The Three Kinds of Movies

My last article spoke about The Four Kinds of People, and as a continuation of that idea, I will now discuss The Three Kinds of Movies. First, a little background is in order.

At around fourteen or fifteen years of age I existed among the ranks of the third and worst of the four kinds of people. In other words, I absolutely loved movies, but possessed a very limited perspective of them. As I stated in my article, Tree Hugger: Part One, the movie that helped me evolve was Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho (1960). I rented it begrudgingly, and only when convinced I had seen every new release available at my local Blockbuster. Psycho not only impressed me, it changed me. From that day forward I started watching older American movies.

A few months later I was at my friend’s house flipping channels on the tube when, suddenly, we found ourselves staring at two bad ass looking Japanese guys with enormous spears. The movie was subtitled, black-and-white, and shot in glorious widescreen. Before we could change the channel on this “foreign garbage”, we both realized how visually striking it was. This was exceptional filmmaking! My friend, as intrigued as I (all the more shocking since he had a “person two” interest in films), pressed the info button on his remote. It was called The Hidden Fortress, released in 1958, and directed by Akira Kurosawa, an influential Japanese filmmaker I had surprisingly heard of in passing.

My friend and I watched the entire spear battle between Toshiro Mifune and Susumu Fujita, astonished as all hell. That very evening I looked up as much information on Akira Kurosawa as I possibly could, and the next day I rented The Hidden Fortress, Seven Samurai (1954), and Ran (1985). Surprisingly, when viewed in full, none of these films were all that great to me at the time. They were above average, I suppose, but nothing tremendous. I decided Kurosawa wasn’t all I had come to think he might be.

However, I came across a copy of Yojimbo (1961) a few weeks later and pulled the trigger on a rental. I absolutely loved it. To this day I consider it a top notch satire, brimming with action, entertainment, and stunning cinematography. Yojimbo was, for me, second only to Psycho in terms of its immediate impact on my life where motion pictures are concerned. It opened the door to everything Psycho had left out. Foreign films were fair game, even silents seemed legitimate. After Yojimbo I threw out all the fears and prejudices I had unintentionally built up against certain aspects of film history. All films, and I do mean all (with the single exception of porn), were now potential masterpieces. I realized that by restricting myself from viewing these “intimidating” films, I could miss out on seeing some of the greatest films ever made. As a film lover I wasn’t willing to do that, which is why I have issues with “film lovers” who are.

I began watching everything I could get my hands on. Before I knew it, Blockbuster wasn’t cutting it anymore. To get my hands on some of Kurosawa’s lesser known works (The Lower Depths, Red Beard, Sanshiro Sugata, etc.) I found myself driving to rental stores with a better selection or buying the movies outright. In addition to these, and more, I viewed Seven Samurai, Ran, and The Hidden Fortress again a few months into my cinephile revelation period. It was as if a blindfold of ignorance had been removed from my eyes. What had I been watching the first time? Was my mind preoccupied? Perhaps my bias had been more stifling than I realized? What possessed me to believe these films were anything but extraordinary?! That’s when I formed the belief that three kinds of movies exist.

There are terrible films, of course, and they make up the vast majority. There are also movies one may enjoy on the first viewing that fail to hold up on subsequent viewings. In other words, their impact is immediate, and from there they only get worse. After seeing a film like this, one may leave the theater with a smile on their face. They are often very accessible and well made. Still, they lack that singular ability to grow, change, and improve with each viewing. Their value is entirely on the surface. One does not watch these films multiple times and discover new things each time. It’s like a quart of milk; good for a while, then it spoils. The life span of these pictures is quite short indeed.

Then there are those rare, special films that can range anywhere from average to excellent when first viewed. What separates them from the second type of movie is that each viewing reaps new rewards. If the film was excellent the first time, it only grows more incredible. If it was average at first, one’s eyes open to its brilliance a few viewings later. Like a fine wine, this kind of film gets even better with age. This was the case with Seven Samurai, Ran, and The Hidden Fortress. Though I was blown away by Seven Samurai on my second viewing, it wasn’t until the third that I began to really understand just how masterful it is. Having seen Seven Samurai more than a dozen times over the years, I now believe it's Kurosawa's finest film, and one of the best pictures ever made. Yojimbo, though I loved it immediately, has also grown richer over time. These kinds of films are the true treasures of the medium, and seeking them out may feel like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Another fact that bears mentioning; certain filmmakers may have a style that is more difficult to penetrate. For me, one of the most challenging directors to develop a proper appreciation for is Robert Bresson. He is an acquired taste, to be sure, but the man was obviously a cinematic genius. I don’t care if one has seen many Kurosawa films, Bergman films, Tarkovsky films, Fellini films, or Bunuel films, Bresson’s style can still alienate viewers. He is completely unique and operates as far from the Hollywood formula as possible. Any and everything conventional that can occur in a film does not occur in Bresson.

Directors such as this require a “viewing order” as I call it. One should begin with the filmmaker's most mainstream, though still great, film. Gradually, one can work their way up to the others. For Bresson, I believe the ideal place to start is A Man Escaped (1956), which also happens to be the favorite Bresson film of the respected critic, Jonathan Rosenbaum. The Bresson style is apparent, but the film isn’t difficult to enjoy for an experienced viewer, and it’s undeniably intense. I also believe that, following that film, one can enjoy Pickpocket (1959), Mouchette (1967), and L’Argent (1983). Then and only then should one attempt to tackle Diary of a Country Priest (1951) and Au Hasard Balthazar (1966).

The point here is, don’t give up on a director after seeing just one or two films he has made. The first Bresson film I saw was Au Hasard Balthazar and that was an enormous mistake. Now, having watched his other movies, I better understand Balthazar, and having seen it half a dozen times now, I find it to be a masterpiece.

I continue to search for great films, and will for the rest of my life. I strongly believe those who possess the notion that movies are nothing more than entertainment are misjudging reality. Motion pictures, the great ones anyway, are so much more. Films can instill moral lessons, and provide emotional outlets. I read one man’s take on Alain Resnais’ Hiroshima mon amour (1959), which said he despised the film for years until he saw it again after experiencing a tragic, heartbreaking event in his own life. Suddenly, he understood.

Great films can provide insight into other cultures and humanize the people of countries we may never have thought of or cared about prior. I know that Grave of the Fireflies (1988), despite being in Japanese, animated, and having nothing to do with atomic bombs, has the power to leave some modern American viewers regretting events that occurred in Japan on the sixth and ninth of August in 1945. And I know that any family, universally, can see their reflection in the films of Yasujiro Ozu. 

Humans identify with humans the world over, which means that ignoring those separated from us by a border or an ocean is the easy way out. Cultures that are difficult for us to penetrate, ways of life that we don’t really understand, we choose to define in simple terms. I've heard statements like, “They’re a mixed up race,” or, “Those people have no regard for human life.” Let’s not forget those who immediately chime in with vocal parodies of the languages of other cultures (all the worse considering the pitiful job they do). The only languages one can not parody in such a way are cinema, literature, and music: the universal languages. Like India’s great director, Satyajit Ray, once said of his Apu Trilogy:

“The most distinctive feature of my films is that they are deeply rooted in Bengal, in Bengali culture, mannerisms, and mores. What makes them universal in appeal is that they are about human beings.”