Tales of Hoffmann (U.)
Made by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. 1950.
Starring Moira Shearer, Robert Rounseville, Pamela Brown, Robert Helpmann, Leonide Massine, Ludmilla Tcherina, and Ann Ayars. 127 mins. Available now on Blu-Ray and DVD from Studiocanal.
There are times when I think maybe Martin Scorsese's greatest contribution to cinema isn't Raging Bull, Goodfellas, King Of Comedy or Mean Streets but his work on restoring and promoting the films of Powell and Pressburger. On reflection it's probably is still Taxi Driver but his appreciation for the finest film artists this, or most any other country ever produced definitely gets him onto the top table in film heaven.
During the 40s the pair, known as The Archers, went on one of finest burst of film making ever seen. The black and white films they made during this period alone (A Canterbury Tale, I Know Where I'm Going, One Of Our Airplanes is Missing) would be enough to put them in the top rank of British filmmakers; the colour one though (The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Matter of Life and Death, The Red Shoes, Black Narcissus,) earned them a unique and hallowed position in World cinema.
Tales Of Hoffmann came right at the end of this run. It is one of their most extravagant blazes of colour but also shows clears signs of a talent whose genius was quietly moving towards the exit.
It is a wonder for the eyes, a procession of opulent sets and visual flourishes that illustrate an intense passion for film making that took its genius lightly. If only it wasn't a bloody opera.
Now I can do a bit of Opera, once a decade or so, but you must concede it is a fundamentally silly art form, pantomime for the rich and cultured. You may be able to appreciate the music and the spectacle but their way with story telling is entirely alien to those who aren't immersed in the culture. And Hoffmann isn't a proper serious Opera, it's a light, comic, fantastical Opera, the story of a portly poet Hoffmann (Rounseville) and his three stories of lost love. The blessing of having this on disc is that there are subtitles to help you follow it but even then it doesn't make a lot of sense. In the first Tale he falls in love with a doll. In the second he falls in love with a woman who is being used to steal souls. He's warned of this and sings that there's no way on earth he's going to fall for this demonic Jezebel and then in the very next scene, he's bellowing I Love You at her. By the last tale he's at least got sense enough to fall for a woman who's merely terminally ill.
The Archers give it the works, filming it on ludicrous, extravagant sets (the work of German set designer Hein Heckroth) and making it garishly, eye piercingly colourful but there's no avoiding getting round it: this is an opera, with bits of ballet thrown in.
And yes there are moments: at the start of the second Tale, the story of Guiletta, when Ludmilla Tcherina's face looks out from the water of a Venice canal and the Moon of Love tune strikes up, the film is swooningly beautiful and it would be lovely to just be swept away by its enchantment. But soon the film is back to people singing at each other. It's maddeningly static.
It strikes me that Tales of Hoffmann fails both as a Powell/ Pressberger movie and as an opera movie. The movie was filmed entirely on sets, and made as a silent movie. Everybody was performing to the playback – indeed only two of the cast (Rounseville and Ayars) were mouthing their own vocal performances. (One of the treasures of this restoration is that they have dug up a never seen before end credit sequence where the on screen performers are introduced next to the person who sung their part.) Being released from the chore of having to record sound on set gave the Archers lots of creative freedom but it takes away the main pleasure of going to the opera, experiencing the performance. However prettily they have made the scenery, I can't imagine that this is a particularly strong production of this opera.
All Powell/ Pressberger's film are contradictory. The greatness of their best films is a heartbreaking fusing of British fortitude with exotic, fiery passion: think David Niven's doomed airman's calm monologue from the cockpit of his burnt out plane delivered to Kim Hunter's glowing, scarlet Technicolored lips in a dark control tower occasionally brightened by the sordid flash of a red light in the background.
Here though it is the contradiction between a film that looks incredibly daring and deliriously sensual, but is at the same time thoroughly conventional. It is the proper grown up arts, done cheekily, but basically respectfully.
Extras.
An Introduction by Scorsese. His devotion to this film is remarkable considering he first saw it on TV, in black and white, with a half hour edited out and what remained hampered by commercial interruptions. I can't imagine a worst way to watch it. He says watching it was the experience that made him want to be a filmmaker.
An insightful 15 minute interview with Thelma Schoonmaker, Scorsese's editor and Powell's widow, who supervised the restoration.
Made by Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger. 1950.
Starring Moira Shearer, Robert Rounseville, Pamela Brown, Robert Helpmann, Leonide Massine, Ludmilla Tcherina, and Ann Ayars. 127 mins. Available now on Blu-Ray and DVD from Studiocanal.
There are times when I think maybe Martin Scorsese's greatest contribution to cinema isn't Raging Bull, Goodfellas, King Of Comedy or Mean Streets but his work on restoring and promoting the films of Powell and Pressburger. On reflection it's probably is still Taxi Driver but his appreciation for the finest film artists this, or most any other country ever produced definitely gets him onto the top table in film heaven.
During the 40s the pair, known as The Archers, went on one of finest burst of film making ever seen. The black and white films they made during this period alone (A Canterbury Tale, I Know Where I'm Going, One Of Our Airplanes is Missing) would be enough to put them in the top rank of British filmmakers; the colour one though (The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp, A Matter of Life and Death, The Red Shoes, Black Narcissus,) earned them a unique and hallowed position in World cinema.
Tales Of Hoffmann came right at the end of this run. It is one of their most extravagant blazes of colour but also shows clears signs of a talent whose genius was quietly moving towards the exit.
It is a wonder for the eyes, a procession of opulent sets and visual flourishes that illustrate an intense passion for film making that took its genius lightly. If only it wasn't a bloody opera.
Now I can do a bit of Opera, once a decade or so, but you must concede it is a fundamentally silly art form, pantomime for the rich and cultured. You may be able to appreciate the music and the spectacle but their way with story telling is entirely alien to those who aren't immersed in the culture. And Hoffmann isn't a proper serious Opera, it's a light, comic, fantastical Opera, the story of a portly poet Hoffmann (Rounseville) and his three stories of lost love. The blessing of having this on disc is that there are subtitles to help you follow it but even then it doesn't make a lot of sense. In the first Tale he falls in love with a doll. In the second he falls in love with a woman who is being used to steal souls. He's warned of this and sings that there's no way on earth he's going to fall for this demonic Jezebel and then in the very next scene, he's bellowing I Love You at her. By the last tale he's at least got sense enough to fall for a woman who's merely terminally ill.
The Archers give it the works, filming it on ludicrous, extravagant sets (the work of German set designer Hein Heckroth) and making it garishly, eye piercingly colourful but there's no avoiding getting round it: this is an opera, with bits of ballet thrown in.
And yes there are moments: at the start of the second Tale, the story of Guiletta, when Ludmilla Tcherina's face looks out from the water of a Venice canal and the Moon of Love tune strikes up, the film is swooningly beautiful and it would be lovely to just be swept away by its enchantment. But soon the film is back to people singing at each other. It's maddeningly static.
It strikes me that Tales of Hoffmann fails both as a Powell/ Pressberger movie and as an opera movie. The movie was filmed entirely on sets, and made as a silent movie. Everybody was performing to the playback – indeed only two of the cast (Rounseville and Ayars) were mouthing their own vocal performances. (One of the treasures of this restoration is that they have dug up a never seen before end credit sequence where the on screen performers are introduced next to the person who sung their part.) Being released from the chore of having to record sound on set gave the Archers lots of creative freedom but it takes away the main pleasure of going to the opera, experiencing the performance. However prettily they have made the scenery, I can't imagine that this is a particularly strong production of this opera.
All Powell/ Pressberger's film are contradictory. The greatness of their best films is a heartbreaking fusing of British fortitude with exotic, fiery passion: think David Niven's doomed airman's calm monologue from the cockpit of his burnt out plane delivered to Kim Hunter's glowing, scarlet Technicolored lips in a dark control tower occasionally brightened by the sordid flash of a red light in the background.
Here though it is the contradiction between a film that looks incredibly daring and deliriously sensual, but is at the same time thoroughly conventional. It is the proper grown up arts, done cheekily, but basically respectfully.
Extras.
An Introduction by Scorsese. His devotion to this film is remarkable considering he first saw it on TV, in black and white, with a half hour edited out and what remained hampered by commercial interruptions. I can't imagine a worst way to watch it. He says watching it was the experience that made him want to be a filmmaker.
An insightful 15 minute interview with Thelma Schoonmaker, Scorsese's editor and Powell's widow, who supervised the restoration.
