Hell, Germans, Libertines and Shakespeare

It feels like I've spent most of my time watching films lately, which obviously isn't a bad thing when you're a fan of films. I went to the cinema last week to see Drag Me To Hell, a review of which can be found on Paul's blog. It was certainly enjoyable enough, and we managed to make it through the rain in time to catch the England game in the AJ.

Since then I've watched two Fassbinders I haven't seen before. Mother Kusters' Trip To Heaven (1975) is a TV movie about a widow who unwillingly participates in distortions of her late husband's memory. Pulled between communists and anarchists, both of whom wish to make her a symbol in their cause, and systematically abandonded or ignored by her family, Brigitte Mira's character is put through the director's usual cruel ringer until the endings. Strangely, Fassbinder wrote two finales to this tragicomic tale, one astonishingly more violent and nasty than the one he settled upon. I much prefer the latter, where she manages to move on and maybe find love, to the original, where she dies of an anarchist's bullet wound in the arms of her feckless son. The real star of this is Ingird Caven, who is delightful as the worn, ambitious singer and daughter of the protagonist, who uses her father's death to cynically advance her lovelife and career. Her sparring with sister-in-law Irm Hermann is fantastic, too.

Substantially superior and more complete was Fear of Fear, a completely forgotten item from the same year (I don't think it even has its own Wikipedia page). This tells the story of Margot, a severly depressed housewife. Margot's battle with her anxiety following giving birth to her second child goes through the appropriate cycle: Leonard Cohen albums, valium, affairs, alcohol, until the conclusion. This allows Fassbinder to make his commentary upon the value and lack of understanding of these addictions, but the real villain here is the oppressive society of the Economic Miracle that shuns or judges Margot, from the dismissive doctors to the vile inlaws. "We're the normal ones!" screeches Irm Hermann, reprising her role from Mother Kusters'. The implication is unavoidable: Margot, whose world literally disintegrates around her, is the sane one, whilst the respectable in-laws, who chastise Margot for almost everything she does, are the repressed psychotic majority. In this sense, Fassbinder predicts both the medicated society and the religious democratic tyranny of numbers-make-right.

A word must be said for Margit Carstensen, who plays, or rather becomes, Margot. Her acting is comprised of quietly confused facials, which are equal parts brilliantly expressive and controlled. She allows Fassbinder to place ambiguity into his close-ups, such as the final shot of her where it is almost impossible to know for sure her reaction to her neighbour's death. We are left with the disturbing possibility she is happy about it, or is at least gratefully accepting of his self-sacrifice to the demons that haunted them both so that she might live. Or did he merely represent the last traces of her psychosis? The wobbly camera effect, that acted as avatar for her bouts of anxiety, accompanies the credits and works in tandem to split our interpretations. There's such control and economy with Fassbinder that his style is the perfect environment for this story to take hold.

Then The Libertine (2005) was on television the other night. I hadn't seen it since it was first out at the cinema, and having formally studied Wilmot since then was eager to see it again. I was disappointed: it's not as good as I remembered. Not that there's anything seriously wrong with it. It tells a solid story and doesn't shy away from the grotesque and bawdy elements of Rochester's life. Depp gives one of his better performances, though it is still not free from his compulsive false-eccentricity, and John Malkovich is solid as Charles II. There's even a very good piece of shooting in the first theatre scene. But for most part the camera doesn't know where to put itself, too often forcing us into unwarranted intimacy with the characters. There are also some truly outlandish elements, even for the source material. The script seems determined to equate Rochester with a modern rock star, which is not so much unwarranted as it is predictable and cliche, and we are all meant to be aghast at this story of unfulfilled potential without giving us any reason to consider the real Rochester's talent. Admittedly, it would have been difficult to dramatically convey a poem as lengthy as, say, A Satyr Against Reason and Mankind, but surely a poet as good as Rochester deserves better than to be remembered as a bit of a lad and a good acting coach.

I also finally managed to see Chimes At Midnight from start to finish and uninterrupted. On paper, it sounds like it should be the greatest film ever: script by Shakespeare, editing and direction by Orson Welles, cast that includes such talent as John Gielgud, Margaret Rutherford and Welles himself. There's a temptation to say the general high regard for this film is more influenced by its potential and rarity than by its quality, that those who praise it do so in the knowledge few are likely to call them on it. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. This is not quite so much the Holy Grail of Welles' canon (that would be the existing shards of his Don Quixote), nor is it another great but interferred-with show of potential like the Magnificent Ambersons. It is a realised vision, a complete and wonderful film, a culmination both of Welles' unparalleled cinematic skill and his admiration for Shakespeare.

Yes, there are a few problems with the sound, but nothing that couldn't be fixed with a half-hearted restoration. What really struck me about this film was how much Welles, ever the magician, had done with just a little money, cardboard and glue. We are transported to a medieval England of thatched wooden buildings and stone castles, thanks largely to the film's utterly fantastic lighting. Comforting, harrowing and portentious, the shadows themselves are a character. The technical pinnacle of this film comes in the famous Battle of Shrewsbury sequence, a seminal moment in film fight scenes.

The script is fantastic, too. Adapted from Welles' travesty of a play, Five Kings, it seamlessly blends dialogue from five (at my count) Shakespeare plays: the Henriad and The Merry Wives of Windsor. It gives us a sentimental version of Falstaff, more funny and playful than damagingly apathetic and cowardly, but he is none the worse for it. Welles puts in what might be his best performance, giving Falstaff a nuanced depth that is so often missing in other portrayals of the clownish character. In truth there isn't a performance in the film that isn't more than adequate, but this is about Welles, and about Falstaff as his avatar, and they are to be applauded. We learn more about Welles from this film, the way he speaks another man's words, than we do from a thousand biographies or interviews.