The Last Movie I Saw

While down in Southern California a couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to go and see another film presented by the American Cinematheque (at the Aero Theater in Santa Monica) with post-screening commentary from the film's maker.  Last year I saw Bertrand Tavernier present his The Princess of Montpensier; this time it was Terence Davies and The Long Day Closes.  Unlike the former, this was not a premiere-- in fact, The Long Day Closes was Davies first feature, first released back in 1992.  No matter: it was a real treat to see it on the big screen, made even more memorable by Davies' insights on its making afterwards.  The film is autobiographical, telling the story of Davies as a youth coming of age in mid-fifties Liverpool. The focus is on the immediate working class neighborhood where he entered his teen years, just after the death of his father.  While it is clear that the young Davies has deep affection for much of that period in his life, especially the relationship with his mother, siblings and neighbors, he nonetheless also regularly seeks escape from the hardships of adolescence (particularly in starting at a new school) at the movies, and in the popular music of the day.  The movie is beautifully composed and shot, like all of his films (he has a new one about to be released called The Deep Blue Sea, which I am really looking forward to seeing).  Davies is one of the most formalistic directors working today, with a visual style that is impressively consistent from film to film, even from shot to shot.  He allows the camera to linger on a scene in a way that intensifies the emotional connection and impact between the viewer and his actors.  I can't think of another current director who has that kind of trust in his audience to be so engaged with the visuals of his movies (as opposed to the usually phony energy created by flashy quick-cutting editing).  In answering a question afterwards, he explained that this came from remembering how he would stare at, for example, the pattern in a rug for long minutes as a youngster, something I can identify with-- just absorbing the detail of an endless, seemingly inconsequential, moment of time.  In this way, I kind of think of Davies as the most painterly of film directors, where the "kick" of his work comes more from these passages of relatively quiet visual contemplation than the more typically verbal elements of narrative storytelling.  It still adds up to a great story, but made all the richer by the depth of meaning I, as the viewer, attach to those quiet passages.  That may not work so well for everyone, but it's a quality that places Davies' work (like The Neon Bible and House of Mirth) very high on my list of favorite films.