HopkinsCinemAddicts

The End of Production (Josh)

    We only had two days of principal photography left on “Lotus Eyes.”  Day one would be back at Greenridge State Forest near Cumberland and day two would be at Catoctin Mountain Park in Thurmont, Maryland.  

    On Monday, we woke up at 4 AM to make it to Greenridge early in the morning.   We had only two scenes to complete that day, but both of them were complicated.  First, we had a scene where the protagonist attempts to cook a dead mouse over a fire, but fails, dropping the mouse inside the flames and charring it beyond edibility.  On set, we immediately faced the problem of the color of the mouse (purchased as frozen snake food from a pet store), which we unfortunately neglected to think of beforehand.  The pet store product was a bright, white mouse, not one that would ever live in a forest such as Greenridge.  Abby Harri, our makeup artist, ingeniously used a combination of products to color the mouse brown.  She did this on three mice. Once we started shooting, we ran into a more complicated problem, fire.  The biggest issue we faced during that scene was the continually changing look of the flames.  The height, the intensity, and the smokiness looked entirely different between almost every take, making it nearly impossible for any of the shots of the scene to have proper continuity of action.   We spent almost 8 hours on this one scene alone, and did technically completed it, but ultimately cut it from the final edit.   The logistical issues led to it being a very poor scene.

    Next, we traveled about an hour within the forest to the final location at Greenridge, an abandoned Juvenile Boys Camp in the middle of the woods.  This striking visual would be the final shot of the film.  Everything seemed ready to go, but then the rain started.  Immediately, we all took cover in one of the abandoned buildings, but panic struck.  What if the rain did not stop before we lost light?   We began talking anxiously amongst ourselves about when we could all come back to Greenridge to make up the day.  Eventually however, the rains stopped and we ran out and did the final shot before the skies opened up again.  

    The last day at Catoctin went very well although it was the most intense day of the production in terms of scheduling, with the largest number of setups.  Luckily though, we successfully completed our scheduled scenes.  As we drove home the last night, exhausted, it felt like a great burden had been lifted.  As those who do film productions often experience however, post production often presents its own unique set of challenges and we would soon find out that this film would be no exception.

Colors and Visuals in Catching Fire (Elizabeth)

    The Hunger Games series is generally not subtle when it comes to its symbolism. It satirizes celebrity culture and the glorification of violence in the media by pushing it to its logical extreme, with even the name of the country, “Panem,” referring to the old Roman phrase meaning “bread and circuses.” Everything the people see on television is a lie designed to make them easier to control, and every person onscreen is being controlled and manipulated. When Francis Lawrence took over directing for the franchise with Catching Fire, he chose to weave this satire into every shot with his formal choices, including some very specific and consistent color symbolism.

    The colors of the film are strongly and consistently symbolic. For the most part, the palette is muted. Especially in the poor, oppressed District 12, dull grays and blacks and washed out blues are the norm. By contrast, the corrupt, decadent Capitol is full of garish, striking, ever-changing colors. The exception is a pure, bright white, which serves to illustrate the violence and authority of the Capitol. The evil president, meaningfully named Snow, always wears and distributes white roses. These roses turn up whenever the Capitol makes a move against Katniss and her allies, such as subtly decorating the edges of the chariot as she and Peeta ride to their second Games. The peacekeepers, the oppressive and violent police force, wear white—there is even a scene where the lax local officers, who wear grey under their uniforms, are arrested and replaced with vicious Capitol newcomers wearing only white. And, of course, there is the scene where Katniss burns away a white wedding dress to reveal a gray mockingjay gown underneath, revealing her rebellion to the world.

    Other colors carry other layers of significance. Purple always occurs when a Capitol character is making a show of power and waste, notably the president’s tacky purple house where he holds lavish galas full of powerful citizens. There, Peeta is offered a purple drink to make him vomit so that he can eat more. Purple is the color of the suits and dyed hair of the Games announcers as they make sending subjects to die into a fun spectacle. Effie plans for gold to be the color of team solidarity, but it is instead present whenever Katniss is manipulated by her allies, with Haymitch’s gold bangle as the proof that he made plans with Finnick behind her back and Peeta hiding family photos in his gold locket to try to get Katniss to abandon him. Orange, the innocent Peeta’s favorite color, finds its way into the story via the titular fire that symbolically burns away the old regime and the history of oppression. It is the color most closely associated with Katniss’s personal strength and her own ways of rebelling, whether with her dresses or the burning remains of the arena after she destroys it.

    Color is not the only prominent stylistic choice that Lawrence makes—his quick, sudden cuts emphasize Katniss’s lack of control and he illustrates the censored, artificial nature of the Games’ world by having Johanna’s swears bleeped out, and he wisely ditched the distracting shaky cam of the first film which activated at the merest hint of violence to give the viewer a more direct and brutal look at the action. The visual is a strong theme in the movie, from the benevolent painting ability of Peeta to the many manipulations of the Games and the propaganda on camera. By giving his colors such a strong visual coding, Lawrence embraces the artifice that the film so criticizes and gives the viewer the tools to recognize it for what it is. The viewer must learn to see the artificiality and hidden meanings in the films for himself, lest he be caught and deceived in the same manner as the people of Panem.

Why Can't a Documentary Win "Best Picture"? Looking to the industry’s most unappreciated genre (Ian)

ACT I: Speaking of which, what does "Best" Picture even mean?

If nobody’s said this to you yet, let me be the first to welcome you to Oscar season.  If you're a movie fan of any degree you're probably somewhat familiar with the award ceremony--theoretically, the awards represent the highest honor filmmakers and film talents can achieve in the industry. Meryl Streep has three trophies. Celebs get dressed up. They laugh. They cry. They aren’t allowed to drink alcohol. They receive lavish gift bags. Everyone leaves happy, even the losers (unless you’re Eddie Murphy, but is that guy ever happy?).

First things first: I am addicted to the Oscars.  No, really.  I stuff winners of Best Picture/Director/Actor/Actress/Screenplay (original and adapted) into my little brain.  Oh wait, you didn't win an Oscar?  You were only nominated for one?  No problem, I've probably memorized that about you, too (the Ghyllenhaals/Michelle Williams/Amy Adams/Mark Wahlberg/Julianne Moore/Annette Bening/Joaquin Pheonix/P.T. Anderson/David Fincher/need I go on?).  Seriously, memorizing these actually uses up a lot of my time, people.

At the same time, I recognize the Oscars for what they are: a self-indulgent system devised by Hollywood for Hollywood, the industry’s way of keeping the big films big, and the little films little.  Truthfully, winning an Oscar nowadays is not so much an "honor" as it is a political rat-race, with producers like the Weinstein brothers routinely dominating the competition because...well....they out-promote their adversaries, and produce films designed to win Oscars.

Okay, now let's think about that last statement for a second: how can one "design" a film to win an Oscar?  Good question.  I don't want to detract from the main purpose of the article, but it is a point worth examining, so we’ll do so quickly.  Here’s how you win an Oscar:

-Best Actor:  Are you above forty, and did you play a real-life person?  Sounds good to us.

-Best Actress: Are you hot and under forty?  Is your character struggling with mental illness?  OR, did you play a real-life inspirational female?  Sweet.

-Best Supporting Actor/Actress: Did you undergo a physical change for your role?  Are you a beloved character actor that delivered a semi-powerful dramatic performance?  Are you Christoph Waltz? Enjoy your trophy.

-In order to win Best Picture, you need to be epic in scope.  No one is quite sure what the Academy means by "epic", and indeed their definition seems to be quite fluid.  Oh, and the films should be inspirational, and preferably have happy endings.  Bonus points if it focuses on a real-life person.  Films with darker tones/blood/sex need not apply (with the occasional anomaly--No Country for Old Men, Midnight Cowboy).

Interestingly, however, if the Academy hasn't changed their preference for "Best Picture" winners, it has become more liberal in what films they'll nominate for best picture.  Increasingly, animated films are entering the "Best Picture conversation", along with films that blatantly value technical achievement over all other filmic aspects (ie Avatar and, unfortunately, the heinous Gravity).

Yet, while animation and techie films are now allowed "in the club", how many documentaries have been nominated for Best Picture, ever?  Zero.  Yup, zero.

Let's take a look at why this might be:

 

ACT II: Is it something we said?  Is it Michael Moore?

I have a semi-private list of my Top 100 films--obviously the list is inherently subjective and prone to frequent change, however the very top films tend to remain the same.  As of early 2013, however, I made a significant change to the list.  Why?  Because I saw a documentary by unknown filmmaker Joshua Oppenheimer, The Act of Killing.

And it rocked my world.  It didn't just place in my top 100; it placed at #3.

Netflix now screens the film, so don’t walk, run to your streaming device and watch it.  The film is at once horrifying, entrancing, and eye-opening.  It was, without a doubt, not only one of the best films of 2013, but also the most important film I saw that year--and maybe ever.  I don't want to give too much of the plot away, but in brief: the documentary examines the government sanctioned mass murderers of supposed communists in 1960’s Indonesia, focusing in particular on the head honcho behind the killings, Anwar Congo.  Oppenheimer gives Congo and some of his fellow gangsters filmmaking equipment with which they can recreate their “heroic conquests”.  First Anwar and his groupies are nothing short of horrifying.  Then, however, as the film continues Anwar becomes shockingly human.  The film makes evil human.  The film gives evil a face.

If it were up to me, The Act of Killing wouldn't have just won “Best Documentary" (it didn’t, losing to the far less compelling Twenty Feet from Stardom), as that prize simply wouldn’t have done the film justice.  I would have give it the mother of all prizes, "Best Picture".  And yet, there was never a chance of the Academy handing their major award over to Oppenheimer’s masterpiece. This sad truth begs the question: why is the documentary viewed as an inherently “lesser” genre to fictional narratives?  I have a few thoughts:

1) People don't realize how sophisticated documentaries have become formally and stylistically.  The Act of Killing is a documentary, yet it feels like fiction because of its subject matter and, perhaps more importantly, its presentation.  Formally, Killing works like a narrative because Oppenheimer doesn’t simply sit back and observe his subjects or collect data, but rather because he intervenes with the world of his film in order to spur observation.  Scientists are interested in watching a mouse to see if he can learn the route that leads him to cheese--not so much just because the scientists like seeing the mouse run.  Perhaps that’s why the 1975 Grey Gardens also watches like a fiction more than a traditional documentary--the Maysles brothers famously and controversially interacted with their delusional subjects in order to trigger and capture some of their most disturbing behavior.  By laying the foundation for an interesting documentary without necessarily compromising the integrity of their observations, filmmakers are starting to produce documentary works that entertain as much as they inform.  Alas, people haven’t noticed this trend, because most people don't watch documentaries, because everyone still thinks that watching a documentary is like watching March of the Penguins.  

People seemed to like March of the Penguins when it was first released, but in no universe was the film cherished.  And why should it be?  It comes across like an extended Animal Planet feature, meaning its sole mission is informative in nature.  And people don't want to be "informed" when they go to the movies; movie making 101 says that audiences want to escape into the picture.  The documentary doesn't change us like fiction films can.  Now, however, with The Act of Killing, or Leviathan, documentaries are an escape.  They take us to a different world--only after the credits roll does the audience remember, either with joy or horror, that what they've just seen is real.  If anything, I think that this realization would make the content of the film more affecting than any tear-jerking narrative biopic.

2) Documentaries still advertise like...documentaries:  this one is pretty self-explanatory:  go to The Godfather’s Wikipedia page and look at the poster used as the page’s profile picture. Now do the same for The Act of Killing.  Judging purely by the films’ posters, which movie would you rather see? (Note: apologies, I am not allowed to post the pictures on CinemAddicts myself, due to university policy. Guess you’ll just have to toughen up and do this the hard way.)

If you answered that you’d rather see The Godfather, you’re right.  The posters used for The Act of Killing aren't ugly; personally, I find them aesthetically appealing.  However, the posters just...don't tell us anything about the film.  They don't provide us with any sense of tone, of narrative, or of what the audience can expect.  And, especially in this economy, people aren't going to spend $12 on a movie they know nothing about.  Meanwhile, while The Godfather's poster is minimalistic and dark, these qualities are purposeful, and give the viewer a sense of tone and atmosphere before they even see the movie.

Now type into Google Images “Jay Shaw Mondo print the act of killing” and look at the first image that comes up.  The image shows a limited edition print of an alternate poster for Killing, designed by Jay Shaw and sold by Mondo a while back.

Now THIS is a poster worthy of the film.  Just as The Godfather's poster, even with its startling minimalism, sets the tone for the film, so does Shaw's Killing print.  Sure, the bloody image of Anwar Congo’s face may alienate mothers who were considering viewing the film; but it's going to attract a WHOLE lot of other people who like crime/thriller/psychological drama films.  And trust me, that trade off is worth it.  My mom doesn't like movies much, anyways.

3) Most importantly, advertising in a way that punctuates style would have aided Oppenheimer's Killing to enter a conversation; ironically, emphasizing style over substance in the film’s promotional materials probably would’ve worked better to quickly pique interest within the population  The print has a story to show, not observations to tell.  And only when films enter conversations do they generate awards buzz--and only once buzz is generated can a film garner the attention of good ol' Oscar.

Act III: Does it matter?

Does winning Best Picture matter?  No.  Plenty of great films (Shame, Martha Marcy May Marlene, Inside Llewyn Davis, The Honeymoon Killers, even Rosemary's Baby) have been largely or completely ignored by the Academy.  But passing over some deserving fictions doesn't matter as much as passing over deserving documentaries, because every fiction genre has an audience that is going to see the film, no matter if the Academy likes it or not.  But the documentary?  Not so much.  Sure, it might win "Best Documentary", but that simply keeps it pegged as the very thing people aren’t that interested in seeing: a documentary.  In order to give the documentary a now much-deserved image boost, one must break down the barrier that documentaries are simply "documentaries", not "pictures."  Because trust me, documentaries now give us pictures that are worth consuming and loving.

The Remainder of the First Week (Josh)

    Film shoots are always unpredictable. No matter how much time spent in preproduction, things never quite go according to plan.  Greenridge State Forest, the location of our shoot, is known as a “green desert.”  What this means is that despite its rich greenery and wildlife, only a few inches of rain fall within the forest each year.  Visitors are told to ignore local weather forecasts unless an unusually large storm is approaching nearby Cumberland, Maryland.  Despite the logistical challenges posed by shooting in such a rustic environment, the fact that the area is not prone to rain provided some measure of comfort. Unfortunately, the weather forecast on Tuesday would indicate a problem.  Our production schedule dictated that we shoot the film’s lengthy, pivotal night scene on Wednesday night, a turning point, in the midpoint of the film.  The weather forecast though, warned us of an impending thunderstorm that same night.

     In order to come up with a way to finish our movie in spite of the weather, we had a late night producer meeting to carve out a new plan for the last two days of the week.  We had to figure out how to change the order of the shots required for Tuesday and Wednesday in order to ensure we can still get the what we needed regardless of the weather.  In addition, we needed to figure out a solution for bringing every car to one of the two areas in the forest least affected by potential flooding.  (Greenridge only has two paved parking areas over sixty square miles)  With both a new production schedule and multiple backup plans for evacuating the set in case of flooding, we felt ready to go.

    On Tuesday, we successfully made our day with time to spare and Wednesday gave us an incredible stroke of luck.  The new timeline had us filming a complicated scene at the top of the mountain and then the complicated campfire night sequence.  The mountain top gave us a view of the sky with perfect view of the approaching storm clouds.  Because of this, we knew when rain was coming, giving us time to temporarily stop shooting and take cover.  In the evening, it appeared that the storm had decided to hold off and we began to shoot the dialogue at the fire.  Right before the last shot, it started to rain.  We immediately covered ourselves and the equipment.  After twenty minutes of panicking about the prospect of losing one of the most important scenes in the film, a break occurred and we ran out as fast as we could to get the crucial shot.  As we made it back to Baltimore alongside the sunrise, we were exhausted but relieved.  We had our first week successfully behind us.

The Power of Observation in Rashomon (Elizabeth)

            Akira Kurosawa’s classic 1950 Rashomon is famous for its revolutionary storytelling technique. Four different people, mostly without any names or backstories, recount a murder four times. Each one’s account differs significantly, from the identity of the killer to the personality and sympathy of each participant. In the end, it is not clear exactly what is true—even the seemingly accurate and impartial account of the woodcutter is hiding his thievery. The film’s format seems to examine the power of the observer and the reliability of what can be seen.

            The first testimonies are all told in a court setting, as the law attempts to find who is guilty of the murder. However, the judge or jury are never seen or heard, even when they ask a question to one of the onscreen characters. Instead, the testifiers speak directly to the audience, with the camera in the position of a court official. It is the viewer of the film who is given the role of authority and power, who is spoken to directly and asked to make a judgment. However, even those scenes where the audience is king are colored by the interpretations of characters. In the court scenes, the other characters can be seen in the background observing from behind, and the audience only gets to experience those scenes from the priest and the woodcutter recounting them to the commoner. As such, the viewer is constantly given third hand accounts of the murder, from known liars, but they are presented just the same as the true events taking place at the temple. The viewer as observer is given the tools to look at each account and make their own conclusions and point out contradictions, as the characters themselves do. However, they are not true observers given a window to the truth, just forced to look through people’s lies.

            The power of observation and sight are present in the accounts themselves. In his own account, the bandit Tajômaru notes that he would not have hurt the samurai or his wife had he not been able to spy her hidden face when the wind blew her veil, but the first glance was enough to fill him with resolve. In the wife’s story, she notes that it was the unforgiving gaze of her husband that made her kill him—she would have accepted violence or death, but having him merely look at her and see her shame was enough to drive her to kill. The woodcutter spied it all from afar, and was the only one to know the whole truth. He was able to use his position of observer to profit, by stealing and selling the wife’s valuable dagger. He would have gotten away freely had he not decided to create his own observer, the commoner, who noticed the contradiction in the tale and called him out on it.

            The viewer is not given a chance to see the murder for themselves—the closest account they get is a first-hand one from the woodcutter, but they go as far as the priest recounting the medium recounting the samurai’s story. Instead, they must make do with the fallible stories of the characters, who all have means and motives to lie. In the same way that we view only what a director shows us, we only get to listen to what the true witnesses choose to tell. The viewer has the power to interpret the stories and find contradictions, but unlike the commoner cannot call the character out on their lies. We cannot see the murder directly, but may observe the film itself and use that for our own judgments. Even then, as we are not true witnesses we cannot change a thing or ever be sure.