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vanessa77
Reviews
Dogville (2003)
The work of an extraordinarily good storyteller
After having recently seen Lars Von Trier's latest in a string of strong morality-play style films, it's starting to become clear to me that Von Trier really is becoming an extraordinarily good storyteller.
That's not to say that `Dogville' isn't yet another experimental departure in form for Von Trier: it is. While its sheer lack of sets and on-location shooting causes the film to far more closely resemble the kind of front-row view that you might expect of a stage play than that you would expect of a fully realised film, the effect of that is two-fold. Firstly, it focuses the eye on the pure performances that are laid before it, and secondly, it focuses the mind on the moral and philosophical issues that underscore the film.
With regard to the former, all of the performances in this film are excellent: Nicole Kidman's central role is subtly played and perfectly paced (in many ways reminiscent of her equally stellar performance in Gus Van Sant's To Die For) and it is nothing short of a pleasure to see Lauren Bacall back on screen.
As to the philosophical themes which Von Trier slowly and delicately unfurls during the course of this film, I don't intend to go into their narrative specifics in any great depth for fear of ruining the film for anyone who hasn't seen it as yet; but suffice it to say that during the course of this film, Von Trier takes his audience on a journey that begins with an act of pure altruism and ends with one of pure vengeance.
In the midst of that journey, Von Trier confronts his audience with the following philosophical question: should we forgive in others things that we would not permit of ourselves? The answer that the film gives is, quite plainly: no.
For forgiving of others things that we simply would not do ourselves, Von Trier avers that we are placing ourselves above them, essentially imagining their characters' to be inferior to our own, and consequently permitting more of them. The film argues that this kind of behavior is not so much the hallmark of a kind and altruistic heart, but rather a display of pure arrogance.
It's difficult to find a flaw in Von Trier's logic here, even where it intersects with the very Christian ideal of `turning the other cheek', for the film's criticism simply cannot extend to the biblical acts of Christ himself (who, as the son of God, had every reason in the world to be arrogant - but was not).
Von Trier's film loops back at its end to pick up the thread of another familiar biblical theme, but to find out which one it is, those of you who haven't seen the film yet will need to (and I do hope that you manage to enjoy it as much as I did).
- Vanessa Long
He Died with a Felafel in His Hand (2001)
Destined to be a cult favourite
After far too long a break, cult Australian director Richard Lowenstein has finally committed himself to film again with He Died with a Felafel In His Hand, a film based on John Birmingham's cult novel of the same name.
Funny, philosophical and forthright, He Died with a Felafel In His Hand tracks the life of Danny (Noah Taylor), a terminally unemployed, debt ridden young writer who is in the midst of his 47th chaotic shared household experience in Brisbane, Australia. The wiles of pagan princesses, neo-fascists and love interests aside, the Brisbane experience isn't even going to be Danny's last shared household experience.
At Danny's side in each of the film's shared houses in which he resides are fellow drifters Sam (Emily Hamilton), Flip (Brett Stewart) and Anya (Romane Bohringer). Tipped out of the confines of tertiary education, each of these characters finds themselves lost in a world that can offer them neither jobs, direction, or hope. Brought together by the microcosm that is communal domestic life, these twenty-something's struggle side by side to try and understand the point of love, life and existence as they roam across shared households in Brisbane, Melbourne and Sydney.
The games of cane toad golf played in the shared house in Brisbane, the policemen at the door with twitchy trigger fingers in Melbourne and the polished floorboards carpeted with over-inflated egos in Sydney all act as fitting tip-offs to the character of the city's in which the shared houses reside - effectively creating a neo-realism that is heightened by the film's use of on-location shooting.
While this film shows that the shared household experience is often a source of comedy and melodrama, it isn't always a bed of roses. Central character, Danny, describes the dictum that hell is other people well in the film, as he explains, "I've lived in 49 shared households in what seems as many years. I've been ripped off, raided, threatened, burnt out, shot at, cheated on, scabbed in every one of those years. My beds are foam slabs on the floor. My cupboards are stacks of stolen milk crates. I've lived with tent-dwelling bank clerks, albino moontanners, psycho f***ing drama queens, acid eaters, mushroom farmers, brothel crawlers, hard-core separatist lesbians and obscurely tiger-throated Japanese girls! I'm in a psycho-f***ing nightmare from hell and I'm f***ing fed up with it!"
Having read John Birmingham's book, I can see how this film may upset die hard fans of the novel through its reduction of scores of shared house escapades to just three, however, I tend to think that Lowenstein's approach is the right one. The book simply had too great a volume of characters, locations and scenarios for a feature length film to cover if it was to maintain any sense of coherence as a film. I felt that Lowenstein's crystallisation of the book's key scenes, played out through an amalgamation of its most intriguing characters, allowed the novel's most striking elements to intelligently come to the fore on film.
Lowenstein's approach effectively brings to the screen a beautiful, brooding character study that's one part dirty realist comedy, one part existential allegory, but more than anything, a maturation of Lowenstein's own directorial style, as evidenced in his last cult hit, Dogs in Space. This film's fine performances, allegorical dialogue, philosophical themes, use of music and sense of muted melodrama also stands up well alongside the fine tradition of American independent filmmaking propounded by directors such as Hal Hartley and Jim Jarmusch.
Much like the cult novel and film versions of Less Than Zero, the story of He Died with a Felafel In His Hand has borne two great texts which stand up well in their own right, whilst also complementing one another. Just released on region 4 DVD, He Died with a Felafel In His Hand is similarly destined to be an instant cult favourite. By rights, it should also be the film that makes Richard Lowenstein's name on the international stage. I hope that this happens.
Highly recommended.
Vanessa Long