The influence of Italian neorealism in the cinematic world is extremely difficult to overstate. One can highlight its methods in American film noir of the late 40’s and early 50’s, its obvious links to works in the French new-wave, and its influence on international third world film of the time for its depiction of common people and its portrayal of the “real.” Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves is certainly neorealist; every principle of the movement is utilized within the film. It is a quiet, tragic anthem to the poverty-stricken working class of postwar Italy, and a beautiful work that has been part of the pallet of the auteur in cinematic movements ever since. It is perhaps the very antithesis to Hollywood film in its subject matter of “life as it is,” as screenwriter Cesare Zavattini has put it.
Bicycle Thieves contains no scenes of intimate sexual relations, and none of the crimes and passionate lives so common in the American film noir pictures that came parallel to it. By those standards, its plot is miniscule in scale. A poor, out-of-work man spends an entire day in vain searching for his stolen bicycle throughout the streets of Rome. This bicycle is his key to wellbeing and a necessary tool in order for him to keep his newfound job. After his efforts prove fruitless, he attempts to steal a bicycle himself. After being caught and released, he is left to suffer the degradation of becoming a thief himself.
This brief plot synopsis does nothing to shed light on the absolute beauty and tragedy of the story. The characters, played by non-professionals (the protagonist came from the Breda factory, the child found hanging around in the street, and the wife, a journalist), have the expressions of lower-class pedestrians because that is plainly what they are. Lamberto Maggiorani’s (Antonio Ricci) face is gaunt and searching, his angular cheekbones are rough sills to soft eyes constantly on the verge of submission. In search of his bicycle, he casts looks of suspicion, curiosity, and most prevalently indifference. Enzo Staiola’s (Bruno) hopeful glances linger past their scenes with an air of uncertainty, all of which is placed in the trust that things will work out in the end. The outfits are worn and baggy, hair is unkempt, and men still stand with their superficial pride masking all of their obviously tragic truths. This is all part of the thesis behind neorealism. It is a passionate desire in itself to realize a hunger for reality, in this case brought out by the breathtaking aftermath of World War II; a Rome made of derelict buildings and rubble fantastically perpendicular to its illustrious majesty before the devastation from the war.
On the subject of pre-war Rome and Italian cinema, the fact stands that neorealism would not hold the emotional power it has on its subjects without the backdrop of the pre-war fascist films produced through the efforts of Benito Mussolini. While De Sica made efforts to capture the provocative photography of common Rome through its dirty streets and worn buildings, fascist filmmakers posed star actors and actresses in front of famous monuments like The Colloseum, statues of Casears, and ornate fountains.
The camerawork behind Bicycle Thieves has traits of documentary-style filmmaking – a characteristic often applied to Zavattini’s works. This is used to exemplify the real, humble, and idealistic sense of realism needed in the film. While American films relied on the necessity of a “story,” neorealist filmmakers understood the richness in reality and sought to exemplify it through a camera lens.
The stylistic characteristics of what is known as neorealism are readily identifiable, perhaps one of the most important being visual representation. The most appropriate subject for representation (at least from a “pure cinema” point of view) is reality itself. This is achieved perfectly in Bicycle Thieves by its method of filming on location, out in the real world, outside of a studio – not a created world inside a studio as was popular in Hollywood films of the time. The director’s note of this characteristic is apparent in the film itself, perhaps most prevalently in the scene where Ricci is hanging up the poster of Rita Hayworth. Her figure is covering a wall of dirty posters and advertisements, and her beautiful made-up character seems shockingly out of place on the dirty street corner full of pedestrians who seem to be too caught up in the harsh reality of things to fall into the illusion of the image on the poster. Zavattini once said regarding postwar Italian cinema, “Making a movie grounded in reality takes just as much imagination as making a fictional film.” Simply filming reality doesn’t make a good realist film. It is a lesson that can be learned throughout history from figures like Picasso, Proust, Joyce, Kafka and the like: everyday life can be transformed into something sublime.
As powerful and provocative a style as it was, neorealism was very short-lived from an historical point of view. Only twenty-one or so films were made in the vein of the movement in a course of seven years, mainly because the creative energy behind it all was completely due to a real historical crisis. By the time Bicycle Thieves was conceived in 1948, the “revolution” of neorealism had reached the end of its rope as a style in itself. Italy was reinvented after the war as a capitalist society stuck in a stasis of unemployment. The film (as noted by the previously mentioned facial expressions of the actors) is balanced on a thin line separating ever-looming melancholy and idealism.
In the mode of pre-war Italian cinema, the soundtrack for the film was completely dubbed. This method became common due to Mussolini’s insistence that films be dubbed over in an effort to have more control over their final production. The non-diagetic music that played through the film has been argued to be disconnected from its events because of this technique, yet changes from major to minor keys seem to play their part in reflecting scenes of both idealism and melancholy, respectively.
One of the most notable things worth taking into account is the creative fusion between writer and director that took place with De Sica and Zavattini. De Sica viewed his chosen non-professionals as “blank canvases,” which he was able to mold into the characters he desired. Because they were not typical actors who needed to shed their layers of stardom and character to play the part of the common individual, De Sica was able to provide the film with an unadulterated cast of pure realistic characters. Zavattini’s writing fit in perfectly with De Sica’s characters – in a way that comes across rarely in cinema. A pivotal scene in the film in which Antonio elects to treat his son to a good meal shows a series of intricate gestures from father to son played out against the subsidiary drama of glances between Bruno and a pampered bourgeois boy at another table. The dialogue between father and son is invariably in analogous sync with the scene played out in the restaurant. Zavattini’s skill as a writer for the screen is without a doubt brought out by this scene. The viewer is compelled to discover how the film will end. This complete inability to predict the outcome in the plot comes as a definitive quality of realism – if one were to see the same story unfold on the street outside their home, a predictable end would of course be impossible. This sort of narrative is difficult to keep up, and only the illusionary art of cinema can be the perfect canvas for such a feat. It is a perfect example of the sort of idea a film can convey that printed literature or other works of art cannot.
The influence of Italian neorealism in the cinematic world is extremely difficult to overstate. One can highlight its methods in American film noir of the late 40’s and early 50’s, its obvious links to works in the French new-wave, and its influence on international third world film of the time for its depiction of common people and its portrayal of the “real.” Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves is certainly neorealist; every principle of the movement is utilized within the film. It is a quiet, tragic anthem to the poverty-stricken working class of postwar Italy, and a beautiful work that has been part of the pallet of the auteur in cinematic movements ever since. It is perhaps the very antithesis to Hollywood film in its subject matter of “life as it is,” as screenwriter Cesare Zavattini has put it.
Bicycle Thieves contains no scenes of intimate sexual relations, and none of the crimes and passionate lives so common in the American film noir pictures that came parallel to it. By those standards, its plot is miniscule in scale. A poor, out-of-work man spends an entire day in vain searching for his stolen bicycle throughout the streets of Rome. This bicycle is his key to wellbeing and a necessary tool in order for him to keep his newfound job. After his efforts prove fruitless, he attempts to steal a bicycle himself. After being caught and released, he is left to suffer the degradation of becoming a thief himself.
This brief plot synopsis does nothing to shed light on the absolute beauty and tragedy of the story. The characters, played by non-professionals (the protagonist came from the Breda factory, the child found hanging around in the street, and the wife, a journalist), have the expressions of lower-class pedestrians because that is plainly what they are. Lamberto Maggiorani’s (Antonio Ricci) face is gaunt and searching, his angular cheekbones are rough sills to soft eyes constantly on the verge of submission. In search of his bicycle, he casts looks of suspicion, curiosity, and most prevalently indifference. Enzo Staiola’s (Bruno) hopeful glances linger past their scenes with an air of uncertainty, all of which is placed in the trust that things will work out in the end. The outfits are worn and baggy, hair is unkempt, and men still stand with their superficial pride masking all of their obviously tragic truths. This is all part of the thesis behind neorealism. It is a passionate desire in itself to realize a hunger for reality, in this case brought out by the breathtaking aftermath of World War II; a Rome made of derelict buildings and rubble fantastically perpendicular to its illustrious majesty before the devastation from the war.
On the subject of pre-war Rome and Italian cinema, the fact stands that neorealism would not hold the emotional power it has on its subjects without the backdrop of the pre-war fascist films produced through the efforts of Benito Mussolini. While De Sica made efforts to capture the provocative photography of common Rome through its dirty streets and worn buildings, fascist filmmakers posed star actors and actresses in front of famous monuments like The Colloseum, statues of Casears, and ornate fountains.
The camerawork behind Bicycle Thieves has traits of documentary-style filmmaking – a characteristic often applied to Zavattini’s works. This is used to exemplify the real, humble, and idealistic sense of realism needed in the film. While American films relied on the necessity of a “story,” neorealist filmmakers understood the richness in reality and sought to exemplify it through a camera lens.
The stylistic characteristics of what is known as neorealism are readily identifiable, perhaps one of the most important being visual representation. The most appropriate subject for representation (at least from a “pure cinema” point of view) is reality itself. This is achieved perfectly in Bicycle Thieves by its method of filming on location, out in the real world, outside of a studio – not a created world inside a studio as was popular in Hollywood films of the time. The director’s note of this characteristic is apparent in the film itself, perhaps most prevalently in the scene where Ricci is hanging up the poster of Rita Hayworth. Her figure is covering a wall of dirty posters and advertisements, and her beautiful made-up character seems shockingly out of place on the dirty street corner full of pedestrians who seem to be too caught up in the harsh reality of things to fall into the illusion of the image on the poster. Zavattini once said regarding postwar Italian cinema, “Making a movie grounded in reality takes just as much imagination as making a fictional film.” Simply filming reality doesn’t make a good realist film. It is a lesson that can be learned throughout history from figures like Picasso, Proust, Joyce, Kafka and the like: everyday life can be transformed into something sublime.
As powerful and provocative a style as it was, neorealism was very short-lived from an historical point of view. Only twenty-one or so films were made in the vein of the movement in a course of seven years, mainly because the creative energy behind it all was completely due to a real historical crisis. By the time Bicycle Thieves was conceived in 1948, the “revolution” of neorealism had reached the end of its rope as a style in itself. Italy was reinvented after the war as a capitalist society stuck in a stasis of unemployment. The film (as noted by the previously mentioned facial expressions of the actors) is balanced on a thin line separating ever-looming melancholy and idealism.
In the mode of pre-war Italian cinema, the soundtrack for the film was completely dubbed. This method became common due to Mussolini’s insistence that films be dubbed over in an effort to have more control over their final production. The non-diagetic music that played through the film has been argued to be disconnected from its events because of this technique, yet changes from major to minor keys seem to play their part in reflecting scenes of both idealism and melancholy, respectively.
One of the most notable things worth taking into account is the creative fusion between writer and director that took place with De Sica and Zavattini. De Sica viewed his chosen non-professionals as “blank canvases,” which he was able to mold into the characters he desired. Because they were not typical actors who needed to shed their layers of stardom and character to play the part of the common individual, De Sica was able to provide the film with an unadulterated cast of pure realistic characters. Zavattini’s writing fit in perfectly with De Sica’s characters – in a way that comes across rarely in cinema. A pivotal scene in the film in which Antonio elects to treat his son to a good meal shows a series of intricate gestures from father to son played out against the subsidiary drama of glances between Bruno and a pampered bourgeois boy at another table. The dialogue between father and son is invariably in analogous sync with the scene played out in the restaurant. Zavattini’s skill as a writer for the screen is without a doubt brought out by this scene. The viewer is compelled to discover how the film will end. This complete inability to predict the outcome in the plot comes as a definitive quality of realism – if one were to see the same story unfold on the street outside their home, a predictable end would of course be impossible. This sort of narrative is difficult to keep up, and only the illusionary art of cinema can be the perfect canvas for such a feat. It is a perfect example of the sort of idea a film can convey that printed literature or other works of art cannot.
I agree Bergman and Tarkovsky have approached the realm of a “world sans-God” with enough of a philosophical punch to blow the kneecaps off of any open-minded filmgoer. However, if you want an entire genre that goes beyond the necessity for God and divine justice on the basis of pure humanistic realism, Italian Neorealist films like Umberto D. and Bicycle Thieves may as well be considered atheistic. Their portrayal of humanity as humanity, subject to the consequences of the collective seems to have no room left for tilts skyward.
Also, though it’s a pretty pure literary adaptation, The Fountainhead is most definitely an atheistic film.
Personally, the two most sublime love scenes to me personally have been Naomi Watts and Laura Harring in D. Lynch’s “Mulholland Drive,” and the only love-making scene in the obscure Harrison-soundtrack’d acid flick “Wonderwall.”
Ineffable as they are, viewing is recommended, though in the instance of the former scene, it made me want to be a woman and subsequently a lesbian. The sex is so HONEST.
I think Cronenberg definitely files in and out of things in that sense, but you have to consider things from the world of the individual auteur. I don’t think they ever set out to purposely deconstruct their persona in celluloid or relate to the budget of a studio. If they’re financed for a blockbuster, studios will have a larger cut in the production and editing process, and it’s nearly always a shame. They made the “mistake” of letting a 25-year-old Orson Welles have the place all to himself when he made Citizen Kane, which flopped on its ass in the box office. After that, they butchered The Magnificent Ambersons. Let’s give the artists credit where credit’s due.
Two familiar biographies take two wildly differing opinions of Hitch; Donald Spoto’s The Dark Side of Genius: the Life of Alfred Hitchcock presents an insatiable leech whose method of respite comes from the obsessive manipulation of his leading ladies, while Patrick McGilligan’s later and much weightier tome Alfred Hitchcock: a Life in Darkness and Light shows Hitchcock as an iconoclastic auteur whose films are wrought with profound Catholic undertones. It would be false to claim that Alfred Hitchcock invented the theme of guilt and confession in film, but the Hitchcockian brand of it all is obviously his own, and is almost uniformly comprised of a transference of guilt on a bed of vintage Roman-Catholicism. On the surface, Hitch’s Catholicism is conscious. His films constantly work off the “wrong man” theme, in which the wrong person is caught by the police and convicted. Though the police in his films are nearly always imbeciles (a nod to the director’s youth in England), he was never prepared to let his villains go to court, but to somehow bring about their own demise. His films always put a sort of divine justice over the limitations of earthly justice. (See the film “I Confess”)
Thank you. I agree 100% with your nod to the films of Satyajit Ray that fell behind the lens of a purist’s response to classism in 1930’s India. In that vein, Kurosawa’s “Ikiru” (the title itself denotes reality) and “High and Low” are perfect examples of social criticism and truth as response through film. One of the scenes that still causes me to break down is at the very end of High and Low, when the metal shutter falls on the visitor’s window at the prison, revealing the tear-streaked reflection of Toshiro Mifune. Mifune grew up in mirrored conditions to the ones depicted in the slums of Japan in the 1950’s, when industry leaders were still in the beginning stages of the advent of pure capitalism, seeing people as a commodity. Now that we are feeling the repercussions of that in today’s global economy, I certainly hope to see some sublime works of cinema that can somehow portray the convoluted result of the pure greed of banks, governments, and large-scale corporations, and that of the naive and more often helpless populous. It’s a difficult funnel to navigate, but I would definitely agree that a trend towards the more “real” in popular cinema may indeed find its place in the near future.
To a degree, to be certain. Hitchcock’s choice of POV shots (which I could only see analogous to a Powell film such as Peeping Tom or Black Narcissus) in Psycho clearly made me more uncomfortable in my first experiences than any other film. To see the detective fall awkwardly down the stairs from Norman(‘s mother’s) point of view made me wonder if I’d ever exhale again. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Hitch’s psychological thrillers are ambiguous in their approach of moral judgment, however far behind the lens it is. Anything under his eye seems to be a universe, or at least a world unto itself. From his sweeping deep focus distance shots to his ability to go from a mile in the sky to a key in a nervous pocket at the bottom of a staircase show that, although he was first and foremost a master of suspense, he was his own divine presence and thus in total control. I think this is what truly makes him the quintessential auteur. If you’ve ever seen his storyboards, you’ll know that his films in their near entirety exist in his mind before they’re ever put to stock. Everything from his actors to his miniature sets were pawns in his game, but he obviously knew he was a pawn in a much bigger game himself. (Also, he was notably Catholic, however big a critic of the church he was. His most common friends and guests at parties were often priests).
To a degree, to be certain. Hitchcock’s choice of POV shots (which I could only see analogous to a Powell film such as Peeping Tom or Black Narcissus) in Psycho clearly made me more uncomfortable in my first experiences than any other film. To see the detective fall awkwardly down the stairs from Norman(‘s mother’s) point of view made me wonder if I’d ever exhale again. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Hitch’s psychological thrillers are ambiguous in their approach of moral judgment, however far behind the lens it is. Anything under his eye seems to be a universe, or at least a world unto itself. From his sweeping deep focus distance shots to his ability to go from a mile in the sky to a key in a nervous pocket at the bottom of a staircase show that, although he was first and foremost a master of suspense, he was his own divine presence and thus in total control. I think this is what truly makes him the quintessential auteur. If you’ve ever seen his storyboards, you’ll know that his films in their near entirety exist in his mind before they’re ever put to stock. Everything from his actors to his miniature sets were pawns in his game, but he obviously knew he was a pawn in a much bigger game himself. (Also, he was notably Catholic, however big a critic of the church he was. His most common friends and guests at parties were often priests).
I agree with you completely: “If you’ve ever seen his storyboards, you’ll know that his films in their near entirety exist in his mind before they’re ever put to stock. Everything from his actors to his miniature sets were pawns in his game”
I was just pointing out an interesting point/counterpoint from two different biographies. I really enjoyed your post!
On this my seventh or eighth viewing of Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove, I took note of a particular phrase that’s always lent itself to both satirical humor and painful seriousness: “All’s fair in Love and War.” From the first shot of a massive aeronautical phallic symbol making mile-high love to another plane via refueling apparatus, to the absurd ramblings of “precious bodily fluids” from General Ripper, the paradox of love and war is ripe throughout the film. Falling back to a foundation based on Freud’s libido and Schopenhauer’s Will, the paradox of the Cold War has never been so hilariously and rightly put to celluloid. The ardent, masculine military officials refuse to budge on superfluous matters, constantly concerned with the imaginary boundaries of one-upmanship. Mine shaft gaps! Apology gaps! Doomsday gaps! This satirical portrait of the arms race is so frightening in its ridiculous perpetuity that Kubrick’s only method of ending the film was to detonate the damn thing in a sweaty, sexual rodeo of a climax. In one particular scene, General Ripper mentions that immediately following the act of sex he felt a “loss of essence,” or a profound emptiness. This phrase came back to the front of my mind immediately during the final scenes of bombs detonating to the tune of “We’ll Meet Again.” There are undoubtedly strong themes of masculine sexuality, the paradox of the will in man’s desire to both survive and have sex, and a hint of the dogma behind Nazi doctrines regarding “purity” in the obviously impure race of humanity. Did Kubrick intentionally mean to link this era of one-upmanship between the US and Russia to the masculine will? If so, did he mean to do so in such a way that suggests love and war are undoubtedly linked in their absurd reality?
As pointed out in the Criterion essay by Dan Jardine, something should be understood about Nietzche’s assertion that “God is dead” when watching this film, because it most certainly defies faith in absolute truth. By the time the child makes its appearance on screen, our emotions have been sapped by the powerful testimonials from each of the involved at the trial. We have been completely unable to come to any conclusion by an inability to empathize with any specific version of the events that transpired in the forest clearing. Take the scene in which the struggle is most descriptively portrayed. Regardless of what went down, the emotions involved seem to be so strong and fearful that they absolutely cannot be translated into rational explanation. This is the basis behind the post-trial conversation at Rashomon. The baby has no point of view, no incidental tone. What I get out of it is that the baby represents the idea that innocence is only relative to time in the realm of being human, and it acts as a reminder to the men fighting at the temple.
I’ve always considered Frenzy to be a… well, to be separate from Hitchcock’s formidable body of work. I separate things into the silent period, the british period, the David O. Selznik period, the post-David O. Selznik period, and, in the case of Frenzy, his return to Britain and a complete turn-over of his cinematic world. I really do not think Hitch was saying “God is silent,” or even making that bold of a moral statement. I think he was just putting the absolute “frenzy” of late 1960’s Britain to the pallet of his brand of suspense.
You do have a point though, to be certain, in the case of this scene. I think Hitch is making a statement here about the capability of evil being an extension of the darkness of the (psychotically perverted) human being. Keep in mind that the abrupt ending of the film leaves the audience to understand that Blaney will be released, Rusk will be arrested, and eventually sent to prison for life. In Hitchcock’s universe, this is consistent with his past judgement.
Ah yes! La Terra Trema is an absolutely beautiful film. Especially coming from Visconti – one of the wealthiest men in Italy at the time! I’ve said time and time again that it really deserves a Criterion release. I grew up working on a farm, and even now as I spend most of my time in academia around film, those sunburned faces and rough hands are still the most sublime thing I have experienced. All of De Sica’s neorealist films are heartbreaking, to be certain. Still, I can only take them sparingly. I wouldn’t want to go to a neorealism marathon with a loaded gun.
The Wrong Man was Hitchcock’s stab at neorealism, without a doubt. It was the only film of his that was completely centered on a true story, with Hitch himself breaking the fourth wall before the presentation declaring so. He even stated with fervor in a later interview that the scene (though well worth its place in the film) in which the real thief’s face is superimposed upon Fonda’s was his biggest regret, in that it cinematically took away from the realism he was hoping to achieve.
Mm, there’s one in 8 1/2 where the camera tracks Guido as he walks toward the tracks on the platform of a train station to meet the woman with whom he’s having an affair. The place where it stops has always been a perfect frame for me, centered perfectly on the Z axis with Guido becoming a set piece, framed symmetrically between two potted trees, benches, and the like. It’s a simple shot, perhaps not one well-toiled over, but perfectly executed, wonderfully efficient, and without any room for change.
As far as this last decade goes, There Will Be Blood really is a singularly fantastic film, as was No Country For Old Men. Way to go, 2007.
Though well off the mainstream, Guy Maddin still makes some wonderfully hyper-cinematic stuff that never ceases to astound me. I’d highly recommend “My Winnipeg” and “Brand Upon the Brain!” in the vein of the last three years.
The Immortality if Italian Neorealism over 3 years ago
The influence of Italian neorealism in the cinematic world is extremely difficult to overstate. One can highlight its methods in American film noir of the late 40’s and early 50’s, its obvious links to works in the French new-wave, and its influence on international third world film of the time for its depiction of common people and its portrayal of the “real.” Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves is certainly neorealist; every principle of the movement is utilized within the film. It is a quiet, tragic anthem to the poverty-stricken working class of postwar Italy, and a beautiful work that has been part of the pallet of the auteur in cinematic movements ever since. It is perhaps the very antithesis to Hollywood film in its subject matter of “life as it is,” as screenwriter Cesare Zavattini has put it.
Bicycle Thieves contains no scenes of intimate sexual relations, and none of the crimes and passionate lives so common in the American film noir pictures that came parallel to it. By those standards, its plot is miniscule in scale. A poor, out-of-work man spends an entire day in vain searching for his stolen bicycle throughout the streets of Rome. This bicycle is his key to wellbeing and a necessary tool in order for him to keep his newfound job. After his efforts prove fruitless, he attempts to steal a bicycle himself. After being caught and released, he is left to suffer the degradation of becoming a thief himself.
This brief plot synopsis does nothing to shed light on the absolute beauty and tragedy of the story. The characters, played by non-professionals (the protagonist came from the Breda factory, the child found hanging around in the street, and the wife, a journalist), have the expressions of lower-class pedestrians because that is plainly what they are. Lamberto Maggiorani’s (Antonio Ricci) face is gaunt and searching, his angular cheekbones are rough sills to soft eyes constantly on the verge of submission. In search of his bicycle, he casts looks of suspicion, curiosity, and most prevalently indifference. Enzo Staiola’s (Bruno) hopeful glances linger past their scenes with an air of uncertainty, all of which is placed in the trust that things will work out in the end. The outfits are worn and baggy, hair is unkempt, and men still stand with their superficial pride masking all of their obviously tragic truths. This is all part of the thesis behind neorealism. It is a passionate desire in itself to realize a hunger for reality, in this case brought out by the breathtaking aftermath of World War II; a Rome made of derelict buildings and rubble fantastically perpendicular to its illustrious majesty before the devastation from the war.
On the subject of pre-war Rome and Italian cinema, the fact stands that neorealism would not hold the emotional power it has on its subjects without the backdrop of the pre-war fascist films produced through the efforts of Benito Mussolini. While De Sica made efforts to capture the provocative photography of common Rome through its dirty streets and worn buildings, fascist filmmakers posed star actors and actresses in front of famous monuments like The Colloseum, statues of Casears, and ornate fountains.
The camerawork behind Bicycle Thieves has traits of documentary-style filmmaking – a characteristic often applied to Zavattini’s works. This is used to exemplify the real, humble, and idealistic sense of realism needed in the film. While American films relied on the necessity of a “story,” neorealist filmmakers understood the richness in reality and sought to exemplify it through a camera lens.
The stylistic characteristics of what is known as neorealism are readily identifiable, perhaps one of the most important being visual representation. The most appropriate subject for representation (at least from a “pure cinema” point of view) is reality itself. This is achieved perfectly in Bicycle Thieves by its method of filming on location, out in the real world, outside of a studio – not a created world inside a studio as was popular in Hollywood films of the time. The director’s note of this characteristic is apparent in the film itself, perhaps most prevalently in the scene where Ricci is hanging up the poster of Rita Hayworth. Her figure is covering a wall of dirty posters and advertisements, and her beautiful made-up character seems shockingly out of place on the dirty street corner full of pedestrians who seem to be too caught up in the harsh reality of things to fall into the illusion of the image on the poster. Zavattini once said regarding postwar Italian cinema, “Making a movie grounded in reality takes just as much imagination as making a fictional film.” Simply filming reality doesn’t make a good realist film. It is a lesson that can be learned throughout history from figures like Picasso, Proust, Joyce, Kafka and the like: everyday life can be transformed into something sublime.
As powerful and provocative a style as it was, neorealism was very short-lived from an historical point of view. Only twenty-one or so films were made in the vein of the movement in a course of seven years, mainly because the creative energy behind it all was completely due to a real historical crisis. By the time Bicycle Thieves was conceived in 1948, the “revolution” of neorealism had reached the end of its rope as a style in itself. Italy was reinvented after the war as a capitalist society stuck in a stasis of unemployment. The film (as noted by the previously mentioned facial expressions of the actors) is balanced on a thin line separating ever-looming melancholy and idealism.
In the mode of pre-war Italian cinema, the soundtrack for the film was completely dubbed. This method became common due to Mussolini’s insistence that films be dubbed over in an effort to have more control over their final production. The non-diagetic music that played through the film has been argued to be disconnected from its events because of this technique, yet changes from major to minor keys seem to play their part in reflecting scenes of both idealism and melancholy, respectively.
One of the most notable things worth taking into account is the creative fusion between writer and director that took place with De Sica and Zavattini. De Sica viewed his chosen non-professionals as “blank canvases,” which he was able to mold into the characters he desired. Because they were not typical actors who needed to shed their layers of stardom and character to play the part of the common individual, De Sica was able to provide the film with an unadulterated cast of pure realistic characters. Zavattini’s writing fit in perfectly with De Sica’s characters – in a way that comes across rarely in cinema. A pivotal scene in the film in which Antonio elects to treat his son to a good meal shows a series of intricate gestures from father to son played out against the subsidiary drama of glances between Bruno and a pampered bourgeois boy at another table. The dialogue between father and son is invariably in analogous sync with the scene played out in the restaurant. Zavattini’s skill as a writer for the screen is without a doubt brought out by this scene. The viewer is compelled to discover how the film will end. This complete inability to predict the outcome in the plot comes as a definitive quality of realism – if one were to see the same story unfold on the street outside their home, a predictable end would of course be impossible. This sort of narrative is difficult to keep up, and only the illusionary art of cinema can be the perfect canvas for such a feat. It is a perfect example of the sort of idea a film can convey that printed literature or other works of art cannot.
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The Immortality of Italian Neorealism over 3 years ago
The influence of Italian neorealism in the cinematic world is extremely difficult to overstate. One can highlight its methods in American film noir of the late 40’s and early 50’s, its obvious links to works in the French new-wave, and its influence on international third world film of the time for its depiction of common people and its portrayal of the “real.” Vittorio De Sica’s Bicycle Thieves is certainly neorealist; every principle of the movement is utilized within the film. It is a quiet, tragic anthem to the poverty-stricken working class of postwar Italy, and a beautiful work that has been part of the pallet of the auteur in cinematic movements ever since. It is perhaps the very antithesis to Hollywood film in its subject matter of “life as it is,” as screenwriter Cesare Zavattini has put it.
Bicycle Thieves contains no scenes of intimate sexual relations, and none of the crimes and passionate lives so common in the American film noir pictures that came parallel to it. By those standards, its plot is miniscule in scale. A poor, out-of-work man spends an entire day in vain searching for his stolen bicycle throughout the streets of Rome. This bicycle is his key to wellbeing and a necessary tool in order for him to keep his newfound job. After his efforts prove fruitless, he attempts to steal a bicycle himself. After being caught and released, he is left to suffer the degradation of becoming a thief himself.
This brief plot synopsis does nothing to shed light on the absolute beauty and tragedy of the story. The characters, played by non-professionals (the protagonist came from the Breda factory, the child found hanging around in the street, and the wife, a journalist), have the expressions of lower-class pedestrians because that is plainly what they are. Lamberto Maggiorani’s (Antonio Ricci) face is gaunt and searching, his angular cheekbones are rough sills to soft eyes constantly on the verge of submission. In search of his bicycle, he casts looks of suspicion, curiosity, and most prevalently indifference. Enzo Staiola’s (Bruno) hopeful glances linger past their scenes with an air of uncertainty, all of which is placed in the trust that things will work out in the end. The outfits are worn and baggy, hair is unkempt, and men still stand with their superficial pride masking all of their obviously tragic truths. This is all part of the thesis behind neorealism. It is a passionate desire in itself to realize a hunger for reality, in this case brought out by the breathtaking aftermath of World War II; a Rome made of derelict buildings and rubble fantastically perpendicular to its illustrious majesty before the devastation from the war.
On the subject of pre-war Rome and Italian cinema, the fact stands that neorealism would not hold the emotional power it has on its subjects without the backdrop of the pre-war fascist films produced through the efforts of Benito Mussolini. While De Sica made efforts to capture the provocative photography of common Rome through its dirty streets and worn buildings, fascist filmmakers posed star actors and actresses in front of famous monuments like The Colloseum, statues of Casears, and ornate fountains.
The camerawork behind Bicycle Thieves has traits of documentary-style filmmaking – a characteristic often applied to Zavattini’s works. This is used to exemplify the real, humble, and idealistic sense of realism needed in the film. While American films relied on the necessity of a “story,” neorealist filmmakers understood the richness in reality and sought to exemplify it through a camera lens.
The stylistic characteristics of what is known as neorealism are readily identifiable, perhaps one of the most important being visual representation. The most appropriate subject for representation (at least from a “pure cinema” point of view) is reality itself. This is achieved perfectly in Bicycle Thieves by its method of filming on location, out in the real world, outside of a studio – not a created world inside a studio as was popular in Hollywood films of the time. The director’s note of this characteristic is apparent in the film itself, perhaps most prevalently in the scene where Ricci is hanging up the poster of Rita Hayworth. Her figure is covering a wall of dirty posters and advertisements, and her beautiful made-up character seems shockingly out of place on the dirty street corner full of pedestrians who seem to be too caught up in the harsh reality of things to fall into the illusion of the image on the poster. Zavattini once said regarding postwar Italian cinema, “Making a movie grounded in reality takes just as much imagination as making a fictional film.” Simply filming reality doesn’t make a good realist film. It is a lesson that can be learned throughout history from figures like Picasso, Proust, Joyce, Kafka and the like: everyday life can be transformed into something sublime.
As powerful and provocative a style as it was, neorealism was very short-lived from an historical point of view. Only twenty-one or so films were made in the vein of the movement in a course of seven years, mainly because the creative energy behind it all was completely due to a real historical crisis. By the time Bicycle Thieves was conceived in 1948, the “revolution” of neorealism had reached the end of its rope as a style in itself. Italy was reinvented after the war as a capitalist society stuck in a stasis of unemployment. The film (as noted by the previously mentioned facial expressions of the actors) is balanced on a thin line separating ever-looming melancholy and idealism.
In the mode of pre-war Italian cinema, the soundtrack for the film was completely dubbed. This method became common due to Mussolini’s insistence that films be dubbed over in an effort to have more control over their final production. The non-diagetic music that played through the film has been argued to be disconnected from its events because of this technique, yet changes from major to minor keys seem to play their part in reflecting scenes of both idealism and melancholy, respectively.
One of the most notable things worth taking into account is the creative fusion between writer and director that took place with De Sica and Zavattini. De Sica viewed his chosen non-professionals as “blank canvases,” which he was able to mold into the characters he desired. Because they were not typical actors who needed to shed their layers of stardom and character to play the part of the common individual, De Sica was able to provide the film with an unadulterated cast of pure realistic characters. Zavattini’s writing fit in perfectly with De Sica’s characters – in a way that comes across rarely in cinema. A pivotal scene in the film in which Antonio elects to treat his son to a good meal shows a series of intricate gestures from father to son played out against the subsidiary drama of glances between Bruno and a pampered bourgeois boy at another table. The dialogue between father and son is invariably in analogous sync with the scene played out in the restaurant. Zavattini’s skill as a writer for the screen is without a doubt brought out by this scene. The viewer is compelled to discover how the film will end. This complete inability to predict the outcome in the plot comes as a definitive quality of realism – if one were to see the same story unfold on the street outside their home, a predictable end would of course be impossible. This sort of narrative is difficult to keep up, and only the illusionary art of cinema can be the perfect canvas for such a feat. It is a perfect example of the sort of idea a film can convey that printed literature or other works of art cannot.
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Atheist movies? over 3 years ago
I agree Bergman and Tarkovsky have approached the realm of a “world sans-God” with enough of a philosophical punch to blow the kneecaps off of any open-minded filmgoer. However, if you want an entire genre that goes beyond the necessity for God and divine justice on the basis of pure humanistic realism, Italian Neorealist films like Umberto D. and Bicycle Thieves may as well be considered atheistic. Their portrayal of humanity as humanity, subject to the consequences of the collective seems to have no room left for tilts skyward.
Also, though it’s a pretty pure literary adaptation, The Fountainhead is most definitely an atheistic film.
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SEX & LOVE IN CELLULOID: WHO FIRST, AND WHO LATELY, TURNED YOU ON? over 3 years ago
Personally, the two most sublime love scenes to me personally have been Naomi Watts and Laura Harring in D. Lynch’s “Mulholland Drive,” and the only love-making scene in the obscure Harrison-soundtrack’d acid flick “Wonderwall.”
Ineffable as they are, viewing is recommended, though in the instance of the former scene, it made me want to be a woman and subsequently a lesbian. The sex is so HONEST.
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THE OPPOSITE OF SELLING OUT over 3 years ago
I think Cronenberg definitely files in and out of things in that sense, but you have to consider things from the world of the individual auteur. I don’t think they ever set out to purposely deconstruct their persona in celluloid or relate to the budget of a studio. If they’re financed for a blockbuster, studios will have a larger cut in the production and editing process, and it’s nearly always a shame. They made the “mistake” of letting a 25-year-old Orson Welles have the place all to himself when he made Citizen Kane, which flopped on its ass in the box office. After that, they butchered The Magnificent Ambersons. Let’s give the artists credit where credit’s due.
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silent films that deserve to be on Criterion. over 3 years ago
Hitchcock’s “The Lodger”!
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silent films that deserve to be on Criterion. over 3 years ago
And I do agree on House of Usher. Completely surreal.
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NEXT GRAPHIC NOVEL TO HIT THE CINEMAS over 3 years ago
The greatest – and most unfilmable – would most likely be Sandman.
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Obsessive Manipulation: The Catholicism of a Control Freak over 3 years ago
Two familiar biographies take two wildly differing opinions of Hitch; Donald Spoto’s The Dark Side of Genius: the Life of Alfred Hitchcock presents an insatiable leech whose method of respite comes from the obsessive manipulation of his leading ladies, while Patrick McGilligan’s later and much weightier tome Alfred Hitchcock: a Life in Darkness and Light shows Hitchcock as an iconoclastic auteur whose films are wrought with profound Catholic undertones. It would be false to claim that Alfred Hitchcock invented the theme of guilt and confession in film, but the Hitchcockian brand of it all is obviously his own, and is almost uniformly comprised of a transference of guilt on a bed of vintage Roman-Catholicism. On the surface, Hitch’s Catholicism is conscious. His films constantly work off the “wrong man” theme, in which the wrong person is caught by the police and convicted. Though the police in his films are nearly always imbeciles (a nod to the director’s youth in England), he was never prepared to let his villains go to court, but to somehow bring about their own demise. His films always put a sort of divine justice over the limitations of earthly justice. (See the film “I Confess”)
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The Immortality of Italian Neorealism over 3 years ago
Thank you. I agree 100% with your nod to the films of Satyajit Ray that fell behind the lens of a purist’s response to classism in 1930’s India. In that vein, Kurosawa’s “Ikiru” (the title itself denotes reality) and “High and Low” are perfect examples of social criticism and truth as response through film. One of the scenes that still causes me to break down is at the very end of High and Low, when the metal shutter falls on the visitor’s window at the prison, revealing the tear-streaked reflection of Toshiro Mifune. Mifune grew up in mirrored conditions to the ones depicted in the slums of Japan in the 1950’s, when industry leaders were still in the beginning stages of the advent of pure capitalism, seeing people as a commodity. Now that we are feeling the repercussions of that in today’s global economy, I certainly hope to see some sublime works of cinema that can somehow portray the convoluted result of the pure greed of banks, governments, and large-scale corporations, and that of the naive and more often helpless populous. It’s a difficult funnel to navigate, but I would definitely agree that a trend towards the more “real” in popular cinema may indeed find its place in the near future.
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What Is "Movie Hell" For You? over 3 years ago
A triple feature of August Rush, the first scene in Night on Earth, and a collage of Jar-Jar clips from Episode I. On repeat forever.
Also, Paul Ruebens is in the audience.
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Obsessive Manipulation: The Catholicism of a Control Freak over 3 years ago
To a degree, to be certain. Hitchcock’s choice of POV shots (which I could only see analogous to a Powell film such as Peeping Tom or Black Narcissus) in Psycho clearly made me more uncomfortable in my first experiences than any other film. To see the detective fall awkwardly down the stairs from Norman(‘s mother’s) point of view made me wonder if I’d ever exhale again. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Hitch’s psychological thrillers are ambiguous in their approach of moral judgment, however far behind the lens it is. Anything under his eye seems to be a universe, or at least a world unto itself. From his sweeping deep focus distance shots to his ability to go from a mile in the sky to a key in a nervous pocket at the bottom of a staircase show that, although he was first and foremost a master of suspense, he was his own divine presence and thus in total control. I think this is what truly makes him the quintessential auteur. If you’ve ever seen his storyboards, you’ll know that his films in their near entirety exist in his mind before they’re ever put to stock. Everything from his actors to his miniature sets were pawns in his game, but he obviously knew he was a pawn in a much bigger game himself. (Also, he was notably Catholic, however big a critic of the church he was. His most common friends and guests at parties were often priests).
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Obsessive Manipulation: The Catholicism of a Control Freak over 3 years ago
To a degree, to be certain. Hitchcock’s choice of POV shots (which I could only see analogous to a Powell film such as Peeping Tom or Black Narcissus) in Psycho clearly made me more uncomfortable in my first experiences than any other film. To see the detective fall awkwardly down the stairs from Norman(‘s mother’s) point of view made me wonder if I’d ever exhale again. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that Hitch’s psychological thrillers are ambiguous in their approach of moral judgment, however far behind the lens it is. Anything under his eye seems to be a universe, or at least a world unto itself. From his sweeping deep focus distance shots to his ability to go from a mile in the sky to a key in a nervous pocket at the bottom of a staircase show that, although he was first and foremost a master of suspense, he was his own divine presence and thus in total control. I think this is what truly makes him the quintessential auteur. If you’ve ever seen his storyboards, you’ll know that his films in their near entirety exist in his mind before they’re ever put to stock. Everything from his actors to his miniature sets were pawns in his game, but he obviously knew he was a pawn in a much bigger game himself. (Also, he was notably Catholic, however big a critic of the church he was. His most common friends and guests at parties were often priests).
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Obsessive Manipulation: The Catholicism of a Control Freak over 3 years ago
I agree with you completely: “If you’ve ever seen his storyboards, you’ll know that his films in their near entirety exist in his mind before they’re ever put to stock. Everything from his actors to his miniature sets were pawns in his game”
I was just pointing out an interesting point/counterpoint from two different biographies. I really enjoyed your post!
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Dr. Strangelove: All's Fair in What Now? over 3 years ago
On this my seventh or eighth viewing of Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove, I took note of a particular phrase that’s always lent itself to both satirical humor and painful seriousness: “All’s fair in Love and War.” From the first shot of a massive aeronautical phallic symbol making mile-high love to another plane via refueling apparatus, to the absurd ramblings of “precious bodily fluids” from General Ripper, the paradox of love and war is ripe throughout the film. Falling back to a foundation based on Freud’s libido and Schopenhauer’s Will, the paradox of the Cold War has never been so hilariously and rightly put to celluloid. The ardent, masculine military officials refuse to budge on superfluous matters, constantly concerned with the imaginary boundaries of one-upmanship. Mine shaft gaps! Apology gaps! Doomsday gaps! This satirical portrait of the arms race is so frightening in its ridiculous perpetuity that Kubrick’s only method of ending the film was to detonate the damn thing in a sweaty, sexual rodeo of a climax. In one particular scene, General Ripper mentions that immediately following the act of sex he felt a “loss of essence,” or a profound emptiness. This phrase came back to the front of my mind immediately during the final scenes of bombs detonating to the tune of “We’ll Meet Again.” There are undoubtedly strong themes of masculine sexuality, the paradox of the will in man’s desire to both survive and have sex, and a hint of the dogma behind Nazi doctrines regarding “purity” in the obviously impure race of humanity. Did Kubrick intentionally mean to link this era of one-upmanship between the US and Russia to the masculine will? If so, did he mean to do so in such a way that suggests love and war are undoubtedly linked in their absurd reality?
Most likely.
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Rashomon over 3 years ago
As pointed out in the Criterion essay by Dan Jardine, something should be understood about Nietzche’s assertion that “God is dead” when watching this film, because it most certainly defies faith in absolute truth. By the time the child makes its appearance on screen, our emotions have been sapped by the powerful testimonials from each of the involved at the trial. We have been completely unable to come to any conclusion by an inability to empathize with any specific version of the events that transpired in the forest clearing. Take the scene in which the struggle is most descriptively portrayed. Regardless of what went down, the emotions involved seem to be so strong and fearful that they absolutely cannot be translated into rational explanation. This is the basis behind the post-trial conversation at Rashomon. The baby has no point of view, no incidental tone. What I get out of it is that the baby represents the idea that innocence is only relative to time in the realm of being human, and it acts as a reminder to the men fighting at the temple.
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Dr. Strangelove: All's Fair in What Now? over 3 years ago
Much obliged!
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Obsessive Manipulation: The Catholicism of a Control Freak over 3 years ago
I’ve always considered Frenzy to be a… well, to be separate from Hitchcock’s formidable body of work. I separate things into the silent period, the british period, the David O. Selznik period, the post-David O. Selznik period, and, in the case of Frenzy, his return to Britain and a complete turn-over of his cinematic world. I really do not think Hitch was saying “God is silent,” or even making that bold of a moral statement. I think he was just putting the absolute “frenzy” of late 1960’s Britain to the pallet of his brand of suspense.
You do have a point though, to be certain, in the case of this scene. I think Hitch is making a statement here about the capability of evil being an extension of the darkness of the (psychotically perverted) human being. Keep in mind that the abrupt ending of the film leaves the audience to understand that Blaney will be released, Rusk will be arrested, and eventually sent to prison for life. In Hitchcock’s universe, this is consistent with his past judgement.
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The Immortality of Italian Neorealism over 3 years ago
Ah yes! La Terra Trema is an absolutely beautiful film. Especially coming from Visconti – one of the wealthiest men in Italy at the time! I’ve said time and time again that it really deserves a Criterion release. I grew up working on a farm, and even now as I spend most of my time in academia around film, those sunburned faces and rough hands are still the most sublime thing I have experienced. All of De Sica’s neorealist films are heartbreaking, to be certain. Still, I can only take them sparingly. I wouldn’t want to go to a neorealism marathon with a loaded gun.
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Films for Canadians over 3 years ago
Most Guy Maddin!
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Obsessive Manipulation: The Catholicism of a Control Freak over 3 years ago
The Wrong Man was Hitchcock’s stab at neorealism, without a doubt. It was the only film of his that was completely centered on a true story, with Hitch himself breaking the fourth wall before the presentation declaring so. He even stated with fervor in a later interview that the scene (though well worth its place in the film) in which the real thief’s face is superimposed upon Fonda’s was his biggest regret, in that it cinematically took away from the realism he was hoping to achieve.
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What is (are) your favorite frame(s)? over 3 years ago
Mm, there’s one in 8 1/2 where the camera tracks Guido as he walks toward the tracks on the platform of a train station to meet the woman with whom he’s having an affair. The place where it stops has always been a perfect frame for me, centered perfectly on the Z axis with Guido becoming a set piece, framed symmetrically between two potted trees, benches, and the like. It’s a simple shot, perhaps not one well-toiled over, but perfectly executed, wonderfully efficient, and without any room for change.
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Obsessive Manipulation: The Catholicism of a Control Freak over 3 years ago
Exactly.
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What modern films are great? over 3 years ago
As far as this last decade goes, There Will Be Blood really is a singularly fantastic film, as was No Country For Old Men. Way to go, 2007.
Though well off the mainstream, Guy Maddin still makes some wonderfully hyper-cinematic stuff that never ceases to astound me. I’d highly recommend “My Winnipeg” and “Brand Upon the Brain!” in the vein of the last three years.
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What is (are) your favorite frame(s)? over 3 years ago
How’d you go about that?
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Movies That Should Be In the Criterion Collection over 3 years ago
FItzcarraldo
Night of the Hunter
La Terra Trema
Santa Sangre
Suspiria
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Movies That Should Be In the Criterion Collection over 3 years ago
Also Tarkovsky’s “Nostalghia”
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What is (are) your favorite frame(s)? over 3 years ago
Frame from 8 1/2
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What is (are) your favorite frame(s)? over 3 years ago
Bah, html has let me down.
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Your Favorite Godard Film? about 3 years ago
Week End
“Photography is truth. The cinema is truth twenty-four times per second.”
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