Seminal Films...and What Else to Watch

Whether you're taking a film class or studying on your own, there are a few directors who always seem to pop up, along with what are critically accepted as their greatest films. Some you may love; others may leave a bad taste in your mouth and turn you off to an otherwise great director. Here is a list of alternative suggestions for those times when watching a classic feels like a chore.

In Ingmar Bergman's classic, a returning crusader meets Death on the beach and strikes a deal with him: they will play a game of chess to determine whether the knight is to live or die. As the game plays out, we see a portrait of Sweden during the time of the bubonic plague. Though it's a personal favorite, the length and the pacing might not appeal to every viewer.

Bergman's other highly-acclaimed films include Wild Strawberries (1957) and Fanny and Alexander (1982), which, at a running time of 188 minutes, demands more patience than the average viewer might be willing to give. For the full intensity of the Bergman experience, as well as an insightful look into issues of Christianity, faith, and forgiveness, I present these for your consideration:

The Trilogy on Faith

Bergman himself called these three movies, which easily stand alone, "chamber plays," as they revolve around a small cast of complex characters in an isolated setting (not to mention the beautiful choice of Bach chamber music, which adds to the emotional havoc these films might wreak on the sensitive viewer).

The first, Through a Glass Darkly (1961) depicts a husband (Martin, played by Bergman staple Max von Sydow) and wife's (Karin, played by Harriet Andersson) visit to her father's island, where the latter lives with his son. Karin, however, has a history of instability, which comes back to haunt her in the form of a vision of God as a giant spider.

In The Silence (1963), two sisters, Anna and Ester (the beautiful Ingrid Thulin), who is suffering from an unnamed illness, must stop in a hotel in an anonymous town, which to be veering towards a police state. Accompanying the pair is a young boy, Johan. The erotic and bizarre encounters of Anna and Johan, respectively, contrast the intense loneliness of Ester, who is effectively stuck in bed. This tightly-constructed film brings home the brutality of loneliness and comments on the ultimate silence of God-- while remaining watchable.

Finally, Winter Light (1963) shows us the life of a country pastor (Tomas Ericsson, played by Gunner Bjornstrand), his mistress, Marta (Ingrid Thulin), and a fisherman, Jonas Persson (Max von Sydow), who is set on committing suicide...because of a situation in China. The pastor and the man's wife must dissuade him from this act, but can they?

If the trilogy's theme of Christian forgiveness interests you, The Virgin Spring (1960) is a must-see. After a heinous crime to which a young boy was an accessory, the criminals unwittingly come upon the household they have ruined, asking for shelter. Worse still, they attempt to sell a condemning piece of evidence back to the father of its owner (once again, Max von Sydow). Far more physically brutal than the trilogy, this film is not for the weak of heart. However, it raises a question that will haunt you for days, if not months, afterward.

When a village finds itself under attack by bandits, it calls on seven samurai, culled from various walks of life (read: unemployed), to insure its security. This movie likely enjoys more popularity than The Seventh Seal, and its adaptation into the western film The Magnificent Seven (John Sturges, 1960) probably hasn't hurt. Still, it is not the most compact of narratives, and for people with less interest in samurai (yes, we do exist), it might not be the best bet.

Ikiru (To Live, 1952)

This film, set in what was at the time contemporary Japan, shows us the lonely, almost pointless existence of a petty bureaucrat, Kanji Watanabe (the perpetually long-faced Takashi Shimura). When he discovers he has less time to live than he expected, he decides to make some changes in his life.

The film is divided into two halves: the first shows the beginnings of Watanabe's transformation from pencil-pusher to petitioner; the second takes place during his wake, when his colleagues tell, in flashback, what Watanabe accomplished during his time on earth. Ikiru will break your heart, mend it, and then break it again-- all without samurai.

Shakespeare, Japanese Style

If the sweeping epic of The Seven Samurai is more your style, I would suggest both Throne of Blood (1957), based on Shakespeare's Macbeth, and Ran, an even "sweepy-er," more epic adaptation of King Lear and winner of an Oscar for best costume design in 1985.

A Personal Favorite

Clocking in at only 88 minutes, Rashomon (1950) is a good place to start for anyone who feels overwhelmed by the scope of Kurosawa's career. You can find a more detailed description and analysis here.

Heralded as the first film of the French New Wave, A bout de souffle has been required viewing for more than one of my classes. The movie has the low-budget aesthetics, Hollywood allusions, free-and-easy attitude, and nonsensical criminal acts that many critics have claimed captured the spirit of Paris during the late 50s and early 60s.

If this is the only Godard film you see, however, you're truly missing out. Its famous style, particularly the jump-cuts that were praised for bringing an element of self-reflexivity into the film, are more a result of budget and time constraints than a pre-meditated statement on filmmaking (though that is what A bout de souffle has become over the years).

Like Breathless, but better: Pierrot le Fou (1965)

If you agree that "a girl and a gun" are the essential elements of filmmaking, put Pierrot le Fou on your list. Whether the film has a plot is debatable, but it does give us two central characters, Ferdinand (Jean-Paul Belmondo) and Marianne (Anna Karina), who flee Paris, steal cars, live on beaches with pet parrots, and occasionally burst into song. Godard himself claimed that the film was mostly about what could be done with Technicolor; I would add that it's also about how other media, from Renoir to Rimbaud to comic books, can be incorporated into film. Like much of the New Wave, this movie isn't for everyone, but if you're not "everyone," try it out. If you don't like it, watch Truffaut. 

Contempt for Commercialism: Le Mepris

Godard's true orneriness emerges in the visually stunning Le Mepris (Contempt, 1963). Although it revolves around a couple, Camille and Paul Gival (Brigitte Bardot and Michel Picolli), that finds itself dissolving due to a single gesture of carelessness, Godard manages to thumb his nose at commercialism in general, and producers in particular, by including a film-within-a-film shot in the same locale. The arrogant American producer, played by Jack Palance, wants everything his way, including Camille. Le Mepris may not be as fun as Au bout de souffle, but as an aesthetic experience, it rates among Godard's best films.

Truly epic in scope, Amadeus explores the life of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (Tom Hulce), from the apogee of his career to his early death, as narrated by the jealous court composer, Antonio Salieri (F. Murray Abraham). Along with Forman's One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest (1974), Amadeus received much critical and popular acclaim.

Interestingly, Forman, who has also directed The People Vs. Larry Flynt (1996) and Man on the Moon (1999), began his career in what is now the Czech Republic. One of his oft-overlooked films, Loves of a Blonde, depicts of a small Czechoslovakian town full of young female factory workers, whom the town officials attempt to set up with much older, less attractive military men.

The plot centers around Andula, who lives in a women's dormitory, and her exploits with the male sex. After a one-night stand with a young piano player, Andula takes a trip to his home in Prague, where he lives with his parents, but her presence is not received well. The mixture of dry Czech humor and the bittersweetness of a coming-of-age tale make Loves of a Blonde another personal favorite.

Forman handles this small story of a turning point in a young woman's life with the same sensitivity, elegance, and humanity that he uses to broach the topic of the legendary career of Mozart. If you are interested in seeing just how much a director's films can contrast with one another, Loves of a Blonde is a worthwhile case study.

If you are interested in Eastern Bloc films, here is an article about Loves of a Blonde written by my former Eastern European Cinema teacher, Constantin Parvulescu.