With his stirring documentary Afghan Stories, director Taran Davies puts a unique spin on the aftermath of the September 11th terrorist attacks. Instead of focusing on the United States (or New York in particular), Davies concentrates on Afghanistan, which has been at war for 24 years. Afghan Stories is really one man’s desire to learn about the country that the United States bombed. Davies quit his financial job soon after September 11th to concentrate fully on directing—that Afghan Stories is dear to his heart vibrantly resonates throughout the picture.

The film really shines with its attention to various aspects of Afghan life, and the attitudes that the inhabitants and natives possess. Davies is accompanied on his trip to Afghanistan by Walied Osman, an Afghan-American from Brooklyn. We’re introduced to him early on, and despite never having lived in Afghanistan, he has a burning desire to aid the revival of his country. This is both startling and educational; Osman’s understated compassion for Afghanistan feels quietly shattering. The unpretentious direction never seems strained, despite the great pressure that Davies was under while filming (being in a strange, war-ravaged contry), and it’s the main reason that Afghan Stories succeeds as a film, rather than feeling like a history lesson.

During their journey, the duo encounters the following:

• A former member of the Afghan royal family who was tortured by the Taliban, and now lives in Queens. His hatred for the Taliban and the country is searing. He says, “We should drop an atomic bomb on Afghanistan and start from scratch.”

• An Afghan family of refugees that was denied visas, and thus can’t leave the country to be with their family in Canada.

• An elder who’s revered like a King.

• A construction worker who has recently completed a new road, in an attempt to do his part to heal the tattered countrysides.

All have different opinions on what needs to be done to rebuild Afghanistan and allow it to prosper. Davies uses a handheld camera to capture not only the characters and their dialogue (the film is half English, half subtitled), but the rugged Afghan scenery. Handheld cameras often produce somewhat choppy visuals and here is no exception, but it feels oddly fitting, considering the turmoil that Afghanistan was mired in during the shooting. Hence, the aforementioned scenery feels eerily distant, but no less beautiful.

If there’s a problem with Afghan Stories, it’s that the film feels too short. At just 58 minutes, less time is spent developing certain characters, leaving an occasional superficial, glossed-over feel. A lot of time was obviously spent in the editing room, perhaps too much. There’s no reason this couldn’t have been a 90 minute documentary that would have ultimately been slightly more fulfilling. As it stands, though, Afghan Stories is a rewarding and almost essential look at the other side of terrorism: it’s not just the United States that feels the pain.

3/4

Above all, William Shakespeare’s calling card is his poetry, his unmistakable delicacy with words. Both his sonnets and plays exhibit a verbal dexterity simply not found elsewhere. Throne of Blood, Akira Kurosawa’s searing adaptation of Macbeth, fluidly weaves Shakespeare’s fluid lyricism with a distinct Japanese flavor. Of the countless deft touches that permeate in waves throughout Throne of Blood, none are more effective than Kurosawa’s decision to portray Lady Macbeth (here called Lady Asaji) as a quiet assassin. Whereas Lady Macbeth is wildly vicious throughout Shakespeare’s play, Lady Asaji is a sharp contrast—her calculated, almost peaceful manner of communicating her dark wishes chills the soul to its core. She resorts to emotion only as a last resort, such as when an intoxicated Washizu begins seeing visions of Miki, whom he had ordered killed just a short time before.

As Washizu drunkenly reprimands Miki’s ghost amidst a room of confused onlookers, we see Asaji’s immaculate persona begin to waver for the first time. Unable to remain quiet with her dark schemes in jeopardy of being ruined by too much sake, she quickly rises and hastens around the room, feverishly trying to explain Washizu’s actions to their guests. Asaji’s outburst is so out of character that it initially startles us, but eventually enhances our vile impression of the demonic woman. By painting Asaji with both soft devilry and desperation, Kurosawa exposes her internal rotting better than Shakespeare himself.

The intricacies involved with Macbeth’s downfall are plentiful, but Kurosawa doesn’t shy away from them. Instead, he fluidly portrays Washizu’s descent from respected leader to dark lord. It’s a gradual collapse that’s convincing every step of the way. At 105 minutes, Throne of Blood is one of Kurosawa’s shorter films but it’s also his most rewarding. The character development is unusual in that it often requires analyzing surrounding characters to understand anybody’s motives and goals. Of course, Toshirô Mifune’s performance as Washizu makes this easy; he’s an emotionally-charged whirlwind. Shrugging aside all caution, Mifune roars, shudders, contemplates, and lurks his way to his best performance of all. With and without words, he communicates his innermost struggles and torments.

Throne of Blood‘s photography is sumptuous. Mist consumes and blankets the land with uneasiness, while extreme close-ups capture sweaty droplets clinging desperately to a warriors’ nose, not ready to die just yet. High-angle shots portray the ghostly trees of Spider-Web Forest gracefully swaying in the evening breeze, commanding the entire screen. We’re later treated to an eerie parallel during the film’s savage conclusion, when arrows rain on a defiant Washizu atop his castle. As they embed themselves in the walls, they slowly assume the shape of the forest itself and hem the doomed man in, just as the towering woods enveloped him during his initial run-in with the witch.

Kurosawa’s lengthy filmography boasts plenty of grand achievments, but Throne of Blood is his finest hour. While staying faithful to the spirit of Shakespeare’s work, it achieves a dark individuality that most adaptations can only dream of. At the risk of sounding presumptuous, I think Throne of Blood frequently surpasses its maker—for instance, it eliminate any staginess from Washizu’s first encounter with the witch. With Criterion’s sparkling new DVD transfer, there’s no excuse to miss this one. Brush up on your Shakespeare and cinematic knowledge in one delicious stroke.

92/100

Clocking in at just 71 minutes, Roberto Rossellini’s Germany Year Zero, set in the ruins of Post-War Germany, contains enough despondency to satisfy the most pessimistic of neo-realists. A ravaged family is slowly being ripped apart by malnutrition and poverty. With his father bed-ridden and his brother Karl-Heinz afraid to show himself (being a former Nazi, he’s subject to imprisonment), 12-year-old Edmund is forced to shoulder the complete weight of supporting his family. He tries to find an honest job but is rebuffed because of his age—from there, he resorts to the black market and thievery. Despite exceptional bravery, Edmund is still a child forced by default into being a man, and his judgement falters many times. His desire to save his family burns so strongly that the viewer takes every misstep personally. Germany Year Zero never ceases striking home viciously.

Unlike the moving neo-realist films of Vittorio De Sica, Germany Year Zero is completely uncompromising. Rossellini’s bravery to shoot in Germany so soon after WWII can’t be taken for granted. Never does hope feel present, as people on the streets rip chunks out of a dead horse to bring home to their starving families and Hitler’s voice resonates from a record player in a destroyed building. By the final ten minutes of the picture, Edmund’s failures leave him feeling completely abandoned and alone. Even the street urchins playing soccer coldly shun him. The image of Edmund wandering the ruins, a beaten child, won’t soon be forgotten by anyone who sees Germany Year Zero. However, the real star of the show is the devastated city itself. Its bleak and shattered state is indicative of Edmund and everyone like him in post-War times. There’s rarely a shot that doesn’t portray the utter hopelesness of Edmund’s situation, and it makes his eventual fate feel almost inevitable, if no less wrenching as a result. With the United States currently at war with Iraq, Germany Year Zero is likely to hit home on a more personal level as well.

4/4

Miracle in Milan is a delight. Unlike director Vittorio De Sica’s masterpieces The Bicycle Thief and Umberto D, it is not an emotionally gripping film. Rather, it’s a satire of an emotionally gripping film. Even during its darkest moments, a cheerful score accompanies the onscreen events and the mood never blackens. Miracle in Milan represents the dreams of homeless people everywhere—an angel swooping down and giving them the better life. De Sica treats it as such—a dream. There’s a wonderful scene in the first 30 minutes where the vagabonds stage a sunset at dusk, lining up chairs and collecting money from those who wish to view it. This is as close as we get to De Sica’s usual neo-realism. From then on, the film comfortably dissolves into fantasy. The final shot of the homeless flying away on broomsticks, quite daring for its time, is an image of the fantastical.

Symbolism that would feel too obvious elsewhere seems natural here. A broken statue is discovered in a car trunk in the junkyard and two of the squatters fix it up and display it proudly at the central square. In Mobbi’s office, where Toto leads a group to protest their eviction, a statue of Michelangelo’s David stands behind Mobbi’s desk. The contrast of sneering wealth versus timid poverty is quietly sarcastic, as is Miracle in Milan at its heart. Aldo Graziati’s cinematography alternates between bleak and upbeat, capturing De Sica’s visual style; a touch of depression, a large splash of hope. Emphasis is placed on faces; the camera focuses on the eyes of those who look beaten and those filled with hope. By the end of the film, it consists almost exclusively of the latter. We care deeply for Umberto in Umberto D because his plight feels so authentic. Miracle in Milan is a fairy tale—it even begins, “Once upon a time.” We rarely pity Toto despite his harsh situation. He won’t let us pity him for he won’t stop smiling. And we smile right along with him.

4/4

Superior to the pretentious Russian Ark, Aleksandr Sokurov’s Mother and Son is full of suffering and painful adulation but never achieves the complete transcendence it aims for. Mother and Son is the tale of two in the most literal sense: a dying woman of about 60 and her adoring son comprise the entire cast. Nobody else makes even a small cameo. Sokurov immediately announces his intentions by opening the film with six minutes of tight framing, filling the screen with two wounded faces. It’s completely clear that this is their world. Sokurov successfully conveys the son’s incredible devotion and puppy-dog love for his mother without stooping to sentimentality. Shots are drawn out to capture the somber mood; we see the duo in silence, we see them with birds chirping. We see them with soft music playing, we see them with just the wind purring. We see them in sorrow, we see them attempting to console each other. In just 66 minutes, the director tackles almost every emotion that two such people could endure. Frequently, the boy almost feels like the parent, as his mother lies pale and withered in his lap. The distorted visuals (Sokurov used a special lens when filming) create a dreamy atmosphere in the peaceful nature, indicative of the unhappy blend of tranquility and misery that lingers throughout the picture. The only touch of an outside influence is a train, slowly chugging through in the background near the end of the film. Its presence is reminiscent of Yasujiro Ozu’s infatuation with locomotives, fitting as the patient style of these directors is remarkably similar. For all of its accomplishments, though, Mother and Son isn’t without its problems. Shots frequently go on for too long, as four-minute takes indicate what two minutes easily could. Despite its short length, Mother and Son still manages to feel overstuffed: at forty minutes, it might’ve been a minor masterpiece. Touches of self-indulgence also rear their head, especially during a letter entitled “memoir to Aleksandr.” Might it be the director tooting his own horn? Nonetheless, the positives in Mother and Son outweigh its deficiencies. It’s Tarkovksy-lite with less religion, more humanity, and not quite the directorial touch.

mixed (+)

Dario Argento’s reputation is lofty in Italy and Suspiria gives Americans a good glimpse as to why. The dialogue is occasionally laughable but the rest of the horror elements are excellent and result in that rarity: a genuinely scary movie. Suzy, a young dancer, goes to a ballet school in Germany to complete her training. Upon her arrival, she sees a young girl leaving the premises in an apparent panic. The next day, the girl is gruesomely murdered. This triggers a chain reaction of terrible occurrences in the school. The storyline isn’t particularly unique—it has in fact been told many times in various forms—but what it lacks in originality, it compensates for with style and fluid direction. Because Argento realizes the importance of atmosphere, the visuals in Suspiria are flawless. The color schemes are vibrant but never appear artificial; they contrast with shadows to create a powerful aura of fear. Argento takes his time with the camera, often slowly tracking the character on screen to evoke a sense of dread. Among the many memorable shots are an extreme high-angle shot that looks down upon the campus and a hypnotic look at Suzy creeping down a dark corridor, rain reflected on the shadowy walls. The score (by the band Goblin) is eerie and nicely accompanies the direction. Wisely, Argento doesn’t overuse it; he’s clearly aware that silence is often the scariest sound of all. Suspiria has several gory deaths but heightens its suspense primarily via the unknown. The previously mentioned camerawork and pacing are so good throughout its 98 minutes that we rarely feel safe. The final revelations aren’t especially difficult to discern and ultimately are a tad unrewarding but Argento never takes his foot off the atmospheric pedal, and the anxiety in the viewer lingers until the credits begin to roll.

3.5/4