Thursday, February 18, 2021
Very film-schooly early Seidl/Glawogger collaboration. No wonder both of them didn't work much with found footage later on, as the use of tv news material never moves beyond shooting fish in a barrel polemics. The newly recorded material is much more interesting. Since the documentary miniatures feel very much like Seidl's work, Glawogger probably was responsible for the somewhat Markeresque fiction / essay stuff centered around a female teacher (with stylish glasses) - the most opaque but also the most interesting part of this.
Apache Woman, Roger Corman, 1955
Early Corman attempt at a revisionist western. Quite interesting in theory, because it probably is one of rather few films of the time that tie the tortured psychological turn of the genre directly to racism. The most memorable thing about it is probably the committed overacting of "half-breed" Lance Fuller. Joan Taylor also gives it her best, but the whole thing is just too clumsy, and at 83 minutes quite a bit too long, to make any real impact.
Megacities, Michael Glawogger, 1998
The desire to be one with the world already implies separateness, and what moves Glawogger's filmmaking, what makes his images so restless and glittery, is his ongoing effort to escape from realizing just this. It's all about the correspondence of the outer journey to an inner journey, both equally interminable. This is also what, to my mind, aligns him with Malick (much more than with Seidl, for example). For both of them, all that beautiful surface movement, all that dancing (Malick) and all that color (Glawogger) is, in the end, just a sign for the inadequacy of perception.
Of course MEGACITIES also is a technical marvel, the travelogue of a metaphysically freed spirit, like inventing a new kind of gaze with each new day. All of this would still feel pretty empty and showy, though, without the sense of desperate unbelonging at the center of it.
Day the World Ended, Roger Corman, 1955
Clear from the start that Corman has much more fun playing around with allegorical sci-fi minimalism than with b-western tropes. He gets a lot out of a surprisingly strong cast, Adele Jergens gets what feels like a showstopper solo number and there are some extremely effective Lori Nelson close-ups: a very private face, looking at the world as if for the first time.
The film also has a weird obsession with a huge window curtain that dominates most of the interior scenes, is constantly used for scene entries and exits and foregrounds the theatricality of the film in an interesting way.
The effects work is pretty cheap and a far cry even from 40s horror schlock. A very sketchy monster, and it kind of makes sense that it just collapses when it rains.
Promène-toi donc tout nu, Emmanuel Mouret, 1999
A beautiful beginning. Must pay more attention to the fathers when I rewatch all of the Mourets. They often seem to appear at crucial moments.
Whores' Glory, Michael Glawogger, 2011
Not quite providing what people expect (and have payed for) to see is probably as good an approach as any when making a film about prostitution; and the film sure is impressive as long as it is all about opening up, from the inside - because power relations are fixed, but bodies are not - three spaces hosting the suppressed libidinous underpinnings of modernity.
Still, Glawogger doesn't quite escape the dilemma that in a film like this, an impartial and unflinching gaze often is virtually indistinguishable from delivering the misery-porn, or rather misery/porn goods. Would the film have felt uncomplete without the last two (obviously staged) scenes, that finally open up to the reality of dicks and crack-pipes? Probably yes, but still, those scenes and to a smaller degree other parts of the film feel calculating and manipulative in a way his other documentaries never do.
Way of Passion, Joerg Burger, 2011
I had seen and loved this at a festival a decade ago: a film centered around a single, rhythmic movement - a changing group of people, mostly but not exclusively young men, carrying a shrine through a small Italian town as part of a religious ceremony. Their coordinated movements result in a swaying, hypnotic movement that also affects the huge figures on top of the shrine. There's an atmospheric intro presenting the preparations for the festival, as well as a few sideway glances at other participants, but those additions basically function like a resonance chamber: they do not deflect from, but add to the intensity of the central movement. The end result is, miraculously, pure affect: bodily stress and monotony break down all down psychic barriers, men are reduced to tears, and the world vanishes. The ritual succeeds not despite but because of its senselessness and excessiveness.
Not quite possible, though, to recreate all of this outside of a theater.
Moghen Paris, Katharina Copona, 2016
Starts with truly amazing nature tableaus: treescapes transformed into sumptuous, dimensionless ornaments, velvety images I want to touch, press against my cheeks. What follows is a chaotic, contextless account of a carnival celebration involving lots of black makeup and the burning of a huge and also black figure. Like in Horwath's quite similar THE PASSION ACCORDING TO THE POLISH COMMUNITY OF PROCHNIK the mixture of arty voyeurism and programmatic non-commitment rubbed me the wrong way, but there are clearly some interesting things going on here.
White Coal, Georg Tiller, 2015
Some of the Taiwan stuff is interesting, I guess, the way a site of heavy engineering is transformed into a toy-like world, chimneys and factory buildings becoming disposable, like an assemblage of play-things. Still, strained non-communication under the guise of "pure visuality" is something I find myself wanting to put up with less and less as the years march on.
Space Dogs, Laura Kremser and Levin Peter, 2019
The rare art school high concept documentary worth a damn. Best tracking shots I've seen in a while. Makes you wonder why there isn't a whole sub-genre of films built solely around social interactions among stray dogs. Every Classic Hollywood auteur should have made at least one of those. I want to see the Hawks version of this, the Ford version, the Hathaway version.
The space stuff might feel random at times, but in the end it's just a framing device and it helps keep moving things along. Plus it provides an opportunity to add a monkey and two turtles to the mix, so there really isn't any reason to complain.
February 27th, Marie-Thérèse Jakoubek, 2018
Displacement and burnt out colors, a harsh life cut off from history, and still, the richness of existence is right there, you just have to know where (how) to look. Enough small revelations in here to make me wish for a slightly larger scale.
Earth's Golden Playground, Andreas Horvath, 2015
Hard to think of anything that make the absurdity, or maybe rather arbitrariness of the systems of added value modern societies are based on clearer than the search for gold. Destroying nature while often also upending one's own life, solipsistically drilling your way into the ground, working your way through tons of dirt and rock, only to finally recover at best a few specks of a (these days, at least) mostly useless mineral.
Horvath's film manages to conveysome of this and like in THIS AIN'T NO HEARTLAND he has good rapport with and genuine interest in a certain type of caustic oddball characters who sure make good documentary material. On the other hand, once again, whenever he sees an opportunity for polemical cross-cutting, he downright jumps on it. The "menacing" soundscapes trying to emulate horror/thriller textures also doesn't work, but at this point I probably just have to accept that his filmmaking just doesn't click with me on a fundamental level, so it might very well be my own fault.
Let Us Live, John Brahm, 1939
When Fonda and O'Sullivan visit the site of their future house and dream of their life together, the camera doesn't open up the space but stays close to them. Two faces bathed in darkness, surrounded by an imaginary America that never attains palpable existence, but is replaced by, in turn, the frame of a taxi cab, the procedures of law enforcement, and finally prison.
Ballard's camerawork is amazing throughout, the deep focus confinements of the courtroom scenes, Fonda's expressionistic desolation in the cell. A perfectly articulated visual argument that isn't necessarily supported by the rest of the film... the rushed script (the rare 68 minutes film that would've been better off at 86) is basically built around the assumption that any system that convicts Henry Fonda just has to be rigged, and I really don't know what Ralph Bellamy thinks he's doing with his role. (Btw: can't think of an earlier "turning in the badge" scene on top of my hat; but I'm sure there are quite a few?) Still, so much ambition and craft on display here that I don't really mind the rough edges.
The White Tiger, Rahman Bahrami, 2021
Had lost sight of Bahrani after his neoralism phase. So now he's making netflix quality cinema, probably better than most of its kind, but still with all the trappings, stylish slow motion when the threatening landlord shows up, a high octane hip hop montage sequence introducing the big city. The acting is mostly very good, and Bahrani still has an eye for space, but in the end this adds nothing to Adiga's novel while removing quite a bit of its infectious anger.
Madango, Ishiro Honda, 1963
Setting sails, water everywhere, a few nervous guys, a shy and a not-shy woman, the not-shy one wears a stylish bikini and sings a catchy tune, no lyrics though, just "la la la". Everything is basic and pleasantly pointless and then the fog descends, never to lift again.
In a way, MATANGO is the flipside to all the other Honda fantasy films. Not a panoramic, "objective" depiction of paranoia, but a dive into its murky subjective core. No decisive action, no confronting the monster head-on, but a slow, continuous descent into trippy madness, shadows creeping on the wall, derailing facial expressions, fog and mold and mushrooms taking over the world.
Husarenmanöver, E.W. Emo, 1956
Well made if almost aggressively by the numbers popular theater style military comedy. A film that is completely content with always choosing the least intrusive framing and letting the actors do their thing, a film that loves march music, the more repetitive the better, a film that works best when everyone makes fun of Peter Weck, who plays a weakling, a role that suits him well. The cinematic equivalent of a traditional southern German meat dish.
Detective Bureau 2-3: Go to Hell, Bastards!, Seijun Suzuki, 1963
Mostly Suzuki letting Shishido do his thing and providing a healthy dose of cheerful nihilism in the process. Great colors.
Gitarren klingen leise durch die Nacht, Hans Deppe, 1960
Leading man Fred Bertelmann is a complete non-entity and the dullest Ersatz Gene Kelly imaginable, but this only adds to the bizarre charm of a film that sometimes feels like a magnificent, devastating Minnelli meet Sirk meets Cukor 1950s Hollywood showbiz melodrama trapped in the body of an ultra-provincial German Schlagerfilm with deep roots in the nazi era. Meaning this is simultaneously about the resistance against modernity, about a culture shying away from the spectre of a truly democratic and multi-ethnic society, about an inhibited, angst-ridden country seeking shelter in the phantasma of the white on white Aryan romance celebrated in the last musical number; and about mourning the better, richer world all of these characters already know exists, but don't have access to.
Both Vivi Bach and Margit Nünke are very good. Deppe has no feel for spectacle and even less for comedy, but as long as he focuses on quiet desperation, he finds images so pure and naive it hurts.
Would make a perfect double feature with Wolfgang Schleif's (even better) BLOND MUSS MAN SEIN AUF CAPRI, a film that lets loose where Deppe's shrivels up.
Monster Hunter, Paul W.S. Anderson, 2020
To discover a world means analyzing it, to build a world means booby-trapping it. Not necessarily their best film, but might just be the ultimate PWSA & Milla joint, a director/star collaboration doubling as a husband and wife game of love: a challenge accepted, a stage set and conquered, a gaze returned.
Maybe the purest PWSA film, too, because this time he really starts from scratch - even the "real world" is just an endless, featureless desert, a canvas to paint on. The "new world" is once again very vertical, very Langian, all dynamic architecture, the effect work is extremely good, the main theme is beautiful in its 80s simplicity and just when things start to drag a bit, Ron Perlman shows up and introduces a welcome dose of old-school pulp awesomeness. Great stuff!
Gambler's Farewell, Kinji Fukasaku, 1968
At the core this is neither a gangster film nor a political thriller, but rather a mood piece centered around Koji Tsuruta's face. Dark, stylish, and unfortunately a bit boring, though I guess under the right circumstances I might've succumbed to its claustrophobic appeal.
I Cimbri, Peter Schreiner, 1989
Starts as an oral history account of a dying language: the (almost) last surviving speakers of the Southern-Bavarian variant Cimbrian (who obviously also use mostly Italian in their daily lives by now) trying out the language of their youth one last time. But in the end it doesn't make sense to speak a language just to keep it alive. Language must be of the world, so the film, too, takes a step back and opens up, develops another gaze.
Wer nimmt die Liebe ernst?, Erich Engel, 1931
I keep being fascinated by Max Hansen's torso. The guy seems to be made out of some kind of not particular flexible but rather flubby rubber.
Hellish Love, Chusei Sone, 1972
Well-made period pinku, more plot-centered than most and maybe a bit too much so for its own good, not leaving all that much room for scandalous ghost sex. The umbrella scene is a gem.
Giallo, Mario Camerini, 1934
The first giallo might not really be a giallo, but it's already pretty tongue in cheek and thoroughly perverted. Need to see this in a better version sometimes.
The Undying Monster, John Brahm, 1943
Easy on the eyes thanks to beautiful production design and Ballard's once again very inventive camera work. Brahm has quite a bit of fun with notions of britishness too... so it really is a shame that this turns out to be rather dull, due mostly to a boring script and noncommitted performances. Heather Thatcher is the only one with some energy here, and she ends up being punished for it by becoming the butt of one sexist joke after the other.
Ihre Majestät die Liebe, Joe May, 1931
Important, I guess, that it's Lia, not Fred, who first proposes the wedding, mostly in order to get rid of just another drunk, obtrusive customer. Love is not only the product of boardroom cynicism, but also of barroom tactics.
The Insect Woman, Shohei Imamura, 1963
Cannot help but admire Imamura's commitment to his own vision of society as eternal pigsty, but this is even more on the nose than PIGS AND BATTLESHIPS and mostly ditches the comic relief. I guess Imamura really might be the one Japanese master who just rubs me the wrong way.
Das Lied ist aus, Geza von Bolvary, 1930
Not nearly finished with this one. Took me four viewings to realize that it's not Liane Haid but Otto Wallburg who first sings "Adieu, mein kleiner Gardeoffizier".
One of the great movie endings.
You Deserve a Lover, Hafsia Herzi, 2019
Very pleasant and I guess very French film that steadfastly and admirably refuses to be interested in anything except the protagonist's love life. Filmed mostly in close-ups which often is a warning sign, but here the camera really is most comfortable when close to faces.
...und das ist die Hauptsache, Joe May, 1931
A film that knows that everyone has his or her reasons. Even the rude gangster has a point when he scolds Nora Gregor for deceiving him with faux pearls.
Gorath, Ishiro Honda, 1962
Not nearly as beautiful as BATTLE IN OUTER SPACE. Honda tries his best in making a meteorite cinematic, but in the end there's just so much you can do with a mostly featureless ball of fire traveling through outer space. The miniature work is amazing, though. The construction of the Antarctic base must be one of the great cinema as handicraft scenes - because in a way you see the process itself, not just the result. It almost becomes palpable: All those Toho employees glueing together tiny, intricate cardboard structures, adding ever more detail, placing a cardboard figure here and there - in order to prove it real, when it fact those inert miniature humans only reinforce the artifice. And then, of course, a guy in a walrus suit shows up and threatens to destroy it all again. Cinema indeed is the greatest art.
Tuesday, February 02, 2021
"Von TikTok führt kein Weg mehr zurück ins Kino." Der Satz fühlt sich schief an und deshalb stimmt er. Seine Unangemessenheit ist der Index seiner Wahrheit; weil er noch vom Kino her gedacht ist, weil er einen Weg, eine Distanz imaginiert, den Transfer einer Erfahrung behauptet, wo längst die Immanenz des Memes herrscht. Von der Gegenwart her, vom Meme her, kann man die Geschichte gar nicht mehr erzählen. Beziehungsweise: man würde gar nicht erst auf den Gedanken kommen. Denn das Kino ist heute selbst ein Meme, AMC ist ein Meme, nicht einmal ein Hauptmeme, ein Zweit- oder Ersatzmeme, ein Ausweichmeme, nicht so prägnant wie der Game Store, aber das heißt nicht, dass das Kino nicht wichtig war, früher einmal. Es war sogar wichtiger als der Game Store, so wichtig, dass man nicht einmal hingehen musste, um in seinem Bann zu stehen, und erst jetzt, wo es tot ist, kehrt die Erinnerung daran zurück, in Memeform, dass es einmal möglich gewesen war, tatsächlich hinzugehen, ins Kino zu gehen. Ein Phantomschmerz, könnte man sagen, aber selbst das ist noch zu substantialistisch gedacht.
Früher... es ist nicht allzu lange her. Das Kino hat das Fernsehen überlebt, die Popmusik, Mtv, Video, Computerspiele, Streaming alleine hätte es auch überlebt; die Medienkonkurrenz, die Vielfalt der Kanäle schadet ihm nicht, ganz im Gegenteil läßt sie das Kino aufblühen. Die Medienkonkurrenz ist kinoförmig, genreförmig, weil in ihr alles von Kinovisualität infiziert ist. Gestorben ist das Kino nicht in der Medienkonkurrenz, sondern im Medienwechsel. Den modularen Reiz-Reaktionsketten der Netzkultur, der jungen Netzkultur der letzten knapp zehn Jahre (das Kino ist wirklich noch nicht lange tot), hat es nichts zu entgegnen. Die Konkurrenz wurde aufgekündigt, einseitig aber endgültig, der Tod war kurz und schmerzlos. Er wird kaum registriert, weil die meisten ihn eh viel weiter in die Vergangenheit projizieren. Aber die Geschichten vom heroischen, tragischen Ende des Kinos gehören selbst noch zum Kino.
Man kann noch in die Filmgeschichte flüchten, aber nicht mehr ins Kino.
Monday, February 01, 2021
Another 65 minutes of Miike filmmaking. As always, there's some surprising, off-beat stuff in here, starting with the atmospheric oceanscape beginnings, but in the end, he just doesn't have the resources, this time. Despite being set in three different countries, there's hardly a story and a general lack of purpose.
Passenger 57, Kevin Hooks, 1992
So you fancy yourself a big league international terrorist, but no matter what you do, the plane you've just hijacked always lands in Hicktown, Louisiana.
Brisk 90s action programmer, running mostly on wits and attitude, just like Snipes. The one-liners never stop, not even in the moment of victory, but it's not hard to see where the cynicism comes from. Hooks's matter-of-fact treatment of racists and racism enablers is extremely effective, especially when pitted against Bruce Payne's over-the-top performance. A film that knows everything there is to know about the limits of fantasy. (Another nice detail: Elizabeth Hurley, wonderful throughout, lusting after Snipes even while being shoved into the police car.)
The action comes in short bursts mostly, and doesn't make all that much use of the airplane setting. The best scene is set on ground anyway, at the amusement park, a controlled explosion of excess style in an otherwise perfectly economical film: a fluid, multi-faceted environment, a boundless space, the camera floating, in discovery mode, almost an ethnographic gaze, music emanating from color (shades of SOUTHERN COMFORT). Snipes is at first lost, but then he starts getting into the swing of things, on the Ferris wheel, on the carousel, vertical loops, horizontal loops, until he's in tune with his surroundings, ready to strike.
Utopia, Sohrab Shahid Saless, 1983
A short film about capitalism.
Peter Voss, der Millionendieb, E.A. Dupont, 1932
A wonderful cast, an all-pervading air of giddy, anything goes promiscuity, late-silent-era ornamental style fluidly translated into the sound era, two expansive musical show-stoppers, great camel stock footage - and still this somehow manages to end up mostly dull. It's all a bit too childish and literal, outside of the songs the music is mostly annoying and I guess the biggest problem is positing Forst as a Fairbanks-style comedy action hero, thereby stripping away all the layers of irony and melancholia that really make him great.
Buddha, Kenji Misumi, 1961
Daiei all-star spectacle, shooting for Hollywood bloat, but saved by a surprisingly austere sense of beauty. Not really at its best when Misumi tries to go full-scale De Mille. Fortunately he doesn't try very often; most of the time he sticks with more modest, fairy-tale like imagery.
I know next to nothing about Buddhist mythology, so I have no idea what to make of the awkward mixture of religious awakening narrative and "archaic" melodrama as well as of the fact that for the most part, Buddha is a rather peripheral presence in his own movie. Anyway, watching this from a 70mm print might make all the difference in the world.
Heidenlöcher, Wolfram Paulus, 1986
Holds up. Bits and pieces of a world of forestry and fascism. Inhabitable images, but people still live there.
Weathering With You, Makoto Shinkai, 2019
Probably as self-reflexive as a Shinkai film can get: changing the weather means not changing substance but adding something to a given entity, manipulating light and "atmosphere" - for example by adding several layers of CGI flurry over what still feels very much like a painted succession of animated world projections. And Shinkai sure is one of the best weather magicians around. In terms of pure craft I can't think of much mainstream computer imagemaking that comes even close to this (SPIDER-VERSE, for example, is clumsy and piece-meal by comparison). The first part especially, Hodoka's discovery of the city, is pure joy: different levels of sensuality, different access points to an ever-changing "reality" constantly collapsing into each other.
Later on, unfortunately, his new one just doesn't come together in an interesting way. He still knows how to push his buttons, of course: Young people in love, suspended in mid-air, the "camera" swirling around them, a rousing score - this is stuff Shinkai knows how to deliver like no one else. These kind of scenes, money shots for the young adult audience, are few and far between, though, and they feel disconnected from the rest of the film.
Shinkai is always curiously unwilling to really explore the strong emotions his films both evoke and insist on. There's way too much structure, way too much plot points... In YOUR NAME this somehow made sense because the pyrotechnics of metaphysical youthful romance, blown out of all proportions and therefore psychologically true, fed into a similar sense of totality as the doomsday storyline. This time, things just don't fit. The film is built around a slightly more mature idea of love - acceptance of the other, of separateness (and therefore eternal rain) instead of total devotion. There's a strong sense of melancholia in there, somewhere, but instead of exploring it, Shinkai buries it under layer over layer of often surprisingly awkward surface melodrama.
Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse, diverse, 2018
Like a middling Adult Swim pilot blown up to blockbuster proportions, with all the self-optimization rhetorics, action-adventure mechanics and diversity as commodity streamlining that implies.
Have to add that I really hated the "naturalistic" character design, especially when it comes to facial movements, and this turned me against it pretty quickly. There clearly are some interesting things going on here in terms of aesthetics, but I just couldn't get over my initial aversion.
Liz and the Blue Bird, Naoko Yamada, 2018
A theater of feet. One of the many great things about this is how Yamada manages to turn the patterns of everyday life into a system of meaning that has its root in, but still transcends individual subjectivity. A bobbing ponytail, a fluttering skirt, or, again and again, shuffling feet: expressive details, which do not necessarily open up the interiority of the characters (this takes time and patience, which the film of course also has), but insist on the fundamental readability of the world.
First of all an extremely beautiful film, even more reduced and more precise than A SILENT VOICE. High School life as white-blue-greyish immanence, a world of separateness and funcionality, with all the big dreams and desires relegated to picture-book color explosions interludes. The few attempts at visual extravaganza later in the film, like the rack focus stuff during the orchestra performance, almost feel like an intrusion.
Still, I don't think there's much in recent cinema that is even half as affecting as the last "answer" of Nozomi's flute to Mizore's Oboe.
The Boy and the Beast, Mamoru Hosoda, 2015
Great as long as it's all about the boy and beast relationship: learning and unlearning, being transformed by an other's gaze. A bit disappointing when later on all of this turns out to be just a means to cope with "real life". There's a simplicity to the two-world structure that makes this feel more limited than other Hosoda films.
His more experimental side only really comes through in the final fight scenes: A digital black hole opening up in a solid, painterly body, sucking in matter, confronting representation with the lure of nothingness. Like a wound that is dangerous not because it hurts but because it negates blood.
Lu Over the Wall, Masaaki Yuasa, 2017
Don't stop the music, because if it stops, we will stop being one, our differences will reemerge, alongside a history of violence. Feet will transform into fins, complacency into hatred, and sooner or later everything will burn down. Only while we're all singing and dancing, the repressed is allowed to return, as the special, exotic ingredient added to our good times. This also means, of course, that from now on every party is a high-wire act, ready to be turned into a living, burning hell in a moment's notice.
The overeager and surprisingly uninventive blockbuster turn towards the end left me cold, unfortunately, but for at least an hour this feels truly major, like Yuasa's Miyazaki film, a freewheeling, open-ended metaphor attached to a genuine, uncynically cute setup.
Ride Your Wave, Masaaki Yuasa, 2019
Still awesome stuff in there, Yuasa's obsession with water and music is put to good use and the hidden in plain sight obscenity of the surf-the-ejaculation-finale is very much appreciated... and still, it's obvious that by now, Yuasa's move towards the mainstream starts delivering diminishing returns. It's not that he can't make a slick feelgood anime - in fact, he's almost too good at it, all those montage sequences and sentimental flashbacks come a bit too natural to him, while the darker ghost-story side doesn't have all that much aesthetic breathing room.
Mothra, Ishiro Honda, 1961
The most beautiful of monsters, not really attacking, but rather unfolding onto the world. Frankie Sakai knows from the start. Might be Honda's purest vision.
Black Report, Yasuzo Masumura, 1963
The second part of what seems to be Masumura's Black Trilogy (after BLACK TEST CAR and before BLACK REPORT) about capitalism as corruption and sex as commodity. This one is the densest, most claustrophobic of the three. It's set almost exclusively in two spaces: a cramped police station where the human form barely register between piles and piles of records, used to file away human experience into oblivion; and the courtroom, where bodies and especially faces themselves become oppressive, dominating and poisoning space.
It all feels a bit too mechanistic, and the element of erotic anarchy that makes Masumura's best films so special is completely missing; but the level of formal control is truly marvelous here.
Der Kaiser und das Wäschermädel, Ernst Neubach, 1957
The director Ernst Neubach worked on some great films as an author (including Sirk's LURED, Hochbaum's magnificent VORSTADTVARIETE and, a special favorite of mine, Oswald's WIEN, DU STADT DER LIEDER), and this one is indeed a bit livelier than most musical comedies from the era; especially the way songs often develop organically from social situations. Unfortunately, the songs aren't very good to start with and the rest of the script is downright terrible, Damar is a bore, Weck an asshole, and Grethe Weiser could almost be used as a terrorist threat. So that leaves us with not much more than some beautiful sets and Rudolf Vogel, who is, as always, a joy to behold.
Indian Diary, Michael Pilz, 2001
Filming means being in space. A space that eventually will contain bodies. Now imagine yourself to be the point in space those bodies gaze at. How to deal with this gaze, how to account for it, how to respond to it, how to avoid it?
Siberian Diary, Michael Pilz, 2003
This time, the starting point is not space, but a body that always already is there (in the image, not in space). In fact, space is, if anything, snow and ice, an unstructured nothingness there to be conquered or at least traversed. Space is a problem, even in wide-open Siberia it can become crammed. The door of the bus won't close.
Five Guns West, Roger Corman, 1955
Not all that well-made, though it almost makes up in weird psycho intensity for what it lacks in control and style. John Lund is the only pro, Dorothy Malone has expressive hair.