from boring to brilliant
On Monday night I attended the second 'soccer Monday' at the Goethe-Institut Toronto and saw Football as Never Before, or Fussball Wie Noch Nie, by Hellmuth Costard.
This was a very strange film. Costard, an experimental German filmmaker in the 70's followed footballer George Best in a league match between Manchester United and Coventry. Literally, he followed George Best and no-one else during the whole match, shooting the film in real time.
As a result you see George Best standing, you see George Best pacing, you see close-ups of Best's backside and of his knees and of his socks. You see his number 11 and the back of his head, his pitch-black hair contrasting vividly with the bright red of his jersey. And during the first half of the game, this is all you see. If there is a football in play, you hear the crowd, but you don't see the play, because George is nowhere near the action. It's like going to a game and standing outside at the concession stand, knowing something is going on somewhere but not seeing it. Or, like being an infatuated schoolgirl who never sees the game because her eyes are only following her favourite player.
And sometimes, after too many shots of Best's shorts, this film feels a little uncomfortable, like gay porn. Then, when you think it can't get stranger, at the quartermark of the period, the filmmaker replaces the crowd sounds with funky, bad 70's music to open back into the crowd sounds again after a few bewildering minutes.
You notice that Best shows no emotion on his face, no reaction to anything going on in the game. There is no field banter, by anyone it seems. He follows the ball and walks around a lot.
The half-time break is bizarre. You have to keep reminding yourself that this is the 70's. The filmmaker follows Best out of the manager's office into a back room. It obviously is not even the same day as Best is supporting a full black beard, and not just his awesomely dark sideburns. He stands, facing the camera, which doesn't move for many minutes, just still on Best's face, as he glares and smolders into the camera. He stares and occasionally licks his lips, and he stares some more, looks down once in awhile, looks back into the camera and stares some more and licks his lips again. Then it's time for the second half.
Shortly after the start of the rest of the game, a couple of people decided they'd seen it all and left the theatre. You really couldn't blame them. I knew nothing of George Best except that he was supposed to be a football great and had recently died after a lifetime of fighting the demon of drink. I could see where the darkness in his character could come into play, but I wasn't seeing any football.
And then it began happening. There had been no score in the first half. Best was walking around again, with more shots of him walking, and then, like a black panther springing from nowhere, he was faster than anyone. With a killer's precision he was in and out on one of the most spectacular goals I have ever seen. And it continued this way. He let himself smile once in awhile, he was getting winded, would walk to ease up, and would attack again. He assisted on Manchester's second goal, which true to the filmmaker's vision, we didn't see -- but we saw Best's assist.
There is probably lots of film coverage of Best out there that a person could watch and see his brilliance instantly. This film is not great filmmaking, but it is cult filmmaking and a kind of performance art. The unexpected brilliance after the querying boredom is unforgettable.
This was a very strange film. Costard, an experimental German filmmaker in the 70's followed footballer George Best in a league match between Manchester United and Coventry. Literally, he followed George Best and no-one else during the whole match, shooting the film in real time.
As a result you see George Best standing, you see George Best pacing, you see close-ups of Best's backside and of his knees and of his socks. You see his number 11 and the back of his head, his pitch-black hair contrasting vividly with the bright red of his jersey. And during the first half of the game, this is all you see. If there is a football in play, you hear the crowd, but you don't see the play, because George is nowhere near the action. It's like going to a game and standing outside at the concession stand, knowing something is going on somewhere but not seeing it. Or, like being an infatuated schoolgirl who never sees the game because her eyes are only following her favourite player.
And sometimes, after too many shots of Best's shorts, this film feels a little uncomfortable, like gay porn. Then, when you think it can't get stranger, at the quartermark of the period, the filmmaker replaces the crowd sounds with funky, bad 70's music to open back into the crowd sounds again after a few bewildering minutes.
You notice that Best shows no emotion on his face, no reaction to anything going on in the game. There is no field banter, by anyone it seems. He follows the ball and walks around a lot.
The half-time break is bizarre. You have to keep reminding yourself that this is the 70's. The filmmaker follows Best out of the manager's office into a back room. It obviously is not even the same day as Best is supporting a full black beard, and not just his awesomely dark sideburns. He stands, facing the camera, which doesn't move for many minutes, just still on Best's face, as he glares and smolders into the camera. He stares and occasionally licks his lips, and he stares some more, looks down once in awhile, looks back into the camera and stares some more and licks his lips again. Then it's time for the second half.
Shortly after the start of the rest of the game, a couple of people decided they'd seen it all and left the theatre. You really couldn't blame them. I knew nothing of George Best except that he was supposed to be a football great and had recently died after a lifetime of fighting the demon of drink. I could see where the darkness in his character could come into play, but I wasn't seeing any football.
And then it began happening. There had been no score in the first half. Best was walking around again, with more shots of him walking, and then, like a black panther springing from nowhere, he was faster than anyone. With a killer's precision he was in and out on one of the most spectacular goals I have ever seen. And it continued this way. He let himself smile once in awhile, he was getting winded, would walk to ease up, and would attack again. He assisted on Manchester's second goal, which true to the filmmaker's vision, we didn't see -- but we saw Best's assist.
There is probably lots of film coverage of Best out there that a person could watch and see his brilliance instantly. This film is not great filmmaking, but it is cult filmmaking and a kind of performance art. The unexpected brilliance after the querying boredom is unforgettable.
posted by Kathy O'Brien at 12:48 pm
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