Oh, the eternal plight of the internationally-acclaimed auteur. Who better to deliver a treatise on the subject than Italian New Wave director, Federico Fellini? Yes, sir, Federico Fellini, a man so egotistically consumed with his own bloated image that he’d cast a much younger, more attractive actor (Marcello Mastroianni) to play the role of, well, him. Meanwhile, Fellini’s presenting the burden of art-house provocateur with such immense hubris that it’s consistently accompanied via Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries“.

All of which would be just fine, mind you, assuming Fellini counterbalanced it with the tiniest hint of self-deprecating humor. Perhaps this is why I enjoyed Stardust Memories – Woody Allen’s unrepentant send-up of 8 1/2 – so much more than I did Mr. Fellini’s original. The primary difference being, Allen portrayed himself as a highly neurotic, extremely flawed everyman. As such, you kind of found yourself cheering for the guy.

The same cannot be said for Fellini’s Guido, who’s constantly running amuck with a cadre of total assholes, reconsidering a big-budget film about aliens (because that’s the only thing the hoi-polloi could possibly relate to … or perhaps the hoi-polloi are the actual aliens, Ho-Ha!). Guido’s constantly at odds with the Catholic Church, which denounces the majority of his avant-garde films on principle, and – eventually – it’s all leading up to some whack-ass climax involving fools on parade. I mean, the whole thing just kind of reeks of “Hey, man, I’m so very far up here and the rest of you are all so very faaaar down there,” that it’s incredibly difficult to suffer through. This again, is part and parcel of why – and how – Stardust Memories actually hits the mark. Consider for a moment that the aliens in Woody Allen’s film are actually real; that they subsequently show up in a clearing toward the end of the movie, explaining that they “enjoy [the director’s] films, particularly the early, funny ones.”

See what Woody did there?

The point being, it’s not that I don’t get it, because I do. I get it  … I get it all, right down to the mid-point sauna scene during which all of the aristocratic Romans are sitting round in steam-towel togas. I get the the whole opening metaphor about flying high and crashing hard. I get the meta implications of someone asking an auteur director, “Why do you delight in torturing us?” I get it. I get it. A thousand grueling times or more, I promise you, I get it. I can respect the brilliant craftsmanship on the very same wavelength I can appreciate the subtext. The problem is, I simply don’t enjoy it. Nor do I find myself relating to it on any meaningful type of level. If that makes me a heretic – considering Fellini still is, in fact, the most decorated director in foreign film history – then so be it. I’d much rather be a heretic than a bullshit artist. And while I cannot say for sure, I’d be absolutely willing to bet Italian New Wave director Federico Fellini was more than a little bit of both.

(8 1/2 is currently streaming via Netflix.)

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Everybody on earth knowing
that beauty is beautiful
makes ugliness.

Everybody knowing
that goodness is good
makes wickedness.

For being and nonbeing
arise together;
hard and easy
complete each other;
long and short
shape each other;
high and low
depend on each other;
note and voice
make the music together;
before and after
follow each other.

That’s why the wise soul
does without doing,
teaches without talking.

The things of this world
exist, they are;
you can’t refuse them.

To bear and not to own;
to act and not lay claim;
to do the work and let it go:
For just letting it go
is what makes it stay.

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“It was [John Gardner’s] conviction that if the words in the story were blurred because of the author’s insensitivity, carelessness, or sentimentality, then the story suffered from a tremendous handicap. But there was something even worse and something that must be avoided at all costs: if the words and the sentiments were dishonest, the author was faking it, writing about things he didn’t care about or believe in. Then nobody could ever care anything about it.”

The Civil War is hot again. Spielberg’s Lincoln made it so. And, as a result, mixed media of every stripe are looking to capitalize on the trend. The Metropolitan throws its hat in the ring with a respectful – somewhat fascinating – photography exhibit, the allure of which is not so much in the composition as it is in the dark nostalgia.

Photography itself was only 20 years old at the onset of the Civil War, and you can see the early limitations in the cartes de visites and silver prints on display here. What’s even more intriguing are the mild curiosities – a chess board with headshots of the Civil War generals placed on white squares only, an 1860s studio camera (with posing stand), a series of Stereographs, and a campaign pin from Lincoln’s final presidential campaign (along with a mourning corsage from his death). Photog enthusiasts will enjoy the installation for its incorporation of landmark development techniques. Civil War enthusiasts will enjoy it for just about everything else.

(Photography And The Civil War runs from now through 9/2 at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Free with suggested donation, 5th Avenue at 83rd Street.) 

Five More For the Offing:

• Sleeping Soldiers by Tim Hetherington @ The International Center for Photography School Pavilion (Free, Through 5/4, 1114 Avenue of the Americas at 43rd Street)
• Search Party by Jim Houser @ Jonathan LeVine Gallery (Free, through 5/4, 529 West 20th Street)
• Eric Zener @ Gallery Henoch (Free, through 4/27, 555 W. 25th Street)
• Splendid Playground by Gutai @ The Guggenheim ($22 General Admission, through 5/8, 5th Avenue between 88th & 89th Street)
• Women’s Studies by Various Artists @ The American Folk Art Museum (Free, through 5/26, Columbus Avenue at 66th Street)

The primary difference between a photograph and a film is that the photograph captures a moment while the film expresses a feeling. In the best-case scenario, either one is capable of doing a significant amount of both (because what is a film, really, if not a series of moving pictures?). In that spirit comes Terrence Malick’s To The Wonder – an immaculately-conceived piece of cinema that struggles to maintain a strict balance between essence and feeling, very often missing the sweet spot in between.

Front and center, newborn Oscar-darling, Ben Affleck, whose character doesn’t utter an audible line of dialogue until a full 40 minutes into the film. Contextually speaking, Malick is riffing on the crucial role of communication here, or perhaps the general lack thereof. Out of all the major characters in this film, Javier Bardem’s says the most, and – at least in the majority of cases – Bardem is either speaking rhetorically to himself, his congregation or his God. Olga Kurylenko plays the female lead (Rachel McAdams only appears in the film for a little over 15 minutes), and it would seem as if the Ukrainian-born actress was specifically cast in an effort to exploit the language barrier between her character and Affleck’s.

It probably bears noting that Christian Bale was originally attached to play Affleck’s character, and – as a result – it’s difficult to watch To The Wonder without considering how Bale might have approached the role differently. It’s also difficult to watch without wondering whether Terrence Malick’s persistent threat of dogma might have chased Christian Bale away (Oddly enough, Bale is already attached to play a role in one of Malick’s upcoming projects, and he also worked with Malick on The New World, so perhaps it was just a case of right director, bad timing).

To The Wonder deals with a number of elaborate themes, each of them hedging toward the notion that Love – love of anything, whether it be love of life, love of self, love of others, love of work – is both desperate and fleeting, at best. In the end what we’re left with is a barren, almost-empty landscape, one in which most characters hopscotch from one uneven square to another, just trying their utmost to do the least amount of damage in between. God is here, God is there, God is everywhere. But the only way you’ll find him is if you’ve somehow given up on just about everything else along the way.

It’s a somber message, to be sure. And yet Malick delivers it with such gravitas that it’s difficult to argue against him. The main sticking point with To The Wonder is that – unlike a photograph – Malick’s film does not allow viewers the constant freedom to simply walk away before the feeling fades. And the shame of that is, Malick may very well have stumbled onto something here, if only he hadn’t muddled around with it so long as to render the overwhelming splendor completely lost in translation.

(To The Wonder arrives in limited release this Friday, with plans for a rollout in most major cities to follow.)      Continue reading →

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Hello. My name’s Bob Hill. And a week and a half ago I posted what was supposed to be the opening edition of Moving On: Season Three. The only problem being, it absolutely sucked. I know it. You know it. We all know it. What can I say?

This particular installment was not fun or funny, or even interesting, for that matter. And it fell far short of any, if not all, of the balanced, laid-back standards I’ve generally maintained throughout the series. The only rationale I can provide is that I felt a little overwhelmed at the time, what with life and work and five straight months of winter bearing down. But Spring has sprung, and so have I. And in that spirit, I’ve just gone ahead and tossed that entire piece right out (I can do that, y’know.). For anyone who might be interested (and I have absolutely no idea who that might be), you can still find a slightly cleaner, revamped version of the piece under the Moving On section of this website (i.e., “Bonus Features” section). Otherwise, we shall not ever speak of it again.

Onward. Upward. Let’s get back to having fun.

And thank you so much for reading. It means more to me than you will ever know.

All The Very Best.

Bob Hill

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Robert Redford still has important stories left to tell. And what’s more, he’s apt to tell them. So apt, in fact, that he’s willing to bypass the Hollywood system entirely. Redford not only appears in most of the films he directs, he lends a hand to co-producing, as well. That’s quite a triple bill, especially for a big-screen icon in his 70s.

And the irony of it is, age appears to be the lone sticking point that keeps Redford’s latest film from reaching great heights. The Company You Keep is a well-written, oddly relevant tale about a group of 70s radicals (i.e., The Weather Underground), many of whom are suddenly forced to revisit the sins of their past. The film boasts a remarkable senior cast (Susan Sarandon, Robert Redford, Nick Nolte, Chris Cooper, Richard Jenkins, Sam Elliott, Julie Christie, Chris Cooper, Brendan Gleeson, etc.).  But the average age of said actors is somewhere around 66. And the rust, well, the rust is on pretty embarrassing display here. You can see it in every aspect from the awkward delivery to the slow-moving chase scenes.

While Redford deserves credit for remaining true to who these characters might be, the on-screen interaction does not make for easy viewing. And the truth is, I feel extremely bad saying that, specifically because this movie triumphs on so many other levels (including its ability to rise above Shia LaBeouf). Company takes a holistic view on a number of issues, including the long-term expense of injuring someone else to achieve your own goals. Much like he did in Lions for Lambs, Redford really plays up the student-teacher aspect in this film, drawing specific attention to the role of mainstream media in the age of website journalism. In the end, what it all adds up to is a fairly unique study in the long-lingering effects of running away from one’s past, if not a modern parable about the spoils of avoiding that type of a past altogether.

(The Company You Keep arrives in limited release today, with plans for a national rollout to follow.)  Continue reading →