I have always been very attentive to sound, and so I feel a certain delight to watch the films of a filmmaker who obviously shares that sensibility. Sokurov liberally applies both orchestral and traditional music in ORIENTAL ELEGY to establish the tone of the film, trusting it to convey meaning in cooperation with his images. The lonely hum of a Japanese song weaves its way in and out of the film, and though it is never translated or given a visual source, it feels essential to the texture of Sokurov's world. The intensive use of natural sound helps in this regard as well, creating a diegesis that envelopes the people in Sokurov's films much as we are surrounded by sound in life. It's remarkable how natural this all feels when watching Sokurov's films, the knowledge of his extensive editing never disrupting the unique moods it produces.
Poetry in cinema, as in writing, is characterized by a careful balancing of craft and intuition. I've foregrounded Sokurov's craft to praise its distinctiveness, but I'd be remiss not to mention that his films are quite emotionally affecting as well. Sokurov has an innate sensitivity to mood that belies the traditional understanding of slow cinema's austerity. The length of his shots are meant to expand upon a feeling, not to deaden it. The shape-shifting perspectives and points of focus follow an intuitive logic that Sokurov seems to fully understand, though the results are always unpredictable.
It's difficult to guess how much of the film Sokurov visualizes in advance of making it, but whatever his process, each film gives the impression that he has discovered something he had not already expected to find. Something only cinema gives him the ability to perceive. In ORIENTAL ELEGY, Sokurov the man is looking for meaning in the experience of living. Well beyond the realm of everyday existence, he is free to travel across Japan and into heartfelt conversations with the people (spirits?) he finds there. He is a searcher, and so the film searches as well. It never settles, even as it halts for lengthy periods of time. And so Sokurov pushes onward through time and space, following a path he senses but cannot quite see. We follow him because we are searching too.
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DOLCE, the most impressive film I've seen in quite a while, misleads twice before getting to its true subject. First we see and hear Sokurov, as always pondering about the state of his soul. He begins to tell us of the life of Toshio Shimao, with voiceover narration overlaid upon images of Shimao's youth. We expect this film to be a biography of Shimao, as in Sokurov's previous (and excellent) DIALOGUES WITH SOLZHENITSYN. But, abruptly, Sokurov's narration informs us that Shimao passed away due to a stroke in 1986. Then the real story begins, that of his wife Miho. We'd followed Miho's story through the story of her husband's, but the narrative feint brings us closer in proximity to her than when she was merely partner to a renowned artist. It should be said that Sokurov is commendably adept at switching his focus between genders in all his films, that he has no fear of exploring the lives of women in addition to those of men. Miho begins her day, but as in many Sokurov films, this day will be spent exploring the deepest questions of self and soul.
Like ORIENTAL ELEGY before it, I am amazed at the emotional nakedness DOLCE draws from its Japanese subjects. Sokurov has always had a disarming talent for putting his participants at ease, freeing them to talk openly about the things that concern them most. This talent becomes all the more crucial in Sokurov's journey to Japan. Miho's remembrance of her immense grief after her mother's death is so overpowering that I was nearly unable to process it as it was happening. I couldn't believe such intense emotion was being offered willingly to a filmmaker, much less a foreign one. I don't want to overstate the national specificity of this particular situation, since I have after all noticed the uncommon openness of Sokurov's subjects before DOLCE. I can only marvel at what Sokurov has consistently managed to share with me in his travels. I have no question now that he is a consummate filmmaker, operating at the highest levels of his discipline. It's one thing to have an eye for filming landscapes and inanimate objects, and quite another entirely to coexist so genuinely with other human beings that they will open themselves fully to you and your camera. In terms of emotional truth captured by documentary form, DOLCE is among the best I've ever seen.
Remarkably, this isn't even the primary focal point of the film. With great difficulty, Miho's life continues on after her mother's death. She will go on to share with us her father's own immeasurable sadness. She recalls the decency and humanity of her parents, wondering how two people could be so unerringly good. She tells of her father's realization that his life had changed forever after his wife's passing, a transformation that compels him to banish Miho to Kobe. With great love and steely firmness, he warns her he will commit seppuku if she does not follow his wishes. Miho has no choice but to obey. The gravity of this moment in Miho's life contrasts her own gently distressed acceptance of fate, which she sees at work in many such difficult times. In the final segment of this triptych of filial pain and devotion, we are at last introduced to Miho's daughter, Maya, whose physiological development halted in her youth. She is mute, but she understands and can respond to Miho's tender proclamations of love and affection. Miho hugs her daughter and retreats to a private room of her own for spiritual comfort.
It is here, most plainly, that we can see the core of Sokurov's film. Miho, interestingly, is Catholic, though her altar has room for Japanese spiritual iconography as well. Miho prays and speaks again to the pain she has endured. In the prologue outlining her husband's life, we learned that Miho suffered bouts of madness after uncovering her husband's infidelities. Though he went so far as to live with Miho in her asylum ward, her own breach in sanity seems to have precipitated his, as well as the impairment of Maya. The story of this family is full of hurt and strife, but against all odds, Miho has carried on. Even she doesn't seem to understand how, as she remarks in this room of worship. It may appear that the worst is over, but it's apparent that Miho has not forgotten these many heartbreaks. She moves with air of someone who has endured great suffering, smiling rarely but sincerely, crestfallen but determined to continue living. In the face of such ongoing hardship, Miho's spirituality is the only way she can confront such devastating emotions and survive. The hugeness of faith gives space for these confrontations and offers solace after her trials and tribulations. A final brief encounter between curious Maya and mournful Miho informs us that Miho truly does find joy in caring for her daughter. Sokurov ends his film with Miho peacefully watching the hypnotic falling of rain outside her window. After traveling with Miho through the hardest times of her life, we fully appreciate this moment of peace.
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I found A HUMBLE LIFE to be (comparatively) the least exciting of the three films on this disc, although a pivot late in the film suggests perhaps I'd been underestimating it all along. Sokurov's subject, Hiroko, kneels upon a tatami mat and reads from a book of her poetry. Where before an hour of the film had passed observing Hiroko in almost total silence, now we are witnessing an interiority no longer locked away. And unsurprisingly, the elderly Hiroko reveals a life lived in fullness. Amidst lovely lines of observational poetry, she expresses undying "pain and bitterness" over a husband who had died a decade ago, as well as heartache for a married daughter who does not feel for her mother as her mother clearly feels for her. Hiroko graciously shares these ongoing disappointments as a gift to Sokurov before he leaves (with little probability of returning, according to him). Just as quietly as she brought out this vital record of her life, she closes it, stands up, and walks away.
It's unclear how Sokurov and Hiroko know one another. Sokurov's elliptical cinema frequently hides such expositions from us, and we are left to infer the nature of their relationship from what we are given onscreen. Sokurov addresses Hiroko quite warmly in his opening narration, but Hiroko remains impassive and inscrutable as she gains prominence in the film. A day spent sewing kimonos, greeting visiting monks, and eating food in her remote mountain house passes mostly without speaking. I suspect this is a comment on the solitude of her usual existence, without Sokurov or his camera as companions. To return to the Ozu reference from before, this film is the one most reminiscent of Ozu, if in aim more than execution. Sokurov's camera roams and varies its distance from Hiroko with a freedom Ozu disavowed in his mature period, and there are impressionistic touches one can't imagine Ozu allowing himself. A pan from Hiroko's head to her toes ends, mysteriously, with an image of drifting fog layered over Hiroko's feet. Ozu could never be mistaken for an invisible auteur, but his patterns and restraint induce a calmness even as he plays subtly with film grammar. Sokurov makes his presence obvious with these wistful authorial touches, imbuing Hiroko and her house with a certain mysticism.
As in ORIENTAL ELEGY and DOLCE, Sokurov repeats the spoken Japanese of his subjects in Russian. This seemed jarring initially, but I soon found it to be a pleasantly personal touch. Sokurov's odd style of mixing immersion and disruption allows for such intrusions. The effect comes to feel as if Sokurov is translating their words in his own head as he listens. Most documentaries attempt to marginalize their film crew in order to allow the illusion of unmanipulated access. By translating the words of his participants, Sokurov implicitly admits that they are speaking so that he may listen. This strategy is especially pertinent in the case of DOLCE, where it's clear that Miho would not be vocalizing her remembrances so eloquently if Sokurov were not with her. Sokurov does not feign objectivity, but instead inserts a minimal subjectivity to clarify his relationship with the participants. The complication it adds to our understanding of the subjects is little more complex than admitting that all people everywhere are affected by their interactions with others. Sokurov's style of documentary abandons the pretense of total objectivity in order to pursue such artistic and personal illustrations. In many ways, this is more truthful than the guise of disinterested observer.
On a closing note: I'm fairly sure A HUMBLE LIFE reused a shot previously used in ORIENTAL ELEGY, of a moth fluttering against a window. This seems like a strange choice, since it seems to be the only such recycled shot. It certainly ruptures the implicit sanctity of a documentary, in which every image is assumed to have been captured for only one story. I am not bothered, only curious why Sokurov found this shot so meaningful as to include in two fairly different films (albeit with a different sound effect each time, furthering shattering the autonomy of the shot). He is a mystifying artist indeed.
Like ORIENTAL ELEGY before it, I am amazed at the emotional nakedness DOLCE draws from its Japanese subjects. Sokurov has always had a disarming talent for putting his participants at ease, freeing them to talk openly about the things that concern them most. This talent becomes all the more crucial in Sokurov's journey to Japan. Miho's remembrance of her immense grief after her mother's death is so overpowering that I was nearly unable to process it as it was happening. I couldn't believe such intense emotion was being offered willingly to a filmmaker, much less a foreign one. I don't want to overstate the national specificity of this particular situation, since I have after all noticed the uncommon openness of Sokurov's subjects before DOLCE. I can only marvel at what Sokurov has consistently managed to share with me in his travels. I have no question now that he is a consummate filmmaker, operating at the highest levels of his discipline. It's one thing to have an eye for filming landscapes and inanimate objects, and quite another entirely to coexist so genuinely with other human beings that they will open themselves fully to you and your camera. In terms of emotional truth captured by documentary form, DOLCE is among the best I've ever seen.
Remarkably, this isn't even the primary focal point of the film. With great difficulty, Miho's life continues on after her mother's death. She will go on to share with us her father's own immeasurable sadness. She recalls the decency and humanity of her parents, wondering how two people could be so unerringly good. She tells of her father's realization that his life had changed forever after his wife's passing, a transformation that compels him to banish Miho to Kobe. With great love and steely firmness, he warns her he will commit seppuku if she does not follow his wishes. Miho has no choice but to obey. The gravity of this moment in Miho's life contrasts her own gently distressed acceptance of fate, which she sees at work in many such difficult times. In the final segment of this triptych of filial pain and devotion, we are at last introduced to Miho's daughter, Maya, whose physiological development halted in her youth. She is mute, but she understands and can respond to Miho's tender proclamations of love and affection. Miho hugs her daughter and retreats to a private room of her own for spiritual comfort.
It is here, most plainly, that we can see the core of Sokurov's film. Miho, interestingly, is Catholic, though her altar has room for Japanese spiritual iconography as well. Miho prays and speaks again to the pain she has endured. In the prologue outlining her husband's life, we learned that Miho suffered bouts of madness after uncovering her husband's infidelities. Though he went so far as to live with Miho in her asylum ward, her own breach in sanity seems to have precipitated his, as well as the impairment of Maya. The story of this family is full of hurt and strife, but against all odds, Miho has carried on. Even she doesn't seem to understand how, as she remarks in this room of worship. It may appear that the worst is over, but it's apparent that Miho has not forgotten these many heartbreaks. She moves with air of someone who has endured great suffering, smiling rarely but sincerely, crestfallen but determined to continue living. In the face of such ongoing hardship, Miho's spirituality is the only way she can confront such devastating emotions and survive. The hugeness of faith gives space for these confrontations and offers solace after her trials and tribulations. A final brief encounter between curious Maya and mournful Miho informs us that Miho truly does find joy in caring for her daughter. Sokurov ends his film with Miho peacefully watching the hypnotic falling of rain outside her window. After traveling with Miho through the hardest times of her life, we fully appreciate this moment of peace.
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I found A HUMBLE LIFE to be (comparatively) the least exciting of the three films on this disc, although a pivot late in the film suggests perhaps I'd been underestimating it all along. Sokurov's subject, Hiroko, kneels upon a tatami mat and reads from a book of her poetry. Where before an hour of the film had passed observing Hiroko in almost total silence, now we are witnessing an interiority no longer locked away. And unsurprisingly, the elderly Hiroko reveals a life lived in fullness. Amidst lovely lines of observational poetry, she expresses undying "pain and bitterness" over a husband who had died a decade ago, as well as heartache for a married daughter who does not feel for her mother as her mother clearly feels for her. Hiroko graciously shares these ongoing disappointments as a gift to Sokurov before he leaves (with little probability of returning, according to him). Just as quietly as she brought out this vital record of her life, she closes it, stands up, and walks away.
It's unclear how Sokurov and Hiroko know one another. Sokurov's elliptical cinema frequently hides such expositions from us, and we are left to infer the nature of their relationship from what we are given onscreen. Sokurov addresses Hiroko quite warmly in his opening narration, but Hiroko remains impassive and inscrutable as she gains prominence in the film. A day spent sewing kimonos, greeting visiting monks, and eating food in her remote mountain house passes mostly without speaking. I suspect this is a comment on the solitude of her usual existence, without Sokurov or his camera as companions. To return to the Ozu reference from before, this film is the one most reminiscent of Ozu, if in aim more than execution. Sokurov's camera roams and varies its distance from Hiroko with a freedom Ozu disavowed in his mature period, and there are impressionistic touches one can't imagine Ozu allowing himself. A pan from Hiroko's head to her toes ends, mysteriously, with an image of drifting fog layered over Hiroko's feet. Ozu could never be mistaken for an invisible auteur, but his patterns and restraint induce a calmness even as he plays subtly with film grammar. Sokurov makes his presence obvious with these wistful authorial touches, imbuing Hiroko and her house with a certain mysticism.
As in ORIENTAL ELEGY and DOLCE, Sokurov repeats the spoken Japanese of his subjects in Russian. This seemed jarring initially, but I soon found it to be a pleasantly personal touch. Sokurov's odd style of mixing immersion and disruption allows for such intrusions. The effect comes to feel as if Sokurov is translating their words in his own head as he listens. Most documentaries attempt to marginalize their film crew in order to allow the illusion of unmanipulated access. By translating the words of his participants, Sokurov implicitly admits that they are speaking so that he may listen. This strategy is especially pertinent in the case of DOLCE, where it's clear that Miho would not be vocalizing her remembrances so eloquently if Sokurov were not with her. Sokurov does not feign objectivity, but instead inserts a minimal subjectivity to clarify his relationship with the participants. The complication it adds to our understanding of the subjects is little more complex than admitting that all people everywhere are affected by their interactions with others. Sokurov's style of documentary abandons the pretense of total objectivity in order to pursue such artistic and personal illustrations. In many ways, this is more truthful than the guise of disinterested observer.
On a closing note: I'm fairly sure A HUMBLE LIFE reused a shot previously used in ORIENTAL ELEGY, of a moth fluttering against a window. This seems like a strange choice, since it seems to be the only such recycled shot. It certainly ruptures the implicit sanctity of a documentary, in which every image is assumed to have been captured for only one story. I am not bothered, only curious why Sokurov found this shot so meaningful as to include in two fairly different films (albeit with a different sound effect each time, furthering shattering the autonomy of the shot). He is a mystifying artist indeed.
