I just watched this, and I must say, it's exquisite. Seems like hardly anybody anywhere likes it, even a little bit, except for me and Jonathan Rosenbaum, but I'd say that puts me in good company.
The experience of watching this film is a lot like seeing a contemporary dance recital, or spending an hour and a half viewing installations in a gallery. Extremely evocative, indirect. An aesthetic experience rather than a narrative one. Which makes me wonder if Jeffrey would like it, maybe.
Doug, haven't you mentioned this in some context or another? I Googled through the A&F site, but can't find any reference at all, from anybody.
Can't help thinking Mr Prins would dig this, as well. Maybe some affinities with NORTHFORK (visual, American, conceptual, not so concerned with narrative), though from my perspective this one accomplishes what that one aims for: it feels like the work of a more seasoned artist.
Of course, almost none of the critics in the world agree with me.
But it's sure staying with me.
Full Version: The Neon Bible
Why the title?
*
Does this movie appeal to Tarkovsky fans? Yeah, I know, me and STALKER. Hey, "a foolish self-consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds."
*
Does this movie appeal to Tarkovsky fans? Yeah, I know, me and STALKER. Hey, "a foolish self-consistency is the hobgoblin of small minds."
THE NEON BIBLE (1995, UK, Terence Davies, John Kennedy Toole novella)
If you were different from anybody else in town, you had to get out. They used to say in school, "you have to think for yourself," but you couldn't do that in town. You have to think what your father thought and that was what everybody thought.
Consider the rocky literary life of John Kennedy Toole. Born in 1937, he wrote THE NEON BIBLE during last high school year, a moody Flannery O'Connor-inspired piece about growing up in backwoods Baptist country. No one would publish it. A decade later he wrote A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES. No one would publish it. In 1969, he committed suicide. Toole's mother took the manuscript to Walker Percy, who championed the book: it was awarded a Pulitzer Prize in 1981. THE NEON BIBLE was published in 1989, and Terence Davies' film adaptation was booed off the screen at the Cannes Festival in 1995.
The film's only advocate seems to be the formidable Jonathan Rosenbaum, who draws comparisons with referencing A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE, DAYS OF HEAVEN and the "troubled Christianity" of NIGHT OF THE HUNTER, finding "fleeting poetic moments so ecstatic that you may feel yourself rising off your seat." Knowing nothing of the film but its title, that was precisely my experience.
Watching this film is much like seeing a contemporary dance recital or spending an hour and a half viewing installations in a gallery. An aesthetic experience rather than a narrative one: evocative, indirect. We often witness women in states of extreme emotion – a mother weeping, an aunt giggling – but lacking any direct narrative context, we're left to our own devices to figure out why, and even when, these things are happening. Until it occurs to us that this is just how a sensitive child, or a naïve young man, might experience these moments, denied explanation or an understanding of the adult matters that have brought such things to pass.
Southern religion permeates the film, but it's as hard to figure what it signifies as it is to make out what everything else adds up to in this exquisiitely filmed dream landscape. Theatrically conceived, its deliberate visual images seem composed on a vast soundstage in the manner of, say, DOGVILLE, another outsider's vision America's past – though Davies eschews von Trier's pointed narrative and thematic thrust. It's not that there's no story: by the film's end (if you make it that far) you'll find you can recount all the major events in this troubled family's history, and there enough of them to fill a conventional TV mini-series. But you arrive at the details of the story strictly by innuendo and intuition.
This is a film that's far more interested in the feel of things than it is in the cause-and-effect logic of what brings them to pass. The texture of a white sheet on a clothesline, the litany of voices in a revival meeting, the thought of snow falling or not falling at Christmas – perhaps all are the reflection of a too-finely-tuned sensibility, a troubled young mind that lacks the capacity to order experience in conventional ways.
Some films trace their lineage back to tales told round ancient campfires: the pictures are just story illustrations that get up and move around. Others spring from the drawings on the walls of caves, and then to the images that hang on gallery walls: there may be story there, but it's mostly an excuse to look at pictures. Pictures that move.
THE NEON BIBLE is almost nothing but moving pictures – the essence of cinema, or a crashing bore. But if that sounds like something you might want to see, you might just find something more. You may find yourself quietly and mysteriously moved.
NOSTALGHIA, NORTHFORK
If you were different from anybody else in town, you had to get out. They used to say in school, "you have to think for yourself," but you couldn't do that in town. You have to think what your father thought and that was what everybody thought.
Consider the rocky literary life of John Kennedy Toole. Born in 1937, he wrote THE NEON BIBLE during last high school year, a moody Flannery O'Connor-inspired piece about growing up in backwoods Baptist country. No one would publish it. A decade later he wrote A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES. No one would publish it. In 1969, he committed suicide. Toole's mother took the manuscript to Walker Percy, who championed the book: it was awarded a Pulitzer Prize in 1981. THE NEON BIBLE was published in 1989, and Terence Davies' film adaptation was booed off the screen at the Cannes Festival in 1995.
The film's only advocate seems to be the formidable Jonathan Rosenbaum, who draws comparisons with referencing A STREETCAR NAMED DESIRE, DAYS OF HEAVEN and the "troubled Christianity" of NIGHT OF THE HUNTER, finding "fleeting poetic moments so ecstatic that you may feel yourself rising off your seat." Knowing nothing of the film but its title, that was precisely my experience.
Watching this film is much like seeing a contemporary dance recital or spending an hour and a half viewing installations in a gallery. An aesthetic experience rather than a narrative one: evocative, indirect. We often witness women in states of extreme emotion – a mother weeping, an aunt giggling – but lacking any direct narrative context, we're left to our own devices to figure out why, and even when, these things are happening. Until it occurs to us that this is just how a sensitive child, or a naïve young man, might experience these moments, denied explanation or an understanding of the adult matters that have brought such things to pass.
Southern religion permeates the film, but it's as hard to figure what it signifies as it is to make out what everything else adds up to in this exquisiitely filmed dream landscape. Theatrically conceived, its deliberate visual images seem composed on a vast soundstage in the manner of, say, DOGVILLE, another outsider's vision America's past – though Davies eschews von Trier's pointed narrative and thematic thrust. It's not that there's no story: by the film's end (if you make it that far) you'll find you can recount all the major events in this troubled family's history, and there enough of them to fill a conventional TV mini-series. But you arrive at the details of the story strictly by innuendo and intuition.
This is a film that's far more interested in the feel of things than it is in the cause-and-effect logic of what brings them to pass. The texture of a white sheet on a clothesline, the litany of voices in a revival meeting, the thought of snow falling or not falling at Christmas – perhaps all are the reflection of a too-finely-tuned sensibility, a troubled young mind that lacks the capacity to order experience in conventional ways.
Some films trace their lineage back to tales told round ancient campfires: the pictures are just story illustrations that get up and move around. Others spring from the drawings on the walls of caves, and then to the images that hang on gallery walls: there may be story there, but it's mostly an excuse to look at pictures. Pictures that move.
THE NEON BIBLE is almost nothing but moving pictures – the essence of cinema, or a crashing bore. But if that sounds like something you might want to see, you might just find something more. You may find yourself quietly and mysteriously moved.
NOSTALGHIA, NORTHFORK
Ron, I not only love this film, but pretty much all of Terence Davies' work! I will write more later (after I read and digest your comments.)
I always half-jokingly describe the visual exquisiteness of The Neon Bible as akin to Night of the Hunter in color. We need more Davies on DVD...
I always half-jokingly describe the visual exquisiteness of The Neon Bible as akin to Night of the Hunter in color. We need more Davies on DVD...
QUOTE(Ron @ Aug 2 2006, 01:37 PM) [snapback]121361[/snapback]
Watching this film is much like seeing a contemporary dance recital or spending an hour and a half viewing installations in a gallery.
I think the French phrase you're looking for here is tableau vivant.
There's a certain pictorialism in this film that is so obsessively rendered it transcends its mannerism to become something awe-inspiring...and very emotionally resonant. It wouldn't have worked in half measures; the only solution was full-throttle. And I think the results are profound.QUOTE
We often witness women in states of extreme emotion – a mother weeping, an aunt giggling – but lacking any direct narrative context, we're left to our own devices to figure out why, and even when, these things are happening. Until it occurs to us that this is just how a sensitive child, or a naïve young man, might experience these moments, denied explanation or an understanding of the adult matters that have brought such things to pass.
Southern religion permeates the film, but it's as hard to figure what it signifies as it is to make out what everything else adds up to in this exquisiitely filmed dream landscape....The texture of a white sheet on a clothesline, the litany of voices in a revival meeting, the thought of snow falling or not falling at Christmas – perhaps all are the reflection of a too-finely-tuned sensibility, a troubled young mind that lacks the capacity to order experience in conventional ways.
Southern religion permeates the film, but it's as hard to figure what it signifies as it is to make out what everything else adds up to in this exquisiitely filmed dream landscape....The texture of a white sheet on a clothesline, the litany of voices in a revival meeting, the thought of snow falling or not falling at Christmas – perhaps all are the reflection of a too-finely-tuned sensibility, a troubled young mind that lacks the capacity to order experience in conventional ways.
I love your descriptions here, Ron, and "troubled Christianity," "women weeping," "how a sensitive child might experience these moments," and "the reflection of a too-finely-tuned sensibility" are all key elements in the films of Davies, who not only suffered a troubled home life with an abusive father, but who grew up socially isolated as a gay Catholic in working class Liverpool during the Fifties. And more than perhaps any other filmmaker I know, that experience seems to emotionally permeate his work, which is always astonishingly beautiful, sad, and full of empathy for isolated and trapped characters. His other film available on DVD is the much underrated The House of Mirth (adapted from Edith Wharton's novel), and the idea of a "fatal flaw" or "original sin" that condemns a person to a never-ending spiral of tragedy is potent. Much more potent than the average Victorian drama from Merchant/Ivory.
Davies has only made a few films, all of them artistically ambitious and commercially problematic, yet he was deservedly voted as the best British filmmaker alive today by the Guardian a few years back. As they wrote:
"Our highest-placed British film-maker is here because of his uncompromising and unique cinematic vision; but, with painful irony, it's also made him the highest-profile victim of Britain's commercial film industry revival. Emerging from the state-sponsored art-film sector in the mid-80s, Davies completed a trilogy of short films and two features -- Distant Voices, Still Lives and The Long Day Closes. But, in a more cut-throat environment, the sensitive Davies has suffered, making only two films in a decade -- one of them the international hit The House of Mirth. So it seems a shame -- and somehow scandalous -- that his current project, an adaptation of Lewis Grassic Gibbon's Sunset Song, should be facing major funding obstacles."
More scandalous still, the funding for Sunset Song collapsed entirely not long after that list was published.
This fall, the BFI is coming out with a Modern Film Classics study of Distant Voices, Still Lives, and one can only hope it will remind them to also put some of his films on DVD.
I've got the 2004 UK-published study of Davies by Wendy Everett in my reading pile. It seems pretty straightforward and includes a lengthy interview with him.
There's a very revealing interview with him at the New York House of Mirth premiere, here.
Ron, are you familiar with the Projections series of film books edited by John Boorman? Issue six has an interview with Davies, and I thought his comments here really applied to your observations:
Q. You were going to say something about memory?
A. Sorry, I forgot. The way the nature of memory works is you feel and remember the intensity of the moment, the quintessence of the moment and you don't remember what went on before or after. You remember it in a sequence of intense moments, and children feel intensely. In the book he goes out onto the veranda and looks at the stars. How do you make that magical? You make him go out and see nothing but stars, because that's what a child would do. We know that's not true, you would see the landscape, you would see the blackness of the shrubbery, then the sky and the line of the horizon but that's not what you see in memory. You only remember its intensity and how it burned into you....
In a film, you have to set it up in a way where it's not going to be conventional narrative; it's not going to cut from this to this, because that implies that events follow each other. If you dissolve, it always indicates time passing. No one has ever told us that, but we all read it as that. It can be time passing forward or backward, but it's time passing. What interested me in this was to actually have a scene that was happening now, dissolve, cut within that sequence, and dissolve back. Now what does that mean? Is that parallel time, or is it real time within the memory, or what is it? It is Eliot: 'Time present and time past / Are both perhaps present in time future, / And time future contained in time past. / If all time is eternally present / All time is unredeemable.' It is also what memory does; it fixes on the tiny, never the big. 'Then a cloud passed and the pool was empty' -- that's what you remember, and that's what I wanted to try to capture, that essence of the book.
John Kennedy Toole wrote it when he was sixteen and there is a lot of weak writing in it: him being bullied by Mrs Watkins at school is not interesting, the fact that Aunt May can't cook is not interesting. What is interesting is how you feel when you are with someone you intensely love. I drew a little bit on autobiography. I used to mind my sister's children when I was growing up, and very often I would be allowed to stay and very often I went to bed with them and we'd look out of the window if it was a hot night and talk, then go to sleep. That brought back a whole lot of memories for me and I knew it was right to have him in the bed and to have her say, 'We'll pray tonight,' and he just says, 'Amen.' He does that in the book, and then we go into the sequence in the revival tent; I'm interested in the poetry of the ordinary which is why I love Checkov because he is too. At big moments, people say the banal thing, they don't say the dramatic thing -- unless it is All About Eve, when you forgive it!
Q. You were going to say something about memory?
A. Sorry, I forgot. The way the nature of memory works is you feel and remember the intensity of the moment, the quintessence of the moment and you don't remember what went on before or after. You remember it in a sequence of intense moments, and children feel intensely. In the book he goes out onto the veranda and looks at the stars. How do you make that magical? You make him go out and see nothing but stars, because that's what a child would do. We know that's not true, you would see the landscape, you would see the blackness of the shrubbery, then the sky and the line of the horizon but that's not what you see in memory. You only remember its intensity and how it burned into you....
In a film, you have to set it up in a way where it's not going to be conventional narrative; it's not going to cut from this to this, because that implies that events follow each other. If you dissolve, it always indicates time passing. No one has ever told us that, but we all read it as that. It can be time passing forward or backward, but it's time passing. What interested me in this was to actually have a scene that was happening now, dissolve, cut within that sequence, and dissolve back. Now what does that mean? Is that parallel time, or is it real time within the memory, or what is it? It is Eliot: 'Time present and time past / Are both perhaps present in time future, / And time future contained in time past. / If all time is eternally present / All time is unredeemable.' It is also what memory does; it fixes on the tiny, never the big. 'Then a cloud passed and the pool was empty' -- that's what you remember, and that's what I wanted to try to capture, that essence of the book.
John Kennedy Toole wrote it when he was sixteen and there is a lot of weak writing in it: him being bullied by Mrs Watkins at school is not interesting, the fact that Aunt May can't cook is not interesting. What is interesting is how you feel when you are with someone you intensely love. I drew a little bit on autobiography. I used to mind my sister's children when I was growing up, and very often I would be allowed to stay and very often I went to bed with them and we'd look out of the window if it was a hot night and talk, then go to sleep. That brought back a whole lot of memories for me and I knew it was right to have him in the bed and to have her say, 'We'll pray tonight,' and he just says, 'Amen.' He does that in the book, and then we go into the sequence in the revival tent; I'm interested in the poetry of the ordinary which is why I love Checkov because he is too. At big moments, people say the banal thing, they don't say the dramatic thing -- unless it is All About Eve, when you forgive it!
I love the film too. I have seen four of his films: The Terence Davies Trilogy, Distant Voices, Still Lives, The Long Day Closes. and The Neon Bible. I thought they were all worth viewing.
QUOTE(Doug C @ Aug 2 2006, 03:20 PM) [snapback]121383[/snapback]
QUOTE(Ron @ Aug 2 2006, 01:37 PM) [snapback]121361[/snapback]
Watching this film is much like seeing a contemporary dance recital or spending an hour and a half viewing installations in a gallery.
I think the French phrase you're looking for here is tableau vivant.
Steve Martin was right: those French do have a different word for everything!
QUOTE
...Davies, whow not only suffered a troubled home life with an abusive father, but who grew up socially isolated as a gay Catholic in working class Liverpool during the Fifties. And more than perhaps any other filmmaker I know, that experience seems to emotionally permeate his work, which is always astonishingly beautiful, sad, and full of empathy for isolated and trapped characters.
I had no idea. You can certainly see how he would be drawn to this story, then, and how perfectly his sensibility suits it. And the Catholic background - how interesting! I reckon I ought to work that into my piece on the film.
QUOTE
His other film available on DVD is the much underrated The House of Mirth (adapted from Edith Wharton's novel), and the idea of a "fatal flaw" or "original sin" that condemns a person to a never-ending spiral of tragedy is potent.
Oh my, that's Davies! A very powerful film, with a heart-breaking and brilliant performance by Gillian X-Files. I'm always surprised at the people who haven't seen this film - it really should be one of the ones at the top of the "film adaptations of literature" pile. And again, you can certainly see the appeal for Davies, given the background you describe. Not nearly as visually stylized as NEON BIBLE, though, is it. Doug and rjkolb, were the other films of his that you mention more in that direction? (Further, more pragmatic question: any of those earlier films deal explicity with faith? So that they should be considered for my book?)
QUOTE
he was deservedly voted as the best British filmmaker alive today by the Guardian a few years back.
Little did I know what I had stumbled into! I just put it on my list because of the title, and a passing reference someone, somewhere made about liking the film. (Might have been you, Mr C).
Thanks for the other links and references.
QUOTE(Doug C @ Aug 2 2006, 04:20 PM) [snapback]121386[/snapback]
Ron, are you familiar with the Projections series of film books edited by John Boorman? Issue six has an interview with Davies, and I thought his comments here really applied to your observations:
Q. You were going to say something about memory?
A. Sorry, I forgot.
Funny.
QUOTE
...What interested me in this was to actually have a scene that was happening now, dissolve, cut within that sequence, and dissolve back. Now what does that mean? Is that parallel time, or is it real time within the memory, or what is it? It is Eliot: 'Time present and time past / Are both perhaps present in time future, / And time future contained in time past. / If all time is eternally present / All time is unredeemable.'
Fascinating! The film really does accomplish that, the way scraps of memory float loose from chronology. And this talk of "parallel time," and Eliot - uncanny that it should come up, as just this past weekend I was re-reading W.H. Auden's "For The Time Being," and thinking about those mid-century British poets and their fascination with time and eternity. And then the whole "parallel time" concept comes up in my reading about Tourneur, as well, earlier today. Weird.
And they say there is no God! (Or demons. Or zombies. Or cat people...)
QUOTE
I'm interested in the poetry of the ordinary....
Forgive the current Tourneur obsession - hey, that's what I've been watching! But I can't help thinking of the value he places on the details of everyday life, and what an important element that is in making effective "metaphysical" films: without tying these "otherworldly" elements firmly into the here-and-now world, they don't resonate with us, they don't seem to matter. Which gets me thinking of Charles Williams' emphasis on "co-inherence" - that the spiritual world, though invisible and not apparent to most people much of the time, isn't a separate reality at all, but rather that it's completely and inseperable interwoven with what we think of as the "real" or material world. More emphasis on immanence than transcendence. Incarnation more than ascension. Very sacramental view of creation, I'd say. (You know, I think there's a paper or a Books & Culture article in here somewhere, connecting Tourneur and Williams, maybe even Eliot and Auden. If anybody wants to grab it an run with it, go ahead: my dance card is full just now!)
QUOTE(rjkolb @ Aug 2 2006, 08:51 PM) [snapback]121424[/snapback]
I love the film too. I have seen four of his films: The Terence Davies Trilogy, Distant Voices, Still Lives, The Long Day Closes. and The Neon Bible. I thought they were all worth viewing.
Definitely, rjkolb; then you've seen all his work except for The House of Mirth.
QUOTE(Ron @ Aug 2 2006, 09:11 PM) [snapback]121429[/snapback]
A very powerful film, with a heart-breaking and brilliant performance by Gillian X-Files. I'm always surprised at the people who haven't seen this film - it really should be one of the ones at the top of the "film adaptations of literature" pile. And again, you can certainly see the appeal for Davies, given the background you describe.
Very much so--and I'm glad you're a fan; I totally agree that it's an exceptional period film. It's more stripped down and austere than, say, Scorsese's flamboyantly decorative (but excellent) The Age of Innocence, but it's no less painterly. There's an amazing sequence, though, that is vintage Davies: it is set to a Mozart opera and starts with a series of pans in an old house with sheets on the funiture, then moves towards a window, then cuts from outside the house moving away in a driving rain, across the lawn and through trees as the rain peters, then the camera runs along a stream's surface gaining in speed until it tilts up and reveals a boat on the ocean as the opera climaxes. Absolutely heavenly.
QUOTE
Doug and rjkolb, were the other films of his that you mention more in that direction? (Further, more pragmatic question: any of those earlier films deal explicity with faith? So that they should be considered for my book?)
Not sure that they deal explicitly with faith, although the church does figure in most of them on some level. As far as I know, he's a lapsed Catholic now, but that religious perspective still seems to inform the subtext of his films in interesting ways. (Rosenbaum wrote of THoM: "[the film is] given an extra touch of Catholic doom in Terence Davies's passionate, scrupulous, and personal adaptation, which to a surprising degree preserves the moral complexity of most of the major characters," and Davies contributed a slightly tongue-in-cheek essay for The Hidden God book on Demetrius and the Gladiators.)
Stylistically speaking, all of his films previous to The Neon Bible are done in that exquisite tableau style. Davies also wrote a partly autobiographical novel, Hallelujah Now, which I read a couple years ago...it's a literary version of his Terence Davies Trilogy.
QUOTE(Ron @ Aug 2 2006, 09:24 PM) [snapback]121431[/snapback]
And this talk of "parallel time," and Eliot - uncanny that it should come up, as just this past weekend I was re-reading W.H. Auden's "For The Time Being," and thinking about those mid-century British poets and their fascination with time and eternity. And then the whole "parallel time" concept comes up in my reading about Tourneur, as well, earlier today. Weird.
I love integrationists.
And time is such an integral aspect of film.QUOTE
But I can't help thinking of the value he places on the details of everyday life, and what an important element that is in making effective "metaphysical" films: without tying these "otherworldly" elements firmly into the here-and-now world, they don't resonate with us, they don't seem to matter.
Absolutely--we perceive the here and now and anything else on film seems like creative liberty, stylistic indulgence, or worse, a special effect. Indulge me with some Bressonian talk:
"Beginning with Diary of a Country Priest (1950) Bresson's style becomes as idiosyncratic as his content. Diary does still have a dark, brooding intensity about it which might call to mind the atmosphere of Ingmar Bergman's films; but the resemblance is only superficial, and it disappears entirely from Bresson's subsequent films. For Bergman, God and the afterlife are matters of doubt and mystery. For Bresson--as for his country priest--they are matters of certainty: it's only in this world that doubts and mysteries arise.
Holding this view, Bresson has no need for the symbolism that Bergman wields, axe-like, against the wall of mystery between this world and whatever lies beyond. Bresson is concerned with clarifying the situation of man here and now, dipped in flesh for a brief moment in eternity; and to do this he uses not symbolism but synecdoche--choosing the particular section of a particular character's life that best reveals the human condition. The method may overlap symbolism; the country priest's hereditary disease may perhaps be taken as a symbol for original sin. But nothing is lost if one rejects this symbol: the disease in itself is a powerful enough handicap to establish the intensity of the priest's struggle.
. . .
[Bresson] does not rely on noble postures, reverent tableaux or grandiose compositions in the style of The Bible or The Greatest Story Ever Told. Many of his shots arouse strong physical sensations, like the close-up of Joan's feet or the similar shot in Balthazar where the donkey's hooves are seen stepping hestitatingly over rocky ground; or indeed like the opening scene of Balthazar, where young Marie's smooth white arm stretches into the frame to caress the dark and fluffy baby donkey, making one almost literally feel the simultaneous closeness and separateness of the two creatures. Bresson may take a detached view of the world, but he sees it sharply. Just as his most saintly characters are not passive souls but activists working through the flesh, he himself works through the cinematic flesh of familiar sights and sounds.
This is what makes Bresson's films so fascinating to a non-believer like myself. He does not reject or distort the world as we know it but places it within the light of eternity. The transformation is done without flourishes; yet it is fully as startling as the altered modes of reality in Last Year at Marienbad or in science fiction films like La Jetée or The Damned."
--William Johnson, Film Quarterly
QUOTE
Which gets me thinking of Charles Williams' emphasis on "co-inherence" - that the spiritual world, though invisible and not apparent to most people much of the time, isn't a separate reality at all, but rather that it's completely and inseperable interwoven with what we think of as the "real" or material world. More emphasis on immanence than transcendence. Incarnation more than ascension. Very sacramental view of creation, I'd say.
The Christian tradition is non-dualistic; matter and spirit are one.
You know, Ken recently wrote quite a bit about this in an email--we should see if he'd like to add anything here.
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