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They say there's
very little originality left in the world today, and that if you've got an idea
for something, someone else has already done it, or at least is about to.
Most movies today ride the fine line between being derivative and being an
homage; a carbon copy or a tribute. There's no attempt to disguise
this transparency in the reality of mainstream American cinema, were the name of
the game is formula and clich? and winning weekends rule the day.
Hard-hitting and
no holds barred American independent film has pretty much gone extinct.
What were once idealistic and individual dreams of using the canvas of
film as an act of personal defiance have been dashed; poisoned by dreams of big
studio dollars and film festival acquisition frenzies.
We need only to
look to our global cinema counterparts to find consistent and awakening examples
of cinema as art, cinema as social critique and cinema as poetry. These
qualities existed in spades in the muscular, renaissance American cinema of the
70s, where you could always find cinema made by-and for-adults.
But the current
feverish and monetary zeitgeist, be as it may, we no longer have the luxury of
much homegrown movie grit in America. That being said, I still find
much vigor and energy in American cinema, and there are films released regularly
that radiate intelligence and quality. But, films that qualify as art?
Nix.
I was reminded
of this most pointedly in a recent film that is breathtaking in its originality
and delivered with a tone I think I've never encountered before. Roy Andersson's
Songs from the Second Floor is a most unusual, oddly affecting and
probably brilliant film, at times whimsical, distant, hilarious, disturbing and
heartbreaking.
It's a difficult
film to break down into a narrative description, since so much of it seems
initially to be composed of unrelated, random and anecdotal scenes. But to
thread the "plot" together into something that can be easily described (an
important quality of any American film before it even goes into production), the
story would go something like this:
On one very
strange evening in an unnamed city somewhere in Europe, a comical and unsettling
chain of events begins to take place. A pathetic man who has spent his
life in service of a company is carelessly fired and humiliated. Two
magicians make a grave mistake with an unsuspecting audience member. A
gang of thugs senselessly beats a lost, confused immigrant. A paralyzing
traffic jam immobilizes the city.
On the verge of
a new millennium (the film was made a short time ago) the city has been gripped
by an overwhelming sense of building madness and loss of order. Amidst it
all, one man - Karl - has burned down his family furniture store for an
insurance check. Karl's world erupts in a personal and professional chaos,
as he begins to experience and discover the ridiculous and sublime meanings of
humanity and living.
If any of this
sounds abstract and you can't get a sense of the "plot," that's because Songs
from the Second Floor, masterfully composed by director Andersson, is a
defiant, non-traditional mosaic of lives; some visited once, others more
frequently. All are woven together in a provocative fashion that seems at once
to be random and perfectly ordered, all leading up to an increasingly dark, sad
finale that mingles themes of life and death, salvation and hopelessness.
Songs from
the Second Floor is an experience more than a story. I can tell you
about specific scenes from the film; though most of them I can't quite remember
where or when they occurred. Each scene, slyly captured in a single-take,
static shot, is a mini-marvel of absurd human behavior and tone, each of which
feels like its own mini comic/tragic epic.
And the deadpan
tone, which initially feels light as air and like something whimsically
off-center in the mode of Jeneut and Caro's Delicatessen or
Amelie, gradually begins to shift to outright personal and societal
sadness and despair. The climax of the film, featuring the global
conspiracy to sacrifice a young virgin, and culminating with the garbage dump of
commercial Jesus and crucifix products, is a marvel of offbeat, almost
indefinable mood.
As dark as it
all is, there are moments of great humor, many of them derived from the
wonderful visual sense Andersson employs. In one inspired, lengthy bit,
Karl (inspired Lars Nordh) is interviewed for a job selling fake crucifixes.
Suddenly, a nail comes loose from the hand of one life-sized Christ
figure. He swings from the cross for the duration of the scene, back and forth,
behind the job interview and stealing our focus as we wonder just how long the
thing will move before it comes to its inevitable stop.
In another
terrific bit that becomes a running joke in the film, Karl visits his sensitive,
adult son who has been institutionalized for what appears to be a depressive
disorder. Though Karl desperately insists many times that the son "wrote
poetry until he went nuts," Karl's bombastic behavior in the hospital ward
provides a much more potent and stinging explanation for the real origin of his
son's neuroses. Repeated over the course of several visits, the result is a
sequence that is a minimalist comic masterpiece, with a rising, sad and hopeless
underside, like much of the film.
The film is
fascinating in its momentary depiction of a society on the brink of chaotic
change, emotional disaster and personal sorrow. It's an amazing film that
has the power to thematically cover so much philosophical and emotional
material, in such an original, funny, sad, observant way.
Songs from
the Second Floor is an exhilarating experience. It's difficult to
describe, but very easy to recommend. It's a commanding film, filled with
life, ideas and artistic vision. Don't miss it.