Michael Curtiz

Humphrey Bogart

Ingrid Bergman

Paul Henreid

Claude Rains

Conrad Veidt

Sydney Greenstreet

Peter Lorre

S.Z. Sakall

Madeleine Lebeau

Dooley Wilson

Joy Page

John Qualen

Leonid Kinskey

Curt Bois

Enrique Acosta

Ed Agresti

Louis V. Arco

Frank Arnold

Leon Belasco

Nino Bellini

Oliver Blake

Monte Blue

Eugene Borden

Dick Botiller

Maurice Brierre

Sebastian Cabot

Anita Camargo

George M. Carleton

Spencer Chan

Melie Chang

Tex Cooper

Gino Corrado

Franco Corsaro

Adrienne D'Ambricourt

Marcel Dalio

Helmut Dantine

Jean De Briac

George Dee

Jean Del Val

Carl Deloro

Joseph DeVillard

Arthur Dulac

William Edmunds

Herbert Evans

Fred Farrell

Adolph Faylauer

O.K. Ford

Martín Garralaga

Gregory Gaye

Gregory Golubeff

Ilka Grüning

Creighton Hale

Winifred Harris

Jamiel Hasson

Arthur Stuart Hull

Olaf Hytten

Charles La Torre

George J. Lewis

Manuel Lopez

Jacques Lory

Lou Marcelle

Tony Martelli

George Meeker

Lal Chand Mehra

Hercules Mendez

Louis Mercier

Torben Meyer

Alberto Morin

Leo Mostovoy

Corinna Mura

Barry Norton

Lotte Palfi Andor

Paul Panzer

Manuel París

Alexander Pollard

Frank Puglia

Georges Renavent

Dewey Robinson

Richard Ryen

Dan Seymour

Lester Sharpe

Dina Smirnova

Gerald Oliver Smith

George Sorel

Geoffrey Steele

Ludwig Stössel

Mike Tellegen

Rafael Trujillo

Jacques Vanaire

Ellinor Vanderveer

Norma Varden

Hans Heinrich von Twardowski

Jack Wise

Wolfgang Zilzer

Trude Berliner

Paul Porcasi

Max Linder

Frank Mazzola

Henry Rowland

Leo White

Hal B. Wallis

Julius J. Epstein

Philip G. Epstein

Howard Koch

Owen Marks

Arthur Edeson

Carl Jules Weyl

Harper Goff

George James Hopkins

Max Steiner

Hugo Friedhofer

Francis J. Scheid

Orry-Kelly

Perc Westmore

Warner Bros. Pictures

In Casablanca, Morocco in December 1941, a cynical American expatriate meets a former lover, with unforeseen complications.

Romance

Drama

English

German

French

Italian

Casablanca

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É impressionante como “<a href="https://boxd.it/1J6" rel="nofollow">Yaaba</a>” (lançado anteriormente no Brasil com o pavoroso título de “O Amor Silencioso”, que vou solenemente ignorar) consegue estabelecer muito bem, em menos de três minutos, toda a situação dramática que será desenvolvida ao longo do filme. A obra de 1989, roteirizada e dirigida pelo burquinense Idrissa Ouédraogo (1954-2018), e que reúne recursos de Burkina Faso, Suíça, França e Alemanha Ocidental, começa com duas crianças correndo em uma paisagem árida em direção ao horizonte. Fade-out. Aparecem os créditos, em meio a uma animada música instrumental. Logo depois, voltamos à aridez de algum lugar em (supõe-se) Burkina Faso. Porém, agora vemos um ambiente mais arborizado, e descobrimos, pelo diálogo, que trata-se de um cemitério. Uma das crianças que havíamos visto joga água no túmulo da mãe. O colega a ajuda. Ao mesmo tempo, vemos, no plano de fundo do quadro, uma figura chegando. Em um certo momento, corte para ela, e percebemos que trata-se de uma senhora bastante idosa. A menina que aguava o túmulo da mãe percebe a presença da mulher, e pergunta ao colega se a senhora é, de fato, uma bruxa. O menino responde que não sabe, mas que isso é o que todos os moradores dizem na aldeia mossi onde os personagens vivem. Eles saem.Apenas por este início, já fica claro o que o filme, indicado e premiado em vários festivais de cinema importantes ao redor do mundo ‒ como o de Cannes ‒, está propondo ao espectador. A história gira em torno da amizade entre duas crianças (os primos Bila e Nopoko), atravessada por uma personagem que todos os moradores de uma comunidade rural consideram uma feiticeira, e que é, portanto, uma espécie de pária (a “avó” que deriva da tradução do título original em língua moré, também o idioma do filme).Formalmente, o começo do longa também indica qual abordagem Ouédraogo trará em sua obra. Em primeiro lugar, abundância de planos gerais e composições que tornam os personagens figuras pequenas no ambiente desértico e destituído de qualquer referência temporal. Trata-se, pois, de uma história em que os habitantes do lugar serão constantemente confrontados com a aspereza dos elementos e eventos naturais da vida. É o fogo que destrói a casa na aldeia logo no início do filme, é a quase-morte de Nopoko (Roukietou Barry), e também os acontecimentos do passado da velha senhora. Isso sem falar nas dificuldades diárias e concretas de se cruzar longas distâncias sob o sol escaldante para, por exemplo, buscar água em jarros de barro. Mais do que apenas belas paisagens, o ambiente em Yaaba é onde os personagens explicitamente encontram o mundo, em toda a sua vivacidade e dureza. E, ao mesmo tempo, o filme investe também em um uso constante da profundidade de campo, de modo a ressaltar as distâncias entre os personagens e tornar mais sensível sua aproximação no decorrer da narrativa. Esta espécie de montagem interna no plano também permite ao diretor se deter mais sobre cada momento, o que impacta na sucessão dos cortes e, por consequência, no ritmo calmo do filme.Neste primeiro aspecto, da ambientação, a obra se aproxima bastante do fabuloso “<a href="https://boxd.it/2rg4" rel="nofollow">A Luz</a>” (Yeelen, 1987), dirigido pelo malinês Souleymane Cissé. Ambos os filmes constroem imagens simples e, ao mesmo tempo, belíssimas das paisagens africanas. Ao contrário de uma tragédia shakespeariana antropomorfizada que se passa em território africano, como em “<a href="https://boxd.it/201Q" rel="nofollow">O Rei Leão</a>” (The Lion King, 1994), de Roger Allers e Rob Minkoff, ou uma história de amor arrebatadora no norte da África em meio à Segunda Guerra Mundial, como em “<a href="https://boxd.it/2aG0" rel="nofollow">Casablanca</a>” (1942), de Michael Curtiz, os dois filmes africanos deixam o exotismo de lado e retratam seus respectivos ambientes como locais tão grandiosos quanto singelos. “Yaaba”, em especial, investe em uma aparente trivialidade que vai totalmente de encontro à representação que costuma ser feita dos povos africanos e seus territórios. Afinal, aqui não há grandes acontecimentos, mas há, por certo, grandeza nos mais pequenos momentos, como quando, por exemplo, o garoto Bila (Noufou Ouédraogo, em uma das melhores atuações de intérpretes-mirins que já vi, ao longo de todo o filme) constata junto a Sana (Fatimata Sanga) que ela não tem mais casa, após a cabana da anciã ser queimada, em uma cena profundamente tocante na qual os personagens são emoldurados por vários galhos de um arvoredo, ressaltando sua proximidade em um mundo à parte da vila.Ecoando temática e esteticamente o realizador indiano Satyajit Ray (1921-1992) em seu poderoso longa de estreia, “<a href="https://boxd.it/22yC" rel="nofollow">A Canção da Estrada</a>” (Pather Panchali, 1955), Ouédraogo constrói o enredo de Yaaba a partir da amizade que vai se criando entre Bila e Sana (Fatimata Sanga). A professora e pesquisadora Lúcia Nagib esclarece bem esta proximidade entre os filmes, e também outros aspectos importantes do uso do espaço e da condução das ações dos personagens, em seu ótimo artigo <a href="https://centaur.reading.ac.uk/74746/1/Nagib%20paper%20on%20Yaaba.pdf" rel="nofollow">“Yaaba, cinefilia e realismo sem fronteiras</a>“, versão em português de um excerto de seu livro, “World Cinema and the Ethics of Realism“. Entretanto, importa aqui citar como Ouédraogo subverte o trabalho de Ray, amenizando o final trágico que o diretor indiano havia estabelecido. E, aqui, é fundamental ressaltar o papel central que as mulheres exercem no filme burquinense. As personagens femininas que ganham mais destaque em “Yaaba” não apenas têm agência frente às situações, mas, mais importante ainda, na maior parte do tempo se valem deste protagonismo para interceder em favor de si mesmas e/ou de outras mulheres. É o caso de Sana, que, em uma passagem lindamente filmada, cruza um longo caminho a pé e atravessa um rio para encontrar o homem que pode ajudar a curar Nopoko quando a garota adoece. É também o que percebemos em relação à mãe de Bila, que, contrariando a decisão do marido e dos outros homens da aldeia, pede ao filho que volte com o ancião capaz de medicar a menina acamada. E é, ainda, o caso de Koudi (Assita Ouédraogo), uma moradora da vila que, em paralelo à ação principal, mantém um relacionamento secreto com o ex-companheiro e, ao final, abandona o marido alcoólatra e sexualmente impotente em busca de uma vida plenamente realizada, ao lado do homem que de fato ama.Aliás, a impotência aqui não é só deste homem em particular, mas (simbolicamente) de quase todo o elenco masculino, à exceção de Bila e do herbalista Taryam, chamado por Sana. Em um contexto marcado pelo tradicionalismo, Idrissa Ouédraogo faz das mulheres os principais fios condutores da ação e elementos de contestação aos equívocos masculinos. Quando o pai de Bila castiga o garoto, é a mãe do menino que chama a atenção do marido pelo excesso de rigor. No momento em que Bila julga a esposa adúltera, é Sana quem lembra ao garoto que a mulher deve ter suas razões. E, fundamentalmente, quando um grupo de meninos da aldeia tenta machucar o protagonista, é Nopoko quem o defende e, por isso, é ferida com a faca que quase causará sua morte. O próprio título do filme dá destaque à figura de Sana, que é excluída daquela sociedade mas, paradoxalmente, é responsabilizada por todos os infortúnios que ali ocorrem, até ser, por fim, a mulher que empreendeu uma longa peregrinação altruísta em busca da cura para uma criança do vilarejo, salvando-a da morte.Certamente, é válido argumentar que a amizade entre Bila e Sana não é construída com a devida paciência e progressão dramática, parecendo muito apressada no início, e alguns podem classificar o final do filme como excessivamente óbvio. No entanto, não se pode negar que a obra é encantadora por sua beleza plástica e temática, e por retratar um povo africano de forma humana e afetuosa, mas sem deixar de lado as complexidades inerentes a qualquer sociedade. Não poderia terminar, então, sem citar o próprio realizador: “’Yaaba’ é primeiro de tudo a história de uma amizade que começa e cresce entre dois membros de uma sociedade rural, na qual nós vemos o homem como ele é: bom, mau, generoso, intolerante”. ■ Crítica de Lucas Oliveira, Cinematório. Texto original: <a href="https://www.cinematorio.com.br/2022/11/critica-filme-yaaba-idrissa-ouedraogo/" rel="nofollow">https://www.cinematorio.com.br/2022/11/critica-filme-yaaba-idrissa-ouedraogo/</a>Assista YAABA na FILMICCA <a href="https://www.filmicca.com.br/film/yaaba/" rel="nofollow">https://www.filmicca.com.br/film/yaaba/</a>

É impressionante como “<a href="https://boxd.it/1J6">Yaaba</a>” (lançado anteriormente no Brasil com o pavoroso título de “O Amor Silencioso”, que vou solenemente ignorar) consegue estabelecer muito bem, em menos de três minutos, toda a situação dramática que será desenvolvida ao longo do filme. A obra de 1989, roteirizada e dirigida pelo burquinense Idrissa Ouédraogo (1954-2018), e que reúne recursos de Burkina Faso, Suíça, França e Alemanha Ocidental, começa com duas crianças correndo em uma paisagem árida em direção ao horizonte. Fade-out. 

Aparecem os créditos, em meio a uma animada música instrumental. Logo depois, voltamos à aridez de algum lugar em (supõe-se) Burkina Faso. Porém, agora vemos um ambiente mais arborizado, e descobrimos, pelo diálogo, que trata-se de um cemitério. Uma das crianças que havíamos visto joga água no túmulo da mãe. O colega a ajuda. Ao mesmo tempo, vemos, no plano de fundo do quadro, uma figura chegando. Em um certo momento, corte para ela, e percebemos que trata-se de uma senhora bastante idosa. A menina que aguava o túmulo da mãe percebe a presença da mulher, e pergunta ao colega se a senhora é, de fato, uma bruxa. O menino responde que não sabe, mas que isso é o que todos os moradores dizem na aldeia mossi onde os personagens vivem. Eles saem.

Apenas por este início, já fica claro o que o filme, indicado e premiado em vários festivais de cinema importantes ao redor do mundo ‒ como o de Cannes ‒, está propondo ao espectador. A história gira em torno da amizade entre duas crianças (os primos Bila e Nopoko), atravessada por uma personagem que todos os moradores de uma comunidade rural consideram uma feiticeira, e que é, portanto, uma espécie de pária (a “avó” que deriva da tradução do título original em língua moré, também o idioma do filme).

Formalmente, o começo do longa também indica qual abordagem Ouédraogo trará em sua obra. Em primeiro lugar, abundância de planos gerais e composições que tornam os personagens figuras pequenas no ambiente desértico e destituído de qualquer referência temporal. Trata-se, pois, de uma história em que os habitantes do lugar serão constantemente confrontados com a aspereza dos elementos e eventos naturais da vida. É o fogo que destrói a casa na aldeia logo no início do filme, é a quase-morte de Nopoko (Roukietou Barry), e também os acontecimentos do passado da velha senhora. Isso sem falar nas dificuldades diárias e concretas de se cruzar longas distâncias sob o sol escaldante para, por exemplo, buscar água em jarros de barro. Mais do que apenas belas paisagens, o ambiente em Yaaba é onde os personagens explicitamente encontram o mundo, em toda a sua vivacidade e dureza. E, ao mesmo tempo, o filme investe também em um uso constante da profundidade de campo, de modo a ressaltar as distâncias entre os personagens e tornar mais sensível sua aproximação no decorrer da narrativa. Esta espécie de montagem interna no plano também permite ao diretor se deter mais sobre cada momento, o que impacta na sucessão dos cortes e, por consequência, no ritmo calmo do filme.

Neste primeiro aspecto, da ambientação, a obra se aproxima bastante do fabuloso “<a href="https://boxd.it/2rg4">A Luz</a>” (Yeelen, 1987), dirigido pelo malinês Souleymane Cissé. Ambos os filmes constroem imagens simples e, ao mesmo tempo, belíssimas das paisagens africanas. Ao contrário de uma tragédia shakespeariana antropomorfizada que se passa em território africano, como em “<a href="https://boxd.it/201Q">O Rei Leão</a>” (The Lion King, 1994), de Roger Allers e Rob Minkoff, ou uma história de amor arrebatadora no norte da África em meio à Segunda Guerra Mundial, como em “<a href="https://boxd.it/2aG0">Casablanca</a>” (1942), de Michael Curtiz, os dois filmes africanos deixam o exotismo de lado e retratam seus respectivos ambientes como locais tão grandiosos quanto singelos. “Yaaba”, em especial, investe em uma aparente trivialidade que vai totalmente de encontro à representação que costuma ser feita dos povos africanos e seus territórios. Afinal, aqui não há grandes acontecimentos, mas há, por certo, grandeza nos mais pequenos momentos, como quando, por exemplo, o garoto Bila (Noufou Ouédraogo, em uma das melhores atuações de intérpretes-mirins que já vi, ao longo de todo o filme) constata junto a Sana (Fatimata Sanga) que ela não tem mais casa, após a cabana da anciã ser queimada, em uma cena profundamente tocante na qual os personagens são emoldurados por vários galhos de um arvoredo, ressaltando sua proximidade em um mundo à parte da vila.

Ecoando temática e esteticamente o realizador indiano Satyajit Ray (1921-1992) em seu poderoso longa de estreia, “<a href="https://boxd.it/22yC">A Canção da Estrada</a>” (Pather Panchali, 1955), Ouédraogo constrói o enredo de Yaaba a partir da amizade que vai se criando entre Bila e Sana (Fatimata Sanga). A professora e pesquisadora Lúcia Nagib esclarece bem esta proximidade entre os filmes, e também outros aspectos importantes do uso do espaço e da condução das ações dos personagens, em seu ótimo artigo <a href="https://centaur.reading.ac.uk/74746/1/Nagib%20paper%20on%20Yaaba.pdf">“Yaaba, cinefilia e realismo sem fronteiras</a>“, versão em português de um excerto de seu livro, “World Cinema and the Ethics of Realism“. 

Entretanto, importa aqui citar como Ouédraogo subverte o trabalho de Ray, amenizando o final trágico que o diretor indiano havia estabelecido. E, aqui, é fundamental ressaltar o papel central que as mulheres exercem no filme burquinense. As personagens femininas que ganham mais destaque em “Yaaba” não apenas têm agência frente às situações, mas, mais importante ainda, na maior parte do tempo se valem deste protagonismo para interceder em favor de si mesmas e/ou de outras mulheres. É o caso de Sana, que, em uma passagem lindamente filmada, cruza um longo caminho a pé e atravessa um rio para encontrar o homem que pode ajudar a curar Nopoko quando a garota adoece. É também o que percebemos em relação à mãe de Bila, que, contrariando a decisão do marido e dos outros homens da aldeia, pede ao filho que volte com o ancião capaz de medicar a menina acamada. E é, ainda, o caso de Koudi (Assita Ouédraogo), uma moradora da vila que, em paralelo à ação principal, mantém um relacionamento secreto com o ex-companheiro e, ao final, abandona o marido alcoólatra e sexualmente impotente em busca de uma vida plenamente realizada, ao lado do homem que de fato ama.

Aliás, a impotência aqui não é só deste homem em particular, mas (simbolicamente) de quase todo o elenco masculino, à exceção de Bila e do herbalista Taryam, chamado por Sana. Em um contexto marcado pelo tradicionalismo, Idrissa Ouédraogo faz das mulheres os principais fios condutores da ação e elementos de contestação aos equívocos masculinos. Quando o pai de Bila castiga o garoto, é a mãe do menino que chama a atenção do marido pelo excesso de rigor. No momento em que Bila julga a esposa adúltera, é Sana quem lembra ao garoto que a mulher deve ter suas razões. E, fundamentalmente, quando um grupo de meninos da aldeia tenta machucar o protagonista, é Nopoko quem o defende e, por isso, é ferida com a faca que quase causará sua morte. O próprio título do filme dá destaque à figura de Sana, que é excluída daquela sociedade mas, paradoxalmente, é responsabilizada por todos os infortúnios que ali ocorrem, até ser, por fim, a mulher que empreendeu uma longa peregrinação altruísta em busca da cura para uma criança do vilarejo, salvando-a da morte.

Certamente, é válido argumentar que a amizade entre Bila e Sana não é construída com a devida paciência e progressão dramática, parecendo muito apressada no início, e alguns podem classificar o final do filme como excessivamente óbvio. No entanto, não se pode negar que a obra é encantadora por sua beleza plástica e temática, e por retratar um povo africano de forma humana e afetuosa, mas sem deixar de lado as complexidades inerentes a qualquer sociedade. Não poderia terminar, então, sem citar o próprio realizador: “’Yaaba’ é primeiro de tudo a história de uma amizade que começa e cresce entre dois membros de uma sociedade rural, na qual nós vemos o homem como ele é: bom, mau, generoso, intolerante”. ■


Crítica de Lucas Oliveira, Cinematório.
Texto original: <a href="https://www.cinematorio.com.br/2022/11/critica-filme-yaaba-idrissa-ouedraogo/">https://www.cinematorio.com.br/2022/11/critica-filme-yaaba-idrissa-ouedraogo/</a>

Assista YAABA na FILMICCA
<a href="https://www.filmicca.com.br/film/yaaba/">https://www.filmicca.com.br/film/yaaba/</a>

“YAABA”: NA ÁFRICA-MÃE, O ENCANTO DE UMA AVÓ

When John Landis’ <a href="https://boxd.it/29yk" rel="nofollow">An American Werewolf In London</a> was released in 1981 and David Cronenberg’s <a href="https://boxd.it/1YIe" rel="nofollow">The Fly</a> followed five years later, what initially grabbed people’s attention were the Academy Award-winning creature effects by Rick Baker (whose work on the former prompted AMPAS to create the Best Makeup category) and Chris Walas (whose other reward for his part in The Fly’s success was the opportunity to direct its less memorable sequel). Charged with updating horror icons of the ’40s and ’50s for savvy moviegoers primed to be dazzled by state-of-the-art special effects, Baker and Walas stepped up to the plate and delivered unforgettable monsters and set-pieces that have earned a permanent place in movie history. Even today, their work continues to impress, evincing a staying power that modern digital effects have a hard time sustaining. But what keeps viewers coming back to these two films time and again are the human love stories than run parallel with the bloody carnage and acid-spewing monster-men.While both films have fantastic premises—namely, that a man bitten by a werewolf will become one himself and a man who teleports himself with a housefly will become a man-sized fly—they’re grounded in the mundane and the every day. Take the London flat of nurse Alex Price (Jenny Agutter) in American Werewolf, which reveals a lot about her that she might otherwise be reluctant—or unable—to say out loud. Having taken a fancy to him, Alex brings home American backpacker (and unwitting werewolf) David Kessler (David Naughton) after he’s discharged from the hospital where she’s been tending to him while he recovered from an animal attack on the Yorkshire moors. Warning him not to expect too much since she’s “just a working girl,” she shows him around her cramped quarters, which art director Leslie Dilley and his crew make look as lived-in as possible without being too cluttered. The living room has plenty of throw pillows, photographs on the mantle, and shelves crammed with books and knickknacks, while the bathroom has little plants in individual pots. The hallway leading to her bedroom even has a single flower in a box mounted on the wall, which David’s zombie friend Jack (Griffin Dunne) playfully smells when he pays them a visit later that night. The very first thing the viewer sees when Alex lets David in, though, is a <a href="https://boxd.it/2aG0" rel="nofollow">Casablanca</a> poster hanging on the wall, closely followed by one for <a href="https://boxd.it/29Fq" rel="nofollow">Gone With The Wind</a>. And briefly glimpsed in her kitchen is an enlarged photograph of Humphrey Bogart. Even if she’s being truthful when she says she’s “not in the habit of bringing home stray, young American men,” it’s clear she has a thing for American culture (see also: the Disney paraphernalia scattered about) and a romantic streak a mile wide.Compare that to the spacious loft owned by Seth Brundle (Jeff Goldblum) in The Fly. Wide open, unfinished, and mostly unfurnished, his combined living/workspace—a converted factory he hasn’t put much effort into making cozy and inviting—reflects how thin the partition between the two are for him. The only human touches, in fact, are a fold-out couch, a red leather chair, and the upright piano that production designer Carol Spier and art director Rolf Harvey have installed in it, as well as the cappuccino maker (a Faema, the brand with the eagle on top) Seth uses to lure journalist Veronica Quaife (Geena Davis) back to his lab, along with the promise that he’s working on something that will “change the world as we know it.” Much like Alex, here’s a man who’s not accustomed to bringing attractive members of the opposite sex home, but his desire to impress Veronica with his telepods temporarily overrides his desire to go to bed with her—or maybe he believes the one will lead directly to the other. Either way, it’s telling that she’s out the door not long after he performs his demonstration—on one of her stockings, proving how forward she can be when she wants—while Alex and David are having shower sex within minutes of her showing him around her flat. Then again, their flirtation did have a few days’ head start and neither of them had any illusions about where they were headed.Since David is a tourist, he has nowhere else to go, but Veronica’s tastefully decorated apartment in The Fly is comparable to Alex’s living space in American Werewolf in terms of its homeyness, though Seth never visits. (Appropriate since their relationship winds up being entirely on his terms.) Instead, the only man who pays a call on her there is Stathis Borans (John Getz), her editor and former lover, who drops in while she’s out to take a shower because, as he says when she catches him, he “felt a bit scummy.” Stathis’ function in the plot is to be the fly in the ointment, as it were, provoking Seth’s jealousy after he and Veronica become involved. In fact, his mistaken belief that she’s still sleeping with Stathis prompts Seth to teleport himself without her—along with the fly that gets into his telepod unnoticed, setting the stage for his monstrous transformation. While David’s agonizing change from man to beast happens in a matter of a minutes, though, Seth’s metamorphosis into Brundlefly is a gradual process shown in stages, mirroring the steady decomposition of David’s friend Jack, who died during the werewolf attack that left David cursed with lycanthropy and who visits him periodically to try to convince him to kill himself. (Tellingly, at the end of each of their transformations, all three are portrayed by puppets, albeit extremely sophisticated ones.)The amount of time the couples in both films get to spend together before they’re torn apart by circumstances beyond their control reflects how deep their relationships are allowed to get. In American Werewolf, Alex doesn’t meet David until after he’s been bitten, meaning their love is doomed from the very start, but that still leaves them a few days to get to know and care about each other before the change first comes over him. “I find you very attractive and a little bit sad,” she tells him the day she brings him home, not realizing how much sadder she’ll be roughly 48 hours later. In The Fly, Seth’s fusion with a housefly at the genetic level doesn’t occur until after Veronica have been staying with him for some time, placing her in the unenviable position of being able to observe how he changes emotionally as well as physically once he’s taken a dip into “the plasma pool,” as he poetically puts it. It’s his increasingly erratic behavior that drives her away, though, as his insectoid half comes to dominate his personality. In contrast, after taking the lives of half a dozen Londoners in a single night, David goes back to being his usual bubbly self, blissfully unaware of what he does by the light of the full moon until the bloody results of his nocturnal rampage are grotesquely paraded before him in the stalls of a porno theater.Keep reading <a href="https://musings.oscilloscope.net/post/151713978606/the-doomed-romantics-of-an-american-werewolf-in" rel="nofollow">here</a>

When John Landis’ <a href="https://boxd.it/29yk">An American Werewolf In London</a> was released in 1981 and David Cronenberg’s <a href="https://boxd.it/1YIe">The Fly</a> followed five years later, what initially grabbed people’s attention were the Academy Award-winning creature effects by Rick Baker (whose work on the former prompted AMPAS to create the Best Makeup category) and Chris Walas (whose other reward for his part in The Fly’s success was the opportunity to direct its less memorable sequel). Charged with updating horror icons of the ’40s and ’50s for savvy moviegoers primed to be dazzled by state-of-the-art special effects, Baker and Walas stepped up to the plate and delivered unforgettable monsters and set-pieces that have earned a permanent place in movie history. Even today, their work continues to impress, evincing a staying power that modern digital effects have a hard time sustaining. But what keeps viewers coming back to these two films time and again are the human love stories than run parallel with the bloody carnage and acid-spewing monster-men.

While both films have fantastic premises—namely, that a man bitten by a werewolf will become one himself and a man who teleports himself with a housefly will become a man-sized fly—they’re grounded in the mundane and the every day. Take the London flat of nurse Alex Price (Jenny Agutter) in American Werewolf, which reveals a lot about her that she might otherwise be reluctant—or unable—to say out loud. Having taken a fancy to him, Alex brings home American backpacker (and unwitting werewolf) David Kessler (David Naughton) after he’s discharged from the hospital where she’s been tending to him while he recovered from an animal attack on the Yorkshire moors. Warning him not to expect too much since she’s “just a working girl,” she shows him around her cramped quarters, which art director Leslie Dilley and his crew make look as lived-in as possible without being too cluttered. The living room has plenty of throw pillows, photographs on the mantle, and shelves crammed with books and knickknacks, while the bathroom has little plants in individual pots. The hallway leading to her bedroom even has a single flower in a box mounted on the wall, which David’s zombie friend Jack (Griffin Dunne) playfully smells when he pays them a visit later that night. The very first thing the viewer sees when Alex lets David in, though, is a <a href="https://boxd.it/2aG0">Casablanca</a> poster hanging on the wall, closely followed by one for <a href="https://boxd.it/29Fq">Gone With The Wind</a>. And briefly glimpsed in her kitchen is an enlarged photograph of Humphrey Bogart. Even if she’s being truthful when she says she’s “not in the habit of bringing home stray, young American men,” it’s clear she has a thing for American culture (see also: the Disney paraphernalia scattered about) and a romantic streak a mile wide.

Compare that to the spacious loft owned by Seth Brundle (Jeff Goldblum) in The Fly. Wide open, unfinished, and mostly unfurnished, his combined living/workspace—a converted factory he hasn’t put much effort into making cozy and inviting—reflects how thin the partition between the two are for him. The only human touches, in fact, are a fold-out couch, a red leather chair, and the upright piano that production designer Carol Spier and art director Rolf Harvey have installed in it, as well as the cappuccino maker (a Faema, the brand with the eagle on top) Seth uses to lure journalist Veronica Quaife (Geena Davis) back to his lab, along with the promise that he’s working on something that will “change the world as we know it.” Much like Alex, here’s a man who’s not accustomed to bringing attractive members of the opposite sex home, but his desire to impress Veronica with his telepods temporarily overrides his desire to go to bed with her—or maybe he believes the one will lead directly to the other. Either way, it’s telling that she’s out the door not long after he performs his demonstration—on one of her stockings, proving how forward she can be when she wants—while Alex and David are having shower sex within minutes of her showing him around her flat. Then again, their flirtation did have a few days’ head start and neither of them had any illusions about where they were headed.

Since David is a tourist, he has nowhere else to go, but Veronica’s tastefully decorated apartment in The Fly is comparable to Alex’s living space in American Werewolf in terms of its homeyness, though Seth never visits. (Appropriate since their relationship winds up being entirely on his terms.) Instead, the only man who pays a call on her there is Stathis Borans (John Getz), her editor and former lover, who drops in while she’s out to take a shower because, as he says when she catches him, he “felt a bit scummy.” Stathis’ function in the plot is to be the fly in the ointment, as it were, provoking Seth’s jealousy after he and Veronica become involved. In fact, his mistaken belief that she’s still sleeping with Stathis prompts Seth to teleport himself without her—along with the fly that gets into his telepod unnoticed, setting the stage for his monstrous transformation. While David’s agonizing change from man to beast happens in a matter of a minutes, though, Seth’s metamorphosis into Brundlefly is a gradual process shown in stages, mirroring the steady decomposition of David’s friend Jack, who died during the werewolf attack that left David cursed with lycanthropy and who visits him periodically to try to convince him to kill himself. (Tellingly, at the end of each of their transformations, all three are portrayed by puppets, albeit extremely sophisticated ones.)

The amount of time the couples in both films get to spend together before they’re torn apart by circumstances beyond their control reflects how deep their relationships are allowed to get. In American Werewolf, Alex doesn’t meet David until after he’s been bitten, meaning their love is doomed from the very start, but that still leaves them a few days to get to know and care about each other before the change first comes over him. “I find you very attractive and a little bit sad,” she tells him the day she brings him home, not realizing how much sadder she’ll be roughly 48 hours later. In The Fly, Seth’s fusion with a housefly at the genetic level doesn’t occur until after Veronica have been staying with him for some time, placing her in the unenviable position of being able to observe how he changes emotionally as well as physically once he’s taken a dip into “the plasma pool,” as he poetically puts it. It’s his increasingly erratic behavior that drives her away, though, as his insectoid half comes to dominate his personality. In contrast, after taking the lives of half a dozen Londoners in a single night, David goes back to being his usual bubbly self, blissfully unaware of what he does by the light of the full moon until the bloody results of his nocturnal rampage are grotesquely paraded before him in the stalls of a porno theater.

Keep reading <a href="https://musings.oscilloscope.net/post/151713978606/the-doomed-romantics-of-an-american-werewolf-in">here</a>

The Doomed Romantics of ‘An American Werewolf In London’ and ‘The Fly’ by Craig J. Clark

<h3>The writer and director of C’mon C’mon on the beauty of therapy, grief as a superpower, and the maddening toxicity of “manspreading whiteness”. Plus: his ﬁlm faves, from Lanthimos to Campion, Keaton to Wenders.</h3>“Feelings are my genre.” Mike Mills bursts into laughter. “That’s a good line for you. The perfect pull quote.” Partway through a conversation with Letterboxd’s senior editor <a href="https://letterboxd.com/mitchell/" rel="nofollow">Mitchell Beaupre</a> about his latest film, <a href="https://boxd.it/nrI0" rel="nofollow">C’mon C’mon</a>, and he has said this with a knowing smirk—yet at the same time, he and Mitchell both realize how true the statement is. It’s rare to find a filmmaker so attuned to the emotional currents of his characters the way that Mills has been over the course of his four-film career, and that emotional intuitiveness has passed along to the viewers who connect so strongly with his work.In a Life in Film interview with Letterboxd, Mills discusses how therapy has helped him to achieve this superpower in his films, while also digging into the films that have hit him the most over the course of his life. From the ones that scare him (the feral nature of <a href="https://boxd.it/158K" rel="nofollow">Dogtooth</a> and palpable anxiety of <a href="https://boxd.it/29lU" rel="nofollow">All the President’s Men</a>) to the ones that bring him joy (<a href="https://boxd.it/2aG0" rel="nofollow">Casablanca</a>, <a href="https://boxd.it/1v9u" rel="nofollow">Steamboat Bill Jr.</a>) and so many more, the filmmaker gives us an insight into the cinema that has influenced one of the finest filmmakers of our time. So fine, in fact, that C’mon C’mon is currently placed near the top of <a href="https://boxd.it/aJav0" rel="nofollow">Letterboxd’s Top 50 Films of 2021</a>, and included in our <a href="https://boxd.it/8HjM" rel="nofollow">Top 250 Narrative Feature Films of All-Time</a>, based on average user rating. <h3><a href="https://boxd.it/QY" rel="nofollow">Read our full conversation with Mike Mills.</a></h3>

<h3>The writer and director of C’mon C’mon on the beauty of therapy, grief as a superpower, and the maddening toxicity of “manspreading whiteness”. Plus: his ﬁlm faves, from Lanthimos to Campion, Keaton to Wenders.</h3>

“Feelings are my genre.” Mike Mills bursts into laughter. “That’s a good line for you. The perfect pull quote.” Partway through a conversation with Letterboxd’s senior editor <a href="https://letterboxd.com/mitchell/">Mitchell Beaupre</a> about his latest film, <a href="https://boxd.it/nrI0">C’mon C’mon</a>, and he has said this with a knowing smirk—yet at the same time, he and Mitchell both realize how true the statement is. It’s rare to find a filmmaker so attuned to the emotional currents of his characters the way that Mills has been over the course of his four-film career, and that emotional intuitiveness has passed along to the viewers who connect so strongly with his work.

In a Life in Film interview with Letterboxd, Mills discusses how therapy has helped him to achieve this superpower in his films, while also digging into the films that have hit him the most over the course of his life. From the ones that scare him (the feral nature of <a href="https://boxd.it/158K">Dogtooth</a> and palpable anxiety of <a href="https://boxd.it/29lU">All the President’s Men</a>) to the ones that bring him joy (<a href="https://boxd.it/2aG0">Casablanca</a>, <a href="https://boxd.it/1v9u">Steamboat Bill Jr.</a>) and so many more, the filmmaker gives us an insight into the cinema that has influenced one of the finest filmmakers of our time. So fine, in fact, that C’mon C’mon is currently placed near the top of <a href="https://boxd.it/aJav0">Letterboxd’s Top 50 Films of 2021</a>, and included in our <a href="https://boxd.it/8HjM">Top 250 Narrative Feature Films of All-Time</a>, based on average user rating. 

<h3><a href="https://boxd.it/QY">Read our full conversation with Mike Mills.</a></h3>

Mike Mills is a Pussy

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slim’s ★★★★½ diary entry for Casablanca

If I ever got dumped in a hand-written letter and the last line was “god bless you” I would absolutely die.More soon on a very special 70mm podcast.

Danny’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

This film doesn’t seem to be talked about much but I hope everyone knows this is a perfect movie. Seems like no one has seen this. Glad to be getting around to a masterpiece in 2020. Please clap.

protolexus’s ★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Casablanca 2 starring Timothee chalamet Next on 70mm

Aaron Zani’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

You always think this movie is overrated but then you watch it and you’re reminded why it’s one of the best films ever made. Casablanca fires on all cylinders, the acting in this is phenomenal. Every person in this movie, how Ingrid Bergman wasn’t nominated I don’t know. It was one of the most soft and tender performances I’ve seen. Claude Raines was the perfect mesh of comic relief and dramatic.The script is tight and neat, not a lot of unnecessary or lengthy parts of the movie which makes for something you can’t take your eyes off of.The music in this really just brings everything together. As Time Goes By is used as a helpful story point but also sound mixing to piece together when Isla and Rick are remembering better times. Not overplayed or in your face as it could have been.I love that he gives up the girl to help progress the cause and it makes more sense given that it was shot during the war and they would want everyone doing what they could to help out, even coming from a protagonist who is so impartial on the war.

𝗗𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗘𝗟 𝗖𝗨𝗥𝗔’s ★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

There’s something so timeless and universally relatable about the heartache of love lost due to circumstances outside of your control. And yet, films like this may never be possible again. One of the most famous lines in all of cinema history wouldn’t even be written today."Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine."It invokes such a feeling of disbelief and heartache caused by the apparent coincidence . These two people have not had any form of contact since they crashed into love in their past. Now they crash together again in a completely different country. If this movie was made today, that line would be something like:“Of all the pics on all of Instagram, why did she have to like mine?”There would be a whole scene or subplot of Sam telling Rick about how unhealthy it is for him to still be friends with his ex on Facebook after all these years.Was the internet a mistake? Am I jealous of my grandparents?

Thomas’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Where were you last night?  That's so long ago, I don't remember.  Will I see you tonight?  I never make plans that far ahead.

Thomas’s ★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

It is beautifully well acted, Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart and Claude Rains all stand out, but I had to split the viewing over two nights and I think another proper watch would help me appreciate it more. I’ll have to get back to it later this year maybe. From my viewing challenge — <a href="https://boxd.it/aEcb2" rel="nofollow">Shuffled: Letterboxd’s Highest Rated Movie By Year</a>

Traynor’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Rick's Cafe might just be the #1 coolest place in all of cinema. It's just so enthralling and immersive. I watched this at work (as per) and half way through I realized I had a glass of gin in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. If you ever wonder if "classic" movies are as great and legendary as people say, this one proves the rule.

joshj’s ★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Curt Bois as the pickpocket was great!

Zachary Mulligan’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Pat’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Cpt. Renault needs to lock Claude Rains up for an open-and-shut case of scene-stealing in the first degree.

Really enjoyable Cinema Classics seminar at Bryn Mawr Film. All the facilitators have been great, but I particularly enjoyed tonight's professor, Paul McEwan of Muhlenberg College. He had a lighthearted, engaging style and shared some excellent perspective on this film as a product of the film factories of its era.Probably don't need to say much about this film, but it's really pretty flawless, though of course you have to allow for the stylistic dialog of the era.And, still, every time... I tear up at La Marseillaise.

Joseph (JoeJazzy)’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Mind the (age) gap!I mean what can I say, it’s a classic and the new 4k release is phenomenal. This is the first time I’ve seen it in its entirety, great story, great music, and filled with lines I still hear quoted pretty often. <blockquote>We’ll always have Paris.</blockquote>

Joseph (JoeJazzy)’s ★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Justin Perez’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

WLattner’s ★★★★★ diary entry for Casablanca

Dang, this has a little something of everything a person could ever want in a movie. Not a bad picture.