The Toronto International Film Festival was great. I attended for the first time this year, but for only a couple of days. I am not sure which I enjoyed more: the films themselves, of course, but also talking to people in line and waiting for the film to begin, and just listening to the buzz of all the conversations. The volunteers were wonderful;I clapped for them at every film. The Bell Lightbox, where I viewed the first two films, provides state-of-the-art projection and sound. Getting tickets at 7:00 a.m. is a great idea and according to a chap from Nebraska I talked to in the row in front at the screening of The Artist, not a common practice at other film festivals.
I had time to see only four films. Oddly enough, they were all period pieces. Wuthering Heights was set in the 1850s; Alfred Nobbs and A Dangerous Method, at the turn of the last century. The one I enjoyed the most was The Artist, a silent movie set in the 1930s.
Ironically, for a movie with no dialogue, it was the most articulate of them all. Directed by Michel Hazanavicius, it was witty and charming with just the right number of twists and turns and surprises as far as the plot was concerned. As well, Hazanavicius provided subtle commentary on the art of film-making and audience appeal. I felt for the characters! Judging from the applause, other film-goers loved it too. I couldn’t stay for the Q&A, alas, but rushed to the next film: Wuthering Heights.
Wuthering Heights was the most disappointing of the four for me because of the decision noted by director Andrea Arnold to deliberately omit the great speeches in the book. She told the story from Heathcliff’s point of view. Her petulant and unloved Heathciff spent a lot of time brooding in doorways and glaring through keyholes. What with wind blowing, curses flying, rain pelting, blows thudding, and branches scraping in pathetic fallacy, there was not a lack of sound in the film, but it got repetitious all too quickly. The film was too long. We were given the point about dark passion and alienation - and we got it - over and over again!
Alfred Nobbs was oddly stilted and, considering the necessarily repressed nature of the title character, not in a good way. The conceit of having a woman concealing herself as a manservant did not engage me on a feeling level to the degree I would have liked - perhaps because we were in on the disguise it too soon - or maybe too suddenly. Apparently director Rodrigo Garcia chose not to tell the story using a narrative voice-over. This was a mistake. According to Garcia, in the short story on which the film is based, the point of view is provided by a small boy who is puzzled by what he sees. The fictional boy was apparently based on the childhood experience of the short story authors, George Moore and John Banville. The boy’s curiosity should be our curiosity. The little boy appeared in the film but after the fact, and therefore, for no particular narrative purpose. For me, the film lacked a sense of the incremental stripping away of the secret about Nobes. Anyhow, I want to read the original short story. The film faltered somewhat in comparison to The Remains of the Day (repressed life), A Crying Game (hiding gender/ cross dressing) and Gosford Park (class distinction).
Finally, A Dangerous Method will raise the ire of both Jung’s family and his uncritical worshippers and unfortunately likely bore everyone else. David Cronenberg has no reservations that Jung and Sabina Spielrein were lovers – a scandalizing assertion for many in the former two groups. But beautiful cinematography will likely not redeem this film’s endless talkiness for everyone else. The long, long conversations were based on the letters of the Jung, Freud and Spielrein. Emma Jung was given somewhat short shrift. All the well-known (to Jungians ) stories were there: yes, there was the talk therapy, the cracking bookcase, the discussion of dreams which Freud refused to participate in, Jung’s dream of the red tide of blood just prior to the First World War. But unless you knew these events are [Capital S] Significant, they just seem very static. The circumstances under which Jung wrote the Red Book would have been much more conducive to film, which rises or falls on images and action (whether internal or external).
Anyhow, I wish I could have stayed for the whole week. So many films; so little time! I can hardly wait until next year.
Àlso, perhaps Glenn Close as Alfred was just too old for the young woman séhe wanted to rescue!
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