The Women in the Room
Harlan County U.S.A. (1976)
directed by Barbara Kopple
rating: 4 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Netflix
Let's forget the humanitarian or historic nature of Harlan County U.S.A. for a moment and look at Kopple's remarkable achievement in strictly cinematic terms.
The opening sequence makes claustrophobia not just a symptom of tight spaces but also a kind of shadow at the flanks of industrial machinery. So many mining photographs concentrate on the sooty faces of men; there is always a stillness, as if the men were ghosts. Kopple rides into the mine on a conveyor belt, and three words follow: rain, steam, and speed - fissure's-eye views of the strength in mountains.
Later, when the striking miners form a human roadblock to keep out scabs, the unlucky recruits put their pedals to the floor and muscle a line of big-engined monsters towards the mine (the history of the stock car in miniature). On the narrow east Kentucky highway, the black skids of rubber look like second and third takes from The Last American Hero or Thunder Road. I like that directors and editors leave some mistakes in the final product to remind us that fiction is repetitive. Here, though, the tire tracks suggest something else, perhaps that Kopple's technical instinct propels an already powerful gift for empathy towards greatness.
directed by Barbara Kopple
rating: 4 out of 5 cravats
on DVD from Netflix
Let's forget the humanitarian or historic nature of Harlan County U.S.A. for a moment and look at Kopple's remarkable achievement in strictly cinematic terms.
The opening sequence makes claustrophobia not just a symptom of tight spaces but also a kind of shadow at the flanks of industrial machinery. So many mining photographs concentrate on the sooty faces of men; there is always a stillness, as if the men were ghosts. Kopple rides into the mine on a conveyor belt, and three words follow: rain, steam, and speed - fissure's-eye views of the strength in mountains.
Later, when the striking miners form a human roadblock to keep out scabs, the unlucky recruits put their pedals to the floor and muscle a line of big-engined monsters towards the mine (the history of the stock car in miniature). On the narrow east Kentucky highway, the black skids of rubber look like second and third takes from The Last American Hero or Thunder Road. I like that directors and editors leave some mistakes in the final product to remind us that fiction is repetitive. Here, though, the tire tracks suggest something else, perhaps that Kopple's technical instinct propels an already powerful gift for empathy towards greatness.
posted by NPK at 10:04 AM
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