HopkinsCinemAddicts

Annie Hall

I love when a film makes me think.  It’s always fun to come out of the movie theater with a slightly different world view.  Film can manipulate how we see ourselves, how we see each other, and how we see humanity.  Many films accomplish this by revealing a part of the world or society or our history in a new light.  Think Schindler’s List (Spielberg, 1993), Lawrence of Arabia (Lean, 1962), or The Shawshank Redemption (Darabont, 1994).  Other films change the way we see ourselves and the psyche.  Films that come to mind include Memento (Nolan, 2000), A Beautiful Mind (Howard, 2001), and Blue Velvet (Lynch, 1986).  Thousands of other films help open our minds to new thoughts and ideas; these are just a few.  One film that offers some insight into how the human mind perceives others of its kind comes from the wonderful perspective of Woody Allen.  Annie Hall (Allen, 1977) is not the first film that comes to mind when I make a list of the films that make me sit down and think, but maybe it should be.

Annie Hall intimately explores the little pieces of life that keep us ticking.  Woody Allen plays a neurotic, pessimistic, fast-talking comedian who meets and begins dating a clumsy but charming up-and-coming singer played by Diane Keaton.  Alvy Singer, played by Allen, is constantly talking or thinking aloud, often directly at the viewing audience, in order to share his never-ending train of nervous thought.  We often get to listen in on the thoughts of Annie Hall, played by Keaton, as well.  One particularly comedic scene occurs when Alvy first meets Annie.  As they speak awkwardly to each other, subtitles appear at the bottom of the screen, capturing exactly what’s on the mind of the two characters.  As both speak, Annie is, in her head, questioning her own intelligence and mannerisms, while Alvy is imagining what Annie looks like naked.  The actual conversation becomes irrelevant.  The scene works on a number of levels and speaks directly about human nature.  At one level we are hit with a wonderful stereotype of gender, that women lack self-confidence and that men think only of sex.  At another level, the truth inherit in the scene brings to light just how little we speak what we are thinking, and at times, we can have entirely external conversations while maintaining an inner monologue of thought.  The scene works great as a comedic tool and as a model of social interaction.

As Alvy and Annie’s relationship continues, we delve further into a study in human nature.  Motivated by Alvy, Annie decides to take a university course and begins spending time with her professor.  Despite the fact that the course was Alvy’s idea, as soon as another man is involved, he completely rejects that he had ever supported such an absurd idea.  Alvy is well aware that he suggested the course, but on some sort of biological principle, he can’t be okay with Annie spending time with another man.  It hinges back on the concept that people often think one way but act a completely different way, almost instinctually.  We see this play out again later in the film when Annie calls Alvy back to her apartment, after they’ve moved apart, because of an apparent emergency.  When Alvy gets there, Annie needs him to kill a spider.  Annie clearly wants Alvy to be back with her, at least for a night, but can not bring herself to tell him that.  The spider becomes an excuse to bring the two back together temporarily.  It isn’t in human nature to be straight forward, and this film shows that time and time again.

Annie and Alvy end the film apart from each other.  While Annie appears at the end to be in a good place, Alvy remains in his own cold world.  His fears, apprehensions, and inner monologues hold him back from truly enjoying the world.  Annie says he’s like New York City, an island unto himself.  He’s too wrapped up in thinking about everything to be a part of the world around him.  That’s the main message I get from this film, and the main thing I find myself thinking about after the film.  It makes me think about how I shouldn’t think so much.  Perfect.

Annie Hall, 1997. 93 minutes, 1.37 : 1 Aspect. Written by Woody Allen and Marshall Brickman.  Directed by Woody Allen.  Starring Woody Allen and Diane Keaton.

Soviet Montage (Shaken, not stirred)

Quantum of Solace (Forster, 2008), the recently released Bond film, has already brought millions to the box office, including myself.  If you haven’t seen it yet, don’t let this entry spoil it for you.  (Now I know what you’re thinking… this is a Hopkins film blog and he’s writing about the new Bond film?  Just stay with me here…)

If there’s one thing I love about Bond films, it’s the action.  The chases, the fights, the stunts, the cars, the explosions... all so fun.  The director gets us caught up in the fast-paced universe of 007 and we aren’t let go until the end of the film.  Nothing else seems to matter; adrenaline pumps for 106 minutes.  Yet, this weekend, amidst the unending stream of adventure, I couldn’t keep myself from noticing one thing: Soviet montage.  I sat awestruck at how film theory had apparently engrained itself into my head so well that it was popping up during a Bond film.  My mind was suddenly conjuring simultaneous images of James Bond and Sergei Eisenstein.  Oh boy.  Anyway, it’s an experience I feel obligated to share.

Like many other Bond films, the action starts immediately.  In Quantum of Solace, we get thrown into a beautiful Aston Martin right beside James and watch terrified as a number of gun wielding assailants from a trailing car blast hundreds of holes into the side of 007’s car.  The quick cuts keep our hearts beating fast as the superior skills of James Bond impress us time and time again.  As expected, Bond gets away only moderately scathed despite yet another gorgeous car destroyed at his hands.  The first scene gets us ready for what turns out to be one of the most action-packed Bond films to date.  A little bit later, we get our first true montage sequence.

This scene begins with a beautiful shot of Siena, Italy, the setting for the action soon to follow.  We get a brief glimpse of the horse race that will play a pivotal role in the montage sequence.  After a brief interaction between Bond, M, and Mr. White, a traitor’s gunshot initiates a furious chase.  Mitchell, the traitor, sprints away from the scene with Bond close behind.  This is where the montage kicks in.  An exciting, crowd-drawing horse race is juxtaposed to the shots of James and Mitchell.  As the horses run spraying trails of dust behind them, Bond and Mitchell do the same.  As the chase builds in intensity, the horse race begins to implode on its own volition.  One horse stumbles, others begin to collide, and a horse and rider go down.  The crowd closes in on the fallen victims.  Meanwhile, Bond and his target make their way through a series of underground tunnels, eventually climbing out of the sewers and right to the center of the horse race.  At this point the crowd has become frantic.  The chaos in the streets evokes a feeling of chaos in both Bond and Mitchell.  The shots work together both emotionally and visually.  Each action by horse and crowd seem to heighten the action of Bond and Mitchell and vice-versa.  At the end of the scene, the two plots collide, and Mitchell fires shots into the already chaotic crowd.  This creates absolute mayhem.  The final bits of juxtaposition involve a dying pedestrian and Bond avoiding being shot.  It predicts the violent future Bond has to look forward to, and fittingly enough, Bond’s chase ends with a deadly bullet fired from his pistol. 

Later in the film we get another wonderful action sequence of montage.  This time the action takes place in and around a beautiful arena in Austria.  Members of an evil organization have gathered at the opera in order to discuss their upcoming project.  Bond quickly recognizes what’s going on and steals an earpiece to listen in on the private conversation.  He then cleverly interrupts the meeting and begins to pursue several members of the gang.  Again, montage plays a critical role in the action that follows.  The opera becomes the item juxtaposed to Bond’s chase.  As Bond takes off after his enemies, the opera takes a violent turn.  The opera’s female protagonist is draped with blue light as her voice fills the arena.  Bond smashes through the kitchen of a restaurant, a fire starts, and the chase becomes increasingly violent.  Meanwhile, the woman in the opera has obtained a knife.  The increasing drama of the opera plays into the increasing intensity and violence of Bond’s chase.  Ultimately, the woman in the play thrusts the knife into her assailant, and Bond catches one of the men he had been chasing.  When James can’t obtain any information from him, he drops him off the side of a building.  Both stories end violently.

Quantum of Solace is a quick moving and violent film.  The montage used worked beautifully to enhance the emotion in several scenes.  It’s clearly an essential part of film, and it’s great to see it used so prevalently in the latest film of the Bond series.  The next entry I write will focus on a film more “blog appropriate,” but you’ve got to love Bond, especially when it brings a film theory discussion to the table.

Quantum of Solace, 2008. 106 minutes, 2.35 : 1 Aspect. Directed by Marc Forster.  Based on the novel/story by Ian Fleming.

Rebecca: Never there but always there.

Three women:  The first is gentle and meek.  The second is dark and menacing.  The third is beautiful, powerful, conniving, and most importantly, dead.  In Rebecca (Hitchcock, 1940) these three women are locked in a constant struggle, but the most important of the three, Rebecca, is never even on screen. 

“Rebecca” is a story of a young innocent girl who finds herself quickly married to an incredibly wealthy and arguably charming man, Maxim de Winter, whom she met at a hotel.  Shortly after arriving at her new mansion, she quickly discovers she is living in the great shadow of Maxim’s previous wife, Rebecca de Winter.  She is also introduced to Mrs. Danvers, the head maid of the mansion.  Mrs. Danvers despises the new Mrs. de Winter (I refer to her as such because she isn’t actually given a first name) and constantly compares her with Rebecca.  Despite being dead, Rebecca is perhaps the most controlling and intriguing character in the film.

Rebecca’s post-death presence drives the actions of every character.  Maxim de Winter lives a life of secrecy and unhappiness.  His past wife haunts him.  As much as he tries to separate himself from her, he can’t.  He is driven to search for a new wife and forget the past; hence, the new Mrs. de Winter.  Mrs. Danvers is also fundamentally driven by Rebecca.  Her negativity towards the new Mrs. de Winter stems from her obsession with Rebecca.  It leads her to make the life of the female protagonist a living hell through a series of cruel actions culminating in an attempt to convince her to commit suicide.  Ultimately, her obsession with Rebecca triumphs over her sanity, and Mrs. Danvers burns the mansion to the ground with herself inside.  It is clear that she wouldn’t have been able to live in a world in which Rebecca had been replaced, especially by the feeble new Mrs. de Winter.  Most obviously, Rebecca’s presence controls the protagonist.  The second Mrs. de Winter spends the majority of the film trying to live up to someone she believes to be better than herself.  She repeatedly fails to become the woman that she thinks Rebecca was. 

Hitchcock wonderfully constructs the character that isn’t there.  Even though she physically isn’t present, we feel her everywhere.  Her things litter the estate, and monogrammed ‘R’s seem to be stamped onto every possible surface.  Hitchcock is especially successful in building mystery surrounding her room; it only takes one look for us to immediately want to see what’s behind the huge double doors.  We start to question everything surrounding Rebecca’s death.  Later, the second Mrs. de Winter sees a woman in the window of Rebecca’s room, but we are unable to make out who it is.  The mystery builds… it’s almost as if Hitchcock has twisted the film into a ghost story.  Our female protagonist senses what we sense and she can’t hold back any longer.  Despite her tentativeness, she ventures to Rebecca’s old room.  Behind the doors, we find a perfectly put together room; it’s as if Rebecca never left.  It tells us just how supposedly perfect Rebecca lived, and equally just how important it was to Mrs. Danvers that the room appeared as if Rebecca had never left.  The story and mystery behind Rebecca and her death heighten.

Finally, Maxim is forced to tell the new Mrs. de Winter and the viewer what exactly happened to Rebecca.  In doing so, he chillingly recounts her final moments in a brilliantly filmed scene.  Hitchcock has the camera follow the empty space in which Rebecca would have walked had the scene been taking place in front of our eyes.  She is as much placed in the room as she could possibly be without physically being there.  When the camera collides with Maxim, the story reaches its peak, and we learn of Rebecca’s death at the hands of poor Maxim.

Ultimately, we learn that Rebecca, despite being murdered, had even controlled her own death.  The devilish life she lived continued well past her death, and luckily for us, culminated in a wonderful 130 minute film.

Rebecca, 1940.  130 minutes, 1.37 : 1 Aspect.  Directed by Alfred Hitchcock.  Adapted from the novel by Daphne Du Maurier. 

The Killing: A non-linear crime thriller from 1956.

One of the greatest powers of cinema is its ability to distort time.  The story within a 90-minute film can take place over the course of hours or decades.  Single scenes can be sped up or slowed down by manipulating the order in which shots are presented, the duration of single shots, and the juxtaposition of related shots.  This type of distortion of time generally maintains linearity; that is, the viewer assumes that each successive shot is occurring at some point later in time than the preceding shot.  However, linearity can be successfully obliterated from film, and has historically been done so in multiple ways.  The success of this eradication of linearity ultimately depends on the ability of the film to hold the viewer in ultimate suspense, suspense that supersedes time.  Suspense keeps viewers emotionally engaged, and the linearity of time can be manipulated to build horribly terrific anticipation.  The collision of multiple timelines into a single critical moment enables narrative pressures only possible in a realm outside our everyday experience, the realm of film.  “The Killing” (Kubrick, 1956) uses this technique beautifully.

In the “The Killing,” the cunning and fearless Johnny Clay masterminds a perfect robbery and recruits a group of big-dreaming men to execute his plan.  Kubrick introduces us to a number of intriguing characters in the first half of the film.  He builds tension meticulously; back-stories and secondary characters become critical.  In the style of classic film noir, a devilish femme fatale is introduced played by Marie Windsor.  Her greed for money initiates a plan to backstab her husband and, with the help of her boyfriend, rob the robbers.    

In the second half of the film, Kubrick takes us through the day of the robbery.  Instead of presenting the crime linearly, each character’s part is presented one at a time.  All of the suspense is built around one question: will they be successful?  By showing one character at a time, Kubrick emphasizes that success depends on everyone.  We spend the second half of the film just waiting for someone to mess up.  With each successive person, the stakes become higher.  It’s why Kubrick’s nonlinear presentation works so well.  Instead of building suspense once, suspense is built with every character.  The anxiety that a high-stakes robbery creates for the criminals is felt over and over again.  It causes us to constantly question the plan; it’s too perfect to work.  Amazingly though, it doesn’t fall apart.  The robbery goes to plan… except for a small catch.

Underlying the entire scheme, we know there’s a plan to take the money from the criminals.  This plot combines with the already rolling plots of each character at the climax of the film.  Except for a late arriving Johnny Clay, everyone meets in the same room, and some, with guns ready.  The tension is at its highest.  Timelines and plots collide into a single moment.  At the perfect time, the terrified George enters the room and automatically fires his gun.  There’s a round of shots and several fall to the ground.  The suspense is released in a single moment.  The perfection of the crime is lost in an instant.  It’s brilliant.

Ultimately, we are left to witness the fate of Johnny Clay, who, with a bit of luck, escapes with all the money.  By this point however, we can guess that his fate will be the same as the others, we just don’t know how it will happen.  In the end, luggage constraints and a small dog bring him down.

“The Killing” shows us just how successful a story can be told without the constraints of linear time.  Tension around the same subject can be built more than once.  We can become invested in each and every character’s role.  It makes us fully aware that everyone is a piece of an intricate puzzle.  Since 1956, a number of films, mostly in the crime genre, have repeated this style.  Interestingly, “Reservoir Dogs” (Tarantino, 1992) was dedicated to Timothy Carey, an actor who played one of the criminals in “The Killing.”

“The Killing” was released in 1956. 85 minutes, 1.37:1 Aspect. Written and directed by Stanley Kubrick.  Novel by Lionel White.

M: Where do we fit in?

As I mentioned last week, film has the phenomenal ability to entangle the fates of its characters with the fates of its viewers.  These intimate connections can last beyond the length of the film, burrowing themselves deep in our subconscious only to sporadically reappear in our world despite our expectance.  Our connections to the characters can make or break a film; when we feel genuinely connected to a character, it’s a good film.  If we can’t connect to any of the characters; it’s a bad film.  (I use the word ‘connected’ in the since that when we are connected to a character, if they suffer a bad fate, we emotionally suffer, when they succeed, we are emotionally uplifted… at least a little.)
However, this is not always the case. 

“M” (Lang, 31) is a psychological thriller set in Germany in the 1920’s or 30’s.   In this film, a child-abducting serial killer, played by Peter Lorre, is on the loose and has the entire city in a frenzy.  Both the police force and criminal underworld work separately to track him down, the latter being ultimately successful.  Overall, the film is powerful, suspenseful, and cinematically beautiful. 

The first time I saw “M," I kept trying to pinpoint a protagonist, someone to attach to, someone to intertwine myself with.  Who was going to be the hero to emerge out of this dark thriller?  In a murder mystery, my first instinct for a protagonist is the detective.  Yet, the detectives in this film are far from brilliant, clever, or interesting.  The criminals that track down Hans Beckert (the murderer) aren’t exactly the heroic type either.  In fact, the closest thing to a protagonist in this film is the unyielding criminally appointed defense lawyer of Beckert, and he isn’t introduced until the final ten minutes of the film.

With no protagonist to attach to, I consider my other option.  Hans Beckert.  The poor defenseless child murder.  But something about that doesn’t sound right… While Beckert does make a very noble and powerful, though slightly pitiful, plea for his life at the end of “M,” I find it really difficult to truly attach myself to a child murderer.

Unattached as I may have felt after watching “M,” I still loved it.  Maybe it was the wonderfully cinematic quality of the entire film.  There were some beautifully twisted shots; Fritz Lang found an incredible way to draw us uncomfortably close to many of the characters while still keeping us separated.  There is a fantastic shot of Beckert as he takes two shots of hard liquor before preying on another young girl.  The camera is brought slowly towards the crossing wooden planks of the thin fence separating us from Beckert.  We peer through the holes of the fence and right into Beckert’s conflicted head.  The film is full of other cinematically tense moments.  This is certainly part of the reason the movie is so great.

Aside from how well shot and put together the film is, I still think there is something that keeps me emotionally connected, especially during the second half of the film.  I believe the emotional connection stems from a sense of justice.  Though I’m not attached to a character, I am attached to some moral obligation.  By the end of the movie, I wasn’t rooting for a particular character, I was rooting for the right thing to be done.  I wanted Beckert to get his fair trial.  I think it is why his defense lawyer comes off as such a hero.  At the end of the film, I think what the viewer hangs on to, is what monsters the citizens of the city had become.  The ‘innocent’ people of the city become an angry, dangerous mob completely opposed to the idea of giving Hans Beckert a fair trial.  In fact, throughout the film, we see many instances of injustices, and not just among criminals.  The police force wants to break into homes, invade the privacy of their citizens, in order to find the murderer.  The citizens want a killer, more correctly, a man who is severely ill, to suffer the treatment of a dog.  We see corruption among criminals, police, and citizens.  Thus, when justice ultimately wins out, barely, it is a sigh of relief. 

Connections happen all the time in film… not necessarily to characters.  Inevitably, we find something to cheer for.  In the case of “M,” we end up putting our fate in the hands of truth and fairness, and by the end, we are moderately satisfied.

“M” is wonderful film and offers much more to discuss.  Unfortunately, I’m out of room.

“M” was released in 1931. 117 minutes, 1.20:1 Aspect. Written by Thea von Harbou and Fritz Lang and directed by Fritz Lang.

Remembering Paul Newman

Soon I will submit my usual post, but first I wanted to at least briefly mention the recent passing of Paul Newman.  There are so many ways you can remember him, both on and off the screen.  You can remember him for all the changes he brought to the world; in total, his donations to a number of charities have exceeded two hundred million dollars.  His “Hole in the Wall Gang” camps have brought happiness to thousands and thousands of seriously ill children.  You can remember him for his numerous memorable roles on screen.  I love to talk about how characters can touch us deeply.  Newman, always an actor before a movie star, had an incredible way of making the viewer attach to his characters.  Hud (“Hud,” Ritt, 1963) was one such character (one of my favorites).  Hud is a young, rough and tough, hot tempered cowboy that drives a pink Cadillac.  He’s the kind of character you hate to love.  To me, Hud stands out as one of the most lovable, conflicting characters in cinema.  Hud was just one of many of Paul Newman’s unforgettable roles.  We will all have our own ways of remembering him.  I will remember how he used his smile, his perfectly delivered lines, and his true ability to act, to make his characters connect to his viewers.

Chinatown: Why do we care so much?

    For barely over one hundred years, the viewer and the film have had their fates delicately intertwined. It seems, for better or for worse, we always tie ourselves to the characters within a film. We make favorites, and we make enemies, neither of which is necessarily the protagonist or antagonist, and we inadvertently, or perhaps somewhat purposely, link ourselves with the fates of these many characters. Film elicits this phenomenon better than any other medium. An argument could be made for the novel, theater, or perhaps even photography, music, and painting; some of these forms of art captured people’s hearts and minds many thousands of years before film even existed. However, film seems to more easily attach viewers to its characters. Perhaps this is because film is a combinatory art form which can present simultaneous visual and auditory cues while leading the viewer’s eye wherever it chooses. Not to mention the beloved close-up, which, when used beautifully as it so often is, can bring us face to face with the quivering lip or the twitching finger, a feature unique to film. Maybe for these reasons, the mind of the viewer, subconsciously or not, is able to so easily fasten itself to the characters on the screen.
    We make profound connections to characters, and in the course of a film, we will share their triumphs, laughs, and miseries, as if we were there. But why is it that we connect more with some characters than others? And, why do we care so much? Thursday night I saw "Sullivan’s Travels" (Sturges, 1941) on the big screen at the Charles Theatre, and if it weren’t for the last five minutes of the film (the protagonist is saved from what appears to be complete doom), I would have been a wreck for the rest of the night. Fortunately for my date and I, Sullivan went on to live happily ever after.         Jack Nicholson as Jake Gittes in "Chinatown" (Polanski, 1974) is one character to whom I’ve always felt particularly attached. "Chinatown" is the story of a detective, Jake, who, by following one lead after another, quickly finds himself at the heart of murder and conspiracy. Jake leads us through an intricate web of deception and mystery, and eventually, takes us to Chinatown, the enigmatic site that eluded us for the first 120 minutes of the film. The plot is amazing, the ending is heart-stopping, and as far as movie detectives go, Jake Gittes is basically perfect.
    Jack Nicholson plays the role wonderfully; his high hairline and steep eyebrows give him a manic, wild look which is perfect for the detective Polanski constructs. Jake Gittes is full of passion, has a short temper, and trusts no one. As far as his personality goes, he’s completely explosive, well, maybe not completely, but close. He’s also an incredible detective; he’s clever and willing to go tremendous lengths to uncover the truth. Unfortunately for Jake, the truth he inevitably always finds is not a happy truth. In fact, we’re introduced to Jake as he reveals a harsh reality to a desperate man who is all but certain his wife is having an affair. Jake provides certainty, and with it, misery. He does this for a living; he reveals the nasty truths none of us want to believe.
    That’s the most important feature of Jake Gittes, and I think it’s one reason why I feel so much for his character. He takes the job no one else wants, and he’s a good at it. This search for the truth is always pushing Jake onward, and consequently, always pushing the plot forward. Jake is a very honest character. By this, I don’t mean that he doesn’t lie, because he certainly does. What I mean is that his character is not going to deceive the viewer. We trust completely that he will always push forward and eventually uncover for us what exactly is going on in this corrupt L.A. town. We know that Jake is Jake and is going to be Jake throughout the film. At the same time, we can’t trust anyone else; Jake only trusts himself, and so we only trust Jake. So perhaps why I have such a strong connection to Jake is because I trust him and no one else. Or, it could be because Jake is the guy uncovering all the bad truths out there for all of us. Or maybe it’s just because he’s just such a cool character.
    But maybe, and I think this is really it, maybe I feel so strongly attached to Jake Gittes because the ending is so tragic. Jake successfully uncovers the truth. He’s the hero, the mystery is solved, and I should feel happy for him. For those that have seen this film, we all know, you don’t feel happy for Jake when it’s all over. Sure he did his job, but once again, he unravels a horrible truth. What’s more, we know this isn’t the first time Jake has struck tragedy in Chinatown. And, we can only assume Jake will continue to be Jake, he will continue to solve mysteries and find the truth, and it will continually leave him broken. This will forever be the life of Jake Gittes; the tragedy of the truth will always haunt him.
    When I realized that, I think I was forever attached.
    Polanski creates a great character. A character you like, trust, and follow everywhere. Then tragedy strikes. You see it in the streets of Chinatown. You see Jake, your hero, defeated. You and Jake are encouraged to forget it because, “it’s Chinatown.” As the credits roll, you realize that this character is never going to be okay. You realize you’re upset and moved. 1, 10, 50 minutes later, you realize it was just a movie and move on with your life. But, for at least 131 minutes, you cared. Immensely.

“Chinatown” was released in 1974. 131 minutes, 2.35:1 Aspect. Written by Robert Towne and directed by Roman Polanski.