Framed to Perfection XXV

DIE HEIDEN VON KUMMEROW UND IHRE LUSTIGEN STREICHE (1967)

Director: Werner Jacobs

Cinematographer: Günter Haubold

A cute German pastoral romp, which reminds me of a classic Ealing comedy. Very old fashioned. Very quaint. And not a hint of challenging drama in sight.

You just need that shit sometimes, you know?

With no dialogue translation to hand, the plot seems to be about a wandering vagabond casually passing through a primary-coloured agrarian community, teaching the mischievous local children (you know, as opposed to those normal kids who tend to take boredom with patience and dignity) his non-Christian rituals in the process.

While not the best disc transfer one could hope for (in fact, I think my copy has just died), every shot still looks like a latter-period Vincent van Gogh painting, all of which you just want to dip your troubled soul into for warmth.

Ahhh.

I’ve been to Germany a few times in my life, always finding its people to be gentle, hospitable, and open-minded. If I had the means and confidence, I’d move out there for good and finally close the door on mean-spirited England for good.

Not that I’m bitter.

Do stay in touch, lieblinge.

Tschuss!

Subtitles OFF: La Ville dont le prince est un enfant (1997)

I’m very proud that I called this one before I checked, but this film is based on a play. You can tell. There’s just something about the dialogue beats and how the scenes unfold, that indicate this was not designed for the screen. Which is fine, of course, as I think Dune would also make a marvellous stage production.

There’s no physical copy available to buy, in any region, of this beautifully-tiptoeing LGBT melodrama, which is why whomever holds the rights is clearly okay with it being uploaded by someone to YouTube. It’s a nice print, so not pan-and-scan or anything like that. Who knows why copies aren’t out on the street. Despite the potentially-controversial subject matter, there really isn’t anything visually edgy to it. I don’t speak French and there are no English subtitles, so I’m unable to comment on whether the dialogue is offensive or not.

It just doesn’t feel like that kind of film.

It is “very French” though, and I’m sure everyone will understand what I mean by that. It’s so of-its-region, in fact, that I kept expecting characters to regularly clasp the backs of their hands to their foreheads in emotional anguish. I’m pretty sure that happens at some point, I’ll have to watch it again and check. The period is more vague though, as, even though you see a modern car early on, it feels like it’s set somewhere in the early half of the twentieth century.

Choosing not to look-up a detailed plot description of the film, my assumption is that it’s about two homosexual pupils at a residential Catholic boys’ school, already separated within its walls by a minor gap in their ages, who are pulled apart even further when an authoritarian member of staff discovers the boys are in love. While I was concerned this would be a set-up for cliched scenes of brutal corporal punishment and other “moustache-twirling” villainy, I was surprised to find the film is much more subdued than that.

Phew!

I’m not a fan of when a film stoops to cheap tricks to achieve a certain level of drama, which has sadly become quite common in film and television writing over the past twenty years. No, the conflict between the characters here is more rational and patient. There are moments where the script calls for shouting, but it’s never apocalyptic in nature and enough to end a scene. They’re more debates than arguments.

The aforementioned strict member of staff eventually has the older of the two boys expelled and excommunicated by the boy’s peers, doomed to never see the object of his affection again. I sort of like that the two lovers are never reunited, as that would be a little cheap also. The real centrepiece of the film is the final debate between the authoritarian and an older member of staff, who seems to be calling the younger man up on his hypocrisy and being two harsh on the boys. Perhaps this isn’t what really happens, but I can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be. Still, if a person watching your film is still enthralled, even though they don’t understand the dialogue, then surely you’re doing something right.

While the photography isn’t particularly showy, there are a handful of standout shots that sneak up on you. The buildings of the school aren’t exploited in a severe manner, instead being utilised as a place people actually live in, rather than where tourists visit.

The boys’ relationship isn’t made physical, other than s small kiss, as this story is about their emotional love, not their lust. Quite a mature angle to take, I’d say. There’s a nastily written biography of William Shakespeare by a religious zealot, who ends his chapter on Shakespeare’s poetry by flatly declaring: “The sonnets are not about buggery!”. Well, neither is homosexuality. Sure, you can engage in anal sex as a homosexual. You can also engage in anal sex as a heterosexual. But to reduce the entire experience of a sexuality to a physical act was tragically ignorant of the author.

This film appears much smarter than that.

There is also the issue of the age of the two young actors involved, which may or may not have been a factor. I just don’t know. Perhaps the age difference between the two boys is greater than I realise, so the story is really saying something about intergenerational love. If so, this may also explain a lack of a physical release. So to speak. Such a topic would have been very sensitive in the late-90s, which heralded the start of the intense child safety panic, which persists in being used to turn people against each other to this day. But, hey, you’d expect the French to be quite liberal about such things, had the script required them to show more than a kiss. The film doesn’t feel the need to push the boundaries in that way though, it just wants to make a thoughtful point in words, not awkward shower scenes.

The film’s English title, “The Fire That Burns”, is very silly indeed, which is why I didn’t want to use it for this post. The original French title translates to: “The City Whose Prince is a Child”, which is nice and obscure. It’s probably a clever literary or biblical reference, but I’m not clever enough to know the actual origin. Again, I’m sure this is all written down in detail somewhere, but I’m happy for the film just to speak for itself.

Even though I hardly understood a bloody word of the thing.

I don’t know what the note thrown to the older boy as he leaves the school for good says, but I’m happy not knowing that either. Just like the sign language exchange at the end of Three Colours: White and the whisper at the end of Lost in Translation, I find the mystery to be much more engaging.

Be sure to watch the YouTube version while it’s still available, as I’m sure someone will have it taken down soon enough.

I was going to make this a “Framed to Perfection” post originally, but things got out of hand. For shits and giggles, below is the shot I was going to feature. It’s the most action-packed moment in the film, and you don’t actually see it happening. Characters react to something being dropped, then it cuts to the event after the fact. I want to say there’s intentional symbolism in the framing, with natural chaos set against a backdrop of order, but maybe I’m looking too much into it. Still, I like the shot all the same.

Another great moment, when the younger romantic lead is put to sing in a choir wearing his drab day clothes, while the other boys around him wear immaculate white robes, surely implies a “black sheep” accusation.

Again, nice and subtle.

And oh-so terribly French, of course.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Toodles!

[story corner]

SEBASTIAN AND DANIEL

A semi-autobiographical LGBT coming-of-age story about a pair of social outcasts who find peace within each other’s company. May contain uncompromising real-world situations.

CHAPTER SIX

Daniel sat demurely in just his underpants, on the row of child-friendly seats in the headmistress’ office, the rest of his clothes having been taken to the janitor’s ramshackle sanctuary for washing. Daniel had asked why the school had a washing machine, being assured the many cookery class aprons and PE team bibs and drama costumes needed a once over on a fairly regular basis. And for the uniforms of the poor-family kids who stank, Daniel correctly assumed.

In his physical shyness, the boy kept his knees locked together and arms coiled in tight, so as to shield from view as much of himself as possible. Next to him sat his classmate, Izzy, who tried her best to steal a glance every now and then.

“So why are you in here?” Said Daniel, sniffing disinterestedly.

“I puked in the changing room.” Said Izzy, slapping her lips at the lingering taste of vomit.

“Oh yeah, I heard about that.” Said Daniel, with a derisive snort. “What’s wrong with you?”

Izzy, frowning at her classmate’s mocking attitude, chose to remain civil.

“I think I ate too much for breakfast.” She said, stealing another glance at the boy’s wilting form. “How about you?”

Izzy was something of a large girl, which Daniel guessed was easily explained by her apparent-overdoing her intake at meal times, but he felt his disrespectful snort had already punctured a hole in their amiable acquaintance, so he decided not to comment further on that matter.

“I smell.” He said instead, shuffling as far as he could on his seat away from the florally-scented girl.

“I’ve never noticed anything.” Izzy said, moving in for a perfunctory sniff.

“Thanks.” Said Daniel. “Mum doesn’t wash my clothes much.”

Izzy nodded and covered her mouth, clearly holding back another round of humiliation.

“Is that because of me?” Said Daniel standing up and moving across the room, more to avoid backsplash than to distance his smell from the convulsing schoolgirl.

“No, I’m alright.” Izzy said, wafting cool air towards her reddening face. “Just a false alarm.”

Daniel hopped his backside up onto a corner table, which was littered with his bohemian headmistress’ icons to alternative gods. Miss Savage, the irony of such a name being pinned against such a gentle hippy not being lost on Daniel, certainly went that extra mile to solve the lack of romance in her life. Daniel picked up two of the outlandish-looking deities and began enacting a battle for supremacy, complete with well-honed sound effects.

Izzy giggled, the weight of recent events lifting from her shoulders.

“You’re cute.” She said, standing up and shuffling over to examine the theological statues herself.

“Do you want to go out with me?” She said, grimly expecting the usual negative response and burst of hurtful laughter.

Daniel had no strong feelings towards his classmate, but he felt this was not the time to keep either of them in a position of loneliness. They had been friendly, in a casual way, towards one another at times, so a strengthening of their bond would not, with any luck, affect Daniel’s comings and goings all that much.

He was a naturally-passionate soul, as the reader can probably discern.

“Can we wait until after you’ve brushed your teeth before we kiss?” He said, daring not to look up from his miming an epic battle for control of the Earth.

Izzy clasped an embarrassed hand to her mouth.

“Yes.” She said, in a muffled whisper.

“Then sure.” Daniel said, shrugging apathetically.

“You don’t have to.” Said Izzy, another frown passing over her face. “I just thought you liked me.”

Daniel said nothing, the pagan icons within his grip hanging indecisively in the air. Now here was a delicate situation. Daniel felt he did not not like her, but perhaps stepping over into a romantic entanglement was not really his scene. At least not at this point in his young life. He had a lot of toys to play with, which took up much of his private time.

Izzy broke the silence with a snort of her own.

“Some of the kids say you don’t even like girls.” She said, slamming a figurine down and stomping back to her seat. “So which boys do you fancy then?”

“Fuck off.” Said Daniel, throwing the stuffed help gods against the wall.

“Pick those up!” Said Izzy, folding her arms in a furious show of dominance.

“Go fuck yourself!” Said Daniel, rummaging through the lost and found box for a t-shirt and a pair of shorts and some plimsoles.

“Is it Stewart?” Said Izzy, a mischievous grin spreading across her freckled face. “You’re always looking at him, I’ve noticed.”

Daniel was now clothed and striding defiantly towards the door, ready to cause as much emotional distress as he possibly could. This one was for his bitch of a sister. His pathetic drunk of a mother. All the gossiping bastards in his class. His parade-float of a headmistress who just wanted to help. Fuck every last one of them, he thought.

“Shut up, you fat pig! Go stuff your fat-fucking-face with more shit and puke up some more!” He yelled. “I wouldn’t kiss you, even if you were Wincey Willis!”

He then stormed out of the office, slamming the door weakly behind him.

Izzy sat there in stunned silence. Apart from passing quarrels in the playground over petty game rules, she had never witnessed such a dramatic outburst. Children their age were usually trained to reel in their stronger feelings, and concentrate on more adult-friendly pursuits, such as sitting quietly not making any noise.

“Smelly gaylord.” She said, with a dismissive shrug of her own.

⬅︎ PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Framed to Perfection XXIV

MONTY PYTHON AND THE HOLY GRAIL (1975)

Director: Terry Gilliam, Terry Jones

Cinematographer: Terry Bedford

So many Terrys, so little time.

I’m feeling rather fed-up of everything this morning, probably because of… well… everything. So, as is usual during desperate times like this, I reach out to a higher power. Yes, I dig out my Monty Python collection.

I’m more of a Life of Brian person myself, but I like to reserve that one for drinking sessions. It’s one of my “drunk movies”, of which I have an alarming amount set aside. There’s even a little basket for them next to my armchair. Pretty tragic, huh?

Anyway, the subversive class politics, mixed with absurdist humour, is always a pleasant antidote to the grimness of life. Even if you don’t literally have shit all over you. I’m pretty sure living on this council estate counts as being covered in shit.

Who knows how the two Terrys split their directing partnership, but I’m gonna go ahead and assume Gilliam did the beauty shots, such as the one above. I must get back into watching and reviewing his recent filmography, but who honestly has the time?

Oh yeah, that’s right, I do.

Hopefully this will get me out of my little emotional slump and inspired to do something constructive. Or maybe I’ll just get drunk and post passionate articles about Keith Floyd. Then delete them once I’ve sobered up. Then have a cry about everything again.

Good times.

Do stay in touch, darlings.

Run away!