HopkinsCinemAddicts

Willie Dynamite Saved My Life (Christen)

    In light of the death of another one of my favorite screen legends, Rudy Ray Moore a.k.a. Dolemite, I decided to write about the direction of black cinema. And by direction, I mean a complete U-turn. The revolutionary era of Blaxploitation may have ended with insistence from groups like the NAACP because of the portrayal of blatant stereotypes, but the genre went beyond stories that glorified pimps and hoodlums. The protagonists also consisted of vengeance seeking heroes and heroines that wanted to rid the city of the bad guys in the most visually stunning way possible. Actors such as Richard Roundtree (Shaft), Pam Grier (Coffy) and Jim Kelly (Black Belt Jones) were the only black action stars audiences had over 30 years ago, and their films are just as cool to watch today in the privacy of one's own home.

   Take, for instance, Larry Cohen's classic Black Caesar (1973). Copious racial slurs aside, the theme of the black gangster film wasn't different from those that starred James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson: gangsters, and the crooked cops that do business with them, are bad news and should be brought to justice...or at least shot. Tommy Gibbs, played by Fred Williamson, is "Black Caesar" and rises to the top of the crime underworld by killing a lot of corrupt white men and taking what belongs to them. He is a brutish husband to his wife Helen, played by the beautiful Gloria Hendry, and lies to his childhood friend Joe (Philip Roye) about giving the money he acquires back to the black community. Because Tommy got beat up by a bad cop at the beginning of the movie because of a misunderstanding, you want to feel sorry for him; however, this movie is a lesson on where being hellbent on gaining power and revenge will get you: nowhere but down with a bullet lodged somewhere in your mid-section. It should end fatally for our protagonist, but Cohen would have it that Gibbs survives being shot and beaten by a gang of youths to return that same year for a sequel, Hell Up In Harlem (1973). Ah, the magic (and efficiency) of blaxploitation! What also sets this film apart from The Public Enemy, however, was its impressive soundtrack composed and performed by the late, great James Brown. Funk and soul music was a staple of blaxploitation films that blacks could associate with, because the songs had important messages beyond the films they were contained in. Including Curtis Mayfield and Isaac Hayes, funk and soul musicians composed soundtracks for their generation, not just the fiction on the big screen. 

    There is a bevy of other black films that were made in the '70s and weren't credited as blaxploitation flicks, were meaningful in black cinema history. Black actresses were getting nominated for Best Leading Actress Academy Awards for the first time since Dorothy Dandridge in 1954; Diana Ross and Cicely Tyson in 1972 for Lady Sings the Blues and Sounder, respectively, and Diahann Carroll in 1974 for Claudine. Richard Pryor was gaining notoriety as a raunchy stand-up comedian who wasn't afraid to talk about race relations at length, and has many films to his credit he wrote and/or appeared in that helped him achieve cult status. The same Gloria Hendry that was in Black Caesar landed the role as the first black Bond girl to lock lips with the agent in the film Live and Let Die (1973); granted, the film was heavily influenced by the blaxploitation surge, but it showed that James Bond didn't discriminate when it came to romancing women. The 70's were such a vibrant, crucial time for black cinema. Black people were writers, directors, actors and producers of work that created meaning for an entire generation; a meaning that can still be understood and appreciated today.

    After the '70s, however, there was a seeming loss of interest in the black movie industry that was never restimulated. In the 1980s there was an influx of movies about breakdancing, and at the very end of the decade Spike Lee was able to squeeze in his landmark social commentary Do the Right Thing (1989). Where did all those black film pioneers go?! There is a movie produced in the late '80s that I appreciated by actor/director/writer Robert Townsend called Hollywood Shuffle (1987). Townsend plays Bobby Taylor, a young black actor who dreams of making a name for himself in Hollywood, despite the naysayers at his job and in his own family. However, during the audition process for terribly written a movie, he realizes he may have to sacrifice his integrity to work for a white Hollywood that wants him to act like Eddie Murphy, as opposed to just act. Hollywood Shuffle takes a no holds barred look at how stereotypes are still present for black actors in cinema, despite the suggestion that the end of blaxploitation era improved the image of blacks on the big and small screens. I respect that Townsend made this movie practically out of his own pocket, and it woke me up enough to write this piece and ask: where do we go from here?

 

     It's been 21 years since Hollywood Shuffle and black actors are winning Academy Awards and Golden Globes in bigger numbers than ever before; they're also being critically acclaimed for their performances as drug addicts and dealers ("The Wire"). Also, most of the roles available to black actors are in bio-pics about popular musicians and athletes overcoming racism and/or poverty; I feel like I'm watching the same movie over and over again. Another problem is that Hollywood is slow to become color blind in casting blacks in leads for modern day romantic-comedies as if interracial relationships in this country exist in small numbers. And what happened to the intelligent, butt-kicking black action heroes I can only see in "Soul Cinema" DVD collections? As a future filmmaker/actor, I'm hoping I can have a hand in changing this, even if only a little bit. Spike Lee can't do this by himself.

                                                                                                                                               

Against the Odds - Chris & Don: A Love Story (Carlos)

You could argue that “Chris & Don: A Love Story” is a documentary about two gay men who serendipitously meet and fall in love. You could also say that it's about a thirty-plus year relationship between two individuals thirty years of age apart. It's also about an acclaimed and accomplished novelist who takes a young lover under his wing and inspires him to become a prolific portrait artist. The filmmakers contend that these aspects, while relevant, are merely incidental: the documentary at its core is a moving story about two people who felt an ineffable connection to one another and fell madly in love, and a lot of good can come from just that.

British author Christopher Isherwood (The Berlin Stories) meets 18-year-old LA-native Don Bachardy at a Santa Monica beach on Valentine's Day 1953. He and Chris hit it off with a bang: their clumsy first kiss smashed a glass window. This event was the start of an unconventional thirty-four year relationship between two openly gay men embedded in Hollywood society at a time where such a thing was strictly taboo. 

 

Don Bachardy recalls the early years as ecstasy. Despite the jeers and homophobic remarks from such people as actor Joseph Cotton, who regarded Chris and Don as "half-men" (never to Chris's face, of course), the electric couple was blissfully happy, each man confessing that they'd finally felt complete. Don explains that although he was born and bred in California, he began to develop a British accent and a heightened tone of speaking, as a result of spending so much time with Chris during those years. He likened himself to a chameleon, unconsciously mimicking his lover, idol, and father figure. As the documentary states, Don had successfully cloned himself... "In some weird way." 

 

“Chris & Don” is peppered with enriching anecdotes, of both the relevant and extraneous sort. One of the more memorable stories involves Bachardy's first encounter with hashish on a trip to Morocco with Isherwood. The drug doesn't sit well with him and he spends the rest of the night in a state of horrific paranoia. Curled up in bed, Chris holds and comforts Don throughout the night. Filmmakers Guido Santi and Tina Mascara have chosen all the right events to recount. Moments like these are particularly poignant in that they illustrate a truly affectionate and unconditional romance between two men who care deeply for one another. 

 

What make the film a treat to watch are the featured clips of home movies captured by Chris and Don themselves. The 16mm color film footage is vibrant and pristine -- without any evidence of deterioration or discoloration. It looked as though it could have been shot yesterday. After the screening the directors concurred it was miracle the footage had survived all this time. Don had "stored" them for years at room temperature, in the living room cabinet, facing the ocean. The footage documents the couple passing time with friends and traveling together, giving all the talk about a loyal and loving relationship weight and texture. Also interwoven are animated sequences reflecting Chris’s and Don's correspondences in which each was assigned a symbolic animal: a horse and a kitten, respectfully. Over these sequences we hear their letters spoken. What first appears to be a silly and playful exercise develops into a device demonstrating stalwart devotion and mutual respect, introducing a dimension of tenderness that continues to resonate throughout the length of the film. 

 

A brilliant and thoughtful move by the filmmakers was their approach to documenting Isherwood's passing. Stricken with prostate cancer, the last months of Chris's life were tough on the couple. Don stayed very close and tended to Chris's every need. He continued to sketch portraits of Chris until his dying day -- sometimes up to nine or ten drawings a day. Over Don's narration, the documentary runs through these intimate portraits and the result is incredibly moving. Don asserts that as an artist he cannot help but identify with his subjects, and in Chris's case Don was dying alongside him. 

 

Always in the shadow of his accomplished significant other, it was very difficult for Don Bachardy during the early years of their relationship. It was only until Don established himself as a gifted portrait artist that he was able to overcome this stigma. The tail end of the film documents Don's prolific artistic career, which was spurred by Chris's insistence that he attend art school. Even today, at 74 Don continues to paint and sketch portraits, most notably of celebrities and other painters. It's clear Don's talent is all his own; the filmmakers confirm for any lingering doubters that “Chris & Don” is a story about not one, but two extraordinary men in their own right. 

 

“Chris & Don” for others may be about two gay men triumphing over constraining societal conventions, but for me it stands well enough as a touching love story that craftily and elegantly pulls at the heart strings and convinces viewers to acknowledge, quite persuasively, that love can happen between anyone, and if you give it your all it gives back plenty.

 

"Chris & Don: A Love Story" (2007). 90 minutes. Directed by Guido Santi and Tina Mascara

Movie Atmosphere (Cameron)

I have now seen three Korean movies on the big screen with no English subtitles and little help with translation from my Korean friends (unless there was something REALLY bugging me about the plot that I had to ask about). I really want to keep this experience free of any language cheating. I’ll write about that later, but first, let me tell you a little bit about the actual experience of going to a Korean movie theater.

To be honest, my first cinema experience in Korea (they call the theaters “cinemas” and since Americans do that too sometimes, I might as well) was to see Get Smart with my American friend who looks like he could play the lead in a film about Norsemen. I was surprised to find how easy it was get tickets in English even though at first I got confused stares from the ticketing boy behind the counter since I definitely look the part of a real Korean-speaking Korean. But after some gesturing and slow speaking, we got two tickets for around 7,000 won or roughly $6 (reminds when tickets were that price a few years ago in the States). In Korea, you can choose where you want to sit in the theater, which is very convenient if you are just a pair of movie-goers but I suspect not so convenient if you are part of a large group. Anyways, since I prefer to sit towards the back and smack in the middle of the row, I rather like reserving my seats in advance. I think they do that in Australia, too. Or was that London…anyways back to Korea.

You can choose the regular salty kind of popcorn at the snack stand or you can choose a “sweet” option with caramel corn-type flavoring. I think I prefer the good ol’ salty kind, though. They usually don’t have candy, but they often offer things like hot dogs, nachos, and pretzels. Koreans really love ojinga, or dried squid, so they have that available in most places, too. Of course, each cinema has its own offerings in terms of snacks, but if you want anything American-esque I recommend getting it from the convenience store around the corner since the stewards don’t seem to mind if you bring in your own treats (although I wouldn’t flaunt that you have them in your possession either). While I haven’t tried the ojinga from the snack stand, I have had it from the grocery store and it is rather good, if a little chewy. Kind of like a milder, saltier, softer form of beef jerky without the rawhide appearance.

Anyways, there are three main cinemas in Gumi. Lotte Cinema, which has two locations in Gumi, is kind of like the local AMC theaters and CGV is has more international offerings (I have seen Under the Same Moon and am looking forward to the Korean release of Let the Right One In from Sweden). Both theaters show international releases from Hollywood, albeit a few months late sometimes. They are all in high rise buildings as everything in Korea is built upwards instead of outwards because of the lack of space. Movie-goers can either take the elevator or the escalator to get to the appropriate floor. The elevators in the downtown Lotte Cinema have stewards that check your tickets and direct you to the right floor, but I prefer the escalator ride in the CGV building because you can look outside the large paneled glass windows to view downtown on the way up and it’s particularly pretty at night. I also love seeing the larger-life movie posters they have posted on each level – they are much bigger than the ones in the States which also makes them better in my opinion.

I have never seen such professional movie ushers outside of the ones you see in old movies. The ushers at Lotte Cinema and CGV have quite meticulous uniforms (usually dark pants or skirts and matching vests with ties or some sort of fancy closure at the neck). There is also a lot of bowing and “oso-o-shib-shi-o” (welcome) and I kind of feel like a celebrity when an usher is particularly polite. In this case, I prefer the ushers at CGV because there are more of them and they stand outside the theater entrances as opposed to the downtown Lotte Cinema where they are just at the elevators on the first floor (in fact, after I leave the elevator and step into the dimly-lit lobby on the higher floors I always feel like I’m lost). Because of the seating arrangements and perhaps the ûber-efficient Korean timing between shows, it’s almost impossible to enter the theater if you get there more than ten minutes early. Usually I’m sitting with my friend outside twiddling my thumbs and staring blankly at the ads for upcoming films. In these cases I hate small talk because I have to talk for hours every day with my classes so I don’t like talking when I don’t have to these days (some people may be relieved to hear that).

Whenever I enter the movie theater in Gumi, I am always surprised that no matter how recent the film is, there are never that many people in the theater. Even when I went to see Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day in Seoul (Korea’s answer to NYC), it wasn’t particularly full (more thoughts on this later). So when I went to see Get Smart I was surprised to find that my friend and I were two of maybe eight people there. This made it blatantly obvious that most of the American humor in the film went unregistered by the Korean audiences as we Americans were the only ones laughing hysterically for 90% of the time. The slapstick humor was the most translatable.

When you sit down in a Korean theater, the lights are dim, sometimes they are playing some K-pop music, but most of the time it’s just silent. Then they play commercials that you could find on TV or advertisements for local businesses. After that, you might get to see one or two previews for some upcoming films. I have always been a big fan of previews and love it when I forget what movie I actually came to see. I guess this is because my imagination fills in the rest of the storyline from the teasers. So it’s kind of disappointing when I only get to see one or two, and even more so when the teaser is in Korean and I have no idea if what I just saw is really what I think or did I misinterpret? Anyways, I’m always surprised how quickly the feature film starts and even after having gone to the cinema multiple times I am still confused at first if what I’m watching is another preview or really the start of the film. That’s American brain-washing for you. Or conditioning. Whatever. It’s confusing.

After Get Smart was over I was content to sit there and watch the credits (I love to do this if only to wait until the very end to see if the director has put in some sort of special treat for people like me who sit and watch until the very end). However, in Korean culture this is a very rare and slightly strange habit and so I always feel pressured to leave right away after the credits roll even if I want to see the cast list (I guess there’s always IMDB...). So I started to leave the same way I came in but was surprised (yet again) to find that you use the emergency (or so I thought) exit instead and find yourself in an entirely different and disorienting part of the cinema. And always, since Koreans sort their trash into recyclables, liquid waste and compost, I never know which trash can (they call them rubbish bins, after the Brits) to use and have to peer into them every time even though they are labeled in Korean and I could just memorize which ones are which.

But that’s ok with me, since I always have other things on my mind, like how I always forget that I’m in Korea whenever I go see an American (or English-speaking) movie despite the Korean subtitles at the bottom. And then, when the credits roll and I get out of my seat and see all of the Koreans around me "pop" I’m back in the reality of being far away from friends, family, pizza-by-the slice, cheap booze and cable TV.

See you again soon! 

 

Soviet Montage (Shaken, not stirred) (Chris M)

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.

Filmic Swagger (Dik)

 I’m sorry folks, I posted something earlier tonight (technically it was yesterday but I was rushing to get some school work in so I didn’t check if it actually got posted) and it didn’t go through… so I’m back for you guys.  Things have been hectic, but hey they always are when you’ve been done with academia since the 7th grade and you’re in the 16th grade.  But it’s how you approach your problems right?  If you approach them with fear and doubt, or swag (that’s the ebonic truncation of the word swagger) and style, and with that our topic for tonight is style.

 

 People always talk about a director’s style.  Oh, that’s Scorsesse’s style, or that’s Lucas’s style (I guess for Lucas he only made 3 different kind of films, or should I say 2 and a ½, but you know him so I picked him), that’s Tarantino’s style, et cetera… it’s all BS -at least to me.  Style is connected to the content; to talk as if it’s totally detached is wrong.  And I’m not trying to say that some films are not all about visual style, but that doesn’t mean those films don’t have a story, or are not about something.  (I remember some girl telling me in 4th grade that a particular film didn’t have a story…for some reason that statement pissed the hell out of me… just because a film didn’t make sense to you doesn’t mean we’re all that narrow minded).  Films always have something to translate to you if they don’t tell you through dialog. Let me paraphrase a great film quote I heard:

Film… Some tell a story and leave you with a feeling.  Some tell you a story, leave you with a feeling, and give you an idea.  Some tell you a story, leave you with a feeling, give you an idea, and reveal something about you and the people around you. How you tell that story relates to what the story is about –if not, you as a filmmaker are neglecting a vital part of film. 

 

 I mean don’t you think that’s what style is… the way in which you tell a story (just say yes – it makes things easier)?  Once you decide what a film is about, your whole crew -whether it’s you and your friend, or hundreds of people- mobilize to portray that story in the best way possible.  Form follows function.  Now you can talk about all this auteur hoopla, but lets take a look at one auteur and from there analyze why so many auteurs seem like that have one distinct style seen in all of their films. Lets take Godard for example… in their simplest forms, how many of his films were about contemporary culture of the time (both French and bastardized American) that starred either Anna Karina or another beautiful woman with a suave male?  So many.  This is not a knock on his brilliant work at all, but this basic template seen in his early work was certain to make his films have a certain style.  Plus you add the certain techniques, limitations, and crew he used in many of his films (especially Raoul Cotards very natural camera work)…damn right he is gonna have a distinct style.  Now look at any auteur and tell me that they don’t work with certain players for a good amount of their films, DP’s, story types, and so on.  I bet you can’t find one without a constant trend.  Let’s move on to how style comes into the film making process…for me.

 

 I decide on style a few different ways. Usually, I examine what the film is about and try to create a visual language to accompany the philosophy of the film.  I like philosophy, so this always comes up.  For example, if the film draws inspiration from Baudrillard’s Simulacra and Simulations work (a philosophical treatise about the increasing non-reality and mediation of our lives through technology and society), I might tell the DP to make sure the camera works as much as a frame within a frame in the film (shots of windows and mirrors, and shots of different media objects in the film, etc.).  Sometimes the style I’ll pick is apparent because the film is a blatant genre piece, ala film noir, western, et cetera.  Many times it’s based on accentuating the particular actors that are in the film.  You will decide on style depending on your character, the story, and your crew.

 

 Film is composed of thousands, and sometimes millions (I hope I am alright with these numbers cuz math is not my strong suit) of frames you have to set up (I’m lying you don’t have to set up every frame, but that leaves hundreds of set ups unless you want one of those Andy Warhol films of someone play masturbating in one place, in which case you can pretty much say screw style), all different to come together and make one coherent film.  It is best you and your crew know how you are going to represent it visually.  If you know this and successfully execute it, you can make a brilliant film out of the most mundane or hackneyed story.  Lets not forget, film is a visual medium.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Brief Discourse on the Importance of Music in Film (Alexandra)

Perhaps it is my background in music that makes me prone to picking up so intensely on a film’s soundtrack, but I believe that a movie’s music is one of its most important aspects; a characteristic that is often taken for granted.  A film can reveal so much within its music.  Beyond the creepy background music of thrillers that tells you the killer is around the corner, music has the ability to expose characters’ feelings, actions, and a film’s tensions.

Just as directors carefully choose their shots, they also spend a great deal of time selecting their soundtrack.  Take acclaimed director Martin Scorsese for example.  Though Scorsese is an Oscar-winning director, he is also known for his impeccable use of music in his films.  He has directed a few documentaries on bands, including No Direction Home: Bob Dylan (2005), The Last Waltz (1978), and Shine a Light (2008); but Scorsese’s music in his feature films sticks out the most.  From The Rolling Stone’s “Gimme Shelter,” which has become a Scorsese trademark (played in three of his most famous films), to The Ronettes’ “Be My Baby,” the music picked has a reason for being there.  When “Monkey Man,” by The Rolling Stones, is played at the end of Goodfellas (when Henry Hill goes crazy because of his cocaine addiction), it is no coincidence.  The song isn’t arbitrarily placed there because it sounds good aesthetically, but because its lyrics reflect something in Henry’s psyche.  It is no accident that the lyrics, “I’m a sack of broken eggs/I always have an unmade bed,” encapsulate Henry precisely.

In a 2007 interview with Craig McLean from The Observer, Scorsese said that it is “not just the songs I use in the film. No, it's about the tone and the mood of their music, their attitude. The music itself.”  Referring specifically to The Rolling Stone’s songs (which he was willing to spend $30,000 of a $750,000 budget on), Scorsese puts an emphasis on the energy music can add to a film. 

In Todd Solondz’ Welcome to the Doll House (1995), powerful base-heavy music is played whenever the main character, Dawn, gets angry and wants to rebel.  It may be obvious that Dawn’s vexed, but the song accentuates the atmosphere and her aggression.  The beat is repeated throughout the film and becomes a motif that is symbolic of Dawn’s disconsolate life and even of the whole movie.  Similarly, if the climax of The Departed (2006) lacked music, it would just be another scene, with less importance and hardly any energy.  But The Dropkick Murphy’s punk-rock song “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” plays loudly, the scene becomes quite intense, and the audience is automatically engaged in the film and aware that something important is going to happen. 

Such as The Dropkick Murphy’s song gained huge popularity after being in The Departed, many movies procure esteem because of their soundtracks.  Garden State (2004) is known for it’s popular soundtrack, and often times its viewers come away from the film deeply moved solely because of the music’s emotional collaboration with the film’s content.  Some films that receive such acclaims due to their soundtracks are often movies about musicians (I’m Not There, 2007) or revolve solely on music for its content (Across the Universe, 2007), but music can be more than just a plot device.

Director Quentin Tarantino, another celebrated maestro of music in film, manipulates music as a sort of “magic object” through which his characters and events are tied together. In Reservoir Dogs (1992), music transports characters through different scenes and situations.  Whenever in a car, the radio plays “K-BILLY'S: ‘Super Sounds of the Seventies’ weekend” show.  In separate cars different characters, all in contrasting situations, seem to converge because of this unifying music on the radio.  Music plays an important role even at the beginning of this film.  Characters are introduced in the opening scene through the discussion of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.”  Though the song isn’t actually playing, its placement works to reveal attributes of the characters: who is more vulgar, who is more sensitive, who doesn’t even like music, etc.  The concept of using music to illuminate characters’ qualities is maybe the most overlooked, but one of the most important roles music can play. 

Mary Harron’s American Psycho (2000) utilizes music both to reveal the deep mental derangement of the protagonist, Patrick Bateman, and to explicitly place the film in a time period.  Bateman can give a litany of seemingly unimportant facts about pop music, analyzing the minutest details of Phil Collins, Huey Lewis & the News, and Whitney Houston.  His obsession with analyzing and playing such music is a reflection of his inner ruthless behaviors.  Bateman explains that the song “Hip to be Square,” by Huey Lewis & the News, a smash-hit, isn’t “just about the pleasures of conformity and the importance of trends. It's a personal statement about the band itself.”  A band that Bateman believes has a “bitter, cynical sense of humor.”  Bateman’s close reading of the song and the band are important because they explain some of his sadistic behaviors.  Bateman repeats this musical examination again, explaining Phil Collins’ music’s “intangibility” and Whitney Houston’s “self-preservation and dignity.”  All of the things he touches upon are actually important aspects of himself, characteristics that are only implicitly exposed within the music.  Not only does the music (always juxtaposed with one of his violent acts) explain the inner workings of Bateman, but it also places the audience directly in the time period of the film, 1987.  If the clothing styles weren’t enough, the music successfully transports audiences into the 80s.  Though music does have this innate capability of recreating a cultural and historical time, it does not necessarily have to be reflective of the time to be effective.

The soundtrack to Alfonso Cuarón’s Children of Men (2006) imitates the tensions and desperation within the film.  Though the film is sent in 2027, scenes are reflective of World War II concentration camps, reminiscent of the 2004 Abu Ghraib prisoner scandal, and hold the general, indignant attitude of the public during the Vietnam War.  The movie culminates in a world that has not learned from its past.  Children of Men’s music transcends time to seamlessly make relevant these feelings, to make the images more poignant. The song “Arbeit Macht Frei” by The Libertines, mimics a German phrase (in English: “work will set you free”) that prisoners of concentration camps believed would free them, and plays alongside images that imitate these camps.  The music not only exemplifies these tones, but also reflects the overall despair of the film by including songs such as The Rolling Stone’s “Ruby Tuesday,” whose lyrics read: “Cash your dreams before they slip away/Dying all the time/Lose your dreams and you/Will lose your mind/Ain't life unkind.”  The inclusion of such songs, along with the general themes of the film, are Cuarón’s warning that not learning from a world’s past can only end in hopelessness. 

Everywhere we go music follows us, making us desensitized to it.  Our habituation to music means we easily overlook music’s role in our lives, and even more so in film.  Music’s function is deeper than simply background music.  Focus on the songs the director chooses and you will have a much greater understanding of a film, you’ll learn and experience a good deal more.  

Literature & Film: The Sound and Fury of Citizen Kane (Daniel)

            Film is a visual medium.  This may be the most misleading maxim of cinema studies, a maxim that prioritizes the specifically cinematic element of film, the moving image.  The aphorism falls short however, in overlooking everything cinema offers in addition to illumined pleasure, the things film can do for the mind that go beyond what it can do for the mind’s eye.  Films are not simply photographs strung together in succession; they are not simply streams of visual stimulation.  Film is a visual medium in form, that is, it communicates through primarily visual means.  But, in content, film is storytelling.  Films are stories, stories told through images.  There is no visual aspect of film that doesn’t serve a narrative purpose.  There is nothing in film that doesn’t signify in some thematic or expository fashion.  Thus, film may indeed be a visual means of expression, but the object of that expression, is story.   The object of film is something told.

            If all films are indeed stories at heart, then literature may be one of cinema’s most natural allies.  Film has drawn on literature from its inception.  In fact, Shakespeare appeared on the silver screen in as early as 1899 with King John (British Mutoscope & Biograph Company).  In the 1960s, film and literature professor Harry Geduld estimated that nearly forty percent of Hollywood films were literary adaptations.  But literature is not merely the source material of cinema.  And film is not merely literature through a lens.  Both are storytellers in their own right.  Both are aesthetically devoted to the revelation of plot and character.  It is only natural therefore, to consider the interchange between both media, the way literature and film have been artistically intertwined.  So many of literature’s most prominent figures have delved into the art filmmaking: F. Scott Fitzgerald, George Bernard Shaw, Norman Mailer, Alain Robbe-Grillet, Jean-Paul Sartre and Raymond Chandler, to name a few.  But beyond the cheap thrill of celebrity, the author-film association points toward what can be most fruitful in examining the literature-film connection: the synergy of aesthetic cooperation, the way film can be literary, and literature, cinematic.  If Birth of A Nation (David W. Griffith Corp, 1915) can be Dickensonian in its use of parallel editing, if Ulysses can be Eisensteinian in its use of montage, if The Maltese Falcon (Warner Bros. Pictures, 1941) can be Chandleresque in its use of narrative surprise, then the literature-film connection deserves protracted consideration.

            At the center of this consideration stands William Faulkner, one of America’s greatest men of letters.  Faulkner wrote extensively for Hollywood and most famously for Howard Hawks with productions like The Big Sleep (Warner Bros. Pictures, 1946) and To Have and Have Not (Warner Bros. Pictures, 1944).  Ironically enough, Faulkner’s greatest contributions to screenplay structure had already been made before his move to California in 1932.  Faulkner’s work as a screenwriter was emphatically conventional: linear, plot driven, cause and effect narratives that enticed audiences with the thrills of sex and violence.  It was Faulkner’s literature that made the real waves, that helped revolutionize the screenplay and novel alike.  Faulkner’s modernism, his subjective, fragmented prose ushered in an entirely new form of expression, a sort of kaleidoscope world that had begun with Joyce and his Portrait of the Artist.  The Sound and the Fury, widely considered Faulkner’s magnum opus, sold poorly when it was first published in 1929, though it received considerable attention from the literary elite.  Years later it would be remembered as a turning point in American literature, a touchstone for the medium.  American film too would soon have its touchstone, a masterpiece of modernist proportions that would forever change the face of cinema.  In 1941, Orson Welles and Herman J. Mankiewicz would piece together a fragmented, subjective narrative, a kaleidoscope world that ushered in an entirely new form of cinematic expression.  In 1941 came Citizen Kane, (Mercury Productions, RKO Radio Pictures) and with it, the dawn of modern cinema.

            To cite the influence of one artist’s work upon another’s is almost always an uphill battle.  Artists don’t generally append bibliographies to their oeuvre, nor do they record their every encounter with world culture.  The skeptic would have an easy time of debunking the Fury-Kane parallel, of demanding proof that Welles and Mankiewicz had indeed read the novel I have claimed they had in mind.  I believe the Sound and the Fury to have been a signal influence on Citizen Kane.  But I do not have proof of this influence, at least in the empirical sense of the word.  I will endeavor to substantiate this influence nonetheless through specific references to both works and the striking similarities that exist between them.  But first a word to the skeptics, even if I should fail to convince you of the Fury-Kane parallel insofar as it pertains to the novel of which I have made specific mention, do not dismiss the undeniable parallel between Faulkner’s modernism and Kane’s.  The two are so overwhelmingly akin, that corroborative evidence becomes almost irrelevant.  Whether or not Welles and Mankiewicz actually leafed through the saga of Compson despair, both were certainly acquainted with the kind of project Faulkner had undertaken, both would have been unable to escape or ignore the zeitgeist of their time.  In short, Faulkner and Modernism: the winds of American culture were blowing so strongly that Welles and Mankiewicz could have heard nothing but subjectivity and fragmentation amid all the sound and fury.

            Both The Sound and the Fury and Citizen Kane are organized around subjective narration; both worlds are created by the characters that move within them.  What distinguishes these works from first person art of the past is the extent to which readers and audiences move within the characters themselves, rather than within the worlds those characters inhabit.  There is something shockingly absorptive about Fury and Kane, a way in which we live and breathe through the protagonists.  Both the novel and the film are uniquely telepathic; both are, in essence, projections of the mind.  There is no remove in Fury-Kane narration, no bird’s-eye view, no space for air separate from the speaker.  You must see through Benjy and his retarded haze, Thatcher and his fastidious commercialism, you must observe the world through another’s observation.

            The Sound and the Fury begins with the observations of one of literature’s most famous narrators: “Through the fence, between the curling flower spaces, I could see them hitting.  They were coming toward where the flag was and I went along the fence.  They took the flag out and they were hitting.”  Benjy is a profoundly retarded adult.  His world is composed of color and form, but nothing more.  Benjy paints a purely sensible picture, an impression apprehended more by the body than by the mind.  He is incapable of intellectualizing experience, of imposing order upon the things he sees and hears.  He does not know to say golf, all he knows is hitting.  Benjy bears closest resemblance to the novel’s title.  It is his jumbled collision with reality, his world of waves crashing upon the shore, that reflects the cacophony of living, the “tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”^[1]   Benjy presents us with one of the most dramatically distorted views in all of literature.  His profound confusion may well serve as a model for one of modernism’s most penetrating insights, that the subjectivity of human experience abolishes any hope for objective truth.  Thus, we can never fully comprehend the Compsons and their story because we have gotten it through three glasses darkly.

            Citizen Kane too wrestles with the cloud of subjectivity, giving us the man of the title through several of his associates, each with a different version of the truth.  The first witness called to the stand is the March of Time newsreel, offering an account of Kane’s life that underlines the central problem of testimony: Kane's empire, in its glory held dominion over thirty-seven newspapers, two syndicates, a radio network.  An empire upon an empire.  The first of grocery stores, paper mills, apartment buildings, factories, forests, ocean liners.  An empire through which for fifty years flowed, in an unending stream, the wealth of the earth's third richest gold mine.     

            Herein lie the first signs of subjectivity, the deep booming voice of god announcing the monumentality of its subject.  The news must approach Kane from low angles, as it does his Xanadu pleasure dome, to attract its viewership.  Kane must be a big man who has done big things in order to interest a big audience.  He must also be something of an enigma, something good journalism can unravel for its readership.  Thus, the newsreel encourages a degree of confusion over Kane’s visage, cutting between three perspectives that contradict one another in succession.  First P. Thatcher declares, “Mr. Charles Foster Kane…is in fact nothing more or less than a Communist!”  Then a rabble-rouser checks in insisting, “He is today what he has always been and always will be a Fascist!”  And lastly, Mr. Kane assures us that he is only, “one thing - An American.”  The March of Time then goes on to prove its worth, slicing Kane into thematic chunks so that we may emerge with a neatly packaged understanding of the man and his life.  To wit, Kane held many conflicting opinions, went through two wives, petered out of politics and withered away in solitude.  The March of Time is, above all, a self-serving version of citizen Kane.  The man’s struggles with love and vulnerability are never touched upon, making it the film’s most superficial stab at truth.  Here again we encounter Faulkner and the observer effect, albeit from an obverse angle.  Here, it is the lucidity of experience that does us in.  For its every attempt at organization, the March of Time falls into distortion.  There is an inevitable oversimplification in the way we make sense of experience, a tragic obscurity to human understanding.  Thus, to tame the world of its sound and fury is to lose the world entirely.

            Fury and Kane, both tell the meat of their stories in flashback, flitting across time and space like a bird wanders across the sky.  The odysseys of Compson and Kane are assembled more then they are constructed, glued together from shards of memory, rather than built from the ground up.  There is a dynamism to this sort of temporal fragmentation, a reason behind the bucking of Aristotelian unities.  Faulkner and Welles tell their stories dialectically, through the dynamic contrast of opposites.  There is a richness in Fury and Kane that only this sort of juxtaposition could have achieved, a way in which the past and present merge with one another to form the kind of synthesis Hegel would have appreciated and Eisenstein may have admired.

            Quentin, the second of the Compson narrators, is particularly suited for this temporal dialectic.  For his relation to the past is defined by conflict.  Quentin is haunted by the memories he cannot change and the march of time he cannot halt.  Time is Quentin’s greatest foe, the arbiter of his ultimate undoing.  Thus, Quentin’s memories rise up without warning, creeping away as suddenly as they arrive:

The shadow hadn’t quite cleared the stoop.  I stopped inside the door, watching the shadow move.  It moved almost perceptibly, creeping back inside the door, driving the shadow back into the door.  Only she was running already when I heard it…She ran out of her dress, clutching her bridal, running into the bellowing where T.P. in the dew Whooey Sassprilluh Benjy under the box bellowing…I stepped into sunlight, finding my shadow again.  I walked down the steps just ahead of it. The half hour went. Then the chimes ceased and died away.   

            Here Quentin flashes back to the day of his sister’s shotgun wedding.  For Quentin, this event encapsulates the Compson decline.  Caddy has lost her maidenhood, and with it, the badge of Compson propriety.  Thus, for Quentin, Benjy bellows to particularly startling effect, mourning Caddy’s fall from grace.  The memory is bookended by two mentions of shadow and one mention of a faraway clock.  For Quentin, both things serve as symbols of temporal preoccupation, the shadow reminding Quentin of the sun and its daily march across the sky.  Quentin can’t stay firmly rooted in the present for he is constantly swept up in the pain of the past.  Quentin can’t reverse or repair the damage time has wrought upon the Compson name, nor can he escape his awareness of a losing battle.  Thus, it is the constant oscillation, the flickering from present to past, from the haunting to the ghost itself, that gives Fury its dialectic dynamism.

            For Walter P. Thatcher, the electric contrast between past and present proves equally revealing.  Thompson, the sleuthing reporter assigned to Kane’s case, travels to the Thatcher Memorial Library for a look at the collection’s memoirs.  The library is pristine and imposing, a study in dark, gleaming surfaces carved out in the neoclassical vein.  A sculpture of Mr. Thatcher himself sits stiffly atop a marble podium as we tilt from a low angle toward the floor.  Thatcher wears an appropriately stony grimace, his eyes frozen in a penetrating stare.  The librarian, Ms. Anderson, with hair stretched tightly over her skull, makes for an amusingly anal caricature, pointedly reminding Mr. Thompson of the strict “conditions under which [he] may inspect certain portions of Mr. Thatcher's unpublished memoirs.”

            The setting seems to resemble some version of the Thatcher afterlife, a severely controlled, impossibly immaculate environment in which to wile away eternity.  But of course, the elephant of irony remains: Mr. Thatcher is dead, and all his earthly attempts at control have been ceded in the face of some unknown chaos.  Thatcher’s memories too are laughably systematized: a stiffly written, categorized account.  The "grand old man of Wall Street" has conquered time in a way Quentin would have appreciated, stuffing impressions into words, words into books and books into gigantic metal vaults.  Naturally enough, Mr. Thatcher’s memories revolve around Kane’s lack of fiscal responsibility and general irreverence.

            But again, it is the discord between present and past, between the reality of Thatcher’s death and his lifelong pursuit of control, that lends itself to profundity.  Thatcher, because of his obsession with “proper order,” bridled Kane in a way that would forever sour the relationship between the two.  Thus, Thatcher’s past bridling is rendered tragically frivolous by the frigidity of his present death, and the inevitable disorder therein.  Thus, it is once again the dialectic of Faulknerian fragmentation that gives both past and present a mutually informative resonance.

            The Sound and the Fury, Faulkner’s modernist masterpiece, forever changed the face of American literature, using subjectivity and temporal fragmentation to unprecedented expressive effect.  The novel also changed the Hollywood screenplay lending Citizen Kane the most innovative elements of its narrative design.  Without Kane there would be no Hiroshima Mon Amour (Pathé Entertainment, 1959), no Last Year at Mareinbad (Terra Film Produktion, 1961), no Rashomon (Daiei Motion Picture Company, 1950), and without Faulkner, there would be no Kane.

^{[1]  Shakespeare, William. Macbeth Act V, Scene V ( 25-27)}

Bibliography

 Harrington, Evans, and Ann J. Abadie. Faulkner, Modernism, and Film: Faulkner and Yoknapatawpha, 1978. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1979.

Kawin, Bruce F. Mindscreen: Bergman, Godard, and First-Person Film. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1978.

Ross, Harris. Film as Literature, Literature as Film :An Introduction to and Bibliography of Film's Relationship to Literature. New York: Greenwood Press, 1987.

 

Truffaut's "The Wild Child" (Carlos)

Recently Truffaut’s L’Enfant sauvage (The Wild Child, 1970) has found its way back into theaters. Over thirty years later it’s fresh and engaging, a testament to its timeless relevance. The film introduces the wild child by distant observation. For several minutes we watch a filthy kid with an apelike posture maneuver through dense forest and adeptly climb tall trees. He puts up a fight against two hunting dogs, disabling one before disappearing into a sea of foliage. Once caught, he’s mocked by the villagers and dragged through town by a leash tethered to his ankle. In these moments it's difficult to tell the civilized apart from the savage.

Doctor Itard, played by writer-actor-director Francois Truffaut, takes the purportedly deaf and mute child in and decides to civilize him. They name him Victor. The wild child sniffs at a mirror - an unknown object. Itard comes from behind with an apple, presenting it to the Victor through the mirror. The child reaches for the reflection until he realizes the stunt. Victor finally grabs the real apple, demonstrating a capacity to learn.

"The Wild Child" doesn't present us with melodramatic close-ups or a swelling musical score. It is directed with the same patience and simple dignity reflected in Truffaut's understated performance. A particularly touching montage involves the doctor's attempts at teaching Victor how to speak. He takes Victor's fore- and middle-fingers and presses them against his own larynx as he goes through the vowels. In another static shot he sits with Victor in front of a mirror. They practice pronunciation by lit candlewick that flickers with every utterance.

Truffaut craftily pulls at our strings by structuring the film with constant ups and downs. Whenever it seems like Doctor Itard's attempts at educating and socializing the boy are mere exercises in futility, the wild child's next move both surprises and impresses us. He develops a fondness for order, and learns how to ask for things he wants. It is particularly poignant that the first word Victor learns is "lait" (milk in French). The savage is suddenly humanized, and we're made to acknowledge a childhood bereft of nurturing and proper sustenance. Even at his most "uncivilized,” however, Victor conveys a connectedness to the natural world that the civilized will never experience or comprehend. Itard frequently observes Victor standing in the rain, rocking back and forth. He performs a similar ritualistic dance under the moonlight. The filmmaker affectionately develops Victor from a barbaric idiot into a dignified being with a reverence for the natural world.

One of my favorite moments is a brief cutaway to a deaf mute child at the institution sitting on a windowsill. He relays to a peer what the wild child is like. Using big, expressive gestures, he describes his teeth, the dirt covering his body, how he bites and claws out of fear; all the ways he differs from them. Scenes like these give the scenario depth and dimensionality. Viewers are permitted to witness multiple perspectives as Truffaut illustrates his fascination with children and their distinct world views.

The most surprising aspect of the film is how convincing Jean-Pierre Cargol is in the title role. Only a few times does his behavior seem contrived or rehearsed. Otherwise he shifts abruptly from quiet, wide-eyed observance to unrestrained animalistic ferocity. Later in the film Doctor Itard enters Victor’s room at night. Victor sits up in bed, taking Itard’s hand and resting it on different sections of his face. Voiceover confirms this is Victor’s way of communicating. It’s arguably a more effective mode than language could ever be. Cargol sustains a blank expression as the camera pulls in for a close-up. His performance is as touching here as it is when tears run down his face.

"The Wild Child" has plenty to say about childhood development. Nothing gives Dr. Itard, and arguably Truffaut, more joy in the process than witnessing Victor's discovery of invention -- he makes himself a chalk holder. Itard regards this as one of the more significant steps in development. Later he teaches Victor how to retrieve objects on command. He points to “marteau” on the board and Victor brings him a hammer. If he achieves the task successfully Itard rewards him with a glass of water. He concludes that if Victor fails, he corrects himself out of fear of punishment and not out of a sense of moral order. Itard decides to test his moral code by punishing him for a successful completion. Victor bites him in rebellion and Itard regards this as the biggest success. Following the act we see Victor more contemplative, and from then on there is weight and reason to his behavior.

In a moment of disenchantment, Doctor Itard concedes that his experiment has failed. The film cuts to Victor, curiously observing the small flame of a lit candle. He tests the heat with the palms of his hands and runs over the quivering flame with fluttering fingers. Victor is fascinated by fire – the cornerstone of civilization. He is learning how to control it. Candlelight serves as a motif in "The Wild Child," as it represents the taming of feral forces. Cinematographer Néstor Almendros (revered for his work in Days of Heaven) takes advantage and paints dark interiors with soft, flickering light. The stunning black and white was more a stylistic choice than a necessity.

Normally I have issues with voice over, but in "The Wild Child," Dr. Itard’s spoken journal entries provide a necessary backbone. The film is comprised of scenes established as vignettes, each opening and closing with a pinhole effect. Presented as series of episodes, the film itself plays like a string of journal entries. It doesn’t end with closure because it’s not about whether or not Victor will be “fixed.” The WIld Child is more I think about what it means to indoctrinate individuals into accepting and obeying societal conventions. It also sheds light on how substantive the early years are in the formation of a human being. Whatever the reason, it’s strongly recommended.

The Wild Child (French: L’enfant sauvage) [1970] 83 minutes. 1.66:1 Aspect. Written and directed by Francois Truffaut. Starring Jean-Pierre Cargol and Francois Truffaut. Available on DVD.

 

 

Taboos: Religion in Film (Josh)

One of the biggest taboos in modern society is religion.  Along with politics, it’s one of those things you are advised to shy away from in conversation.  However, films have shown things that are both awe inspiring and controversial.  Films like the Bible Epics of Cecil B. DeMille including The Ten Commandments (1923, 1956) fit into the former category.  But since my theme is Taboos, I’ll be focusing on films that fit into the latter one. 

The Monty Python’s classic The Life of Brian (1979) is a lighthearted parody of the classic Bible story.  For those who aren’t familiar with the film, a Jewish man named Brian is mistaken for Jesus and antics ensue.  The Pythons make a mockery of organized religion that brought about many protests at the time of its release.  The dialogue shows that the idea of the film is to question religion and its practices.   For example, early on in the film the Three Wise Men mistakenly arrive at Brian’s manger.  They declare, “We were led by a star!”  To which Brian’s mother replies, “Led by a bottle, more like.”  One of the best lines of the film occurs in a sequence when Brian is being harassed by followers who believe him to be the Messiah.  He yells at them saying, “Look, you've got it all wrong! You don't NEED to follow ME, You don't NEED to follow ANYBODY! You've got to think for your selves! You're ALL individuals!”  The Crowd replies in unison, “Yes!  We’re all individuals!”  Most of the controversy surrounding the film stemmed from their portrayal of Brian on the cross.  The crucifixion is seen as a mildly uncomfortable form of punishment rather than the torturous mode of capital punishment that it really is.  Although they make light of the situation, it stresses the fact that crucifixion is not merely a Christian symbol, but a widespread system of capital punishment used by Romans.  Python’s controversial film struck a chord with many.  It was named as The Guardian’s “Greatest Comedy of All-Time”, BFI’s 28th Best British film of all time, and it has a 98% approval rating on the website Rotten Tomatoes showing that sometimes taboos can be hilarious.

The highly controversial 2004 Mel Gibson film The Passion of the Christ is one that would definitely be listed as taboo.  Entertainment Weekly named it #1 on its list of most controversial movies of all time, and it has garnered significant attention for its depiction of Jews.  Religion is always a touchy subject, but Mel Gibson brought it to the forefront with this film.  Many people criticized the film as anti-Semitic in its approach to the scriptures.  It emphasizes a corrupt group of Jewish officials who were blackmailed by Pontius Pilate to put Jesus to death.  This version of the story has been rejected by the Catholic Church at Vatican II and by most Protestant churches.  The Anti-Defamation League declared that the film is not overwhelmingly anti-Semitic but “For filmmakers to do justice to the biblical accounts of the passion, they must complement their artistic vision with sound scholarship, which includes knowledge of how the passion accounts have been used historically to disparage and attack Jews and Judaism.”  Basically, it emphasizes stereotypes of Jews and sparks anti-Jewish sentiments.  It polarizes “good Jews” and “bad Jews” by their appearances (models – like Monica Belluci who plays Mary Magdalene – vs. big noses, greasy, yellow toothed Jewish priests).  This is similar type of controversy that arose in regards to race with D.W. Griffith’s The Birth of a Nation.  The cherry on the top of this argument for its anti-Semitic views is a line Gibson has said he debated including.  Caiaphas, the Jewish high priest, states, “His blood [is] on us and on our children!”  The line was omitted from the text of the subtitles, but was included in the Aramaic dialogue.  No matter what your religious views may be, as always with a film like this, it must be seen through a critical eye.  And as usual, criticism brings controversy.

One of the most controversial religious films of all-time is Jean-Luc Godard’s Hail Mary (1985).  It’s a modern retelling of the birth of Jesus Christ to Mary, a young basketball player and student, and Joseph, her boyfriend.  The angel Gabriel is portrayed as a taxi driver who comes to reveal Mary’s pregnancy and help Joseph accept the fact that his girlfriend, who doesn’t allow him to kiss her, became pregnant.  She visits her doctor who examines her hymen because of his disbelief in the virgin pregnancy.  She wears all white and experiences pain, ripping at her sheets.  There are also many scenes that contain full frontal nudity of Myriem Roussel who plays Mary.  There are others, such as a close up of her fingers brushing her pubic hair, to the point where the nudity seems excessive.  Godard philosophizes as always, this time he posits some religious questions about Christianity furthering the controversy.  Mary states, “God is a vampire who suffered me in Him because I suffered and He didn’t and He profited from my pain.”  Pope John Paul II had some harsh words for the film (or at least as harsh as a Pope can get).  Protesters showed up in droves on opening night to stop people from seeing the film.  And although it got mostly mixed reviews across the board for its portrayal of the story, it still remains a compelling example of filmmaking. 

Religion is at its core something personal.  Film takes that and brings it out into the public eye.  It’s a topic that will always draw controversy due to its highly private nature, but maybe putting the beliefs out in the open, with this and other taboos, will make people more aware of the views of those around them.  And film is the perfect medium to express these taboos.

See also: The Last Temptation of Christ (1988), Dogma (1999), Religulous (2008)

Rebecca: Never there but always there. (Chris M)

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.