Salient: Victoria University Students' Newspaper. Vol. 24, No. 9. 1961

Fine Arts Section

Fine Arts Section

Hiroshima Mon Amour

Hiroshima mon Amour, the first feature film of the brilliant young French director, Alain Resnais, has of late, been the direct cause of much heated controversy in cinema circles. Now that the film has been publicly screened in Wellington, an appraisal of it is given below, by Murray White.

There has never been a movie, about which so much arrant, crapulent thesis has been written and allowed to pass unchecked, the likes of Hiroshima mon Amour. To date, there have been few brave dissenters from the chorus of acclamation; nobody has yet stopped for a sufficient time to reappreciate the value of this movie—its place in the format of the art, its merits and demerits. When it first appeared last year, it created an uproar; quite frankly, there wasn't a platitude or effective adjective left in the dictionary that hadn't been equated, by someone, with the film. In fact, so much esoteric, nonsensical rubbish, ranging in ignorance of presentation from the extremely existentialist to the fawning parrot viewpoints, has appeared (cf. Sight and Sound and the New Zealand Listener), one wonders whether the object in point is, actually a film, or some moral message wrapped in celluloid, addressed to the world, from God: in point of fact it is wholly neither, but a shallow compromise. I am confident in the proposition that Hiroshima has been unduly praised because blind dedication caused through an imbalance of ignorance over reason, has been permitted to go unquestioned and unexamined.

This sort of fraternal adoption into the fold is nothing new; when the original avant-garde film makers began work immediately after the first World War, churning out such spurious creations as Man Ray's Le Ratour a la Raison for the dadaist club, Cavalcanti's Rien que les Heures for the impressionists and Bunuel's and Dali's Un Chien Andalou for the surrealists, they were accepted as memorable tomes, a bras ouverts, possessing a deep significance. Resnais himself, is the product of a post-War renaissance in French art and intellectualism, and may be considered complementary to his dejected, rebellious, predecessors. H has attempted some dozen films and a feu remarkable shorts, of which Van Gogh is perhaps the best known. His Nuit et Brouiliard was accepted as "surrealistic and cosmic" (?) and indeed, foreruns much of what is in Hiroshima. With this latter film however, he has become world famous, and I must return to the examination of the film proper.

I have stated my assurance that in Hiroshima's case, praise for ignorance' sake, has relegated the film to its present position. I incline to this attitude for a number of reasons: firstly, it is not an easy film to understand; its theme, originality in editing style, and overall abstruse conception makes it immensely difficult to follow and equate with known standards. It is furthermore, the initiator of a cult of cinema that has become known as "nouvelle varge"; a meaningless term that has caught on, and become synonymous with singularity of approach, a contemporaneous understanding of human problems, and, consequently, esotericism, which has resulted in appeal (an almost photo-tropic appeal for the myopic intellectual set). A third point in this issue, is that what Resnais has achieved in the eyes of so many, results not from any embellishment of his own peculiar talents and experience, but rather, from a curious admixture of script, music, editing. direction and morality; the diffuseness of which has marred the film terribly. It is not so much a case of whether the film is of brilliant craftsmanship and insight: the point in question rests on understanding; does the movie have fluidity, is it comprehensible, then, is it sincere?

The script, written by Marguerite Duras, was intended as a novel. Resnais explained this as: desiring a model screenplay in which only theme and idea were to be considered; camera, construction of scenes and characterisation to be ignored at this stage. Hence one sees the tragedy—a script of poetic inspiration, but of remarkable incongruity to the visual pattern. In places, banality tends to cover beauty with obscurity. A case in point being in the opening sequence, where, to the girl's querulous plea that she appreciates the horrors that were Hiroshima, the man persistently reiterates with: Non, tu n'as rien vu a Hiroshima, rien. Relevant? Up to a stage; but pushing the same line (as Mme. Duras does, again in the film) clouds rather than obverts the double-sided issue, Resnais is raising.

The editing may be olamed responsible for the film's disgusting lack of cohesion and orderliness. Resnais has not been successful in his use of "past-present relativity"; the cross-cutting is imaginative, quite original but never, really convincing. Once married to the script of course, matters of translation become impossible. I did not see the relevance of the opening sequence; in which Resnais has shown some of the grimmer aspects of human existence. Is he trying to counter-play this against tne cross-cultural love theme? If so, it is an unsuccessful attempt at presenting conflicts of ideal and genuine, love and hate. He fails short too, in this realistic approach to a theme of ideal love in a state of constant conflict—his approach is too superficial, and far too ephemeral for the film's perennial topicality. I should say this was the result of misunderstanding of thematic interpretation by script-writer, editors and director.

Having no intention to discourse into the plot outline, or issues of morality involved in the film, I will stop here. I should be quite content to accept the film as a startling new innovation in cinematic technique: but I would go no further. It is not deserving of the praise bestowed so unconvincingly upon it; but it does not stand de trap, as regards inventiveness and experimentation in the cinema. Rather, Hiroshima mon Amour has heralded a new wave, but it is in the valley of the wave of contemporary approach that it lies—it appears certain to have spawned other films of similar design; which may, unlike this, eventually ride the crest.

Psycho

It is fortunate for Alfred Hitchcock, not all men are destined to live healthily—mentally, that is. If this were not true, he would obviously have chosen some other topic as his showpiece in his new film, Psycho. I can only say, it is an adroit piece of degradation and capitalisation. Degradation, because Hitchcock has here excelled all bounds of reason in horror and thrills: the emphasis being upon death and associated nausea. Capitalisation, because Hitchcock has taken an ever-present malady of human weakness and popularly expressed the false conception of how peculiar, horrible and humourous, " mad-men" are.

There is nothing particularly smart in this; indeed, it is ample proof, to myself at any rate, that Mr Hitchock has completed his work in the cinema—he has outgrown his usefulness.

Psycho lacks all semblance to his former style. The subtlety, conflict of elements, discretion in formulating plot, apparent in his earlier works, are all lacking here. There is no discrimination as between what is meant to be humorous and what macabre—essential, in all thrillers according to the man himself. There is an abundance of superficial photographic detail—shots of a dead girls eye, ruthless stabbing (excised in Britain but retained here), unnecessary pans and tracks, all part of the Hitchcock trade-mark; a seal once noted for its competence, now I dare say, absolute horror.

This is just not good enough. I deplore the exploitation of certain social sicknesses, the unnecessary dwelling on death and the pervading atmosphere of putrescence; but all this aside, there is nothing essentially outstanding in the film. The conclusion is certainly unexpected, but after so much blood and gore, I should not have been surprised to see Jack-the-Ripper appear and summarise the life of Norman; in place of the actual Hollywood analyst. Anthony Perkins as Norman Bates, the psychopathic killer, is an actor of versatility, if not undue promise; Janet Leigh and Martin Balsam have done immeasurably better. I doubt, however, if anyone could have relieved the staticity in Joseph Stefano's unreliable script. George Tomasini is worth a mention: it is mainly his brisk pace and sense of urgency that just keeps the movie on the Mason side of the cinematic trash line.

But in the end, it is still a poor movie—I should suggest Mr Hitchcock now retire (he has been making films for 35 years and has directed 48). With films like Psycho he is only discrediting an honoured reputation.

—M.J.W.

Anthony Perkins in "Psycho."

Anthony Perkins in "Psycho."

The Modern Jazz Quartet

John Lewis piano
Milt Jackson vibes
Percy Heath bass
Connie Ray drums

The Modern Jazz Quartet is as sober-looking a collection of musicians as one would ever expect to see, but the atmosphere they project is not so much one of formality as of restraint. Lewis's shy little speeches introducing each number, Jackson's diffident bow acknowledging applause and Heath's air of intense concentration characterise the Quartet's dedicated approach to their music. The recorded work of the Quartet is inclined to be reserved to the point of fragility but, in their one-night stand at the Opera House, they projected more strongly to the audience, and the increase of volume was accompanied by an apparent increase in the intensity of attack. Kay especially, uses his drums to more effect, and pushes the other artists along with vigour. Nevertheless the quality of the music made the more "intimate atmosphere of the Opera House preferable to that of the Town Hall.

Lewis, the accepted leader, claims that the Quartet plays as a group, and certainly the influence of the group is very strong, especially in the case of Jackson, whose numerous recordings with other groups have a different quality from his performances with "the Quartet. There is the feeling that he is consciously restraining himself. Jackson, who began his career in a group with Charlie Parker shows the "Bird's" influence in his playing. In his theme "Bags' Groove," the first of the encores, he was encouraged to "blow" more freely, and the result was a peculiar synthesis of Parker's sound: the series of long, slow, thoughtful notes wihch Jackson holds on the vibes like drops of water from a tan. followed by the cheerful, off-hand run. Jackson with a blues is in his element: the group played one inspired by Mahalia Jackson at the end of the first half where Lewis and Kay set up a typical rhythm-and-blues backing and Jackson played a moving, funky solo which had all the quality of a spiritual. Jackson also had his tether in "How High the Moon," and after a studied opening to this hackneyed showpiece he swung into an up-tempo, Hamp-tonesque version that gave full freedom to his abilities as an improviser.

But aside from these showpieces the Quartet was integrated, and their most original work came from their lightly sketched and delicate impressionist arrangements, particularly when they exploited the rapport between Lewis and Jackson with carefully interwoven counterpoint and fugue, Mespecially in "Concorde." Their background music for the film "No Sun in Venice" projected atmosphere admirably, and we note especially Lewis's version of a bored cocktail pianist introducing random tunes. Lewis's own gentle sense of humour comes through every now and then: a droll little carol based on "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" with a march rhythm was one example, and a tongue-in-cheek rendition of the famous Ellington standard "It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing" was another.

The total impression was one of four gentlemen of jazz who are dedicated to their music. It is interesting to note that they have enough artistic integrity to insist on appearing on their own, instead of in a half-show supported by local artists. Brubeck complained mildly about this when he was here last year, and it seems un-necessary that artists of his calibre should have been coupled with local talent, when the M.J.Q. demonstrated completely that a serious, chamber-music jazz group can hold a Wellington audience interested and enthralled for a whole evening's performance.

—R.G.L.

Around the Galleries

In recent months, Wellington connoisseurs of the visual arts have had much to see, and, judging by the large number of sates made, liked much of what they have seen. So far, Autumn academy sales total £1096. The recent Bodcock show netted over £2200; MacDiarmid—truly a landscape painter par excellence—netted over '£800. and local artists exhibiting in Manners Street during the Festival, added some £500.

Work exhibited lately has been, on the whole, of very high standard, and has ranged from the very successful N.Z. Industrial Design Display and the recent Japanese ceramics showing in the central Gallery, to an exciting little exhibition of Danish prints and an exhibition of water colours by C. D. Barraud. We have seen exhibitions by Douglas Bodcock, Cedric Savage. Douglas MacDiarmid. Arthur McGhie and Peter Mclntyre. The Autumn Exhibition of the Academy of Fine Arts is, of course, now snowing.

What a splendid painter in oils Douglas MacDiarmid is. Every canvas is a delight to the eye: ail are, as Professor Page remarked at the opening, meticulously finished. One of his canvases will grace our National Gallery. MacDiarmid, unlike Peter Mclntyre, gives me the impression of having something to say in every canvas: the latter apes the camera too much. One can see how much he loves the French countrvside, especially the south of France, which is seen so often. After suffering many privations in his early years, MacDiarmid is coming into his own. All will wish him well, I am sure.

Arthur McGhie

The recent exhibition in the Willeston Galleries of oil paintings by Arthur McGhie, who is a Wellington lawyer and graduate of V.LT.W. was, in my opinion significant and well worth seeing. McGhie has been painting for some 20 years and, surprisingly, has studied under Adrian Heath, He has also worked with David Romberg and has exhibited with, and is a founder member of, the English Free Painters Group; a group formed from the painter members of the Institute of Contemporary Arts.

Quite clearly, McGhie exhibits some considerable talent—both latent and manifest—and has, as has been remarked on, a surprisingly flexible outlook considering his 20 years experience. The first impact one feels on meeting his work is that of his sense of colour. Indeed at first sight I was reminded in more ways than one, of the Fauve Vlaminck, of whom the critic Dorival said, "he does not suggest, he delivers a punch." McGhie, too, is a painter full of ideas. He possesses an enquiring mind and is concerned much, as evidenced in the canvases' titles, with a social awareness of a host of matters.

Perhaps McGhie's best point is his extreme freshness and its accompanying vigour and vitality. He clashes his colours together like cymbals and the effect is by no means unpleasant. McGhie s New Zealand landscapes—"Mount Egmont," "Wairarapa" and "Maraenui Lookout East Coast"—are especially fresh and vibrant and well worth seeing. The artist applies his paint very thickly and all illustrate his interest in mass. With these, are contrasted such semi-abstract studies as "Comrade Gagarin, I Presume" (which, by the way, though the technique employed resembles closely that of the Australian William Dobell. is no Dobellian pastiche), and "Coffee Bar Cameo." McGhie also does such titles as "Last Train" (one instinctively asks—where to?) "All Fell Out," "Women's institute Palaver" and "For Whom the Bell Tolls." These latter canvases illustrate his use of symbolism.

McGhie has been criticised for " unsubtle use of colour," but I do not think this a particularly valid criticism: he would appear to be influenced by the modern French school. That he was influenced by Goya's more freely treated work e.g., Pilgrimage to San Isidro (novel in its own day) is, I think, certain. El Greco too, may have given some ideas as to colour; McGhie came under both these artists' spell.

Despite some concrete evidence as to a conflict between "accomplishment and aims," as Russell and has noticed, McGhie's progress should be worth watching, for as his exhibition brochure says: this show suggests some fairly clear lines of endeavour for future development. I personally, would like to see some more New Zealand landscapes.

—G.L.E.

Peter McIntyre

The most outstanding feature of the recent exhibition of paintings by Peter Mclntyre, was the masterful use he makes of light. I remember this quality, in his painting of a Dunedin square which won the Keiliher award, two years ago. The paintings in the present exhibition are mostly of Hong Kong: and it is interesting to see the light haziness associated with the Oriental landscape—a contrast with the clarity of his New Zealand and Antarctic studies. The certainty with which the atmosphere of the place is captured is impressive, particularly in the coastal scenes. Water was a main theme in these paintings: sea, beaches, harbours, rivers. The sea seems to be a main source of livelihood in Hong Kong; there is a congestion of sampans and junks in the harbours and rivers. I liked the line and wash paintings of these subjects better han the few in oils; the water-colour was used with a subtle effect which suited the subject matter.

There was a most decided sense of place about Rainy Day—Tolo Harbour, with fishing boats in the foreground and gaps of light in the clouds over two ranges of hills which were an extraordinary soft green and blue, that was reflected in the sea. Fishing Junks had an immediacy about it and a sense of excitement—perhaps piracy, or a storm brewing—in the sky and water shadows. There are scenes of net-drying and rocks, fisher folk at Tool harbour, folding nets and widows in sampans, where the pen is used very effectively to give them all this precise definition of place. Market Scene and Street Scene show the crowded Chinese in the city, colourful and busy. Here you can sense the heat of the place; the brilliant colours are emphasised by deep shadows.

In Junks at Anchor (oil), Hong Kong from the Peak and Cheoung Chow Island, the extraordinary-diversity of colours in the sea is apparent. In Hong Kong from the Peak, the sea is a brilliant deep green, with little hint of blue. Patches of bush on the hills are in startling contrast—their green is dark but contains yellow. More startling at first glance were the shadows cast from sampans in Cheoung Chow Island: bright green, reflected from the hills in the background, in a very pale transparent sea.

Some portraits of Oriental children are included in the exhibition; they are all, most sympathetic studies. I thought the oil, Small Girl had more general appeal than the others. I liked the circus scenes too; but the thing that most impressed me were the unusual seascapes and the decisive handling of atmosphere.

—K.N.B.