La Captive (Chantal Akerman, 2000)

Stanislas Merhar and Sylvie Testud in La Captive

Cast: Stanislas Merhar, Sylvie Testud, Olivia Bonamy, Liliane Rovère, Françoise Bertin, Aurore Clément, Vanessa Larré, Samuel Tasinaje, Jean Borodine, Anna Mouglalis, Bérénice Bejo. Screenplay: Chantal Akerman, Eric De Kuyper, based on a novel by Marcel Proust. Cinematography: Sabine Lancelin. Production design: Christian Marti. Film editing: Claire Atherton. 

Marcel Proust's In Search of Lost Time is notoriously unfilmable, but that doesn't stop filmmakers from attempting their own versions of at least parts of it. Chantal Akerman is honest in the credits to La Captive in saying that it was "inspired by" the fifth volume of Proust's work, La Prisonnière. What apparently inspired her about the book is the stalemated relationship between the narrator of the book, called Simon (Stanislas Merhar) in the film, and the woman who obsesses him, Albertine, renamed Ariane (Sylvie Testud) in the film. As Simon's desire to possess Ariane deepens, she grows ever more passive, responding to his every proposition with "If you like." As fascinating as Proust makes the narrator's obsession in the novel, it doesn't translate well to film. The intricate backstory of the narrator and Albertine provided by the novel in its preceding volumes is untranslated to the story of Simon and Ariane, leaving us to surmise what brings these two enigmatic people together -- and keeps them apart. Much has been made of the queerness that pervades the film, a lesbian filmmaker's vision of a gay writer's work, but for most viewers that's a subtext that doesn't fully inform the narrative. Akerman's choice to end the film with the possible death of Ariane -- in the novel Albertine escapes her curious imprisonment and lives to continue to tantalize the narrator -- feels melodramatic rather than thematically integral.

All of Us Strangers (Andrew Haigh, 2023)

Paul Mescal and Andrew Scott in All of Us Strangers

Cast: Andrew Scott, Paul Mescal, Jamie Bell, Claire Foy. Screenplay: Andrew Haigh, based on a novel by Taichi Yamada. Cinematography: Jamie Ramsay. Production design: Sarah Finlay. Film editing: Jonathan Alberts. Music: Emilie Levienaise-Farrouch. 

Movies are not poems. Cinema is based on externalities, on the documentary impulse to record and preserve that which is happening outside of ourselves. Poetry is interior, a response to the impulse to record and preserve the emotional and intellectual experiences produced within us by the outside world. Making movies tends to be communal, writing poems to be private. And yet the two are always superimposing themselves on each other -- on the one hand we have poetry readings, and on the other the viewing of movies in our living rooms and bedrooms. And from the beginning, moviemakers have striven for the poetic, just as poets have always tried to record the seen and heard as pathways to the emotion and the idea. Andrew Haigh's All of Us Strangers is the product of the attempt to find something like an objective correlative for a variety of emotions -- loneliness, desire, regret -- and ideas -- the centrality of family relationships, the nature of sexuality, the persistence of the past. Haigh finds it in a ghost story, a well-worn trope for literature and film, and tantalizes us into questioning how much of the experience depicted in the film is external and how much is interior -- whether Adam (Andrew Scott) actually encounters the ghosts or is projecting his psychological disorder onto the world. One critic wrote that she approached the ending of the film hoping that we would find out that what we have been watching is actually a story Adam has written. But that would have been on the order of the banal "it was all a dream" conclusion that has been foisted on us too often. Haigh wisely leaves us with questions -- maybe too many for the film's own good. His aim is to unsettle us, in the way the loose ends of a poem, the lines and images that don't quite settle into explicit statements, linger with us. It helps that the movie is perfectly cast, with actors who can translate longing and loss into visible experience. If you've ever been cautioned about a movie to not take it too literally, this is one of those times.

The Bitter Tea of General Yen (Frank Capra, 1932)

Nils Asther and Barbara Stanwyck in The Bitter Tea of General Yen

Cast: Barbara Stanwyck, Nils Asther, Walter Connolly, Toshia Mori, Gavin Gordon, Lucien Littlefield, Richard Loo, Helen Jerome Eddy, Emmett Corrigan. Screenplay: Edward E. Paramore Jr., based on a novel by Grace Zaring Stone. Cinematography: Joseph Walker. Film editing: Edward Curtiss. Music: E. Franke Harling. 

Maybe the best way to approach a movie like The Bitter Tea of General Yen today is to think of it as science fiction: a story taking place on a distant planet called t'Chaï-nah. Think of the heroine, Megan Davis (Barbara Stanwyck) as coming from Earth to a planet torn by civil war, seeking out her fiancé, an astronaut tasked with bringing a message of peace. Captured by the forces supporting General Yen (Nils Asther), she discovers all manner of intrigue involving the beautiful Mah-Li (Toshia Mori), one of the general's servants, and Mah-Li's lover, Captain Li (Richard Loo), as well as some exploitative dealing by her fellow Earthling, a man named Jones (Walter Connolly), the general's financial adviser. Megan finds herself strangely drawn to the alien general, despite the prohibition against interplanetary sexual relations. That way we might be able to set aside our objections to the ethnic stereotypes, the yellowface makeup of the Swedish actor playing the title role, the chop suey chinoiserie of its design and costumes, and the nonsensical taboo against "miscegenation." Because Frank Capra's film has a core of good sense and solid drama to it that almost, but not quite, overcomes the routinely racist attitudes of the time when it was made. It has good performances by its leads, some lively action scenes, and a leavening of sardonic humor provided by Connolly's Jones, who admits that he's "what's known in the dime novels as a renegade. And a darn good one at that." It also demonstrates that Capra was a pretty good director when he wasn't indulging in the sentimental populism that his most famous movies bog down in.  

Me and My Gal (Raoul Walsh, 1932)

Spencer Tracy and Joan Bennett in Me and My Gal

Cast: Spencer Tracy, Joan Bennett, Marion Burns, George Walsh, J. Farrell MacDonald, Noel Madison, Henry B. Walthall, Bert Hanlon, Adrian Morris, George Chandler. Screenplay: Arthur Kober, Philip Klein, Barry Conners. Cinematography: Arthur C. Miller. Art direction: Gordon Wiles. Film editing: Jack Murray.

Why have I never seen Me and My Gal before? Is it because it's not an easy movie to pigeonhole, being not quite romantic comedy, not quite screwball, and not quite crime drama? Or because it's one of those pre-Code movies that teeter on the edge of seriousness and back off from it in sometimes uncomfortable ways? It starts with an old man about to drown his dog and ends with the police detective protagonist fudging the truth to protect the not entirely innocent. And in between it's wall-to-wall wisecracks, most of them delivered by a never-better Spencer Tracy and Joan Bennett, who does the gum-chewing dame as well as anyone, even Joan Blondell. Tracy plays Danny Dolan, a cop whose attitude toward those he's supposed to protect and serve is summed up in his response to someone telling him there's been another bank robbery: "Oh, who'd the bank rob now?" And when told that it was the bank that got robbed, retorts, "Ah, turned the tables on 'em, eh? Smart!" There's also a slapstick drunk, a well-staged bank break-in, and even a parody of the Clark Gable and Norma Shearer movie based on Eugene O'Neill's Strange Interlude (Robert Z. Leonard, 1932), which Dolan remembers as Strange Inner Tube. Much of the credit for turning potential chaos into a thoroughly entertaining movie has to go to Raoul Walsh, one those Hollywood tough-guy directors who seem not to get the recognition they deserve today. 

Le Million (René Clair, 1931)

René Lefèvre and Annabella in Le Million

Cast: Annabella, René Lefèvre, Jean-Louis Allibert, Paul Ollivier, Constantin Siroesco, Vanda Gréville, Odette Talazac, Pedro Elviro, Jane Pierson, André Michaud, Eugène Stuber, Pierre Alcover, Armand Bernard. Screenplay: René Clair, based on a play by Georges Berr and Marcel Guillemaud. Cinematography: Georges Périnal. Art direction: Lazare Meerson. Music: Armand Bernard, Philippe Parès, Georges Van Parys. 

The French do wonderful things with air. They invented the soufflé and Champagne, and the Montgolfier brothers mastered the art of ballooning. And no French director had a greater gift for buoyancy than René Clair, whose mastery of pacing keeps even the most cockamamie of stories from collapsing, going flat, or crashing to Earth. Le Million is the quintessential Clair film, a musical farce that inspired countless movies, some of which don't always stay aloft. You can see the lineaments of the Marx Brothers' A Night at the Opera (Sam Wood, 1935) in it as well as Jacques Demy's The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) and The Young Girls of Rochefort (1967). The story is much ado about a lottery ticket left in an old jacket owned by a young artist (René Lefèvre) with a mountain of debts, and it carries us from his studio to the jail to backstage at the opera and back again, sometimes journeying over the rooftops of Paris, all of which are embodied not by the real things but by Lazare Meerson's evocative sets. The music is pretty but forgettable, which is really all you need it to be. 

Tabu: A Story of the South Seas (F.W. Murnau, 1931)

Cast: Matahi, Anne Chevalier, Bill Bambridge, Hitu. Screenplay: F.W. Murnau, Robert J. Flaherty. Cinematography: Floyd Crosby. Film editing: Arthur A. Brooks. 

Humankind is its own serpent in the garden. If you expect F.W. Murnau's Tabu: A Story of the South Seas to be yet another fable about innocence spoiled by civilization, you're wrong. For Murnau, the fault lies in humans themselves, in their insistence on proscribing natural and instinctive behavior. The taboo that precipitates the crisis in the filn is not imposed by the colonizing Europeans, although we see the consequences of the clash between their value system and that of the islanders well enough, but in the tribal imperative that prevents Matahi and Reri from consummating their love. Reri is chosen to become the tribe's sacred virgin, an honor she doesn't want, so she flees with Matahi and is pursued by the tribal elder, Hitu, who is tasked with putting the lovers to death. On the French-colonized island where they land, they encounter a culture they don't understand, particularly its attitude toward money, a foreign concept that will be their undoing. But the valorizing of virginity produces the central taboo of the film. Much has been made of the "gay gaze" in the film: the camera's lingering on beautiful male bodies, which is attributed to Murnau's own gayness. But if Tabu is in any way a product of Murnau's sexual orientation, it's in the emphasis on the central theme: the proscription of desire. In Murnau's case it was the desire for others of his own sex, so the virginity taboo is a metaphor for the rejection of queerness that Murnau encountered in his own life. 

Earth (Aleksandr Dovzhenko, 1930)

Cast: Stepan Shkurat, Semen Svashenko, Yuliya Solintseva, Yelena Maksimova, Mykola Nademsky, Petro Masokha, Ivan Franko, Volodymyr Mikhajlov, Pavlo Petrik. Screenplay: Aleksandr Dovzhenko. Cinematography: Danill Demutsky. Art direction: Vasyl Vasylovych Krychevsky. Film editing: Alexsandr Dovzhenko. 

At once lyrical, tragic, and enigmatic, Aleksandr Dovzhenko's Earth might be viewed today as an example of how Ukraine has always been a temptation and a thorn in the side of Russia -- or at least those in Russia who would try to rule it. As a film about the collectivization of agriculture in the young Soviet Union it bears comparison to Sergei Eisenstein's The Old and the New (1929), which attempted that subject with a much heavier hand: Its celebration of the tractor, in comparison with Dovzhenko's somewhat problematic introduction of a tractor whose radiator has to be pissed in before it will function, concludes with a tractor ballet. And Eisenstein's treatment of the reactionary clergy involves an all too obvious montage in which the followers of the church are juxtaposed with a herd of sheep; Dovzhenko is content with just showing his priest's frenzied proclamations of anathema on the collectivists. But Eisenstein's film, like Dovzhenko's, met with official disapproval: Collectivization was just too important to Stalin not to undergo intense ideological scrutiny. Artistically, Dovzhenko's Earth has to be judged the greater film, one in which the relationship of beauty and terror informs almost every frame.

L'Âge d'Or (Luis Buñuel, 1930)

Lya Lys in L'Âge d'Or

Cast: Gaston Modot, Lya Lys, Caridad de Laberdesque, Max Ernst, Artigas, Lionel Salem, Germaine Noizet, Bonaventura Ibáñez. Screenplay: Luis Buñuel, Salvador Dalí, based on a novel by the Marquis de Sade. Cinematography: Albert Duverger. Production design: Alexandre Trauner. Film editing: Luis Buñuel. 

Salvador Dalí was a bit of a hack, more interested in making money off of the bourgeoises he affected to mock than in advancing his art. So it was inevitable that he and Luis Buñuel would part ways, especially after Dalï turned to the right, supporting Francisco Franco and embracing Catholicism. Although their collaboration produced two extraordinary films, the 1929 short Un Chien Andalou and the feature L'Âge d'Or, it was Buñuel's career that proved to be the more lasting in terms of critical respect. And if there's anything memorable about L'Âge d'Or, it's Buñuel's ability to bring the Surrealist aesthetic to life in semi-narrative fashion. The extent of Dalí's actual contribution to the film has always been somewhat in question, especially since one target of the film's satire is the Catholic Church, which Dalí never quite abandoned before returning to it enthusiastically. The movie is essentially a series of vignettes, starting with documentary-like section on scorpions, then tracing the efforts of a couple to consummate their love, always frustrated by conventional society and religion, and concluding with an episode derived from the Marquis de Sade's The 120 Days of Sodom, in which a group of people emerge from a castle where they have been participating in an orgy, led by a man who looks like Jesus. Bizarre images -- a cow in a bed, a woman sucking the toe of a marble statue, a cross decorated with the scalps of women, and so on -- punctuate the entire film, which is often unsettling and often very funny. The film's assault on the complacency of the bourgeoisie would become a constant in Buñuel's films, and the party scene clearly anticipates the experiences of the trapped partygoers in The Exterminating Angel (1962) and The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie (1972). David Thomson has noted the similarity of the country house party in Jean Renoir's The Rules of the Game (1939), pointing out that the gamekeeper in Renoir's film is played by Gaston Modot, who is the male half of the central couple in L'Âge d'Or, but I think we can also see its influence in such French New Wave landmarks as Last Year at Marienbad (Alain Resnais, 1961) and La Notte (Michelangelo Antonioni, 1961).   

A Throw of Dice (Franz Osten, 1929)

Charu Roy and Seeta Devi in A Throw of Dice

Cast: Seeta Devi, Charu Roy, Himansu Rai, Modhu Bose, Sarada Gupta, Tincory Charkrabarty. Lala Bijoykishen. Screenplay: Niranjan Pal, W.A. Burton, based on a story from the Mahabharata. Cinematography: Emil Schünemann. Art direction: Promode Nath. 

India would become one of the great filmmaking centers of the world, but the silent film A Throw of Dice, though one of the early classic films made in the subcontinent, was directed by a German, Franz Osten, who would be arrested in India in 1939 for being a member of the Nazi party. Osten was a prolific filmmaker who did much of his work in India, often in collaboration with actor-producer Himansu Rai, who plays the heavy in this story based on an episode in the Mahabharata. It's about two kings who fall in love with Sunita (Seeta Devi), the beautiful daughter of a hermit, Kanwa (Sarada Gupta), who has fled the corruptions of court life. When one of the kings, Ranjit (Charu Roy), wins the heart of Sunita, the other, Sohat (Rai), plots against him. He proposes a game of dice, with the stakes being each other's kingdom. Using loaded dice, Sohat not only wins Ranjit's kingdom and the hand of Sunita, but also tricks Ranjit into becoming his slave. But when Sohat's deception is uncovered, Ranjit's subject mobilize and attack Sohat's palace. In desperation, Sohat leaps from a high cliff. It's a slight tale in the telling, but the beauty of the north Indian setting and the opulence of the palaces give the story a sumptuous frame. There's also a cast of thousands on display and a whole menagerie of tigers and elephants and other animals. 

Storm Over Asia (Vsevolod Pudovkin, 1928)

Valéry Inkijinoff in Storm Over Asia

Cast: Valéry Inkijinoff, I. Didintseff, Aleksandr Chistyakov, Victor Tsoppi, Fyodor Ivanov, V. Pro, Boris Barnet, Karl Gurniak, I. Inkizhinov, V. Belinskaya, Anel Sudakevich. Screenplay: Osip Brik, Ivan Novokshenov. Cinematography: Anatoli Golovnya. Art direction: M. Aronson, Sergei Kozlovsky.

The great silent Russian propaganda films depended heavily on two things the nascent Soviet Union had in abundance: faces and landscapes. This reliance on closeups and sweeping views of fields and plains sometimes resulted in a loss of narrative coherence, but put the emphasis on the people and resources that the Bolsheviks needed to exercise control over. Storm Over Asia is no exception, beginning with the windswept land and Asiatic faces of the Mongol peoples of eastern Russia, which at the time depicted in the film was still a vast battleground for the Bolsheviks and European forces. After establishing the location, the film focuses on Bair (Valéry Inkijinoff), a young hunter whose father sends him off to the bazaar to sell a silver fox pelt. In the vividly filmed bazaar, Bair is cheated by an unscrupulous European fur trader (Viktor Tsoppi), who might as well be wearing a label: bourgeois capitalist. Beaten by the henchmen for the trader, Bair escapes and joins a group of Soviet partisans fighting the occupiers. The occupation forces seem to be British, who were never a significant presence in this part of the Soviet Union, but the film is vague about such details. They manage to capture Bair, who is sent out with a soldier to be shot, but when they examine Bair's belongings they discover an ancient document indicating that he's a direct descendant of Genghis Khan. (The original title of the film, in Russian, was The Heir to Genghis Khan.) They find the wounded Bair, restore him to health, and set him up as the puppet ruler of a Mongolian state. In the end, Bair turns against the imperialists and the film concludes with a literal storm sweeping them away. It's a film full of great set-pieces, including a montage mockng the imperialists and their wives as they put on their finery and then are driven on a muddy road to meet the new Grand Lama. After an elaborate ceremony (actually filmed at a Tibetan Buddhist celebration) the lama turns out to be a small boy, not at all impressed with his visitors.