Adam Curtis, the contrarian documentarian (part 1 of two)

Viewers of the Funhouse TV show already know about my enthusiasm for the documentaries of Adam Curtis; I've done six shows featuring discussions of, and clips from, his work. I've become even more interested in the last few weeks in his very unusual, almost uncategorizable (and at points nearly inexplicable) political stance, as well as the fact that he maintains a dismissive attitude about his literally overwhelming visuals and his technical-yet-playful approach to filmmaking. He's an incredibly talented filmmaker who doesn't want to be called a filmmaker, an essayist who prefers to be identified as a journalist, and a stylist who puts down style in his interviews.

First a little background for those who are unaware of his name and his work. I was introduced to Curtis via short segments he did for Charlie Brooker's brilliant series of “Wipe” programs (Newswipe, Screenwipe, and the annual editions).

Curtis is a documentarian who has full access to the archives of the BBC and uses that access to fashion brilliantly edited films that are comprised of rare archival footage he has discovered, along with talking-head interviews he conducts and a deadpan narration he delivers (which has now been melded with his very Godardian – that name, don't mention that name to him! – practice of using on-screen titles to move his “story” along).

I have noted on the Funhouse TV show that he is without question “the anti-Ken Burns.” Whereas Burns is a reverent, extremely staid documentarian who works entirely on the flat, level plane of history, Curtis fills his essays (and yes, his telefilms are essays) with editorial commentary in the form of unique edits, the use of jarringly eye-catching footage, and his trademark narration in which he begins each film with the phrase “This is a story about...” and then at some point announces that “it all went horribly wrong...” (Or “but it failed completely...” You get the drift.)

He takes an attitude towards his stories (he “plots” his documentaries, sometimes juggling several strands of historical events) that is both deadly serious and refreshingly playful. I value his work most for the way that it “connects the dots” between what otherwise would look like very disparate events and locations. He also is the foremost 21st-century chronicler of regimes, political movements, and social systems that failed.

Thus when I showed scenes from his work on the Funhouse I received much email from viewers saying they really enjoyed his films, but as my presentation of the documentaries moved on chronologically, the word “depressing” began to creep into the reactions – his lively and superb use of pop music brings matters “up,” but the actual subject matter, and his laser-sharp emphasis (one might say obsessive) on systems and programs that failed, brings the viewer “down.”

I was certain while watching his documentaries that he was drawing on the pioneering work done by artists whose styles he seems to cite frequently – from Marker (whose Grin Without a Cat is the decisive precedent, minus the pop music and rapid-fire editing, for what Curtis currently does) and Godard (with the theme from Le Mepris showing up in two Curtis docus, and his frequent use of onscreen titling, a method that JLG made famous) to Mark Rappaport (whose discussion of sexual subtexts from Rock Hudson's Home Movies is mirrored in Curtis's terrific It Felt Like a Kiss) and Kenneth Anger, whose use of pop-rock music hangs over the work of everyone who uses “music-video” editing (most especially when they use the r&b and pop of the Sixties and mythologize – or, in Curtis's case, de-mythologize – those who made the music).

While I was correct in my perceptions about the work, as the films bear out everything I say above, I wasn't quite prepared for the man himself to denigrate “the art lot” and say that he has no filmmaking influences (the last time I read a very talented director saying that, it was Spike Lee at the moment he became a prominent filmmaker – in later years Spike's hubris faded and he went on record citing many direct influences on his filmmaking). I mean, I knew that Curtis was a political contrarian, but I had no idea how deep his contrarian instincts run....

*****

Before I get into the specifics of the ways in which Curtis apparently wishes to shut himself off from the world of cinema (while making works that clearly invite those comparisons), I should first discuss his recent show at the Park Avenue Armory, the overwhelming, wonderfully crafted “Massive Attack vs. Adam Curtis.”

The show is an immersive experience that I did enjoy, with the exception of a “you can change the world” finale that came literally out of nowhere, following in the wake of more expertly visualized “stories” from Curtis about things – movements/people's lives/political dreams – failing in spectacular and often tragic ways. I will discuss a lecture he gave about the show below, but suffice it to say that he underscored in the lecture that the true message of the show was indeed that the average person could “change the world.” (For 85 minutes it wasn't, then it was.)

Perhaps it is just the expert way that Curtis depicts things failing, but I have yet to be convinced by this message, both in the Massive Attack show and in the final narration of some of his telefilms. In the live show, it followed a literal spree of stories in which something “went horribly wrong.” Curtis also takes care to criticize Left and Right politics, and thus the obvious question remains: what can be done to save society when the whole political spectrum is seen to be corrupt?

Aside from this structural/philosophical problem, the show did for me what Curtis's documentaries have done: it overwhelmed with vibrant images and sound, the latter coming from both old recordings and the live MA band, who were absolutely wonderful (as were vocalists Elizabeth Fraser, formerly of the Cocteau Twins, and Horace Andy).

The two “stories” upon which Curtis rested his narrative were the tragic lives of the British pop-artist Pauline Boty (profiled in the wonderful 1962 time capsule “Pop Goes the Easel” by Ken Russell, which Curtis showed scenes from – it was unfortunate that Curtis didn't follow up “Unkle” Ken's example and left out images of her striking collage art [see right], thus relegating her to tragic “dollybird goddess” status) and a Siberian folk singer who dated a leading punk rocker and wrote a beautifully evocative anthem of despair (yes, there are a *lot* of wildly depressing elements in Curtis's work – then again, please keep in mind that I watch Cassavetes for enjoyment).

Here is the whole Russell docu. It is lively, vibrant, and brilliantly imaginative. It also shows “Swinging London” before the town began to officially swing (which would probably be dated as '65-'66):

Curtis proceeded to overlay on top of those two stories a number of other narratives from the second half of the twentieth century that, as is always the case with his work, did much to explain the political mess we're currently in (“we” being the world, not just the U.S.). The result – if you discount the upbeat and none-too-convincing end – was a fascinating, deeply troubling piece that “reorganized” history and found Curtis again “connecting the dots” in a profound way.

Viewer-friend Whit noted to me that his main objection to the show was that the event was designed so that immense video screens surrounded us on nearly all sides, and then Curtis used the screens to simply display one image over and over, with few variances (often the side screens might have a closer, somewhat digitally blurry view of the main image). What I liked about the show, though, was that Curtis once again enthusiastically used cinematic techniques to tell his stories (I now know he would openly reject the phrase “cinematic,” but often the art is more articulate than the artist).

The other element that was intoxicating was the powerful mix of music, which had the power to counteract the sadness engendered by the stories being told. At the shows' end, the Massive Attack crew, including the guest singers, received no final applause or introduction, presumably because they were intended to just be one element in the multi-media “assault” (attack?). They were visible through one of the screens, and their faces were prominently displayed on the screens in the front of the room whenever a vocalist did a number.

******

Now onto the Curtis lecture that I attended, but first for “full disclosure” (much will be made about the notion of journalism below, so I don't hesitate to use that phrase): I did approach Curtis for an interview for the Funhouse TV show, but he informed me that he has a policy of not doing filmed interviews. A counter-offer of doing an audio-only interview went unanswered, but led me instead to some fascinating research on what he has said about his cinematic forebears in interviews. I offer information disclosed in the lecture and those other interviews below – again, in the spirit of journalism (or, as it could more properly be called both here and in Curtis's telefilms, “op-ed” writing).

*****

As an interlude here, I turn you over to the single-best intro (if you have a bit of time on your hands) to Curtis's work, his 2002 documentary miniseries The Century of the Self:

*****

Curtis's lecture took place on Sunday, September 29th at the Park Avenue Armory and was essentially a discussion of the “Massive Attack vs. Adam Curtis” show with clips (including items from prior Curtis docus and odd items like private photos of Boty's daughter that weren't included in the show). The audience was a classic Manhattan smart-chatty group who decided to debate the finer points of Curtis's politics and not the show itself (or his documentaries).

And what are Curtis's politics exactly? Well, a quote that is highlighted in his Wikipedia entry finds him siding with the Libertarian view, but when he speaks at length, one finds him, for lack of a better word, deeply annoyed at the way things have gone in the U.S., U.K., and Europe.

He has maintained in his documentaries that the social reforms put in place by liberals have all “failed” to change society for the better. Interestingly, though, he still takes the classically dreamy view – commonly associated with the Left – that the people can rise up and “take hold” of society, bringing about change through letting their voice be heard. This inconsistency in his political view hadn't bothered me when watching his documentaries, as I have become used to, and enjoy, his focus on systems-that-failed.

I also have always felt that it is not the artist's place to provide us with concrete solutions – if they shed light on problems in their work that is more than enough “clay” for us to work with. Costa-Gavras (someone I'm almost certain Curtis would distance himself from) made the point just this last week on an episode of Democracy Now – he maintained that filmmakers don't provide answers, they just ask questions.

But then there is the issue of whether Curtis is an artist. I would argue (I guess even with him) that he is, since he has chosen to put his journalism in the form of highly stylized telefilms that are loaded with cinematic editing techniques. Curtis himself said twice in the lecture (and I have since read it several more times) that he considers himself a journalist and not a filmmaker.

His work illustrates that he does indeed do an incredible amount of research on the “stories” he tells, but one is again confronted by the “package” he places them in. In his blog on the BBC site he writes extremely thought-provoking essays on political, social, and historical topics. He also provides scenes from rare BBC documentaries, or posts them in their entirety – his blog is definitely worth reading, and watching.

His documentaries, on the other hand, are sensory experiences that might indeed be “overlaid” on a basis of historical research, but one could hardly call a fantasia like It Felt Like a Kiss (2009), “journalism.” Reportage, no; essay and/or fun history lesson, yes.

In his telefilms his knack for editing runs wild – the talking-head interviews he conducts himself may be in the spirit of Errol Morris (he has even borrowed Morris' technique of including his final question in most of the segments he uses), but his penchant for musical montages and other “grace notes” remove his work from the journalistic sphere. Here, btw, is the only footage that I could find on the Net of Curtis on-camera, him hosting an interview with Errol Morris for the BAFTA folks:

To return to the lecture: I noted above that the audience in attendance was a classic Manhattan group of would-be intellectuals who, during a Q&A, raise their hands to state an observation rather than ask a question. If they do ask a question, they then expect to have a conversation with the speaker. They will also dote on certain things at the expense of others – in this case, they disputed the political contents of what Curtis had said, rather than in any way questioning him about his profession (perhaps none of them had seen the Armory show, and few if any had seen his telefilms).

I asked a question that was solely about his filmmaking, the simplest one of all – about influences. I recorded my question and his answer, losing only one (inaudible) part:

Q: “Are you influenced by people like Godard and Chris Marker in terms of your essay films, or even Kenneth Anger in terms of putting together music videos? Who would you consider your major filmmaking influences?”

A: “None of the above. [laughter]… I'm a journalist and I have a great belief in being simple and clear. I believe that you can take the most complicated ideas and make anyone understand them.”

At that point, Curtis acknowledged that “I think Jean-Luc Godard is quite fun,” saying he has liked his editing in the past (a dismissive gesture was made at this point, as if he were discussing a “guilty pleasure” he had to admit having sat through). He acknowledged he has probably used Godard's edits at times.

Back to the tape (when his voice was again discernible): “I'm actually influenced by writers and people who write about ideas. Editing is sort of like... I have real problems with the way a lot of avant-garde art is appropriated and used as a way to block people. I'm perfectly happy to go and steal an idea off an avant-garde artist and use it to make a television program that gets out to ordinary everyday people like myself.

“I never use the word ideology or existentialism, or the sort of terms they use. I believe in clarity. I believe that a lot of art isn't about clarity, it's about obfuscation. That's just me being populist, I'm sorry.”

And back it went to the broad-based political questions, from an audience of NYC liberals who were surprised that Curtis was so curtly dismissive of liberal and Left politics and social movements.

*******

To close off this part, I refer you to a gent who has put up the entirety of Curtis's very important 2004 documentary miniseries The Power of Nightmares on Vimeo. You can find the whole thing here, along with the 9/11 "truther" docu Loose Change. Curtis has put down "conspiracy theorists" in the past (most notably on his blog), so I doubt he'd be happy the two docus were put together. You can't choose your audience....

Melody and melancholy: the Jacques Demy festival at the Film Forum, now until Oct. 17

Jacques Demy had one of the most curious careers in cinema history. He is often cited as being a filmmaker of the French New Wave but his work bears little resemblance to theirs – except for his debut feature Lola (1961), and even that is a more conventionally structured work than the early films of the nouvelle vague directors. He made three utterly sublime musicals starring Catherine Deneuve, but most of his other films are rarely revived, and the ones that were released on VHS and disc have for the most part gone out of print (or the companies releasing them went out of business).

Thus New Yorkers will get a rare treat when all thirteen of Demy's features will be shown at the Film Forum, running from today to October 17. I'm looking forward to the festival because it actually is two retrospectives in one: the first is comprised of the Demy films that have perennially been revived (these are the “essential” titles that everyone should see); the second is the group of films that *never* play in repertory. This latter group is the one that I'm eagerly anticipating, even though some of the rarer titles are reputed to be wildly uneven (to be kind about it).

Here is a quick montage of some of the livelier moments in Demy's films, compiled for a festival of his work at the Cinematheque Francaise in April of this year:

Demy was born in the village of Pontchateau and grew up in Nantes. After studying at the Technical College of Fine Arts in that small town, and the Technical School of Photography in Paris, he made a few short works, graduating to his first feature, Lola, in 1961. In that film he established his preoccupations: a broadly romantic love story, a simplistic plotline (one would almost say a “fairy tale,” but he got to those later on), and a bittersweet sadness underneath a cloak of gaiety.

His best films are all set in locations other than Paris. The second feature, Bay of Angels (1963), is a glamorous gambling drama starring Jeanne Moreau that highlights the city of Nice. Bay is a very good film, but its best moment happens right at the very opening:

Then came the trio of films with Deneuve (with a sojourn in the U.S. coming between the second and third). Here he took his love of American musicals and set to work evoking them while still creating something original and uniquely French with the aid of the great Michel Legrand. The Umbrellas of Cherbourg (1964) is his masterpiece and the film by which the rest of his works are measured.

It's a beautifully realized creation that becomes more and more poignant as the years go by, since Demy was evoking a type of musical that had died out by the time he made the film. In the nearly five decades since its release the film itself has been cited endlessly and has inspired a generation of European (and, in a cultural cross-current, American) filmmakers who want to pay homage to the “great musicals of the old days.”

The film has definitely become a cornerstone of Deneuve's career – take for example her role as Bjork's friend “Kathy” in the unsettling and brilliant Lars Von Trier musical Dancer in the Dark (2000). More recently, Francois Ozon evoked Demy's classic in Potiche (2010), with Deneuve playing a woman who successfully takes over her husband's business (which just happens to be umbrella-making).

Umbrellas solidified the aspect that I consider the most striking and important thing in his work – the bittersweet undercurrent that runs below all of his plots, whether they are happily resolved or not. The film won the Palme d'Or at Cannes and was undoubtedly the high point of Demy's career. He followed it with another musical, one that is marvelously over the top.

The Young Girls of Rochefort (1967) is a candy-colored, mega-hyper musical that finds twins (Deneuve and her real-life sister Francoise Dorleac) in love – while a sadistic murderer is at large. This last element is just a peripheral detail that is brought up from time to time in the film, and it is the one aspect that makes me certain that M. Demy possessed a definite air of melancholy (all right, possibly even depression) in amidst his sunny optimism.

He clearly loved the cinema of Vincente Minnelli, Stanley Donen, and Gene Kelly – who has a supporting role in Rochefort and is terrific, despite some rather feeble French dubbing provided for him (one needs to hear Kelly's gravelly, smiling voice). Unlike his Hollywood heroes, however, Demy's best films all have an acute sense of melancholy when they are not downright tragic (as in The Pied Piper and Une chambre en ville).

This aspect is what makes Demy's work so unique and rewatchable – Rochefort is just so goddamned “up” that the murderer subplot serves to *ground* his lighter-than-air ensemble. The score by Legrand is extremely catchy, and (for conceptual continuity purposes for the Funhouse), there is a moment in which the twins dress and perform exactly like Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell in the “Two Little Girls from Little Rock” number from Howard Hawks' Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. 

Here is the trailer:

After Rochefort Demy's career started to go astray. I really like his next film, Model Shop, but it is downbeat from start to finish. It's an American remake of Lola (that functions plot-wise as a sequel), with Anouk Aimee reprising her role from the original film and Gary Lockwood playing her newest suitor.

When I interviewed Lockwood, he noted that he didn't much enjoy shooting the film (which is evident onscreen at points); he added that the film had received some kind of commendation in the early 2000s as a “great film about L.A,” which it is – his character and Aimee's ride around town, giving us an informal tour of what the city looked like in 1968.

The film is not a musical, but its soundtrack is memorable, as it blends orchestral music and tunes by the band Spirit, who play themselves in the film.

Here is one of the memorable “tour” scenes in the film:

Donkey Skin (1970) was the third and final film Demy made with Deneuve. It's an odd item that transforms a fairy tale into a musical with slightly hipper-sounding tunes (Legrand was apparently in the mood to get some lounge material out of this score). The plot concerns a king (Jean Marais) who wants to marry his daughter (Deneuve); the film makes reference to Beauty and the Beast by Cocteau in a few ways, including the casting of Marais.

In true storybook fashion, the film contains the recipe for baking a magic cake:

After the Deneuve musical “trilogy” Demy's films weren't critical or popular hits. As his career went into decline, his wife, Agnes Varda, went from strength to strength (due to the variety in the subjects she covered in her work). But Demy continued to make choices that resulted in great scenes, if not always terrific movies.

For instance in his next film, the British production The Pied Piper (1972) starring Donovan (performing his own songs acoustically, a major plus!), there is a scene that is *genuinely* creepy. At first glimpse the film appears to be another Donkey Skin, intended for viewers of all ages, but what would very little kids make of this lovely wedding party scene? 

Perhaps the strangest item in his filmography was his return to filmmaking after six years in 1979 (after the failure of Pied Piper and the 1973 Mastroianni-Deneuve comedy A Slightly Pregnant Man). Lady Oscar was a Japanese-produced adaptation of a manga about a woman who disguises herself as a man and becomes Marie Antoinette's bodyguard before the French Revolution. The film was in English with English stars, but was set in France and shot by a French director. It has been one of five Demy films “lost” to American audiences.

The Film Forum festival of Demy's work contains two week-long runs, the second being a new restoration of Umbrellas of Cherbourg. The first is yet another lost title, Une chambre en ville (1982). This sequence – which, until the advent of YouTube, had been available to American viewers in Varda's documentary The World of Jacques Demy (1995) – is highly operatic and make the film seem as if it was indeed a return to form for Demy. Music... and heartache:

Chambre is the most eagerly awaited of the lost Demy titles, but I am also very interested to see what his odd-looking Eighties update of “Orpheus” called Parking (1985) is like.

I've seen Demy's final film, Three Seats for the 26th (1988), which is, again, thoroughly charming, but a very strange (and none too credible) hybrid of reality and fiction. Yves Montand plays himself, journeying back to his home town of Marseille to perform at the opera house. While there, he relives parts of his past, including a (fully fictional) fascination with the beautiful young Mathilda May.

All that is charming *and* all that doesn't work in the film (that synthesizer beat!) is present in this scene from the beginning of the film:

One of the most touching things about Demy's filmography is how it has been enriched by three films made by his very loving wife, Agnes Varda. She has made one film dramatizing his childhood (Jacquot de Nantes in 1991) and two documentaries about his work (Les demoiselles ont eu 25 ans and The World of Jacques Demy). She also devoted major segments of her documentary review of her life, The Beaches of Agnes (2008), to him.

While Mme. Varda was and is a superb filmmaker (her disparate fiction features supplemented by a number of documentaries and film shorts), her late husband did create his own instantly recognizable “universe.” He definitely made some missteps after the Sixties, but even his least works are enticing, as New Yorkers will be finding out for the next two weeks....

Some highlights, assembled for the French DVD box set of his work: