CONVERSATION PIECE - FILMSTRUCK

This review was originally written for DVDTalk.com in 2012.

"I'm not interested in people who lose control of their own destiny."

Luchino Visconti's second-to-last picture, Conversation Piece (original title: Gruppo di famiglia in un interno) is a contemplative chamber drama. Released in 1974, it is perhaps the great Italian director's most modern effort, reflecting an old man's acceptance of the changes happening in the world around him while also establishing at least some sort of defense of all the things that came before. In his way, this is Visconti meeting the new generation halfway, simultaneously sharing the ways of old with them while taking a glimpse at what they have to offer. In between, he finds some unexpected commonalities.

Burt Lancaster, who played a similar role in the director's masterful The Leopard, returns to Italy to play "Il Professore," an American scholar who has made his home in a large house in Rome. For years, he has lived alone with his books and paintings, enjoying the solitude of memory and the invented lives of the people depicted in the portraits that fill his walls. His preferred medium is the "conversation piece," an 18th-century style of painting that shows families together, most often in natural environments.

Things change dramatically for the Professor when the Marchesa Bianca Brumonti (Silvana Mangano, Ludwig [review], Dune) forces her way into his life. She has learned that he has a disused upstairs apartment, and she wants to rent it for her lover, a young German hothead named Konrad (Helmut Berger, The Romantic Englishwoman [review]). In addition to inheriting this hustler, the Professor's life is also disrupted by the Marchcesa's daughter, Lietta (Claudia Marsani), and her boyfriend, Stefano (Stefano Patrizi). The new arrangement goes wrong rather quickly when Konrad decides to remodel the place with a sledge hammer, but before long, the Professor begins to accept the young people--and all their disruptions--into his life. The change is largely caused by his discovery that Konrad is not entirely as he seems to be. Though a gigolo now, he was once a political activist and knows a thing or two about painting and music. The Professor, in a way, comes to view him as a son. The old man also comes out of the shell he crawled into after suffering personal loss. We get brief glimpses of his sad past in flashback, though we never learn what really happened. (In these scenes, his wife is played by Claudia Cardinale and his mother by Dominique Sanda.)

Luchino Visconti was part of the post-War Neorealist movement, but is unique amongst his peers for being from an aristocratic family and thus being more concerned with the upper classes. In films like Senso [review] and his segment of Boccaccio '70 [review], he explored the clash of old-fashioned social mores and modernity, as well as exposing the truth behind his subjects' public façade. In short, the rich have the same pettiness and heartbreak as anyone else, regardless of how ornate their outward disguise.

These same concerns inform the script for Conversation Piece, and the more secrets that are exposed, the more the social niceties break down in the Professor's house. The Marchesa has her own reasons for paying for love, and Konrad has his for taking the payment--just as the Professor has his reasons for hiding from the rest of the world. He has accepted his lot in life, as well as the fact that his time is soon going to pass. The Professor is much like the character Lancaster played in The Leopard: his usefulness in a changing culture is also indicative of his own mortality. It's ironic that he would be reawakened at so late an hour. He grows closest to the three young people, even if it's too little too late. Unsurprisingly, Lancaster is quite good as the elder statesman, maintaining a kind of stoic grandeur that is slowly chipped away, leaving him vulnerable. Helmut Berger is also excellent as the would-be con man. His foul-mouthed demeanor gives way to a startling sensitivity. Both actors begin on opposite sides of the emotional spectrum, but both are guarded. The more they drop their defenses, the more human their portrayals become.

All of the scenes in Conversation Piece occur inside the Professor's spacious home. The film, however, is neither static nor confined. Long hallways and high ceilings give the characters plenty of room to roam, and the copious decorations fill the frame so there is always plenty to look at. The still images on the paintings are meant to represent an arrested existence, though Konrad's approval of the Professor's aesthetic choices give him some validation. (Indeed, Lietta and Stefano sway the old man by meeting him on his own terms, buying him a new family painting for his wall, a symbolic giving of "themselves.") Visconti and his regular cinematographer, Pasqualino De Santis, relish in the details. The full spaciousness of the interiors are given emphasis when it is suitable to show how lost the players are within this invented scene. Likewise, they play with a sort of upstairs/downstairs metaphor (young above, old buried below), as the top apartment is demolished and rebuilt as a modern-art experiment. The primary colors give it an expansive feel that shows just how cramped and overstuffed the Professor's life has become.

Of course, as more truths are revealed, things grow more and more complicated for this makeshift clan. Despite first and even second impressions, there is more to each story than is immediately evident. Much comes to light at a dinner that was originally meant to reestablish peace amongst everyone after Konrad's latest attempt to escape the Marchesa nearly landed him in jail. Words are exchanged, both good and bad, and for some they are words that can't be taken back. The Professor also tells an old story about how death can arrive unannounced and in disguise, a truth he has always feared but one that his new friends have convinced him to no longer concern himself with. Thus, in its final scenes, Conversation Piece becomes a cautionary tale, warning against waiting too long to engage in life and embrace the people around you. Unfortunately for some, it is a message that comes too late, and its revelation is bittersweet.

LUDWIG - FILMSTRUCK

This review was originally written for DVDTalk.com in 2008.

Luchino Visconti's 1972 film Ludwig is an example of a biopic done as an epic, a grand and opulent study of the life of the 19th-century "mad kind of Bavaria," Ludwig II. A member of the Italian aristocracy himself, Visconti stood apart from his filmmaking contemporaries and their embracing of Neorealism, instead crafting meticulous studies of the various classes that were almost more realistic in their painstaking attention to detail but at the same time created a feeling of another world. This feeling of disconnection went hand in hand with the themes of many of the director's pictures, where his characters were often at odds with the world around them and seemed to walk rarefied streets that had little in common with the spaces they connected. Thus, we get Marcello Mastroianni's lonely romantic traversing bridges and canals in Le notti bianche or Burt Lancaster's patriarch in The Leopard, a symbol of a passing age.

Lancaster's aging nobleman actually has a lot in common with Ludwig II. As played by Helmut Berger (The Garden of the Finzi-Continis), this monarch has little connection to the kingdom he rules. Through most of Visconti's four-hour portrait, King Ludwig is indoors, locked away in his opulent estates. He is not part of the lives that he governs, but instead is informed of what is going on by various aides and courtly officials. A dreamy young man crowned in his teens, it is assumed that Ludwig is unschooled in all things, and much of the first half of the picture is about the King's education in matters of love, war, and sex. By the end, Ludwig begins to tire of these conspiracies, even tossing out the prostitute his counsel hires to teach him how to be a lover before she can earn her money.

Ludwig's one respite is sneaking out at night and riding his horse under the stars. This is where onlookers begin to suspect him of madness, as apparently this quest for solitude was considered strange behavior back then. He finds some comfort in the fact that his cousin Elisabeth, the Empress of Austria (Romy Schneider, who also played the Empress at a younger age in the Sissi trilogy fifteen years earlier), engages in similar activity, and she joins him for a few moonlight rides. Of course, he has also fallen in love with this independent woman, who seems to enjoy the freedom he does not, and his pining for her postpones any serious hunt for a wife and causes further rumblings of his state of mind. So, too, does his harboring of Richard Wagner (Trevor Howard, Brief Encounter [review]), the composer, whose music Ludwig adores but whose personal life and money grubbing ends up being an embarrassment to his sponsor.

Like most of Visconti's dramas, Ludwig has a leisurely storytelling style that adds to the feeling of serious contemplation the film requires and is also successful in creating that sense of another world that is essential to understanding his outsider characters. The director is not hurried in his portrayals, but rather able to document the ennui with a pacing that is akin to real time, the languorous dialogue scenes showing a lack of urgency in Ludwig's life. Even discussions of war seem protracted and separate, with Ludwig having no idea what the frontlines are like and not understanding why his younger brother, Prince Otto (John Moulder-Brown), can't merely abandon his duty.

In the case of Ludwig, the longer running time also allows Visconti to avoid the compression that hobbles so many biography movies. There is no rush to cram everything in, Visconti can take his time. The first half of the picture begins with Ludwig's coronation and ends in the midst of his engagement to Tsarina Sophie (Sonia Petrovna), whom Elisabeth has chosen for the King. The second half looks at Ludwig's later years and his being deposed. Visconti also cuts interviews with members of Ludwig's cabinet into the action, with the noblemen talking directly to the camera to explain some of the interpretations of the King's behavior and the scandals that dogged him. It's not a device that Visconti labors over, but it certainly prefigures the fake documentary style that would become popular decades later.

Of course, that longer running time can be a fault as much as it is a virtue, and the second half of the film does drag, particularly in its first hour when Ludwig disappears into his obsessions and instead of trying to break free into the outer world, locks himself away from it. The King continues to pursue a love of the performing arts, including inviting an actor he admires (Folker Bohnet) back to his home and trying to make him his personal performer the way he wanted Wagner to be his personal composer. Ludwig also builds a continuous string of ever-opulent palaces, one after the other, most of them left to sit idle as soon as he moves on to the next. (Visconti shows these in exacting detail when Elisabeth takes a tour of them. These scenes were shot on location, but special praise should also be reserved for production designers Mario Chiari and Mario Scisci.) In his exile, he cavorts with young boys and lets his health deteriorate. By the end, he is a pale shell of himself, his teeth rotting along with his brain. Helmut Berger, who bares both a passing physical resemblance to Alain Delon as well as the actor's icy demeanor, really distinguishes himself in these scenes, imbuing his performance with a brittle incredulity that is both childish and sad. Throughout Ludwig, he comes off as a monarch that is more tolerated than followed, which contrasts well with Schneider's portrayal of Empress Elisabeth as a woman always in charge. Her manipulation and domination of her troubled cousin is quite impressive.

In this period, Ludwig is not at all concerned with governance, which eventually attracts the notice of the ruling officials. At this juncture, the "documentary" interviews meld with the narrative as we realize that they are part of an inquiry into Ludwig's mental health. The investigation leads to a political coup, and here the film begins to pick up again as the various conspiracies to remove the King from his throne and to protect him intersect. Multiple doctors diagnose Ludwig as paranoid, so imagine what it must be like when, shortly after being imprisoned/hospitalized, he discovers the peepholes in the wall where his enemies spy on him--he may be paranoid, but they have really come after him! In this last act, the early hints of Ludwig's eccentricities being calculated and voluntary start to have some bearing. (One aide, Count Duerckheim, played by Helmut Griem, even says as much.) Ludwig may also be truly mad, it's an unanswerable question, and one that Visconti isn't too rigorous about pursuing; rather, as King Ludwig II accepts his fate, he joins other Visconti protagonists in acknowledging the passing of his time on top. The King seems to realize that it's over for him, that the world can no longer tolerate his passions, and that it will continue to turn without him. (He would be pleased to know that Wagner's music still endures, I am sure.)

A film with the scope and patience of Ludwig certainly requires as much patience from its audience, but there are few directors that can guide his viewers through the grandeur of this kind of lifestyle the way Luchino Visconti can. While other filmmakers would be drawn to monarchs who distinguished themselves in battle or effected greater social change, Visconti is more fascinated with a ruler who felt trapped by his position and yearned to be a part of the larger tableau of music and art. For him, Ludwig was more important for how his heart was broken by beauty than for how he lost his country. With sumptuous set designs and well-tailored performances from the distinguished cast, Ludwig takes us behind palace walls to view the fragility that is often secured inside them.

LA TERRA TREMA - FILMSTRUCK

This review was originally written for DVDTalk.com in 2012.

"'Give me time and I will dig a hole for you,' said the worm to the stone."

Director Luchino Visconti's second full-length feature, La terra trema (The Earth Will Tremble), is a triumph of the Italian Neorealist movement. Made in 1948, it solidifies the aesthetic, marrying real life to fictional storytelling in an imperceptible, irresistible union.

Though based on a 19th-century novel, Visconti updates La terra trema to modern times and all the concerns that come with it. The film's narrative is set in a Sicilian fishing village. It follows the community as it struggles to get by. This is a place where life is hard and so is the work to sustain it. Like anyone else, the fishermen dream of a better existence. In some cases, this might be gotten through love, but for some of the young idealists, things could be better for everyone if working conditions were improved. The bosses take an unfair cut off the top, and the law cracks down on anyone who might say otherwise.

At the center of the film is the Valastro family. Their eldest daughter, Mara, is contrasted with another young woman, Nedda. Both work at home and perform the duties required there, which we clearly see are no less taxing than going out on the waves. Nedda is being courted by Ntoni Valastro, Mara's brother, the hothead who is encouraging the other workers to take their fates into their own hands. Mara has flirtations with the more down-to-earth laborer Nicola, who is forced to seek employment anywhere he can find it, including out of town. Their younger sister, Lucia, has also caught the eye of the town marshal, who is a genial personality but, ultimately, he represents the privilege and recklessness of authority, particularly in how he so cavalierly treats those in his charge.

These subplots add some conventional drama to La terra trema, but the essential backbone of the film is the day-to-day. Visconti and cinematographer G.R. Aldo (Umberto D. [review], Welles' Othello) shoot the men at work, and indeed, it's the real work they all do to get by when they aren't performing in front of a movie camera. La terra trema is infamous for having no professional actors. Everyone on screen is a citizen of the town where the movie was shot. They are, ostensibly, re-creating their own lives according to the director's script; he in turn is using these invented scenarios to show the actuality of a tough way of living to the rest of the world. Visconti himself narrates, creating a sort of political travelogue of the region.

There is actually little time for romance when your day-to-day is consumed with just keeping up and staying fed, but all the relationships I've mentioned will prove important as the Valastroes' story and situation changes. Ntoni mortgages the family home for money to buy a boat and set his people up to work on their own. Initially, he and his brother and grandfather do well, bringing in a large anchovy haul. Unfortunately, bad weather, bad business practices, and the general bad attitudes of the working class collaborate to destroy Ntoni's dreams and his family's stability. In Visconti's scenario, the biggest enemy of the people is the people themselves. As the song goes, we hate it when our friends become successful, and rather than encourage Ntoni to blaze a trail they could later follow themselves, others tear him down for being too big for his britches. Social mores being what they are, Nicola ends his courtship of Mara, citing that now she is above him in class, and he is shown to be the one decent guy in the village when the tables turn again. Most of the other townspeople revel in the family's suffering. The old bosses will only give Ntoni more work if he submits to their ridicule, and indeed, Ntoni has to hit rock bottom before seizing on his own destiny again, holding his head high in the face of humiliation.

The Neorealist aesthetic is beautifully crystallized in La terra trema. Using non-actors works particularly well for Visconti. While in similar hands such experiments can seem stiff and awkward, the director finds a comfortable space for his performers to work--both literally and figuratively. Using the real locations where these people live probably helped a lot. They get to be themselves in their own regular environment. The backdrop is appropriately ragged, yet it is photographed lovingly. Visconti chooses to shoot the locale wide, letting all the detail come through. Such is his dedication to capturing reality.

Despite its length of over two-and-a-half hours, La terra trema rarely drags, even at its most bleak. Structurally, Visconti works each element like it was a vignette. So, for instance, we see Ntoni's brother become dissatisfied and what drastic measures his restlessness causes him to take before moving on to the next stage of Ntoni's descent. The bad stuff compounds on the Valastro family, yet Visconti provides a hopeful out, using simple literary devices to put Ntoni back on his feet and back in a boat. This allows for an end that suggests that despite the drudgery of their everyday lives, if nothing else, the Valastroes and all good people like them will persevere.

THE GOLD RUSH - #615

If you’re looking for a movie to watch this New Year’s Eve, there is no better place to look than Charlie Chaplin’s 1925 masterpiece The Gold Rush.

The final act of Chaplin’s silent comedy kicks off on New Year’s Eve, with the auteur’s Little Tramp character hoping to meet up with the dancehall beauty Georgia (Georgia Hale). It’s a union that is not to be, at least initially, as Chaplin of course prefers a little melancholy in his romance. Not to mention his belief that new beginnings need to be earned, which is all the more reason for him to set this pivotal moment of his film during the holiday.

New Year’s represents many of the same values that Chaplin put into his all of his films. It is a holiday that encapsulates his view of America, and so perfectly fits here in The Gold Rush, a philosophical piece of slapstick that embraces one of the great American myths. Just this past holiday my dad drove me past a mountain stream in Northern California that used to be a major source for gold. He wistfully told me how there is believed to be an untapped reserve still buried in the mountain, just waiting to be uncovered. Such was the dream of many men heading west in the 1800s. There were riches to be found in the California hills.

And for Chaplin, riches to be found in the California valleys, as well. For what is the promise of early Hollywood but another gold rush, another chance for Americans to make a bid for success and riches? As in all of the Tramp films, the character in The Gold Rush represents the little man in search of something better, standing up to adversity--be it the weather, beast of the forest, or his fellow man, prone as they were to prejudice and bullying. Here the Tramp goes to a remote outpost on the hunt for his fortune, finds romance, and thanks to his own positive demeanor, also forms bonds that bring him both the kind of financial windfall and emotional payout he could only dream of. The fact that it all goes wrong on New Year’s Eve is just all the more incentive for him to turn things around. One opportunity missed only spurs him on to find another.

This, of course, is all subtext, but when we consider other films with the Tramp character, such as The Kid or The Immigrant, it’s not hard to extrapolate a deeper meaning from the inventive pratfalls. Of which there are many. Some of Chaplin’s finest and most enduring routines are present in The Gold Rush, including the dancing dinner rolls and the visually stunning climax where he and his partner (Mack Swain) struggle to escape a house teetering on a cliffside. My favorite bit is probably the dance floor scene with the dog where, typically, the Tramp’s attempts to cover his own weakness nearly blows up in his face. In that and all the rest, the charm of the Tramp is his good-natured tenacity. He’s the right kind of good guy and awfully easy to root for.

Like so many of us, the Tramp is often misunderstood and misjudged. Right up to the end, as it turns out, when even after he’s found his gold, he’s mistaken for a stowaway on the boat taking him back to civilization. This may be the most heartwarming message of all, reminding us that no matter where we go or what we achieve, we still are who we are, and should maybe not forget that--because being who we are is perfectly okay, it’s what got us where we are. For the Tramp, it not only reminds him that it was his friendship that carried him through while giving him another opportunity to fall on his keister, but also gives Georgia her chance to show she has a charitable heart, as well.

If you’ve never seen a Charlie Chaplin film before, this is a pretty good place to start. And if you’re a fan, it’s a good one to revisit--though, avoid the 1942 version where Chaplin added voiceover. He may consider it his “definitive” cut, but the narration adds nothing to the material; rather, it only detracts from the viewer’s emotional connection to the comedy by interpreting everything for them--which is the most important part. The Gold Rush will ring out this or any year in a way that will remind us why we all do what we do, showing us the good in our fellow man and reinforcing the optimism inherent in an American Dream we all should still want to believe in even if sometimes we can’t.

GENERAL IDI AMIN DADA - #153

The subtitle to Barbet Schroeder’s 1974 documentary General Idi Amin Dada is A Self-Portrait, which seems like a misnomer, given that Schroeder was behind the camera and his titular subject, naturally, was in front. But then you watch the movie, and you see how carefully the Ugandan dictator tries to manicure his own image. Schroeder likely added the subtitle by way of acknowledging the influence and manipulation the notorious African leader was trying to exert on him. His “all access” pass only admitted him to selected areas and manufactured events.

And so we have Idi Amin the musician (indeed, he gets a “score by” credit), and Idi Amin the dancer, and Idi Amin the benevolent commander in chief visiting his troops and personally inspecting weapons. We get the military mastermind upbraiding his council with his personal philosophy of how to lead, a rambling dissemination of loosely connected ideas, a seemingly fake grandstand, until the despot slides a warning into his propaganda, slipping into genuine anger. Here is where Schroeder inserts himself, undermining the despot’s mission, by noting through narration how one of the council members singled-out would soon be fed to the crocodiles. Literally.

By going along to get along, Schroeder is shrewdly playing Idi Amin’s own game. By letting him seemingly have control, the tyrant will let down his guard and some truth will slip out. Likewise, by getting through the door, the film crew can explore a little beyond the confines their host lays out for themm. The result, General Idi Amin Dada: A Self-Portrait, ends up being a powerful exposé, laying bare the seductive powers of the man behind the image he portrays. The film shows Idi Amin as both surprisingly human and a horrible monster. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. In fact, the monster needs the human side to be effective. His sense of humor--here shown in the cheeky letters Idi Amin sends to other world leaders, which make me think as much of the recent weird missives out of North Korea as I do of the curret American President’s ludicrous tweets--is his best weapon.

Which is really something to think about in our modern times, as slick talking heads on our TVs consistently sell us a bill of goods. At one point, even Idi Amin was a hero of the people, his goal to restore the economic power of Uganda so they would not be reliant on foreign powers. The results speak louder than the promises, though, and the images that Schroeder shows us of failing shops and shuttered businesses sharply contrast with the lifestyle the great savior has created for himself.

In this, even more than 40 years later, General Idi Amin Dada: A Self-Portrait is a lasting testament of the power of journalism and the responsibility of the media to call little men in big chairs on their own bullshit.

The new Blu-ray edition from Criterion is a considerable upgrade from their initial 2002 DVD. The picture quality is fantastic, preserving this historical document in a way that helps maintain its contemporary feel. Though supplements are spare, there are two new additions to this version: an interview with journalist Andrew Rice and a new piece with Barbet Schroeder. Coupled with the original 2001 interview with the director, the 30-minutes-plus of conversation with Schroeder explains the documentary process, reveals some of the push and pull between the author and his subject, and also gives us a little idea of what it was like behind the scenes before and after, when Dada saw the movie for himself. (Spoiler: He had concerns.)

This disc provided by the Criterion Collection for purposes of review.

THE COMPLETE MONTEREY POP FESTIVAL - #167

D.A. Pennebaker is responsible for two of my favorite music documentaries, Bob Dylan’s Don’t Look Back [review] and Depeche Mode 101. Both incorporate the backstage business, offstage shenanigans, and fan experience that makes the music come alive in arenas that extend beyond the recorded product, laying bare the entire operation, from farm to table.

In Criterion’s The Complete Monterey Pop Festival, the documentarian does the same for the original live rock event, packaging the premiere festival for audiences the world over as Monterey Pop; though, arguably to less effect, partially because he has less time to spend away from the music. Simply because there’s so much of it. Days of it. What we see here is just a curated selection of an entire weekend in 1967, cut down to individual performances from a selection of the performing bands, sometimes not even complete songs. These highlights include The Who, Mamas and Papas, Simon and Garfunkel, Otis Redding, Country Joe and the Fish, Jimi Hendrix, and more. Most of the numbers are shot and edited in a manner that mixes a distant vantage point showing a clear image of the stage with intimate close-ups, highlighting the faces and instruments. Pennebaker is trying to capture the movement, the “happening.” You are simultaneously in the audience and in the band.

The most powerful moments, however, don’t happen on the sage, but rather are the ones he finds amongst the spectators, when someone unaware they are being watched loses themselves in the music, like when the camera zooms in on the hands of the woman with chipped nail polish fingering Ravi Shankar’s tabulature on her fur coat. Tellingly, the filmmaker waits until Shankar’s song is about to climax before showing the musician himself for the first time. Likewise, we can glean much from the fact that many musicians have abandoned their posts to watch Shankar. Hendrix and the Mamas and the Papas’ Michelle Phillips are both seen in audience, alongside Mickey Dolenz, who was there as an anonymous witness, sans the other Monkees. Shankar is the most transcendent of all the acts on the bill, effortlessly achieving the tonal bliss that others, like Country Joe, struggle for. And the set receives a naturally rapturous reaction. It’s no wonder Pennebaker made it the finale.

Of all the highlighted sets, Otis Redding and the Who prove themselves to be unparalleled performers, and with his avant-garde rendition of the Stones’ “Paint it Black,” perfectly melding the aural presentation with a psychedelic backdrop, Eric Burdon comes off as ahead of his time. Many of the bands here don’t really suit my taste, including Jimi Hendrix, but it’s also obvious why he was one of two acts Pennebaker chose to peel off from the main and turn their full sets into their own movies. The Complete Monterey Pop Festival three-disc box comes with both Jimi Plays Monterey and Shake! Otis at Monterey. Otis’ show, with Booker T and the MGs providing back-up, is a wonder to behold, and if you’ve never heard any of his live albums, this short documentary will likely send you out hunting for them.

True fans will also dig the bonus Blu-ray with more than two hours of outtakes featuring more songs from the main acts and some bands that didn’t make the cut (Moby Grape, the Association, Paul Butterfield Blues Band, to name a few). All features are presented in a newly upgraded, high-definition format that brings clarity and depth to both picture and sound, surpassing even the incredible job Criterion did on their previous edition (released in ancient times: 2002!).

Of the many bonuses on the disc, the most unique and interesting is Chiefs, a short documentary about a gathering of police and religious leaders at what is essentially a weapons convention that played alongside Monterey Pop during its theatrical release. Directed by Richard Leacock, Chiefs is frightening in its enduring relevance. Shot more than half-a-century ago, behind closed doors at their own event, we witness authoritarians blaming dissenters and academic for social unrest, peddling in sincerely believed misinformation that they hope will inspire others while continuing to stoke their own convictions. They are firm and resolute in their convictions, even if they don’t always aim them properly. Sort of like the way the weapons manufacturers hide their commerce behind more lofty claims of aiding law enforcement. Their attitude and tactics of distraction haven’t changed much over their decades, even if their physical weapons--and the heat of the incendiary propaganda--have only gotten worse.

This disc provided by the Criterion Collection for purposes of review.

RARE EXPORTS: A CHRISTMAS TALE - FILMSTRUCK

This review was originally written in 2011 for DVDTalk.com.

What if Santa Claus were real, but instead of being the kindly old gentleman you see on greeting cards, he's really a horned devil who comes and steals naughty children for punishment? This is the Santa that the little boy Pietari (Onni Tomilla) believes in. He's read about the true Kris Kringle in books, and when an American company begins drilling in the mountain near his Finnish home, he's scared of what they'll find. Is that Santa Claus living deep down there in the frozen earth?

Rare Exports: A Christmas Tale was a surprise hit in the 2010 holiday season. Written and directed by Jalmari Helander, it's an entirely original take on the Christmas mythos. Tired of traditional family fare but not quite ready for the gore and splatter of Silent Night, Zombie Night? Then Rare Exports is exactly what you're going to want in your stocking. It's like Super 8, but on the frozen tundra and with a lot fewer lens flares.

Pietari lives in the arctic with his widowed father (Jorma Tomilla), a reindeer herder who relies on the yearly migration of the big animals to put food on the table and money in the bank. The first sign that something is up is that the entire herd ends up dead before they even arrive. At first the locals think it's wolves stirred up by the drilling and explosions of the excavators, but weird stuff starts happening. Radiators get stolen, and all the kids go missing--except Pietari, who is also the only one who notices. At the same time, a bizarrely resilient old man ends up in dad's wolf trap. Is that Santa?

What we have here is essentially an old-fashioned sci-fi monster movie. Having captured the geezer they believe to be Santa, the men try to sell him back to the Americans. Of course, the whole scheme is much larger than they bargained for, and only young Pietari really gets what is going on. Everyone thinks he's strange and won't listen to him. He's wearing hockey gear and cardboard armor and dragging around a stuffed animal on a leash, so he doesn't appear to be the most reliable witness. But, as they get to the bottom of things, it's going to be up to Pietari to save the day.

Onni Tomilla is a pretty good child actor. He ably balances his fear with determination. Knowing you're right is more important than being scared. The most developed relationship in the movie is between the young boy and his father, but that is no surprise when you realize that the actors fulfill the same roles in real life. The elder Tomilla displays a natural mixture of warmth and stern frustration, the sort of thing a real father would know instinctively. The back and forth between the two adds an authentic energy to Rare Exports that allows it to work as a family movie despite its odd premise and, you should be warned, a lot of naked elf wang.

Helander and his team, including cinematographer Mika Orasmaa, have made a fun, stylish movie. The dark skies and frosty landscape make for a perfect chase atmosphere. Flakes of snow tumble over credible computer graphics, and the music of Juri and Miska Seppä helps set the mood using familiar, but effective tactics. Kimmo Taavila's editing is smart and swift, making sure the movie never rests too long. Though, actually, that might be Rare Exports' lone problem. At a slim 82 minutes, the mystery doesn't fully take hold before we get the big reveal, and Pietari devises his plan for success a little too easily. I was just getting into it, there was still more room to play!

Thankfully, Helander still has a funny, twisted ending up his sleeve. Here the quick execution works perfectly, we don't have time to get hung up on the logic of it all. It's a gleeful, cynical commentary on the worldwide commercialization of a holiday, like Linus Van Pelt's worst nightmare. No treacle-laden hugs to ring out this pageant. Rare Exports is dark right to the finish, and it's a wonderful gift for those sick of socks and fruitcakes. And hey, aren't we all?