All Quiet on the Western Front

Felix Kammerer

Edward Berger's All Quiet on the Western Front, currently streaming on Netflix, is an adequate adaptation of Erich Maria Remarque's novel about World War 1 that I can muster little enthusiasm for. The film's historical verisimilitude and production design are exemplary, but the humanistic tenor of the novel has been lost in this adaption by Mr. Berger and his collaborators. What we are left with is a World War 1 theme park ride somewhat akin to 1917. 

The main flaw is that Mr. Berger has divided his film into two halves that do not complement each other. Remarque's novel and the Lewis Milestone's stodgy film version center on the wartime horrors experienced by raw recruit Paul Baumer. In addition to this, Berger highlights the story of the German diplomatic team negotiating the Armistice. Berger no doubt thought that by showing rich diplomats and officers enjoying fine dining and drinks while Baumer (Felix Kammerer) and his pal are dying in the trenches, he would augment their plight. Instead, it vitiates the cumulative impact of the story. Remarque's work gains in strength as we get to know Paul and his cohorts. Because the story of these soldiers only takes up ninety minutes of the two and a half hour runtime, the characters in the trenches are given short shrift and the impact of their deaths are diminished. The camaraderie of the foot soldiers is one of the great consoling joys of the novel and it is largely absent from Berger's version.

Berger wants to show how the putative terms dictated to Germany at the end of World War 1 fanned the flames of nationalism in the more sinister form of Nazism. He does show, a little, the nationalistic fervor that greeted Germany's entrance into the Great War. However, the Paris Peace Conference was more responsible for the doom of the Weimar Republic than the Armistice agreed to by an exhausted Germany.

The project might have been more suited to the mini-series format. For those who have not read the novel, Berger's version might be sufficiently effective and it is certainly more loose limbed than the 1930 film. The best Remarque adaptations are relatively neglected and remain Frank Borzage's Three Comrades from 1938 and Douglas Sirk's A Time to Love and A Time to Die from 1958. 

El Aura

Alejandro Awada and Ricardo Darin in El Aura

Fabien Bielinsky's El Aura is a slow burn thriller from Argentina. Ricardo Darin plays Esteban, an epileptic taxidermist from Buenos Aires. Esteban is a loner, deserted by his wife, who fantasizes about planning elaborate heists. When a frenemy invites him to a hunting trip in Patagonia, the opportunity arises to fulfill his fantasies. Of course, his fantasies do not match the harsh light of reality.

The aura refers to the brief moments of transcendence of an epileptic experiences before falling into a seizure. The reality of the film is a sharp slap across the face in response to such intimations of freedom. Men in El aura are aggressive and sadistic brutes vying for dominance. They may shoot all sorts of game, but besting their fellow man is the ultimate trophy. Bielinsky stresses the bleakness of his scenario with a monochromatic palette of blues, grays, and greens. The lack of connection between the characters is emphasized by the framing in the widescreen format.

This would be all to misanthropic if not for the humanity gleaned in the performances. Even the most vile of Bielinsky's creations has moments of vulnerability. Best of the miscreants is Walter Reyno as a gunsel facing his twilight. Darin aptly captures his character's dimness and his delusions of grandeur. Esteban has, at least, gained a faithful companion by the film's conclusion. Sadly, this 2005 film was Bielinsky's final effort before his premature death at 47. 

Knight of Cups

Christian Bale and Natalie Portman in Knight of Cups

Terrence Malick's Knight of Cups was such a hoot that I thought up alternate titles while the film unspooled: the winners were Journey to the Wonder and A Rake Regrets. Anyway, by most sane artistic measures the film is a failure, but I found it, at times, to be visually compelling and moving. Malick's vision here is more spooky splendor than natural wonder. Lead Christian Bale spends more times in backlots, corporate towers, ersatz Beverly Hills' palazzos and Vegas rather than amidst Malick's  beloved natural settings where the director can get off on his single grain of sand pantheism. Malick is at sea here divorced from the natural world rather than focusing on the Badlands, jungles of Guadalcanal or the plains of Kansas. Modern alienation is not his forte, Man in Nature is.

The narrative is a poor second to the visuals. Bale romances a fistful of dames, tries to connect with his brother and father, but can't relate with anyone because he is wandering lost; like most of the cast. Malick has a load of mega talents (Bale, Portman, Blanchett, Brian Dennehy), but they seem to have nothing to latch onto or react against. Only Antonio Banderas stands out as a comic Hollywood lounge lizard. The romantic scenes are inert as the characters seem less interesting than the décor. If Malick no longer wants to tell a story, he needn't try. (12/10/16)