September 14, 2009

13. The Greatest Film Sequences of All Time

After having seen 250 films of a more or less artistic quality, I decided to look back on the past and select my favourite film sequences from the history of cinema. Without intenting to be fully comprehensive (my memory has, I'm sure, failed me on some motion pictures), the following list reflects the results of my decision. However, a few specifications should be made first.

Film is often viewed a synthetic art form, the value of which cannot be entirely measured by its single elements, such as frames or sequences, but by the relation of the latter to the whole film. Therefore it is sometimes very difficult to distinguish outstanding sequences: they may not be separately very significant, although the film as a whole is conceptually interesting (such films are Rashomon (1950) by Akira Kurosawa, Last Year in Marienbad (1961) by Alain Resnais, The Exterminating Angel (1962) by Luis Buñuel, and Teorema (1968) by Pier Paolo Pasolini, to name a few). The list below does not coincide one-to-one with that of my favourite films for this reason, although similarities between these lists are clearly perceivable.

Despite all that, single sequences sometimes seem to reflect the core of a film surprisingly well, as if they were little microcosms of their own. Although I strongly condemn every attempt to divide an artwork into pieces just in order to subject it to the necessities of a certain interpretation, I feel that some of these sequences would not lose their cinematic value even when they are being observed out of context, i.e. without the supporting framework of the whole film structure. This goes for almost all the sequences listed below.

1. The crucifixion of Jesus in Andrei Rublev (A. A. Tarkovsky, 1966).
Due to the fact that the artistic portrayals of the life of Jesus almost always evoke powerful emotions in me, I have considerably high expectations in the motion pictures intentionally dealing with Christian themes. However, none of the sequences depicting the tragic crucifixion of Jesus have ever had a greater cinematic impact on me than the corresponding scene in Tarkovsky's magnificent Andrei Rublev. First, a profound dialogue between the protagonist (Anatoly Solonitsyn) and Theophanes the Greek (Nikolai Sergeyev) on the subject of human goodness takes place (see the beginning of the sequence). Andrei's thoughts representing those of the director himself, it is a typical Tarkovskian discussion on a topic that is, in spite of its timeless nature, never treated in the same way in today's West. Then, direct references to Jesus and comparisons with the New Testament appear in the conversation, and we simultaneously see Son of God carrying his cross in the knee-deep snow of a rough northern winter. Without distorting the essence of the event depicted, ethnical elements are impressively emphasised here to express the director's undying love for his rodina (this is also clearly visible in the famous skomorokh sequence). His masterful insight into the mysterious Russian soul, which finds its utmost perfection in Rublev, makes Tarkovsky for me the greatest Russian humanist after Dostoyevsky.

2. The harem sequence in 8 1/2 (F. Fellini, 1963).
Fellini has a specific role in the triumvirate of my favourite film directors because of his kindness and love of people, as one of his greatest admirers, Andrei Tarkovsky, put it. The Italian's mastery is insurmountable in almost every sequence of 8 1/2, which is, objectively speaking, the most important motion picture I have ever had a chance to see. This is especially evident in the much-analysed harem sequence, which I have, due to its baroque fluidity and exuberance, virtually every time enjoyed within a single breath and which is therefore a quintessential example of what the term 'Felliniesque' means. The sequence is furthermore highlighted by skilful performances, particularly by Marcello Mastroianni's brilliant characterisation of Guido Anselmi, a noted artist who is suffering from director's block as well as marital difficulties and who seeks refuge in highly symbolic memories and phantasies. All this is accompanied by the ingenious score of Nino Rota (see the finale of the film), which turns watching this unique metafilm into an unforgettable artistic experience.

3. The merging faces in Persona (I. Bergman, 1966).
Out of all the eight films I've seen by Ingmar Bergman, Persona definitely belongs to his greatest works for me. Although the plot of the film doesn't seem to have many obvious intersections with my life, which is normally a prerequisite for my in-depth interest, I paradoxically feel that Persona cuts much deeper in my flesh than the rest of Bergman's oeuvre. This may have its roots in the film's tricky composition (see the film's intro) or, even more likely, in its high psychological complexity, which becomes particularly visible in the culmination sequence of the film. The simple physical beauty of the characters portrayed by Bibi Andersson and Liv Ullmann, cinematographically brilliant close-ups of the two women and subtle yet convincing expressions of the confusion of identity all linked together in Sven Nykvist's famous frames showing the two faces merging into one another, this is a high spot in film history.

4. Saraghina's dance in 8 1/2 (F. Fellini, 1963).
Fellini is, alongside with Bergman and his Fanny and Alexander (1982), one of the greatest masters in reviving scenes from his childhood and turning them into memorable works of art. Although his Amarcord (1973) is full of astonishingly honest and very often sexually motivated walks down memory lane (for example, see the dancing in the mist sequence), none of them can surpass Saraghina's famous dance scene. With its archetypally sensual essence and artistically perfect realisation, the sequence is simply one of a kind.

5. The dream sequence in Stalker (A. A. Tarkovsky, 1979).
The term 'oneiric', which generally refers to the depiction of dream-like states in films, is for me particularly, or even exclusively, related to the works of Andrei Arsenyevich Tarkovsky, for no-one else has gone further here than he did. Tarkovskian dreams, which are typically captured in extremely long takes and transmit sublime spiritual beauty, have amazed me since I first saw Solaris (1972) one and a half years ago, and ever since, I consider him to be the greatest of my cinematic fathers. Many sequences from the three motion pictures Tarkovsky directed in the 1970s in his native Russia belong to my most unforgettable film experiences: the closing sequence of Solaris (1972), the hair-washing sequence in The Mirror (1975) and the railway sequence in Stalker are just a few to mention. However, the dream sequence [sic] of Stalker tops it all; reality seems to be a poor imitation of art next to it. In his Laterna Magica, Ingmar Bergman wrote on Tarkovsky: "When film is not a document, it is a dream. That is why Tarkovsky is the greatest of them all. He moves with such a naturalness in the room of dreams. He doesn't explain. What should he explain anyhow? He is a spectator, capable of staging his visions in the most unwieldy but, in a way, the willing of media. All my life I have hammered on the doors of the rooms in which he moves so naturally." (1) Bergman's self-criticism excluded, I join in the praise.

6. The closing sequence of L'eclisse (M. Antonioni, 1962).
The final sequence of Antonioni's trilogy dealing with the themes of incommunicability and alienation in a modern world astonishes me with its eerily apocalyptic message. Being presented in sharp contrast to the previous scenes of the film, the director's criticism of modernity finds its peak here. Vittoria (Monica Vitti) and Piero (Alain Delon), whose summer fling has lasted for nearly two months, agree to meet on their usual spot by the construction site of a new apartment building in Rome. Instead, we see the place as completely objectified: the camera focuses on empty streets, houses, drainpipes, crossing stripes, street lanterns... Humans have disappeared. Only objects inhabit the depopulated urban landscape. Clara Orban has summarised the core of sequence perfectly: "Perhaps, Antonioni suggests, the desperate attempt of human beings to connect on some level has failed. Modern society may have eclipsed human contact." (2) These extraordinary frames can thus be viewed as a modern version of the Revelation of St. John.

7. The Adoration of the Magi in The Gospel According to St. Matthew (P. P. Pasolini, 1964).
A spiritually haunting sequence by a homosexual atheist whose adaptation of the Gospel of Matthew is widely considered to be one of the greatest cinematic masterpieces about the life of Jesus Christ. Although The Gospel is a prominent example of the film language that seeks its main justification from literature, the mature passion with which Odetta sings her version of Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child adds a special emotional quality to the holiness of the biblical scene. Noteworthy for the simple naturality of the facial expressions and the gestures shared by Mary, Joseph and the Three Wise Men as well the unconventional beauty of the children witnessing the event, the sequence doesn't merely take advantage of the techniques of Italian neorealism but, without a single word said, also explores the depths of humanity.

8. Gustav von Aschenbach dying in Death in Venice (L. Visconti, 1971).
Visconti's greatest appeal to me lies in his interest in the theme of decadence (for an example, see Martin's drag performance in The Damned (1969)). In his remarkably faithful adaptation of Mann's novella, Visconti adds a special spiritual dimension to his treatment. The film is remarkable for the masterful use of Gustav Mahler's music (particularly Adagietto from his fifth symphony) as well as for its main actors, both of whom relate to the original idea of spiritual beauty in a way that excludes all other possibilites for an impersonation. Furthermore, Death in Venice is for me of large significance in an aesthetic sense, since no-one else has been able to capture the lavish charm of the drowning beauty more exquisitely than he did. This is especially apparent in the closing sequence, which, due to its painfully slow pace and languorous mise-en-scène, I think, consists of pure absolutes, and thus it is probably one of the most beautiful moments in the history of cinema.

9. The dance of death in The Seventh Seal (I. Bergman, 1957).
The famous dance of death in the closing sequence of The Seventh Seal is for me, in spite of its accidental birth and shortness, one of the most Bergmanian scenes of all time, whatever the term might mean. Although Bergman's oeuvre is full of iconic sequences - for example, Isak Borg's dream in Wild Strawberries (1957), the laughing cannibals in Hour of the Wolf (1968), nude Anna comforting dead Agnes in Cries and Whispers (1972) as well as the above-mentioned sequences of Persona and a couple of scenes from Fanny and Alexander -, the dance of death is, in my opinion, particularly outstanding for its magic and symbolism (see also Antonius Block's first meeting with Death). With an intellectually captivating and visually beautiful treatment of a metaphysically all-encompassing theme, The Seventh Seal belongs to the greatest cinematic works ever produced and makes Bergman for cinema what Shakespeare is for drama and Mozart for music.

10. Balthazar's death in Au hasard Balthazar (R. Bresson, 1966) and Mouchette's suicide in Mouchette (R. Bresson, 1967).
In spite of, or perhaps due to, Bresson's famous 'actor-model' technique, the goal of which was, by rooting out all the germs of performance and bringing forth the unconscious of the actors, to invent a very specific cinematic language, the final sequences of Au hasard Balthazar and Mouchette impress with their profound simplicity and still manage to be spiritually touching. This is not what one would expect from Bresson's ascetic intellectualism. Both sequences are perfect examples of his distinctive aesthetic style, both convey a message of universal significance; both films are, as Jean-Luc Godard once said, "the world in an hour and a half".

11. Kanji Watanabe singing Gondola no Uta in Ikiru (A. Kurosawa, 1952).
Because of the deeply human essence of the object of Kurosawa's examination (a sick and lonely official's final quest for meaning) and the breathtakingly sad expressivity of the performance by Takashi Shimura, this is one of the most touching sequences in film history.

12. Claudia on the piazza of Noto in L'avventura (M. Antonioni, 1960).
If I had to select a director, whose works are, for me, conceptually the most interesting and intellectually the most compelling, it would be, without any doubt, Michelangelo Antonioni. All his films - particularly Blowup (1966) - have impressed me with their utmost integrity; even in the seemingly most random sequences, the mind of the director is always clearly perceivable. For many, film's directed by Antonioni are extremely long and dull. Orson Welles, for one, expressed his boredom with the Italian director's long takes and brought the following example: "He gives you a full shot of somebody walking down a road. And you think, 'Well, he's not going to carry that woman all the way up that road.' But he does. And then she leaves and you go on looking at the road after she's gone." (3) This is exactly one of the reasons why I am so fascinated by Antonioni's films: such sequences are normally reflections of something much bigger than just an urban stroll (although these strolls are captured so beautifully that one could enjoy watching these without any efforts for intellectualisation). A superficial analysis of the piazza scene in L'avventura reveals nothing more than a sexually motivated struggle. Beyond that, however, an implication to the essential connections between the predatory nature of men, modernisation and alienation in urban surroundings can be found.

13. Ivan and Palagna's wedding in Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors (S. Parajanov, 1964).
Sergei Parajanov is a very interesting director mainly for his unique film language. His masterpiece entitled The Colour of Pomegranates (1968) is sometimes considered to be one of the most revolutionary cinematic works of all time, since the story of the film is almost entirely carried visually or even aurally (for an example, see the penultimate sequence of the film). For me, Parajanov's oeuvre is insurmountably sacred. This is chiefly so due to the wedding sequence in Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors: these five minutes are full of incomparable beauty. The highly symbolic film portraying the harsh Carpathian environment and Ukranian Hutsul culture is therefore very hard to be imitated.

14. The washing sequence in Sebastiane (D. Jarman & P. Humfress, 1976).
In general, scenes depicting male-to-male eroticism in ancient Greece or Rome are for me the most captivating sensually, because characters in those relate to the concept of beauty more intimately than today's heroes and the term 'homosexuality' is not used. Jarman's Sebastiane is an interesting film in that sense, since it concentrates on the idea of universal homosexual [sic] germs rather than that of a homosexual identity (interestingly, the first volume of The History of Sexuality by Michel Foucault was published in the same year in France). As in Fellini's Satyricon (1969), the men depicted in Jarman's film evoke in me a yearning for a totally different type of man. This is even more emphasised by the innocent beauty of the protagonist as well as his boyishly naïve monologues (compare to Eric Emerson's self-exposure in Andy Warhol's Chelsea Girls (1966)).

15. The closing sequence of Three Colours: Blue (K. Kieślowski, 1993).
Films by Kieślowski have a special position in my cultural consciousness: although I still see him belonging to today as a film director (Kieślowski died in 1996), he is for me, at least now, the last great auteur in the history of cinema. As one of the main functions of art is, in my point of view, to evoke purifying emotions in people and thereby make them spiritually better, my love for the genius of Kieślowski has probably a lot to do with the existential sadness depicted in his films. For him, sadness seems to be some kind of an objective phenomenon, which has a deep yet inconspicuos effect upon his characters so that it has become an immanent part of them long before they "step out in front of the viewer". The closing sequences of the first episode of The Decalogue (1989) and the final sequence of Blue are good examples of that, as alongside with the anguish caused by a family member's death, the ineluctable sadness characteristic for human life in general reveals itself here to the protagonists. All of this is skilfully emphasised by the ingenious music composed by Zbigniew Preisner, turning these two films into the greatest works of art from the past two decades.

16. The Odessa Steps sequence and the final scene in The Battleship Potemkin (S. M. Eisenstein, 1925).
Eisenstein's chef-d'oeuvre is, alongside with The Birth of a Nation (1915) by D. W. Griffith and The Triumph of the Will (1935) by Leni Riefenstahl, the greatest propaganda film ever produced. The film's culmination scene with its unforgettable frames (raised cannons as if taking aim at the viewer, faces of the crew members anxiously waiting for the first shot of the battle, and an intertitle with the word Братья ('brothers' in Russian) appearing, when it is revealed that the squadron is friendly) clearly justifies the words of Joseph Goebbels, who called Potemkin "a marvellous film without equal in the cinema... anyone who had no firm political conviction could become a Bolshevik after seeing the film."(4) Furthermore, Potemkin is also significant theoretically, since Eisenstein successfully used his montage theories in it. This is particularly visible in the famous Odessa Steps sequence, which is probably the most influential film scene in cinematic history.

17. The underwater sequence in L'atalante (J. Vigo, 1934).
L'atalante very often appears in the lists of the most influential motion pictures of the 20th century, and in my opinion, the film justifiably deserves such an unanimous praise. Apart from Vigo's genius, which is widely recognised, the film's international success has a lot to do with the warm performances of Dita Parlo (she is one of the most beautiful women I've ever seen) and Michel Simon (every time he is on screen, I feel warm, safe and amused). Alongside with the film's famous opening sequence, the underwater scene was stylistically very innovative in its time; after first seeing it, I was astonished by the unexpectedly high poetic level of a film produced as early as in the 1930s. Moreover, the sequence confirmed my conviction that most of today's films will never amount to the same artistic height.

18. The lake sequence in Ugetsu monogatari (K. Mizoguchi, 1953).
Ugetsu is a visually stunning ghost story about real priorities in life. The coexistence of the physical and supernatural world and the duality of human soul are depicted here in a poetically slow manner distinctive for Mizoguchi's aesthetics. One of the high spots of the film is the well-known lake sequence, which amazes the viewer with its mythical simplicity and dream-like splendour. Being very often considered to be one of the most visually beautiful films of all time, Ugetsu is an absolute masterpiece of Japanese cinema.

19. The Queensboro Bridge scene in Manhattan (W. Allen, 1979).
Out of all American filmmakers (only David Lynch excluded), I like the films by Woody Allen the most. There are three main reasons for that: his intellect and wit (see the cinema queue sequence in Annie Hall (1977)), his cultural interests (psychoanalysis and European cinema, for example) and his deep love for his hometown, New York City. The iconic bridge sequence, with which Isaac (Allen) and Mary's (Diane Keaton) long night out culminates, beautifully captures the unique atmosphere of the metropol.

20. The closing sequences of Saló, or the 120 Days of Sodom (P. P. Pasolini, 1975).
Salò, which is offen referred to as the most controversial motion picture of all time, had a very strong impact upon me with its intensely graphic scenes depicting mental and physical humiliation, sadism and sexual perversions. As those few sequences I had previously seen from it were so eerie that I had severe doubts in whether I was able to watch the entire film right after obtaining a copy of it, it took me a whole week to prepare myself mentally for the experience. Such a suffering, however, turned out to be utterly justified, since the director's sharp criticism of fascism and late capitalism expressed in a Dantean dimension hits the nail on the head. This is particularly visible in the film's closing sequences, which distance the viewer from the horror seen on screen and make him ultimately co-responsible for all this.

1 I. Bergman. Laterna magica. Tallinn: Eesti Raamat, 1989, lk 67-68.
2 C. Orban. Antonioni's Women, Lost in the City. - Modern Language Studies, 2001/2, pp. 22-23.
3 P. Bogdanovich. This is Orson Welles. New York: HarperPerennial, 1992, pp. 103-104.
4 B. Winston. Triumph of the Will. - URL: http://www.historytoday.com/MainArticle.aspx?m=13840&amid=13840
(September 9, 2009).