Archive for the Politics Category

Gene Giannini Lives on his Back

Posted in FILM, Politics with tags , , , , on January 29, 2015 by dcairns


Spoiler alert! Rod Steiger as Gene Giannini lives (and dies) on his back in the late Francesco Rosi’s LUCKY LUCIANO.

Over at The Forgotten.

And Everything Ends in Z

Posted in FILM, Politics with tags , , , , , , , on January 23, 2015 by dcairns

All good things… David Melville rounds of his alphabet of the golden age of Mexican melodrama with a Fever Dream Double Feature, and begins a week of guest postings here on Shadowplay. But fear not: his next series will start soon!


The Golden Age of Mexican Melodrama

And Everything Ends in Z


Eyes speak louder than words – and you know it. ~ Don Macario in Maclovia

It must have been Parker Tyler – or, at least, his fictional alter ego Myra Breckinridge – who wrote that the proper sphere of movies was not Art but Myth. If that is true, then no film-maker was ever more ‘mythic’ than Emilio ‘El Indio’ Fernández. His 1948 film Maclovia is set on a remote island called Janitzio, afloat on an impossibly tranquil lake. Its denizens are native fisher folk, members of “that Indian race that holds all that is good in Mexico.” (It’s the local schoolteacher who says this, but the sentiments are clearly the director’s own.) The world of Maclovia is less idyllic than Edenic, a fantasy realm as arcane and idealised as the valley of Shangri-La.


The film’s subject is “the ancient and eternal love of a man and a woman.” Or, at any rate, Mexico’s leading macho heart-throb Pedro Armendáriz and Mexico’s reigning glamour icon María Félix. The thought of either star playing an impoverished and illiterate peasant should be ludicrous and logically, of course, it is. Yet the casting is oddly right in the hyperbolic context of this film. Although it was doubtless shot on real locations, the setting of Maclovia feels akin to such studio-built dreamscapes as the Himalayan convent in Black Narcissus (1947) or the South Seas isle in The Saga of Anatahan (1953).


Perhaps it’s the nets that do it. The white, billowing nets of the fishermen are draped exotically about the island like the veils in a Dietrich/von Sternberg movie. María is, inevitably, photographed through them at every opportunity – her sculpted face framed exquisitely in a striped shawl, her eyes caked with mascara like those of any self-respecting virgin in a small village. Out on the lake, a hundred nets rise in unison from the fishermen’s canoes – with a choreographed precision that Busby Berkley might envy. Armendáriz (cast as the poorest and most downtrodden of the lot) gazes upwards at the cliff where María hovers, posed like the statue of Christ above Rio de Janeiro. Reaching down to the limpid surface of the lake, he plucks a water-lily in her honour. Later, when she rejects him, he casts it despairingly into the mud.

But why does María (here known as Maclovia) reject the man she loves? Her father, Don Macario, is the leading citizen of the village. He will not hear of his daughter marrying a poor man – one so impoverished that he does not even own his own canoe “A man is not a real man unless he has a canoe and a knife,” the father helpfully intones. No man, it seems, is good enough for Maclovia. In the hands of a subversive and de-mythifying director like Luis Buñuel, her widowed father’s wildly possessive adoration of her might form the basis for a very different film indeed. Fernández, of course, would never countenance anything so unseemly. Perversity does not dwell in Janitzio but invades it from outside – in the form of a lecherous gringo officer whose lust for our heroine tilts Maclovia towards its violent climax.

All this is yet to come, of course. Early on in the film, Don Macario forbids his daughter and her sweetheart to speak to or even look at each other. Desperate for a way to make contact, Armendáriz begs the village schoolmaster to teach him to write. A few months of toil among the five-year-olds and soon he’s penning letters to Maclovia that read like this: “The other day, I saw your shadow pass close by. I felt it grow and take root inside my heart. Suddenly I knew why God attached shadows to our bodies. So I could find some way to look at you.” I guess he’s what they call a star pupil.

Sure enough, Maclovia goes to the schoolmaster in turn, so she can learn to read the letters her lover writes. The couple’s forbidden love and the obstacles that come with it push them, inadvertently, towards literacy and progress. In this way – like so much of Mexico’s left-wing nationalist cinema – Maclovia manages at once to exalt traditional peasant values and to champion those modernising forces that will lead, inevitably, to their dissolution. At the historical moment this movie depicts (Maclovia is set in 1914) it is vital for Mexico to be an agrarian Third World nation – a place where traditional values hold sway – but also to emerge as a 20th century economic powerhouse – just like those big bad colonial powers that used to exploit it. What none of these movies ever make clear is how any country can possibly do both.

Rather than grapple with complexities of this sort, the wily teacher sits Maclovia down and reads the letter aloud. We see her react in a montage of close-ups, each one a fresh angle on María’s exquisite face. It’s not long before her suitor borrows money and buys himself an impressively phallic canoe. The officer, in a jealous rage, pulls out his gun and shoots the canoe full of holes. (Clearly, the competition was not in his favour.) With that, Armendáriz pulls out his giant curved knife (the other must-have item for a “real man”) and stabs the officer – who survives and has him condemned to 24 years in prison. He’s willing to free him, of course, if only Maclovia will be his. But the law of the island says that no native woman must ever defile herself with an outsider. If she does, both she and the offending man must die…


The climax takes place, conveniently enough, on the traditional Night of the Dead – a gruesomely photogenic montage of blazing candles and leering skulls. Once the villagers hear what Maclovia may have got up to with that gringo, the whole place erupts in a fury. Hundreds of crazed peasants carrying torches come storming through the streets, all ready to pelt the sinners with stones. The film, at this point, threatens to turn into some ghastly melange of Suddenly, Last Summer and Triumph of the Will. Not that it ever goes quite that far. The army shows up just in time to quell the riot and guarantee a (wholly unconvincing) happy ending. You may be wondering, also, just how many people live on this island. Previously, we got the impression that Janitzio was a small rural community. Yet the mob that shows up to kill María might easily populate a fair-sized district of Mexico City.

Finally, though, what matters in Maclovia are not the petty minutiae of plot or logic. It’s the sheer mythic splendour of Fernández at his most dizzyingly overripe, a well-nigh operatic whirlpool of the passionate and the absurd. María Félix, strangely enough, gives one of her least flamboyant performances in this film. Far from the rampaging diva mode of Doña Diabla, she has moments here that border dangerously on restraint. Don’t worry, though, it’s not catching. Maclovia is as fervent and florid as any Mexican movie ever made. Typical of its time and its place and its genre…but still a film that cries out to be watched today.

David Melville

The Pattern Emerges

Posted in Comics, FILM, Mythology, Politics with tags , , on January 17, 2015 by dcairns

Dressler, Marie (Dinner at Eight)_01

So, at last I can reveal — inspired/distressed by recent events in Paris, I’ve written every blog post this week around the admittedly wide-ranging themes of violence and freedom of expression. Of course, it might actually be harder to write articles which did NOT touch on either subject, but there it is.

Meanwhile, on Facebook I swore, as a satirical act, to murder anyone who draws a caricature of Marie Dressler. Unpick that: am I comparing the prophet Mohammed to a 1930s grande dame of the screen? No. I am comparing the act of drawing a cartoon, with the act of drawing a catoon.


(We only know this is meant to be TPM because of context and because the magazine said so. But it is up to the viewer to decide meaning, so if you find this image offensive, simply accept it as a drawing of a random bloke. Problem solved!)

Accusations that the magazine Charlie Hebdo published cartoons which are racist are hard to gainsay — nothing to do with the intended message of the cartoons, which were often deliberately provocative, shooting out barbs in all directions, not so much a coherent argument about topical issues as a surreal mash-up of current concerns, immediately recognisable as offensive in intent, and therefor not particularly offensive to anyone who gets it. The racism comes from the actual physical attributes assigned to Arab figures in Charlie cartoons — big noses, always supplied with a few dots to represent pores. While the caricaturist’s stock-in-trade is grotesque distortion and exaggeration of physical traits, it does become racist when you move from goofy portraiture of, say, Bill Cosby, in all his specific qualities, to a cartoon grouping together all the perceived attributes of one race. Imagine the equivalent drawing of a stock black person, for instance. In fact, the difficulty may stem from the mere idea of discussing Arabs as some kind of unvarying unit. Or from the magazine assuming that anybody, from the editor on down, is qualified to draw cartoons.

But this is, in fact, irrelevant to current events since the massacre was not motivated by ethnic slurs but as revenge for caricaturing of The Prophet Mohammed. An entirely — ENTIRELY — separate issue. Did France’s colonial behaviour in the past influence events? Did the West’s recent wars of aggression? Absolutely. Though probably not as much as social injustice in modern France, which produces a disaffected underclass including many immigrants and their descendants, to whom violence might seem the best/only option for attaining some sense of self-worth, however twisted that is.

My take on this is that Islam has a firm rule against such representations — so serious adherents to this religion, if they wish to remain within its arms, should not make drawings of TPH. However, this rule does not, cannot and should not apply to anybody outside the faith. If I sketched the prophet, I would not be drawing the representative of Allah. I would be drawing a person I assume probably lived a long time ago, but who had no more connection to the divine than anyone else. That’s who he is to me, because I’m not a Muslim.

Far be it from me to dictate to anyone else, but I would like to see Muslims accept that the daubings of unbelievers have no real relationship to the Prophet they admire and the God they worship. What is ultimately required is an acceptance that the unbeliever is entitled to his or her unbelief. Liberal Muslims already accept this in principle, but there is a reluctance to go the next step and say, “If you trash my beliefs I’ll find that rather disgusting, but specific cultural requirements about not representing figures of religion do not apply to people who don’t share that religion.”

There is a danger I may be mansplaining, or whatever the white western secular liberal version of that is. There is something iffy about saying “This is a western democracy and if you come here you have to follow OUR rules,” as if there were no possibility that an incoming culture could have a POSITIVE influence. But Europe is multicultural, so to get along at all we may have to put up with people disrespecting our deepest beliefs (After all, how do you disrespect a belief? Simply by NOT SHARING IT.) I happen to be very fond of freedom of expression. If you suggest limiting it, you are offending MY deepest values. But you know what? I still won’t kill you for it.


Pontiff: “I’m-a puncha you inna face!”

Via Facebook ~

Fiona:Watching the news. The Pope comes on and says he’ll punch anyone who insults his mother. “What about turning the other cheek?” says D. Me – “He’s Italian. Of course he’ll punch you if you insult his mother.”

Amendment – He’s Argentinian. But he’ll punch you if you dis his mum. Just accept it.

Me: He’ll turn his other cheek and then punch you while you’re distracted by it.

Travis Reeves:  of course, you’re all wrong. The biblical reference you’re making is frequently misinterpreted. The point is not to turn away from the insult, but to offer the other cheek AS WELL.

Me: So in this instance what he should do is discover a second mum for us to insult.

Travis Reeves: Depending on your interpretation, you could hit one person four times as it is. This Pope is starting to sound like a thug.

Me: He could adopt twenty mums, say you’ve insulted all of them, and kick the crap out of you.

Travis Reeves: Mother Mary, Mother Theresa…

Me: Once you start down that route, it’s total war…

Fiona: Mother Marie Dressler…




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