels that he has something to prove. With the American post office setting an example of efficiency in the western world, he takes it on himself to match their productivity on his own, leading into a directly Buster Keaton-inspired sequence that allows Tati the chance to prove his own talents as both an incredibly physical actor and director.

François rides in with his bicycle, and emerges on the balcony a few second later as the restaurant owner tosses it out – all playing out in a single wide shot. This isn’t a silent film, but Tati is very much following the footsteps of Keaton and Chaplin with these kinds of visual gags using different levels and doorways creatively with minimal cutting.

In superbly staged wide shots we watch a series of elaborate pratfalls play out, each one escalating with François’ struggle to keep up with himself, overtaken by the “American style” of mail delivery. When one recipient doesn’t take their letter in time, he simply leaves it wedged underneath their horse’s tail before speeding off again, and at one point it looks as if his bike takes on a life of its own, zooming down the street while he is left chasing it from behind.

*Much like Keaton, Tati puts his full body into his stunts as he rides full-speed into a river.*

The sheer velocity with which Tati moves through his gags in this fantastic sequence can only be halted with a stunt that sees François ride full speed over the edge of the road into a river, finally capping his mad dash with an obstacle he cannot overcome. There may be plenty of cynical directors out there who dissect the industrial march of capitalistic progress with a much sharper blade, but Tati has no such aspirations with this sort of subject matter. In Jour de Fête, the most we can do is point and laugh at the absurdity of such grand ambitions, before falling back on the reliable affability of one humble postman.

*Tati’s camera dollying forward into this window frame as the fair leaves town, delivering a sweet farewell.*

Jour de Fête is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel and available to rent or buy on iTunes.