Gateway Cinephiles

2006
Director: Tarsem Singh
Viewed: June 5, 2008
Format: Theatrical Print

A - The Fall is a story about stories, an enchanting visual poem that honors the curious power that fiction can exert over our lives. It is a film where unexpected delights and terrors appear at every turn. Perhaps for these reasons, it is also a baffling and demented work. It is not, in any sense, an easy film. It utilizes a familiar story-within-a-story conceit, but this nested structure is not, in itself, what makes it a challenging work. Rather, The Fall asks that the viewer accept a secondary story that is surreal, volatile, and frequently campy. Meanwhile, it offers a primary story that is unrepentantly sentimental and examines themes that are stunning in their intricacy. The Fall is nothing if not ambitious, perhaps even foolhardy. It waltzes with catastrophe. It snatches dazzling success from fiasco, I think, because the filmmakers trust the viewer implicitly, never stooping to coddle or condescend. This is an unrelentingly sincere film, and unquestionably the most invigorating work of cinema I have seen this year.

The Fall opens in early twentieth century Los Angeles, although the exact year is never specified. (A title indicates that it is “Once Upon a Time,” and that right there tells you everything you need to know about the film’s sensibility.) A moon-faced Romanian girl named Alexandria (Catinca Untaru) is recuperating from a broken arm in a charity hospital. Alexandria is a curious and unruly child, the sort who never plays with other children and seeks out her own amusements. She always carries a wooden box full of mementos and cast-offs—the treasures of a little girl. Wandering the grounds, she encounters a heartsick silent film stuntman, Roy (Lee Pace), who is laid up with a broken leg. Alexandria and Roy strike up a friendship of sorts. The stuntman tells the girl a short story about her namesake, Alexander the Great, and then persuades her to come back the following day for a true “epic”.

The Fall intertwines the story of Alexandria and Roy in the hospital with the outlandish fantasy that Roy spins for his young listener. This tale concerns the Masked Bandit’s quest for vengeance against the vile Governor Odious (Daniel Caltagirone). In the tradition of all great fantasy stories, the Bandit has a circle of colorful allies: an Indian warrior (Jeetu Verma), a former slave (Marcus Wesley), an Italian explosives expert (Robin Smith), a dreadlocked mystic (Julian Bleach), and, er… Charles Darwin (Leo Bill). Each has been wronged by Odious in some way; each craves revenge. Over the course of their mission, the allies escape from a desert island, liberate a slave caravan, and assault a palace, among other feats of daring. There’s magic, romance, and lots of faceless Bad Guys. It’s a classic fantasy yarn, in other words.

Sort of. Roy assembles the plot, such as it is, with a hallucinatory logic that has to be witnessed to be believed. The film’s fantasy sequences unfold like a whirlwind dream, without much care for whether the viewer keeps up or finds any of it preposterous. Alexandria doesn’t seem to mind, of course, and she keeps returning to Roy’s bedside to find out what happens next. Roy takes a shine to her spirited nature, but he may also have other motives for weaving his tale. He needs pills to help him sleep, he explains, so that he can be rested enough to finish the story. Specifically, he needs the bottle in the dispensary labeled “Morphine.”

Director Tarsem Singh (just “Tarsem” now, apparently) cut his teeth creating visually inventive music videos. However, it would be shamefully dismissive to simply wave away The Fall as a feature length indulgence of the director’s MTV pedigree. Tarsem works within a distinctive aesthetic—neither a “video thing” nor a “cinema thing”. It is an approach that treats every image like a tableau to be lovingly fussed over. “Phantasmagorical” seems a reasonable adjective to describe his style, but this might overstate the case. In both his first feature, The Cell, and now in The Fall, Tarsem discovered ways to circumscribe his surrealism. In The Cell, the baroque production design was limited to computer-enhanced mindscapes. Here, Tarsem indulges his taste for bizarre spectacle sans sci fi justification, but he still bounds it. The fantasy sequences in The Fall are a peek into Alexandria’s mind’s eye, her own moving illustrations for Roy’s fairy tale.

And what illustrations they are! The story of the Masked Bandit takes place in a Near Earth, where the Stone Age abuts the Renaissance next to the Roaring Twenties. Eras and locales ooze and bubble through the film, always gorgeously realized. Tarsem has obsessed over the details of this world so that, frankly, we don’t have to. He asks us to refrain from stumbling over the story’s unrealities—Charles Darwin?—but to instead submit to the wonder and drama of it all, just as Alexandria does.

Borrowing a page from The Wizard of Oz, Alexandria’s fantasies incorporate the people and things around her. The hospital’s ice deliveryman is the slave, an orderly is Darwin, a beautiful nurse (Justine Waddell) is a damsel in distress, and the menacing X-ray technicians are Odious’ legions, who yip like hyenas. For his part, Roy revises the story at whim. It morphs repeatedly as his objectives in the telling and Alexandria’s wishes shift. The Masked Bandit is initially Alexandria’s father (Emil Hostina), a gap-toothed farmer, but he later becomes Roy himself. Even misunderstandings are woven into the fantasy. For Roy, who makes silent Westerns for a living, the “Indian” is a Native American. But Alexandria, who has grown up among South Asian laborers in the California fruit groves and has never seen a movie, envisions that the Indian is, of course, from India.

The acting in The Fall’s fantasy sequences is lusciously camp, even histrionic at times. Standing alone, the fantasy doesn’t add up to much other than an hour or so of stylized excitement. Of course, these sequences don’t stand alone—the story is under the control of another story. Tarsem sprinkles the tale of Alexandria and Roy with a flurry of themes. The result is a framing story as thematically rich as the fantasy tale is visually opulent. The director is manifestly fascinated with the phenomenon of storytelling. How much does authorial intent matter? Is it more important that stories fulfill or disrupt our expectations? How does a mere tall tale blossom into superstition, mythology, or even legend? Most movingly, The Fall posits that stories can facilitate connections between strangers, opening us to self-awareness and laying a foundation for love.

Untaru and Pace are the heart of this film, and they both discover portrayals that are curiously magnetic. While the dialogue in the fantasy sequences can be gleefully ludicrous at times, the scenes between Alexandria and Roy boast an unparalleled realism. It’s not that they are naturalistic, precisely, but they do perfectly capture a rare thing: a completely convincing interaction between an adult and child who are not related. I cannot do these scenes justice simply by describing them. You have to see them and listen to them: the way that Roy asks Alexandria to repeat her thickly accented mumblings; the way that Alexandria’s words reveal the workings of her fidgety, flitting mind; the way that their stance toward each other warms, cools, and bursts with affection from scene to scene. Having just marveled at Simon Iteanu’s realistic performance in Flight of the Balloon, it’s all the more delightful to witness Untaru one-up him with an even more compelling portrayal of a child. Iteanu’s is probably more authentic, but Untaru conveys a searing charm that has no equal in recent films.

The Fall is a curious wonder of a film. It is melodrama, to be sure, but melodrama done artfully and earnestly. The filmmakers have given us a thing that is beautifully crafted, filled with strange sights, and obsessed with the alchemy that fiction can work on our lives. I can guarantee that some viewers will walk away from it bewildered or even embarrassed. The Fall asks that we, like Alexandria, give ourselves to a story without looking back.

2007
Director: Hou Hsiao-Hsien
Viewed: June 2, 2008
Format: Theatrical Print

B - Flight of the Red Balloon is not a mystery, but it is mysterious. It is the sort of film that is difficult to dislike: commandingly acted, studded with bittersweet morsels of authentic human drama, and possessing a quiet self-assurance about its virtues. In offering a brief glimpse into the lives of a Parisian mother and son, Flight eschews Big Ideas for a convincing portrait, and along the way it evokes a powerful aura of tenderness and melancholy. Unfortunately, there is an airiness to its method that is dissatisfying, even distracting at times. Flight is not a film with a message. It seems to have no aim other than to move us, a guiltless bit of voyeurism that will echo our own recollections of childhood (or parenthood). It takes some time to adjust to the film’s delicate ambitions; “Where is this going?” I asked myself more than once, and not out of excitement. Flight demands patience, but it rewards the viewer with a wealth of mood and remembrance, delivered in a handsome Gallic wrapping.

The film opens on young Simon (Simon Iteanu) on the bustling streets of Paris, calling out insistently to a red balloon that floats above him. The boy eventually loses interest and ambles on, but the balloon continues to drift through the story, as both a literal presence (often softly bumping outside a window) or as an icon invoked by the characters. Simon’s mother, Suzanne—a blond, bedraggled, enticing-as-ever Juliette Binoche—has hired a new nanny, Song (Fang Song). A Chinese film student with a soft demeanor and an even softer voice, Song always seems to have a digital camcorder in hand. She is quiet, bright, wary, warm, and eager-to-please. She seems made for Suzanne and Simon.

Suzanne works in traditional puppet theater, the sort of career (and passion) that seems perfectly ordinary in the beating heart of Paris. There are glimpses of her at rehearsal, where she supplies the voice acting for the production. She squeals and bellows her way through a Chinese fairy tale with gusto, while Simon looks on, his eyes full of delight and hunger as they dart between the puppets and his mother. Simon is a sensitive, strong child with a talent for math and pinball. He never has a cross word for anyone. Song quickly sees what Suzanne knows: that Simon is a good soul, and that to treat him with affection is as natural as breathing.

Strictly speaking, Flight of the Red Balloon has only the thinnest plot. Mostly, ordinary things happen. The story elements are related in a way that mimics the nebulous quality of real life, where burdens and pleasures rub shoulders. Song films Simon with her camcorder, mentioning her interest in Albert Lamorisse’s 1956 short film, The Red Balloon. Simon has a piano lesson in the apartment downstairs. Suzanne, who owns the building with her ex-husband, is incensed with the neighbors. They haven’t paid any rent in a year, and she talks to a lawyer about how to evict them. Song gradually becomes an essential part of the household. She helps Suzanne transfer her family’s 8mm tapes to video, and translates when Suzanne hosts an esteemed Chinese puppet master. There are meals and harried phone conversations. Outside, the red balloon floats on.

Flight of the Red Balloon drifts along at is own pace. It hovers over its scenes, absorbing everything that is said and unsaid. The film then flies ahead, time passing in skips and leaps. Flight is mostly chronological, with the occasional flashback sighting of Simon’s older sister Louise, now away at school in Brussels. Director Hou Hsiao-Hsien captures many scenes in long, unbroken shots, the frame edging back and forth to follow movement and conversation. There is an appealing understatement to these ambitious scenes. The challenge inherent in them only becomes apparent later, a sort of quiet complement to Children of Men’s hold-your-breath set pieces. (Is it coincidence that a poster for Alfonso Cuarón’s science fiction thriller has a cameo here?) In Flight, these long takes lend the film a naturalism that sharpens its emotional power.

Suzanne, like the film, is always in motion, even if it is only to pace anxiously, her straw-colored hair perpetually tousled. She bounces from one responsibility to the next. “Why are you always so busy, Mama?,” asks Simon. “Because I have many things to do,” is the reply, as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. Flight is no melodrama about parental neglect or broken homes. Simon does not seem unhappy (for now) despite the long gulfs of inattention, and Suzanne’s love for her boy is never in doubt. Song senses the strength in their relationship, and seems content to stand outside of it, feeling its warmth as a friend to both mother and son.

What is Hou doing here, exactly? Flight seems to be striving singularly for a naturalistic depiction of a family. There is drama, certainly, in Suzanne’s emerging struggle with the tenants, a conflict connected to the absent husband and daughter. However, Hou isn’t especially committed to these aspects of the story. The events that unfold in Flight primarily serve to highlight, to varying degrees, the essence of the relationship between mother and son. It’s an appealing approach to the material, and one that is executed with grace. Still, there is a puffy remoteness in the film’s stance towards its own story. It is so self-consciously not about the deadbeat tenants or the puppet show or the piano movers that it keeps the viewer at a distance. Flight also suffers from Hou’s occasional flirtations with bloated, arty indulgence. (Hey, another sixty second tracking shot of a red balloon floating through Paris!)

It’s a testament to the marvelous performances from Binoche and Iteanu, then, that Flight still strikes deeply resonant chords of human sentiment. Binoche is riveting, recalling how she shaped and then dominated the best scenes in Caché. She has the rare sort of screen presence that allows her to convey seemingly contradictory qualities: sexy and haggard, waspish and vulnerable, adoring and aloof. Iteanu is equally amazing, delivering the most convincing child performance of the year. He speaks, walks, and fidgets as a child his age would naturally, and conveys the exact way that young boys brood and gawk. Not to be overlooked is Fang, who is crisply aware of her character’s position as both a friend and The Help. Watch her carefully while Suzanne confers with a lawyer or bickers on the telephone; Fang is passive, yet clearly always listening, sometimes with carefully concealed anxiety.

Almost all the scenes in Flight of the Red Balloon include Simon in some way. Although he is not always at the center of the action, he is usually present, even if only as a quiet observer. For me, the film’s curious style snaps into sharper focus if it is approached as a scrapbook of Simon’s memories, vignettes remembered from this specific time when his mother wrestled with a crisis and a new friend entered their lives. Hou hints as much, particularly in the select moments where Simon is absent. In one moving scene, Suzanne reminisces about a cherished Chinese postcard, and how it always summons memories of her college days. And yet she gives the postcard as a token of gratitude to the old puppet master. Later, she shows Simon one of the restored, silent 8 mm movies featuring footage of her grandfather, also a puppeteer. What are they saying, asks Simon? Suzanne doesn’t know, so she makes up her own words. The words don’t really matter. The feeling of that relationship—the beauty of it, the pain of its loss, the value of remembering it—doesn’t need to be fabricated.