Criterion Collection - Online Cinematheque

This piece first appeared in the 1991 Wim Wenders collection The Logic of Images: Essays and Conversation (Faber and Faber), translated by Michael Hofmann.

The story’s about a man who turns up somewhere in the desert out of nowhere and returns to civilization. Prior to filming, we drove the length of the entire U.S.–Mexican border—more than 1,500 miles. Finally, we decided to shoot in an area called Big Bend, in the southwest of Texas. Big Bend is a national park with incredibly beautiful mountains, through which the Rio Grande flows. That’s the river the “wetbacks” have to swim. As it turned out, we didn’t film there, because when we were looking over the area again from above, in a helicopter, the old pilot, a local guy, told us there was an area a little way off called the Devil’s Graveyard. This godforsaken patch of ground wasn’t even entered on our maps, and it turned out to be a gigantic, abstract dream landscape. There are no police, and most of the immigrants who swim across there just die in the desert because there’s not a drop of water anywhere in it. So that’s where we started our film; that’s where we see Travis for the first time. After he collapses with exhaustion, he’s picked up by his brother. The first place they go is a little hamlet of about twenty houses called Marathon. It has a hotel, where Walt drops Travis, and goes off to buy him some new clothes. But when Walt gets back, his brother has taken off again. The next, slightly bigger, place that Walt and Travis pass through on their way from Texas to Los Angeles is Fort Stanton, a town with a couple of thousand inhabitants. We tried to arrange the film in such a way that all sizes and types of American towns appear in it.  

Paris, Texas

Wim Wenders

1984

147 min

Color

1.78:1

This expansive tribute to the iconic Japanese actor Tatsuya Nakadai was first published on the Criterion Collection’s website in fall 2005, around the time of the Criterion releases of two films starring Nakadai: Kurosawa’s Ran and the less well-known samurai film Kill! Since that time, Criterion has released three more films starring the hugely prolific Nakadai (Mikio Naruse’s When a Woman Ascends the Stairs, Hiroshi Teshigahara’s The Face of Another, and Masaki Kobayashi’s The Human Condition). In his six-decade career, Nakadai has appeared in more than one hundred films.

When I was a boy and Abbey Road was still on the new release racks at my local record store, one familiar pop culture question my friends and I would often entertain concerned the potential existence and probable identity of a “fifth Beatle”—a session-seasoned ghost star brought in to buoy Paul’s bass lines, or some funk-for-hire kagemusha, secretly shadow-doubling keyboard rumbles deep within the mix. Today—grayer, far less groovy, and no longer so susceptible to such frivolous and rhetorical pop-cult idylls—I tend toward weightier and more serious concerns. The possibility, for example, that alongside the seven blade runners of Akira Kurosawa’s sword-toting supergroup there might have strode an extra warrior—an “eighth samurai.”

In fact, the existence of a supernumerary slice artist among those seven samurai has been verifiable all along, and sharp-eyed cineastes will have long since spotted his momentary membership in that Kurosawa-gumi, just as you can today—by scanning and rescanning the frames between the film’s ten-minute-sixteen- and ten-minute-nineteen-second marks. The fleetingly glimpsed swordsman who saunters through those scant few frames of screen time has no bearing on that 1954 classic’s surrounding narrative, and if you blinked through those three seconds, his absence would remain unfelt—he is but one stubbly-bearded mercenary among the many potential warriors for hire that the film’s desperate rice farmers observe striding through the city, his only attribute an attitude of indifference, another replacement killer, cameoed and left unnamed. But for Tatsuya Nakadai—then a contract player at Shochiku Studios and not yet twenty-three years old—those flash frames in the spotlight would prove three of the most decisive seconds in front of a camera an actor ever spent.  

The Human Condition

Masaki Kobayashi

1959

574 min

Black and White

2.35:1

Upon its U.S. release in the fall of 1969, Costa-Gavras’s Z made a splash unprecedented for a non-Hollywood film: star Yves Montand talked it up to Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show, and the film went on to gross $2.2 million during its first year. But Z also became a critical landmark. And it was the first foreign-language film to win the best film of the year award from the New York Film Critics Circle.

The coincidence of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Circle (of which I am chair) and Criterion’s new DVD release of Costa-Gavras’s best-known film offers a perfect opportunity to reflect on the organization’s awards history, especially as we get set to announce our 2009 winners. Considering how well Z holds up decades later helps affirm that, with all the fluctuations in critics’ choices, they sometimes get things right.  

Z

Costa-Gavras

1969

127 min

Color

1.66:1

Not that he himself wanted to be remembered. Rather, he wanted his work to be remembered. He once wrote: “Take ‘myself,’ subtract ‘movies,’ and the result is ‘zero.’” It was as though he thought he did not exist except through his movies. When I was writing my book about him, he sometimes complained that there was nothing to write about if I persisted in asking him about himself. He became interested in my project only when he learned it was to be called The Films of Akira Kurosawa.

I do not remember one subsequent conversation that was not about the movies, almost invariably the one he was then making. Kurosawa had no interest in small talk—it was all heavy talk about the present project.

He had his reasons. Once I asked about what a certain scene in a prior picture had meant, and he said: “Well, if I could have answered that, it wouldn’t have been necessary for me to film the scene, would it?” I may have had my theories about my subject, but he was not interested in theory.

He was interested only in practice—how to make films more convincing, more real, more right. He would have agreed with Picasso’s remark that when critics get together they talk about theory, but when artists get together they talk about turpentine. He was interested in focal lengths, in multiple camera positions, in color values, just as he was interested in convincing narrative, in consistent characters, and in the moral concern that was his subject.  

Rashomon

Akira Kurosawa

1950

88 min

Black and White

1.33:1

Seven Samurai

Akira Kurosawa

1954

207 min

Black and White

1.33:1

The following essay was originally written for Criterion’s website in 2005, on the occasion of the DVD release of Powell and Pressburger’s The Tales of Hoffmann. We have posted it here to coincide with BFI Southbank’s ongoing Hein Heckroth exhibition (which began on November 26), which puts on display the art Heckroth made for the film The Red Shoes, including 130 oil paintings.

Halfway through The Red Shoes—Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger’s enduring 1948 backstage ballet film—something remarkable happens. Up until that point, the film has displayed certain escapist elements: crisply designed sets for smart London apartments have secured us among an artistic and social elite; beautiful location footage of the French Riviera has provided a “come hither” travelogue appeal. But when the film’s heroine, Vicky (Moira Shearer), starts to dance the ballet of “The Red Shoes,” we leave behind this concrete story-world and enter the surreal realm of her imagination. Here, freed of the slavish need to re-create a recognizably “real” space, the film’s visionary production designer, Hein Heckroth, strikes out into a hallucinatory landscape, a world of the unconscious, creating flamboyant, cartoon-like images, dreamy and unnerving, for the film’s rightly celebrated central sequence.

The Red Shoes was the first feature film designed by the German-born painter and theater designer Heckroth, and he was awarded an Oscar for his efforts. For several years hence, Heckroth would continue to work with the writer-producer-director team of Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, forming one of the most fruitful, if under-recognized, filmmaker/designer collaborations in the history of cinema. Powell and Pressburger were always prone to cinematic flair, paying little heed to the fashion for modest realism in British cinema of the mid-century, and Heckroth’s often flamboyant approach suited their visions perfectly. With imaginations ignited by the success of The Red Shoes, Powell, Pressburger, and Heckroth went on to make The Tales of Hoffmann (1951), an opera film that banishes reality altogether. One of the Archers’ greatest achievements, The Tales of Hoffmann is one of the most striking instances of a painter’s art being fully incorporated into mainstream film language.  

The Red Shoes

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger

1948

133 min

1.33:1

The Tales of Hoffmann

Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger

1951

127 min

Color

1.33:1

The following essay originally appeared in The Logic of Images, a collection of Wim Wenders’s writing that was published in 1992.

In the last few years, since Paris, Texas, Berlin has been the place where I’ve stopped off. I started to feel at home there, in spite of the fact that I see the city with the eyes of someone who’s spent a lot of time away.

Up until now, the stories in my films were always told from the point of view of a main character. This time, I rejected the idea of some returning hero who rediscovers Berlin and Germany for himself. I couldn’t imagine the character through whose eyes I would see Berlin; such a person could only have been another version of myself. Besides, Travis had been a man returning to a city.

I really don’t know what gave me the idea of angels. One day I wrote “angels” in my notebook, and the next day “the unemployed.” Maybe it was because I was reading Rilke at the time—nothing to do with films—and realizing as I read how much of his writing is inhabited by angels. Reading Rilke every night, perhaps I got used to the idea of angels being around.

After a while, I began to doubt whether it would amount to a film. I tried to push the idea away, but it was never quite extinguished.  

Wings of Desire

Wim Wenders

1987

127 min

Color & Black and White

1.66:1

The following, written in 1986, is from the first treatment for Wings of Desire.

And we, spectators always, everywhere,

looking at, never out of, everything!
—Rilke, “The Eighth Elegy”

At first it’s not possible to describe anything beyond a wish or a desire.

That’s how it begins, making a film, writing a book, painting a picture, composing a tune, generally creating something.

You have a wish.

You wish that something might exist, and then you work on it until it does. You want to give something to the world, something truer, more beautiful, more painstaking, more serviceable, or simply something other than what already exists. And right at the start, simultaneous with the wish, you imagine what that “something other” might be like, or at least you see something flash by. And then you set off in the direction of the flash, and you hope you don’t lose your orientation, or forget or betray the wish you had at the beginning.

And in the end, you have a picture or pictures of something, you have music, or something that operates in some new way, or a story, or this quite extraordinary combination of all these things: a film. Only with a film—as opposed to paintings, novels, music, or inventions—you have to present an account of your desire; more, you even have to describe in advance the path you want to go with your film. No wonder, then, that so many films lose their first flash, their comet.

The thing I wished for and saw flashing was a film in and about Berlin.

A film that might convey something of the history of the city since 1945. A film that might succeed in capturing what I miss in so many films that are set here, something that seems to be so palpably there when you arrive in Berlin: a feeling in the air and under your feet and in people’s faces that makes life in this city so different from life in other cities.  

Wings of Desire

Wim Wenders

1987

127 min

Color & Black and White

1.66:1

We’ve pieced together comments from production designer Donald Burt and property master Hope Parrish of working with the supermeticulous and precise David Fincher on perfecting the atmosphere and historical accuracy of The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. You can click here for a closer look at one particular aspect of Parrish’s astonishing work: Benjamin’s postcards and diary. And our special edition DVD and Blu-ray releases feature hours of interviews and behind-the-scenes footage exploring the Academy Award–winning visual effects.

Donald Burt: Working with David is rewarding because he is so very detail oriented—and always for the purpose of the story. He absolutely knows his film and is able to clearly articulate it. It is a wonderful experience to work with a director so committed to his vision and with a passionate work ethic.

Hope Parrish: I think that one of the reasons I love to work with David Fincher is that he is so meticulous. As I said in a Christmas letter two years ago, David pushes me beyond best. He has an amazing eye for detail. I am not always sure when I have nailed it, but he lets me know when he says, “We’re done.” He sometimes can be a real challenge for me, but he has hired me to make it happen for him and his film. This was my second film for him, and each time I know I walked away having learned more from him. To me, he is a prop master’s dream.

Donald Burt: Our initial visual approach to the film was based on historical research of scripted locales, within specific time periods. Restraint was as important as consistent tonality in representing the passage of time visually in the film. We were especially conscious with the set dressing and propping in this regard, not wanting to proliferate sets with objects that blatantly reflected an era but rather to have a “progressive mix” of elements that would show a change in period without disregarding the history of things that are carried through life. We also wanted to maintain a certain mundaneness to this expression, so as to keep it very real and subtle. This approach was particularly important in portraying New Orleans in the story. New Orleans is very much a city of suspended time, not only socially but visually. It was important for us to keep the visual language of the film simple and consistent.  

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

David Fincher

2008

165 min

Color

2.40:1

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button property master Hope Parrish writes: “When it came to the postcards and the diary, David was involved every step of the way. I found hundreds of postcards that he narrowed down to the ones he liked: we had them for Caroline’s birthdays over the years, and then the postcards in the box with ribbon from Benjamin to Daisy. Each was handpicked, and the messages on the back of them needed to be in Brad’s handwriting (something the audience doesn’t actually see, but it was great for Julia as a working tool to help her with her performance), which artist Jules Kmetzko managed to copy perfectly. She also did all the writing in the book. It was a very long process. But David saw updates and added or changed little things as it grew. It was important that the diary had layers. I had the diary made from scratch. Once David signed off on the writing and images, I had the pages bound, and then the real fun part of my work began: aging it and putting all the bits and bobbles in."  

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

David Fincher

2008

165 min

Color

2.40:1

When science fiction guru Forrest J Ackerman died last December, he was remembered for many firsts. Born November 24, 1916, Ackerman (known as Forry by fans and friends) purchased his first science fiction magazine in 1926. He founded the first science fiction fan group (the Boys’ Scientifiction Club) in 1929, and wrote for the genre’s first fanzine (The Time Traveler) in 1932. That same year, he published the first known list of fantastic films (thirty-four titles). Forry printed Ray Bradbury’s first story in 1938, and in 1954 coined the term sci-fi. Working with publisher James Warren in 1969, Ackerman created the iconic comic book character Vampirella—a bloodsucking femme fatale from outer space.

But it was Forry’s editorship of Warren’s Famous Monsters of Filmland that knocked the earth from its axis and spun it into an entirely new dimension. Published from 1958 to 1983, “the world’s first filmonster magazine” inspired generations of young moviemakers and ushered horror fandom into the mainstream. Filled with behind-the-scenes articles, rare photos, and Ackerman’s trademark puns (“You Axed for It!” was the title of a regular feature), Famous Monsters was the Cahiers du cinéma for fright flicks. George Lucas, Steven Spielberg, and Guillermo del Toro all count the magazine as an influence, and thousands of other “monster kids” spent their adolescence experimenting with stop-motion dinosaurs and ghoulish makeup effects under Ackerman’s tutelage.

For decades, Forry gave public tours of his Los Angeles “Ackermansion”—a Taj Mahal of terror containing the world’s largest collection of sci-fi/horror memorabilia and movie props. Among his estimated fifty thousand visitors was a teenage Dennis Muren, who conspired with a group of other Famous Monsters fans to make the cult DIY creature feature Equinox (1970). Muren would later help revolutionize modern visual effects with his Oscar-winning work on films like Star Wars (1977), The Abyss (1989), and Jurassic Park (1993).

Sadly, many of Forry’s prized possessions were sold or stolen over the years, and much of what’s left will be auctioned off on April 30 and May 1. Despite his steadfast efforts to do so, Ackerman never found a permanent home for his treasure (a portion of it can be viewed at Seattle’s Science Fiction Museum and Hall of Fame). The myriad of marvels to be sold this week include a monocle worn by Fritz Lang during the making of Metropolis (1926), prosthetic teeth from Lon Chaney Sr.’s makeup kit, and a first American edition of Dracula, signed by Bram Stoker, Bela Lugosi, and Christopher Lee.

Some of these relics will find their way to fans eager to share them as Forry did. Others may vanish forever. But even as the Ackermansion slips into memory, monster kids of all ages know that Forrest J Ackerman will never die. The wonder-packed pages of Famous Monsters of Filmland—collected, studied, and adored to this day—endure as his living museum.

For more information on the Ackerman estate auction, click here. And watch a clip of Ackerman talking about Equinox, a film he championed in the pages of Famous Monsters (“because it showed the talents of young readers like Dennis Muren and Mark McGee” and “gave hope and inspiration to others to follow in their footsteps”), from an interview on Criterion’s 2006 release.

Equinox

Jack Woods

1970

82 min

Color

1.33:1