Peter Watkins: An Overview

[Spinal]

Yes, most of this is recycled material from the old site, but I am close to completing his available filmography, so I want to have all these writings available on this site for my convenience.

Peter Watkins' homepage (http://www.mnsi.net/~pwatkins/)

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/unknownsoldier.jpg

The Diary of an Unknown Soldier (1959)

Apart from two pieces of disowned juvenilia, The Diary of an Unknown Soldier is Watkins' first film. Just under twenty minutes in length, it is a sometimes captivating, sometimes strident effort that is worth watching in order to see a critical aspect of Watkins' later films beginning to emerge. Whereas many films present war to us as faceless mobs clashing against each other, Watkins is deeply concerned with the place of the individual within the violence. Other films have made efforts to humanize the soldier. What perhaps sets Watkins apart is that his characters are not particularly charismatic, powerful or interesting. They are the people who would be among the war statistics released after a particularly deadly battle. If a news report said '23 British Soldiers Killed', the protagonist of this particular short film might very well be #16. However, Watkins takes us inside his mind and relays the fears that soldiers cannot normally express openly. He asks us to consider the ordinary man who pays the violent price for decisions made by those in command - the ones that are normally the central characters in war films. The film ends before the soldier goes to battle; but, through his daydreams, we see the outcome that he imagines as he considers the possibility of his fast-approaching death. The film has nifty composition and editing, signaling the growth of an emerging talent. Unfortunately, it also has poor sound quality with stock effects and a voice-over that pushes far too hard for emotional impact, instead becoming off-putting. Nonetheless, those who want to know more about the artistic development of the man behind Punishment Park and The War Game will definitely want to check it out.

[**1/2]

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/1378.jpg

The Forgotten Faces (1961)

Billed as an amateur production from early in the career of maverick filmmaker Peter Watkins, The Forgotten Faces is anything but amateurish. Telling the story of a Hungarian student revolt against the Communist government imposed by the Soviets in the 50’s, this short film shows many of Watkins’ trademarks already in place. It is shot in faux documentary style with a narrator (not Watkins this time) providing context and background information about each of the key players. The street scenes in which revolutionaries clash with police reminded me of Eisenstein as the violence is swift and shocking and much of what we experience is conveyed through a series of faces – hopeful, determined, pained, despairing. Watkins’ interpretation of warfare is unusual in that he does not go into too much detail about the circumstances leading up to the violence from a nationalistic perspective. Rather, it is the individual that takes center stage. Each brief history told is an acknowledgment of that person’s existence and the contribution they have made to the whole, no matter how small. As Watkins returns late in the film to each character and briefly summarizes their fate, we see why he is not only one of cinema’s great historians, but also one of its great humanists.

[***1/2]

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/culloden.jpg

Culloden (1964)

At the most basic level, Peter Watkins’ documentary, Culloden, is a vividly realized recreation of the battle of the same name – one of the bloodiest in British history. With an eye for historical accuracy, Watkins recreates the costumes, weaponry and strategies employed in the 17th century clash between the British army and Scottish rebels from the Highland Clan. Watkins places his camera in the midst of the chaos and, as viewers, we are given and up-close look at the way the cannons are fired and the daggers are thrust. We also see time and time again the way that they maim their targets.

Culloden is no simple-minded action flick; nor is it a dry history lesson. Fueled by the building political tension in Vietnam at the time of the film’s release and drawing inspiration from the way television journalists were increasingly placing themselves in harm’s way in order to capture the grim realities of War, Culloden is constructed around the conceit that a camera crew has arrived on the scene to cover the battle as events unfold. Before a single blow is struck, the camera falls upon individual faces as an off-screen narrator (Watkins himself) gives us background information on how each came to the field on this day.

We see a man with no possessions of his own who has pledged his own life as his ‘rent’. He and others like him fight at the whims of absurdly wealthy men to whom they are indebted. We see another man whose total income over two years would not be enough to pay for the hat of the man that stands in front of him. The leaders on both sides are interviewed and we, as viewers, get a sneak preview of the strategy each will employ – or lack thereof in the case of the Scottish leader who arrives without a prepared battle plan, opting instead to simply place faith in God.

The battle, we are told, lasted just over an hour – approximately the length of Watkins’ film. Along the way, the fictional journalists document not only the end result, but also draw attention to the war atrocities committed by the victors. We cringe as we see the wounded allowed to suffer in agony for days on the battlefield, or as British soldiers chase the families of their enemies into the wilderness and indiscriminately slaughter man, woman and child. Participants in the massacre are pressed for thoughts immediately afterward and express different views on the necessity and morality of what just occurred.

Watkins’ depiction of his native country is far from flattering, ultimately insinuating that his own people were responsible for the attempted annihilation of an entire generation. Though his film tells the story of lives lost long ago, his barely contained disgust for the horrors of war is evident throughout his film. By staging the events of yesterday, yet incorporating the intrusion of modern technology, Watkins draws a very clear line from the past to the present. The unspoken question is this: how can we still be capable of such acts of barbarism and cruelty?

[***1/2]

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/wargame.jpg

The War Game (1965)

I once had a co-worker who could not understand why Americans would honor the anniversary of the day the atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima. Her reasoning was that Japanese aggression during World War II warranted such a response. She is not alone. I know that there are countless others who feel this way, seemingly divorced from the realities of the devastation and suffering unleashed that day. I wish that each one of them could sit down and watch Peter Watkins’ documentary/cautionary fiction, The War Game. Acting as a kind of antidote to the dopey atomic age propaganda films produced by the American government in the 50’s (in which a whole generation of schoolchildren were led to believe that their desks doubled as makeshift bomb shelters), The War Game uses historical records of the aftermath of bombings in Japan and Germany to make an educated guess about how England would react in a similar situation.

Like Kubrick before him, Watkins discovers that there is something darkly humorous about the gap between the immense horror that can be wreaked during nuclear annihilation and mankind’s struggle to understand just how much danger it has put itself in by opening this particular Pandora’s Box. Hence, The War Game begins as a comedy. In an attempt to evacuate England’s population centers, citizens in other areas of the country are asked to take in as many as eight refugees that arrive unannounced on buses. Government officials pass out slim pamphlets door-to-door that are intended to instruct citizens what actions to take in the event of nuclear conflict. Apparently, these pamphlets suggest the liberal use of sandbags – never mind that at least one poor woman can barely afford enough to cover a single window. We also see several ‘man-on-the-street’ interviews suggesting that efforts to educate the general public on radiation and other grim facts of nuclear warfare have been largely unsuccessful, leaving the populace in an extremely vulnerable situation.

Once the bombs drop, the humor gives way to horror as we see the very serious consequences that can occur following a nuclear attack: horrible burns, blinding light, paralyzing shock. Considering the scale of the production, these scenes are executed in an extremely effective fashion. Watkins captures the events in verité style, his camera shaking with each explosion and the off-screen narrator offering supplementary information in a tone that is level and unaffected. There is no artificial drama inserted in order to win our sympathy. We care for these people for the simple fact that they are humans scrambling to stay alive in the face of something overwhelming and merciless. The following days and months reveal even more negative effects, including radiation, decreased rations and a pervasive feeling of apathy that falls over the citizenry.

The War Game is a film that is not only incredibly engaging and haunting – it is nothing short of honorable. In the midst of the 1960’s, Watkins asked his viewers to seriously imagine themselves in the place of those who lived in countries far away and had faced the most despicable weapon mankind had ever created. Over the course of this brief, but potent film, Watkins makes a passionate argument for the impossibility of ever using such a weapon with nobleness. The War Game is a film that should be shown in high school history classes and perhaps also presidential inaugurations. Beyond that, it is most certainly essential viewing for any serious film fan.

[****]

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/3privlarge.jpg

Privilege (1967)

Peter Watkins’ Privilege, his follow-up to the Academy Award winning film, The War Game, notably shifts its target from those in charge of managing British government and defense to those in charge of managing British popular culture. Paul Jones (lead vocalist of Manfred Mann) plays the role of Steven Shorter, a manufactured media icon that is so incredibly huge that his latest hit can be heard on at least three different stations simultaneously. Indeed, his celebrity and influence have escalated to such enormous heights that he has caught the attention of powerful politicians and clergymen who wish to use his charisma to manipulate the will of Britain’s youth. Predating Ken Russell’s Tommy by nearly a decade, Privilege also draws a distinct connection between rock star and spiritual leader; however, it does not follow the traditional romantic view of rock and roll as a liberating force in the face of oppressive governmental and moralistic control. Instead, Watkins characterizes pop idols as tools used to distract young people away from issues that really matter. If your waking hours are spent obsessing over Steven Shorter and how good he looks in a swimsuit, then you’re not going to be out protesting your government’s involvement in wars overseas. Or so the logic goes.

Watkins’ tone fluctuates between silly -- such as a visit to the set of a commercial where the director’s training grossly exceeds the material -- and fiercely satiric, as when his off-screen voice informs viewers that the England of the near future will function under a one-party system, due to the fact that there was so little difference between the previous two parties anyway. As in his other films, Watkins employs a mixture of conventional fictional scenes and pseudo-documentary, not only to give his story a sense of immediacy, but to give him an opportunity to dissect the purpose and motivations of peripheral characters without having to construct an overly complicated plot. Steven’s stage show is an odd combination of pop balladeering and orchestrated pseudo-martyrdom. Led to the stage in handcuffs by police officers that bait the youthful crowd with oppressive glares, Steven inspires the same kind of reverential screams that met Elvis and the Beatles in their early years. What might serve as publicity grabbing offstage antics for other performers are here performed ritualistically as if there is some vicarious need being fulfilled in the hearts of his admirers as he goes through the motions of resisting arrest.

All of this may sound like a conventional parody of the rock and roll phenomenon fused with a healthy dose of Orwell, but even this description will not prepare the viewer for the brazen way that Watkins borrows fascistic imagery and uses it to indict the entertainment industry, the popular media and organized religion for their participation in manipulating the masses. Watkins’ film is at its best when it is at its most vicious, delivering the kind of unapologetic political scolding than is typical of his oeuvre. The more conventional dramatic scenes in which Steven expresses his inner angst are less effective, particularly since Jones, acting in his first film, is not nearly as engaging a presence outside of the concert scenes. Still, Privilege is well worth tracking down for its audacity and its prescience.

[***1/2]

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/a20Peter20Watkins20Gladiatorer na20T.jpg

The Gladiators (1969)

Two years before Peter Watkins made Punishment Park (in which pacifists, dissidents and other enemies of the American government are forced to race across a brutally hot desert as part of an elaborate game) he offered up another politically charged fantasy with far less focus – The Gladiators. The Gladiators has the alternate title of The Peace Game, which is a play on Watkins’ Academy-award winning documentary, The War Game, in which he imagined the aftermath of a nuclear attack on England. The comparison is unfortunate, as The Gladiators lacks much of what made The War Game such a haunting, powerful experience – namely a clear political purpose backed by known facts. Instead, The Gladiators comes across mostly as unconvincing babbling, with moments of genuine insight sprinkled sparsely throughout.

The situation brings world leaders together in Sweden where, instead of mounting large-scale invasions and launching missiles, individual combatants have been selected to represent their countries and run a treacherous obstacle course hoping to find the control room which serves as the finish line. In another room, the leaders gather together for tea and light snacks, watching coldly as the soldiers dodge bullets and explosions which are intentionally triggered through a central computer. As the film was made in the late 60’s, the super-computer intended to be a metaphorical stand-in for the ‘war machine’ unfortunately resembles nothing more than a really malicious typewriter.

Even so, the premise could potentially make for an effective platform towards political discussion about the way in which worldwide warfare benefits the wealthy and powerful everywhere more than it does any particular nation. Unfortunately, the rules of Watkins’ cinematic game are never clearly defined, nor are the participants who take part. We have little sense for what is at stake for the fictional characters and thus have little opportunity to find real-world connections. A brief glimpse of the film that could have been is offered in a memorable moment in which violent revolution is contrasted with genuine compassion and humanity; however, it arrives too late to salvage the meandering that proceeds it.

The Gladiators is ambitious and well-intentioned, but ultimately a cinematic misfire. Those wanting to experience Watkins’ original blend of documentary-style filmmaking and political commentary are advised to look elsewhere.

[**]

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/punishment_park1.jpg

Punishment Park (1971)

The premise is golden: Under President Nixon, the United States has become so concerned about civil unrest in response to the Vietnam War that it has created 'Punishment Park', a grueling game of cat-and-mouse in the California desert in which police and members of the National Guard play the role of 'cat' and dissidents, hippies and other 'subversives' play the role of 'mouse'. The participants are rounded up without warning (all in the name of national security), interrogated, and then given a choice between extended jail-time and Punishment Park.

If they choose the latter, they will have to race 53 miles across the desert and over the mountains in the scorching heat in pursuit of an American flag. Arrive at the flag within 3 days and freedom is theirs. However, during this time, they will be pursued by the aforementioned police and National Guard. Though it is not explicitly stated in the rules, all participants who are apprehended by the police eventually seem to get involved in a violent struggle resulting in their death. Watkins intercuts the game being played by one group with the interrogation session of another. The central conceit is that we are watching a documentary made by a BBC-like news team covering the event. This group goes so far as to interview participants in the desert as they are being chased down and later questions the policemen for their violent tactics.

However, all of this is merely a central metaphor on which to hang a lengthy discussion about a citizen's responsibility to his or her country during war-time. What role is there for those who oppose the actions being taken by their government in their name? Is there a way to effectively oppose violence without resorting to violence? What makes Punishment Park special is the way Watkins employs a cast of both professional and non-professional actors and guides them through his scenario, working without a script, and trusts them to articulate the issues at stake. Each of these participants are 'acting', but it seems clear that many are also speaking directly from the heart. When a young woman bemoans the fact that she does not see an end to the cycle of violence in America, it is not a piece of dialogue written by a screenwriter -- it carries the force of true fear and despair. These are not performers reflecting back on past events. These are citizens experiencing the tumult first-hand. By placing the participants in a simulated life-or-death situation, Watkins gives the political tensions an added intensity. There is true anger and disgust on display here, as both sides try futility to make the other see things from their perspective. Punishment Park is not only an unsettling look at the political outrage of a former generation, it is a potent metaphor for our own.

As can often be the case with absurd premises like this one, Punishment Park rides a fine line between black comedy and ludicrousness. There are moments that some viewers will probably find to be real eye-rollers. Perhaps I was being a generous viewer, but most of these seemed to me to be moments of intentional humor designed to allow the more serious political discussion to be more palatable. Either way, Watkins plays it straight. If indeed it is deadpan humor as I suspect, it does not distract from the power of a perhaps predictable, but nonetheless haunting finale. For those who don't mind a raw, unpolished political film that occasionally borders on the strident, I'd definitely recommend giving it a go.

[****]

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/edvard.jpg

Edvard Munch (1974)

In 1968, Peter Watkins traveled to Oslo University to attend a special screening of his works and, during his time there, took the time to make a visit to the Edvard Munch Museum. As he looked at Munch’s painting, Watkins discovered that he had an affinity with the famed Scandinavian artist, best known for his iconic painting, The Scream. Whereas Watkins’ films often blur the lines between the past and the present, Munch had no trouble placing adult versions of himself and his siblings into a painting illustrating a traumatic childhood event.

Like Watkins, Munch also made frequent use of characters gazing directly at us, weary looks upon their faces. In the films of Watkins, these looks often are a result of political oppression. There is generally a mixture of despair and accusation bubbling behind the eyes of these people that have been trodden upon by the wrong-headed policies of the wealthy and powerful. With his 1974 documentary/biopic, Edvard Munch, Watkins argues that the tension in Munch’s paintings comes from the conflict between a repressive, conservative upbringing and a revolutionary spirit schooled in the power of passion and sexuality as a driving force towards artistic truth.

Shortly after his visit to the Munch Museum, Watkins felt determined that he must create a film dedicated to examining the artist’s tumultuous life, his struggle to gain critical acceptance and his eventual descent into insanity. It took three years to convince the powers-that-be in Norwegian television to fund the project, which may come as a surprise unless we consider the chilly critical reception that Munch’s work received throughout his lifetime. The end result is a thoroughly revealing work -- not only of Munch and the various influences and conditions that made him into the tortured genius we remember today, but also of the way in which mainstream society fiercely resists artistic expression that does not conform to comforting depictions of realism.

Using a cast of non-professional actors, Watkins follows Munch over the course of several years from dreary childhood to early artistic experimentation to critical pummeling to tentative critical acceptance and finally ending up in the loony bin. Watkins’ method is to create a kind of time-travel pseudo-documentary in which known historical facts and quotes from diary entries are mixed with staged interviews of actors playing various key figures in Munch’s life. There are also recreations of critical moments in Munch’s life, such as two near death experiences and various unsatisfactory affairs.

Growing up in an ultra-conservative community where the middle class citizens gather daily to promenade while the children of the lower classes work 11-hour shifts at the local factory and the police force takes it upon themselves to personally inspect prostitutes for venereal disease, Munch has the good sense to fall in with the local Bohemians. He listens attentively as his companions discuss free love, politics, the nature and purpose of art and who’s going to pick up the bar tab. Watkins skillfully intercuts these discussions with shots of Munch at home, battling with his disapproving family over his behavior and new moralistic outlook. It is here where Watkins’ film is at its strongest – connecting the various tensions at play in Munch’s life directly to the bold, confrontational nature of his paintings. Setting Munch’s biographical history and his artistic history side by side, Watkins attempts to offer a reconciliation, thus presenting a deeper portrait of a complicated man.

At each and every exhibition, Munch’s work is met with scathing reviews that question both the creator’s morality and his sanity. Smugly, we as viewers get the opportunity to scoff at critics that failed to recognize the breakthroughs Munch was making in becoming a pioneer of Expressionism. Watkins also stages various reactions that might possibly have been made by the general public. Notably, most of the criticisms revolve around the fact that Munch has dared to break away from Naturalism and not simply recreate his subject realistically. Munch’s distorted faces and bloodied skies do not simply meet with disapproval; they inspire scandal.

The most compelling question arising from Watkins’ film is why such outrage in reaction to paint on canvas? By including comments from an upstanding bearded gentleman who believes that the strength of institutions like marriage and the church are the only thing keeping society from descending into utter anarchy, Watkins allows us to see how 19th century Norwegians might get their panties in a bunch over something like The Scream.

At nearly three hours, Edvard Munch does occasionally overstay its welcome, circling back to repeat critical moments (not the consumption scene again!) or meandering off the trail into vague poetical musings. Despite the fact that Watkins has clearly made an effort to give due attention to Munch’s lesser known works, the film inevitably builds up to the creation of The Scream and has a difficult time sustaining our interest beyond that point. Once you’ve heard ‘Freebird’, it just feels like it’s time to turn off the lights and go home, you know?

It’s mildly interesting to be aware that Munch delved into wood carving and working with acid later in life (not the kind you’re thinking of), but at the same time, it does little to strengthen the themes Watkins has developed so effectively in the first two hours. Despite these minor misgivings, Edvard Munch is an extraordinary achievement, succeeding both in telling the story of an important and captivating artist, as well as provoking vital questions about the inflammatory nature of anti-naturalism.

[***1/2]

[Spinal]

Reserved for Evening Land.

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/journey.jpg

The Journey (1987)

Every generation deserves a rabble-rouser as committed and ambitious as Peter Watkins. During the mid-80’s, at the height of U.S.-Soviet nuclear tensions, Watkins traveled the world in order to make a film for peace – a 14-hour documentary broken into 18 installments entitled The Journey. Watkins’ goal was to demonstrate that despite the enormous network that has been established to stockpile nuclear weaponry - with the deadliest of bombs and missiles being constructed and transported right under our noses - the general public still remains largely ignorant about even the most basic concepts associated with the technology and its potential consequences. Watkins further asserts that the news media of the United States, Canada, England and Australia has failed to properly educate citizens about the growing nuclear danger and has, on the contrary, confused and mislead its viewers. Finally, Watkins ties in the expenditure made for nuclear weaponry to the lack of funds available to aid the starving populations of the world.

Perhaps the most extraordinary aspect of The Journey is the extraordinary amount of information that Watkins unearths about how nuclear weapons are created within our midst. Although many of us may think that this activity goes on in top secret facilities tucked away somewhere beyond our reach, Watkins shows us that the technology for these weapons is developed at our universities, built in our factories and transported along railways that run through our neighborhoods. The task is divided up sufficiently so that very few people have to actually take personal responsibility for the creation of death devices. An individual factory worker may only know that he is responsible for the creation of one part. It is therefore easy to remain willfully ignorant of the part’s eventual purpose. In order to get at the truth, one would have to ask uncomfortable questions of authority figures responsible for your employment and break a taboo that dictates silence on the matter.

In some communities, conscientious objectors may not only be out of a job, but also branded by their neighbors as a political radical. As Watkins shows a train carrying an enormous amount of nuclear weaponry through a seemingly peaceful Washington town, the scene eerily calls to mind Resnais’ Holocaust documentary Night and Fog and the way in which grotesque acts were committed in neighborhoods where citizens dutifully went about their daily routine. Watkins covers so much territory that the likelihood that he will touch upon a surprising fact about an area near you is high, no matter what continent you currently occupy. Doggedly, Watkins works to lift the veil of silence that dominates the subject and provide average citizens with sobering information so that they may make a decision about whether or not they will remain complicit in these activities. However, Watkins also shows that effective protests are not easy to accomplish, particularly with a media that is all too willing to side with authority. When protestors decide to stand in the way of the aforementioned train, the local news story shows them being dragged away forcefully by police. The train carrying deadly weapons is not shown. The subject of the protest is not discussed. The objections are effectively marginalized.

For the most part, Watkins’ film staggers the viewer with both statistics (the hungry all over the world could be fed with what is spent on the arms race in two weeks) and scope. Watkins talks with witnesses to Hiroshima and Allied bombing in Germany. He talks to Algerians who are subject to prejudice in France, women in Mozambique who struggle to maintain their community despite war and poverty, and also Polynesians who live near the site of nuclear testing. In Australia and Norway, he stages speculative improvisations with non-actors, demonstrating how nonsensical and inadequate government guidelines are for handling post-nuclear situations. And yet, The Journey’s greatest strength also turns out to be the thing that keeps it from having the impact of some of Watkins’ shorter films like The War Game and Punishment Park. Watkins lays out an extraordinary case in the first two-thirds of his film and then spends much of the last third cycling back over points that have already been established. When he uses low-tech video to allow a family in Britain to communicate directly with a family in Russia without the filter of the media or the government, the resulting appeals for peace are moving. However, how many families around the world do we need to see arrive at the same conclusion: that family is essentially just like me.

The size of Watkins’ film coupled with the vitriolic nature of his attack on the media and government proved troublesome. Despite what obviously was an enormous amount of research, time, energy and dedication, the film has appeared on television exactly three times since its release according to the director’s website. Longer is the list of international TV stations that refused to air the film. Consequently, the documentary has appeared only at the occasional film festival or special screening. Perhaps the difficulties that Watkins has faced mirror the problems we face with the nuclear problem. The subject is so taboo, the conspiracy of silence so fierce and the cruel effects of the weaponry so surreal that it is hard for the average citizen to digest. Still, it is hard to imagine another filmmaker having the patience and courage to tackle such a noble use of the medium. Latest word is that Watkins is attempting to bring The Journey to DVD. If so, the number of people who have seen this work will multiply enormously. Despite being over two decades old, The Journey still holds much that could make the world a better place.

[***1/2]

[Spinal]

http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v696/joel_harmon/more/strindberg.jpg

The Freethinker (1994)

For his recent film study of iconoclast Bob Dylan, I’m Not There, director Todd Haynes employed six different actors to portray the central character, emphasizing his belief that a monolithic view of such a complex character would be inevitably problematic. When making a film biography, a director faces the challenge of staging personal moments that in most cases had no witnesses other than the direct participants. Even though viewers are aware that they are watching a film, a filmmaker can be put in the awkward position of purporting to ‘know’ in situations where knowledge is impossible. Consequently, responses to these films can get mired in discussions of whether this or that really happened while larger thematic matters get ignored.

For his four-and-a-half hour film on the troubled life of Swedish playwright, August Strindberg, Peter Watkins employs the same kind of democratic principles that he advocates for world governments in anti-authoritarian films like Punishment Park and The Journey. Watkins is, if nothing else, an untiring champion of the people. For The Freethinker, this means opening up the discussion to not only members of his cast, but also members of the public who have been invited to watch his actors rehearse and perform improvisations. There is no question that The Freethinker has the personality of a Watkins film in the way it blends documentary with historical recreation. In form, it most closely resembles Edvard Munch made some twenty years earlier. However, in this instance, Watkins goes even farther incorporating outside voices. The actors who play Strindberg and his wife occasionally address the camera in Bergmanesque close-up to share their thoughts on the characters they are playing. Peripheral characters discuss Strindberg in round table settings only to have the actors later drop character to share their own thoughts from the late 20th century. In a small black box theater, Swedish members of the public respond casually to Watkins’ actors, waxing philosophical on the internal struggle between emotions and intellect.

And yet, at the end of the day, it is Watkins who controls the film’s editing decisions. In Strindberg, he has found a character full of contradiction. Early on, a revolutionary writer and historian who argues that the history of Sweden is the history of its people rather than its rulers, Strindberg later succumbs to the pressure of his critics and turns his back on his early ideals. His behavior becomes erratic, particularly as it concerns his family and his attitude towards women sours from comparatively enlightened to straight-up misogynistic. Quotes from Strindberg’s writings are displayed on title cards and then juxtaposed with both scenes from his plays and scenework speculating on how his domestic life might have looked behind his public appearance. Most of these scenes are performed with basic costumes and sets. Some appear to be simply the actors in rehearsal. Watkins’ films have always leaned towards the academic. Here, more than ever, it seems as if Watkins is using film to compose a thesis that never arrives at its conclusion. This is, in some sense, admirable as it allows viewers to feel as if they are a part of the investigation. At times though, Watkins’ refusal to boil down his subject can prove wearisome, particularly as he meanders to his pet theme of the damaging influence of modern media.

The Freethinker has admirable qualities; however, it is not likely to hold the attention of anyone but Strindberg enthusiasts and Watkins completists, two categories that do not exactly boast large populations. Watkins has made films that are more provocative, more penetrating and better looking. Most importantly, he has made Edvard Munch a more effective examination of the artist in conflict with society.

[**1/2]

[Spinal]

Reserved for La Commune.

[Boner M]

Man I need to see a Watkins film sometime. Prolly my biggest director blindspot now.

[Duncan]

Really want to see Edvard Munch.

[Duncan]

btw, during the question answer period after the screening of Punishment Park I went to some guy asked the cinematographer if any charges were laid against the government officials. A comedic moment that shows how effective the film can be.

[Beau]

I love The Gladiators.

[Spinal]

I love The Gladiators.

It's his lowest-rated film on IMDb, so I'm not alone. What did you like about it?

[Beau]

I am willing to entertain the notion that - since it is was my first, and so far, only, Watkins - I may be overrating it, simply because I find its aesthetic and thematic concerns fascinating. Perhaps it will lose in esteem, as I move through the director's filmography. Still, I can't really agree with any of your criticisms. Asides from the dated 'computer,' which, really, hardly bothered me - it's superficial stuff.

Some of your other comments baffle me, to be honest. What's at stake for the characters? You mean, besides their lives? And what about the rules was unclear? Seemed pretty transparent to me - or, at least, as transparent as it needed to be. As for 'real world connections,' the film presents a satire by way of an exaggerated future, where modern trends are multiplied, and so made to seem ridiculous. I thought the film did a fine job of exploring the role of media in wartime, the commercialization of conflict, the banality of conflict, the 'rules' of conduct among authority figures, and the all-encompassing grasp of a war industry that even manages to include dissenters and protesters into the cogs of the generalized machine.

That said, I must say that I watched about half of La Commune (I was, um, prevented from seeing the rest) and that pretty much blew this film out of the water. So, indeed, I accept that further immersion into Watkins may sour my opinion of the film at hand - but, nevertheless, as it stands, I really enjoyed The Gladiators.

[Beau]

It's his lowest-rated film on IMDb, so I'm not alone.

No, I suppose you aren't.

I might be, though. :P

[Mysterious Dude]

All war films should be modeled after Culloden.

I tried to watch Privilege a while ago but didn't finish it. I got to the filming of the commercial and decided it was a little too silly for me. (I would have soldiered on, but I had to get rid of everything on my DVR before I moved).

[Mysterious Dude]

I rented La commune (Paris, 1871) without realizing it was almost six hours long. I watched the first twenty minutes, and it's not a very promising start. I think he's taking the whole "fake documentary" shtick a little too far.

[Raiders]

Got Edvard Munch for this weekend. I'm excited.

[Beau]

I rented La commune (Paris, 1871) without realizing it was almost six hours long. I watched the first twenty minutes, and it's not a very promising start. I think he's taking the whole "fake documentary" shtick a little too far.

I really liked it. (http://www.rottentomatoes.com/vine/showpost.php?p=14185689&postcount=1849) It's not an easy film to like, though, especially if you don't jive with the fake documentary aspect. The first twenty minutes are relatively calm in comparison to the rest of the film, which then becomes a bit more heated. No more heads talking to the camera. We step out into, um, well, actually, we stay inside that set. But there's constant crowd scenes, lots of movement, lots of simultaneous action, and the film's technique of having each actor research, embody, and live with his or her character inside the set in real time starts to pay off. Nevertheless, I was hooked already from the first twenty minutes, so this might not be for you.

[Spaceman Spiff]

I've only seen The War Game and Edvard Munch, but both were ridiculously amazing. I should really see more.

[SirNewt]

Oh My God! I just watched 'The War Game' last night, amazing movie.

[Mysterious Dude]

It's not an easy film to like, though, especially if you don't jive with the fake documentary aspect.
I like the documentary style of The War Game and Punishment Park. At least in those films, it made sense. Culloden makes a little less sense, but it doesn't force it down our throats the way La Commune does. In Culloden, people talk to the camera, but the reporter is not a character and there is no mention of what television station he works for. Watkins normally uses his style to bring us closer to the characters and events, and it works, but what is the point of showing a group of people in 1871 sitting around a television and watching the news? It does not make me feel closer to the events and it certainly doesn't teach me anything about the Paris Commune. I don't mean to sell the film short, because I do feel it has taught me a lot, but if they could just get rid of those stupid reporters, it would be a lot better.

In your review, you mention that things change later in the film. I've only seen the first three hours, so my judgment may be premature. But honestly, I don't think I'm going to really "watch" the rest of it. I'll just keep it on as background noise until it's over.

[Beau]

I like the documentary style of The War Game and Punishment Park. At least in those films, it made sense. Culloden makes a little less sense, but it doesn't force it down our throats the way La Commune does. In Culloden, people talk to the camera, but the reporter is not a character and there is no mention of what television station he works for. Watkins normally uses his style to bring us closer to the characters and events, and it works, but what is the point of showing a group of people in 1871 sitting around a television and watching the news? It does not make me feel closer to the events and it certainly doesn't teach me anything about the Paris Commune. I don't mean to sell the film short, because I do feel it has taught me a lot, but if they could just get rid of those stupid reporters, it would be a lot better.

In your review, you mention that things change later in the film. I've only seen the first three hours, so my judgment may be premature. But honestly, I don't think I'm going to really "watch" the rest of it. I'll just keep it on as background noise until it's over.

I don't know, Antoine. If you take out the documentary aspect, there is no film at all. From a practical standpoint, the whole movie is organized around the concept of "talking heads," which is the deal-breaker: are you, or are you not, interested in hearing non-actors blabber unscripted diatribes for six hours? I think the experiment warrants the blabber, because I'm interested in the experiment, in the idea of having a narrative playground where dozens of actors can create narrative simultaneously. It makes things very layered and dense, and personally, having these narrative-lines coil around the set - that is, having an environment where creativity is given free reign, and where the camera can roam and explore at will, finding stories in its path - is hugely interesting. It's a stroll through an infinite area, because the storytelling in this movie happens beyond the frame, around it, everywhere.

This experiment is hinged on the documentary format. We need the camera there so the actors can actually perform their diatribes. Beyond this pragmatic necessity, the film is also examining media, and it chooses to focus on television because, first, it's the best media to analyze through a film-camera, since it's a type of media that is obviously very linked to camera-images, and second, as it will become annoyingly clear in the second half, the film is examining the modern-world relevance of the Paris Commune. By depicting nineteenth-century media as if it were modern media, the idea is that viewers will understand how media has always been the same, how it distorted things back then, how it distorts things right now, and how one's knowledge of history must rest on their own hands, and not on the hands of untrustworthy media agencies (which is why, in this film, each non-actor researched his or her part on their own, as a way of counteracting the misinformation they had previously received through official channels). It's all very clumsy and obvious. I'm surprised you're asking for the "point" when the film bludgeons you on the head with it. As for removing the reporters, it would lessen the film, I believe. The competition between the television stations, and the appearance of the reporters, are the building blocks of the film's portrayal of media as an entity that distorts one way or the other depending on its political stance. We even watch the emotional and ideological struggles that the Commune reporters have to go through as they find their objectivity starting to slide.

There's a third reason for the television format, though, which I mention in my review.



Though he cannot entirely contain his enthusiasm for his movie-making 'technique,' Watkins does manage to include a healthy amount of skepticism regarding his own film. He actually has a character attack him. A woman gets angry at the peering camera, wondering why the man behind it is not participating in the revolution - why he is just watching passively. At this point in the running time, the distinction between the camera as 'news-camera' and the camera as 'movie-camera' - that is, between the camera as a narrative-device and the camera as itself - has been so blurred, that it is difficult to ascertain whether the woman is speaking to the fictional news-cameraman or whether she is speaking to Peter Watkins himself. What matters, is that she is speaking to the camera, the same camera we have been led to distrust during the preceding five hours. As events unfold, we realize that Commune TV and National TV are almost as bad as each other, presenting skewed views of the same event. Arguably, the former is less damnable, but still deficient when it comes to displaying the 'absolute truth.' We cannot trust media representations. And that leads to a series of indirect questions: Can we really trust this film? Can we trust Watkins? Can we trust his camera, when he has forced this same camera to act as the primary weapon of the very news-organizations he is indicting? Watkins realizes that, just as the Commune fell under the weight of its own good intentions, his work about the Commune may suffer a similar fate.

Obviously, this self-reflexive aspect would be lost without the "camera as character." It is important that the camera be another observer, another character, another subjective viewpoint that can distort, choose inaction, perform, spout opinions, etc. La Commune is not a period film, it's a film about the performance of history, so the performance is always shown as performance, and the camera is simply another performing entity. This film says: we can only review history by reconstructing it, and we cannot reconstruct without performing. So, performance is posited as a method for understanding history, embodying it, traveling back to it, and so on, which is why we have that obvious set, why the film gives the actors so much freedom, and why the camera is self-reflexively alive inside the world of the movie. Now, you can choose not to like any of this. It's not subtle, it's really preachy, and it's kind of repetitive. You can even say, "I already distrust media, this film didn't have to tell me, and the people that need to be told, are not going to see a six hour black and white narrative experiment." Be that as it may, I don't think we can take out the reporters or the documentary.