CCU50: French 1930s 1 – Silent to Sound, Jacques Feyder, Jean Vigo

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Mark, Aaron and Scott Nye kick off the first of a seven episode series about French cinema i the 1930s. We give an overview of the decade and some historical context, and discuss the French silent tradition and how that it transitioned to sound. We also get into detail about two important filmmakers, Jacques Feyder and Jean Vigo. Feyder was an important filmmaker in his time, but his works are not as prominent today, whereas Vigo was nearly forgotten in the 1930s and discovered after the war.

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CCU49. Twilight Time Appreciation Show

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We change things up by focusing on a boutique label, Twilight Time, that has found success through a unique business model. Mark and Aaron happen to be big fans, and feel that we have directly contributed towards some of their profits. We talk about the company, their business model, why they have succeeded, and we address some common critiques. We also review a few discs each, and finally count down our favorite Twilight Time titles.

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CCU48: Zatoichi: The Blind Swordsman

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Mark and Aaron are joined by Dave Eves to evaluate the massive Zatoichi serial starring Shintaro Katsu. We explore the character of Zatoichi, and how he’s an unusual type of superhero. We also share tips on the best way to watch the series, whether a little bit at a time or to go on a binge-watch. We evaluate the series as both a piece of art and as pop culture, observing the high and low points.

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CCU47: Downhill Racer & the Olympics

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Mark and Aaron celebrate the Summer Olympics by exploring Downhill Racer, an independent film about the Winter Olympics. We draw parallels to what is portrayed in the Michael Ritchie with the actual sporting events that take place today, including the thrills of victory and the agony of defeat. We discuss the groundbreaking cinematography, the nature of winning in an individual sport and the the enduring legacy of Sundance that began with this film.

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CCU46: First Anniversary Show

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Mark and Aaron podcast live and in person for the first time ever. During Aaron’s vacation up north, he visited “Casa Hurne” up in beautiful Vermont. While we weren’t drinking beer and eating delicious food, we decided to podcast a little about the experience we’ve had with Criterion Close-Up. Aaron also talks about his journey through Canada and the film connections he made along the way.

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CCU45: In a Lonely Place (1950) & Humphrey Bogart Films

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Mark and Aaron are joined by Matt Gasteier to explore Nicholas Ray’s In a Lonely Place (1950) and evaluate Humphrey Bogart’s body of work. We go into how Ray’s life informed the cinema, why he wasn’t celebrated during his time and subsequently appreciated later. We also go through Bogart’s entire career, from getting his lucky break to becoming a superstar.

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CCU44 – A Brighter Summer Day (1991)

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Mark and Aaron are joined by Scott Nye to hash out the intricate themes, history, and nuance of Edward Yang’s A Brighter Summer Day. Given the length and depth of the film, we explored it in detail, distilling the cultural and societal clashes that took place in a pivotal period of Chinese and Taiwanese history. We also compare it to what is considered Yang’s other masterpiece, Yi Yi, and we touch on the New Taiwanese Cinema movement.

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CCU43 – The Player

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Mark and Aaron welcome old friend, Doug McCambridge to talk about Robert Altman’s “Don’t call it a” comeback film. We touch on the opening tracking shot, what Altman is saying about Hollywood, and yes, we even go into the ending — or both of them. On top of that, we give some tidbits on how to be economical with the Barnes & Noble Criterion Sale.

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CCU42 – Silent Film Music with Ben Model

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Mark and Aaron welcome Ben Model, silent film historian, accompanist, distributor, and enthusiast. He gave a presentation about “undercranking” on Criterion’s release of Chaplin’s The Kid. We discuss the idea of undercranking, scoring silent music, and the state of silent media today theatrically and in the home video market.

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Fantastic Planet, 1973, René Laloux

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Animation is somewhat of a rarity at Criterion. Wes Anderson’s Fantastic Mr. Fox was technically the first, but being an Anderson film, it was hardly any surprise. Watership Down came next, deservedly so, and it was received with acclaim and a desire for more. Now comes an entirely different type of animation, a sort of psycho-surrealism in René Laloux’s Fantastic Planet, which is comparatively abstract, unquestionably innovative, unique, dense, but eminently watchable. These releases rely on story and narrative, which of course Planet has, but it is the “vibe” felt within that truly sets it apart as a work of art worthy of curation.

There are two races in Fantastic Planet. The Draags are giant blue aliens living on the planet Ygam. Oms are humans, miniature by comparison, that also inhabit the planet. An infant Om brutally loses his mother at the hand of some Draag children, and he finds himself kept within the family as a pet. He is named Terr and is cherished by Tiva, his “owner.” He ages one year for every week of a Draag’s life, so he is soon aging into adolescence and adulthood, assimilating into Draag culture. Eventually, armed with an abundance of Draag knowledge, he escapes and settles among a group of Om dissidents. His experience proves valuable and he quickly proves his worth.

The time period in which Fantastic Planet originated is essential. Produced in the early 1970s, it is rooted in the May 1968 events in France and the subsequent navel-gazing that followed. This was a free period for young French, similar to the hippie movement in America, but perhaps a little more intellectual and leftist. There was certainly some drug use, and Fantastic Planet is known not only as a deep intellectual endeavor, but also a psychedelic experience. However artistic, the impact while under the influence has certainly contributed to its cult following.

The project originates in the artwork of Roland Topor, who was also the film’s production designer, co-writer, and creator. The animation is hand-drawn by Topor and roughly 25 other artists, many of who were experienced with Czech animation. As the first French animation feature since 1953, the project relied heavily on the Czech animation tradition and probably would not have been made without their assistance. Their aesthetic blends well with Topor’s style of art, which is at once intellectual, incendiary, and simply random. Even if the film is Topor’s brainchild, René Laloux was the force that saw the project to fruition. Even Topor credits the director with realizing his vision, and without the talented animator, the project would have never reached fruition. As Topor says in one of the supplements, it was Laloux that did the heavy lifting.

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Compared to computer animation of today and the clean rotoscoped animation of yesterday, the hand drawn animation may look crude to some. However, the animation style is perfectly suited to the unorthodox message and hallucinogenic tone. Certain sequences showcase the style, such as the shimmering Draags whose bodies transform through meditation, which would look too polished and clean using most other animation styles. This is akin to seeing an edgy, independent film with a little grain. It adds to the charm, as do the drawings at showing both the beauty and savagery of this world.

The film cannot be discussed without complementing Alain Goraguer’s hypnotically jazzy score. When listened to without the film’s images (and I tried this), the music is outrageously dated, recognizable upon the first note as being from during the “free love” period. Yet the groovy, catchy tunes are the perfect marriage with Laloux and Topor’s imagery. They blend so seamlessly and infectiously with the action and images that they are inseparable. I’ll admit that when indulging in this film I found myself whistling the refrain all too often. Having seen the film, the music has a life of its own and will remain on my playlist. The score, as much as the imagery and thematic elements, contributes to the film’s immersive appeal.

Topor had an unusual type of art. He was provocative, outrageous, and at times downright silly. He and Laloux had created two short films together, both of which are featured on the Criterion discs. One of them, Les Temps Morts, was unapologetically about death and the other, Les Escargot about war. He remarks that people see metaphors in his work that depend where they are from. For instance, he showed the film in Spain and they saw Franco fascism.

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Part of Fantastic Planet’s genius is this seemingly endless metaphorical application. The plot is a fairly simple tale about power, oppression and racism, but it paints with such a broad brush that it can be read in a number of different ways. During my viewing, I thought of the Holocaust, Zionism, Vietnam (from both the French and American perspective), Communism and yes, even Fascism. The one thematic consistency with these readings is that the film delivers a leftist, anti-establishment message, which again is very much in the spirit of a post-1968 world in France.

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Along with the depth, creativity, innovation, and technical proficiency, Fantastic Planet is simply a delightful experience. Having watched it twice now, I consider it among the hallmarks of animated film. I ranked it number nine in my recently compiled top science fiction films for Wonders in the Dark. It is yet another example that animated cinema is a work of art along the level of the most esteemed film movements. I hope that Criterion continues in this direction of introducing important animation to a wider audience.

Film Rating: 9.5/10

SUPPLEMENTS

In addition to the two short films, the disc also features a documentary about the making of the film, two television programs about Roland Topor and a trailer. When Criterion is at its best with supplements is when it illuminates the mindset of the creative forces at work. Laloux and especially Topor are fascinating figures.

The short films are quite a bit darker, but they show how animation, a bit of a warped mind, and political activism can be so effective through the animated medium. Both films are distinctively different, yet are alluring individually and as stepping-stones that would lead to the feature film.

The documentary Laloux savage is fascinating. He began his animation career by making films based on drawings from mental patients in a psychiatric hospital. The images were jarring and at times nonsensical, but they were an effective way to find a voice for his animation style. It was through this process where he met Topor and they eventually began their collaboration.

Here is one of Laloux’s early films, Monkee’s Teeth.

The highlight of the disc is a French biography piece on Topor called Italiques. The artist and writer was an enthralling figure, and this piece gets inside his head and provides some context and understanding (however difficult) into the absurdity of his art. We learn about his background, being raised by a father who was also an artist, albeit with more of a conventional tone. We get a glimpse of Topor’s worldview, which may be less political than Laloux, and more provocative. For instance, one of his books was called “Cannibal Cuisine” and the contents are what you’d expect from the title – a human cookbook.

Topor says that he likes to see something genuine and plausible in film, and he rejects insincerity. He does not like happy endings because he sees them as unrealistic. This is perhaps the most fitting description of his approach, reality through imagination. This can certainly be seen in Fantastic Planet.

My only complaint, and this is a minor one, is that there was not a supplement on Alain Goraguer’s brilliant score.

Criterion Rating: 9.5