REMARKS: I was going to write about “West Side Story” (1961), the gang-inspired Hollywood musical, but my research began to meander and drift back to “Breathless”, a film we covered in Week 10 during the French New Wave lecture. Though I initially didn’t pay much heed to this film, my research on themes of counterculture led me to discover the revolutionary influence of Jean-Luc Godard’s film on modern cinema — directly informing even the treatment of films of its time (including West Side). For the last reflection, I thought I’d revisit this tour de force of a film.

“À Bout De Souffle” (1960), literally “out of breath”, is considered to be a Godard masterpiece, and is one of many films that emerged as part of the French New Wave movement. The aftermath of WWII seeded an antagonism towards society’s failings in the new generation of artists; these young filmmakers sought to defy the traditions and norms of narrative cinema – particularly that of the literary period films held in high esteem at French festivals. However, unlike the experimental films of Dada, Surrealism and Cinema Pur, these works did not stray entirely from narrative-like structure. While still seeking artistic value and redefining the latent cinematic aesthetic, the filmmakers of the New Wave were more interested in challenging the established modes of storytelling.

Breathless is a clear example of this. The film depicted the absurdity and amorality of modern life, focusing on the relationship between insouciant car thief Michel, and Patricia, an American selling the New York Herald Tribune while waiting to enrol in Sorbonne. Godard, as with other New Wave filmmakers, did not shy away from portraying the violent, narcissistic and self-absorbed lifestyle of his characters. Michel, after chancing upon a firearm, kills a policeman when he is involved in a car chase. The existential absurdity, dismissal of authority, and confrontational violence of Breathless brought international acclaim to the French New Wave style of filmmaking; its imprint can be seen in films such as “Bonnie & Clyde” or “Badlands”.

Aside from its thematic breakthroughs, Breathless included bold, experimental storytelling devices that were either never before seen or unique in its application. The use of jump cuts allowed for surreal juxtapositions and the shortening of time, while still conveying the narrative in a way that was logical and interpretable. During a conversation between the lovers in a stolen car, Godard cuts between close-ups of the back of Patricia’s head, despite these cuts having little to no continuity. This editing style compounded the anxiety and expeditious pacing of the film, contributing to the themes of existentialism. In the ending sequence, Michel lies defeated on the ground as Patricia and the police gather around him. With his dying breath he condemns the world, but Patricia, not fully accustomed to French, does not catch what he says. When the police repeat his words for her, Patricia looks straight into the camera, alarmed and wide-eyed. The jarring, ambiguous, fourth-wall-breaking ending was Godard’s resistance against the typical resolved ending, intensifying the uncertainty of the lovers’ fate.

Other directorial traits included the New Wave preference for more current subject matter, as well as shooting on location. All these resulted in Breathless’ fresh visual style — this, and also its raw, real-life themes with bold storytelling, cemented its iconic and groundbreaking status in cinematic history.

Last week we explored the eclectic world of Hollywood musicals, discussing its evolution, as well as its unexpected versatility as a medium in portraying both whimsical and sombre themes. Yet, amongst the thousands of such films throughout the decades, one musical distinguishes itself from the others with its timelessness and iconic influence — the 1952 musical “Singin’ In The Rain”.

At its core, Singin’ is a light-hearted take on the film industry during its transition from silent films to synchronised sound. In a bid to compete against the sudden demand for talking films (sparked by the critical success of rival studio’s The Jazz Singer), the fictional Monumental Pictures attempts to convert their next Don Lockwood and Lina Lamont film, The Duelling Cavalier into a talkie. However, due to the lead actress’ jarring, high-pitched voice, together with the difficulties faced in utilising the new sound equipment, the film’s test screening fairs extremely poorly and the production is ridiculed by the audience. To save the film from turning into a disaster, the studio agrees to turn the film into a musical, with Kathy Selden, Don’s love interest, dubbing over Lina’s shrill voice.

“Singin’ in the Rain” pulses with life; in a movie about making movies, you can sense the joy they had making this one.

As pointed out by Roger Ebert, Singin’ is tinged with the exuberance of more than just its music, choreography and storytelling. The film’s appeal lies in its authenticity and originality at the very heart of its making, a magic that seems lost in the later Broadway-esque remakes of Hollywood. For instance, Gene Kelly’s lovestruck dance number “Singin’ In The Rain” (considered the most iconic dance scene on film) was originally written to be used in a different part of the story. Another feature that is exemplary of the musical’s adaptability and creativity is its resourcefulness in incorporating props such as tables, umbrellas, and sofas into its dance numbers. During the shoot, Kelly was suffering from a high fever, and had to endure 2-3 days of soaking wet umbrella-twirling, lampost-swinging and puddle-stomping. Still, he succeeded in pulling off a heartwarming and genuine performance of a man dancing and revelling in love. All of these stand testament to the passion, originality and character and infused into the project.

While the romance and musicality may be fun to watch, this joyousness neither comes across as lavish nor overt. This could easily be credited to the aforementioned originality and authenticity, but I suppose the achievement of Singin’ rests on its depiction of the film industry in precarious times. Its self-referential manner provided an unassuming and nostalgic enactment of such a time of transition, solidifying its timelessness despite not clinching an Oscar. Today, it remains as fresh and iconic as it was 50 years ago, fully deserving its place among the greatest films of all time.

FILM REVIEW

Having visited Sergei Eisenstein’s “Battleship Potemkim” (1925) in the first few weeks of lecture, I was particularly intrigued by the developments and changes made in Eisenstein’s 1938 feature “Alexander Nevsky”. Despite its similarities in nationalistic subject matter, we see some marked differences in how the director approached the narrative style and treatment of the films’ message.

At first glance, Nevsky seems much unlike Eisenstein’s first feature films — we are very quickly introduced to a central, “hero” character in the form of the titular Alexander Nevsky. Nevsky here is the inspirational war hero who rallies his people against the invading Germans, and throughout the film we observe his leadership and strategical prowess. This is in contrast to Eisenstein’s previous historical epics, where most of the plot is advanced by groups of people, and there are no characters in an individual sense. While the film focused on a select group of heroes, it still maintained Eisenstein’s trademark use of archetypes and caricaturisation, which we see in the “evil” traitors Tverdilo and Ananias, as well as in the lack of characterisation accorded to the Teutonic Knights —bringing to mind the one-dimensionality of the Cossacks marching down the Odessa Steps in Battleship Potemkin.

Even so, the way the Germanic knights were depicted differed greatly from the menacing, unscrupulous march of the Odessa oppressors. The Germans, though ferocious, were clad in heavy, ill-suited armour ranging from over-the-top grandiose to clumsily simplistic. Amidst the backdrop of an ever-increasing Nazi threat, the political agenda layered within and throughout the film could perhaps be summarised in Nevsky’s own words:

“Go home and tell all in foreign lands that Russia lives. Let them come to us as guests and they will be welcome. But if any one comes to us with the sword he shall perish by the sword. On this the Russian land stands and will stand.”

Perhaps, it is in that line that Eisenstein manages to regain the favour of Josef Stalin and the Communist Party, after his luckless foray into Mexican cinema and his halted 1935-1937 project “Bezhin Meadow”, which Eisenstein had to publicly denounce as a failure. Nevsky, therefore, is a film which seeks specifically to fit the party’s mould of a socialist realist film. Not only do we see the film’s obvious nationalist and anti-Nazi themes, we also see the use of a more conventional and intellectually-accessible editing style. The quick, extreme, close-ups of Eisenstein’s montage have been replaced by wider and longer shots, and the use of dialogue (thanks to developments in sound technology) to tell the story. The political atmosphere did indeed have vice-grip influence on the artistic direction of the film.

In spite of all the compromise, one might argue that under the circumstances Eisenstein did his best to maintain his artistic integrity and monumental vision. After all, Nevsky is in itself a logistical and technical monster. The Battle on the Ice, shot during the summer, required the “ice” under the enemies’ feet to crack under the supposed weight of the German army’s armour. The amount of set design and special effects invested nevertheless produced a stunning battle sequence in which the heroism of the Russian fighters could be celebrated, and be made for an enjoyable watch.