Reviews

LO SGUARDO DI MICHELANGELO is a short glimpse of Antonioni, who was confined to a wheelchair after his stroke but, "through the magic of movies," is seen walking again in a visit to Michelangelo's statue of Moses at the Church of St Peter in Chains, Rome.

Right from the opening shot, exquisitely lit and framed, it's clear that Antonioni is in complete control of this film and that the experience will be haunting you all the way home (and for a great deal of time afterward). The film's hushed and delicate construction is stunning, and the entire audience sat in their seats silently and in total awe, fearful that any sound or movement would cause the entire film to crumble.

Antonioni begins with an intricate study of the sculpture, examining it in painstaking detail while with his unmatchable composition he creates his own work of art out of it. Moses' gaze is examined and juxtaposed with Antonioni's own frail visage and it is difficult to tell whose gaze is more tortured or more beautiful.

At one point special attention is given to the crevices in the statue, the black shadows and negative space in the folds of Moses' robe and the place where his arms meet his sides. Then Antonioni begins gently caressing the sculpture, and as his hand turns toward the light we see the crevices, the negative space of the wrinkles in his palms, and we see that he has become a part of the work of art. It is a harrowing reminder of the mortality of the artist in light of the immortality of his work.

At the end of the film some vocal music from Palestrina arrives, heavenly but distant. It seems to beckon Antonioni from outside and he slowly leaves Moses and walks into the blue light coming from outside the building. The final shot is incomparably beautiful. I can describe what it is, technically - there's nothing particularly special about a wide shot of a man walking out of a church - but I can't think of any way to describe in words how precisely and assuredly it is shot. Like every other frame of the film, it is as beautiful an image as I have ever seen in the cinema, or in any visual art.

It's like Bergman and Kurosawa went to Georgia and decided to do Shakespeare together in the mountains. I've seen this film several times and there's much I still haven't grasped. It's not an intellectual problem, but a cultural one...VEDREBA seems so deeply embedded in Georgian history that it's nearly impossible for an outsider to find a way in.

The film is based entirely on the poetry of Vazha Pshavela, and I believe every line of "dialogue" is lifted directly from his poems. From what I can gather, the "story" concerns a soldier who, after feeling guilty about killing an enemy, becomes an outcast from whatever group he belongs to, then has visitations from both God and the devil who give him visions of the future (or perhaps one possible future). A full understanding of the film would seem to require knowledge of all the different groups of people living in the mountains of ancient Georgia, as well as a basic grasp of several various rituals. For instance, I have no idea what the significance of the main character beheading another man's bull was, nor do I understand why, when said bull-owner calls for the lead to be killed, several other people began extinguishing candles in bowls of sheep's blood.

But despite my perpetual lack of complete understanding, the opinion I'm leaning towards is that this is a long-overlooked masterpiece. The performances simply erupt with power, and the poetry, even from what I'm sure is a far-less-than-ideal translation, is amazing. (And if you ever get a hold of it, I recommend turning the subtitles off for at least one viewing -- the sound and rhythm of the words are absolutely mesmerizing, even if you have no idea what they mean.) And Abuladze's work is so strange -- every shot is terribly interesting, especially when he plays around with focus.

Yes, this is indeed a great and powerful film. It continues to perplex me, but after watching it I feel as if I've read an epic poem, and I want to study it as such. I think it absolutely deserves that sort of continued attention.

The film's title has several translations in English: THE PLEA, THE PRAYER, THE ENTREATY, THE SUPPLICATION...I even read one article where it was referred to as THE ENCOUNTER. I am not sure what the Russian title, MOLBA, really means, but a Georgian friend informs me that the Georgian title, VEDREBA, implies a specific type of prayer in which something is begged of God. "Deep spiritual begging" was the simplest way she described it. In this case, the warrior (and the poet -- they are one and the same in this film) is asking God to give him a sense of purpose again, some sign that there is good in the world worth fighting for. This is at least the message I have gleaned from the film.

Kim Ki-duk makes beautiful films. This is undeniable. There is subtle grace and silent majesty in the way he sets up scenes and slowly constructs them into a whole. His characters always seem to occupy a slightly otherworldly plane of existence that gives them an almost mystical charm. 3-IRON is no exception. Unfortunately I felt this particular film had some fundamental problems with its story and its characters.

I'm afraid I can't discuss my problems with this film without spoilers, and this is where they start. Though Kim has a talent for hypnosis and I was easily drawn in by this film simply by the way it was shot, it lost me decidedly after Tae-suk accidentally kills a woman with his stray golf ball. While he seems suitably upset about it at the time, by the next scene all is well, he has taken no responsibility for his mistake, and the incident seems to have had no effect whatsoever on his character.

Tae-suk seems intended to be a spiritually and morally superior being, but by the time he got to prison (on a separate false charge) I thought he was rather arrogant and childish, like a mute version of Trelane (from the "Star Trek" episode "The Squire of Gothos"). Maybe it's the fact that he looks so much like a model that his smile seems showy and insincere. Maybe it's the fact that his passive, non-violent resistance, which the audience is meant to respect, is canceled out by the violent, vengeful power he wields with the golf club (and his irresponsibility in wielding it). Maybe it's the fact that he is merely playing games the entire time, and so there is nothing to convince us he is in love with Sun-hwa rather than simply amused by her. And it doesn't help that there's so little to grasp onto in Sun-hwa. All we know about her is that her husband beats her, which frankly makes it rather disturbing that she is finally convinced to go with the protagonist only after he has displayed a greater talent for violence than her husband did. There's little indication either Kim or his protagonist view Sun-hwa any differently than they view that sad little puppy they find in the home of the man who died of lung cancer.