Indians vs Indians in the newly rediscovered/ restored silent epic, THE DAUGHTER OF DAWN

Milestone Film & Video -- the company that has given us so many recent restorations of seemingly lost and/or classic movies, from the hugely over-rated Losing Ground to a documentary TrustMovies would not have missed to save his life, NotFilm -- has a new one releasing to home video this coming Tuesday, July 19, in its DVD and Blu-ray world premiere. THE DAUGHTER OF DAWN, a 1920 silent movie directed by Norbert Myles and using an all-Indian cast of over 300 Kiowa and Comanche people, proves a curiosity that anyone who enjoys silent film, American Indian sagas or good old-fashioned melodrama will most likely want to see.

If not the first film to tell a story of Native Americans using actual Native Americans, The Daughter of Dawn was certainly among the first. (Hell, protestors are still trying to get Hollywood to cast real Indians in movies in which Indian characters appear.) And according to two of the cast members who were interviewed some time back (in the very good Bonus Features that appear on the disc), the filmmakers went out of their way to get all the details as honestly and correctly as they could manage.

The movie itself -- six reels lasting 80 minutes -- is no great shakes as a piece of art or even entertainment, yet it's appearance is definitely worth a shout-out. Thought to have been lost, along with so many other silent films, especially independents, the movie suddenly re-surfaced after nearly a century. (The story of how it was found and then restored is one of the highlights of the disc's Bonus Features.)

The tale told by The Daughter of Dawn is awash in, well, cliche, each one as obvious as the next. "From time immemorial: the eternal triangle," notes one of the early inter-titles. This is actually an "eternal triangle" plus-one, as our heroine -- that titular daughter (above, left), named because she was born as the sun rose -- is desired by two men, White Eagle and Black Wolf (guess the good guy via his color), the latter of whom is loved by a very sad Indian woman named Red Wing.

As the plot unfolds, we are privy to everything from a Buffalo hunt (filmed in Oklahoma, where actual Buffalo were relatively plentiful back then) to a Comanche raid on the Kiowa in which the women are abducted Sabine-style, a death-defying leap from atop a bluff (above), a dance of Thanksgiving, followed by a dance of War. There's kidnapping, betrayal, and a Romeo/Juliet-like conclusion, which is more than wasted on a real rat-fink of a Romeo.

The acting is stolid, rather than solid, and yellow/sepia filters are used for day-time shots and blue ones for night. Despite all of the above (probably because of it), the film manages a considerable amount of charm and sweetness. And since we have almost no filmed record of our Indian heritage, the movie takes its place as pretty much one-of-a-kind. You won't see another film like this one anytime soon.

The musical score on the sound track was created especially for the film's current release, and we learn much of how this was handled in those Bonus Features. With an old-fashioned aspect ratio of  1.33: 1, the restoration is a joint venture of the Oklahoma Historical Society and Milestone Film & Video and will hit the street this coming Tuesday, July 19, on Blu-ray and DVD -- for purchase and, I hope, rental. You can learn how to order it by clicking here, and to read the very interesting press information about the movie and its re-discovery, simply click here.

Eiichi Yamamoto's BELLADONNA OF SADNESS: Blu-ray debut of the restored and rediscovered masterpiece of erotic animation

A "must" for anyone who appreciates animation, eroticism, and/or the culture and spirit of the 1970s, BELLADONNA OF SADNESS -- a Japanese anime originally released in 1973 (but never seen theatri-cally here in the USA until 2016) and based on the French erotic novel, La Sorcière, by Jules Michelet -- is so very different from the kind of animation we get these days that it seems almost quaint. Yet within that quaintness resides a wealth of eroticism and wonder.

As directed by Eiichi Yamamoto (shown at right), with art directions by Kuni Fukai and a succulent, of-its-time-period musical score by Masahiko Sato (the time period in question is the 1970s, rather than the medieval era in which the story is set), the movie tells the tale of young lovers Jean and Jeanne (shown below in one of their happy times) who, on their wedding night are summarily separated by the Lord of their village and his nasty wife. Jeanne is repeatedly raped by that Lord and his men, while Jean is tossed out of the castle to find his way home, alone.

Already we're in the realm of class, economics, sex, rape, religion (the town priest looks on at these goings-on with utter benignity), the psychology of self-loathing, and feminism -- seen, of course, via the eyes (and the paintbrush) of the male. Naturally, the female of the species isn't simply the victim here; she's the perpetrator, too. Ah, Eve: you naughty, naughty girl!

What makes the animation so lavish and lush -- and utterly different from what we're used to these days -- is its simplicity, symbolism, use of color, and in particular, its use to white space. Take the initial rape (above): the combo of sudden violence, jagged art and dense and pounding music makes the moment something of a staggerer.

What's oddest about the animation is that is rarely moves much. And yet the colors -- whether bright and saturated, pastel (above) or intricately shaded (below) -- are quite magical to view. As we learn of the ups and down of our gorgeous couple (mostly downs, unfortunately), we also meet Jeanne's "saviour," who turns out to the devil --first appearing to our heroine in the guise of what looks suspiciously like a little penis (below), and very soon he is doing all those pleasurable things for which the penis is best known.

Before you can say, "Sell me your soul, sweetie!" Jeanne does just that, in order to exact some revenge upon her "Lord." But revenge, which constitutes the remainder of the tale, turns out to be rarely sweet, often ugly, and almost always erotic.

And true to the times -- then, now, and forever, it would seem -- it's the Lord's wife (above, center left) who is punished most (along with her page, extreme left: ah, class distinctions!), while the Lord (center, right) and his Priest get off scot-free.

Along the way Jeanne gets fucked by Satan, which becomes one hell of a light show culminating in a riot of all the colors, styles and time frames you could ask for, followed by one of the most all-out sexual orgies that animation has ever given us, as though Picasso and Bosch had joined forces but confined themselves to the use of only happy, bright, approaching-day-glo colors.

The Black Plague? Of course!  And how well it is done, decimating an entire city in seething black-and-white animation. Finally Jean and Jeanne do get it on -- in the sweetest of the segments, all pastels -- and then we quickly return to the bad times once again.

But even those bad times are hugely erotic -- notice how the smoke from a burning-at-the-stake curls around and into every orifice with such sinuous glee -- all accompanied by Masahiko's signature 70s music that will take you pleasurably back in time. The film's final shot, by the way, is a hoot and a half -- and thoroughly anti-church.

On the Blu-ray extras are some very good interviews with director, art director and composer that give us some history of each man, as well as his approach to what he felt was needed for this particular movie. Also included is the original Japanese trailer for the film, plus the current trailers, both red-band and green.  (The film is also said to include eight minutes of explicit footage, rescued from the sole surviving release print. As explicit it is may be for its time, however, don't expect much, maybe any, male full-frontal.)

After its 50-plus theatrical engagements across the country, Belladonna of Sadness -- from Cinelicious and The CineFamily -- hits the street this coming Tuesday, July 12, on both Blu-ray and VOD -- for purchase or rental. Just make sure the kids are in bed before you watch, or you will have an awful lot of questions to field....

HOLLOW TRIUMPH: Henreid/Bennett starrer from Fuchs/Sekely gets a spiffy, restored look

A film of which I'd never heard till now -- despite its good cast (Paul Henreid and Joan Bennett) and a screenwriter of several other excellent films (Daniel Fuchs) but a Hungarian director (István "Steve" Székely) whose main claim to fame would be The Day of the Triffids -- HOLLOW TRIUMPH, aka The Man Who Murdered Himself aka The Scar, looks today very much like a would-be hard-boiled noir that occasionally veers perilously close to unintentional camp.

The occasion for covering it comes from its release, via Film Chest, this coming Tuesday, March 11, in a new high-definition restoration from the original 35mm film elements. The restoration looks very good -- crisp black-and-white cinematog-raphy (by the great John Alton) with few moments in which that restoration loses luster.

This was one of only two films produced by its star, Mr. Henreid, shown above. The other -- For Men Only (which he also directed) -- about a college hazing death sounds much more worthwhile, as well as, of course, ever timely. The actor went on to direct a number of other films and television shows, as well as continuing to act until the late 1970s (he died in 1992). A somewhat wooden performer, he still managed to score well in several memorable movies, including Casablanca and Now, Voyager. With his rather thick Austrian accent, he came across as alternately classy or evil, as needed.

In Hollow Triumph, however, that accent seems odd at best, and the movie attempts no explanation for it. Henreid's character, John Muller, may have a Germanic sounding name, but he's only ever been a resident of the USA, so far as we know, and his brother (played by Eduard Franz, above, left) has no accent at all. If this were the movie's biggest problem, however, we'd be lucky.

It's clear from the outset that the movie wants to be a hard-boiled noir -- the opening is a scene in the warden's office of a prison, in which we're given reams of background exposition. The cinematography and camera angles are top-notch, but the story -- one of those "doppelganger" tales that have difficulty remaining credible at best and utterly defy credibility at worst -- keeps constantly veering between "Hmmm..." and "Oy!"

Fortunately Ms Bennett (above and below) is on hand to provide some beauty and sass. She becomes the heart of the film, and it is generally a pleasure to watch her work. She's particularly good at delivering some of the film's saucier dialog, which then allows her to slowly modulate into a kinder, gentler woman.

The film's twists and turns, often pretty unbelievable, do at least allow for some fun and irony, particularly as the finale approaches, in which Henreid's wooden delivery can more easily be mistaken for subtlety.

Among the little surprises is a funny, charming performance from the always dependable John Qualen (above, left) as the dentist who works in the same building as our doppelganger doctor. You may also notice a very young Jack Webb (of Dragnet fame), below, left, making his movie debut here. Webb has no dialog (that I caught, at least) but his several short scenes let us see him visually long enough to recognize that very noticeable (as they used to call it it) kisser.

You'll also get a gander at a truly gorgeous and glamorous blond actress named Leslie Brooks, shown below, who appeared in a number of movies during the 1940s (Hollow Triumph would be her penultimate--until a final film in 1971), without her ever quite making it to stardom.

Ms Brooks looks very good here, however, and provides yet another reason for checking out this little (and little-known) B movie.

The 1948 film, in its new restoration and running 82 minutes, hits the streets this coming Tuesday, March 11, on DVD only, with a suggested retail price of just $12. It will be available for pur-chase or rental via Amazon and I hope eventually on Netflix, where there's yet no word of this title.

Land of the Wolf: BAM screens 35mm restoration of Czech classic, F. Vlacil's MARKETA LAZAROVA

The following post is by our occasional 

guest critic and writer, Lee Liberman.

The medieval world created by Czech filmmaker Frantisek Vlacil for his operatic film of wonder, MARKETA LAZAROVA, does not square with your usual medieval genre piece. It appears to be a story about warring clans, but the plot is subordinate to what may be its real reason for being -- to give its audience a taste of the state of numbed existence that results from anarchy and repression. Voted by Czech critics and film-makers their nation's greatest film some 30 years after its release in 1967, it will be screened at BAM Cinématek in Brooklyn from Feb 28-March 6 and is also available now on DVD and Blu-ray.

George R. R. Martin's Game of Thrones novels and HBO series are by contrast gorgeous winged-dragon versions of medieval clan warfare -- plot and character driven. Vlacil's medieval canvas is a black and white nightmare in which plots and people are fogged over but you know bad things are happening from which you'd like to wake up.

The Middle or Dark Ages gave us popular tales of romance and struggle -- of which the Mists of Avalon, Arthurian legends, Tristan and Isolde, Braveheart, Robin Hood are just a few. It is that period between the fall of the Roman Empire and the Renaissance in which anarchy and brute struggle for survival replaced national identity and citizenship. Roman infrastructure was crumbling away, its systems of governing and taxation long gone, leaving rival clans on their own to battle each other and/or local kings over turf, honor, resources. 

Director Vlacil, shown at left, places his clan grudge match in the 1200's in a stone-age version of the Dark Ages (stylistically more like the period than most). To get his cast in primal struggle mode, he seques-tered them in the Bohemian forests living off the land in rags and skins for several years. He succeeded -- the affect they deliver on celluloid calls to mind the old zombie movie, Night of the Living Dead. During the 1960's while Vlacil was making his film, the Czechs were under Soviet control. Marketa's story, ostensibly apolitical, may be a device created by a storyteller unable to criticize real-time Soviet domination for its numbing effects.

In the end the film is a political statement, if not an obvious one -- set many hundreds years earlier so as to be hard to label as contemporary dissent. It depicts a Middle Ages world lurching between extremes of catatonia and violence caused by poverty, geographic isolation, and shifting national identity in its own game of thrones. (The film's source novel was written in 1931 by Czech novelist, Vladislav Vancura -- executed by the Nazi's in 1942 for resistance to occupation. A translation of the novel is in progress by Alex Zucker.)

Shakespeare gave us a more humanistic view of clan grudge match in Romeo and Juliet in which Prince Escalus shows up to scold the battling Montagues and Capulets, now grieving the deaths of their children. "All are punished," he says. The Bard has brought all to tragedy and tears; the Prince represents civil order. 

The Saxon nobility in Vlacil's film also represent governing order, but as with all factions in Marketa Lazarova, no one character or group wins our sympathy, empathy, or judgment over another; not one tear falls for victims, and no positioning favors justice or order. Vlacil has us watch murder, crucifixion, incest, rape, mutilation, marriage of a live woman to a corpse, the devouring of human remains by wolves and more. But we are numbed by disjointed dialogue and jagged changes of scene; it's easier not to look closely, not have any feelings at all. The titular character, Marketa (above), a teenage virgin promised to the cloister (below), does not appear until midway in the film, always with the flat, unfocused eyes of a starved dog. She is raped and abducted by an enemy who has just crucified her father (two photos up) but we are told she falls in love with her rapist and rejects the nuns -- all without a shred of emotion, save the muffled undercurrent of rage that propels the action.

The narrator's opening disclaimer puts us off the importance of plot: "This tale was cobbled together almost at random and hardly merits praise." And from the first frame, the viewer's senses are drowned visually in a wide-screen black-white panorama of human squalor in stark winter and swampy spring accompanied by a gorgeous score of keening chorales, tolling bells, and constant subliminal muttering -- easy to watch but difficult to follow (this descriptive imagery paraphrased from J Hoberman of the NYReview, July 2013). In fact we literally feel catapulted and then submerged into the forest world, aided by then-novel camera work, jerky perspective shifts, and the use of lenses that focus near and far in rapid succession, just as the human eye refocuses constantly. The viewer is as fogged over about violent plottings as we are ignorant of the deals going down on the street corners of our own daily lives; one simply screens out excess stimuli. The immersion in Vlasic's sensually enveloping physical environment replaces what otherwise might be a proper narrative spun out to historical, moral, or emotional purpose. You are simply in the scene and had better keep head down or risk an arrow lodged in the eye.

If you want program notes, there are many plot outlines on line, though being armed with detail does not create involvement; it helps reinforce how much the director has been distracting you from caring about who is doing what to whom. Three groups drive the action -- the pagan clan of professional bandits, the Kosliks, the for-ostentatious-display-only Christian family of Lazar merchants, and the more civilized German knights dispatched to bring order. This fabric is roughed up by a menacing pack of wolves (seen at top) poised to pounce, and mellowed by heavenly white-lit nuns (two photos above), wandering monk Bernard (below, who carries around the severed head of his beloved sheep), and Katerina, a pagan witch. Bernard and Katerina babble nonsense, predisposing the viewer to ignore them both equally, which is to say, to slide right on by any tension that may be here between the church and the old pagan ways.

Thus 'show' by the director and 'tell' by the narrator cause the details of plot and the impulse to take sides to be sidelined without judgment or pity. Rather the viewer submits to the tapestry of chimes, ringing bells, and heavenly voices; ducks to avoid projectiles; and cowers watching humans skirmish for remains along with the wolf pack. (One is reminded of nature programs about survival of the fittest among the beasts of the Serengeti.) While the effect is stark and beautiful, it is not a narrative that inspires the viewer to know or care about Marketa, her relatives or enemies, or be aroused by their deeds. As an artist craving freedom, the filmmaker appears to have wanted his audience to experience what dissociation and numbness feel like. After near 3 hours in Vlacil's land of disorder, one exits the theater quite relieved to return to our own land with all its faults.

As a footnote, the young Czech actress who played Marketa, Magda Vasaryova, is now a famous liberal dlplomat and politician in her mid-sixties. (That's she, below, at a screening of the film during the 2011 Karlovy Vary International Film Festival.) Film director Vlacil was a painter and graphic designer as well as prolific filmmaker. He died in 1999.

BAM Cinématek's week-long run of Marketa Lazarova extends from this Friday, February 28 through Thursday, March 6. For screening times, directions to BAM, etc. -- simply click here.

SCN: rare showing of Mexican masterwork full of memories of the Spanish Civil War; audience Q&A with the filmmaker's son

What a privilege it was to see ON THE EMPTY BALCONY (En el balcón vacío) during the recent Spanish Cinema Now series. This is a film that, though I had heard about it over the years -- always fleetingly, and with the caveat that no print still existed -- I never expected to be able to see.  Now, thanks to the work of the Film Society of Lincoln Center, presented in collaboration with Instituto de la Cinematografia y de las Artes Audiovisuales (ICAA) of the Spanish Ministry of Culture and Instituto Cervantes of New York, I have. While I say it was a privilege to view (and I mean this), it was also a bit of a disappointment.

Above: filmmaker and cast and crew, at the time (1961) of filming.

Granted, the print -- which we were lucky to have at all -- was not the best; even so, the film, at its hour length still offered a few too many longueurs. A memory piece that shows us a grown women living in Mexico City who travels back to Spain to the home she lived in during the Spanish Civil War, which she and her family abdicated in the time after Franco's victory, the film is full of remembrances that glide, float and occasionally jolt.

The biggest jolt comes early on (this is one of the problems with the film), as our heroine, then a young girl, stands at one of the windows in their large apartment, when, across the courtyard, a man appears, carefully hanging on to the ledge of the building as he tries to make his escape from the authorities.  He does it, too. Almost.  Hiding beneath the cantilevered ledge, holding on for dear life, he escapes the gaze of the policemen who look downward but do not see him. A neighbor suddenly appears at her window and screams, "There he is!  Get him!  He's a Red!" Her shrill, ugly, horrifying cry cuts through the gauzy memories like some new instrument of pain -- a combination sledge hammer and stilletto. The escaping man is caught, of course.

This brilliant scene encapsulates the frightening abuse of power that goes with everything from Spain's Civil War to our own country's less physically destructive but still disgusting McCarthy era and our current embrace of rendition and torture. Nothing that comes after this offers nearly the strength of that single scene, though there are some moving moments as the woman revisits her former home and eventually collapses into a heap as the memories rush over her. Compare this scene with a similar one in this year's SCN movie Elisa K (also about the letting loose of repressed mem-ories) and note how far film has come over the last half-century.

Though there is some dialog, the movie is mostly voice-over, with the voice rather droning. As the FSLC's Richard Peña pointed out during the Q&A, voice-over was being used by important filmmakers during the early 60s (this film was made in 1961). Last Year at Marienbad is one example that pops into mind, but Alain Resnais offered some sumptuous visuals to acccompany his movie's droning. Balcony's views (with the exception of that single scene) are pretty prosaic. (Elisa K also uses voice-over, but more interestingly and judiciously.)

The filmmaking techniques, from director Jomí García Ascot, seem to my eye rather simple but appropriate enough. (The screenplay was co-written by the director, along with his actors María Luisa Elio and Emilio García Riera.) His film is impressionistic and its construction somewhat jagged, as might befit coming to terms with difficult memories (the loss of one's father, for instance). The leading actress (adult version), who looks wonderfully 60s, was the director's wife and mother of his son Diego García Elio -- the man who introduced the film and followed its screening with a very interesting Q&A with Peña and audience members at the Walter Reade Theater where the film was shown.

TrustMovies, his pen scrawling as fast as possible, took notes of as much of the conversation as he could. In the Q&A below, questions appear in bold and Diego's answers in standard type

How did this film come together? was the first question asked of Diego -- who told us that his father was a member of group of Mexican filmmakers (including Luis Buñuel!) involved with a film magazine called Nuevo Cine. The film was a very personal one, with no budget.  The actors were all friends -- either from Mexico or Spain (the film was shot entirely in Mexico -- on 16 mm) and the shooting was done on weekends.  The story was based on real characters, though the return to Spain shown in the film, never actually happened for the real people on whom the film was based. But the director and actress (Diego's mom and dad) did indeed go back to Spain, and even wrote a book aboout this.

Was the film widely shown when it was first made? Just at two international festivals, Diego explained. It was never a commercial movie, though it did find some critical success.  But it was never shown in Spain itself until the post-Franco era.

Did Diego's father continue with filmmaking after this one?  Yes, he went to Cuba and became involved with the Cuban Institue of Filmmakers, and made two movies in that country.

What happened to the actress who played the little girl in the movie?  (To TrustMovies' mind, she -- shown below -- is the most impressive performer in the film.) She only made this single film.  She lives in Mexico currently and has her own family. But we have not kept in touch, and I really don't know her.

Was the heavy use of voice-overdone primarily for economic reasons?

Yes.  But another  reason is the sense of memory that voice-over provides. (Peña then reminded us that this was what Resnais and other filmmakers were doing at the time.)

(Directed to Peña) You refered to the movie as a masterpiece. Can you tell us what makes this a masterpiece? 

It shows us something of the personal cost of the Spanish Civil war, and it was one of the first films to do this. I had heard about this film for such a long time, and when it was finally shown to me, it lived up to my every expectation.

Can you tell us something about the restoration of this movie and why, if it was restored, does it appear so grainy?

Because it was first shot on 16mm, it was considered an amateur production.  Now, it has been blown up to 35mm, and consequently it has a more grainy look.

How does the movie differ from the family's actual story?

Well, the family was actually confined to a very small room during the war. And there were three little girls, not two, as shown in the film. The family escaped first to Barcelona, which was still a Republican stronghold at that time. When the Republic was lost, the family then went to Paris, where they were all together. Then, when WWII happened, they decided to move to Mexico. It's really another entire movie! (Diego's dad, it turns out, was also an exile from Spain, and his grandfather's occupation was that of diplomat.)