Company Limited (Seemabaddha), (Satyajit Ray, 1971)

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The much cited view of Satyajit Ray as an outstanding humanist director but not a political one sits uneasily with me. Take for example, Days & Nights In The Forest (1970), where complacent young middle-class men from the city are confronted with rural poverty, Distant Thunder (1973), with its treatment of the caste system, or the abuse meted out against a poor man by a wealthy brahmin in Deliverance (1981) as he seeks a wedding date for his daughter. Company Limited’s central characters are too richly drawn to act as mouthpieces, and as always he ascribes no ideology to his work, but the film contains a withering examination of the corrupting nature of corporate culture.

Company Limited forms the second part of Satyajit Ray’s informal Calcutta Trilogy, in between The Adversary (1970) and The Middleman (1976). Each film stands independently but addresses the city at a time of crisis. While Company Limited is set firmly amongst the elite, the chasm that exists between their environment and life as experienced by much of Calcutta is clearly defined in the opening shots. Here, documentary-style footage reveals the crowd outside Calcutta’s unemployment exchange, while the dire rates of unemployment in the city are recounted in voiceover. Poor job prospects were not the sole cause for concern. In his biography of the director, The Inner Eye, Andrew Robinson describes the Calcutta of this time as an “urban guerrilla battleground,” with violence meted out by Maoist insurrectionists known as the Naxilites responded to no less brutally by the police. Subimal Misra claims that of approximately 200 monthly murders in the region, 130 were committed by the police.

This initially appears far away from the luxurious world of Company Limited. Shyamal Chatterjee stands removed from any of the unpleasantness that is going on beneath the height of his company owned apartment. Charming and likable despite an all consuming ambition, he has risen from modest beginnings to become the sales manager of his employers’ fan division, where the possibility of further promotion and a seat on the board now hangs alluringly before him.

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We are guided through this privileged world alongside Tutal, Chatterjee’s sister-in-law, who pays a sudden visit. While Chatterjee’s wife limits her activities to gossip and magazines, Tutal proves a deeper and more perceptive character. While it is she who occupies the moral center of the film, her position is more nuanced than that suggests. She is at once seduced and discomforted by this new environment in which she finds herself. It is Tutal who will unwittingly provide both idea and impetus for Chatterjee’s eventual corruption. For now however, she is happy that success has not made her brother-in-law into a monster. For his part, her intelligence encourages him to make her the confidant that his shallow wife cannot be, and a crude joke about marrying the wrong sister quickly acquires a degree of seriousness. Tutal’s symbolic enrollment into the class of her hosts comes with the loan of a wristwatch, an indispensable tool of Western workplace efficiency.

The of-its-era sexism that pervades corporate life might be attributable to foreign influence, and it is towards the post-colonial status of India that much critique is aimed. While in the past ten years the Indian upper classes have gained access to the country clubs, the very name of Chatterjee’s employer, Hindusthan-Peters, suggests that India has reached an accommodation with its former masters, rather than true independence. This is emphasized by the lecherous Indian board member, Sir Baren Roy, who talks of having “wrestled the British on equal terms,” but his title and Rolls Royce suggest a joining of the enemy. However, the starkest criticism of British influence is reserved for its corrosive impact on the family unit. Chatterjee has shunted his son off to boarding school. The grandparents moved to Calcutta along with their son but, in a breach of tradition, the company does not permit them to share their apartment. Arriving unannounced at their son’s apartment and finding a party in full swing, the elderly couple find themselves unceremoniously swept into an adjoining darkened room by their embarrassed son, anxious to hide his lower-class parentage from his colleagues. Chatterjee’s son writes of missing his Mom and Dad. His parents miss Patna, the city previously their home.

Given the shallow nature of Chatterjee’s world it is fitting that when the crisis occurs, it appears on a surface level. Discovering that the paintwork on the fans in a consignment ready for shipment is faulty, he faces ruin. If the shipment is sent, it will be refused. Should it be delayed, the company will be in breach of contract and his reputation will be lost. One way out exists: to create the conditions that enable the “Act of God” clause to be evoked.

The unstable conditions endured by the citizens of Calcutta, previously so distant, now encroach. In the sequence of events that Chatterjee unleashes, with the provoking of a strike and the throwing of a bomb, a man is injured. Beginning these actions necessitated Chatterjee’s overcoming a moral crisis, and a visit to the worker in his hospital bed heralds a second one. Still, he receives his place on the board, and in the workplace celebrations his misgivings are swept aside. For the death of a poor man, a large wreath would have sufficed to put things right. And further enhance the generous reputation of this company limited.

Ray’s camera constantly draws our attention to plugs and switches, but the unreliability of the mechanics that underpin his lifestyle is evident from the outset. Soon after we meet Chatterjee, he complains that his residential phone line is faulty. Later he discovers that a light on his billboard advertisement is malfunctioning. Now, as he returns home for his family celebration he discovers that his building’s elevator is out of order. As Chatterjee trudges up the staircase, his increasingly hot and uncomfortable climb comes to mirror his career ascent. Previously, his wife extolled the height of her apartment compared to living down below “with the dust… flies… pollution… everything else…” No longer above the dirt that fills the city, our protagonist appears to carry it before him. With darkness subsuming his home, innocence remains at floor level, where a group of children happily kick a ball around in the sunshine.

Changing Taiwan – an allegorical reading of Edward Yang’s A Brighter Summer Day

 

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In his 1991 masterpiece A Brighter Summer Day, Edward Yang revisits the gang culture and rock and roll mania of Taiwan in the early sixties, recalling the true-life case of a schoolgirl murdered by a classmate that had fascinated him and his friends as a teenager. In seeking a meaning behind this appalling act, Yang utilizes a mammoth four hours and a similarly huge cast to uncover the wounds of history and politics as experienced by his generation, and that of his parents, on the island.

Here I offer an allegorical reading of the film, with spoilers necessarily included. Rather than providing a comprehensive scene by scene analysis, I am focusing my attention on the school building, the institutional structure given most weight in the film, and on the characters of Ming, Honey, and Jade, and their impact on the character of Xiao Si’r. I argue that the school represents the island of Taiwan, with each of the three characters symbolizing a different phase in the island’s modern history. Associated with each other, Honey and Ming contribute to a sense of duality that presides over much of the film, with its fade to black dividing the narrative in two, just as the night and day shifts divide the school. Jade’s importance comes to the fore as the film approaches its climax, pointing to a new way forward for the island.

A Brighter Summer Day begins ten years after the arrival of the waishengren, the name given to the wave of mainlanders who landed in 1949 following the defeat of the Nationalists in the Chinese Civil War. Those who arrived from mainland China previous to this exodus, and who live largely apart from the waishengren, are known as the benshengren. Taiwan’s indigenous population, as Tony Rayns notes in his commentary to the Criterion Collection edition of the film, are absent from the film’s narrative.

With their hopes of returning to the mainland dwindling, the waishengren exist in limbo. The children are adrift, their parents’ attachment to the past depriving them of their own ability to regard Taiwan as home. They sleep in houses built for the former Japanese occupiers, while the icons of history and culture through which they struggle to find themselves, such as American rock and roll, Japanese swords, and Russian novels, also come from elsewhere. The young respond to their insecurity by forming gangs, in this case the Little Park or the 217s, while the adults seek to advance themselves by using their connections from the mainland, replicating a gang culture of their own.

In 1987, the year that Edward Yang began to conceive his film, thirty-eight years of martial law in Taiwan had come to an end. Reacting to the threat from China, Taiwan began an “indigenization process, recognizing its valid cultural roots … in the aborigines, calling for officializing and revitalizing the Taiwanese dialect and the tribal languages” (Beus 307). The differences between the waishengren and the benshengren have reduced as Taiwan asserts its own identity. The making of A Brighter Summer Day should be seen in this context.

Near the start of the film, Edward Yang provides some clues for reading his narrative. Xiao Si’r receives what David Bordwell describes as “probably the most unemphatic introduction of a protagonist in Taiwanese cinema”, the teenager sits with his friend Cat in the rafters of the film studio situated next to their school. Beneath them, a chaotic shoot is interrupted as the director argues with the lead actress. She doesn’t like the dress she is supposed to wear. “It’s a black-and-white film!” the director cries as he sends her to change her clothes directly below where Xiao and Cat are stationed. In introducing us to the movie set at this early stage in the film, Yang suggests a world in which there may be multiple ways of seeing. Actors break from roles to become their true selves and films may be in color or black-and-white. From his omniscient perch above the set, Xiao is confirmed as our guide to this complex world. However, as Cat loses his grip on the book that he is holding and it falls to the ground below, causing them to flee, we are warned his view may not encapsulate the whole story.

Xiao grabs a torch as he runs from the studio and its beam will soon be illuminating things better left unseen, be it lovers kissing in the moonlight, or the aftermath of a massacre. It is connected to a further motif, that of flickering light. Often associated with Xiao, who suffers from blurred sight, the use of erratic lighting symbolizes the absence of clear vision. Prior to the sighting of a mysterious girl whose identity will prove crucial, Xiao moves through the grade school at night, switching lights on and off. Much later, as he sits in bed the night before he kills Ming, Xiao’s confused state of mind is visualized through his repeated use of the on/off switch on his torch. Finally, when he has seen enough, Xiao will return the instrument to the studio. The motif also appears on a wider level, for example, regular power outages mask goings on at the 217 gang’s pool hall.

The most significant example of flickering light might be represented in the two shifts, day and night, that the teenagers’ school is divided into. The institution is symbolic of Taiwan itself, and hence the division embeds this murky vision into society as a whole, whilst simultaneously representing two populations of Taiwan, the benshengren and the waishengren. In their analysis of the tunnel vision perspective found throughout A Brighter Summer Day, Emilie Yueh-yu Yeh and Darrell William Davis claim that “schoolyard politics are a microcosm; they authorize and stand in for a militarized, authoritarian civil society” (104). This is true, and the symbolism extends beyond that, to the place of the island itself.

As befits an island under martial law, discipline is carried out by two masters of conduct, one civilian and one military. The basketball court embodies an outside influence on Taiwan and is an arena of conflict. Sporting instruments are constantly retooled as weapons by the teenagers. The injured repair to the school clinic, staffed by a kindly volunteer doctor who also maintains a practice serving the wider community. The doctor, for reasons that I will return to, represents the United Nations.

The Taiwanese border is represented by a vestibule that marks the entryway to the school. Occasionally, this is the site of skirmishes, as when a basketball is ‘fired’ out of the darkness at Xiao and his friends. To one side a stall is managed by Red Bean, a young woman who is an object of fascination for the teenage boys. The table on which she sells her wares represents an open gate, allowing easy passage through. As the boys pass her, they speculate on the color of her underwear (the basis of her nickname) and otherwise torment her. Red Bean was born in Taiwan during Japan’s fifty year occupation of the island. When Cat lifts the back of her dress, confirming the suspected color of her underpants, the view that he obtains, a red circle surrounded by a white dress, is that of a humiliated Japanese flag.

Taiwan’s relationship with the outside world is also represented elsewhere, by the radio that sits in Xiao’s house. It is through this instrument that his father listens disapprovingly to the result of Kennedy’s victory over Nixon in the 1960 election. Later dismantled and reassembled by Cat (the character most obviously associated with the United States) the radio works only intermittently. The static represents Taiwan’s isolation, while the awkward angles at which the radio must be placed in an effort to avoid it evoke Taiwan’s lopsided relationship with the world, an island occupied first by the Japan, and then the United States, its status uncertain and at the mercy of others.

If the school represents the structure of Taiwan, then the three characters – Honey, Ming, and Jade – symbolize different eras of the post-1949 island. Honey represents a moment of hope, the optimism that existed immediately after the flight from the mainland to Taiwan, a time when people believed they would soon be returning home, but also when another option was available to the new arrivals. The possibility existed to reach out to the existing population of the island and put down roots of their own. Ming represents the Taiwan that existed after optimism had faded, the long years in which martial law continued while the hopes of a return to the mainland dwindled. As Xiao will come to argue with the film director, it is an unnatural position. Jade, whose importance increases as the film moves towards its climax, represents a new Taiwan, the one that was beginning to emerge as Edward Yang made his film.

That Xiao is able to guide us through these periods is hinted at via another motif. Xiao’s mother possesses a watch that was a gift from a couple who live separately, the husband having returned to work on the mainland, providing a link between past and present. Whenever Xiao or his brother Lao Er need money, they steal and pawn the watch, reclaiming it later. Its disappearances and reappearances evoke a Proustian sense of time lost and regained, the stasis and backward looking that inflicts the waishengren. With this in mind, the film’s sole other mention of a watch appears significant. When Xiao, walking with Ming, is accosted by 217 gang members who want to rob him, it is established that he doesn’t possess a watch. This symbolically casts Xiao outside of the constraints of time, and thus able to relate to Honey, Ming, and Jade as representatives of different eras.

The differences between these three characters is highlighted in their respective attitudes to the possibility of change. The subject comes up in two conversations with Ming. The first before Honey’s reappearance:

“Honey’s like you. Everyone’s scared of him, but they don’t realize he’s straight as an arrow. He can’t stand things that are unfair. He takes it on himself to straighten things out. I tried to convince him that he can’t change the world by himself. He’d argue with me and blame me for discouraging him. But now that he’s gone, I miss him so much. I just cry and cry.”

The second comes within Ming’s last words:

“You want to change me? I’m like this world. This world will never change! Who do you think-”

Xiao discovers that Jade is happier than Ming. Change for her, rather than being impossible, is simply unnecessary:

“Now you seem eager to change me. Am I your little biology experiment, or what? You have a lot of philosophical ideas. I’m happy with the way I am, but are you?”

I will now examine the three characters in turn.

In his fugitive status, Honey embodies both the actual circumstances of the waishengren and also their dreams. Like them, he is exiled from home, in his case because he has killed a leader called Redhead. The Nationalist exile is due to their failure to kill a ‘redheaded’ leader of their own. Honey’s absence weighs heavy over the first half of the film, blamed by Cat for divisions within the Little Park gang. When he reappears from his hiding place in Tainan (a place commonly known as Phoenix City) having established a respectful relationship with the benshengren gangs, we feel momentarily that now the gang’s troubles will be resolved. However, if Honey represents a sweeter “brighter summer day” of the title, then the hope that he represents is already fragile. The missing ’s’ from the translation of a line in Elvis Presley’s Are You Lonesome Tonight? signals a brief and singular respite.

When Honey makes his appearance he is disguised in a sailor suit, the perfect costume for the symbolic representative of an island. While Ming runs to speak to him, the two of them are only seen together for a few seconds and we don’t hear what is said. Suddenly she runs crying through the middle of the screen, and out of the parlor. These brief moments represent the only time in the film that we see Honey and Ming together. Narratively the two remain bound, but if they do indeed represent different periods of time, it is impossible for them to share a frame.

Honey’s connection with Taiwan is such that when he arrives outside the concert for his third and final scene he ignores the Chinese national anthem, to which all the other youth are standing to attention (except for Jade who, inside the auditorium, is making eyes at Ma). A few minutes later he is walking with the new 217 leader, Shandong, whose very name (Shandong is a province of China) traps him in another time and place. Honey’s final words are the last of an hopeful Taiwan: You look so dark and dreary. Don’t be so unhappy. What’s there to be afraid of?

The death of Honey, pushed off the screen and under an approaching car, occurs out of sight. It might be said that this early hope for Taiwan was lost while the attention of the world was focused elsewhere. Perhaps, like the teenagers of this movie, the world was distracted by American pop culture. From the fade to black that follows Honey’s fall, Yang cuts to a suited band singing Don’t Be Cruel in the concert hall. The death of Taiwan’s “heart that’s true” is later deemed an accident. While Xiao’s torch isn’t present to shine its beam into “what should be left unseen,” car headlights in this instance serve the same function.

With Honey dead, the potential for positive change that he represented lies with Xiao. Ever since Ming’s description of Honey as someone who “can’t stand things that are unfair,” Xiao, himself a frequent subject of unjust accusations, has seen a connection between himself and the gang leader. Honey has asked Xiao to take care of Ming in his absence, and through the second half of the film, Xiao is driven by the twin desires to ‘protect’ Ming and to ‘become’ Honey. He makes some progress with the latter objective, in the first instance meeting with Honey’s friends in the benshengren gang who will wreck vengeance with a massacre at the 217 headquarters. More significantly, when Uncle Fat, a benshengren store owner with whom his family have constantly fought, suffers a heart attack, Xiao overcomes an initial impulse to beat him and instead saves his life. Fat’s gratitude opens up a business opportunity for Xiao’s father, who is compromised by suspected links to the mainland communists. The offer goes nowhere. Had Xiao’s father taken the position, it would have represented a second instance of the waishengren allying itself with the benshengren.

As we have seen, the ‘hope’ of Taiwan died as the teenagers listened to the songs of Elvis Presley. The film’s last overt reference to Taiwan is made by the American singer himself. In a letter to Cat, he makes reference to “that unknown little island.” We might relate these words to Ming, the “unknown girl” first encountered by Xiao running out of the grade school classroom.

Leaving the room, Ming crossed a map of China. This is the first of three scenes where she is seen in a state of discomfort in relation to the mainland. In the second, her knee bandaged following an accident on the baseball court, she and Xiao stand round the corner from the vestibule while the homesick military school officer talks to Red Bean about his home region. “We can’t stay here forever,” she symbolically states, and the couple are next seen climbing over a school wall. Later, Ming has her knee examined in the clinic, while the disembodied voices of the same homesick officer and a nurse conduct a similar conversation in the next room.

Ming lives in a more precarious situation than other characters. That her father is dead and her mother suffers from serious asthma is symbolic of the island’s loosening connection to the mainland. With this comes a lack of agency, as is Ming forced to move across the strata of Taiwan’s waishengren communities in a way that no other character does. She is alternately ‘claimed’ by both the Little Park gang and the 217s, and can therefore be seen to represent the waishengren as a whole.

Various males appear to fall for Ming during the course of the film. Symbolically, the need of so many to possess and to change her reflects a lost generation’s thwarted desire to build and belong to a country of their own. The secretive deals between Sly and the 217s ostensively relate to the concert, but they are directly linked to Ming. Sly’s need to keep her presence at the grade school secret and his rivalry with Tiger for her affections are what drives him to sell his gang out. These meetings might plausibly be interpreted as representing the international agreements concerning the status of Taiwan to which the island itself is not party.

In this vein, we might note that although Ming is sought by many, we do not see her consummate a relationship in any sense of the word. Other than towards Honey, there is only one hint of an emotional bond on her part. Ming’s jealousy on learning of the engagement of the young doctor is hard to make sense of unless looked at in the symbolic context that I have already raised. His engagement to another woman represents the 1971 expulsion of Taiwan from the United Nations, the affections of which are now directed elsewhere.

As befits the representative of an island under martial law, Ming has an affinity for the military. Her father was an officer, and at the time of her death she is living in the house of a General. Her favorite place to spend time alone is the army training ground, and she tells Xiao that were she a boy, she’d want to join the army. One evening, she and Xiao stand to one side as tanks drive past them both. She holds the torch as a guide, motioning the vehicles forward.

For all the connections between Ming and the military, she is revealed as being essentially harmless. Playing with weapons at their friend Ma’s house, Ming fires what she believes is unloaded pistol in Xiao’s direction. To her surprise, the gun is loaded, but Xiao ducks and miraculously the bullet misses him. Or does it? There is no apparent damage caused by the bullet that she fires. Just as she has no kind of physical relationship with a boy, with the gun she is revealed as fundamentally impotent. All militarized Taiwan’s displays of weaponry are revealed as purely bravado.

Both Ming and Honey die in a public space. Whereas Honey’s death occurs away from the eyes of the world, Ming dies in full view, except that for some time no one seems to notice. “You’re hopeless! Shameless and hopeless!” Xiao cries. These words for Taiwan stand in sharp contrast to the message of comfort contained in Honey’s final question before his own death.

While Honey represented the possibility of change, and Ming the futility of pursuing it, Jade offers a third way. When Xiao, struck by the example of a transformed Sly, talks of the comforting nature of change, Jade responds that she is happy as she is. In other words, that it is possible for Taiwan simply to be happy as it is. She reveals a noble gesture in her past, having agreed to “become” the unknown girl in the grade school classroom in order to protect Ming, out with Sly while her own boyfriend was missing. Having already taken her place on that occasion, Jade will again take Ming’s place as a new Taiwan comes into being.

Tony Rayns recalls that when preparing for A Brighter Summer Day Yang rehearsed with his young cast for a full year. Beyond the work at hand, the director saw his role as a nurturing of the next generation of Taiwanese actors. While the narrative recalls the past, the project itself was looking towards the future. In two scenes that form a coda to the film new connections to the outside world are established. Cat receives the ring in the mail from Elvis Presley, and the radio establishes a clear signal. It is early yet, but signs are emerging that from a tragic history, this island can find its place in world. Taiwan’s youth may at last find the home that has always been denied them.

(Tragically, Xiao Si’r will not benefit from the new Taiwan. Chang Chen, the actor who debuted in the role and has subsequently enjoyed a successful career, certainly did. Six years after the release of “A Brighter Summer Day,” Chen appeared in “Happy Together” (1997), Wong Kar-wai’s allegorical work anticipating the handover of Hong Kong to China. Chen plays a philosophical young Taiwanese man who reveals that, like Xiao, he had suffered from eye problems as a child, and that he developed stronger hearing as a result. As motifs associated with the senses prove so important to A Brighter Summer Day, their careful use will continue to be important for regions within China’s orbit in the years to come.)

Works cited

Yifen Beus. Far Away, So Close? Nation, Global Chinese Cinema and the Question of Identity. Quarterly Review of Film and Video. 25:4. 306-314. 15 July 2008. Web. 23 March 2017.

Bordwell, David. “A Brighter Summer Day: Yang and his gangs.” Observations on Film Art. N.p., n.d. Web. 12 Mar. 2017.

Rayns, Tony. Audio commentary. A Brighter Summer Day. Dir. Yang. Perf. Chang Chen, Lisa Yang, and Chang Kuo-Chu. Criterion Collection, 1991. Blu-ray.

Yeh, Emilie Yueh-yu., and Davis, Darrell William. Taiwan film directors: a treasure island. New York: Columbia U Press, 2005. Print.

Elevator To The Gallows (Louis Malle, 1959)

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I reviewed Louis Malle’s debut for Oregon Artswatch back in September. Click on the link for the full review.

It begins in classic noir fashion: urgent declarations of love cross a telephone line before Julien Tavernier (Maurice Ronet) sets out to commit the perfect murder. At least, it might have been perfect. But having dispatched the man who is both his boss and his lover’s husband as he sat in his office, then preparing to drive away, Tavernier realizes he has left a crucial piece of evidence behind. Returning to retrieve it, he is trapped in the building’s elevator when the power is cut off for the weekend.

Woman On The Run (Norman Foster, 1950)

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Walking his dog one evening, artist turned window dresser Frank Johnson chances on the murder of the key witness on a gangland trial. Informed by Police Inspector Ferris (Robert Keith) that he’s now going to be filling the dead mans shoes in the witness stand, Johnson decides not to stick around and promptly goes to ground. Cue Eleanor Johnson (Ann Sheridan), the sardonic ice maiden married – but only barely – to Frank. From initial unconcern, the danger that her husband is in begins to sink in and a change registers. Before you know it, she is traversing the San Francisco rooftops in high heels, Dennis O’Keefe’s pushy yet charming reporter in tow, in an attempt to track down Frank before the killer, or police, get to him first.

Norman Foster’s taut thriller contains all the deep shadows, canted angles, narrow staircases and watery endings of classic noir, but without missing a beat Foster takes the drama into other areas of melodrama. Finding her spouse requires following a clue that has her searching not only the streets of the city, but also into the crags of her own marriage. To a crescendo of insinuation that Frank may actually be running from her, Eleanor is also forced to the realization that she may not know her husband as well as she thinks. Reversing the noir stereotype of a weak man lured off the rails by a dangerous woman, in Woman On The Run a straight woman seeks to rescue her sap of a husband from danger while discovering that he actually might be a great guy.

The resources put into the beautiful 2015 restoration of this movie by the Film Noir Foundation might be justified by the images it provides of mid-century San Francisco alone. Foster makes full use of the photogenic city locations, as Eleanor’s quest takes her from the hills to the wharf, into its narrow bars, and unusual subterranean haunts: the eerie mannequin workshop in which Frank works on a familiar line in cadavers, the city morgue, and to a Chinatown cabaret act which reminds one that while the Orson Welles’ vehicle Journey Into Fear might be the film Norman Foster is best remembered for, he also had a clutch of orientalist Charlie Chan and Mr Moto mysteries under his belt. Throughout, Mohr’s cinematography imbues the film with a glistening, seductive gleam.

At the heart of the film is the superb performance from Ann Sheridan. Her Eleanor is sharp and resourceful, her dialogue a riot of zingers unleashed with deadpan solemnity. At around the halfway mark Foster ups the tension with a big, if not entirely surprising, twist and the film builds to a thrilling fairground climax where Eleanor’s rollercoaster ride turns from the metaphorical to the literal. Nonetheless, while the pace of the adventure never lets up, it is Sheridan’s handling of Eleanor’s faltering interior journey, her transformation from jaded disenchantment to love renewed, that lets Woman On The Run stand out as a true classic of crime melodrama.

Il Posto (Ermanno Olmi, 1961)

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If the appeal of the ‘job for life’ still exists for some today, we can imagine its attraction for the generation that came of age in Italy in the chaotic aftermath of World War Two, the years that spawned neorealist cinema. The concept haunts Il Posto, the much repeated goal that the parents of shy Domenico have for their son who, it emerges, they have withdrawn from school so that his more extroverted brother can continue his education.

Il Posto is a story of transitions, of a teenager entering adulthood before his time, and the changes that the world he joining is undergoing. An ambivalent take on the Italian economic boom of the 1950s and 60s, and a satire of its attendant work culture, the film is heartfelt, tender, and at times bitterly humorous. Within its modest narrative, abundant pleasures are to be found in the smallest of details.

At the start of the film, Domenico (Sandro Panseri) has to leave the dusty Milanese suburb of Meda to test for a clerical job at an unnamed company in the city. Walking towards the station with his brother, a horse drawn cart is ahead of them. As Domenico walks on, his brother jumps onto the cart. A vehicle carrying mechanized farming equipment enters the frame behind them. As it passes the cart, Franco jumps from one to the other. Olmi reveals how the world is changing, and that the more confident Franco may be better equipped to traverse the changes than his brother. Standing on the station platform Domenico shyly watches through a window as a group of students enter the station. Shattered dreams and loneliness established in a few seconds.

Arriving at a modern glass-fronted building, Domenico is sent to a waiting room where he is amongst the youngest of a large number of job applicants taking a series of ridiculous tests, ironically claimed to “reveal your individual qualities”. They are given an hour to solve a simple math problem, a physical, and finally an all important aptitude test. Domenico is asked a series of questions, obviously designed to weed out potential troublemakers, he responds seriously when asks if he has fears for the future, struggles to maintain his composure when asked if he is repulsed by the opposite sex, and with a deadpan expression replies ‘sometimes’ when asked if he ever drinks to forget his troubles.

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In a crowded cafe on his lunch break, Domenico meets a fellow applicant, the pretty Antonietta (Loredana Detto). They spend the time walking the streets together, joining the window shoppers in admiring the consumer goods on display. As they walk, the couple talk about their aspirations. Antonietta, more mature, has a clear idea of what she should be paid and where her future lies. Domenico repeats the refrain that he has heard from his parents, the benefits of the secure, if low paid, job for life. As seen previously at the train station, the camera observes Domenico and Antonietta through glass windows, emphasizing their desires and creating a symbolic barrier to achieving them. The result is that when they make the decision to go from looking into a coffee shop to actually entering it, the banal is turned into something quietly significant. The scene inside is beautifully observed, Domenico, standing formally while Antonietta sits, clearly relishes the sharing of a teaspoon and follows his companion’s example in handling the cup. Antonietta shows off her experience in pronouncing the coffee ‘slightly bitter’, but like Domenico she needs to take the cue of another customer to know what to do when it is empty. That evening, Domenico accompanies Antonietta to her bus stop. In a moment of silence, his shyness causes him to miss an opportunity to advance his relationship.

That Domenico gets the job is revealed obliquely, but his excitement is now palpable. Antonietta also gets hired. However, after reconnecting briefly they are placed in different buildings. There being no clerical work available, Domenico is given the temporary position of a messenger. Sat at a little table, decorated with postcards from a colleague’s vacations, Domenico is taught the ropes. The department is a lowly but proud one, it’s members determined to get through each day with as little work as possible.

A rare cut away from Domenico presents us with the office that Domenico aspires to. We see the administrators at work, where little useful is being done, and through a further cut, at home in the evening. It is a montage of the bullied, the vain, the selfish, of talents unrewarded and ambitions unachieved. Finally, a mother discovers that her delinquent son has emptied her wallet. Cut back to her desk, and she dissolves into tears. Elsewhere, an elderly man sits in the corridor everyday. Now retired, he doesn’t know what to do with his days. Domenico’s ‘job for life’ begins to resemble a prison sentence.

If looking through windows defines much of the activity in Milan’s streets, windows in the office are largely absent or out of reach. With Antonietta not only in another building, but also on another lunch shift and finishing work before him, Domenico spends a long time tracking her down. When eventually they meet in a corridor, she suggests that he goes to the company New Years Eve party. Hopefully her mother will let her attend.

Anyone who has experienced awkwardness at an office party will experience a shudder at the tragicomedy of Olmi’s version. But for the drawn curtains that adorn the room, the venue might be the company basement. Full of anticipation, Domenico arrives early and is presented with a Buster Keaton hat and, being alone, a bottle of wine. The latter item attracts him to an older couple, who invite him to join them. Mournful music plays as guests start to stream in, and it becomes clear that Antonietta won’t be one of them. Domenico sits awkwardly. With his romantic dreams dashed, he is cruelly caught between the amorous glances of a man and woman seeking to peal away from their respective spouses. Finally, in spite of himself, spurred on by the wine and his new companions, Domenico dances. From unpromising beginnings, everyone enjoys themselves, the pace of the music building and building until…

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The scene changes abruptly. Back in the office the administrators stand silently as the content of an empty desk is divided into ‘business’ and ‘personal’. A quick cut to a previously seen, but now empty, bedroom confirms our suspicions. Among the effects is a chapter from a manuscript that the man had been writing. ‘Personal’, says the manager dismissively. Domenico finally gets his clerical job, but not before the existing staff have fought over the new seating arrangements. This really is a job that is only left through death, and where progress comes through switching desks, not rising up the ladder. As Domenico sits down to work, his predecessor’s effects are thrown up on of a cabinet. A coworker uses a mimeograph machine. With the camera focusing on Domenico, the volume of clicks get louder and louder. As Domenico looks into the camera, it is clear that a terrible realization has been made. At the moment in which his ‘job for life’ begins, the potential horror of the situation has hit home. A few seconds later, he goes back to his work.

Prior to directing Il Posto, Olmi produced numerous documentary shorts for his employer Edison Volta, and he brings that experience to bear in this film which bears all the hallmarks of neorealism. Key to its success is Olmi’s entirely non-professional cast. Panseri’s Domenico is a deeply sympathetic character, sensitive to others and conveying volumes through his soulful eyes, be they surveying the world around him or turned shyly to the floor. Throughout the film  we see him taking in the world around him, framed to emphasize his slight stature, often invisible to his ‘superiors’. Detto is riveting as Antonietta, wiser, comparatively mature, and who clearly quite likes the young man, if only he’d ask. The two have great chemistry, so much is conveyed without the need for words, and indeed very little of true importance in the film is conveyed through language. The film is full of characters, many on screen for small amounts of time, who are equally well cast and fully defined: the older woman in the cafeteria who wraps up her meat for the good of her dentures, the work shy messenger who shows Domenico the ropes, the woman at the party with an eye for Domenico’s bottle. And it goes on. Il Posto is full of tiny yet rich moments that add up to a beautiful whole.

Following Antonietta’s no show at the party the two may never see each other again. Maybe her mother didn’t give her permission, maybe there is another reason. Olmi doesn’t judge his characters for love failing to bloom. The promise of work pulled the two of them together. The job itself pushed them apart.

L’Amour Existe (Maurice Pilat, 1960)

 

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L’Amour Existe, an early short by Maurice Pialat, is a profound, if bitter, marvel. A narrated meditation on the Parisian suburbs, beginning with the director’s own memories of growing up, it builds into a broader dissection of life on the fringes of the city.

The film is built on juxtapositions, in it’s own structure, which matches gorgeous black and white cinematography to a polemical voiceover, and a Georges Delerue soundtrack to an industrial sound design, and in its narrative, where broken glass is compared to jewels, ancient walls nestle next to modern blocks, playground slides turn into dirty hillsides, and advertising for apartments for the upwardly mobile segue into footage of dirty slum dwellings for which ‘All Modern Comforts’ are promised.

The trauma of World War Two is never far away. The film opens with Pialat describing the heavy bombing of his own neighborhood, during which, as a child, he lost a good friend. Via the image of a horse training on land once used by the German military for maneuvers, the director turns his attention to the traces of the occupation that he sees in contemporary life. Homes in new tower blocks are “concentration camp living on easy installments” while “builders reveal their nostalgia for the Todt-style architecture of Nazi days”. The most poignant reminder of the past comes without words. The camera follows a gang of teenage boys on bikes to a patch of scrubland where they engage in a brutal fight, kicking, punching, slamming wooden crates into each others heads. Pilat cuts from the melee to capture a street sign lying battered on the ground. On the sign is inscribed Rue Oradour-Sur-Glane. In The Other Paris (FSG, 2015) Luc Sante reminds us that “the street had been named after that village in the Limousin where, in June 1944, the Waffen SS massacred 642 men, women, and children – they had targeted another, similarly named village nearby but had gone to the wrong address”*.

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It is the spiritually bereft, bureaucratized nature of life that vexes Pialat most. “Boredom is the principal erosive agent in these impoverished landscapes”. Paris has less green space than any other city in the world, he claims. Yet more trees are cut down. People are housed in pens based not only on their class, but also their age and their status as parents. In a monologue, a list of statistics related to the lack of educational and cultural opportunities are recounted. Amongst these is given the number of keystrokes struck by a typist in one year: 15 million. Life here is presented as a deadening path from meaningless work (complete with lengthy commute) to neglect in retirement, “a lifetime spent buying everything retail, while selling oneself wholesale.”

But even for its short twenty minutes, this film would not be so compelling but for the poetry it offers: the empt cinema seats of Pialat’s youth, a reflection cast in shattered glass, the lone swimmer diving before a passing commuter train and, the way a change of angle can change everything. Power transformed into despair.

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L’Amour Existe is included as an extra on the Criterion Collection’s edition of Pialat’s feature debut L’Enfance Nue.