La Strada takes no time at all getting into the tragedy of its story. Within 5 minutes we are introduced to our protagonist, Gelsomina (Guilietta Masina), whose sister, Rosa, has passed away. Rosa’s husband, the burlyman Zampino (Anthony Quinn), then purchases Gelsomina as his new wife. From the start the film takes that tone of tragedy and counterbalances it with something else as Gelsomina smiles strangely at the prospect of leaving home and starting a new life in the wake of her sister’s death. This sets up the tone we are to face for the rest of the film, a sort of strange imbalance between emotions faced by both the characters and the audience. This imbalance is due in large part to Gelsomina’s mental condition, which shows that she has difficulty understanding and learning and cannot operate as a functional adult without the help of someone else. But we fall in love with her despite this (or perhaps because of it), and throughout the film, Guilietta Masina’s face is mesmerizing in this role, giving us so much insight into what might be going on in her head as her expressions grow wonderfully from wide eyed to confused to sad and at times confident. I personally don’t doubt that whatever she’s thinking about is pure and wonderful, and I don’t think Fellini would disagree either.

However, her new “husband” (though they are never officially married), Zampino, is cruel and unforgiving to Gelsomina, using her only for his shows and not giving her the love she deserves. But somehow she stays with him, coming to believe her purpose is to take care of him. The two form an extremely unlikely and unconventional pair that feels instantly classic. At times, Gelsomina will try to escape from Zampino, and at other times, Zampino attempts to flee from her, and this imbalance continues as they travel together. The film could also fit into the category of a road movie, spanning numerous different locations as they perform from town to town for Zampino’s shows. It’s also hard to get a sense of time while watching La Strada with few time indicators given out throughout the film. And this is capitalized by the ending, which jumps ahead at least 5 years for its incredible final sequence. As they travel, the road changes Gelsomina, and we grow in our empathy towards her as she discovers the world and herself and comes to redefine her definition of home.

However, as Gelsomina grows as a character, Zampino largely stays the same for the majority of the film, allowing his anger and distrust of the world to guide him, bringing only pain to himself and Gelsomina. But what’s so interesting about Fellini’s filmmaking, is his compassion for a character like Zampino. At the start, it’s evidently clear that the empathy towards Gelsomina is there, but as  the story progresses, we start to see that this film is also more about Zampino than originally expected. It’s the strange but affecting imbalance between toxic masculinity and the beautiful soul of Gelsomina. But despite this destructive behavior, Fellini shows extreme compassion and intrigue into the character of Zampino, whose anger at himself and the world will drive him into self-inflicted pain. It’s the same sort of character that Martin Scorsese would explore in many of his films, especially Jake Lamotta in Raging Bull, who shares many similarities with the masculine qualities of Zampino. Eventually, Zampino will come to see that he may have loved Gelsomina all along, but that it is already too late.

La Strada has some great scenes, and a very incredible story, but the reason the film works so well for me is due to the performances, the fascinating characters, and the hauntingly beautiful score by Nino Rota. By the end, the theme of the film has come full circle. We sit on yet another tragedy that has happened off-screen, but this time, Gelsomina is not there to add her strange, beautiful imbalance to it. And of course the score returns and I’m still humming it. Beautiful.

Ivan’s Childhood marks the first feature from the influential Russian filmmaker, Andrei Tarkovsky. As I begin my journey through Tarkovsky’s body of work, revisiting a couple films I love and discovering five that I’ve never seen, I feel I’m entering an almost spiritual journey as well. I say this because I believe Tarkovsky approaches filmmaking from a wholly spiritual perspective. His films seem to start with the assumption that his audiences will watch with that kind of attention and willingness that a meaningful prayer requires, and his first feature, Ivan’s Childhood is no different.

The story follows the life of a young childhood in WW2, Ivan, who escapes a German camp through a treacherous river where he is met by Russian soldiers who take care of him. They plan to send him to military school, but Ivan refused and insists to help fight on the front lines. We see from his experiences, that Ivan no longer acts like a child, and it is clear that he believes his childhood is in fact already over. Whew. It’s a tough pill to swallow, but from the first time we see Ivan cross the river and speak to the Russian troops, we see just by his demeanor that his childhood is far behind him. However, this is not the first time we encounter Ivan. Tarkovsky opens the film with a dream sequence of Ivan fully innocent, happy, and full of faith as we see him ascend into through the trees and begin to take literal and figurative flight. This weightless, flying Ivan becomes a far cry from the Ivan we know in present day, who is grounded in his harsh reality. His physical demeanor changes from that of an innocent boy to a numb and vengeful orphan.

Throughout the film, Tarkovsky revisits Ivan’s childhood past and shows images and details that will stick with me for a long time. Tarkovsky presents simple and beautiful mechanisms for communicating Ivan’s pain in many different ways. A particularly impactful scene uses the sound design of water and a magnificent juxtaposition of images inside the bottom of a well to show us just how far away Ivan is from his happier past.

All in all, Ivan’s Childhood is an extremely compelling film. It’s paced well and moves at a tremendous speed, but it is also almost nothing other than a collection of soft, spiritual moments. Moments that transcend our everyday world but that we all know so well. Moments that define the work of Tarkovsky. Moments that make watching movies so worth it.

From the beginning of this film, a poem is presented that prepares us for what we are about to experience…”When the child was a child.” This theme and this phrase is repeated throughout the film, representing the longing of the angels above, who are unable to feel the feelings that a child has. And that’s what this film is all about: angels. They linger through the city above, and sit with individuals, hearing their thoughts and innermost desires, as well as their fears. They are detached observers, forced to watch at a distance, never able to touch or communicate with humanity, (not too dissimilarly from a film goer, observing casually at a distance the characters on screen). And we as the audience feel as these angels do. The camera floats and glides through the city above, through rooms, through busy libraries and streets. And we hear as the angels hear the world. This lasts for the entirety of the first half of the film, jumping from individual to individual and hearing their thoughts. It’s a unique, lengthy approach that allows the audience to truly sympathize with the angels because the film has now shown us how they feel.

As the film progresses, we are treated to hints of color film, which was altogether unexpected for me on a first viewing. Soon enough, we learn that the colored world is the view of mankind, while the angel’s gaze remains stuck in black and white. Is it possible to escape this life? This is the question faced by the angel Damiel (Bruno Ganz), who begins to grow weary of everlasting life day after day, never experiencing the world he observes. Wender’s camera makes a point to emphasize that the angels look down on mankind (literally) and mankind looks up at them. And that is why is so special when, for the first time, Damiel looks up at a trapeze artist and feels something he never has before. He sympathizes with her loneliness, but more importantly, he desires to fly as she does within the bounds of human existence. After all, what meaning is there in flying when there are no limits? Damiel longs for this, and so do we. At the end of the day, the poetry of this film isn’t difficult or hard to catch, though it might be hard to put into words. Wim Wenders seems to be making a comparison to us as the audience, watching the angels watching the humans, learning how to feel alive…

Vivre Sa Vie is all about identity, and it is almost entirely expressed through the face of Anna Karina, who plays the character of Nana. The film opens with a quote: “Lend yourself to others, but give yourself to yourself.” After this quote, we get an extremely compelling series of shots consisting of nothing but Nana’s face. From these shots, (accompanied by the beautifully haunting score from Michael Legrand), we get the sense that she is wrestling with identity, purpose, and concealment. The credits appear over her face and the back of her head as we get the sense that this woman is afraid of who she is, or unsure of it. Am I reading too much into this? Maybe…but that’s what film is for, plus Anna Karina’s eyes seem to communicate so much through such a simple stare. And it’s clear how Godard frames Karina on-screen that he thinks the same thing. For every scene, it is her face alone that tells the story, and it tells quite a lot. If you want to add another layer into this analysis it’s worth noting that Karina was married to Godard when they made this film…but I digress.

Anyway, what was the story about? Oh right, it was about…her. It’s difficult to say what else. After all, the film title translates, “My life to live.” We see various different chapters into her life and each time see a new sense of who she is. In the first scene, we find she is leaving a man named Paul and their son presumably to pursue a career in acting, but she needs money. After this, we see her in her daily life at work, still asking for money and desperate for a break. More importantly we see that she doesn’t truly have anyone to walk through life with. Her life is devoid of passion, and she is tired of not being seen or being understood. In a conversation early on she expresses, “I exist too…” Another particularly beautiful scene involves her going to the cinema and watching the classic 1928 silent film, “The Passion of Joan of Arc,” another film known for it’s powerful use of female-led close ups. A powerful scene plays in which Joan of Arc is questioned about her identity and purpose as she is sentenced to death. The scene resonants with Nana and the filmmaking of Godard, as the shots are visually dominated by nothing but the human face, and it is a thing to behold. A nearly identical reverse shot moments later shows us Nana in a close up as well, shedding a tear just as Joan of Arc did. The difference is that Nana is surrounded by darkness, Joan of Arc by light.

The film progresses and Nana is forced into prostitution, though her character seems to find happiness and purpose in it, we see that her fears and struggles are the same. It’s sad to watch, but Godard never gives us a moment to feel the weight of her actions or really pause for an emotional beat. Instead, his camera is a dispassionate one, often viewing things objectively as they are, just watching very matter of factly. It’s her life to live not ours. What more can we do but watch?

It’s Monday, which means it’s Black and White Movie Night. Welcome to my weekly tradition. A close up on a young girl and an insert shot of a casket in the ground. These are the first two shots in Peter Bogdanovich’s 1930’s depression-era film. And these shots set a trend throughout the rest of the film for just how simply and effortlessly it grabbed my attention and engaged my emotions. There are plenty of other similar moments amidst a ridiculously entertaining story.

The film centers around a conman, Moses (Ryan O’Neal) who reluctantly agrees to take a young girl, Addie (played by the actors actual daughter, Tatum O’Neal), to her aunt’s house in Missouri after her mother has died. Along the way, Addie witnesses how Moses makes his living, which is through simple cons of selling Bibles to the widows of those recently deceased. After a short while, she adopts his ways, proving to be better than him at the cons. As the film progresses, the two begin to share a mutual respect and admiration, though not without conflict. In often hilarious, yet somewhat melancholic scenes near the beginning, Addie asks, “Aren’t you my pa?”, after all they “share a resemblance”. This upsets Moses, who insists that just because he visited his mom often , who we learn was a flapper, doesn’t mean anything. We learn, as Addie does later on in the film that perhaps that is the tragic truth when Moses picks up a new girl from a sideshow to travel with them briefly.

From there, the story is filled with fun, exhilarating moments, and smaller scenes: some happy, some sad. But at the core, Paper Moon is never an overly sentimental film, but instead is filled with often selfish intents and desires from both Moses and Addie. Yet, despite that, we fully understand why they need each other. And in the process, they both pick up on how to take care of the other, almost as if learning another con. We’re shown the beautiful connection between unique, yet similar souls. Just when you start to wonder why the film was called Paper Moon, the film reminds you with a simple shot. And of course, it must’ve been there all along. You’ve got to watch to find out what I mean.