HopkinsCinemAddicts

Motion as a Foundation: Len Lye's Free Radicals (Steven)

Len Lye, an artist from New Zealand, endeavored to treat motion as a foundational element of art, much like color or sound. With this idea in focus, he created works in a number of mediums, including kinetic sculpture, poetry, painting, and film. In many of his films, he employed direct animation: manually scratching or painting the film. While he wasn't the first to use this technique, he was largely responsible for its rise out of complete obscurity following his release of A Colour Box in 1935.

In the four-minute short Free Radicals, which Lye first released in 1958 and then finished in 1979, white etchings in black film leader throb to a drum and vocal solo performed by the Bagirmi tribe of Chad. Free radicals are unstable and reactive chemical species. Of course, the title can also be read as radicals who are free, and Lye's attempt to realize a new movement-based medium is certainly non-traditional. Lye's frames are bonded to the tradition and regularity of the music, but, at the same time, such a rhythmically-focused art form may also have been different and new to many in his audiences. As the title might suggest, the forms Lye creates are incessantly unstable. They writhe and contort until blinking into blackness, lasting between several seconds and a single frame. 

Lye complements the tones and timbres of the music with his animation. The vocals are accompanied by long, swaying lines which reach from the bottom to top of the screen, reflecting the rich, full tones of the vocalist. The more staccato drumbeats receive smaller jagged lines. Lye uses many different instruments to scratch the film, and the resultant textures also tie in to the associated music, with vocal lines being smoother than drum lines.

The most striking element of the film is the hypnotically convincing animation of the forms. Curved lines are projected into space through the emulation of rotation: narrowing sections become more and more foreshortened until they disappear and appear again, reversed, on the other side of the form. Even without the rigid constraints of perspective drawing, simple lines are given shape and mass. The lines bulge and twist around one another, responding and reacting to the beat of the music. Shortly after the halfway point in the film, the only line currently on screen grows and explodes into dozens of tiny strokes, which give way to yet more lines, these sinuous and fat.

In the last minute of the film, events begin to pass more hurriedly. Lines rush towards each other from either side of the screen and meld into one, asterisk-like constructs warp from location to location and then disintegrate into toothy lines, and brushy textures coalesce into dots. There's a sensation of ritualistic intensity and the indeterminate scope of the forms becomes evident: are these forms subatomic particles, bolts of lightning, or galaxies? Foremost, they are motion and light, and anything else is more suggestion than symbolism.

For the most part, Lye's other films employ a greater variety of colors and shades. There is a particular rawness and power to his approach in Free Radicals, though. The dichromatic, spare style strips away everything but the sensation of movement and sound, yet the film is far from the austere perfectionism of many minimalists. It's a primeval, kinesthetic minimalism, closer to cave paintings than to Piet Mondrian. The gritty, imperfect scratches reinforce the idea that this film represents the first few stumblings into a new artform, or rather, one which had always been hiding in film, waiting for Len Lye to recognize, extract, and purify it.

Life is Cinema (Mina)

    Leos Carax's Holy Motors (2012) is a film about a film. But what exactly is "film?" How can we define cinema? Carax tries to answer these questions by blurring the boundary line between real life and film, between the real and the imaginary through Holy Motors. When the two intersect we are able to realize that our life, our reality is essentially a performance.

    Carax believes the essence of film is acting and performing by using one's physical body. From 19th century Etienne-Jules Marey's chronophotographic gun to today's ditigal technology, the cinema has been developing for over 130 years. The improvement of machinery enabled mass production in the film industry, makeing more films accessible to the society. The epilogue of Holy Motors starts with brief clips of a running man. Next we see a mysterious man waking up and discovering a secret door hidden in the wall in his apartment room. He enters a crowded, yet silent movie house. The eyes of the audience are closed, their bodies stiff; they almost look dead. The opening clips in the beginning of the epilogue belong to Etienne-Jules Marey, a French physiologist who conducted numerous studies on human body and motion. His clips thus convey a tone of nostalgia of earlier days of the film industry. Unlike the passive, mechanical movements of the audience, the man in the clips carries out active physical performancs. The mystery man (played by Carax, the director himself) looks feeble, so small in front of the huge movie screen. In all, I believe the epilogue celebrates the development of the cinema, but simultaneously points out the lack of physical movement in today's digitalized films and the passiveness of the audience.

    Carax's affection for pure physical performance continues to be shown in the character named Oscar in the next nine episodes (divided into Act I and Act II). Act I of the episodes focuses on portraying the beauty of performing. Oscar comes out of his luxurious house, posing himself as a wealthy businessman. His assistant Céline is waiting for him in a limousine. She tells Oscar that he has nine "appointments" in that day. For his first appointment, Oscar dresses up as an old beggar in the streets. We directly see Oscar combing a wig and putting makeup on his face before he act. In the next sequence, he is a motion capture actor who vividly performs a simulated sex with an actress (which once again underlines the digitalized technology in film). The importance of the use of body constantly reappears in the sequences.

In Act II, acting starts to pervade the real life. Act II, the boundary line that differentiates the real world and the cinema fades away. In the fifth and sixth sequence, for example, Oscar "kills" people who look identical to him and Oscar himself also gets "murdered" by others. At the end, however, Oscar returns to the limousine, alive, and gets ready for his next appointment as if nothing happened. When we saw the sequences in Act I, where he assumes the role of a beggar or a motion capture actor, we were fairly certain that what Oscar is doing is “acting”; in other word, it is not real. Now, we are no longer certain if this is real or not. We now recall the first time Oscar we met in Holy Motors. We believed that when he walked out of his house, he was the true version of Oscar. Every role Oscar has appears looks real and unreal at the same time. The act of making distinction between reality and film becomes useless. The prologue of Holy Motors further completes the identification of the real world and the unreal world. Céline drives the limousine to the Holy Motors garage then she places a mask as if she readying herself for a performance. As soon as we believe this eventually might be the end of the fantasy, another fantasy appears. The reality is then inseparable from the cinema, the fantasy.

    Oscar transforms into a different person each time he gets out of his limousine; the limousine is the movie theater, and also the place where film is made. Moreover, at the end of the prologue, the limousines talks to one another, expressing their fears that they may be considered outdated and unwanted. As we hear the discription, "outdated", we might be able to think about the Lumière Brothers’ train. In the 19th century, the screening of a train itsef was an exciting spectacle for the audience. But now, trains are "outdated". They are old, bulky, just as the limousines. Ultimately the limousines represent the one of the earliest cameras, the earliest period of the cinema history. Taking Oscar from one place to another, the whole travel and distance indicates the passage of time in the film industry.

    Through the prologue and epilogue which starts and ends Holy Motors, we realize we are the lifeless audience from the prologue. We also realize life is a mask, a mask is an act, an act is a movement, and movement is the "motor" of cinema, the causation which makes film appear beautiful. Within this interconnection, we find deep awe and beauty. Life is cinema.

Hushpuppy's Search for Sense and Strength (Ingrid)

     I watched Beasts of the Southern Wild a month after it came out in the summer of 2012. I’ve seen it probably five times since, and every time, without fail, it warms my heart. Every shot brings out the enchanting simplicities and eccentricities of an unconventional family living in very gritty destitution.

     Hushpuppy (played by Quvenzhané Wallis), a young member of a bayou community called the Bathtub, narrates the film. She lives there with her father, Wink (played by Dwight Henry), whose untraditional, borderline negligent, parenting style molds her into a passionate, perceptive, strong young spirit. Hushpuppy’s beloved Bathtub is cut off from civilization and untouched by commercial industry. Its people are self-sufficient; living off the land. As Hushpuppy says, “We is who the Earth is for.”

     But besides the physical levee isolating Hushpuppy from the rest of the world, there also exists a more intangible divide—a fundamental difference in character that could never assimilate. Her wildness and free spirit belong and thrive only within her vivacious, isolated community. Hushpuppy cannot be more than five or six years old. Her youth comes out in the imperfections in her movements, skinny limbs, and slurred speech. She still possesses a natural, child-like clumsiness as she stumbles around pants-less in her oversized boots. But despite her youth, Hushpuppy is extremely tough. There’s a primitive ferocity in her eyes and her lion-mane hair and piercing screech reveal something feral in her. The camera often lingers on extreme close-ups of her. In dignified silence, she is able to convey a wide range of genuine emotions—fiery determination, meditative serenity, and unshakable confidence.

     The film is driven by pure emotions. The people in this film, stripped bare of all material things, experience forms of organic fear, willpower, and untainted love that are reflected by the distinctive shooting style. The handheld camera shots reflect a level of realism that I particularly appreciated. It’s not perfect; there are shots that are unorganized, blurry and sometimes even indistinguishable, but they emulate a child’s stream of consciousness and occasional feeling of disorientation.

     Hushpuppy’s universe comes crumbling down when Wink is struck with a debilitating illness. As she rushes for help, her situation is worsened when she receives news of an impending storm that threatens to flood her home. While other members of the Bathtub are quick to evacuate, Wink, despite his sickness, insists on staying, and attempts to convince some neighbors to hold their ground as well. Over night, Hushpuppy and Wink’s tiny wooden shack is rattled by the rumbling thunder and pelted by ruthless rain. When they awake in the morning, the scene is heartbreaking; the Bathtub is completely swamped. But what the post-disaster Bathtub lacks in material luxuries is made up for in incontestable solidarity and teeming spirit. An unspoken social contract and a strong sense of ownership bind the group together.

     “The whole universe depends on everything fitting together just right,” Hushpuppy says. Even without a formal education, she has a penetrating intuition that is well beyond her years. She also has an uncanny connection with any and all living beings and spends her time constantly pondering and deciphering their heartbeats. Her constant search for patterns and sense in the universe align with her acceptance of her father’s ailing condition. In this journey, she is lead towards self-awareness and responsibility, self-reliance and identity.

     The entire film resolves in a beautiful and magical metaphor. The Beast of the Southern Wild is manifested in many different forms throughout the film. It is the melting icecaps of the South Pole that submerge the Bathtub under water. It is the awakened Auroch, a ruthless mythical creature that comes for you the moment it smells weakness. By the end of the film, it is Hushpuppy that emerges as the Beast of the Southern Wild, the King of the Bathtub—steadfast, independent, and strong. 

Attack On Titan: The Preservation and Destruction of Social Order (Yasmine)

A society is typically formed by a group of individuals interconnected by shared values, norms, and culture.  Members of a society maintain social order by reinforcing established customs to keep its members in check and ensure stability.  In the emotionally charged Japanese anime, Attack on Titan, humanity struggles to keep its society in tact as humanoid giants called Titans relentlessly devour humans, forcing mankind to hide behind fifty-meter walls to save themselves from extinction. In the beginning of the series, the idealistic protagonist, Eren Yeager dreams of a free life outside the walls, contradicting the mores of his society which prefers a life of containment to certain death.  The barriers which humans have erected to escape annihilation become both a sanctuary and a prison for the kingdom, signifying society’s propensity toward social constraint and fear of that which disrupts social order.

The three walls: Wall Maria, Rose, and Sina exemplify the way in which societies rely on social structure for stability and containment of its members. The story’s narrator explains that since its creation not a single Titan has been able to infiltrate Wall Maria, thus inspiring social tranquility.  With its immense height and enduring structure made of solid stone, the one-hundred-year-old wall epitomizes permanence and security. An aerial view of the Zhiganshina District enclosed in Wall Maria reveals a somewhat medieval society with an organized collection of homes and markets.  The carefree social interactions amongst the townspeople, the trading of goods in the market, presence of families, children playing, and a laid back police force give evidence to the sense of peace and stability humanity experiences within the walls.  In contrast, the outside world and the Titans who rampage in it are equated with chaos and cultural genocide.

The Titans’ place on the fringe of society, their incomprehensibly monstrous behavior, as well as their unorthodox appearance makes them the antithesis of civilization and societal control. Though the Titans resemble bipedal humanoids, their gargantuan size, nudity, and deformity immediately sets them apart from the civilized humans inside the walls. Despite shambling about aimlessly in groups, the Titans do not conform to any preconception of a uniformly functioning community. The Titans’ zeal for devouring people and wiping out humanity for no discernable reason makes them a hideous blight on human progress and a potential disruption of social order. Since Titans do not need to consume people to sustain their own existence, humanity assumes the Titans’ singular motivation is the eradication of human life and culture. With Titans possessing neither a complex language system, nor a means of governing themselves their actions are unpredictable and symbolically anarchistic. In this sense Titans are more than just a threat to human lives; the terror they instill jeopardizes the social glue that keeps society from falling apart.  The Titans’ resemblance to humans makes their murderous actions more disturbing, suggesting that without social control and stability the illusion of peace would falter and humanity would succumb to an existence of endless conflict and violence amongst its own members. To spare society from the Titans’ negative influence, humanity heavily guards what is left of its customs, placing an exaggerated emphasis on the necessity for containment within the walls to keep curious members from the lawless world beyond.

Although the three walls surrounding this human civilization safeguard the communities from the uncivilized outside world, they also imprison them, limiting their perceptions. The dynamics of the insular kingdom demonstrate how the walls are heavily embedded within the social structure of humanity’s sequestered survivors. A priest travels the districts of Wall Rose shouting praises and personifying the wall as though it were a savior and a god, exhibiting the wall’s influence on the citizens’ religious and cultural life. It becomes evident that any mention of life beyond the wall is considered culturally taboo when Eren’s friend Armin expresses a desire for humanity to explore territories outside the wall and is consequently harassed by a group who accuses him of heresy. This shaming ritual and other methods of social correction: such as ridicule and shunning perpetuate an isolationist mentality, a fear of change, and a dangerously irrational optimism. As Eren says, humanity’s fear of the outside world has made it like “ignorant cattle” merely “surviving” but unable to live or control the terms of its existence.  Like cattle the inhabitants of Wall Maria were unprepared for the slaughter.

The sudden appearance of the first 60-meter “Colossal Titan” looming menacingly over the wall literally paralyzes society, as citizens of Wall Maria stand still and helpless beneath the Titan’s powerful gaze.  With a mighty kick, the Colossal Titan breaks the barrier, instantly mangling the carefully constructed society. As citizens scramble to escape the horde of Titans, homes, families, and social order are destroyed as Wall Maria crumbles. This indicates humanity's lack of control, the inevitability of change, and society’s need to adapt to it. Once again humans must flee the Titans; the “humiliation of being kept in a cage” intensifies as they retreat to the more confining inner walls, desperately seeking structure which, like Wall Maria, has fallen apart almost beyond repair. In order to save themselves, the people must learn to accept and face the threat of the Titans head on if they ever hope to reclaim what they have lost. 

Stroszek: Truth and Power (Steven)

Stroszek, Werner Herzog's 1977 tragic comedy, concerns the lives of three friends: Bruno, a street musician; Eva, a prostitute; and Scheitz, an older retiree. It begins with Bruno's release from prison in Berlin and an attack from Eva's pimps and tracks the friends as they try to make a new life in Wisconsin, where Bruno becomes employed with Scheitz's nephew Clayton. While Scheitz is an old eccentric, Bruno comes across as innocent (in both the usual sense and the more archaic meaning of mentally ill), if we can ignore the inherent ridiculousness of using that term to describe an alcoholic who has lived through prison and learned how to get by as an accordion player in Berlin's grimy squares. Eva has a more average outlook, but as the bills in Wisconsin pile up she becomes increasingly apathetic and depressed, spending many of her shots eating on the bed or couch or being forced back into her old job as prostitute. The hopeless defiance with which she thrusts one of their last payments at the man who collects their bills contrasts harshly with the happiness we saw when she got the money for the trip to America. Both of these sums come from what seems like the only way the impoverished friends can make any upward strides against their debts: Eva's prostitution. Bruno certainly never appears to make much money at all, and it's possible Clayton is underpaying him.

In Stroszek, Herzog explores the boundary between truth and fiction in an unusual way. While he implements many documentary-like techniques, such as a lack of saturation, a quick and low-budget shooting, a cast of non-professional actors who often play as themselves, an impartial, almost indifferent gaze, and a tarnished, peeling-paint realism, the plot is bizarre and dream-like and the characters, especially Bruno and Scheitz, bring with them an atmosphere of unpredictability. This juxtaposition lets a bleak film double as a very watchable comedy. In one scene, Scheitz walks along a grain-surrounded fence, testing the wood with a voltmeter. He comes across two American hunters and asks, in German, whether he can test a strange theory about “animal magnetism”. The bemusement we share with the hunters, who react naturally (and were probably not actors), is what makes the scene so humorous. They play along, not understanding German, but we know that even if they did it wouldn't matter since Scheitz's theory is so incomprehensible.

A Farm in Wisconsin. Licensed under CC at wikimedia commons.

When viewing Stroszek as a documentary, we naturally search for a slant. The most obvious one is its indictment, perhaps not of capitalism itself, but of its tendency to build and reinforce income and power inequalities. To build upon this premise, Herzog inverts many of the promises of America and wealth. The friends' tragic arc is a sad shadow of the American dream, and the predatory tendencies brought about by power are revealed through pimps' harassment, through an immigration office's confiscation of Bruno's bird (which occurs off-screen and gives Bruno yet another darkly funny line), and through the gleam from the gold rings of a painfully apologetic “man from the bank”. The auction, a staple representative of citizens' purchasing power, acts as a ruthless reminder of these cruelties. Rather than the fine art or antiques auctions so often portrayed in film, this one is for the humble prefabricated house on which Bruno and Scheitz have been unable to keep up with the payments. As the auction ends, Bruno walks aimlessly backwards with his usual inscrutable expression, homeless, while dogs cross the scene looking for food or attention. It's winter still and everything is a dull brown smeared with white and the trees are leafless against the drab sky. 

So Many Firsts (Ingrid)

    

    There’s nothing glossy about The Charles Theater. Look up, and you’ll see exposed rafters and piping. Look left and right, and you’ll see water-damaged brick walls, worn-out furniture, and antiquated film equipment. The decorations—the larger-than-life sized penguin statue and the smaller-than-life sized stuffed leopard donning sunglasses—do not make much sense. The Charles is not glamorous; it doesn’t pander. Its aura suggests history. It’s authentic, it’s simple; it exists for quality film.

    Last weekend was a weekend of firsts for me. I did something I do, well, never. I ventured beyond the Hopkins bubble and dabbled in the Baltimore film community. I regret not having done so earlier. In fact, this was my first real theater experience in Baltimore (a pathetic confession from a Film and Media Studies major).

    How coincidental that on a weekend of firsts for me, I chose to watch a movie all about firsts. The Spectacular Now (2013), directed by James Ponsoldt, centers around Sutter Keely (played by Miles Teller) and Aimee Finecky (played by Shailene Woodley), two seniors in high school, who, during this limbo period of life, find each other. The film highlights their coming-of-age events: Aimee’s first sip of alcohol, her first time having sex, Sutter’s first encounter with his estranged dad, his first identity crisis, and their first tastes of independence and responsibility, their first experience with true love. But it’s not a perfect love. Sutter is far from sure about a single aspect of his life. His relationship with Aimee is no exception. His confusion is one we all can remember; a confusion we’ve all resolved at some point in our lives in the same way Sutter does—with the motto, “living in the now.” It’s a naiveté everyone can relate to.

    At every stage in life, your perception of time is constantly morphing. During childhood, every day is a countdown to the next birthday, the first day of school, the next performance, musical recital, or little-league game. When it comes time for high school, you anticipate new things. Life becomes measured by part-time jobs, by proms, by relationships. But at the same time, your life begins to feel like a waiting game, qualified by the impending reality of college and of the future. “I don’t see what’s so great about being an adult. Are you happy?” Sutter says to his geometry teacher, who is reprimanding him on his failure to perform in class. It’s a strange thing to have to accept—to have to grow up and learn when things like high school geometry seem inapplicable to real world situations.

    A big part of what makes this film so convincing is the casting. Sutter Keely and Aimee Finecky look like us. They could have easily been in our high school class. Shailene Woodley is not made-up. Her long, unkempt hair is tied up messily for half the film; her clothing is bland, and almost always wrinkled. On top of that, her performance is believable. In tight close-ups, we notice every slight change in expression. We see her nervous eyes darting around, every spasm in her cheeks, her insecure gestures; we hear the uncertainty in her voice, her timid giggles between sentences. Our heart goes out to Aimee when we discover her dad passed away from a drug overdose and she works six days a week running a paper route for her mother to pay half the bills. Despite her dreams of moving to Philadelphia and attending college there, she is pressured to stay at home to help support her family. The overall depiction is stunningly real.

    Opposite Aimee, is Sutter, a character who I found extremely interesting. At eighteen, he is still a boy in every sense of the word. His carefree youth is apparent: his baby cheeks, his acne, his voice cracks, his early and irresponsible predilection for whiskey. He comes from a broken family; a home where his mom works double-shifts and keeps any information about his missing dad and the divorce away from him. Despite this, Sutter has an adolescent cockiness, an easy-going, class-clown attitude that makes him undeniably charming. It’s intriguing because he puts on this devil-may-care, invincible façade and yet is arguably the most clueless, troubled, and emotional character in the film. He avoids conversations about the future at all costs. It takes an unlikely companionship with Aimee and an eye-opening encounter with his dad to help him find direction.

    One particularly touching scene for me is the long take of Aimee and Sutter’s conversation through the woods. Their stream of consciousness conversation begins innocent but deepens, as they share their hindered desires and unstable familial relationships. It develops into a beautifully natural and awkward exchange about their experiences with relationships and ends with their first kiss. This stereotypically epic and pivotal moment is instead, portrayed with subtlety, composed of only diegetic sounds and crafted in a way that doesn’t linger or exaggerate. This is one of the many sweet and true moments of the film.

    The emotional climax is when Sutter reconnects with his long-lost dad. Sutter’s hopes are high. His idolization of his dad manifests in a built-up fantasy based on all the good memories from his childhood. The meeting, however, is disappointing from the start. When Sutter shows up at his dad’s shabby condo, a disheveled, unshaven, tapped-out man answers the door. Sutter’s dad openly forgets that they had made plans over the phone and appears unexcited to be reunited with his son. It only goes downhill from there. Their conversation continues at a local bar, where his dad remains uninterested the whole time. When Sutter asks about what went wrong with his parents’ marriage, his dad admits to having cheated and having left voluntarily. To make matters worse, Sutter’s dad justifies by saying, “I don’t live in the past, I live in the now.” In that jarring moment, Sutter realizes his dad is a selfish, unmotivated washup. Sutter sees his own life mantra, “living in the now,” play out abysmally in a man he had admired throughout his childhood. In learning about his past and reconstructing a more accurate image of his dad, Sutter is finally able to yank himself out of complacency.

    The Spectacular Now was like chicken noodle soup—soothing and comforting in a way very few romantic dramas and comedies have been for me. It was a complete departure for the string of meaningless, unwitty, unrealistic movies of this genre that have plagued theaters in the past few years. For a jaded viewer, it is a breath of fresh air—pure, genuine, and inspiring. Above all, this movie was perhaps the first time in a while I have felt this strong of a connection to the characters. I came out of the movie thinking, “they understand; someone understands.” And maybe that’s because it speaks to something that’s still fresh in my memory; I only have two years between high school and right now. But I think on some level, everyone can look back and relate to The Spectacular Now. It’s real characters, real dialogue, and real circumstances appeal to a universal experience. 

From Mother to Monster: The Burden of Motherhood and the Perversion of a Household in An American Crime (Yasmine)

The film An American Crime (2007) portrays the horrific abuse of sixteen-year-old Sylvie Likens by her temporary caretaker Gertrude Baniszewski in a small Indiana town circa 1966. Although it dramatizes testimonies from the actual court case reflecting on the events leading up to Sylvie’s torture and murder, the depiction of Sylvie’s anguish, though potent, does not propel the story forward. Instead the film focuses its lens on the middle-aged Gertrude, examining her evolution from an overburdened mother to a monster. Though the 1960s “was a time of deep cultural changes altering the role of women in American society”^[1] the primary goal of a mother was to assume the role of caregiver to her children, cultivating an environment of emotional stability and security for the members of her household “amidst the pressures of modern life.^[2] Gertrude’s frustration with her deteriorating household and inability to escape the unfortunate circumstances of poverty and single-motherhood in her homebound life are evident in the film’s mise-en-scene and manifest themselves in her megalomania which ultimately leads to the captivity and degradation of a helpless girl.    

The confining atmosphere surrounding Gertrude throughout An American Crime illustrates her imprisonment within her role as a single mother and within the physical manifestation of the home sphere. In the midst of a chaotic and shallow living space—children running around, bills scattered next to bottles of pills and alcohol—Gertrude tirelessly irons in the corner of the room denoting an unstable home life as well as a constant struggle of working without the regular support of an archetypal male breadwinner. Whether she is managing her seven children, supporting her twenty-something-year old ex-lover, Andy, or doing menial housework to make a living, Gertrude rarely occupies the outside world, signifying the ways in which her daily routine binds her to the house. Even when outside the house, Gertrude’s presence often seems crowded by the multitude of children who tend to occupy more physical space in the composition than she does in several shots. Andy also serves as a contrast to Gertrude’s limited lifestyle as he seems able to traverse between home life and the freedoms of the outside world; though he may on rare occasion visit Gertrude’s world, his visits are brief, destructive, and lacking the responsibility indicative of an ideal father figure.

The tight framing of Gertrude’s close-up shots and the way in which her clothing blends in with the peeling wallpaper and dingy furniture further emphasizes her inseparable connection to her house, which has become central to her identity. A high-angle long shot in which Gertrude lies crying on the couch, partially consumed by darkness and dwarfed by the furnishings in her home, reveals the hopelessness of her situation. In essence, Gertrude has few options and her life does not belong to her; instead she belongs to her household, for which she sacrifices everything to keep her tentative home life from ruin. Though the house may be Gertrude’s prison, it is also the realm in which she can maintain an illusion of order and control.

 The ambiance inside the Baniszewski house darkens as Gertrude's fears of inadequacy and helplessness reach a peak. Gertrude’s monstrous transition becomes apparent as her face is increasingly obscured by the deep shadows and she transforms into a tyrannical, dark force.  Only after she percieves Sylvie to be a threat to her dysfunctional family and most importantly to her facade of control, does Gertrude makes it her mission to subdue Sylvie's agency.In a scene moments before she intensifies her abuse of Sylvie, Gertrude looms above her in a two-shot and asks her children “Who’s in charge?”—a rhetorical question meant to affirm her dominance. Gertrude is no longer the picture of frailty and despair, but rather the judge and jury of her household. The children prove their acquiescence to Gertrude's sovereignity in a reverse shot, with their undivided attention, staring unblinkingly at their mother. Whereas Gertrude limits the mobility of her children using verbal commands and intimidation, she treats Sylvie as little more than an object, pushing and pulling her about the house. By contrast Gertrude’s mobility increases as a previously static camera follows her about in a more loosely framed tracking shot, indicating that she draws strength from Sylvie's oppression and the children’s submission.

When Sylvie is tied up and confined to a dark room, where she endures a long process of dehumanization--literally becoming a fixture of the house--she loses posession of her life in the same way that Gertrude has. With every mark of Gertrude's discipline Sylvie's body becomes the canvas of  Gertrude's shame and failings as a mother.  Ironically, the violent and oppresive means by which Gertrude “[keeps] her family together” and “holding [their] heads high,” secretly shames and pervert her household with monstrosity unbefitting the ideal structure of family life. 

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[1] “The 1960s: A Decade of Change For Women” U.S. News 12 March 2010

[2] "Marriage and Family" American Decades: 1960-1969 Ed. Vincent Tompkins. Vol. 7. Gale Cengage 1994  eNotes.com 8 Sep, 2013