No film better illustrates the organic, elemental relationship between the brute nature of the ocean and human endurance than Robert Flaherty’s haunting documentary, “Man of Aran” (1934). Shot off Ireland’s remote Aran Islands, whether battling ferocious storms or hunting a gigantic basking shark, we see the residents undergo their arduous, dangerous tasks with hardy, cheerful determination, seemingly undaunted by the hardships they face. Flaherty, director of the classic “Nanook of the North” and acknowledged father of the documentary form, shot “Aran” over two and a half years, casting locals in key roles and training his camera on the magnificent, craggy environment where they eke out their survival. “Man of Aran” is pure visual poetry, still astounding and unforgettable after all these years.
Years before Italian director Luchino Visconti became famous for lavish epics like “The Leopard,” he directed a neo-realist masterpiece called “La Terra Trema” (1948). This peerless semi-documentary work reveals the rough, uncertain life of Sicilian fishermen on a temperamental sea, also portraying the challenges these men face on land, as they fight the fish wholesalers who make all the profit from their catch. Through Visconti’s unsparing lens, we witness the daily repetition of backbreaking labor and injustice the fishermen endure, amidst images of stark, breathtaking beauty. Featuring a brilliant use of non-actors, whose weathered faces tell the same hard story, this fascinatingly rewarding film has the impact of the best fiction, with the unmistakable tang of truth.
Believe it or not, another great film portrays this same world in a more dramatic, individualized way, and this trip is also in blazing color: Gillo Pontecorvo’s much under-rated “The Wide Blue Road” (1957). Shot on location off the Dalmatian coast, the film stars the charismatic Yves Montand as Squarcio, a man of quiet desperation who risks the wrath of his small community by using explosives to increase his yield of fish. Though Squarcio agrees to change his ways when nabbed, he doesn’t make good on his promise, putting his pride and livelihood at stake. “Road,” Pontecorvo’s first feature, remains a stunning achievement, evoking the moral ambiguity of a man trapped in poverty who breaks rules to create a better life for his family. This striking, nuanced picture is anchored by a sublime performance from Montand, one of the finest in a long, illustrious career.
Now, back to Italy, and renowned filmmaker Michelangelo Antonioni, who was already in his mid-forties when he won international recognition with “L’Avventura” (1960), a moody, profound piece about moral and spiritual emptiness among the idle rich. The plot in a nutshell: a chic circle of friends decide to go yachting one day and alight on a remote island off the Sicilian coast. There, one of the group, a young woman named Anna (Lea Massari), mysteriously vanishes after arguing with lover Sandro (Gabriele Ferzetti). Sandro starts a prolonged search along with Claudia (Monica Vitti), Anna’s best friend. Soon enough, Sandro and Claudia find themselves drawn to each other. But are they experiencing love, or just the basic, human need to connect? This masterful portrait of modern alienation constitutes a demanding but profound film experience.
Finally, in Roman Polanski’s arresting feature debut, “Knife In The Water” (1962), shot in his native Poland, weird dynamics arise when a married couple impulsively invite a young male hitchhiker on a boating excursion. The husband and the stranger instinctively vie for macho supremacy as a way to impress and lay claim to the desirable female, who goes right along with this primal dance. A subtle tale about mankind’s baser instincts lurking just beneath our civilized veneers, this jarring psychological thriller catapulted Polanski to fame, presaging such classics as “Rosemary’s Baby” and “Chinatown.” Who knew boating could be like this?
Bill
Abranowicz