THE ORDER, FROM MATTHEW BARNEY'S CREMASTER 3 (2002), dir. Matthew Barney, DVD REVIEW

It’s Not the Journey, it’s the Presentation.

The DVD of "The Order," which features footage shot at the Guggenheim museum, is more than the sum of its component parts.

What does it mean to be a "Cremaster?" I’m not sure, but web sites on Matthew Barney imply that his athletic past often informs his work, and his performance pieces focus on physical exertion and the rigors of sport. All those things can certainly be said about "The Order."

Though I might not have known without reading the "Cremaster 3" press release, "The Order" is supposed to be a race. Matthew Barney, looking like some kind of Scottish goblin with his blood-smeared jaws and pink-tinted kilt, must ascend the interior of the Guggenheim museum (a combination spiral walkway and atrium), accomplish a series of tasks, and reach ground level ahead of a stream of melted wax. Another performance artist, Richard Serra, is depositing the wax from the sixth, and highest, floor.

The tasks Matthew Barney must perform involve, or are impeded by, other performance artists. Each of them occupy their own floor. On the second floor, or first "degree," as Barney calls them, he encounters the "The Order of the Rainbow of Girls." A rockette-style chorus line, they tap, kick, and turn in a precise manner that, at one point, seems to hypnotize Barney. After eluding them, he must contend with two punk bands, Agnostic Front and Murphy's Law. Barney's task is to manipulate certain objects within their midst, a chore complicated by a frothing mass of circling moshers.

"Aimee Mullins," the featured third degree, initially appears inviting. She embraces the artist, only to tear out a chunk of his flesh with her teeth. The Mullins character is alluring in the most disturbing way. Though missing the lower parts of her legs, she gets around on prosthetics calves made out of clear glass. Once aroused, however, she mutates into a dangerous cheetah-woman.

During "The Five Points of Fellowship," Barney picks up, tosses, and otherwise rearranges an array of plastic casts. Most are shaped like columns, though one resembles a hybridized animal. The fifth and final degree is Serra himself, who splatters wax against a wall with a giant spoon. His work involves a lot of back-and-forth pacing, and battering his tool loudly against a square tile. He wears an oxygen mask that looks heavy, and his breathing becomes more labored, and his actions increasingly sloppy, the longer he spends at his task (Apparently, he is as committed to winning the race as his opponent).

I’m not sure how "The Order" was originally presented at the Guggenheim. Conceivably, they could have edited the footage down to a kind of quest narrative, following the exploits of Matthew Barney. The DVD, however, has been structured as five short films running in parallel—and in real time. The real time aspect gives "The Order" its uniqueness. It hints at a more ambitious vision than mere narrative film.

On the DVD, one can, if he/she chooses, toggle back-and-forth between the five degrees. Occasionally, this proves helpful; Barney stays in the first degree only a relatively short time. Once he leaves "The Order of the Rainbow of Girls," one can safely assume that he will soon reemerge in the second degree, "Agnostic Front vs. Murphy’s Law." But the viewer does not have to follow the artist. The viewer can stay with the dancers, who will continue to toe-tap until the end of the film. This is what’s unique about the real time aspect of "The Order."

I will grant you, watching dancers repeat the same steps for twenty minutes can get boring, even if their costumes reveal a generous amount of thigh. The same goes for a catwoman at rest, or a man flinging jelly. But I found myself hopelessly intrigued by the idea that a scene of a film could continue living, breathing, and existing, even after the main character had departed. This never happens in narrative film. There is always a restricted point of view, and the film usually stays within that point-of-view. When a character exits a scene, that place is no longer of concern. It ceases to exist. The cardboard sets are carried off the studio. The actors go home.

But in "The Order," the camera is still on. The characters still exist. Sure, he or she may be marking time in the most uninteresting way, but how does that vary from real life? As film viewers, we are used to having reality filtered through the camera. If these restrictions have not been completely broken by "The Order," at the very least, they have been loosened significantly. Matthew Barney doesn’t give us five films that take place in the same universe; it’s one universe divided into five films, all of which occur in real time.

The presence of the artist, some interesting props, and the Guggenheim itself provide connective tissue. The museum is as much a recurring character as the artist, the similar color and texture of the walls and bannisters allowing for visual continuity. Also, the Guggenheim's atrium rises past all six floors of the museum. More than once, the camera pans across the gaping abyss, as Barney fearlessly crawls like a spider to the next floor. During these shots, we can see Aimee Mullins scratching the air, the mosh-pit dwellers rampaging, the backs of the security men’s shirts. We are constantly reminded how everything exists in a connected space.

Finally, since all the floors in the Guggenheim are inclined upwards, Barney’s purpose seems obvious: He must climb up. We assume his mission will be accomplished when he reaches the top floor. Granted, it’s more of an instinctive plot than an explicitly-stated one. But the running time of "The Order" is short enough—only twenty-something minutes—that vague inferences as to where the story will lead are enough to keep us thoroughly involved.

Overall rating: Defies a star rating.

NIGHTS OF CABIRIA (1957), dir. Federico Fellini

Magic and Loss: Fellini’s Autumn Tale

Poor Cabiria. An aging streetwalker who spends her nights selling her body beside the road, she dreams of romance. These dreams always seem to let her down. The proverbial hooker with a heart of gold (not to mention a tongue laced with acid), she has a tendency to let that beating organ run too fast, and for men who are less than worthy of it. Take Giorgio, the supposed beau who makes a brief appearance in the opening of the film. He embraces Cabiria, tells her to go stand by the river. Then he grabs her purse and pushes her in. Some eagle-eyed village boys save Cabiria from drowning. But that doesn’t seem to placate her much after she comes to and realizes what happened.

She’s incredulous over what Giorgio did. "Would he really have killed me for 7,000 lira?" she asks her friend.

"Men will kill for 500 lira," replies Wanda, a fellow prostitute. No doubt, she is correct, given the kind of men these prostitutes regularly encounter. Coke-dealing pimps, oily lotharios, johns who are only interested in appeasing their lust and loneliness. Each of them will take what they can from Cabiria, then abandon her by the side of the road (Or worse, in the case of Giorgio).

One cannot blame Cabiria for yearning after true love, given the degrading nature of her employment. Who can blame her for seeking out a man she can trust, someone who is interested in her, not just using her body? But alas, for a woman who is otherwise smart and independent, she manages her heart in such an impractical way. She is easily swept off her feet by style and good looks. The shrine to Giorgio that we see in her house implies she worshipped this slick-looking heartthrob much better than she knew him.

Anyway, what’s so great about love? Well, some might describe it as a kind of magic. If Cabiria is looking for magic, then she is in a movie by the right director. "Nights of Cabiria," which the legendary Fellini filmed in 1957, has some fantastical touches, even some surrealistic ones. It’s also a wonderful movie, with a great performance by Giulietta Masina as the title character. She convincingly plays an aging prostitute who falls in love, and actually turns back the clock thanks to that love. I assume the source of her metamorphosis must be somewhere within Masina. Directors are masters of many tricks, but even Fellini alone couldn’t have coaxed a smile as incandescent as the one in the final frame.

"Night of Cabiria" is assembled as a series of episodes. There’s a very loose main plot: Cabiria wants to leave the life of a prostitute behind. Events that precipitate this decision include a night at a fairy tale mansion where Cabiria only temporarily stands-in as Cinderella. Also, there is a morning encounter with a strange man near some caves. His kindness—and the appearance of a former prostitute now living like a Morlock—convince Cabiria to find a permanent spot in the light.

At first, an evening in the home of a famous actor named Alberto Lazzari (Amedeo Nazzari) seems like a dream come true. Cabiria is in the right place at the right time. Lazzari’s mistress runs off, and she happens to be selling her wares across the street. Primed for a good time, she soon discovers that Lazzari’s home, while full of lavish sights, is not necessarily built for mere mortals like her. The statues in his bedroom dwarf her; she nearly trips on one of the many dogs he has roaming the huge staircase. At one point, Cabiria even hits her head on a closed door, the glass being so clear as to render the door invisible.

And of course, Lazzari’s mistress returns. While Cabiria makes a good first impression on her host, she doesn’t stand a chance against the girlfriend. She’s blond, statuesque, beautiful—everything Cabiria isn’t. And unlike Cabiria, who looks thoroughly out of place in the house (thanks to Fellini’s clever framing), the girlfriend fits right in. The manor is grand in a dull kind of way, just like her. When she is photographed sleeping in Lazzari’s bed, Fellini lights her in the most flattering way.

Whatever magic exists in this palatial manner, it has been reserved for great beauties like Lazzari and his mistress. Cabiria must go elsewhere. Her next customer is no Alberto Lazzari, but will pay her all the same. On her way home the following morning, she crosses paths with a sad-looking young man. The youth has a loaf of bread sticking up out of his knapsack. He delivers food to the needy, who live in the nearby caves.

It is a strange, otherworldly sight, to see men and women crawling up from the dark crevices in the ground. Among them is a wreck whom Cabiria recognizes as one of the most famous prostitutes in Rome. That was a long time ago, of course. Since the height of her notoriety, she has lost her fortune, her looks, and her home. The sight of her causes Cabiria no shortage of distress. Having recently been rejected by Giorgio, then Lazzari, we infer that Cabiria is more than a bit self-conscious about ending up alone, penniless, living in a cave herself.

She is also moved by the Christian virtue of giving, displayed by the young man. It leads her to make a pilgrimage to Rome. There, alongside other whores, pimps, and sinners, she begs the Virgin Mary to bestow Grace on her. Cabiria’s journey to the Vatican, and her subsequent visit to the magic show, comprise the episodes of the film where she actively seeks out mystical answers. If there is a force that will turn Cabiria’s life around, she wants a piece. Unfortunately, she only finds disappointment, or worse.

Like the rest of the clamoring church crowd, Cabiria begs for spiritual direction, but her pleas go unanswered. Things get worse at the magic show. There, not only does Cabiria end up without any epiphany, she gets humiliated by the hypnotist. At first, the scene is played for comedy. The hypnotist invites men from the audience onto the stage, and entrances them, using a process that could be real magic. He tells them to pantomime rowing a boat, and the men make fools of themselves.

But then it is a woman’s turn. The hypnotist puts Cabiria under a spell. While she remains entranced, he removes his hat, revealing a second set of head ornaments that cannot be interpreted as a good omen. Under suggestion, Cabiria is introduced to a handsome young man for the first time. He invites her to dance, and a piano waltz begins to play in the background. The audience, which had bordered on rowdiness, falls silent, and watches as Cabiria glides across the stage, hand-in-hand with the air. The hypnotist provides the voice of the young man. In the ensuing conversation, Cabiria becomes so enraptured with the phantom stranger that the defenses around her heart drop completely. Her deepest longings are revealed, leaving her emotionally naked. The hypnotist awakens her, and the audience roars with laughter.

Embarrassed and confused, Cabiria hides backstage until the crowds have departed. There, a man named Oscar (Francois Perier) approaches her. Though shy in demeanor, he finds the courage to tell Cabiria how moved he was. He says something that sounds quite profound: "When we are faced with purity and innocence, the mask of cynicism drops."

Can Cabiria drop her own cynical mask, having suffered so much at the hands of other men? Oscar seems genuinely interested in her, but Cabiria is used to kissing frogs. She can’t help entertaining doubts, even when faced by what appears to be a genuine prince. Like the fellow prostitutes who learn of her good fortune, she has to wonder, "What does he really want?"

As viewers, we come to care about Cabiria. It helps that Fellini never shows her performing anything explicit. The closest are shots of her standing on the sidewalk. Only once do we see her getting into a stranger’s car. Because of this distance, and a focus on her non-professional life during the middle portion of the movie, we tend to think of her as a sassy gal, a keeper of hopes and dreams. We don’t imagine her as the performer of mechanical sex acts.

So we cheer for her to find happiness. Oscar's love seems to elicit a light from within her. During their initial meeting, he thought she embodied purity and innocence. As their courtship progresses, she becomes just that. But alas, remember the hypnotist and his headgear, and how nothing in this world is exactly how it appears. An ironic ending comes creeping around the corner. Since we care about Cabiria so much, we pray our instincts are somehow mistaken.

The thought of Cabiria’s dreams being shattered seems an intolerable cruelty. But as the saying goes, one cannot take the bitter without the sweet, and Cabiria’s parting smile is that of someone wiser, who has come to terms with life’s strange ways. It is the smile of someone transformed by true love, who found the source of that magic within her own beating heart. Her smile is a sliver of hope in a dark, cloudy future. It’s the perfect punctuation to a wonderful performance.

Overall rating: **** (out of ****)

OLDBOY (2003), dir. Chan-wook Park

South Korean "Payback" Gives Decent Payoff

The main thing that sets "Oldboy" apart from other revenge movies is that the villain goes to great lengths to keep the main character alive. He does this on purpose, of course. Death, after all, brings about immediate release from pain and suffering. The bad guy in "Oldboy" doesn’t want Dae-su Oh (Min-sik Choy), the middle-aged businessman he has kidnapped, to get off that easily.

Dae-su Oh disappears one dark and stormy night, just after he steps away from a pay phone. His abductors lock him up inside what looks like a hotel room. There is a bed, as well as a shower and television. However, the room has no windows, and the door looks like it belongs on a cell for prisoners in solitary confinement. It’s made of metal, locked from the outside, and has a slot at the bottom. Dae-su Oh’s abductors regularly slide him his food through the gap.

No one will tell Dae-su Oh why he has been imprisoned, or when he can hope for release. Left in near-total isolation, his only connection to the outside world is the television. This becomes problematic when news flashes start reporting that Dae-su Oh’s wife has been brutally murdered, and that he is the prime suspect. In a creepy tracking shot that circles around his head, we see ants emerging from underneath his skin, and swarming about his face. It seems like an apt visual metaphor—the character’s fear, rage, and creepy loneliness literally devouring him from the inside-out. Dae-su Oh is never the same from this point on. Though his thoughts continue to be expressed in lucid voiceover, we get the feeling that some part of the man has died.

Dae-su Oh continues to be caged like an animal for the next fifteen years. In the interval, his once neatly-cut hair grows long, and his face, having grown sad eyes as well as a lean and hungry look, resembles a lupine under exhibition in a zoo. This contrasting of man with animal is even more fitting after the control room of Dae-su Oh’s "prison" is revealed. From this makeshift nerve center, an office that includes a bank of television monitors, Dae-su Oh’s captors, like dedicated zookeepers, keep a watchful eye over the specimens in their menagerie.

Granted, there is something wild and uncouth about Dae-su Oh from the very beginning. In the first sequence of the movie, he fights with police officers at the station where he has been detained. He attempts to "mark his territory" in the middle of booking, and makes a rude gesture upon being released. After finally escaping his prison (Actually, he wakes up to find himself mysteriously delivered to a building rooftop), he becomes like a wild animal set free from his cage. Initially overwhelmed by his newfound freedom, Dae-su Oh soon becomes hellbent on finding those responsible for his suffering, and making them pay dearly. Since Dae-su Oh has been framed for the murder of his wife, he must act as a vigilante. Before he begins doing that, however, he visits a nearby sushi bar, where he devours a still-moving octopus to satisfy his desire to eat something alive (The act of eating live flesh can be viewed as Dae-su Oh's first step towards returning to his pre-captivity state).

After lapsing out of consciousness, Dae-su Oh awakens to Mi-do (Hye-jeong Kang), a young teenage girl who took him home from the sushi bar. She wants to read the journals he had been keeping while imprisoned, but Dae-su Oh snatches them away, hoarding them like some kind of pack rat. Having been removed from human contact for so long, women now cause him great anxiety. This doesn’t stop him from trying to rape Mi-do in the bathroom. Luckily, she accepts his explanation that these urges are simply beyond his control.

Of course, Dae-su Oh’s animal urges go beyond the primal need to fuck. He has had fifteen years to foment a craven bloodlust towards whoever had him kidnapped. Having made his body stronger during his time in captivity, Dae-su Oh’s rage has become combined with the agility and ferociousness of a jungle cat. As a result, he doesn’t just stab, bludgeon, and torture the parties who participated in his degradation, or who can provide him with clues about the enemy’s identity. Dae-su Oh relishes the prospect of violence. "Oldboy" is a movie full of carnage, much of it messy, some of it difficult to watch. Director Chan-wook Park films using only light sources in the background, which give the picture an ugly sheen that only complements the ugly behavior.

But Park also introduces a novel idea during the second half of the movie. Just when we have Dae-su Oh pegged as the baddest animal in the concrete jungle, there arrives an even deadlier specimen: the very man our anti-hero has been trying to track down. Woo-jin Lee (Ji-tae Yu), it turns out, has been nursing a grudge against Dae-su Oh that makes the latter’s fifteen years in solitary look like grains in the hourglass. A sneering ghoul of a man, hate has devoured Woo-Jin whole. All that remains is a cold smile and scheming intelligence. It's doubtful he ever met a revenge formula he would consider too elaborate.

Inevitably, Dae-su Oh meets Woo-jin Lee face-to-face. One of them turns out to have an ace up his sleeve, a revelation so shocking and twisted, his opponent is left speechless. Initially, I dismissed the twist ending as a case of a screenwriter simply piling stuff on. But upon further reflection, it's not so implausible, given how deep the character's hate for his counterpart runs. He would have had plenty of time to refine the grand strategem gestating in his brain. And since these are animals mixing it up, not men, isn’t it fitting that cunning and ruthlessness, as opposed to the righteousness of one’s cause, are what decide ultimate victory? Just like in the real jungle.

"Though I am no better than a beast, do I not have the right to be happy…?"

A line repeated more than once in the movie, it takes on a surprising poignancy, and hints at man's hope of transcending his own animal instincts.

Both Dae-su Oh and Woo-jin Lee have behaved in beastly ways to people. The former has a list of enemies long enough to fill a composition notebook, while the latter has inflicted unspeakable harm on Dae-su Oh and his loved ones. If a key difference exists between these two men, however, it’s that one of them owns up to the unspeakable acts he has committed, and in admitting his own culpability, finds forgiveness and inner peace. His counterpart does not. To the bitter end, he blames his years of suffering entirely on his nemesis. He exonerates his own bestial instincts of any role they might have played in a past tragedy.

As a result, even after the smoke clears, after he has stood victorious over his enemy, he still can find no peace. No amount of retribution can take away the pain. No amount of suffering on the part of his nemesis can bring back what was lost. Here is a man so dedicated to the destruction of his enemy that, with the enemy vanquished, he loses all purpose. Imprisoned by his own bestial instincts and behavior, he can aspire to no higher emotions. All that is left for him to do is wander off somewhere, and die in solitude, like a dog.

Overall rating: ***1/2 (out of ****)

INSTITUTE BENJAMENTA, OR THIS DREAM PEOPLE CALL HUMAN LIFE (1995), dir. Stephen and Timothy Quay

Visually, visually, visually, visually, life is but…

The movie is a dream about a school. In turn, the school—a place of madmen; of dull, repetitive work; of inevitable losses and disappointments—is a metaphor for life itself.

Or perhaps I am taking "Institute Benjamenta" too seriously. Or too literally. After all, if the movie is a dream, the dreamer, whom we hear speaking and see sleeping in the opening shots, is a woman who speaks a language other than English. All the characters in the dream, meanwhile, speak English. Also, the central protagonist of the dream is a man.

No, I don’t think this movie is meant to be interpreted on a literal level. It’s much easier, and much better, to treat the movie for what it is. Let the dream play itself out. Marvel at the strange sights and sounds conjured up by the Brothers Quay.

On a visual and auditory level, the filmmakers succeed in creating a world that looks, moves, and defies reality as only dreams can. The students of the titular "school" engage in inexplicable routines, choreographed like dances, wherein they do things like eat their meals after a series of ritualistic motions, and sway side-to-side while reciting informative dialogue such as, "I have rescued the cat from the tall tree, sir." These scenes feel unreal. Slow-motion editing, soft focus lenses, and the use of music in lieu of dialogue only enhance the somnambulistic effect.

At one point, characters disappear into the darkness of a chalkboard, which turns out to be a tunnel. The Institute itself is a compelling collection of oddly-angled rooms, freak exhibits, and labyrinths where giant drawings have been painted across entire walls.

Yes, the "Institute Benjamenta" is a dream. But that does not mean everything we see here has to be beautiful. Dreams can be populated with monstrosities, too, like the half-deer minotaur that appears like a feverish vision to Jakob (Mark Rylance), our hapless protagonist.

Jakob applies to the "Institute Benjamenta" because he sees no great future for himself. He wants to be of service to somebody, and the school is well-known for producing servants and other men who amount to little. Accepted into the school, Jakob endures the same lesson taught every day, over and over again (Jakob never explicitly states what the lesson is, only that they must learn it. Perhaps the lesson is a Macguffin; during a classroom scene, non-specific jargon like "Order is the first law of God" can be seen written on a chalkboard).

When Jakob breaks under the strain of monotony and harsh living conditions, the Institute’s principals, Herr Benjamenta (Gottfried John), and Frau Benjamenta (Alice Krige) house him in closer proximity to their persons. Jakob becomes their confidant, and witnesses his masters’ deteriorating relationship. The Frau’s health begins to fail as a result of her partner’s (Are they brother and sister? Husband and wife? Like the famous "one lesson," the movie never spells things out explicitly) emotional withdrawal. Since the school is inextricably tied to them, Jakob resolves to be the best possible servant to Frau Benjamenta, in a bid to keep it alive.

This probably sounds like the makings of a great movie. Unfortunately, the characters are a little too thin, and that includes Jakob, who only seems to exist in the extremes of anxiety and melancholy. Never lacking in personality, however, are "Institute Benjamenta’s" otherworldly black-and-white visuals and off-key tone. There’s a certain fittingness to that. After all, whoever woke from a fascinating dream and said, "What amazing dimension those characters in my sleep had!"

Overall rating: ** (out of ****)