VIFF: Looking Ahead Hunger (UK, 2008, McQueen)
I'm posting this review in advance of this screening because I want to encourage as many people as possible to see this film. Hunger screens on Friday, Feb. 6 at 6.45pm (Capitol Six). See it.
Ben:
Maybe as good as any fucking film I've ever seen. I mean, there is so much great art from the past that we were told in advance is great art and so we expect it to be and mostly it proves to be. This is perhaps the deepest well from which we can drink. But to be blind-sided by something contemporary, hit by the full force of a thing from now, having heard in one ear and out the other from your ol' dealer buddy that this was strong dope but it's been so long since we shared a needle, well, I didn't even remember what the film was about when Jacob and I popped it in; honestly, just slipped my mind. Blind-sided. Blind-sided and bowled over from the first frame to the last. Now I remember saying to you in the staff room something to the effect of, "well it always helps to have something real to say, a true story to tell," but having seen the film, the - (right word?) - poetry of the thing is what staggers me, the formal grace of it, the way the fact of the matter - THE TRUTH - is expressed with such brutal beauty, such emotive economy. There's something "pure" about it. Not its ideological sympathies, but the way history is allowed to speak through the abstractions of art. Jacob said that the film is somehow "mystical," and while I find this word misleading for a work so starkly on the actual ground, I appreciate what he is trying to convey. He also felt the need to bring up Dogville, also wrong in any number of ways; on the other hand, I feel the comparison myself. Of course, those of us without religion are just as easy to impress as those with it when it comes to the symbolic power of an individual sacrificing himself for a Cause with a capital C. That the individual in this case explicitly and rationally explains how his action is not that of a martyr but rather a "mere" leader, only adds to the - and you know this is usually a pejorative term for me - heroism. The film utterly inhabits this contradictions and in successfully doing so, the picture takes on the transcendent quality of which Jacob speaks. I will not go into specifics. Maybe you will. I am self-conscious about having written even this much. But Hunger effected me so. I spoke to Monica about it over the telephone. In regard to the topic of the film, she reminded me about her recently being blown away by Ken Loach's piece about the origins of the IRA, The Wind That Shakes the Barley. Have you seen it?
And Dan:
I own The Wind that Shakes the Barley, but haven't seen it yet. Loach is generally a really heavy dude (whom I really admire), and I need to gird my loins in preparation, so he can get all that he deserves outta me. Shit, I just showed the film studies class ONE scene outta Sweet Sixteen and it nearly drew the life outta me. That said, it sounds like I better get to it, sooner rather than later.
You talk of the film speaking for itself, and that is what I remain MOST impressed with in Hunger. Damn near a silent film. Only one scene of real dialogue in the whole film (and what a scene THAT one is, eh?) and yet the lyricism and potency of the imagery is so vivid, the movie speaks directly to something deeply-held in all of us. Commitment. Love (at least in the abstract sense of the word). Truth. This is, as you say, one of the great ones. Easily the best film I've seen since Dogville, which, as least up to this point, I consider the best film of "the aughts."
Glad you enjoyed it. Images from the film continue to haunt me every single day, so I suspect you'll continue to "enjoy it" for a long time to come.
Then Ben:
We know from Dialectics 101 that so often more is said by words unspoken, (personally, I only know this in theory, but that's my fault). So much meaning comes from silence, especially in art. But who has the power to silence whom - and conversely, the ability to resist authority that would force language out of one - goes straight to the guts of politics. I recently read a book called The Body in Pain. It's a remarkably unique and indirect avenue into some fundamental issues in phenomenological philosophy and political theory. The author, actually a English Lit scholar, examines (among other things) the impossibility of language for the sentient body subjected to torture, the breakdown of culture - she calls it the "unmaking of the world" - for the person upon whom violence is inflicted. The lack of dialogue in Hunger profoundly enters into this.
And of course, when the time comes for language in the film, it's as if that occasion is the only possible opportunity to talk; as it would have been, in fact. So everything counts, even the so-called small talk. It's literally a life and death conversation. Even abstracted from the film, taken as a scene in its own right out of context, that dialogue is the kind that is never supposed to be in cinema. It belongs on the stage. The director knows this full well and shoots it accordingly. More that merely accordingly. He almost entirely dismantles the three-dimensionality of the space by way of silhouette and bodily stasis in order to make the opposing profiles confront each other to speak in no uncertain terms. When he finally cuts in to close-up, the intimacy is almost unbearably intense. The tension and pacing of it is approaching the aesthetic status of music. And then there is the matter of what they say, the semantic substance of it - Jesus! And the performances.
The scene of the guy smoking a cigarette against the wall as the snow starts to fall, it's like Ozu or something. We don't even know yet who he is, why we should pay attention to him, never mind care about him. Yet the image commands us to do so. Alluring and forbidding at the same time. The scene of the naked prisoners being forced through the gauntlet of punishers in riot gear, and the complete explosion and subsequent implosion of one of these cops, I can count on one hand the times I have seen such truthful violence in film. Absolutely concrete and explicable, in no way causally ambiguous and therefore open to interpretation; just plain and inescapably factual. How is it then that this ostensibly prosaic communication is so poetic? Another word Jacob found is "aura." This film has it. Who the hell is Steve McQueen anyway?
I must address the arc of the narrative. I recall you observing in the staffroom that the main character does not appear until at least a third into the film. This is certainly unconventional. I doubt that it is unprecedented though. Still, more common is the Tarrantino/Cohen Bros move of taking out what was hitherto a central character after the audience has become attached to him. Nothing of this anti-Hollywood punk sensibility is operative in Hunger. Far from formal fun for the sake of it, the introduction of the protagonist late in the proceedings is indicative of devotion to the dictates of content. The whole point is that Sands is a member of an organization, part of a social movement, one among a united many engaged in struggle. The leadership he takes upon himself is undeniable and the film celebrates him for it. But the film is ultimately about more than that individual and it moves narratively into focus the way it does because of the big picture it means to show. The humanist consideration it shows to the cops is the completion of the vision.
And Dan:
As I told you when I urged you to see this film, I think Hunger is serious business. Art with a capital A. Structurally, stylistically, thematically, this is beyond impressive. It is astonishing. Director Steve McQueen earns comparison to Dreyer, and like its antecedent, Hunger, aka The Passion of Bobby Sands, damned near transcends the bounds of the artistic medium
You mention Oku when describing the scene of the guard smoking outside in the snow. The lyricism of the moment had me thinking haiku. You something like this:
Bitterness and fear
Melting together slowly
Snowflake on knuckle
Interesting commentary about the power of silence in a power relationship, particularly in the face of torture. I am eager to learn more about this. I've heard musicians like Eric Clapton discuss this notion that it is not the proficiency with which you can play 16th or 32nd notes (yeah, I think he was looking at you Eddie Van Halen) that makes one a great guitar player, but rather the silences between the notes one plays that gives one's playing its power and poignancy, and in this context I can certainly see how the silences in this film can be seen as heightening the significance of the words that characters eventually do speak. Specifically, I speak of course of the long dialogue scene between Sands and the preacher who is trying to talk him out of his fast. As you say, very theatrical, but absolutely essential to the cinematic experience as well, laregely because so much has gone unspoken. In fact, siding with Clapton, I'll contend that the long stretches of silence prepare us for the talk fest by making us hunger for the spoken word. We are so starved for some sort of linguistic engagement, we can't wait to hear these two sit down to hash things out.
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What also impressed me about the film, beyond its formal majesty, above its assured command of the language of cinema, on top of its soaring lyricism, was its determination to show (not tell) the effects of this sort of situation on BOTH the oppressor and the oppressed. The images of the prisoners, struggling to maintain their humanity in the most degrading circumstances, dominate the film, dare us to look away and demand that we take their side. And yet, McQueen also takes us into the world of the oppressor to show the corrosive effects on those cast in the role of torturers. The guard, worn down and disheartened as he prepares for another day in hell, soaking his hands in the sink. His wife watching him leave, waiting to see if the car with explode, the mournful cigarette in the snow. The other prison guard, whom you alluded to, full of dread as he prepares for the onslaught of violence, snapping and beating one of the prisoners (I assume to death), then breaking down in what can only be described as complete ontological despair. It isn't as if the film isn't taking sides--it bloody well does. But that does not preclude the film from having a heart large enough to extend to all who suffer in this situation.
Goddamned transcendant film.
Then Ben:
You are so right that the absence of dialogue makes us almost desperate for some that when it finally comes in such a massive dose, we are willing and able to take it all in. I should highlight how well written and performed is the conversation. The famous Irish gift of the gab is set loose and contra Scandinavian dumbness, they play chess with death in accordance with their outspoken culture.
Related to all of this silence is your insight that the film is determined to show - not tell. Of course, this goes to the heart of cinematic theory about silent era pictures that must prioritize the image out of necessity verses talking movies that are not so compelled. I don't know who this Steve McQueen guy is but I already mentioned Ozu and now I have to bring out you-know-who; uh-huh, Tarkovsky, for there are shots in Hunger that do more than just linger, they hang on so long you start triple-guessing the meaning of fucking life. Meanwhile, this whole "spiritual" or "aura" feeling Jacob spoke of has you referencing to Dryer's Joan and me thinking about Rublev. There is something religious about Hunger that I cannot fathom. As Andrea is more comfortable with the unfathomable than I am, it's fortuitous for me that I will be visiting with her soon.
What is fathomable for me is the dialectic of simultaneously presenting both sides fairly and adopting the point of view of only one of them. It is an oversimplification but simply put, the neutrality is at a higher level of abstraction, philosophic if you will, the bias is politically concrete. Hence, for my ultimate ethical example, Marx acknowledges that in their relationship the capitalist and the worker are equally alienated from their humanity, but their relationship is asymmetrical in that the capitalist oppresses the worker and not vice versa.
And Dan:
I hadn't quite made the leap to Tarkovsky, but Dreyer is the easiest comp for me, particularly the intensity of The Passion of Joan of Arc, where the emotional devastation is matched by the religious fervour--of both the film's central character and the audience. Both Hunger and TPOJOA really hit me hard at that level, and much credit must be given to the ability of Dreyer and McQueen to hold onto moments, long after our comfort level has been sated. Herzog talks of holding onto shots because in those moments beauty and truth can sometimes emerge. I'm thinking here not of the dialogue scene, which is riveting for all sortsa reasons, not just for the length that he holds that shot, but rather scenes like the one where the prison guard is swabbing away all the urine from the hallways between the cells. In a typical movie that scene might last six to ten seconds, just long enough to establish what was going on. But McQueen makes us watch the activity from beginning right to end, and while I was waiting for the edit at the beginning of the scene, I know that by the time we got about 30 seconds into the scene, I was captivated, and I would have been pretty damned disappointed if McQueen had cut away before the job was done. There was a truth in that moment that couldn't have been conveyed any other way than by witnessing it in its entirety.
And that's pretty much how I feel about the whole film. There were times when I wanted to turn away, when I wanted the camera to look away, but thankfully McQueen never wavered. And somehow, neither did I.
Really, just so much greatness here.
Then Ben:
The guy sweeping up the pee from the corridor is definitely one of the main scenes I had in mind. If I remember correctly, it comes immediately after the big conversation. It borders on Bela Tarr, except the movement is towards the audience so we are not caught in Tarr's infinite futility. Rather, we know absolutely when the scene will terminate because we know where it must - upon us. It's a real time insertion, the effect of which is to trap us in the path of piss, literally inescapable. George Lucas markets that theatre audio technology, SurroundSound; well, this is the surround-image. So experiencing the duration becomes a responsibility on our part. You speak to this indirectly when you say how sometimes in the film you wanted to look away but the director didn't, so you couldn't. We are not allowed. We must bear witness.
How about the execution of the cop while he is visiting his senile mother at the old age home? So much for the aristocratic duel.
And Finally Dan:
No kidding. Sorta puts The Grand Illusion in its place, doesn't it?
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