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Koyaanisqatsi is
among my all-time favorite movies. Made in 1983 by Godfrey
Reggio and Ron Fricke, it was the first film of its kind: a
commercial-length non-narrative film consisting only of
stunning photography and a brilliant score composed for the
film. Since 1983 there have been a handful of films in the
same style -- Baraka by Ron Fricke, Voices Through
Time by Franco Piavoli, and even a sequel called
Powaqqatsi by Reggio and Fricke. But none of these
followups has been able to match the mastery of
Koyaanisqatsi.
Koyaanisqatsi is non-narrative; there is no story
and there are no actors. That's not to say that the film is
without structure. In fact, Koyaanisqatsi has a very
clear structure, and that's what makes it so much better than
its sequel and its followers.
The film has three distinct acts. Act one shows scenes of
land and air. It is morning in the American Southwest, and
steam rises off of the exotic sandstone formations in monument
valley. Light and shadow split the Grand Canyon in two. Clouds
roll over mountaintops in fast-motion, giving them the
consistency and substance of water.
The first act is a picture of a pure, rugged planet,
unmarred by complex life. Philip Glass's music matches the
visuals with a slow repetitive drone; somber voices chant the
film's title while lonely flutes and horns form simple,
drawn-out melodies
The second act sneaks up on the first. The once-pure
landscape becomes invaded by machines and buildings, slowly
and one at a time. Gigantic mining trucks are engulfed in
clouds of dust. Explosions throw tons of dirt into the air.
Soon there are shots of buildings, cars, and airplanes, all
interacting with the natural landscape.
Abandoned tenements are blown up, airplanes bomb their
targets, and row upon row of cars, tanks, and buildings appear
on the rugged planet. Cities come, with their blood of traffic
pumping through their streets, yet there is always some small
reminder that these cities are part of a landscape of rock,
mountain, and cloud. Glass' music is still repetitive, similar
to the first act, but it is less hypnotic, more declarative,
faster and more energetic than before.
In the third act, the landscape is forgotten; only the
hustle and bustle of the cities gets the camera's attention.
We finally see people, both in posed portraiture and as
ant-like forms.
The portraits are slow-motion medium shots, often of sad,
ugly, or haggard city-dwellers. These people have been
confronted by a movie camera in their face, and their
reactions vary from flattery to bemusement to hostility. The
irony is that these people are among huge crowds on public
streets, yet a movie camera is an invasion of privacy.
Fricke's camera also catches these crowds collectively. The
action is sped up so that human forms take on an ant-like
sense of purpose. The small human figures move about
instinctively, working in factories, standing in lines,
traveling from A to B. People pour through a train station as
neat and orderly as hot dogs through a production line.
Alton Walpole and Ron Fricke's editing connects all the
themes: people moving themselves through high-volume
production lines; people behaving as collective, social
insects; and the private loneliness of the individuals in this
great hive.
Meanwhile, cars zip through the city, their corpuscle
taillights coursing through the arteries of the city's
streets. Cars, people, factories, information; everything
keeps moving faster and faster as Glass's music -- the same
repetitive notes but now frantic and frenetic instead of
calming and relaxing -- builds to an unstoppable pace. The
changing pace of the film is palpable and unmistakable.
Walpole and Fricke's editing and Glass's music is so
effective, you could chart the course of the film by attaching
heart rate monitors to the audience.
Koyaanisqatsi ends this emotional ride with one,
final cautionary image -- an awestruck image in slow motion of
a rocket taking off -- the pinnacle of human civilization --
an achievement made possible only through collective
societal effort. After a few moments of soaring, the rocket
explodes into a great fireball, and a burning, flying piece of
wreckage falls back to earth as the camera watches,
transfixed.
Only at the end does the film explanation the title; it is
a Hopi word meaning life out of balance; crazy life; a way of
life that calls for another way of living. The film's stated
message, that modern culture calls for another way of living,
is somewhat convincing, although it doesn't seem to be the
most important achievement of Koyaanisqatsi. What makes
this film great is its structure, the fact that photography,
editing and music alone can combine to form an epic, 90-minute
composition that coheres and makes sense.
Koyaanisqatsi is no ordinary movie. It defined a new
form of art (which we can call the feature-length,
non-narrative film). It has spawned some imitations and
homages. But it has yet to be surpassed.
From
Movie
Habit
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