Silence (2016)

Set in the 17th century, "Silence" tells the story of Father Rodrigues and Father Garupe, two Jesuit priests who travel to Japan to propagate the Christian faith, and also to find out what happened to their mentor Father Ferreira who vanished years ago, amid mass persecution of the followers of Christianity in Japan, where the religion is officially outlawed.

The mission proves to be an ultimate test of faith for Father Rodrigues (Andrew Garfield) as he struggles to find hope in a scenario where believers continue to live in fear, and the unfortunate ones face torture and death, for their refusal to renounce Christianity. Along his journey, Rodrigues occasionally questions God's unbearable silence in the face of rampant atrocity.

Having seen and loved the 1971 Masahiro Shinoda adaptation of the Shûsaku Endô novel, I couldn't help but go into comparison mode whilst viewing and reviewing Martin Scorsese's version. The Shinoda version is definitely superior in every way, but Scorsese is not too far behind, and certainly packs a searing punch with some of his own expert touches that are unique to his version of the film.

For one, the film is a visual feast; the cinematography is gorgeous, the visuals are awe-inspiring with a pitch-perfect atmosphere and a chilling opening sequence that is straight out of a nightmare! Scorsese's version is longer and perhaps more dramatic as compared to Shinoda's more objective, yet highly effective and better story-telling style.

Scorsese adds some powerful and surreal imagery including the aforementioned opening sequence depicting torture at the hot springs accompanied by Father Ferreira's (Liam Neeson) hair-raising description of  the method of torture in a voice-over. Another striking scene is that of Father Rodrigues' hallucinatory vision of the distorted reflection of Christ in the stream as he goes ballistic.

One of the things handled better and accentuated here is a sense of constant danger and a feeling of mistrust. The priests find themselves venturing in an unknown land under the guidance of an unreliable alcoholic and they are always anxious as to what would await them next. This boosts an element of suspense, for the viewer is equally in doubt whenever a new person comes in contact with the priests and offers to take them somewhere; whether he/she will betray or whether they would take them to their destination. A boat journey in the night highlights this aspect, as Rodrigues suddenly feels disconcerted about his boatman. 

However, Scorsese somewhat waters down some of the other cardinal sequences that were the highlights of the Shinoda film. The capture of Father Rodrigues and the conversation between him and the main antagonist, Inoue (Of concubines and Christianity!) fail to produce the same impact as did Shinoda's version.

Even Inoue's caricature-like portrayal as an effeminate old man (Issey Ogata) with over the top mannerisms is disappointing as compared to Eiji Okada's restrained, gentlemanly depiction of the opponent with a smiling face in the original. Ditto for the characterization of Kichijiro; the weak Christian who displays more human traits than Christian, upholding life over religion but ultimately torn in a never-ending conflict of faith. The weakness was more palpable in the Shinoda version; here he comes off more as a conniving, unremorseful betrayer except in but one scene in the final hour.

Scorsese also completely omits one great sequence from the Shinoda film, the horse hooves torture, that is somewhat difficult to watch. This scene is replaced by a rather quick and tame beheading scene, seen from a distance. 

Rodrigues' voice-over reports, presumably conveyed in letters, are also quite unsubtle, hammering in God's deafening silence, as experienced by him, once too many times. The ending is extended in the Scorsese version showing us more of the fate of Father Rodrigues. Shinoda's way of ending it is bleaker and much better. 

It is good to see Liam Neeson in a serious, meaningful role after a long time. The leads Andrew Garfield and Adam Driver appear a little too young compared to the leads in Shinoda's film. Not sure how they were written in the novel though, that would perhaps make it clearer if they were miscast. Driver doesn't get much scope in his short screen time. Garfield does well, and maybe it is just me, but he lacks the mature persona that a role like this demands.

While Shinoda tells the same story in a more concise, to the point fashion, Scorsese goes for a more sprawling, epic scope, and comes up with a superb product in its own right, but falls short of matching up to the brilliance of the 1971 masterpiece.


Score: 9/10 

A Night to Remember (1958)

Forget James Cameron's "Titanic" (1997), that mawkish melodrama, most remembered for the Jack-Rose steamy romance, rather than the colossal tragedy that was supposed to be the ultimate takeaway. Roy Ward Baker's "A Night to Remember" (1958), based on Walter Lord's book of the same name, did a much better job. No needless romanticism, no emotional manipulation, no fictional characters; just fully focused, straight-out chronicling of the final hours of the unsinkable ship, with a number of tiny episodes revolving around tiny characters that linger in your memory long after the final frame.

Just half an hour into the film, after warming us up to the environment and the characters, the ship makes its fatal collision with the dreaded iceberg, and its final one and half hour, as estimated by the ship's designer Andrews (Michael Goodliffe), begins to unfold.

Notable is how the film does not concentrate on the one supposed protagonist, Second officer Lightoller (Kenneth More), but rather on a multitude of other secondary characters as all of them share a disastrous fate, and not to intend any pun, are sailing on the same boat! Although we know the outcome, the Eric Ambler/Roy Baker team of writer/director ensures tautness all the way through. 

As the ship sinks, so do our hearts, when any hope of help arriving on time is thwarted, thanks to the infuriatingly clumsy behavior of the crew of the Californian just ten miles away! The writers seem to have taken real life accounts from survivors. Did it really happen this way? The neglect of such monumental proportions is baffling; help wasn't extended when it was only a stone's throw away. Imagine the number of lives that would've been saved in this completely avoidable catastrophe!

The inevitable eventually happens, as it happened, in the most unimaginably brutal fashion. Pandemonium gradually builds up, and the race for survival begins and ends in a devastating culmination. While we, the viewers watch the horror unfold with bated breaths, from the comfort of our living rooms, one shudders to imagine what the passengers must have actually gone through on that fateful night, as they gave in to the call of death.

The camera work and effects are most astonishing for the 50s, barring the visibly fake iceberg. For instance, the ingenious technique of shifting an entire set by a hydraulic mechanism, to produce a tilting effect, complete with the creaking sounds intact, is a masterstroke. So is the gentle rocking effect of a floating ship that gives you a feeling of actually being a part of the action. Among the many haunting images that are a direct result of these effects, are the ones of the soup/food cart gliding across the dining hall, as does the rocking horse.

No words for the band of musicians and their attempts to "soothe the nerves". That is some hearty courage on display. It is all the more believable though, for music has an unparalleled strength, and it keeps them going.

Some of the faces that stay in memory despite having minuscule roles are:

1. One of the youths from the steerage (perhaps an inspiration for Cameron to extend and write the character of Jack?).

2. The man with three children, who seeks the direct truth from Andrews; and mouths the chilling lines - "I take it you and I may both be in the same boat later".

3. The baker who guzzles scotch: "All roads lead to Rome", and in a quirky turn of events, survives the chilled waters owing to the alcohol content in his body!

4. The old man who takes in a lost child looking for his mom and comforts him 'til the end (most heartbreaking).

5. The recurring image of a man desperately clinging on to two wooden chairs (?) in order to help stay afloat later, but ultimately loses them as the ship makes its final plunge.

6. The snobbish first class passengers who gamble and drink away at a table being blissfully ignorant of the chaos outside; only when the whisky in the glass tilts to a considerable extent, is anything even noticed! "You can't sink this boat, that's certain", exclaims one of them. The unsinkable nature of Titanic is often talked about in the film; and more so coming from this elite class of individuals, perhaps in a way mocking their arrogance and overconfidence about the infallibility of man-made technological advancements against nature's great power.

One wonders though, if in an attempt to keep the melodrama at bay and maintain a mostly objective view of the tragedy, did the filmmaker go overboard with the stoic characterizations of Lightoller and Andrews? It is doubtful if it is an acting fault, and the body language including facial expressions of both these men seem to exhibit that they are strangely unperturbed by the events happening around them. If you are gonna face certain death soon, how could you remain cool and smile on occasion? Granted, one may not necessarily start taking giant panic breaths or go hysterical, but there is such a thing as being too calm!

Andrews does display a silent acceptance of defeat and hopelessness in but one shot. But Lightoller seems to be made of stone all along. Even after the ship finally sinks and he commands the overturned boat, the lines he utters and the way he utters them with a slight frown and nothing more, seems as though he came out of some very mundane episode and not a disaster as mammoth as it really was.

Nonetheless, Baker and team have given us a controlled, thoroughly restrained and what is perhaps the best celluloid depiction of one of the deadliest disasters humankind has ever seen. Wish Cameron had taken a lesson or two about directing from this film, instead of shamelessly replicating some scenes and lines in his bloated blockbuster.

Score: 9/10

Valley of the Bees (Údolí Včel) (1968)

***NOTE: The following analysis/review may contain MILD SPOILERS regarding some detail in the film, but not to the extent of making the film viewing experience any lesser.***

"Suffering is the way to God".

Welcome to the dark ages, where ignorance and religious fanaticism looms large. These are the medieval times in an unknown century, presumably the fourteenth. It is the era of the Christian Military Orders, societies of Knights with a common purpose of propagating and defending their faith. Men who commit to the life of the Order have to lead harsh lifestyles. This includes, vows of celibacy, rigorous fasting, praying, and ultimately defending the honour of their religion and faith. Deserting the Order is a punishable offense, and anyone found guilty of doing so would be tagged a traitor and could face death by some of the worst methods.

Some of these men, however, don't necessarily commit to the Order on their own accord. A few are forced into it for various reasons. They are perhaps too young to realize what they are getting into, or are paying for the sins of their fathers. In such a scenario, there are those who choose to flee. They desire the good life, settle down, marry, have kids. And why not? It's only human. But then, it's a sin to even think like that, for by doing so, you are betraying Jesus Christ. With such unpleasant ideas instilled in these men, it is not unthinkable that some have doubts, and face a strong crisis of faith. But the Order claims that they have weakened and pray that God forgive them their weakness!

František Vláčil's "Valley of the Bees" (1968) takes us right at the heart of such a grim universe. A teenaged Ondrej, angered that his much older father is marrying a girl his age in their large castle, gifts his new mother a basketful of flowers, beneath which there turn out to be a number of half-dead bats! Enraged at the insult to his new bride, Ondrej's father flings his son on a wall, badly hurting him. Calming down the next instant and regretting his act, though, the father prays that his son's life be saved, in return for which, he vows to send his son to the Order so he can dedicate the rest of his life to serving God.

Several years pass by and Ondrej grows up to be a man (Petr Cepek) in the Order, and in the process, strikes a warm friendship with his mentor, Armin (Jan Kacer). An unforeseen chain of events leads to Ondrej ultimately fleeing from the Order and seeking a path back home. A dejected Armin vows to find Ondrej and bring him back.

Vláčil tells a story that is reasonably simple, but rife with complex themes, addressing subjects like crisis of faith and the established concepts of sin and redemption. Ondrej eventually returns home to find his father dead and his stepmother Lenora grown into a beautiful woman (Vera Galatíková). Not surprisingly, there is an instant attraction, but it is sinful to have such feelings for each other, for in effect, they are mother and son, even though they've hardly known each other or lived with that kind of a bond. Both, supposed devout Christians are now faced with a huge dilemma.

Lenora flogs herself in one scene, presumably as punishment for having lustful thoughts about her stepson. But when he does make advances, she rejects them, although she seems to want him. She sighs in silence and looks on in helpless desperation when she overhears Ondrej and the maids discuss about an impossibility of there being any children in the courtyard to make it a livelier place. Quite ironically, in a bid to save the dying local Church, the priest Father Blasius (Michal Kozuch) agrees to marry off Ondrej and his stepmother, thus letting them officially sin in return for a donation!

While Ondrej is the apparent lead character here, it is the character of Armin that acts as a driving force in putting forth several of the stronger themes. Armin's desperation to bring Ondrej back may be a result of a homosexual undercurrent, although it is not made explicit. There are scenes to suggest that men committed to the Order experience a sexual urge towards their fellow knights.

One particular bawdy-looking man seems to make advances at Armin, which he rejects. The entire scene is pulled off in an implicit manner and one may even fail to notice that any such thing is implied. At one point Armin who doesn't make an eye contact with a woman says, "Men of the order do not look at women", almost serving as a veiled reference to homosexuality being a norm in sects such as the one Armin comes from!

On at least two occasions, other characters point out that Armin's body feels cold. This serves as a metaphorical reference for how dead Armin really is! All the life has been sucked out of him. He is the trained robot of the Order, a stubborn protector of the faith, one who wouldn't relent and will abide by the rules 'til the very end. There appears to be a direct attack on the rigid dogmatism of any religion, sect or organization in general. It wouldn't be wrong to think of "Valley of the Bees" as a veiled critique of the authoritarian and harsh ways of the Communist government, considering the film was released in 1968, the decade of the very important Czech new wave. Armin's stuck up ways and the authoritarianism of the head of the sect enforcing rules, very much mirrors communist traits.

A lot of ambiguity surrounds the character of Armin and his motivations, especially pertaining to his acts in the final third. Apart from the homosexual subtext discussed above, there also appears to be a strong sense of jealousy stemming from a false sense of pride and accomplishment in the faith of the Order. A very intense conversation takes place between Armin and Father Blasius. Armin vents: "Why should only the virtuous die of cold and hunger in their cells? The others live without faith and multiply like ants". Armin is left with a sense of disbelief and an obvious crisis. What good is his dedication to the Order, following all the rules, while the one who breaks them, Ondrej, is about to begin a happy life with a woman. A devastated Armin feels forsaken by God when he simply cannot come to terms with the fact that Ondrej is a much happier man, despite his supposed betrayal of Christ. And therefore, what actually drives Armin to take that final drastic step, is open to interpretation.

A film as dark, and of such intense magnitude needed a storytelling style just as dark and disquieting, and Vláčil ensures that he does justice. His film is a marvel of a period piece that puts you right in the midst of the middle ages. The attention to detail, the costumes, the sets, everything is authentic to the hilt. The poetic filming style and the bleak, black and white cinematography ensures that every frame evokes a sense of despair and desolation. 

A brooding atmosphere and a sublime, hypnotic score evoking gloom and loneliness adds to the experience and literally makes the viewer feel the chill of those godforsaken times. The long shots overlooking the castles, the fortresses and their interiors emanate a ghostly aura and a sense of foreboding. For all its style, the film would probably not have been as effective had it not been for the exceptional performances from a great primary cast of three. The actors completely understand their characters and their inner conflicts and end up delivering powerful, convincing performances.

František Vláčil's "Valley of the Bees" is a masterpiece of Czech cinema, a dark saga that has such enormous power, it will likely leave you gazing at the screen long after the final frame.

Score: 10/10

Witchhammer (1970)

In 1678, somewhere in the Northern Moravian region of the (now) Czech Republic, an old beggar woman was spotted hiding a piece of the sacramental bread during a communion in a church. When the priest present there confronted her and demanded an explanation for her action, she begged forgiveness and said she was carrying it for a certain other woman, whose cow had stopped giving milk. They believed the holy wafer would make the cow give milk again! The priest reported the matter to the countess, and upon discussing with some others, it was concluded that the women were not victims of some superstitious beliefs, but rather, practitioners of witchcraft!

A witch commission led by an ex-inquisitor by the name of Boblig was formed. Boblig was given all the powers to do whatever was deemed necessary to get rid of witchcraft in the countess's estate. Driven by a greed for wealth, power and recognition, Boblig commenced his trials starting with three women, which triggered a chain reaction of false accusations, wrongful arrests, and forced confessions by the most barbarous acts of medieval third degree torture.

All this eventually led to execution by burning at the stake, of hundreds of innocents including a well-respected priest. This gross injustice continued for almost eighteen years 'til Boblig's death. He went on amassing the wealth of the people he prosecuted, and no one could do anything about it. Those who dared protest, were implicated as well. This is no fable. It is a true story; a dark chapter in the history of Moravia, that witnessed one of the worst faces of human moral corruption ever.

Václav Kaplický penned a novel on these events, which was later adapted by director Otakar Vávra in his sledge hammer of a film aptly titled "Witchhammer" (1970). The film came out towards the end of the most rebellious movement in cinema, the Czech New Wave. Vávra in his stark, dark film pulls no punches and delivers a brutal, gut-wrenching slab of cinema that leaves you feeling appalled and helpless.

It is an era that is incredibly medieval, literally as well as figuratively, where religion and superstition dominate to the extreme, and heretics face censure and punishment for anything that goes against the established Catholic beliefs. It also appears to be commonly accepted that witches exist and they meet at some local meeting place called Peter's Rock, where they indulge in all sorts of sacrilegious activities including fornication with the devil! Anyone suspected of even going near that place is subject to persecution and death by burning if charges of witchcraft are proven against him/her!

In such a scenario, the ugly face of religious extremism and dogmatism reveals itself. The incident of the old beggar woman, as it happened, acts as a starting point and thus ensues, a series of events that beggars the imagination. Meaningless arrests, confessions forced out of innocent women and men by cruel methods including subjecting to the rack and the thumbscrews, and eventually the unjust execution of these hapless beings by burning at the stake in public presence. The older women are left to suffer insufferable pain and beating while the more younger women also become a victim of the lust of their captors. A humiliating full body examination of a woman becomes an excuse, to find the devil's mark which could very well be a mole!

All this at the hands of a hungry madman who begins to love and strives to maintain his authority. Vávra intersperses shots of a cloaked monk standing in the shadows, mumbling misogynist recitation, presumably from the Malleus Maleficarum, a 15th century book on the prosecution of witches, juxtaposed against the film's steady buildup to atrocities of increasing magnitude. The monk's more horror-fiction-like chilling narration reveals an irony in the film's brutally realistic proceedings. Who is really at one with the devil here? The punished or the punisher?

This reviewer was blissfully unaware that the film is a historically true account of actual events that happened in the 17th century on this very planet and hence upon the realization of the same, the impact was all the more powerful. Injustice of this ghastly nature went on for years, and nobody did anything to stop it. Whatever happened to humanity back then? How does a lousy, sloppy innkeeper who served drinks in an empty inn suddenly begin to control people's lives? It all boggles the mind!

But then one realizes that it wasn't just in those days that such things happened. This is a classic example to give to explain historic recurrence. The trials happened in the 17th century. Similar witch trials happened in colonial Massachusetts around the same time (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salem_witch_trials). In the 20th century, happened the Communist regime that led to the said film movement, the Czech New Wave.

Obviously, Otakar Vávra drew parallels between Václav Kaplický's novel based on the real incidents then, and the real incidents now (during the 60s in Czechoslovakia) and in a move of genius, presented a veiled allegory in the form of a historical drama! The dig at the Communist Government and their unjust, haphazard ways starts getting clearer when there seems to be no respite of any sort, and one begins to see where the film is going. A power-drunk Boblig blurts out in an empty dining hall: "I have moved forward. All it takes is courage, a firm goal and no scruples. I am at the top". Isn't that true of essentially any Fascist leader?

Similarly, albeit also in contrast, during the era of US Senator Joseph McCarthy in the 1950s, there was McCarthyism, the anti-communist movement, which was characterized by reckless accusations of disloyalty and communist tendencies against thousands of Americans. There was a similar fear campaign against communist infiltration in the US government much like the paranoia surrounding infiltration by the witches among God-fearing Christians as depicted in the film. History indeed does repeat itself then!

A major theme explored in the film is that of the credibility of torture as a means of extorting out a confession and an ultimate means to reach the truth. One of the characters in the film even spells out this aspect when he says that one shouldn't underestimate bodily pain. It then brings to mind several contemporary situations, like methods used post 9/11 and other such instances where third degree torture is inflicted and relied on to incriminate someone. But how much truth is really there to these judgements after all?

Many of the Czech New Wave films, especially those that satirize the communist government, have an absurd comedy flavor to them and the leaders represented in those films are bungling idiots. "Witchhammer" is a film of a different breed, however. It is one that isn't really a comedy, but a rather serious, tragic, harrowing, agonizing, gut-wrenching, infuriating, grit-your-teeth-with-helplessness-and-anger kind of a film! It has the tendency to emotionally affect and disturb, and make you feel worse than any modern day torture porn film. And therefore one expects, in a powerful film such as this, given the film's grave universe, that the characters are at least treated with the same kind of gravity.

It is not a major issue, but a tad disappointing, however, that some comic relief has been resorted to and there are some blatantly caricaturish portrayals of certain characters. The side characters are excusable, but even the antagonist, Boblig (Vladimír Smeral) is shown to be a textbook villain who is a loud, lecherous, nose-blowing drunk with an evil smirk and cartoonish mannerisms! It would've benefited to make him a more realistic character, like Dean Lautner (Elo Romancik). Along with being aggressive as he is here, he could also have embodied a more grave, cold, ruthless persona. That would give off an aura of a real fascist leader emblem that this character intends to be.

Beautifully cinematographed by Josef Illik in sharp black and white and chiaroscuro to accentuate the exceedingly bleak proceedings, wonderfully scored by Jiri Srnka and replete with some splendid performances, "Witchhammer" is one hell of a hidden disturber that would give a run for the money to all the modern horror films centering around torture. Definitely watch if you have a reasonably strong heart. It will be a while before the effect wears out.

Score: 9/10