Piano

The Piano is about passion, the most basic and primal element of human nature. No matter how thick the veneer of civilization is, or how deeply-buried beneath layers of social repression those latent emotions are, passion ultimately cannot be denied. This is something that the three principals of this movie learn in various, often unpleasant, ways.

In the mid-1800s, Ada (Holly Hunter) arrives on the stormy shores of New Zealand, a mute bride sold by her father to a British emigrant named Stewart (Sam Neill). In addition to a normal assortment of baggage, Ada brings with her eight-year old Flora (Anna Paquin), her illegitimate daughter, and a piano. Initially, Stewart declares that the piano is too bulky to move from the beach, and resists bringing it to his house despite Ada's wordless pleadings. Next, he sells it to fellow Englishman Baines (Harvey Keitel), a man who has embraced the local Maori ways. In addition to the piano, Baines wants a reluctant Ada as his teacher. When he offers her a deal to get the instrument back, she is unprepared for the price she must ultimately pay.

The Piano has powerful emotional themes resonating through it, all dealing with the release of repressed passion. Baines, who has embraced the native Maori methods of living, no longer clings to the values of British society, and is therefore quite capable of expressing himself freely -- which he does, albeit in some strange ways. Stewart, however, views the Maori with suspicion and hostility and, in clinging to the tenants of English society, refuses to allow himself to feel until one violent moment when everything comes pouring out. Ada, hampered as much by her lack of voice as by social pressures, is yearning to break free, and only through Baines does she find the courage to do so.

Jane Campion's story is often stirring and occasionally gut-wrenching; the latter perhaps to a fault. There is a single visceral scene in this movie which becomes the most stark and enduring image taken from the theater. While definitely an expression of passion, this is perhaps not intended as the single defining moment of The Piano, although it may be remembered as such.

Symbolism abounds, and most of it is clear enough for even the casual viewer to grasp. Ada's piano is obviously more than a source of music -- it is her voice, her only means of expressing herself. The Maori society represents the release of inhibitions. Stewart's rejection of this, like Baines' acceptance, defines who he is.

The three main actors give dazzling performances. Everything previously written about Holly Hunter is true. To be able to convey this much energy and emotion without ever speaking a word (except in a pair of short voiceovers) requires someone of astonishing talent. Hunter's Ada is every bit as powerful a presentation as Anthony Hopkins' Stevens in The Remains of the Day. Harvey Keitel is as good, although the complexities of his character don't allow for quite as obvious a standout performance. Sam Neill has the most incomplete material to work from, but he does all he can with Stewart. Young Anna Paquin shows capabilities far beyond her years. She is believable in her role, and an asset to the film.

As affecting as Campion's basic story is, both characterization and technical presentation are lacking. Taken in tandem, these flaws prevent The Piano from attaining its full potential. The editing is choppy, at times causing the narrative to become disjointed or confusing. More than one transition is jarringly abrupt.

While Ada is as fully-rounded as she can be, the others all have elements missing from their personalities. Stewart never attains three-dimensionality, despite Sam

Neill's best attempts, and Baines is occasionally little more than a sounding board for Ada's emotions to reverberate off of. Flora's personality undergoes a radical shift that, at best, is only partially-motivated by what we see on screen.

The Piano is a solid motion picture with a universal message and occasional splashes of genius, but it is remarkable only as Holly Hunter's performance is concerned. While it's true that individuals will attribute a different importance to the various flaws, there exists the possibility that anyone going to see The Piano with the expectation of watching the best movie of the year, will leave the theater disappointed.

400 blows
Calling The 400 Blows a "coming-of-age story" seems somehow inadequate. The label, while accurate, does not indicate either the uniqueness or the cinematic importance of this motion picture. These days, the average coming-of-age story tends to be a lightweight affair, often tinged with nostalgia and rarely perceptive. Such is not the case with The 400 Blows, which takes an uncompromising, nonjudgmental look at several key events in the life of a teenage boy. With all of the melodrama leeched out, we are able to view and understand the factors that shape his present and the direction of his future.

The title, Les quatre cent coups is literally translated as The 400 Blows; however, since it's an idiom, a direct translation is imperfect. The phrase loosely means "Raising Hell", and, while that's not an English interpretation, it's a reasonable approximation. The 400 Blows sounds like a movie about violence and abuse, or (if you're thinking in sexual terms) something salacious. When the film opened in the late '50s, more than a few viewers were treated to an entirely different experience from what they expected. (A widely circulated, possibly apocryphal story says that the Weinstein brothers attended this movie expecting a sex flick.

They were so astounded by what they saw that their entire perspective on cinema changed, eventually leading them to found Miramax.)

The 400 Blows is the debut outing for celebrated French director Franois Truffaut, who arrived in the filmmaking arena after taking a detour through film criticism. (During the years when he wrote for Andr Bazin's "Cahiers du Cinma," Truffaut developed a reputation as being an acerbic, unforgiving critic.) Along with Godard, Rohmer, Malle, Vadim, and Chabrol (amongst others), Truffaut was one of the founding auteurs of the French "New Wave" cinema - a philosophy that sought to enliven the Gaelic motion picture industry by taking bold chances and telling personal stories. The 400 Blows became one of the first and most influential of the French New Wave films (it was released around the same time as Godard's Breathless), and, as such, was at the vanguard of a movement that had a worldwide impact on movie-making for more than a decade.

The 400 Blows is the first of five time Truffaut brings us a chapter in the life of his cinematic alter-ego, Antoine Doinel (Jean-Pierre Laud). Doinel (recurrently played by Laud) would return four more times: in the 1962 short film "Antoine and Collette", then in the features Stolen Kisses (in 1968), Bed and Board (in 1970), and Love on the Run (1979). Love on the Run seems to close the Doinel cycle, but, because Truffaut died in 1984, there's no way to tell whether he might have again returned to this character. It's interesting to note that, while the Doinel of The 400 Blows bore a striking resemblance to Truffaut at 14, by the time of Love on the Run, the gulf between the character's life and his creator's had widened considerably.

Antoine is not so much of a troublemaker as he is unlucky. His exploits, at least early in the film, are no different from those of his school classmates - except he's the one who gets caught and punished. For example, when a pin-up is being passed around, the teacher notices it when it's on Antoine's desk. Once Antoine

has earned his teacher's disapproval, he has placed himself in a bad position - one that is exacerbated when he fails to do his homework, then tells a foolhardy lie that is easily disproven. Still, many of Antoine's school infractions are minor. It's just that the authority figures see them in the worst possible light. Even when Antoine tries to do something right, it turns out wrong. On one occasion, he writes an essay inspired by and in the style of Balzac. His teacher accuses him of plagiarism.

Antoine's home life isn't much better. His mother (Claire Maurier), who gave birth to Antoine after an unwanted pregnancy, spends as much time away from home as she can. When she's with her son, she has difficulty controlling her impatience with him. His stepfather (Albert Rmy) is sometimes friendly and companionable, but, on other occasions, he's short-tempered and grumpy. Neither parent seems to care much about what happens to Antoine. To them, he's an inconvenience who cannot be ignored. When something goes wrong at school, they immediately adopt the teachers' position without listening to Antoine's perspective. One day when he gets in trouble, he deduces that it would be better to run away than go home.

By the end of The 400 Blows, Antoine is a juvenile delinquent. He has stolen a typewriter from his father's office (he is caught not when he steals it but when he foolishly tries to return it), been arrested by the police, and escaped from reform school. Antoine's life could have taken a turn for the better at any time had someone shown an interest in him - his mother, his father, or a teacher. But he is a victim of his circumstances, which are framed by neglect. Antoine gains no respite at home or in school. In fact, the only time he seems to be at peace is when he's in a movie theater, free to escape to another world for a finite period of time.

The 400 Blows is a portrait of innocence lost, as Truffaut is careful to point out. One scene in particular highlights this. We are treated to an extended series of shots of dozens of children gleefully watching a puppet show. Many of their faces are alight with innocent excitement. But Antoine has no interest in such childish things. While the others around him laugh and enjoy the show, he and his friend plot how to get more money. He has moved into the seedy side of the adult world: petty crime and its associated punishment - being locked in a cage. When he is in jail, he is treated as coldly as a hardened criminal.

Stylistically, The 400 Blows takes a number of intriguing chances. For the most part, Truffaut and cinematographer Henri Deca go for a simple (but never simplistic) approach, but there are some radical innovations and adaptations. In the first place, The 400 Blows was the first French film to be shot in widescreen (aspect ratio 2.35:1), and this required much planning on Truffaut's part. The scene where Antoine speaks to the psychologist heightens the pseudodocumentary feel that shadows the entire production. Because we never see the questioner, it's as if Antoine is speaking directly into the camera, explaining his life and the reasons he is in his current predicament. Finally, there's the film's closing image: an optical zoom on a freeze-frame. This often-copied effect was not pioneered by Truffaut (it was, in fact, an homage to something similar in Ingmar Bergman's Monika), but this is the film that "popularized" it.

For all of Truffaut's mastery of the behind-the-camera aspects of The 400 Blows, an equal share of the credit must go to lead actor Jean-Pierre Laud. One of the reasons Truffaut chose Laud for this role is that he shared some characteristics in common with Antoine, such as his disdain for school and his tendency to be a troublemaker. In this role, Laud is fantastic. There's never a sense that he is acting - every movement, word, and thought comes across as natural, not forced. He is not on-screen for every moment of the film (there are three "interludes" where Antoine is largely or completely absent - the classroom scene after he has been sent out, the defection from the gym teacher's jog through Paris, and the

puppet show), but, when he is present, he compels the viewer's attention. Laud's standout scene is probably the interview with the psychologist, where Antoine's fidgety reactions are perfect.

There's no question that The 400 Blows stands out when compared to other coming-of-age dramas. Even though more than forty years have elapsed since the film's release, its effect has neither faded nor been duplicated. By eschewing manipulation and sentimentality, Truffaut does not invite false emotions and insincere pity. Instead, his clear-eyed approach presents Antoine to us with all of his faults and foibles on display. He is not "sanitized" to shade our response. Yet, because Truffaut's style is so honest, we develop a deeper connection with Antoine that we would have in a traditional melodrama. And, when that final shot occurs, leaving Antoine suspended in time, with his future uncertain, our reaction is unforced. Of course we can now do what viewers could not in 1959 - look through other windows on different phases of Antoine's life and see how far he comes from the bored, uncertain boy presented here. The 400 Blows remains a remarkable film. As with all of the great classics, the passage of time only causes us to appreciate it more.

Taxi Driver
In March 1977, the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences committed another in their seemingly-endless series of injustices, awarding the Best Picture Oscar to John Avildsen's Rocky, thereby snubbing one of the great modern American classics, Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver. While Rocky represents solid entertainment, it lacks the psychological depth of Scorsese's picture, replacing daring character development with a feel-good sports formula. Taxi Driver is on a level that Rocky neither aspires to nor attains.

Like Raging Bull, Taxi Driver features Robert De Niro in top form. As good as the actor has been elsewhere, these two pictures mark the apex of his superlative career. From his first scene in Taxi Driver, De Niro is Travis Bickle, a 26-year old exMarine searching for work that will keep him up all night as a means of combating insomnia. At the outset, Travis is a lonely, disillusioned man who can still function within the "normal" constraints of society. As time passes, however, Travis becomes increasingly alienated from the world around him, spiraling into a state of dissociated delusion. He sees New York City as a place of urban decay populated by "animals" and "scum" that need to be swept away. And who better than him to initiate the process? De Niro's performance is so perfectly-tuned that we in the audience don't have a moment's doubt or disbelief about what's taking place in Travis' troubled mind.

Initially, Travis is attracted to the cool-but-beautiful Betsy (Cybill Shepherd), a volunteer for Senator Palantine's Presidential campaign. Although Travis' stares initially make Betsy uneasy, his persistence pays off when she agrees to accompany him to the movies. Unfortunately, the socially-inept Travis chooses a hard-core porn film for their first date. Following that gaffe, Betsy dumps him, accelerating Travis' descent into isolation.

The next woman to enter Travis' life is a twelve-year old prostitute named Iris. Played by a fresh-faced Jodie Foster with an enthralling mix of youth and worldweary sophistication, Iris' apparent innocence is belied by her profession. Travis decides to save her, although his motivation results less from a concern for her well-being than from a need to be seen as a savior. Iris really isn't a person to him; she's a symbol. But redeeming one girl is only an aspect of his plan -- he also intends to assassinate Senator Palantine. Travis is tired of sitting back and taking what life dishes out. He wants to act, even if the action has no basis in logic, because, by this time, he is beyond rational considerations.

Scorsese and writer Paul Schrader append the perfect conclusion to Taxi Driver. Steeped in irony, the five-minute epilogue underscores the vagaries of fate. The media builds Travis into a hero, when, had he been a little quicker drawing his gun against Senator Palantine, he would have been reviled as an assassin. As the film closes, the misanthrope has been embraced as the model citizen -- someone who takes on pimps, drug dealers, and mobsters to save one little girl.

There's no doubt that Taxi Driver paints an extremely disturbing portrait -- we find ourselves understanding Travis' mindset. This is expert film making from Scorsese, cinematographer Michael Chapman, and the actors. Schrader's script, which was inspired by such diverse works as Dostoevsky's Notes From Underground and Harry Chapin's song, "Taxi," is a masterful psychological study, the depth of which can only fully be appreciated on repeat viewings.

Twenty years after its initial release, Taxi Driver has reached screens in a new, pristine print featuring a remastered stereo soundtrack. And, despite the passage of two decades, the only thing dated about this film are the fashions. Taxi Driver's message still rings as true as ever, and the characters are as shockingly believable as in the mid-seventies. This re-release offers movie-goers another opportunity to see one of Scorsese's most influential and disturbing films on the big screen.

Kagemusha
If Dodes'ka-den, a flawed but deeply felt ensemble piece perched at the edge of financial ruin, signaled for many Japanese cinema titan Akira Kurasawa's fallibility, then Kagemusha (The Shadow Warrior) ushered him into the good graces often accorded aged artists who understandably fall back on the themes and variations that marked their earlier major works. The pleasures of Kagemusha (and, make no mistake, there are pleasures) should be familiar to Kurosawa's proponents; the film vibrates with a profound respect for historical veracity, the busy intersection

between political sociology and psychology, and grunting, portentous masculinity. Of course, only the last item on that list really explains what about Kagemusha (and, more so, Kurosawa's 1985 follow-up Ran) garnered all the enthusiasm.

The "shadow warrior" of the title is a common thief who is taken into custody by the Takeda clan in 16th-century feudal Japan because of his uncanny resemblance to their warlord Shingen. Shingen's brother Nobukado suggests he should be retained as a potential decoy. Though the thief (in the movie's static but hypnotic one-take opening shot) is quick to denounce Shingen with all the class-conscious wrath he can muster, Nobukado's impulse proves correct: Shingen is mortally shot almost immediately thereafter. Whether out of a sense of duty, or whether he realizes his only other choice is death as punishment for his previous crimes, or perhaps because he feels the first pangs of power-lust, the kagemusha steps in to impersonate the late Shingen.

Kagemusha, much like the similarly overblown but handsomely mounted Lawrence of Arabia, is an epic with a cipher in its point position. Rather than attempt to understand the kagemusha's motivations, Kurosawa is more interested in the ambiguities between his role and his psyche. (Some viewers even find themselves toying with the idea that Shingen's soul imposes itself into the body of his double, but the third-act dream sequence pretty explicitly suggests the two entities remain separate; the one is simply haunted by the legacy of the other.)

Eventually, though, even the character study demurs to Kurosawa's roiling pageantry. Kurosawa spent the many years it took to get this project off the ground painting his scenes. So it's no surprise that Kagemusha's strength flexes and relaxes practically on a shot-to-shot basis. Certain tableaux have a vaguely gaudy but lusciously polychromatic thrust, others are just kitsch. In fact, the entire movie looks as though it was cautiously filmed from a great distance (many

medium exterior shots bounce around in the frame), as though Kurosawa wanted to make sure the sense of sweep and grandeur is only a zoom out away. He's canny enough to bookend his film with unforgettable first and last shots, but it wasn't until Ran's appropriation of Shakespeare that he found a way, in his late period, to successfully match show with tell.