Wednesday, 2 April 2025

On demand: "Hôtel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie"


By the mid-1980s, the bigger picture of World War II had been almost comprehensively filled in, on a macro level by such documentary overviews as ITV's
The World at War, and on a micro level by Claude Lanzmann's Shoah, with its forensic, step-by-step examination of the nuts and bolts of the Nazi killing machine. Yet there were still loose ends around to be picked and connected up. The Oskar Schindler story, as retold first by Thomas Keneally and then Steven Spielberg; the uprising at one of the death camps, first by the US TV movie Escape from Sobibor, later by Lanzmann again; and, in the case of 1988's Hôtel Terminus, the fate of one of the most brutal Nazi war criminals, as examined by Marcel Ophuls in his extraordinary, Oscar-winning follow-up to 1969's The Sorrow and the Pity, that earlier documentary landmark on the twin impulses (collaboration and resistance) that governed wartime France. The tone of the new film - named for the Lyon hostelry the Gestapo occupied during WW2, and the first stop of Ophuls' four-and-a-half-hour tour of Barbie's various homes and shelters - is set by an early aside in which a former neighbour of the Barbie family makes a stark four-word comment on Barbie's developmentally disabled younger brother: "Best that he died." We are immediately brought close to the cruelty again - obliged to inhabit the same rooms as those who knew Barbie, those who worked and lived alongside him, those who suffered at his hands, those who fought against or sheltered him, and those who finally brought him to justice in the late 1980s. The fact the above sentiment is spoken on camera by someone other than the film's notorious subject is crucial to the point Ophuls lands: that the cruelty, in this instance, extended far beyond that of Klaus Barbie himself.

We are now almost as far from the film as the film was from WW2, which requires us to adapt to a very different model of documentary cinema than has since become the norm: no narrator-presenter to lead us around by the hand (although the balding, bespectacled Ophuls appears on camera sporadically), an obligation to discern for ourselves who exactly these interviewees are and which side they were on, a veritable barrage of testimony to be sifted, sorted and weighed. It's clear that, much like Lanzmann, Ophuls was driven to cast his net far and wide, to gather as much information as he could from those who could still remember, including contradictory evidence. Editorially, Hôtel Terminus gets some of its biggest effects by intercutting opinion A with opinion B, a form of cinematic cross-examination. Barbie did monstrous things, but he could also be cultured and charming, we learn, and he was particularly good with animals. It's significant that he was put on trial, but - and here Ophuls picks up where The Sorrow and the Pity left off - he didn't act alone, and it took many Frenchmen to empower this one German to do the things he did. The first half gestures towards another film entirely, cutting freely between former Resistance agents, now in their dotage, as they fight among themselves over who talked and who didn't. Ophuls is forever insistent this isn't just one isolated story but multiple, interconnected stories: featured supporting players include the actual Lucie Aubrac, the Resistance figurehead played by Carole Bouquet in Claude Berri's 1997 drama; Günter Grass, the author of The Tin Drum; René Hardy, inspiration for Nicholas Ray's Bitter Victory; the bosses of the Laughing Cow cheese company; and Jacques Vergès, lawyer subject of 2007's Terror's Advocate. Crucially, Ophuls asserts their stories will often be at odds with one another, which is not to say they're entirely untrue.

Every now and again, though, Ophuls' questioning gets something truly jolting out of his interviewees, often from those who don't or won't talk, or who claim to have nothing more to say on the subject: tracked down to his apartment building, one former Gestapo underling waves the filmmaker away with a blackly ironic "Whatever happened to human rights?" And we gain a clear understanding of the perimeters within which the Klaus Barbie story was permitted to unfold. On one axis, a Lyon resident who, as a child, saw her mother gunned down in front of her tells Ophuls "there are so many stories like this". On the other, a woman who shares a property with a former Nazi shooes Ophuls' crew away, maintaining "It's no concern of mine". Some choose to look the other way; as a consequence, others see and experience far too much. This story is further complicated by the established historical facts. Even as the death camps were being dismantled, Barbie and the amorality he embodied were considered assets by the Americans in the new Cold War fight against the Soviets. "He was a damn skilful, shrewd interrogator," says one erstwhile CIA operative of Barbie, and that isn't the last evidence here that suggests the Americans were only too willing to jump into bed with someone who we've previously heard dunked prisoners in vats of ammonia and boiling water. (Damningly, Ophuls films these functionaries of the State sunning themselves by the pool or nestled under the Christmas trees Barbie's victims wouldn't get to enjoy.) In the second half, Hôtel Terminus reveals its peculiar symmetry: the intelligence community appears at least as divided by the events of the post-War period as those Resistance mainstays were by events pre-1945. Possibly that's why Ophuls returns to the billiards table as a connecting visual motif: the winners of history stay on, and it's all fun and games until someone gets hurt.

For some time, you may wonder and worry whether the figure who caused these divisions and scars - Barbie himself - has been allowed to slip away again. For three of the film's four hours, we barely see him except in archive photographs; when he does appear in person, interviewed by French television in the early 1970s, it's to deny being Klaus Barbie and to suggest that his wife and children having the same names as Klaus Barbie's wife and children is but mere coincidence. Ophuls' own interviews, with those left reeling in his subject's wake, suggest it may already be too late: that the rat Barbie had already gone some way towards spreading anti-Semitic attitudes, fostering a wider moral indifference and, in the case of the Bolivian bureaucrats who welcomed Barbie-as-Altmann, even a perverse pride that they'd have performed a similar duty on behalf of their own country. Any residual hope in Hôtel Terminus resides in the power of hearing firsthand the stories of those who personally suffered through all this, who speak of their torture with a force it would be foolish and shameful to deny, and flinch or sob as if these events had happened as recently as yesterday. Set against the prevarication and self-justification of Klaus Barbie's enablers, that directness still cuts through, and sometimes cuts to the bone. It's a directness born of heightened directorial strategy, a willingness to play the longer game, relax one's interviewees, draw out both the best and worst of our shared humanity, and trust in the audience to find their way through this complex maze of information to arrive at the right conclusion; it's assisted - at the last - by one of the most remarkable interactions ever committed to film. (For all this story's complications, it is finally a simple matter of human behaviour, and the choices we make.) They took these tasks seriously in the 20th century, in a way we haven't quite in the 21st - and look where that's got us.

Hôtel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie is currently streaming on YouTube.

Tuesday, 1 April 2025

On demand: "Ariel"


Along with the subsequent Leningrad Cowboys Go America, 1988's Ariel was the film that wryly announced the Finnish writer-director Aki Kaurismäki as a distinctive new comic voice in world cinema. Narratively, it could almost be one of those smalltown dramas American filmmakers have been turning out since the year dot, staffed as it is by frustrated blue-collar souls trying to manufacture some kind of life for themselves while forever dreaming of a better life elsewhere. Kaurismäki's USP was to invest all of the above with a puckish drollery. Drifter hero Taisto (Turo Pajala, recalling Birthday Party-era Nick Cave) is warned to get out of this frozen mining town by an elder who promptly pulls a pistol from his parka and shoots himself in the gents. And though things soon begin to look up for our boy - he inherits a nice warm coat, albeit from a co-worker who's been run over by a forklift, and then woos a local divorcee - a brawl with a sometime associate sees Taisto hauled off behind bars. Life's hard, Kaurismäki observes, and then most typically you die. Still, Ariel remains persistently, nigglingly funny, in large part because of the discrepancy between this grinding, unglamorous existence and the carefree Americana its characters escape into: the cars, the tunes, the movies. There's an extent to which the big house is Taisto and the film's inevitable destination: if the Leningrad Cowboys were sketched along the lines of rockabilly revivalists The Stray Cats, the protagonist here can equally be seen as a stand-in for the Elvis of Jailhouse Rock or the Clint Eastwood of Escape from Alcatraz. (It's also the point at which Ariel transforms into a wonky sort of thriller, with cellmate Matti Pellonpää cast as the Bonnie to Pajala's Clyde.) Raija Talvio's clipped cutting - the most precise comic editing since the heyday of Hal Roach - refuses to let matters get too emotional, energised or depressive: not only does she keep the characters from falling into a beckoning rut, she blesses them with at least the illusion of mobility, nudging them and us alike along until the moment when all the film's ships come in. Kaurismäki would return to this milieu time and again, most recently with 2023's Fallen Leaves - but you can also see why his worldview caught on so quickly in late 1980s Britain: the weather's crap, the jobs are bleaker than the prospects, but this director's characters plough on regardless towards what's hoped will be a brighter tomorrow. Beneath the sangfroid, some warming solidarity.


Ariel is currently streaming via MUBI, and available to rent via Prime Video and YouTube.

Monday, 31 March 2025

On demand: "The Docks of New York"


Turns out it wasn't just Dietrich: the 1928 silent
The Docks of New York would seem to indicate Josef von Sternberg transformed just about everyone who passed before his camera into exotic, alluring creatures of the night. On paper, he had his work cut out for him here, in that his subjects were those roughnecks working the ships pulling in and out of Manhattan's harbours. The burly Bill Roberts (George Bancroft) rises out of the steam and fog with plans of using his shoreleave to carouse and - who knows? - maybe even pick another fight or two at nearby watering hole The Sandbar; those plans, however, are thrown into comprehensive disarray after he and his crewmates haul a suicidal dame (Betty Compson) out of the drink. Drawn from a John Monk Saunders story with the altogether marvellous title The Dock Walloper, it opens with impressionistic scenes of maritime life that may have laid down a template for On the Town (maybe even On the Waterfront), but gradually reveals its true interest as human turbulence: the way the right look from the right person at the right moment can turn humdrum routine, a life, a whole world upside down. The tall, Baldwinesque Bancroft shapes up as practically the archetype of the loner male, his needs confined to a pack of smokes and the occasional hot toddy; Compson gets a full Hollywood makeover (new dress, hairstylist, spot lighting) and scrubs up mighty well for someone who starts the film wanting to end it all. Jules Furthman composed the funny, salty titlecards ("I've sailed the seven seas, but I've never seen a craft as trim as you" remains one of the movies' greatest pick-up lines), but this is one of those silents that almost doesn't need words, and really does suggest we lost something the instant sound came in. It is, finally, all about that look, and the longing and desire that can propel us on a radically different course at a rapid rate of knots.

The Docks of New York is currently streaming via YouTube.

Saturday, 29 March 2025

On TV: "Letter to Brezhnev"


1985's
Letter to Brezhnev is one of those Film on Four titles that has rather fallen through the cracks in the years since its release, almost certainly because of the absence of an auteur name to tie it to; neither writer Frank Clarke nor director Chris Bernard matched its success again. If it has an organising principle, it's the city of Liverpool, seen first from an approaching cargo ship, then from the air, and then - finally, resolutely - at ground level. It's here we find latter-day Liver birds Margi Clarke and Alexandra Pigg - far pottier of mouth than Nerys Hughes and Polly James - striking out for a night on the town; a chance meeting with a pair of Soviet sailors (Peter Firth and Alfred Molina) allows them to dream of another life in another world. Some of the salt of its rough contemporary Rita, Sue and Bob Too blows in off the Mersey, but this is a sweeter film by nature: clock the sequence where Pigg and Firth first lock eyes across the dancefloor of a gaudy nightspot, a cherishably mundane meet-cute in less than promising surroundings. (It also seems crucial that when this foursome check into adjacent hotel rooms, the camera remains in the room where people are talking rather than fucking.) Yet it's not entirely fanciful. The context may have receded in the memory, but this is very much a Cold War movie, released only a year or so after the 'Pool's own Frankie Goes to Hollywood were warning of the threat of nuclear annihilation in "Two Tribes". It's rare to see a film from this period where the Russian characters aren't presented as a clear and present danger, and the quartet's conversations are clearly Clarke seeking to reassure Western audiences that living under Communism is no better or worse than living under Thatcherism. It's a story that could perhaps only have been told in a city with proud socialist roots.

That conversation is particularly good at revealing personality. The sailors are absolute sweethearts, the blue-eyed, dreamy Firth and silent, bear-like Molina seemingly happy to go along for the ride and cede the screen to their female co-stars. The film briefly made a localised star out of Margi Clarke, a platinum-blonde bombshell who represented a Northern extension of the Diana Dors/Babs Windsor tradition, armed with the withering sass to push back against any undue objectification; she's also very moving in the final airport sendoff, embodying an entire social class's unrealised hopes and dreams. Brookside graduate Pigg has a tendency towards underplaying, throwing her lines away in a manner that might have seemed like a limitation were it not so affecting. Her Elaine remains one of the few credible 'ordinary girls' in 1980s British cinema, which makes it a slight shame that she barely worked again after this. (Slight, because she did at least marry Firth in real-life in 2017, providing the film with the happy ending it couldn't quite find its way to at the time.) Bernard gives it an only perfunctory nocturnal style, but takes care to preserve Clarke's streak of island-nation yearning and melancholy, which you wouldn't get in an American one-wild-night movie: it's in the tacit understanding that a few fleeting hours of fun like these are all a lowly factory worker could hope for, and that even they're likely to become a distant memory by morning. Like a lot of Film on Four productions of this period, it's also an exceptionally vivid time capsule to reopen now. Students of the Liverpool bus network will be over the moon; there's a none-more-1985 soundtrack (The Redskins, A Certain Ratio, Bronski Beat's "Hit That Perfect Beat"); and - arguably most historical of all - the sight of a postman ex machina who arrives before anybody's got out of bed.

Letter to Brezhnev screens on BBC Two tomorrow night at 11.35pm.

Friday, 28 March 2025

For what it's worth...




UK box office Top Ten (for the weekend of March 21-23, 2025):

1 (new) Disney's Snow White (PG)
2 (new) Ne Zha 2 [above] (12A)
4 (3) Black Bag (15) ****
5 (1) Mickey 17 (15) **
6 (new) Flow (U) ***
7 (new) The Alto Knights (15)
8 (4) Marching Powder (18)
9 (6) Dog Man (U)
10 (5Captain America: Brave New World (12A)

(source: BFI)

My top five:
3. Away 

 
DVD/Blu-Ray/Download top ten: 

1 (1) Wicked: Part 1 (PG) **
2 (11) Venom: The Last Dance (15)
3 (7) Moana 2 (U) ***
4 (2) A Real Pain (15) ***
5 (3) Gladiator II (15) ***
6 (4Sonic the Hedgehog 3 (PG)
7 (5Paddington in Peru (PG)
8 (new) A Complete Unknown (15) **
9 (6) Dog Man (U)
10 (12) The Wild Robot (U) **


My top five: 
1. Dahomey


My top five films on terrestrial TV this week:
1. The Mitchells vs. the Machines (Saturday, ITV1, 7.30am)
2. Us (Friday, BBC One, 11.40pm)
3. Mrs. Harris Goes to Paris (Saturday, Channel 4, 9.15pm)
4. The Martian (Saturday, BBC One, 10.20pm)
5. Letter to Brezhnev (Sunday, BBC Two, 11.35pm)

"The Woman in the Yard" (Guardian 28/03/25)


The Woman in the Yard **

Dir: Jaume Collet-Serra. With: Danielle Deadwyler, Okwui Okpokwasili, Russell Hornsby, Peyton Jackson. 88 mins. Cert: 15

Sometimes a single image is enough to carry a film so far. This pared-down Blumhouse chiller opens with a brisk, detailed overview of the disarray a remote rural fixer-upper has fallen into after the death of a paterfamilias. No power, no food in the cupboards; a bereft, incapacitated mother (Danielle Deadwyler) leaving two children to fend for themselves; cracks in the plasterwork offering their own doleful commentary. The lingering spectre of absence is compounded one morning by an unignorable presence: a huddled figure in mourning garb (Okwui Okpokwasili) who appears on a chair in the backyard, and over a single day moves ever closer to the property. That’s the image – as unnerving for us as it is for the characters – and there’s your elevator pitch: Grandma’s Footsteps: The Movie.

Sam Stefanak’s script is at its strongest when leaning into the folkloric: that this house is unplugged from the wider world registers as both plot point and mission statement. Spanish genre specialist Jaume Collet-Serra precisely establishes where the woman sits in relation to the house, and Pawel Pogorzelski’s sunnier images approach an uncanny Andrew Wyeth beauty, although we’re mostly indoors, looking out; the woman proves less significant than the reactions she provokes. If the obvious reading is that this interloper represents unaddressed grief, Stefanak complicates matters by yanking at unravelling threads: the mother’s stitches and sanity, a dog’s chain. It’s not just the woman who’s shifting.

For an hour or so, that’s intriguing: we don’t know where we stand exactly, and there’s an awful lot in the air. It settles shruggingly, however, and some of what’s being juggled – Black Mirror-ish psychology, Us-like shadow selves – is revealed as decidedly secondhand. Collet-Serra paints over some of these third-act problems with style, but key elements go AWOL as we pass back-and-forth through the looking glass, not least basic legibility. Deadwyler remains credibly frazzled, pushed towards monstrousness in ways that will be familiar to anyone who homeschooled during Covid, and the bundled figure closing in on her is genuine nightmare fuel – yet the rest of this hotchpotch never matches it, and flails in trying to explain it away.

The Woman in the Yard opens in cinemas nationwide today.

Thursday, 27 March 2025

Walk on the wild side: "Misericordia"


They've been few and far between, but those films by the French writer-director Alain Guiraudie that have crossed the Channel have been worth going out of one's way to see: I retain fond memories of the 2003 reverie No Rest for the Brave, and the filmmaker enjoyed a notable arthouse hit with 2013's cruising ground murder-mystery Stranger by the Lake. An idea of beneficent deviation sits at the heart of this filmography: Guiraudie's latest Misericordia opens with a shot from the perspective of a car traversing a long and winding road through the countryside, carrying its driver to a reunion that flies off-track at a thoroughly disarming tangent. Jérémie (Félix Kysyl) comes this way from Toulouse for the funeral of his beloved late employer, a baker, and soon finds himself in the company of folks he doesn't really know all that well: the deceased's wife (Catherine Frot), their bullet-headed son (Jean-Baptiste Durand), who regards this interloper as some kind of threat, and former associates who barely seem to remember Jérémie being there. Such social occasions are, as we know all too well, a potential minefield, and Misericordia initially busies itself laying out the various routes our protagonist might choose to take from here. While Jérémie weighs up whether or not to stick around and reopen the bakery, his healthiest option is going out in the surrounding fields - gorgeously shot by Claire Mathon in vibrant autumnal shades - to pick porcini mushrooms, the perfect accompaniment for a sustaining omelette repast. The path he heads down, however, is one in which he sows psychosexual chaos among his hosts, gets shot at by an irate neighbour, and eventually winds up becoming a murderer. It is, as they say, a funny turn of events.

Again, though, you will likely be struck by the quiet mastery of Guiraudie's storytelling. In some respects, Misericordia is but an exercise in yarnspinning, taking a narrative line for an especially convoluted walk, but there aren't two scenes you'd conventionally put together, nothing appears premeditated, and nothing quite leads where we anticipate it to lead. The result is one of those films where we critics have to tread carefully, to give you a sense of the territory passed through without giving you a full itinerary: far better to watch the road open up before you. Know that you will take this tour alongside a tight knot of exceptionally well cast performers. Kysyl presents as boyish, but he's boyish in the same way Matt Damon's Ripley was boyish, riven by sexual confusion that comes to feel like another secret he feels he has to keep. (Those phallic mushrooms are both as arrows, and as the arrows that pierced St. Sebastian's flanks.) As if to further underline Guiraudie's overarching thesis about the unruly nature of desire, the initial object of Jérémie's misplaced affections isn't some chiselled hunk, but a bluff, gruff agricultural type (David Ayala) - hitherto straight, of course - who appears a stranger to the hairbrush and more commonly resembles a sack of potatoes. You feel the film openly flirt with danger if not disaster upon depicting Jérémie's growing intimacy with the town's veteran priest (Jacques Develay): here's the kind of digression that would once have sparked outrage from more devout quarters, but which Guiraudie approaches as entirely natural and born of sincere compassion, the heart forever being a more dependable guide than the dick.

It is, however, typical of the delight Guiraudie takes in fostering connections between characters that in no other context (and no other cinema) would connect so, and of how the usual rules no longer apply in an Alain Guiraudie film. Instead, Jérémie's long tamped-down, newly eruptive bisexuality threatens to render the entire movie unstable. A confession box scene is shot in such a consciously recto-verso way as to suggest the priest is the one making the confession. An idle fantasy serves as a watertight alibi, then becomes a reality. The police's inquiries into the murder victim's disappearance merges with the guilt-ridden Jérémie's night terrors, such that we might start to wonder how much of what we see is real, and how much simply passing through our hero's deeply troubled head. Without a single computer effect, and with an uncommon affection for the confused souls who pass before his gaze, Guiraudie has created his own world, one with no restrictions, no boundaries and no damning judgement. Stranger by the Lake, which did likewise, possibly crossed over in large part because it was working within a familiar genre template: it remained graspable as a whodunnit, even though we were a long way from the country house. Misericordia is more wilful and auteurist - it has something of Alain Resnais' Wild Grass in its DNA, if that title means anything to you - but it's no less pleasurable and unpredictable, and a real tonic for anyone who'd feared the cinema had long since lost the elements of mystery, grace and surprise. Sometimes it pays to wander off the beaten track.

Misericordia opens in selected cinemas from tomorrow.