Monrovia, Indiana (Frederick Wiseman, 2018)

 

Donald Trump is never mentioned in Frederick Wiseman’s Monrovia, Indiana – there’s barely any sign of politics at all – but one's sense of the film surely shifts with the knowledge that it’s located in a county where Trump won some 76% of the vote in both 2016 and 2024. The town appears to be no duller or uglier than the vast majority of small towns, and hence an embodiment of a certain kind of good place to live: the town council diligently works to balance growth and sustainability, spending extensive time on such matters as the placement of a new bench or the availability of fire hydrants; the grocery and liquor stores are well-stocked in the modern consumerist manner. And yet there are ample signs of an insularity that could easily become malleable. The community is startlingly homogenous (at least by modern urban standards), with only the slightest sprinkling of non-white faces; the town’s gun store may have a wider range of inventory than its restaurants have menu choices. The film observes a Masonic event at which a member receives a fifty-year pin, rendered inadvertently funny since no one seems capable of getting through the ornately prescribed wording and ceremony without stumbling; later, a preacher prompts a funeral gathering to sing Amazing Grace, which falls flat as he’s seemingly the only one who knows the words, at least to the second verse. These hollowly executed rituals don’t suggest much active questioning of parameters (in addition to the many who seem to have lived in or around the town forever, there are references to others who moved away and are now returning): the highest cultural activity on display is a school band rendition of the theme from The Simpsons - and yet those council meetings are intelligent and well-informed; the preacher’s sermon is articulate and even moving; whatever we might think of all that Trump support, the film doesn't suggest it would be based entirely in callousness or ignorance. As always, while Wiseman doesn't aspire to tell an entire story, the one he tells is satisfyingly complex and implication-heavy.

Deception (Arnaud Desplechin, 2021)

 

At least for most English-language viewers (those more familiar with the Hollywood convention of, say, a Napoleon filmed in English than with Fassbinder’s German-language Western) it may not be easy to orient oneself within Arnaud Desplechin’s adaptation of Philip Roth’s Deception: the film is set in London, depicting the relationship between a Jewish-American author called Philip Roth and a British woman, both played by French actors (Denis Podalydes and Lea Seydoux) in a film that feels entirely French despite the odd scene in the pub and suchlike. The effect could be somewhat distancing, if not for the vivacity of the performers, and for the many striking points of specificity and immediacy: a recurring preoccupation with Judaism and Israel, and also with Czechoslovakia, embodied both by the author’s cherished memories of past travels and by ongoing relationships in the present. The film’s “reveal” of sorts, not an unfamiliar one in an age of meta-reality concepts, is that Seydoux’s unnamed character may be imagined (at least that’s what the author tells his wife when she reads his notebook and reacts with outrage); the beauty of sorts is in how little it matters whether or not that’s true, how the purely imagined may be more truthful and piercing than the mundanely “fact-based.” For instance, early on in the film, the woman with her eyes closed is able to describe the studio in which they meet and have sex in improbably precise detail, which paradoxically bolsters the sense that it may be imagined; the final scene introduces further distance and displacement, intermingled with tenderness and delight. The film overall isn’t as transporting as Desplechin’s grander canvases, its energy level necessarily lower (notwithstanding various moments when Podalydes seems to be channelling the director’s signature actor, Mathieu Amalric) but it’s enjoyably elegant and fluid, engaging most intelligently with the challenges of adapting Roth.

The Vampire Happening (Freddie Francis, 1971)

 

At the start of The Vampire Happening, the Hollywood star “Betty Williams” flies to Transylvania, surrounded by passengers who are being titillated and shocked (in those pre personalized viewing days) by a screening of one of her own raunchy movies; she’s returning to reclaim her ancestral title of Baroness, notwithstanding that a previous holder of the title continues on in an undead state, the two soon criss-crossing paths as the area’s vampire population steadily grows. Blood isn’t the bodily fluid that most defines the movie’s tone though: it has sex on the brain to a rather endearing degree, deploying whatever might cross its path (desserts, tree branches, stick shifts) in the most suggestive way available, and taking particular pleasure in depicting the corruption of an adjacent Catholic seminary. The film has a few modern trappings (it culminates in a party where Count Dracula arrives in a helicopter, which one would like to take as a small tribute to Demy’s Donkey Skin, but presumably isn’t) but feels largely displaced, set in no plausible time or place; it often has the sense of setting out mainly to amuse itself. That’s bolstered by the bland yet tragic lead actress Pia Degermark, the last time she would star in a film, gamely taking on not one but two roles defined primarily by undressing and ever-changing wigs, but not in truth making a very lasting impression (she’s marginally more striking as the dead woman than the live one). And then, for further curio value, the film’s director is Freddie Francis, who according to IMDB has exactly the same amount of cinematographer and director credits (37 of each), the high-end double-Oscar sheen of the former barely seeming connected to the lurid genre-trolling of the latter. The Vampire Happening may not be his directorial highpoint, but it’s well-sustained on its own low-end, sheen-deficient terms.

The New York Ripper (Lucio Fulci, 1982)

 

Lucio Fulci’s The New York Ripper is an exercise in dualities, starting with the strange tension between the heavily stressed authenticity of its locations (especially enjoyable in the time capsule shots of the Times Square region, with marquee attractions ranging from Carbon Copy to Revenge of the Bushido Blade) and a gratingly dubbed soundtrack (interiors were filmed in Rome) consisting largely of curtly declamatory dialogue. The film constructs its narrative on a standard sicko killer premise (the weird casting of British stalwart Jack Hedley as an absurdly hard-bitten detective creates its own sense of displacement), while also seeming largely sympathetic to the spectrum of human desire, whether manifesting itself in middle-class thrill seeking or in obsessive porn accumulation; its graphic depictions of knifing and blood-spurting and maiming exploit human frailty and capacity for pain while denying the audience any protective distance, with the unseen killer’s weirdly duck-like speaking style all the more destabilizing for its absurdity. The film’s strangest and most productive tension may be between impulse and deliberation: the killings (for instance, inside a car parked inside a ferry during a crossing; in the back room of a sleazy sex club) look like the opportunistic outbursts of a madman, but are ultimately attributable to a poignantly damaged back story, to a wrecked psychology exercising its revenge on the world in a complexly mediated manner (inevitably, the ultimate explanation is overly rushed and not likely to address all the viewer’s questions); the sense of multi-layered threat borders on the Fritz Lang-ian. In a film preoccupied with looking, there’s a strangely ethical quality to Fulci’s cinema, his brutality feels almost scientific in its precision, and the film insists on the validity of female desire and self-determination (albeit of a submissive and/or doomed variety). Even so, the nastiness rapidly becomes draining, and the film isn’t exactly enjoyable, but it never feels easily dismissable.