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An Unconventional Cut

Showing up to fourth grade picture day after a botched haircut and hearing, “What happened to your head?” from a classmate haunts me to this day, and likely will forever.  Even so, that experience pales in comparison to that of a man with no social experience and scissors for hands, thrust into a too small town of gossiping housewives and their unconcerned husbands.  Such is the fate of Edward Scissorhands.

Created in a lab, with his progenitor now deceased, Edward spends countless months alone in a gothic castle which looms over the nameless suburb.  As with many aspects of the film’s presentation, the contrast is stark and definite but not heavy handed. Completely unaware of the world outside of the castle and its beautiful gardens, tended to by Edward’s own blades, a hapless door-to-door saleswoman, Peg Boggs, stumbles in and brings him into town. 

The things which typify a suburban environment, such as pastel homes with near identical floor plans and freshly trimmed lawns, are so utterly homogenous that they only serve to unsettle.  The set design and cast of intrusive neighbors highlight societal norms which are often taken for granted, and become oppressive in their conformity.

Edward is clearly an outsider, and the nosy townsfolk take note before he can get settled.  Beyond the obvious, his face is pocked with scars from self-inflicted wounds.  In his first attempt to dress in civilian clothes, he tears them to shreds and slices clean through a pair of suspenders.  Edward is effectively an infant when it comes to etiquette and social matters, rarely speaking and often misunderstanding what is said to him.  He doesn’t even respond when referred to as Ed, likely because he fails to recognize it as a shortened version of his own name. 

In a town where your business is everyone’s business, Edward’s quirks quickly turn him into a novelty item.  He is constantly paraded around town, encouraged to give eccentric haircuts and coerced into handling the neighborhood’s gardening duties.  That is until the differences become too stark and the sheen begins to come off.  Outliers are only used as showpieces, not to be truly accepted into society.

The film doesn’t stop its critique at a community level, but brings it to a personal, familial level.  Seated around the Boggs’ family’s dinner table, Mr. Boggs poses an ethical question to Edward, concerning what he should do if he stumbled upon an unmarked briefcase full of money.  With childlike charm, Edward claims he would like to give it to his friends, but Mr. Boggs, is quick to remark that the proper thing to do is to take it straight to the authorities.  Kim, the family’s daughter and Edward’s crush, speaks up for Edward.  It is one of the many instances in which we see the personal good compared to the common good, and individual desires set against public expectations.

There are further questions prompted concerning spirituality, as well as the contrast between the organic and the artificial.  Edward is a manmade construct, and despite his stunted social nature, he possesses all interior aspects of a human.  He clearly feels love, sorrow, and shame, yet the religious zealot in town curses him and calls for a return from whence he came.  It is difficult, if not impossible, to say what defines a human, but it is a question which the film doesn’t hesitate to bring up.

Despite its weighty nature, the film does not take itself too seriously and is full of enchanting moments.  In a tender encounter between Edward and Kim, she tells him, “Hold me,” to which he replies, “I can’t.”  It is a dismal scene which highlights Edward’s own defects, but in a self-aware, lighthearted manner.  It is moments such as these, in which abnormality and empathy are married, that the film works best – and there are plenty.

As always, Tim Burton beautifully places the mad, strange, and misunderstood at the forefront of the story, doing so in his signature style, which despite its bright colors and eccentric costumes retains a peculiar authenticity.  Edward Scissorhands is far from your traditional heartwarming Christmas story, but it is an endearing tale which will resonate with the insecurities in all of us.

Redemption or Damnation in Bruges

Martin McDonagh’s first feature film, In Bruges, strikes a fine balance of morbidity and comedy. A creeping introduction acquaints the viewer with the town’s looming medieval structures, gothic figures, and moonlit canals. Characters often claim that “it is like a fairytale,” and they are not at all wrong. However, while Bruges makes for a fantastic setting, the film’s reason for taking place here is far from pleasant.

Two Irish hitmen have hunkered down in a local inn to keep a low profile after a job gone wrong. They await further instructions from their short-tempered boss, Harry. The first hitman, Ray, is a brash young man, juxtaposed against his more cultured and experienced colleague, Ken. While Ken is dead set on exploring the town’s cultural offerings, Ray is determined to do anything but; his head sits deep in the folds of his coat, arms crossed and fingers fidgeting, constantly looking for an excuse to be anything but sober. Ray’s first job had been a few days earlier and the way it plays out makes his demeanor understandable.

Having been sent to kill a priest, Ray sits in the confessional, outwardly proclaims his motives, and emerges with gun in hand. He then riddles the father’s body with a barrage of bullets. As the man collapses a young boy is revealed behind him, caught by a stray bullet. Scrawls on a bloodstained note reveal the boys sins, carefully prepared for confession: “1) Being moody / 2) Being bad at maths / 3) Being sad.” As with many scenarios in the film, McDonagh does well to deliver a distillation of humanity, complete with all of its absurdity and sorrow. There is an evocation of the near incomprehensible feeling which is the coupling of the comic and the hollow.

The separation of youth and age is clear throughout the film, beginning with the stark contrast in both demeanor and appearance of the two hitmen. The botched murder of the priest takes this idea a step further. Initially, it was simply the intentional killing of a man who had already selected his lot in life, with little room for progression. For the boy with a bullet in his head, the stakes are much different. A previously unknown but hopeful future has been erased, with no prospect for redemption.

It is in Bruges that Ray, must reconcile with his actions. It is a town whose storied past harkens back to the Crusades, with its monuments and culture suggesting the Christian ideals of righteousness, judgment, and repentance. As such, what could be a beautiful getaway for Ray becomes a place of harrowing reflection; the film becomes a search for a remedy for Ray’s guilt and a desire to understand what awaits beyond physical death. Ray must know, will this crushing guilt die along with him in this life?

Stepping back, it is clear from the first moment that these men are foreigners, unfamiliar with Belgian customs and conventions. It is also evident that Bruges is a place of sinners. We come across a corpulent American family and a snobbish Canadian couple, possibly representations of the cardinal sins of gluttony and wrath, respectively. Ken and Ray also stumble upon the shooting of a film, where they meet a racist dwarf from the States and a seemingly demure but potent local who sells drugs to the production crew. They are here shooting a dream sequence, lending an illusory sense of self-awareness to the film. Over time, we understand Bruges to be the den of imported miscreants, arrived to reconcile their vices.

Notably, not a single Belgian native dies during the entire film despite plenty of near death experiences. Instead, it is only the foreigners who come face to face with their mortality. As such, McDonagh is possibly framing the residents of Bruges as those who permanently reside in purgatory, pushing sinners towards their impending judgment. This is supported by the film’s final scene in which a mortally wounded Ray is ushered through a procession on the set of the film, surrounded by grotesque masked figures, along with the locals who he has met during his time in Belgium. It is a sequence eerily familiar to Hieronymus Bosch’s painting, “The Last Judgment,” which Ray and Ken mull over.

It is a wonderful tale of repentance and judgment, balanced against tight, oftentimes lighthearted, dialogue. We come to understand Bruges as Ray’s purgatory, a temporary stop on the path to eventual judgment, consistently marked by suffering and uncertainty.

Domestic Captivity in Selick's Coraline

From Coraline’s first moment, Henry Selick has the viewer uneasily engaged. Eerie bells jingle and voices hum as a small doll, with black buttons for eyes, effortlessly floats in through a window, sheltered from the night’s star-spotted skies. Spiderlike, metallic hands are there to greet it; hands which gently place it onto a table alongside myriad sewing tools and cutting instruments. Rarely is a simple toy handled with such care. We come to see that the doll’s handler is not mending, but rather undertaking a complete reconstruction, as mechanical hands clinically guide scissors through the doll’s spine. Eventually, the doll is reborn, now with freckles, blue hair, and a yellow raincoat, but still black buttons in the place of eyes.

We are then whisked away to the Pink Palace Apartments, a gloomy yet ornate home, bordered by towering mountains on each side. It is here where we meet the true Coraline. Upon seeing her, it is clear – the reconstructed doll is a skillfully crafted depiction of her. However, where the hands of unknown owner so tenderly tended to Coraline in miniature, her true parents continuously neglect and chastise her. Coraline wants nothing more than a romp in the mud or an afternoon in the garden, but her parents are too occupied with work to entertain a word she says.

Understanding her role as a nuisance to her parents, Coraline occupies herself by exploring the surrounding area. She first stumbles upon Wyborne, or “Wybie,” and his black cat, as he terrifies Coraline by nearly running her over on his bike. Wybie is the young grandson of the Pink Palace’s landlady and the first of the film’s many absurd, dual-natured characters. Despite coming off as a spooky daredevil, Wybie is quickly shown to be little more than a wallowing kid, lamenting his name and equating it to “Why born?”. This is the first moment in which the film expresses an interest in the reason for existence.

Shortly after their meeting, Wybie returns to the Pink Palace to give Coraline a gift – something he found at his grandmother’s place. It is the doll from the opening sequence. Coraline then explores the interior of her home; it is sprawling and angular, but with grey walls and few decorations. Put plainly, it is wholly and deliberately unremarkable. That is, until the discovery of a miniature door of knee height, which is only opened by using a black, button-shaped key. Upon opening it, Coraline is utterly disappointed to find a brick wall on the other side.

That night, with the doll carefully placed next to her bed, Coraline is awakened by mice beckoning her to follow. She jumps out of bed and heeds their call, winding up at the foot of the miniature door. Now it is open, leading to a winding, ethereal tunnel. She traverses the tunnel and emerges in the very same place she left, but here things aren’t quite the same. It is a world of similar proportion but with contradictions at every turn. There is now a welcoming warmth and cheer to the home, with the previously dull hues being replaced with warm tones of red and orange. In the kitchen her mother awaits, but this mother has fairer skin, beautiful make-up, and buttons for eyes. The yarn of contradictions is seemingly endless and only unraveled further as Coraline continues to visit this wondrous land, where everything initially appears just as she would like it to.

Returning to reality, Coraline meets another of her neighbors, Mr. Bobinsky. He is a man with straw-thin legs and a hulking chest, whose body accurately reflects his eclectic personality. Bobinsky claims to own a circus of jumping “mushka,” or mice, which has Coraline enraptured. Then, she is introduced to a pair of one-time burlesque stars, Mrs. Spink and Mrs. Forcible, who occupy the basement. The two have an undoubtable affinity for the past, speaking of their glory days in the industry, offering Coraline bowls of old taffy, and displaying their packs of dogs – some still living while others line the walls, taxidermized.

Each of these interactions comes across with an intentional absurdity, as none of the characters address Coraline properly, instead calling her Caroline; the opposite is true on the other side of the door. Bobinsky’s physiognomy is inherently contradictory, and his tales of mice delusional, yet he treats Coraline kindly and thrills her with a display of insane acrobatics. Spink and Forcible seem to be at odds in every way; one is top heavy while the other is bottom heavy, one is blind while the other is not, and the two can never seem to agree, yet they both share an interest in Coraline. The one trait common across all of these characters is that they own a pet.

Coraline continuously returns to the other world, but with repeated visits she realizes that something is awry. Her other mother wants her to stay forever, and all it will take is the sewing of buttons into her eyes. We soon come to understand that the hands, which so carefully crafted Coraline’s replica, did so in an effort to enslave her. It was the doll which opened the portal to this odd world, and it is a menacing creature known as the Beldam which seeks to trap her here forever; to have someone to love without end, in a place which feels desirable to its captor, but is little more than an elaborate prison.

At this point, the film’s narrative begins to accelerate and the content begins to pierce further, beyond the eerie introductions and juxtapositions of its first act. The layers of domestic captivity are expertly laid in front of the viewer. First there is the plaything, or doll, then there are living creatures. From cats, dogs, and mice we can then progress to humans children. Selick encourages us to ask, what is the role of these beings and have humans consigned such creatures to live unfulfilling lives of captivity for their own selfish desires? The same can then be applied to children more generally, harkening back to Wyborne’s name and the question of why are they born? Existence is a harrowing enough process as is, which is only made more complex when we begin to understand existence as the means of pacifying the greed of others. Coraline displays that getting what you wish for is not all that it is made out to be, while asking incisive questions about the human’s role in nature, as well as the relationship between parent and child.

The Deconstruction of the Horror Film

With October upon us, there is undoubtedly a seasonal resurgence of interest in one of cinema’s longest standing, most beloved genres: Horror. Despite its origins in the early 20^th century, the genre has seen little progression, especially in recent decades. Contemporary horror films continue to be stuffed with the same characters, creeps, and story conventions. Jocks, beauties, stoners, and goody two-shoes types who make troublingly poor decisions dominate the screen, often being felled by the same foes, from undying zombies to sweet talking vampires. The Cabin in the Woods directly acknowledges this stagnation and the industry’s continued fan-service and uses them as ammunition, aiming for the satirical deconstruction of this treasured genre, while still providing the scream inducing slaughter of innocents and gothic morbidity that we have come to know and love.

After an introductory montage of ancient murals depicting blood sacrifice, we abruptly find ourselves in a high-tech, labyrinth-like underground facility where we witness the conversation of two middle-aged men dressed professionally. They begin with a discussion of fertility and the risk of jinxing things by preemptively baby-proofing a home; it is an interesting topic that aligns with the film’s interest in fate, free will, and the supernatural, though unfortunately, the subject is never again touched upon. The men then shift to business. The nature of their work isn’t immediately clear, but as they weave through the massive complex, allusions to other countries undergoing similar endeavors are made, and we begin to understand that this is a high stakes, experimental operation.

Cut to the home of Dana, a college student preparing for a weekend trip with friends. Here we are introduced to our cast of all too common characters, as they prepare to embark on their weekend vacation. Apart from Dana, there is Curt, the handsome football player, and his beautiful girlfriend Jules. Rounding out the group are Marty, the rambling pothead, and Holden, a transfer student who plays football with Curt. Events then proceed as any fan of the genre would expect. The gang has an off-putting exchange with a freakish old man at a seemingly abandoned gas station who speaks bluntly, warning them not to proceed. We soon learn that this man is an integral part of the aforementioned experiment, serving as “the harbinger” of the group’s impending doom; this is one of the first of many instances in which a discussion concerning freewill is prompted. Is their doom imminent or is there potential for redemption? Was turning around and going home ever an option? At the same time, this interaction serves as a critique into the plotlines of typical horror films, in which foolish characters blatantly step into deathtraps despite glaring “STOP” signs.

Upon arrival at the cabin we begin to understand the film’s signature feature and main plot conceit; just as we were seconds ago, the aforementioned suits are watching the gang approach the old cabin. They sit in a control room chock-full of screens, buttons, and levers. It is from here that these men orchestrate the eventual, elaborate murder of the youthful pack. Deaths that we later learn are to fulfill a blood sacrifice to the “old gods” who will annihilate humanity if not properly appeased. The group proceeds into the cabin and begins to settle in, all the while our perspective alternates between viewing the events from the control room or directly from the cabin itself. The men in the control room manipulate the environment by locking doors, blasting pheromones into the home, and awakening a bloodthirsty undead family from the grave. It is an affectionate, but unrelenting ridicule of the heavy-handed writing which often results in blatant idiocy and inevitable death for many of the genre’s characters.

It is here that we begin to understand the film’s criticism of the genre, which is at once incisive and reflective. Those in the control room may represent the genre’s filmmakers and producers who all too often use every tool at their disposal to create pulpy, haunting pictures which are all too predictable. Further, viewers can be compared to the “old gods” who only seek gory, raunchy entertainment; the “old god’s” satisfaction determines the fate of the men in the control room, prompting thoughtful questions into the relationship between creator and audience.

The Cabin in the Woods does well in displaying all of the puzzle pieces which normally constitute a horror film, and while much is revealed in tearing apart this puzzle, the pieces are never put back together. We are left with only a sardonic critique in the form of a film whose entertainment value relies as heavily on the tropes and clichés it mocks, as anything else. As the world crumbles to pieces at the hands of omnipotent gods and the screen fades to black, a thoughtful viewer cannot help but say that it is marred by some sense of incompletion. So many complex issues and powerful metaphors are brought to the surface but never expanded upon, that one cannot help but feel teased. Further, while the film expertly and uniquely unravels and exposes the genre’s conventions, it still wholly relies on them in delivering its entertainment and lacks meaningful closure. Perhaps there doesn’t need to be anything more, and without a little bit of what may be considered mindless entertainment to pacify the masses, the world may very well fall apart.

Confinement and Control: Being John Malkovich

Human existence is at once exhilarating, exhausting, and perplexing, and so it is common to wonder, and even believe, that life may be simpler and more clear if it were lived through the eyes of someone else. But those thoughts are merely wishful, and instead we are resigned to writing, acting, dreaming, and sharing stories in an effort to understand the perspectives of others – to obtain and experience something beyond ourselves.

Being John Malkovich takes this simple truth of existence and upends it, creating an eerie universe in which, for only a few minutes, you can embody and become one with someone else. In this world you do not become just anyone, but instead the enigmatic star John Malkovich. While it may sound like Mr. Malkovich is the primary actor and protagonist, he instead exists as a vessel through which a remarkably witty story, packed with hard-hitting questions concerning human interiority is delivered.

Set in the final decade of the 20^th century, we find ourselves in the near-vacant cellar of a New York City apartment. It is a dark, brooding scene in which we are greeted by the stiff facade of a wooden doll, masterfully contorted into a desperate and disturbed dance. However it is the puppeteer wielding the strings from above who we soon understand to be tormented. Craig Schwartz claims his sole purpose is as a performer – transcending himself and creating a new reality, one in which he is the sole master; but Craig has no audience, and what is a performer without an audience? He continues to be confined to his own mind, serving only himself.

Soon Craig is out on the city’s streets acting out a passionate puppet show in which forbidden lovers lust after one another. Here we see the development of his first audience; a young girl looks on as the puppets gyrate. Her father takes notice and pays Craig accordingly, with a fist to the face. A peculiar scene, whose absurdity leans towards comic. It is also the first of many scenes in which profound questions are posed in distinctive ways. We begin to question the roles and relationships of artist and audience; Craig’s suggestive show may have found a welcoming audience in a packed theater under the right circumstance, but instead a little girl stumbling by took a naïve interest in something unfit for her eyes. Where can such a show take place, who can see it, and what obligation does the artist have to adjust their work for a given, or even unknown, audience?

While Craig searches to escape from his own confinement via the contortion of inanimate objects, his wife Lotte searches for similar solace in her control over living beings. She tenderly cares for and supports Craig with a maternal instinct, just as she cares for the creatures that line the walls of her pet store. In their apartment, the couple are accompanied by an iguana, birds, a dog, and a chimpanzee. Through her care of these creatures, Lotte gains a sense of importance and meaning that cannot be attained internally. She treats each of these animals as well as she does Craig, if not better, clearly mapping out the differences, or lack thereof, between humans and other animals; the film too makes references to the chimpanzee’s consciousness, his lingering childhood trauma, and his visits to a shrink. It is at once lighthearted and thought-provoking.

Craig eventually takes on a temporary job as a filer, thanks to his rapid fingers. In the office he meets Maxine, a coy beauty who ceaselessly toys with him. It is here that Craig discovers the portal to Malkovich, which he then promptly shares with Maxine. Maxine, in conniving fashion, determines that the two must partner together and charge $200 per 15-minute trip into the mind of Malkovich; after all, who doesn’t want to experience the world through a different lens? We are again prompted by further questions of artist and audience: Malkovich as the unknowing artist, providing a show for all of those who pay to accompany him. Here the show provides great meaning to the audience, a miraculous glimpse into a consciousness beyond the one they have always known. Isn’t that the very essence which art attempts to capture?

In a similar sense, this expansion beyond the self is exactly what each character strives for. They each have a distinct way to achieve contentment, coming through varying methods of control over something or someone else. Simply put, a way to escape the confinement of their individual mode of perception. While Craig directs dolls and Lotte influences animals, Maxine finds meaning through the manipulation of other people and their emotions. Each character is looking for control and influence that reverberates outside of themselves.

Malkovich is no different on a surface level. He is an actor, exerting control over roles that are outside of himself, and prompting emotions and reactions from those around him. While Craig does so with no audience, no respect, and no understanding of himself beyond validation from others, Malkovich does so with total self-awareness. He is confident in who he is and has a complete understanding of his place in society. He knows himself to be John Malkovich. A man with an audience, a name, and plenty of respect.

However Malkovich’s sense of security becomes lost when Craig enters the portal, and with his own puppeteering skills is able to exercise complete control over Malkovich, eventually gaining the ability to inhabit him indefinitely. It is here that the aforementioned questions of audience and actor take on a twisted meaning. Craig, the possessor, becomes the actor, while Malkovich, the possessed, becomes the audience, bound to watch events play out on his very own stage.

Eventually Craig is forced to exit Malkovich’s shell. Upon doing so he cannot cope with his own existence and believes he must again embody Malkovich to be loved, so he rushes back to the portal at once. However a convoluted chain of events has turned Malkovich’s portal into a tunnel leading to the mind of a young girl. Here Craig finds himself imprisoned for eternity with no agency. Worse, this young girl is being raised by Lotte and Maxine, the two women that Craig once pined after. It is fantastical and maddening, as Craig finds himself the audience of his own tragedy; condemned to witness a happy existence in which he has no place.

Everyone seeks freedom from the infinite confinement of their own consciousness, and Being John Malkovich makes the case that art, as well as the relationship between art and artist, allows us this escape even if only for a moment. To do so, there must be an acceptance of the self and of our own consciousness as the one true mode of perception. Transcendence beyond the individual can be feigned for a moment to provide joy and relief, just as a 90-minute film serves as a valuable distraction from the pains of life, but dragging that brief moment into an indefinite reality can be destructive, as it is for Craig.  

Beyond Comedy: Napoleon Dynamite

A lanky, curly headed boy stands in front of a modest one-story home. The goof wears a horse graphic t-shirt tucked into denim jeans with no belt and peers through clear-lensed aviator glasses, eyes half closed, mouth wide open. He boards the school bus and saunters to the very last row, towering over the other students, all of whom are significantly younger. A fellow student asks, “What are you going to do today Napoleon?” to which he snaps “Whatever I feel like I want to do. Gosh!” A sharp retort that is both comic in its delivery and charged with underlying anxiety. It is evident from merely a few seconds on the bus that the titular character of Jared Hess’ 2004 high school comedy, Napoleon Dynamite, is troubled. It serves as the first of many clever, oftentimes ridiculous, scenarios in which the qualms of an outcast riddled with angst, uncertain of his identity as a high school student, and his place in the world at large are carefully explored.

Each element of the film plays into an uncomfortable and unpredictable mood, while servicing the aesthetic of a rural town stuck twenty years in the past. We follow Napoleon through a day at Preston High School. Bullies shove him into lockers, he delivers a current events report on the Loch Ness monster, he plays tether ball alone, and he calls his adult brother Kip to ask for Chapstick. A day which is at once absurd and banal, yet riveting; while no particular event directly progresses the plot, we slowly become acquainted with the questions and inner machinations of Napoleon’s mind. The sense of everything being oddly ordinary yet intriguing, as well as the slow-burn character development through unremarkable events is not unique to the opening scene, and only ramps up throughout the remainder of the film.

In terms of execution, a synth-heavy original soundtrack, along with the inclusion of some classic ‘80s tunes, pair perfectly with the plot, setting, and costume design. Further, keen attention to audio aids in placing the viewer; flies audibly buzz past and cows bellow in the background.

Jon Heder’s role as Napoleon is undeniably brilliant, but he is surrounded by other notable performers. Each delivers keen facial expressions and perfectly timed delivery; in my mind, there is no role which could have been cast or performed any better. Beyond that, there is a patience to every encounter which results in expert pacing. No moment feels rushed and pauses between dialogue are often drawn out, further lending to a curated sense of uncertainty and immaturity. Each interaction holds meaning, revealing new aspects of characters’ desires and insecurities. These are conveyed with a familiar clumsiness which hearkens to the often repressed memories of youth’s struggles.

It is in this essence of adolescence, so expertly captured, in which the film begins to transcend its perceived place as a quirky, but superficial high school comedy. Every character, from Napoleon’s dare-devil grandmother to his friend Deb, reveals complex and base desires. There is nobody with more wisdom than anyone else; each character is portrayed as impulsive and elementary. Each character also grapples with questions of identity: who do they believe they are and who do they want to be? Napoleon’s grandmother goes for trips to the sand dunes with a secret boyfriend, while Uncle Rico can’t stop thinking about 1982 and what could have been. These troubles, often typical of high school, seep into the lives of every character.

This idea of an uncertain identity is infinitely relatable, seeing as such questions can never be definitively answered. Everybody is portrayed with the same confusion and infantile nature as a high school student; there is little discernible difference in maturity and authority between your eldest and youngest, most significant and most minor characters. They are all flawed and insecure.

The film’s complexity does not end with this universal infantilization. Hess also grapples with complex issues of class, custom, and gender in unique and interesting ways. Pedro, Napoleon’s new classmate and friend from México, is derided by the school’s principal for failing to understand his instructions. Further into the film Pedro is again brutally chastised for bashing a piñata in the likeness of another student, something he claims is customary in his native country; an intentionally ridiculous and comic scene, but even so it is a moment which highlights cultural differences and the principal’s blatant ignorance. Later, Napoleon’s sleazy uncle preys on his nephew’s high school classmates and attempts to sell them breast enhancement supplements, alienating young women and exposing Napoleon to further disdain. These only serve as a few examples of the more profound questions and issues which cleverly find their way into the film.

A deceptively deep film which at once brims with excitement and dread. It did not have me laughing out loud, but instead smiling throughout. Each moment is not demarcated by exciting action, place, or dialogue, yet there is a charm and a familiarity to its composition which requires nothing of the sort. And while any realistic depiction of high school, and life for that matter, is full of plenty of sorrow, Napoleon Dynamite finishes in a moment of triumph, with each character feeling secure in their identity, at least for a moment. Pedro has won the class election, Napoleon has danced his heart out to tremendous applause, Kip has a girlfriend, and Napoleon finally has a partner to play tether ball with.