Regarding contributions to film
studies and literature, I found 2012 to be a fairly bountiful year. Though I
only read in their entirety but three new volumes of film criticism and
analysis, each one offered up a wealth of insight regarding their chosen
subjects and the areas to which they are linked. Indeed, in many cases the
writers courageously ventured beyond the basic parameters of their topics,
illuminating relevant and even revelatory connections both within and beyond
the world of cinema. When at their best, these books made me marvel at and
ponder not only the principles of great cinema, but also important aspects of
life, humanity, and art that make great cinema (and great writing) so valuable
to the beholder. These are not only great film books, but also simply great
books.
Of
them, Geoff Dyer’s Zona: A Book About a Film About a Journey to a Room is easily the most accessible, written in Dyer’s
familiar dry, wit-infused style. In what is essentially a scene-by-scene
commentary on Andrei Tarkovsky’s 1979 masterpiece Stalker, Dyer discusses his personal observations and
thoughts regarding the film and the array of feelings and ideas it fires in
him. As he does so, he commendably remains fearless in declaring his tastes and
opinions – filmmakers as renowned as Buñuel, Godard, Kieslowski, the Coen
Brothers, Von Trier, and even Tarkovsky himself (specifically regarding his
1983 film Nostalghia, which Dyer
describes as being “so far up itself”) are dismissed as being
overrated or overly pretentious. But while in some parts Zona gives way to the delicious bitterness and
irritation that makes Dyer so fun to read even if you don’t necessarily agree
with him, in others he expresses with tangible sincerity and emotion the
immense awe and respect he unfailingly continues to hold for Stalker, which I can certainly relate to given my own love
for the film (which, rather than Dyer’s literary reputation, enticed me to pick
up the book in the first place). Additionally, there are plenty of asides and
tangents devoted to cinema, art, travel, faith, memory, and more, many of which
contained in amusingly lengthy footnotes that sometimes run for several pages.
In his refreshingly unconventional fashion, Dyer merges criticism with
autobiography, making the reader acutely aware of the many ways in which the
relationship between art and individual is forged and cultivated as one both
gains more experiences from life and connects those experiences with special
works.
Virtually
worlds away from Dyer’s free-flowing, conversational style is the tone of many
of the pieces contained within Robert Bresson (Revised), the newly upgraded edition of James Quandt’s
comprehensive text on the French master. Coinciding with an amazing retrospective
of Bresson’s work at the TIFF Bell Lightbox earlier this year, the book gathers
pieces from scholars and critics like Susan Sontag, P. Adams Sitney, André
Bazin, and David Bordwell that range from analyses of Bresson’s themes and
methods to in-depth studies of individual films. Often, the writing veers
towards the academic, theory-heavy variety, and I’ll freely admit that I found
some of the pieces quite tiring to get through. However, other pieces are much
more reader-friendly and provide some fascinating material on Bresson’s
remarkable career. Personally, I thoroughly enjoyed the pieces dedicated to
Bresson’s mysterious early period as an artist: Colin Burnett’s
Bresson in the 1930s: Photography, Cinema, Milieu, which explores his career as a photographer for advertising campaigns
overseen by the likes of Coco Chanel, and Jonathan Rosenbaum’s Affaires
publiques, which
examines his little-seen comedic short film from 1934. Other highlights cover
the opposite end of Bresson’s life, with Kent Jones’ A Stranger’s
Posture: Notes on Bresson’s Late Films,
Serge Daney’s The Organ and the Vacuum Cleaner, and Shigehiko Hasumi’s Led by the
Scarlet Pleats: Bresson’s L’Argent all delving into the filmmaker’s intriguing late period.
Nicely rounding out the volume are interviews between the man himself and such
figures as Jean-Luc Godard, Paul Schrader, and Michel Ciment, a symposium
moderated and edited by Quandt, and tributes from admiring filmmakers ranging
from Michael Haneke to Louis Malle, who, when speaking of Pickpocket, boldly states “For the duration of the projection,
Bresson is God,” to Jean-Pierre and Luc Dardenne, who, in their salute to L’Argent, describe the terrible influence of money and, as a
contrast, the redemptive power of debt and transaction – facets of Bresson’s
final masterpiece that are carried over into both the Dardennes’ films and
those of Aki Kaurismäki. Between the Lightbox retrospective and the book, by
the time I finished the latter, I found myself much more informed about a filmmaker
whose work is, for me, still something of an acquired taste, yet an area of
world cinema I very much look forward to continuing to study. With Quandt’s
formidable volume sitting on my shelf, I feel pretty well prepared for that
particular pursuit.
A
few months later, I dug into another collection of pieces devoted to a French
filmmaker: Olivier Assayas, edited by
Kent Jones and released in conjunction with both Assayas’ book A
Post-May Adolescence: Letter to Alice Debord
and his most recent film, Something in the Air, which I caught during TIFF in September and reviewed
for Row Three. This was easily the most satisfying and consistently
well put-together of the film books I read this year, with piece after piece
showcasing some incredibly intelligent and compelling film writing of the kind
that I myself constantly hope to achieve. Jones’ introductory essay, Westway
to the World, alone stands out as a major
highlight of the book, so on-the-nose and revealing is its assessment of the
French New Wave, the burden of legacy that Assayas and other post-New Wave
filmmakers had to face, and the evolution of Assayas’ unique approach to human
experience and perception, which Jones aptly links to the sensations of motion,
lightness, and energy that characterizes so much of his work. From there, the
book launches into a marvelous succession of pieces on Assayas’ early films,
with Glenn Kenny covering Desordre,
Jeff Reichert L’Enfant de l’hiver,
Alice Lovejoy Paris s’éveille,
Michael Koresky Une nouvelle vie,
and Jones L’Eau froide. I was
most grateful to receive primers on two of Assayas’ most underrated films, Clean and Boarding Gate, courtesy of Nick Pinkerton and Gina Telaroli,
respectively, while savoring Kristin M. Jones’ piece on Fin août,
début septembre, B. Kite’s original
comparative analysis of Fritz Lang’s Dr. Mabuse, der Speiler and demonlover, Geoffrey O’Brien’s lovely piece on L’Heure d’été, and Jones’ tantalizing one on Something
in the Air. Just as Jones stresses
Assayas’ choice to place character and narrative over any cinephilic or
superficial priorities (a good strategy for any filmmaker, especially one
living and working in a post-New Wave France), this book’s essays remain
closely focused on Assayas’ work as well as the various experiences he places
his characters in and portrays in his jolting, lively manner. The enthusiasm
and respect Jones and company express for Assayas’ work is highly infectious,
as is the filmmaker’s simple belief that truly great movies are not about other
movies, but life. Once readers finish this book, they’ll be hard-pressed not to
adopt that same view for themselves as they begin the inevitable retrospective
of Assayas’ work and rediscover the freshness, cleverness, and sincerity of
this remarkably talented artist.
Marc Saint-Cyr
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