The Circus, City Lights

I can think of only one reason to avoid seeing a movie. That would be to have either the good sense or the arrogance to know exactly what a film is going to deliver, and then to decide that it could only be a waste of time experiencing what you believe you already know. This is as true for avoiding canon as it is for skipping The Happening.

For this reason only, I can understand why I was unaware of the actual power of Chaplin as a filmmaker. I haven’t so much avoided this director, as I have allowed him to exist as a legend, known only by proxy—through snatches of footage, photographs, spoofs, and descendants—never first-hand. This form of understanding came from the common font. There’s a calm inland sea back there. Chaplin filtered down through decades of reverence.

But to see The Circus or City Lights with a crowd is humbling. The children of 2008, watched over by the children of 1928. The man in white ascends from his pit—pilot of the Wurlitzer. He plays his signature, descends. The film starts and Chaplin is an icon again. Without a break in the laughter we are introduced to a profound intimacy—that cinematic sleight-of-hand as we realise two threads have been created in one motion.

I was lucky enough to see the final shot of City Lights unaware of its standing as ‘the greatest piece of acting ever committed to celluloid’—but it’s not so much the power of a singular piece of acting as it is the power of a final note in an impeccable symphony. It is what it is because of what has come before. Perfect cinema, the smile transformed into a wince.

A Woman Under the Influence

Ah, I have seen something--but this is something else.

There are so many of these spectres in the history of cinema, and the first encounter is never disappointing. A myth might be difficult to comprehend, even beyond understanding, but it is always invaluable. I hear the name Cassavetes, it is noted, and I wait until somehow I can come to know it. It’s this way or a gift--like Jacques Rivette, like Marcel Carné, like Claire Denis, like Herzog--delivered despite the ignorance of its receiver. A student is very ignorant, this drives him to learn.

Cassavetes has given me a reason to slow down, or, at least, to consider what I am doing in consuming so many films. To watch a film is really a very easy thing. It can also be incredibly hard, but in its pure form it is simply sitting and thinking. The thinking is guided to an extent, (by some directors more than others) so it can sometimes feel like it is only sitting and watching. Well, that is still a worthwhile way to spend time, but it can feel too easy. And maybe it becomes habit, to watch rather than to think, and then a movie becomes a mark in a tally on the blackboard.

A Woman Under the Influence is a film worth more than its length. It is thirteen hours long in two-and-a-half. It is a world richer than the one I’ve made for myself, but it is not an escape. It is a goading thing, a taunt; but not inspirational, only a possibility. As the simplest, easiest, most achievable philosophy, it seems to justify all ways of life. It says ‘everything is fine,’ ‘Tout Va Bien,’ and is not sarcastic, not fatalistic. It is not blind faith. Evil is present, goodness is present. Tender and cruel--like Pierrot, like Prévert.

There are thousands of these things hidden in plain view. You find one. The rest come pouring out of history like spirits from some golden ark, and the destruction they bring is just amazing. Godard wondered if they wouldn’t play Cassavetes at three a.m. on the TV. Why not? The time was there to fill.

It was filled with money. Why not?

So, this is my introduction. There is a riddle to solve. l’Histoire des Treize. A society is hidden someplace, as were the films. But a camera must be earned.