HopkinsCinemAddicts

Director to Watch: Taika Waititi (Faith)

New Zealand director Taika Waititi first appeared on American screens in 2004, when he received an Oscar nomination for his short film Two Cars, One Night. In his signature comedic style, the filmmaker made an impression on audiences by feigning sleep as the nominees were read. In the years following this auspicious start, Waititi’s career in New Zealand has exploded, with his films becoming some of the country’s most successful. This year, his work will be returning to the American film scene in a form I find as unlikely as it is dangerous: as the Marvel Studios blockbuster, Thor: Ragnarok. Waititi’s directorial style is strikingly unique, especially when compared to the typical American superhero flick. The stories Waititi tells are small and relatively simple, following short and meaningful episodes in the lives of ordinary people. His second feature film, Boy (2010, US release: 2012) is both the director’s most masterful film to date, and an embodiment of all these qualities that seem so incompatible with the Marvel model.

Boy is, at its core, a film about reconciliation. The story, set in 1984, follows 11 year-old “Boy” and his troubled relationship with a long-absent father who has returned to their home in the New Zealand countryside after serving a prison sentence. The coming-of-age story avoids cliché simply through its authenticity–something that comes in part from Waititi’s personal experiences growing up in New Zealand. The film finds the difficult meeting point of immaturity and maturity and presents this juncture in a way that feels wonderfully true; full of both pain and humor.

Through both plot and visuals, the film equates maturity with the acceptance of difficult truths and immaturity with fantasy. Truths press at the characters–and the audience–from every angle; among them, the truths that mothers will die, fathers will hit their children, and people will ostracize those who are different from them. Boy’s younger brother, Rocky, acts as the film’s personification of youthful innocence, and responds to these truths with the power of his imagination. Early in the film, we see him berated by schoolchildren on a passing bus, to which he responds by raising a hand, scowling, and channeling his supposed psychic abilities to challenge them. Interspersed in the shots are images of stop-motion children’s drawings–we see Rocky’s imagined powers come to life on the page, exploding the bus. This vignette is just one example of the film’s use of fantasy, which appears again in the form of Boy’s collages, his father’s sparklers, and a dream sequence depicting his father’s fistfight with a biker gang. In these moments, we see artistry in hidden places–a stylistic choice that removes us from the linear progression of the plot but doesn’t distract from the narrative and in fact, provides a richer picture of our characters’ psychologies.

The quiet and artistic genius of Boy is what initially endeared the film to me, and that’s exactly why I worry that Waititi’s collaboration with a studio like Marvel could be disastrous. Those with even a passing knowledge of modern blockbuster films likely know that Marvel’s level of oversight is far-reaching at best, and hegemonic at worst. How could a director like Waititi, known for his unique sense of humor and whimsical, heartfelt stories, be able to develop a film that fits his own vision in this kind of environment? While I have no doubt that this will be a challenge, I have managed to find some hope for his successful foray into the world of blockbusters in his most recent film, Hunt for the Wilderpeople (2016).

When Hunt for the Wilderpeople was released last year, it quickly shattered the New Zealand box office record (a record that was being held at the time by Boy). This improvement in box office performance is just one the ways that Wilderpeople constitutes a transitional piece. In terms of content, the film balances many of Waititi’s classic characters while incorporating striking and new visual spectacle through action. The film follows its 13 year-old protagonist, Ricky, and his foster father as they traverse the New Zealand bush together, unintentionally sparking a nationwide manhunt. This synopsis reveals the most obvious similarities the film shares with Boy: both feature a young protagonist and his father figure as they grapple with the nature of their relationship. The two share thematic similarities as well, tackling issues of maturity, grief, and trauma–but it’s how these ideas are explored which leads to their stylistic differences, and, in the case of Wilderpeople, gives audiences a glimpse of how Waititi might craft an action film for a multi-billion dollar studio.

For the most part, Wilderpeople feels more fast-paced than Boy. In places where the earlier film would have made its points quietly, exploring the bittersweet truth of its deadpan humor, Wilderpeople presses forward in constant motion. This pace is paired with a sense of intensity, seen in the snappy dialogue, the skillful use of montage, and even the depth of color that characterizes the New Zealand wilderness. The film also explores this intensity through visual dynamism, constantly building tension between wide shots and close-ups of varying tone–violent, as Ricky applies mud to his face like war paint; flashy, as a young girl rides horseback in slow-motion; delightfully macabre, as childish handwriting composes a forged suicide note. The intensity and pacing, though they don’t allow for the same exploration of Waititi’s artistic abilities that audiences saw in Boy, work in service of both the nature of film’s themes on the search for family and emotional connection, as well as the narrative’s scope–this journey involves more than just a family or town, but pulls in the entire nation (and its police force). The stakes that have been built up throughout the film culminate–in typical Hollywood fashion–with a car chase. Waititi is able to use this scene for more than just its spectacle, however, and deftly weaves in crucial dialogue (both comedic and tragic), necessary characterization, and artful composition.

While Boy show the artistic height of Waititi’s abilities, Wilderpeople contains something equally exciting for his fans: a potential bridge with the world of the blockbusters. It would be foolish not to fear that Waititi’s creativity and spirit will ultimately be hidden behind the flash of big-name characters and in the overly-complex, intertwining plots of the Marvel universe. But for those more inclined to optimism, I present Hunt for the Wilderpeople as reason enough to hope that the director can overcome these obstacles and produce something genuine.

Go West!: Reenacting American Mythologies in Cinema (Gabe)

    In the course of preparing a presentation on One False Move I discovered I had too many thoughts regarding its portrayal of American cultural myths and how the film represents them to be contained within my discussion. Here is what intrigues me the most regarding the way the film operates as a critique of idealized American fantasy.

    On a macro scale, it is a darkly nostalgic pseudo-noir western film. To briefly contextualize, it’s worth noting that the female protagonist and nuevo-femme fatale, Lila, left her small-town home of Star City, to go to Los Angeles and pursue her dream of being an actress. What she found instead was a violent, cokehead boyfriend and an increasingly destructive cycle of drug fueled crime. Just this simple plotline evokes the metropolitan violence and intrigue that marks traditional noir classics, and the American idealism of the west. For Lila, Los Angeles is equivalent to a modern American frontier: a place of seemingly endless possibility for self-improvement or total destruction. When considering the facts of this backstory in connection with the film’s gory opening sequence, a brutal killing spree and robbery, the threads between this film and classic American cinematic traditions are clear to see. However, by drawing upon these archetypes the film is able to critique them.

    One of the ways the film frames these critiques is through the character Dale, as played by Bill Paxton. He is the police chief in Star City, but he dreams of being more and potentially someday joining the LAPD. He is in many ways playing the cowboy archetype, except in this film the wild frontier in need of taming is Los Angeles. The “wild west” is now an urban arena, not the wilds of the prairie. He hopes to realize the dreams of the old west colonials by making a name for himself in uncharted territories, but his dream is fantasy, and this much is obvious to everyone but himself. We see this when his wife tells the LA investigators that she “reads nonfiction” while he “watches TV.” His concept of that western ideal is shaped by fiction, much like so many actual Americans. Additionally, his casual racism towards the black characters in the film is reminiscent of the cowboy heroes of yore, except with the context of this film we can see that it is no longer acceptable in the modern world. Dale is a shadowy relic of America’s past who cannot appreciate his own anachronisms.

    The most interesting part of this to me is that his character is so fully driven by these maverick ideals that his eventual downfall is precipitated by their influence on his behavior. Instead of calling for backup to adequately bring down Ray and Pluto, he attempts to face them alone as a mythic American gunslinger would. This made me wonder in how many subtle ways fictional narratives have come to influence real ones. Obviously, Dale is a fictional character in a Hollywood film, but his obsession with the Western archetype is echoed in varying ways by many real Americans today. The myth of the frontier is one of our greatest national mythologies, and in the film, it destroys him. I couldn’t help but wonder at how much of our national psychology has been altered by the narratives we see in television and film. We are mimetic creatures by nature, and humans continually reenact and imitate things we see represented on TV, regardless of how ridiculous they might be. Falsely idealized narratives surround us and it can be extremely difficult to determine our place in the increasingly fictionalized world. In the film, Dale certainly couldn’t. Particularly within our current political climate there seems to be a concerted push to return to a past ideal in which America was great, as opposed to today. Nostalgia based fiction is insidious and destructive because it creates a tantalizing false reality which cannot be attained.

    When the film is viewed through this light, One False Move presents a surprisingly resonant societal critique of idealized cultural narrative which, unfortunately, seems more poignant by the day.

 

The Third Eye View of Avant-Garde Cinema (Mireille)

For a while now, and especially this summer, I have noticed a marked paucity of more conceptually and cinematographically intricate films. Though a smattering of movies released within the last couple of years managed to break the “typical” mold of strict continuity and predictable plots frequently evident in the traditional blockbuster, all too often new releases and their audiences are satisfied with repetitive content that is frequently vapid. Don’t get me wrong, I understand that production is most often guided by market consumption, mass appeal and economics, but I still wish that some of the more artistic and experimental films would gain more attention and possibly spark a greater interest and openness in the general population. The reason for this is that avant-garde films provide heaps of fodder for contemplation. It’s true that experimental films may sometimes defy logic in their approach to storylines or seem a little over-the-top when it comes to the cinematography, but they almost always stay with you for hours or maybe days, leaving you to contemplate for a long while on the visual experience you have just had.

Two short films that are wonderful little introductions to the world of experimental and surrealistic film are Bruce Baillie’s film Here I Am (1962) and Ben Rivers’ Ah, Liberty (2008). Both weave together the interplay between innocence, environment and identity through the eyes of children. Although each film approaches this theme with very different narratives and subject matter, in both the eerie feel and otherworldly mood is sublimely conveyed through shot composition, framing and use of sound.

Baillie’s Here I Am opens with a series of unsteady hand held shots of the tree line and horizon in a non-descript neighborhood. The presence of a distorting fog as well as the contrast between the crispness and dullness of the elements in the frame create a heightened sense of tension and anxiety. Baillie also uses a high frequency ring in this opening sequence that only adds to a growing sensation of foreboding and insecurity. In fact, you start to feel that you are entering a world that represents a separate reality. Equally discomfiting is that Baillie has yet to introduce any human element – until suddenly the camera becomes extremely personal. It literally comes face to face with a little girl on a swing. The camera allows the audience to experience the movement of the child on the swing, lulling it into a sense of peacefulness. Without warning the movement becomes extremely disorienting, and the audience catches glimpses of the child grimacing. At this point the sound has also transitioned from the eerie high frequency pitch sound to completely diegetic sound that pulls the audience into the scene. And then, Baillie forcibly shifts the audience from the emotionally laden moment by cutting to a static shot of the little girl continuing to swing. This time, however, the camera is removed from her immediate personal space. The swing and the little girl are confined to the left hand third of the frame. This change in shot removes the immediacy of the little girl as well as the detail and the emotion present in her face and replaces it with a view of her as simply another element in the frame. Now, the audience must passively accept what is happening in the environment, at once taking in the whole, but also acknowledging the restriction and oppression of the child. Welcome - you have now entered the world of avant-garde film where intensity is not merely a visceral sensation, but one in which you are transported by the camera to look at the world in a different way. The camera now functions as a “third eye” that allows you to see into the psychological makeup of the different “personas” it thrusts in front of you.  

Although Ben Rivers’ Ah, Liberty also begins with a series of shots that display only natural elements and no human subjects, Rivers shoots his beginning sequence with a static camera. His focus is on the intensity and grandeur of the natural world. Rivers chooses simply to capture any motion within the frame, while leaving the camera itself as a still component of the shot. As the film progresses, Rivers begin to incorporate the human subject, and like in Baillie’s film, these are children. However, Rivers chooses to depict children in action, rather than focusing only on facial expressions. Nonetheless, Rivers does incorporate the use of visages. In his film the children put on elaborate masks, which allow them to metamorphose into components of incredibly ornate and complex frames. By the end of the film, the children’s identities have been effaced. They simply become objects among other objects within the shots. In other words, the children have been transformed from protagonists to small informalities present in the vast landscape that Rivers depicts throughout the film. In this way, Rivers has used the camera to erase the individuality of his subjects. Rivers wants the audience to witness the nearly silent swallowing of the insignificance of the individual against the larger world.

Through their films both Baillie and Rivers attempt to convey their intent of effacing the individual. However, whereas Baillie’s cinematographic techniques pull and push us through the convulsive psyche of an innocent child by using camera movement and artificial sound, Rivers silently allows us to bear witness to the enormity of the world where the child is but one small element. Baillie erases identity by physically moving the focus away from his subject; Rivers confounds his subjects within a landscape. In very different ways, both have successfully downplayed the importance of individual identity. Both have left you questioning what your place in the world might be. So, maybe next time you have to watch some experimental work, remember that what might at first glance seem like randomly assorted artistic shots, may actually be beckoning to look at things through a new third eye.

 

August: Dukes County (Gabe)

As my summer internship came to an end, I traveled to my family’s home on Martha’s Vineyard where I planned to spend the last hours of freedom hidden from the real world. Just getting on the ferry felt like a release, and by the time I’d gotten to our small and remote cottage, I was in full-blown vacation mode. Gin and (far too much) tonic was rapidly poured into a pink glass and the quiet wrapped itself around me. Without cell service or wifi there was no way of connecting with the mainland: the racing rats of LA could not follow me. It was nice.

But after 48 hours, the quiet set in. I spent my days herding goats (actually) and my nights stretching out on the sand and enjoying my seclusion. I had some movies saved on my computer, and I finally decided to watch one I’d been avoiding. I’m not sure why it takes me so long to get around to watching certain films, but August: Osage County has been on my computer since it came out, and I hadn’t even tried to start it. Maybe my subconscious had a preemptive allergic reaction to the British actors’ half-hearted Oklahoma accents. In any event, I took my spiritual benadryl and pressed play. Here’s what I thought.

In this film, the incisive, yet drug-addicted matriarch presides deliriously over the collapse of her family, while one of her children tries to unsuccessfully hold the pieces together and limit the mother’s collateral damage. Not really anything new there, except for the scope of the depravity. The plot and structure have all the standard, recycled components of a typical, American realist production, but it attempts to differentiate itself through the size of the disaster. In most ways, it translates as a hick Long Day’s Journey into Night with roid-rage.

I was most immediately struck by the hefty imbalance between its stunning performances and surprisingly thin plotline. It felt like a series of free-flowing character studies, underpinned by a plot barely thick enough to carry its protagonists toward their inevitable emotional crises. Yet I didn’t care about any of the plot’s shortcomings, because I was watching some of the greatest actors of all time share a screen. Sam Shephard (RIP), Chris Cooper, and Margo Martindale brought the house down, along with the film’s unsung hero: Juliane Nicholson. Meryl, as everybody can assume, puts on a masterclass in dynamic play while surrounded by some of her greatest dramatic contemporaries. In fact, the only letdown of the film was Benedict Cumberbatch, whose blind stabs at talkin’ southern lived up to my uncharitable expectations.

Finally watching this film made me question why it had taken me so long to get around to it. I knew everything about the cast years ago. I love these performers, but my personal inertia had conquered my curiosity. I decided to just get around to watching good movies without delay, instead of letting preconceptions about how dark and intense the film would be keep me from its exploration. It was a long overdue resolution, and when I get around to watching 12 Years a Slave in five years I look forward to remaking it.