In Search of Dutch Cinema

Another week, another art exhibition prompting reflections on cinema. There was nothing in particular about the display of the Queen's Collection of Dutch Landscapes at Holyroodhouse, Edinburgh, that stimulated a movie-related chain of thought other than to set me thinking about the small impact Dutch films have had on the world stage. The paintings in the exhibition testify to a growing confidence and grandeur within the culture of the Netherlands in the moment of its independence which helped define its burgeoning national identity (expertly evoked in Simon Schama's early book, The Embarrassment of Riches: An Interpretation of Dutch Culture in the Golden Age). One is hard pressed to pinpoint an equivalent distinctive impression within the country's cinematic heritage, beyond the exuberant fledging films of Paul Verhoeven (a glance at the few Dutch DVDs on my shelves reveals little else). I'm vaguely aware of a documentary tradition, too, but a fleeting acquaintance with Joris Ivens' work is the start and finish of my knowledge in this regard.

One of the points I make to my A level students about the intellectual attractiveness of film studies is that the history of the medium is short, therefore it's possible to grasp much of that history in detail, appreciating an evolving artform in its remarkably varied manifestations. However, even the most seasoned of cineastes must admit to lacunae, and Dutch cinema, whether through its own shortfalls or the neglect of the English-speaking West, is one of mine and, I suspect, a few others. Ironically, a film I have often used to bridge Anglophone, mainstream cinema and international arthouse fare is a Dutch film, namely George Sluizer's enthralling The Vanishing (Spoorloos), a thriller about a woman's abduction that draws her boyfriend into a long-running investigation into her disappearance. Reminscent at times of the elaborate puzzles of David Fincher, the film revels in its slow-burning disclosure: we know soon enough in the narrative what has happened and who is responsible, but the suspense lies in the mechanics of the crime. Sluizer painstakingly and with a rich vein of black comedy reveals the method of his madman: a static overhead shot captures his forensic precision in rehearsing the moment of capture, as he guides his imaginary victim into position, circles his car and prepares an anasthetic, all the while accompanied by a disconcertingly jolly score. The film also develops a rich connection between protagonist and antagonist, both men being obsessives whose complusions entwine them together; this is nicely echoed in the recurring Tour de France radio commentary focused on the cat-and-mouse rivalry of the lead cyclists. Yet, in the radio transmissions we hear the film's dominant culture: we begin with a Dutch couple holidaying in southern France, practising the language. A feel for location is fundamental is fundamental, both in the sense of authentic tourist trail territory - service stations, market squares, country retreats - and the symbolic landscape of desertion and reunion (tunnels at the start and ending), surveillence and loss (the service station) and death and reconciliation (the earth itself, the ground which Rex sits upon, beats and eventually find himself buried under). In any event, the setting is signally French, just as Sluizer's knowing but silly Hollywood remake is recast as an American nightmare. To find the Dutch through their own highways and byways, further cinematic investigation is required.

Notes on the Abolition of the UK Film Council

An overview of the issues and arguments involved in the abolition of the UK Film Council is available via the 'Film Studies at RGS' tab.

Intersections of Japanese Art and Film

The Laing Art Gallery in Newcastle is a reasonable collection, of Edwardian origin, of local and national decorative arts. Seemingly bereft of an international perspective, the collection's native art illustrates, according to Mark Fisher (Britain's Best Museums and Galleries, Penguin, 2004) 'how impervious painting in Britain has been to foreign influences'. Fisher's piece on the gallery lists many of its significant holdings, but makes no mention of the wondrous sample of the visual culture of Japan's Edo period that is the basis of an ongoing exhibition (entitled Japanese Wave). The artworks, many of them woodblock prints, are largely from the bequeathed private collection of a Newcastle merchant, A.H. Higginbottom, who had an enthusiasm for the traditional arts of Japan, as was quite common in the late nineteenth century. Higginbottom, however, amassed an exceptionally rich cluster of art and artefacts: here there are landscapes (such as examples of Hiroshige's Fifty Three Stations on the Tokaido), depictions of kabuki theatre and its actors, and images of geisha.

Those interested in the classical era of Japanese cinema and especially in the proliferation of jidaigeki (historical film) will find a great deal to stimulate them here and I would strongly recommend a vist before the exhibition ends on 5 September. The focus, however, is less on the world of samurai and swordplay most often brought to mind by the popular Japanese cinema of the chanbara genre, than in the the representation of the 'floating world' - the pleasure-seeking, middle-class urban culture of the Edo period, of which many of the everyday customs perpetuated into twentieth century (indeed, Kazuo Ishiguro's excellent second novel, An Artist of the Floating World, concerns an old Japanese painter looking back on his life after the Second World War and noticing how attitudes and traditions have changed in his society).

In particular, I was fascinated by Kitagawa Utamaro's sequence of woodprints depicting 'Women Working in Silk Culture', wherein courtesan beauties are seen to process silk (shown above, right). The lives of the female models and their relationship with the artist is the subject of Mizoguchi's 1947 film Utamaro and His Five Women, a work that is significant for the cross-currents in which it was made: Mizoguchi was greatly enthused by the subject matter, having trained as a painter himself and being naturally drawn to the oppression of women, but was working within the restrictive circumstances of the American Occupation (see http://archive.sensesofcinema.com/contents/cteq/03/25/utamaro.html).

There are several other points of connection with 20th century Japanese cinema within the exhibition, even to my untrained eye. The display notices (sadly there is no accompanying catalogue) at the Laing informs us that the kabuki theatre 'embodied both the escapism and extravagance of Edo's ukiyo (i.e the. floating world)' and it is this essence of performative fantasy that is central to one of the post-war classics of Japanese film, Kon Ichikawa's An Actor's Revenge (1962). I was driven to an immediate re-watch of Ichikawa's stupedously rich and beautiful widescreen project. One of the most visually daring films ever made (I'd strongly recommend Ian Breakwell's BFI Modern Classic monograph), it also boasts one of the screen's most powerful perfomances, with the veteran Kazuo Hasegawa reprising a role he had played three decades previously, playing a kabuki actor looking to avenge his parents' suicides. The actor is a female impersonator (onnagata), a familiar role of the time for, just as boys took female parts in Renaissance theatre in England, lavishly garmented and made-up men stood in for women on the kabuki stage, rendering a symbolic ideal of feminine beauty, especially the face. Two of the portraits in the Laing exhibition depict actors who specialised in such roles, with Utagawa Kunisada's woodblock of Onoe Kikujiro II being especially evocative.

The above notes represent my immediate impressions after a visit to the gallery; others who are better versed in Japanese visual representation will no doubt find a variety of other, equally rewarding lines of inquiry. Those wishing to pursue the links between film and older Japanese graphic traditions are advised to check out the sumptuous Cinematic Landscapes: Observations on the Visual Arts and Cinema of China and Japan (edited by Linda C. Ehrlich and David Desser, University of Texas, 1994).

To 3D Infinity ... and beyond

A busy Friday night on North Tyneside, the Odeon multiplex at Silverlink, near North Shields, to be precise: Toy Story 3 is a few days into its theatrical run, the crowds are flowing through the doors and the 3D cash register is rattling along nicely for distrubutor and exhibitor alike. The glasses are being bought and the adverts for 3D television (a major push by Sky is due in the autumn) are drawing gasps of wonder from the mass of spectators.

Sometimes the advent of a new medium (or fresh technology within an existing form) ushers in several uncertainties: will the newcomer establish itself or will it flounder after a brief flowering (as 3D did in the early 1950s)? Will it become dominant or one option among several for consumers? What of the older methods - are they to be rendered redundant, will they slowly be phased out or will there still be a place, say, in twenty years time for good, old-fashioned two-dimensional filmmaking? The one thing that can be said with any certainty is that there is a great push to make 3D happen, to make us go 3D. Counting the screeings planned for the next six days at Silverlink, according to the Odeon website there will be 14 screenings in 2D as opposed to 77 in 3D, a ratio of 1:5.5. The industry's assertion, then, that we can still see 3D films the old way if we wish may be true (although the new Shrek film is only showing at Silverlink in 3D - a format it seems to struggle with: http://www.cinemablend.com/new/To-3D-Or-Not-To-3D-Buy-The-Right-Shrek-Forever-After-Ticket-18630.html),

but is disingenuous as to the strenous efforts to push the new format as the only game in town, relegating the alternative to minumum visibility.

There's plenty to say about 3D in terms of its aesthetic potential and audience response (including such issues as the added ticket premium and the perceived qualitative impact), but my concern here is with the coercive project to make it succeed, as is consistent with Jonathan Rosenbaum's claim that such interests in the audience are 'cultivated, like so much else in this culture that goes under the guise of spontaneous combustion' (Rosenbaum, Movie Wars: How Hollywood and the Media Limit What Movies We Can See, A Capella, 2000, p.15). The block booking arrangements for 3D films clearly amount to an attempt to lead the audience where the industry wants it to go. Can we assess how audiences are responding? Well, Variety recently reported that the opening weekend figures for Toy Story 3 in America showed that only 60% of its gross was from 3D screenings, a share that is markedy down from Avatar's 71% - indeed, one blogger has charted the continuing decline in the 3D contribution to total box office of six films from Avatar onwards - see http://www.thesixthaxis.com/2010/07/21/is-3d-already-dying/

It's far too early to say how the 21st century push towards 3D cinema will succeed, but the concerted effort will continue for some time, aided this time around by the synergy of TV and gaming potential.

As for Toy Story 3, I loved it: the characterisation and thematic development were as rich as ever - go see, in 2 or 3D.

Stephen Frears: A great British filmmaker

One of the pleasures of the annual BFI Media Studies Conference, an event which assembles a range of speakers to present a widely varied set of talks, seminars and workshops to teachers of Media and Film, is the film screening on the last day. In the past we've had appearances from the likes of Shane Meadows and Danny Boyle (introducing his then-forthcoming Millions), and this year we were fortunate enough to have Stephen Frears appearing for a chat and Q&A prior to a screening of his latest, Tamara Drewe, an adaptation of Posy Simmonds' graphic novel.

Frears' career in many way typifies the schizophrenic nature of British filmmaking, as torn between the small production scale of movies supported by domestic television companies and the lure and broader possibilities of Hollywood. He emerged as a talented director of television films in the 1970s, having learned his craft as an assistant on Lindsay Anderson’s If…. Most of his films on the Seventies and early Eighties were made for TV, with no theatrical release involved (these included a number of adaptations of Alan Bennett plays). Frears always speaks fondly of the BBC at that time, seeing it in the context of post-war public service and the freshly egalitarian culture of the times. The moribund scale of the British film industry of this period is evident in the thirteen long years that separated his theatrical debut feature, Gumshoe (1971), and his next work to enjoy distribution in cinemas.

But Frears then became a leading figure in the rejuvenation of British cinema that was stimulated with the emergence of Film Four (a film production offshoot of Channel 4) in the mid Eighties. Up to this point, his drama for the BBC had often been feature length but was limited to 'play for today' territory and subjected to industrial agreements that prevented its cinematic exhibition. Television films by such liminaries as Ken Loach and Mike Leigh thus failed to find a wider audience. Film Four changed everything, allowing their films to be seen not only in British cinemas but also abroad if foreign distributors got involved.

In particular, Frears’ film of Hanif Kureshi’s My Beautiful Laundrette represented a breakthrough in terms of both the film industry (it was made by Film Four in partnership with a brand new company – Working Title – who would go on to make the Richard Curtis/Hugh Grant movies, Bridget Jones’ Diary and Billy Elliot) and also subject matter (the British Asian community, and a gay relationship between a white racist youth and a Pakistani). This was progressive, risk-taking filmmaking at a time when cinema admissions in the United Kingdom were plummeting. It was picked up for American distribution by Orion Classics, who were also responsible for the release of Woody Allen films at that time, and its crossover success was confirmed when it was nominated for a Best Oscar screenplay.

The continuing importance to the British film industry of television production is evident in Frears’ recent career – his later films include Mrs Henderson Presents (a BBC co-production) and The Queen (an ITV co-production). The latter’s popularity in America, culminating in an Oscar for Helen Mirren, testified to the success British films can achieve internationally when they project particular resonant images of national identity. Frears has also been, intermittently, a ‘Hollywood’ director, making such films as Dangerous Liaisons and High Fidelity; the latter was a Working Title production but the finance and distribution came from a big American studio (in this case, Disney). The film featured an American cast and transposed its record shop setting from London to Chicago.

When Frears presented a documentary on British film to mark the centenary of cinema ('Typically British', 1995), he drew on his own experience to reflect upon the position of the domestic film business and its practitioners at that moment. His commentary was, however, co-scripted by film academic Charles Barr, and when I and other delegates asked Frears at the BFI Conference if he could give his own 'postscript' fifteen years later, commenting on his continued oscillation between Hollywood-based work and more obviously British films, his rather gruff, nebulous responses added little to his earlier observations. No matter: Frears' seeming orneriness is more symptomatic of what David Thomson calls his 'charactersitic deflection of high praise' than of an inflated artistic ego. Thomson economically describes the humane skill of his work ('his love of people, his sense of humour and pain sitting side by side, his skill with actors, and his deftness as a storyteller'), and the tender precision of Dirty Pretty Things, his brilliant study of the lives of a couple of illegal immigrants in London, underlined for me Frears' superiority over his lauded compatriot, Mike Leigh.

Tamara Drewe, then, is something of a disappointment, for all that Frears adores Posy Simmond's work and found the shooting of the film to be one of his most pleasurable. The story's subversion of its Ambridge-like rural idyll ('Buff Orpington' is the name of the sleepy village in question) demands a more daring, smouldering tone than it mostly gets and which young stars Gemma Arterton and Dominic Cooper promise. Those two fledging stars are crying out for more fulfilling parts than the British cinema seems able to offer them, and here they are swamped by the bland, inconsequential tone of the material which is reminscent of, as one IMdB reviewer tautologically puts it, 'bad Woody Allen' (or Leigh's own, trite Happy-go-lucky for that matter). This is Frears in a minor key, redeemed a little by the finely judged portrayal of the unhappy couple of a long-suffering housewife - the excellent Tamsin Greig - and her philandering writer husband, played with villainous relish by Roger Allam. They hint at the richness of characterisation that can be found in abundance elsewhere in Frear's quietly substantial back catalogue, not least in his lovely version of Roddy Doyle's The Snapper, which he revealed in his conference session to be a personal favourite of President Mitterand. Even the French are able to savour English culture when it as good as Frear's filmmaking.