"The Scarlet Empress" - Josef von Sternberg (1934)

Josef von Sternberg’s The Scarlet Empress (1934) recounts the rise to power of Empress Catherine II of Russia (Catherine the Great). This was the sixth von Sternberg film that starred Marlene Dietrich and was the second time, after Dishonored (1931) in which she played a character modeled after Mata Hari, that he cast her as a a willful woman in a historically-based drama. Unlike the other Sternberg-Dietrich films, in which the focus is essentially on romantic love, The Scarlet Empress and Dishonored place a greater emphasis on historical melodrama (although, to be sure, Dietrich’s romantic persona is always given attention). This was perhaps von Sternberg’s most extravagant venture into the historical costume drama genre (in his own words, “a relentless excursion into style”), and the film’s most memorable aspects are certainly its lavish production values employing elaborate custom-designed sets and moodily sculpted cinematography. The overall effect of the intense mise-en-scene is the evocation of 18th century Russia, shrouded in the mysteries of semi-barbarism and unpredictable passions. Some reviewers criticized the film (it was not a financial success) for its overindulgence in visual expressionism, but, in my view, von Sternberg should have followed his instincts and gone even further in this direction. It was the failure to realize fully its expressionist potential by tolerating or encouraging some histrionics on the part of some of his cast that ultimately compromised the film.

The story is set during the years 1744-1762, when Catherine rose to power and became Empress of Russia and, though exaggerated in its tone, largely follows the historical record. The narrative has roughly four main sections, which do not fit smoothly together to form a perfectly coherent tale.

1. In the opening section, Catherine, born as Sophia Frederica, is shown as a young princess born into the minor family of the German aristocracy. In 1744, at the age of 15, she learns that she is to be betrothed to the crown prince of Russia (later Peter III), whom she has never met. She is to travel immediately to Moscow for the marriage. She is escorted on this trip by handsome Count Alexei, a character who may have been modeled after the real Count Alexei Grigorevich Razumovsky, who was an important figure in the Russian court and was a paramour of the Empress Elizabeth Petrovna, mother of the crown prince. This section primarily presents colorful backdrops associated with the seven-week journey to Moscow and the sudden change in circumstances of the young wide-eyed teenager.
2. In Moscow Sophia is forced to convert to the Russian Orthodox church and change her name to “Catherine”. When she meets the crown prince, her husband-to-be (who was actually about 16 years old at this time but is played by the 43-year-old Sam Jaffe), she discovers that he is far from handsome and behaves in a childish, foolish manner. This section covers the lavish trappings of the Russian court and the extensive ceremonial proceedings of their marriage. Not unexpectedly, the disappointed Catherine does not hit it off well with her new husband, and consequently the Empress, upon learning of this rebellious incompatibility, compels Catherine to become her personal servant in order to “learn how to be a proper Russian wife”. At this time Catherine has another disappointment when she learns that Count Alexei, towards whose private romantic entreaties she had felt a strong attraction, is actually the Empress’s secret lover. So far we are more than an hour into the film, and Catherine has been treated like a pretty slave, deprived of any autonomy and chances for future happiness.
3. In the third section, Catherine is shown taking on her own secret lovers, which ultimately leads to her giving birth to the desired son (in 1754), who will be the heir to the Russian throne. Having achieved some standing for this achievement in the royal court, Catherine cynically sets out on a course to pursue power of her own. This is actually a matter of survival, because Peter, who is portrayed as a savage half-wit, reveals his intentions of getting rid of her the moment that he ascends to the throne.
4. In 1762, the Empress dies, and as soon as Peter III becomes the czar, he issues a wave of cruel edicts that plunge the nation into violent chaos. Meanwhile Catherine is courting favor with the military and the Church in order to bolster her own political power. One of the lovers shown, Captain Orlov, was a real historical figure, and Catherine displays her new acquired toughness before her old crush, Count Alexei, by flaunting her romantic preference for Olov in front of him. The film ends with a dramatic coup d’etat by the military that overthrows and kills Peter and installs Catherine as the new empress of Russia.

It is certainly the principal virtue of The Scarlet Empress that it has some extraordinarily powerful and dramatic cinematography that almost overwhelms the viewer. The sets are utterly dark and gothic, decorated with candelabras, mysterious gargoyles, and strange gigantic architectural formations. There are numerous atmospheric processional scenes of court members moving through the cavernous palace in solemn observance to what seem to be semi-barbaric cultural rituals. The candle-lit gothic interiors, in fact, are some of von Sternberg’s most expressionistic realizations. Kenji Mizoguchi once remarked that von Sternberg was a major influence on his own style, and when viewing the interior tracking shots of The Scarlet Empress, one can see on display a foreshadowing of some of Mizoguchi’s ingenious camera style.

All of these beautifully shot scenes have their evocative effectiveness, to be sure, but they are essentially set pieces that can amplify, but not fully constitute, an effective narrative. In the case of The Scarlet Empress, there are shortcomings in the other areas of (a) acting and (b) the narrative, itself, that ultimately prove fatal to the movie achieving the status of a masterpiece.

Acting.
There are two insuperable thespian catastrophes in the film that cannot be overcome by any degree of cinematography. The first problem was the disastrous miscasting of Louise Dresser as Empress Elizabeth. Although Dresser was an established character actress, her homespun American Midwestern accent (from Indiana) is utterly wrong for a member of the Russian court. Her verbal style and cornfed mannerisms are more appropriate to Ma Kettle than they are to a queen, and they are deadly to the sustenance of audience immersion in a dark expressionistic fantasy.

Equally alarming is the performance of Sam Jaffe, in his first film appearance, as the crown prince, Peter. Jaffe later got an Oscar nomination for his performance in The Asphalt Jungle (1950), but his performance here is disturbingly off-key. It might be possible to portray Peter as a man of limited intelligence, but Jaffe’s portrayal is so full of leering and wild, manic grimaces that one can only conclude that it was played for laughs. In fact the image of Harpo Marx is almost impossible to drive from one’s mind while watching the film. This ludicrous performance has led some critics to commend it as an early form of high camp, but it is ruinous to any audience involvement in the story. When Dietrich provides innuendo and irony, she usually manages to stay within the scope of the drama. But Jaffe is so over-the-top that all suspension of disbelief is destroyed.

For her part, Marlene Dietrich’s performance is overly constrained, because there is little dramatic range available to her. In Sections 1 and 2, she has to play an innocent 15-year-old, so she can do little more than offer pretty, wide-eyed glances of astonishment. Later on, she has a few better moments, but there are no opportunities for the display of nuance or romantic passion.

Narrative.
The success of any film is crucially dependent on the degree to which the narrative is compelling. In this film, the choppy set pieces fail to maintain a narrative rhythm. In all of the other von Sternberg films with Marlene Dietrich, there is a highly romantic theme that carries the story. In these cases, there are usually two men interested in the Dietrich character, one of whom is a handsome, arrogant, and selfish lothario, while the other is a sensitive gentleman with less obviously prepossessing charms. Dietrich often falls at first for the lothario-type alpha male, but the audience knows that the sensitive gentleman offers her a better long-term chance at happiness. (Critics usually assume that the sensitive gentleman character is an embodiment of von Sternberg’s own civilized sensibilities.) In all these movies, the interest is to watch the dialectic involving this triangle. In The Scarlet Empress, there is again the handsome stud, in this case Count Alexei. But the competing, less impressive, suitor is not a sensitive gentleman in this film, but is, instead, a cruel lunatic. Some people have sensed some metaphorical overtones concerning the evolution of the Dietrich-von-Sternberg relationship in this, but we will not speculate about that here. All we can say is that an interesting romantic dialectic never takes shape in this film.

In fact, there is only a tease. After 87 minutes of film, with the tiresome Empress Elizabeth finally permanently out of earshot, it appears that Count Alexei and Catherine will finally get together for a tryst. But when Alexei, by now thoroughly smitten, finally gets his chance to go to her bedchamber, Catherine sadistically taunts him by employing him as a messenger to summon her new lover, Captain Orlov.

Incidentally, the sturdy he-man, Count Alexei, was played by John Lodge, a scion of the prominent Bostonian family who later served as the governor of the State of Connecticut. His forceful presence supplies some useful dramaturgical weight early in the piece, but it disappointingly fades away to insignificance in the last half of the film. As a consequence, there is never any real, romantic passion shown in this film – only the numerous sardonic references to people using each other as sexual playthings. This may amuse, but it does not captivate.

The political and characterological dialectic doesn’t take much shape, either. In Section 3 of the narrative, Catherine’s transition from naive ingenue to cynical political string-puller, which is the key turning of the story, happens rather quickly and without clear motivation.

Conclusion.
While The Scarlet Empress was a stunning spectacle, it was the least successful of the seven films that von Sternberg made with Dietrich. One can watch the cinematographic dazzle with a certain degree of wonder, but that is all. The delirious dream of romantic passion, of which von Sternberg is capable, is not summoned before the viewer on this occasion. But the von Sternberg and Dietrich magic was to return in their next and last outing, The Devil is a Woman.
★★★

"Blonde Venus" - Josef von Sternberg (1932)

Josef von Sternberg’s fifth film starring Marlene Dietrich, Blonde Venus (1932), is another one of his great expressionist fantasies. Like most of von Sternberg’s work, the film is highly romantic and features a melodramatic plot that stretches all credibility. Yet von Sternberg’s unique mise-en-scene pulls the viewer into a delirious world of romantic passions and their entangled worldly involvements that ultimately overcomes the ordinary demands for strict realism. As with others of his films, such as Morocco and Shanghai Express, you must approach Blonde Venus as you might an opera or a poem and allow yourself to succumb to its charms.

The never-more-alluring Dietrich gives one of her best performances, and her two male co-stars, Herbert Marshall and Cary Grant (in one of his first major appearances) also perform admirably, despite being cast in somewhat stereotyped roles. Other memorable performances include child star Dickie Moore, and the character actor Robert Emmett O'Connor. Despite von Sternberg’s penchant for moody, lingering scenes that define and shift key interpersonal relationships, the plot covers a lot of ground, along with dramatic ups and downs, in reasonably short order. Here is an outline of the films sections:

1. Forest Flirtation in Europe. American students hiking in a German forest encounter some women theatrical performers swimming in the nude. One of them, Ned, engages in a jaunty, flirtatious conversation with a pretty bather, Helen.
2. Married in New York. The story cuts quickly to a scene about six years later showing Ned, a nuclear chemist, and his housewife, Helen, now married and with a five-year-old son, Johnny. Ned has recently suffered radiation poisoning and has only months to live, unless he can find $1500 (roughly $25,000 today) for some new experimental treatment available in Germany. To raise the money, Helen goes back onto the stage as a cabaret singer, performing as the “Blonde Venus”. She is an immediate hit when she performs the jungle-rhythm jazz song “Hot Voodoo” (one of the three songs she sings in the film). In fact she is such a hit that she attracts the amorous attentions of suave millionaire, Nick Townsend (Grant), who immediately gives Helen the money to send Ned overseas for the treatment.
3. Helen and Nick in NYC. With Ned away for six months, Helen is unable to resist Nick Townsend's dazzling charms and becomes his mistress. Meanwhile Ned has been cured in Europe and returns a couple of weeks earlier than expected, upon which he discovers Helen’s infidelity. Enraged, he orders her out. She grabs Johnny and takes flight on the train.
4. Helen and Johnny on the Road. For the next thirteen minutes Helen and Johnny are only a step ahead of the Bureau of Missing Persons (Ned wants Johnny back) as they move from one town to another. Sometimes Helen gets some performing gigs, but she slips more and more into destitution and desperation. Eventually, the police catch up with her, and she has to surrender Johnny. Helen, now penniless, homeless, and with a scandalous reputation, has reached rock bottom and has turned to prostitution and alcohol.
5. Helen and Nick in Europe. But somehow Helen pulls herself together, and in a dramatic turn she manages to get to Paris and to revive her singing career. Soon she is a big cabaret star again – the “Blonde Venus” is back. Nick, having earlier fled to Europe to forget about Helen, shows up to one her shows, and in no time they are lovers again. He knows that she misses her son, though, and offers to bring her back to New York so she can be close to him.
6. Finale in New York. Back in New York, Nick escorts Helen back to her old apartment, where the still bitter Ned doesn’t want her to see his son. But after a nasty exchange, he relents, and watches as the boy responds to his mother's tenderness. In a touching final scene, Johnny triggers the suppressed affections that Ned has for his wife, and the two become reconciled.

Consider the dramatic changes in Helen’s fortunes over the course of the narrative. In section 1, she is an entertainer in Germany and probably a star. In section 2, she has been just a housewife in a lower middle-class family for six years, but then returns to the stage and becomes a big star again. In sections 3 and 4, Helen is gradually reduced to penury and shame. In section 5 she is a big star again, and in section 6, she goes back to being a housewife. These events are presented over a cinematic narrative that has amazingly dramatic speedups and slowdowns over the course of its 93 minutes. For example, the tender scenes with Ned, Helen, and Johnny are evocatively slow moving (the final scene lasts nine minutes). And there are three rousing Dietrich cabaret numbers also presented in the film (in sections 2, 4, and 5) that take up about a dozen minutes. But the dramatic circumstantial rises to glory can be covered quickly, because the main focus of the story is not so much on Helen’s position in society, but on the way she engages in personal relationships.

It is worth remarking, for those unfamiliar, that Marlene Dietrich’s sultry singing style, with its husky voice and allusions to untamed desire, was unique. It musically expresses the mysterious nature of her magnetism. In von Sternberg’s films Dietrich is always the quintessential embodiment of feminine irony, with an intuitive compass that questions all rules and conventions. There are always those sly, watchful eyes, which mask deep unknowable and unquenchable passions. Most of her songs in these films reflect a carefree acceptance of her never-ending susceptibility to love and to falling in love. Of all her songs, my all-time favorite Dietrich song is in this film, “You Little So-and-So”, which is performed while she is on the road in Section 4, and it is so enchanting that I reprise the lyrics here:

"You Little So-and-So"

It isn’t often that I want a man
But when I do, it’s just too bad
I know you’re acting hard to get, and yet
I’ve got the feeling you can be had.

You, so-and-so, you little so-and-so
Look what you’ve done to me
You’re almost twice as bad as... Who’s this again?
I ought to take you out and .... How have you been?

You, this-and-that, you got me you-know-what
Is that the way to be?
The Greeks have words for almost every thing I know,
But you little so-and-so.

You, so-and-so, you little so-and-so
How did you get this way?
Although you know that I have lost my control
You sit and talk about my beautiful soul.

You, this-and-that, you’ve got me you-know-what
Is that the way to be?
The Greeks have words for almost every thing I know,
But you little so-and-so.

Apart from Dietrich’s specific seductive charms, however, what makes Blonde Venus particularly interesting is the perspective it takes on her character, Helen Faraday. It is a focus on life from the woman’s point of view, but as with Mizoguchi and Bergman, it is a presentation as seen and interpreted by a sympathetic male, which encompasses not only elements of compassion, but also of admiration and wonder. In the eyes of conventional society (and also those of her husband Ned), Helen an immoral hedonist. As soon as she was out of the sight of her husband, she succumbed to the charms and money of a notorious seducer. Then she kidnapped her son and exposed him to the dangers and improprieties of her notorious life on the road, while she descended into prostitution and drunkenness. She managed to return to stardom by “using” one man after another (presumably in return for sexual favours). When Nick Townsend visits her backstage dressing room in Paris (Section 5), he sees handwritten on her mirror Kipling’s famous line and apparently Helen’s new credo: “Down to Gehenna or up to the throne, he travels fastest who travels alone.” Yes, it's a grim picture of a fallen woman, but thanks to von Sternberg’s coloring, we see things quite differently. From the romantic slant as presented, we get a more sympathetic feeling how all these terrible things came about.

What we see is that Helen was a loving and selfless mother who returned to the stage in Section 2 in order to help save her husband’s life. True, she was overwhelmed by the charms of Nick Townsend, but he was basically a gentleman and irresistibly attractive, as well. She vowed to break off the relationship and return to her husband, but her husband angrily threw her out. Her powerful attachment to her son drove her to take him with her, and she thereafter strove at all times to offer him what only a mother can give to a child. In all her circumstances she tried her best, given the limited resources that were available to her. But when she is finally hauled before a judge for vagrancy, she confesses society’s stern judgement: that she is “just no good.” But we don’t think so. As with the women in Mizoguchi’s films, we see the world from their angle.

Helen’s husband, Ned, has the typical attitudes dominated by the conventional mores of society. The man must be in control. Ned doesn’t want his wife to work, at all. When made aware of her affair with Nick, he sees her as a bad mother. When Nick finally offers him $10,000 to let her see Johnny, Ned stubbornly retains his autonomy: he will cast aside the money and let Helen see Johnny for nothing. This is his final act of defiance. Throughout the film, Ned wants to retain some degree of control. But in von Sternberg’s romantic universe, one must accept love absolutely and unconditionally, and this is what Ned ultimately does. This is what true love demands. In the final scene, Ned responds to his true, passionate love for Helen and embraces her. He never gets an apology or an explanation. What he does get is that final look in her eyes.
★★★★

"The Trial of Joan of Arc" - Robert Bresson (1962)

The Trial of Joan of Arc (Procès de Jeanne d'Arc, 1962) by Robert Bresson tells the story of Joan of Arc during the final period of her captivity and her execution in 1431. Like all of Bresson’s films, there is no backstory provided concerning significant background information of the characters, but in this case, one is scarcely necessary. The amazing story of the “Maid of Orleans” is well known. Joan, an illiterate 17-year-old peasant girl, approached the besieged French military forces during the Hundred Years War and swore that voices from God and His messengers had commanded her to help the French army drive the English from French soil. She was given command and proceeded to lead her forces to a string of stunning victories over the English that reversed the course of the war. However, she was captured in action by the French Burgundian allies of the English in 1430 near Compiègne and eventually turned over to the English military authorities in Rouen. There she was placed on trial for heresy before a Roman Catholic Church court made up mostly of clerics sympathetic to the English cause. It is this trial that comprises the story of Bresson’s film.

Bresson’s sources for this work came exclusively from the court records of her trial for heresy in 1431 and from depositions from eyewitnesses to her subsequent execution taken at her retrial twenty five years later. It is remarkable how complete these records are, and they have fascinated scholars ever since. Although many films have been made about Joan of Arc, it is notable that Carl Dreyer’s legendary silent film, The Passion of Joan of Arc (La Passion de Jeanne d'Arc, 1928) also relied on these same records, so it is worthwhile to contrast the two works.

Basing a film script entirely and strictly on court testimony presents a severe challenge to a silent filmmaker, and it is remarkable how successful Dreyer actually was at telling his story in silent fashion. True, there are key intertitles in Dreyer’s film that explicitly state some crucial exchanges in the trial, but much of the narrative is conveyed by means of the dramatic countenances and facial expressions of the court participants, particularly those of Joan. Bresson, with the advantage of a sound track at his disposal, takes a completely opposite approach. For him, the sound track is everything, and the visual images in this film are only supposed to accompany the words. This advantage is important here, because Bresson’s extensive and meticulous coverage of the trial cross-examinations and Joan’s surprisingly precise responses offer more valuable information about both the disputatious dialectics of the trial and the intuitive nature of Joan’s mental framework.

Of course, Bresson’s stylistic choices in this film must be seen in the light of his characteristic aesthetic style, which had developed over the course of his preceding films: Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne (1944), Diary of a Country Priest” (1950), A Man Escaped” (1956), and Pickpocket (1959). By now Bresson’s pattern was set. He would always use unprofessional actors (his “models”) with no previous acting experience, who would be instructed to render “flat” performances and show almost no emotion when they read their lines, often with downcast glances. He would also typically avoid scene establishing shots (as did Dreyer in The Passion of Joan of Arc), concentrating instead mainly on medium and close shots and often focusing on the slow deliberate motion of hands and feet. This approach contributes here to the feelings of confinement and claustrophobia (and even paranoia) that effectively evoke the stressful circumstances of imprisonment.

Also like Dreyer’s film, but achieved by slightly different means, the viewer sympathizes with Joan, but doesn’t completely identify with her – one doesn’t “get inside” her consciousness and see things from her perspective. Instead, we see things from a greater distance. This is the dreamlike nature of Bresson’s film narratives, which have their undeniable power in evoking a subconscious feeling of disturbed wonder.

But there is another stylistic element in The Trial of Joan of Arc that is distinct from Bresson’s earlier films, particularly Pickpocket. In Pickpocket, there seemed to be frequently unmotivated pauses separating the individual statements in conversations. The speech in that film did not flow the way we would expect in spontaneously motivated interactions. There were also scenes that would start with just am empty, static view of a room or a doorway for several seconds – prior to the appearance of any agency of action. Or, there would be the final moments of camera shots, after a player had departed from the scene, but with the camera lingering for several seconds on a now-empty environment. These pauses seemed awkward, but they would pull the viewer out of the involved flow of the action and into reflection. Such pauses are not present in The Trial of Joan of Arc. Instead, we have just the opposite – a rapid-fire exchange of verbal statements that come so quickly and unnaturally that they seem not to correspond to any kind of reflective response to the preceding statements. This does make the film move swiftly along, which can have its advantages when the film is based primarily on court testimony. But it would appear that Bresson may have overcompensated in this regard. The film is only 62 minutes in length, and it might have benefitted from the insertion of more reflective pauses now and then, such as were employed by Olmi in Il Posto.

The overall effect created by Bresson is nevertheless impressive. The rapid-fire exchanges undertaken by expressionless, seemingly body-snatched, clergy make the entire proceedings even more relentlessly inhuman. In Dreyer’s The Passion of Joan of Arc, the clergy are often simply seen as spiteful, greedy, and malicious. The clergy in that film are prey to all the faults of self-motivated sinners. But in Bresson’s’ film, the clergy are soulless automata that are faceless representatives of the Church machine. In Dreyer’s film, the clergy in Rouen could be seen to comprise individual sinners who failed to act in the manner of true Christians. In Bresson’s film, however, the Church, itself, stands as an implacable opponent of the individual who has been inspired by the spirit of God. This is a more profound indictment. Bresson's aesthetic style, which evokes a feeling that everyone in the film is sleepwalking, enhances the sense of horror that this indictment arouses. In this connection it should be noted that the real Joan was not tutored as a youth by scholarly churchmen, but most probably by monks of the Franciscan order, which has affinities with Sufism. This “folk-level teaching” of the Franciscans in the community would likely contrast sharply with the ethos of a worldly Church in the middle of doctrinal and organizational power disputes and seeking to impose its control over its followers. The idea of an ecstatic mystic who had direct spiritual encounters was anathema to the established order of the Church, but not to certain Sufic modes of being, both in and outside Christianity. Joan had to be condemned as a heretic, in order for the Churchmen to retain their structured command over the laity and the people at large. This is perhaps also why the Church was so tardy (1920) in canonizing Joan. In fact it’s remarkable that this dramatically independent individual, inspired by her own profound spiritual experiences, was ever endorsed by the clerical establishment. Note that this grim rationale of control over spirituality parallels the thesis presented in Dostoyevsky's parable from The Brothers Karamzaov, "The Grand Inquisitor". Dostoyevsky's work was a major influence on Bresson, having also inspired his Pickpocket (1959), Une Femme Douce (1969), and Four Nights of a Dreamer (1971).

In line with these thematic differences, Bresson’s character, "Joan", is dramatically different from Dreyer’s "Joan", who is played by Falconetti. Falconetti evinces in Dreyer’s film the pathos of Joan, showing her intense fear and anguish, as well as the way she summoned the inner reserves of her faith in order to endure the grueling trial and execution. The viewer cannot help but feel compassion for this Joan during the agonizing struggle between her and the authorities. Bresson’s “Joan”, played by Florence Delay, is much more self-contained and less vulnerable. Despite the hostile circumstances of her captivity (continuously enchained and spied upon), she is generally composed and sure of both herself and her answers. Unlike Faconetti, Delay seems not to anticipate receiving true justice and is not awed by the eminence of her captors. She sometimes even demands that her rights be acknowledged, and she denies the authority of the ecclesiastical court, saying that she obeys in preference the higher authorities of King and God. It is well-known, of course, that Bresson doesn’t use professional actors, because he wants to avoid having someone "perform" a role – presumably because he wants his players to embody the character in an intuitive way. But it is interesting that his selected “models” are usually intellectuals, writers, and professionals. Florence Delay was the daughter of a member of the Académie Française, and she, herself, was elected to that body years later. So it seems that his models might have the inclination (and even be encouraged) to engage the character in an intellectual, rather than intuitive, manner. Intellectually-inspired or not, Delay’s “Joan” is nonetheless effective and convincing. At 20, Delay was about a decade younger than Falconetti was for Dreyer's film, and she was closer to the real Joan's age at the time of the trial. She managed to demonstrate in this film a youthful confidence, as well as innocence, that provides the real dramatic underpinning the story -- a courageous young woman is ground down to cinder and embers by a ruthless theological machine that has compromised itself for political purposes.

The final image of the film is the charred remains of Joan at the stake. We are left to reflect on what that means to us. Bresson’s films often evoke and engage the spiritual yearnings of man, but he himself was said to be an agnostic - a seeker who had yet to find the answer. As with many others of his films, there is no explicit or material promise offered, but there is still that unquenchable thirst for grace.
★★★

Ermanno Olmi

Films of Ermanno Olmi:

• Il Posto - Ermanno Olmi (1961)
• The Fiances (I Fidanzati) - Ermanno Olmi (1963) 

"Il Posto" - Ermanno Olmi (1961)

Ermanno Olmi started as an industrial filmmaker before launching his career in feature films, and he has always continued to use the raw materials of documentary film production: non-professional actors and the natural settings and environment of the everyday world. As a consequence, his work has often been viewed in the light of Italian Neorealism, even though it was always going to be difficult to confine Neorealism’s early adherents within its somewhat problematic conceptual boundaries. In fact by the time Olmi came onto the scene in the late 1950s, Neorealism’s patriarchs, such as Roberto Rosellini, Luchino Visconti, and Vittorio de Sica, had moved off in very different directions, and the “movement” had lost its steam. But it was to be revived with Olmi’s second feature, Il Posto, (The Job, aka The Sound of the Trumpets, 1961), which seemed to breathe new life into the Neorealistic attitude (and it is sustained today by the work of some Iranian filmmakers, notably Jafar Panahi). (Note: for further discussion on Italian Neorealism, see "Aesthetics of Two Neorealist Films: Open City and Paisan" and "Subjective Realism in the Italian Film".)

But Olmi’s Il Posto is much more than just a Neorealist film. Like de Sica’s Bicycle Thieves (1948), Olmi’s Il Posto transcends the dimensions of Neorealism and stands as one of the great and universal films of any era. Indeed, it is fitting, then, that Olmi cites de Sica as an important influence on his work. There are several factors that contribute to the virtues of Il Posto – the cinematic craftsmanship, the affecting and natural acting, and the compelling narrative, itself, which is not just about particular people at a particular time, but about the very nature of modern life.

The story of the film is set in postwar Milan, but it concerns the disruptive changes that were altering life all over the world after the war. The war itself, of course, was cataclysmic and disruptive, but with peacetime, large-scale capitalism was spreading around the globe and leading to vast changes in the way people live and socialise. We are still living in the middle of this disruptive evolutionary cultural process of “globalization”, which is a new term for something that got into full gear after the end of the Second World War. Our culture and our attitudes are still catching up to the impact and consequences that global capitalisation (perhaps more effectively termed “Predatory Capitalism” – see the current work of economist James K. Galbraith) is engendering. There are four main narrative sections to the story, none of which fully come to closure and leave the viewer at the end with a thoughtful feeling of openness and missed opportunities.

1. Romance.
The first section, of about 34 minute, depicts the hopes and uncertainties of Domenico, a 19-year-old boy from a working-class family who has left “middle school” and is looking for his first job. He takes the train to the big city, Milan, hoping to get an office job at a large company, which if he gets it, his family assures him, will provide him secure employment “for life”. But Domenico, like all young boys, is not really prepared for the workaday world of employment, and doesn’t really know what to expect. He is sensitive and watchful, trying to make a good impression, without know what he really wants – or even what he should want.

When he arrives at the company, he and a large number of other applicants are asked to take various aptitude and personality tests which will be used to determine who gets a job offer. During the lunch break, Domenico meets a pretty young fellow applicant, Atonietta, and they strike up a friendly conversation. Clearly Domenico is very attracted to the lovely girl, but he is naturally shy – a trait that seems to appeal to the girl. Since they have some time before they must return, they go window-shopping in the city. On the way back to the office, they realise that they are late, and they start to run through the streets to get back on time. Domenico takes Antonietta’s hand to help her steer through the chaotic traffic, and soon their hand-holding is delicately portrayed for what it is – an affectionate gesture between the tentative youngsters in search of romance.

After they complete the rest of the “application” day at the company, Domenico meets Antonietta again, and he walks her to her bus stop, and their beautiful tryst ends. The day of uncertainty has ended full of excitement and high hopes.

2. Introduction to the Work World.
Soon it is clear that Domenico has been offered a job by the company. He is outfitted with a new coat and sent off to the train to report for his first day. Not long after he arrives, he happily learns that Antonietta has been offered a job, too. But Domenico is assigned to work in a building different from Antonietta’s, as an assistant office messenger until a desk job opens up. It is soon clear that there is almost nothing for the two office messengers in that building to do, so they just sit at their desks in the corridor outside an office room, whiling away the time. Even when they are assigned to deliver a message, his senior partner, Sartori, advises him cynically not to hurry – make them wait. This section lasts about 18 minutes and shows the intimidating and confusing nature of his new company and position.

3. Isolated, Meaningless Work.
This third section depicts life inside the office room close to Domenico’s desk. There are two rows – four desks in a row – with individuals apparently doing utterly boring, meaningless paperwork. All of these office workers are introduced: the poorly-sighted “Sleepyhead”, the loud worker, the cigarette smoker, the quiet matron, the mother of some grown-up boys, etc. This is then followed by a series of dissolves that move from one vignette to another depicting the squalid circumstances of these people in their private lives. They are all isolated and essentially lonely, cut off from the kind of genuine companionship and interaction that we would find worthwhile. When we cut back to Sartori and Domenico (the next day?), they observe a former office worker who has been retired for three months, but who comes to the office every day and sits in a chair, doing nothing. The man apparently has nothing else to do.

After work, Domenico waits in the rain for Antonietta, but he sees her leave in the company with a number of people, including a well-dressed young man who is holding an umbrella for her. So Domenico watches them depart in silence.

4. Empty Socialising.
Domenico finally runs into Antonietta one day at work, and she asks him to come to the company New Year’s Eve Dance. Domenico does manage to come and finds himself in a large lineoleum-floored room full of tables in front of a bandstand. The room gradually fills with company workers, but Antonietta never shows up. Instead, we watch people engaging in artificial and empty socialising, with little motivation other than to become inebriated. They do become convivial, but it seems garish and forced. These are people that are to be Domenico’s comrades “for life”.

The next day at the office, the office workers are shown standing mournfully around Sleepyhead’s desk. He has passed away, and now Domenico has been assigned his desk. The film ends with Domenico having joined the ranks of the “desks in a row” group, sitting in the rear and commencing his task of boring, meaningless paperwork.

What makes Il Posto poignant is the way it shows how the sincere and innocent Domenico is led relentlessly into the depressing jaws of mind-numbing corporate mechanics. He, too, seems to be doomed to a life of empty, seemingly pointless activity, with little opportunity for meaningful interaction or engagement. Domenico and Antonietta never make the real connection, and presumably that romantic opportunity is lost. Domenico is overwhelmed by the sheer inertia of implacable company minutia. And yet, the entire narrative is presented with a certain good-natured resignation. It is this irony which makes the film stand out. Domenico is like us. He tries to make his way as best he can, and to a certain extent he succeeds. But the rattling noise of the mimeograph machine which grows louder and louder at the close of the film reminds us of what Domenico must feel: there has to be something more than this.

The acting in the film is exceptional throughout. Most of the actors never appeared in any other films. The story probably reflects some of Olmi’s experiences when he worked as an office worker. But on that occasion, at least, he didn’t let his opportunities pass away -- he married actress Loredana Detto, who plays the beautiful Antonietta.

The camera work is also outstanding. Olmi essentially shoots the films he makes, himself, which distinguishes him from other filmmakers. He sees himself more as a craftsman than as an intellectual. It was interesting to me that in an interview, Olmi mentioned that, by contrast, Fellini, whose visual sensibility I admire, never, ever looks through the viewfinder of the camera. One fine example of fluid and unobtrusive camerawork is a 75-second tracking shot in the first section, showing Domenico and Antonietta walking together after their testing day. It is beautifully and delicately shot, as the two of them seem not to know what to do with their hands, after their hand-holding experience earlier in the day. The scenes of the office and of the industrial construction site capture, in a natural way, a mood of relentless and overwhelming mechanics. What is particularly adroit is the way Olmi manages the tempo of the scenes in just the right way, with various extended pauses, cutaways, and point-of-view shots showing Domenico’s reactions to the bewildering world of corporate life.

All told, the four sequences of Il Posto, with their sense of openness and of expectation, leave us with a sense of questioning. It is the same look of questioning that we saw and understood on the face of James Dean in some of his films. Even though we cannot articulate it, there is something that we, too, felt with Domenico when he was with Antonietta – something we must not lose track of, something important, something beautiful out there.
★★★★