Dionysos

A tragic image of war, destroying everything not only physically but forever destroying even those who were not directly affected at first sight. The expression on the main protagonist's face speaks for itself - attempting to squeeze such horror and inhumanity, which he witnessed, into ordinary (not only cinematic) phrases is simply impossible. Just like it is impossible to truly comprehend the fact of more than 20,000,000 killed inhabitants of the Soviet Union, truly enormous, yet still only one single country. The final scene is thus an example of the genius of the film, and of cinema itself.

As the author himself said, Hail Mary is the culmination of a series of his films (Every Man for Himself, Passion, First Name: Carmen) from the early 80s, with which he returned to making films that address personally or intimately human questions (after the political 70s). His "Marie" is truly the culmination, as her individual hesitation and decision-making about the chosen path is the core and climax of the whole film. As a typical copy from the aforementioned series, the film also appears with its rediscovered (self-sufficient) beauty of the cinematic image, which was weakened (especially in the 70s, but of course also in other phases of the author's work) by attempts to find new functional relationships with sound and goals beyond the aesthetic experience in the image. Therefore, there are deliberately kitschy shots of nature, etc. What works less in the film is the side plot of the Czechoslovak emigrant-thinker, which might be intended to contrast with Marie's actions (her humility, hesitation, and sacrificing her sexuality in contrast to the arrogant intellectual with multiple women) or the storyline about creation (of life) in contrast to biblical conception. It is interesting that Godard does not attempt any (atheistic, etc.) updating with the story of the Virgin Mary, let alone one set in the present, but rather respects the spiritual content of the biblical source.

While in Tarr's previous films, the apartment was a symbol of existential problems, now it is an existential problem. While in the previous two films, one could consider the relationship between external material issues and the characters' internal psyche, here (although not completely because factors such as the teacher's financial distress or the desire to get an apartment and money from the mother play a certain role) the author focuses primarily on the intersubjective structure of the relationships of the residents of one apartment (which is no longer just an apartment, but rather a metaphor, for example, a place of conflict between different generations, etc.). Mutual alienation and latent hostility are evident in all the "dialogues" but the form is important here - especially the play of light. It is precisely thanks to the light that we reveal the true distance in the apparent closeness of the characters, even within the most intimate conversations, when it seems that the characters are closer, each of them is mostly lit differently, which metaphorically indicates their true lack of harmony. It is precisely the dialogues and monologues of the characters where my main criticism of the film lies - the film that wants to delve into the depths of the characters' inner selves must have equally deep and profound ideas contained within them, which Tarr has not completely succeeded at yet.

The film was shot in the 60s but not completed until 1984, which coincides with H. Frampton's death. The entire film takes place between two camera perspectives: that of A) J. Wieland and B) H. Frampton. These two are both the subject and the creators, the subject-substance of the film. Thanks to their mutual effort to film each other during their own filmmaking/cinematography work, an image of themselves and the image of the city of Ontario gradually emerged. This fact is characteristic: all the other film cameras in all other films progress in a similar manner, despite the absence of such an obvious splitting that I witness here. Each camera primarily records itself and only secondarily the world/what it wants to depict because it always destroys the world and shapes it according to its own nature (referring to both the technical aspect and the artistic intentions of the director and cameraman, etc.). A and B in Ontario is a material demonstration of this.

Between Freak Orlando and Dorian Gray in the Mirror of the Popular Press, there is a shift (note - the term “shift” does not have to be taken normatively) towards a more classical narrative, and indeed we encounter a dramatic arc here. In the context of the author's previous films, it is almost a perfectly solid arch! I believe that the film has a more or less clear purpose and is therefore about something, i.e., it is an update of a classic literary work. However, unlike the original, Dorian does not see himself in painting, but rather in the tabloid press. But while in the original the painting becomes more hideous as Dorian changes, here Dorian transforms depending on how his media image changes. Herein lies the main theme of the film, based on contemporary social science studies (including gender studies, post-structuralism, media studies, cultural studies, etc.) - the theme of individual identity construction through media discourses, the secondary nature of the individual in relation to mass societal and cultural practices, etc. However, the film is not primarily an objectifying pseudo-documentary, as that would not be Ottinger - her penchant for costumes, dada or twistedly garish aesthetics (the 1980s!) is also present here. So is surrealism, but it is less prominent and the viewer can more easily relate the surreal scenes to the overall structure. Compared to Freak Orlando, the individual surreal scenes do not have complete autonomy - whether it is the opera scene or others – and they are always more or less connected to the film's underlying theme, which is the step forward that the character of the all-powerful media magnate D. Seyrig takes in relation to the poor Dorian (the opera as a distorted mirror of the actress and Dorian's publicized relationship; Seyrig, who also appears in seemingly purely personal delirious visions of the main character, who no longer has a private life, etc.).

The titles of artworks cannot be underestimated. When we focus on a film, for example, Griffith's title Intolerance is the only explanation and connection for the whole three-hour film. Here, the change in the title shifted our perception of the entire work: from a vague existential "The Vanished" it became a story about alienation in modernity with its specific discovery - dehumanized working relationships, in which all other human relationships find their faithful reflection. Instead of a general statement about the absurd anonymous situation of contemporary people in an ever-growing world, with more and more helpless individuals, we are presented with a no less pessimistic story, but now with a clear example of one of the manifestations and causes of this state - the emptiness of human relationships breeds a chase for class privileges, clinging to one's own position, and humiliating subordinates, which in turn builds even greater walls between people. Kafka thus becomes a socially critical writer from the non-general, non-philosophical side of things. After all, Therese’s narrative almost seems to have come out of a socialist realist novel from the early 20th century; Karl's "trial" is thus different from that of Josef K., as here it is a process of being fired from work, but no less absurd and hopeless for the accused. The formal simplicity allowed the authors to preserve the spirit of the original work (in the novel, Kafka mainly describes human relationships and conversations, while transitions and descriptions of the surroundings play a lesser role, by which independent authors could additionally save on costs!).

Truly a very "personal" Cassavetes film and also in its own way somewhat optimistic. I would perhaps use the word sentimental, although not in the usual pejorative sense. Cassavetes already knew back then that he didn't have too many years left, and without being a fan of incorporating the author's personal life into the final work, it shows in the film with his not-always-well-combined split between scenes of pessimistic despair and optimistic refusal to give up on life without love. On one hand, it’s classic Cassavetes - solitude, awkwardness, boredom, and alcohol, which gets to your head (in the film, Cassavetes occasionally reminds us of Gazzara from The Killing of a Chinese Bookie, while Gena Rowlands also reminds us of A Woman Under the Influence). On the other hand, the grotesque scenes are deliberately comedic (Rowlands and her suitcases). In between lies a middle ground of comedy, which is chilling - again, classic Cassavetes - in which the characters desperately try to convince themselves that happiness is possible. The question is: why are these relaxed scenes in the film? Probably precisely because the author somehow did not want to forget the "optimism" and hope in anticipation of the end, I think. That wouldn't be a problem if these scenes (in my opinion) didn't somewhat disrupt the tightness of the entire film and create an impression of authorial and script inconsistency, which can only be explained by pointing to something outside the film itself.

This film is definitely not about uncovering the obvious or hidden faces of Stalinism, but rather about gaining insight into the life of police investigator Lapshin and his friend - and yes, insight into the 1930s, but I would rather not draw complex judgments about this time period from this film. It's not so much about the time period but about a person. A person searching for happiness and security in the face of a harsh and insensitive world that he knows from his everyday work and his past life (and here, the "time period" plays a role). A person whom we are waiting to see if friendship and love will finally help him emerge from loneliness. Despite the mostly black-and-white camera and the omnipresent Russian winter and gloom that engulfs the viewer (and despite the somewhat disorganized first half), the film creates a nostalgic, sensitive, and perceptive atmosphere, best illustrated by the opening scene of the people getting to know each other when the camera familiarly examines and passes through a series of details in the narrator's story (the son of Lapshin's friend) while leaving the "big" outside world behind his windows.

Imagination and topos are truly the guides of a story that is more than lightly fantastical (my only objection is that it could have pushed the envelope even further). The film certainly has value as a story told on the brink of surrealism, appealing more to the viewer's emotions and imagination than their ability to rationalize a chain of facts, as the Cartesian neatness of the line of aligned planets does not evoke a fit of rationalism, but rather triggers a chain of fantastical events (but still clothed in the realistic guise of more or less standard film means of expression). /// A few comments: social critique - the scene by the fire, in which the characters themselves come to realize that the socialist society did not create one people, but once again split into social classes that have nothing in common, where thieves and greedy butchers who engage in corruption in a scarcity economy are still around. The topos of the village - in the 1920s and 1930s, Soviet cinema triumphantly brought a tractor to a backward village, which thus contributed to the destruction of the old and the construction of the new; from the post-Stalinist thaw through the 1960s, the village no longer fulfills utopian tasks, but slowly modernizes and finds its fate in gradually catching up with the city. Some people nostalgically reflect on this, similarly to elsewhere in Europe; since the 1980s, the Russian village has become a bizarre and dark place, from where anyone that can still run away does. Our urban heroes thus pass through death and thereby through the fantastical realm of the Russian village.

The tormenting dilemmas of a man, forced to struggle his whole life with his dual "nature," balancing incompatible desires - the desire of God embodied by the church and the desire of homosexuality. The overall triadic structure (childhood - adulthood - old age; church - mother - libido) intersects the entire trilogy in its central theme, which is the protagonist's tormenting and touching reconciliation of the demands of the religious superego and the sexual id, between which a weakling is caught, condemned by his indecisiveness to a life of solitude. The tragedy of the protagonist’s life in this classical sense is further emphasized by the fact that it should be God who breathed his nature into his son, and it is the same God who, in the Bible and the acts of St. Peter, the founder of the church, embodied his Catholic law in all his little lambs as their true nature. The "film," even though it is composed of three short films, they are united by a uniform and, despite its minimalism, impressive form - the desolate black and white camera in static shots weighs on its protagonist just as much as his self-reproach and does not allow him to escape his inner turmoil even with camera movement. On the other hand, the soundtrack often exceeds its place in the corresponding scene and spills over into preceding/following scenes - thus brilliantly imitating (together with the arrangement of scenes not based on linear, but purely subjective relationships of human memory, which finds closeness between otherwise temporally and spatially alien events) the manner of human reminiscence, which the entire autobiographical film de facto is.