Category: 1951

Luchino Visconti | 1hr 55min

There is a strange blend of neorealism and comedic satire in Bellissima which, at first glance, Luchino Visconti only seems half-suited to. As a forefather of the Italian movement in the 1940s, his stark, grounded direction never falters, and yet at the same time he is not a filmmaker known for his sense of humour. It is surprising then to see just how well he formally unites both in their shared inclination for social criticism, aiming them towards a mutual target – the ludicrous glorification of a cruel, exploitative entertainment industry. The rigorously blocked compositions that bring rich visual detail to his greatest films are scarce, but within the studio backlots and working-class suburbs of Rome, Visconti identifies an authentic connection between the pursuit of one effusive show mum to make her daughter a star, and her struggles of post-war poverty.

In what appears to be Anna Magnani’s effort to collect distinguished Italian directors from Rossellini to Fellini, her illustrious career intersects with Visconti’s here, ticking him off her list with a performance that swings from amusing parody to heartfelt poignancy. Maddalena is not a perfect mother, but she is deeply passionate, and when a casting call is sent out for a new film by Alessandro Blasetti, she joins the crowd of zealous parents trying to book their children a spot for the lead role. One might almost think these masses of working-class people were fighting for rations the way they elbow each other to the front, doing everything in the power to rise above the others.

It doesn’t stop there for Maddalena though – the arrival of veteran actor Tilde Spernanzoni on the scene brings promises of coaching her daughter, Maria, to the highest standard, and yet even here this coddling mother can’t help but call her own inexperienced feedback from the apartment window. When she learns from a rival parent that the character in the source material was a ballerina, she enrols her daughter in ballet classes as well. As it turns out, there’s no actual dancing required for this role, but a little girl in a tutu is too cute for movie executives to turn down. In effect, these children must be moulded into images cut for them by popular culture, as only then can they be considered successful. Visconti milks the comedy from this premise for a while too, throwing another comical obstacle into the mix when a boy mischievously cuts off Maria’s pigtails, though eventually Maddalena winds it all back, solemnly reminding us of the desperate insecurity underlying her misguided efforts.

“I want my daughter to become somebody.”

For the struggling lower classes of post-war Italy, movies represent everything they don’t have. With regular screenings in the square just outside Maddalena’s apartment building as well, they are virtually inescapable. American imports are particularly popular, as Red River projects fantasies of the Old West up in front of huge crowds, and the voice of Burt Lancaster penetrates the walls of Maddalena’s own apartment. As Visconti pans his camera around the destitute courtyards and streets surrounding her home, it is easy to see why the glamour of show business is held in such high regard here. Perhaps the only thing that would be more crushing than the state of her current life would be the realisation that her exceedingly ordinary daughter doesn’t possess that much talent after all.

Despite meeting with a film editor and former star who fell into obscurity after nabbing a few decent parts, Maddalena still refuses to recognise the cruelty and difficulty of the movie industry, leaving the heartbreak to sink in all at once when she peeks inside the screening room where casting directors watch Maria’s audition. Not only does her daughter’s incompetence as an actress become entirely apparent, but these executives don’t even try to hold back their callous laughter, calling her names without realising that her mother can hear everything. Magnani’s face crumbles in close-up as she is pulled back down to earth, finally seeing the futility of all her sacrifices.

If Visconti’s narrative disengages from reality at any point, then it is surely in the miraculous change of heart the casting directors experience upon watching Maria’s reel a second time, where they apparently discover hidden, unconventional talent. For Maddalena though, it comes too late. Her daughter needs to live on her own terms rather than those written out in exploitative contracts, and she deserves greater stability than that which the fickle movie industry can provide.

“I didn’t bring her into the world to amuse anyone.”

As the satire and naturalism of Bellissima’s narrative equally resolve, there are greater things in the world to aspire to than pure entertainment. This may be a strange mix of film conventions, and yet in its earnest consideration of parental ambition, both Visconti and Magnani prove their own impressive versatility as neorealist innovators.

Bellissima is currently streaming on Amazon Prime Video.

Yasujirō Ozu | 2hr 16min

On one side of Noriko’s circle of friends in Early Summer, Fumiko and Takako proclaim that “Single people don’t know what true happiness is,” asserting contentment in their marriages even while complaining about their husbands. On the other side, Noriko herself and Aya lightly tease their friends for being tied down to traditional institutions that keep them from living their lives freely. It is a relatively light-hearted dynamic, and one that acutely represents the cross-sectional divide of social attitudes spread across Yasujirō Ozu’s depiction of post-war Japan, though it is back home in domestic settings where the film truly takes hold of these cultural stakes. As the rift in Noriko’s group widens, so too does the conflict between multiple generations of Japanese men and women under the same roof intensify, each of them struggling to reconcile the happiness of one individual against the security of the family unit.

There are few filmmakers in history so stylistically suited to these delicate tales of domestic dramas as Ozu, whose sensitive examinations of familial love and disenchantment offer a stage to those voices typically silenced in public arenas. While his camera will intermittently turn to broader visions of Tokyo rendered through its impressive structures and greyscale landscapes, it is evident that his characters’ homes are where he truly thrives, infusing interiors with the rich lives and personalities of the families who inhabit them. Door casings and hallways are often layered deeply into his shots, creating a funnelling effect that keeps narrowing each successive frame into the background, each one wrapping characters up in cosy compositions.

Incidentally, this also means that it is difficult for the characters of Early Summer to hold private conversations away from prying ears, as right after Noriko finishes gossiping with Fumiko, the door in the background slides open to reveal a whole other room where her brother, Kōichi, has been eavesdropping. Similarly, another discussion between Kōichi and his mother, Shige, can barely progress without the constant interruption of the family’s young boys popping in and out of the shot to bug their elders, injecting a small dose of humour into the drama. The claustrophobia of this space is especially felt in the narrowing of frames through doorways so much that they become vertical. Even as family members are squeezed into tight spaces though, the décor that surrounds them never suggests anything but a personalised environment they have crafted for themselves. Ozu arranges each teapot, sake bottle, and basket with great precision, crafting a tidy sort of clutter in settings where parallel and perpendicular lines otherwise dominate his mise-en-scène.

Every now and again, these stray items will become gorgeous frames of their own, as we observe in one composition that encloses everything between a chair and a desk sitting in the foreground. Though it is subtle, the formal consistency of this visual choice has a tangible effect in binding characters to their environments. Ozu will frequently begin scenes right before characters enter and only cut away a few seconds after they leave, and in those short moments of silence, we can feel the presence of its inhabitants. Every now and again he works in his trademark shot of hanging laundry as well, imprinting cut-outs of human shapes onto his scenery, and in this he effectively reminds us of the family who are still carrying out mundane lives in this comfortable home, even when they are not physically onscreen.

Most powerful of all though may be the recurring series of shots drawing attention to the birdcages tended to by Noriko’s father, Shūkichi, hanging outside the family home. Ozu’s opening of the film with this motif and intermittent return to it is especially important in underscoring the nature of Noriko’s predicament. Like her father’s pets, she is fed and cared for by her parents, and marriage would similarly ensure a stable future, but the pressure to enter this patriarchal institution poses the same limitations upon her as those bars separating the birds from the open sky. It is not surprising that it is the men of the family who have the most outspoken views about this, with her brother, Kōichi, tersely bringing them up at mealtimes.

“It’s deplorable, what’s happened since the war. Women have become so forward, taking advantage of ‘etiquette’.”

“That’s not true. We’ve just taken our natural place. Men were too forward up to now.”

“That’s why you can’t get married.”

On virtually every level of her characterisation, Ozu defines Noriko as a modern woman. It is clear in the mention of her Audrey Hepburn idolisation that the seeping of Western culture into 1950s Japan is not merely limited to the relationship values that Early Summer most prominently explores, and quite surprisingly, the question of her queerness even arises with relatively little judgement. Though she works in an office and intelligently asserts her own independence, none of this takes away from the warmth of Setsuko Hara’s radiant performance. She is a bright beam of sunlight in this cast, sincerely offering support to her family with a smile that, for at least the first couple of acts, seems impossible to wipe away.

The unity in her family interactions is thoughtfully painted out in Ozu’s staging, drawing comparisons to his creative contemporary, Akira Kurosawa, in the way arrangements of bodies become landscapes in their staggered blocking, rising up like hills across the scenery. Admittedly though, this is where the similarities end. Ozu is happier to dwell on static shots for longer than his Japanese counterpart, quite literally sitting in shots that hover only barely above ground level, equally absorbing the comfort of family gatherings and the sorrow of Noriko’s imminent departure. On top of this, his editing veers sharply away from Kurosawa’s fast-paced action, and instead manifests in languidly paced pillow shots, delivering formal cutaways between scenes that elaborate on the social context of this modern world of brick office buildings and sleek automobiles.

It is within this tension between Japan’s past and future that Ozu’s narrative precariously lingers, as we watch Shige almost get hit by a car while nervously crossing a street, and Shūkichi being forced to pause mid-walk at a level crossing while a train passes, inspiring an impromptu meditation on this new, unfamiliar society. Within their home though, it is a strain which tugs at Noriko’s mind, with her arranged marriage to an older, wealthy man feeling more like a reduction of her value to a mere pawn in some social game she has no interest in. It is not this discontentment though which drives her impulsive acceptance of an informal marriage proposal to her widowed childhood friend, Kenkichi Yabe, who has recently accepted a new work placement in the countryside and must now move away from the city with his daughter. Above all else, she is swayed by the sudden realisation that this is simply the right choice for her. Though she claims that the feeling she can “trust him with all my heart and be happy” is not love, Aya begs to differ – from an outsider’s perspective, that is exactly what love is.

Naturally, Noriko’s family is not so keen on this unexpected prospect given its significant deviation from Japanese tradition. To them, it is a purely thoughtless act, and even in Ozu’s blocking there is a sudden turn towards a quiet disconnection that we haven’t seen on this level before, lingering painfully in grating silences. The only time we have previously seen Noriko’s bright smile waver was while facing the growing separation in her friendship group, and so her devastation over her family’s disappointment feels all the more heartbreaking for the immense shift we witness in Hara’s disposition. In the time spent mulling over this internal conflict, Ozu instils her character with real depth, letting her cry over the pain she has inflicted on her loved ones, even while she recognises it as the best thing to do.

Noriko is a self-proclaimed optimist after all, unafraid of poverty and refusing to be scared off by the prospect of becoming a stepmother. As she wanders handsomely bare landscapes of beaches and streets with Fumiko, Ozu gradually sets in motion a gradual reparation between the modernists and traditionalists of the family, and though there is not a single point where everything is suddenly set right, there is the realisation that understanding is not needed for cooperation. Perhaps the beautifully harmonious family photo he stages right before her departure marks the closest these generations will ever get to complete unity again. At the same time though, there is also a promise of new beginnings in the film that lifts its bittersweet conclusion into something a little purer in its hopefulness. “Our family has been scattered. But we’ve done better than average,” her mother ponders, and therein lies the sobering acceptance of time’s forward march that underlies Early Summer, and which Ozu introspectively embraces with both wistful reminiscence and eager inspiration.

Early Summer is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.

William Wyler | 1hr 43min

It takes a special kind of artistic flair for a stage play to be brought to cinematic life without expanding its story too far beyond the confined walls of a single location, and William Wyler is more than up to the task in his adaptation of Detective Story. To focus the scope of this narrative even further, it remains restricted to the sequence of events that unfold over the course of one day, where multiple plot threads emerge within a single police station and drive our short-tempered protagonist to his absolute limits. As Detective Jim McLeod’s personal and professional worlds collide and the walls close in, Wyler’s deep focus staging of his cast brings layers of both visual and subtextual significance to the film.

His emphasis on this sizeable ensemble may be somewhat surprising given the concentrated character study he is conducting here, though it is through the intricate construction of this police station where petty thieves and felons alike face the consequences of their sins that we see the fuel for McLeod’s inner fire. As the son of a criminal himself, it is his mission to bring down the hammer of justice upon those who maliciously destroy the lives of others, making sworn enemies out of lawbreakers who continue to elude his grasp. It is quite ironic then that it is also in this environment that his own cruelty and anger surfaces, as he gets caught up in his stringent obedience to his own rigid moral system and loses focus of the bigger picture – a picture which Wyler is sure to draw out in intricate detail, effectively putting us at a distance from McLeod to assess his character from the perspectives of others.

And beyond this one man, there is indeed a rich world of characters out there that he is all too happy to divide into good people and villains. As separate conversations overlap in multifaceted scenes that evoke those chaotic ensembles which Robert Altman would perfect twenty years later, Wyler staggers his actors across layers of his frames, developing them simultaneously or otherwise fluidly shifting his camera from one corner of the office to another. In the background we often find a shoplifter sitting on her own, watching other stories develop in horror and taking them as moral warnings. When McLeod himself isn’t dominating our attention, he is similarly often relegated to these positions as a consistent presence among the other narrative strands, which bounce around and off each other in the foreground. Wyler also continues his remarkable depth of field in his consistent low angles, often emphasising the hands of his characters in close-up whether they be cuffed to a chair or threateningly clutching at another’s face further back in the frame.

With this handling of such a busy professional setting, one might almost hope that Wyler affords us some time to delve back into McLeod’s seemingly happy home life that we glimpsed at the start, and yet in this tight, cutting screenplay, it shouldn’t be too much of a surprise that even this comes back to bite us. As a man who takes each crime that falls within his purview as a personal insult, and who is at times even more passionate about seeking justice than the actual victims, the ultimate twist of fate is that his work actually does begin to edge into his private life in unexpected and horrific ways.

Such easy categorisations as good and bad become obsolete when loved ones get involved, and questions of potential compromise only further drive McLeod further into his stance of self-defensive moral purity, even as close friends and colleagues beg him to ease off. Though he abides by a strict code, he is not a man who possesses the ability to think situations through clearly, and so words that he throws out in fits of anger inevitably come back to haunt him as he sets in motion his own rotten downfall. At some point in Detective Story, this “cruel and vengeful man” may have been a redeemable figure, but in Kirk Douglas’ blazingly impassioned performance and Wyler’s magnificent direction, McLeod becomes an unsalvageable figure of stern resentment, encompassing those criminal qualities that he so loathes in the people he seeks to brings to justice.

Detective Story is available to stream on The Criterion Channel, and available to rent or buy on iTunes, YouTube, and Google Play.