Bergman’s Dreams (1955) is a bit awkward in execution—mashing character psychology into an arbitrary mold, a THESIS… and, gulp, how many times have I been guilty of this myself—but moving and intriguing nevertheless, saved by the seismic acting talent of the leads.

How’s this for an artificial construction: the film’s “protagonist” is split into three people! You have Harriet Anderson, a young woman who is essentially a child; Eva Dahlbeck, a grown professional woman; and Gunnar Björnstrand, a tragically meaningless old man—three characters intertwined like a braid. The “development” of the character is shared among them in separate but linked storylines. Not only linked, but parallel. It all sounds so abstract, put this way, but the story itself IS well grounded and clearly presented. Bergman has the chops to pull it off, but it does feel forced in this film, or maybe I was just in the wrong mood? I got a paint-by-numbers vibe, but on the other hand, the actors were so impressive, it didn’t bother me.

The title presumably refers to the self-delusions of the characters. Dahlbeck is obsessed with her former lover, a businessman who’s just pathetic and unworthy on all counts. Anderson wants the sweet life, which she thinks her job as a photographic model will deliver her, and when that seems to fall through, she latches onto the opportunity afforded by Björnstrand, who is rich and wants nothing more than to spend money profligately on this gorgeous young woman who so closely resembles (as averred by the painting hung prominently in his lushly decorated parlor) his looney-binned wife in her pre-lunatic youth.

In each case, a hard-nosed third party steps in to set these softies straight:

The businessman’s wife shows up to splash Dahlbeck and her beau with the cold water of her own disillusionment, coolly retrieves her husband back into the fascistic bosom of their domestic bliss—which is HER domain, not Dahlbeck’s—and gives Dahlbeck to understand in no uncertain terms that HER particular Romantic dream is DONE.

Meanwhile, Björnstrand’s estranged daughter shows up to shake him down for a little dough and mercilessly pops the fantasy balloon that he and Anderson have hitherto been mutually inflating, leaving them both in a state of jittery shame, nauseated by the unseemly tawdriness of their shared dream. Anderson slinks away as Björnstrand peers miserably out the window.

Line up those dominoes and knock ’em down, it’s not hard, we’ve seen these tropes a thousand times before! What sets it apart from trite melodrama is the artistry of the acting and the sincerity of the dialogue, as well as the lovely cinematic flourishes: it seems Bergman is reliable for his sublime craft. Great stuff with mirrors again, he loves that shit, to the point where he’s literally splitting the screen at some points!

Harriet Anderson is Monika, by the way, from Summer with Monika. And it must be said, Bergman was romantically linked to her—indeed, left his wife for her! And the way he films her, you can understand why. This pair comes a decade before Godard / Karina, but it’s the same dynamic, each inspiring the other to new artistic heights. Both men were much older than their respective girls, who were both undeniable cataracts of youthful, feminine vitality overflowing all banks. Bergman hated Godard’s films, I know, but I wonder if he ever contemplated (or even perceived) the striking parallel between the muses Anderson and Karina.

I watched Vivre sa vie again, knocked me the FUCK out even more than the first time. I’d say that I wish I’d seen it earlier in my life, but I wouldn’t have fucking gotten it. I’m grateful that it waited for me. I wrote plenty about it behind that link, I don’t know that I have much more to say—or rather, the energy to say it—other than I LOVE this movie. Every now and then, I see a film that I understand to be “perfect,” and this is certainly one of those. That is a completely subjective assessment, of course, and I am content for it to be so. Other films I’ve thought of as “perfect” are The Hustler, Inherent Vice, La Dolce Vita, Solaris, and Mulholland Drive, off the top of my head. There are certainly others. 2001, of course. I should really sit down and make a list, someday….

Godard ended his life a few days ago, and I feel an uneasy connection to that event since I’ve been so strangely obsessed with him for the last few months… Him and Bergman. Slowly making my way through these fellas. And, absurdly, writing about them… why? That’s not my thing, never has been, and I haven’t really questioned it. You’re looking for meaning, idiot.

These guys, Bergman and Godard, were so different from each other in temperament—but in their sublimity the same. They transcended mechanical reproduction to put life itself into their films. It’s so rare to see, and only happens for a few moments even in these great films. I never understood, or even discerned, the value of that quality in cinema until so very recently. A light bulb went on, and suddenly I see the room I’m in…. I have so much catching up to do. What have I missed in the films I’ve seen over the years? So much….

YouTube threw me a curveball t’other night: La femme aux bottes rouges (1974) by none other than… JUAN Luis Bunuel. I performed a comical double take, thence aimed a sidelong glance at Google…. That’s not THE Luis Bunuel, it’s his SON. I did several Bunuels a couple of years ago and thoroughly enjoyed them. They were dry and arch, distancing in effect, but also, in their way, warm and enveloping. You don’t fall in love with them, and you don’t get inspired by their ideas, per se, you simply appreciate them and find stimulation in their provocations and witticisms. And the endless visual gags, the smirking parade of mockery, the droll compendium of humanity’s mediocrity and narcissism.

The son is no different. If I hadn’t caught the “Juan” in front of “Luis Bunuel,” I would easily have thrown this into his father’s oeuvre as an entertaining minor work. For one thing, it stars Catherine Deneuve and Fernando Rey, both of whom appeared in Bunuel Pere’s major works. For another, it displays his father’s sensibilities in every aspect: the surrealism, the decadence, the gags, etc. I’ve heard that Cronenberg and King both have sons who duplicated their respective fathers’ careers, keep meaning to check them out. Not so much to see if they’re any good, I’m sure they’re fine, but to see how they fare in the shadows of their legendary fathers. This Bunuel fella did fairly alright by his old man, methinks: he certainly didn’t outshine him, not by a longshot, but he didn’t make a howler, either—I really enjoyed it.

I found myself sinking into this film even though it was in French without subtitles. I was recently thinking how I’d like to learn French so I can enjoy all these New Wave films I’ve been marinating in with rather more direct engagement, so as an exercise in French immersion, I decided to simply watch this thing and not worry about understanding the words. As it turned out, the words were mostly ancillary to what I was seeing. I got the gist of it, shall we say.

Deneuve plays a character whom I think might be the author of the story we’re watching. She has supernatural abilities: she can fool people with illusions. For example, she makes Rey drop a 100-year old bottle of wine by making him think it’s a skull. Or brings another character to his knees by binding him in heavy chains. My favorite was making Rey chew on his pillow. He then carries it in his teeth like a retriever, unable to release it until the maid grips it with HER teeth and tears it in half in a tug-of-war.

Our Lady’s power renders her sociopathic: we see a flashback in which her childhood self murders her nanny by duping her (via her illusory magic) into diving out the window. This seems to have represented her moment of coming into being, realizing the extent of her mastery over human creatures. Maybe it’s a metaphor for the power of a woman’s beauty (Deneuve being one of the all-time examples), how it ensnares the gaze of others and deludes their faculties. A little shaky there, however, considering she exercises the power on women as well as men. So maybe the power of an artist to alter one’s perception of the world?

She’s a writer, after all, shown typing away—we even get to see Fernando Rey shooting her manuscript with a shotgun!—and I feel like what she’s writing may be what we’re seeing in the film, but I could certainly be mistaken, since I couldn’t understand most of the dialogue. Possibly the whole movie is a simple entertainment for herself. She and her lover exit the film by walking into his painting, so you could interpret that as the portal between art and reality. Impossible to say, really, which of those the painting is meant to represent!

Strangely, YouTube served up no ads whatsoever: I was able to watch uninterrupted from start to finish. I just don’t understand how the platform decides! If I watch a shitty 10-minute political video, they’ll serve up ads at the beginning, the middle, and maybe even at the end for good measure… but here I watch an entire 90-minute movie, not a single ad.

Ah, one more thing to remember about this film: Catherine Deneuve looks fucking incredible. Just a few years after Belle de jour (1967), and she looks even finer here, to my eyes. Sporting jeans and a sweater like no one’s business. (And red boots, of course.)

Une femme est une femme (1961) appears to be the film in which Godard solves the equation for Anna Karina. Holy shit! He didn’t know what to do with her in Le petit soldat (1961), had her hanging out in front of mirrors, brushing her hair a hundred strokes at a time while Michel Subor mouthed off passionate platitudes in frenzied pacings-about the room. She’d light a cigarette in silence and just sort of hang out in his drifting, hectic mist of mansplaining. She had no idea what to do with herself, her hands, her body, and Godard wasn’t giving her any suggestions… but she sure was trés fucking belle! We got THAT loud and clear, anyway!

In THIS film, however, they seem to have gotten their mutual act together. She does actual things with her hands and body, not just being pretty. Of course, she does plenty of THAT, undeniably, but she also does a lot of acting, incredibly graceful and centered Classic acting. Movie star acting. This is the style of acting in which you channel your own charismatic resources into every character you play, bringing them to life in a consistent personality that has already charmed the audience before they’ve even seen the film. That’s why movie stars used to be bankable: the audience knew exactly what to expect from the performance, and so if enough of them loved you, they’d show up for your movies. When actors are playing different types in every film, people get confused, and so maybe they’ll show up for you, maybe they won’t.

Having seen Une femme est une femme, I now understand how Godard was able to catapult himself to his cult, legendary status with a series of wacked out art films that would normally have just pissed people off: Anna Karina. I haven’t seen all of their collaborations yet, but she is absolutely the supreme vessel for his creative energies. She’s so GAME, she does exactly what she’s told with such a light and generous spirit, but she also brings this ineffable movie star magic to her performance, which is what I saw in possibly its most perfect form in Vivre sa vie. Her living essence just THRUMS vibrantly and consistently right on the surface where we can see it: the ideal film actor. She becomes this constantly shifting and fascinating field of movements, gestures, and facial tics, holding nothing back: she’s all there, and captivating for it. You can’t look away (and Godard doesn’t, he’s just as captivated as we are). Which explains how an audience can be content to endure Godard’s increasingly difficult and artsy techniques: they’ve been seduced by Anna. What a team! I can’t wait to see the rest of their stuff together!

I’m also intrigued by Godard’s situating himself and his art within the context of his personal friendships and “Nouvelle Vague” group identity. Fortunately, I watched several other French New Wave films recently, and so I was able to recognize at least some of the references to his buddies that are so liberally strewn about in this film. My antennae immediately sprang to attention when Angela, Karina’s character, works at a burlesque theater and rejects an offer to travel to Marseilles (home, apparently, to the burlesque Big Time), because that is one of the major plot points in Jacque Demy’s Lola (which I touch on briefly here) … and what do you know, halfway through the film, Angela and a friend explicitly mention their friend “Lola” who went to Marseilles! We have several Truffaut references: Jeanne Moreau shows up in a bar, and Jean-Paul Belmondo says Hi and inquires how the production of Jules et Jim is going, to which she shrugs and says Fine. Ha ha! There’s an exchange somewhere about what a great film Truffaut’s Shoot the Piano Player is, and then Jean-Paul Belmondo puts Charles Aznavour (who starred in that movie) on the jukebox at the cafe. (I’m guessing there must be other references to his fellow New Wavers whose loop I wasn’t in.) Irreverent stuff, it gives the film a carefree and charming lightness… and also gives the audience a sense of being “in on the joke,” active participants in the film-making, honorary members themselves of the New Wave.

Most of the film takes place in the couple’s apartment, a smaller domicile than the one in Contempt, to be sure, but the dynamics of the blocking and camera movement is essentially the same, the way the couple moves about interdependently within the space of the apartment and the camera tracks back and forth to whomever happens to be currently holding the reins in the emotional exchange. It’s a very in-the-moment technique, immersing you in the psychic energy crackling between them in the space of the household, the sensorium of their relationship.

I haven’t even mentioned the plot, there basically isn’t one. She wants to have a baby, and he doesn’t, so he cynically suggests she knock herself up with his best friend and even calls that friend over to make the proposal. Fairly ridiculous, just a pretense for conflict and exchange among the characters, and Godard skillfully squeezes every such possibility he can out of this premise… like when they silently hurl insults and ripostes at each other by holding up artfully obscured book covers. And the final pun of the film, which seems to be completely lost in the subtitles; you’d think the translator would’ve at least hinted at it. The boyfriend says “Tu es infâme,” and she says, with an exaggerated wink to the camera, “Non, je suis—une—femme.” (I don’t get most of the French, but I get that, anyway.) Godard LOVES puns; they seem to be the reason he was put on this earth.

Wow, I guess I’d say more, but I’m running out of steam. I was going to write about Le petit soldat, I guess, but what is there to say that I didn’t say up there in that earlier paragraph? It’s enjoyable enough, certainly, and the torture scenes are definitely fascinating. The torturers don’t even seem like terrible people. They hang out and laugh with each other personably, and when they get down to business for the torture sessions, it’s not out of malice but what they view as necessity: they’re trying to get information. Amazingly, it appears that Michel Subor was actually tortured for this film. These aren’t simulations. He’s even waterboarded! Right in front of us.

Oh, and lest we forget! Le petit soldat is the source of the famous Godard quote: “Photography is truth, and Cinema is truth 24 times per second.”

Ok, steam officially gone. I’m amazed I’m still writing these things.… I thought this practice would peter out by now, but there is something nice about writing up a film I’ve just seen; it cements the films into my consciousness to some degree, increases its psychical value. Maybe they won’t slip out of my memory so easily. It really IS like a dream journal, isn’t it?

This film will certainly reward further viewings. It was shot in 3D; unfortunately, I can’t watch it in that format, but the 2D version is rather spectacular on its own, so possibly the other dimension won’t be missed? Well, missed a little… Godard specializes in fucking with rules and standards (Breathless, anyone?), so I’m sure the 3D would have been a blast, but I don’t even know what the “standards” are for 3D. The only one I even took seriously was Avatar, which was fine for what it was, an introduction to the format, and I could appreciate there was a genuine attempt at creating a new way of seeing the cinema by cramming “depth” into the picture… but the few 3D movies I saw after that were “bloody awful gimmicks” I guess would be the technical term?… so I never bothered with subsequent 3D releases, and I think the format may even be dead at this point. Do they still put out 3D films these days?

In any case, Goodbye to Language (2014) is not a story so much as a kitchen drawer jumbled with ideas, images, words, emotions, frustrations, fart jokes, and an assortment of quotations from intellectuals, painters, writers, philosophers, you name ’em. And the central figure of the film, by my estimation, is none other than… drum roll… Roxy Miéville, Godard’s dog. I say that mainly because, of the various characters, I sympathized primarily with Roxy, especially when she was being washed away down the river as Godard stood in place filming her, an experience I presume she survived with aplomb, just as she survived every other incident with aplomb, since, as Godard notes (through one of those numerous quotations I won’t possibly here be able to attribute, so solly), a dog is never naked because a dog is always naked, and additionally, according to another sagacious phantom of ancient wisdom, a dog is the only creature to love YOU more than it loves ITSELF.

We learn emphatically in this film that beauty = color. Godard hypersaturates many of the images, especially in Nature, to the degree that you almost have to squint. And it certainly increases the potency of these images. Some are so colorful they seem to pop out into 3D even without the glasses. At one point, Godard has some fun toggling between a natural color scheme and full saturation, but not in a colorful scene; it’s a dark scene, a medium to close shot of black-furred Roxy, in which your main signal that something’s going on is that her red collar switches back and forth between muddy and bright tones (“collar” is wordplay with “color,” it occurs to me, and Godard is known for his multilingual puns, so it’s most likely on purpose).

Gee, I wonder what he’s getting at by hypersaturating Nature scenes while going so far as to undersaturate the interior scenes depicting human relationships. The bodies are often nude—and humans, unlike dogs, are VERY MUCH naked when the clothes are off—but the flesh is pallid, almost gray, and the characters express… diminished vitality, you might say. I’m sure potential future viewings may better illuminate the details of these relationships, which are opaque to me now, but this first encounter instilled me mostly with a sense of weaponized sexuality and desensitized desires. For example, the male partner shits on a toilet while informing the female, who stands directly before him, that poop is the great equalizer… even while he’s clearly exercising some kind of power trip there on his “throne”: performing an intimate animal function unashamedly in front of someone else automatically diminishes their social status below yours. (Just ask anyone who hung out in LBJ’s Oval Office.)

Several couples are depicted in this film, and I really couldn’t make out what their various conflicts were about, but Roxy seems to unify them. She cowers under the table when they fight, absorbing their bad spirits the way laundry absorbs and concentrates odors, then she carries that filthy wash out into the natural world and rinses it in the vivid colors of Godard’s overcranked saturation knob. That’s my initial impression, anyway, of the emotional dynamics…. It’s all so cryptically presented, however, I could be completely off….

Doesn’t bother me in the least! If I watch this film a second or third time and revise my opinions, even years from now, I won’t hesitate to come back and update the post. These writings aren’t intended for anybody else’s gratification, edification, education, or emulation: they’re aimed squarely at my own future self, the one who remembers having watched a particular movie but doesn’t remember either the plot or what he thought of it. Future Yarrow, here is what you thought of Goodbye to Language! And that’s it.

Ah, ok, I’ve just been to Wikipedia; it seems there are INDEED some crazy 3D effects in this film. Among other effects, he literally separates the left and right eye at times, gives them completely divergent images to process simultaneously. Sounds incredible, utterly subversive of what 3D is even supposed to be, and kudos to Godard for that particular middle finger, but I don’t need to witness it personally, methinks. The idea alone is enough to satisfy my curiosity.