Frezno's Criterion Challenge: September 2023 Trip Report

Alright, here we are again. It's a bit late this time, and you have my apologies. Between the end of month vacation shenanigans, and getting through things for the Halloween marathon, I've struggled to find the time to get this out there. I've carved a nice window here, and we will use that window to talk about a handful more artsy films from the Criterion Channel. After the first, we go on a bit of a theme this month! Isn't that exciting? You'll find out just what the theme is, but first we must discuss...

34. The Red Shoes (1948, dir. Emeric Pressburger & Michael Powell)

As a fan of Kate Bush, I have of course heard the album and song that took its name from this film, so I was very interested in getting to it. What I got? Well, I have to be honest. I must admit a certain amount of disconnect, as ballet and interpretive dance are not something I'm familiar with: there is a language spoken in this movie through the dancing that I do not speak, and thus part of the film is lost on me. I can tell that its performances of ballet dances are very well-made, and performed quite well by the dancers, but I do not speak the language so there will always remain a certain disconnect.

Where this impresses even a dancing-illiterate film watcher like myself is the dreamlike dancing sequence of the Red Shoes ballet itself; even if I don't understand the words of the dance, I get the vibe. When I went into the film, I was somehow expecting it to be a film about actual cursed red shoes that kept the dancer dancing, but was pleasantly surprised to see this expressed in metaphor instead through the ballet manager Lermontov. He's the Red Shoes, the cursed thing which insists that the dancer must keep dancing and squashes any attempt to thwart that, be it exhaustion or love itself. It's his blinkered nonsense regarding love which both infuriates me and also leads to the tragedy of the end of the film.

It's quite interesting and visually stunning, but I would have loved it more if I spoke the language. Even so, its craft cannot be denied and the way the film presents itself was enough to get a nod from me. 

35. Masculin Feminin (1966, dir. Jean-Luc Godard)

And so the rest of the month follows the theme of the French New Wave, with two films by one of its associated directors sandwiching another in that style. The bread of this cinema sandwich consists of Jean-Luc Godard. Godard is a director I know by name via cultural osmosis, but one whom I never saw a film by until now. So, what's my first impression of Godard? Well, it's sort of like The Red Shoes. I admire the craft and artistry, but there's something holding me back. This time, however, it's not something as at odds as interpretive dance.

This Godard film trades in mundanity and the ordinary day-to-day of a bunch of 60's French kids. That's the sort of thing which drew me to doing this project in the first place, but there's just one small problem with it. The main character, Paul, is a big asshole. He has his moments, but far too much of the film is him being a jackass and shouting at his friends. I do not like it. I do not know if I am meant to not like it, as a deliberate choice, but that does not enhance the movie for me. It leaves me at a disconnect, and with the everyday mundanity I have nothing else to hang on to. I am forced to marinate in this unpleasantness for 105 minutes, looking up at the clock and waiting for it to end. That's not fun.

For some reason I find myself comparing this style to a Martin Scorsese picture with its grimy protagonists. You are not supposed to like a Travis Bickle or a Henry Hill either, but there's a certain suave style and dangerous charm to them that's heightened by Scorsese's atmosphere and filtered reality. Godard lacks this in his movie. It's ordinary life with an ordinary asshole, and I do not enjoy hanging out with him. Like The Red Shoes, there's craft to this movie and it's not an incompetently made film by any means. It is just one I bounced off of, hard. Shame.

36. The Story of a Three-Day Pass (1967, dir. Melvin Van Peebles)

Now this, on the other hand? This is the French New Wave shit I'm here for, and it's not even done by a Frenchman. All it takes for me to like this is one simple change. I like the protagonist of this movie. A black man in the army in Paris gets weekend leave and goes off to have a nice holiday in the city and start a budding romance with a French lady. That's the film, as rooted in the ordinary day-to-day as any Godard picture, except... this guy doesn't suck. Watching him explore the same streets of Paris as the kids in Masculin Feminin is so much more interesting and enjoyable because of that. Maybe it's the tourist angle, the fact that Turner looks at this city with fascination instead of contempt. I don't know.

There are just great little style touches throughout, like Turner talking to his own reflection who's a total pessimist. It's not entirely happy-go-lucky, as there are moments that show Turner has a mean streak lurking within him. Also, spoilers, the romance doesn't have a happy end. That was kind of a bummer, but Turner seems to shrugs it off at the end of the film. It was a fun weekend and a good experience, much like this was a fun film and a good experience. I wonder if more of the French New Wave is like this movie. I hope it is, but to test it out, I tried to go back to Godard again just to see.

37. Contempt (1963, dir. Jean-Luc Godard)

The title is apt. I disliked it even more than Masculin Feminin. Once again, I must give the caveat that everything around the film is well-made. There's no bad acting, the shots are framed well, and there's even some really beautiful seaside vistas to be had in the back half of the film. It all looks very nice, but holy fuck these people are just monstrous. The film spends what seems like an eternity stuck in an apartment as a marriage dissolves, both partners filled with (appropriately-named) contempt for one another. The husband is a piece of shit like the male protagonist in Masculin Feminin, a shouting man who tries to control the relationships around him. The wife just hates his fucking guts, for no seeming reason other than this is a Godard movie and that's what people do in these? Hate the fuck out of each other?

One curious hopeful beacon, though. From what I understand, these two movies are early in Godard's film career. Supposedly things are different as he grows and evolves. I would hope so, because... Fuck, I don't even want to talk about the movie any more. I did not like it. I had quite the unpleasant time with it and I don't really care if that was the "point" of it or not, it just sincerely did not click with me on any level. I am glad to see the back of it, and for the time being I am glad to see the back of Godard. Now, I can go back to spooky movies and pepper in some more Criterion stuff to tell you about at the start of November. Until then, get me the fuck out of this place.