Rebel Without a Cause (1955)

Directed by Nicholas Ray.
Starring James Dean and Natalie Wood.

In a Nutshell: A defiant suburban teenager handles life’s difficulties.

The kids in Rebel Without a Cause did not have rough upbringings. They did not have poverty, gang warfare or social prejudice to take to bed every night. And yet, their world is a wasteland of violence and confusion, open only to emptiness and rejection. Director Nicholas Ray often employs the rebellious and tormented protagonist, now in modern youth, where such feelings are the most potent. Here he has found a unique id in James Dean’s Jim Stark. An iconic crystallization of teen angst, Dean navigates through a suburb of kids who have been abandoned by their parents, leaving them searching for answers. So they fight, they drink, they perform reckless stunts to impress each other. While a clear finger is pointed at parental guidance at the kid’s behavior, there is an unarticulated rawness to the movie’s self-expression. It offers no clear solutions, which cuts through dated melodrama to unveil a direct look at suburban youth culture.

The film’s iconic visage belongs to Dean, even if time has weakened his contribution. Nowadays, it is easy to see Dean’s acting as Brando-light at worst, green at best. Dean is admirable for going against the grain though his style is oddly mannered. His cohorts include Natalie Wood’s Judy, the actress unburdened by her late-career artifice, and Sal Mineo’s Plato, whose performance suggests overt gay overtones. Once freed from the cruel gang and their distant parents, the three form an alternate family to bury their household angst. It is an innocent interlude before the climax, showing Ray’s compassion for the needs of these delinquents. Early criticisms of the movie’s glorification of rebellion should have been wise to examine this scene’s support of domestic restoration.

Rebel leaves much unexamined, but maybe it never had to. Young filmgoers could fill in the blanks themselves and the film’s DNA became scattered all over American New Wave. Suburbia’s underlying darkness continues to be examined today; its impact has never truly left American subconscious. Some narrative structuring and overly broad characterizations of its adult characters date Rebel, but do not diminish. When it works, Rebel Without a Cause is remarkably truthful. A bold deconstruction of 50’s values, as powerful today as it ever was.

Daisies (1966)

Directed by Věra Chytilová.
Starring Ivana Karbanová and Jitka Cerhová.

In a Nutshell: Two girls inexplicably start spreading chaos.

Daisies is a maddening comedy of poor taste, one that may too entrenched in its zeitgeist. Two teenaged girls, both named Marie (Ivana Karbanová and Jitka Cerhová) decide to be “bad”. There is a brief interlude by a fruit tree, linking to original sin, with their mischief aimed to exploit materialism. And oh what a jaunty spree it is. The girls flirt, steal, spoil parties, tease older men and tear into banquets of rich food. It amounts to a silly, formless anarchy that builds to far more serious consequences. Bright colors, cartoon actions and jolting sound effects affront the senses, even with the brief run time.

Watching Daisies would require an appreciation for the burgeoning social and political commentary that came with 60’s New Wave cinema. Daisies delights in wreaking havoc on wealth and bourgeois culture. But with the shock value diminished, it comes off as dreary and juvenile today. The Maries could be taken as Věra Chytilová’s marionettes, posing as nihilistic ideals and not characters. Their rebellion amounts to manic submission; the world is going bad, so why not go bad with it? From the opening scene, the girls cease human motivation and personality. When they misbehave, they are no longer at the controls. Daisies is a unique commentary, but a chore to endure. The Maries are certainly grating enough to convey Chytilová’s disgust of anarchic values. Unfortunately, the film’s frantic tone and garish style are queasy enough to date Daisies’ experimental form. A notable piece of surreal pop art, but I would leave this one in the time capsule.

The Double Life of Véronique (1991)

Directed by Krzysztof Kieślowski.
Starring Irène Jacob and Philippe Volter.

In a Nutshell: The mirrored lives of two unrelated, but similar, women.

Few films will ever be as full of warmth, beauty, and mystery as The Double Life of Véronique. Krzysztof Kieślowski affectionately depicts the lives of two identical women; Weronika, a Polish choir singer and Véronique, a French music teacher. Both women look the same, were born on the same day and have a heart condition. Neither woman is physically aware of the other’s presence, but both are connected spiritually. The women pursue their musical interests passionately, with no shades of depravity. When tragedy strikes Weronika, a pang of sadness comes over Véronique. She abandons her current life and forms a bond with a puppeteer while searching for a greater happiness.

Beauty comes in Irène Jacob, in her first of two landmark works by Kieślowski, as the duel women. Slawomir Idziak’s photography casts a heavenly aura over Jacob’s features, enriching the frame with a variety of earthy reds, greens and yellows. Jacob is a cinematic gift who seems to act without direction. Every thought, every act of joy shines with unforced naturalism. At one point, Weronika and Véronique spy each other across a busy plaza. This moment crystallizes the film’s essence; the feeling of your soul inhibiting another life. Duel identity is treated as a comforting thought; the notion of another existence in communion with the other.

To try and explain the film or boil it down to a literal explanation is beside its purpose. Kieślowski has captured the poetry of life, without a conflict or resolution to sew it all up. Both characters lead imperfect lives, and the small moments of bliss are held close to their hearts and we share the experience. Imagery and motifs appear, but nothing builds or exists as an allegory. The details become clues to a mystery that never existed. We faintly sense their importance just as Véronique can feel Weronika in her life. To experience the movie is to become wrapped in its embrace without knowing why. But it is warm and familiar and instantly you know why you belong.

The Passenger (1975)

Directed by Michelangelo Antonioni.
Starring Jack Nicholson and Maria Schneider.

In a Nutshell: A journalist steals the identity of a look-alike and goes on the run.

David Locke (Jack Nicholson) is a man of emptiness. An unremarkable journalist, we meet him hopelessly interviewing guerilla rebels in the Sahara desert. Little awaits him at home save a loveless marriage and irksome producer (Ian Hendry). Locke briefly befriends an Englishman named Robertson who later dies of a heart attack. Possessing an uncanny resemblance to Robertson, Locke switches identities and leaves the country. He discovers that Robertson was a gun dealer for the guerillas. But Locke has no intentions to exploit and ends up stuck with the baggage of Robertson’s past life. After meeting with an enigmatic young woman (Maria Schneider), Locke runs away. Though he desires to leave behind his marriage, his job and Robertson’s opponents, Locke seeks out the chance to live as another persona and fade into the distance.

As a thriller, one could accuse The Passenger of its meandering pace, but the film does not seek to create urgency. Long, expansive and silent shots present Locke’s world with ethereal disconnect. This world is still as lonely and empty as before. Locke’s future becomes fated for collapse, as he vainly tries to leave both identities behind. Taking on Robertson’s life becomes less an escape and more an imprisonment as he ends up with a new problems and a new sense of meaninglessness. Michelangelo Antonioni distances us from really “knowing” Locke’s character, and audience sympathy is purposefully neglected. We only observe.

But who is the titular passenger? When Locke comes across Schneider’s character, he abandons Robertson’s identity, leaving this unnamed girl the only real presence between them. Antonioni disconnects us from Locke; only the girl can bear witness to Locke. Without her, Locke and “Robertson” would cease to exist. What Locke attempts is a release from everyday constructs, to fade into his own insignificance, to escape his own fate. But Locke never achieves it. The Passenger is simply that need to liberate oneself from existence, even if we are all just passengers to that journey.

Persona (1966)

Directed by Ingmar Bergman.
Starring Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann.

In a Nutshell: The identities of an unstable actress and her caretaker begin to overlap.

Persona is an avant-garde classic of identity with a beauty and clarity that has endured mere art-house cliché. Ingmar Bergman, famous for the use of overlapping visages, demonstrates the intertwining souls of two tortured women living in solitude. One is Elisabet (Liv Ullmann), an actress who has inexplicably gone mute, possibly in protest or anguish. Nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) is certainly skilled enough to deal with trauma patients. But while caring for Elisabet, she finds herself becoming increasingly vocal with her hopes and fears, while Elisabet intently listens. Both relate moments of intense hurt (Elizabet’s unwanted and deformed child) and ecstasy (Alma’s beach orgy), but find themselves numb to more worldly crises. While holed up in a seaside cottage, the two women begin to share an unexplained emotional link where each experiences the other’s memories and dreams.

As a film of abstract imagery, it is simple to interpret on a literal level; the two women share a bond that gives the other insight to their pain. But Bergman explores a more ambiguous definition of identity through his own cinematic illusion, and the subtext that illusion creates. Persona’s opening montage of disturbing imagery experiments with the power these pictures have on the human perception. The sequence pulls back to reveal a small boy viewing it from a projection; an experience solely of emotion. Elisabet and Alma’s identities are result of their own projections, shaped by the roles society has forced them to play (even within Elisabet’s chosen life of role-playing).

It is never explained why these two women become joined or what each discovers. One could infer two sides of the same woman or a singular identity between two entities. But that is still subjective. Even if no concrete conclusion can be attached to Persona, is a film experience in the truest sense. Bergman senses the pull of the film medium and spins his ideas into haunting visual poetry. Like its characters, it refuses to be pinned down, becoming a new movie for each viewer’s reading. A peerless work of art, no matter what persona it takes.

The Face of Another (1966)

Directed by Hiroshi Teshigahara.
Starring Tatsuya Nakadai and Mikijiro Hira.

In a Nutshell: A man receives a lifelike mask and undergoes a personality change.

How much of our own selves are internal? Would we still be same person in a different exterior? The Face of Another, based on Kōbō Abe’s novel, confronts these questions within grim contemplation. Its main character is a businessman named Okuyama (Tatsuya Nakadai) whose face was horribly burned in an industrial accident. He seethes in bitterness as co-workers and his skittish wife (Machiko Kyō) try to distance themselves. Seeking professional help, he finds the office of the sinister Dr. Hira (Mikijiro Hira) who uses Okuyama to model a lifelike “mask” that hides his deformity. Okuyama’s new freedom allows him to commit crimes and frame his wife for adultery. Unable to forget the world that cast him aside, The Face of Another challenges Okuyama’s true identity as one of self or circumstance.

Hiroshi Teshigahara has a gracefully control over the film’s surreal tone. Lighting and mise-en-scène shift between shots, giving Okuyama’s world an irregular sensation. The frame’s changes convey shifting identities as Okuyama finds his freedom skewering his morality. Scenes of cities feel ghostly even when crowded. Some may find the scenes of Okuyama and Hira pondering the effects of their experiment to be cumbersome. Though enough of the film’s material evolves organically from Okuyama’s experiences to justify their talk. Their Faustian relationship builds to a chilling conclusion where both find freedom from the experiment.

A parallel story tells of a beautiful girl (Miki Irie) who was scarred from U.S. atomic bombs. She accepts her disfigurement, but the scars of war erode her sanity into tragedy. Japan was still recovering from Hiroshima and Nagasaki during the material’s conceptualization. Okuyama’s story works as an allegory to Japan’s wounded anger or of modern urban torment. One could recoil at the choice human nature takes when faced with no consequence, or find it hypothetical at its most extreme. Even if The Face of Another offers no answers, it explores its subject with fascination that will draw its viewer in. A minimalist beauty and uniquely constructed microcosm of its times.

Being John Malkovich (1999)

Directed by Spike Jonze.
Starring John Cusack and Cameron Diaz.

In a Nutshell: A puppeteer discovers and exploits a portal into John Malkovich’s mind.

A furiously inventive take on our celebrity-obsessed culture, with a gleeful execution to match its premise. Being John Malkovich takes a manic comic approach to its identity issues, layering depth in its comedy. A self-pitying puppeteer named Craig (John Cusack) finds employment in the Monty Python-esque 7½ floor of an otherwise inconspicuous corporation. After finding rejection at the aggressive Maxine (Catherine Kenner), Craig discovers a portal that allows him inside the mind of actor John Malkovich for 15 minutes at a time. This John Malkovich is portrayed by the real deal and exhibits the usual Malkovich-ian distance and personal amusement. It is to the real Malkovich’s credit that he manages a sly riff on his own persona without incessantly winking at the audience. This Malkovich also becomes the epitome of celebrity; everybody knows and adores him, but can never remember why.

Craig plans to partner with Maxine to offer up Malkovich’s portal to paying customers with two issues in the way. Craig has fallen madly in lust with Maxine while Craig’s wife Lotte (Cameron Diaz, having fun trying to be ugly) finds a sexual awakening inside Malkovich’s head. She falls for Maxine, with reciprocated feeling, but only when Lotte is in Malkovich. Malkovich himself becomes aware of the portal and the movie gives the surreal pleasure of Malkovich inside Malkovich. It only gets weirder from there.

Both director Spike Jonze and scribe Charlie Kaufman dole out the absurdity gradually, letting their ideas breathe before rolling out new ones. It is a well-paced farce and all the main players shine in the madness. Craig eagerly manipulates Malkovich for his own gains. But Cusack manages a relatable desperation in Craig, rather than misguided selfishness. Keener and Diaz are equally effective while exploring new territory in gender relations. Both Jonze and the cast play the story straight rather than marveling at their own oddities. Whatever analogy is grasped, Being John Malkovich is a delightful brain-twister of limitless surprise. Rarely has the metaphysical been so fun.