How to Be a Film Snob, Pt. 1

One up your pretentious academic colleagues!
Out-reference even the most meta-referential!
Casually name drop esoteric cinematic movements and their self-proclaimed gods!

You can do it all with the brand spanking new "How to Be a Film Snob" compendium. Intended as a companion column to the "How to Be a Music Snob" articles posted on Yes+ affiliate, "Los Angeleez, I'm Yours," these blogs will plunder the cinematic archives in search of the ultimate in film snobbery material.

To some film-savvy readers, the topics may not seem obscure enough to qualify as film snob material. I won't deny that if you roll with the elusive breed of self-important film students, you've probably heard these phrases and movie titles thrown around as casually as yo' momma jokes. But stick around anyway. You may learn a thing or two, you disaffected film expert. And for those of you more familiar with blockbusters, hopefully this column will provide some insight into the canon of lesser known, historically relevant films. Today's need-to-know subject: Jean-Luc Godard and the French New Wave.

The French New Wave, or La Nouvelle Vague, is arguably the chicest of all the film-snob-approved movements. Its Modernist aesthetic, 1960s insouciance, and Parisian je ne sais quoi lend an element of cool that film-loving hipsters find hard to hate. To put it this way, if you want to mack on the uber-chic, art-house hotness eyeing you from across the Nuart movie theatre, open with a line about the French New Wave and you'll be golden.

The French New Wave began at the end of the 1950s when disciples of the famed film critic André Bazin began making their own films. The films of one such Bazin disciple, director Jean-Luc Godard, took a marked turn toward self-reflexivity, occasionally breaking away from the staunch realism that Bazin himself had advocated. While other filmmakers like Francois Truffaut and Jacques Rivette were also instrumental to the movement, Godard ranks as a personal favorite, so he'll be the primary subject of this thread.

Most Godard-o-philes will cite the film Breathless (Á bout de souffle) as the pinnacle of his career. While Breathless is a cinematic gem, there are other oeuvres that better showcase his playful experimentation with the medium. Sure, Breathless is replete with Godard's signature jump cuts, unmatched eyelines, and musings on the nature of love (approached in an ambiguous, non-committal sort of way, of course). Don't get me wrong, it's top-notch.

But for those of you looking for something a little more "out of the box," my Godard recommendations include Contempt (Le Mépris) and A Woman is a Woman (Une femme est une femme). These two films underscore Godard's groundbreaking formal techniques, which effectively subvert Classical Hollywood conventions. Both are unabashedly self-reflexive. Both are almost shocking in their assault on standard narratives. True to form, Godard always keeps us aware of the artifice of film. He always reminds us that we are watching a contrivance. Whether he's shouting out the film credits instead of listing them, cutting off the film's sound mid-scene, or allowing his characters to talk directly to the camera (not frequently done before his time), Godard never ceases to "show the strings."

For those of you French New Wave virgins, Breathless may be the safest place to start. But if you're willing to accept the challenge, Contempt and A Woman is a Woman are fun choices (if you don't tire of the meandering dialogue, which admittedly is my one Godard gripe). Besides, if you do opt for Contempt, you'll get to see Brigitte Bardot in all her glory!

And for all of you French New Wave experts, why not try this on for size? One of Godard's primary influences was an earlier French surrealist filmmaker/poet/playwright named Jean Cocteau. If you're looking for a new arcane reference to throw down, check out Cocteau's play Les Parents Terribles or his flick, Beauty and the Beast (La Belle et La Bête). Another noteworthy influence to investigate is the manifesto-spinning, Russian director Dziga Vertov (though he mostly influenced Godard's later, more politically charged films). Leaving his Marxist writings aside, the Vertov classic, The Man With the Movie Camera, is probably my favorite silent film of all time and an amazing work of art. Reference the reference, people!

Not Hollow, Man

Since his expatriation from the Netherlands, Dutch director Paul Verhoeven has garnered a reputation as the prototypical Hollywood, studio filmmaker, generating titillating, if lackluster films with a predilection for unabashed T&A and violence. Criticized for pandering to base sensationalism and producing films devoid of profundity, Verhoeven has never been the crowned king of the art house film. His collaborations with notorious screenwriter Joe Eszterhas have spawned such cinematic gems as the much ridiculed Showgirls and the infamous Basic Instinct, known primarily for its salacious money shot. Though his film Starship Troopers will be spared my snarky comments (since its satirical and self-reflexive tone actually appealed to me), it's difficult to endorse many Verhoeven films as anything more than mindless entertainment.

In a surprising turn, Verhoeven recently returned to his native land (and native tongue) to film the uncharacteristically tame (relatively speaking) and more mature World War II saga, Black Book (Zwartboek). To briefly summarize, Black Book follows Rachel Stein, a Jewish woman who dyes her hair blond and changes her name in order to pass as a gentile during WWII. In her newfound identity as "Ellis," she uses her feminine wiles to infiltrate powerful Nazi circles and spy on their military operations for the good of the Resistance. Does the film have violence? Yes. Does the film have sex? Oh, hell yes. But the sexuality and violence are of an arguably different nature than Verhoeven's previous work would suggest.

Instead of fetishizing nudity in a prurient manner, Black Book is filled with what I'll call "matter-of-fact" nudity. What I mean is that nudity is neither shied away from nor exploited in the film. Nudity occurs where it would likely occur in real life. When German soldiers strip the bodies of dead Jews for their jewelry, we see them strip the bodies. When Rachel dyes her pubic hair blond as a final touch in her "gentile transformation," we actually watch her applying the dye to her crotch. When soldiers let loose and harass lascivious women at their parties, the buttoned blouses are ripped off. There is even a full frontal shot of a male walking around naked after a sex romp. Though some modest viewers might find the ubiquitous nudity excessive, I find this approach a refreshing change from the conventions of American cinema. Still stuck between puritanism and exploitation, most American films either preclude nudity from scenes where it would naturally occur (a particular downfall of Spielberg), or employ nudity for the sole purpose of producing sexually gratifying, enticing shots. Nudity is rarely just a state of being. These dichotomous tendencies in American film tend to either coddle us like children who are unequipped to handle the realities of the human body or invite us to perceive our bodies through a sexualized, objectified lens. I was glad that Black Book steered clear of these tendencies to produce a more mature, if still somewhat sexually explicit film.

Despite showing nudity where it would typically occur, the spectacle of the human body was still idealized through the use of glossy cinematography and "romance" lighting. Although there were a couple notable exceptions (the quick male nude scene, for example), virtually all of the instances of nudity were framed by an unmistakably Hollywood aesthetic, where glowing, highly saturated, warm lighting washed out the imperfections, dulled the harsh edges, and generally beautified the scenes to unrealistic proportions.

Verhoeven's oft-criticized use of violence was likewise moderate. Undoubtedly, the violent acts were appropriate given the horrific violence of WWII. There was, however, one scene toward the end that felt like a directorial "cum shot" (a huge vat of human excrement poured onto one of the characters in painstaking detail). Though the shots in the scene were very well composed and the scene was admittedly necessary, I got the sneaking suspicion that Verhoeven included the degrading sequence primarily for spectacle's sake.

Moving beyond the micro to the macro, Black Book has overall redeeming values as well as areas worthy of criticism. Notably, Verhoeven elicited top-notch performances from Carice van Houten and Sebastian Koch. Their acting was truly riveting, especially that of Van Houten, whose convincing portrayal of Rachel/Ellis was at times poignant, at times restrained. The narrative itself was largely entertaining and generally well-structured, though the plot twists toward the end seemed a bit excessive at times. As far as the characters were concerned, Verhoeven tried to blur the lines between good and evil (with varying degrees of success) by giving us a sympathetic Nazi character and fallen Jewish freedom fighters. While the Nazi head honcho, Muntze, did become a subject of endearment, the character roles remained manichaean. The good guys were indubitably good, the bad guys, indubitably bad. There was the veil of subtlety without the actual subtlety.

Moving onto the formalistic elements, the cinematography was well-executed, but many of the shots left something to be desired. There were some great compositions scattered throughout the film, but these took a backseat to more straight-forward and safe shots, which dominated the film. In some ways, the lack of experimentation made it feel like a Hollywood film, until the occasional innovative composition would rear its head and I would be impressed for the moment. The editing was likewise standard, seamless and logical with Classical cutting. But for all its faults, Black Book still kept me entertained. It was certainly leagues above Verhoeven's studio flick, Hollow Man, and for that, I'm thankful.

Netflix This: The Philadelphia Story

Get those fingers typing all the way to your Netflix account. Get those eyes scouting out your local Blockbuster. In honor of my June 1st nuptials, I'm providing a rental recommendation of the connubial persuasion. The Philadelphia Story is a comedic foray into the world of marriage and re-marriage and a relic of Classical Hollywood Cinema. The Philadelphia Story epitomizes the romantic screwball films of the time - complete with physical gags, love triangles, dramatic irony, and of course, a happy ending. In the film, protagonist Tracy Lord (Katherine Hepburn) decides to marry a wealthy, yet unremarkable socialite after her first marriage to charismatic C.K. Dexter Haven (Cary Grant) dissolves. When a reporter documenting the ceremony gets thrown in the mix (Jimmy Stewart), Tracy finds herself torn between three potential suitors, despite the imminent wedding.

I will say upfront that I have a few biases to take into account. Cary Grant and Jimmy Stewart can do no wrong in my eyes and I'll watch anything that lists them in the credits. The director, George Cukor, is a fellow Hungarian - more bonus points. But despite my proclivities, it's hard to knock The Philadelphia Story. It's been crowned one of the top 100 American films by AFI. It's a feel-good flick with heart. And most importantly, it avoids the pitfalls of recent wedding-centric rom-coms, like Runaway Bride or My Best Friend's Wedding, which offer histrionic sentiment instead of genuine emotion. And unlike many of today's chick flicks, which (as their titles suggest) cater almost exclusively to a female demographic, The Philadelphia Story hits a wider audience. If you're a guy, I say, embrace this film. It's not just for the ladies.

***A note to the legions of fans (or select friends) who read this blog. The posts may dwindle for the next week or so, as I'm on my honeymoon. Now excuse me while I finish my mai tai.