See You at the Movies

If I'm at an obscure foreign film on a Tuesday evening, it must be fall.

Or at least almost fall, meaning the VCU Cinematheque series is back and tempting me to spend my Tuesdays at the Grace Street theater.

I became a fan of the series last year for several reasons: there's no admission charge, the movies are shown on a new 35 mm state-of-the-art projector and I get to see movies that never made it to Richmond.

What's not to love?

Since I'd missed the season opener last week due to good company and wine, this week was non-negotiable.

Strolling over to the theater, I walked by a car where a Guido-sounding voice called out to me. "How you doin', Pretty Legs?"

He was so cliched sounding, I laughed out loud when I turned to see who would say such a thing to a complete stranger.

Now I know.

At the theater, I encountered mostly students, happily with a few other John Q. Publics like myself scattered throughout.

For the record, I saw only one person I knew, a coffee-loving long hair who used to be a regular at Garnett's.

We'd discussed obscure foreign films on numerous occasions, so he was probably no more surprised to see me than I was him.

Tonight's film was "The Silence Before Bach," a 2007 Spanish film by avant garde director Pere Portabella.

The film prof who leads the series informed the newbies in the audience that he didn't like to talk about the films before screening them so we could experience them without information or expectations.

I applaud that theory.

He did warn the crowd that the film had no narrative and that it was an art film.

From there, we were on our own.

The movie began with a player piano in a white gallery space playing Bach's "Goldberg Variations," the piano moving closer to the camera as it played.

Eventually interconnecting vignettes followed.

A blind piano tuner (with the whitest eyelashes I've ever seen) and his white dog came into a room to tune the piano.

A truck driver motors along while his companion plays Bach on harmonica.

Later, the truck driver plays Bach on a bassoon in a motel during a violent thunderstorm.

A subway car filled with twenty young cellists playing a sonata and then exiting the train, each carrying their cello up the stairs.

A choir of boys in sailor suits sing Bach.

There were vignettes from Bach's life and from that of a re-enactor playing Bach.

Overhead shots of an organist's feet pumping as he played Bach.

In fact, we heard one Bach piece after another throughout the film.

One of the most marvelous scenes was of a mid-19th century open air marketplace.

The camera floats over a man moving through the market, buying food and putting it in his leather bag.

When he inquires of a butcher if he'll have brains next Wednesday, the meat cutter assures him he will.

"My master would rather go through hell than have a Wednesday without breaded brains," he says matter-of-factly.

Sounds like my kind of guy.

His master was composer Felix Mendelssohn, and supposedly the meat was wrapped in some of Bach's old musical scores.

Multiple countries, tall tales, multiple centuries, several recurring themes, but no clear story.

When the film ended with a slow pan of a Bach score, it's like a confirmation of something stated earlier in the film.

"Bach is the only thing that reminds us that the world is not a failure."

Afterwards, there is always a discussion of whatever film is shown and I have found myself both informed and amused as a result of them.

Sometimes the film students have interesting takes and point out things I may not have noticed.

But an appallingly large percent of them begin every comment they make with, "I just wanted to say..." and end every declarative statement with a question mark.

"I like the way the director used the point of view of the dog?" as their voices goes up.

Say it like you mean it, kids.

There was a scene in the film of a young woman showering before playing her cello.

While some (male) viewers saw her naked body as an echo of the shape of her cello, several girls in the audience put on their third wave feminists hats (don't get me started) and got indignant about gratuitous nudity and female objectification.

Before I could raise my hand, a guy behind me pointed out to them that it was a European film made by one of the top avant garde directors there and, unlike in Puritanical America, showing a nude body is not really a big deal.

Another guy reminded them that the female form has always been considered art.

Girls, if you want to get riled up about female issues, I'd look at some of your own choices first and then we'll have a little consciousness raising session so you can really learn something.

Once again, VCU Cinematheque had provided a thought-provoking evening of film I'd never have seen otherwise.

Sometimes it's good to be reminded that the world is not a failure.

Even when there's a naked woman's body involved.

Girls, I'm talking to you.

Take it from someone who can be called "Pretty Legs" by a stranger and not feel objectified.

Better yet, stop making every statement sound like a question and you'll start feeling much better about yourself.

I should know.

This second wave feminist is just fine with being thought of as art.