FILM REVIEW: THE APU TRILOGY (RESTORED)

 Apu (Subir Banerjee) in The Apu Trilogy.

Three to one

By Ed Rampell

 

Good news for lovers of cinema: 20 years after the negatives of SatyajitRay’s 1950s’ masterpieces -- Panther Panchali (Song of the Little Road), Aparajito (The Unvanquished) and Apu Sansar (The World of Apu) -- were burned in a fire the magnificent trio has been lovingly, lavishly restored, and will be released in selected theaters nationwide. (In Los Angeles, it runs today through June 4 at Los Angeles’ Landmark Nuart Theatre.)

 

Known as The Apu Trilogy, the new version looks stellar, as Ray’s camera affectionately, meticulously follows the adventures of a sub-continental Huck Finn, the boy Apu (Subir Banerjee), growing up in a primitive village on the fringe of the jungle, moving to a city beside the River Ganges and so on. Completed 60 years before Richard Linklater’s Boyhood, The Apu Trilogy pictorially pursues the same actors over the course of the years (although not as long a span as in Boyhood), focusing on a boy as he grows up.

 

The Apu Trilogy is well-acted, with Apu’s mischievous, elderly Aunt Indira (Chunibala Devi) stealing every scene she’s in, as the lamentations of being discarded in old age unfolds. The day to day trials and tribulations of Apu and his family is the stuff that real life in the Third World -- including starvation -- is made. Their pursuit of culture and learning, despite their crushing poverty, is inspiring.

 

With the ring of truth, non-actors and a Neo-realist style, The Apu Trilogy looks as if it is a documentary or docudrama shot by Robert Flaherty (who did, indeed, make a film on location in India, 1937’s Elephant Boy, which launched the career of another Indian lad, Sabu, who is just as charming as Banerjee). Like Flaherty, Ray’s eye reveals through the camera lens and genteel editing the poetry of humanity and nature, with lyrical passages featuring exquisite close ups of insects, flowers, animals, human faces, etc., linked in a mystical cosmology of creation. However, the dialogue and plot were all scripted by Ray, based on two books by Bibhutibhushan Banerjee. Ravi Shankar’s sitar music enhances this optically opulent treat made soon after India’s independence. 

 

The reconstructed three films are simply not be missed by those who love fine filmmaking and don’t consider subtitles to be off-putting but, rather, invitations to explore other worlds and sensibilities. Ray’s humanism and virtuoso films remind us what movies can be as they focus on people interacting with one another and nature.

 

 

 

 

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FILM REVIEW: THE SUMMIT

Pemba Gyalje in The Summit.

Too high to handle the truth

By Ed Rampell

The eyebrow-raising The Summit provokes many questions, but is a film that should appeal to aficionados of adventure (in particular mountaineering), jaw-dropping nature cinematography, armchair travelers and even mystery buffs.

The Summit is about the 2008 expeditions to the peak of K2, the second highest mountain on Earth (after Mt. Everest), located in a remote region between Pakistan and China in the Himalayas. One out of every four voyagers who ascend to the peak of the so-called “Savage Mountain” never makes it back down to live and tell the tale. In August (known to be a month when melting ice causes increased hazards) 18 climbers -- including members of various European, Asian and international teams, their Sherpa guides and a solo adventurer or two -- reached K2’s pinnacle. But then, in one of the deadliest episodes in mountaineering history, 11 of those who had ascended K2 mysteriously perished on the way down.

Director-producer Nick Ryan and writer Mark Monroe (whose screen credits include the outstanding documentaries The Cove and Chasing Ice) use various film techniques to try and unravel the unsolved mystery as to what really happened on those icy, snowy slopes that would have perplexed sleuths from Sherlock Holmes to Miss Marple to Inspector Maigret to Jessica Fletcher and beyond. The filmmakers artfully utilize archival footage, in particular of an earlier 1954 Italian expedition to K2, which similarly resulted in controversy for climber Walter Bonatti. There are also lots of original interviews with the survivors -- except for the South Korean team leader who declined to be interviewed.

Arguably the best thing about The Summit is its stunning cinematography, much of it gorgeous aerial footage shot with a hand held camera and gyro-stabilized Cineflex from a helicopter that, according to press notes, ascended as high as 24,300 feet. The starry, starry night sky lensed from the rooftop of the world is nothing short of epic in its celestial exquisiteness, and many of the Himalayan vistas, as one awestruck interviewee says, are “almost heaven.”

The Summitalso uses amateur video shot by a number of the climbers using various recording devices to document their ascents and descents. While watching a significant slice of the sequences I wondered exactly how the filmmakers were able to get that footage -- was it possible that due to the innovations in lightweight, reasonably priced video equipment that all of the scenes were authentic and shot by the summiteers? If so, The Summit might be pushing the envelope of documentary-making.

Unfortunately, according to the film’s credits, press notes and a KPFK interview with Monroe that aired Oct. 2, a substantial portion of the motion picture is composed ofreenactments. In fact, Ryan took a camera crew more than a continent away from Pakistan to shoot at the Eiger Mountain (where the great 2008 feature North Face was shot on location) near the Jungfrau, with the Bernese Alps doubling as the Himalayas. (Or should we say the “Hima-liars”?)

The thorny issue of recreations in films that purport themselves to be “documentaries” (a term coined by British documentarian John Grierson in the early 1930s) has bedeviled cinema since the 1920s, when Robert Flaherty poetically shot his ethnographic films Nanook of the North and Moana of the South Seas, which seemed to be realistic records of his far-flung indigenous subjects’ way of life. But, as it turned out, Flaherty’s Inuits and Polynesians reenacted various activities, as opposed to their merely being captured by his poetic camera eye.

Although The Summit notes reenactments in the end credits and press notes, a strong case can be made that its failure to do so in a disclaimer at the top of the film, and to clearly label staged films as such, especially those shot thousands of miles away in Switzerland doubling for Pakistan (just as it often does on many Bollywood movies shot on location in the Swiss Alps), undercuts the film’s veracity, and whatever conclusions one may draw regarding the mysterious deaths of the 11 climbers. So rather than being strictly a documentary, The Summit is debatably a combination of feature and documentary filmmaking, where elements of fiction and nonfiction films mingle. Flaherty’s own works, in particular his post-Moana movies, may be more properly defined as docudramas instead of as documentaries -- or, perhaps, White Shadows in the South Seas, Tabu, The Elephant Boy, etc., with their scripted stories enacted on location often (but not always!) with indigenous performers, may be a cross between the two.

Another noggin-scratching factor regarding The Summit is the motivation of the climbers. Why would anybody risk life and limb to ascend a death-defying mountain nicknamed the “Savage or “Killer,” where a quarter of those who make the top will never make it down? Especially during a time of the year when optimal conditions for what’s already a bad situation have already passed? The reason for this passion for peaks piques one’s interest. One of The Summit’sinterviewees blithely says: “The bigger the dream, the bigger the risk.” And the wife of the doomed Irish summiteers, Ger McDonnell, who is a focal point of this semi-doc tells the camera: “He knew he could climb it and climb it safely.”

Well, without intending to be cruel or flippant, apparently not, because McDonnell, along with 10 others, did not make it back alive. There are only a few fleeting moments in The Summit following the 2008 debacle that raises the eyebrow-raising question as to why anyone would undergo this personal torture and risk, and what state of mind such devil-may-care risk takers possess? Even among the survivors, two of them reportedly lost toes due to frostbite.

The 2008 deaths at K2 made international news, and a headline questioning the intelligence of these mountainous counterparts to madcap motorcyclist Evel Knievel is briefly glimpsed. Elsewhere, a female interviewee remarks: “People think we’re mad,” but then the film uncritically marches on. The biggest failure of The Summit is to not critically analytically try to get under the skins of its thrill seekers and to find out what makes them tick. Are their routine lives back home so boring, uneventful, empty, meaningless and devoid of purpose that they try to fill up the void with these dubious deathly enterprises, in order to give them a rush of adrenalin to prove to them that they are still alive, and that life has a purpose? Are they sexually dysfunctional? Inquiring minds want to know -- but apparently not the filmmakers, who may have lost the cooperation of their subjects if they pursued a less admiring and more objective, even critical line of questioning. Who knows what deals Ryan, Monroe and company may have cut with the climbers so they would literally cut them some slack?

Having said all this, The Summit depicts admirable -- as well as despicable -- qualities. While some are so hell bent on their quest to conquer K2 that they decline to help endangered climbers in their moments of need, others, such as McDonnell and I believe a Serbian solo summiteer, display courage and compassion in their efforts to help and rescue others. Above all there are the Sherpas, the Nepalese guides who are professional mountaineers. The intrepid Pemba Gyalje appears to be a genuinely heroic and capable figure. Gyalje, along with the awe-inspiring scenic cinematography, are the best things about The Summit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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LAFF 2012: THE STRAWBERRY TREE



A scene from The Strawberry Tree.

Cut this crap

By Ed Rampell

Much to its credit, LAFF, which highlighted Cuban films during last year’s festival, is screening more motion pictures from Cuba, which since the Revolution has produced numerous significant cinematic works. Unfortunately, Simone Rapisarda Casanova’s 2011 The Strawberry Tree is definitely not one of them. The word “cut!” does not appear to be in the vocabulary of this Italian filmmaker, who speaks limited English. Using a cinema verite type technique, he lets his subjects -- Cubans living in a north coast fishing village -- meander on and on as Casanova simply lets his camera roll.

During a LAFF 2012 post-screening Q&A the director defended his approach, saying: “I can’t stand fast cutting films. I can’t think. Someone is thinking for me.” But I’d ask: What was he thinking when his characters framed in a single camera angle (often unusually set) blabbed and tinkered on and on; and when Casanova was in the editing room?

To be fair, The Strawberry Tree does has an anthropological sensibility, as it reveals the lifestyle of these fishing villagers, who seem almost completely untouched by the Cuban Revolution (although there’s evidence that they have been educated, a hallmark achievement of the Revolution), socialism and indeed, by the 21^st century. (There is a sort of windmill, but like most in this elliptical film, what it is and its purpose is never explained to viewers who are supposed to be mind readers.) These Cubans live in a village with thatched huts and live largely off of the sea. Nobody is seen going to what we Westerners would conventionally consider a “job”, although they do plenty of manual labor, grinding coffee, thatching roofs, killing and skinning goats, etc. One character repairs a punctured tire using a condom (here, the rubber literally meets the road!).

The Strawberry Tree reminded me of the Samoan villages I lived in during the late 1970s. (BTW, you know the difference between “anthropology” and “sociology”, don’t you? The former is the study of brown, Black and yellow people; the latter is the study of white people.) So I asked the filmmaker what he thought of Robert Flaherty, who shot Moana of the South Seas in Samoa during the 1920s. This Casanova has no love for the renowned director of other classics, such as Nanook of the North, saying he “hates” Flaherty, because “he’s faking everything.” This is a common critique of Flaherty by critics who take the reputed documentarian to task because he often allegedly filmed scripted reenactments he fobbed off as “real life” (sound familiar, “reality TV”?). Fair enough, but unlike Casanova, Flaherty not only knew how to shout “cut!”, but had a sense of story, style, innovative use of film stocks such as panchromatic film, and of that little something called editing.

The main value and virtue of Casanova’s inanely titled strawberry statement is that it has preserved forever on video the lifestyle of the inhabitants of the fishing village of Juan Antonio which, shortly after Casanova wrapped, was wiped out by a hurricane. There’s also a simply stunning underwater shot -- although Casanova seems far more interested in the fish than in his human subjects. But that’s to be expected from a doc that’s simply for the birds, and the worst film I’ve ever seen at LAFF. Cut!


The Strawberry Tree screens at the Los Angeles Film Festival, June 19, 9:50 p.m., Regal Cinemas.

  

 

  

  

 

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