Bound to an obvious literary precursor in Moby Dick, Herman Melville’s epic set on the same treacherous seas off the coast of New Bedford, Leviathan may have as much in common with James Joyce’s Ulysses, specifically its third chapter. In it, Stephen Dedalus’s missing glasses affect how he perceives, and thus how Joyce writes, his walk along a beach. Objects are rendered not as precise objects, but as impressionistic streaks of color, and sounds take on an active role instead of the things that emit them. Thus, “The dog’s bark ran towards him, stopped, ran back again,” instead of the dog itself.
Leviathan operates along the same wavelength. Less a documentary than a total, subjective immersion, its bewildering aesthetic, grimy images of an Atlantic fishing ship shot on low-quality cameras, is made alternately more abstract and concrete by its soundtrack. The waves’ roar, then, provides a sense of place as much as the whitecaps rolling on top of black ice water, and the squelch of caught fish writhing on deck communicates their impending deaths as vividly as seeing them pathetically flop around. Above all is the endless, scraping shriek of sea-worn metal, every gear and chain sounding every day as if this is the day something, or everything, will break and send this unnatural vessel to the bottom of the waters it plunders. And yet, it’s only that constant noise that offers any assurance that the ship still works and struggles against an ocean consciously hostile to this unnatural invader.
That both the ocean and ship should resemble characters locked in an epic, dramatic conflict doesn’t seem a narrativizing move on the film’s part. Aborted plans to ground the seafaring footage with more classical documentation of New England ports leave Leviathan completely restricted to the ship, with no context to explain the fishermen’s routines to viewers. As such, the film feels agenda-less, instead a mere reflection of a microcosm into which it has been dropped. In other words, it didn’t start the war, only recorded it.
And war is often exactly what it looks like. The poor image quality produced by the GoPro cameras used to make the movie render the ocean as a black mass, a tar that gushes over the sides of the boat to coat the entire deck. When a camera is left to float in the water and dip beneath the surface, the eerie patches of underwater calm play as a gathering of energy before re-exposure to air fills the speakers with vicious squall. For their part, the humans who dully toil on these dangerous waves are inured to their own grisly tasks; giant nets stretch up on the ship in tubular formation, making transparent esophagi that force out hordes of fish through mechanical peristalsis. Once the fish, or stingrays, or clams or whatever else comes on board, the men set to preparing them with the same worn-down but unceasing efficiency as the ship’s machinery, cleaving the wings off stingray with a single machete stroke or beheading and gutting entire schools within minutes. The film takes in these sights with dispassion, neither valorizing the men who lead this hard life nor recoiling in horror, even when the ship appears to “vomit” blood and fish heads out of its drainage areas.
This remove successfully avoids ascribing thematic intent to a film that teems with possible readings. To even cite Lucien Castaing-Taylor and Véréna Paravel as directors seems a regressive, uncomprehending means of giving purpose to what they merely facilitated, handing off a number of cameras they themselves didn’t fully understand how to use to the ship’s crew. Referring to them as such uses the language of cinema as we understand it to describe something that looks, sounds, and feels so unprecedented. Were its accomplishments not so singular and perhaps unrepeatable (even other works of Harvard’s Sensory Ethnography Lab share only basic similarities with it), Leviathan could mark the most significant step forward for the possibilities of film since Godard.
And Godard comes to mind throughout the film. The screech of gulls that emerge frightfully from the total blackness of the sky around the ship recall the director’s favored means of disruption since the ‘80s. The first images that fade up from that void—a red jacket, blue gloves, and a yellow chain—even mimic the pop-art color schemes of Godard’s early color work. But the main comparisons between the two are not specific recollections, but the film’s possible fulfillment of the director’s longstanding aims of freeing the cinema with an aesthetic socialism. Godard’s tragedy has always been his inability to extricate even his most expansive and giving works from his firmly auteurial voice, but Leviathan truly belongs to everyone and, when cameras bob in the water with chum or fly off with gulls, no one. The film ends in a moment of total apocalypse, out of human hands as the ship lets out one final howl, a terrifying collapse that epitomizes the movie’s leveling effect, and the glimmer of liberation embedded within it.
The rough nature of Leviathan’s look is a fundamental, and integral, part of the film, and the rampant black crush and inconsistent colors that would be seen as catastrophic on other home-video releases are here a sign of fidelity. And sometimes, a GoPro cannot help but capture an exquisite-looking moment, as in a shot that holds on a fish head never quite falling off the side of the boat as light glows off its scales and wind fluffs the loose skin of its serrated throat. A sick beauty is encoded in these images, streaks of color that coalesce into recognizable forms only with the passage of time. The audio is similarly unimpeachable in its assault on conventional taste, an undulating crash of white noise that nevertheless boasts a surprising crispness and distinction of each sound.
Still Life / Nature Morte is a 30-minute short film made from an unbroken shot taken from the camera set up in the ship’s tiny commons as seamen take a break from their grueling schedules to stare with tired faces and tired minds at a TV, warming up with some coffee and making small talk that, as with the spare speech heard in the full feature, is muffled under all the industrial noise. The deafening hum of the ship exposes the lie of the title, a reminder of not only the constant movement of the floor beneath the fishermen’s feet, but of the very impossibility of enjoying a still, tranquil moment in this environment. Cinema Guild’s Blu-Ray also includes the theatrical trailer, and a booklet featuring an essay by Cyril Neyrat.
The most innovative film of the decade comes to home video as the reference disc from hell.
Director: Lucien Castaing-Taylor, Véréna Paravel Screenwriter: Lucien Castaing-Taylor, Véréna Paravel Distributor: Cinema Guild Running Time: 87 min Rating: NR Year: 2012 Release Date: October 22, 2013 Buy: Video
Blu-ray Review: Ingmar Bergman’s Shame
Criterion outfits one of Ingmar Bergman’s most severe and ambitious films with a customarily gorgeous transfer.4
Though stark and despairing, Ingmar Bergman’s films are essentially, perhaps inadvertently, celebrations of art in which erudite characters wrestle with their demons via their creative endeavors. Bergman conjures intricate worlds of sex and violence and creation, which ricochet off each other with a free association of tone that suggests the dream of a gifted and highly self-conscious god. Bergman’s films are catnip to cinephiles, critics, and theatergoers partially because they inevitably flatter such audiences, offering tortured artists of physical majesty whose struggles, to balance the varying privileged scrims of their lives, often suggest nothing less than the great existential plight of humankind.
In this light, it’s doesn’t feel coincidental that Bergman’s less acclaimed films tend to interrogate the foundation on which he’s built this reflexively flattering art, particularly a run of films he made in the 1960s, in which he chafed against his emerging status as a genius and tried to tear his art down and rebuild it from the ground up. In The Virgin Spring, religion (art) is pitifully ill-suited to prevent a series of atrocities, though it perhaps allows the remaining human characters to live with themselves. In Persona and Hour of the Wolf, Bergman attempts nothing less than to foster a cinema that eats itself alive, leaving the respective characters untethered and adrift. And in Shame, Bergman pushes his exploration of the potential futility of art, and artists, even further to the breaking point, following a bourgeoisie couple as they coarsen in the face of an unnamed and highly symbolic civil war.
Shame is a bitter brew that’s leeched of much of the pleasure that even a confrontational Bergman film like Persona can give. The filmmaker begins the narrative, however, in a characteristically evocative manner, mixing eroticism, ennui, and dread. Eva (Liv Ullman) arises from bed, her shirt open and revealing her breasts. She goes to a sink and washes herself, her bare back glistening in the shards of sunlight that are piercing through the shadows. Eva’s husband, Jan (Max von Sydow), gradually awakens, and they begin their morning routine. For many filmmakers, such a series of events would be a matter of setup, but for Bergman this sequence is a kind of ambiguous and ecstatic romantic scene. Eva is a beautiful woman, and her beauty will come to influence the couple’s ability to live in their war-torn country, but Jan has been married to her for years and isn’t struck by her as directly as others might be. (Though the film offers us a moment where Jan regards Eva by a creek, clearly swept up in his intoxication with her.) Yet their casualness together isn’t merely born of routine habitation, as it’s also sensual and nourishing, reflecting the fruits and the challenges of living with someone for some degree of time.
This sequence haunts Shame as the film moves into more violent and austere territory. In this powerfully acidic production, Bergman dramatizes the invasion of a countryside that presumably has never experienced hostile foreign occupation. And though Bergman is riffing on the Vietnam War, and on the remote safety of his own island home of Fårö, Shame’s images of a prosperous white couple reduced to a status of traveling refugees offer a timeless empathetic dare. Eva and Jan have tuned out atrocity until it came tumbling onto their doorstep, taking their music careers from them, recasting them as farmers and then as fugitives. Apart from their skin color, Eva and Jan come to resemble the sort of people that the United States and much of Europe would presently prefer to lock up or fence away.
Bergman prunes Shame of the overt theatricality of even his other ‘60s films so as to suggest a loss of art born of warfare, leaving the viewer to survey craggy, frazzled landscapes and the occasionally sensual, penetrating, unmistakably Bergman-esque close-up of Ullman and Sydow’s faces. And there’s little on-screen violence in Shame to give us a cathartic thrill, which might’ve turned this merciless parable into an action film. Bergman renders horror in terrifyingly fleeting and intimate slivers of imagery: of bodies lying in fields or water, of cars run off the road, of smoke billowing up in the background while military vehicles trundle across the landscape. There are also flashes of light and explosive sounds that aren’t entirely identifiable yet are clearly the product of carnage. Eva and Jan’s home, a synecdoche for this society and their imperiled relationship, is bombed and raided many times, leaving them to start over amid rubble while they castigate one another. Through it all, they compromise themselves over and over, and Jan, initially a coward, becomes a wolf. Which is to say that Bergman has staged a brutal lament of the impotency of war as it’s felt among the populace at its mercy—a bleak poem that’s nevertheless informed with the beauty of his craftsmanship.
Yet death and compromise aren’t the primary terrors animating Shame. Instead, Bergman confronts a realization of the possibility that rarefied society might be stripped of its baubles, including its art, and might have to face the superficiality of the things it loves. (In Bergman’s most obsessive and lacerating films, art is but another kind of mask.) Such terrors are real, of course, and have been faced, most infamously during the Holocaust, but Bergman’s lack of specificity here comes to suggest that war is inevitable and circular and will eventually engulf most of us, who might be currently enjoying the sojourns of Shame’s opening passage. Bergman fillets his interests in this film, forging a vision of annihilation that is, understood, itself, to be yet another bourgeoisie toy. In one scene, Eva wonders if she’s in a dream, and if such a dreamer is capable of feeling shame. The film’s existence is her unattainable answer.
The image, courtesy of a new 2K transfer, boasts a greater degree of detail than prior home-video editions of Shame. Minute textures—particularly of the damage wrought against people and land by war—seem to pop out of the frame, and the ocean of the film’s climactic sequence visually resounds with a newfound sense of clarity. Blacks and whites are well-balanced, which is particularly notable in a brilliant and seemingly found image near the beginning of the film where the central couple is separated by a diagonal shadow looming over their farm, casually foreshadowing their rocky future. Plenty of grit has been scrubbed from the image but not at the expense of character. The monaural soundtrack offers a clean and immersive soundstage, allowing small notes of life to resound alongside the vast clinging and clanging of war.
In a new interview recorded for Criterion, Liv Ullmann speaks candidly, if briefly, about her personal and working relationship with Ingmar Bergman. Ullmann discusses the unity that exists between films such as Hour of the Wolf, Shame, and The Passion of Anna, and vividly recalls the personal anxiety that drove Bergman to tackle these projects. Two short archive interviews with Bergman are also included on this disc, which find him addressing issues of artistic relevance with a candor that shames the puffy sound bites of today’s media. The best supplement of this package, though, is “An Introduction to Ingmar Bergman,” a feature-length documentary that includes extensive footage of rare films and longer interviews with Bergman, as well as intimate footage of him on various sets. A terrific essay by film critic Michael Sragow serves as the disc’s liner notes, rounding out a somewhat slim package.
Criterion outfits one of Ingmar Bergman’s most severe and ambitious films with a customarily gorgeous transfer, though the supplements could use a bit more meat on the bones.
Cast: Liv Ullmann, Max von Sydow, Gunnar Björnstrand, Sigge Fürst, Birgitta Valberg, Hans Alfredson, Ingvar Kjellson, Frank Sundström, Ulf Johansson, Vilgot Sjöman, Barbro Hiort af Ornäs Director: Ingmar Bergman Screenwriter: Ingmar Bergman Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 103 min Rating: NR Year: 1968 Buy: Video
Blu-ray Review: John Huston’s Beat the Devil
Twilight Time’s gorgeous 4k transfer rescues John Huston’s cult classic from the grips of the public domain, restoring the original cut of the film that’s been unseen for decades.4
It’s impossible to discuss Beat the Devil, John Huston’s 1953 send-up of the caper film, without addressing its tumultuous production, as that chaos very much worked its way into the fiber of the film. During the making of The African Queen, Huston spent as much of his energy hunting down an elusive elephant as he did behind the director’s chair, and two years after wrapping production on that Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart vehicle, the filmmaker jetted off to the Amalfi Coast of Italy for another strange adventure. Once there, Huston, unhappy with Beat the Devil’s screenplay, tore it up and subsequently hired a young Truman Capote to help him churn out fresh pages, which were often delivered to the actors just hours before the cameras started rolling.
Beat the Devil evinces the free-wheeling spontaneity of a film constructed on the fly. Jacques Rivette once wrote that “every film is a documentary of its own making,” which certainly applies, and then some, to Huston’s ramshackle, whimsical farce—often considered the first cult film and the birth of cinematic camp. Huston’s original intention was to make a half-serious thriller with an anti-colonialist bent, but the gentle Mediterranean breeze seems to have dissipated any hint of import in the story and self-consciousness in the actors’ uniformly relaxed performances. Like the ship that’s been docked for “one day to a fortnight” in the small Italian town of Ravello so the captain can recover from a severe hangover, no one—not the cast, not Huston, not even the plot—appears in a hurry to go anywhere.
The narrative of Beat the Devil, such as it is, involves a motley crew of liars, criminals, and scoundrels, all of whom have either grandiose visions of their futures or fantastical delusions about their present-day realities. Only Billy Dannreuther (Bogart) is somewhat connected with reality, accepting his fate as the unwitting lacky of the film’s ostensible baddie, the jovial and ever-sweaty Peterson (Robert Morley), who offers Billy the only convenient way to continue paying his hotel bill. They and the rest of the film’s motley crew of international characters are heading to Africa, supposedly to either mine for gold, diamonds, or uranium, or to grow coffee. But Huston is scarcely concerned with any of this. Beat the Devil is all about the follies that happen while its characters are busy making other plans.
Nearly all of these eccentric types lie about their intentions, while others speak of global conspiracies and massive shadow organizations. Lorre plays a supposedly Irish lackey named O’Hara, who quips at one point that many Germans in Chile have taken such a name and happily loses himself in the international crowd, which is equally fueled by post-war paranoia as it is by aperitifs. As O’Hara dodges his national identity, likely because he was a Nazi, the British Major Ross espouses a strange fondness for strong men like Hitler and Mussolini. At the same time, a married couple, Gwendolen (Jennifer Jones) and Harry Chelm (Edward Underdown), play at being part of upper-crust British society while not-so-secretly swapping partners with Billy and his beautiful Italian belle, Maria (Gina Lollobrigida).
Beat the Devil is a gleeful mess of narrative false starts and fake-outs, simmering in its own narrative ambiguity as everyone deceives everyone else as well as the audience. But a clear end game is always obscured by the pervasive aura of mistrust in the air. The plot doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but Beat the Devil isn’t trying to be a sensible film. For a spell, it even seems like there are invisible forces, like those at play in Luis Bunuel’s The Exterminating Angel, preventing anyone from leaving town. For one, when Billy tries to head out for the day with Peterson, their car breaks down and they end up accidentally pushing it off a cliff. And once everyone finally sets sail, their ship, in a fitting metaphor for the film itself, soon breaks down. This dastardly bunch of ne’er-do-wells may have some pretty evil plans in place, but in thwarting their moves at every turn, Huston defuses their treacherous ambitions, inviting us to laugh at their increasingly disastrous blunders.
After decades of being stranded in the public domain, almost any half-decent transfer of the film would be welcome. But, fortunately, Twilight Time’s transfer of the 2016 4k restoration of Beat the Devil is better than one could have hoped. The film’s gorgeous Italian vistas are rich in detail, and the actors’ often exaggerated expressions now exude a clarity certainly unseen since the film’s theatrical release. The image also has a nice balance of blacks, grays, and whites, only occasionally losing a bit of detail in the more darkly lit sequences. If anything, the transfer is too clear, occasionally making such flaws as the edge of Bogart’s wig appear unmissable. The DTS-HD audio track is consistently balanced, though dialogue is a little muddled throughout a few outdoor scenes.
The audio commentary with film historians Lem Dobbs, Julie Kirgo, and Nick Redman is, in the spirit of Beat the Devil, a bit scattershot. The trio covers an array of topics, from the film’s divisive reputation to the various differences between this newly restored cut and the public domain version that most people have seen before now. They are only too happy to tell us that Peter Sellers dubbed many of the Italian actors’ voices, and that a young Stephen Sondheim worked as the clapboard boy. But as light-hearted and conversational as much of the commentary is, Dobbs, Kirgo, and Redman approach Beat the Devil not merely as a great cult film, but as a great John Huston film. A short featurette, “Alexander Cockburn: Beat the Devil,” finds the son of Claud Cockburn, author of the novel upon which the film was based, throwing much shade at Truman Capote for taking credit for dialogue taken straight from the source material. An essay by Julie Kirgo, which offers additional context to the film’s bizarre production history, rounds out the package.
Twilight Time’s gorgeous 4k transfer rescues John Huston’s cult classic from the grips of the public domain, restoring the original cut of the film that’s been unseen for decades.
Cast: Humphrey Bogart, Jennifer Jones, Gina Lollobrigida, Robert Morley, Peter Lorre, Edward Underdown, Ivor Barnard, Marco Tulli, Bernard Lee, Mario Perrone Director: John Huston Screenwriter: Truman Capote, John Huston Distributor: Twilight Time Running Time: 94 min Rating: NR Year: 1953 Release Date: January 22, 2019 Buy: Video
Blu-ray Review: Abbas Kiarostami’s 24 Frames
A once-in-a-generation cinematic poet leaves us with a hypnotic, quietly enchanting farewell testament, but Criterion doesn’t fully rise to the occasion in properly honoring it.3.5
Abbas Kiarostami’s final, posthumously released film, 24 Frames, is predicated on an absurd, almost comically Sisyphean paradox. Over the course of 24 single-shot vignettes, ordinary patterns of life are painstakingly reconstructed by the filmmaker and his team of VFX artists to the point that the end result resembles a passive, authorless recording—but, of course, not quite. Kiarostami became known for pulling this trick—that is, mingling artifice with reality in near-imperceptible ways—throughout his career, but he never saw the endeavor through to such a comprehensive extreme as he does here, where life forms, precipitation, shifting light patterns, and environmental soundscapes have been conceived and executed from the ground up and made to evolve within the frame seemingly of their own volition.
The basis for the film, specified in an opening title card, is Kiarostami’s photography work. Looking over his stills archive, the filmmaker was apparently overcome with a desire to witness more than what his images could offer, and thus set about resurrecting, with some mixture of memory and projection, the “scenes” leading up to and succeeding the click of the shutter—an undertaking that deflates Henri Cartier-Bresson’s famous idea of “the decisive moment.” If one “decides” on immortalizing a single instant with photography, Kiarostami seems to posit, then one has robbed a moment of its life and complexity, qualities that can only be revived through cinema. It’s no accident that whenever a death occurs in 24 Frames, the vignette comes to an end; movement and progress are the organizing principles here.
Those unfamiliar with Kiarostami’s photography won’t be surprised, given a general knowledge of his films, by the subject matter and compositional style of 24 Frames. What’s starkly different here is the emphasis on wintry settings, many of which are recaptured in a monochrome chiaroscuro that makes them seem especially cold and bleak. In the film’s Eadweard Muybridge-evoking second vignette, a black horse runs against the current of a snowstorm while the field of view, fixed from behind a car window, follows in lockstep, finally settling on an image of the horse meeting a companion to frolic joyfully in the blizzard. Despite Kiarostami’s trademark use of an obscuring car window that’s lowered at one point—here by an unseen passenger to allow for a clearer view of the landscape—you might mistake the shot for a transmission from the grim universe of Béla Tarr, so far removed is it from the warm sunshine and pleasant breezes that often weave through Kiarostami’s output.
Unlike Tarr’s films, however, 24 Frames is far from a doggedly materialist work. From the film’s introductory vignette, a playful animated manipulation of Bruegel’s The Hunters in the Snow that inserts billowing chimney smoke and soaring crows to the original 1565 painting’s placid snapshot of winter, artifice is established as a technical principle. In blending photographic plates and visual effects components, the composite images very nearly achieve convincing photorealism, but certain elements, like the muscular movement of squirrels, deer, and cows, or the quasi-impressionistic renderings of snow mounds and fog drifts, uncannily disrupt the illusion.
Kiarostami wields this omnipotence lightly, creating compositional harmony and intimations of narrative order one moment and cultivating spontaneity the next. Some of the film’s most indelible episodes follow rhyming patterns: In one, a quietly grazing deer darts for the shelter of a grove of trees when a gun fires off in the near distance, and in another a sudden thunderclap stirs a pair of lions from a mating session, with both scenes framed by makeshift proscenium arches (a canopy of trees in the first, a rock wall with a hole cut out in the second) to draw the eye to their respective animal subjects.
Such organizing strategies, however, aren’t always offered. Sometimes there’s no notable narrative event to speak of, as in the extended studies of a few pigeons traipsing around a dead bush or a crow perched on a window frame seen from a shaded interior. Other times, Kiarostami, ever the master of the casually layered, multi-tiered composition, creates so many points of possible interest that it’s easy to linger on a development in one corner of the frame at the expense of another—a means of gentle overstimulation that works in one vignette to amplify the shock of a cat stealthily sneaking from the deep background of the shot to the foreground and pouncing on a bird.
24 Frames is a delight on these sensory levels alone, and depending on one’s patience for contemplating glimpses of natural and almost exclusively non-human goings-on, the overall effect is near-transcendent. But there’s also another feeling shading the experience, a steadily creeping poignancy that relates to the extra-textual knowledge of Kiarostami’s passing and the way in which the film’s ultra-simple structure—title cards announce each frame chronologically in between vignettes—acts as an expiring clock on the master’s career. If Kiarostami is, as suggested by Jean-Luc Godard, the end of cinema to D.W. Griffith’s beginning, then there’s a sobering poetry in the film’s use of the medium’s paradigmatic frame rate for its title and underlying construction. And especially gut-punching is the film’s concluding vignette, which bears witness to the last slow-motion stutters of an After Effects display rendering out an old movie’s soaring final kiss, all while the female editor dozes off at the workstation. That it’s unclear whether or not she’s manipulated the clip in some way provides the scene’s subtle tension, in addition to crystallizing the essence of Kiarostami’s art. Fittingly, “The End” arrives on her screen before we have a chance to determine the answer.
24 Frames’s bewitching textural ambiguity—its thorough muddying of the indexical and the digitally manifested—makes the film something of a challenge when it comes to evaluating its presentation on home video. You can never be sure which elements in the frame were intended to feel artificial as opposed to which should look (or are) photoreal. For example, certain effects that might have been indications of a wonky transfer if witnessed on the Blu-ray of a traditionally shot film here become critical to the experience of the film, such as the way an animal moves, or the slightly overblown sheen of a wintry sky. That said, the image is sharp, vivid, and dynamic in its range of light and shadow, and looks much like how this writer remembers it looking upon the film’s initial release. Perhaps more impressive is the soundtrack, which should be turned up as loud as possible so as to best appreciate an immersive level of detail that’s integral to the rhythms and meaning of the film.
If Criterion’s rather bland, uninspired packaging (at least by their standards) for 24 Frames seems to indicate a rush job, that suspicion is strengthened by the paltry offering of extras, which feels like a disservice to a monumental artist’s swan song. It’s forgivable that all that’s provided in the way of behind-the-scenes documentation is 13 minutes of off-the-cuff, not-always-illuminating low-res footage shot by Kiarostami collaborator Salma Monshizadeh, as it’s likely all that was available. (To the short documentary’s credit, there’s some fascinating video of Kiarostami at the After Effects workstation manipulating a Jean-François Millet painting that didn’t find its way into the finished film.) But the two newly shot video pieces—one an interview with Abbas’s son, Ahmad Kiarostami, who finished the film after his father’s death, and the other a conversation between critic Godfrey Cheshire and Iranian scholar Jamsheed Akrami—mostly drop the ball on providing rich analysis, as the subjects lean toward platitudes about the film’s “meditative” qualities and its self-evident fusion of Kiarostami’s artistic practices. Akrami at one point relates the film to Persian printmaking, which is an interesting comparison and one that warrants more attention, but his conversation with Cheshire is cut too quickly (not to mention shot, oddly, all in profile) to allow time for lengthy exegesis. It would have been similarly useful to hear more from Ahmad Kiarostami, especially since he was put in the unique position of carrying his father’s mantle, but the focus skews largely toward his own impressions of the finished film at the expense of anything too specific about its production or his father’s life. Somewhat redeeming are the incisive liner notes by Bilge Ebiri, who’s always written eloquently on the late Iranian director.
A once-in-a-generation cinematic poet leaves us with a hypnotic, quietly enchanting farewell testament, but Criterion doesn’t fully rise to the occasion in properly honoring it.
Director: Abbas Kiarostami Screenwriter: Abbas Kiarostami Distributor: The Criterion Collection Running Time: 114 min Rating: NR Year: 2017 Release Date: January 8, 2019 Buy: Video