Monthly Archives: August 2022

  • Paris, Texas

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Wim Wenders (1984)

    Wim Wenders’s famous film means a lot to plenty of cineastes and, perhaps, to plenty of people who feel it speaks to their personal experience of separation and loss.  Shot by Wenders’s frequent collaborator Robby Müller, Paris, Texas is often visually impressive.  On the soundtrack, Ry Cooder’s guitar music is almost invasively effective.  Harry Dean Stanton, in his first lead role at the age of fifty-eight, gives a fine performance.  Yet I found the film unmoving and increasingly artificial – arty-ficial may be a better word.

    From the start of his cinema career, Wenders showed a penchant for road movies.  His first six features include Alice in the Cities (1974), The Wrong Move (1975) and Kings of the Road (1976), now known as his ‘Road Movie Trilogy’.  The last of those three films includes the much-quoted line ‘The Americans have colonised our unconscious’, and Wenders’s fascination with the mythic power of American popular culture was a recurring theme in his work.  The Road Movie Trilogy pictures are set, mostly or wholly, in West Germany, which enables Wenders to show American cultural osmosis at work in his native land as well as in his film-making.  When America is the setting, as it is in Paris, Texas, the effect is inevitably different.  The title, although it’s the name of a real place, implies confusion between continental Europe and the US:  mentions of Paris in the film, written by Sam Shepard and L M Kit Carson, usually involve a character’s mistakenly assuming a reference to the French capital.  The director’s intrigued outsider’s eye promises to complement and enlarge this cultural collision but Wenders’s aestheticising European perspective so dominates that he alienises America – from Texas to California, where a good part of the action takes place.  Even allowing that estrangement is central to the story, the people in it come across as unreal strangers in a strange land.

    The best part of the film is the start, when the distinctive imagery is still a novelty.  The protagonist, Travis Henderson (Stanton), walking alone in the vastness of the West Texas desert, cuts an extraordinary (and memorable) figure in his shabby suit and tie, topped off with a red baseball cap.  Although he’s thirsty and tired, Travis walks with purpose until he stumbles into an isolated bar, where he collapses.  A doctor who examines Travis can’t get a word out of him but finds a telephone number in his pocket, and calls it.  The call is answered, in Los Angeles, by Walt Henderson (Dean Stockwell), Travis’s younger brother.  Travis has been missing for four years, presumed dead by Walt and his wife Anne (Aurore Clément).  Walt sets off immediately for Texas.  He arrives to learn from his brother’s doctor (Bernhard Wicki) that Travis has wandered off from the clinic where he was treated.  Walt, in his hired car, tracks him down.

    The early scenes between Travis and Walt work well.  Travis remains mute and his oddness plays against the relative normality of Walt, increasingly exasperated by his brother’s silence.  It’s a highlight when Walt, after crossly asking how long he’s going to keep the act up, carries on chuntering and doesn’t catch Travis’s first word, which arrives about half an hour into the film.  The word is Paris.  Travis shows Walt a photo of what’s apparently waste ground – a piece of land in Paris, Texas that he purchased, believing he was conceived in the town.  This is where Travis says he wants to go.  Instead, after a couple of false starts, he and Walt head back to the latter’s home.  Following Travis’s disappearance and that of his estranged wife Jane, Walt and Anne took over the care of Hunter (Hunter Carson), Jane and Travis’s only child.  Now seven years old, Hunter remembers little of his birth parents.  He treats Anne and Walt as, and calls them, mom and dad.

    Once Travis joins the household, he and Hunter soon develop a strong bond.  Anne tells Travis that Jane has recently been in touch:  Hunter’s mother, says Anne, travels to Houston, Texas on the same date each month to make a deposit in a bank account for her son.  Travis determines to see Jane again; he gets money (from Walt) to buy a car so that he can drive to Houston in time for Jane’s next visit.  He tells Hunter that he’s leaving Los Angeles, the boy wants to go with Travis and they set off on the road together without further ado.  When they eventually arrive in Houston, Hunter, who has seen home movies in which his mother appears, recognises Jane (Nastassja Kinski) leaving the bank.  He and Travis follow her car to Jane’s place of work – a club where male clients sit in booths partitioned by one-way mirrors and equipped with phones; the club’s strippers, of whom Jane is one, sit on the dark side of the mirror showing clients whatever they ask to see.  Travis wants only to talk to Jane and avoids looking in the mirror.  Puzzled by the halting conversation, she starts to remove her top but Travis tells her to stop.  After talking for a while more, he glimpses her and leaves.

    Paris, Texas clearly isn’t aiming for thoroughgoing realism but it nevertheless depends on the credibility and motivation of its characters.  If you don’t believe, on a realistic level, what they’re doing, it distances you from the people on the screen and gives increased salience to other aspects of what you’re watching.  Harry Dean Stanton is beautifully expressive, especially in his eyes and his movement, but you admire the actor without being absorbed by the man – or, rather, the conception – that he’s playing.  The best acting in the film after Stanton’s comes from Dean Stockwell but he has a frustrating role.  Walt runs a company designing and posting billboard material in the Hollywood area.  This symbolic line of work is a means to an end – a dialogue between Walt and Travis on a high platform in front of the billboard and its latest advertisement, which dwarfs them both.  When Travis and Hunter disappear to Houston, Walt and his wife virtually disappear from the film; they’re not seen again after learning through a phone call that Hunter is with Travis.  Because the story’s destination requires that a father and son go in search of the one’s wife and the other’s mother, the distress of the abandoned Walt and Anne, who have no children of their own, counts for nothing.

    The West Texas desert at the start is the most under-populated location but almost everywhere else in the America of this film is short of human beings – and particularly of Americans.  The doctor who first looks after Travis is played by an Austrian, who speaks heavily accented English.  Even though Aurore Clément really is French, she occasionally suggests an Anglophone actor pretending to be.  Both she and Bernhard Wicki come over as superfluous reminders that Wim Wenders isn’t American either.  Nastassja Kinski, though her face tends to show only what you suspect the director has asked her to show, makes a good job of her Texan drawl but her presence also has the effect of stressing the foreignness of Wenders’s cast.  Hunter Carson stands out for different reasons.  The son of L M Kit Carson and Karen Black, he’s a highly capable child actor but often a knowing one.  It’s hardly his fault, though, that the behaviour of his namesake in the film is particularly hard to accept.  Hunter is believably drawn to Travis as a novelty and because of his father’s eccentric charm.  It’s incredible that the boy never shows any sign of missing his de facto parents or any other part of home, even when Hunter is cooped up alone in a Houston hotel room while Travis returns to the club for a more extended session with Jane.

    By this stage in the film, you remark Wenders’s designs more than you engage with his characters.  When the action moves to Houston, you notice primarily that Travis and Hunter both wear red shirts and Jane drives a red car.  Even in the long second exchange between Travis and Jane, and although Harry Dean Stanton and Nastassja Kinski compel attention, they’re upstaged by the ingenious camerawork showing their heads and faces in the one-way mirror.  In this, the climax to Paris, Texas, Travis tells the story of his and Jane’s life together and the events that led up to his fugue state at the start of the film.  In doing so, he refers to himself and Jane not in the first and second person but as a man and the much younger woman he married and with whom he had a child.  The woman suffered from post-natal depression; the man, who suspected her of infidelity, became an abusive alcoholic.  One night, in their trailer, he tied her and their child to a stove.  He woke to find their home on fire and his family gone.  Jane now knows whose voice she’s hearing (it’s a wonder she didn’t during Travis’s first monologue) and what he’s talking about.  When Travis tells her that Hunter is in Houston and where, Jane makes her way to the hotel and is reunited with her son.  Seeing them embrace, Travis gets in his car and drives off.  Aficionados of Paris, Texas love this finale for its mythic completeness.  I guess there’s no arguing with that.

    4 August 2022

  • Amulet

    Old YorkerFilm review

    Romola Garai (2020)

    So Alex Garland’s Men wasn’t the first horror film this year to feature male parturition.  It also occurs a few minutes before the end of Romola Garai’s debut feature Amulet (which premiered at Sundance in 2020 but didn’t open in British cinemas until January 2022).  Garai’s protagonist, Tomaz (Alec Secăreanu), manages only a single birth, which might seem not to compare with the 4 x Rory Kinnear relay team in Men.  The achievement isn’t to be sniffed at, though:  Tomaz brings forth a demon (of sorts).  Alex Garland, of course, proclaims at an early stage of proceedings that all the men in Men are the devil incarnate.  I wish I liked and understood Amulet better than I do but Romola Garai, who also wrote the screenplay, has an edge on Garland in keeping Tomaz’s toxic masculinity under wraps for most of her film’s ninety-nine minutes – though it’s clear from the start that he’s haunted by his past.

    The action switches back and forth between that past, in a war-torn, unnamed European country, and Tomaz’s present life in London as an illegal immigrant.  In what was presumably his homeland, he was a border guard, stationed at a forest checkpoint and lodging in a cabin nearby.  (It’s in the forest that he unearths the ancient image of a female god that gives the film its name.)  When he sees a woman (Angeliki Papoulia) running for the border, Tomaz orders her to stop and threatens to shoot.  The woman collapses; he takes her to his cabin to recover; she tells him her name is Miriam and that she must cross the border to get to her daughter; he says that if she stays with him, he can help her.  In London, Tomaz works on a building site and sleeps in a derelict property with other refugees.  One night the place is set on fire and Tomaz, although he escapes, collapses in an alleyway after inhaling smoke.  He’s discovered there by a nun, Sister Claire (Imelda Staunton), who gets him to hospital and, when he’s recovered, suggests new accommodation.  She takes Tomaz to a dilapidated suburban house, occupied by Magda (Carla Juri) and her dying mother, for whom Magda cares.  The money Tomaz earned as a labourer disappeared on the night of the fire.  He stays in the house rent-free, doing repairs on the place in exchange for bed and board.  Magda is an excellent cook but night-times are an ordeal for Tomaz.  Sleeping with his arms and legs taped together, he’s plagued by flashback nightmares.

    Romola Garai lays on the ominous details pretty thick, with the help of Sarah Angliss’s eerie theremin music.  The invalid mother – in the attic – goes unseen for a time; her wheezing moans and occasional violent rage with her daughter are not unheard.  The nun, when Tomaz asks if she knows what happened to his hard-earned cash, pretends ignorance; as she walks away from Magda’s house, with Tomaz safely installed there, Sister Claire throws his wad of notes into a street grating.  A swinging, flickering light bulb is both an anomaly and a portent.  Magda tells Tomaz the house has no electricity supply – only gas for cooking, and candles – because mother tends to put her fingers in the sockets.  Although the resulting gloom is bad news for the viewer, at least it’s possible to discern Garai’s flair for creating potently revolting highlights:  a blocked toilet; a fish that Magda guts in preparation for Tomaz’s supper; and, in due course, the suppurating living cadaver of her mother (Anah Ruddin, under the grisly make-up).  The lack of light isn’t great either for Tomaz, who would like to work in his room in the evenings on his doctoral thesis.  He tells Magda his subject is philosophy and he reads a book by Hannah Arendt, though I couldn’t make out the title in the murk.

    As Tomaz tries to unblock the toilet, an animal form rises to the surface and he yanks it out.   Apparently the skeleton of a bat, the creature bites him before he kills it.  Later on, when Magda’s mother has appeared on the scene, she gives birth to a similar creature.  Tomaz consults Sister Claire, who explains the mother is the host body for a demon and has been charged to ‘contain’ it, with the help of Magda.  As she discourses, with solemn passion, on the nature of evil, Sister Claire is still wimpled but she has begun a process of transformation.  She now smokes a cigarette, in a holder, with a worldly air.  The next time Tomaz encounters her, she has swapped her clerical garb for a dress whose vivid colours are a welcome contrast to the dank, dark palette that dominates the film.

    Just as Jessie Buckley was in Men, so Amulet‘s protagonist is nearly the sole representative of their sex in evidence.  There are other male refugees; there must be men, too, in the night club where Tomaz takes Magda dancing and the local market where they shop together, but you don’t notice them.  Garai can thus concentrate exclusively on Tomaz’s relationships with and treatment of women.  At the start of the film, he does a little dance on a felled tree in the forest; he takes Magda to the night club because she tells him she’d like to spend all her nights out dancing rather than stuck at home.  They have a good time at the club until she kisses him and a momentary flashback makes Tomaz pull away.  They eventually sleep together but not before Garai has revealed his guilty secret.  Miriam, who stays with him, is nervous at first but he treats her kindly and is grateful for her company in his lonely vigil.  Her priority, though, remains to get back to her daughter.  She makes another run for the border with Tomaz in pursuit.  He overpowers Miriam and rapes her.

    Tomaz admits to Magda he’s done things that he regrets.  Calling to mind the male refrain from Emerald Fennell’s Promising Young Woman (also 2020), he insists he’s nevertheless a good guy.  Garai’s view is evidently that he can’t be, even if his raping Miriam was out of character.  And perhaps it wasn’t:  there’s already been a suggestion of frustration on his part that Miriam doesn’t reciprocate his interest in her.  (She worked for the local authority.  Tomaz recalls seeing her in the town hall while he was queueing for university application forms.  He finds it hard to believe Miriam doesn’t remember him.)  Yet Garai also, and cannily, predisposes her audience to sympathy with Tomaz.  He’s a victim himself – a refugee on the receiving end of racist abuse (and, presumably, racist arson) in London.  He’s quietly intelligent and apparently well meaning but his efforts to free Magda from her grim existence are doomed to spectacular, gory failure.  He tries to destroy the mother/demon by stabbing its throat; like the bat in the loo, it retaliates by attacking Tomaz before Magda pulls it off.  On a second attempt, he beheads the demon only to discover that its host wasn’t Magda’s mother:  the host body belonged to the previous occupant of the house, a man who murdered his wife in order to marry one of his daughters.  There’s been another male presence, hidden and malign, in the house – and the film – all along.

    Tomaz then learns from Sister Claire that he himself will be the demon’s new host.  Is this punishment for his assault on Miriam, which exposes him for what he is really is?   Nothing as simple as that, according to what Romola Garai told Alexandra Pollard in an Independent interview earlier this year:

    ‘I was trying to write about, not men who hate women being a threat to women, but men who love women being a threat to women,’ she explains. ‘The reverence of women – the idea of an all-forgiving, all-understanding woman – is a threat to women.  Tomaz is not a weird outsider, or some kind of social outcast, he’s a man who likes women, you know?  But that in itself is the problem.’

    Garai’s words elide the distinctions between men liking, loving and revering women but Amulet’s blood-soaked climax appears to teach Tomaz a lesson for chivalrous devotion to Magda.

    There were things I found increasingly puzzling in the film.  What’s the significance of Tomaz doing philosophy research?  Is there supposed to be a link between the apparently Eastern European setting of the war zone and Magda’s nationality, hinted at in her name and accented English (although Carla Juri is Swiss)?  In the finale to Amulet, I completely lost the plot.  What’s the connection, if any, between Magda and her mother, and the hapless women in the life of the house’s previous owner?  If the latter is the real host body, what’s the relationship between his body and that of Magda’s mother?  It’s when Tomaz discovers he’s the new host that he gives birth to another skeletal bat – but what do these evil offspring do in the world beyond blocking toilets?  Tomaz, as the host, is allowed by Sister Claire to choose a guardian and opts for Magda.  In an epilogue to the main action, she drives to a store and buys some meaty convenience food.  Miriam, who is working behind the counter, tells her it’s crap.  Magda says she doesn’t mind because she hates cooking anyway.  She returns to her car and chucks the food onto the back seat, where it’s received by something concealed by a blanket.  It’s no doubt Tomaz but I’ve no idea what this is meant to tell us.

    Garai also mentioned to the Independent that, ‘I don’t mind if people feel pissed off at the end.  That’s the fun’.  Until the closing stages, though, Amulet, despite its bizarreries, is rather dull.  This is partly the effect of the glum visuals, partly down to the main performances.  Carla Juri’s mostly forlorn and laconic Magda seems pretty generic.  Alec Secăreanu’s Tomaz, though his face is remarkably different according to whether he’s bearded (in London) or clean-shaven (in the forest scenes), is long-suffering in the wrong way:  he conveys tortured melancholy scrupulously but slowly and repetitively.  One good thing about Tomaz’s eventual demonisation is that it gives Secăreanu an eleventh-hour chance to be nastily dynamic, which he takes.  Imelda Staunton’s theatrical poise is fun but the staged metamorphosis of her character is too silly for words.  It’s hard to think this is what Romola Garai intended but who knows?

    2 August 2022

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