The Sweet Hereafter as TWIN PEAKS CINEMA #13 (podcast)

Twenty-five years ago, The Sweet Hereafter premiered at the Cannes Film Festival. Its reception was far more rapturous than the maligned Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me (which debuted to Cannes boos exactly five years earlier), but the films have much in common. Both are moody nineties portraits of secret lives, dysfunctional families, and small town tragedy. They both center an adolescent girl (here played by Sarah Polley, worthy of the comparison with Sheryl Lee) who attempts to take control of her own story in the limited ways available to her. And Laura Palmer's and Nicole Burnell's stories are both rooted in abuse by an incestuous father. The Sweet Hereafter also recalls the series Twin Peaks with its somber portrayal of grief (in this case, following a school bus accident that massacres the town's children) and placement of an outside investigator as its protagonist (in this case, Ian Holm as a civil litigator far more dour but no less determined than Cooper). I've placed this discussion in May because of the festival anniversary, and to connect it to a month devoted to Fire Walk With Me (which I'm currently covering in-depth on my Lost in Twin Peaks public podcast). But it also works as the heart of my three-month "Traumatic Transformations" theme. While less overtly fantastical than Belladonna of Sadness or even the forthcoming Mysterious Skin, it dabbles in fairy tale by lacing The Pied Piper throughout its own text, in image, word, and even music. There is also a sense, reminiscent of Twin Peaks, that on a metaphorical level the town's tragedy is generated by Nicole's trauma. This is especially palpable in the final, moving shot, which matches well with similar images from Belladonna and Skin (I've used all three frames for their podcast icons). Bright light overwhelms the viewer, paradoxically evoking the character's traumas as well as their attempts to transcend them.

Subscribe, rate, and review on Apple Podcasts

You can also listen on Pinecast and Spotify

(and most places podcasts are found)

The Olympic Films, part 4 of 7: Summer 1976 / 1972 / 1968 & Winter 1972 / 1976 / 1980

Visit the full directory

for the introduction & line-up of monthly capsules

running from August 2021 to February 2022

Atanarjuat (Best of the 21st Century?)

#93 in Best of the 21st Century?, a series in which I view, for the first time, some of the most critically acclaimed films of the previous decade.

While he is an infant, Atanarjuat's family goes hungry. The boy's father, an outcast and laughing-stock, can’t hunt to save his life – literally; the other men tease him, asking if his wife will hunt while he stays behind, sewing and cooking. That's humiliation in this community of hardy hunters; still, the hunger must be worse than humiliation. Atanarjuat is too young to comprehend the situation, but his elder brother Amaqjuaq soaks it all in grimly – particularly the mother’s advice: “You must never forget to take care of Atanarjuat.” Somberly, the little boy reaches up to his baby brother, holding out a scrap of walrus heart (which a friend of the family, pitying their destitution, smuggled in to the starving brood). Tellingly, the half-asleep infant does not respond – it’s as if even at this early age he is confident in his own ability to survive, and perhaps complacent in the sense that his family will take care of him.

When we meet Atanarjuat and Amaqjuaq as adults (played by Natar Ungalaaq and Pakak Innuksuk), the big brother is still looking out for the little one. Atanarjuat is a skilled runner and hunter, weak and dreamy in other respects, but holding onto his lifelong faith in survival and confidence in family security. In the course of this striking and stirring epic, that second feeling will diminish drastically, as Atanarjuat is forced to look out for himself. But that first feeling – the confidence in survival – will only grow, and be based on a firmer foundation, because indeed Atanarjuat (the “fast runner” of the English title) will endure what kills other men, and the experience will only make him stronger.

My Winnipeg (Best of the 21st Century?)

#88 in Best of the 21st Century?, a series in which I view, for the first time, some of the most critically acclaimed films of the previous decade.

My Winnipeg filters municipal history through personal experience (or perhaps vice-versa) so forgive me if I do something similar for a moment. Besides, my initial draft of this review was swept away - demolished like the old ice rink shown above - and in starting afresh, I feel compelled to make a meta-blogging and perhaps self-promotional detour. Lately I've been blogging rather furiously, trying to meet the demands of a new schedule I forced upon myself; as a result I am often composing my posts at the last minute (as opposed to this past summer where a leisurely pace allowed ample time to develop entries at my own tempo). Due to the way I've scheduled things, I end up writing a post in my Wind in the Willows series and the latest entry in "Best of the 21st Century?" every Monday night, and this week I noticed some similarities. To wit: in "Wayfarers, All," a late and seemingly digressive chapter in Kenneth Grahame's classic book, the Water Rat meets a Sea Rat who regales him with tales of the Mediterranean; transfixed, the hypnotized creature - who's never left the riverside before - prepares to follow his newfound friend on a grand adventure. He is stopped, at the last minute, by his faithful but perhaps somewhat oppressive pal, Mole, who physically restrains him and then talks him down from the dizzying height of his wanderlust. Thus "cured" of his restlessness, a depressed Rat sits at his desk and scribbles out some poetry about willow wrens.

The Tracey Fragments

The title is quite literal, as this film - the story of a sullen girl in love with the cool new outsider boy, and guilty over the disappearance of her brother, for which her parents blame her - is told in fragments. Not just fragments of narrative, but fragments of the screen, with multiple views popping up and down, left and right, all over our monitor (and this seems a film much more suited for the small screen than the big one, lest its cacophony become overwhelming). This is a risky formal gambit, but surprisingly both story and action remain easy enough to follow, however mixed up the chronology and mise en scene. What's more, the style - while not exactly as expressive of adolescent confusion and mental exhaustion as the authors may hope - does indeed complement the subject and add to the delivery. Unfortunately, none of this can compensate for a perfunctory screenplay; in comparison to its potential, The Tracey Fragments adds up to less than the sum of said fragments.