The Great Acting Blog: "Year 1 Filmography"

As the The Great Acting Blog approaches it's first birthday, I decided to compile a filmography of all the films mentioned in blogs during that year. As soon as I glanced over the list, I was immediately struck by the number of big hitters not on there - Jean Gabin, Robert De Niro and Emmanuelle Beart immediately sprung to mind. Lists are always fun, and I hope this one may inspire you to watch some of the films on it -  many contain performances which offer an object lesson in how to act, and vary radically in aesthetic, from the frantic emotionalism of Per Oscarsson in Sult, to the cool minimalism of Alain Delon in Le Samourai. However, what they all have in common is the ring of truth.   I've listed the film title, followed, in brackets, by the director and the actor focussed on, and then the title of the blog in which the film was mentioned. I always try to encourage dialogue on here, so please feel free to add your suggestions in the comments section below, especially when you feel the film contains performances worthy of note.   The continual viewing of great work inspires us to do better. 1. Streetcar Named Desire (Elia Kazan, Marlon Brando), Love Your Work. 2. Orlando (Sally Potter, Tilda Swinton), Become That Person You've Been Looking For . 3. I Am Love (Luca Guadagnino, Tilda Swinton) Become That Person You've Been Looking For + 10 Favourite Performances Of 2010. 4. The Hunchback Of Notre Dame (William Dieterle, Charles Laughton), Hunchback. 5. Waiting For Godot (Michael Lindsay-Hogg), Waiting For Godot. 6. Hoffa (Danny DeVito, Jack Nicholson), Singlemindedf**koffedness. 7. Krapp's Last Tape (Atom Egoyan, John Hurt), Mr Hurt. 8. The Hit (Stephen Frears, John Hurt), Mr Hurt. 9. Dead Man (Jim Jarmusch, John Hurt), Mr Hurt. 10.The Limits Of Control (Jim Jarmusch), Mr Hurt. 11. 44 Inch Chest (Malcolm Venville), Mr Hurt. 12. The Proposition (John Hillcoat), Mr Hurt. 13. You Can Count On Me (Lonergan, Mark Ruffalo), Commitment. 14. L'Eclisse (Michelangelo Antonioni, Alain Delon), Alain Delon. 15. Le Samourai (Jean-Pierre Melville, Alain Delon), Alain Delon. 16. Strangers On A Train (Alfred Hitchcock), From Fake Independence To A True Artistic Culture. 17. Shadow Of A Doubt (Alfred Hitchcock), From Fake Independence To A True Artistic Culture. 18. Cyrano De Bergerac (Michael Gordon, Jose Ferrer), Work For Your Own Satisfaction. 19. Sult (Henning Carlson, Per Oscarsson), This Then That, + My 10 Favourite Performances Of 2010. 20. Down Terrace (Ben Wheatley, Robin Hill), The Exhilaration Of Creation, + My 10 Favourite Performances Of 2010. 21. M (Fritz Lang, Peter Lorre), My 10 Favourite Performances Of 2010. 22. The Headless Woman (Lucrecia Martel, Maria Ornetto) My 10 Favourite Performances 2010 23. Dogtooth (Giorgos Lanthimos, Christos Stergioglou) My 10 Favourite Performances 2010 24. The Cremator (Juraj Herz, Rudolf Hrusinsky), My 10 Favourite Film Performances 2010 25. Distant Lives, Still Voices (Terrence Davies, Pete Postlethwaite) My 10 Favourite Film Performances 2010 26. The Ape (Jesper Ganslandt, Olle Sarri), My 10 Favourite Film Performances 2010 27. Le Mepris (Jean-Luc Godard, Michel Piccoli), The Discreet Madness Of Michel Piccoli. 28. Le Doulos (Jean-Pierre Melville, Michel Piccoli), The Discreet Madness Of Michel Piccoli 29. Jardins En Automne (Otar Iosseliani, Michel Piccoli), The Discreet Madness Of Michel Piccoli. 30. La Belle Noiseuse (Jacques Rivette, Michel Piccoli), The Discreet Madness Of Michel Piccoli. 31. Les Noces Rouge (Claude Chabrol, Michel Piccoli), The Discreet Madness Of Michel Piccoli. 32. Les Chose De La Vie (Claude Sautet, Michel Piccoli), The Discreet Madness Of Michel Piccoli. 33. The Diary Of A Chambermaid (Luis Bunuel, Michel Piccoli), The Context And It's Work. 34. A Single Man (Tom Ford, Colin Firth), Gobbledegook?. 35. The English Patient (Anthony Mingella, Colin Firth), Gobbledegook?. 36. Tyrannosaur (Paddy Considine), Actor-Filmmakers. 37. Walkover (Jerzy Skolimowski), Actor-Filmmakers. 38. Love Is Colder Than Death (Rainer Werner Fassbinder), Actor-Filmmakers. 39. Faces (John Cassavetes), Actor-Filmmakers. 40. Touch Of Evil (Orson Welles), Actor-Filmmakers. 41. Hannah & Her Sisters (Woody Allen). 42. The Crossing Guard (Sean Penn), Actor-Filmmakers. 43. Nil By Mouth (Gary Oldman), Actor-Filmmakers. 44. Orphans (Peter Mullan), Actor-Filmmakers. 45. Night Of The Hunter (Charles Laughton), Actor-Filmmakers. 46. Hannah-Bi ('Beat' Takeshi), Actor-Filmmakers. 47. The Liar (Mika Kaurismaki, Aki Kaurismaki), Actor-Filmmakers. 48. A Nos Amour (Maurice Pialat), Actor-Filmmakers. 49. Blast Of Silence (Allen Baron), Actor-Filmmakers. 50. The Unloved (Samantha Morton), Actor-Filmmakers. 51. God's Comedy (Joao Cesar Monteiro), Actor-Filmmakers. 52. Closure Of Catharsis (Rouzbeh Rashidi, James Devereaux), First Response. 53. The Birth Of The Goalie Of The 2001 FA Cup (Mike Leigh), Never Compromise. 54. Late Spring (Yashujiro Ozu, Chishu Ryu), Chishu Ryu In Late Spring. 55. My Name Is Joe (Ken Loach, Peter Mullan), Peter Mullan In My Name Is Joe – Acting Is Poetry. 56. Army Of Shadows (Jean-Pierre Melville, Lino Ventura), The Ventura Conundrum. 57. Le Deuxieme Souffle (Jean-Pierre Melville, Lino Ventura), The Ventura Conundrum. 58. Touchez Pas Au Grisbi (Jacques Becker, Lino Ventura), The Ventura Conundrum. 59. I'll Sleep When I'm Dead (Mike Hodges, Charlotte Rampling), Charlotte Rampling's Example. 60. Paranoic (Freddie Francis, Oliver Reed), Enjoy Your Work. 61. The Passion Of Joan Of Arc (Carl Theodore Dreyer, Maria Falconetti) The Face Of Great Acting. 62. Victim (Basil Dearden, Dirk Bogarde), Symptom Of A Lie. 63. The Servant (Joseph Losey, Dirk Bogarde), Symptom Of A Lie. 64. The Accident (Joesph Losey, Dirk Bogarde), Symptom Of A Lie. 65. The Night Porter (Liliana Cavani, Dirk Bogarde), Symptom Of A Lie. 66. The Damned (Luchino Visconti, Dirk Bogarde), Symptom Of A Lie. 67. Death In Venice (Luchino Visconti, Dirk Bogarde), Symptom Of A Lie. 68. Devil & The Deep (Marion Goring, Charles Laughton), Exclude The Meaningless.

Trailer For Hal Hartley's "Amateur"

Drifting Clouds Recommends Joe Lawlor & Christine Molloy's "Helen"

Who said British art film was dead? This is a wonderful film about a girl called Helen, who is asked to perform in a police reconstruction of the disappearance of a local girl. Helen gradually drifts more and more into the lives of the people in the missing girl's life, which leads to some wonderfully strange scenes. This is also a very good example of how effective having little exposition is. And check out the minimalist aesthetic, particularly the acting which may be a good expression of the debate we had on minimalist acting on The Great Acting Blog - "Exclude The Meaningless", last week. http://thegreatactingblog.posterous.com/the-great-acting-blog-exclude-the-mea... Cheers, James.

The Great Acting Blog: "Trial & Error"

When rehearsing a scene for the first time, it is important to make a start. I used to find this blindingly obvious notion extremely difficult, and couldn't bear to walk across the stage until I was solidly off-book and confidently understood the meaning of the scene, for fear of experiencing that horrible feeling of falsity (I remedied this problem by learning my lines before the start of rehearsals, and improved my script analysis powers as I became more experienced). Anyway, at some point we have to make to start, when the director asks you to move from the sofa to the armchair, move we must, regardless of how we feel. And that's the point isn't it? If we waited until we felt “ready” then we probably never would make a start, actors don't need to be asked twice not to act, a cup of tea and a catch up with the week's gossip is far more preferable to the turmoil of actually creating something, perhaps we may even ask the director to explain his latest acting theory, and hope he forgets that we are actually in a rehearsal, then we can all go home, and perhaps we never will have to act if we can keep the ruse going long enough. Despite the aforementioned cosiness, we all know that, in the end, the turmoil of creation is what it is all about, the pressure, the stakes, the potential to damage your own self-regard, the fear of failure – or to put it another way – we should be setting our bar high enough that it is a real struggle to reach it, or it should be no certainty that we will. The struggle is not a bad thing, the sweat, infact, it is out of that struggle our creation is, in the end, borne, and the greater our struggle the greater the creation. Trial and error is a step into the unknown along the path of creation, we have a go at it, then look at what we did then try to improve it. But how much can you bear? At many points you will have to step into that unknown until you master it and get on a secure footing (as secure as you can in art), and once you get onto that secure footing, you must inch forward once again, and the process is repeated. Before you can provide an answer to the new question brought forth, you must first be able to formulate the question, and hope you have formulated the correct question. It is a relief when you actually have something that can be improved. As I write this, I start to think any great piece of work requires a miracle in order to bring it into the world, certainly the odds on it happening must be extremely long. And this is in stark contrast to the National Lottery, which creates the illusion that something is at stake, which is why we feel foolish and degraded after realising we have not won – there was nothing at stake after all. Thirteen million to one is certainly long odds. But the odds in the creation of a piece of work must be infinite. Something stirs in the imagination, perhaps it touches off a series of associations, and we slide into the groove of blessed inspiration. But it cannot last, and we cannot rely on it, and so we develop technique in order to give our work some order, some structure, to help us out of a jam. Technique is the difference between the serious person intent on becoming an artist, and somebody chancing their arm, or just having a go. Technique also helps us move beyond trial and error, when we have a clearer vision of what the work at hand might eventually become. That's why I like the technique of theatrical action so much: it gives us something absolutely concrete to work with, and helps us to make decisions when there seems to be innumerable possibilities open to us – if I go into the scene with, say, the action of “selling the other guy a great idea”, I've got something to hang my hat on. Yes, it's still trial and error, perhaps I find that “selling the other guy a great idea” doesn't work in the scene after I've tried it, then I can change the action to “convincing the other guy to come through for me”. But without technique we will lack the strength to probe rigorously, to improve the product, to open it back up again after we think we finished it, just to make it that little bit better. A true artist will always rouse himself to new effort, especially when he knows it's obvious that something can be improved, it's the difference between producing something excellent and something acceptable (or not even that). The hack will do the minimum to get by, technique to them is merely a well worn formula, selecting the appropriate off-the-shelf characterization, and making the scene at hand fit into it – no turmoil of creation for him – and it is unlikely that he will continue probing for ways to improve. The true artist faces upto the turmoil of creation, and continually seeks to improve himself in order to face the turmoil  better.

Drifting Clouds Recommends Joanna Hogg's Archipelago

This is the best British film I've seen this year by a country mile. Hogg's beautifully pared back visuals allow us to observe and capture the hidden meaning of the characters' apparently innocuous behaviour, but which masque seething resentments among the Leightons on a family holiday. The conflicts are unbarable at times, and the tension among the family members is white knuckle. See this film. James. Below I have reproduced Philip French's review of the film in the Guardian. Archipelago – review, by Philip French, Sunday March 11th. Joanna Hogg's excellent second feature revisits the English middle classes, this time on a tense farewell family holiday Two years ago the British writer-director Joanna Hogg made her feature debut with Unrelated, a highly promising movie about a middle-class woman in her mid-40s leaving her husband in England to spend a holiday with a party of well-heeled, highly disagreeable friends at a grand Tuscan villa they've hired for a summer vacation. Her second film, the defiantly art-house Archipelago, is a variation on the same situation: a family holidays in the Scilly Isles and the father doesn't turn up. It's a confident advance on the earlier picture and one of the three most formally interesting British movies of the past few years, all directed (or co-directed) by women, the other two being Christine Molloy and Joe Lawlor's Helen and Clio Barnard's The Arbor. Production year: 2010 Country: UK Cert (UK): 15 Runtime: 114 mins Directors: Joanna Hogg Cast: Amy Lloyd, Christopher Bake, Christopher Baker, Kate Fahy, Lydia Leonard, Tom Hiddleston As with the Japanese master Ozu, Hogg never moves her camera, each shot being carefully composed and long held. There are no close-ups until near the end, at which point there's also a single camera movement when one character comes down the stairs and startles us by rushing across a room to open a letter of farewell. There's no music in Archipelago, and like Eric Rohmer, another film-maker she evidently admires, Hogg has a preference for natural light and the particular tones and atmosphere it creates. In addition, much of the dialogue appears to be semi-improvised, reproducing the hesitancies and broken rhythms of everyday speech. Finally, she joins Julian Fellowes in consciously restoring to our cinema middle-class life as a proper subject for serious film-making and bringing to bear on it a knowing and critical eye. The film takes place on Tresco, one of the Scilly Islands off the coast of Cornwall, and the title suggests a connection between the group of islands and the fractured nature of the Leighton family who've rented a house there. But Patricia Leighton, the mother (Kate Fahy), and her children, Cynthia (Lydia Leonard) and Edward (Tom Hiddleston), both in their late 20s, are not here for a jovial summer gathering. This is one of those out-of-season films that provide a suitably sombre setting for contemplation. The holidaymakers are long gone, the choppy sea is uninviting, the sky overcast, the locals are shooting pheasants, and the visitors are wrapped up against the searching wind. The precise time is marked as late October, early November, when Edward picks up what we think to be a brooch to pin on the sweater of Rose (Amy Lloyd), the pretty cook hired along with the house. It turns out to be a Remembrance Day poppy, though the feeling of it being an affectionate, probably mildly erotic gesture remains. The family finds itself in this familiar place, where they've often spent holidays together, to mark the departure of Edward, who at 29 is about to give up a lucrative job in the City to spend a year in Africa as a voluntary worker, advising villagers on Aids and safe sex. It becomes clear that his mother and sister have doubts about his career change, which Cynthia mocks as a delayed gap year, and gradually we become aware of fissures breaking the smooth surface. Initially, nobody ever says quite what they mean during their small talk and their dinner-table chat, though certain problems are brought into focus by the presence of Christopher, a mild-mannered minor artist who gives lessons to Patricia and Cynthia. He explains to them that to him the art of painting resides in producing well-ordered works into which a certain element of chance and chaos is allowed to enter. This becomes a metaphor for their middle-class life, though dangerous to embrace. There are some wonderful moments, a number of them painfully funny, as the family, their cook and the painter friend interact. Cynthia and Patricia, for instance, turn against Edward when his newly found egalitarianism and sense of social duty compel him to treat Rose as an equal, inviting her to dine with them. In an exquisitely timed and observed scene of escalating embarrassment, they all lunch at the otherwise empty restaurant of a local hotel. Under Cynthia's direction, they change tables until finding the right one and the proper seating order. Then Cynthia, who combines insecurity with social assertion, criticises the food and demands to see the chef. As the others cringe, he politely explains to her that guinea fowl should be a trifle underdone. Later there's a touching moment when Edward seeks to cheer up the depressed Cynthia by speaking to her in nursery language using a glove puppet held around a door. Archipelago is a subtle film of sensed absences. The father, whose pompous manner Edward mocks, never arrives. Edward's girlfriend, Chloe, who won't be allowed to accompany him to Africa, has not been invited to the reunion. As Cynthia condescendingly and revealingly tells her brother, Chloe is "not family, just someone you're attached to". Then there's the absence of a picture removed from above the living-room fireplace, leaving a rectangle of unfaded wallpaper. What is it the family can't bear to contemplate? Well, it has to do with the chaotic, uncontrollable character of the natural world, and the painting's eventual return to the wall is part of the film's satisfactorily open ending. There's also another absence we experience. The screen is often unpopulated as people enter and leave the frame, and we're invited to think of Bishop Berkeley's philosophy of "immaterialism", the belief that the world only exists as we feel and perceive it, and of Dr Johnson's brutal refutation of this belief. And here's a link back to the original page for this review. http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2011/mar/06/archipelago-philip-french-review

The Great Acting Blog: "Exclude The Meaningless"

Devil And The Deep is an old Marion Gering film from 1932, and stars Charles Laughton as a submarine commander who is insanely jealous of any attention given to his wife, played by Tallulah Bankhead, so insanely jealous infact, that he drives her into the arms of his first officer, Gary Cooper. The film is a model of simplicity and precision, in contrast to much of contemporary cinema which is so often drenched in design and camerawork, that it's difficult to see the film itself. Not so Devil And The Deep – everything is in service of the film. The story is told economically, using largely static shots, uninflected and objective, without explanations like handheld camera work (which so often for me, indicates a lack of conviction on the part of the filmmaker), Gering and his crew don't explain the film to us, they simply let it take place, thus allowing us to participate and create the film for ourselves. So, the filmmaking in Devil And The Deep, has a wonderful combination of humility and beauty. And in terms of the performances, I finally came to understand something which I have felt but never really been able to articulate about minmalism in film acting. Now, the art and craft of acting has been in steady decline over the last 50 or 60 years, even to the point where famous directors publicly denigrate the form (“I hate actors and their bag of tricks”), and we've got movie stars openly ridiculing acting while simultaneously trousering millions of dollars. Any attempt at a serious discussion about acting is derided as pretentious, and actors have their “value” measured by whether they have been successful in the industrial arena as oppose to the artistic. The acting in Devil And The Deep is sublime, especially from Laughton: the extraneous is cut away and only the essential is included, so that what we see is a precise, true and vivid performance, shockingly vivid at times, and further, every movement serves a precise purpose (much like the script and camerawork). Laughton's performance delights and compels us, and his generosity is enormous – as when we hear his garrulous laugh after catching only the punchline to his jokes - he warms us, like a log fire does. In short: Laughton is truly expressing himself. It's the sort of performance that today would be dismissed as “stagey”, and Laughton ridiculed as a mere “luvvie”. Why? Because he does not subscribe to the pinchfistedness laughingly described as “naturalism”. But I say this “naturalism” - the fidgeting, and the meaningless gesturing, the fake stuttering (which is an artificial affectation applied by the actor) is a repression of a crucial aspect of human nature, ie – to play, to perform, to express, to try other people's clothes on – and in attempting to repress it, we are infact attempting to repress the truth, and in it's place we put the crocodile tears and verisimilitude of “naturalism”, and wrap it up in do-gooderism in order to justify the lie. But performing is an essential aspect of our lives, that's why actors exist: TO PERFORM, hence we write scripts, build stages, and turn our cameras upon them in order for them to do so. Why deny it? Why repress this need to see the drama of our lives played out infront of us? Why pretend that what we are witnessing is not a performance? Do ballerinas pretend they're not dancing? The irony of minimalist acting in cinema is that it is theatrical, and the more minimal it is the more theatrical it is. I think of great filmmakers like Yashujiro Ozu, or Robert Bresson, or Aki Kaurismaki, (the acting in whose films is often quite brilliant) who ask their actors to pare back their performances in order to serve the film, and to exclude the meaningless. But what is this paring back? This exclusion of the meaningless? It is a cutting away of the non-essential, and in so doing, a theatrical style of film acting is brought forth, it draws attention to the fact that the actor is performing, afterall, he is supposed to be performing – that's the whole point – what we see infront of us is a deliberate creation, a deliberate arrangement, a work of art, and, as such, we, the audience, witness performances of great beauty, and which bring us great joy.

Trailer For Francis Ford Coppola's TWIXT