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Barry and Using Cinematography to Bring the Stage to Life (Cristina)

Spoilers for Season 1 of HBO's Barry. 

While there are a lot of similarities between theater and film as art forms, one significant difference is the camera's ability to move around a space, which adds a unique element to film's form of visual storytelling. As HBO's Barry follows its titular character, a hitman seeking to become an actor in LA, the show finds increasingly interesting ways to portray stage performances.

In the pilot episode, Barry follows his mark, Ryan Madison, to an acting class where he accidentally gets pulled into the class to perform a scene. As the scene begins, the camera cuts between a series of shots covering the stage from all angles. One angle shows Ryan, head-on from Barry's point of view on the stage across from him. One angle shows Barry head-on, another has Barry looking out onto the audience, taking in the whole stage while Ryan does his monologue for the scene. When Barry finally reads his one line from the script he's been given, the camera enters a long shot, showing the full stage from the theater audience's point of view. From within the audience, it's impossible to deny that Barry is a bad actor. But a few shots later, when their scene ends and the class applauds, the camera enters another long shot, this time taking in the entire audience from the stage and Barry's point of view. While the praise is in no way for his one rotely-delivered line, the shot puts us in Barry's head for this pivotal moment, the inciting incident of the entire series, as he decides to pursue a career in acting.

Throughout the rest of the season, the show continues to take great care with how it frames every exercise and performance within the class. All the while Barry tries to navigate a budding gang war as he ties up all the loose ends from his time as a hitman. These two plots are balanced, the acting class preparing for a Shakespeare showcase, Barry being forced into a plan to kill rival gang leader Cristobal Cifuentes, until Episode Seven, "Loud, Fast and Keep Going".

After the hit on Cristobal goes wrong and to avoid getting turned into the police, Barry makes the difficult decision to kill his friend, Chris. Because of the way his plans have unraveled he's late to the showcase, arriving seconds before he and his scene partner, Sally, are supposed to go on. Once again, Barry has only one line, while Sally will be giving Macbeth's most famous soliloquy from Act 5, Scene 5. 

As Sally begins her monologue, the camera stays with Barry backstage as he breaks down, reflecting on his decision to kill Chris and imagining how his wife and child will have to take the news. When we return to Sally on stage from a similar long shot as the scene in the pilot, she and the audience wait for Barry to come on stage to deliver his line. 

The camera cuts closer, showing Sally as she looks off stage and sees what the audience can't, Barry doubled over in his grief. When he turns and starts to walk towards the stage we find ourselves in his point of view, the camera moving from backstage, centered on Sally. Although we're with Barry in the framing of the shot, we like Sally have no idea what Barry is about to do. Once he steps onto the stage, we see Barry again, in a medium shot from where Sally is standing at center stage. Crying, he delivers his line ("My lord, the Queen is dead.") a clear channeling of his grief from Chris's murder. A following show contains both Sally and Barry before Barry walks back off stage, still crying, leaving Sally, who we then see in a close up as she delivers her monologue ("She should have died hereafter...") in a deeply nuanced way, almost tearing up, clearly transformed by Barry's addition to the scene.

In these brief moments, the cinematography is able to communicate the show's philosophy about acting as a means to channel emotions. Aside from being visually compelling, the decisions the camera makes show the movement of Barry's grief and regret from where he is off stage, to his performance and over to Sally, who's removed from Barry's emotional state but is able to embody and convey it in her monologue through the power of the stage. All of these intricate nuances are captured through the camera's ability to move around in the space.

When Life is Truly Stranger than Fiction (Yaejin)

Recall a favorite novel, its plot and characters. It could be a page-turning thriller about a tenacious detective hunting down killers. Ann Penelope has just been murdered, and the culprit leaves a taunting note. The details are a bit gruesome, but it is only fiction, so what's the harm? Now, imagine turning on the television and watching the news cover the murder of an Ann Penelope. Your reality plays as the fiction in your hands unravels. This is the sort of premise that Stranger than Fiction, starring Will Ferrell and Emma Thompson, adopts.

Harold Crick is an IRS auditor with a knack for numbers. His life is very much a daily routine kept by his trusty watch. Karen Eiffel is a successful author unable to finish her latest novel because she does not know how her protagonist should die. You see, her novels address the certainty of death, so her main characters always suffer a very poetic death. What she does not know yet is that her protagonist, Harold, is very much alive. He can even hear her narration of his life.

Harold distinguishes the narrator's voice from a schizophrenia diagnosis by noting how well the narrator knows him. Although the narrator speaks with a British accent, she and Harold share an emotional and intellectual connection. As any artist, she thoroughly knows and understands her character. When Harold first meets his love interest, the narrator is able to describe his thoughts perfectly, albeit through more flowery language. She knows how many teeth Harold has and how many times he brushes each one because she created him.  The plot she writes into Harold's life leads to uncontrollable curveballs that he must navigate. Since she created him, she feels the need to end him appropriately, so his death suits the character she has written. 

This is how Harold overhears the ominous words "little did he know" that make him very much aware of his imminent death. As Eiffel experiments with several dramatic ends, Harold races to find her before she kills his character. While hearing his life read back to him, he begins to create a different path for himself as he breaks his routine. Despite regulations against fraternizing with an auditee, he wants Ana Pascal, a tax-evading baker, and pursues her with bags of flour. He starts learning the guitar, a childhood dream. 

As we, the audience, watch Harold, we cannot help but root for him. As an IRS auditor, he is no hero to the American population but watching a man fumble after his crush is endearing and relatable. Like many with an office job, Harold comes in the morning, works at his cubicle, and leaves at closing time. His daily schedule is comparable to many Americans as he represents the everyman. We cheer him on as he goes after what he wants, independent of Eiffel and her intentions for his character. 

One day, after finding the perfect death, Eiffel types about a ringing phone, her own phone rings. Startled because no one ever calls her, she curiously types that the phone rings again. Her phone rings a second time. Just to be sure, she types for the third time, her finger hovering over the period key. Once she presses it, her phone rings and she picks it up. It is Harold, her main character, on the other end. 

Spoiler Alert

After meeting Harold, Eiffel thinks about the eight characters she killed in her previous books. As the creator of the world in her novels, she is responsible for the deaths of her characters. Harold has already changed his path by contacting her and being aware of his impending death. After reading Eiffel's manuscript, Harold tells her to finish the book, satisfied with its ending. By knowing when and how he will die, he creates his own ending when he accepts his death. Deciding between her masterpiece and Harold's life, Eiffel cannot help but want to save the character who has slipped past her grasp. 

Ultimately, she chooses a less satisfying end and severely injures Harold instead. As the audience, we are relieved to know Harold and Ana can start another chapter together. Rather hypocritically, we also feel disappointed by the lackluster ending. Since the genius of Eiffel's ending is hyped throughout the movie, the new ending reflects the book's dissatisfying end. By the end of the film, Eiffel is very much part of the audience, watching Harold live his life. Since she cannot have it all, the audience cannot either. Despite having broken bones everywhere, Harold is overjoyed to wake up in a hospital, alive. Eiffel finds peace with her "okay" novel; it is not the masterpiece she wanted, but she is okay with that. This change from her perfectionist mentality is just as wonderful as Harold's newfound appreciation for life. Stranger than Fiction itself ends on an encouraging note, asking its audience to consider what its characters experienced. 

Familial Sacrifice in Succession (Eric)

HBO’s comedy-drama series Succession features a host of selfish people making morally dubious decisions. Character actions are often related to personal standing within the global media conglomerate at the center of the show, Waystar Royco. In the Season 2 finale, titled “This Is Not for Tears,” the disregard for ethical concerns by many players in the company has led to a crisis. Someone of prominent position within the company will have to take the fall for decades of mishandled sexual abuse and wrongful death cases at Waystar Royco. As the patriarch of the Roy family and CEO of Waystar Royco, Logan Roy decides that it’s his own son Kendall who’s to be sacrificed. But in a twist ending, it’s Kendall who lands the last punch of the season when he places the guilt for the coverup squarely on his father’s shoulders. The dialogue at the climax of the episode sets up the possibility for this twist ending, and it also hints at some of the philosophy behind the two main characters of the show, Logan and Kendall.

The season finale takes place on a yacht. While supposedly a mini-vacation away from the congressional hearings that the family and company has been dealing with, the break effectively serves as a conference to debate who will be sacrificed for the company. Logan Roy rules both his family and his company with a Machiavellian fist, and in regards to his business dealings, this manifests itself in total disregard for the wellbeing of others. In the penultimate episode of Season 2, Logan’s brother equates him to Hitler in terms of the scale of human suffering he’s caused through his cutthroat capitalism. This sentiment is echoed throughout the finale, as the center of the crisis specifically involved the victims of Waystar Royco.

In the finale, Logan calls his son into a private room on the yacht to tell him personally why he’s been chosen as the scapegoat. He explains how the Incas, in times of crisis, used to sacrifice a child to the Sun. The implication here is that, if the situation called for it, Logan might literally sacrifice Kendall to make things right. While the present situation calls only for Kendall’s figurative death, Logan is reestablished in this scene as a brutal go-getter, someone wouldn’t hesitate to kill given the right circumstances. Kendall proceeds to ask his dad if he ever believed Kendall could one day take the reins as CEO, to which Logan replies, “You’re not a killer. You have to be a killer.” Importantly, part of the trouble Waystar finds itself in concerns the death and possible murders of migrant sex workers on the company’s cruise ships; during the coverup, these individuals were documented as NRPI: No Real Person Involved. The value of human life is not something that Logan Roy concerns himself with. Directly prior to their conversation, images are shown of the massive yacht towering over some local Mediterranean fishermen, a reminder of the distance between the Roys and the people they exploit.

Ultimately, Kendall does prove to possess the killer instinct necessary to survive in his dangerous environment. Kendall’s world is one in which his own father is willing to send him to prison for the good of the corporation, and he’s given the choice to either accept this fate or fight back. In the press conference at the end of the episode, Kendall shocks everyone by throwing his father under the bus. Logan Roy watches on the television, and in the final seconds of the season, we watch as his face turns into an almost imperceptible smile, a smile that seems to express a reluctant pride in his son for having finally learned how to kill.

 

How I, Tonya is Based on a True Story (Cristina)

The 2017 Tonya Harding biopic, I, Tonya, opens with a title card proclaiming that the film is "Based on the irony-free, wildly contradictory, totally true interviews with Tonya Harding and Jeff Gillooly." From the very first seconds, the film refuses to claim it's "Based on a True Story." It's based on interviews that, the audience is told upfront, can barely be trusted because they contradict each other. The film's opening shots establish a recreation of these interviews with Tonya and Jeff, as well as Tonya's mother, Tonya's coach, Jeff's friend Shawn Eckhardt, and reporter Martin Maddox, which will serve as a framing device to walk us through Tonya's life story. 

While some films have an unreliable narrator, this film has six. 

From the very beginning, the audience is aware that everybody involved has a motive, a reason for telling their side of the story and an image of themselves they want to convey. Before we even see Tonya, we see the other interviews as the characters talk about their own reputation or Tonya's. Jeff Gillooly laments his infamy and ill-advised mustache. Tonya's mother defends herself against Tonya's assertion that she was a bad mother. Tonya's coach claims that Tonya is like America, either loved or hated. When we finally meet Tonya in the film, she rephrases the interviewer's unheard first question, "What's people's impression of me?" To which Tonya responds, "That I'm a real person."

The film seems extensively interested in how it's easy to forget that Tonya Harding is a real person when seeing her in the center of one of the most dramatic incidents in sports history. The assault on Tonya's skating rival Nancy Kerrigan, supposedly arranged by Tonya and/or Jeff, is a story still wildly disputed today.

Consistently throughout the film, the uncertainty of the narrative and the unreliability of its narrators are established in unique visual ways. A scene where Tonya chases Jeff through their home with a shotgun is broken by Tonya in the scene turning to the camera to announce, "I never did this." Some moments have Tonya's and Jeff's interviews in split-screen as they recount the same conversation, word for word, but with wildly varied intonations. A training montage of Tonya's preparation for her second attempt in the Olympics begins with her running through the woods with a bag of dog food on her back while Tonya explains while she runs, "This is how Rocky trained to fight the Russians." And as if knowing the audience would find this hard to believe, the film pans to Tonya's coach during each strange training ritual, saying, "She actually did this... and this... and this."

The audience is never allowed to forget how subjective these moments are, how hard it is to prove what is real and what is not when the people claiming to be telling the truth have such a high stake in how the story is received.

Just as often as the film continues to cast uncertainty over what is being shown, it also offers exact recreations of some of Tonya's competitions, her wedding, and actual news footage covering the assault on Nancy. Most impressive is the competition where Tonya lands the first triple axel in US women's skating history. Over the credits at the end of the film, the actual video of Tonya's performance plays, and everything from her costume to her hair to the awed and relieved expression on her face the moment after she landed the jump had been perfectly rerendered by the film. In these few scenes, the audience is grounded back in reality, in facts that can be proven and moments that were documented.

(Tonya Harding training after Nancy Kerrigan's injury at Clackamas Town Center, 1994)

Despite being based on a true story, I, Tonya never claims to have the full truth. The first half of the film shows Tonya fighting to earn her place in the skating world which is so concerned with physical presentation and reputation. The second half offers the audience the opportunity to question everything they think they know about the Incident: Tonya's reputation, Nancy's reputation, and the way those reputations were created. As Jeff himself says, "Everyone remembers the incident differently and that's a fact." The film seems satisfied with its own lack of answers, content to introduce the audience to the real person, Tonya Harding, who factually will forever be the first American woman to land a triple axel in competition. You can create your own opinion on the rest.

Nights of Cabiria: Showing Character Growth (Eric)

Nights of Cabiria (1957), directed by Federico Fellini, features a prostitute who struggles to make a living for herself in post-war Italy. She is extremely poor, yet her financial situation is in better shape than her romantic life. She has an idealistic vision of love, and throughout the film, she is crushed multiple times by predatory or manipulative men. The film is bookended by two scenes which closely mirror each other in terms of action; in each, a man takes advantage of Cabiria. Yet, the manners in which these scenes unfold are visually unique from one another in such a way that both reveals the character arc of the protagonist and establishes distinct tones at the opening and close of the film.

In the opening sequence, we see Cabiria dancing with her boyfriend Giorgio by a river. The camera then tracks Cabiria down to the side of the river, and Giorgio follows her soon after. Giorgio wears dark sunglasses. Clearly, he’s not to be trusted, or at the very least his intentions are unclear. The scene then cuts back to a wider frame, and it’s emphasized how isolated the two of them are. Cabiria is alone with Giorgio when he pushes her into the river and runs up the hill, never to be seen again. In the background there is a small crop of buildings in the largely rural surroundings. Cabiria is ultimately saved from drowning, and once she’s been revived, she angrily tells off the people who have saved her and ventures out to find Giorgio. She is still naive at this point of the film, and the camera is distant from her in the buildup to her near-death experience, choosing instead to highlight Giorgio, his eyes covered as he checks for potential witnesses to the crime.

The final sequence plays out in much the same way, with Cabiria getting swindled. However, the act is not comical as it was in the opening. Here Cabiria walks through the woods with Oscar, her new boyfriend for whom she’s sold her house to start a new life with. They walk towards the edge of a cliff. When they get to the cliff, we see the back of Cabiria as she looks out across the water. In front of her is a vast landscape, even more remote than in the opening sequence. The camera is closer to the actors’ faces this time, and we can see the anxiety on Oscar’s face as well as the fear in Cabiria’s as she realizes she has been manipulated again. While Oscar is present in the scene, the camera is always following Cabiria, and she is often in the center of the frame. The scene then cuts between Cabiria on her knees and Oscar standing and looking nervous. Oscar is shot from slightly above, and the camera does not make him an imposing figure in the scene. Cabiria realizes herself what is happening, and she takes initiative and throws her money at Oscar, and she nearly jumps off the cliff herself. She has more agency here, as opposed to her passivity at the start of the film when she willingly goes to the edge of the river as Giorgio tells her to.

After Oscar takes her money, the camera then follows Cabiria as she walks through dark woods onto a road, where she is met by a parade of musicians. The other actors dance and spin around Cabiria as she walks straight down the road, and the camera tracks her path. The final thirty seconds is a close-up tracking shot on Cabiria’s face, and she smiles briefly at the camera before the film ends. She can deal with what life throws at her. While she might be more careful about falling in love, there’s no implication that she will throw out her original idealism. She literally picks herself off of the ground and emerges from a dark wood and onto a road, signaling her readiness to continue with her journey and the notion that the worst is behind her.

 

Bob Belcher and Modern Fatherhood (Yaejin)

Bob Belcher of Fox's Bob's Burgers stands out as a man and a father. Although facing constant financial instability, he is content flipping burgers and cooking up punny names for them. His wife, Linda, also works behind the counter of the family restaurant while their three children, Tina, Gene, and Louise, help out after school. The premise is simple and the characters are realistic, but each episode is packed with such personality. The wild chemistry between the characters is partially attributed to the show's recording style; the voice actors record their lines together, allowing natural ad-libs and improvisation. In a chaotic household, Bob contributes as a guiding force. 

The Belcher make up a conventional nuclear family. Bob, Linda, and their three kids live above the burger restaurant. The children attend public school. Because there is nothing particularly unique or extravagant about his lifestyle, Bob is sort of an everyman. The content of his petty arguments with Jimmy Pesto, the handsome owner of the popular Italian restaurant across the street, is specific to them, but the antagonistic chemistry is very relatable. Your Jimmy Pesto could be the boy kicking your seat from behind during homeroom or the co-worker who sharpens his pencils whenever you are calling clients. As a man with very typical demographics, Bob Belcher could be your mailman, but with an especially lovable personality.  He gives his recipe ingredients voices and character; he has an odd adoration for patty-cake in Stomp style. He just has a fantastic disposition and he embodies an appealingly progressive kind of masculinity. 

He is flattered when a younger, attractive male butcher hits on him, mistakenly reading Bob's frequent turkey purchases as flirting. There is no comedic rush to prove his manliness, and he never engages in put-down humor to poke fun at the misunderstanding. Pleased with the compliment, Bob finishes the scene as the man he was before he walked into the deli. 

The word "father" has many traditional connotations. A father may be expected to be the head of the household and support the family. Fathers can be depicted as stern, hardworking, and stoic, adjectives that do describe Bob's own father. Bob is a more emotionally accessible, compassionate parental figure.

The hardships he faced growing up in his father's house drive him to give Tina, Gene, and Louise cheerier childhoods. Bob is more than a provider-protector; he is an empathetic guide.  He shares few common interests with his son Gene, but they attempt some coerced father-son bonding time, throwing a baseball back and forth in an American classic.  Ultimately, they're both too unathletic to enjoy catch, but their bond is affirmed as Bob supports Gene’s passion for cheerleading, cross-dressing, and music.  And when Tina feels insecure about her hairy legs, Bob takes her to a waxing salon and gets his legs waxed to help overcome her fear of the pain.  He fills in any role to support his kids regardless of how these roles are conventionally divided by gender.  Not only is Bob Belcher an awesome role model, he is a terrific father, redefining the role for his children and also for himself.

Web Therapy: Surprisingly Deep (Nita)

A friend recently recommended that I watch Web Therapy, an improvised comedy web series starring Lisa Kudrow. Kudrow plays Dr. Fiona Wallice, a narcissistic therapist who has created a new form of online therapy (web therapy) that consists of 3-minute online sessions. Her philosophy is that the traditional 50-minute sessions are unnecessary, since they allow people to explore too many irrelevant experiences and feelings. She believes 3 minutes is sufficient for breakthroughs. Fiona also strives to build her own franchise and tapes the sessions in hopes of attracting investors.

After my friend explained the premise of the series to me, I knew I had to watch it. So far I’ve seen three episodes, and I have not been disappointed. Though the episodes are lighthearted and ridiculous, they are also surprisingly insightful. Through dark comedy, the satirical web series touches on a variety of topics such as self-absorbed culture, the negative ramifications of technology, and marital/family issues. Essentially, the series is about failed human interaction and comically explores how technology contributes to this.

In the very first scene of the series, Fiona is showing her husband Kip what a typical web therapy session would entail by giving him a session. Kip is clearly unhappy with Fiona, as she moved some of his personal belongings to decorate the room she conducts sessions in. The entire series is shot from the perspective of Fiona’s computer screen, so all we see are Fiona and Kip in individual video chat boxes. They are visually separated from each other and contained within the virtual bounds of the iChat boxes. As the scene progresses and Fiona starts to roleplay a therapy session with Kip, Kip tries to look over at Fiona when answering her questions (since they are sitting in the same room). However, Fiona scolds Kip when he tries to do so and forces him to look at her through the webcam. The rest of the scene consists of Kip and Fiona bringing up issues they have with each other, revealing how bad their marriage is. This illustrates the lack of intimacy between Fiona and Kip, while conveying that technology may be acting as a barrier and fostering this decrease in human connection.

In episode 3, a similar failure in human connection is demonstrated by Fiona’s poor relationship with her mother. Fiona talks to her mother via video chat – a technological barrier once again – and it is clear that they have not talked to each other for a while. Fiona’s mother is cold, and the two’s interaction reveals that the mother wants Fiona to pay her back tuition money (even though she is clearly very wealthy and is just greedy). The mother is self-absorbed, a common theme within the series as Fiona is also a narcissist. This raises the question of how modern culture fosters narcissism. The series addresses how self-promotion is becoming more prominent within today’s society, given the Internet and social media. Through Fiona’s relationship with her mother, the series also shows how this self-absorption hinders human relationships and ultimately leads to isolation.

Episode 2 explores the extent of Fiona’s narcissism. From looking at herself in the video chat instead of her clients, to using her clients for the purpose of furthering her own business, Fiona is the epitome of how self-promotion and self-obsession leads to loss of humanity. For instance, in episode 2 Fiona holds a session with a couple who are having relationship issues. During the session, the couple get into a heated argument and start talking about their feelings towards each other. Fiona, clearly annoyed that the two are getting “bogged down” by discussing feelings, stops the conversation. She then asks whether the man received the release to record the sessions so that she can show investors. It’s a hilarious scene, but also has serious implications. Fiona exemplifies how self-interest prevents effective communication with others and hinders human connection. Since all of Fiona’s energy is going towards ensuring her personal success, she is unable to listen to others and be empathetic.

Web Therapy is a very ironic series. Therapy is essentially about human connection; however, the series repeatedly portrays failed human relationships. This is because Fiona strips the most essential part of therapy sessions (time) in hopes of increasing efficiency. This addresses a growing issue in our industrialized society: choosing quantity over quality. Though cutting down duration of therapy sessions from 50 minutes to 3 minutes may be efficient in terms of saving time, the quality of the sessions is clearly lost. The series does a great job of comically highlighting how our technological society encourages self-interest and discourages intimate human connection, which ultimately leads to the loss of quality relationships.

Doctor Sleep and American Cinema Iconography (Cristina)

I was lucky enough this past May to attend the Cannes Film Festival. In between the dozens of films from a variety of different festivals in the city, I was also able to grab a ticket for a midnight showing of The Shining. The film was presented by Alfonso Cuarón and Stanley Kubrick's daughter, Katharine, having been digitally remastered in 4K by Leon Vitali, Kubrick's long-time assistant. 

Sitting feet away from an unfathomably large screen in one of the biggest movie theaters I'd ever been in, I discovered an incredibly deep appreciation for the film that I hadn't experienced the only other time I'd seen it, watching it from a desk chair pointed at my roommate's laptop. Having just raced from a screening of a documentary about film sound (Making Waves: The Art of Cinematic Sound), I took special note of the way the speakers filled every corner of the huge theater with the haunting score as the camera swept over the scenery of the opening extreme long shot of the ride up to the Overlook Hotel.

It was a transformative experience for me as a moviegoer, to sit in this room and be fully and completely immersed in an iconic piece of American horror, surrounded by people who love movies enough to dedicate 10 days of their life to the nonstop consumption of them, not to mention directors like Cuarón who credit this film for igniting their desire to craft their own movies. 

By another stroke of luck, I managed to attend an early screening of Doctor Sleep a few weeks ago. The film is an adaptation of Stephen King's sequel to The Shining and its trailers repeatedly reference the original movie. The score from Kubrick's film is a steady undercurrent between shots of the rotted Overlook Hotel and an adult Danny Torrence (played by Ewan McGregor) wandering its halls. Some moments are pure recreations of scenes from the original film: the eerie twin girls in the hallway, the viscerally red wave of blood pouring from the elevator.

Even without this marketing, Doctor Sleep by its very nature has big shoes to fill as a sequel to what's frequently called the best horror film of all time. And yet, Doctor Sleep strikes out on its own, diverging from the tone, pace, and world of the first film. Where Kubrick's film is all about suspense and slow movement towards the action of the climax, Doctor Sleep splits itself between three storylines: one following adult Danny as he attempts to escape the traumas of his past, one about a child psychic learning more about the extent of her abilities, and one introducing a group of creatures who eat the souls of children with the shining. It's a film that's a lot more interested in magic, worldbuilding, and action. With some slight adjustments to the first two hours, namely replacing the term 'shining' for some other description for telepathic powers, you wouldn't be able to tell it was related to the Kubrick film at all. 

It's a movie with its own merits, with clever concepts and stunning visuals. Although I'd predict that nostalgia for the original was what brought most of the audience to the Parkway Theater on a Monday night, just as it brought so many film buffs to the theater in Cannes, Doctor Sleep proves itself to be a gripping movie in its own right. The audience genuinely connected with the film, the theater filling with gasps, shouts, and laughs as the narrative progressed.

Yet, Doctor Sleep still delivers on the nostalgic iconography that it promises. By the time the film does inevitably return to the Overlook Hotel, the anticipation has been mounting for almost two hours. Danny and the child psychic Abra start off on a long drive back to Colorado, the montage of scenery ominously building tension and dread. While there had been more vocal reactions to other exciting, shocking, and emotional moments of the film, the recreation of the opening flyover shot, this time in the dark, as Danny and Abra draw closer, stole the audience's breath. 

Leaving the theater, I wasn't sure what to make of the film as a whole. More than anything, what stood out to me was the feeling of connection between the audience members as we experienced moments old and new, embraced new characters and spectacles, and reexperienced iconic images of a seminal American film in an engaging, new context.

Texas Chain Saw Massacre: Killers Behind the Curve (Eric)

In keeping with the Halloween spirit, I recently watched The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974), which has long been my favorite horror movie. The first image of the film is of a grisly scarecrow in a graveyard. It’s been made out of a dug-up corpse, and the radio reports news of grave vandalism. The news radio continues over the opening title sequence, reporting various violent and tragic events, acting as something of an appetizer to the stomach churning events that will unfold onscreen. The setting of this movie, Texas, is important in establishing the tone of the whole piece. The film presents a particular version of Texas: the oppressive summer heat, the cattle, the sense that this is truly the middle of nowhere. It’s the perfect backdrop for the horror that occurs. This is a lawless setting, one in which the Sheriff lies down in a graveyard, drunk and helpless to stop the crimes happening in his community. There appears to be only a handful of people per every square mile in this rural area, and “Things happen hereabout they don’t tell.” It is a forgotten American frontier, anarchic but, as we come to learn, not entirely untouched by "progress". However, the effects of modernization on this rural community as explored by the film have not brought about positive change so much as they have disrupted custom.

After checking on the grave site of their grandfather, the group of friends travels to the grandfather's old home. On the way, the paraplegic Franklin spots a slaughterhouse through the car window, and he starts explaining the gruesome practice of slaughtering cows, how “they would skin ‘em sometimes before they were even dead.” We see images of these cows, crowded and hiding in the shade, only a matter of time before they meet the airgun. This conversation about meat is essentially repeated when the group of friends picks up a hitchhiker, (who is later revealed to be one of the cannibalistic villains of the film). In fact, the cannibal family has a history of working at the slaughterhouse, (“My family’s always been in meat.”) The most sickening murder in the film comes when one of the friends is hung on a meat-hook. In this way, the film seems to draw a parallel between the friends, the humans, and those cows that they saw about to be slaughtered. Furthermore, the protagonists don't get murdered with guns but by chainsaws and hammers. They get placed in iceboxes and strung up on meat-hooks. They have become the new livestock for this family with a tradition of working in meats. The relationship between the human body and meat is developed through these details, and furthermore, the notion of the commodification of life. However, it's also implied by the film that the murderers are victims in their own right, (their home is the one that's being invaded, after all.) The killers seem to kill for fun, but this same manner of killing done on a different species was once a profession for the family, a part of its history. The modern world has not brought this family wealth or success, but it has destroyed a significant part of its tradition. 

When the friends get to the rundown home of their grandfather, they find it overgrown with vegetation, and the watering hole that they used to swim in is all dried up. Whatever past they were hoping to recapture on their excursion is long gone. What awaits them is not only a total isolation from sane society, but also a gruesome and totally feasible horror. These are humans killing humans in much the same way that they kill livestock; it’s nothing unheard of. Indeed, the news reports are already swamped with these sorts of stories. 

The idea that the past is lost and that the culture is in disarray is reflected in the state of the cannibal family. Despite the grotesque nature of the family's activities, the family itself still seems bound to certain traditions and cultural norms. There is a clear patriarchal hierarchy in this family, as well as an implied veneration for elders. When it comes time to kill the final victim, the family assigns the duties to the grandfather. The two brothers in the film ultimately defer authority to their father, who appears to be the main source of income for the family. Thus, there is a sense of order within the family, and through various dialogues in the film, it is implied that the increase in automation in the meat industry has generated economic stresses on the family. Their livelihood has been diminished through the effects of modernization. The region they inhabit is economically barren as much as it is lawless. It's a region that's been left behind by the rest of America, and the family's subscription to traditional values has not afforded them opportunities for social mobility. The horror they present is afforded by their "backwardness," their holding fast to rituals and mentalities that have been outgrown by the rest of the world. 

 

Mr. Monk and the Three Pies (Yaejin)

Monk, a comedy-drama series which aired from 2002-2009, features detective Adrian Monk and his nurse, Sharona Fleming, solving cases in San Francisco. Following his wife's murder, Monk has suffered from a mental breakdown as his orderly tendencies developed into Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder(OCD).  Having lost his badge as a homicide detective for the San Francisco Police Department, he was unable to function for years until the police captain hired a nurse for him. Through their budding rapport, Monk has reentered civilization and been hired as a police consultant for unusual cases. His OCD maintains a consistent presence in his professional work: as he describes it, it is both "a gift and a curse." In this post, I will analyze the impact of his OCD in his professional domain and his interpersonal relationships. 

Because the illness is unique to each individual's experience, I will be specific about Monk's obsessions and compulsions. Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder breaks down into two parts. The first aspect of OCD is the all consuming, recurring thoughts that cannot be turned off. For Monk, it is a constant need for cleanliness, order, and evenness. In one episode of the series, the police captain is kicked out of his home by his wife and taken in by Monk. In the middle of the night, Captain Stottlemeyer uses the bathroom for a few minutes and Monk spends an hour and a half cleaning it afterwards. The irrational order in his head is displayed when Monk acts as Fleming's caddie while observing a suspect. She wants a 3-wood golf club, and he insists that she use a 1 first. Then, 2 before 3 despite his knowing how golf is played. His demand for evenness also trumps a loss in finance. At a bar, he orders a $20 glass of alcohol so the remaining amount in the bottle is even with the adjacent water bottle. As a teetotaler, he offers the drink to another customer who immediately orders some water. Monk pays another $20 to even out the drinks. These are examples of the obsessive thoughts that distract Monk from acting rationally. 

The second part of OCD is the specific behavior that these thoughts drive. Regardless of the environment, Monk will try to fix anything that he deems to be disorderly. Even in a crime scene, Monk tries to tidy up, picking up a fallen vase and straightening stacks of books. He spends twenty minutes directing Fleming's parking so it is perfectly parallel to the sidewalk.  In Mexico, he refuses to drink anything other than his favorite brand of water despite serious dehydration. As an umpire for a children's baseball game, he brushes the dirt off of home plate before he resumes the game. His dry cleaner begs him to take his laundry elsewhere when he threatens to leave because he is unhappy with the way she sewed a button. His incredible pickiness forces her to charge him double for each shirt because his clothes require that much more attention. Eventually, she just puts out an "OPEN" sign that includes "EXCEPT MR. MONK." His behavior isolates him from the people in his life who see him as a brilliant but crazy man. 

As I have expounded on Monk's OCD symptoms, I want to clarify why they are also a gift. While he is extreme, his meticulousness finds key clues that tens of officers miss while going through the crime scene. Because he is so consumed by order, he notices when theories do not align with the criminal's actions. He realizes when pieces do not fit, and he seeks to understand why even if everyone else considers the case closed. Unlike Captain Stottlemeyer who can accept an appropriate suspect, Monk fixates on details that rule the suspect out, regardless of how minute the detail may be. Despite his nickname as the "defective detective," Monk is a widely respected detective whose judgment the police captain and San Francisco's mayor wholly trust. 

The title of this post refers to the eleventh episode of Monk's second season. In this episode, Fleming and the show's audience are introduced to Ambrose, Monk's secret brother. This is the first peek into Monk's childhood. Ambrose has severe agoraphobia and has not left their childhood home for thirty-two years. He saves the mail in filing cabinets in case their father comes back and wants to read the mail. Ambrose prepares their father's favorite dish for dinner, hoping today is the day he finally comes home. Their mother numbered the mugs so that they would always be put back in the same, correct order. Their family photograph is comprised of four stoic figures spaced evenly apart. While this episode only provided glimpses, I wanted to highlight the first look at an explanation for Monk's OCD symptoms. 

Marvel's Daredevil and the Long Take Fight Scene (Cristina)

There's been a lot of debate recently about the artistic validity of the widely popular Marvel superhero movies. While I view the Marvel franchise as a subgenre of film, whose entries hold a wide variety of quality, one thing that can't be denied is the cinematic quality of Marvel's first Netflix series, Daredevil, whose third and final season was released on just over a year ago. While there's much to be analyzed in the show's mise en scene, character development, and overall pacing, nothing displays its dedication to visual storytelling more than its use of the continuous long take action sequence, a visual choice that impacts the emotional effectiveness of the scene to varying degrees of success. These extended takes celebrate the main character's special limitations and skills. The "Daredevil" of the series, Matt Murdock, has been blind since childhood and developed compensatory strengths in his other senses. In each season's long take he navigates both challenging physical environments and numerous adversaries. 

The least successful of these long takes is in Season 2 at the end of Episode 3. Matt must fight his way down the floors of an apartment building through the ranks of an Irish gang. While a technically impressive, with perfectly timed fight choreography and camera movement, the fight provides little challenge for Matt physically, and is unattached to the emotions of his previous scenes in which he confronts both his antagonists and his own morality. The gang members continue to arrive in the fight at staggered intervals like pre-programmed video game enemies triggered into action as Matt moves within a certain range. The long take stops before the fight is even fully over, and Matt's fight with the last few opponents unfolds over several shots.

Season 3 offers a more successful long take, spanning 10 minutes and 43 seconds. Here Matt fights his way out of a prison where both prisoners and corrupt guards have been tasked by antagonist Wilson Fisk to kill him. As the take continues to drag on, the shot's length communicates the exhaustion of the situation. The prison itself is a sprawling maze of hallways and at any turn another fight awaits Matt. Distinguishing this scene from the Season 2 scene are its many moments without action, where the shot continues unrelentingly, focusing on Matt as he drags himself back to his feet and keeps moving. In the middle of the scene, Matt has a conversation with one prisoner who divulges critical information about Fisk. Even in this exchange of dialogue, the shot pans between characters without cutting, reminding the audience that even in this moment of reprieve the chaos of the prison continues and Matt is still a long way from escape. The motions of the camera place us fully in Matt's perspective, staggering with him as he pushes through the last few hallways, and panning wildly as he takes in the chaos. The shot only ends once he climbs back into the cab he arrived in so long ago and slowly fades to black with Matt and the viewer, slumped and exhausted.

However, it's hard to say if the show would have attempted these scenes if it hadn't been for the wild success of its first extended take in Season 1 Episode 2. In the episode, Matt has relentlessly pursued a group of human traffickers who have kidnapped a young boy. He has lost many fights, is still recovering from injuries, and has been pushed to several physical and moral limits in his attempt to rescue the child. The shot begins before Matt arrives, tracking up and down the single hallway once, establishing the two rooms of traffickers and the boy locked in a room at the back of the hall. It's only when the camera returns to the entrance of the hallway that Matt appears. The shot remains moving up and down the hall even as Matt falls in and out of the rooms in his fight. Like in season 3, the length of the take communicates Matt's exhaustion. Every moment without action sees Matt leaning up against any flat surface to catch his breath. Unlike the other two fight scenes, this one is the final scene of the episode. It's a culmination of Matt's emotional journey throughout the entire episode and communicates to the audience the length he is willing to go to save this one child. The scene doesn't end when the action does but continues to Matt finally reaching the back room of the hall and the boy inside, tracking back to start of the hallway as he carries the boy out, exhausted and breathing heavy, but triumphant. 

When the Camellia Blooms (Yaejin)

    In search of fresh small-screen content, I delved into a realm I have not touched since 2016: Korean dramas. Unlike American television shows, which, if successful, might extend over years, Korean dramas are packed into single seasons with sixteen to twenty-four episodes. The one I chose, When the Camellia Blooms features Dong-baek, a single mom, adjusting to a new town, Ongsan. 

    Initially, my interest lay in the portrayal of single mothers, who in Korea are still socially stigmatized. But in the end, I was charmed by the girl power displayed in the show. There is no self-righteous moralizing message. Every character has grave personality flaws, regardless of gender. Sexism is rampantly apparent. However, ultimately, each person makes a decision for him or herself; people pave their own lives. This is the first time I have seen such true equality in the agency exercised by all characters. This is partly due to the drama’s setting. 

    While most landmarks and cities mentioned in the series actually exist, Ongsan is a fictional town. Located in South Korea, it is rural, known primarily for its marinated crabs. Several blocks and alleys make up the entire perimeter of the town. Because of its size, the community is extremely close-knit. It is almost like a clan; everyone knows each other through some connection. The bookkeeper is the uncle of the butcher’s wife’s second cousin’s best friend from middle school: this is completely made-up but it is an example of just how random each connection is. As one person says, you cannot dent a stone pot at home and expect no one to know about it. As nosy as everyone is, when a random neighbor shows up for dinner, the family puts an extra pair of chopsticks on the table. 

    Adding to its flavor, Ongsan is matriarchal. Run by mothers and grandmothers, restaurants are the greatest source of revenue for this town. Recipes are passed on to daughters or daughter-in-laws, which continues this tradition of power. While the governor and politicians are primarily male, women hold more direct power over the townspeople.  A widow with three adult sons rules the streets of Ongsan; none of the other women can face up to her wisdom and experience. The most educated person is a divorce lawyer, an alumna of the top university in South Korea; she has incredible connections beyond the town. 

    This is where Dong-baek raises her toddler son for six years. Infamous as the Princess Diana of Ongsan, she receives unwanted male attention, stirring the cattiness of her neighbors. Although she runs a successful bar that pays for her son’s tutors and baseball lessons, the townspeople refer to her as a bargirl. Instead of using honorifics, which is expected when speaking to adults in Korean culture, everyone speaks to her using language intended for close friends and children.

    Despite the consistent disrespect and her shy personality, Dong-baek will defend herself. Some highlights include when she informs her wealthy landlord that the price of alcohol does not include the right to her smile, and when she asks the neighborhood women why she should be ashamed of raising her son alone. She is neither holier-than-thou nor a withering, subservient wallflower. She is not a caricature: she is an honest hard worker who speaks up when necessary and cries when overwhelmed. She is often strong and sometimes vulnerable, but she is never weak. She is the feminist character I have been waiting for. 

    

Grey: Color and Industry in Red Desert (Eric)

Red Desert (1964), directed by Michelangelo Antonioni, begins with an opening credit sequence consisting of out of focus shots of various industrial structures within a foggy, gray landscape. The camera lingers on each shot of the factories in a style reminiscent of Stagecoach (1939), in which the grand landscapes of Monument Valley are established at the beginning of the film. Played over the opening sequence of Red Desert is a nondiegetic vocalization, and the angelic nature of this sound is blended with the diegetic sounds of the factories and machinery in the frame. The sonic focus of this sequence could have been the grating and unpleasant noises of industry, but instead Antonioni chooses to juxtapose the scenes of industry with an almost ethereal vocal track, suggesting the potential for beauty even in this grey, man-made landscape. The rest of the film explores the aesthetic of industrialization and the human ability to either cope or fail to adapt to this changing, modern world.

The first shot after the opening credits is of a flaming oil refinery tower, which suggests both the destructive potential of industrialization and the power and beauty inherent in it. The camera then pans to the right, revealing the rest of this factory landscape. A mass of people inhabits this setting, all of them dressed in greys and blacks. It is then that the protagonist is introduced. Giuliana, played by Monica Vitti, is dressed in green and walks with her young son, who is dressed in yellow. The costumes of these two characters stand in stark contrast to both the extras in the scene as well as the primarily grey color of the setting. Giuliana’s feelings of alienation and her agitated mental state throughout the rest of the film are set up with her costume in this introduction. Her inability to conform and adapt to her environment are reflected by her difference in appearance at the start of the film.

The use of color in the set design is hard to ignore. The sky always seems to be grey, and the walls and streets and buildings that the characters inhabit are primarily grey. Throughout much of the film, Giuliana, often in a state of general mental distress, wanders through a cold, colorless landscape. Near the midpoint of the film, Giuliana finds herself with some friends in a bright red room. The atmosphere in this room becomes very flirtatious, and the characters joke around and drop multiple sexual innuendos. Giuliana, for once, appears to derive some entertainment in this scene, and the vibrant red of the room within the context of these dirty jokes can be seen as representing some sense of primal human spirit and naturalistic passion.

In the penultimate scene of the film, Giuliana wanders into a shipyard, where she attempts to strike up a conversation with a sailor, who does not understand her Italian. As she expresses her feelings of alienation in the scene, she is literally unable to communicate with the man in front of her. In her monologue, Giuliana states that she feels “sort of separated” and that “our bodies are all separate.” Here, the dialogue strongly supports the theme of alienation in the industrial age that Antonioni has illustrated throughout the film. In the final scene, Giuliana walks with her son near the factory that was introduced at the beginning of the film. Poisonous, yellow smoke is seen coming out of the industrial chimneys, and the son asks if a bird would die if it were to fly through the fumes. Giuliana responds by saying that the birds have learned to avoid the yellow smoke. As in the opening of the film, Giuliana wears green, and her son wears a yellow-ish coat. However, while the shots of this factory at the start of the film are almost entirely grey, the closing scene features both the yellow smoke and a mass of green and yellow barrels. These are still images of industrialization, but the fact that they now match the color of Giuliana’s costume suggests that she has finally learned how to adapt to her environment. Like the bird, Giuliana has learned to avoid the poisonous smoke.

 

Red and Revenge in Oldboy and Lady Vengeance (Nita)

Park Chan-wook is one of the leading voices of the Korean New Wave of Cinema, a movement that began in 1997 and gave rise to a variety of daring and creative masterpieces. Park is best known for directing a series of three films known as The Vengeance Trilogy. The trio of films are narratively unconnected; however, as the name suggests, the three films are linked by the common theme of violent revenge.

My personal favorites of the trilogy are the second and third installments, Oldboy (2003) and Lady Vengeance (2005), respectively. Oldboy, one of the most influential Asian films of the 2000s, focuses on male protagonist Oh Dae-su’s quest to find out why his unknown captor imprisoned him for 15 years. Similarly, Lady Vengeance follows Lee Geum-ja, a woman who is blackmailed into serving 13 years in prison for a murder she did not commit. Upon her release from prison, Geum-ja embarks on a journey for revenge against the true murderer. The two films are visually and psychologically dreadful, yet Park skillfully explores beautiful complexities about human nature by showcasing violence on the mind and body. One of the ways in which Park achieves these layered films is by his distinct usage of color palette, in particular the color red.

Oldboy features frequent pops of red that contrast the general dark and muted color palette of the film. These moments of red often appear in the form of blood, highlighting the physical violence within the film. At the start of Oldboy, this violence is self-inflicted: while imprisoned in the bleak hotel room, Dae-su repeatedly shatters glass and tries to kill himself (he is revived by his captor every time against his will). A shot of Dae-su being dragged out of the hotel, bloodied and unconscious, is shown multiple times. A large trail of blood is left behind on each occasion, and the red-stained carpet is visible in following scenes. Dae-su’s violence against himself reveals his desire to escape the dark and cyclical life he is imprisoned in, while his inability to “succeed” in his attempts furthers the film’s concept of inescapable fate – the lingering dark red blood stains serving as a reminder of this hopeless condition. This is violence on the mind, too.

As the film continues, this violence is projected outwards when Dae-su’s desire for revenge ensues. For instance, in the scene where Dae-su finds and captures one of his captor’s accomplices, Dae-su is graphically seen ripping out the man’s teeth and causing profuse bleeding. The mutilation of another human’s body and the consequent explosions of red – a common occurrence in the movie – reveal mankind’s capacity for depravity.

In Lady Vengeance, a similar usage of the color red can be observed. Like Oldboy, Lady Vengeance features the protagonist causing self-harm in the beginning of the film. Sporting red eyeshadow and overwhelmed with guilt, Geum-ja visits the parents of the boy she falsely confessed to murdering. In an attempt to earn their forgiveness, she threatens to cut off all her fingers. Before she is stopped by the terrified parents, she manages to chop off her little finger. In the visually brutal scene, blood is spewed out all over a coffee table and the floor. Park’s signature overhead shot reveals the red pools of blood surrounding the three crazed characters, highlighting the internal and external violence of the scene.

One of the most notable scenes in Lady Vengeance occurs towards the end of the film, after Geum-ja captures the real murderer and finds out that he has killed other children. Geum-ja gathers all the parents of the murdered children and they decide to seek revenge and take turns torturing the murderer, rather than simply turning him into the police. The scenes of violence that follow this decision are incredibly eerie and graphic, with blood being a pervasive element in most shots. The scenes are purposefully outrageous, as Park explores the concept of ordinary people being able to commit such heinous acts. While the parents display their capacity for savagery in the name of revenge, the sequence prompts us to consider the complex themes of justice and equality. Furthermore, we wonder about the inherent darkness that Park suggests humanity possesses.

After repeatedly emphasizing the extreme violence on characters’ bodies and minds resulting from revenge seeking, Park ultimately conveys that the violence culminates into nothing substantially beneficial. In Oldboy, the end reveals that the revenge was two-way, as Dae-su finds out that his captor only freed him to seek revenge and manipulate Dae-su into unknowingly falling in love with his own daughter. The last scene is Dae-su and his daughter/lover, dressed in all red, embracing in a field of white snow. Here, the red serves as an aggressive reminder of the moral dilemma that Dae-su is left with. In Lady Vengeance, the end depicts the drive for revenge spreading from one woman to many individuals. Though the final act of revenge is successfully carried out and celebrated by the characters at the end of the film, Geum-ja’s guilt still remains as she must live with the repercussions of her actions. Interestingly, there is an absence of red in the final shot of Lady Vengeance, hinting at the film’s departure from violence and revenge. Instead, a feeling of emptiness permeates the scene as an incredibly pained Geum-ja stands in a narrow alley of white snow, with her face pathetically stuffed in a white cake. Thus, Park seems to end on a similar sentiment at the conclusion of both Oldboy and Lady Vengeance: revenge is unsatisfying.

The Haunting Of Hill House and Non-Linear Narratives on Screen (Cristina)

Now that we're deep in the month of October and fully in the Halloween season, I find myself returning to my favorite ghostly pieces of media. Among them is the 2018 Netflix miniseries The Haunting of Hill House, an adaptation of the Shirley Jackson novel, which follows the five Crain siblings (Steve, Shirly, Theo, Luke, and Nell) through two different timelines: the summer their mother died when they were children and the days surrounding Nell's suicide in the present. The show hops nonchronologically between these two timelines, showing various events at Hill House, the haunted mansion where they lived as children, and [narrating] the prelude and aftermath of Nell's death.

Most impressive is how the show visually transitions over the timelines, tying each sequence together through some physical, sonic, or thematic connection. In one scene, young Theo pushes through a door and reveals adult Theo opening a fridge in Shirley's kitchen. As a child, Luke hears the ghostly sounds of dogs barking outside his window in Hill House and in the present-day Luke listens to another group of dogs while sitting in a park. Shirley, the mortician, prepares Nell's body for her wake before the scene transitions to Nell's wedding where Shirley helps her apply her makeup.

Aside from being visually compelling and creating a flow to each hour-long episode, the inescapable connection between the past and the present is one of the show's driving themes. In the first episode, Steve explains his understanding of the supernatural: "A ghost can be a lot of things. A memory, a daydream, a secret. Grief, anger, guilt. But, in my experience, most times they're just what we want to see." 

For the Crain family, ghosts are memories. They are haunted (sometimes literally) by their pasts, which we fade in and out of. For example, Shirley in the present day is haunted by a male ghost, sitting and raising a glass to her. Deep into the season, it's revealed that Shirley met the man at a conference and had an affair with him. Her guilt literally haunts her with his image. 

Furthermore, while telling the story non-linearly, the first five episodes are organized around the five siblings from oldest to youngest. Each sibling is given an episode documenting their chilling experiences in Hill House and their reactions to Nell's death. Dividing the story like this not only allows for some spectacular character development, but it also raises the question of perspective. Our understanding of each scene changes depending on whose story we're following and what context we're allowed.

In episode one, Steve's episode, Steve returns to his apartment to find a sick-looking Luke presumably robbing Steve for drug money. However, when we reach episode four, from Luke's perspective, we see the scene again with the understanding that Luke is trying to procure some money to help his friend from rehab get off the streets. In one haunting scene from Steve's point of view, he hides in his room with his father while something turns the doorknob on the other side. The scene takes on a new context, when in episode nine we follow their mother Liv and discover that she is on the other side of the door, crazed after the house has been slowly eating away at her sanity.

Each moment and each line is meticulous, carefully building mystery and intrigue, but ultimately fitting together neatly when the audience is able to reflect on the full timeline, slotting each scene into its perfect place with new understanding. 

In the final episode, the remaining Crain siblings return to Hill House and see Nell as a ghost, who says, "Everything's been out of order. Time, I mean. I thought for so long that time was like a line, that our moments were laid out like dominoes, and that they fell, one into another... But I was wrong. It's not like that at all. Our moments fall around us like rain. Or snow. Or confetti." And ultimately this is how we see the Crains and their story, like confetti, flowing in and around their lives through time, through sounds and motions and ideas, each memory slowly settling around us.

The Office: The YouTube Edition (Yaejin)

    Originally created to be a video-sharing platform, YouTube.com is currently the second most visited website globally according to the Visual Capitalist. Shows produced by prominent television networks such as ABC, NBC, and CBS are now also promoted on the site, capitalizing on its massive audience. Networks release teaser clips to promote their series as well as upload highlights. Among the multitude of channels that serve this purpose, that for the American adaptation of The Office truly shines.

    The Office US uploads content three times a week: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. These are not just clips, but are complication videos devoted to individual characters: “Best of Pam/Ryan/Darryl/etc.” They include slices from throughout the show’s nine seasons and attract millions of views. Watching a character grow through the years can leave even non-fans with a peculiar fondness for them. While showcasing the most iconic moments, these small features leave you wanting to see more.

    There are videos dedicated to rivalries, bloopers, and inside jokes. The people behind the YouTube channel feel like genuine fans themselves. Some videos are dedicated to popular conspiracy theories, catering to the imagination of its audience. The creators encourage viewers to actively engage by upvoting or leaving comments.  A month-long tournament to determine the most loved character resulted in an April Fool’s prank. Every day of March, the channel polled the audience, pitting two characters against each other to see who was favored, narrowing to an ultimate showdown. However, the prank resulted the choice of an insignificant character whose picture is shown in only one episode, as its winner.  The tournament required daily participation from both channel and audience, which displays their synergy. The channel really understands its fans, tailoring the prank to their humor. 

    Not only are the creators accessible through YouTube, the comment section supports direct conversation among fans. Anyone with a Google account can write, upvote or downvote, and reply to comments. Because the most popular opinions are at the top, the comment section is a quick way to gather perspective. While most are rather silly, some comments can be insightful. Over six thousand viewers agreed with one in particular by Daniel Rios: “A part of growing up is realizing that Karen really didn’t do anything wrong, it’s just that she wasn’t Pam...” In The Office, Jim starts dating Karen after Pam initially rejects him. 

    Yes, while some characters are written to be hated, Karen is friendly, hardworking, and fun. These qualities are usually appreciated, but some people justify their adoration for Pam as a reason to dislike Karen. For so many to share this irrational reasoning conveys their emotional investment in The Office. This show has convinced its audience that these characters exist in some other world. Although Karen is fictitious, real people react emotionally to her. 

    Although it should elicit reaction, great script writing helps its audience reflect and grow with the story. That thousands were able to recognize their own growth through the show struck me. The character relationships must be engaging yet realistic for the audience to dislike someone who disrupts this environment. However, they must also be nuanced enough for people to reflect on their biases. Attracted by the ongoing popularity of the YouTube channel and convinced by the conversation generated, I started watching The Office myself.

Post-Grad Purgatory in The Graduate (Eric)

The Graduate (1967) begins with an opening credit scene in which Ben, played by Dustin Hoffman, floats through an airport terminal on a moving walkway with only a white wall behind him. He doesn’t take any physical action to move towards his destination; he simply drifts by. The film takes place during the summer after Ben’s college graduation, and it explores the sense of confusion that the protagonist faces. Many elements of the mise-en-scene help to inform the notion of Ben’s existential anxiety while also commenting on the rigid social forces with which he is made to contend with.

As he is forced by his parents to greet guests in his home immediately after coming back from college, Ben explains to his father that he’s worried about his future. Ben doesn’t know where he’s going. When he comes down to greet the guests, he is framed in a handheld closeup to illustrate his sense of discomfort and aimlessness as various friends of his parents approach him with questions and conversations that he clearly doesn’t want to engage with. Ben appears completely lost throughout this whole sequence, and like the opening credits, there is a heavy presence of the color white in both the set and costume design. Ben seems to be drifting through a sort of post-graduation purgatory.

When Ben escorts the predatory Mrs. Robinson to her home, he is greeted with the massive white façade of her suburban mansion. At the end of the film, he again journeys into a massive white building, a church, to disrupt his love interest’s wedding. In this way, the color white comes to symbolize both the institutions Ben must contend with as well as the sense of nothingness that currently pervades his life. The white is often in contrast with more vivid colors, specifically green and blue. Right before Ben has sex with Mrs. Robinson for the first time, (which takes place in a white hotel room on a white bed), a blinding white light shines out from the bathroom behind him. This is immediately juxtaposed with a sequence representing Ben’s post-coital bliss, in which he literally floats in a blue pool surrounded by green bushes. At the end of this sequence, he is rudely awakened from his daydream by his father, who stands directly in front of the blinding white sunlight. The dialogue here again supports Ben’s current meandering. When asked what he’s doing by his father, Ben replies, “Well, I would say that I’m just drifting.”

The drifting past a white wall from the opening credit sequence stands in contrast to Ben’s hectic action near the end of the film, in which he drives through the night in order to find Elaine, his love interest. He drives through the night, and past mountains and trees to get to Elaine, who is trapped inside the massive white church. In context with the Robinson’s large white house from the beginning of the film, the white buildings can be seen as seen as hostile arenas. In the Robinson mansion, Ben is cornered by Mrs. Robinson. In the Church, he is attacked by the wedding party. Ben must contend with the powerful forces of tradition and institution in order to achieve his freedom, to escape from his blank white rooms. Ultimately, Ben and Elaine escape the church and go out on the road, but the film ends in uncertainty as the two find themselves in a bus surrounded by the eyes of middle-aged bus-goers; Ben sits on the bus with the same lost face from the start of the film as he is confronted with an unknown future and the judgement of social convention and respectability.

 

The Good Place and Redefining the Sitcom (Cristina)

Despite critical acclaim and decent ratings, this past Thursday marked the final season premiere of NBC's The Good Place. Where many sitcoms of similar success find themselves running for upwards of six seasons, ending the series after just four was the choice of the creator Michael Schur to preserve the show's narrative integrity, continuing its tradition of subversive television storytelling.

The Good Place stars Kristen Bell as Eleanor Shellstrop, an Arizona deadbeat who dies and finds herself in an afterlife neighborhood in the titular Good Place, a non-denominational heaven. The only problem: she has ended up in the Good Place by accident, mistaken for a different Eleanor Shellstrop who dedicated her life to helping others. Slowly her presence and less-than-savory personality begin to have dire physical consequences on the environment around her.

While slightly more fantastical, the show situates itself like most modern network sitcoms, centering around a group of diverse personality types in a unifying location. Where Friends has Central Perk and the apartments, The Office has the office, Parks and Rec has the parks department, The Good Place has the neighborhood. As its first season starts up, the groundwork established, the episodes remain mostly episodic, following Eleanor and her allies as they help her avoid detection and teach her to fit in by becoming a better person.

However, a mere seven episodes in, the show begins making bold narrative choices. Season 1 Episode 7, "The Eternal Shriek", follows another antic filled day. This time Eleanor and her friends must murder the pseudo-robot neighborhood guide, Janet, in order to keep Eleanor from being discovered. Just when they escape the day unscathed, seeing her friends wracked with guilt for their actions and stress over maintaining their lies, Eleanor announces to the entire neighborhood that her placement in the Good Place was a mistake.

This pivotal turning point completely changes the structure of the show from an episodic comedy to a plot-driven adventure. For the back half of the season, every episode pushes the plot forward as stakes increase. It becomes necessary for the audience to watch every episode in order to understand what's going on. 

Situational comedies have a long and noble history on broadcast television. A hallmark of the genre is repetition, the necessity to return all characters and relationships to their starting point at the end of every episode, no matter what has been accomplished by the plot, to preserve established dynamics and tensions. For example, a 'will-they-won't-they' dynamic holds two characters with romantic potential right at the edge of a relationship for as long as possible to continue to use the tension of the situation. Missing an episode or tuning in to a later season should have little effect on the audience's ability to enjoy the show.

The Good Place rejects the sitcom's repetitive nature. The characters begin to change drastically, most notably Eleanor who genuinely becomes a better person as the show progresses and whose actions as a good person disrupt any possibility that the situation can exist in perpetuity. Where the conceit of the show depends on Eleanor's selfish actions jeopardizing her position in the Good Place, her learned honesty and selfless actions disrupt the status quo of the show's world.  

The season one finale ushers in a plot twist of monumental proportions, redefining the entire season and establishing that the content of the show will never be the same. The Good Place is self-aware of its changing nature as it moves from a mere subversion of the genre into a meta-commentary. The final scenes see our main characters have their memories wiped, literally reverted to their states at the beginning of season one because their character development was a threat to the sustained existence of their neighborhood. 

Season two and three become even more plot-heavy and dedicated to worldbuilding, the midpoint of season two seeing the characters abandon the neighborhood altogether and go on a sprawling adventure through all corners of the afterlife and then the real world. And every time the characters grow, internally and in their relationships with each other, some magical force will inevitably revert them back to their 'default' state, until they inevitably grow into their better selves. 

As we approach the finale, it's impossible to say where the story and characters will end up. By deliberately choosing its end, I have no doubt The Good Place's conclusion will be as narratively satisfying as the previous three seasons. 

 

See You In 27 Years: A Look at Andy Muschietti's It Duology (Cristina)

I continue to find myself unbelievably fond of Andy Muschietti's It Chapter One. While on the surface It is a horror movie about an evil clown named Pennywise, when you dig deeper it's an earnest character-driven ensemble film. The movie does a meticulous job balancing all seven members of the Losers' Club, a plucky band of outcasts being tormented by the clown, as unique characters with strong voices, separating them at times to develop their individual journeys and bringing them together to bounce off each other. Whether it's Richie making a terrible joke, Beverly saying something courageous, or Stan dryly rolling his eyes, the characters' have great consistency in their interactions with each other, a playful banter that easily escalates to genuine tension between their distinctive personality types as the stakes increase. 

At its core, it's a coming of age film, following the kids as they confront the evils of the world around them for the first time, only able to find understand and gain the ability to fight back against their circumstances when united. And while their circumstances include a killer clown, they also encompass each characters' individual struggle: Bill's grief at the loss of his brother, Eddie's disillusionment with his mother's overparenting, Mike's forced adjustment to independence and maturity as an orphan. It's only by coming together and fighting the clown that each character is able to accept their situation and grow.

It Chapter Two picks up 27 years later as the characters reunite after Pennywise returns to torment their hometown again. Because of some evil magic, all the characters who left town have no memory of their childhood there at all and only when returning home do they start to remember, both the evils they encountered and their friendship. It becomes essential for each character to uncover parts of their past in order to actually kill Pennywise, once again pairing the clown's attacks with the kids' personal and familial struggles in a series of flashbacks. The narrative becomes a tale of confronting repressed trauma and only being able to overcome that trauma by confronting it head-on. 

The film's narrative is aided by the performances, each adult actor remarkably capturing every slight mannerism from the children's performances. Visually the characters haven't changed at all, unable to while they were unable to overcome the trauma they've repressed.

All that keeps Chapter Two from being as successful at its narrative as its predecessor is the very effectiveness of the first movie. Both the original Stephen King novel and the 1990 miniseries cut between two timelines instead of separating them, pairing the adults return and reunion with the memories they slowly regain of their original fight with Pennywise. The driving force of the adult Losers becomes their ability to uncover what happened that summer and how they were able to fight the clown so they can defeat it again. By separating the children's timeline into its own contained narrative, removing its episodic nature for a more streamlined plot, the audience isn't held in suspense in the adults' timeline, but is rather waiting for the adults to catch up to what the audience already knows. 

While the underlying messages of the narrative are still preserved, the 170-minute runtime of the second film only exacerbates the lack of suspense. The movie is carried along by the charisma of the characters, the intrigue of seeing them as adults, and a promise of finality for their struggles, both internal and against the clown. 

Ultimately Muschietti's adaptation shows true understanding of the point of King's novel and an ability to convert deep thematic narratives to screen. There's something powerful about the narrative that I can't escape, the way the characters find solace in each other and strength in themselves when united. Despite the struggle of pacing in the second film and the campiness of the horror, I continue to recommend it and can't wait to see it again.

Mandy Dreams of LSD (Eric)

Nic Cage is my favorite actor of all time, and thanks to his questionable financial responsibility, he seems to take any movie offer thrown his way. In 2018, Cage lent his voice to two animated movies, appeared in one documentary, and acted in six feature films, one of which was Mandy. Directed by Panos Cosmatos, Mandy is a nightmarish revenge thriller, imbued with as much unhinged emotion as it is with psychedelic color. In other words, it is the perfect vehicle for Cage’s often over-the-top acting style. Playing the role of a reclusive, recovering alcoholic whose wife is kidnapped and burned alive by a Manson-esque cult, Nic Cage operates at maximum Cage-ness for the duration of his bloody rampage, and it’s a whole lot of fun.

While Nic Cage was perfectly cast for Mandy, the movie would not be what it is without Cosmatos’ vision and the skill with which he laces psychedelic drugs into the film itself. Drugs appear in most movies as plot devices, sold and bought and used by characters in order to move the narrative along. Replacing the cocaine in Scarface (1983) with cheeseburgers would not make any practical sense, but the plot would remain essentially the same. In addition, countless other movies attempt to depict or replicate mind-altering drug experiences through visual effects and camera techniques. For example, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998) uses close ups with wide angle lenses to create a disorienting effect, and special effects are used to make patterns in the carpet move as they might appear to during a real acid trip. Many science fiction movies take inspiration from psychedelic experiences to convey a sense of otherworldliness, as evidenced by the “Star Gate” sequence in 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and the countless other versions of the endless light tunnel. Most similar to Mandy in its attempt to craft a world dependent on psychedelics is Enter the Void (2009), yet the intimate camera of Enter the Void provides the film with a sense of realism that is noticeably lacking in Mandy. Mandy is the first example of a movie I’ve seen in which the mise-en-scene is wholly inspired by psychedelic drugs and in which both character actions and the movie universe are dependent on the presence of such drugs.

In this way, it could be hypothesized that the world of Mandy is actually the collective internal experience of its characters. The very beginning of the movie features no drugs, but the mise-en-scene in these opening scenes acts as a prologue to the full blown hallucinogenic heart of the rest of the film. The saturated lighting and double-exposures, though muted in presentation, are still apparent in the opening. In the scene in which Nic Cage’s character first takes the fantasy acid, the film presents what appears to be a montage of images within the character’s mind. These images strongly resemble the actual setting of the film, and in the final scene, Nic Cage drives away under a colorful, fantasy horizon. Once the drugs are introduced in the plot, many sequences take on a rhythmic, dreamlike quality reminiscent of Stan Brakhage’s Dog Star Man (1961-1964). This is despite the very literal violence that occurs in the plot, which includes a chainsaw duel and a skull crushing. The plot is presented in a very linear fashion, yet the film works to meld scenes together, which limits the role of time and emphasizes the movie’s hallucinogenic nature. The saturated lighting, fade-ins and fade-outs, double-exposures, and dream sequences cooperate with the fantastical special effects to produce a film that both explores and inhabits hallucination.

The Portrayal of Artificial Intelligence in Modern Sci-Fi Film (Nita)

The exploration of artificial intelligence in film is not a novel concept. Perhaps it has been such a popular topic because it leads humans to self-reflect on what exactly humanity entails. Two films come to mind when I think of modern films that prompt discussion on the increasing integration of artificial intelligence (AI) into society: Spike Jonze’s Her (2013) and Alex Garland’s Ex Machina (2014). Both films portray the dynamic relationship between humans and technology in similar, yet distinct ways. The two films do touch on the potential advantages of AI. However, both end on a pessimistic note, with Her and Ex Machina pointing out how the lack of a physical and mental sameness, respectively, can create turmoil.

Her seems to portray the relationship between AI and humans as adversely consuming. Though Samantha (AI) serves as an enhancement in Theodore’s (human) social life, she also acts as a barrier between Theodore and other human beings by replacing authentic social interaction. Throughout the film, the idea that humans are becoming increasingly isolated from their physical surroundings is emphasized through the usage of zooming. On multiple occasions, the camera will focus on a character and gradually zoom out to convey a sense of disconnection to the viewer. One particular scene in which this technique is employed is when Theodore talks to Samantha for the first time. As the two bond, the camera slowly zooms out, leaving Theodore and Samantha isolated in the center of the frame. This camera technique functions as a means of communicating the alienating effect of AI and its ramifications on the relationships between humans. Furthermore, in Her, relationships with AI lack one of the most fundamental elements of intimacy: physical closeness. This aspect of intimacy is emphasized when Theodore meets with Catherine to sign divorce papers. Upon seeing each other, the very first action the two take is to embrace one another – an act that is impossible in the relationship between Theodore and Samantha. During Theodore and Catherine’s conversation, a shot-reverse-shot technique is employed to highlight the authentic face-to-face exchange that is occurring—such as is missing in Theodore and Samantha’s relationship. As Catherine signs the divorce papers, a montage reveals moments that the two shared when they were in a relationship. All of the memories depict the two hugging, kissing, and touching; they also reveal what is lacking in Theodore and Samantha’s relationship. The emphasis on the physical nature of Theodore and Catherine’s relationship serves to point out the deficiencies in AI/human relationships. Additionally, the meeting between Catherine and Theodore suggests that AI can be used to escape genuine human relationships that demand more of an investment. Catherine confronts Theodore about not being able to handle human emotions, which consequently prompts Theodore to question the authenticity of his relationship with Samantha. Thus, the sequence underscores the issue of AI acting as a replacement for real, physical relationships between human beings.

Despite showcasing the negative aspects of AI, Her does suggest that AI can also serve a positive role in a human’s life. When dejected Theodore returns to his bed and recollects a failed date for Samantha, the AI acts as confidant and offers consolation. It is therapeutic for Theodore to discuss his feelings with Samantha, and he cherishes their increasingly intimate bond. Despite their different forms, Theodore and Samantha are able connect in a seemingly genuine manner.  A close-up of Theodore’s face is used in this scene to convey intimacy, even though a physical form of Samantha is absent.

A similar narrative arc can be found in Ex Machina. Like Her, the film begins with a cold gray-scale color palette and depicts a highly machine-dominated world as isolating and impersonal. Caleb’s entrance into Nathan’s advanced estate is daunting; the camera follows Caleb from a distance as he interacts with machines, until finally reaching another human (Nathan) in the depths of the overwhelming structure. Caleb and Ava’s initial exchange is also characterized as distant. The two characters are physically separated by glass, and the two faces are not shown in the same frame. As the film progresses, we see how Ava and Caleb (AI and human) become closer. The meetings between Caleb and Ava are depicted as becoming more intimate, with the camera positioned to show both faces in the same shot. Meanwhile, Caleb and Nathan’s relationship (human and human) deteriorates, while Caleb becomes suspicious that Nathan is the “enemy”.

Similar to how Her depicts the protagonist confiding in AI, Caleb discusses his negative feelings toward Nathan and begins to plot with Ava – in a sense, switching sides. The emotional progression of the plot leads us to empathize with her character while wondering how AI can be used in a moral manner to create a positive influence.

Ultimately, Ex Machina indicates that the possession of a human form may not necessarily translate into cognitive closeness between humans and AI. Ava’s “inhumane” betrayal of Caleb’s trust towards the end of the film suggests that AI’s lack of human consciousness may have problematic implications for humanity. Both Her and Ex Machina create an interesting dichotomy between AI’s capability to foster connection and disconnection. However, the two films have pessimistic conclusions, with the AI transcending the humans and leaving the protagonists’ lives incomplete.

Fury Road: The Car Is a Penis (Eric)

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), directed by George Miller, is structured as one giant car chase. The movie begins with Max’s capture and enslavement in the Citadel, a fortress with much needed water and resources in the movie’s wasteland Earth. He’s seen being branded with the skull logo that represents Immortan Joe, the dictator who maintains power by hoarding water in the Citadel. The Imperator Furiosa and a group of War Boys are sent into the dessert to collect gas and bullets when Furiosa suddenly deviates from the path. Furiosa is off to escape to the Green Place, the idyllic town from which she was kidnapped as a child, with Immortan Joe’s many “wives” in tow. Joe and his army immediately go after them, and chase after chase ensues in the hunt for Furiosa and the stolen wives.

When it comes to a car chase’s potential to induce an adrenaline rush, bigger always means better. With more cars comes a higher probability of crashes, and the typical large-scale car chase come in the form of police cars. Fury Road uses the basic idea of multiple cars chasing a single “prey” car and takes it to an extreme. The monstrous cars in Immortan Joe’s army serve specific functions in the hunt, and they are outfitted as such. There are cars fitted with machine guns, cars with people swinging through the air on poles, and there’s a single drummer boy car with a man swinging from wires while playing an electric guitar. Max himself gets dragged into the initial chase as a “blood bag”, and he’s seen chained and muzzled to the front of a car. Mastery of these specialized vehicles is critical to survival in this post apocalyptic environment. Importantly, the titular Max evidences less mastery over these vehicles throughout the film than does Furiosa, and though Max is by no means incompetent, Furiosa is set up as the leader of the pack, which creates some interesting implications.

Furiosa, with her shaved head and the ease with which she fends for herself in this violent setting, is a very masculine character. Indeed, the cylindrical vehicle which she controls for much of the film is the most phallic car out of the whole fleet. It’s also the largest vehicle in the movie. Furiosa stands in stark contrast to the more traditionally feminine “wives” that she’s leading to the Green Place, though even they are tougher than they appear. Despite being clothed in white dresses and shirts, (as opposed to Furiosa’s dirty pants and boots and metal arm), the wives have no choice but to match the fierceness of the men around them in order to survive.

Furiosa’s truck is large enough to fit several protagonists inside, thus giving it the ability to serve as a setting all on its own. The majority of the characters in the film are men, and Furiosa’s truck is an outlier in terms of its personnel. The heroes, many of them female, must work together within the vehicle to fight off the attackers in this dangerous, desert landscape. Furthermore, the creation of bonds and realization of emotions occurring mid-chase works to form character arcs as the action occurs. Ultimately, Furiosa is able to achieve success with the help of her crew, and the display of her dominance and mastery over her environment comes with the orgasmic release of the water that’s been hoarded by Immortan Joe.

   

 

Solving Design Troubles for Live-Action Adaptations (Katie)

Two live-action movies of beloved Nintendo franchises are hitting the big screens soon. But their receptions are extremely different—especially when it comes to the visual adaptation of everyone’s favorite characters to a cinematic universe. Fans have been so vehemently and vocally repulsed by Sonic’s live action design that the director for the live-action Sonic movie has promised to redesign Sonic before the full movie arrives in theatres…but everyone loves the cute and realistic designs of Pokémon in Detective Pikachu.

When it comes to unrealistic, cartoonish character designs and how they’re brought to VFX-life, what did Sonic do wrong that Detective Pikachu did right?

In short, the answer lies in how much the moviemakers decided to stay loyal to the original designs. It seems like a simple answer, but there’s more to it than meets the eye.

Both the Sonic and Pokémon franchises have cartoony, over-the-top, imaginative designs for their characters. Sonic himself is an unrealistically-proportioned, bright blue “hedgehog” with human-skin-colored belly and limbs: Sonic the Hedgehog. Pikachu, and other Pokémon, appear as wildly fantastic reinterpretations of Earth animals; Pikachu is a large, yellow-and-brown “mouse” with electric powers and plenty of cute to go around: Pikachu. Most importantly, both Sonic and Pikachu’s character designs—along with their in-game cohort—are based on real-life animals.

This is important because Sonic’s designers and Detective Pikachu’s designers took different paths after acknowledging that fact.

Sonic’s original design has its strengths in his big eyes, large head (especially the spikes on the back of his head), and sizeable extremities, even if the rest of him is small, thin, or otherwise unrealistic in being an actual hedgehog’s body. Where the Sonic live-action movie turns horrifying is in Sonic’s completely revamped features. Presumably, it is some desperate attempt to make him more realistic than he was ever intended to be, and the results have not favored the live-action movie.

The live-action Sonic has tiny eyes, a properly, proportionally-sized body, and small head spikes. He has the appearance of not quite a hedgehog—because he’s standing on two feet and human-kid-sized—but he also has a long way to go before being Sonic. The result is a hybrid that looks a tad horrifying, as live-action Sonic has none of the trademark Sonic traits, yet he’s not completely a hedgehog. It was so ugly that, after the trailer was released and the horrified reactions came flooding in, the director eventually had to release a statement that they would redesign Sonic entirely.

In Detective Pikachu’s case, the unrealistic traits of every Pokémon design were capitalized upon by designers. Instead of making Pikachu a compromise between a real mouse and the original Pikachu’s design, renders had Pikachu looking like a fluffy, real-life version of the original look for Pikachu—despite the fact that those proportions could never exist in any actual mouse. This resulted in some very ridiculous, fun looks for certain Pokémon, such as Ludicolo or and Psyduck, but these looks were never disloyal. Big, weird eyes? Huge duck bills and mouths? Who cares, so long as it still looks like the actual Pokémon? The characters on-screen genuinely look like live-action replicas of the cartoon or game designs themselves, and it’s worked in Detective Pikachu’s favor. After all, how can you say no to a creature as cute as Pikachu?

Sex and the Domestic Sphere in Slasher Movies (Charlotte)

One of the most important elements of a slasher movie is its setting. Two of the most iconic slasher movies ever made, John Carpenter’s Halloween (1978) and Tobe Hooper’s The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974), make great use of their settings, and are defined by their settings. Halloween takes place in suburbia, while Texas takes place in the middle of nowhere. While these two settings are very different, these filmmakers seem to be using these settings to communicate similar messages. Both movies seem to be warning the audience about the danger of disrupting the typical American domestic sphere and specifically the power of female sexuality to disrupt that sphere.

Halloween tells the story of a psychopath named Michael Myers, who kills his older sister, Judith, as a young boy. He escapes a mental hospital 15 years later and goes on a killing spree on Halloween night, targeting a group of babysitters.

Toward the end of Halloween Laurie finds the bodies of her friends in a bedroom. The majority of the movie takes place within suburban homes, and this is an obvious disruption of the domestic sphere—extreme violence in such an intimate space. Another theme that permeates the film is one of morality. Laurie, the only one of these teenagers to survive the film, is also the only one that is a virgin. The choice to put these young bodies in a space associated not only with love and domesticity, but also with sex, is a clear statement. Teen sexuality and premarital sexuality leads to the degradation of the traditional American home.

It is also crucial to mention that Annie is splayed out on the bed, dead and only partially clothed, with the stolen headstone of Judith Myers above her. Michael also killed Judith shortly after she engaged in sexual activity, and while she was still naked. Michael’s murder of Annie is a reenactment of his murder of his own sister fifteen years prior, which, it seems, was itself “punishment” for her teen sexuality. However, even though it seems that Michael is trying to punish these teenagers for engaging in sex, it also seems as though he is sexually fascinated by them. He kills them extremely intimately, and he moves their bodies after he kills them. The way that the bodies are arranged in the bedroom is carefully curated.

Michael then tries to stab Laurie, slashing the sleeve of her shirt. Given how close he was to her at the time it seems possible that he was not trying to stab her, but rather was trying to cut her clothes off. The ensuing struggle can be read as one for Laurie’s life or as one for Laurie’s body.

It is important to note that he uses a kitchen knife as his weapon. He is repurposing a tool from perhaps the most domestic part of the home, the kitchen, the hearth, and using it against the home. That points to how he is disrupting the domestic sphere throughout the film.

Laurie flees to the kitchen—the hearth, the supposed safest part of the home—and locks the door. She struggles to open an exterior door that’s blocked with a rake—yet another domestic tool. It is noteworthy that none of the weapons or obstacles used in the home (with the exception of the gun that Loomis uses) are from outside of the home. In every case, from Michael’s kitchen knife to the rake to the knitting needle and coat hanger that Laurie uses to defend herself, these are emphatically domestic items being turned against their natural environment. This is not a home invasion, but rather a home corruption.

Michael, using brute force, punches a hole through the kitchen door and steps inside. The shot of him entering the kitchen is disturbing. He looks so out of place not only because he’s a violent criminal in a mask, but also because he looks too big. He is taller than the refrigerator. He quite literally does not fit in this space.

Laurie narrowly escapes by breaking a window—by, in her own way, corrupting this domestic space—and we get a long shot of her fleeing the home. Suddenly, this warm, tight-knit neighborhood feels cavernous and abandoned. She screams for help, but no one comes to her aid. The shot is long and without cuts. The camera pans to follow her, but stays fairly still. This kind of camera movement turns the audience into yet another bystander, watching this unfold without helping her.

Their struggle continues. Laurie survives and for a moment it seems that Michael is dead. However, it is important that the movie does not end on this note. We cut back to see that Michael is no longer lying “dead” on the ground. This is followed by several shots of the interior of the house and the neighborhood, accompanied by Michael’s heavy, masked breathing. The implication is that he could be anywhere. These domestic spaces are not safe.

Texas tells the story of two siblings, Sally and Franklin, who travel with a group of friends to visit their grandfather’s grave. On their way back, they decide to stop by their grandparent’s old home and there encounter a psychopathic family of cannibals.

In many ways, Texas is a far more ham-fistedly told story. The corruption of the domestic sphere is obvious, with the cannibals’ home being covered in blood and innards, full of furniture made of human bones and skin, and the dried up, mummified remains of grandparents hidden in the attic. It is difficult to think of a more corrupt home environment. However, there is one less obvious and more subtle aspect of the home that is corrupted. There is no real female figure in the house. While their grandmother is technically present, she is dead and has no agency. This is a statement about what happens when women are absent from the home—men go insane.

The ending sequence of the film begins with Sally trapped in the cannibals’ home being tormented during a kind of “dinner party”. It is a confusing and disorienting series of close ups of the men cheering each other on as one tries to kill Sally with a hammer. This, too, is a weapon found inside the home, but it is more garage than kitchen. It is an emphatically more masculine tool than the knife in Halloween. This is a home that is devoid of the feminine. However, these men seem to be aware of that. During this sequence, Leatherface is dressed up as a woman, in make-up and a wig. He is play-acting the role of the “woman of the house”. It is also possible that the mask he wears is made of the skin of women specifically, in which case he is really trying to embody a woman in the most literal sense. This seems to stand in contrast with all of the anti-women language being used during the attack, such as, “Kill that bitch!” These men seem to have a real hatred for women as much as they have a fascination with them.

Like in so many horror films, the villain here is a visibly terrifying, ugly man who seeks to hurt a young, beautiful woman. It is possible that violence is the only way these men feel they can gain access to a woman’s body, and it is something of a replacement for sexual intimacy. This seems to be the case in Halloween, and certainly seems to be the case here as well. During the attack on Sally, one man holds her arms behind her back. They are crowded around her, physically intimidating her and physically forcing themselves on her. There is a close-up shot of her torn shirt and the bare skin of her back. It is terrifying, but there is a nod to the sexual. It can be read as a pseudo rape scene. It makes sense, though, that this takes place in a dining room rather than a bedroom, because, of course, once she is dead these men plan to eat her. At this dinner party, she is the dinner. This reversal, of turning women who theoretically should be warm, motherly creatures that make dinner into dinner is an ultimate corruption of the domestic sphere. A house without a woman, without a mother, becomes violent and disturbed.

Sally, like Laurie, escapes by smashing a window. She corrupts the domestic sphere further in order to escape it. We immediately get a shot of her hitting the ground, with open land in front of her and all around her. But, this gives the audience a sense of hope and freedom rather than a sense of helplessness. The suburban neighborhood in Halloween felt far more dangerous, because there exists a false sense of hope within it. Laurie is surrounded by people, people she knows, but none of them are willing to help her. Sally is alone, and yet she is the one who finds help.

Sally takes off running, and a truck driver stops and helps her to fight off Leatherface. A man in a pickup truck then lets her jump in the bed of his truck and helps her escape. It is odd that in such an isolated, desolate place, she manages to find help. The film may be arguing that it is best to not trust domestic spaces at all, for it is in a house that Sally is attacked, and it is out in the wild that she finds protection.

While Sally escapes with her life, the film ends on a similar note as Halloween. Sally watches from the truck, hysterical, as Leatherface waves his chainsaw around. He is not dead. He is still out there.

In conclusion, both of these examples of the slasher genre contain compelling commentary about the American home and about the role of sexuality within the home. Both seem to argue that the safety of the home is a myth, and that the domestic sphere is far easier to topple than we might like to believe, especially in the 70s, the age of women’s liberation. The changing role of women in this time scared people, and so it is fitting that scary movies would be made about it.

The (Sort of) Homestretch (Vanessa)

The last five weeks of my life have been amongst the most exhausting of my college career. However, today, the day that episode one of HOUSE will premiere alongside Studio North's two other 2018-2019 projects (which I HIGHLY recommend looking into, as they are both stellar projects) makes me realize that those five weeks are also amongst the most rewarding.

April for film majors (and from what I understand a lot of humanities majors...and other majors...let's just go with everyone) is brutal. If you are on the production track, like I am, you are either (1) helping on someone's set, (2) working on your own set, (3) editing a project, or (4) some combination of the previous three at the same time. In addition to studying for exams, writing papers, preparing for projects, balancing your other commitments, and trying to not completely self-destruct by eating and sleeping. Because I seem to like to make my life difficult, I found myself at 4 quite frequently the past few weeks. My priority, however, has been finishing up episode one (which takes viewers to the Chosen Few DJs Reunion Picnic in Chicago) for the premiere.

It has been a time of self-discovery, technical learning, pure frustration, and pure elation. And if the above words don't accurately describe editing, I don't know what does.

To start, I have learned a great deal about myself in this five-week span: from an ability to go through a whole pack of gum in two days just to give the rest of my body something to do while clicking away in Premiere, to an extreme sense of protectiveness over my project and its subjects, to the realization that to best avoid skipping meals while editing for 6 to 12+ hours at a time, one should always pack a couple of sandwiches just in case. This is all to say editing is physically and mentally draining. You are sitting, staring at a screen for hours at a time. Fun fact: the human body is not designed to sit and stare at a screen for hours at a time. I was confused the first few times I stayed at the JHU-MICA Film Center from noon to midnight as to why I would wake up and my back would tingle, my wrists would ache, and my eyes felt strained. Alas, I am not built for editing. But by day three of long editing sessions, I learned the key is really just having good posture. So I would count that as one of the things I learned as well.

As far as the protectiveness over my project goes, working on it for longer stretches of time gave me a deeper sense of attachment to it. Editing, for HOUSE, is an exercise in telling one story through many voices. I wanted to make those voices shine as best as they could. Which ties into the technical learning that occurred throughout the process of editing for a more intense amount of time than I had before.

When you first offload your footage from a camera after shooting, I think your immediate reaction, as a director, is probably "does it look good" and "does it sound ok". During editing, what looks "good" becomes "how do I make this look even better" and what sounds "ok" becomes "oh my god all the sound levels are different and anyone watching is going to know this IMMEDIATELY after the first cut between interviews." Every time I edit a project, I inevitably end up on a youtube page, internet forum, or at the mercy of my more skilled and knowledgeable film friends to figure out how to do something that ends up being incredibly easy. For the Chicago episode, this manifested in the form of three youtube videos on the "maintain power" audio transition tool in Premiere, several videos on color correction that I ended up learning a great deal from despite ultimately leaving the footage to be shown at the Studio North premiere ungraded (another fun fact: color grading images shrouded in smoke is not a simple task), and at least one forum on maintaining consistent audio levels throughout a video.

Overall, a good, albeit sometimes challenging process of absorbing and applying information, sometimes experiencing the joy in actually following the directions and ending up with a decent product, other times ending in looking up another video. Editing, like any skill, is larely about having the patience to continue learning and applying what you learn to practice. This holds true for the Chicago episode. At times it was incredibly frustrating not knowing how to do something you just KNOW can't be that hard to do. But the excitement in finding a solution, whether in terms of restructuring the sequence of your edits or by having an "ah ha!" moment when you finally DO find a solution is exciting.

Which leads me to the final two words: frustration and elation. One of my closest friends, who actually is pursuing a career as a professional editor and doing a spectacular job of doing so, once told me that with filmmaking, your lows are exceptionally low, but your highs are exceptionally low.

Editing is all about attention to detail. And not getting one detail to be as precise as you want can be incredibly frustrating. Along with the protectiveness over a project mentioned earlier comes the desire to achieve perfection. Which is at times, nearly impossible. But when a solution is found, or someone laughs at a joke you set up, or you finally just get something to WORK, it is immensely satisfying to craft a story out of raw material and see it succeed in its mission.

The Studio North premiere induces a weird mixture of excitement and anxiety for me. On one hand, I get to share this wonderful thing with people. On the other hand, this "thing" that I have been with since before it was even shot will soon be exposed to a world of opinions and grievances. Are people going to judge my work? Are people going to judge me because of my work? The long nights of adjusting audio levels, of trying to time a cut perfectly with a bit of music, of hoping and praying that I can convey how much fun house music is and how truly wonderful its fanbase is will be up to whoever is watching it. And hopefully, though an audience might not see those tiny adjustments and won't necessarily understand the long nights that went into creating, they'll feel the energy, unity, and spirituality that I hope the editing of the Chicago episode can appropriately convey.

We'll just have to see. 

Beyond the Image: The Surrealistic Works of Luis Buñuel (Mireille)

Surrealist filmmaker Luis Buñuel laments that the relationship between an audience and a text changes constantly, leading to individual interpretation of the artwork that often strays from the artist’s original intent. Buñuel argues that the audience should instead just accept the images in films without imposition of meaning or the passing of judgement. In other words, the real “duty” of the audience should be to simply “allow” what is being portrayed. Despite his assertions, Buñuel’s own surrealistic films are difficult to approach in this manner due to his stylistic choices, which are often shocking and unsettling. Woven throughout Buñuel’s work, which varies from abstract, almost nonsensical to more concrete, plot driven dramas, there are recurring themes such as the fragmentation and sexualization of body parts and the opinioned portrayal of certain sectors of society; precisely intended to jar the audience. Two films by Buñuel, L’Âge D’Or (1930) and The Exterminating Angel (1967), are emblematic of Buñuel’s style and as such his agenda of providing the audience with provocative fodder that defies interpretation and begs the audience to allow the purely visual experience.  

L’Âge D’Or is a surrealistic film in which Buñuel depicts the human primitive desperation to fulfill sexual desire even as social norms attempt to repress them. As such, the film is also a criticism, if not an outright attack on Bourgeois society. In this film, despite Buñuel’s argument for the “acceptance” of the image at hand, there are several sequences in which the use of shocking imagery taunts the audience to pass judgement and take sides. Buñuel chooses to highlight the sexual nature of humanity and puts sexual activity front and center from the introduction of the film. For example, a “couple” in the film is depicted as intertwined and wrestling in the mud while attending a religious ceremony. Buñuel shows them engaging in almost animalistic behaviors and completely oblivious that others are privy to their activity. In another instance, the same “couple” has been separated from the others attending the religious ceremony, and Buñuel cuts to a medium shot of the woman in a bathroom followed by a jump cut to what is seemingly volcanic rock, but strongly resembles feces. This filmic moment is quite possibly a nod to the Freudian influences of the time that argued that human beings are born with instinctual libido. However, this sequence also takes place in the fragment of the film that is introduced as “The Founding of Imperial Rome”, a not too subtle suggestion of what Buñuel thinks of society’s attempts to squelch the irrepressible desires of man and woman. Clearly, L’Âge D’Or does not provide the viewer with material that can be absorbed with impassivity. Rather, the film asserts the psychological and philosophical ideologies of the time while blatantly unveiling torrid human tendencies.

The Exterminating Angel also uses filmic juxtapositions to examine visual “obsessions” and repeated themes, but this time through a more linear narrative. In this film, Buñuel confounds the temporality of the film; blurring the lines between current reality and the dream state. Buñuel, constantly yet subtly, juxtaposes the images being viewed with the reaction of the characters as they observe the image of the reality at hand. He accomplishes this feat by alternating between high and low key lighting, switching between highly illuminated scenes and moments in which the characters are cloaked in shadow, rendering visible only certain features of their persona. The shots with high key lighting typically depict the periods in the film that are more “grounded” in reality. For example, Buñuel uses high key lighting when showing the group of protagonists imprisoned in a household for no rational reason going about their business and activities in a manner that an audience would accept as “normal”. However, Buñuel switches to low key lighting to underscore the dream-like almost psychotic state of some of the characters that are unable to leave the mansion. By using low key lighting, Buñuel is able to create more contrast and additional shadows to conceal portions of the frame, thus confounding and “un-grounding” the characters from their body and the setting, while also creating a feeling of dissociation for the audience. Buñuel’s use of cinematic lighting in this film is vastly different from L’Âge D’Or, which almost exclusively utilizes natural lighting; but both films are successful in their ability to separate and blend the current reality with a subconscious or dream state.

Finally, towards the culmination of The Exterminating Angel, the characters begin to laugh even when one of the couples has slit their wrists and died in a closet while engaging in a sexual act. This use of contrasting sound, namely a sound typically associated with joy, is combined with death and creates a lingering feeling of dissociation that displaces the viewer from a “normal” reality, not unlike the intimate scenes in L’Âge D’Or. This feeling of disquietude is no less strong even if one argues that rather than simply to create juxtaposition, Buñuel chose laughter in this scene to underscore that the characters are reaching a breaking point in their sanity as a result of the physical and psychological constraint within the household. In either case, Buñuel creates the very juxtaposition that he tries to avoid. In other words, he presents to the viewer too many possible venues to explore, which actually interfere with the ability to just let the images flood over the audience and work their magic.

LOVE DEATH & ROBOTS: What is Female Agency When the Female Body is Gone? Part 2 (Katie)

Two weeks ago I discussed the autonomy and survivability of women in the world of “SONNIE’S EDGE.” I’ve returned to discuss another episode in the action-packed anthology, one which puts a similar but new spin on the way women survive: “GOOD HUNTING.” As a story about a Chinese demon hunter, the colonization of Hong Kong, and the disappearance of old, natural magic in the world, there’s a lot to unpack. Spoilers ahead for the whole episode!

The first quarter of the episode opens with young son Liang, accompanying his father on a hunt to kill a húlijīng—a nine-tailed fox. Allegedly, the húlijīng has enchanted a merchant’s son, and the family hired Liang’s father, the demon hunter, to kill the húlijīng and get rid of the enchantment.

The father and son camp underneath the enchanted son’s bedroom window. His moans for the húlijīng ring out over the courtyard. Finally, the húlijīng comes. While Liang’s father and the húlijīng skirmish, Liang is momentarily entranced by the beauty of the húlijīng, and narrowly manages to throw dog’s piss over her body in time. The piss prevents the húlijīng from transforming completely into her fox form, leaving her in a half-fox, half-human state.

Liang’s father tracks the húlijīng to her den at a nearby temple. While they split up to scout for their quarry, Liang discovers one of the fox spirit’s hiding daughters: Yan. She is young, beautiful, and talks to him in her naked, snow-white fox form, emphatically inhuman. Liang is all eyes, even as he cowers, even as she leaps from rock to rock. And in a single argument, she changes Liang’s worldview.

YAN

Why are you hunting us? We did nothing to you.

LIANG

Your mother bewitched the merchant’s son. We were hired to save him.

YAN

Bewitched? He’s the one who wouldn’t leave her alone.

LIANG

That’s not true.

YAN

Once a man has set his heart on a huli jing, she can hear him, no matter how far apart they are. All that moaning and crying, she has to go to him every night just to keep him quiet.

LIANG

No, she lures men and feeds on them for her evil magic.

YAN

A man can fall in love with a huli jing just like he can with a human woman.

LIANG

It’s not the same!

YAN

Not the same? I saw how you looked at me. [4:26 - 5:12]

Immediately after this talk, Yan witnesses the graphic death of her own mother at the hands of Liang’s father.

The opening of “GOOD HUNTING” tells us immediately that this will be a subversive story. Here, the female húlijīng are not the evil, demonic witch-figures that men would paint them as; Yan is as sympathetic as she is inhuman. This is the first argument that “GOOD HUNTING” will make about the agency and power of women: the beauty of a húlijīng is a not a weapon used against men, but men will oppress her for it all the same. They will resent the way they feel about a beautiful húlijīng, and they will blame the feminine fox spirits to absolve themselves.

As the episode reaches its halfway point, Liang’s father passes away. Now a grown young man, Liang lives in a modernizing village: the first trains travel through the countryside, and the colonizing presence of the British Empire looms large over natives’ shoulders. For their last meeting in a long time, Liang and Yan commiserate about the state of the dying earth around them. Yan speculates that the magic is disappearing from the earth due to “iron roads” and “machines that breathe smoke” (6:46). As the magic leaves, so does her ability to change into her “true form” (6:52). Soon, she may lose the ability altogether.

The steampunk twist that “GOOD HUNTING” takes, a sharp veer from its fantastical origins, is another message about female oppression. It is, after all, mother nature that begins to be exploited and mutilated for arrogant white men. All the (literally) magical beauty of the earth, including that of the húlijīng, is slowly suffocated once ambitious men enter the picture.

Years pass. The episode continues to tell the story of Liang. He finds himself extremely skilled at engineering, specifically that of automata; even as a much-hated minority in Hong Kong, he makes himself useful to the British and has a decent living. On a chance encounter, he bumps into Yan. He rescues her from a group of overly eager British men who seek to have their way with her.

As they catch up, Yan tells Liang she has been permanently stuck in her human form: “no claws, no sharp teeth. I can’t even run very fast. All I have is my beauty. Now, I live by the very thing you accused my mother of: I bewitch men for money” (9:05). She laments the lack of power and control she has over her life in Hong Kong: “I dream of hunting in this jungle of metal and asphalt. I imagine my true form leaping from beam to ledge to terrace roof until I am at the top of this island. Until I can growl in the faces of all the men who believe they can own me” (9:40).

The story that Yan presents is that of a loss of agency. When Yan grew up, she had both her human and fox form. Now, she is chained to her human form, and she is forced to use her beauty to survive. This is in direct contrast with how Yan and her mother were treated in China, where they were wrongly hunted for being too beautiful. The world of men has declawed the húlijīng. Not only did men take away her ability to transform into a being with sharp teeth and claws, they made safe the one thing they feared most about a húlijīng: her beauty. Yan’s beauty is now merely a tool for getting by, a plaything for rich, white, colonial masters.

So far, in every aspect of storytelling, “GOOD HUNTING” has depicted a universe in which women are hardy and survivable, but terribly oppressed. Unfortunately, things only get worse for Yan from here.

Yan’s long-time client, the Governor, was only sexually attracted to machines. Naturally, the Governor decided to drug Yan and strap her to an operating table. By the time they were finished, Yan was entirely a machine. The ultimate fantasy for men who lived and profited off automata.

Yan’s non-consensual body swap, and the complete and total murder of her autonomy, needs no explaining. But “GOOD HUNTING” is not without hope. Far from it.

When Yan comes to Liang and tells her his story, she reveals that she escaped the Governor by killing him. One night, she told him no, and it enraged him. He struck her. She struck back and realized how much strength she had gained with her metal limbs: “A terrible thing had been done to me. But I could also be terrible” (12:38).

Yan reassures Liang that she does not want to reverse what has been done to her body. She wants to make the best of it. How? By using what automata parts existed in her, and changing them to become something else entirely.

At the end of the episode, Liang has successfully changed Yan’s machine body—originally made for man’s sexual pleasure and subjugation—into one that, with the right amount of coal and fuel, transforms into a lithe, agile, and beautiful nine-tailed fox. Shimmering under moonlight and padding gracefully on the balcony of Liang’s house, the automata-fox-form of Yan is graceful, dangerous, and dazzlingly powerful. From then on, Yan does what she promised she would do: growl in the faces of all the men who believe they can own her.

While the storyline of “GOOD HUNTING” is filled with hardship and oppression for both Liang and Yan, Yan’s story is ultimately optimistic—boldly, emphatically, and rebelliously optimistic. When Yan lost control and ownership of her entire body, she managed to make the best of it and, with the help of another oppressed party, become something closer to her original self. Even though she has been through hell, she persevered, and she was rewarded for it in the end.

But it’s true: Yan suffered terribly for being a beautiful woman, both as a child and an adult, and both in a rural village filled with magic, and a modernized world filled with steam-run automata. Yan had to lose all of her organic body in order to gain the ability to transform into her fox-form—to gain power—again.

Like “SONNIE’S EDGE,” “GOOD HUNTING” also seems to think that the only way for a woman to achieve anything close to true power is to not be a (biological) woman at all. And even then, there is something bleak and grim about that power. For Sonnie, it is having to fight for her life every time she enters that ring. For Yan, it is the complete loss of her actual body and true form before she could return to her fox form again. While women in these sci-fi worlds can survive through oppressive hells, it is entirely unclear whether what lays on the other side was better than what spawned those hells.

There’s still more I want to talk about. Why do Yan’s story and Sonnie’s story feel so similar? What does it mean that all the women in these sci-fi settings seem to get treated with ultra-violence? Why do increasing amounts of modern stories tell us that, when high-tech finds a throne in the world, oppressed groups get jailed into the low life? But these questions must be saved for another time.

Works cited in this text:

“GOOD HUNTING.” LOVE DEATH & ROBOTS. Netflix. March 15, 2019. Netflix.

Finding and Searching for Inspiration During Post-Production (Vanessa)

At the beginning of 2019 (which was also around the time I started to go through my footage for HOUSE), I was asked to consider two questions. The first: what movies have you enjoyed recently? The second: why did you enjoy them?

A significant amount of work goes into filmmaking of all kinds. From casting, to location scouting, pre-production, scheduling, and everything in between, the process of making a film, no matter the size, is consuming. However, in the midst of all the stress of figuring out the logistics of making and editing a film is the desire to make the darn thing in the first place. The two questions I was asked encouraged me to consider both where my own passion for filmmaking comes from and also what it is about the films of others that inspires me. In essence, I am trying to do more to think not only about where I want to go in terms of the vision of HOUSE but also where my interest in documentary filmmaking comes from.

For this post, I would like to take a step back from talking about editing itself and focus on two documentaries that I have looked to for guidance while editing HOUSE when in need of guidance for how editing works for documentary filmmaking.

The first of these three documentaries is John Heyn and Jeff Krulik’s 17-minute short Heavy Metal Parking Lot. Shot in the parking lot of a 1986 Judas Priest concert, Heyn and Krulik interview fans stimulated by raw excitement, a love of heavy metal, and, of course, alcohol and drugs. NPR did a review of Heavy Metal Parking Lot in 2016 during the week of the film’s 30^th anniversary. It features an interview from Laura Schnitker, an ethnomusicologist (basically someone who studies the intersection of music and culture) and an acting curator at University of Maryland who notes “for anyone who wants to understand what a heavy metal crowd looked like when heavy metal was at its peak popularity in the 1980s, this is a perfect document of that point in musical history…it’s just a great snapshot of fandom”.

Heavy Metal Parking Lot is striking to me because of how simple it is both in conception and in execution, but also so rich in terms of its honest depiction of a particular group of people simply existing in a particular cultural moment. The interviews are cut together so that different people ultimately end up answering the same questions, but in a way that depicts just how excited the fans are to be there. There are moments that are undeniably hilarious: teenagers screaming out random nonsense and proclaiming their love for Judas Priest, an event worker from the Caribbean who talks about how he’s never seen such craziness at home, and plenty of other metal-heads truly just enjoying the moment.

Heavy Metal Parking Lot, to me is an inspiration because it is honest. In the NPR interview, Krulik notes “neither one of us ever set out to do that [make fun of the fans]. I mean, there is manipulation involved: You’re editing it, you’re getting right to the most entertaining content. And that was our agenda, to make an entertaining 15-minute video”. Personally, I think that Heavy Metal Parking Lot lives up to this assertion. Yes, it is funny. But instead of focusing on the fact that, yes, the debauchery of the day makes it so fun to watch, it’s goal ultimately proves to be showing just how much fun it is to be a fan. This has been something I’ve grappled with while editing HOUSE: how do you create an honest depiction of something without necessarily making fun of it?

I look to Heavy Metal Parking Lot for the answer, which is ultimately to select footage the preserves the spirit of community and fun that is central to the house music community. One particular moment that I’ve enjoyed editing is a series of clips featuring interviewees responding to the prompt “describe house music in a few words”. The intrigued responses are just as fun and telling as the overly enthusiastic ones, and lives up to the idea of creating something that is both entertaining, and honest.  

The second documentary that has been on my mind a lot and a interesting point of reference for me as an editor has been this year’s Oscar winner Free Solo, which chronicles the journey of free solo rock climber Alex Honnold. I’ll admit, I was not entirely sure of my own feelings about Free Solo when I first saw it. It’s a spectacularly well shot documentary (the landscapes in particular are stunning) but the main point of curiosity for me while watching Free Solo is just how odd it is to explore the world of Alex Honnold. Alex is not passionate about much in his life. Even his girlfriend, who Is featured prominently throughout it, seems annoyed at just how little Alex seems to care about life. His friends constantly remind viewers of how absolutely terrible it feels to be filming something that ultimately could be Alex’s death, which is his scaling of Yosemite’s El Captain without harnesses or ropes. Alex is borderline unlikable.

However, what is interesting about Free Solo is how it chooses to depict just how deeply Alex loves free soloing. Rock climbing is more than his passion, but truly the crux of his existence. The editing takes care in depicting the complexities of its characters, cleverly juxtaposing images of Alex processing his mission with the beauty of the scenery, which doesn’t necessarily make you want to go climbing, but instead communicates the sense of inspiration one can derive from just how incredibly dedicated this man is to his task. Climbing is Alex’s life. He is less in love with the mountains as he is a part of them.

For me, Free Solo has been helpful with the process of editing house by encouraging me to think about boundaries. Free Solo is really two stories: Alex’s and Jimmy Chin’s (the director). Jimmy is a professional climber and mountaineer and at times Free Solo balances Alex’s narrative of climbing the mountain without equipment with Jimmy (and his crew’s) narrative of climbing the mountain with Alex and with film equipment. It works on two levels, depicting Alex’s grappling with undertaking a task that truly might kill him and Jimmy’s grappling with what it means to film something that is so blatantly stupid yet so fascinating. And what it would mean to film the death of his friend, in the case that Alex didn’t make it.

Editing is about decision-making, and both Heavy Metal Parking Lot and Free Solo make interesting choices that inform the overall narratives that both documentaries depict. At the heart of both documentaries is the notion of passion and of what it means to love a thing or an action as opposed to a physical person. They are vastly different, but accomplish their goals in choosing to sequence different events to construct a larger story as opposed to just sticking random images together. The footage in both is thoughtful, allowing the story of their subjects to emerge naturally. For me, this gets at the core of what I want HOUSE to be: a depiction of the excitement of experiencing something that you truly love. And hopefully, through careful and mindful editing, that feeling will emerge.

Restrictive and Privileged Cameras (Charlotte)

Film audiences are accustomed to particular cinematographic conventions. Audiences expect to be given a certain type of privileged vantage point—one that shows them not too much and not too little. They don’t expect things happening within the diegesis of the film to be hidden from them. But, in that same vein, they don’t expect to be shown any more than is necessary. Both The White Ribbon (2009, dir. Michael Heneke) and Blue is the Warmest Color (2013, dir. Abdellatif Kechiche) break with these conventions in especially effective and affecting ways, and it is because of the way these filmmakers refuse to conform to cinematographic conventions that these films are so successful.

The White Ribbon is a haunting film. Set in a feudal German village just prior to World War I, the film follows the adults and children alike as a series of cruel acts unfold without explanation. It is disturbing, but not in the way that a horror movie is disturbing. The disturbing nature of the film arises in large part not from what it shows its audience, but from what it fails to show.

The scene that illustrates this idea best occurs early on in the film. The pastor’s two oldest children, Klara and Martin, did not return home until very late at night, and the pastor decides to beat them as punishment. The scene begins in a cramped hallway. The pastor’s wife, Anna, calls Klara and she descends the stairs. She stops on a landing, above her mother and brother, and the frame cuts her in half. We cannot see the expression on her face nor can we see any kind of silent interaction she has with either of the other two characters. In fact, throughout the opening scene we barely see the characters’ faces, and if we do they are in profile or somehow obscured in part. They barely speak, and so the audience has very limited access to their internal thoughts and feelings. The most significant gesture we see is Anna’s lingering hand on her son’s back. A benefit of this stripped-down, withholding camera is that every piece of information we are given, because we are given so little, is imbued with meaning. By depriving his audience, Heneke makes us hyper-vigilant. The camera pans down the hallway and the three characters walk single-file toward the dining room’s door. We watch from our same spot as they walk away—again, we do not see faces, only the backs of heads. Throughout the scene, the camera hardly ever moves from its spot, it just pivots. It is as though Heneke has made the viewer herself a character in the scene, standing and turning her head to follow the action, but rooted to the spot, unable to move. The three characters disappear behind the door, and the camera remains in the hall. Because viewers are so accustomed to being shown everything, it seems unnatural to not follow the characters in. Martin comes back into the hallway, head down, and the camera from its limited vantage point follows him as he retrieves a switch from another room. He then returns to the dining room and we are once again left staring at a closed door. We can, however, hear him being beaten through the door. The film revolves around a community that is so repressed and secretive. So much goes on behind closed doors, in this case literally, and the camerawork reflects that. The passivity of the camera also gives the viewer a sense of helplessness. We are just standing there, hearing all this unfold from the hallway. The camera is not fully engaged with the scene in the way that we expect it to be, and that distance reflects the distant complicity of every other member of this community throughout the film.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is Blue is the Warmest Color, a film following the affair between a young girl and an older female art student. It is affecting because it shows its audience absolutely everything. One scene that illustrates this occurs after the protagonist, Adele, breaks up with the boyfriend she has early on. She returns to her room and breaks down crying. She strips off her scarf and jacket and the camera follows her as she collapses on her bed. We see her in this moment of extreme vulnerability and emotionality in a very intimate space, her own bedroom and her own bed. The viewer is given access to every piece of her private life. Kechiche immediately takes us to an extreme close-up of Adele’s face—and it is worth noting that a disproportionate percentage of the film is composed of extreme close-ups of Adele’s face. It is as though Kechiche is trying to climb inside her head. In the same way that Breathless can be said to be a study of Jean-Paul Belmondo’s face, so too can Blue be said to be a study of Adele’s. Kechiche stays in that close-up for an uncomfortable amount of time, so long that a viewer might want to look away. Adele does not look pretty in this moment, and part way through she picks up a candy bar and takes a bite, chewing with her mouth open. It is a raw, ugly study of a painful moment in this character’s story. It is almost too intimate, and feels invasive. The way Kechiche uses his camera ties into the overall themes because it is a revelatory film—it depicts a love story rarely seen on film, and it is, in many ways, about Adele’s journey to come out. The film seeks to dig into this intimate, private affair and give its viewers access that they otherwise would never have. It is trying to get into the heads of these women, and Adele in particular, and it does so by looking at her face.

In conclusion, these two films serve their overall themes by breaking cinematographic conventions in opposite ways. In taking these risks, their directors have created effective and affecting films.

LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS: What is Female Agency When the Female Body is Gone? (Katie)

I cannot lie: I love a good sci-fi story. When LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS released on Netflix, I made quick work of binging the animated anthology. The first episode I saw (although Netflix has apparently randomized episode orders for this series) was “Sonnie’s Edge,” which had me thrilled and shocked in multiple ways throughout its 17-minute duration. One of the questions the episode asks, at least in my opinion, is what female agency, victimization, or empowerment means when the female body no longer exists.

There are spoilers ahead in my discussion of the short’s plot and implications, and I’m also including a trigger warning for rape due to the episode’s nature. (Seriously, there will unfortunately be a lot of talk about rape in this post.)

Now, onto the plot of “Sonnie’s Edge.” In a futuristic and dystopian society where prize fighters compete in death matches for money, we follow a day in the life of one female “pilot” who is exceptionally skilled at controlling her “beastie.” The beasties are the gladiators in the arena; they are bioengineered monsters made for killing.

As the opening sequence cuts to introduce our main characters, a few things immediately stand out. A notably female-presenting companion, Ivrina, and a noticeably male-presenting companion, Wes, walk in with Sonnie—who looks androgynous, if not far more ambiguous in terms of gender presentation. Her name, “Sonnie,” also evokes a more masculine aura to her character, even though her slimmer and curvier frame denotes some presence of conventional femininity.

The first conflict Sonnie faces is with a rich and corrupt man, Dicko (great naming right there), who wants to rig the next prize fight. He will pay her hundreds of thousands for her to voluntarily lose the next round. When Sonnie tells him to screw off, Ivrina steps in to further defend her from the old man. It is in the exchange between Ivrina and Dicko that we learn of Sonnie’s backstory—and this is a noticeably exposition-y bit of dialogue. When I say noticeably exposition-y, I mean that anyone versed in a little bit of writing will realize just how shoehorned the dialogue feels.

Here’s my transcription of the bit of dialogue, taken from Netflix subtitles, plus screen directions.

IVRINA

[Exhales angrily] Fucking men. It’s cunts like you that fucked her up to begin with.

Bodyguards approach Ivrina threateningly.

IVRINA

[Sighs] Fuck. A year ago, Sonnie got snatched by an estate gang, and when they was done using her, they started cutting, slicing their marks into her flesh. Can you imagine that kind of pain, that kind of humiliation carved into her skin? A lifelong reminder of that day. So when Sonnie steps into the pit, she’s not fighting for pride or status and certainly not for your fucking money. She’s carving up the men who did this to her. [3:30 - 4:11]

See what I mean? At least to me, the dialogue felt like someone writing a background inspired by some erotic fantasy. It was put in purely for the benefit of the watcher, and it was done in a quick and dirty way that seemed to want to titillate or horrify rather than offer meaningful explanation. The exposition appears much like other incidents of rapes of female characters in media nowadays, many of which seem to be written in for no other reason than the shock factor.

I was unimpressed with this bit of writing, but the ending of “Sonnie’s Edge” actually did an impressive thematic reversal on this blatant—and even almost disrespectful—telling of Sonnie’s past.

Later, when Sonnie is having a discreet conversation with Dicko’s female consort, they flirt and talk about Sonnie’s past. (Their conversation is more like foreplay than anything else, with kisses and soft touches included.) Here’s the relevant excerpt:

DICKO’S CONSORT

But that night, the gang, the…

SONNIE

Rape. Yeah. It’s not that. They can’t see past it. No one can. But it ain’t what gives me my edge. Angry little girl, out for revenge. Dicko believes that shit…

Dicko’s consort lightly tugs one strap of Sonnie’s shirt off a shoulder.

SONNIE

… ‘cause he wants to. They all do.

Dicko’s consort slides her dress straps off her shoulders.

DICKO’S CONSORT

[Slowly raising her skirt] Everyone sees what they want to see.  [12:50 - 13:33]

I felt like “Sonnie’s Edge” was calling many of the audience members out, myself included. Once we heard Sonnie’s shocking backstory within the first five minutes of the episode, all we could think about was her history.

Not to mention the fight scene between Sonnie’s beastie, Khanivore, and her male opponent’s beastie, Turboraptor. There’s plenty of forced, penetrative imagery between the beasties that’s rendered a lot more noticeable once you remember Sonnie’s apparent origins—definitely an intended effect.

We only saw Sonnie in light of her rape. We all saw what we wanted to see, even if the episode does reinforce seeing Sonnie in this specific light.

But there’s more to discuss. The twist ending to “Sonnie’s Edge” includes more violence to the female body. It turns out that Dicko’s consort is a bioengineered servant made to execute Dicko’s commands, and she penetrates Sonnie’s skull with Wolverine-like claws from her knuckles right after a kiss. Dicko comes out of the shadows to gloat.

Sonnie is dropped to the floor, and her skull is bashed in by Dicko’s foot. When Sonnie’s voice does not falter, and she does not die, it’s revealed that Sonnie was Khanivore the entire time. Khanivore then kills both Dicko and his consort.

While the explicit logistics aren’t made clear, the gist of the reveal is as follows: Sonnie’s original body was lost after the gang attack; Ivrina and Wes linked her consciousness with Khanivore’s, and Sonnie lives solely in Khanivore. Her human body is just a bioengineered puppet from her uploaded brain, and when she is fighting in the pit as a beastie, she is fighting for her life. That is her “edge.”

There is a lot of complexity to this short episode’s plot. The episode seems to take on a feminist role at the surface, with Sonnie being a character like Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. The episode also makes a big deal out of Sonnie being the only female pilot in the beastie ring.

But what about the writing itself? The writers wanted everyone in the audience to think about Sonnie’s rape origin story in every minute of the episode, up till the very end. Much like Sonnie says, we can’t see past it. References to the rape in imagery and small plot points keep the origin story fresh in our minds; clearly, writers want us to be thinking about Sonnie’s rape, even if only as a blind to the real twist.

I found myself asking this question by the end of the episode: if Sonnie survived the rape not as a human woman, but an uploaded consciousness linked to a beastie who literally fights to live, which is better?

As a beastie, Sonnie has unlimited power at her hands. Physically, she is superior to all the beasties in the ring so far; she is mentioned to being on a 17-count win streak. She is obviously superior to every human; she’s a bioengineered monster made for killing. But she has limited autonomy and limited friendship with even her closest apparent friends, Ivrina and Wes. Khanivore, or Sonnie, has to keep fighting in the pit to make a living, and she has an added stake of needing to stay alive while in the pit—unlike every other pilot, her consciousness is directly tied to her beastie’s. Additionally, the implication of Ivrina and Wes finding Sonnie’s broken body and uploading her consciousness into Khanivore means that, at worst, they only saved her as a means of profit, or, at best, out of a desperate lack of other measures.

The picture that “Sonnie’s Edge” paints of female power and agency, then, is bleak. Sonnie, even in her most powerful form as Khanivore, is still subjugated to other forces—whether or not the female body is still intact. These other forces can include the violence of men, or the oppressive difficulty of surviving in a dystopian society. This message is also reinforced in the character of Dicko’s consort. She is completely without autonomy: every one of her acts is in service to Dicko, regardless of her physical superiority to him. (She is a more subtle and organic-looking, but she can be a killing machine, too, as evidenced by her Wolverine-like claws.) There seems to be no hope: Sonnie was raped and apparently nearly killed by men as a human, and when she became Khanivore, her new physical powers were restricted only to the pit, where she faces a greater loss than her opponent if she loses.

Might we be able to say, then, that “Sonnie’s Edge” at least views female endurance and survivability with optimism? Even if there’s no autonomy for characters like Sonnie or Dicko’s consort, even if the only source of happiness for many characters is achieving violence against an opponent, can we at least say that the women in Sonnie’s world can stick through anything to see another day?

Yes, although the optimism is laced with grit. Sonnie’s “edge” is the real, omnipresent fear of losing her life in the ring. She claims she’s always afraid in her conversation with Dicko’s consort, and by the end of the episode, she openly cites her fear as the thing that keeps her alive. It’s admirable, how indomitable Sonnie’s will to live is, even if it may be depressing that she needs the fear to begin with.

Then the question becomes why the framing of Sonnie's backstory needed such a specific blind. Do women in the world of "Sonnie's Edge" require a digestible, plausible backstory in order to go unnoticed by men and the rest of society? Perhaps; Sonnie states that she keeps her story so that men like Dicko can believe it. But it doesn't keep her safe; what keeps her safe is the secret that she no longer has a human body. And that argument is even more bleak: the only way to stay safe as a woman in Sonnie's world is to not be a woman.

All in all, “Sonnie’s Edge” is a visually stunning science fiction piece that falls comfortably into the grim and cynical subgenre of cyberpunk. Besides the thrilling colors, fight sequences, and beautiful animation, I think it plays with storytelling expectations in interesting ways... even if the rape as a red herring may not have been totally necessary or respectful. That’s a question I’ll have to tackle another time.

Works cited in this text:

“SONNIE’S EDGE.” LOVE DEATH + ROBOTS. Netflix. March 15, 2019. Netflix.

What Is Editing and How Do You Edit (10 Hours of Footage Edition) (Vanessa)

In my last post, I talked a lot about the difference between process and processing as it relates to editing. This week, I would like to circle back to that, but now with a focus on process and what editing is.

One of the earliest things I remember learning as a film major was about Sergei Eisenstein and the development of Soviet montage theory. Montage refers to the process of film editing in which a series of shots are edited into a sequence. Montage theory goes on to develop the idea that connecting a series of images has the power to convey different thematic and emotional messages about what an audience is seeing on screen depending on how the editor chooses to sequence them. The common example is that if you cut from an actors face to an image of a bowl of soup, the audience will perceive hunger as the emotion the sequence is trying convey. Which differs from if you cut from an actors face to an image of a woman lying down in a nightgown, conveying a different emotion or concept, such as lust.

What I find so fascinating about editing is just how underappreciated it is, yet how integral it is to how people understand the “language” of movies. Taking a film class was the first time that I really thought about the fact that movies are sculpted in every sense of the word: from how they are created on paper through screenwriting, to the choices made by the director and cast, to how a cinematographer decides to shoot a certain scene, to the decisions made by an editor when piecing everything together to form a movie.

Editing a documentary web series has challenged my own understanding and appreciation for editors because of how the process of building the story really comes from fragments of unscripted material. For HOUSE this is fun (and a bit daunting, if you couldn’t tell from my previous post) because there is a lot to work with. There are different ways to tell the story I want to tell from the footage I have in part because there IS so much footage to begin with. It’s exciting to come across a certain moment in an interview and think “this would be GREAT coupled alongside this other interview!” It’s similar to the feeling of putting together a large puzzle and the exhilaration of when you start to figure out which pieces go where. You have the side pieces and the corner pieces together (or in my case, interviews that you know can be used to frame the larger story you want the final product to convey) and then from there, it’s a long series of trying to push pieces into certain spots and figuring out what does and does not work.

Transcribing my interviews was akin to flipping all the pieces over to the correct side. It’s still a mess to look at, but at least you sort of have a sense of knowing what you are looking at.

Examples from my transcript and transcript "code" of how I categorized parts of interviews

The next part for me was figuring out how to organize the pieces into categories to make the “pushing pieces into certain spots and figuring out what does and does not work part” a little bit easier. I broke my footage into separate sequences in Premiere categorized by what “type” of footage it was and what type of content was within the footage. For the Chicago episode, were people talking about their memories of growing up and listening to house music? Or were they describing the feeling of house music in a certain part of the interview, but not in others? Was one clip particularly rich in footage that could be used as b-roll? Or sometimes, was the footage even usable at all?

The process of documentary filmmaking for me has been so much about asking questions and seeing how people respond to them. And the editing portion of the project has been no different. Another great advantage I have found in transcribing all of my interviews has been that it has allowed me to see what questions I can group together while editing different interviews together. I’ve done more work as a videographer prior to really trying to stick my hands in documentary and narrative filmmaking, which has benefited me as an editor in the sense that one thing I tried to keep in mind while Giovanna and I shot footage was how to incorporate a doctrine of “shoot for the edit” in the midst of shooting for the answers to questions I was asking of interviewees.

Shooting for the edit more or less means keeping in mind that at the end of the day, no matter how great something looks, you still have to give your editor material to work with that can allow your footage to connect seamlessly. In short, it means getting a lot of coverage on everything. It’s one thing to have a shot of someone on the phone and a shot of them hanging up after their conversation ends. It’s another thing to have a shot of a phone sitting on a table, getting the sound of the phone ringing, in addition to having shots of the person on the phone and the person hanging up. It gives you more room to work with in terms of transitioning from one shot with no phone at all to another shot entirely about a conversation on a phone, and it makes a world of a difference to edit.

HOUSE, as I’ve stated before, has been a great learning experience. Are there moments where I wish I had more coverage of an object or of a person? Most definitely.  But there are also moments in watching the footage where I can see my own growth; in the way I ask questions, the type of questions I ask, and in the understanding between Giovanna and me about what we needed to capture.  The later material is more manageable than the earlier material. It is rewarding to see my own development from the first day of the shoot to the last​.

Last semester I thought I could just jump in with editing by simply looking through my footage and working from there. This semester has been a lot about organizing and making my footage “readable” for myself as an editor. In addition to understanding how editing works for documentary versus how it works for narrative. I’m still moving along, but I think the difference is that now, I have a sense of where I want to go, in part because I’m getting better at understanding how to piece my footage together and because I have worked at figuring out how to read my own handwriting, or in the case of HOUSE, reading my own footage and piecing together the questions I asked in interviews to formulate answers about house music and the house music community.

Finding One's Voice in Cinematographic Practice: The Work and Style of Bradford Young (Mireille)

Although Bradford Young has been the cinematographer for many films, including Selma (2014), A Most Violent Year (2014), Pawn Sacrifice (2015), and Solo: A Star Wars Story (2018), his photographic style, albeit subtle at times, is recognizable in each of his works. Young gained much notoriety after being nominated for an Academy Award for Best Cinematography for his work on Denis Villeneuve’s Arrival (2016). In Arrival, but also notably in Pawn Sacrifice and arguably his other films, Young’s cinematographic practice is revealed through his choice of color palette and lighting, which include a variety of lighter greys and muted low contrast natural pastel colors that add a slightly somber, but pensive tone to his films. That being said, there are moments in the two films when Young introduces shades of fuchsia and lighter pinks especially during moments of heightened emotion or narrative climax. He uses this interchange of color contrast to take the viewer through a moment of impending change or realization. For example, at one point in Arrival one of the main characters suddenly realizes that her future may be about to change. At that moment of understanding, Young introduces the different color palette, but then quickly returns to the more subdued coloration that sets the undercurrent in the film. Even in Pariah (2011), in which Young uses a dramatically more vibrant color palette primarily saturated with neon reds and blues, he inserts subtle pinks in the walls and curtains of the bedroom of the two primary characters during their moments of intimacy and during their discussions that center on the nature of their respective sexualities.

Young uses not only color, but lighting to unveil emotion or give voice to the inner life of the characters on the screen. Young primarily incorporates natural light sources not only for lighting a scene, but also when highlighting and illuminating specific characters. The choice of natural light allows for shadowing in his films, as well as definition of silhouettes. The presence of obscured personas in a more darkened setting is especially evident in Selma and Ain’t Them Body Saints (2013). In these films, Young incorporates extreme close ups of the expressive visages of the characters after they have been previously masked in shadow. The natural lighting authentically captures the features of a person’s face, allowing the revelation of the raw emotion as it is played out on it.  

A major inspiration behind Young’s filmic composition is artist and photographer Roy DeCarava. DeCarava’s images also incorporate the use of shadow and silhouetting of personas, along with oppressive and strict geometry within the mise-en-scène of the frame. Young has additionally implemented these techniques and structured of geometry, most notably in the opening sequence of Arrival. The film begins in complete darkness and shadow, followed by the camera slowly tilting down to a large window divided by harsh vertical lines, tinted in muted blacks, greys, and blues. This shot then transitions to a tight close up shot of one of the main characters, filmed solely in natural light.

Young’s cinematographic language and choices are true to his family history, culture, and heritage. When discussing his work, he stresses that for him it is crucial to keep in mind the concept of visual grammar and visual language. Young gives equal if not greater import to visual language relative to the narrative arc of a film. By not paying close attention to the visual language, Young argues that one runs the risk of disregarding visual intricacies and details present within the filmic frame which contribute to a story. Furthermore, when conceptualizing a film, or any form of artwork, Young insists that maintaining one’s own personal language and developing a visual acumen and competency is not only pertinent but critical. In particular he emphasizes that optics, color science, and historical and personal content are key to the incorporation of visual language and grammar in cinematography and film work.

Bradford Young has stated and reminds us that “It is crucial to embed your DNA in your work. Don’t let imagination die, and represent yourself in cinematography.” Young stresses that regardless of the type of film, a cinematographer must be cognizant of their practice and style and these should be apparent in all of their films. Apart from establishing a style, it is more a question of freeing oneself from the notion of self and connecting your work to personal experiences.  As he puts it, “you [should] strive to become one with your body of work, and be able to divorce yourself from other [elements] that may distract you from your style.”

Over the week of February 18^th, Bradford Young visited the JHU Film and Media Studies Program and offered not only an artist talk hosted by the SNF Parkway Theater, but taught a three day workshop to a group of FMS students about his film practice and techniques in cinematography.

The Inspiring Plot of Captain Marvel: Subverting Expectations (Katie)

March 8, 2019. This day has two particular meanings—not only is it International Women’s Day, it is also the day Captain Marvel (2019) arrives in theatres in the USA, UK, Canada, China, and more nations across the world.

This was certainly intentionally done. It’s no secret that Captain Marvel is about Carol Danvers, a skilled, otherworldly heroine who takes her empowerment into her own hands (much like DC’s Wonder Woman did in 2017). Both official trailers even identify Carol’s femininity and womanhood with her pure heroism (the trailer slogan words, “DISCOVER WHAT MAKES HER,” animate seamlessly into “DISCOVER WHAT MAKES A HERO,” emphasis mine). After seeing the film for myself, I must say that Captain Marvel did a brilliant job in portraying a truly powerful and human female superhero.

Of course, it was a movie done by Marvel Studios, which means a few things. Was it more focused on thrilling action than murky-yet-inevitable and psychologically complex character evolution? Yes, probably. Was there the shoehorned humor that accompanies every Marvel movie? Absolutely. Did it fall into the same formulaic structure that Marvel is notorious for? Of course!

Still, there is veritable merit in having a rote, run-of-the-mill superhero action flick where every important character is a woman instead of a man, especially including women of color—and besides, I would make the argument that Captain Marvel breaks the formula in subtle but meaningful ways. I think Carol’s story is standard-defying and satisfying, and that it does more than the generic Marvel origin movie.

Spoilers ahead for the film!

One of the most remarkable things in Captain Marvel is Carol’s literal and figurative journey to self-realization. When Carol is introduced to the audience, she is a soldier struggling to place the memories that surface in her nightmares. (Hint: they’re from her suppressed past life on Earth.) She has no idea who she was before her arrival on Kree, the warrior-saturated planet led by one artificially intelligent supreme leader. Indoctrinated by her commander and the honorbound, war-oriented society of the Kree, Carol believes the shape-shifting alien race, the Skrulls, are her enemies. She also mistakenly believes the Kree gave her her superheroine powers.

Her (male) commander, Yon-Rogg, is a mentor figure who preaches rational control over her emotions. He criticizes Carol for having a sense of humor, for having anger, and for using her unique super-abilities in sparring and on the field. (I also must point out that women being over-emotional is still a common and unfair criticism of women today.) His eventual reveal as an antagonist makes the journey Carol embarks on all the more poignant.

Why? Yon-Rogg was the one who abducted her from Earth, having witnessed the inciting incident that gave Carol her powers. He believed she was a key to Kree’s success in their war against Skrulls, in one way or another. Presumably tinkering with her mind, and frequently telling Carol that her own memories are nothing worth worrying about, Yon-Rogg effectively brainwashes and continually gaslights Carol to keep her playing her manufactured role in Kree’s society. Even as she rebels against his definition of her place in Kree, she is punished; the supreme leader tells her that what was given to her can be taken away, referring specifically to her super-abilities.

If Carol being forced to play a role that society arbitrarily decided for her sounds too familiar, I can’t say that wasn’t all intentional on Marvel’s side.

As Carol continues to unveil her past—working with humans on Earth who laugh, get angry, and never try to restrict her natural abilities—she reconnects with figures from her old life. (It is notable that her best friend, Maria Rambeau, is a single black mother with a bright daughter, and that Maria flew with Carol in her Air Force days.) Carol learns that the Kree have been brainwashing her, and that Yon-Rogg has been lying to her: the Skrulls are more refugees than terrorists, and the Kree are a conquering, war-hungry society that swallows planets. (It is also remarkable that the Marvel Cinematic Universe changed Carol’s idol and Kree turncoat, Mar-Vell, into a woman instead of using the original man.) Carol makes it her quest to save the Skrulls, betraying Yon-Rogg and the Kree.

This plot is important. Not only does Carol break from the mold that was forced onto her by Yon-Rogg and Kree society, she discovers her true self and true powers because of her break. She discovers that the Kree did not give her her powers; they chose to lie to her as a form of control. When Carol breaks from Kree’s role for her, she finally takes full control of her powers and becomes a truly formidable heroine.

Literally, Carol betrays the Kree, and gained preternatural abilities. Figuratively, Carol breaks free from the restrictions that society forced on her and becomes the best version of herself. In my opinion, the duality of Carol’s journey is not seen in any other Marvel film—and Carol’s journey is especially relatable for women all over the world.

One other way in which Marvel breaks norms with Captain Marvel is in one of its final confrontations. Other Marvel movies involve heroes grappling with their greatest rivals for prolonged amounts of time, bashing each other bloody or fighting until one party is dead. Carol’s final confrontation with Yon-Rogg, surely, must be similar…

But it is not. Not only does Carol display mercy and respect for even her enemies’ lives by the end of the film (at the start, she is much more disposed to the violence that Yon-Rogg and her comrades in arms display), her big fight is hardly even a fight.

Yon-Rogg taunts her by sheathing his weapons and raising his fists, yelling at Carol to “prove herself.” She could never win in her spar matches with him without using her powers, so her moment is now; can she beat him with just her fists? Carol has none of it. She blasts him with her powers and ends the fight immediately.

As she walks up to Yon-Rogg, she says she has “nothing to prove” to him, and offers him a hand. (Yes, she drags him across the desert landscape and back into his ship with a message, but she treats him first and foremost with mercy.) There is no grand, VFX-heavy fight like in all the Avengers films, and even in great solo films like Spiderman: Homecoming or Dr. Strange, no final fight is quite as rife with complex poignance. Besides offering mercy to her enemies, Carol says a lot when she states that she has “nothing to prove.” Not only does she mean that she has given up Kree’s ideals and her old life in the Starforce, she also means that anyone who tries to restrain her, or anyone who puts their expectations on her, can screw off.

And if that isn’t a resonant message with plenty of female members in the audience today, I don’t know what is.

All in all, the writing in Captain Marvel may follow a general standard for all Marvel Studios films, but there is much more in the subtext than I had ever expected it to have. The inspiring changes Carol Danvers goes through in the course of the film mean it works both as a fun, thrilling superhero movie and as a fantasy and ideal that all women watching can identify with and hope for.

On Baking and Documentary Editing: A Lot of Dough (Vanessa)

In trying to prepare for this post, I looked up quotes from two editors who have produced numerous works I admire: Dede Allen (who edited Bonnie and Clyde, Dog Day Afternoon, The Breakfast Club, The Wiz, and more) and Thelma Schoonmaker (frequent collaborator with Martin Scorsese and known for her work on movies such as Raging Bull, Goodfellas and The King of Comedy). I came across two quotes from Thelma that I found particularly relevant in describing my own path while editing HOUSE and that I think are useful for understanding the two parts of this post: processing and process.

First, processing:

“It’s hard for people to understand editing, I think. It’s absolutely like sculpture. You get a big lump of clay and you have to form it – this raw, unedited, very long footage.”

The first few times I started truly analyzing the footage from Chicago, Detroit, and Baltimore, I was both amazed and overwhelmed. From Chicago alone, there is nearly five hours worth of footage. From Detroit, around two hours. And from Baltimore, an hour.

This, in many ways, is great. The interviews are fantastic, the footage looks great, the sound came out better than expected (especially in Chicago, given that we shot at what was essentially a picnic/family reunion/music festival), and overall, I like to think that the content of the interviews is insightful both about house music as a genre and as a community.

The flipside, however, is that I immediately realized that no matter how much great footage there is, I am aiming for three episodes (one for each city) lasting 5 to 7 minutes in length. The only analogy I can really think of to accurately illustrate how daunting doing so can be is inspired by the above quote, but applied to making a bunch of dough for bread. Imagine you prepare 100 pounds of dough for your favorite type of bread. This is your first time making this type of bread by scratch. You planned what you wanted to make, maybe even craved this one type of bread for a few months, got together a grocery list to make sure you had everything you needed, kneaded the dough for hours until your arms got sore, realized maybe you didn’t put in as much of one ingredient as you did another (or thought you put in too much of one ingredient versus another), finally got the dough to come out (maybe a bit lumpy in some parts, but salvageable), and then you realize…your oven does not fit all 100 pounds of dough. It doesn’t even fit 10 pounds of dough. Maybe, it fits five.

If you’re like me, you still like that you have a lot of bread dough. You are a little bit sad you cannot use all the dough at once but you can use different parts of the dough to make another loaf if the first one does not quite turn out as expected. However, you are now a little bit anxious about which bits of the dough to use to make the best possible loaf of (hopefully) delicious bread once the dough is cooked.

My first few attempts at trying to figure out what would make the best “loaf” were absolutely horrendous. Frankly, I was too attached to everything which made me fear that every single piece of footage that I thought would work in one place could easily be replaced with something better. I was frustrated with myself and with the feeling of uncertainty I got every time I even looked at the footage.

Disclaimer, if you have not already noticed: editing is hard for me. It takes me a while to get into the “flow”, so to speak, of what I am actually doing, which is sitting down and trying and retrying things while also keeping in mind a bigger goal of what the end product will look like, who the “characters” are and how to develop them, and also allowing yourself enough room to simply let yourself and your work breathe. And also remembering to trust yourself. I can honestly say that for the first few months of “editing” that I did (which was more or less me opening Premiere, staring at my footage, watching it, trying to write down what threads I could pull from interviews, and getting frustrated that I felt like I didn’t know what I was doing and that I didn’t even know what I wanted to do in terms of putting everything together) was difficult. I’m someone who studies in one spot for an hour and then has to move to a different room in order to make sure I don’t lose focus. And I could barely get myself to look at one minute portions of a larger, several hour project without worrying about all 100 pounds of “dough” instead of maybe an ounce.

But again, HOUSE has been and continues to be a learning process for me. Which is where the second quote comes in and how I started to understand process being just as crucial as processing:

“Editing is a lot about patience and discipline and just banging away at something, turning off the machine and going home at night because you’re frustrated and depressed, and then coming back in the morning to try again.”

I did not figure this out very quickly. But when I did, it helped me to understand that editing is as much about the process of editing as it is about processing what you are editing. And I only really figured this out once I stepped back for a moment from what I was doing and came up with a new way to work through editing as a process, in a way that would work for me without sacrificing the larger vision of HOUSE.

More or less, I worked through my footage as a writer, something I am more familiar with. I carefully transcribed every interview, making note of what was and was not working for me in a given interview and what information was gained from different interviews that could benefit the themes I think the footage as whole conveys. While also keeping in mind that HOUSE isn’t just a project that I want to convey my own feelings about a genre, but the feelings of a community about something that many folks think brings people together.

Forty-five pages of interviews for one city later, I felt relieved. I could physically see what I was doing and understand what things helped this story and what things did not. And so, I started to get to work editing and breathing again. The first lump of dough wasn’t ready for the oven, but at least I wasn’t just staring at it sitting on the counter-top anymore.

John Hughes and the "Silent" Scene (Charlotte)

John Hughes is widely regarded as one of the greatest filmmakers of the 1980s and arguably of the 20^th century. He was one of the first filmmakers to honestly depict the experiences of adolescents and really make them feel seen, understood, and reflected. He is well known for his dialogue, but the real power of his films lies in scenes with no dialogue at all.

Two of his most well-known works, The Breakfast Club (1985) and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986), contain expressionistic scenes completely devoid of dialogue that do a great deal of heavy lifting for their respective films: the dance scene in The Breakfast Club and the museum scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. They both use strong imagery and actor physicality to get at the heart of what these movies are about.

The dance scene in The Breakfast Club comes toward the end of the film, immediately after all five characters have engaged in a long and emotionally intimate conversation about how they ended up in detention. During that conversation, the characters sit still throughout, and the camera remains static. These characters who all began the morning as strangers have let each other in. They have been vulnerable with each other emotionally. The following dance scene is a physical, visual expression of that emotional release and that emotional intimacy.

It can even be read as a metaphor for the trajectory of the group’s dynamic. At the start of the scene, the characters are all separate, isolated from one another and on various hierarchical planes that seem to correspond with their social statuses. Brian begins in the A/V booth, isolated and most connected to the school. Claire and Andrew dance up in the mezzanine, the highest up in the bunch. Allison dances across the floor while Bender sits, head banging, on a statue in the center of the library (a statue he most certainly should not be climbing), a rebel that has more street cred than Brian and Allison, but not as much as Claire and Andrew.

For almost all of first several cuts, each character is seen alone in the frame. But, quickly, the characters seem to fight against the constraints of their separate frames. Brian dances in the doorframe—a liminal space, a crucial border—that separates him from the group. He crosses it and, metaphorically, crosses the social lines dividing him from the rest of the group.

There are several shots of people’s dancing feet. Their feet seem to stomp at the edges of the frame, willing it to widen. Also, the frame which used to contain the entirety of these character’s bodies now can only contain their feet—the frame is too small. And, although all their shoes are different, they are united in dance, a form of human connection and communication so ancient, so physical, and so foundational that it can transcend these artificial borders set up to divide them.

These shots are intercut with medium shots of the characters. Once again, the frame is too small to contain their entire bodies. One particular shot of Allison shows her face and hair swinging in and out of view, literally not contained within the frame.

Finally, we see the characters dancing together. First, Allison and Bender, the two lowest on the metaphorical totem pole, followed by the three boys, and then the two girls. The moment between the two girls is significant in that they represent the top and bottom of the social hierarchy and yet, in this moment, they are equals.

The final shot of the sequence shows Allison engaging in a flailing, wild dance that ends with her crumpled on the floor, exhausted. This moment has been a release for these characters, a release from their social bonds and expectations, a cleaving together of them on a deeply human and physical level. The music backing the scene says it all: We Are Not Alone.

The museum scene in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off functions similarly within a distinctly different narrative. In this case, the scene represents a revelatory release, but involves a splitting apart rather than a cleaving together. Ferris, his girlfriend Sloane, and his best friend Cameron have cut class and taken off for Chicago. Throughout the day, Ferris and Sloane are carefree, but Cameron is riddled with anxiety. His outlook on the world is different from theirs, and, more than any of the other characters this moment seems pivotal in his understanding of himself.

The scene also seems to mirror the process of their coming of age—appropriate given that graduation is looming for all these characters. They start by infiltrating an elementary school’s field trip, a kind of regress back into childhood, with, of course, Ferris leading Cameron, the two divided by Sloane. Then we see Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks, a painting depicting one man on his own, representing Cameron, along with a couple, Ferris and Sloane. Another noteworthy painting is Mary Cassatt’s The Child’s Bath, in which a mother lovingly bathes her child. This again represents childhood and dependency upon parents.

We see several abstract paintings followed by a striking, head-on shot of Rodin’s Portrait of Balzac, a statue with crossed arms. Then we have a reverse shot of the three characters mirroring the statue’s pose back to it. This kind of imitation represents the start of adolescence, the point at which all one does is mimic “grown-up” behavior. The characters seem to be arranged hierarchically, with Ferris at the front, followed by Sloane and then Cameron. Sloane again divides the two.

We then immediately get a shot of the three of them lined up, this time with Ferris in the middle, mirroring three abstract, late career Picassos. All three depict people, but fragmented, scattered people. This represents the adolescent period of self-discovery and confusion, a period that might not ever fully end.

Then, we see Cameron on his own before A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte by Georges Seurat, a pointillist piece. He looks into the face of a young girl, the only figure facing out toward the viewer from the piece. Several shots of the young girl’s face are cut together, each one progressively tighter in until the face is unrecognizable as a face. Cameron’s expression is fearful, confused, and revelatory. He seems to be looking in a mirror, seeing himself disappear. After this scene Cameron is never the same. He seems almost comatose for a while and then his attitude completely changes. He realizes that he cannot live his life in fear—of his father or of anyone.

Intercut with this scene is a shot of Ferris and Sloane kissing in front of panes of stained glass, a church-like piece. They seem to be engaged in a pseudo-marriage. They seem to be leaving Cameron behind.

Both of these scenes are the crown jewels of their respective movies. They capture the essence of their films without saying a word (quite literally). They are unexpected, expressionistic, and truly artful. They follow the emotional arcs of these movies and we get to watch the dynamics between these characters play out physically. They touch the viewer emotionally in a way that simply cannot be done with words.

Humanizing Animals: How Nature Documentaries Tell Stories (Katie)

Imagine you’re on location in the Namib Desert in Africa. The sun is melting your skin, and you’ve only got a few hours every day to shoot, with the heat being what it is. Or perhaps you’re somewhere in the Arctic Circle, following polar bears by boat in frigid temperatures. It is impossible, of course, to hand a script to any of your subjects and ask them to follow your directions. Therefore, if you need to film a dramatic fight over territory between two alpha males, or record a father bringing long-sought food home to his hungry family, how can you get the perfect footage for your ideal narrative in time?

The probable answer to that question is you don’t.

The key to making nature documentary storylines coherent and compelling lies in post-production—in particular editing and sound design. To demonstrate the power of editing in creating a meaningful storyline—especially in regards to non-human characters—I will be discussing the well-known nature documentary by BBC, Planet Earth II. By analyzing a scene from its pilot, “Islands,” we can determine how certain shots can be stitched together to create a smooth and intricate storyline.

One of the narratives in “Islands” is that of the marine iguanas’. In this segment, newly-hatched marine iguanas find themselves far away from their adult guardians basking by the coast. In order to join their brethren, they must travel across the inlands they woke up in—and avoid every predator lying in wait for them.

How do elements of traditional editing and frame-crafting impact our feelings and get us to invest in the small, scaly characters on-screen? Even if we completely disregard David Attenborough’s engaging voiceovers, which tell us all we need to know, every story element is in the shots for us to recognize.

Our very first introduction to a newly-hatched marine iguana brings us to an extreme close-up of dark, shifting gravel and large, blinking eyes. This closeness immediately identifies us with the critter. As the camera slowly withdraws and cuts to further close-ups, we hear nothing but shaking gravel as the iguana pulls its body out of the sand. (Yes, every sound effect is probably foley, but that is almost certainly for our benefit.) The iguana takes slow first steps, and no one comes to accompany it in its journey to the shoreline. As shots pull even further back, we get establishing shots of the iguana and its environment. Now we can tell how small the iguana really is. All these moments accumulate to present the total solitude of this iguana… and it is a threatening solitude, as our iguana walks from right of frame past a large corpse of another iguana.

Here is a particularly magical edit: a parallel cut shows the adult iguanas basking in the shoreline, snorting water from their nostrils and looking in the direction of the camera. It is almost as if they are watching the small iguana make its way to them, or as if the small iguana is thinking of getting to its brethren by the shore. This small cut, potentially even a cut made to hide a lack of any other proper transition footage, brings an emotional relationship between our iguana and his community. The cut brings motivation to the iguana.

This new depth to our iguana makes the next cut more alarming, as we see a long shot with the iguana slowly moving to the left of the frame… followed by a trio of racer snakes emerging from the right of the frame. When our iguana realizes he is being hunted, he sprints (on two legs) for his life. Now, the sudden sound of a harsh drumbeat and a high-tempo, high-intensity soundtrack add to the skyrocketing tension.

Establishing shots show snakes pouring from every crack in the black, sharp rocks that line the micro-landscape, and they even capture the small form of our iguana leaping up rocks to escape his slithering predators. In a matter of seconds, the establishing shots continuously characterize both the iguana as small and precious—the “underdog” of our story—and the landscape as menacing and unknowable, with either total silence and deceptive solitude, or distressing music and swarms of snakes emerging out of hiding.

In the end, this particular marine iguana makes it out alive, according to Planet Earth II’s story. We see a victorious close-up of our iguana atop a rock, and a reverse long shot of several snakes slithering on the gravel below. The threat is vanquished for our first marine iguana.

Now that we have seen what editing can do for a short and simple animal narrative, we can look at the more famous chase between one marine iguana and a mass of racer snakes, which takes place shortly after our first iguana scene in “Islands.” This two-minute section is arguably the most tense of all iguana and snake chases in the episode.

The scene begins with some very clever cuts. We see a close-up of a hatchling hiding in the sand, his wide eyes blinking—and then a reverse shot shows a close-up of several racer snakes wrapped around the unmoving body of another iguana hatchling. The cut back to our hatchling has him jerking back, as if in fear. Even if we have no way to know if the iguana was really reacting to seeing other iguanas being captured, the cut serves its purpose magnificently well. We now understand that this hatchling is watching and learning, somehow… and that it feels fear, and a desire to live.

Thus begins that spectacular chase. Our iguana pulls himself slowly out of the sand, walking backwards to keep his gaze on something. An eyeline match cut shows the snakes continuing to wrap themselves around another iguana, and our iguana moves carefully away. This lets us project onto our iguana a careful awareness of his surroundings, whether it was truly there to begin with or not.

Further cuts change our point of view. We see the iguana from the snakes’ side of things; our foreground is in focus with the bodies of slithering snakes, and behind a rock, the heads of snakes peek out to watch the moving iguana in the background. These shots further establish just how hunted the iguana is—and then, a snake lunges for him.

Here is where the soundtrack really puts in work. There is intense, thrilling string music to accompany our iguana sprinting across sand and rock, with cuts focusing on establishing continuous action as the snake lunges for the iguana. As our iguana leaps over a boulder and lands on sand, losing the snake, silence ensues. Then, one soft step of his foot upon the gravel, and strings blare out once more to a cut of several snakes’ heads perking up at the sound.

A close-up of the iguana shows him looking around. Various eyeline matches show snakes waiting for their chance at him. (Again, this is clever editing; shots of the iguana looking around could have been recorded at any time, but they were noticed and used for this perfect moment of suspense in the chase storyline.) The soundtrack is slow and suspenseful, using an ambient noise to create tension during this downtime. It is akin to what a horror film soundtrack may sound like: David Attenborough tells us in this moment that, if the hatchling can keep its nerve and stay still, it can remain undetected from the circling snake—a classic hiding-from-the-monster scenario.

But as the snake slithers over the iguana, the latter knows it has to run. It sprints off to the sound of fast, heavy-hitting music, and several long takes follow the iguana’s sprint towards the shore, showing off with remarkable horror the myriad of snakes that emerge from the landscape to add themselves to the chase. This island is characterized as a place of trials for our iguana, and the coastline with his community as the light at the end of the tunnel. It is both literally and figuratively true that our iguana hopes to ascend, as safety lies in the top of the rocks by the shore.

As the chase comes to a climactic end, sound continues to put in work—perhaps even more work than the cutting itself. The iguana runs into the jaws of several snakes, and as silence ensues, it seems all is lost. But quietly, the iguana shakes his way out of the constrictions, and continues sprinting to the sound of a full orchestra behind him.

As the camera cuts close to the iguana and views his journey from a low-angle point of view up a wall of black rocks, we see snakes lunging for him and falling against the stone, unsuccessful in their hunt. The slow-mo applied to these cuts ups the ante even further. The soundtrack reaches a tense climax with the visuals, and the two elements work together to create an intense and distressing narrative. The resolution comes with relieving silence once our iguana joins his community by the coast, atop the large seashore rocks.

But what does it mean, really, that I can describe a nature documentary with traditional shooting and framing terms? Why does it matter that a lizard can seem like a human character in a horror movie, running from an innumerable amount of foes, and fighting against nearly impossible odds? I believe that the power of post-production, especially editing and sound design, can make any inanimate object or inhuman character feel human and relatable. With footage that could have been cobbled together from various different locations and times of day, editors of Planet Earth II excelled at creating a coherent, tense narrative with a notable arc of action and resolution using merely framing, shot relationships, and relevant soundtracks. Thanks to human films and their soundtracks, we recognize the cues to feel or project when certain cuts and sounds come to our senses; Planet Earth II was able to take advantage of our inherent reads on these cuts and use them to create a brilliant narrative based on non-human creatures.

The too long; didn’t read of this article may certainly be this: given the correct sound design and cutting, any animal can be personified and humanly relatable; any storyline can be projected upon any creature or object with the right techniques. If there’s a will, there’s a way, thanks to the magic of post-production.

Works cited in this text:

“Islands.” Planet Earth II. BBC Earth. November 6, 2016. Netflix; Television. 20:43 - 26:25.

Lights, Camera, Logistics (Vanessa)

Filmmaking (or documentary web series-making in the case of HOUSE) is a lot about looking for answers. How do you get from point A to point B with all the equipment? Who do you cast? Who will be part of the crew?

As the reality for creating a documentary web series shot in three different cities set in, some of those answers became relatively simple. “However you can (within the means of the budget)” and “whoever is willing to do so” quickly became the answers to a lot of questions starting with “how” and “who”.

The Chicago and Detroit episodes of HOUSE were shot over the course of six days: four days in Chicago, two days in Detroit. The crew (for these two episodes) consisted of the following: me, my friend and fellow film major Giovanna (HOUSE's fantastic cinematographer), my brother, my dad, and my mom.  My dad and brother accompanied Giovanna and me to Chicago and my mom and brother accompanied us to Detroit. So, for the summer at least, the crew was truly “whoever is willing to do so”.

Figuring out who was going to do what roles was an adventure in and of itself. Giovanna graciously volunteered to be director of photography, which was fantastic. I told myself I could direct, produce, and do sound mixing, which by some miracle sort of worked out, at least for a few days. In short, having an actual (and excellent!) crew in Baltimore gave me a completely new sense of appreciation for actually having enough people to do everything—that way you can avoid simultaneously asking interviewees questions, mixing sound, holding a boom pole, nervously watching the battery levels on the sound recording device die, communicating with your DP, and telling the part of your brain that keeps asking “WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING?” to quiet down all at the same time.

My brother helping me with the slate.

Casting was also an adventure, seeing as I had no idea how casting for a documentary worked prior to starting to work on HOUSE. The same “whoever is willing to do so” philosophy applied: phone calls, emails, and Facebook messages were sent to friends, family friends, friends of family friends, and friends of friends of family friends. Thus, the cast (aside from the tons of friendly strangers willing to talk to Giovanna and me at the Chosen Few Picnic) was created. Honestly, one of my favorite things about HOUSE and about all of the experiences I have had with filmmaking, and especially documentary filmmaking is all the kind strangers you meet along the way.

Somehow, it all worked out. And looking back, I couldn’t be prouder (and slightly in awe) that it did. Pre-production was, without a doubt, hard. I know I must have given the production chair for Studio North (JHU’s student run production company from which I received the grant to make HOUSE) at least one near heart-attack when we we’re working through how we were going to stretch the budget enough to get through all three cities.

Car travel between cities: 2,540 miles. Not including driving within/around the cities and Giovanna’s flight to Chicago, which was about another 790 miles.

 

As you can probably tell, shooting the Baltimore episode in the fall was a completely different game altogether: substantially less driving (all of the equipment for Chicago and Detroit came from Baltimore because that's where the JHU-MICA Film Center is located, which provides access to equipment rentals for JHU students), larger crew (shout out once again!), and cooler temperatures. Overall, still a great time with great people.

In short: the logistics of HOUSE felt a little on the wild side at times, but I couldn't be happier with the experience. One of my favorite things about HOUSE is that it has been such a learning experience from the very beginning, and getting to see how it all has started to come together throughout post-production (post about post coming soon!) is ridiculously exciting. 

Some more house music until the next post:

Like This, Chip E. Feat. K. Joy

You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real), Byron Stingily

Deep Inside, Hardrive

 

To Be or Not To Be: The Question of What to Depict in Documentary Film (Mireille)

Documentary filmmaker Trinh Minh-ha has repeatedly suggested that the documentary film should encompass the practice that “what [one] sees is life looking at [them].” This belief, which is shared by other documentary filmmakers, stresses that the documentary film should serve only as observer, capturing solely what the camera lens reveals without any manipulation. Furthermore, neither the film director nor the audience should “impose meaning on every sign [in a film].”

The intent of David and Albert Maysles’ documentary Grey Gardens (1975) is to capture the raw, unedited elements of what is taking place in front of the camera without offering any additional auteurian input. As such, it respects the parameters that Trinh Minh-ha sets forth. In contrast, although Lucien Castaing-Taylor’s Leviathan (2012) also falls within the genre of documentary film, Castaing-Taylor approaches the subject with preconception. Although he allows the camera to capture all that which is perceivable at the location, he does utilize cinematography and editing to distort what has been captured, ultimately creating what can almost be described as a dystopic reality.  

The Maysles brothers crafted Grey Gardens in the style of cinéma vérité; where they wanted the only witness to the action to be the camera. They allow the actions within the Bouvier Beale household to depict the everyday lifestyle and mentality of Edie and her mother Edith, which unfold as they simply record the unedited and unhindered experience. This determination to be faithful only to what is occurring in front of the camera is exemplified in one scene that captures Edie Bouvier Beale’s unedited dancing around the house. The depiction of the decrepit household and Edie’s bizarre behavior create a dystopic moment that arguably pushes the audience to stray away from the experience of “pure” documentary practice and cinéma vérité. Nonetheless, if this action is one that Edie would do even when there is no camera present, then it can only be a study in truth or “vérité”. The fixation to stay “true” to documentary is further noted when the directors capture a moment when both Edie and Edith are arguing. Though it is obvious that the two women do not want to be recorded, the Maysles brothers nevertheless continue filming. In this way, the film fulfills Trinh Minh-ha’s requisites for documentary film that every element is simply captured to create a film without a particular agenda, but one that is even unwilling to edit in response to the subject, and which would otherwise unintentionally make the content false.

In contrast to Grey Gardens stands anthropologist and filmmaker Lucien Castaing-Taylor’s Leviathan. Similar to Grey Gardens, Castaing-Taylor’s film unobtrusively and continually films what is occurring at his location, in this case a commercial fishing boat at sea. The long takes and lengthy sequences that linger on the details of the location are not unlike the cinematography in Grey Gardens; however, the similarity ends there. Castaing-Taylor chooses a filming approach that when paired with his chaotic and disorienting sound design at times confounds the audience. For the first several minutes of the film, it is not clear what is being pictured or what is occurring. Castaing-Taylor shows a collection of abstract images that do not immediately seem to portray anything that is pertinent to the subject of the film, but creates the sense of a removed and dystopic reality. It then becomes slowly apparent to the audience that the filmmaker is on some sort of marine vessel. In this way, this film is different from Grey Gardens as Leviathan offers a swayed perspective. It is apparent that the camera is being utilized to promote the idea that there is someone filming and observing, and that a particular audience is must be present. In fact, the audience seems to be behind the eyes of the observer, lending its unique perception and perspective. In this way, though the film seems to be capturing what is occurring at the location, the personification of the camera wreaks havoc on perception and adds an agenda to the film that arguably breaks the conventions of documentary filmmaking.

The comparison between Grey Gardens and Leviathan begs the question of whether or not it is ever possible for a filmmaker not to impose some sort of auteurian input when depicting a particular subject in a documentary film even when he or she includes every detail of the location and the subject. On one hand, decisions can be made that ignore the will of the subject of the film that ultimately lends a feeling of violation. On the other hand, the film maker can open up the content to allow for personal perspective to shape what is being shown.  What is clear is that in either case, it could be argued that each of these documentary films has, nevertheless, adhered to Trinh Minh-ha’s stipulations with respect to documentary film making. That is, each depicts images that are presented without the filmmaker himself imposing meaning or deducting context. Rather, the images are presented for the audience to perceive as rudimentary elements that they have to reconstruct for meaning without judgment. The means are different, but the ends can be said to be same. To be present in a location after a filmmaker has provided the details of the context as in Grey Gardens might be considered easier; however, it is still possible to recreate the context of a location even when all the details of the context seem not to be visually present as in Leviathan.

Mr. Robot and The Governance of Consumerism (Katie)

Mr. Robot, a critically acclaimed drama thriller television series authored by Sam Esmail, focuses on the lonely and troubled Elliot Alderson. Elliot is introduced to us as an eccentric cybersecurity engineer, and he becomes an enigmatic vigilante hacker as time goes on, one whose motives are unclear even to us. To complement its labyrinthine narrative, Mr. Robot has a distinct visual style which reinforces the isolation and oppression every character faces, and this artistic approach will be the main focus of my discussion. (However, there is no need to fear for spoilers—I will only be analyzing the first episode of the series.)

Within the show, one of the main antagonizing forces is society itself; Esmail demonstrates how consumerist culture can drive people apart from one another, especially in Elliot’s case.

Consider the following exchange from Mr. Robot’s pilot, "eps1.0_hellofriend.mov,” in which Elliot delivers a fervent speech on the evils of our modern world to his therapist:

                                 KRISTA
What is is about society that disappoints you so much?

                                 ELLIOT
Oh, I don’t know. Is it that we collectively thought that Steve Jobs was a great man, even when we knew he made billions off the backs of children? Or maybe it’s that it feels like all of our heroes are counterfeit. The world itself's just one big hoax. Spamming each other with our burning commentary bullshit masquerading as insight, our social media faking as intimacy.  Or is it that we voted for this? Not with our rigged elections, but with our things, our property, our money. I’m not saying anything new. We all know why we do this. Not because Hunger Games books makes us happy but because we wanna be sedated. Because it’s painful not to pretend, because we’re cowards. Fuck society.

                                 KRISTA (O.S.)
                               (echoing)
Elliot.
                                 (beat)
Elliot. You’re not saying anything. What’s wrong?

                                 ELLIOT
                         (smiling slightly)
Nothing.

(0:12:15 - 0:13:26, formatting and emphases mine.)

In this exchange, Elliot’s estrangement from those he should communicate honestly with is already made clear, and his anger is directed explicitly towards society. Throughout the scene, Krista and Elliot are practically never in the same frame. The only time we see them together is in an establishing shot, one which pits Krista and Elliot on opposite sides of the office, with Elliot’s completely black outfit contrasting heavily with the cream-colored sofa and curtains. However, his outfit is only one aspect which makes Elliot seem out of place. The rest of the time, the two are always in their own close-ups, making both characters seem as visually in their separate headspaces as they are mentally—this being coupled with disorienting cuts to different close-up angles of their faces.

Elliot’s frequent voiceover of his thoughts over this scene only further cement his distance from his therapist, and his monologue on society’s evils is intercut with real-life footage of factory workers, fallen celebrities, and social media feeds. Elliot is not tied down to the visuals of his therapist’s office—that is, not tied down to Krista. It can be said that everything we see and hear about Elliot in the first fifteen minutes of the series has to do with his pained and total aloneness.

Esmail continues to showcase his startling visuals throughout the episode. Later on, when the company Elliot’s cybersecurity firm protects, E-Corp, visits Elliot’s workplace for a briefing on a recent hack, our protagonist meets Tyrell Wellick. Tyrell is a pivotal character later in the season, and the way he is introduced is rife with importance. Our first clear visual of Tyrell places him in a low depth of field close-up, his visage in the far right quarter of the frame as the rest of the shot hovers out of focus. To be clear, when I write “far right quarter,” I mean it:

Elliot’s reaction shot to Tyrell is not unlike this one.

(The actual shots themselves were not included due to copyright reasons.)

Elliot and Tyrell are opposing forces. Both of them occupy spaces in which they are as far as possible from one another, showing their mutual isolation in the world they will eventually unite to combat against. However, even their aforementioned eventual unity is hinted at in these shots. Every background figure and object is out of focus, and Elliot and Tyrell can only clearly see one another. They are destined for a special bond, even if they are both first totally alone when they are introduced to one another. Their future is also foreshadowed in their dialogue; when Elliot’s mental voiceover starts to think an incredulous sentence about Tyrell, Tyrell finishes it for him in open speech. This unites their identities for a single moment. Incidentally, Tyrell finishing Elliot’s sentence also leads to them being in the same frame together for just a second, before extremely distanced close-ups take over once more. (This style of framing is so common in Mr. Robot that Saturday Night Live (SNL) has even remarked on it in a parody of Mr. Robot.)

Esmail’s decisions to frame characters in these ways can be seen in other interactions and scenes of the first episode—as well as for the rest of the series. So far, we have discussed how these visuals portray characters in relation to each other, but Esmail also portrays characters in relation to bodiless presences or omnipresent forces in the world. One of the most telling displays of an abstract force becoming a menacing presence in relation to Elliot comes at the end of the pilot episode.

Elliot is going through a triumphant moment. He strides through Times Square—the setting of Mr. Robot being New York City—as something he has worked for finally comes to fruition. (A spoiler coming for the end of the first episode, now.) A huge first step in his grand plan as an official vigilante hacker is completed when Terry Colby, the CEO of an all-powerful corporation suspected of committing inhumane crimes for profit, is arrested due to Elliot’s hacking.

When we see Times Square with Elliot, nearly every building with a screen is reporting the news, and beneath the gargantuan, towering skyscrapers, Elliot walks into the center of the frame. He changes from being a small figure at the side of the screen into being the dominant visual in its center. The camera even slides into a low-angle position. A huge screen takes up the majority of the background behind Elliot, and the screen displays a news report on Colby’s arrest. It looks like Elliot is in control, and he is, both in the narrative and in the frame.

Elliot slowly pulls down his hood, turns his face up to the light of the screens, and looks around. But there is a subtle shift in the visuals. As he turns, the camera cuts to a different shot of Times Square. Elliot is now level with the camera, and the glaring ads of McDonald’s and Coca-Cola cut off Elliot at both sides of the frame. We can see now that it was only due to our perspective that every building appeared to be broadcasting the news of Colby’s arrest. Even the wide, massive screen that had taken up the majority of the last shot—the screen that reported Elliot’s victory—has become dwarfed by the innumerable amount of advertisements still present in Times Square. Now that the crowd of tourists and city folk is visible, we can see that all of them are indifferent to Elliot’s heroic act.

As the final insult to injury, the camera returns to the first shot of Times Square, where Elliot is seen from a low-angle camera and beneath the enormous screen that reports on Colby’s arrest. That is the shot where he was in control. Elliot throws up his hands and smiles in the genuine joy… and finds out that he has no control at all. Not in the frame, and not in the narrative, because ominous men in black approach the blissful Elliot from behind and threaten him into getting into their car. As this happens, the camera also cuts back to being level with Elliot; this is the Elliot that is bombarded by advertisements. The camera even breaks the 180-degree rule as the men in black accost him, cutting between different men in black circling him, and Elliot has no choice but to comply with his white-collar captors. This disorienting sequence shows how Elliot, even when believing himself to have power, actually has none when combating the force of society.

It is almost as if no act of justice can stop the force of consumerism, the slave-driver that is capitalism; it is almost as if no amount of saving the people from corporate greed will save them from themselves. Elliot tries to be a hero, and he is punished for it. But those are stories for the rest of Mr. Robot to tackle, especially with the neurotic and complicated Elliot as its protagonist. If not for the compelling, twisting, and achingly incisive narrative, one could very easily watch the show simply for its beautiful and dynamic shots, which tell stories and explain relationships without a single spoken word.

 

Works cited in this text:

“eps1.0_hellofriend.mov.” Mr. Robot. USA Network. June 24, 2015. Amazon Prime; Television.

What is HOUSE (and house music)? (Vanessa)

This web series would not be possible without my parents, who have always raised me and my siblings to love and respect music both as solace and as art.

My dad is a Navy man, which resulted in me living in eight states and attending a combined total of seven elementary, middle, and high schools before I attended college. The things that were stable in my childhood as a result: family road trips and discussions about music, a deep love for my parents and siblings, and a fascination with how people interact with the world around them.

HOUSE, in particular, comes from the stories of my dad. My parents attended undergrad and met at the University of Illinois at Chicago during the late 80s and early 90s. The Chicago house music scene has its roots in the early and mid-80s as radio personalities and club DJs mixed elements of disco, electro-pop, synthesizers and drum machines (such as the Roland TR-808, the Korg Poly-61 synthesizer, and the Roland TB-303 bass synthesizer) and eventually hip-hop to create new sounds that were danceable and innovative. Thus, came the emergence of house music. By the time my parents would arrive in Chicago, house music had expanded to an international audience, included several sub-genres, and became a unique community with a plethora of stories about who exactly made up various house music scenes.

Never one to shy from a good story, my dad would both play house music and tell me stories of what it was like to witness the house scene as a young person living in Chicago during the late-80s. And from that, the inspiration for HOUSE was born as I wondered “what must it have been like to be immersed in something that sounds so vibrant?” and “what must have it felt like to create something like house music?”

If you are a beginner to the world of house music or even to the realm of film production (especially documentary film production), there are three things that I think are important to know for a better grasp on both of these worlds: (1) house music and film production are all about community and being supported by a community, (2) house music and film production are all about passion (for others, music, movies, art, etc.), and (3) house music and film production are all about expression.

Film and house music are both blends of other mediums from which a certain “language” has emerged. At least in my experience, the language of video media (film especially) and of house music is reliant on emotion and experience. With this in mind, I like to think that a documentary web-series about house music, and documentary storytelling of all kinds, is some sort of weird blend of the subjective and objective. You capture someone’s truth while acknowledging that yes, “truth” itself is sometimes informed by emotion, experience, and expression. What is a good story, really, aside from someone communicating what it means to embody an identity, be part of a community, or simply exist as someone experiencing the strangeness that is life?

HOUSE at its simplest, is a story of community and connection within the house music fan bases in Chicago, Detroit, and Baltimore, told through the voices of fans and creators alike. It goes through all three cities and features interviews with those who consider themselves “house heads” or part of the house music community. HOUSE explores how a genre of music can be a sound and a feeling.

Just as importantly, HOUSE’s production is also a story of community and connection between people who love storytelling. Those people have ranged from my dad and my professors who have supported me and helped me create this project (shout outs especially to Meredith Ward, Matt Porterfield, and Lawrence Jackson!!!) to my friends and fellow students who have been a part of the production team, individuals who have been interviewed (and people who have offered tremendous amounts of help in pursuing people to interview), and everyone else who got roped into this ride. One of my friends (another film major) and I constantly joke about how any sort of film/tv/web-series/visual media effort is really just a massive group project. BECAUSE IT IS! And hopefully, to anyone reading this, you’ll get to see that through this blog!

Picture from Chosen Few Picnic and Festival, July 2018 (where we shot part of the Chicago episode!)

Next time: “Casting" a Documentary, Producing and Logistics, and Directing

Until then, some house music:

In The Beginning (There Was Jack)

Move Your Body

Hot Stuff (Ralphi Rosario And Erick Ibiza 2018 Rework)

 

What Do You Do When You Finish Filming? (Ceci)

That’s a wrap! Filming has officially concluded. To say that a weight was lifted off my shoulders is an understatement. Everything was finally over. It was time to rest easy. We’re done!

Well. Not exactly. We’re almost done.

A film isn’t over after shooting wraps. It seems kind of counter-intuitive, but there’s a lot of work that needs to get done after filming ends. The bulk of this? Editing.

Editing is an entirely different skill than filming. Directors, creative agencies, corporations, and organizations all hire editors to oversee videos, movies, shorts, and other creative content. I worked in editing over the summer and learned how to use specific editing software programs such as Premiere and After Effects. There’s a whole new world that lies in editing, and it’s an integral part to finishing a film.

(See above a screengrab from the editing process. Mireille has been doing an awesome job with color grading!)

In simplest forms, there’s two major aspects in editing: the picture and the sound. Mireille is overseeing the picture cut, which is an enormous undertaking. But sound?  Sound requires a unique specialization. When the sound in a film is good, you don’t notice it. On the flip side, when the sound in the film is bad, it’s the only thing you notice.  Knowing this, I wanted someone who knew sound well to help me with my project. I asked around to see if any professors could recommend someone to me. After searching around, I got put in touch with a sound engineer from MICA who will be overseeing the audio aspects of the project.

After the sound editing is over, the film will be completely done. That means we’re done! Well. Not exactly. We’re almost done. Okay, okay, what could I possibly need to do now?

After all of the editing is done, I’m going to want my film to be seen. After all, that’s the point of a film: to be seen. This means, film festivals! Applying to film festivals provides a great opportunity to get your work shown, see other projects, network, and make connections for future projects. Most importantly, it’s a great way to enter into a community of creators and get feedback on your work. It’s equal parts exciting and nerve-wracking, which is perhaps a great reflection on how this entire process has been.    

(Pictured above, the poster for the film)

After applying to film festivals, we’re done! Well. Not exactly. I’m kidding. This is actually the end! No tricks this time.

Seeing everything come together in these finals stages has been an incredible and rewarding journey. I am so proud of what I have done and am so grateful for the hard work and dedication of everyone involved. A warm thank you to everyone who’s helped or supported me. Film is truly a collaborative process and I wouldn’t be here without all the help I received from others.

And for the last time… cut! That’s a wrap on Unawakened.

As a post note, if you're interested in checking out the trailer, it's available at this link: https://drive.google.com/file/d/1NuHSLKAEeZLUVHheWK4C2gEWuw6yMoAD/view?usp=sharing

Human Roles Revealed in Alien Settings: Female Presence in Sci-Fi Films (Katherine P.)

“First contact” movies – where humanity first encounters beings or intelligence from another world often contain grand themes that are intended to test the limits of what it means to be human.  In the midst of such existential themes, there are three first contact movies that also reflect upon our societal values towards women and reflect our shifting attitudes towards women in general.  Three movies, Contact, Arrival and Annihilation, not only examine fundamental themes relating to humanity’s existence, but also show the rapid evolution of the role of women in our society.  Collectively, these three movies demonstrate the ever-changing perceptions and ideals relating to what it means to be a strong, independent modern-day woman.

Prevalent male and female social forces manifest themselves in all three movies.  In Contact, released in 1997, Dr. Arroway is portrayed as a brilliant scientist, but whose efforts are constantly thwarted by men.  Her male superior (David Drumlin) kills off funding of her project in Puerto Rico, dismissing it as pseudo-science and impractical.  Drumlin later steals credit for Arroway’s discovery of the original messages and is eventually chosen as the initial Earth representative for the journey to visit the aliens who left the message.  Drumlin is chosen over Arroway primarily for political rather than merit-based reasons (because of Drumlin’s willingness to embrace a message of faith/God over Arroway’s message of science).  Another male character, Michael Kitz, the National Security Advisor, is a constant thorn at Arroway’s side, and even turns hostile as the movie ends in accusing Arroway of helping to perpetuate a hoax on the world.  Even Arroway’s love interest, Palmer Joss, turns out to be Arroway’s primary hurdle in that Joss pointed out Arroway’s lack of religious faith as a disqualifying trait to be Earth’s representative.  The main beneficial male character in Contact was a super-rich industrialist S.R. Hadden.  Hadden was the only private party willing to invest in Arroway but he eventually dies in space due to cancer, and is thus unable to help Arroway defend herself when she is eventually accused of fraudulent conduct.  Contact features a strong, intelligent and confident woman, but who is buffeted both professionally and personally by a world that is still controlled by men.  We get the sense that these male-dominated forces eventually dishearten Arroway’s spirit and it is only in the support of Arroway’s male love interest, Joss, that Arroway is able to regain a sense of purpose and resolve.

The theme of male/female conflict and control is also prevalent in Arrival (released in late 2016) but also features an evening out of the playing field.  Banks’ partner in the project (and eventually her husband) Ian Donnelly is a renowned physicist.  Donnelly makes some positive contributions to the deciphering of the alien’s language, but it is clearly Banks who is the driving force in communicating and understanding the meaning of the overall message.  Banks is the one who first approaches the communication from the basic levels and she eventually understands that the message is being communicated from a perspective where time is not relevant.  In developing an understanding of the alien language, Banks herself is able to perceive reality in way that is not entirely time-dependent, which means that she experiences flashes of the future.  This ability allows her to prevent a global and possibly inter-stellar misunderstanding which could have resulted in tremendous negative consequences for humanity.  Arrival presents Banks as not only equal to but greater than in several respects to males.  Arrival does not, however, entirely dismiss male contributions.  It is because of her romance with Donnelly that she feels more complete personally and professionally.  Banks’ daughter, Hannah, is born with Banks pre-knowledge that Hannah would die young from an incurable disease, and Banks still makes the choice to have that child with Donnelly.  Donnelly is unable to cope with the fact that his daughter will eventually die and leaves Banks and Hannah.  This illustrates the choice-driven female strength portrayed by Banks’ character, which is vastly different than the men-ruled world of Contact.

Annihilation takes the male/female dichotomy to an even greater extreme.  Lena (we are not told her last name) is initially portrayed as a doting, pining wife of Kane.  Kane has disappeared for a year, and Lena is going about her duties as a teacher/researcher.  When Kane comes back from his mysterious mission, Lena learns that the nature of Kane’s mission and that she may be one of the few who is able to solve the mysteries of the Shimmer and cure her husband.  The military has deduced that females may be more resistant to the effects of the Shimmer and organizes an all-female team to enter into Shimmer.  While each member of Lena’s team eventually succumbs to the Shimmer (which apparently acts as a way to greatly heighten and splice genetic mutations), it is only Lena who is eventually able to reach the source of the Shimmer (i.e. the lighthouse) and destroy the Shimmer (which in turn helps to restore “Kane” back to full health).  In dramatic contrast to both Contact and to a lesser extent Arrival, Annihilation (made during the MeToo heights of early 2018), males are portrayed as not just powerless, but also as essentially useless and in need of rescuing.  Kane is rescued by his wife, Lena.  However, the real Kane does not, in fact, survive the Shimmer, and only appears as a clone that has some of Kane's memories.  Females are the ones that are necessary to complete the all-important mission – and females are the ones that take on male-dominated roles.  The female team wields the high-powered military guns and kills (or attempts to kill) the monstrous mutations caused by the Shimmer.  Additionally, we see that Lena engages in an affair with her colleague Daniel before Kane decides to take on the assignment to go to the Shimmer, and we infer that it is because of Lena’s affair that Kane decides to leave for the doomed mission. This again reinforces the notion of the power of female action on the male mindset. 

All three first contact movies present humanity’s introduction to alien life in starkly different manners.  Contact, Arrival and Annihilation all present grand themes that force the careful viewer to think about some typically cherished core values.  Apart from such grandiose schemes, however, these three movies also introduce an interesting comparison and contrast to gender themes that are prevalent at their respective times.  One of the best lessons that we can gather from viewing this trio of movies is that our ability to understand the messages from the outside is best understood by examination of the dynamics and implications of the relationships that we internally hold. 

What You Do For Filming (Ceci)

I spent my weekend in the depths of a frat basement.

When planning for this project, I front-loaded a lot of the heavy lifting so that I had time for re-shoots. Luckily, none were needed, so for the second weekend there were only three scenes, totaling two pages. In filmic language: it was going to be an easy couple of days. However, I had left some challenges, namely, shooting in a bar.

(A shot taken from the first, successful (!!), weekend of shooting)

Bars, unfortunately, want you to pay them to use their space.  I called around to see if we could get in somewhere for free and offer screen credit, and was rejected by what felt like every establishment in Baltimore. It makes sense that they would want to be paid, but, unfortunately for me, it was too much for our budget. I sat down with Mireille to try to figure out what to do.

She grimaced and then said, “can we shoot it in a frat?”

I’ll admit, I wasn’t fond of the idea, but we didn’t have any better ones. I started contacting some of my friends in fraternities to see if I could use their basement for free. Success! The boys were going to let me convert their basement into a movie set for the morning. Wonderful news! Not so wonderful – converting the space into looking like a bar and not a frat.

Where to start? Cleaning. To my production assistants (hereby, PAs) – have I mentioned how much I appreciate you cleaning the frat for me? If I haven’t: thank you so, so, so, much. PAs have a rough job on set. They basically have to do whatever needs to get done and the work isn’t glamorous. I remember being a PA and having to run around and do laundry, get food, wrangle actors together, and the works. And, unfortunately, on my set, this meant the PAs had to gather beer cans off of the floor. Thanks guys!

PAs are incredibly important to a set and often underappreciated. They keep things running smoothly by doing the small tasks the rest of us don’t have time to do. I had wonderful PAs on set with me. They didn’t complain. They did their jobs. And we wrapped a couple of hours early. Seriously, that’s a big deal. So thank you PAs! Your presence has been noted and appreciated.

I’m not sure that I have any insightful lessons for the week, or any tips to carry home. However, I will say that filming takes dedication, it takes rearranging plans, and it takes some creativity. I never would have expected to be filming in a frat basement, but you make things work. In the end, it all looked great. So, thank you boys, for letting me use your basement. And thank you PAs, for converting the basement into a shootable location! That’s something we can all raise a glass of beer and toast to.

Magnolia and Short Cuts: Interwoven Connections Between Families and Strangers (Mireille)

Paul Thomas Anderson has on occasion made clear that Robert Altman has served as an inspiration for his films. Thus, it is not surprising that Anderson’s Magnolia (1999) and Altman’s Short Cuts (1993) both treat the theme of interwoven connections between families and strangers. Anderson progressively, albeit chaotically, brings together every last minute detail of the characters and their back stories which then slowly merge together, unbeknownst to the characters or the audience, to culminate in a point of origin: the relationship and domination of two prominent paternal figures. Short Cuts begins in a manner similar to Magnolia, where chaotic and sporadic camera cuts between the various scenarios that Altman addresses during the course of the film. As in Magnolia, it is not immediately clear how the characters are interrelated, but different from Magnolia, Altman makes subtle, but mundane, intrusions that make the interconnections clear.  

In Magnolia, Anderson utilizes quick successions of intensely packed movement shots as he introduces each of the subjects of the film, creating an almost “jumpy” feel. This intermittent “peeking” into the lives of the individual characters not only leaves the audience unsettled, but echoes the unstable lives of the characters. For example one of the main personas Jimmy is a game show host who cheats on his wife, but it is also suggested that he probably molested his daughter and is dying of cancer; as well as related to past and present child contestants from that game show that appear in the film who have been traumatized by the game show experience. In addition to this, the audience is introduced to Earl who is the producer of Jimmy’s now failing game show and is also consumed by the regret of having abandoned his wife and child as well as his son who uses motivational speaking techniques to peddle sex to a gullible audience. Anderson counterpoints these saccadic excursions with hard zooms; on Jimmy that highlights him as an “important” figure; on an image of Exodus 8:2 on a poster that is in the background of Jimmy’s game show that references and foreshadows an apocalyptic raining down of frogs, as well as on an almost illegible text underneath a painting in one of the character’s house that reads “But it did happen.” All of these elements serve to remind the audience that “every detail counts” to reach a certain point.

Altman’s approach in Short Cuts is more of a subtle knife. Altman highlights the experience of “suburban” mundane living. All of the action takes place in the same neighborhood whose residents are interrelated only by chance. He does not create subjects that are overtly conflicted, but rather only hints at their instability. For example one of the characters Gene, a policeman, makes up unbelievable stories to hide his affairs, whereas another character Lois works from home as a “sex phone operator” while she carries out her domestic duties, and a baker becomes violent because his custom cake has not been paid for. As in Magnolia, the audience is placed on shaky ground, but this time it is the result of anchoring the action in the mundane existence while “peeking” in on the aberrant behavior of some of the characters.

Both Altman and Anderson choose to end their films with a cataclysmic event. However, Anderson’s film creates resolution. The interrelationships between seemingly disparate characters are brought to light, conflicts are resolved sometimes by unrelated people, and the biblical plague that has been foreshadowed throughout the film ensues. Though Short Cuts culminates with an earthquake, which can be considered cataclysmic, it does not have the supernatural and apocalyptic feel of Magnolia’s ending. Furthermore, the ending neither serves to unify the characters nor provides the sense of completion or coming “full circle” that Magnolia does. Instead, Altman chooses to “explain” away any after effects of the earthquake in the context of a nightly news report playing on a television that has been present since the beginning of the film, thus underscoring that all coincidences and aberrations can be put under the umbrella of “everyday” living. In the end, Anderson takes an absurdist direction to unify all of his components and brings the film to a point of resolution through an apocalypse. Conversely, Altman departs from the seemingly mundane human experience, slowly moves in an absurdist direction, and finally leaves the audience in limbo without any real resolution with respect to the relationships between the characters.

Altman and Anderson both explore the possibility that in the end we are all interconnected. Anderson leaves us with the feeling that our interconnectedness may be real, or may be imagined. In fact, Anderson’s filming style and choice of repeated soundtrack (one example being the song One is the Loneliest Number covered by Aimee Mann) leaves the audience with a bizarre hallucinatory feel in which we are uncertain if the interconnectedness is created within each person (“One” is a pseudonym for heroin as drug use persists throughout the film) or is a manifestation of human collective. Altman, on the other hand, suggests that hidden within our very mundane existences lies a web of interconnections of which we may not even be aware; and that our unwillingness to be privy to it may eventually lead to cataclysmic effects on our psyche and our actions. 

Life on Set (Ceci)

Unawakened is the first project that I have ever directed. Although I’m a first-time film director, I’ve been on several sets, both professional and student, and I’ve learned and grown with each one. Each one has a different environment and different way of operating, and each one is useful in different ways. On each set I learned a little more about what it meant to take on my role – whether it be a production assistant, a boom-operator, or a casting director. This set wasn’t any different. It may seem weird that you learn how to be a director when you are a director, but there’s really no other way. You often don’t know what something is like until you do it, and directing was no different. As much as I had prepared and anticipated the day that was to come, I still had no idea what I was getting myself in to.

(Seeing my name on the slate was thrilling - and made everything feel so much more real)

The first day on set was terrifying. I didn’t sleep well the night before. I was worried that my actors weren’t going to show up, that my crew wouldn’t show up, that I would be missing equipment, something would break, that all the footage would be lost - essentially that the set would fall apart under my watch. None of this happened. Thankfully. Nevertheless, the possibility of it happening kept me up at night. But even though I was terrified out of my mind, I was equal parts excited as well. This was my project, my vision, that was coming to life. And everyone on set was here to make it happen. It was given an incredible opportunity and it turned into an incredible experience.

That didn’t make the first few moments on set any less terrifying. The crew started to file in and my nerves and jitters started to wear away little by little. The actors started to file in about an hour in after that. I took a few deep breathes. I could do this, I just needed to find my footing. By the third take, I had started to find that footing. I started to get into the groove of calling “Action!” and “Cut!” at their appropriate times (there are some takes that have an awkward amount of time after the scene has ended because I forgot I had to say “Cut!” for the camera to stop rolling). But overall, I became more confident in what I was doing, and I was ready to lead this crew. After all, if I didn’t, no one else was. Talk about a pressure-free job.

(A fraction of the equipment that was stored in my apartment)

Despite it being a turbulent pre-production process, the filming process itself went quite smoothly. We finished filming early every day, and there were no major mishaps. The true testament of the weekend, though, would come when we played back the footage. There were a few tricky shots that were filmed. The most complicated? A forced super-imposed shot in which we had to time up two distinct shots. This meant: the camera couldn’t move. The lighting couldn’t change. And the actors had to time their dialogue so that the two scenes, when played over one another, lined up.

The stakes were high. We wouldn’t know if this fancy trick of a camera worked until we played back the footage. If the timing was wrong, we would have to re-film the same scene that had taken two hours to set up and film. My cameraman and DPs took the footage and played it back in Premiere, Adobe’s non-linear editing system. I waited, patiently, to see if I got the go ahead from DPs – that we could move on and that the shot had worked. I busied myself with other things – there’s always something to do on a film set. A few minutes later, Mireille walked over to me.

“It’s going to work.”

I sighed a big sigh of relief. The timing worked. The footage looked great. Everything had gone smoothly. With one weekend tackled and one to go, I felt good about where we were.

Artificial Intelligence and the Screen: Modern Depictions of the Machine in Film (Katherine P.)

    Science Fiction has been a genre in the film almost since the beginning. From Fritz Lang’s groundbreaking 1927 film, Metropolis, to the Star Wars franchise, the proliferation of movies made in this area has seen an evolution as it changes with the times.  These films typically feature advanced gadgetry or machines, but leave the human element more or less the same.  More recently however, with the current rapid growth of modern software technology, more and more films are exploring the possibility of a future or a present where there are human-like automata. Alex Garland’s Ex Machina presents an in-depth view of a singular machine, while Alex Proyas’s film I, Robot offers a view of a hypothetical where machines are omni-present in society. Even though AI is generally viewed in an unfavorable light, the way films examine it is fascinating.

    Ex Machina is a meditation of the psychology of AI and it illustrates this though a detailed account of one machine, Ava. Artificial Intelligence is described as a type of awareness that is displayed by machines rather than an organic creature such as an animal or a human. The film, through detailed and emphatically scientific test sessions, raises a couple of possibilities when it comes to dealing with an entity that has the characteristics of a human being, but it in itself is clearly not human. Ava is shown to have an objective in the film of connecting and interacting with the person who is picked to test her, Caleb, but in the end, abandons this relationship in favor of escaping the confines of the testing facility she is kept in.  The idea of AI here is to for Ava to develop independent responses that match the main objective of connecting and interacting with Caleb.  Ava, however, appears to have another goal.  Although Ava’s objective is not explicitly stated in the film, but given Ava’s ultimate actions, it appears that Ava’s objective was to simply escape. Artificial Intelligence in Ex Machina is generally presented as having a specific programmed goal in mind, and to do the most possible to execute such goal. However, unless it was programmed to do so, AI should not change anything else in the outside world that is not necessary for the purposes of completion of its intentions. If we assume Ava’s goal is to escape and to integrate into the human social system, then the actions she does to get there are both logically and intrinsically necessary, and are not in contradiction to her core AI programming.   In hindsight, that the film does not make Ava’s intentions clear is a flaw since it is imperative in creating an AI being – that is, having a true AI being means having to accept the planned outcomes of the AI’s motivations.

    In contrast, I, Robot, ventures into the idea of an AI governing multiple machines and the consequences of such a hive mindset. Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics drive the robots in this film. The Laws entail that a robot may not injure a human being or allow a human being to come into harm. Additionally, the robot must obey the orders given by a human except when it violates the first rule. Lastly, as long as it does not conflict with the first or second rule, a robot must value its own existence. In I, Robot, the instigating action is the murder of a human by the hand of a robot, which directly conflicts with the Three Laws. This anomaly is only allowed to come to be as a result of human volition to program the robots to oppose the Laws, and the fact that the robots are not individually controlled, but are under the control of an AI. As a result, a question this film raises is whether these rules, which are only in place for human protection and robot preservation, are actually flawed and unnecessary. However, in the film the NS-5 robot population are programmed with these rules in mind, and eventually their implementation is overridden by the anarchic plans of the master of their connected minds.   Like in Ex Machina, this movie also explores the inherent contradiction of trying to apply rules to AI.  The very nature of AI in both movies appears to preclude the notion of universal adherence to pre-programmed rules. This speaks to how even though the Laws were set in place for robots, they do not explicitly account for the possibility of an evolving AI controlling such robots. The introduction of an AI in the equation brings about countless confounds and variables that most certainly could lead to an unforeseen circumstance. The fact that the AI controlling the NS-5s is volatile and dangerous in that the objective it sought to complete is detrimental to the human race does not paint AI in an overall hopeful light insofar as this relates to the ability of humans to control the AI.

    While both Ex Machina and I, Robot appear to portray largely pessimistic views of the future of AI, it is made evident that they dive into different aspects of the nature of AI and the possible application of such advancement into society. As technology continues to advance further and at a faster rate, such concerns and potentialities become increasingly relevant.  The contradictory nature of AI makes control of AI almost impossible.  That film is a widely consumed medium makes it the ideal outlet for the exhibition of such prospects, and the warnings that both films appear to make hopefully will be heeded by those who advance the science behind AI. 

A State of Emergency (Ceci)

In my last post, I stated that the law of physics states that everything that can go wrong the week before a shoot, will go wrong. I was right, but not because I wanted to be. If I thought missing props were bad, it didn’t compare to the 44 hours beforehand.

44 hours before we were set to shoot, I got an email from my lead actress:

“This email is in regards to the Unawakened short film…. I will no longer be able to be apart of the film. I’m so so sorry for the inconvenience this has caused.”

My entire body froze. I took a shallow, panicked, breath. What could I do? What should I do? I wanted to scream. I did scream. My thoughts raced. I sat on the ground and cried for a brief moment. But I didn’t have time to wallow in self-despair. Not when I had film to film in 43 hours. I picked myself up. It was time to make a decision. The clock was ticking. I called my DPs.

“We have an emergency.”

The next twelve hours that ensued were complete and utter chaos. Out of respect for the schedule of my cast and crew, I set a 24 hour limit to figure out whether we were going to shoot that weekend or postpone the entire project. I weighed the pros and cons of both options for several hours.

Pros of delaying the shoot:

1. I’d have more time to sort this problem out
2. I could recast more thoroughly

Cons of delaying the shoot:

1. Locations have been set
2. Crew has been determined and scheduled
3. Talent (barring the lead) has been contacted and scheduled (the lead male coming from out of state)

There are a lot of moving parts that come together for a shoot, and they take a ton of planning to get them all to operate as one machine. As I started to talk through pushing the schedule back even just one week, the parts started to fall to the wayside. I would lose crew – most importantly one of my DPs. Locations would have to be re-determined. Casting and scheduling would have to be completely reorganized. I had to shoot this weekend.

I determined that I had to shoot this weekend, even though I wasn’t quite sure how that would work out. I started by going back through the people who had been interested in the project on Backstage and then started reaching out to groups within the Hopkins community.

“Hi, my name is Ceci. Due to an emergency I have to recast the lead role for my senior thesis and I think you’d be a great fit for the role. Can I talk to you about your availability for the upcoming weekends …” the cold calls started.

After three hours of sending emails, posting notices, and calling people, a text message popped up from one of my friends. “My friend reached out to me saying she was interested in your project. I think she’s a good fit. Can I give her your number?” Half an hour later I was on the phone with her. The next morning I met her for coffee.

I sat with her and explained the premise and the commitment. “Does that all sound good to you?” It wasn’t until she nodded and agreed that my whole body relaxed and I let out a sigh of relief.

I smiled. We had figured it out. The shoot would go on.

Piercing the Image: The Dichotomy of Studium and Punctum in Film (Mireille)

If you have ever studied film theory, most likely you have come across the Latin terms studium and punctum. Roland Barthes, the theorist who coined these terms, describes the studium as that moment that reveals the cultural intention a photographer, or in this case a filmmaker, wishes to impart to an audience. The studium, in effect, is a generalizable impression in which each of us participates culturally. The studium is clear and is absorbed in a natural way, usually impassively. The punctum, on the other hand, is that part of the image that disturbs the studium. It is the element that “pricks”, “stings” or “cuts a hole” in the studium for the individual viewing the image.

Carlos Reygadas’ film Post Tenebras Lux (2012) embraces the dichotomy between the studium and the punctum by creating an intentional interplay between familiar, almost mundane moments, which are frayed by shocking incongruities. In contrast, Harmony Korine’s Gummo (1997) uses every frame to shove the viewer into altering his/her preconceptions. In effect, Korine creates an amalgam of puncta to create the studium that represents the culturally accepted “normal” for the tragic inhabitants of Xenia, Ohio.

Throughout Post Tenebras Lux, Reygadas allows the spectator to witness moments of mundane life in rural Mexico through lengthy shots and sequences that create the impression of a still image in the manner of the studium. These long takes whether of a person, place or thing allow the spectator to inspect the scene and receive it as a recognizable moment. For example, the film opens with a young child running through an open field inhabited by a few farm animals and a few dogs. The camera follows the child, pausing every now and then to “study” a moment of this very long take. Reygadas allows you to have a good long look at the child in an impassive manner, albeit with perhaps a sense of curiosity. In this way, Reygadas creates for us a studium of the pure innocence and freedom of a child unencumbered by any other constrictive elements.

In a similar manner, Reygadas shows us the interior of a house almost as a series of still lifes, which capture the serene sense of home and family. This time, however, the serenity is suddenly interrupted by the appearance of an animated and dystopic red devil. It is Reygadas’ intention to introduce this element of shock and perplexity as a counterpoint to the images of home and quietude. In this way, the devil is not the punctum, but rather is still part of the studium. The punctum arrives when Reygadas utilizes an exceptionally long take to “watch” a little boy as he stands in his bedroom, ostensibly looking at the devil standing in the doorway. This image “educates” the audience, in the manner of the studium, by showing us all of the elements of a typical boy’s bedroom. However, something about the scene is disturbing. You are drawn to the manner in which the boy is shown. He is standing in the middle of his room, yet there is nothing in his room that would have allowed him to ascend or descend from the top bed of a bunk bed, where he was obviously sleeping. The punctum in this image is positional. It cuts a whole of uncertainty in an otherwise mundane image, and leaves us unsettled.

In sharp contrast to Post Tenebras Lux, where studia and puncta are interwoven to put the viewer on shaky perceptual ground, in his film Gummo Korine provides us with no clear studium. We never have the sense of consensual perception of location or feeling of familiarity. Rather, Korine clutters each frame of the film with countless different elements that create a shock effect that shakes us to our core. The entirety of each frame is jarring, and we perceive the contents as a collection of puncta that leave us searching for a studium. For example, towards the end of the film Korine shows the main young character sitting in a tub filled with filthy water and eating dinner from a TV table placed across the tub. A child in the bathtub should be an easily recognizable studium, but nothing in this frame resonates with a culturally accepted norm. Should the punctum be the child’s peculiar appearance and striking profile that give him an otherworldly look? Or should it be the foul and unhygienic bathroom and bath water? Or perhaps it should be the fact that the boy is slurping down grotesque food while he is bathing in increasingly darkening bathtub water.

Korine has utilized the camera to capture the inhabitants of a town in Ohio, and he is telling us that the studium is one that we should not recognize because it belongs only to the accepted perceptual experience of this specific population. As a result, the studia in Gummo are culturally locked and alien, and difficult to assimilate. All of the scenes leave us with a sensation of a near normalcy that has been horrifically twisted. Though both Reygadas and Korine used non-actors in their films, Korine’s intention was to capture the very real condition of a non-fictional location. The images that Korine shows us represent what is actually occurring in a society that is not commonly portrayed in film. In fact, in an interview with IndieWire, Korine states that he is interested in studying societies that other directors do not want to particularly address.

Though originally conceived as theoretical constructs for still photography, the studium and punctum can also be used to great effect in film. One could even argue that the multi-dimensionality of film allows for a more versatile and interesting use of studium and punctum that can introduce an extra layer of interest and provocation.

A Hectic Mess: The Final Days Before the Shoot (Ceci)

The week before shooting is, quite possibly, the most chaotic and trying span of time a director may ever undergo. It is Tuesday as I type this, four days before I start shooting, although you won’t be able to read this until after I have started (wish me luck! And for it not to rain during the scenes I have to shoot outside. The latter more important than the former).

If you had the unfortunate experience of encountering me during this time period, you probably saw me looking disheveled, lacking sleep, and probably holding an unreasonably large coffee cup in my hand (if you saw me after 2 pm, it was most definitely my second cup). If you sent me an email or a text message and you weren’t someone on the cast or crew, there’s a high chance I didn’t respond to you. Please accept my apologies. I promise I will return them.

(Pictured above is a photo of my sturdy reusable coffee cup. It has helped me through many hard times. This photo was taken at 4:30, so it is my second cup.)

There are a thousand and one things that need to be finalized before shooting can commence, and the laws of physics (as a film major, trust my expertise on this) state that absolutely everything that has been planned has to unravel within the 100 hours before shooting. My nice shooting schedule has had locations placed with “TBD????” and half the props I ordered are either not here or incorrect - see: police badge below that I ordered that came with no badge and only the clip.

On top of everything that needs to get done, there’s a much more personal anxiety: can I do this? As a director, I’m the one that people go to with questions. I’m the one that keeps the boat afloat. I’m the one that’s leading this. Although film is collaborative, this project is a reflection of me and my work, and I do very much take responsibility of its outcome – good or bad. The fear of things not working out in the way that I had planned or hoped weighs around me much stronger than any logistical fears. Sometimes it feels like just yesterday when I was a freshman and a production assistant on my first set. I don’t feel completely different from that young woman. How much have I really changed? It feels like not at all. It’s that fear that’s more immediate and pertinent: the fear that I’m not qualified enough to pull this off and it will all come crumbling down around me. As much as it may seem irrational, it’s not until you’re in the eye of the storm and navigating the boat that you truly let go of this and focus on making it through. In the week before shooting, you're not in the center. You're awaiting the impending damages, and trying to calculate exactly what to do to minimize them.  

People only really tend to notice big changes, and that’s probably why I don’t feel much different from the girl I was when I started college. Each semester I’ve become a slightly more capable, slightly more qualified person to tackle this. Each small change eventually led to a larger change, but it didn’t happen overnight and certainly did not happen without hours of training and shadowing and observing. And I’m still learning and still growing. At 21, I’ve not yet learned everything I could possibly know about film production, who knew! Yet I’m very different from the woman I was a few years ago, even if I sometimes feel as nervous as she would. But I’m removed enough that I’ve been trusted to do this. And I know I'm ready to tackle the storm. 

Flawed People Searching for the Perfect Answer: Vice in HBO’s True Detective (Season 1) (Katherine P.)

            The current rise of more cinematically produced shows on outlets such as Netflix and HBO, demonstrates that film is not the only medium worth a closer look. Perhaps no show captures the characteristic filmic magic more than HBO’s series True Detective.  The serial nature of the show allows for both plot and character development in a way that traditional film does not.

            True Detective recounts a self-contained saga of a seemingly bizarre series of murders from the perspective of the nominal detectives. Season 1 garnered critical acclaim for its photographically detailed characters and compelling mystery. The setting is Vermillion Parish, Louisiana, and State homicide detectives Martin “Marty” Hart and Rustin “Rust” Cohle have been assigned to investigate the murder of Dora Lange. It is the labyrinthine nature of this case, and the pursuit of the truth that expose Marty and Rust’s inner demons. 

            Marty is first depicted as the quintessential family man. He appears to have the picture-perfect life, a beautiful wife, and two lovely daughters. However, it becomes substantially clear this is not the case.

            Marty is weak to his lustful urges. The first few episodes display his extramarital affair with his coworker, Lisa. His uncontained desire and libido consume him, and the balance of his “ideal” home life is threatened by his own infidelity. The vice of lust is ever-present as a thematic and visual motif. Marty’s lust, and the violence caused by such carnality is paralleled through the nature of the homicides. The homicide victims are women. The sexual deviancy and perverse way in which they are displayed post-mortem speaks to the inherent vehemence and objectification of the female form through the male gaze. Marty, in his lust, concurrently, or perhaps, coincidentally, has fits of intense rage caused by his lack of control. To him, his sexual exploits and the women who he has them with are merely things to reassure his masculinity and domination. He is prideful he can juggle his adultery with his home life. However, when it is clear this feat is too much, he reacts violently. Marty’s flaws are caused by his lack of emotional stability, and this unbalance is reflected in the many women he courts, but it rings most true in his wife, Maggie.

            Of the women in Marty’s life, no one mirrors his vices more than Maggie. She is, like Marty, only superficially the ideal wife. Her role in the marriage is that of the stereotypical caregiver; she appears to manage the housework and the children quite well. But, when it comes to her relationship with Marty, she is justifiably neurotic and abrasive. Marty’s violence spurs on her anger, and the tumult becomes more and more unstable. Upon confirming Marty’s cheating, Maggie responds through wrongfully mirroring Marty’s sin and has a one night stand with Marty’s partner in the case, Rust. The fact that she reacts as such reveals she is just as warped as Marty is. This parallel is one thematic crux of the show, that of the impression of the male vice echoed on the female, and vice versa.

            Unlike Marty, Rust’s pitfalls do not stem from his home life, but rather his work and especially this case. Rust has no family. He once had a wife and daughter, similar to Marty, but an accident that killed his daughter broke up his marriage. If Marty’s story is how he lost it all, Rust’s tells a tale of an already broken man trying to find meaning through dedication to his work.

            Rust is seen as a gifted detective. His keen insights and persistence make him one of the best in the Louisiana State Police. His tenacity eventually leads him to instability at work. He becomes too invested in the case, overstepping boundaries set by his boss and breaking the limitations set by the Louisiana State Police. Endurance and resolution are not normally intrinsically seen as faults, but the authoritative and restrictive head officers paint Rust as an overzealous, borderline insane detective that has crossed the line one too many times. While it is true that in the hunt for an answer, one can be blind to what’s pertinent, the show illustrates through Rust that the wild chase for the truth is the only way to enlightenment and eventual self-realization. In the fervent quest for an answer, Rust is let off from the case, but in his rogue state, he is freed from the authoritative chains that weighed him down. Yet, Rust’s perseverance is still maliciously paralleled through the murders, albeit in a different fashion than Marty’s vice is echoed. The devotion and ardor Rust has for this case is compared to the mindset of the murderers. Both parties are equally dedicated to their craft, and both have an almost contumacious approach to what they do. This connection is used to demonize Rust. Despite the show illustrating Rust in that light, his motivations are resonant, so we are made to root for him even with his apparent officious nature and short-sighted goals.

            Rust is shown to be socially closed off. The interactions such as sexual or platonic relationships that plague his partner, Marty, are minimized and are almost absent. Scarred from the pain of losing his daughter and wife, Rust believes those types of human relations are unnecessary and that most will end in inevitable collapse. His distrust of interpersonal relations and the people involved in them do add to his value as a detective, but it is ultimately not a generally accepted mindset. When Maggie tries to set him up with her friend, Laurie, Rust is initially skeptical. In spite of his initial doubts, he does go into a relationship with Laurie. But, it is short-lived. Once it became clear to Laurie that Rust’s heart wasn’t in the relationship, rather in the ongoing homicide case, she and Rust break up. Rust’s tunnel vision is set solely on the goal of finding the perpetrator, and even if he tries his life has afforded no room for anything or anyone else. His ambitions prove to be too much for other people to handle.

            While Marty and Rust both have vastly different circumstantial flaws, they are a complex and captivating spin on the time-honored detective trope, and their show is considered by some to be a landmark of cinematic television. Hopefully, this new wave of profound and filmic works continues to produce creations as standout as True Detective.  At the end, solving the murder is secondary to the feelings, good or bad, that we develop for Marty and Rust, and at the end of series, we are left genuinely wondering what will become of these characters after the job is done.