HopkinsCinemAddicts

A Story Retold: Yojimbo and A Fistful of Dollars

    The classic Akira Kurosawa 1961 film Yojimbo, and its spaghetti western remake, Sergio Leone’s 1964 A Fistful of Dollars, tell an almost Shakespearean story of a wandering stranger who comes into a town riddled with violence. The stranger uses wit and martial skill to trick the town’s competing gangs into destroying each other. The two films follow the same basic plot structure but use different tones and filmic techniques to tell the story. Yojimbo has many comedic elements, with witty dialogue and interesting characters in the town, which make up for the relatively few and simple sets. A Fistful of Dollars retells the story, but makes the film more about the action, with more violence, vivid color, complicated sets, and fewer character development scenes.

    Yojimbo was made in black and white, set in a simple Japanese town while samurai were still powerful, but guns were being introduced. A Fistful of Dollars is set in a Mexican town just south of the US border; the gangs in the town have more developed compounds and attempt to operate without the knowledge of the army. The sets of the films are very different, much of the dialogue in Yojimbo, following the ronin Sanjuro, takes place in the bar or on the street, while A Fistful of Dollars has more scenes outside of town and in the vast compound the Rojo gang has. The Rojo gang is made up of three brothers and their followers, they have a walled compound, with large storage rooms, and a courtyard for feasts. The story follows the Rojo’s more than their counterpart in Yojimbo, Ushitora’s gang. Yojimbo’s sets are very simple, with a few small houses and the large open street having most of the action. The Rojo’s rival gang, the Baxters, did not receive much development, while Ushitora’s rival Sebei is made to seem like more of a player in the game. Of the two films, Yojimbo gives off the sense that the town is full of real characters, from the merchants to the low-lives. A Fistful of Dollars has fewer character outside of the gangs, and almost no extras, making the town seem dead, but this strategy allows for the filmmakers to focus on developing the Rojo’s and the Man With No Name’s relationship with them.

    In both films, a rivalry is set up between the protagonist and the other most competent man in town. Unosuke in Yojimbo, and Ramon Rojo in A Fistful of Dollars. Both Unosuke and Ramon are distinguished from their brothers and the rest of the town by their skills as marksman. Unosuke is in possession of a handgun, a rare and deadly weapon that often spells death for samurai. The pistol defines Unosuke as a killer, he goes on to prove his vicious nature throughout the film, before dying to Sanjuro’s sword. Unosuke’s need for violence, even in his dying moments as he says: “without my pistol… I feel sort of naked. I can’t go to the other world without it.” Somehow, when Sanjuro hands him the pistol, Unosuke is unable to shoot, perhaps revealing that violence is not really the answer. Ramon Rojo, from A Fistful of Dollars, is also out for blood, murdering a Mexican Army squad for gold and framing the Americans. This scene was surprising because there was no basis for it in Yojimbo, showing that the western uses action to drive the plot.

    Ramon is given more external motivation than Unosuke, by trimming down some of the content in Yojimbo, A Fistful of Dollars has fully removed the Sake brewer and the Silk merchant’s characters. The Sake brewer, siding with Ushitora, was given the woman Nui (Marisol in A Fistful of Dollars) to secure his loyalty. Without an intermediate character like the Sake brewer, Ramon himself covets Marisol and stole her from her family. When the Man With No Name rescues Marisol, there is a personal vendetta between them, and makes their showdown much more emotionally charged. Ramon is a master marksman, and the only character shown using a rifle. The sword versus pistol in Yojimbo hits much harder than the pistol versus rifle concept in Fistful of Dollars, but the final fight scene is executed extremely well, with the Man With No Name goading Ramon into using up all his ammo before proving himself to be the better gunslinger.

    The two bartender characters contrast well considering the different approach both films take to violence. Gonji, the elderly bartender is sick of seeing violence in the town, he is distrustful of Sanjuro, who he fears will incite further killing. His temperament reflects the moral stance the film takes: violence and gambling are wrong, and evil men will be punished. A Fistful of Dollars does not talk about morality much at all, the Man With No Name simply finds a situation to take advantage of, without a clear motive. The bartender her befriends, Silvanito, is against his involvement with he town affairs but celebrates as the gang members are killed and tricked. He is not as averse to violence, and watches as Ramon kill the Mexican soldiers. Silvanito does not serve as a moral compass like his counterpart Gonji; both help the protagonists, but take different views to their actions.  

    In conclusion, the plot of Yojimbo is trimmed down slightly in A Fistful of Dollars, but the two films approach the story differently, with Yojimbo functioning like a play, with snappy dialogue and reduced fight scenes, while A Fistful of Dollars capitalized on action, and only developed the most important characters. The focus on action is engaging and visually pleasing, as well as effective at creating tension during the shootout scenes, which any good western should strive for. In Yojimbo, the focus on writing and dialogue gives both a levity and intelligence to the film, while limiting the exploration of the set. Both films follow the plotline well and have excellent final fights.

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. 

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.

   

 

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.

The Annoying "What Ifs" (Jaeyoung)

 During the course of my film-watching career, I have been cursed with a special strain of skepticism. It began in elementary school, when I was watching the “Pirate’s Life for Me” scene in Peter Pan. In this scene, various pirates were throwing knives at a door, very nearly missing the unaware Mr. Smee who was coming out from it. I must have had a strong realist mentality when I watched this, because I asked myself, “How in the world did he survive that? What would happen if a knife didn’t miss his head?” This drove me to distraction, and I was annoyed every time the characters narrowly escaped death. (Ironically, I didn’t question the fact that children could fly, that another world exists, etc.)

 This fixation carried over to other movies I watched, especially action films. Every time the protagonist dodges a bullet or narrowly misses a large boulder, I would contemplate the sheer luck the character must have had, and consider what would happen if the protagonist actually died midway through the movie. I understood that this was the wrong way to watch movies (in the battle against realism and story, story should always take precedence), but this was the film-watching equivalent of biting one’s nails; I couldn’t help it.

 The Other Guys helped me to wrap my mind around this issue. In the beginning of the film, Samuel L. Jackson and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson play police heroes, parodying the hyper-masculine and ridiculous action plotline akin to the Fast and Furious series. As they chase a group of criminals to the top of the building, they find that the criminals have already escaped to the ground. Driven by misguided confidence, they decide to jump off the building and, in deadpan humor, fall to their death. This was the rare moment when the thought, “There is no way they can survive that” is immediately followed by “Oh, they did not survive that.” The protagonists’ protective cloak was pulled from right under them, and they died in the most humorous way possible. When I saw that this trope could be played with, I stopped caring as much.

 The worry resurrected again when I watched Mad Max: Fury Road. Max and Furiosa are fighting over the control of the oil rig, and Furiosa triggers the gun against Max’s head. Luckily for Max, the gun was void of bullets. I couldn’t help asking, what would have happened if there were bullets in that gun? Of course, this would break the narrative in a couple ways (abandoning Max’s journey of redeeming himself, eliminating the challenge for Furiosa to trust a stranger, etc.). But I think this hypothetical asks the interesting question of whether Furiosa and her cadre of female ex-slaves could fend for themselves without the help of a male figure. Usually hypotheticals lead to some silly conclusions, but this helped me come to the thought that there should be (at least one) big-budget action film that doesn’t depend on the help of a male counterpart (yes, Spy might count, but perhaps one that isn’t also comedy).

 But after much thought, I re-realized that dabbling too deep into the “what ifs” takes away from the movie itself. The focus should (obviously) be on the story. The 2002 Chinese film Hero makes a point of this, as the majority of the film is visual interpretation of the story Nameless tells to the Chinese Emperor. Some parts of the story are fabricated, some parts are truthful, but all parts explode with human expression and explode human limitations. The swords and men of an entire army are slashed and destroyed by a couple passionately in love; swordsmen fly when stakes are high; thousands of scrolls in a library are completely unfolded by a single stroke of the sword. Each fight aches with the conflict between obligation to one’s country and the loyalty to one’s friends and lovers. By foregoing realism, Nameless is able to tell a story that strikes a human chord in a novel way. The film is also layered by the story that happens in the present time, or the conversation that occurs between the Emperor and Nameless. Even this is a retelling, or reinterpretation, as the filmmakers were developed their own vision of a historical assassination attempt. The characters’ fate, therefore, is not determined by chaos of the natural world, but by the stories that are told and passed down. To address my weird fixation, a character’s luck is just another way of filmmakers saying, “your time has not yet come.”

My first, and favorite, female superhero (Madison)

The superhero is having a moment. Some readers of this blog might say that this particular moment is lasting a little too long; one can’t throw a stone without hitting a spandex suited savior these days, on both the big screen and the small (e.g. The Avengers, Supergirl, Batman vs. Superman, Daredevil, to name just a few). The genre is well on its way to feeling stale, and has long been plagued by (rightful) accusations of sexism (where, where, where is our Black Widow movie?!) and racism (the whitewashing of Asian characters has been particularly relevant of late, with Doctor Strange and Ghost in the Shell emerging on the scene). And one has to wonder; does Hollywood have anything new to offer us?

Yet, for all of this, we keep tuning in (the season 1 finale of Supergirl garnered 6.1 million viewers; The Avengers grossed $1.52 billion at the box office). I’ll admit, I love a good superhero flick; if I’m cynical of Hollywood’s heroes, I’m also under their sway (I was one of the 6.1 million watching Supergirl).

So, when I found myself without anything to watch, I turned to what might be one of the foundations of today’s obsession, and the first superhero I remember from my childhood; Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Buffy is different than the heroes we see on screen today; indeed, some might not call her a superhero at all (where is her costume? Where are the spaceships, the ray guns?) But when I was a kid, she was TV’s woman of steel. I was born too late for Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman, and the more fully rendered heroines of recent media—Krysten Ritter’s Jessica Jones, Elizabeth Olsen’s Scarlet Witch—were a long time coming. Buffy (whose show ran from 1997-2003) was part of the cultural landscape I grew up in, and made a space for complex female heroes like Jessica Jones to fill in the years following.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I was both too young and too cowardly to really follow the show when it was playing (I was only two when it premiered; I was frightened by an episode of Hey Arnold that featured a cartoon vampire). But Buffy was a presence in my life; my best friend in middle and high school watched it obsessively, and I recall many a sleepover spent with my head under the covers, cowering from the demons on screen. And when, a week ago, I asked a friend what series I should start watching she said, without hesitating, “Buffy. You’re a feminist; it’s basically required.”

Even beginning my viewing as a woman in 2017 who has watched (dare I say endured) a surfeit of superheroes, I’m captivated by Buffy Summers. In a week I’ve seen 26 episodes, much to the detriment of my sleep schedule. I have been thinking about what makes Buffy such a cultural cornerstone. It’s not the special effects (the 90’s era CGI is quaint at best, painful at worst, making the monsters less threatening than they might be), nor, admittedly, the show’s sense of pace; the episodes often introduce seemingly apocalyptic obstacles, worry over them for thirty-five minutes, then wrap them up with two minutes of hand-to-hand combat, sending their heroes back into the halls of Sunnydale High to reflect on their latest sweethearts or homework assignments. A sense of suspense is often noticeably lacking (particularly when one doesn’t have to wait a week between episodes, a fault of my own consumption rather than of Joss Whedon’s direction).

Yet there is something compelling about the fast-talking, stake yielding Buffy (played with panache by Sarah Michelle Gellar) that is worth watching, even if one has wearied of world-savers. Part of the appeal is that the stakes (hah) feel real, here, in a way that they don’t in the sanitized world of Disney’s Marvel universe or the CW’s National City. The violence, while often aimed at monsters we know to be less-than-human, is almost always shown rather than implied. The heroine even, at times, takes a perverse pleasure in causing pain (Season 2, Episode 11 sees Buffy giving a vamp a protracted beating after having walked in on her mother making out with a slimy new boyfriend; she enthusiastically slices into a 7-foot-tall praying mantis long after it is dead Season 1, Episode 4).

When a villain is killed, they are not whisked off-screen; they are stabbed to death in front of us. It’s true that they dissolve into ash, bloodless, but the camera takes a fierce joy in the moment a ghoul is staked. Each fight scene is the delaying of that gratifying moment when our heroine snaps some sign post in half and plunges it into her enemy’s chest.

The self-conscious sexualization of the protagonist also makes this series an interesting watch. Buffy has undoubtedly become a feminist icon—and Whedon intended her to be, wanting to subvert the trope of the blonde slasher-film victim—but she is also a conventionally attractive (slim, white) woman performing roundhouse kicks in high heeled boots and mini-skirts. That is, she performs normative femininity while embodying a masculinized form of power (namely, physical strength and a preternatural ability to kick ass); this is no witch, that icon of feminine power, nor is her gift one of shapeshifting or laser vision. What she does is go blow for blow in fist fights with the undead. It’s an emphatically physical power, perhaps more masculinized even than Superman’s—after all, Buffy isn’t immune to bullets, and she can’t fly. She’s super merely by merit of her grit and her ability to square up. And she does it all with a fresh coat of lip gloss to boot.

If Buffy smacks of a man’s fantasy girl it’s because, in a sense, she is. Her creator, Joss Whedon, is quoted by Patricia Pender in her book I’m Buffy and You’re History as saying, “I definitely think a woman kicking ass is extraordinarily sexy, always… if I wasn’t compelled on a very base level by that archetype I wouldn’t have created that character.” And it can’t be ignored that some of the combat has erotic undertones; Buffy is repeatedly choked, tied up, threatened with sharp teeth against her exposed, lily-white neck.

This is one of the more uncomfortable parts of watching the slayer: after all, she’s just a girl. More of a girl, even, than our modern Supergirl (today’s Kara Zor-El comes with an office job and well-furnished loft). Buffy is sixteen at the series’ beginning, a sophomore in high school. The pleasure viewers take in watching her lithe fighter’s form is complicated by the fact of her youth; and when she starts dating a 250-year-old vampire, we naturally feel a little strange about it.

Yet her girlishness is also part of the series’ appeal; Buffy’s charm lies how relatable the eponymous lead is. She isn’t the sunny, saccharine Supergirl, nor is she the brooding, tortured Batman; she’s more or less an average sixteen-year-old. She is unaccountably moody sometimes; she gets jealous when her best friend starts hanging out with someone new; she bickers with her mother. For the first time, with the advent of the Slayer, a typical teenage girl is cast as super. It is enough for Buffy to be just who she is, and occasionally kill a vamp or two. The series developed a cult following, and retains its place in the cultural lexicon, because it allows teenage girls to see themselves on screen and in power.

And I know I’m only scratching the surface; soon, I’m told, there will be lesbian witches, advice on leaving an abusive relationship, and a guide through the grieving process. But halfway through season 2, I’m already sold. If the superhero is having a moment, let it linger. And if you’re disenchanted by the current offerings, I suggest taking a look behind you; Buffy won’t disappoint.

Audience's Thirst for Retribution (Jaeyoung)

   

 SPOILER ALERT: Middle part of Moonlight discussed.

    When it comes to watching movies in the theaters, audience participation is strongly encouraged in movies such as The Rocky Horror Picture Show (“WHY THE F*CK IS THERE A BILLBOARD IN THE MIDDLE OF A CEMETERY!?”). It’s funny, it’s bawdy, and everyone’s having a good time.

   And then there are films like Oscar Best Picture Winner Moonlight, where audience participation should exist solely within the silent, emotional dimension of one’s soul. In other words, no one should be talking at any point in time.

   Of course, human beings are imperfect, so at least some verbal litter is inevitable. However, when I watched Moonlight a couple weeks ago, one person’s comment irked me so much that I wanted to scream.

   It happened in the middle of the movie, when Chiron becomes lost in a fit of fury and approaches his bully during class. This bully has turned his lover and friend against him and forced him to lose the one glimmer of hope in his sad, oppressive life. Thus, he betrays his gentler character and becomes the monster he’s been running from. He picks up a chair and strikes his adversary on the head, dolefully indulging in the violence that characterizes his society.

   And then from behind me, a stupid, gleeful “yes!” is uttered from someone’s mouth.

   My (elitist) blood boiled. Whoever it was that said this obviously missed the emotional significance of this scene and mistook it for a cheap revenge sequence. This is not that kind of movie! It annoys me to this day, how one person’s knee-jerk reaction pulled me out of the exceedingly tragic denouement of the second act.

   However, I should be fair. After all, aren’t the audience conditioned to respond in this way? Whether violent justice is an innate human desire is a matter for philosophers. But with movies like Kill Bill and Gladiator (both awesome films, don’t get me wrong) making their mark on the public conscious, aren’t audience members wired to desire the violent end of a villain?

   The answer is yes, at least in the eyes of film production studios. Take, for example, Taken. In order to exploit this animalistic response, they pit child sex traffickers as the bad guys, which basically sets up a premise close to the Nazi-killing genre: aggressive violence that is unquestioned and justified. Consumers are able to completely indulge in ass-kicking and throat-slitting without having to weigh any sort of moral repercussions. We crave Liam Neeson’s murderous rampage, and the more pain the child sex traffickers feel, the more endorphin pulse through our veins.

   I suppose Taken would be the one revenge film I could think of right now that is unforgivable with regards to violence (I think I became a truly worse individual coming out of it). Smarter films utilize revenge to achieve something beyond just base pleasures. For example, John Wick utilizes revenge to drive forward its ultra-stylistic action sequences. Inglorious Basterds utilizes revenge to develop a plot that ultimately criticizes the audience for their blood lust. Gladiator utilizes revenge to explore not only Maximus’ character, but also that of Commodus, who is undeniably evil yet heart-wrenchingly pitiful.

   But even when revenge is given intelligent treatment, it cannot mask the prevalence of audience blood thirst. Even in Netflix’s Daredevil, where the main villains are given incredibly sensible characterization, there are countless scenes where shady henchmen are beat up gratuitously and mercilessly. In this case, it is impossible not to pander to the audience’s thirst for violence; logistically, the show can’t go through each henchman and assign deep human characterizations.

   Therefore, is it possible to reverse this trend? I don’t think so. Even smart revenge films will continue to be misconstrued by many as being “awesomely violent” (as opposed to “violently awesome”), and studios will continue milking that cow because of capitalism, etc. For many movies, violence will continue to be their main selling point.

   Moonlight, of course, is nowhere close to being a revenge film. Yet, I am pushed to believe that the conditioned responses perpetuated by these types of movies made its way to the theater those weeks ago. Perhaps I should be more forgiving and try to understand why that person said, “Yes!” Maybe she said this because, mistaking aggression for assertion, she believed that Chiron was finally standing up for himself. Maybe if I had asked her why she responded in this manner, she could explain exactly what was going on in her head. Maybe, if I pressed on, she might apologize for caving in to the wide-spread audience blood-thirst that the film industry has hooked society on. Who knows.

   Or how about this: maybe, we should all remind ourselves that some movies are not Rocky Picture Horror Show and that people should keep their thoughts and feelings to themselves when they are at the movie theater.

Art in the Age of Corporate Cynicism (Conor)

    I am not really interested in superhero movies. The last one I saw was Guardians of the Galaxy (2014 dir. James Gunn) and for one reason or another I never ended up seeing another one after that. Well I broke my personal embargo to watch Captain America: Civil War (2016 dir. Anthony and Tony Russo). Ultimately the film was neither entertaining nor challenging. It was a completely standard and boring superhero flick that failed to excel in any category. It was too long, confusing, completely devoid of substance and poorly constructed with the exception of the ending twist and the appearance of Spiderman; both of which served as welcome breaks to the monotony and the incredible lack of nuance in the film’s politics.

    The Marvel Cinematic Universe has become a beast so great that preserving it has overtaken the studio’s desire to actually make compelling cinema. Because an audience would potentially need to see twelve other films and One hundred twenty four episodes of television to get a full idea of the background for Civil War it is impossible for the film to effectively build tension or suspense, do justice to its characters, or adequately wrap up a narrative in this film or in any of their future films. It is almost impossible to follow the meaning of the narrative or the growth of the characters because it is spread pretty thin among an absolutely immense amount of material.

    The natural extension of this of course, is to introduce a character in these movies to entice viewers to watch other movies both past and future to learn more about them. In this way Spiderman, while entertaining, is also one of the worst parts of the film: he is nothing more than a huge advertisement for a future Spiderman film. Worst of all, this model of filmmaking has made such an astronomically huge amount of money for Marvel that other studios are falling in line and copying it. Both the Harry Potter and Star Wars series already have myriads of interconnected spin-offs and sequels planned. This entirely profit motivated model has overtaken the entire industry and it appears that we will be trapped within it for years to come.

    Ideologically, the film is a mess, boring, and sickeningly pro-status quo. It attempts to play at the only truly interesting question surrounding the superhero genre today: is it responsible to have super powered individuals intervening in world politics wherever they see morally fit? The Avengers in this film are a clear stand-in for American military interventionism. The opening scene outlines an action scene that could very well be in any American military movie, and one of the superheroes might as well actually be called “Captain Drone,” considering how his talents are used and the completely impersonal way in which he indiscriminately kills bad guys from a position of safety.

    While the film comes frustratingly close to examining whether or this kind of arrangement is moral it never actually develops the opposing opinion to a point where it would threaten the ideological safety of the superhero universe. The film makes a clear stand on which side is morally in the right and with absolutely no surprises it is Captain America (Steve Rodgers) and his rag tag band of underdogs who of course represent all the forces of American military intervention. The film even ends with Tony Stark, the Iron Man–who represents the bureaucracy of the state but also its responsibility to regulate itself–allowing Captain America to break his fellow super-conspirators out of prison, clearly indicating that Rodgers’ methods and plans are the right ones.

    By having Captain America–-who is the living embodiment of American values and the American state in the Marvel universe–-as the lead the film even manages to dissociate the cruelty perpetrated by the state in the film from a notion of the “True America.” The moral cowardice exhibited by the American government in the film is not really a part of America but the result of bloated bureaucracy run by people out of touch with the “true American values.” Separating a state from the politics of the state is ideologically dangerous and allows the film to use the horrors perpetrated by the state not as criticism but to support the American military interventionist policy embodied in Captain America and his cronies; like the only solution to combatting politics is letting a group of super powered ideologues wreak havoc in other sovereign nations.

    The ideology expressed in the film is inextricably linked to the corporate model in which it was made. A system of filmmaking based entirely around profit is not equipped to discuss actual social issues. In order for these films to make money they have to be as ideologically “safe” as possible. This is cynicism of the highest order.  We live in a time where police indiscriminately kill people of color in this country and put down peaceful protests with incredible violence. A protofascist has been elected to the highest political office in the country and the enormous ideological divides that have been hidden away for so long have angrily and disgustingly boiled over to the forefront of the American political reality.

    Instead of attempting to address these issues through art Hollywood continues to churn out boring politically safe films that re-affirm the corrupt fantasy of a wholesome and powerful America that is rightfully enforced by a group of incredibly unfairly powerful few who should be accountable to none because they are more profitable. Superhero movies and their insidiously corrupt corporate model are destroying the film industry and failing movie watchers around the globe. An art that has so much potential to entertain, inspire and challenge is now relegated to only challenging the status quo in ways that are ultimately unimportant and meaningless.

Who Killed David Lo Pan? (Conor)

    

The Chinese Characters for "Hero" and "caucasian" respectively

    Big Trouble in Little China still remains one of the freshest takes on the American action film despite its 1986 release date. It is the anti-action movie. On the surface, Big Trouble plays much like an average 1980’s big budget action flick. The plot is a fairly linear rescue story, the lead is a handsome white male, the action is generally over the top and at times completely ridiculous, there are many one-liners. The depiction of Chinese-American culture that provides the film its unique setting is dangerously close to base exoticism. However, Carpenter’s excellent directing subverts the traditional tropes of the action movie and adds an incredible amount of depth to this work.

    Take Jack Burton, ostensibly the main character portrayed by Kurt Russell in arguably his best role. We are introduced to Mr. Burton at first only through vague allusion and the few cryptic lines he broadcasts over his radio in the cab of his truck. The film immediately paints him as a certain type of hero: he is strong, he is mysterious, he is edgy, he is capable, and he is representative of that particular type of American freedom and individualism associated with truck driving. What a surprise it is then when Jack Burton ends up being the most useless action hero of all time.

    Throughout the film he barely manages to contribute to the action at all. At one point he manages to knock himself out before a fight even starts, and it is clear that he can neither use his fists well nor adequately operate a gun. He is entirely incompetent in any category that a traditional action hero would be required to excel in. Nevertheless, this does not stop Jack Burton. He speaks in a drawl that unmistakably imitates John Wayne and walks with a swagger reminiscent of Toshiro Mifune’s Kikuchiyo in Kurosawa's Seven Samurai (1954). He may not be able to be the hero, but he certainly still acts like one.

    Burton’s incompetence creates a very unusual inversion of the standard ideological framework of American action films. Burton, the white male, is essentially a sidekick to Dennis Dun’s Wang Chi, the Asian male. In doing this, Carpenter avoids one of the main traps that so many Hollywood action movies fall into: the trap of American exceptionalism. Too often films like The Last Samurai (2003), and Bloodsport (1988), and TV shows like Kung Fu (1972-75) depict a white male entering into Asian culture and, after a brief period of time has elapsed, becoming the true inheritor of that culture. The ideological assumption is that white men are so capable that you could drop them off in any culture, no matter how foreign and they will not only succeed but excel beyond the capability of those who taught him.

    Burton is the exact opposite. He is constantly disoriented within the culture of Chinatown, and he never truly finds his bearings. He is constantly expressing his lack of understanding of the events in the film, and every other character shies away from explaining it to him until it becomes absolutely necessary to do so for the sake of exposition.  His personal motivations are much less compelling than those of his friend, Wang Chi, who also happens to be a much more capable fighter and the real hero of the film.

    In this way, Big Trouble is the anti-action film.  Burton’s complete uselessness is used to draw attention to the ridiculousness of American action movies and to uncover the more damaging ideological implications those films have. Carpenter uses the action flick, usually the most patriotic genre, to critique the idea of the American identity.  Burton is essentially a western hero: a somewhat tragic wandering gun for hire with a mysterious and probably violent past who is incapable of fully re-integrating into society. But by making him useless Carpenter criticizes the entire action movie culture that fetishizes those types of men. I hear that there are plans for a remake of Big Trouble. Unfortunately, it is all too possible and most likely probable that the remake will willfully ignore the nuance in Burton’s character in favor of remaking him into a strong, capable hero, ironically falling for the very trap that the original set out to criticize in 1986.

Romance and the New Bond Films (Treva)

Happy Valentines Day, everyone! And what says ”romance” like a fight to the death while dance music plays and disco lights flash? No? Maybe classical—a symphony?

I wonder if this is why I don’t have a date.

                                            

Fortunately, I spend my free time well: catching up on movies people have been recommending I watch for the past year or so. In this particular case, Kingsman: The Secret Service (2014) and The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015).

[SPOILERS AHEAD!]

I am, however, going to maintain that the films are fairly Romantic, in the sense of the nineteenth century movement that supported individualism, passionate emotion, and—though many forget this—nationalism. Of course, it was also a fairly anti-industrialization movement, while spy flicks take almost as much joy in technology as science fiction, but I think it’s the ideals that matter—the dream of a simpler time, when men were good or evil, acted on impulse and emotion rather than cold machine logic or staid formula. Or, as quoted in Kingsmen:

Harry: Give me a far-fetched, theatrical plot any day.

Valentine: The old Bond movies, oh man. Ah, when I was a kid, that was my dream job. Gentleman spy.

Harry: I always felt the old Bond films were only ever as good as the villain. As a child, I rather fancied a future as a colorful megalomaniac.

I love a good double-edged conversation, don’t you? (For those who haven’t seen the film, Harry Hart (Colin Firth) is a gentleman spy, while Richmond Valentine (Samuel L. Jackson) is both distinctly colorful—right down to the literal costuming—and very much a villainous megalomaniac.)

                                                    

On the other hand, Kingsman does a decent job showing that neither side is entirely black and white, with the Kingsmen Agency’s snobbishness and Valentine’s actually quite reasonable point that we need to do something to curb the global population, because it’s spiraling out of control and nobody is doing anything to stop it. The Man From U.N.C.L.E. handles this as well, with the Russians and Americans working together only long enough to stop the Nazis (leftover from WWII; it’s 1963) from developing advanced nuclear technology. As soon as the mission is done, both the CIA’s Napoleon Solo (Henry Cavill) and the KGB’s Illya Kuryakin (Armie Hammer) are ordered to shoot each other if necessary to get the disc with the new scientific developments. Such complex morality has always been a hallmark of spy thrillers—what are spies, after all, but those who do dirty work in the name of Queen and country? Or whatever office of rule. There’s your Romantic nationalism.

The individualism shines through in the titles of the films themselves. Kingsman, when one of the lessons Eggsy (Taron Egerton) and Roxy (Sophie Cookson) learn is that only through teamwork will they survive. The Man from U.N.C.L.E., when the entire premise of the film is that it’s two men, one Russian one American—and one young woman, Gaby Teller (Alicia Vikander), who is rather more skilled at undercover work than either of them. But it is the individuals’ choices and actions that matter—Roxy’s bravery, Eggsy’s determination, Napoleon and Illya’s decision to burn the disc rather than share it with either of their employers. And lo, a team is formed.

And the passion, the sheer joy of a good old-fashioned Bond film. Neither Kingsman nor U.N.C.L.E. takes themselves particularly seriously (which, frankly, I’m not sure the Bond films ever did either—killing a man by painting him with gold? Really?) I’m really here for the passion, the tragedy and joy and gut decisions at high-stakes. The adventure and the romance—yes, in the lower-case sense with the accompanying nudge-nudge-wink-wink. “Well this ain’t that kinds of movie,” says Valentine right before he shoots Harry in the head, but his own name, conflating romance and Romance, betrays the truth: this is exactly that kind of movie. Which is why he sighs contentedly when Eggsy quips it back at him after returning the favor with a blade to the chest: “It’s like you said to Harry. This ain’t that kind of movie, bro.” Then Eggsy picks up a bottle of champagne and a couple glasses, and goes to have victory sex with a kidnapped—now saved!—Swedish princess.

Exactly that kind of movie.

But really, the action scenes are the best of it. That’s what I started with and by St. Valentine, that’s what I’m going to end with. Because you haven’t quite lived until you’ve watched the climax of Kingsmen where Eggsy essentially has a lethal hip-hop dance-off with Valentine’s knife-heeled assistant. Seriously, she has blades instead of feet. It’s a big step forward for the disabled community, because she’s really cool-looking when she’s killing people with them. Particularly when she’s all but break-dancing to do it, while disco lights spin and a rocking instrumental of KC and the Sunshine Band’s "Give it Up" blasts from the speakers. The camera moves as well, alternating long circles around the action and rapid-fire cuts between the fighters, speeding with the stress of combat and slowing to show off the particularly impressive moves.

It’s a little bit less cheerily exciting when the music continues but the shot cuts to people killing each other around the world, maddened to uncontrolled bloodlust by Valentine’s “neurological wave.” I admit: that sort of violent contrast is another thing for which I am gloriously present.

But nothing can beat the scene in U.N.C.L.E. in which Napoleon calmly sits in a truck, eats a sandwich, and blasts a lovely Italian ballad while, visible out the windows, Illya engages in a high-speed, high-stakes boat chase. So removed is Napoleon—and the audience—from the action that we don’t even hear it, or see it as more than blurred background movement. It is not, however, true distance, but casualness, as the music continues at full volume when Napoleon eventually concedes to go back and help his comrade-in-arms.

The truly most self-enjoying thing U.N.C.L.E. does, however, is split its camera view into sections like the panels of a comic book, which shift and slide to show multiple characters moving at once. Some are split by striking diagonals, some dissolve into half a dozen smaller screens then converge again on a different scene. There is no dialogue, just music, a heavily beating baseline in time to the movements of the panels, for dramatic suspense. The tension and excitement—as the spies explore a weapons factory, or later team up with the British Royal Marines to storm the villains’ base—is palpable, and, as I said, reminiscent of the clean fun of superhero comics. There is no blood, no gunshots; just music and movement and period-appropriate drama.                        

Far more Romantic than any box of chocolates. 

 

Superhero Ideology (Elizabeth)

            It’s no secret to anyone that superhero movies are in vogue right now. People love the escapism of the idea having a good, powerful individual that they can imagine being or having as a protector. Lately, we’ve been getting tons of films starring classic comics characters from both of the two biggest companies, Marvel and DC. However, despite their similarities as comics creators, the two companies have several key differences in how they approach their movies both philosophically and as creators. Marvel movies tend to be more idealistic and fun, compared to darker DC. To illustrate this, one should examine two politically charged superhero movies that appear rather similar at first glance: Marvel’s Captain America: The Winter Soldier, and DC’s The Dark Knight.

            Both are the second movies of their series, and both feature a character who is superhumanly strong and skilled without actually having superpowers, due to their training and scientific supplements—serum in Captain America’s case and assorted gadgets in Batman’s. Compared to other superheroes like Superman and Thor, they are much more human and relatable. On a more significant level, they both deal with terrorists who corrupt others and inject chaos into an orderly society and use that uncertainty to turn good characters against each other. Surveillance is used against the people. A close, admired friend of the hero is corrupted into a villain. The hero turns the authorities against the once-admired hero by framing him for the death of his friend and superior (which was faked.) However similar these situations may be, their outcomes and overall messages are very different.

            Captain America is a military man, and a simple one. Although he benefits from the spying and sneakiness of his allies, he remains straightforward and by-the-book, only opposing authority when he realizes that he has been lied to and that Shield has been infiltrated. He expresses discomfort with surveillance and the idea that one organization has too much power without answering to the people, and indeed those are what allow Hydra to nearly kill millions. Batman is his opposite. He thrives on secrecy, lies, and defying the law. He answers to no one, and uses invasive radar technology to spy on all of Gotham. He does allow his subordinate to destroy the radar system, but only after he’s harmlessly and positively used it to stop the Joker and save the city. Both of these heroes learn that they were wrong—Captain America becomes an individualist who shows the world his independence and heroism, and Batman gives up his vigilantism and turns the public against himself.

            Captain America: The Winter Soldier ends with Shield disbanded, with the message that its power and secrecy were too corruptible and dishonest to function. Captain America leaves it after Black Widow leaks its secrets into the Internet, noting that he must be able to make his own moral choices as an individual. They learn that freedom granted by a higher party, one that is lying to give itself power, is no freedom at all, and even authorities with the best of intentions are open to drastic mistakes. On the other hand, rather than exposing secrets Batman only adds to them. Despite the corruption of the police force and of Dent and the justice system, he chooses to take the blame for Two-Face’s murders and give the people of Gotham a politically convenient lie. He trusts the corruption to sort itself out if given a proper enemy and good leadership, even if the leader that they look up to was really a murderer. The truth does not matter if the liar has the greater good in mind, and it is better to allow a higher authority to dictate your safety.

            In the end, Batman sacrifices the effective individual for the sake of the government, and Captain America sacrifices the government for the individual. In one, surveillance is dangerous and exploitable, and in the other it is a necessary evil. It’s easy to see why movies would want to tackle these subjects in our modern era, where issues of security and confidentiality have been making headlines. Superhero movies from both of the biggest providers have found a place in popular consciousness, and it is interesting how opposite the two major companies make their messages, using some of American pop culture’s most beloved characters. In the end, the idealistic Marvel makes the case for the necessity of open superheroes whereas DC is critical of the concept. Perhaps this is why Marvel has had so much more critical and financial success—it knows how to sell the public on the Superman fantasy better than the company that created Superman.

The Male Gaze in Kill Bill (Ingrid)

    More recently, I’ve become increasingly aware of how my filmic interpretations are informed by my gender. As a female viewer, I often perceive the so-called, “male gaze,” in Hollywood films less from feelings of identification (as a male audience member would perhaps experience), but more so from literature I’ve read, films I’ve studied in class, and general societal observations I’ve made on my own. The topic of the “male gaze” in film is a sensitive one; but I think sometimes people are unnecessarily quick to condemn films for female objectification, subordination, and vulnerability. I also believe female objectification is often overemphasized or mischaracterized as being sexually demeaning; I do not think that is always the case. Moreover, the possibility for a “female gaze” is rarely touched upon.

    In re-watching Kill Bill (Quentin Tarantino, 2003), I found that my understanding of the “male gaze” was complicated. The film follows the vindictive mission of a strong female lead, The Bride (played by Uma Thurman). After waking from a four-year coma caused by a bullet to the head on her wedding day, The Bride vows to find and kill every last member of the assassin squad that betrayed her. Though the cinematic portrayal of the Bride, particularly towards the beginning of the film, suggests male dominance with many tightly framed fetishistic shots, the narrative is one of female empowerment. The Bride also progressively achieves command of the camera.

    The film opens with the most disturbing of diegetic sounds—the uncontrollable panting of a female. Reminiscent of the start of Kiss Me Deadly (Robert Aldrich, 1955), the heavy, ragged breathing of a petrified female protagonist is one of the most visceral and disarming sounds in cinema. Overlaid with the opening credits on black, the female protagonist, who we later realize is “The Bride,” is first introduced to us by her pained gasping. Faceless and voiceless, her character is diminished at the start of the film. The scene then cuts to a black and white shot of the Bride. The harsh, high contrast lighting in the close up of her agonized expression is unflattering. Her face is glistening with inky blood, beads of sweat, and streaks of tears. Following this is a tracking shot of cowboy boots, striding towards the wounded Bride; the Bride’s whimpering is ever-present in the background. When the shot switches back to the Bride, her close-up is intruded by Bill’s boot in the bottom-right corner. Cower as she may, we presume Bill is hovering over her sadistically, with locked eye contact, observing his violent work. He proceeds to patronizingly wipe the blood from her face while apathetically explaining the motives for what he is about to do—shoot her, point-blank, in the head. Pinned to the ground by her sustained injuries, the Bride is unwillingly but completely subject to Bill’s brutality.  

    However, as the film progresses, we encounter a divergence. Along with the developments in the narrative—the Bride has embarked on her vengeful mission—we also see a distinct change in the shooting style. As exemplified by many of the kung-fu sequences, the formidable Bride demands control of the camera, and engages the audience in an awe-inspiring way. The film, which focuses a great deal on professional violence, in particular that of the martial arts, becomes a celebration of the human body. In these blood-gushing, horrific fights sequences, the Bride is superhuman. Wearing a distinct yellow jumpsuit and armed with a lethal samurai sword, she is transformed into a weapon; her agility and rigor are unparalleled. After slaying O-Ren Ishii’s entire horde of protectors, she stands over them victoriously on the railing of the upper level. In a low-angle full shot, she pronounces, “Those of you lucky enough to still have your lives, take them with you! But leave the limbs you have lost. They belong to me now.” She is empowered by the shot; her stature is overbearing and omnipotent. Here, Tarantino shows us how there are instances where the spectacle of the female body is not sexualized, but revered.

    Kill Bill offers a fascinating take on the male gaze in cinema. While the Bride, especially towards the start of the film when she is injured or in a comatose state, is often confined to the pressuring rectangle of the frame, truncated and expressed as parts of her body, she retains control of the camera and restores her agency in many of the impressive kung-fu sequences. The male gaze is undeniably present in Kill Bill, but can be decoded to either uphold, contest, or qualify its standard interpretation.

The Superhero and the Super Hero: The Development and Legacy (Ian H)

*I thought for my last blog I would do something a bit more fun. It’s a little different but I hope you all still enjoy it. *

As a little kid I would always dress up for Halloween. My dad would pick me up and throw me into the air and I could pretend I was flying. I would spend hours in the backyard fighting invisible enemies, kicking and punching the air, pretending like bad guys were at my mercy. I was the protector of justice, the keeper of all that was good. Superheroes, to me, were the combination of all positive qualities people all mushed together and multiplied a hundredfold. Their moral aptitude, courageous spirit, and unbelievable strength kept me entertained under the blankets with a flashlight reading comic books for hours after bedtime.

An artists rendition of many classic superheroes and villans.

Some had superpowers, burdened by the responsibility of being great. For example in the 2004 animated feature film The Incredibles, directed by Brad Bird, each character has a certain superpower. Mr. Incredible has the gift of super strength, lifting cars and bench-pressing trains. His son, on the other hand, has the gift super speed; the ability to run so fast he doesn't break the surface of the water as he jets across. Superpowers aren’t necessary, however. Take, for example, the 2005 live action film, Batman Begins directed by Christopher Nolan. Nolan portrays the superhero as realistically as possible; the character of Bruce Wayne, a billionaire industrialist, having no outstanding powers other than his fervent determination and sharp intelligence. Whether a serious dramatic portrayal or an animated spoof, a Superhero represents the archetypal being; a societal desire to strive for the unreachable: peak physicality and mental prowess, highest regard for values and morals, and immortality in the face of uncertainty and fear, all attributes transcending the limits of human ability.

Adversity, a common theme throughout superhero cinema, is mainly used as a catalyst for greatness; pressure on a character to have them rise to the occasion. In Batman Begins, for example, Bruce Wayne witnesses his parents murder and struggles internally with vengeance against the perpetrator. “My anger outweighs my grief” he states as he plans to kill his parents murderer, clear that he is not fighting against injustice but for retribution. His struggle with this uniquely human characteristic creates him as a distinct mortal character, a trait that causes him to be relatable and dimensional. On the other hand, The Incredibles, an homage to classic superhero cinema, instead shows adversity through the downfall of the great superhero time or "The Golden Days". Like pressure on a coal to make a diamond, adversity on the hero forces them to develop, in this case, by forcing them to settle down and create a family, the greatest strength that one has throughout life.

Strength, for the hero, comes both physically and mentally. Mr. Incredible and his family have certain powers that transcend human capabilities while Bruce Wayne, although having no natural extraordinary ability, continually trains to be in peak physical shape. Mentally, each superhero must be sharp and able to use the surroundings to their advantage. For what Batman, a human and mortal, lacks in superpowers he more than makes up for in intelligence. He knows he can only become so physically adept and must use his brain (and endless money) to design equipment to transform himself into a superhuman.

Being mentally adept is only half the battle, however. Each must also street savvy and resourceful. The downfall for most super villains is their inability to think outside their " Master-plan". Syndrome, the main nemesis in The Incredibles, did not account for the fact that the robot he built could learn so well that he would become unable to control it. The Incredible family, however, uses their combined strength as well as their surroundings (ex. flinging the manhole cover at the root robot to disable it) to their advantage. Bruce Wayne, after learning of his mentor’s plans to destroy Gotham City (his hometown) uses his environment to destroy the training facility and keep the plan from being executed.

 

"No matter how many times you save the world, it always manages to get back in jeopardy again.” - Mr. Incredible

This classic superhero code is to protect and aid those in need.  "I seek the means to fight injustice, to turn fear onto those who prey on the fearful", Bruce Wayne states proving that stalwart morals and a powerfully strong code of values is paramount. Even 15 years after society shunned them, Mr. Incredible and his super pal “Fro-Zone” still perform weekly super deeds such as saving innocent civilians from burning buildings. The morals do not only extend superficially as well, the topic of lethal force inherently opposed. Batman's one principle throughout Batman Begins is a strong conviction against lethal violence. The Incredibles show this mercy too when Mr. Incredible refuses to kill Mirage, Syndromes assistant. Heroes cannot only use brute force to defeat their enemies or they themselves would be as problematic as the enemies.

All too often fear equals mortality.  For superheroes, however, they must be impervious to fear and thus invulnerable. "No matter how many times you save the world, it always manages to get back in jeopardy again,” Mr. Incredible explains. Every time the hero gets hit, they get right back up, always choosing to face fear head on. Much of what we fear comes from our own mortality. Why does a gun command so much fear? We all fear death. Humans are mortal. Superheroes, on the other hand, and their continued timeless existence, even through the greatest of adversity, teach us that we don't need to be afraid. Bruce's father explains the truth, "You know why they attacked you, don't you? They were afraid of you...All creatures feel fear.” The entire point of superheroes is to instill a passion to do what's right and to support the belief that anything is possible. The ability to overcome fear and do what is right is pivotal. Mr. Incredible feared losing his family, in the end. Batman, himself, creates his entire persona out of his greatest fear, the bat. Without fear, Batman is immortal." As a man, I'm flesh and blood. I can be ignored. I can be destroyed. But as a symbol...As a symbol I can be incorruptible. I can be everlasting"

Superheroes are ideals, artwork carved from fantasy; an idolization of the unattainable. Their purpose though is not to create faux heroes in real life but instead instill the belief that anything is possible if you always fight for good. They are role models that always have (and always will have), in the face of fear and adversity, conquered their foes. Everyone faces struggles and difficult times. It is how you react to those struggles into that adversity that makes you a hero. "Not every superhero needs powers you know.”

 

Much thanks to Creative Commons and the public domain images used. Creative Commons in no way endoreses any opinions expressed in this blog. Any opinions, views, or ideas are soley of the poster.

Different Strokes: Friendship and Emotion in Action Flicks (Ian H)

        There are times I go to see a film for the craft; the artistry of the director, the once-in-a-lifetime performances, or the technically beautiful design. I must admit though, these are sometimes overshadowed by the times where I get a gallon of over-priced soda and a kiddie-pool sized tub of popcorn and turn my mind off for two hours. In these rare instances and being the manly man that I am, I enjoy the heart pounding, adrenaline pumping, and testosterone filled action films. You know, the ones where the good guy really never gets knocked down and even if he does, he gets up only to beat the bejesus out of someone? A bunch of blockbusters focus on explosions, car chases, and overall excitement while plot takes a back seat (I am talking to you Michael Bay).  That isn’t to say they are not still enjoyable but this intensely Hollywood notion is, thankfully, broken with a few films that are able to intertwine an entertaining storyline broken up with intense action scenes. The most important part of a believable and involving storyline that truly has the audience invested is developed between characters, specifically for our purposes the relationships between the protagonists in two of the best action flicks; Die Hard and Lethal Weapon.

Above: Fiery explosions...the cornerstone of Hollywood action movies

        No one would argue that Lethal Weapon, a film about the pairing of an older “on-the-verge-of-retirement” officer, Murtaugh, and a homicidal, suicidal, plays-by-no-ones-rules cop, Riggs, is a “buddy cop” film. If anything, Lethal Weapon, defines the genre. To say then that the relationship between the two protagonists is anything but critical would be untrue. Throughout the film, the arguable “main” plot revolves around Riggs and Murtaugh being forced to work together to solve a drug smuggling case. The actual case though takes a back seat to the connection the film creates between the two protagonists and thus the affinity we, as the audience, feel toward them. At first glance both are very different people; very different cops. Murtaugh has “been on the force twenty years and not a scratch or a scar” while Riggs is a loose cannon, constantly disregarding rules and putting himself in harms way to get quick results. For example, during his introduction scene, Riggs is held hostage after a failed drug bust and tries distract the perpetrator by pleading to be shot. Each cop though compliments each other in skill and smarts. What Riggs lacks in structure and sensibility, Murtaugh makes up for in sage advice and clever planning. Murtaugh, on the other hand, doesn’t take necessary risks and thus doesn’t see results. 

            Die Hard is not necessarily a “buddy cop” film but to say the relationship between John McClane and Sgt. Al Powell is not touching and important would also be false. Powell, a pudgy desk jockey, is every bit different than the hard-boiled and barrel chested loose-cannon McClane. Throughout the film, their relationship parallels a distinct brotherhood between all cops. Powell immediately recognizes McClane as a brother in blue and thus an unwavering trust is created. The natural affinity they have for each other in the beginning contrasts Murtaugh and Riggs in Lethal Weapon yet both show the common cop mentality throughout.

Above: The same type six shooter as Murtaugh carries.

            The best scenes, interestingly enough, are not the fights or explosions (however much I love them) but the quiet remarks between characters. These are the scenes where the audience becomes most involved and most likely to have a strong reaction. For Lethal Weapon,a vastly important and powerful scene shows Murtaugh and Riggs after a family dinner. Riggs, after some playful banter, indirectly reveals his longing for a family like Murtaugh’s. “I [kill] real good you know…only thing I was good at.” Riggs explains. His skill in this overwhelmingly destructive force cripples Riggs emotionally and he longs for the constructive nature of family. His skill and gall as a cop, however, comes from his lack of dependence on or from others such as a family. A family, or dependence from a partner, might bring Riggs’ skill down since he will not being able to only think of himself anymore. On the other hand, when presented with a surrogate family of Murtaughs, Riggs shows more courage and fervor in protecting them and fighting for vengeance when one gets hurt. Riggs shows his emotional scars however the structure that Murtaugh is able to provide professionally and personally completely changes Riggs’ outlook on life and the beat.

           Die Hard ‘s most involving scenes are also the, by industry standards, “slowest”. Toward the end, McClane is battered, shot, and profusely bleeding. McClane asks Powell why he gave up the patrol for the desk and Powell explains that as a rookie, he accidentally mistook a teenager with a toy as a gunman and shot him. “They can teach you everything…except how to live with a mistake.” Powell explains paralleling McClane’s personal life, whose wife left him after he failed to support her during a large career promotion. McClanes most profoundly emotional moment is when he pleads to Powell to find his wife and tell her he was sorry. The entire plot revolves around McClane trying to single-handedly bring down a hostage situation from inside the building. It is clear from the beginning that he is not doing this for himself; the option to escape being available many times. Instead, McClane is trying to keep his estranged wife safe, his way of showing true devotion to her. These incredible lengths, however, are not nearly as emotional or reaction invoking as the quiet scene where McClane, realizing his slim chance of survival, tries to make final amends to his wife through Powell. “She heard me say, ‘I love you’ a thousand times, she never heard me say ‘I’m Sorry’”.

            Action films are intensely emotional. Most try to pander toward the little pyromaniac kid inside of us showing off intense explosions and shallow characters. A few, however, make us believe in the world on-screen since the emotions captured are so closely relatable to the emotions we feel in life. That, really, is what film is all about: the ablility to take a media that couples a few of our senses and thoroughly tricking us into believing we are actually there. How would you react given that situation? What would you feel? For these two wonderfully emotional and heart pumping action films we see those emotions blatantly in the character development and relationships between the “good guys”.  

Much thanks to Creative Commons and the public domain images used. Creative Commons in no way endoreses any opinions expressed in this blog. Any opinions, views, or ideas are soley of the poster. 

A Well Deserved Tribute to One of Cinema's Unsung Heroes (Chris D)

            For my article this week, I would like to pay a belated tribute to a man who was lost to us early this year. This man is responsible for many classic moments in cinema, and it can be said without exaggeration, that he changed the face of movies in a significant way. I speak, of course, of the late great Bob Anderson. “Who is this Bob Anderson?” you ask, “Why have I never heard of him?” Bob Anderson was the sword master for many of cinema’s classic fights. Beginning in 1953, he choreographed everything from Moonraker to The Lord of the Rings to the Princess Bride duel that I mentioned in my last article. His most famous moment, however came when he stepped into the shoes of one of the great classic villains, Darth Vader.

            Bob Anderson was the choreographer for all of the original Star Wars fights. Every single lightsaber swing bore his signature. While David Prowse played the body of Vader through most of the series, Anderson stepped in for the lightsaber duels in both The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi. Both of these fights were extremely grueling, especially in the Vader costume, so it made more sense to put Anderson in the suit because he was more skilled with the weapon.

            If you watch the fight from A New Hope and compare it to the fights in either of the two later films, you can see the difference in body language between the two actors. The original fight is quite blocky with both performers slightly unsure of their body movements. While it works in the scene as Obi-Wan Kenobi is quite old at this point and Darth Vader is, for all intensive purposes, a robot, when compared with later scenes it stands out as being stocky and uncoordinated.

            In comparison, the lightsaber fight in The Empire Strikes Back benefits from Bob Anderson’s technique. Instead of the blocky and stiff style that Vader was using in A New Hope, he switches to a much more fluid one handed style. He keeps the blade inside of his body line for the most part and allows Luke Skywalker to expend his energy in wild attacks. Only after seeing that Luke has tired himself out does Vader go on the attack. Many of his successful techniques come from small wrist movements which allow him to control the other blade, disarming Skywalker in the beginning of the fight and ultimately performing a literal disarm at the end. All of these moves are executed with an ease of movement that lets the viewer know that Vader is the superior swordsman. Without Anderson’s expertise with the weapon or his ease of movement, the story could have easily become muddied, and the fight would not have stood the test of time nearly as well.

            Bob Anderson was one of the many unsung heroes in Hollywood. Without these men and women, the movies that we know and love would never get made, and yet they don’t receive even half of the publicity that the actors and the directors receive. They do it for the love of their craft and nothing else. So here’s to you Bob Anderson! May the force be with you!

 Much thanks to Creative Commons and the public domain images used. Creative Commons in no way endoreses any opinions expressed in this blog. Any opinions, views, or ideas are soley of the poster.

Hooked from the Start (Natasha)

    "There's a hundred thousand streets in this city."

    The black screen fades into a shot of a marked-up map of downtown Los Angeles.  Standing before the window, a man in an enviable white racing jacket embroidered with a yellow scorpion speaks calmly into the phone.  A flashing pink light punctuates the darkness outside the window, where his reflection is blurred by double pane glass.  As he ends the call, the muted television silently announces Toronto is beating the Lakers at halftime.  He picks up an enormous duffel bag and sets off into the night. A quiet beat emerges, barely distinguishable in the background.  I'm intrigued.

    The cinematography in the next scene is so beautifully suited to the plot, I can't help thinking Nicholas Winding Refn directed the film just so he could set up this one shot.  From the passenger seat foot well, a slightly canted low-angle shot shows the character dubbed "Driver" as the light from a streetlamp slowly illuminates, then conceals his beautiful gaze out the windshield.  By this point, I would be fine with the entire film taking place inside cars just to see what new shots the director and cinematographer came up with.  I'm engaged.

    After an appearance by Bryan Cranston, a near-botched armed robbery getaway and some expert use of headlights as light sources comes a car chase that is tenser, yet more subdued than any I've ever seen. Driver masterfully evades the police on three separate occasions, but each scene of evasion involves only one police vehicle at a time (a car, a helicopter, another car).  Swapping impossible cast-of-thousands action sequences for improbable feats by a single skilled driver, the scene constructs a nuanced chase more focused on the movements of Driver's face than of his car.  I'm enthralled.

    A radio sportscast of the Laker game, voiceovers from the police dispatch unit and that old dependable backbeat comprise the three-part soundtrack during the chase.  Each strain could correspond to a different aspect of Driver:  Cautious and informed, he attends to the police radio for each new development in the search for his car; talented and capable, he executes every turn to sportscasters' praise and cheers from the game; ambitious and confident, he completes the job, supported all the while by the steady backbeat.  I'm obsessed.

    What do I know about Driver by the film's ten minute mark?  First off, his eyes are pretty uneven, so I'm predisposed to like him because my eyes are pretty uneven, too.  He is certainly stellar behind the wheel.   He has a great jacket.  He also has the status and the gall to enforce a strict schedule on a disorganized underworld.  He speaks with threatening conviction to criminal clients; armed robbers trust him with the success of their heist and the possibility of their incarceration; he saunters coolly past the policemen who are following the car he's just abandoned.  But Driver's power and mystique are not what make this opening quite so striking.  It is something far simpler, requiring neither analysis nor a cinematic frame of reference, that led me to watch the first ten minutes a full four times before letting the movie play through:  It is just so damn cool.  Many great movies don't have even a hint of that precious, elusive cool factor.

    So watch Drive as soon as you possibly can.  Film buffs and Ryan Gosling enthusiasts alike, rejoice!

 

 

~ Natasha Hirschfeld

Cops and Robbers: Playing the Game on the Big Screen (Shea)

As a longtime fan of gangster movies, I find it odd that I just saw White Heat (1949, dir. Raoul Walsh) barely a week ago for the first time. Admittedly, I was never in any rush to see this film because I felt that I already had a solid handle on the genre, particularly in terms of its 30's/40's form. After all, if you've seen one James Cagney gangster film, then you've seen 'em all. However, I can honestly say that I was wrong about this one. I profess that I was cleansed of any preconceived notions I had retained from previous experience as White Heat delivered a ripe plot built around a deceivingly simple premise: "coppers" versus robbers.

Instead of being the typical gangster picture that focuses on the rise and fall of a charismatic gangster, White Heat offers the viewer the opportunity to witness an intelligent cat and mouse game that shows an even distribution of strategic game plays between the police force and the gangsters. In fact, through its characters and carefully laid plot devices, White Heat seems to resemble a more recent gangster movie, Martin Scorsese's The Departed (2006) -- my apologies to those who prefer the original 2002 version from Hong Kong, Infernal Affairs -- rather than its own fun yet predictable contemporaries. Both White Heat and The Departed appear to be unique in that they forego the strict chronicling of one gangster's trajectory in favor of featuring the intricacies of the struggle between both sides of the law.

A key tool that aids the otherwise under-represented cops in this fight is the important means by which they gather vital information on Cagney's Cody Jarrett and his gang. In this case, the "means" comes in the form of an undercover agent named Hank Fallon, played by Edmond O'Brien. Going deep undercover as convicted criminal Vic Pardo, Fallon is tasked with becoming close friends with the mentally unstable Cody Jarrett in order to discover how Jarrett gets his stolen cash laundered. Getting close to Jarrett requires Fallon/Pardo to not only earn his trust, but to keep it as well. While trust is initially gained through the single act of Fallon/Pardo thwarting a hit on Jarrett's life in the prison workroom, the maintenance of that trust involves greater commitment. Fallon's commitment undergoes particularly hard testing as he later goes on the run with Jarrett and becomes a witness/accessory to many of Jarrett's crimes, up to and including murder.

Just as Fallon is powerless to prevent himself from being thrust into incriminating situations while working as a mole, Leonardo DiCaprio's undercover policeman in The Departed, Billy Costigan, faces a nearly identical ordeal (for the sake of a direct comparison, Matt Damon's gangster mole in the police force will be excluded from this discussion). Both Fallon and Costigan find it necessary to fully immerse themselves in the shady business of the head gangsters they eventually hope to take down, showing that they are not above using deception and morally questionable behavior to achieve their desired ends. The unorthodox methods exhibited by these undercover cops creates close competition on a more equal playing field between the cops and the gangsters; Fallon and Costigan constitute a larger refusal on the part of the cops to be pigeon-holed as one-dimensional representations of law and order. A noteworthy difference between the two moles is how their final fates are decided according to the acceptable dictates of movie story-telling of their respective time periods: Costigan never returns to being a cop and is killed before he can see himself restored to his rightful identity, while Fallon rejoins the police just in time to shoot Jarrett before the movie ends. Despite this wide disparity between the years 1949 and 2006 regarding the moral ambiguity of cops (1949 allows for no question of police morality, while 2006 keeps the issue open-ended and ambiguous), both films display the cops relying heavily on an undercover agent to drive much of the action against the gangsters.

Perhaps even more impressive than the employment of Hank Fallon as a mole is the general use of stealth and deceit in the careful plans executed throughout White Heat by both Cody Jarrett and the police, led by Philip Evans. Schemes are concocted regularly on both sides; some attempts are successful, while others are foiled. Success rates notwithstanding, all of the schemes managed to maintain my interest in the film in the absence of straightforward violence. For me, Cody Jarrett's most impressive moment comes early in the film when he willingly goes to jail for another man's crime with a light sentence, because it gives him an alibi for his own crime that would surely earn him a seat in the gas chamber. Jarrett's clever evasion of the law through his false surrender is one of two intellectual peaks for him, the other high involving a "Trojan Horse" gas truck (an overused yet consistently effective ruse) near the very end of the film.

As for the cops, I found their various techniques to be more entertaining as they are responsible for creating a majority of the tension. One particularly simple tactic involves a tracking system that allows Evans and his cops to tail Cody's mother, Ma Jarrett, as she drives back to Cody's motel room. The police start by splitting up into three cars, A, B and C, that spread out onto different streets while continuing to drive parallel to each other and communicating over the radio. This parallel driving and communication system creates a dragnet that prevents Ma Jarrett from losing the three-pronged tail by turning onto an adjacent street. The entire scene consists of cuts between shots of Ma looking over her shoulder and shots of each of the pursuing police cars. Tension builds as faster cuts show the cops closing in until Ma finally escapes by pulling a reckless maneuver.

After this initial defeat, Evans devises a more sophisticated tracking system that relies on the intersection of oscillating waves coming from modified radios to pinpoint the route and final destination of Cody Jarrett. In another interesting departure from most gangster films, I didn't experience the trip solely from Jarrett's point of view, but rather I also watched the police chart the progress of his "Trojan Horse" based on the wave readings back at headquarters. This time the tension that comes with the fateful movement of the gangster towards his end is felt on both sides as the police once again compete with the gangster in clever design and for recognizable screen time. A similar sting operation scene is rigged in The Departed, which features obviously more advanced camera surveillance and cell phone communication. Even though the gadgets may always be at the mercy of the next upgrade, the game remains the same: the cops chase and the robbers run.

Speed Freaks: The Car Chase as an Audience Fantasy (Chris D)

            Cars are cool. This mantra has been the focus of countless action pieces throughout cinema. Cars are cool, and the audience likes to see them go really fast. The car chase has a special place in cinema because it is, to an extent, the most relatable action scene in any action film. Most people have not ever been in a fight. Most people have never fired a gun. Certainly most people have never walked away calmly while things blew up behind them. However, most people know how to drive, and, as a corollary to that most people know what it feels like to drive fast. They have never been in a high speed chase, but they know the feeling of flying down the street. Thus, when a car chase is shown on screen, the audience is able to physically relate to the action shown on screen.

Bullitt, the 1968 thriller which contains one of the most famous car chases ever, works extensively on this principle. The chase begins very slowly with both contestants stopping at traffic lights, looking both ways before they go through intersections, and even remembering to put on a seatbelt before the exciting things start happening. The slow pace and attention to actual driving allows the audience to ground themselves in reality before the big chase starts. These are all things that the audience has done before. They know what it’s like to drive in a city. Steve McQueen’s car is almost definitely cooler than their car, but in the end it’s mostly the same thing.

Once the action starts, the sense that these men are driving through a city continues through the entire chase. From the very first moment where the hit men take off with squealing tires, Bullitt is stuck in the intersection as people won’t let him make the left turn. He misses turns and has to reverse in order to get back on track. He behaves like normal people do when they drive through a city; he’s just doing it at a much higher speed than the average person. The audience is able to recognize his behavior and thus they empathize with him through this action scene. Every driver knows the feeling of missing a turn or being stuck due to other drivers not allowing them to turn. These mistakes allow the audience to feel like the person driving the car could easily be them.

While the car chase strikes a familiar chord with the audience, it also serves to allow the audience to live out their fantasies and expand their horizons. As Bullitt speeds through the streets of San Francisco, he is launching off of the terraced hills that dominate the streets. This makes the chase more exciting as cars go flying through the air, as well as creating a situation that exists very specifically in San Francisco. People who have driven through the city know the feeling of going up and down the hills and know that they have to be careful in order to make sure that the car doesn’t go airborne or bottom out on the steep terraces. Bullitt is able to perform these dangerous stunts that the people in the theatre have only thought about doing but are too worried for their safety as well as the condition of their car. For those who have never driven in San Francisco, the film offers several point of view shots in order to immerse oneself in the experience of driving through the city. For either party, this car chase allows them to experience something that would only previously be possible in their minds.

The car chase as an awesome fantasy is used to great extent in the 1996 Michael Bay film, The Rock. Once again taking place in San Francisco, this car chase focuses less on immersing oneself in the car chase and heightening the common experience of the audience. Instead, it focuses on the fantastical elements of the Hollywood car chase and creates a situation that the audience wishes that driving was like.

The chase begins fantastically with the main participants, Goodspeed and Mason, encountering high end, really cool, cars right outside of the hotel in which they’ve been staying. The chase that follows is full of implausible incidents which serve to make the chase that much more exciting. The audience is treated to cars crashing through water bottles, other cars, and shop windows without seeming to get a scratch. Parked cars seem to be filled with c4 and nitroglycerin and explode into gigantic fireballs when the other cars crash into them. None of these elements can happen in a real car chase, but the audience accepts them as they make the chase even cooler. By departing from the real world, Bay is able to celebrate cinemas ability to look cool and move fast without the trappings and constraints of reality.

This chase also focuses much more on the participants as compared to the silent drivers of Bullitt. Mason seems full of one-liners as his humvee wreaks destruction on anything and everything that gets in his way. He doesn’t seem fazed as he drives away from several cop cars. Goodspeed, on the other hand, is much more nervous about what is going on. Though he performs death-defying stunts, he has to think about what he’s doing before he actually does it. Goodspeed represents the audience in this chase just as Bullitt did in his own film. Goodspeed is able to perform all of the cool driving stunts that the audience wishes they could while at the same time not being the typical testosterone fueled action hero. Goodspeed doesn’t own the cool car and he’s not technically a field agent. However, when the time comes to act, he is able to rise to the occasion. After the chase ends, the camera circles around Goodspeed as he delivers his final one-liner, cementing his role as cool even though he started out as a man completely out of his element. In his ascension from normal to cool, he has brought the audience with him as his position as the audience stand in has not changed.

The car chase is absolutely one of the most dynamic pieces in cinema. It often showcases cars that the audience wishes they could afford doing things that the audience wishes they could do. It showcases the ability of cinema to enhance reality in order to make things more exciting, and in that enhancement, it takes the audience along with it. But in the end, the reason that the car chase is so popular and enduring is one thing. They’re really cool.

 

Punches vs. Plot: Storytelling styles of Ong Bak and Ip Man (Chris D)

    In 2003 the film, Ong Bak: Muay Thai Warrior, was released to great acclaim. At first glance, the film should be resigned to the discount DVD bin. The plot is full of holes and borders on the ridiculous, the dialogue is contrived, and the acting is terrible. However, through the star of the film, Tony Jaa, it rises from being a laughably bad film to being a testament to the perfection of physical capability.

                Tony Jaa’s acting through the film can be described as bad at best.  This is only compounded by the script giving him little to work with and the plot of the film itself being ridiculous. However, the film succeeds on the choreography and execution of its action scenes. Tony Jaa is an exception physical performer, and all of the terrible acting that he does while not punching something goes away once the martial arts scenes begin. Instead, his body is able to tell a compelling story as he fights. For example, in his first real fight scene in the film, he is put up against increasingly difficult opponents in an underground arena. During the first fight, Ting, Jaa’s character, is able to defeat his opponent effortlessly. The only time that his opponent is able to touch him is through cheating.  However, the second fighter presents Ting with slight difficulty. Ting has difficulty hitting the opponent at first because his opponent is so quick. However, the viewer is able to follow Ting as he learns the man’s patterns of movement and is then able to counter them, leading to his victory. The last fighter proves to be an even more difficult match for Ting, as he subverts everything that Ting knows about fighting. Having been trained in a small village, Ting is unaccustomed to dirty fighting as was evidenced earlier in his fight against the first opponent. However, the last fighter does nothing but fight dirty, and thus the viewer watches Ting get hit with chairs, tables, plates, and even a refrigerator. It is only through struggling through the brutal assault that Ting is able to finally win. These series of fights shows Ting as a resilient character that is able to struggle through hardship in order to achieve victory. He learns from his previous mistakes and through this knowledge is able to defeat his opponent. This character building and storytelling is all done without dialogue, leaving the viewer to watch Jaa’s body language. While the script of the film leaves much to be desired, the story of a man persisting through adversity grabs the viewer’s attention.

                The 2008 film, Ip Man, takes a diametrically opposite approach to Ong Bak. In comparison to Ong Bak’s thin plot which only serves to support the martial arts, Ip Man, uses the martial arts to support the plot of the film. The fights still tell a story, but their story only serves to support the characterization and plot that has been established through the dialogue and interactions between characters.

                The titular character of Ip Man never seems terribly challenged in any of the fights through the film. He is established early on as the best martial artist in his village, and nothing in the film seeks to change that. At no point does the viewer feel any threat to Ip Man from any of the opponents he fights. Every blow that an enemy throws is either blocked or dodged. The ease that he wins his battles could easily become boring for the viewer as, without a struggle, there is nothing to invest in. However, the story that accompanies the fights causes the viewer to care about Ip Man as a person and thus care about what winning the fight means. In addition, while Ip Man starts off wealthy and happy, the invasion of the Japanese causes his life to spiral downward. He has to struggle in his daily life to feed his family. Thus the viewer’s thirst for struggle is satiated by the plot itself. Once Ip Man gets into a fight, the viewer has grown so attached to him and watched him struggle so much that when he succeeds with little effort the viewer is thrilled to see him succeed.

                Each fight in Ip Man has a different energy to it according to where it falls in the plot. The first fight in the film is a simple sparring match and thus the fight seems more playful and honorable. This is a very different energy than the final fight against the Japanese general. After watching the Japanese brutalize his friends and family, Ip Man savagely overwhelms his opponent with little mercy. The film uses fight scenes in a very similar way that musicals use songs. When the characters reach an emotional level that cannot be expressed in words, they fight. In this way, the fight scenes serve to reinforce the plot instead of the plot serving as a vehicle for fight scenes.

                The differences between the way fights are used in Ong Bak and the way they are used in Ip Man is reinforced by the fighting styles of the two main characters. Ting uses a very flashy version of Muay Thai which is full of flying elbows and knees. It seems that every other move he is launching himself through the air in order to brutally attack his opponent. This is reinforced by Tony Jaa’s amazing physical condition which allows him to perform stunts that most people require wires to do. This style of martial arts creates large flashy action sequences full of over the top movements.  Ip Man, on the other hand, uses a very reserved form of Wing Chun. He makes small moves and only expends the minimum required energy to block and strike his opponent. The action sequences created by this style are sharper, and serve to fulfill their purpose just like the movements of the hero.

                These two films showcase the two different sides of the martial arts genre. Ong Bak is a film that exists solely for the purpose of celebrating physical achievement. The film allows Tony Jaa to demonstrate his physical capabilities. The viewer is less concerned with the plot, but instead simply wants to see what ridiculous stunt Jaa will be able to pull off next. Ip Man instead creates a world in which fighting is normal, but makes it secondary to the film. Instead, it is the points in between the fight scenes that draw the viewer in with the fights scenes inserted in order to drive home a point. However, with all their differences, the two films still come down to the same basic concept. They focus on a man who must struggle against adversity in order to eventually overcome it. The protagonists are both skilled and flawed in their own ways. In the end, both films celebrate the physical prowess of the human body in a way that only the martial arts film can.

 

Prince of Potential: Why I’m Excited for the New Robin Hood Movie (Hannah)

 

  

  During Super Bowl XLIV, I got my first glimpse of the upcoming Robin Hood Film. Instead of excitement, the trailer elicited the following reaction from most of the people in the room: “Really? Another one?” After all, it is reasonable to think that this English folk hero, who has spawned at least five movies not to mention countless television series and books, may be suffering from over exposure. However, after reexamining four of the most prominent Robin Hood features, I’ve decided that these prior versions have all been lacking and that this new adaptation has the opportunity to make an important— nay, an essential— contribution to cinema.

The legend of Robin Hood includes some rather heavy themes like oppression, tyranny and a lot of violence; nevertheless, most of the Robin Hood films approach this figure with a surprising amount of levity. In many versions of the legend, Robin is captured in the crusades and, upon his return to England, sees the suffering of the people of Nottingham at the hands of the tyrannical Prince John. In response, he organizes a rogue band to inflict revenge on this despot. As a result of these conflicts, many people die and undergo gory medieval torture. Moreover, the myth brings up complex questions on the relationship of a ruler to his people and the use of rebellion as a tool for the subjugated.

Despite this mature subject matter, the 1938 adaptation, Adventures of Robin Hood, puts the “merry” in Merry Men. While the characters talk a lot about freedom and Saxon peasants are tortured and killed by the Norman nobles, ultimately, they are acting within a world of bloodless (quite literally— there is death but there is no visible blood) duels, comical villains, and inevitable happy endings. Not surprisingly, the 1973 Disney version also does not include violence and gore. This cartoon does incorporate the serious subtext of unjust governments and crippling poverty, but it is mostly a barrage of talking chickens, bears, and foxes singing optimistic tunes. Thus, while both films foster an awareness and distaste of Prince John’s illegitimate and unjust reign, they do so in a lighthearted manner without the drama and action that could easily be included in an adaptation of this loaded tale.  

In contrast, 1991’s Prince of Thieves is a more grim film and certainly has it share of blood and gore; however, the movie itself is not that good. The film opens with Robin of Locksley, played by Kevin Costner, with a wild beard and tattered clothing, trying to escape from an Ottoman prison. He manages to escape but has to leave his friend behind to a terrible fate. Following this trauma, Robin returns to England and is greeted by the site of his destroyed estate and murdered family. While Prince features these grave elements that the other films lack, I believe one reviewer put it well when he said, “it wasn’t exactly the swashbuckling masterpiece it could have been.”[1] Ultimately, the film fails in that the script isn’t that great and Kevin Costner is hard to take seriously in tights.

In fact, the movie’s over-the-top melodrama and mediocrity made it an easy target for Mel Brook’s Robin Hood version two years later. Unlike the other versions discussed, Men in Tights isn’t really about the Robin Hood tale. Instead, it is about how this legend has been depicted in film. The movie parodies the costumes, excessive gaiety, and homosexual undertones of Errol Flynn and his troop and also pokes fun at the obscene violence of Prince and its attempt to incorporate a black character (seen Morgan Freedman as Azeem and Dave Chapelle as Achoo) into an overwhelmingly white story. Ultimately, this spoof demonstrates that Robin Hood films have had their weaknesses and that this legend still has untapped cinematic potential.

The trailer of Robin Hood (2010) suggests that this new film may have remedied these issues. In this version, there is no shortage of violence, seriousness or bloodshed. Moreover, it seems like it deals with the issues that the other films do— every line in the trailer has something to do with an illegitimate ruler and the right of the people to fight against tyranny— but in a more serious, convincing manner. Most importantly, it might actually be good. The film is directed my Ridley Scott (Alien, Gladiator, Black Hawk Down) and stars the impressive pairing of Cate Blanchett and Russell Crowe. In addition, Scott and Crowe have already teamed up to tell the story of a disgruntled warrior who champions the people and fights an illegitimate tyrant while showing a lot of leg. And Gladiator 2: Un-Shackled in Sherwood sounds pretty awesome to me.

 

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[1] John J. Puccio. Blu-ray review. First Pulished May 22, 2009.
http://www.dvdtown.com/reviews/blu-ray-robin-hood-prince-of-thieves/7014

 

The Modern Superhero (Paul)

      The inauguration of Barrack Obama represented the end of an era. He ran on a campaign of change and, for the most part, that's what we are seeing. Change. Gone is notion that the United States can do everything alone. Gone is the notion that the United States is invincible. Gone is the notion that her enemies are entirely evil. Similarity, within the last decade, such has been the evolution of superhero films. 

    People love their heroes. They inspire us by giving us hope that somewhere out there, someone is watching. They make sure that we come home safely. Superman is the ultimate iconic hero saving Lois Lane, and the world at the drop of a hat. But our superheroes today aren't like that. They are brooding, sometimes selfish but most of all alienated. They try to do the right thing but why bother if the general public doesn't want their guardians to be them? Also, our villains have changed. Gone are the maniacal megalomaniacs of yore, replaced with cunning individuals who have their own agenda to save the world. Or they are charismatic sociopaths trying to expose the ugliness in all of us. Either way, both our superheroes and super-villains have evolved from  simple black and white creatures to multilayered studies of the human psyche.

    I think it was Spider-Man (2002) that started it all. While by no means a cinematic masterpiece, it certainly did get its point across: with great power comes great responsibility. Spider-Man learns early on that selfishness, at least when it comes to his powers have terrible consequences as seen with the death of his uncle. Spider-Man 2, released a few years later explored the theme of a hero refusing his quest after accepting it. What does it really mean to be a superhero? Is a "normal life" still worth living? How much should a superhero sacrifice for others. Does he have free will or are his actions bound forever his community?

       One of the great things about Spider-Man is that it does have these questions embedded in a summer blockbuster. It gave life to the notion that maybe it’s not so perfect to be a superhero, that with great power indeed comes responsibility. Later films furthered different aspects the reality of being a superhero.

    Hulk (2003) was director Ang Lee's attempt to as shed new light into the pop culture icon. Instead of having playing up the blockbuster-action appeal of the Hulk, Lee explored how turning really strong and green can affect a person's life. Lee also constructed a complex relationship the Hulk had with his father and attempted to capture that along with the film, too. The result was a slow and confusing film but nonetheless a worthy attempt by a character director piecing together the pieces of a broken individual. 

    The Hulk is unique, in the realm of superhero characters because he is not really a 'hero'. He shows very little true selflessness-he is just a government experiment gone wrong and spends most of his time on the run. Yes, he is ostracized, but not for being a hero, rather for being a freak. 

       Unbreakable (2000), M. Night Shyamalan foray into the genre further develops the identity of a hero. In fact, saying that the movie fits in the "superhero" genre spoils the ending of an otherwise taught thriller. In the film, a man survives a train accident that kills everyone but him. With the encouragement of an eccentric comic book collector, he figures out that he does have traits of a superhero- he has survived calamities that have killed other men, he does have an extra sensory sense that allows him to see what immoral acts people have done and he is really, really strong. Of course, his revelations come extremely slowly and subtly- surviving calamities come in the form of surviving train wrecks. His sense is truly just a feeling that has the happy coincidence of being right. His strength is discovered through lifting heavier and heavier weights.

       There is a particularly moving scene where the man's son, convinced that his father was indeed a superhero, points a gun at him in attempt to prove his father was unbreakable. The man tries his best to talk his son down, that he will die if he is shot. He manages to convince his son to lower the gun and the family sobs together.

       The scene sums up the movie. It depicts the realistic consequences of being a superhero. It even suggests that superheroes themselves aren't aware of their power. Is the only thing separating us from them their power? Even in the scene where the man saves a family, he is painfully human. He falls. He needs help getting up. His superhero suit is a little more than exercise clothes. He barely escapes alive. How can he help people if he can't even help himself? Shyamalan answer is that superheroes aren't necessarily better or different from us. They have the same problems as us: taxes, a failing marriage, a boring job but they are unique in their ability. That's about it.

       What is also remarkable about Unbreakable, is the villain of the story: Mr. Glass played by Samuel L. Jackson. The villain has no superpower and in fact has a disease that confines him to a wheelchair and makes his bones break easily.  He is never outwardly aggressive to the protagonist and is the catalyst that helps him discover and develop his power. But he does bad things. He is the one who caused the train accidents and various other accidents to "discover" the superhero. Sadly, the only thing that the superhero has to do to overcome him is to hand him over to the police.

       Is he really a villain? Yes, he has bad things and yes he is a bit crazy for believing in superheroes but that doesn't mean he's wrong.  If the end justifies the means, is he not justified?  Without the villain's evil could the superhero be capable of doing such good?

    The X-Men films (2000, 2003, 2006) focused on the theme of minority rights. The X-Men essentially are a team focused on combating the terrorist group The Brotherhood of Mutants bent on violently changing the world to suit mutants. Parallels can be drawn to the Civil Rights movement in the 1960s with Malcolm X calling for militant action to change the status quo while Martin Luther King Jr. called for a peaceful change progression. Both carry the theme of minority rights and exclusionary tactics by the majority-which happens to be us. In all three films, the people who aren't mutants are hostile. They stare. They are angry. They are just as belligerent as some of the mutants themselves. The scary thing is, they are supposed to be us. The X-Men films are political. The X-Men themselves face challenges on two different fronts, one from the terrorist mutant group they face, and the other from the people they are trying to help.

       The hard part about it too, is that the X-Men are in conflict with people hate them for being who they are but it’s hard to completely antagonize them because those people are us normal bipedal human folk. On the other hand, they are forced to fight those like them to defend us. Those other mutants are in the minority, like them and like them, push for more rights albeit militantly. How can we fight something that we, too believe for? Because it’s right? What if the people we are defending don't want to be defended by us? What should we do then?

       Iron Man (2008) was perhaps the first film to knowingly alienate the protagonist from the audience. Robert Downey Jr.'s Tony Stark is meant to be unlikeable. He womanizes. He is rich and spoilt. He builds his mechanical suit as a means of escaping terrorists rather than to combat evil. However, the fact remain is that he IS liked. Iron Man was a box office success with a sequel on the way. The film rejuvenated Downey's career! What is it about snarky men that we find so appealing?

       To be fair, Iron Man, besides Downey's character is pretty generic. The love interest with his secretary falls flat with little chemistry. The villain 'Obadiah Stane" is underdeveloped and wants...well, we're not really sure what he wants. More power in the form of a suit? Maybe. But what is remarkable about the movie is that we've grown accustomed to a hero who admits, himself, "I'm not the hero type" and someone who is a bit more self-serving than others. Perhaps its because we like people more like us. Perhaps its because his flaws and not despite them we come to accept him and his journey as our defender.

       On the other hand, Watchmen (2009) suggests that the people who guard us have their own specific set of issues that alienate them from the general public. Only one superhero from watchmen is truly superhuman-Dr. Manhattan who is a naked blue sculpture of man able to do, well, practically anything except walk around in clothes all the time. The rest are ordinary people, like you and I, just with masks walking around with weapons. Most of the Watchmen are disturbed individuals. Night Owl, is a old fart looking back at old days only able to get an erection while in his suit. The Silk Spectre is a nymphomaniac unsatisfied in a relationship with a superhuman. Ozymandius has publicly unmasked himself to be a founder of a multinational organization providing every sort of good and service imaginable. He is also responsible for the deaths of millions in order to for "world peace". The Comedian is adrenaline junkie, a hired hit willing to kill whoever, including JFK. Finally, Rorschach, the most like-able character in the movie is also the most violent. Even Dr. Manhattan, the only true superhero is also the most inhuman. The film focuses on his inability to have feel human after being endowed with omnipotent power. In his famous line, he says "A dead human has the same number of particles as a living one" implying that life or death ultimately doesn't matter.

       Thematically, Watchmen is the darkest superhero movie of them all. World peace is only achieved by the killing of millions and millions of innocent lives. Rorschach, the "hero", of the film ultimately has to die because if not we would expose the truth to the world. Ozymandius, with his infinite knowledge, does the long term "right thing" and each of the Watchmen realize that he is right. Dr. Manhattan leaves Earth because he figures that his presence would only detriment the world. Watchmen, if anything, hammers home the fact that the people who dress up in order to protect us are disturbed and perhaps the right thing to do sometimes, is to kill millions to save billions.

       The Dark Knight (2008), perhaps the most realistic of the superhero films, questions the psyche of a man willing to sacrifice to become a hero. Batman is good, but that doesn't mean he is righteous. This is a Batman who beats up criminals, in a way, to avenge his parents who were killed because of criminals. This is Batman who beats up the Joker while interrogating him in order to get more information. This is a Batman who kidnaps a person across borders in order to put him in jail.

       Still, Batman is good. He is the most relatable character in the movie  (despite being really rich in our current recession). He does bad-ass things in order to reduce the escalation of crime in his city by any means necessary. Fair enough.

        However, this is how his arch-nemesis, The Joker is born. The mob becomes desperate and relies on The Joker to hunt Batman. The Joker crosses the line and is a complete sociopath. But, he realizes ( and the audience, too) that he could have never been brought to center stage without Batman. He, in fact, directly tells Batman that "You complete me!" implying that their struggle keeps both of them alive and relevant. One cannot exist without the other.

       At the end of movie, Batman is hunted by the people he promised to protect like the X-Men. He keeps the truth from being told the public, for the greater good, like the Watchmen. His alter-ego is unlikeable to protect his identity, like Iron Man. And finally, perhaps, most of all, he knows that his drive to combat crime comes with a responsibility to protect others. In a way, he is the superhero of our time because his bound with this incorruptible sense of obligation and out of every other superhero, is willing to sacrifice a comfortable life in exchange for a hard one for what he thinks is right. His sacrifice, and not his non-existant powers, make him the superhero and despite his questionable methods, we like him the most because he does the right thing even when its wrong for him, personally.

       Modern day superhero movies have changed. Along with the action and explosions are embedded themes of minority rights, Machiavellian methods and sacrifice. Essentially, what modern superhero movies are trying to tell us is that superheroes are defined despite their superpower and not because of it. They all have problems like the rest of us but what makes them heroic in the end is their sacrifice. We relate to them more because of that. Ask a movie-goer if they like Superman or Batman more and odds are they'd like Batman because, at the end of the day he is one of us normal-folk. He's just a man who made the right decision in a tough time. They all are. Films, today are just trying to capture what happens after they make that decision to save us.

  

Soviet Montage (Shaken, not stirred) (Chris M)

Quantum of Solace (Forster, 2008), the recently released Bond film, has already brought millions to the box office, including myself.  If you haven’t seen it yet, don’t let this entry spoil it for you.  (Now I know what you’re thinking… this is a Hopkins film blog and he’s writing about the new Bond film?  Just stay with me here…)

If there’s one thing I love about Bond films, it’s the action.  The chases, the fights, the stunts, the cars, the explosions... all so fun.  The director gets us caught up in the fast-paced universe of 007 and we aren’t let go until the end of the film.  Nothing else seems to matter; adrenaline pumps for 106 minutes.  Yet, this weekend, amidst the unending stream of adventure, I couldn’t keep myself from noticing one thing: Soviet montage.  I sat awestruck at how film theory had apparently engrained itself into my head so well that it was popping up during a Bond film.  My mind was suddenly conjuring simultaneous images of James Bond and Sergei Eisenstein.  Oh boy.  Anyway, it’s an experience I feel obligated to share.

Like many other Bond films, the action starts immediately.  In Quantum of Solace, we get thrown into a beautiful Aston Martin right beside James and watch terrified as a number of gun wielding assailants from a trailing car blast hundreds of holes into the side of 007’s car.  The quick cuts keep our hearts beating fast as the superior skills of James Bond impress us time and time again.  As expected, Bond gets away only moderately scathed despite yet another gorgeous car destroyed at his hands.  The first scene gets us ready for what turns out to be one of the most action-packed Bond films to date.  A little bit later, we get our first true montage sequence.

This scene begins with a beautiful shot of Siena, Italy, the setting for the action soon to follow.  We get a brief glimpse of the horse race that will play a pivotal role in the montage sequence.  After a brief interaction between Bond, M, and Mr. White, a traitor’s gunshot initiates a furious chase.  Mitchell, the traitor, sprints away from the scene with Bond close behind.  This is where the montage kicks in.  An exciting, crowd-drawing horse race is juxtaposed to the shots of James and Mitchell.  As the horses run spraying trails of dust behind them, Bond and Mitchell do the same.  As the chase builds in intensity, the horse race begins to implode on its own volition.  One horse stumbles, others begin to collide, and a horse and rider go down.  The crowd closes in on the fallen victims.  Meanwhile, Bond and his target make their way through a series of underground tunnels, eventually climbing out of the sewers and right to the center of the horse race.  At this point the crowd has become frantic.  The chaos in the streets evokes a feeling of chaos in both Bond and Mitchell.  The shots work together both emotionally and visually.  Each action by horse and crowd seem to heighten the action of Bond and Mitchell and vice-versa.  At the end of the scene, the two plots collide, and Mitchell fires shots into the already chaotic crowd.  This creates absolute mayhem.  The final bits of juxtaposition involve a dying pedestrian and Bond avoiding being shot.  It predicts the violent future Bond has to look forward to, and fittingly enough, Bond’s chase ends with a deadly bullet fired from his pistol. 

Later in the film we get another wonderful action sequence of montage.  This time the action takes place in and around a beautiful arena in Austria.  Members of an evil organization have gathered at the opera in order to discuss their upcoming project.  Bond quickly recognizes what’s going on and steals an earpiece to listen in on the private conversation.  He then cleverly interrupts the meeting and begins to pursue several members of the gang.  Again, montage plays a critical role in the action that follows.  The opera becomes the item juxtaposed to Bond’s chase.  As Bond takes off after his enemies, the opera takes a violent turn.  The opera’s female protagonist is draped with blue light as her voice fills the arena.  Bond smashes through the kitchen of a restaurant, a fire starts, and the chase becomes increasingly violent.  Meanwhile, the woman in the opera has obtained a knife.  The increasing drama of the opera plays into the increasing intensity and violence of Bond’s chase.  Ultimately, the woman in the play thrusts the knife into her assailant, and Bond catches one of the men he had been chasing.  When James can’t obtain any information from him, he drops him off the side of a building.  Both stories end violently.

Quantum of Solace is a quick moving and violent film.  The montage used worked beautifully to enhance the emotion in several scenes.  It’s clearly an essential part of film, and it’s great to see it used so prevalently in the latest film of the Bond series.  The next entry I write will focus on a film more “blog appropriate,” but you’ve got to love Bond, especially when it brings a film theory discussion to the table.

Quantum of Solace, 2008. 106 minutes, 2.35 : 1 Aspect. Directed by Marc Forster.  Based on the novel/story by Ian Fleming.