Take Care of My Cat, Jeong Jae-eun (2001)

This Korean film would most certainly be classified as a “coming of age” film. The narrative mainly follows three recent high-school graduates as they all respectively struggle to find their place in society and maintain their friendships with one another. The three girls all represent different female archetypes: the moody sensitive loner, the free-spirited wanderer, and the materialistic, wealthy one. The film is centered in the metropolitan city of Incheon, an international business center and home to over two million people. Director Jeong Jae-eun very purposefully uses the setting of Incheon and its varied environment to characterize the unique situation of each girl. For example Ji-Young, the loner, occupies a depressing ramshackle apartment in an industrial port area—mirroring her feelings of hopelessness and isolation and simultaneously demonstrating the real-life problem of industrialization in Incheon. Tae-Hee is repeatedly shown on moving busses and trains, illustrating her curious and restless nature and also signifying the vast labyrinth Incheon has become. Hae-Joo, the competitive one, is frequently shown in an office building at her computer, representing the corporate boom in Korea and changing global economy. This film is incredibly contemporary and is so much about feeling “lost” in a rapidly changing part of the world.
That cat of the title functions to reiterate the instability and uncertainty of all the girls. Throughout the film, each of the main characters acquires the cat until they realize they are ill-equipped to care for it. Instead of getting rid of the cat altogether, they simply pass it around. The cat also seems to represent the girls’ wavering dedication to the friendship—like the cat, it is not something they want to do away with, yet also do not want to put time and care into. The title “Take Care of My Cat” may be taken in the context of this film to rather mean “Give me Stabilty” or “Keep Me in Your Life.” Ultimately,none of the trio can hold on to the cat, thus signaling a bittersweet break with the past, comfort and safety and gives way to a path of unknowns and unforseen opportunities.

The Apple, Samira Makhmalbaf 1998

Samira Makhmalbaf was inspired to make this film after reading in the newspaper about two little girls, Zahra and Massoumeh, who had been locked up by their mentally unstable parents for the entirety of their development. Once the girls were freed, Makhmalbaf was eager to adapt their story to film. Most astounding to me, even more than the harrowing true story of the film was the fact that the director used the real life victims as the principal actors in her film (much to my surprise, this is something many Iranian directors chose to do). The plot follows the girls release from captivity and exploration of the outside world (the streets of Tehran) for the first time. A sub-plot follows the social worker’s interactions with the girls’ father as he attempts to justify his actions on the basis of his religious beliefs—mainly the belief that the girls were kept at home to keep them safe from the eyes of men. There is a strong criticism of patriarchal beliefs within Islam throughout the film, primarily the father’s notion that the daughters are better in captivity than they are living out their free will. It is crucial to understand that the father chose to keep his daughters physically and socially isolated to the extent that they have become disabled (they both walk with a limp, they can barely speak, and it is unclear whether they completely understand language) all for the purpose of protecting his honor. The film is incredibly poignant in the moments where the father is morally and religiously justifying his actions—he seems almost powerless against his faith and is in many ways a prisoner himself. When Zahra and Massoumeh are free to explore, the first lessons they learn are about money. This is significant because even though the girls are physically free, they cannot immediately enjoy the things they crave (apples, ice cream, a new watch). It seems that they are perpetually barred from their desires, not only because they can’t communicate properly, but because they were born into a very poor family. While the father was, for eleven years, so concerned about the girls complicating his life, he in the meantime complicated theirs much worse, and irreversibly. It must be said that there is a great deal of hope and joy present in this film, despite the themes of abuse. Zahra and Massoumeh, in their naivety, are simmultaneously liberated from the ideologies which may otherwise oppress them or crush their wonderful spirits and curiosities about the world.

Wings, Larisa Shepitko (1966)

Wings captures the unusual predicament of Nadezhda, a heroic Russian WWII veteran, as she as lives with the unforeseen struggles of civilian life. As a headmistress/disciplinarian in a vocational school, she is mocked by the students for being cold and stern. As Nadezhda’s heroic past goes completely ignored by the youngsters (not that she is an incredibly proud or remotely boastful person), she grows more and more disheartened and fatigued. Shepitko consistently makes reference to an ideological gap in Nadezhda’s generation vs. the generation her own daughter and her students are a part of. The younger generation troubles Nadezhda with their lack of work ethic and moral character. Her daughter’s desire to be married so young is also troubling to Nadezhda, who knows that with the protection of a husband she will never become a strong independent person as Nadezhda has.
At times it seems that Nadezhda is uncomfortable in her own skin, she is awkward and shy in social situations, especially those with other women. Nadezhda is a character who defies gender roles, and in many ways functions as a “genderless” character in an incredibly gendered world. In regards to cinematography, Nadezhda’s innermost feelings are conveyed through her environment. The best example is a scene where she is meeting her daughter’s fiancé for the first time and, in this very claustrophobic party scene, the camera gets tight on Nadezhda to show her complete discomfort with her surroundings. On the other hand, outdoor scenes (always with the sky as focal point) give way to a less inhibited side of her personality while simultaneously causing her to feel painfully nostalgic. Nadezhda’s domain is the sky, a place not governed by order, a place where time does not matter, a place where she feels strangely at home.

Glimpse of the Garden, Marie Menken (1957)

This five minute film shows a close-up exploration of various plant life with birdsong recordings in the background. The film has a nauseating effect as the shrill birdsong becomes obnoxious and repetitive and close-up images of the flora become less and less beautiful. The strange way the plants were lit and the close-range at which they were filmed gives a very boring concept for a film a fresh spin. Though this film is relatively benign it managed to be somewhat unsettling to me personally and reminded me only of the terrifying perfection of things in their natural state. Menken possibly thought her exploration was one of beauty and mystique and could perhaps be connected to an ecofeminist’s appreciation and affinity with nature.

At Land, Maya Deren (1944)

The film follows an entranced woman who curiously explores a bizarre and shape-shifting landscape. The woman, who initially finds herself washed up on the shores of a desolate beach, begins by climbing up a dead tree to suddenly and impossibly find herself crawling across a long corporate office table. The way Deren splices the office scene and images of her crawling through the twigs and brush give the illusion that the corporate scene is found in nature and is just as well part of the natural landscape. The faceless business men ignore her squirming across the table as they chat and play chess. The fact that the corporate office is, in the contorted space of the film, the highest physical point we can derive some sense that the men are a “higher power” and that their chess game is a metaphor for a godlike control of mortals down below.
When one pawn from chess board slips from her hands into the water, it becomes her mission to find it for the remainder of the film. Symbolically it seems that the woman IS this wandering lost pawn in an abstract realm; she is the naïve and vulnerable female navigating her way through a masculine world.
When a lone man leads her to an empty house, it seems that he is introducing her to a place where she can feel safe and belong: the domestic space. As she gazes about the space with wonder she is quickly repulsed to find an old man lying on the ground in a white bed sheets. As the two silently stare at one another for a long while, it is unclear whether the man expects something of her (for her to tend to him in some way) or just wants her to get out. She does not find purpose there and leaves.
When she reunites with the chess board on the beach, the game is being played by two women. The protagonist strangely decides to distract the women from their game by massaging their heads. Her act does not seem entirely manipulative, however, as all three women smile and become completely enthralled by this act of physical touch and connection. When the woman obtains the pawn once again she run down the beach victoriously, passing several other copies of herself on the way.
Possession of the pawn liberates the woman from confusion and grief. She has control over her destiny once again and the lingering happiness bestowed on her by the women chess-players. The second chess game reminds the protagonist that there are numerous ways of perceiving and that no single set of man-gods dictate the laws of the universe. Women have a stake in things as well and are freer to enjoy earthly pleasures.

The Seashell and The Clergyman, Germaine Dulac (1928)

This bizarre surrealist film follows the sexual obsessions of a priest and his battle against impure thoughts. When the priest becomes infatuated with the war general’s wife he spirals into a hallucinatory fit. The title refers to a scene where the priest (still wearing his white collar) tears a seashell-shaped bra off of the woman’s body (brief nudity ensues, much to my surprise). It is through these potent images that we realize the utter fearlessness of Dulac as a filmmaker. Dulac, no doubt, uses these controversial images and playful juxtapositions to rouse a visceral reaction in her viewer. What could be offensive, blasphemous, or indecent to one set of viewers could be absurd, hilarious, and simply ridiculous to others.It is clear, above all else, that Dulac was challenging male sexuality as something evil and contrary to god--it is unclear whether her critique is of repressive religious beliefs or of male sexuality more generally.

The Smiling Madame Beudet, Germaine Dulac (1923)

The film essentially follows the yearnings of a middle-aged woman from the captivity of her oppressive marriage. Madame Beudet, an imaginative and sentimental person, spends most of her time reading, playing the piano, and fantasizing. She is constantly mocked by her ruthless husband who tells her to play differently and read different books. He continually teases her by putting an unloaded gun to his head and miming his own suicide. This tease of his functions on two levels for Madame Beudet: on one hand she knows that if he were actually to kill himself she would be an old maid, but on the other hand she really wishes he would kill himself so that she could be rid of him forever. When Madame Beudet decides to secretly load the gun with bullets, she becomes wrought with guilt the next day and tries to go back and retrieve them. When Madame Beudet is ultimately shot, it seems like that the whole universe is governed by patriarchy. The female is punished for reacting against her keeper.
The saddest moments of the film are those in which Madame Beudet is alone, wistfully looking into the mirror. As she slowly pulls a brush through her long lifeless hair, she mourns the passage of her youth and energy. If one considers the female liberation movement that the younger women of the time were enjoying, Madame Beudet’s story becomes even more tragic.

Divine Horseman: The Living Gods of Haiti (excerpt), Maya Deren (1985)

This film, which is made up of unedited footage shot by Deren between 1947-1954, depicts the ceremonies of Haitian vodou. Deren focuses mainly on the physical embodiment of the vodou belief in their communal rituals. Like many of Deren’s films, there is attention to the subconscious, altered states, and mysterious realms of consciousness. It seems that vodou interested Deren as a real-life manifestation of her strongest artistic fascinations. Deren, being that she was both a dancer and choreographer, directs particular attention to the way these people use dance to access or become physically possessed by the loa (spirits). In this excerpt the camera mainly follows one man that becomes possessed by the loa called Damballa while dancing. This moment seems quintessentially Deren: the hypnotic spiritual experience achieved through movement.

Jeanne Dielman, 23 Quai du Commerce, 1080 Bruxelles, Chantel Akerman (1975)

This film is a study of the domestic imprisonment ascribed to “angel in the house” femininity. This three hour film depicts, in excruciatingly realistic time, the routines of Jeanne Dielman, a seemingly pin-straight middle class Belgian mother living in and maintaining a pin-straight household. The film mostly depicts what would be the “off camera” moments of any other film and seems to barely skim the surface of the more fascinating aspects of Jeanne’s life. While it becomes exceedingly clear throughout the film that Jeanne is a secret prostitute, the film remains focused on the dull domestic rituals which define her. The vast majority of the film illustrates (always with static medium shots and incredibly long takes) Jeanne’s obsessive attention to cleanliness, perfection and a number frivolous tasks (the daily shining of her son’s shoes, the smoothing of bed linens, the folding of pajamas, etc.). The frivolity of Jeanne’s routine reflects the frivolity of her life in general.
The physical space of Jeanne’s apartment seems to be also symbolic of her own life and mind. What appears quaint, pretty, and fresh can at once appear dark, uncanny, empty, and menacing. Jeanne’s home seems to reflect her own consciousness, which is riddled with a shameful secret and dissatisfaction. At times Jeanne seems to be cleansing her home as a way to cleanse herself of the days “sinful” encounters and exchanges. The most eerie example of this occurs in the first ten minutes in the film, when Jeanne, crouching naked in the tub, washes both her own body and the basin with the same sponge, thus signifying her affinity and resemblance to the house. In this way, the house is simultaneously a prison, a shrine, and even an extension of Jeanne’s physical body.
All throughout my viewing of the film, I found myself anticipating some kind of emotional breakdown on the part of the protagonist—a fit of rage, tears, violence, anything! Jeanne’s nerves deteriorate much more subtly and tragically. She burns overcooked potatoes, she drops silverware on the floor, and just barely begins to fray at the edges. When Jeanne stabs the last man she has sex with, it is the apex of her frustration and it is the manifestation of all the built up tension in her existence. It is interesting that she takes her frustration out on the male figure, as if to reprimand the patriarchal construct that has placed her in this opressive life.

Les Rendez-Vous D'Anna, Chantel Akerman (1978)

This film is like nothing I have ever seen before. Chantel Akerman’s hyperrealist style in combination with an utterly flat plot makes for a very counterintuitive film. Where a director might usually employ a realist style as a way to remove any bias and show a series of events with a natural rhythm and authenticity, Akerman seems to be doing the opposite. We see the protagonist of the film, Anna, in a highly stylized world. While the timing and movement of this film is true to neo-realism, we are constantly reminded of the directors manipulation of space in the film. In a word I would describe the visual aesthetic of this film as square. Most shots in the film are either perfectly symmetrical or have the protagonist placed in the center of the frame, also the shots are invariably static.
While this film is described on its Criterion Collection jacket as a “character study,” I would argue that it is quite the opposite. Anna is almost completely blank and generic as a character and she certainly does not seem to change or grow throughout the narrative. Information about Anna’s personality and history are only revealed through her interactions with far more interesting foil characters, thus making Anna a kind of composite more than an actual individual. For the most part I got the sense that Anna is a square woman moving about the square universe—that is until the second half of the film when she describes to her mother about a sexual encounter with another woman. This confession is certainly the most surprising moment of the film, when we are shown at last that Anna seeks something and desires something. This information is also significant when considering Anna’s tiresome sexual experiences with men throughout the film—we can imagine that Anna may be more lively if she were fulfilling her actual passions. There is a very persistent theme of time and age in the film as well, as Anna is consistently reminded of her youth, potential, and dwindling opportunity for marriage and childrearing. The duration of this rather droning film (two hours) illustrate the “wasting of time” that Anna is being reminded of. While Anna would likely not prefer motherhood, she would certainly agree that her time is being wasted on this desolate tour to nowhere

Cléo from 5 to 7 ,Agnes Varda (1962)

This film follows two anxious hours in the life of Cleo, a beautiful pop star who awaits the results of a medical test (a diagnosis for cancer). For most of the film, Cleo pouts and frets and cries about her bad fortune and forecasts her dismal future, not on the basis of suffering or death, but on the loss of outward beauty and radiance. For most of the film, Cleo wallows in melancholy (the letdowns of her singing career, boredom, a lack of adventure, the slow passing of youth) but in the final third of the film, Cleo gains a more positive and liberating perspective from her friend Dorothèe (a nude model) and a chance encounter in the park with Antoine (a soldier off to Algeria). It is not until Cleo sheds her bouffant wig and ostentatious feathered robe that she is able to reflect differently on her predicament. The film, in this way, is so much about the feminine façade and the material entrapments of gender. Cleo is the quintessential upper-class woman, who in her boredom becomes obsessed with reputation and appearances instead of truly experiencing or creating. The encounter with Dorothèe gives Cleo a new feminine ideal—one that is much less inhibited by matters of costuming and performing. Antoine, the soldier, also allows Cleo to have an existential breakthrough (when discovering that her real name is Florence, he connects her to the “Flora” and nature), he reminds her of inevitability of death and the profound beauty of mortality.
Being that this film is so rooted in female psychology and idiosyncrasies it is the unmistakable work of a female director. Varda seems to simultaneously mock and grieve for her protagonist, marking an affinity and intimate understanding of the fictional struggle.

La Pointe Courte, Agnes Varda (1955)

Agnes Varda’s 1955 film premiere La Pointe Courte follows a Parisian husband and wife who retreat to a small costal village to sort out their marital problems. Throughout the film the simple daily life and mortal struggles on La Point Courte are shown with fly- on- the- wall realism; we see the fishermen’s unending controversy with the law, we see the death of a small child, we see family feuds, etc. All of the neo realism throughout is starkly contrasted by the scripted melodrama of the couple (which is, according to Varda, intended to sound flat and scripted).
La Pointe Courte, is often credited for pioneering the French New Wave film movement of the 1960s. Her combined use of realism and traditional narrative in this film would later become characteristic of the movement in general. Varda’s choice to use visible/stylistic editing in the scenes with the couple (visible or jarring editing styles again being typical of New Wave), and a raw style in the village scenes helps to convey the crisis of the couple and their lack of empathy or connectedness to the flow of reality. Eventually the couple is stylistically integrated into the reality of the film when they relieve marital tensions and "fall in love" again. Varda seems to be making a comment about urban life vs. rural life in the film as well, as the couple is stripped of their upper-crusty comforts on La Pointe Courte. The village seems to function as a symbolic place, a sanctuary of unfettered human experience, a place beyond the grasp Parisian self-consciousness.

Reference:http://www.criterion.com/current/posts/497-la-pointe-courte-how-agnes-varda-invented-the-new-wave