Hochzeitsgäste [1990)

Finding beauty in a crowd.

You will never find it again.

The ne plus ultra of “fleeting”.

Was it just a dream?

Her hair?

We can pin nothing down.

About this brilliant film.

Except for its brilliance.

And that it’s a Polish movie directed by a German.

Who has no arms.

And who changed his name.

I have run the names of all the actresses in the credits.

And none of them are an obvious match for the star of this film.

The star is not Christina Ormani.

It’s the other girl.

The one that gets cheated on.

The jilted lover.

She gets cheated on, so she cheats back.

And in cheating, she finds love.

True love.

This masterpiece short film (feature?) was credited to Niko Brücher.

It was his first film.

You may know him (but probably not) as Niko von Glasow.

It makes sense that this is a masterpiece.

Because Von Glasow trained with Fassbinder.

The actor-auteur of Kamikaze 1989.

I could be wrong, but I think Rainer Werner Fassbinder was a better actor than he was a director.

And let me be unequivocal:  he was a GREAT actor.

On par with Bogart.

Really.

Back to Von Glasow.

He studied film at NYU.

And in Poland.

From the latter is drawn the cast of this film.

They are, it seems, Polish student actors.

Some went on to stable careers.

Others didn’t.

The star.

Who is she?

What is her name?

Which one of these inscrutable Polish names represents her?

I can’t be a fanboy if I don’t have a name.

My suspicion is that this is just about the only film she made.

But I don’t even know what to call her.

These are OBSCURE actors in this film (with a couple of exceptions).

Von Glasow has no arms because of Thalidomide.

Born this way.

But none of this adulation for this mystery actress would matter had Von Glasow not made this masterpiece where there are no spoken words for the first nine minutes of the film.

Indeed, over the course of its 38 minutes, there is no FUNCTIONAL dialogue whatsoever.

There is some whispering.

Some chattering.

But there are no subtitles.

And there need not be.

For this is essentially a silent film with sound.

Not to be confused with a silent film with musical accompaniment.

There’s music here, alright.

A strange, mournful (and rather clownish) marimba scores much of this film.

Just little melodies.

No crazy four-part harmonies or anything.

Very minimal.

Marimba (!)

What a choice!!

It makes for an ODD amalgam.

To reiterate, this film is powered strictly by VISUAL SYMBOLISM.

The actors’ movements and the camera’s light-sucking registration make up the entirety of this visual poem.

I must give credit to the cinematographer.

Although she is credited with merely “Kamera”, it is Jolanta Dylewska.

Between Von Glasow and herself, this is one of the most beautifully-shot black and white films I have ever seen.

It is on par with the two early Godard masterpieces À Bout de souffle and Vivre sa vie in this regard.

As well as being reminiscent in tone and mood to Antonioni’s breathtaking L’Avventura.

And our mystery actress (Anna Dabrowska?) is the equivalent of Monica Vitti.

We are talking about the same level of beauty.

And we are talking about having that beauty captured on film in such a singular way.

This film is currently free to watch on Tubi.

Don’t miss it.

-PD

Une Femme mariee [1964)

I want to write about the weirdest scene in Godard’s filmography up till this point, but I don’t.  It’s not a pleasant scene.  It is uncomfortable.  Unnerving.  I want to write about the pointy bras which figure visually into so much of this film, but I feel silly.  Pointy bras.

I want to talk about Macha Méril‘s hair and how once again Godard evokes Louise Brooks, but I…what?

The title.  It had to get more vague.  No.

There’s really no way of talking about this movie other than in its own language.  I often do that.  Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.  But many times it is the only way.  Here.

It slips through the fingers so quickly.  If you do not write immediately, it is gone.  I take a break.  I charge my computer.  It has escaped.

Truth be told, I never had that good a grasp on it.

I have to get worked up to talk about a film like this.  I can’t check the news headlines for ten minutes on waynemadsenreport.com and then come back to it.

She is married.  Unhappy.  Every day she pretends.  She is an actor dating an actor.  Not the same.  The theater and its double.

Artaud is on the tip of his tongue.  Godard.  What is he driving at?

This is elusive film.  A cubist film.  Fragments.  If I stop to pause, it leaves me again.

I cannot give this treatise any ground.  Yes, a treatise like Debord.  In little mini-paragraphs.  Theses.  Something.  I don’t know.  Je’n s’pas.

It’s quick.  Before she’s said it [bam!] it’s gone.  He cuts.  Montage.  Gone.

Roger Leenhardt.  I did not know.  We don’t know.  Barnes & Ignoble.  Ig Nobel.  Banana peels.  Friction.  Slippery slip slopery.  Splits.

Does she say Thalidomide?  It moves so fast.  You are not French.  You have audible French, visual wordplay, puns everywhere…unfunny puns on soul, angel, sea.  Words in the middle of words.  Treatise.  trEATise.  Focus on a part.  How does the part tell a different story than the whole?  Passage.  Pas sage.  Unwise.  Not wise.  No sagacity.

You have to be on your toes with Godard…even to this day.  His mind is the quickest, slickest, oiled mechanism.  The actor…just a mechanism.  Is that a good translation?  It matters.  Are you reading the subtitles?

Some nights maybe you don’t feel like subtitles.  You want to watch National Lampoon’s Vacation…

My queue.  It is the same.  Juxtaposition.  Beethoven.  No accident.  Accidentals.  We reach like bad Joyces.  James…

The Holocaust comes into the oeuvre.  Why the barbers?  Indeed, she says…

Memory.  For him, integral.  For her, rien.  Give me ten more pointy bras.  Let me measure my breasts…nipple to nipple.  The world turns on the tips of tits.  No truer words ever spoken.  Into the arms of Venus de Milo.

Her laughing is like a rodent…a squirrel perhaps.  And then a woodpecker.  It is almost indistinguishable from sobbing.  Laugh tears.  Oh James…

Ingmar got nothing out of it, he says.  Godard took the long shot (extended take) and perverted it.  Torture.  Orgasmic laughs meant to liven up a marriage.  The couple sit and fidget.  Will they put on the Cal Tjader?

And then the husband threatens to rape his own wife.  Is that translation correct?  A significant line.  Vital.  Play acting?  I don’t think so.

Truth in jokes.  Expressed nowhere else.  Why the barbers?

If you sought an insular review, you have found it.  Only a cryptologist would claim spoilers.  And thus we can justify that this is indeed film criticism.  Mere reviews…

If you could double the size of your breasts with a Peruvian serum, would your husband blue you and make you Jell-O-sated?

All the brunettes are neutron blondes in the negative print.  Hitchcock has sensors under your seats to know when your butt has arisen.  Orly.

And the doctor cannot explain love.  Where does sex end and love begin, or vice versa?  Science still compares.  Love is neurochemically like OCD.  Quitting Facebook brings on symptoms akin to drug withdrawal.  Which drug?  How addictive?

It’s over.

-PD