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Reviews
Käsky (2008)
Judging as a movie, not a historical piece
I came to this movie fairly ignorant of its historical basis. I approached "Kasky"as a (half)-Finnish-American wanting to add a few Finnish movies to my collection and perhaps learn something of my thousands-of-miles-distant heritage. ("Talvisota" and "The Unknown Soldier," both excellent and accurate war films, were obtained in the same mail package.) While "Kasky" ("Order") can't be described as historically accurate, it is very effective as a film about war crimes, the human struggle, order (of course) and chaos.
Another reviewer called most of the movie "soft porn," and I have to respectfully disagree: there is quite a bit of sex in this movie, but the sex is a meant to be a tool used to break down or dominate people, not as titillation. It is rare for a movie that has two of its main characters raped during its running time to maintain any semblance of dignity, but "Kasky" manages it.
The acting is wonderfully naturalistic and the production is above my criticism. (The Finnish countryside is gorgeous, so I understand the director's desire to linger occasionally...) Even the child actors are great. "Kasky" may not be the most brilliant movie in the world (or even the most brilliant Finnish movie), but the fact that it creates order out of chaos and hope out of torture makes it piercing, sad and even a little profound. "Kasky" may be revised history, but it hasn't been Hollywoodized at all. Recommended for all but children, Puritans and the faint of heart.
Obsluhoval jsem anglického krále (2006)
Czech movies for the tone deaf
This is a visually lush, well-acted and extremely well-crafted movie about a little man caught in a vast political machine. Like Hasek's Svejk, Hrabal's Dite meanders through war and politics like a kitten in a minefield, and miraculously escapes to tell the tale.
Much has been made (by some reviewers) of the supposed sexism and sympathy for Nazis in this movie. I say "supposed" because neither is actually present; "I Served the King of England" is told in a highly satirical vein, and the deadpan delivery of Oldrich Kaiser's narration as old Dite serves both to condemn what's being shown on screen and make it vaguely humorous and farcical. Dite ignores politics, as much as possible (and as so many Czechs tried to do during the second World War).
To draw a comparison which may or may not be apt, Dite's story reminds me of that of Max Lorenz, an opera singer and Hitler's favorite tenor. Post-WWII he was condemned as a Nazi tenor in many circles; the war tainted his name. But Max Lorenz was homosexual, married to a Jew, and he protected his wife's family from the SS! Dite may have married a Nazi sympathizer, and worked for Nazis, but he shows none of the coldness of an SS serviceman: the scene where he runs after the train heading to the concentration camp holding out a sandwich to the detainees is heartbreaking. And his release of the stamps his wife stole from "deported" Jews speaks strongly to the change that has been wrought in him by the movie's end. Old Jan Dite is no longer politically ignorant or out for himself. He works hard to create a new place for himself, and when the movie ends we know that his work is far from over.
As for the objectification of women: it is absolutely present in this movie, but just because it's on the screen doesn't mean the director approves of it. (I'm a woman, and believe you me, the sex scenes and prostitutes could have been handled *far* more gratuitously.) The satirical element of the film extends into the realm of sexism as well. Throughout both the film and the novel, different groups of people (women, Jews, and yes, Czechs and even Germans) are treated as less than human by another group. This is not right--Menzel agrees, and hammers his point home with images of objectified women, arrested Czech nationalists and abused German teachers. And (perhaps more to the point) all the depictions of women in the film are also in Hrabal's original novel.
This is not an uproariously funny movie, nor is it a heartrendingly dramatic movie. It is, instead, a tone poem: a meditation on life, desire, hope, war, and human nature that doesn't shy away from some of the biggest mistakes and problems in human history. Menzel's light touch and aesthetic eye make it easily watchable, but the murky, dangerous elements of the film lie beneath its pretty surface. As an introduction to Czech cinema, it might not be ideal, but for those who are familiar with Menzel's tone shifts, it is a masterpiece.
La Belle et la Bête (1946)
Illogical Swooning
I know I'm probably going to take some heat for this, but I've watched this movie three times now, very carefully, and I still don't understand what's so wonderful about it. Though this is indeed a version of the "Beauty and the Beast" fairy-tale based on Beaumont's novel, a number of silly subplots muddy things, and character motivations are never explained. I can't even count how many times I rolled my eyes over the course of this movie, because of the gaps in logic and character inconsistencies. If you start thinking about even one of these problems, half a dozen or so will press themselves forward, protesting their relation to it. If you're lucky, they'll all stay trapped in your head. If you're unlucky, they'll escape and start gnawing the furniture.
The title credits contain an injunction to be more "childlike" and open-minded before seeing the movie, since "children believe everything they're told, without question" (not true, but that's a separate point), and this story is (apparently) set in a child-centric world. One thing I retain from my childhood is my dislike of being told what to do and how to think. Any goodwill this movie might have had from me for being financially/technically limited in various ways was just—pfft—gone, after that. It's a cheat, and a lie. Worse, it's an order ("Be enchanted, damn you!").
So, we got off on the wrong foot. That doesn't mean my relationship to this movie couldn't—conceivably—have improved from there. The first scene is promising: Ludovic (Belle's feckless brother) and Avenant (Belle's suitor, precursor to Disney's Gaston) are playing shooting games outside, and very narrowly miss killing one of Belle's evil stepsisters. Belle's father, a merchant, is half-ruined and deeply in debt; his son Ludovic is a "wastrel" who digs them even further into a hole, and the two spoiled sisters care only about wealth and social standing. Belle is cast as a Cinderella figure, "forced" to work because of her father's reduced circumstances. (I prefer the traditional character's *willingness* to help, since it is so in keeping with the story
but I digress.) Avenant, her feckless suitor, offers to take her away from it all and grabs her (why? To carry her off?) when she says no. Ludovic breaks things up.
Belle's father finds out that one of his ships has docked, and goes to see if he can fetch the goods before they get impounded by his creditors. On his way back, he gets lost and stops at a castle that seems to be uninhabited except for disembodied hands that live in the walls and furniture. (For the record: If I ever entered that house and was forced to stay there, I would find a place in the center of the largest room where the hands couldn't reach me, and stay there until I died; that's how repulsed and freaked out I'd be.)
His initial confrontation with the Beast is so ludicrous that I actually wept with laughter. Not only does the Beast give him fifteen minutes to prepare for death(!), not only does the Beast look ludicrous (not just for 1946; I don't care if Marais spent 5 hours in makeup a day), and not only does the Beast have the voice of a woman who's smoked for 30+ years—to top it off, he's trussed up fancier than the vainest royal personage you'll ever see. What happened to the "Beast" part of this story? We don't find out until later that the Beast became the Beast because his parents "didn't believe in fairies/magic"—which is, incidentally, the dumbest reason for becoming a Beast in any version of the legend—it's even worse than the original story's reason. In it, a fairy turned him into a hideous beast after he refused to let her in from the rain.
Later on, he also apologizes "for being a Beast." Why? Even if he's lying and he actually became a Beast because he broke into the Temple of Diana--why? For eating a deer? He's a "Beast.* We shouldn't apologize for who/what we are. If you aren't satisfied with yourself, don't ply me (or Belle, as the case is) with explanations and excuses and pleas for forgiveness. Change yourself, like the rest of us do, and stop griping.
Another strange thing is that even though Belle repulsed Avenant at the beginning—and even though he physically abused her—she still tells the Beast-turned-Prince that she was in love with him. What? *scratches head*
Acting is cartoonish and uninspired, as is the script. There is excessive politeness everywhere (not translated in the subtitles, but my French suffices to pick it up), even between the father and the usurer! I don't know if it's a French thing to be totally polite, constantly, to all one's countrymen, but I really rather doubt it. Dialogue in general is simple at best and clichéd at worst. I realize that we weren't very far from the age of silent movies in 1946, but geez—1952's "Pysna Princezna" was acted (and written) worlds better than this, and "Pysna" is another fairy-movie with some subversive themes, even though it was aimed at children.
People praise the visual style of "La Belle et la Bete" and forget that the movie makes no sense. What's wrong with people? Or with me? I wanted to like and/or understand this movie, but I don't think I ever will, though I've read scads of rave reviews. I don't mean to be harsh, or hate-spewing for the sake of it, but when I sought out helpful negative reviews of this movie (to compare with the hundreds of positive ones), there were very few to be found. So my purpose is twofold: to write that negative review, and to (hopefully) find out what I'm missing.
Slick cinematography (Alekan would go on to do one of my favorite movies, "Der Himmel über Berlin") and a haunting score by Georges Auric can't save this travesty of storytelling.
Panna a netvor (1978)
Panna a Netvor
So, "Panna a Netvor"--"Beauty and the Beast" for English-speakers, though a more accurate translation is "The Maiden and the Monster." It's a more horror-tinged version of the tale, and is really not for little kids.
Fairy tales seem to specialize in magical transformations: beasts into humans , paupers into princes and princesses, etc. But look again and you'll see that the transformations aren't really transformations--Cinderella, for example, was always a princess on the inside; she just had to be recognized as one. So what many fairy tales do is show things as they really are--or, at least, as they should be. This version of "Beauty and the Beast" shows things as they are *and* how they should be, and works toward bridging the gap, making it more modern than your average fairy tale.
When the story starts, things as they are are pretty horrifying: our "Beast" (Netvor) is not a prince--he is never called one, he lives in a mansion and not a castle, and though he has servants they are monsters similar to himself. He is partially a bird and partially a beast (which is represented by both his body and a sinister voice that tells him to kill things, including our "Beauty," Julie). His little voice tells us that he's been fully transmogrified for at least twenty years.
It's usually pretty hard to make any "Beauty" interesting, since she merely exists to be lovely and good so that the "Beast" figure can be saved, but this movie gives it a go. As in the original fairy tale, she is the daughter of a merchant, not an inventor (as in the Disney version); her two selfish, money-obsessed sisters are slated to be married to other merchants, and their father has sunk everything into buying things for their respective weddings. Unfortunately, the goods need to travel through the Black Forest, and the people driving the carts stumble across one of the Beast's trip wires. So all the merchant's property is destroyed, and he and his three daughters are destitute. The merchant goes off with their mother's portrait to sell. The two selfish daughters want gold and gems, but Julie will accept a wild rose (his suggestion, not hers). He *also* needs to go through the Black Forest (WHY? WHY?!), but our Beast has gotten his fill of violence from the destruction of the merchant's goods, so his human side is slightly dominant over his beast one. When the merchant stumbles into the house, the Beast has his servants feed him and give him wine, and he even lays out jewels on the table for the merchant to take in exchange for the portrait. (These gems are not at all valuable to the Beast--magic works according to strange rules in this movie.) Then the merchant takes one of the Beast's roses, and you *know* what happens then. :) When he returns with shiny things, the two older sisters are thrilled, even after the merchant tells them he needs to die because he took a rose for Julie. Unless, of course, one of the three daughters will go back to the Beast in his place (that's always part of the deal)...and there's Julie, riding off into the forest. Notice, though, that the merchant said nothing about a beast.
Anyway, Julie shows up at the manor, drinks some suspicious-looking wine (poured by the gremlin who lives in the chandelier) and passes out. She then has a dream of being shut up in a coffin (alive) and rescued by (we presume) the Beast in human form. While she sleeps, the Beast stands over her and struggles with the little voice that wants him to kill her and drink her blood. Finally, he runs off into the woods and kills a deer.
When Julie wakes up, she's alone. While she's sitting in front of the fire, the Beast shows up behind her, ordering her not to turn around, and he interrogates her. She tells him why she's there. He asks if he can visit her the next night, and the cat-and-mouse chase begins. Believe it or not, the little voice is still pretty adamant about killing her. So her days go on--every morning and evening, the table seems to set itself, and she has pretty jewels and dresses to wear, and life is good. The Beast visits her at night, but only briefly.
Now I need to back up a bit. Magic, in this movie, is dependent on two things: the worth of the object to be transformed and how much the magic-maker/receiver deserves that object. The Beast's gremlins serve him less because he deserves it and more because his force compels it, but it's the same general principle. The gems that the Beast gave Julie's father were created only because he gave up the portrait of his wife--the sentimental value transformed everyday, broken-down objects into precious gemstones, because the merchant deserved them for his sacrifice. Julie's things are beautiful because she deserves them. When she goes home, her sisters insist on "borrowing" (read: stealing) her things, but as soon as the one sister tries on her dress, it turns to rags, and as soon as the other sister tries on her necklace, it turns to mud. Why? Because they don't deserve them. There is a strong element of justice in a lot of fairy-tales, but the theme does not usually play out quite so strongly in "Beauty in the Beast" (which is usually skewed toward *not* judging, based on appearances or anything else).
The Beast is made human due to the same general principles of this magic. He works toward deserving happiness. Julie is an active agent, but he is (as Michelangelo said) the marble and the sculptor--the substance, and the worker of that substance.
The end is a reprise of Julie's earlier dream, and is very '70's and a little tacky. Ah well.
This is probably my favorite version of the fairy tale. Recommended.