Julia Child and an Ode to Trout Meunière

A week ago I went to see Julie and Julia. It's a very entertaining movie. Before I went, I was told that Meryl Streep does a fantastic job in the role of Julia Child, and it's certainly true. Yes, everyone can do a Julia Child voice, but it takes real talent to actually convey a whole range of emotion without coming across as ridiculously goofy and over the top. This is not to say that Mrs. Streep doesn't sometime stretch Child's mannerisms to comedic lengths, but such moments come across as the result of a certain joie de vivre of playing the character, rather than as mere mockery. Stanley Tucci also comes out to wonderful effect playing Paul. The combination of Tucci and Streep really bring the movie to a new level. I was less happy with the Julie duo. Chris Messina and Amy Adams' roles are also played well, although their hum-drum 30 something lives with Sex-in-the-City-style voice-overs are clearly overshadowed by the other larger than life play. But such overshadowing is not entirely irredeemable: the dialogue between Julie and Eric occasionally provides a useful counterbalance to the Childs, and provide brief moments of rest as the plot develops.

The contrast between Julie and Julia is the main motif of the movie, and it leads a viewer to consider the similarities and differences between these two worlds, and to possibly make judgments between them. I should lay my cards on the table here: if there is a conflict between Julie Powell and Julia Child, I'll certainly side with Julia. Not only was she a chef of the very first rank, but she has had a remarkable influence over American cooking. I think it's safe to say that no chef in the middle part of the last century can claim to have the kind of influence over the world that Julia Child had when she came on the scene. Yes, there were arguably more famous chefs throughout the period: chefs who perhaps are more creative and who develop more complicated recipes: Alain Chapel comes to mind, as does Ferran Adrià, and Alain Ducasse. But what marked Julia as unique and especially compelling is that her cuisine was not meant to be appreciated by the few and the wealthy, but to be genuinely available to everyone who would take the time to learn how to properly cut carrots, and to pay attention to the sounds of the frying pan.

For me the disorienting thing about this film was the role of Julie Powell: the movie emphasizes the similarities between her life and Julia's. Both women were uncertain what to do with their time, and found solace and happiness through cooking. The movie makes a big deal about this connection, and there is an effort to coordinate the two story lines, and to show a real connection between the two women. But as I watched the movie, a more critical comparison was evident from the very beginning. The truth of the matter is that Julie and Julia were very different people, and it's entirely possible that, had they met, they would not get along at all. It's either a testimony to the writer's and director's care, or to their neglect that this alternate storyline manages to emerge so forcefully alongside the main narrative. Julia, after all, was a perfectionist who attended the best cooking school in the world, and then spent her time studying with the greatest chefs, collaborating on many cookbooks, and transforming American cooking. Julie merely cooked 524 recipes from a cookbook in the course of a year, and ended up writing a successful blog and book as a result. Amy Adams attempts to do a convincing version of Julie, and actually manages to develop a very believable character. But the further question of what the character of Julie adds to the narrative remains.

For better or worse, I don't think the movie ever really comes to terms with this question. You can see this result as either avoiding an obvious issue, or intentionally ending with an open question. The movie does play with the gimmick of the contrast between being Julia and being a blogger writing about Julia, but does little to explain why Julia was unhappy with Powell's blog. Yet, there are some obvious reasons one can think of for Julia's dissatisfaction: in the end Julia Child was an extremely good chef who had to work hard over the course of years to attain her success, and here was an amateur cook getting a lot of attention because she could merely simulate the outward appearance of these efforts by following a book of recipes. The movie essentially punts on this question by having Eric tell Julie that Julia's opinion doesn't matter.

But perhaps it does. One can argue that there is an even deeper distortion at play in the way the movie portrays Julie. Throughout the movie, Julia Child's recipes are portrayed as gourmet cooking challenges: difficult recipes that Julie Powell manages to conquer. But this haute cuisine portrayal distorts an essential aspect of Julia Child's approach to cooking: it's inherently practical. For a sense of this practical nature, consider what Julia Child writes in her introduction to The Way to Cook:

Even if you're working all day, why buy Chinese take-out food, or frozen dinners, or eat at a fast-food joint when you can make a fresh, informal home-cooked meal even in a minuscule kitchen — and you will know exactly what you are eating. Pour out a glass of wine, and while you're gossiping about the day and trimming the fish fillets, a big pot of water can be set to boil for skinning the tomatoes and blanching the green beans. Perhaps you'll get some help snapping the ends of those beans and preparing the salad greens, too. While the fish has its short sojourn in the oven, you're all but ready for dinner and everyone is refreshed and happy. Dessert can be cheese and fruit, or ice cream or sherbet from the freezer, and you've an easy, satisfying meal.

Provided that one reads this paragraph with adequate respect for Chinese cooking, this is exactly the right attitude to have to transform cooking into an enjoyable activity. The idea that Julia's recipes are some sort of esoteric challenge loses this fundamental philosophy. Unlike Ducasse, Trotter, or Keller, everything Julia did was eminently practical. If she gives a recipe for a complicated dish like the de-boned duck that Julie finishes her year with, it's a complicated recipe, but you can be assured that it's the simplest, most practical version of that recipe out there, with just enough flourish to make it tasty. I think this is something that Julia Child learned better than many of her successors: French cooking is at its heart not an esoteric, complicated sort of cuisine, but it's in fact the product of a few centuries of very practically-minded chefs making the most of what was available to them. One might even argue that the heart of French cooking is poor people's food: the reason French cooking produced such elaborate dishes with aspics and roasted innards, and dishes with blood as a key ingredient is that these were precisely the ingredients that poor people could afford. (Cf. Anthony Bourdain's episode of No Reservations on France "Why the French Don't Suck.") Hence, there is this continuum of French cooking that I think much of American cooking after the advance of fast-food has come to lack. (There are interesting exceptions, of course, like pockets of the Appalachia and the Bayou.) To me this sort of practical cooking is at the very heart of what is best about French cuisine. This is what Lulu Peyraud was all about, and I think this is what Julia Child is all about too.

Lest this e-mail sound too serious, I finish with an ode. Julia Child in many places talks about how perfect a trout or sole meunière is (Interestingly, in The Way to Cook they both fall under the same master recipe), and the movie makes a point of showing this realization in one of the very first scenes. Hence, after watching the movie I had to cook the classic dish following Julia's recipe. The experience, and the above reflections on practical cooking, leads me to write the following poem.

Ode to Trout Meunière.

If you are hungry, have no fear,
Look only to the noble trout meunière.
For the price of a burger or a Happy Meal,
It offers the prospect of a much bigger thrill,
One part flour, and many parts fish,
clarified butter is the only twist;
Add some parsley, pepper and salt,
And your dinner has instant clout.
And if your fish is extra fine,
Even a lemon is a waste of time;
Not the most complicated dish, I confess,
But many a king has been fed on less.

Ingmar Bergman's Persona

This past week I've had the chance to watch Persona for the first time. It's an amazing movie, and probably one of the greatest movies of the past century. Ingmar Bergman said it was one of the two movies in which he pushed the genre as far as he could (the other being Cries and Whispers (Swedish "Viskningar och rop" [See the Wikipedia article with the citation from Jerry Vermilye), and it can be startling the first time that one sees it. But even if one doesn't get it the first few times, one has to marvel at the details. There is the cinematography: the lighting in the scene when Elisabet is falling asleep, the wonderful blend of light and shadow in the scene when Elisabet comes to Alma's room, the powerful shots of Fårö island. There is the music: haunting at times (Elisabet falling asleep), percussive at others (the music after the scene with the broken glass), and omitted at other moments. There is the aesthetic coherence of the work: the way that photographs, old film clips, and textures merge into a single work. The acting: how the actresses manage to mingle sanity and hysterics, the way they interact with one another, and the way words -- such as in the scene when Alma describes sex on the beach -- can be a powerful way of conveying emotion. And finally, there are moments where Bergman's shows unusual brilliance as a director: the way he can turn a photograph into a movie, the way he can created a single ambiguous face from the two actress' faces, and the way he orchestrates the scene(s) when Alma discusses Elisabet's child. Finally, there is a feature of the movie that really appeals to me: the fact that Bergman incorporates enough detail and ambiguity that the film hovers just beyond comprehension. Unlike a director who spells out every detail for his audience, Bergman is intentionally creating a mystery.

Even a mystery, however, is capable of some degree of interpretation, and hence I'd like to present some thoughts on the film tonight. It is important to recognize, however, that any interpretation of the film is going to fail to capture the full meaning and force of the work. This goes far beyond the normal caveat for the medium. I think Bergman is using themes creatively, and organically, combining them in interesting ways, and hence it isn't the job of an interpretation to fully explain the film, but rather to provide insight into the work that can be used as a stepping-stone for further exploration and interpretation. Also, I would urge anyone reading this post to see the movie before you read what follows. Part of what Bergman is working with is shock and bewilderment, and so I think it is useful to experience it. The first time I watched the film I wasn't even sure I was watching the right film at the beginning!

So with these caveats in mind, I think I am partial to the interpretation that at some level all the female characters within the film are the very same person. This might be suggested by the title, since a "persona" was originally an ancient Greek theatrical mask, and it so happened in Greek drama that the same actor wore different masks, and in a similar fashion the character at the heart of Persona may be merely expressed in multiple masks. The unity of Alma (played by actress Bibi Andersson) and Elisabet's (played by Liv Ullmann) personalities is underscored by the merging of the two actresses' faces towards the end of the work, and the way that Alma can know things about Elisabet's character that no one could possibly know under the circumstances. Also, there is the way that Elisabet is present but does not respond when Alma is making love to Elisabet's husband; or the fact that both Alma and Elisabet deal with similar issues, such as pregnancy and its results (I think that it is fairly clear that the boy in the beginning fits into both their stories). Other pieces of evidence are the end of the movie: we see Elisabet packing up a suitcase, we see Alma closing up the summer house, but we don't see Alma packing or Elisabet closing up the summer house, and only one person clearly leaves the island.

Further, with the addition of the Doctor at the outset one has the makings of a fairly persuasive Freudian tripartite psyche. In this interpretation, Alma is the Ego, Elisabet the Id, and the Doctor the Super-Ego. At first this may seem unlikely, but there is a lot detail at least pushing in this direction. Like our unconscious, Elisabet does not speak. She just experiences emotions, and reacts. There are two possible exceptions to this: first, when Alma is drunk at the table and apparently incapable of separating herself from Elisabet, and secondly, and more importantly when Alma starts to throw boiling water at Elisabet. In this latter case the words that are spoken are less thought-out content, and more some sort of primal reflex to danger (and importantly not necessarily coming from Elisabet, but from somewhere else). And the Doctor is an interesting force overseeing the relationship between Alma and Elisabet. At the outset, it is the doctor who hears Alma's fears and who is Alma's authority figure, and the Doctor is the one who gives permission for Elisabet to carry out her desires -- a permission that is spoken of almost as a punishment. Further she mediates between Alma and Elisabet, and it is when Elisabet writes a note to the Doctor (or is it Alma? It is ambiguous: note how it is difficult to see how many pages the note has, as if Alma is looking at the same note in a manifold of different ways), revealing everything Alma has been saying from a dominant viewpoint, that the movie comes to a climax. As if one part of the psyche is "telling on" the other. Finally, the vampire theme can also fit into this interpretation, since one might see the final arm biting episode as a decision on Alma's part to accept the drives and impulses of the Id. This approach also opens the door to seeing the movie as an exploration of mental illness, and the classical move of the ego to fail to accept the Id. It is possible that the movie even goes further, and is specifically dealing with a kind of schizophrenia, although this is perhaps going too far. Sometimes the difference between sanity and insanity is only a matter of degree.

The interpretation I've outlined makes sense of a lot of the film, but it omits a lot as well. Clearly the film also has something to say about the doctor-patient relationship and the phenomenon of transference. And, there are other layers. For instance, there is the vampire theme that occurs again and again throughout. Obviously, saying the Id is a vampire preying on the ego makes some sense, but the drama pushes this to such limits that it clearly goes beyond the Freudian paradigm. And if the Freudian interpretation makes sense, the paradigm is clearly warped by making the three parts of the soul three different people with different personalities, hopes and fears. There are also the sexual tones between Elisabet and Alma that requires some explanation.

And finally, the tripartite soul interpretation tells nothing about the self-conscious film-making that occurs This adds further depth to the film throughout: the fact that it begins with early 20th Century films, that pictures, television, and radio all have prominent roles within the story, that Bergman repeatedly underscores that it is a movie by showing the film reel, and that we sometimes even get to see the people filming the story.

I tend to be an anti-reductionist, so I don't want to see this movie as reduced to an exploration of a particular psychological paradigm. If that is all the movie was, then it would not be nearly so interesting. Rather the film involves all these interpretations: the tripartite soul, the doctor-patient relationship and transference, the vampire theme, a summer on an island, a relationship between two people, and all the extra ambiguity Bergman has packed into the film. It is the multitude of meanings, the exquisite detail of location and human interaction, and the way that all the components grow into one another like an organic whole that makes this movie the remarkable creation that it is.

Common English Words

Movies have become such an important part of our culture that many common English words actually derive from the names of important directors. The following list defines some of the more important of these words.


bergmanian — (adj) Characterized by a state of depression and despair, often accompanied by a bleak and uncompromising outlook. "After our fight, she decided to go all bergmanian on me."

chaplin — (n) To do something so well you become a cultural icon. "He was the chaplin of his time."

(1) coppolate — (vb) To make something unusually grand and showy. "He could have made it a small, private affair, but he decided to coppolate the event instead."
(2) coppolate — (vb) To make something unusually small and introspective. "He could have coppolated [see previous definition] the event, but decided to coppolate it instead."

felliny — (n) A state of absurdity or surreal bewilderment. "When the priest told us to be sure to fill the evening with lots of sex and alcohol, we were overcome by the felliny of it all."

jacksonize — (vb) (1) To remove all nuance and subtlety from a script. "This script has been thoroughly jacksonized." (2) To go for the most obvious cinematic tricks whenever possible. "He could have done something original, but he decided to jacksonize the scene instead."

jarmusch — (n) A moment that captures the randomness of everyday life, as in "It's impossible for me to explain what happened, since it was a complete jarmusch."

kieslowskate — (vb) To render deep and depressing by means of unusually fantastic cinematography. "Love seemed such a happy and uplifting emotion until the film thoroughly kieslowskated it."

kurasawa — (n) A classic, model, best of it's kind. "It was the kurasawa of sports cars."

lucalate— (vb) To add an unusual number of special effects. "The film would not have been so good if the director didn't lucalate it."

mehtazian — (adj) Characterized by excessive controversy or an extreme polarization of opinions. "After the activist's lecture there was a mehtazian reaction from the crowd."

miyazakia — (n) A profound or sublime state of being, often used with the explicit phrase, "a state of." "Upon seeing the Sistine Chapel, we found ourselves in a state of miyazakia."

spielbergify — (vb) To do something in an especially obvious or predictable way so everyone gets it. "The teacher decided the point was so important that even though most students understood it immediately, she spent twenty more minutes spielbergifying it."

tarantinish — (adj) (1) Made unusually trendy or compelling by an effective use of music. "The commercial was so tarantinish, I couldn't help but buy the product." (2) Made especially dramatic or discomforting by the use of violence or disturbing imagery. "The commercial was so tarantinish, I could hardly watch it."

tarkovskia — (n) A state in which just about anything can seem beautiful and sublime because of a preceding period of impossibly long and depressing ennui, often used with the explicit phrase, "a state of." "We were in such a state of tarkovskia that we thought that bell-making was the most incredible thing ever done."

Reflections on The Seven Samurai

I recently watched one of my favorite movies of all time, Akira Kurasawa's The Seven Samurai (Shichinin no samurai). After several years of deciding that it was too expensive to purchase - it is a part of the Criterion Collection so it is $35-$40.00 for one DVD, which always struck me as a little excessive - I finally decided that it was time to own it.

I say it is one of my favorite movies of all time, but I wonder if anyone else has had the experience I have with my favorite movies? I go through spells when the movie seems absolutely perfect, and I'm just in awe of the masterpiece, and then I see the movie again at another time, and it strikes me as disturbing, or not entirely convincing, inauthentic. For instance, I often cite La Double Vie de Véronique as my favorite movie of all time. I just love the cinematography, the way the movie effectively builds up to climaxes, like the scene when Véronique and Veronika almost meet, the music and how well integrated it is into the plot, and the mystery that is created with all the details that pose an endless series of open questions: Why did he put that there?, What does that mean? The first time I saw the movie I left it with such an incredible amount of enthusiasm, that I ended up watching it again on the very same night, and a half dozen times afterwards with hardly any decrease in fascination. But then, a few years later I went back to it and found it discomforting, and even a little disturbing. Some of the sexual asymmetries struck me as troubling, and I even felt it was overdone at moments. But, I suppose the lesson to draw from this is that there are no pleasures in life that are completely fulfilling, everything wanes from time to time.

I actually had a little bit of this feeling when I was watching The Seven Samurai again last night. For instance, some of the crowd scenes seemed less convincing than I remembered. A small detail, yes, but one that I had never observed before. Yet, even so, I ended up being genuinely moved by the movie again. I tried to describe to a friend a few weeks ago what I found remarkable about this movie. The first thing that comes to mind is just what a well-told story it is. Kurasawa is the consummate storyteller. He knows precisely the pace that things should move so that his audience stays interested in the story, but at the same time he manages to prevent the feeling that everything is moving too fast. The fact that I still have this reaction after having watched it dozens of times seems a testimony to the precision of its forward momentum. Many movies I've watched seem to move at the right speed initially, and then on the second or third viewing they seem too fast. I suppose other movies have given me the opposite impression: they seem too fast and then after seeing them a few times they seem OK. An instance of the latter would be the first installment of Jackson's Lord of the Rings, and an instance of the former would be Nirgendwo in Afrika, which is still one of my favorite movies despite the fact that the pace feels uneven now.

Another feature of Kurasawa's storytelling ability is the fact that he also is an expert at appealing to the audience's curiosity. For instance, Kurasawa makes very effective use of curiosity in the long scene in the beginning when Kambei, who may well be considered the lead character in the drama first appears. Yes, we only meet the lead character after twenty minutes of the movie have passed, and when he appears, we have no idea who he is. And this impression is reinforced by the fact that Kurasawa presents us with a band of spectators who also have very little knowledge about what's going on. The constitution of the crowd in itself is quite remarkable. It includes the villagers in search for their samurai, and Kikuchiyo and Katsushiro, two characters who will also be significant in the movie. And we learn so much about the characters in this sequence. For one thing, we are introduced to most of their mannerisms: the impulsive and excited Katsushiro who leans forward with excitement at the action. The odd Kikuchiyo - masterly played by Mifune - who stands in contraposition to the samurai in the way he embraces his emotions, and his emotional conflict and lack of control are conveyed through the abruptness and unconventionality of his motions. And the careful and calm Kambei who says little, but nonetheless knows exactly what to do. I suppose this is another thing that Kurasawa manages to elevate to an art in itself: the mannerisms of the characters. Some of these: like Kambei rubbing his head, Gorobei rubbing his chin, or Manzo with his awkward poses are constructed like character motifs in an opera - they are epithets that quickly reveal the characters emotions, thoughts, and personalities. I wonder if Kurasawa's ability here is at all linked to aspects of traditional Japanese drama, since these dramas also use small hand gestures and motions to convey different character types? Just a thought.

And then there is the cinematography. I've always been in awe of Kurasawa's use of the camera. With very primitive technology at his disposal, he manages to create completely convincing effects - or rather effects that are perfectly placed between the twin poles of realism and stylized drama. The rain sequence in Rashomon comes to mind here, and we have similar rain scenes here. But the most distinctive thing about the camera work is how the camera seems to linger over the scenes. There are moments when almost nothing is going on in the scene, and yet the camera stays focused on the characters for what seems like a half a minute. But this is the perfect compliment to the approach that Kurasawa takes, since it allows us to absorb all the mannerisms of the characters, their facial expressions, the darkness of the scene, the sparseness of the set. One scene that really comes to mind in this regard is the scene when we first meet Kyuzo. This is the scene when Kurasawa wants to convey to us the incredible skill of this swordman who will have a major role it what follows. We first meet him in a rather grand occasion. He has agreed to fight another samurai in the central square of the town. A large audience develops around the two samurai, including Kambei and Katsuchiro. It is actually through Kambei that Kurasawa teaches us a little about how he wants us to view his characters. For initially, the differences between the two samurai are not particularly evident. They both fashion their practice swords in the same manner, they both enter the "ring" with equal confidence, and we might miss the difference between them. But by focusing on Kambei's eyes and the attention that he gives both swordsman we are taught to look at the smallest details of the two samurai. And to instill the point even further Katsushiro's attention is divided between the ensuing bout and Kambei's attention. And Kambei looks over the two swordsman equally, but then becomes fascinated by one of them in particular. So Katsushiro is also fascinated by this particular swordsman, and so we as an audience become fascinated. Then we note the differences. The fact that Kyuzo stands carefully and firmly in his position full of confidence, while his opponent is just slightly hasty, and holds a slightly more casual, less confident form. Then the first exchange occurs, and we might well draw the same conclusion as Kyuzo's opponent: it was a tie. But we don't, even if we missed the small difference in technique. And there is a difference, since as Michael Jeck (in his excellent commentary that comes with the DVD) points out, Kyuzo's opponent makes the same mistake Katsushiro does when he first attempts to hit the various samurai on the head with the stick in the trial scenes: he leads with his arms. You can make the same mistake in squash and tennis actually: it is very important in most racquet sports - or in fencing for that matter - that you use your body weight to your advantage rather than just using your arms. The fact that even these details are worked out with precision in the film is a testimony to Kurasawa's genius. But even if you missed this detail it is quite clear who we are supposed to be in awe of. We learn it from Kambei's attention, Katsushiro's attention on Kambei, and the slight difference in the samurai's stances. It's funny, in this entire sequence, hardly a single word is spoken. Almost the only complete line is when Kambei says before the final exchange: "It's so obvious." It is almost a self-referential line since not only does Kambei seem to be saying that the difference between the two is clear, but Kurasawa is almost asking us to reflect on his direction: haven't I made if obvious? But what a glorious scene, and the fact that it is presented in a rather taciturn manner is a good way of introducing the taciturn character of Kyuzo. The duel between two samurai, a sequence of more than five minutes with hardly a sentence being spoken, and yet in the course of it we instantly learn who Kyuzo is, and we learn to respect him, and what's more Kurasawa teaches us how to watch his movie.

I suppose another thing about this scene is it's realism. Unlike a Jackie Chan movie (And don't get me wrong, I do like Jackie Chan films), in which we see the most fantastic fighter in the whole movie do acrobats, and jumps, and motions that no human would possibly do in a real fight, here the violence is quick, and one gets the impression that although the samurai are willing to resort to violence, it's a last resort, because they recognize that there are real consequences to their action. How different this is from contemporary movies like The Last Samurai! Compared to Kurasawa that movie is a joke. Sorry, I suppose some people probably like Zwick's film very much. I suppose one could even argue that some of the bouts in that movie are more realistic in Zwick's film since they are not over in single strikes like most of the bouts in The Seven Samurai. But what realism Zwick's film gains from these details is lost in how distant Zwick's characters seem from real life. They just are so cliché and when there are emotional changes these changes just seem contrived. In contrast, Kurasawa says a lot of things about ordinary life in the course of his film, and his characters are far from cliché with rich and distinct personalities. If an emotional change occurs in Kurasawa's film, I can't help but see it as firmly rooted in the character's identities rather than in some contrivance of the plot.

And there are so many other things to talk about in this movie. The casting: just how perfect each of the characters is cast. The range of emotion: from the depth of despair in the beginning, to the laughter that Kikuchiyo provides, to the thrill of when Kyuzo comes back in the morning, to the shame Katsuchiro and Shino feel, to the anger that Kambei shows when several of his men desert, to the horror when we see that a prisoner of war is going to be brutally killed by an old lady in the village.

And finally, this movie seems deep with significance. It seems to raise questions about poverty, fairness, when violence is acceptable, when it is not, of the greed of some people, the cowardice of others, and the impulsiveness of yet others. A lot of issues about life can be seen as important elements in this movie. The movie also seems to capture some of the most admirable features of what I might call a "samurai approach" to the world we find in Miyamoto Musashi and others. I actually find some aspects of this approach quite appealing, and I often have recourse to samurai metaphors when I talk about what it is like to study academic philosophy. Yes, it sounds a little like a joke, but I'm actually serious. It seems like a lot of things that are valued in this samurai approach can also be applied to academic study. For instance, I have a lot of respect for people who honestly care about the craft of philosophy when they are engaging in it: people who argue more for the learning that is possible through argument than for any superficial victory one might have in winning one. Compare Kambei's description of Kyuzo: "A man interested only in perfecting his skill." And also I tend to value the importance of choosing your opponents wisely (contrast the samurai who challenges Kyuzo to a real duel when he is not up to it), and not using excessive force when it is unnecessary. If you are in an argument with a student about the limitations of first-order logic, you don't bring up Gödel's proof, but something that the student could actually understand, even if it isn't entirely satisfactory in its detail. But if you are going to argue the same question with a logician, you have to be more careful. In fact, now that I think about it, it is striking how important the student-teacher relationship is to the approach to life taken in Kurasawa's movies, and indeed how important it is for much of the early literature of China and Japan, so perhaps the analogy with teaching philosophy is even closer than it appears. But the analogical considerations I mention could be brought to bear in just about any occupation that offers some space for self-improvement. Even in squash a value is put on doing something quickly and efficiently with precisely the amount of effort it requires.

Well, so these are just some thoughts about one of my favorite movies. If you haven't seen it, you should. Although as with all things, it can be disappointing if it is built up with too much hype. So, let me close by saying it is just a samurai movie.

Reflections on the Battle of Algiers

I recently watched Gillo Pontecorvo's movie La Battaglia di Algeri (The Battle of Algiers, 1965). I've had a few weeks to reflect on it, and it really is one of the masterpieces of twentieth century film. A violent and disturbing film, it was banned in France, and it apparently gave such a detailed and accurate view of how terrorism works that it was shown to a special audience at the Pentagon to help military personnel understand what they'd be up against in Iraq (NYTimes, September 7, 2003). The most striking thing about the film, however, is it's neutrality. Although it was made partly under the auspices of the Algerian government, within a few years of the events it portrayed, the film was shot in a strikingly non-partisan manner. The film is often thought to side with the Algerian revolutionaries, but I think this is effectively undercut by other aspects of the film, and although audiences may rejoice at the Algerian victory at the conclusion of the film, I can't imagine that any neutral audience member would describe the ending as unambiguously pro-Algerian (See comments on the class I was a part of below). It is true that steps were taken in order to make the methods employed by the French seem shocking. After all, the film has the character of Colonel Mathieu give a defense of the use of torture, and some of the montage effects are intended to paint the French in a less than appealing light. For instance, in one sequence the film cuts abruptly from a late night dinner party in a casual and pleasant tropical setting, to a scene in which members of the same party plant enough explosives in the Turkish section to bring down a house - as if both events were equally casual. This surely emphasizes a certain callousness. But all these effects are effectively counterbalanced with shots that make the FLN seem equally in the wrong. For instance, when the FLN decides to send four women into the French section of the town with bombs to blow up popular nightspots, Pontecorvo spends a significant amount of footage showing the pleasant and carefree atmosphere in the clubs before the bombing, thereby emphasizing the cruelty.

Pontecorvo's casting is also remarkable. Instead of hiring a cast of professional actors, Pontecorvo apparently hired a number of normal people in Algeria for the shooting, as well as the revolutionary leader Yacef Saadi, who basically plays a modified version of himself. Brahim Haggiag makes an amazing Ali La Pointe. A lot of information can be conveyed by an appropriately chosen lead character. His face in the movie is shown scarred by the lifestyle he leads before the revolution, and the hauntingly wild looks that he gives at times - looks that Pontecorvo chooses to dwell on for long periods of time with very close camera shots - emphasizes Ali La Pointe's motivations. Further, Ali's facial expressions contrast sharply with the facial expressions of Yacef Saadi's character, and gives the viewer an instant appreciation for their different outlooks on the revolution, an appreciation that is further emphasized by the different outcomes for each in the course of the film.

Another striking thing about the movie is the black and white photography. As an aside, it is interesting the effects that black and white photography can produce on contemporary audiences. When one is not distracted by color and the many visual effects that can be achieved through color film, characters' emotions and views are somehow expressed more vividly and clearly. This certainly seems to be the case in another one of my favorite movies, Der Himmel über Berlin . The film's use of black and white photography to portray the world view of the angels seems to capitalize on the effect - suggesting perhaps that an angel would somehow see through to the core of one's personality. The effect in The Battle of Algiers is similar, although it has more of the feel of a documentary, since the film enhances the feel of objectivity through its neutrality, and through occasional hand-held camera techniques. But the film does not intend to be a documentary, and Pontecorvo uses the camera work to great artistic effect. For instance, the black and white film also emphasizes the shapes of the buildings, an effect that makes the Turkish section of the town seem even more labyrinthine. Actually, this labyrinthine effect seemed to make the ending of the film that much more powerful; what we see at the end of the film are enormous crowds unconfined by walls and barriers, perhaps suggesting that the success of the Algerian revolution was the result of the coordination of the masses, rather than the focused approach of the FLN.

I thought the use of Bach (The Matthäus-Passion, I believe) in the opening was a little out of place at first, although it seemed a more reasonable choice when I rewatched that scene. The use of heavy drum beats to emphasize the building tension . . . especially in the bombing sequence were quite effective.

I saw this film with a class in which I was a course assistant. I was actually surprised at some students' reactions. Some who saw the movie thought that it gave a pretty good argument for the use of torture to obtain information. I found this a bit frightening, especially given recent activities of the Bush Administration, and found myself arguing against a number of students in the class, although my job was not to influence the content of the course. C'est la vie. Anyway, it is a disturbing movie, and certainly not something to watch if you're looking for an unambiguous pick-me-up.