Le livre d'image

Paul’s Boutique was released a couple months after the first installment of Histoire(s) du cinéma (1989-1999, Jean-Luc Godard). This is of course merely a coincidence. The Dust Brothers’ use of samples primarily to craft a new type of soundscape has nothing to do with Godard’s crowning achievement, which segues into his late period with a work that sets itself in the no man’s land between fiction and non-fiction categories of film while densely layering, splicing, backmasking, sampling, and invariably distorting an assortment of disparate film clips defining the twentieth century curated by a lyrical narration in his own voice. But I like to think there’s a profound link between these two works simultaneously evolving film and music into the mixtape era.

Although a better analog to Histoire(s) du cinéma is Prick by the Melvins.

Okay I’ll admit my biggest nerd moment is probably while watching a documentary about the history of cinema and identifying the clips shown—during film school this also became a thing. But Histoire(s) du cinéma was the first doc where I realized how many foreign films from the past that I’d never seen. It was humbling. Yet there are texts quoting Bresson’s Notes on the Cinematographer or Proust that I spotted. Yeah yeah yeah it’s not a competition. Despite and because of all Histoire(s) du cinéma’s pretentious self-indulgent idiosyncrasies I get thrilled anytime I watch it.

The Image Book (2018, Godard) is composed of several clips taken from Histoire(s) du cinema—like “Shit Storm” by the Melvins. And I reacted in awe, because intermediate works like In Praise of Love (2001, Godard), Notre Musique (2004, Godard), Film Socialisme (2010, Godard) or Goodbye to Language (2014, Godard) are all similarly filmed essays with V.O. narration but none use any of the footage from Histoire(s) du cinéma. The big difference between Histoire(s) du cinema and The Image Book though is the ratio of cinema to political poetry. The Image Book is esoteric and elliptical although features fewer movie clips—aside from a lengthy montage of scenes of passengers on railcars. I love Godard’s work almost as much as I love movies so The Image Book is every bit as compelling and more so than anything he’s done since Histoire(s) du cinéma. I’ll also admit the sections on remakes and the Arab world were way over my head, but just more reasons for me to rewatch this first chance I get.

There was something else new I noticed: the aspect ratios of many of the clips after a few seconds get alternately stretched or compressed. I've gotten over what used to be a huge nuisance for me around the time 16x9 TVs replaced 4x3 on the market, which was seeing other people watch movies that were shot in 4x3 (square) stretched or cropped to fit their new flatscreen 16x9 TVs (rectangle) to avoid negative space (black bars). I just don't see why anyone wouldn't want to watch an image in its native format. My take on Godard's using this as a device is to show how arbitrary the aspect ratio is because people can choose now at home, or the people broadcasting these images don't care and that's what we're stuck with. What still does make me angry though is when studios do it. You can believe I still get stressed out wondering why HBO released blu-rays of The Wire in 16x9 as the only option. (Not the best example though because The Wire is supposed to look gritty so maybe borrowing my dad's standard def bootleg dvd boxset is more aesthetically pleasing than an HD master. Still, I'd like the option.) And come to think of it my most exhilarating joy from home video viewing last year was finally getting to see the Criterion blu-ray of Barry Lyndon (1975, Stanley Kubrick) in its OAR 1.66:1. 

AH DIEU OH LANGAGE

Jean-Luc Godard is a lot like The Melvins. I first encountered both artists in my teens. Godard was a huge influence behind, and inaugurated La Nouvelle Vague, or The French New Wave in the early 1960s in the same way The Melvins were a huge influence behind, and inaugurated Grunge in the early 1990s. Both Godard and The Melvins proved early on that instead of riding the crest on their wave of success it was more appealing to deliver avant-garde works that would ultimately polarize their fans and test the patience of many for years to come. À bout de souffle (1960, Jean-Luc Godard) is Godard's Houdini (1993, Atlantic Records) in its accessibility, the way it catapulted them into the public spotlight, and its lasting impact.

Stoner Witch (1994, Atlantic Records) was an event in my hometown of Corpus Christi. Everytime I recall hopping into someone's car, with my skateboard stowed in the trunk among those of the other passengers', that tape was constantly looped on auto-reverse, constantly blasted. And while it rocked harder than Houdini, it showed increasing experimentation and side B is almost all drone and sparse. Pierrot le fou (1965) is Godard's Stoner Witch because it's comparable with À bout de souffle as his strongest work (the one to recommend) but boasts significantly more experimentation of the type that typically distances many fans.

1994 was my introduction to the culture of personal filmmaking. I don't feel like going on about Pulp Fiction (1994, Quentin Tarantino) but, yeah it came out that year, and yes, it taught me that movies were made by one person and that getting taken out of the moment is the best way to put you in the moment. So aside from cinema, I was skateboarding, hanging out with kids 10 years older than me, going to all ages punk rock shows, and listening to Melvins. Somehow one day an older dude, I mean like thick black beard/I heard he smokes crystal-older was telling a group of friends I was tagging along with that there was a Melvins release after Houdini and before Stoner Witch . . . whaaaaaa?!!! Street legend had it that Prick (1994, Amphetamine Reptile Records) was complete garbage, absolutely positively unlistenable, and the reason it had a cover illustrated with the text SNIVLEM was because they hated their parent major label and this was a way to find a loophole in their contract and release this when and as they wanted. So the bearded older kid stoked the fires that would be in my imagination the coolest sounding tape ever.

Ici et Ailleurs (1976, Godard and Anne-Marie Miéville) is Prick. Both are spontaneous, unpredictable, beautiful, funny, dark, ridden with non sequiter bridges and tons of sampling. And both are mesmerizing, accessible works that are refreshing because they are unlike 99% of the work done by their contemporaries, yet done by artists who have already been  to, say, the top of the charts.

Watching Goodbye to Language in 3D (2014, Jean-Luc Godard) harnesses what it means to be spontaneous and to explore. Its structure is very much in keeping with late Godard, especially Histoire(s) du cinéma (1988-98, Godard) with techniques that imbue his narrative with music, art,  literature, and philosophical references at a constant rate. Late Godard is appealing to me because it feels like what I want to capture as a filmmaker, without outside pressures like audiences, budgets, and marketability. It feels like a chore to set up a story so clearly everytime, always planning a film considering the audience. If feels like a joy to walk outside and film what you see, then improvise a story, then put in the music you never dreamed would be married to these images, and finally start cutting and make if fun. Of all that is going to be written about this movie, I'd like to leave my basic appraisal at that.

I still can't believe Godard shot a movie in 3D, and I've heard about this for almost a year. The film is choppy in the spontaneous way I've come to love. The 3D is fun but turns impressive when Godard tracks a character leaving a 2-shot by panning right, but stays on the first character--so each of your eyes processes this simultaneously. There is an exhilaration about seeing something in a theater for the first time. Sometimes it feels like they screwed up the 3D, but I think the flaws only endear this experience. I was constantly straining to see, feel, and know more, but I was never disappointed.

At one point there is some dialogue like: the image is the murder of the present. And yet somehow all of the images of Godard's dog, nude women, flower arrangements, and water all present Godard as explorer. We feel that at the present this is what inspires him and that that is enough.

I'll admit that I don't get why Mary Shelley is writing Frankenstein while joined by Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley in the same way I kind of understood why Emily Brönte gets murdered in Weekend (1967, Godard). And I will admit that there is a lot in Goodbye to Language that I don't yet fully comprehend, but that's alright with me. Again, I'm sick of the every other movie tendency to be so safe and organized.

And I am not sure what this film would be like in 2D, but as of now the experience I had seeing this in a theater in 3D was wholly engrossing. And while in the past I have had doubts as to whether old age negatively influences filmmakers, my top film of 2013 was by a 78 year old and now my top film of 2014 was by an 83 year old. Goodbye to Language feels like it was shot by someone very young, and that's one of the highest complements I can bestow.

This film runs 69 minutes and I've always been a proponent of shorter features. 72 is my sweet spot, but 69 guarantees I'm walking into the theater with the requisite excitement of knowing I won't get bored.

--Dregs

Seasons in the Abyss

After graduating high school I first began devouring Jean-Luc Godard's films and critical essays. I had not gained much from the films, aside from their spontaneous episodic structures and flimsy B movie plots; and, there were the pretty actors, brightly colored pop cinematography with text, novels, paintings and misplaced music cues; finally, the endless references to cinema, including his own.

À bout de souffle (1960, Godard) is Godard's first film and probably his most widely seen; and, it still holds up as a Bonny & Clyde style road film of early 60s Paris youth culture. He'd follow with similar works, but with increasing experimentation and a resulting distancing from audiences, due to his political bent, and ever-diminishing narratives.

Weekend (1967, Godard) marks the end of Godard's early phase, a style he would never return to, in favor of his form of visual essays or lyrical reflection. I'd always be primed for a sacred experience when I popped in a home video copy of Weekend, but last week was the first time I had a chance to see a newly restored 35mm print of it screened in a theatre.

To many, Weekend boasts the reputation of being something like Godard's weirdest, least accessible movie. The 8 minute tracking shot of a traffic jam is also mentioned often. And sometimes you'll hear people talking about the taboos: the lewd group sex monologue recounted by Corinne, the brutal murder of Emily Brönte at the stake, the filmed bludgeoning of a live pig, or the cannibalism. All of these elements assembled together still elude me as I look for deeper meaning.

But, I'm familiar with a phrase Godard often places in his films, "La Monnaie de l’absolu," which translates to the coin of the absolute, I think. To read this phrase as a metaphor for Weekend, it means something like the film is a currency that travels into foreign markets, but displays two sides.

First, say is the heads side. The heads side are the beautiful actresses outfitted in the latest trends in modern fashion, the shiny new autos, the bright colorful corporate advertising, the idyllic trip to the countryside to visit family.

But the tails side would then include Corinne's avarice, her deceptive debaucheries, her sociopathic obsession with materialism.

There's more. In general, I merely attempt to engage with both sides of the coin. Corinne's erotic monologue does recall the similar scene from Persona (1966, Ingmar Bergman) where Alma tells the tale of herself, her girlfriend, and the boy at the beach. But in Godard's hands it feels explicit and gratuitous even, in the same way Marquis de Sade wrote. So if globalism and consumerism are clearly subjects that Weekend focuses on, it can be argued that the monologue pushes audience expectations and conceptions about erotic subjects in then-modern cinema. Because, out of context, is the scene nothing more than dirty talk? Does it matter that Corinne is filmed in silhouette? Does it matter that we don't know who the other people are she's talking about?

Corinne is the central protagonist of Weekend, and her journey is still one of the most modern of cinematic quests. She's gotta get to Oinville. Oinville points to something of a twentieth century Sodom and Gomorrah, of consumerism that is. And from point A to B and every stop in between, we can be sure that some form of satire is being launched. The thematic content is as antagonistic as the onslaught of car horns are abrasive--in the theatre I truly appreciated how obnoxious they sound.

It's up to viewers to word their own ideas about Weekend, but I'm here to say I'm just starting myself, in any significant way. There are perhaps confrontations of old and new, or classical vs. modern, as evident in the Emily Brönte burning by Corinne and Roland. There's also the obviously scathing attack on too many people owning automobiles--the disaster of what a trip to the country may look like one day. But to be fair, I doubt I'll ever catch the full extent of the dozens of literary and obscure historical references. It sure is a fun challenge to attempt though.

I've personally been really crazy about dolly tracks lately and just can't get enough. I was astounded to discover how most of Weekend is filmed from dolly tracking shots that maintain a consistent speed throughout. It made the film feel like Godard was our tour guide and refuses to relinquish his dominance over what we see and when; it's like we expect him to yell, "Hey, keep all arms and legs in the ride! Look over here, not there!" Weekend is an alarm that still reverberates, even after having been set off 45 years ago.

To end with a coin analogy: Weekend identifies itself textually with two introductions. The heads side shows, "This is a film adrift in the cosmos." The tails side shows, "This is a film found on a garbage heap." It's both simultaneously.

And Weekend's Corinne saying one of the funniest most memorable lines in cinema, as she esapes the burning wreckage of a car accident, "My Hermès handbag!" still kills riotously.

--Dregs