Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Imre Kertesz / 'Schindler's List? Kitsch'




'Schindler's List? Kitsch'

Nobel winner Imre Kertesz thought the movie industry would ruin his Holocaust memoir Fateless. Was he right? 


By Geoffrey Macnab
Tue 23 Aug 2005


N
ot long before he went to Sweden to accept the 2002 Nobel prize for literature, the Hungarian writer Imre Kertesz received a brown envelope in the post. It had been sent to him by the Buchenwald Memorial Centre and contained a copy of a report, dated February 18 1945, about the camp's prisoners. Among the deaths listed was that of prisoner number 64, 921 - a certain Imre Kertesz. He was described as a factory worker, born in 1927. In fact, Kertesz was born in 1929: he had lied about his age when he entered the camp so the Nazis wouldn't think him a child, and said he was a worker rather than a schoolboy to appear more useful. "In short, I died once so I could live," he said of the report in his Nobel prize acceptance speech. "Perhaps that is my real story."

Kertesz's experiences at Auschwitz and Buchenwald form the backcloth to his 1975 semi-autobiographical novel, Fateless, which the Nobel academy singled out in its citation. And it is largely thanks to the Nobel prize that Fateless has now been made into a movie.
Directed by Lajos Koltai - best-known for his photography on Istvan Szabo films including Being Julia - the film has had a troubled history. The most expensive production in Hungarian history, it was dogged by financial scandal, and almost abandoned when the original producer walked out. Even Kertesz says he wasn't eager to see Fateless turned into a film. But now it's finished he's happy with the results. "I was completely overwhelmed. I saw it as if I was a stranger. Paradoxically, despite the content, the film is very beautiful."

A small, balding man with a kindly demeanour and a mischievous smile, Kertesz is a self-deprecating and surprisingly humorous interviewee. He confides that he went on set only once during shooting. "When I was there, I lost my glasses and the whole crew started looking for them. That's not really what you want to call a fruitful cooperation."
Reviews for the film have been enthusiastic so far, with some critics comparing it to Spielberg's Schindler's List - although Kertesz dismisses Spielberg's movie as "kitsch" and the storytelling in each movie is very different. There is nothing spectacular in the way Fateless unfolds. As in the book, events are seen entirely from the perspective of 15-year-old protagonist Gyuri Koves (Marcell Nagy) as he is rounded up with thousands of other Hungarian Jews and put on a train to Auschwitz, then taken to Buchenwald.
Kertesz finished the book in Hungary in the mid-1960s but had to wait almost a decade to find a publisher. "Because I didn't write what the communist government wanted to see, I was cut off and alone with my work," he says. "I never thought my book would ever be published, and so I had the freedom to write as radically as I wanted." Even when the book did appear in 1975, critics paid little attention.

It wasn't until after the fall of the Iron Curtain that Kertesz began to win international literary awards - and producers became interested in making a movie of his best-known work. A screenplay was commissioned from a professional scriptwriter. This, to Kertesz's dismay, began with a famous violinist returning to Budapest from New York and then, in flashback, showed him as a teenager in the concentration camp. "I looked at his script and I realised that many things were wrong," Kertesz says. He decided to write a new screenplay, but it wasn't until he won the Nobel prize that anyone was willing to fund it.
Maybe potential financiers were put off by the way Fateless broke the "rules" governing Holocaust stories. Gyuri (like Kertesz) is a non-believing Jew. He is not educated according to Jewish traditions. "He is a non-Jewish Jew," Kertesz says, "and he had to share in the fate of so many Jews and he feels this is kind of an absurdity."
Among the film's most disconcerting scenes is the arrival at Auschwitz. The mood is perversely upbeat. We see a woman put on lipstick and some of the older men try to engage the guards in conversation. "The Hungarian Jews didn't know what to expect," Kertesz says. Reports about the death camps had reached Hungary by early 1944, but the Jewish Council had decided not to publish them. "So many people came to Germany who were simply clueless. They didn't know what to expect and since they hadn't been treated very well by the Hungarian gendarmerie, they were hoping things would turn out for the better."
Equally eerie is the scene in which the boy returns to Budapest after the US forces have liberated Buchenwald. His home is occupied by someone else. People don't know how to respond to him. They speak about his experiences in cliches and grow frustrated when he won't see himself as a victim. They're appalled when he expresses homesickness and nostalgia for the camp.
Like Gyuri, Kertesz was presented with a tantalising choice after the camps were liberated. He could go to the US or to return to Hungary. He chose the latter. Soon, though, Hungary fell under the yoke of Stalin. Kertesz, who lost his job as a journalist for not being respectful enough to his communist masters, was exposed to a new kind of dictatorship. This, he claims, liberated him as a writer.
"In a democracy," he says, "I would never have been able to understand and realise what happened to me back then in the camps. As an adult, I survived this dictatorship and this dictatorship told me what had happened to me when I was young."



Saturday, July 16, 2005

Manuel Puig / Kiss of the Spider Woman




Jailbirds

Kiss of the Spider Woman (1985)


Andrew Pulver
Saturday 16 July 2005

Author: Manuel Puig (1932-1990) grew up in a small town in the remote Argentinian pampas, obsessed with films and dabbling in transvestitism. At 23, he won a scholaship to study film-making in Rome, but soon dropped out. After a decade of writing film scripts, Puig returned to Buenos Aires in 1967 and turned a script into his first novel, a semi-autobiographical fable about a movie-world fantasist, Betrayed by Rita Hayworth (1968). However, the flamboyant Puig found it difficult to live in Peronist Argentina, and moved to Brazil in 1973 and New York three years later. Kiss of the Spider Woman was published in 1976. Puig remained in New York - as a high-profile gay writer he was regularly attacked in the Argentinian media - and lectured on creative writing at Columbia university. He finally settled in 1989 in Cuernavaca, Mexico, and died a year later from complications after a gall-bladder operation.
Story: Echoing his film script work, Kiss of the Spider Woman is written almost entirely as dialogue. Two men - a political radical, Arregui, and a gay paedophile, Molina, are imprisoned in the same cell in a Buenos Aires penitentiary. To pass the time, Molina recites the plots of his favourite films, beginning with Jacques Tourneur's 1942 horror movieCat People. Molina's camp fetishism initially irritates Arregui - especially when he realises another of Molina's favourites is a Nazi propaganda piece. Puig inserts a "transcript" of a meeting between Molina and the prison warden, revealing that the authorities have demanded Molina inform on Arregui. But as their relationship deepens (culminating in a sexual episode), Molina agrees to deliver a message for Arregui after he is released. A final "report" reveals that Molina is shot dead in the street as he tries to carry out his mission.


The film-maker: Hector Babenco (b1946) grew up in Argentina but settled in Brazil in 1969. He began directing features in 1975, but made a major international impact with Pixote (1981), an account of the appalling life of São Paulo street children. Babenco spent four years bringing Kiss of the Spider Woman to the screen, casting William Hurt in the pivotal role. (Puig hated Hurt's performance, despite his winning an Oscar.) Shortly after completing the film, Babenco was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer; his doctor, Dráuzio Varella, went on to write the prison stories that would become Babenco's most successful film, Carandiru (2003).
How book and film compare: Though the film's narrative generally sticks close to the novel it excises Puig's lengthy footnotes about clinical assessments of homosexuality, and replaces Molina's fetishisation of real movies with a single, fictitious Nazi-style piece, which is recreated at intervals throughout the story. Much of the detail of Molina's lifestyle is lost in the adaptation, and the "spider woman" is presented as another of Molina's films - whereas she appears in Puig's original as the final image of Arregui's own fantasy as he is tortured.
Inspirations and influences: As an evocation of high camp, Kiss of the Spider Woman brought gay cabaret style into mainstream movies, paving the way for American treatments of similar themes, such as Torch Song Trilogy (1988). It also marked a turning point for Latin American cinema, in the doldrums after the politically inspired cinema novo of the 1960s and 1970s.




Friday, July 15, 2005

Kim Ki Duk / 3 Iron

3 Iron

by Kim Ki Duk

Peter Bradshaw

15 July 2005 


What would Peter Alliss make of it? Kim Ki-duk is a director who has been able to combine, in a unique way, a facility for violence with a knack for reticent, even pastoral gentleness: a kind of Punk Buddhism.

3 Iron is an almost wordless movie which follows a burglar, Sun-hwa (Lee Seung-yeon) who breaks in - not to steal but merely stay the night, take a bath, do some laundry. Then he finds a woman, Tae-suk (Lee Hyun-kyoon) who has been beaten up by her husband and without exchanging a word they fall ecstatically in love, and he exacts vengeance on the husband by whacking golf balls at him with the eponymous weapon.

The director shows how Sun-hwa is a corporeal ghost, floating through the lives of the prosperous and the not so prosperous, and Tae-suk passionately joins him in this secret state.

It is not as a good a movie as Kim's Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter ... and Spring, but still an engaging work by a very original film-maker.


THE GUARDIAN



Wednesday, July 13, 2005

Dumbledore's death in the style of Anne Rice

 

Dumbledore


Harry Potter

Dumbledore's death in the style of Anne Rice

Wednesday 13 July 2005

It was rumored to have been a noble death, and that brought mild comfort into the hearts of the bereaved mourners that stood in huddled groups, watching through tear-veiled eyes as the gilded casket was ceremoniously interred in the mausoleum.

It was also a tragedy. That a man as beloved and respected as Albus Dumbledore, who had defeated the dark wizard, Grindenwald, could be destroyed so suddenly by but a mere handful of enemies was inconceivable. . .

How could something so horrific be allowed to happen? That was the question that people demanded of the heavens and of each other; as they nursed their guilt-ridden hearts. Any would have willingly given their own lives in place of his.

"If only I had been there." was the common phrase, amongst the self-flagellating hordes.


Dumbledore

In the manner of wounded dogs, that bite the hand that attempts to salve the wound, they rounded, teeth bared, on the person whom they perceived as a failed hero. He who had been with Dumbledore, but had been unable to save him.

" Why didn't you save him?" They demanded, closing in on their prey.

When Albus Dumbledore had been disarmed, captured, and tortured by the villainous Deatheaters, where had his pet spy been? There to save him with brave flourishes and self-sacrifice? Not as they saw it.

How could he explain to them what those last minutes had been like? He had stood by, helpless, as Dumbledore was questioned, then when faced with the possibility of the truth serum, which would have endangered them all, Dumbledore had whispered his last request into Snape's mind.

" For the sake of Merlin, Severus, let me have your wand." even his mental voice had been pain-laced, and weary.

So careful, that it looked like an accident, he, Snape, had edged closer to the bound figure, so that Dumbledore's hand, which had somehow escaped it's bonds, could seize the implement from him.

Before any of the Deatheaters could respond, Dumbledore had turned the wand on himself, offering only a brief and inconspicuous nod of dignified gratitude to his saviour. His last words echoed still through Snape's mind;

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

" How did he die?" The people demanded of Snape, later at the trial.

And Snape answered;

" I killed him."

Jayme Goodman


THE GUARDIAN

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Brooke Shields / This much I know / Finding a therapist is like shopping for a husband





This much I know


Brooke Shields
"Finding a therapist is like shopping for a husband"

Brooke Shields, actress, 40, London


Interview by Lucy Siegle
Sunday 12 June 2005 16.41 BST


I
always had that Little Miss Perfect tag. People can't wait to label you, and it didn't help that I was a perfectionist anyway. In that way I was my biggest enemy. I always wanted to be better, whether it was acting or at school. It doesn't make life easy.

Having my daughter has made me ease up a bit. Especially when it comes to tidying the apartment. The trail of destruction a small child causes is quite unbelievable.



I don't know of many women who don't have a fraught relationship with their mother. Mine had a reputation as the stage mom from hell, but I believe she behaved like a tiger out of necessity rather than personal drive. I'm her only child, and she was a single mother. I don't feel the need to reconcile it any more.
It's assumed that I've spent my whole life being unhappily moulded. In reality, I've rarely been forced into anything that I haven't wanted to do.



Tom Cruise did not have a uterus last time I checked. So I'm not sure how he is qualified to criticise my use of medication when I was suffering from postnatal depression.
As you get older you accept you can't slavishly follow fashion. I mean, I like the low jeans, but I don't want to bend over and show everybody everything I've got back there.
The assumption that people are going to do the right thing is really quite naive. I always thought, 'If I tell the truth, they'll like me.' My mother shielded me from the bad things in this industry, a lot of the ugliness.



I feel older when I look in the mirror, but not aged. When I look now I can see into my eyes. It's less about worrying about whether I need a facial or some aesthetic problem. I also feel pretty fatigued, but that's what comes of doing a show like Chicago.
What you accept for yourself, you won't necessarily accept for your children. There is no way I will ever miss any of my daughter's school recitals or plays. I don't care what I'm working on, I'm going to have it written into my contract. I'm much more willing to stand up for her than I ever knew how to do so for myself.



The problem with my hair is that it's not curly or straight. It's kind of bent. I cut it short once, but I couldn't cope with all the maintenance. Then there was the time I had it feathered and permed on the same day. That was a bad day.
Finding a therapist is like shopping for a husband. In my opinion the best ones are in New York. I've always been a therapy fan. So many people have so many opinions in your life; even if they stem from love they're going to be biased. There's a lot to be said for getting an outside opinion.



While the world said I was exploited, I just felt like the kid who got all the toys. In fact, when I see the way things are done today, I'm amazed at how mild those scenes I did in Pretty Baby and Blue Lagoon as a young actress actually were. I was never on my own. I might have hung out at Studio 54, but once the pictures were taken I went home to bed.
I can hold my alcohol these days. I know the difference between giddy and sick. Don't trust all those people in LA who say they don't drink. I think they must all drink like crazy when they get home.



I've been through all mobile ringtones, but there's only one with birds that doesn't wake the baby up.
I think some people think of me like their pet. There was this guy at Princeton, one of the footballers, who would have beaten up anyone who looked at me the wrong way, which was pretty comforting when people were trying to sneak in to get pictures of me in my dorm or through the shower grate.



I've never been naturally fashion conscious. I'm the kind of person who sees a whole outfit in a magazine, runs out and buys it but looks like a clown. I'm not like Gwyneth and all those fashion-savvy girls, although someone told me they all have stylists.
Some of what you go through in postnatal depression is so absurd that I can only laugh now. It would be too much to handle otherwise.




THIS MUCH I KNOW

Wednesday, June 8, 2005

Alan Clarke / The lost leader


'Intense, brilliant, truthful drama' ... Alan Clarke's Scum


Alan Clarke

The lost leader

Alan Clarke was one of this country's greatest directors, the man who gave us Scum, Made in Britain and Rita, Sue and Bob Too. Fifteen years after his death, his friends, colleagues and admirers remember him

8 June 2005

Paul Greengrass
Director, Bloody Sunday

The first Alan Clarke film I ever saw was Sovereign's Company, an old Play for Today from the early 1970s about a young man who joins his grandfather's regiment and is so fearful of being unmasked as a coward that, in the end, he beats another soldier to death. I was 15 years old, and I can still remember today the sense of shock and anger that I felt as I watched it. Later came Made in Britain, Elephant, Scum, Contact, The Firm - a string of the most intense, brilliant, truthful dramas ever seen on British television. These were groundbreaking films that chronicled the Thatcher years and uncovered the terrible cost of the Troubles. As a director, it seems to me that Clarke had it all - he had range, he had vision, he put energy on the screen, he could tell a story, he discovered fantastic actors and got great performances from them, and he could use a camera like a dream. He remains, in my eyes, quite simply the greatest British director of my lifetime.

Lesley Manville
Actor, The Firm

It was very liberating shooting The Firm. We shot the whole film on Steadicam, and very often Alan wouldn't do separate shots for close-ups, so the actors had a lot of physical freedom. It made a huge difference in the performances - that was paramount for Alan. I remember shooting the scene where Gary Oldman's character comes home to his wife (played by me) and they argue and fight and he forces her to the floor to have sex, and you think, this is awful - he's raping his wife. But in fact she starts to giggle and you realise that this is their "thing". This scene was cut for censorship reasons, but I remember shooting it in one long take. It was amazing - not acting in short bursts trying to maintain emotion, but performing it from beginning to end. The acting was everything for Alan, and extraordinary though it may sound, that is rare in a director.

Danny Boyle
Director, Trainspotting

I produced Alan Clarke's film Elephant for BBC Northern Ireland in 1989. There wasn't much producing involved, apart from making sure Alan's per diems were paid promptly. Instead, I got the chance to pick the brains of a genius director. His advice was pragmatic: "Get plenty of coverage as editing solves everything, and stop reading the Guardian - everything you need to know and everything you don't want to know is in the Sun."

Tim Roth
Actor, Made in Britain

Scum was the film that made me want to be an actor. I went to see it at the Prince Charles in London five or six times. I thought, if these guys could be actors, then I could, too. You got the feeling they were people he'd lifted off the streets. When he put me in Made in Britain, I'd never worked in front of a camera; I had no idea about it at all. From him I had a crash course in film-making. After that I assumed all films were made on Steadicam - it wasn't until I did a film with Mike Leigh that I realised that you could have a fixed camera. The fact you could follow the actors around and do long takes made Steadicam so attractive to him. You were limited only by the amount of film in the camera. With Alan, though he pushed you to immerse yourself in the character, it was never the Method, or any other particular system. When anyone asks me what my favourite experience was as an actor, I always hold up Made in Britain. I was as raw as I could possibly be. It was my first job, the one where I lost my virginity.

Corin Campbell Hill
Assistant director, The Firm

"When I catch up with the dog in my brain, I'll let you know," he would say. Alan was a walking stream of consciousness in his zip-up jumper, worn trousers and dishevelled hair. He'd walk and talk you down a hundred paths of how he might make the film. We walked and talked miles. Paratroopers in Northern Ireland, teenage drug addicts, football hooligans, hopeless unemployment - this was his world. He was brilliant to be around, ever-changing, ever-alive. And he fought hard. They were tough films to make and to get made. He pushed himself very hard. He wrestled the films out of himself. They did not come easily. He lived and breathed work. He was a man of contrasts, so warm and open, so quiet and solitary. His last fight - with cancer - was his hardest. He bore his pain with grace. He died so young with so much more to say. There was no one to touch him.

Sandy Lieberson

He had a different perspective from the rest of us and forced us to open our eyes to the society and culture he saw. I brought Alan to LA to spend a few months looking for ideas and stories that might be made in the US. He soon checked out of the comfortable hotel in Beverly Hills, moved to a small hotel on Hollywood Boulevard full of junkies and prostitutes, and then disappeared without trace for two months. We became friends, saw each other regularly, and eventually I had the good luck to produce Rita, Sue and Bob Too. Alan's losing battle with cancer brought many of his friends together for the last few weeks of his life. We met every evening in Alan's room at the nursing home, drank, smoked some dope, exchanged stories and managed to find things we could all laugh at. It made us all more human.

Gary Oldman
Actor, The Firm

The absence from the cultural landscape of a true giant like Alan is immeasurable. Culture moves through such remarkable people. Painting never looked the same after Picasso. Gangsters never looked the same after Coppola. Comedy never looked the same after the Marx brothers or Chaplin. These artists - and the cliche holds - had that most rare thing: true vision. Alan was such a visionary, plain and simple. Though many have tried, no one has replaced him. And I can't think of one British film-maker in recent years who hasn't been affected or influenced by Alan. I feel privileged to have been associated with him.

David Leland
Writer, Made in Britain

Alan once lived in a basement flat in Almeida Street with the writer David Yallop. He said it was so messy it was the only address in Islington where the bin men delivered. Alan and I worked on many projects - Russian labour camps, machinations of multinational corporations, interrogation and torture, and more. Even at the most serious moments, you were never far from a laugh. That I miss. The way we worked together - we were always together, we did all the research together. He would walk and talk. I think we covered every street in Geneva for Beloved Enemy. Once I'd written it, he wanted me to be there on set and during rehearsals. If an actor asked a question he couldn't answer, he'd say, "Dave, you've got a minute to answer, or I'm cutting it." He wasn't afraid to say he didn't know, until he got the answer that worked for him.

THE GUARDIAN