Jahbulon
Joined Oct 2005
Welcome to the new profile
We're still working on updating some profile features. To see the badges, ratings breakdowns, and polls for this profile, please go to the previous version.
Ratings392
Jahbulon's rating
Reviews4
Jahbulon's rating
Sometimes, when I'm not careful, I have a tendency to cast blanket judgements on people, particularly on the middle-class. I do feel that subjecting yourself and your children to a middle-class lifestyle is akin to willingly giving up your ability to communicate directly. The moment one of the more searing emotions nudges its way through to the surface, you're immediately encouraged to suck it back down again. The cumulative effect of this process, which your average middle-class household may encounter three or four times a day, is a deadening of your nerve endings. You find yourself unable to communicate in any other way than in fluty chattering. I try to avoid these types of characters whenever I can, and like to think I've stepped outside of that world as much as possible, but I do know that it's the people outside of your realm of experience who are the most deserving of your empathy. It's lucky for me that there are individuals like John Cassavetes out there to remind me that these people are vulnerable victims as much worthy of my compassion as anyone else.
Faces took over four years to make, and a large chunk of that time was spent in the editing suite (and by suite, I mean various offices, spare rooms and an array of international hotel rooms). It was whittled down from over fifty hours of footage. Cassavetes isn't really the type to set out to tell acutely defined stories with Aesop-like moral messages. While the notion that his whole oeuvre was improvised was indeed largely a myth (and one started by his early hype-merchant quotes during press tours, as well as glibly referring to Shadows as "an improvisation" at the end of the movie), he always let his actors draw their own conclusions about their characters. That said, I do think Cassavetes told a surprisingly clear story in his final cut- that of adults continually proving themselves to be wayward, neurotic, broken children, who, in spite of wending down dozens of blind alleys throughout their lives, still ultimately just want to be liked and to play. Perhaps it's a bit too pat to refer to adults as broken children;maybe we're actually our own alien species fuelled more on pride than juice cartons.
More than any other of his films, I do think Faces has its own unique atmosphere like nothing else- either of his own works or anyone else's. It's probably a result of having so many man-hours put into the thing. The shooting took a few months, but having to contend with things like re-synching the sound after it botched up (not to mention having to edit out all the examples of Cassavetes unwittingly mimicking all the characters behind the camera, loudly), the stops-and-starts as Cassavetes acted in things like The Dirty Dozen, Italian crime movies and Corman biker b-pics to raise funds, having children (two of his principle cast, his wife Gena Rowlands and Lynn Carlin, were pregnant during shooting), hustling distribution deals, and thousands of other problems- all of these things resulted in a unique synthesis of spontaneity and painstaking fastidiousness. You'd think in a whirlwind period like the mid-to- late '60s, where new cultural revolutions were taking place every week, a four year delay between shooting and release would be noticeable on screen, but the actors' emotions remain undated even now.
John Cassavetes, churlish nightmare as he could be to work with, loved people unashamedly, and it's hard to go back to regular Hollywood flicks, which are awash with editorialised opinions on their own characters, after watching a Cassavetes film. Though I'd probably have precious little opportunity of crossing paths with most of these sorts of characters in real life, the cast and crew's unwillingness to create encomiums or indictments on any of the broken-winged birds peopling Faces really pays off. I can feel for every Face on screen. I can feel it when they try to hurt the person they're talking to rather than admit their fondness, just in case it opens doors they've spent years trying to keep shut. I can feel just wanting to share a desperate kiss with someone to prove that you're as young as you're badly acting. I can feel all the wordless conversations which scream below the surface dialogue.
Some people see Faces as a bit of a hopeless movie- "depressing"- but Cassavetes didn't see it that way, and I definitely don't. It may have taken a near-overdose, but to me it feels like Lynn Carlin's character did something near-impossible at the end of the picture... Getting back to the middle-class thing, I feel with a lot of the middle-class there are always two conversations taking place in any given exchange: the surface politesse, and something rawer and more yearning which very rarely is given voice. When you listen to Carlin's inflection when she replies to Cassel, after he frantically brought her back to life, there's a tone you hear nowhere else in the film. "Try me". Her voice sounds so present, so full of alacrity and humanity... It sounds as if she's finally broken free of a smothering chrysalis and she's THERE at last. Those two voices are one at last.
It could be she'll slip back into her old habits again. Living in the same house with the same husband, the same ablutions and rituals (such as you see her performing in one scene when she goes through the house checking the appliances and lights are turned off), perhaps they'll drag her back into the doldrums again... For some reason, though, I don't think so. She's experienced incredible pain, and it's still infinitely better than being a "mechanical man". Cassavetes said he always loathed finger-pointing pictures which make the world seem like the flop-house of a race of irredeemable robbers and scoundrels. He preferred films which, while remaining honest, left their audience with a feeling of optimism. Every time I watch Faces, I'm optimistic.
Faces took over four years to make, and a large chunk of that time was spent in the editing suite (and by suite, I mean various offices, spare rooms and an array of international hotel rooms). It was whittled down from over fifty hours of footage. Cassavetes isn't really the type to set out to tell acutely defined stories with Aesop-like moral messages. While the notion that his whole oeuvre was improvised was indeed largely a myth (and one started by his early hype-merchant quotes during press tours, as well as glibly referring to Shadows as "an improvisation" at the end of the movie), he always let his actors draw their own conclusions about their characters. That said, I do think Cassavetes told a surprisingly clear story in his final cut- that of adults continually proving themselves to be wayward, neurotic, broken children, who, in spite of wending down dozens of blind alleys throughout their lives, still ultimately just want to be liked and to play. Perhaps it's a bit too pat to refer to adults as broken children;maybe we're actually our own alien species fuelled more on pride than juice cartons.
More than any other of his films, I do think Faces has its own unique atmosphere like nothing else- either of his own works or anyone else's. It's probably a result of having so many man-hours put into the thing. The shooting took a few months, but having to contend with things like re-synching the sound after it botched up (not to mention having to edit out all the examples of Cassavetes unwittingly mimicking all the characters behind the camera, loudly), the stops-and-starts as Cassavetes acted in things like The Dirty Dozen, Italian crime movies and Corman biker b-pics to raise funds, having children (two of his principle cast, his wife Gena Rowlands and Lynn Carlin, were pregnant during shooting), hustling distribution deals, and thousands of other problems- all of these things resulted in a unique synthesis of spontaneity and painstaking fastidiousness. You'd think in a whirlwind period like the mid-to- late '60s, where new cultural revolutions were taking place every week, a four year delay between shooting and release would be noticeable on screen, but the actors' emotions remain undated even now.
John Cassavetes, churlish nightmare as he could be to work with, loved people unashamedly, and it's hard to go back to regular Hollywood flicks, which are awash with editorialised opinions on their own characters, after watching a Cassavetes film. Though I'd probably have precious little opportunity of crossing paths with most of these sorts of characters in real life, the cast and crew's unwillingness to create encomiums or indictments on any of the broken-winged birds peopling Faces really pays off. I can feel for every Face on screen. I can feel it when they try to hurt the person they're talking to rather than admit their fondness, just in case it opens doors they've spent years trying to keep shut. I can feel just wanting to share a desperate kiss with someone to prove that you're as young as you're badly acting. I can feel all the wordless conversations which scream below the surface dialogue.
Some people see Faces as a bit of a hopeless movie- "depressing"- but Cassavetes didn't see it that way, and I definitely don't. It may have taken a near-overdose, but to me it feels like Lynn Carlin's character did something near-impossible at the end of the picture... Getting back to the middle-class thing, I feel with a lot of the middle-class there are always two conversations taking place in any given exchange: the surface politesse, and something rawer and more yearning which very rarely is given voice. When you listen to Carlin's inflection when she replies to Cassel, after he frantically brought her back to life, there's a tone you hear nowhere else in the film. "Try me". Her voice sounds so present, so full of alacrity and humanity... It sounds as if she's finally broken free of a smothering chrysalis and she's THERE at last. Those two voices are one at last.
It could be she'll slip back into her old habits again. Living in the same house with the same husband, the same ablutions and rituals (such as you see her performing in one scene when she goes through the house checking the appliances and lights are turned off), perhaps they'll drag her back into the doldrums again... For some reason, though, I don't think so. She's experienced incredible pain, and it's still infinitely better than being a "mechanical man". Cassavetes said he always loathed finger-pointing pictures which make the world seem like the flop-house of a race of irredeemable robbers and scoundrels. He preferred films which, while remaining honest, left their audience with a feeling of optimism. Every time I watch Faces, I'm optimistic.
I've had some of my favourite people die the last year or two, and spent a fair bit of time skulking in hospitals where dozens of patients all lie in sight of each other, measuring who's the closest to dropping off, sometimes having to remain for several hours in the same room as a dead person with whom they'd previously spoken on many occasions. The curtain isn't even always closed on them and the body remains in plain sight. Jung said something along the lines of the only way to lie comfortably on your deathbed is to constantly make plans for tomorrow as if you will one day rise again. I didn't see much of that going on there. Just sallow faces too scared to look down at their own cancer- consumed legs.
The main focus over these six hours is trying to work out just how far you should go to stave off an inevitable death. If a relative wants, the medical staff will assemble a team of literally dozens of people on call wielding drips, interpreting machines measuring their vital signs, making incisions, shouting out assessments over each other. And very few of the relatives here wanted any of their loved ones to go gentle into that good night. They hold onto an invisible strand of hope as long as possible, and the doctors confer and confer about their own attitudes towards their patients. Continuously expending all this energy on keeping obvious write-offs alive, which would likely result in brain damage even if they did survive, which they won't, clearly gets to some of them, although most of them abide by the Hippocratic Oath to the point that doing everything they can to give dying patients a few extra hours comes automatically to them.
Wiseman's lens is different to that of other directors. It's hard to ascertain exactly how he does it, but he manages to show that behind every pulse in a temple, every slight arching of an eyebrow, timbre of a voice, hand gesture and body stance there's a thought and reasoning and these surface tics are data belying our underlying thought processes. His films are almost raw footage but they still manage to keep you captive because, though we sometimes forget it ourselves, every human has a complex that will never be untangled. Werner Herzog might say Wiseman's verité documentaries only capture "the truth of accountants", but that seems to be downplaying his subjects' ability to tell hundreds of stories in every frame simply by dint of existing. And dying.
The main focus over these six hours is trying to work out just how far you should go to stave off an inevitable death. If a relative wants, the medical staff will assemble a team of literally dozens of people on call wielding drips, interpreting machines measuring their vital signs, making incisions, shouting out assessments over each other. And very few of the relatives here wanted any of their loved ones to go gentle into that good night. They hold onto an invisible strand of hope as long as possible, and the doctors confer and confer about their own attitudes towards their patients. Continuously expending all this energy on keeping obvious write-offs alive, which would likely result in brain damage even if they did survive, which they won't, clearly gets to some of them, although most of them abide by the Hippocratic Oath to the point that doing everything they can to give dying patients a few extra hours comes automatically to them.
Wiseman's lens is different to that of other directors. It's hard to ascertain exactly how he does it, but he manages to show that behind every pulse in a temple, every slight arching of an eyebrow, timbre of a voice, hand gesture and body stance there's a thought and reasoning and these surface tics are data belying our underlying thought processes. His films are almost raw footage but they still manage to keep you captive because, though we sometimes forget it ourselves, every human has a complex that will never be untangled. Werner Herzog might say Wiseman's verité documentaries only capture "the truth of accountants", but that seems to be downplaying his subjects' ability to tell hundreds of stories in every frame simply by dint of existing. And dying.
When I went on a boat trip around the UK about six years back, we'd occasionally encounter these glassy, marble-like stretches of water. A friend dubbed them "The Siren's Strait". We became ensnared in that Siren's Strait a few times over the month-long journey. I remember one time, just after sunrise, when a dolphin, who was treated by the marina we were staying at that night as their communal pet, followed us out to sea and writhed about on the surface, occasionally breaking the silence with its whistles. I don't know how long we remained there with that dolphin but by the time the sun had fully risen it had completely disappeared and we set off on our way.
I hadn't thought of that moment until I watched this film a few days ago. On one level it functions as the archetypal story of Odysseus and his struggle to return home. His ship, his garb, his language (what little dialogue in the movie is mostly in Ancient Hellenic- the film comes with no subtitles) and the occasional buildings he encounters are all perfectly designed to match the Hellenic period. On another, more resonating level, Nostos feels like being given a first-person journey through some of the world's most beautiful locales and scenery. Despite being at the tail-end of a forty-hour day, I sat there in rapt attention and my interest didn't waver once.
Certain shots and images stand out, most of which appeared as memories or reveries: the main character swimming into a huge reflection of the moon, his body's movements as seen from above almost resembling those of an angel; Odysseus' feral screams during a nighttime battle of Troy that continues to haunt him throughout the film; a visit to a beautiful sea cave in which can be heard the distant echoes of whale-song; travailing the mountainous ruins of gargantuan buildings of an earlier age in which are strewn about the bodies of his shipmates; dream-walking through the Knossos labyrinth with what I think was possibly the grunting of the Minotaur audible in the background; amazing shadowy verdant jungles replete with peacocks and clear water streams. This film is a heartfelt love letter to nature that I'd forward onto every urbanite who's forgotten that even mankind's greatest and most ingenious work of art can hardly measure up to a single ragged grassy field in beauty.
There are maybe a few contrived moments of symbolism that could potentially break the spell for some viewers, the spinning (hula) hoop in particular, but the gentle editing and general feeling of awe swept those thoughts out of my head.
I could see this film appealing to a much larger audience than it has. There is no real language barrier as the dialogue is all but meaningless. It shows language up as the glorified bleating it generally is. There aren't too many of the riddles and snares that you often find in the "arthouse". I don't think it's overly-portentous and it's probably got just enough of a wisp of a plot to hold most viewers' attention. Watch it yourself and spread the word.
I hadn't thought of that moment until I watched this film a few days ago. On one level it functions as the archetypal story of Odysseus and his struggle to return home. His ship, his garb, his language (what little dialogue in the movie is mostly in Ancient Hellenic- the film comes with no subtitles) and the occasional buildings he encounters are all perfectly designed to match the Hellenic period. On another, more resonating level, Nostos feels like being given a first-person journey through some of the world's most beautiful locales and scenery. Despite being at the tail-end of a forty-hour day, I sat there in rapt attention and my interest didn't waver once.
Certain shots and images stand out, most of which appeared as memories or reveries: the main character swimming into a huge reflection of the moon, his body's movements as seen from above almost resembling those of an angel; Odysseus' feral screams during a nighttime battle of Troy that continues to haunt him throughout the film; a visit to a beautiful sea cave in which can be heard the distant echoes of whale-song; travailing the mountainous ruins of gargantuan buildings of an earlier age in which are strewn about the bodies of his shipmates; dream-walking through the Knossos labyrinth with what I think was possibly the grunting of the Minotaur audible in the background; amazing shadowy verdant jungles replete with peacocks and clear water streams. This film is a heartfelt love letter to nature that I'd forward onto every urbanite who's forgotten that even mankind's greatest and most ingenious work of art can hardly measure up to a single ragged grassy field in beauty.
There are maybe a few contrived moments of symbolism that could potentially break the spell for some viewers, the spinning (hula) hoop in particular, but the gentle editing and general feeling of awe swept those thoughts out of my head.
I could see this film appealing to a much larger audience than it has. There is no real language barrier as the dialogue is all but meaningless. It shows language up as the glorified bleating it generally is. There aren't too many of the riddles and snares that you often find in the "arthouse". I don't think it's overly-portentous and it's probably got just enough of a wisp of a plot to hold most viewers' attention. Watch it yourself and spread the word.