HopkinsCinemAddicts

Re-Evaluating Cruising: Indictment or Incitement of Anti-Gay Violence?

Cruising (dir. William Friedkin, 1980) is a controversial film. It earns this label more through audience and critical reactions than through its content. Content-wise, it’s a bit muddled, which of course facilitates reactionary interpretations. Its depictions of gay-bashing and homophobia are as pulpily violent as its wordless scenes of semi-nude male bodies writhing in underground bars are pulpily seductive, and the picture it paints of gay life in early 1980’s New York is grim and seedy and dangerous. Released at a time when representations of homosexuality in the mainstream media were sparse and often negative, it inevitably generated backlash from gay rights groups who viewed the film as yet another exploitative depiction of a “lifestyle” in which sex is inextricably tied to violence and homoerotic urges are a mark of shame and depravity.

Given its polemical history, I was surprised to see Cruising in the Criterion Channel’s collection of “taboo-breaking” queer cinema for Pride Month. I guess it fits the description: a lot is shown that is considered “taboo” by contemporary cultural standards, although whether the taboos are broken or enforced by the film is a slippery question the answer to which changes based on the viewing context. Friedkin himself remarked that the movie was “never” an “anti-gay screed,” but rather a glimpse into the specific S&M subculture of the gay experience based on a real-life serial murder case from the era. And from a modern-day viewpoint, seeing the film within the context of all the other cinematic depictions of queer life that came after, the culture it depicts seems less monolithic. 

 

 

 

The question of interpretation is complicated by the role of the police. Although the film is far from “copaganda” - the police fail to apprehend the killer, the killer is a police officer (in a last-minute reveal that sacrifices clear character motivation for shock value) - it positions the authorities as our window into the “regular” world. The opening scene, in which a beat cop delivers a Travis Bickle-style speech to his partner about cleaning up the filth from the streets, could go either way depending on whether or not you viewed Taxi Driver as a satire. 

Al Pacino’s George Burns, an undercover officer looking to make detective, bridges the divide between the film’s two worlds; the “everyman,” in an acceptable heterosexual pairing, ostensibly more interested in doing his job than in “working over” potential suspects. The audience is made to identify with Burns, and the casting of a likeable star who served a similar narrative purpose in one of the era’s biggest successes, The Godfather, facilitates this kinship between viewer and protagonist. 

However, Cruising’s subject matter is even more “taboo” than the Italian mafia, and the content dictates an inevitable lack of subtlety that can be ascribed more to a dearth of gay media representation than to the representation in this specific film. Club scenes, post-coital scenes, and murder scenes are often unaccompanied by score, and Friedkin allows action to unfold in long, silent takes that feel more voyeuristic than judgemental. The classical theme that plays when Burns is in bed with his girlfriend connotes propriety as well as stodginess.

The killer’s act of corrective penetration - stabbing to death the man he has just sexually dominated - is his indictment of his own behavior as well as his victim’s, a manifestation of self-hatred. Or it could be, anyway. Unlike in Psycho or Dressed to Kill, there is no psychologist to sweep in at the end and explain the murderer’s perverse motivations. As oversimplified and unsatisfying as the psychological explanation often is, the lack of such a convenient wrap-up leaves us with no prescribed point of view with which to agree or contend. But is it fair to expect a clear moral answer from a film simply because it deals with “controversial” subject matter? Does the filmmaker have a “responsibility” to lead the audience down the “right” path in their thinking? At a time when gay life was not in the public eye as it is today, media depictions such as Cruising were many people’s first and only foray into that world, and although it focuses on a small subculture, Burns ultimately does not restrict his violence to members of that subculture when he murders his neighbor, a gay man who does not participate in the “scene.” The film’s final twist is sticky because it traces this violence back to the authorities while acknowledging that elements of that same violence (the police costumes, the power dynamics) are also present in the subculture the authorities aim to attack. The film falls short of breaking the taboos it exposes, instead grimly reinforcing them.

Revisiting "The Social Network"

Spoilers for The Social Network

Over ten years after being lauded one of the best films of its decade, David Fincher’s 2010 film The Social Network, with its sleek directing and punchy dialogue courtesy of Aaron Sorkin, still proves an engrossing watch. The Shakespearean-esque drama flashes between the founding of Facebook by Harvard sophomore Mark Zuckerberg and two lawsuits that occurred a few years later, which respectively accused Zuckerberg of stealing the idea for Facebook, and of pushing his co–founder Eduardo Saverin out of the company.

© Charis Tsevis / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

The film’s Mark Zuckerberg is socially awkward but egotistical (never a good combination). The screenplay describes him as “a sweet looking 19 year old whose lack of any physically intimidating attributes masks a very complicated and dark anger.” He wants to be the smartest and coolest in any room, wants to be liked and admired by everyone, but in lieu of affection, he’ll accept their jealousy, to the point of presuming it in everyone he meets. Erica, Mark’s fictional girlfriend, puts it best when she says:

“You are probably going to be a very successful computer person. But you’re gonna go through life thinking that girls don’t like you because you’re a nerd. And I want you to know from the bottom of my heart that that won’t be true. It’ll be because you’re an asshole.”

When Erica tells Mark that she just wants to be friends, he tellingly responds, “I don’t want friends.” His inability to connect to others is self–inflicted and he can’t stand it either when those close to him have other friends. In one scene, he approaches Erica while she’s out with friends, invading her night with them and trying to get her alone. Later, when Eduardo reveals that his emotionally manipulative and abusive girlfriend Christy frightens him, Mark unfeelingly replies, “Still, it’s nice you have a girlfriend.”

These slightly sympathetic, painful moments of failed connection are both undermined and underscored by Mark’s ruthlessness. He constantly drags down his friends to his level in an attempt to put himself on top. The film implies that he spread a story that Eduardo committed animal cruelty to discredit him and called the police on his business partner Sean Parker after Sean partied with underage college students. After Erica unceremoniously dumps him, he creates Facemash, a website where undergrads can rate female students’ appearances, judging one girl against another like “barn animals.”

Altogether, the film presents Mark as pitiful but reprehensible. Yet its execution is muddled by its admiration of Zuckerberg’s ingenuity, or rather the ingenuity of his creation. One has to wonder how many men have come out of The Social Network wanting to emulate, not condemn, its main character. Nevertheless, it stands to question if Mark even is the genius of the movie. The idea for Facebook originates after a conversation with Harvard seniors Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss and Divya Narendra, the plaintiffs in the other lawsuit against Mark. It is Eduardo who provides the initial funding for the site, his roommate Dustin Moscovitz who inspires the famous relationship status feature, and Sean Parker who attracts investors for it. Even Facemash, the closest he gets to a truly original invention, is inspired by a roommate’s idea and a creation of pure cruelty and childishness that depends upon an algorithm created by Eduardo to work perfectly. Mark may be intelligent but he’s also as unoriginal as he is impulsively cruel.

Mark’s real skill seems to lie in his ability to use and discard the people whose ideas and money he is deploying. Of the entire cast, Erica is the only character who cuts Mark loose before he can do the same to her. She exists as both a voice of reason and a white whale for Mark, framed as the reason he works so relentlessly on Facebook. Like most of the female characters in the film, all of whom are supporting characters, she is subjected to casual sexism by Mark and other men. Most women in the movie are glorified window dressing, background props objectified by the frat guys and venture capitalists around them as an implicit condemnation of these male characters and the toxic culture of the spaces Mark inhabits throughout the film.

Yet the movie is guilty of the same mistreatment and objectification as these men, and not once are any of these women or their experiences with misogyny treated with true gravity. The nearest we get is a seconds–long close–up of Erica in tears after being taunted by some male students for her bra size, which Mark has mocked online.

For all of its slick, masterful packaging, The Social Network’s condemnation of Mark is obscured when it fawns over his intelligence and revels in the toxicity of his ambition. It also stands to mention that the real–life Mark Zuckerberg began dating his wife, Priscilla Chan, around the time of the events depicted — ironic considering Erica’s centrality in Facebook’s creation and the treatment of women throughout the movie.

Mark Zuckerberg at South by Southwest in 2008. © Jason McElweenie / CC-BY-2.0

The film’s last scene further muddies the waters. After a grueling day of depositions retreading his vicious ousting of Eduardo from Facebook — at one point, Eduardo bitterly spits, “I was your only friend,” while Mark glares back, silent — Marylin, Mark’s lawyer, tells him, “You’re not an asshole, Mark. You’re just trying so hard to be.” Here the film, via Marylin, invites us to sympathize with Mark and his conflicted, boyishly vulnerable expression, despite the reprehensibility we have seen on display, despite the confirmation yet again of how self–inflicted his anguish is.

Yet sympathy does not seem to equal redemption. Or perhaps we’re meant to pity him instead. Left alone, Mark pulls up Erica’s Facebook page and sends her a friend request. In a chilling last shot, the screen fades to black as the Beatles’ “Baby You’re a Rich Man” plays and Mark refreshes over and over, hoping that Erica will accept his overture. Having watched Mark get in his own way every time he neared something resembling human connection for two hours, having watched him refuse what he needs in favor of what he wants, we know better.

Familial Sacrifice in Succession (Eric)

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

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

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

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

 

Bob Belcher and Modern Fatherhood (Yaejin)

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

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

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

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

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

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.

   

 

Undressing the Spectral Nature of Human Sexuality in Tom Hooper's The Danish Girl (Mireille)

As society comes to grips with the reality of the spectral nature of sexuality, more and more main stream movies and TV series are being created to depict the lives of individuals who identify on the LGBTQ spectrum. Tom Hooper’s The Danish Girl (2015) is a film that examines the sexual metamorphosis from man to woman of the principal character, Einar Wegener. Though the film focuses primarily on Einar, Hooper constantly reminds the audience of the fluidity of sexuality that exists for other characters, especially Einar’s wife, Gerda.

Throughout the entirety of The Danish Girl, Hooper reiterates the gender duality theme through carefully crafted mise-en-scène and frame composition. For example, Hooper creates an interplay between the human body and the surrounding geometry. The rigidity of the buildings as well as the harsh vertical and horizontal lines making up the geometry of the rooms in the home where Einar and Gerda live create a sense of restriction and harshness that confine the bodies of the characters in the manner in which the masculine dominated society of the 1920s restrained any attempt at sexual fluidity. At the same time, these geometric restrictions are juxtaposed by repeated shots which emulate impressionistic paintings and are full of the soft pastels of femininity. The resulting effect is a visual duality that mimics the duality of Einar’s experience: a woman trapped in a man’s body.

Perhaps the most powerful scene in the film occurs when Einar stands in front of a mirror and completely undresses himself. Hooper expertly wields the camera moving down the body, never fully showing the male genitalia, but following the path of Einar’s hand. When the hand reaches the location of Einar’s genitals at the same time that the camera does, Einar pushes his genitals out of sight and in between his legs, creating the illusion of female genitalia. The camera lingers on Einar’s full body while reflected in the mirror, and the deception of the form of a woman is compelling. Hooper uses reflection or “mirroring” in another powerful scene when Einar visits a brothel where he watches a prostitute through a glass window as she strips. Einar then begins to emulate her movements in an attempt to learn the female manner of seduction. The woman pauses in bewilderment, but then resumes her seductive poses; however, there is an exaggeration in her movement as she acts and simultaneously watches Einar, almost as if the prostitute knows that Einar’s intent is one of wanting to learn. As a result, rather than becoming an erotic moment it becomes one in which there is a woman to woman connection. 

Hooper also explores the inter-woman connection in terms of the complexity of the relationship between Einar and Gerda. Hooper often shows the couple in intricately framed shots, in which they are divided, but still have a lingering attachment. Hooper frequently uses combinations of shot reverse shots such that Einar and Gerda, despite being in the same film space, are portrayed separately. Even towards the end of the film when Gerda and Einar, who has now become Lili, are arguably closest emotionally, they are separated by a thin veil dividing their bed, yet still have their hands intertwined and enveloped by the same fabric that defined the moment that Einar first became fascinated with women’s clothing. This repetition of Einar and Gerda as separate, but still linked together, leaves the audience to wonder if it is just “love” or recognition of womanhood in each other. As Gerda says when explaining why she married Einar; “It was like kissing myself.”  

Hooper allows Gerda to explore her own uncertain sexuality by allowing her to engage in role reversal. Gerda creates opportunities for Einar and her to switch gender roles. Early in the film, even before it becomes clear that Einar is transgender, Gerda, who like Einar is a painter by profession, asks him to put on some female clothing to serve as a female model for a painting she needs to finish. Then she coaxes Einar into dressing up like a woman to play a joke during a society outing. In another very overtly roll reversing scene, Gerda is completely nude and standing over Einar’s form that is still dressed. Einar’s body image has a strangely feminine allure, and he is also trying to conceal the fact that he is wearing a woman’s nightgown underneath his masculine garments. Gerda takes on the male role of undressing Einar, who has clearly begun to adopt a feminine persona. At the same time, Einar accentuates his femininity by being coy and trying to keep covered up. Gerda’s role reversal does not happen only in Einar’s presence. Hooper utilizes a low angle camera angle or an eye line match with almost all of the male characters that Gerda encounters emphasizing the power position that she has over them. Finally, Gerda becomes successful only when she starts creating portraits of Einar as Lili, suggesting that she is able to express passion only through an expression of the feminine form.

The Danish Girl reminds the audience that the enigma of sexual identity is not a modern concept, but one that is an inextricable part of human nature. Hooper delivers a film that is not only beautiful to watch, but beautifully depicts the inexorable nature of love and human identity.   

What's Your Favorite Movie? (Tori)

My sophomore year at Hopkins will be tied to a lot of different things.  It’ll be tied to my double in McCoy, meals at Nolan’s, and long rehearsals of Spring Awakening in Swirnow Theater.  It’ll be tied to my friends here, new and old, and the moments we’ve shared together.  It’ll also always be tied to film blogging.  Film blogging has been an integral part of my sophomore year.  I have been constantly on the lookout for films to watch and concepts about which to write.  This post will bring my film blogging to a close, so I knew I had to choose something epic and rich in order to end the year on the perfect, exciting note.  I looked directly to Alfred Hitchcock.

Alfred Hitchcock has completely transformed my relationship with films.  I, like many others, I’m sure, detest being asked what my favorite film is.  My cinematic preferences are constantly changing based on my mood; when I’m frustrated I’ll want to watch something very different than when I’m elated.  But if I were forced to choose—a gun drawn to my head—Rear Window might be the one to slip out due to its emphasis on some of the themes I find most interesting in the world like metacinema, voyeurism, and the male gaze.  It’s one of those films you can watch a million times and still not pick up on all the themes and techniques employed by Hitchcock to tell the gripping story.  Obviously, I am a big Hitchcock fan.  Yet, shockingly, I had never gotten around to watching perhaps his most renowned film, Vertigo.  Until now.  I decided it was fitting, for my exciting final post, to write about what is known as one of the most epic and rich films to ever be created.  I was not disappointed.

[SPOILERS AHEAD]

As our protagonist, ex-detective Scottie, is about to enter the church at the end of the film, he states that there is: “One final thing I have to do…and then I’ll be free of the past.”  Throughout the film, I picked up on a preoccupation with time and the contradictory feelings of both nostalgia and disdain for the past.  Characters grapple with the question: is it possible to ever be free of the past?  Near the beginning of the film, Gavin Elster, an old friend of Scottie’s, discusses San Francisco, the setting of the film: “Well, San Francisco’s changed.  The things that spell San Francisco to me are disappearing fast…I should have like to have lived here then.  The color, the excitement, the power, the freedom…”  He is clearly sentimental about the way San Francisco used to be, yet it seems that is a distant memory. 

When researching Carlotta Valdes, the woman it seems has possessed Elster’s wife, the bookstore owner explains: “So [Carlotta’s husband] kept the child and threw [Carlotta] away.  You know, men could do that in those days.  They had the power and the freedom.”  Once again, we are reminded of the power and freedom people had in the past, but this time the sentiment of nostalgia is complicated, as power and freedom are tied to the mistreatment of Carlotta by her husband.  Scottie, throughout the film, is set on doing away with the past; he desperately wants to “stop being haunted.”  But perhaps this is a lost hope.  Scottie puts together the different aspects of his deceit by Elster and his mistress, Judy Barton, who was pretending to be Elster’s wife the entire time.  He realizes that Elster was the mastermind behind everything and now has access to: “all of his wife’s money and all that freedom and power.”  Again, we hear these words “freedom and power,” but now in a very different context.  Elster has succeeded in becoming that free and powerful man of the past.  Additionally, he abandoned his wife just as Carlotta’s husband abandoned her long before.  What is more, Judy’s death transpires in the same way the real Madeleine’s death did; they both fall out of the same church window.  All Scottie wants is to stop being haunted—by the death of the police officer at the beginning of the film, by his vertigo, by Madeleine after her death, but it is no use.  Vertigo suggests that the past is not something one can ever escape.

It is crucial to understand this idea of “freedom and power” in relation to gender in Vertigo.  Do any of the women in this film have any freedom or power?  At the end of the film, Scottie interrogates Judy about Elster’s use of her in his grand scheme: “He made you over just like I made you over…Did he train you?  Did he rehearse you?  Did he tell you exactly what to do—what to say?”  The men of Vertigo are consistently controlling the women.  Like Carlotta’s husband controls Carlotta and Elster controls both Judy and his wife, Scottie similarly controls Judy when he implores her to change her appearance to look more like Madeleine.  The idea of the male gaze is incredibly prevalent in this film.  Just as Jeff becomes interested in Lisa after she has become the subject of his voyeuristic gaze, Scottie becomes interested in Madeleine solely after watching her.  In this way, he is introduced to her less as a person and more as an object to be observed.  It is true that Scottie is manipulated by Elster, but I would argue that the women of Vertigo are the ones truly being controlled.

Upon further reflection, I probably could have written about a different aspect of Vertigo for every single one of my blog posts this year; it’s the kind of film that clouds your mind with thoughts.  However, one thing is absolutely clear to me: I think I have a new favorite movie.  

Who Rules This Domain? (Tori)

    

    Followers of my posts must be acutely aware, at this point, of my love of theatre in addition to my love of film.  So, unsurprisingly, when I saw a class offered this semester called “Stage and Screen,” I added it to my cart immediately.  We started the semester by diving into some Shakespeare, and a few weeks ago we watched Akira Kurosawa’s Ran, which is based on Shakespeare’s tragedy, King Lear.

    I could easily devote multiple blog posts to this one incredibly rich film.  In class we primarily discussed how an epic tale like King Lear can be adapted for the screen, taking into account factors like the storm, the madness of Lear, the massive-scale battles, etc.  What I was most interested in, however, was one particular character in the film whom we discussed briefly in class but whom I want to explore further.  What better place to do that than in a blog post?

    One of the most thought-provoking discrepancies between Ran and King Lear is a major gender-swap that occurs.  Instead of the king dividing up his kingdom amongst his three daughters as he does in the play, Hidetora divides his kingdom amongst his three sons in Ran.  When we initially discussed this modification before watching the film, I was apprehensive.  There is definitely some justification for making this choice.  Ran is set in Medieval Japan, in which men held immense power over women.  Yet I still found this choice problematic, as the daughters are so central to my vision of anything remotely based upon King Lear.  Additionally, the other Kurosawa films I’ve seen, Seven Samurai and Rashomon, are also both male-dominated, and I was frustrated by the fact that Ran, with this gender-swap, looked like it was moving in the same direction.  However, my frustration did not last long.  Ran definitely is dominated in quantity by male characters, but Kurosawa actually does give authority to women through his implementation of a female character who I would argue is an extremely powerful and intriguing character.

    Lady Kaede is the wife of Taro, Hidetora’s oldest son.  From her very first appearance in the film, we become aware of the extreme power she has with words.  It is after Taro has moved into the First Castle in the kingdom to assume his position as head of the house of Ichimonji that we first meet Lady Kaede.  Hidetora has just made the announcement that he will be dividing his land among his sons due to his old age, yet he will keep his title as king.  We encounter Lady Kaede sitting on the floor in the middle of the throne room, staring into space.  The different levels in this scene stand out immediately; Kaede’s positioning almost makes her look subservient in the presence of Taro, who stands.  She immediately inquires as to the whereabouts of a banner that used to hang in the throne room.  This banner is in the possession of Hidetora.  Taro explains that he gave the banner to his father’s men when Hidetora gave Taro the First Castle.  Lady Kaede says simply “My Lord, it belongs with the head of the house of Ichimonji.”  Taro responds: “But Father is keeping his title and insignia.”  Kaede explains: “Without [it], you are a shadow.”  Taro answers, confused: “What do you mean?  He made it clear that I am now in command.”  Kaede answers, “In that case, behave as if you are” and swiftly leaves the room without another word.  Taro remains, and it is clear that Kaede’s words have resonated deeply with him.  Upon Kaede's exit, he quickly stands up and runs from the room to give the order to his men to seize this banner from his father.  It does not seem as if Lady Kaede would have any authority in this scene.  She sits throughout and is thus situated in the very bottom corner of the frame; she takes up almost no space.  Additionally, she makes no eye contact with her husband at any point; she merely stares into space.  Yet, it is her words that set the entire story in motion.  It is only after this moment that Taro becomes power-hungry and begins to take away the little power Hidetora left for himself upon the division of his territory.  And this is only Kaede’s first scene. 

    In subsequent scenes, her masterful way with words only grows; she blackmails, maims, and seduces her husband’s brother and slowly usurps the entire Ichimonji family.  She functions as a sort of Lady Macbeth character within this King Lear narrative, yet I actually think her character is more fully developed than Lady Macbeth because of the clear motivation for the evil acts she enacts.  We learn throughout the film that Hidetora killed her entire family; thus, her motivation is to enact revenge.  Towards the end of the film, she is beheaded, but she has done what she set out to do.  Though again only occupying a small portion of the frame, she forcefully declares her final words: “My sole desire was to avenge my family by watching the house of Ichimonji fall and seeing this castle burn.”

    Ran is a very long film, and Kaede does not get very much screen-time as the trials of Hidetora are explored.  Then, when she is onscreen, she often takes up only a small portion of the frame, and she is almost always shown sitting.  She is even sitting when she is killed.  Yet she still manages to achieve immense power over the men in the film through her words.  As a general says at one point in the film to Taro’s brother: “Who rules this domain?  You or Lady Kaede?”  Though Ran is, once again, a male-dominated film in terms of quantity, this film proves that women are capable of being powerful, even in the immensely patriarchal society that is feudal Japan.

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.

Let the Games Begin! (Madison)

I spent the last several weeks of the summer in a small town in upstate New York called Lake Placid. Those of you who are familiar with the place know that it is hard to be there without being keenly aware of the specter of Olympic competition; the village hosted the winter games in both 1932 and 1980 (hockey fans will remember the "Miracle on Ice" from the 1980 games, where the underdog American team beat the Soviet Union in a surprising upset.) I have seen the silver cauldron where the Olympic torch burned; jogged on the clay colored track at its feet; walked long stretches of the old bobsledding run; and blanched at the top of the ski jumps that sit five minutes outside of town, and which are still used as a training facility for some of the world's best athletes today. I've done all of this not because I am a naturally athletic person, or even because I am a passionate follower of sport—in fact, the opposite is true—but rather because it is hard not to be excited by the relics of some of the greatest games on Earth. 

This year, though, I was not only thinking about the ghosts of those former, frigid Olympics; I was also, as I'm sure almost everyone was, tuning in to the summer games in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. The night of the opening ceremonies, I sat on the couch for nearly four hours (my computer struggling to connect to the slow, log-jammed wifi) as athletes from 206 countries--including two of our very own Blue Jays, Pilar Shimizu representing Guam and Ana Bogdanovski representing Macedonia--filed through the Maracaña Stadium to wild applause. During the course of the games, I was able to watch bits and pieces of my favorite events; swimming, diving, gymnastics, and volleyball, among others. 

It's hard to imagine a scenario more perfectly suited for the screen than the Olympic games. They have it all: high-budget camera equipment, beautiful scenery, unfathomably fit athletes, an audience of millions, and the weight of God and country to back it all up. The stakes at the games are undeniably high; taking home a medal is a matter of national pride, and losing can mean the frustration of a lifetime's worth of training. It surprised me, then, that there wasn't a glut of movies about the games. I did pick a few, though they do not by any means constitute a complete list, or even a well-rounded one (if anyone knows of a good place to watch non-Anglo Olympic films, let me know!) I started with Chariots of Fire (1981) dir. Hugh Hudson, moved on to the less critically acclaimed Stick It (2006) dir. Jessica Bendinger, followed by the charming Eddie the Eagle (2016) dir. Dexter Fletcher, and ended with the recently released Race (2016) dir. Stephen Hopkins. 

In watching these films I was interested in a few key elements: how does the gaze of the camera approach the body of the athlete, considering the games as the ultimate expression of physical perfection? How do these films handle the role of the press in Olympic competition, considering the experience of competing in the games as the experience of being watched by an audience of judges, peers, and fans? How much does the interior life of the athlete inform their sport, and how much does their national background, considering the games as being played on behalf of both the individual and their country? How have the games changed since the first modern Olympics in 1896, considering the current games as the seat of the latest in sports technology? Really, what I am asking is: how can these movies explain why we care so much about the Olympic games? Because this is somehow the greatest mystery of all, to me; what is it about this quadrennial competition that make sporting seem so noble, so much more than, well, games?

 A lot of these questions have to do with how the movies are shot. The three biopics, Chariots of Fire, Eddie the Eagle, and Race, featured male athletes (Harry Abrahams and Eric Liddell, Eddie Edwards, and Jesse Owens respectively); that is, they featured the type of body that is less often exploited onscreen than that of the female athlete (as Stick It seemed to corroborate.) I noticed, though, particularly in Hopkins' Race, a close attention to the athlete's body: in one scene, Jesse Owens (played by Stephan James) stands shirtless in the locker room, hips wrapped in a low slung white towel, as the camera leers at him from amongst a team of jeering football players; in another, as he stares down the track before his race begins, there is a slow pan up his legs before he bends to the start and fully enters the frame; often, the camera looks up at him as if perched on the ground, so that his proportions are exaggerated and he seems taller, stronger; and throughout, James glimmers with sweat, indelicate and emphatically physical. While it would be a bit of a reach to call this gaze sexual, it still seems a notable exception from most feature length films, which allow the body of their leading men to be quietly beautiful; here, the strength and grace of the male form at its physical prime is on full display.

One wonders if this close gaze is somehow permissible because the man in question is black (i.e. a more acceptable target for objectification and physical scrutiny), though to avoid being too contentious, I won't say much more about that. I will note, however, that compared to Race, the treatment of the body in Chariots of Fire seems almost chaste (though it would be unfair of me not to admit that this does seem to be in keeping with the historical period of the film, which is set in the 1920s.) The British team runs in a plain white (dare I say virginal?) costume of tee shirts and long shorts, sometimes even in suspenders, and rarely without a shirt on. Eric Liddell, the most moral character in the film, wears his brown overcoat over his running clothes until the very moment he has to kneel at the start.

Eddie the Eagle, the only film on my list that is about the winter Olympic games, treats its affable main character as something of a much-loved younger brother. Eddie (played by Taron Egerton) has an unassuming shape, with a slightly softened waist; he wears Fair Isle sweaters and neoprene ski suits, and carries a tin lunchbox. Indeed, the film uses the exposed male figure principally as a vessel for comedy; in one scene, Eddie finds himself in a sauna with the Norwegian ski jumping team, all of whom are nude. Egerton’s eyes shift nervously behind his fogging glasses as he sits swaddled in a white towel, trying to make polite conversation with men whose athletic prowess allows them an arrogance, here demonstrated by their proud nudity. Indeed, Eddie Edwards is so naïve as to be nearly asexual, standing in stark contrast to his troubled coach Bronson Peary (Hugh Jackman), who compares ski jumping to climaxing during sex (again, Eddie is unsure of how to react—the film seems to celebrate Edwards in spite of his body, not because of it.)

Stick It, a young adult comedy about a juvenile-delinquent-turned-elite-gymnast, is much less hesitant to flaunt the bodies of its athletic stars; the film is a bouquet of bright, sugary color, with a heaping serving of tan, toned muscle to boot. Most of the scenes take place in the gym, where a cast of young (mostly blonde) women flip around in skin-tight leotards or sports bras. The main character, Haley, enters in a baggy tee shirt and shorts to signal an attitude of non-conformity and defiance, but as the film progresses begins tying her shirts in knots to expose her stomach, and in the end, wears a bright orange leotard with a flame streaking up the side, exiting the gym in a close-fitting white tracksuit. The exposure of these women's bodies cannot be said to be merely the appreciation of peerless athletic physique; pieces of dialogue draw attention to the gymnast's body in a sexual light, as when Haley's sidekick says of another gymnast, "You don't think she's hot? I think she's hot... she has an apple butt"; or when Haley remarks, looking at a girl kissing her boyfriend, that the only thing that girl has that the gymnasts don't is "boobs." 

 

Setting aside concerns of the sexualization of female athletes, I will say that the film rejoices in the highly visual, artistic nature of gymnastics, with a series of kaleidoscopic overlays of the athletes performing their routines, all in different colored leotards. The movie takes an evident delight in the sport, spending minute-long stretches on the women’s routines in almost every scene; here, the body becomes as important as the plot, making the movie a whirlwind of kinetic energy.

Stick It gives its audience something else that the two more critically acclaimed films (Chariots and Race) don’t; we are invited to watch a woman in the process of becoming an athlete good enough to qualify for the Olympics. That is, we see her fall, and fall hard. We see wipe outs, bruises, and ice baths, while in the other two films, training is covered in a brief montage, with an upbeat soundtrack playing in the background. Stick It does what even the real Olympics can't quite manage; it depicts the painful, difficult process, not just the fantastic, medal-worthy results. 

With so much attention being paid to Haley’s journey towards the games, it might not be surprising that Stick It places a greater emphasis on the individual than on their home country, which cannot be so easily said of Chariots of Fire and Race. Although the place of the individual is paramount to all three stories, for the men, concerns of country seem equally urgent. Their games are used, respectively, to symbolize European values being upheld in the face modernization and professionalization of sport, and to protest the racial hatred propagated by Hitler’s regime; the male athletes in these films feel a pressure to prove something about their particular in-groups, be they national, ethnic, racial, or religious. To win a race is to justify the existence of whole populations, who are either persecuted (as in the case of Owens, and the Jewish racer Abrahams) or perceive themselves as dying out (as in the case of the conservative Liddell, and the deans of Cambridge University.)

In Chariots of Fire, a priest says to the runner Eric Liddell, trying to convince him to train for the Paris Olympics, “What we need now is a muscular Christian to make people sit up and take notice”; the head of the British Olympic Committee remarks that the games gather delegates “from every civilized nation on the face of the Earth.” The implication is clear: the ability to send athletes to the Olympics signifies a certain amount of class, wealth, and prestige; the ability to best those other countries in sport signifies the supremacy of one’s cultural and national values. This can be seen in Race, too, when an American builder petitions the United States Olympic Committee to allow athletes to participate in the Berlin games on the basis that, “the American people need champions to remind them what they’re capable of.”

Sport becomes a vessel for cultural dominance as well as cultural exchange. This becomes all the more clear as technology begins to play an important role in the games; the teams with the equipment, the professional coaches, the time and resources to devote to training full-time, have the advantage on the field, as well as a stage to promote themselves to millions of viewers. While watching the Rio games I was struck, particularly during the synchronized diving, by how many times and at how many angles one saw the dive; once in real-time, then again from the side, from a bird’s eye view, in slow motion, and once from a camera placed at the bottom of the pool. This seemed especially striking in comparison to the sports technology depicted in several of these films; Eric Liddell and Jesse Owens run on dirt tracks, where they use small silver trowels to dig out footholds for themselves. Jesse Owens’ family listens to his race on the radio; Liddell and his teammate Abrahams research other athletes by studying grainy, black and white photographs of them clipped out of newspapers; even in the 1988 games depicted in Eddie the Eagle, the crowds are smaller and the race footage blurrier, and Eddie’s jumps are recorded in a ledger with a ball point pen.

Race had the difficult task of depicting the first Olympics to be televised; the ’36 games, held in Berlin, were filmed by German filmmaker Leni Riefenstahl, who pioneered many techniques in sports cinematography. On screen, Riefenstahl (played by Carice van Houten) remarks to a controlling Goebbels that “[These may be your games] but this is my film. Without it, your games will be forgotten in a year.” This line, perhaps more than any other, feels as if it is cutting to the heart of why we care so much about the Olympics; here, there is a film being made, carefully crafted and rehearsed (Riefenstahl has Owens return to the track to recreate his record-breaking long jump so she can catch it from several angles; she zooms in on his competitor, Luz, shaking Jesse’s hand in an act of political defiance), but with the reassuring guarantee of reality behind it, the human narrative that we find so compelling.

Although what we see of the Olympics is just as crafted as any film—and just as full of product placement—there is also the undeniable body in front of us, the real person who is accomplishing something that is, for most of us, unattainable. The experience is something close to uncanny; it seems both as if anything could happen, and as if the results could never have turned out differently once they are revealed. There is real risk, with all the editing, polish, and beauty of the television and films that we see day to day, and it’s all happening in real time.

With the 2016 summer games long over, and another two years to go until we can watch the winter Olympics in PyeongChang, I will have to content myself with the occasional inspirational sports film or biopic to get me through; still, I plan on going back to Lake Placid soon to get my fix. Even when the torch goes out and the cameras leave, something miraculous lingers on those old Olympic sites. I can’t quite help but get sucked in, every time.

Only Real Men Cry (Ian)

I subscribe to the philosophy that everyone needs a good cry once in a while.  My subscription to this philosophy puts me at odds with many of cinema’s most iconic men.  Historically, figures like James Bond, Indiana Jones, all superheroes, or any John Wayne character (take your pick) have managed to make it through their 120 minute running time without shedding a tear--they have low points, sure--but they never feel their sadness so intensely that it triggers a physical reaction in the form of waterworks.  Rather, most leading men make it through the brunt of their dramatic arcs with little more than the furrowing of a displeased brow.

Rather than tears, the traditional masculine response to sadness seems to manifest in physical or sexual violence (a.k.a. some form of physicality directed outwards at an external force): Jake Gittes slaps Evelyn Mulray then throws her onto a couch when he suspects she’s manipulated him;  Hud nearly rapes Alma after being virtually disowned by his father; nearly every iteration of Bond just destroys whatever angers him, man, woman, animal, machine--if it hurts, a man in classic cinema gets angry about it.

Interestingly, however, throughout the past decade men in movies seem...well, more sensitive.  As gender roles are increasingly challenged and the country’s sociopolitical turmoils grow ever grimmer and more complex, everyone’s favorite male heroes suddenly find themselves incapable of wearing their adversity as coolly as they’ve been able to in the past, and without an easily-identifiable emotional outlet to punch; instead, their emotions are now contained within them by the brooding close-up, or worse, released suddenly and unwillingly via a fantastic denaturalization into snot and tears.  Arguably James Bond was the first to get in touch with his sensitive side in the 2006 “reimagining” of the franchise Casino Royale, a film that not only raised the bar for the entire Bond film series in terms of quality, but that focused on developing Bond’s internal life in ways that formed the sharpest of contrasts with the one-note pun of a Bond that immediately preceded him in Die Another Day.  Even more convincingly, Bond actually tears up while holding the quickly-fading body of M in 2012’s Skyfall.  Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne spends a distinct period mourning after the death of his love in The Dark Knight, and indeed recedes into himself completely for the first half of The Dark Knight Rises.  Increasingly, seeing tough men in a state of genuine distress is appealing to audiences, perhaps because it makes each individual viewer feel safer with their own sadness--if James Bond gets sad, why can’t I?

Additionally, part of the increased focus on masculine sensitivity is, perhaps, that male actors are more willing to portray it.  Here again we can thank the contemporary push against gender norms, as actors can now run the gambit of “sad” emotions that are traditionally labeled “feminine” without having to sacrifice their appeal to men or their ability to star in action films.  Michael Fassbender, chosen to play the villainous Magneto in the new X-Men franchise and involved in the testerone stuffed 300 movies, reveals internal vulnerability in startling frankness when playing the tormented bachelor Brandon in 2011’s Shame.  The performance requires Fassbender convey Brandon’s internal sadness via a consistent and  intensive examination of his expressive face, yet it also challenges how the on-screen male has long externalized his troubles.  Rather than expressing his inner torment in anger or violence towards another, Brandon’s externalization of his sadness, while still fundamentally destructive in nature, is directed at himself, as his various intimate encounters combined with his sexual addiction slowly kill him--and result in plenty of honest-to-goodness tears.  The performance also requires Fassbender to literally strip away any boundary between his body and the viewer’s gaze, as he spends a great deal of his time on-screen stark naked, meaning the film displays his emotional instabilities both on internal and external levels and makes him vulnerable physically to the audience’s own judgements.  While the character of Brandon stands as an extreme example, he points to the legitimate trend of on-screen men bearing their emotional wounds in their purest forms, undisguised by anger, and uninhibited by the machismo that so permeates characters like John Wayne’s Ethan Edwards.

Overall then, there is something amiss with today’s male heroes, and it’s usually that they know something is wrong, yet are no longer afraid to show it.  Every tear that falls from a man’s eye in a film is another piece of evidence that the definition of masculinity is loosening in America--even if slowly--and likely for the better.

Do You Want To Be Like Me, Or Do You Want To Be Me?: Celebrity Status of Violent Men (Bedram)

Andrew Dominik, a New Zealand-born Australian director and screenwriter, introduced himself to the world in 2000 with Chopper, a film which explored the life of Mark “Chopper” Read. The man was a criminal, and a ruthless one at that, involved in robberies, kidnappings, and even murders – all directed toward others in the criminal underworld of Melbourne. Chopper gained notoriety through his brutal acts of violence, especially after writing numerous books about his experiences.  

The film begins with Chopper watching his own interview on a television set in his cell, in which he declares, “The average man in Australia doesn’t worry about Mark “Chopper” Read. The average man in Australia, he likes me, he couldn’t care less about me. What I do, he applauds.” People are watching this very interview because he’s a “bloody freak show,” an attraction of sorts. Yet, the film does not dwell so much on how he gained fame, but rather why such a character would receive it in the first place. This is a man that declares he is a normal person, “a normal bloke who likes a bit of torture.”

Chopper spent most of his adult life in prison, a place the film drapes in a monochrome blue color, from the walls to the very clothes the prisoners wear. The washed out visuals demonstrates the bland atmosphere of the place, creating a stark contrast to his life outside the prison. Most scenes are highly saturated, the strong colors a manifestation of Chopper’s anxiety and his brash lifestyle.

In one particular scene at a bar, Chopper leads Siam Ozerkam (a drug dealer) outside to the parking lot. Chopper proceeds to ask Siam whose side he is on. Paranoid about the death contract on him, Chopper points a gun at the man, who is not quite sure what to make of his questioning. Chopper grows increasingly paranoid and anxious, the dominating red lighting a manifestation of his mental state. He asks Siam why he brought him out to the parking lot, when the opposite is the case. After an argument arises in which Chopper demands Siam speak English, he shoots the man point blank in the face, enquiring afterwards if he’s okay. Does one laugh or feel for a man who is so terribly inept at controlling his actions? A man whose violence comes across as casual? The man is clearly lost, somewhat delusional, bent on living out his tough-guy fantasy. When the police tell him they have arrested the man that killed Siam, Chopper grows furious, pulling out the murder weapon to prove he was the man that did it. The police still do not believe him, leaving him to proclaim that he has never been so insulted in his life.

The last image of Chopper is back in his cell, watching the very interview from the beginning. He soaks in the attention he receives, not only for being on during primetime, but also from the two guards that watch it with him. He has achieved fame through his life of violence, but once the guards leave, he is alone, sitting on his bed trapped within the four walls of his dull cell. A man worthy of fame?

Dominik continued his examination of the celebrity status of violent men with his second film, tackling a more well-known subject in the 2007 Western, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. The film follows the life of Robert Ford, tackling Jesse James’ celebrity status through Ford’s obsession of the man. Jesse James, a celebrity when alive and a legend after death, was an outlaw, a gang leader that robbed banks and trains, and who claimed to have committed seventeen murders.

After joining the James’ gang on a train robbery, Bob gets to spend some time alone with Jesse. Bob, practically like a child, explains his joy of getting to talk to the man, mentioning all the times he spent in a library reading books about him. Jesse tells Bob they are all lies, clearly dampening his spirits. Does he know the man as well as he thinks he does? The celebrity and the man are not quite the same.  

Jesse allows Ford to stick around, much to his elation. The two spend most of their time together, Bob practically studying Jesse, making note of his gestures and inflections. He even sneaks up on Jesse taking a bath, catching him at his most vulnerable. Bob notes how no one used to be able to catch Jesse off-guard, in addition to having never seen him without his guns. If Jesse appeared immortal and perhaps above other men, he is brought down in this scene; he is clearly mortal, and his naked body definitely human. Jesse, well aware of Bob’s fascination with him, utters, “Do you want to be like me, or do you want to be me?”

The film grapples with this question, yet it never provides a definite answer. When discussing the possibility of killing Jesse with his brother, Charley, he is told that he does not understand the severity of what he is proposing, that life is not just “yarns and newspaper stories.” Bob replies that Jesse is only a human being. Nonetheless he continues his obsession up until the very end of his relationship with Jesse. He rests on Jesse’s bed, feeling on his body the places where Jesse had been shot and pretending that his middle finger was missing the top two knuckles. Here is a childlike man who still is enamored with the famous outlaw, or at the very least the idol he is portrayed as.

Bob finds it impossible to escape Jesse’s shadow after he commits the killing, an ugly and unheroic one. Jesse, in death, arguably becomes a mythic figure, with songs written about him, and pictures of his corpse selling for two dollars each. It comes as no surprise, then, that Bob is eventually murdered, a result of the mass hate for bringing down a legend.

Both Chopper and The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford explore the celebrity life of violent men, drawing questions of why these men achieved fame. Assassination presents a compelling look through one man’s obsession of an idol, effectively humanizing a larger than life figure and presenting a deeply flawed and paranoid man seeing enemies on all sides towards the end of his life, perhaps foreseeing Bob’s betrayal. Chopper, while not examining as large a figure, presents a distrustful man whose violence comes naturally, with little to no thought of the consequences of his actions. Both films are complex works that analyze the men behind the violence in society, presenting an honest look at such figures that gain notoriety through their acts of brutality.

Écriture féminine or not really... (Nour)

    Ehky Ya Scheherazade (Youssry Nasrallah, 2009) is an Egyptian feature film which explores problems faced by women in contemporary Egypt. The title of the film makes an explicit reference to One Thousand and One Nights in which Scheherazade tells Shahryar, the king, stories in order to stay alive. Indeed, storytelling is a prominent narrative tool within the film. Even more, the connection to One Thousand and One Nights suggests that the women in the film had to tell their stories in order to stay alive. The film uses the talk show as a vehicle for women to publically discuss their concerns. Hebba—the lead character who is a TV hostess—invites a number of women to her show, all of whom with their particular stories to share. Stories about the search for a husband, women's sexual restraints, and the social traditions which propelled them to seek refuge in marriages they did not really desire, among other concerns.

    A reasonable question to ask at this point is: Does the film belong to women's cinema? Typically women's cinema is concerned with a set of problems and issues which help identify it as such. To this extent, the film is a women's film. It is concerned with problems similar to those picked up by the so called women's cinema. Nonetheless, only one thing is really certain about this film. Ehky Ya Scheherazade (Tell me a Story Scheherazade) has a dominantly female cast. Thus, an alternative way of approaching the connection to One Thousand and One Nights is to think of the film itself as a Scheherazade narrating in order to save the society it depicts from further damage. In this view, women are the boat-rockers. They, perhaps because of their status as shown by the film, are more likely to demand social change.

    Yet, what is the nature of their status?  In this article in Salon, Prof. David Jacobson, a sociologist from the University of South Florida, made a linked women's "sexual" struggles to the more encompassing struggle "over the nature of self." Women, as depicted in the film, seem to undergo a search for selfhood, or feel a need to recreate such self. In this light, the complexity of Ehky Ya Scheherezade is better understood. Through storytelling, these women search for who they are, and who they wish to be. As the narrators of their own stories, they have the freedom to rewrite the parts of their history that they wish to reinvent. The film is a universal journey toward self-discovery and freedom. The film starts inside Hebba's nightmare. She wakes up gasping for breath: "there are no doors" she says. She is trapped because, as the story progresses, it becomes clear that she is not offered the chance to recreate her past through the medium of storytelling. As the one who does not tell her own story until the very last scene in the film, she is given the least creative power. Her story is essentially told by the camera and not herself (the film even closes before Hebba tells her story).

    Hebba is hidden behind a glamorous façade. In a scene where her husband Kareem attempts to scare her away from visiting poor neighborhoods (ironically by citing rape) he is shown painting her lips with a bright red lipstick. He is maintaining the façade with which he is comfortable. Although it is true that Hebba sometimes uses this pretty façade to manipulate others, mostly her husband, it does not seem to be a philosophical choice. In other words, she is not intentionally thinking of her appearance as a means for achieving greater freedom (even if freedom just means achieving the ends she desire). Instead, Hebba is trying to maintain a particular appearance for reasons other than freedom. If I am to describe this appearance, I will say neat, tidy, well-kempt.

    Kareem—her husband—provides further insight. Kareem is a journalist who works in a daily newspaper. He is anticipating a promotion. More importantly, he thinks that the only way he would get the job he wants is by pleasing the "right people." Although Hebba does not seem to realize it, she is a lot like Kareem. They both feel a need to noticeably belong to one group and not the other(s). At a basic level, she maintains an image that separates her from a group(s) of people. The motivation behind this need to belong to one group and not another can only be explained through the benefits associated with belonging to either group. Without attempting to negotiate which groups Hebba aims to belong to, it is clear that such motivation to belong or not belong to any particular group is mediated by a clear recognition of social values and social value systems. Hebba, as is Kareem, does not seem to be able to construct a notion of self away from society, its traditions, norms, etc.              

    Expectedly enough, Hebba likes to be noticed. She dresses to be noticed. Thus far, she could be compared to the film itself. She is dependent on the act of looking—the observation of her audience, her fans, the lustful looks of her husband, and the disdainful looks of the poorer women on the subway. Like Hebba, some of the film's images seem too polished, neat, hyper aestheticized. Yet, in relation to Hebba this hyper aestheticization of the frames gains a greater meaning. In the case of Hebba, one can argue that she is maintaining a façade. In relation to the film, however, maintaining a facade becomes maintaining control over the images on the screen. This film is consciously a controlled environment. This control of the frames draws the viewers' attention to the boundaries within which the women--and men as well--search for their individual selves. Within this boundaries such search is not only acceptable, but also less disturbing to a watching audience.

    The film is a controlled unit where true freedom cannot really be achieved. "Gender war in Egypt: a film about women who fight back" states the film's poster, but what is the nature of this fighting back? Are women really boat-rockers or are they put in situations where even their "fighting back" is pre-mediated by society—controlled by social traditions, structures, norms and orders. Is their mode of resistance real fighting back? If this film is indeed showing a gender war, who has the upper hand ? The struggle seems to encompasses both genders, indeed all human beings in modern societies. The filmmakers chose to create a restricted space in which the stories told by the women do not upset the established order. Rather, these stories and their narrators all fall in place as calculated parts contributing to a greater whole that is restricting to all individuals within it.

   This film depicts a controlled struggle. Ehky Ya Scheherazade is a women's story, but one not told by the voice of women. It is told by the voice of that who/which controls women (and men for this matter). Order is created, maintained by and for the camera—not challenged by it. The camera moves from space to space showing individuals each carrying out his/her designated role. Even those who seem to rebel are playing out a role to which they've been assigned. The relation that this film has to women's cinema is not straight forward. Assuming that the film is a Scheherazade, the audience is the king. The film seems to negotiate the relation between the two. Even if by the end of the film the women do not seem to have fought back, the film (by offering a frustrating narrative) allows for a kind of resistance.  

 

"That's My Family, Kay. It's Not Me." (Natasha)

    I have a solitary qualm with The Godfather Parts I & II, one that has no effect on my intense obsession with the single greatest movie duo of all time.  Including the future.  The qualm is:  How did Vito end up with sons like Santino and Fredo?  The reality that Vito and his only remarkable son reject, and reject desperately, is that Mike, the youngest, is also the only son capable of replacing his father. But how did Vito, the sole surviving Andolini of Corleone, killer of tyrants and savior of Italian immigrants, get two such failed heirs before Michael could redeem the brood?

    I love James Caan’s Sonny as much as the next bridesmaid.  His entrapment and brutal assassination are devastating. For many reasons, Sonny is appealing despite his uncouthness. His anger inspires anger in us; his vengeance becomes our purpose, too. I remember the scene of Sonny's death as the most upsetting I've ever seen. (I always skip over it when I watch Part I.)  But he is doubtless an inapt successor to the omnipotent Corleone patriarch, especially after Robert DeNiro explains the Don’s beginnings in Part II (and really, whose genes brought forth those hirsute shoulders?).

    Vito claims he always expected Sonny would inherit the family business, the political connections, that whole underworld estate; yet at the height of the Don’s reign he is still silencing his kid in public, upbraiding him in private and rejecting his every plan, be it money-making or murderous.  Sonny is more than aggressive, he is warlike, but he lacks the tactical mind and self-control that would guide his vengeful passion. He is a soldier who can't take orders, a hitman doing a businessman's job.  When Sonny is gunned down on his way to enact a hasty and violent plan--which we are deeply invested in--we are reminded that his life, not his death, kept him from the head of the Five Families' table.

    Fredo is another matter entirely.  Vito can't even define what it is that's wrong with him. He has always been a problem, as evidenced by everything he has ever done. His troubling bout of pneumonia as an infant vaguely informs everything from his clumsy failure to shoot his father's assailants to his debasing vice addiction in Las Vegas. John Cazale imbues Vito's forgotten son with as much pathetic, alcoholic, high-pitched, balding insecurity as we can stand without making us really hate Fredo.  Rather, we disdain him. Respect will never be granted him, and it is sad to watch him demand it explicitly.

    At first, he is untrustworthy purely because he is incompetent--he cannot even grip a gun tight enough to fire it.  When the patriarch finally does fall, Fredo has no more patient relatives to "assist." He is sent away to Las Vegas, ostensibly to protect him from assassination attempts that really only threaten the real Corleone power, Mike. Moe Greene admittedly took him off the Corleone family's hands to alleviate the burden Fredo created.  In Nevada, he grows to be untrustworthy because he believes anyone who promises him a cut of their profits and he cannot stand up for himself against those who would challenge the Corleone family. Michael even warns him, "I love you. But don't ever take sides with anyone against the family again.  Ever."

    Fredo cannot stand being Michael's underling and Michael cannot stand Fredo's inexplicable stupidity, his unbridled behavior or his dangerously fickle loyalty. Their relationship ends up so strained that Fredo starts aiding Michael's would-be assassins in plots against the new Don Corleone, the ultimate betrayal of the family and of familial connections altogether.  And he still wonders why he was "stepped over" for the role of head of the family, exclaiming, "I can handle things! I'm smart!  Not like everybody says!"  (My family quotes that line often, so any tragic quality in it has disappeared for me.)

    So how did the endearing and mysterious young Vito come to raise two boys so unfit for the task of being his sons? His orphan childhood and early immigration left him alone in a strange place. If he raised himself, why could he not raise Santino and Fredo better? Perhaps Michael had the benefit of Vito's previous failure.

    But still, what do you do about those first two?

 

 

~ Natasha Hirschfeld

The Trials and Tribulations of Being a Son on FX's Justified (Chris D)

The father-son relationship is, in some ways, the most important male relationship in existence. While it is ostensibly a nurturing bond, it is also inherently competitive. Fathers want to raise their sons to follow in their footsteps, but in doing so they make themselves obsolete. This past season of Justifiedmines this relationship in order to take its characters in new directions which are familiar, but also novel.

                This theme seems in retrospect to be an obvious one for the show to tackle, as Raylan Givens, the main character of the show, has had extremely troubled relations with his criminal father in the past. It was obvious that some form of conflict would eventually pop up between them. However, instead of taking the obvious path of bringing them together in a head on conflict, the show ended up taking the theme in a much more subtle route. Raylan and Arlo, his father, are almost never on screen together for the entire season until the very end. Instead, the theme of father and son is explored through the villain before being cast upon the more obvious subjects.

                Robert Quarles, the villain of the season, does not, upon first glance, seem to have anything to do with the theme of fathers and sons. As a fast talking drug lord come down from Detroit to tame the wilds of the Kentucky oxy trade, he seemed to embody the expansionist, a theme which is common in many Westerns. However, as the season goes on, the viewer learns that every action that he performs comes from his relationship with his father figures. He attempts to make his adopted father proud by earning money and influence through the drug trade, while at the same time reenacting the terrible things that his biological father did to him on gay men that he kidnaps and tortures throughout the season. Quarles never outgrows the shadow of either of his fathers, and ends up crashing and burning because of it. Even as he is being chased by the Marshall service through the hills of Kentucky, his first priority is to call the head of the Detroit mob, his adopted father, and say that he wants to come home.

                This theme is greatly enhanced through the performance of Neil McDonough. He plays Quarles as a cheerful smiling villain who is as funny as he is scary. He cracks jokes as he kills people, and is always polite. However, as the season goes on, it becomes more apparent that McDonough plays the character as an overgrown child. He constantly tries to show off his sleeve holster like a child with a new toy, and he struggles to be seen as better than his “father’s” biological son. All of this is done with the emotional openness of a child showing the stunted development of this man.

This issue of father and son drives Raylan as well. Timothy Oliphant plays Raylan as a very emotionally closed character as opposed to Quarles’s childlike openness. He constantly denies that he has any issues with his father, and does everything he can to ignore the issue at hand. However, Raylan’s drive to show his father that they have nothing in common is the baseline for everything that he does.

All of the troubles he has with his father come to a head in the season finale in which we are treated to a scene in which Arlo attempts to tell Raylan that he is proud of him. The scene is touching, especially owing to Timothy Oliphant’s performance as Raylan tries to pretend that he doesn’t care, but cannot stop himself from feeling glad that his father is finally acknowledging him. This only serves to set the viewer up for the crushing final moments of the season in which Raylan realizes that Arlo has killed a friend of his, thinking it was Raylan, in order to protect his adopted “son.” This realization that he has truly lost his father breaks Raylan in a way that the viewer has never seen. He isn’t angry or vengeful. He just seems defeated. His father has a new son, and he has been left with no one.

                Justified has always been about fathers and sons, even from the very beginning, but never before has it been such a central element to the plot. By exploring this tenuous male relationship, the show is able to explore the depths of its characters and bring them to their knees. It can be said that those who know us best can hurt us most, and that statement is never truer than in this past season.

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.

 

 

Hang Up Your Guns and Drive All Night: Finding Unlikely Connections Between "Drive" and "Shane" (Shea)

After a solid month of making due with TV movies and Netflix, I felt compelled to treat myself to the true movie theater experience. I'm certainly glad that I decided to go when I did, otherwise I would have missed out on seeing Drive, an unexpectedly neat film (not surprisingly directed by Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn). Drive definitely has a European feel to it, characterized largely by its emphasis of atmosphere over complex dialogue and plot, as well as featuring an infectious soundtrack comprised of hypnotic techno beats. In addition to the contribution of a strong European influence, the dark and urban nature of the permeating atmosphere combined with a disenchanted and disenfranchised loner for a main character, lead some reviewers to liken Drive to Scorcese's Taxi Driver.

While I am aware of the similarities between these two films, I actually see more fundamental and ultimately more interesting links connecting Drive to George Stevens' Shane. This connection may initially seem odd and a little off, considering that one is a 1950's Western, while the other is a current-day heist flick. Even so, I found myself surprised at how the two films almost mirror each other in the form of a few key elements.

One key element is the particular plot structure that ties together Drive and Shane across a daunting sixty-year time span. Both films present a basic storyline built around the involvement of a mysterious loner in the affairs of a family besieged by some sort of trouble. More specifically, this storyline is fleshed out in Shane to include a wandering gunman (the title character) coming to stay with a family of peaceful farmers that is in the middle of a bitter territorial dispute with a raucous group of cattle ranchers. Drive adapts this same premise in its depiction of The Driver, a movie stuntman by day, getaway driver by night, who finds himself drawn into the legal problems of the family living next door to him. This simple storyline propels the expositional and building action in these films and culminates in a violent climax that leads to an open-ended, interpretive finale; both Shane and The Driver must engage in a final showdown with the bad guys in defense of the dependent family before they ride/drive away in a wounded condition, presumably never to return again.

As previously mentioned, the fate of Shane and The Driver once they leave their respective dependents behind is left unexplained in keeping with the already ambiguous characterization of both men. Of course, in order for the storyline adapted by both Drive and Shane to work to its best advantage, a certain type of lead character is required. This required character is expected to not only possess distinguishing personality traits, but also embody larger themes that give the film its extra shades of depth beyond a bare-bones plot.

Shane and The Driver can once again be matched together in that both leading men fit the above qualifications down to the letter. These men are kept shrouded in mystery from their first appearance on screen to their last. Nothing is ever revealed to their fellow characters or to the audience regarding a pre-movie background; each man is devoid of a history as he appears before the viewers in his present state. Instead, these men are meant to be defined solely by their occupations: Shane is a gunfighter and The Driver is a driver for hire (as further emphasized by his identification being his occupation in place of an actual name). These two men are highly specialized in their respective areas of work, both of whom exist on the fringe of acceptable society. It is only after they attempt to engage in normal human relationships that their characters are allowed to grow.

This growth in the originally one-dimensional characters of Shane and The Driver coincide with the development of two important themes: the price of protection and inescapable isolation. Character transformation is especially related to a growing need felt by these solitary men to protect the people who have brought warmth and human companionship into their lives. For example, Shane discovers a desire within himself to discard his former life as a rootless gunman and live peacefully with the farmers that he has grown close to, particularly to a mother and her son. However, the need for his protection as a gunfighter against the hired guns of the cattle ranchers quickly outweighs his own personal desire. Similarly, The Driver must become the bigger man and help the criminal husband of the young mother and son he has grown to care for shake off his ties to ruthless mafia bosses. The Driver then becomes further embroiled in underground activity (despite his good intentions towards the family he wishes to protect), which creates a heartbreakingly irrevocable separation between him and the innocent people he loves. In both situations, the lonely lives of these two men are enriched by compassionate contact with others only to be forced to later revert back to their former isolation in the wake of their helpful efforts.

Buster Keaton’s Southern Idealism Rewriting a Lost Childhood (Helen)

 

Buster Keaton is in no sense of Southern gentleman.  He spent most of his early life between the Midwest and the East Coast on Vaudeville tours and later settled in New York, and finally in Los Angeles (1). However, in his two of his most famous films The General and Steamboat Bill Jr. Buster not only treats southern culture with reverence, but also paints his heroic protagonist as Southern gentlemen. In The General, Buster goes to great lengths to stay extremely accurate to costuming, sets, and historical facts surrounding one victorious feat for a Southern train operator during the Civil War. Steamboat Bill Jr. has a northern protagonist returning to his southern roots as to pilot a steamboat in order to impress his father. In both cases, a misfit engineer in the Deep South has to complete a seemingly impossible task in order to impress a father figure and win the girl in the end.

Perhaps Buster was motivated by the demand for southern romances or was paying his respects to a pioneer of American film with an appreciation for southern landscapes and one of his personal heroes D.W. Griffith. Although one could tie Buster’s infatuation with the South to less of an aesthetic and more of a reflection of his deep seeded issues with his father.  As violent as Buster’s father was on the stage where he used Buster as a prop, he was much more of a destructive force at home with his crippling alcoholism. Buster could never live up to his father’s standards, even after he became wildly successful in film and continued to support both parents. Buster’s father would trivialize the film industry despite his son’s talent and popularity, as well as the revenue that allowed him to retire early (1). One would think that Buster would idealize the north and technological improvements, like the movie camera that rescued him from the vaudeville stage and brought him to his stable adult life. Instead, Buster is preoccupied with the Deep South, and a pattern of reliving and rewriting his past through characters in his films.  Perhaps with his herculean feats and having the losing force triumph bring him satisfaction his real life cannot provide. 

In The General, Buster plays a train engineer named Johnnie Gray in a small southern town during the Civil War. In order to impress his sweetheart and win the approval of her father, Johnnie decides he will enlist in the military along side her brother. Even though Johnnie fights his way to be first in line, he is deemed ineligible because as a train engineer he is more valuable to the South. However, Johnnie is not told why he is rejected so he begins to compare himself to the other men in line. He sees tall, short (none shorter then him however), old and young men all receive their draft cards. This scene is one of many self-deprecating ones that draw attention to his inadequacies in height and anxiety towards his own masculinity. After trying to fool the man behind the counter with everything from pulling his hat down over his eyes, pretending to be someone else, and by attempting to steal someone else’s card, he is quite literally kicked out of the office. Deemed a coward by his girlfriend and her father, he returns to his engine in shame. Later on, northern spies hijack his train and kidnap his girlfriend who has been somehow left in the train boxcar that they are hijacking.  At first he chases them on foot and on bike.  The handcar scene is the most revealing of the emphasis of his puny size. His small stature will not allow him to move the handcar by strength alone until he propels his body in the air to use all his weight to bring down one side of the pump.  And to add insult to injury once he gets the car moving it goes backwards.  When Johnnie finally gets to another train he can use in the chase, the engine disconnects from the cars carrying the reinforcements to help rescue his girl. He is now alone and against the entire Southern army.  After finding cannon along the way, he finally catches up with the captors. He loads the cannon attached to the back of the engine and fires it at the hijackers in the train in front of him; only to see the cannon ball fly a few feet in the air and land on the floor of his engine. Despite the failure (and not so subtle jab at his masculinity) he loads the cannon again with more gunpowder but accidentally aims it at himself. Realizing his mistake and in complete and utter terror, Johnnie disconnects the cannon, tosses a plank of wood at it. He turns and runs to hide on the front of the train. While rounding a corner, the cannon fires and miraculously hits just behind the enemy train.

After crossing northern lines, he escapes detection and ends up under the table where the entire was strategy is laid out. He rescues his girl. Somehow he manages to steal another engine after purposely disconnecting the car carrying the enemy soldiers.  Similar difficulties that faced him in his pursuit reappear to create another comedic chase. Johnnie rushes back and successfully warns the confederates of the attack. He ends up caught in the battle. He accidentally fires the shot that sends the northern troops into a retreat. He is promoted to lieutenant for winning the battle and causing a captured northern general to surrender. He discovers that the man he knocked out initially stealing the train is a general who he then escorts to surrender. In the end, he gets the girl, wins his soon to be father-in-law’s respect, and more importantly demonstrates his value to the cause despite his statue.

 Steamboat Bill Jr. places more weight on the father’s perspective and his negative characteristics rather than emphasizing Buster’s shortcomings. Steamboat Bill Jr. depicts Keaton as a similar character as his character in The General.  Willie Canfield (Buster) is an outcast in his southern hometown who tries to please his father, a steamboat pilot. His father is a strong, violent brute with a temper. The film begins with Bill learning of Willie’s return. Bill pictures his son as this bigger, stronger, picture of himself. Willie is below average height and weight. Although Buster introduces this film with a critic of his physical flaws, his focus is to highlight the father’s character flaws. At the train station, Bill mistakes a few tall, strong, men for his son. Conversely, Willie mistakes sophisticated intellectual types to be his father which may be a jab at his own father. When Bill learns that Willie is his son, he is repulsed and deeply disappointed. At this poignant moment, the camera pans to Willie jumping around with his ukulele trying to calm a crying baby. This whimsical display distracts the viewer from the tragic parallels between the father’s perception of son and his Buster’s relationship with his father. When Steamboat Bill tries to take Willie back to the boat, Willie tries to go back to Boston on a bus. Bill pushes the bus driver who tries to help Willie. He drags him to his car. In the car, Bill socks Willie most likely for trying to leave. Bill is rough with Willie throughout the rest of the film, sadly similar to Buster’s experience own father who tended to knock him around both on the stage and off (1). Bill also criticizes Willie’s style, forcing him to shave off his mustache and update his dress. In the gags, the barber shaves him in an instant without harm, but scares Willie in the process. At the clothing shop, Willie tries a variety of ill-fitting hats from Chaplin’s bowler to Buster’s signature porkpie hat, each time ending with his father tearing them off and throwing them in a fit of rage until they settle on a non-descript brimmed hat (which is swept away immediately after they leave the store). Again, Buster uses a silly gag to mask the much deeper issues between him and his father.  Buster’s father does not approve of his decision to go into film just as Bill chastises Willie’s choices. Bill continues to physically abuse Willie, as well as verbally berate him for being unable to pilot the steamboat well. In the end and after a freak storm floods the town, Willie single handedly saves his father, his girlfriend, and others using the steamboat. He finally wins his fathers approval.

Although Buster Keaton has been quoted saying he made movies just to make others laugh (2), it seems they serve a much more personal purpose. Although Buster’s story was one of a success, it was in no way a fairy tale. As depicted in his films, The General and Steamboat Bill Jr., Buster was only able to achieve a sense of approval from a father figure on the silver screen. It makes one wonder if Buster’s emotive yet seemingly stoical expressions would be as profound if he were not such a troubled man. 

 

 

Bibliography:

1. Keaton, Buster, and Charles Samuels. "Ch. 1." My Wonderful World of Slapstick. New York, NY: Da Capo, 1982. Print.
2. Kline, Jim. "Funny Sublime: The Uncanny Genius of Buster Keaton:." The San Francisco Jung Institute Library Journal 16.2 (1997): 45-57. Print.
3. Photo Credit: Wikimedia Commons: United Artists Screen Shot

Ex-Con Romance: Sur me levres (Read My Lips) and A History of Violence (Glennis)

     Midway through Jacques Audiard’s Read My Lips, ex-con Paul (Vincent Cassel) tries to convince secretary Carla (Emmanuelle Devos) to help him pull off a major theft. When the woman resists the idea, Paul snaps: “Let’s cut the crap – just tell me what you want.” Carla tells Paul she won’t participate in his plan unless he comes back to the office and continues to be her assistant. “Take it or leave it,” she says defiantly.

      An equally aggressive interaction occurs in the second half of David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence. After discovering that her husband lived a life of crime in Philly and changed his name before marrying her, Edie (Maria Bello) asks him: “What are you?! Like some multiple personality schizoid?!” Her husband, Tom (Viggo Mortensen), says he assumed his dark past and former name (Joey Cusack) were behind him. He replies helplessly: “I never expected to see Joey again.”  

     The tough words Carla and Edie use during these moments reveal critical turning points in both Read My Lips and A History of Violence. Both films feature a significant exchange of values between a former criminal and a woman on the right side of the law. Carla and Edie start out as trusting and kind; exposure to their partners’ threatening ways inspires the women to become assertive, outspoken and even violent. Although Paul and Tom resort to violence frequently throughout the films, the men ultimately become more sensitive and aware of their actions than ever before. A variety of filmic techniques reveal the considerable behavioral shifts that occur between the lovers in both films.

      Dialogue exposes the great divide between Paul and Carla early on in Read My Lips. During their first meeting after Paul has been hired at the office, Carla asks Paul why he hasn’t worked for two years. Paul admits: “I was in Fleury. Doing time.” Natural lighting makes Carla look especially innocent as she asks: “What kind of time?” Baffled by her question, Paul responds contemptuously: “Time Magazine. I was in jail! Are you shitting me?”

      Multiple point-of-view shots from Carla’s perspective as she stares at Paul making copies showcase the nearly-deaf woman’s growing fascination with her co-worker. Tight framing during two-shots of the characters suggests that their lives are becoming more and more intertwined. After Carla provides Paul with living quarters and an advance on his paycheck, the ex-con makes a move that permanently alters their relationship.

      In a medium long shot with natural light streaming through Paul’s apartment, the man gropes and kisses Carla. Startled and scared, Carla tries to defend herself as Paul forces her onto a countertop. Her girlish hair clip and modest clothing convey how inappropriate Paul’s advances are. Carla breaks free before Paul can harm her. She may be attracted to Paul, but her reaction suggests Carla wants their relationship to blossom on her terms.

      Paul’s violent move has surprising consequences. Carla forces Paul to steal files that will ensure her upward mobility at the firm. Paul, in turn, makes Carla read the lips of thugs he intends to steal from. Partners in crime, Paul and Carla are increasingly featured in two shots. A birthday party scene exposes the sexual chemistry between the couple. Soft, Latin music in the background hints that romance is in the air. The camera zooms in to position the pair in a close-up, emphasizing the growing connection between the two. “Can you take my hand?” she asks him. He pulls her to his chest, asking softly: “Do we get to smooch?” That he asks the question instead of simply planting a kiss stresses his emerging respect for and tenderness toward Carla.

      A club scene in the film showcases Carla’s ability to make Paul jealous. A point-of-view shot from Paul’s perspective of Carla wearing a fashionable outfit and flirting with two guys proves that the ex-con wants the woman to himself. “Are you done?” Paul asks her. Carla pretends she doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Paul’s protective side is soon revealed as he beats up a guy who has tried to rape Carla in the club’s parking lot. Positioned in a two-shot with his arm around her, Paul says: “It’s okay. It’s over.” The club sequence summarizes the exchange of values that occurs during the film – Carla has become more confident and Paul has become both caring and considerate.

       The behavioral shifts that occur between Edie and Tom in A History of Violence take place under very different circumstances. Frequently positioned in two-shots with romantic, tranquil music playing, the spouses appear to be very much in love. Edie’s high school cheerleader outfit during the couple’s first intimate scene reveals the passionate, surprise-filled nature of the couple’s sex life. “You’re naughty,” Tom says playfully. Long takes during the scene emphasize the couple’s incredibly strong bond.

      However, Edie’s discovery of Tom’s dark past significantly changes the way the couple communicates with one another. Edie’s firsthand view of Tom’s violent behavior makes the woman both frightened and repulsed by her husband. The partners are increasingly positioned in separate shots; morose, slightly haunting music plays during the couple’s heated arguments. As Edie becomes more and more disgusted by her husband, the woman also becomes more verbally assertive with him. The normally composed and respectful Edie uses profanity and raises her voice.

      The couple’s violent sex on their staircase reveals the increasingly disturbing nature of their relationship. Quick cuts exaggerate the pain the partners experience as they shift around on the steps. Close-ups of different parts of their bodies reveal the wild, animalistic nature of their rough sex. The unnerving music that plays during the scene is a far cry from the peaceful score that accompanied the couple’s morning car rides together. However, that Edie pushes her husband off of her at the end of their act suggests that the woman may still have some control in the relationship.

      The rest of Tom’s violent actions in the film are geared toward protecting his family and himself. However, the former criminal still experiences a reawakening that may finally put an end to his violent impulses. Having killed off everyone tied to his former life, Tom washes his face and upper body in the lake by his brother’s mansion. Natural lighting and the high angle shot long shot of Tom kneeling as he washes himself suggest that the man understands he has hit rock bottom. By purifying himself, Tom clearly hopes his family will accept him again.

      During the dinner table scene as Tom returns to his home, the lengthy shots of his family members staring in his direction reveal their genuine desire to be close with him again. The tears running down Tom’s face reveal the man’s shame and vulnerability. The shot/reverse/shot pattern between Edie and her husband suggests that the spouses believe their relationship is worth repairing.

Male Bonds Trump Marriage in the Middle East (Glennis)

      For two films whose titles include the word “marriage,” Fictitious Marriage (1988) and Late Marriage (2001) prioritize platonic male bonds far more than they do heterosexual romance. Marriage takes second place to inter-ethnic friendships in Fictitious Marriage and a complicated father-son relationship in Late Marriage. While the Israeli movies provide bleak – and often bizarre – views on marriage, male-to-male relationships are portrayed as the most sacred, if not satisfying, bonds in characters’ lives. Costuming and dialogue reveal this disparity throughout both films.  

      Fictitious Marriage tells the story of a 40-something Israeli man, Eldad (Shlomo Bar-Aba), who decides he needs a change. The Jerusalem resident tells his wife and two young sons that he will be traveling to New York on business, but he actually heads to Tel Aviv. Once in the coastal city, he is mistaken for an Arab laborer. He pretends to be mute in order to hide his heritage. Eldad’s meaningful interactions with Palestinian construction workers and casual affairs with Jewish women prove marriage is the last thing on his mind.

      The skintight, often brightly-colored outfits of Eldad’s side chicks emphasize how frivolous and emotionally insignificant their encounters are. The first time Eldad sees the hotel clerk he later sleeps with, the woman is behind the front desk doing aerobics in a rainbow, striped leotard. Needless to say, Eldad doesn’t take her too seriously. However, costumes function very differently when it comes to the male bonds in the film.

      The outfits of Eldad and his Arab co-workers establish a sense of unity among the men. The workers are often featured in long shots staring at their curvaceous, scantily-clad Jewish neighbor while she dresses in front her window. The head of the crew has given Eldad a yellow beanie, so the protagonist fits right in with the sweatshirt-clad, hat-wearing laborers as they admire their neighbor. While the Arab workers do not know that Eldad is Jewish, these moments still suggest that peaceful relations are possible between both sides of the Arab/Israeli conflict.  

      Dialogue especially exposes the differing levels of importance between male bonds and hetero relations in the film. After their boss yells at the workers for improperly building a wall, the leader of the team states that all of the men will take responsibility for the problem. In the center of the frame, surrounded by his co-workers, he says: “All of us put up the wall. We’re all in this together.” The man’s statement provides Eldad with a sense of belonging and purpose that his marriage and affairs do not.

      On the other hand, an exchange between Eldad and the clerk reveal the triviality of their affair. The woman talks about the fictitious marriage plan they have devised. She believes Eldad is from New York and will get her a visa for the US. Eldad’s disinterest in the scheme is made obvious by medium close-ups of the man as he listens to her go on and on. When the clerk smiles at Eldad and says: “I’m going to my man,” he looks at her face and says: “You have a beauty mark here and here.”

      Although Eldad’s relationships with women are emotionally empty, his bond with the construction crew breathes new life into him. Only an unfortunate bomb scare incident is powerful enough to separate Eldad from his newfound friends. The middle-aged man reunites with his wife after this unnerving event. However, it took his fulfilling experience with the construction crew to give Eldad the strength he needed to carry on with a marriage that does not fully satisfy him.

      Late Marriage also uses costuming to portray the nature and strength of male bonds versus hetero romances. The film follows Zaza (Lior Ashkenazi), a 31 year-old man whose parents desperately want him to get married. They soon discover that he is already in love – with a 34 year-old divorcee, Judith (Ronit Elkabetz), who has a 6 year-old daughter. Zaza’s father, Yasha (Moni Moshonov) is especially insistent that Zaza break off the relationship. After all, Yasha was once forced to end an extramarital affair because his wife’s brothers threatened to kill him. Costuming throughout the film reveals both the father’s hold over Zaza and Zaza’s fascination with Judith.

      During Zaza’s first meeting with a prospective wife, the bachelor wears a yellow dress shirt, a black jacket and black slacks. Yasha criticizes Zaza’s appearance. Zaza shows some effort, but his colorful shirt and lack of a tie expose his contempt for the event. The first time Zaza meets with Judith in the film, the divorcee wears just a red t-shirt and a navy-blue booty shorts. Her choice to only wear undergarments when Zaza arrives establishes the level of intimacy between the lovers. However, that closeness is shattered when Zaza’s parents discover his secret relationship.

      When Zaza’s parents and family friends make a surprise visit while the lovers are at Judith’s place, costuming is crucial. Yasha and his crony wear all black – foreshadowing the period of mourning that ensues after Zaza’s relationship is destroyed. Zaza wears a blue t-shirt and khakis – he looks boyish, happy and at ease with his girlfriend. Judith wears a striped shirt and pattern skirt – her eclectic style reflects her offbeat, assertive personality. Unfortunately, the parents’ dark clothing and dark intentions win out. Zaza keeps his family and loses his soulmate. However, the young man’s yellow bow tie at his wedding (to a simple, attractive girl) is a small sign of defiance. He has never fully recovered from his loss, and he wants his parents to know it. Unfortunately, the father’s crisp shirt and suit reveal that he won’t budge on the issue – Yasha is ecstatic that his son has finally tied the knot with a "good woman."

      Dialogue between women in the film adds a bizarre element to the otherwise somber view of marriage throughout the movie. Early on in the film, a family friend provides Zaza’s mother with a gift that is bound to win Zaza a bride. “The foreskin of an eight-day-old baby boy,” the woman says excitedly as she holds a small doll. “This is responsible for all the marriages in Haifa!”

      The exchange suggests that the courtship process is just as absurd and meaningless as marriage itself. That Zaza’s fate may rest on a piece of foreskin proves how ridiculous his parents’ demands are. Yet even on Zaza’s wedding day, his relationship with his father continues to hinder Zaza’s free will. The 30-something has already lost the opportunity to marry the woman he really loves. But still, Zaza's father asks more of him. “Next year I want a grandson,” Yasha says. “You’ve put us through enough.”  

Framing Disconnection: Half Nelson (Mike)

There’s little breathing room in Ryan Fleck’s Half Nelson.  Daniel Dunne, a drug addicted inner city history teacher, is a character caught in a position he’s unable to break free from (as the title suggests).  The source of this, or what it is specifically, is never entirely clear; does it refer to his inability to change and the sense of stasis his character is perpetually stuck in, his growing disillusionment despite his genuine optimism and passion for teaching, or to how his character seems caught between worlds politically, socially, and economically?  Is it the cause or the result of his addiction?  The film’s visuals help to establish this, primarily framing the figures individually and in close-ups.  It is in this way that Fleck is able to capture his character’s sense of confinement, the feeling that he’s cramped or trapped both internally and within the tight confines of the frame.  Fleck thus establishes boundaries for Dan through the film’s cinematography that only drugs seem able to alleviate.  The strong use of close-ups and individual framing not only serves to establish Dan’s feelings of confinement and restriction, but illustrates the way he (and thus the addict in general) feels cut off, separated from those around him.  It is this feeling, this sense of disconnection that Dan’s character not only seems to struggle most with in the film, but that is ultimately changed through the unlikely bond he forms with one of his students.

           "A Half-Nelson.  One of Its Many Applications", Creative Commons[1]

Unlike other film’s on the subject (such as Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas or Blow), Half Nelson’s focus isn’t so much on the exoticism or romanticism of drugs and the addict, the world that surrounds drugs and drug dealing, or the drug experience itself, but instead on how drugs shape Dan’s social interactions and the way he relates (or doesn’t relate) to those around him.  The different drugs he uses throughout the film seem to allow him to momentarily step outside that sense of confinement and suffocation, those isolating boundaries that disconnect him from other people.  Six minutes into the film, Fleck shows us as Dan drops a straw (for snorting cocaine) onto his coffee table, cutting away before we see the drugs or him using.  In the scene that follows, Dan goes to a bar where he meets two women.  They enter the cramped frame with him as they dance.  By keeping the camera close to the characters, focusing on the movement of their bodies, Fleck establishes a certain connection between the three.  He then cuts from the dance floor to the bathroom, as one woman passes cocaine to the other.  They discuss their love for Oprah while Dan, his high presumably subsided, tries to explain how he “fucks things up just to fuck them up.”  Despite the small space of the bathroom and how the three figures are positioned in close proximity to each other, Fleck portrays their conversation almost entirely through close-ups.  The connection between them has been broken.  Unlike before where all three were squeezed into one frame here they are separate, with Dan cutoff from the other two.  Their dialogue reflects this growing sense of disconnection as well.  Similar to his other social interactions in the film (such as with his family, with the other teachers, and with the other girl he meets in the same bar later on) there is a breakdown in communication; the two talk over Dan, they don’t respond to what he’s saying, and they finish his sentences incorrectly.

As the conversation progressively falls apart, Dan leans over and kisses them.  As he does so, the camera follows him, briefly capturing each girl’s face in the frame before settling on Dan again in his original position.  He reaches out here, trying to make a connection, and yet, like his other attempts in the film, it ultimately fails.  His character thus expresses a desire to connect with other people yet the inability to do so sober.  As Dan is speaking the two girls interrupt him, deciding to return to the dance floor.  We don’t see them as they say this; instead, the camera stays focused on Dan as he finishes his cigarette and watches them leave.  For much of the film, the camera will stay on Dan as the action takes place around him, the focus being not so much on what physically happens in the scene, but instead on how he responds to the action and relates to the people he encounters.  We sit and watch as Dan’s figure, alone and smoking what’s left of his cigarette, recognizes the moment as another connection lost.

     Half Nelson Poster, Creative Commons[2]

Drey, a 13-year-old black student in Dan’s class, is the only figure in the film he establishes any sort of connection with; what this connection and what the nature of their relationship are the two themselves have trouble defining.  It is Drey’s character though who seems able to break these boundaries of his character  and in the film’s cinematography.  She is the only figure consistently shot in the frame with Dan and in a wide-angle.  The wide-angle and long shots in the film serve to establish the connection between the two, forcing us to look at them in relation to each other, to think of them as a pair. 

When Dan smokes inside a bathroom stall of the girl’s locker room the camera stays tight on his face (as it does for much of the film), shifting in and out of focus.  The tension, power, and significance of this moment though is not in showing Dan as he gets high (one of the few times we see him in the process) but instead in what follows.  When Drey discovers him inside the stall, crack pipe and lighter still in hand, a certain bond is formed between the two that will act as the driving force behind the film.  The final shot of the scene is a wide-angle (the first wide-angle of the two characters in the film); although the camera has moved back here, Fleck continues to limit his characters’ space, making them appear, similar to the close-ups, trapped inside the frame.  He uses the walls and doorway of the bathroom to frame the two, cutting off two-thirds of the screen.  The bathroom stalls then take up two-thirds of the open doorway, thus cramping their figures into an even smaller area in which they can interact.  The power of the shot, though, lies in what happens in this small space.  Drey’s figure kneels over Dan as he lies on the bathroom floor, his hand holding hers as she presses a wet paper towel to his forehead.  Although the close-up is generally used for the more intimate moments in a film or as a way to convey something emotional to the viewer, Fleck here uses the wide-angle.  It’s after this experience that the camera leaves Dan and shifts to Drey and Drey’s story; their stories intertwining as she becomes the second half of the narrative.  For the remainder of the film, the two characters will be thought of only in relation to each other; even when they aren’t pictured together, or when Fleck crosscuts between them, they still seem present in their absence.  As both characters learn throughout the film, this bond, this connection is complex; it challenges and blurs their roles as student and teacher, child and adult. Drey’s role in the film is never as a tool for Dan to overcome his addiction (that isn’t Fleck’s intention), but instead as a figure that Dan connects with, that pushes him to recognize and understand the direct and indirect effects of his addiction.  Like Dan and Drey, we too are never entirely sure of how to define their relationship, and Fleck doesn’t seem to want us to.  Instead, what’s important to see is how this experience breaks the isolating boundaries of the close-up, forming a bond that brings them together.  Although Dan still appears confined within the screen, trapped in his half nelson, he is no longer alone; Drey has joined him inside the frame. 

 

Photo Credits:

1. Creative Commons, <http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/54/Burns_Half-nelson.jpg>

2. Creative Commons, "P373" (Flickr) <flickr.com/photos/ [email protected]/251634787>

 

Currently Watching: Alice (Svankmajer, 1988), Fallen Angels (Wong Kar-wai, 1995), Gonzo (Gibney, 2008), Edvard Munch (Watkins, 1974), Scratch (Pray, 2001), PCU (Bochner, 1994), Vive le Tour (Malle, 1962), Next Friday (Carr, 2000), Frenzy (Hitchcock, 1972), The Secret of the Kells (Moore and Twomey, 2009)

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.

  

The Tempest Confined: Seasons of Change in "Amarcord" (Kelsey)

Puffballs float into a tiny Italian town on a gust of wind, and they usher in spring: so begins Federico Fellini's 1973 film, Amarcord.  We are informed of this seasonal change by screaming children, whose hands are stretched towards the sky, hoping to catch spring as it falls.  We are also told by random passersby, who stop to stare as the puffballs drift to the ground.  And we are told once again by a senile old narrator, who stumbles over words he must have been saying for years, as though the prognosticating puffballs were floating down not from the sky, but from a memory half-forgotten.  The entire film, in fact, has the feel of half-remembered, half-improvised nostalgia: a year long memory of Fellini's, embroidered with his own personal brand of ridiculous.

And the film is quite often ridiculous.  From the uncle who climbs a tree and refuses to come down, to the overly sexualized daydreams of the young boys of the town, the film deals with the ordinary and makes it loud and colorful and strange.  There is Gradisca, who seemingly owns one outfit (red, of course). She features prominently in the fantasies of men and boys alike, and features even more prominently in the town's urban legends.  And yet, despite her role as town temptress, she is content to sit in an empty theater and watch Gary Cooper movies, hoping against hope that she could find a real life facsimile for her film idol.  And then there is Titta, the young boy around whom this episodic film revolves.  He argues with his father, is doted on by his mother, and lifts up the buxom cigarette girl in a display of teenage masculinity.  Titta is an obvious Fellini stand in, a character whose thought on woman and religion and the beauty of the world are only beginning to coalesce.  And these things, the women and the world, are always most beautiful in the spring, when the puffballs all.

But spring, that season of blue skies, hellos, and goodbyes, is not the only important season in the film.  There is also fall, the time when the fog comes.  It's impenetrable, and an old man stands in its midst and asks it: "Where am I?  I don't seem to be anywhere.  If death is like this, I don't think much of it."  And here, for an instant, Amarcord becomes a bit tragic.  But instead of decrying the tempest in his mind, the old man merely responds with an emphatic "Up yours!"  And with that, we are returned to Amarcord, where moments of true emotion are always undercut by the carnival of life.  But the man lost in the fog finds his home, as he was standing in front of it the entire time.  And then the camera follows the leaves blowing through the air, and finds a group of people waltzing without partners to music only they can hear, asking the question "Where are you my love?" to no one in particular. 

After fall comes winter, a time where peacocks perch on great mounds of snow and unveil their feathers.  But in the midst of this image of beauty is sadness, as Titta's mother dies shortly after.  Her funeral dirge acts as the transition between piles of snow to puffballs.  And when spring has returned, we follow the puffballs as they waft towards the wedding of the lovely Gradisca, who may have finally found her Gary Cooper.  Sadly, however, it is not that simple.  Gradisca's new husband is a fascist politician, the type of person who could irrevocably change the town's way of life.  And the threat of fascism is presented as almost a joke in the film.  Dictators take the form of overgrown cardboard clowns in this particular circus, but beneath the facade is real danger.  And the aftereffects of Italian fascism were portrayed through neorealism, a filmic movement that Fellini was a part of at the beginning of his career.  But with Amarcord, he goes back to the beginning; the world that came before the Italian people fell into poverty and tragedy.  Because before that tragedy, the only things falling were puffballs. 

Masculinity in the Modern Mainstream Cinema (Paul)

A few years ago, no one had even heard of Judd Apatow, Meg Ryan chick flicks dominated the mainstream audiences, and Bruce Willis was the definition of the American hero. Today, things are different. Apatow's films are wildly popular: "I Love You, Man," a rated R comedy, opens to critical acclaim and the image of 300 dudes killing people is a pop culture icon. Hollywood's vision of the modern man is confusing to say the least. There are two, near-opposite visions/versions: one is the softer guy seen in the many romantic comedies flooding mainstream cinema. Gone are the cocky, robust, bad boys of the past. Instead, the modern man has become “schlubblier” for lack of a better word: for example, Seth Rogen's character in any movie he's been in or Vince Vaugh's character in Wedding Crashers. The modern male protagonist is emotional, lazy, hedonistic. He is, for lack of a better word, imperfect, one who fights with his mind rather than with his hands. On the other hand, there is still a definite demand for the hyper-masculine. Like the bulging beasts of men in 300. Like the James Bond who spends more time topless than the Bond girls. However, these two polarizing visions do serve a purpose. Comedy is all about relatability and the schlubby man succeeds in getting the audience to empathize with him. On the other hand, action movies are our modern mythology where men are larger than life and their deeds echo throughout eternity. Their viciousness is celebrated because they do things that any normal person wouldn't. 

The opening scene in Forgetting Sarah Marshall typifies/shows one aspect of the emotional man: he is schlubby. Here is the set up: The main character, played by Jason Siegel, is getting ready to shower before meeting up with his highly successful actress girlfriend, Sarah Marhsall, played by Kristen Bell, for dinner. As Sarah Marshall enters the room, she promptly breaks up with him, and In his shock, Jason drops his towel, exposing his entire figure in the frame. It becomes painfully apparent to the audience that Jason Siegel does not have the body of a body builder. Not even close. His figure looks more like a potato than Michelangelo's David. His character even cries later during the scene. It's brutally honest and pathetic. But, as pathetic as we may think he is, we empathize with him. Any man in the audience could be Siegel's character, schlubby and emotional. Siegel's physique is a testament to the YouTube generation: he is successful because he looks like one of us. We empathize with him because he does go through everyday tragedies like we do. 

The initial scene can be any one of the stories on fmylife.com or a similar website. Today, men talk about their feelings all the time, and to some extent, have been emasculated. We like him because he is like us. Another aspect of the emotional man is how utterly logical he is. Very few secrets are kept between himself and the film, making it easy for audience members to project themselves upon the character. Take, for example, Owen Wilson's character in Wedding Crashers (even his name, John Beckwith, sounds generic but that may be the point). The reason why the movie is so funny is because he reacts the way any one of us would react. The scene where his love interest’s mother asks him to feel her breasts, he acts like any one of us would act. First his face fills with disbelief and then disgust, not at the breasts, but perhaps at himself for being in the situation and going along with a madwoman's wishes . A neat touch is that the frame is set behind the woman and we actually never see her breasts; we only see John's expression because the breasts are not the point. The point is his reaction because it reflects the audience's reaction to the situation. He is definitely relatable to the modern audiences. A final aspect of the modern man is how he always has a best friend.

 "Bro-mances" as a genre is picking up steam: Wedding Crashers, I Love You, Man, and Superbad are all films about the strange relationships men share…relationships that oddly resemble a romantic relationship. Towards the end of Superbad, for example, both male leads literally proclaim their love for each other after a wild night with of trying (but failing) to have sex with girls. It is an awkward experience to watch, but is perhaps typical in any American setting. Which boy hasn't grown up with a best friend? The scene is emasculating because it implies that men do really care and need each other. Men are not senseless sex-driven beasts, but that they have feelings and hearts that are as fragile as any woman's. It’s pathetic, but an honest expression of friendship that audiences can relate to. 

Take these three factors and contrast them to a '90s romantic comedy like You've Got Mail, and what you get is a clear evolution of male archetypes in romantic comedies. You've Got Mail's Tom Hanks is a successful bookstore magnate. While John Beckwith crashes weddings to find girls, Tom Hanks charms his outspoken competition, played by Meg Ryan, like charming her with his nephews. On the other hand, Jason Siegel's character has lots of empty sex trying to get over Sarah Marshall. All Tom Hanks had to do to win over the love of his life was to be honest with her and show her the side that he shows everyone else. Jason Siegel and Owen Wilson do their best to get rid of their love interests' boyfriend at all costs. Tom Hanks has one black friend that disappears in the third act of the movie. The two best friends in the movie share virtually every frame together. The modern man is slightly more pathetic, no doubt about that, but he is also more relatable, to. No human is perfect and the modern interpretation of the masculine lead reflects that. We laugh harder because we empathize with their situations. Their story is our story and although they may be lazy bums, they are our lazy bums. On the other hand, there has also been a definite rise in hyper-masculinity in action films. 

Our heroes are lean mean, killing machines. It is no secret that set designers in the '60s used to make the doors slightly smaller so when the protagonists make their dramatic entrance, they seem bigger than life. Today, set designers don't need to do that. We have CGI, lighting, and actors willing to push their physical limits. 300 used a variety of CGI, artful lighting and a masochistic training regimen to sell the audience that these 300 men could really go against a million. Their skill at killing people is celebrated: there is a point in the movie where director Zack Snyder slows down an action sequence so the audience’s thirst for every bloody moment can be satiated. The camera pans along slowly as King Leonidas, played by Gerard Butler, mercilessly hacks down a line of soldiers, the shot ending with an image of his abs rippling. Another example would be the gritty fight sequence in Casino Royale in which Bond eventually overpowers a henchman. Instead of just cleanly downing him with a bullet, the film elongates the sequence to the point where the audience squirms with each heavy blow exchanged by the two fighters. The film further celebrates his masculinity with gratuitous shots of him shirtless even mimicking the body out of water shot popularized by the earlier James Bond films Octopussy and Die Another Day, even though both films featured the female lead coming out of the water. Also, in Crank, the male lead, an angry sociopath murderer with a mastery of bloody comic book violence - bashes and thrashes his way through the movie. in fact, not even a few thousand mile drop into the middle of the city can stop him (as seen with the release of Crank 2 in a few days).

 Our heroes, today, are angry, muscular bad-asses. On one hand, the fact that we celebrate badass-ness alienates any sense of empathy the audience has for the heroes. No, there is no way any man can get that big (unless he is part of the LAX team). No, there is absolutely no way any movie going audience can kill a billion guys without feeling a touch of remorse. Our society now is one than condemns violence even in video games and suppresses even the vaguest inklings of anger. The suppression leads us to admire and even glorify acts of violence and hyper masculinity. Maybe that's why there is rise of masculinity in mainstream cinema. Today's action movies are the best way to escape from our everyday malaise we can't laugh about. America is fighting two different wars and faces a serious financial recession rivaling the Great Depression. As a result, today's audience, more than ever, does have a social consciousness. 

Today's society is more aware of global problems than any other society has been in the past. The fact is, we do care about political correctness, we do care about what our enemies think, and everyone, almost from birth, is taught that violence is wrong and diplomacy is the best way. Our heroes don't have any weaknesses. Even Bruce Willis' character in Die Hard, did terrible things but did them so he could be with his wife (Ironically, by Die Hard III, the wife character is entirely written out). That’s why we want to see our larger than life heroes kick ass and take names without a second thought; it is because we can't do it ourselves. We certainly don't sympathize with them, but we celebrate it. They are our heroes because they dare to do something we don't.

 Another theory about the rise of hyper masculinism, is that our society as a whole now celebrates perfection, particularly physical perfection. Where chubbiness was once been celebrated as a sign of wealth in Western cultures, we now celebrate hard bodies. This is the first time in history where members of a poorer social class are fatter than members of the richest. Let's face it; having a good body implies you have the time to attain one, which in turn implies you have enough means to do so. It is now our ideal. That's why our heroes have six packs and biceps rivaling most tree trunks. audience members compares themselves to each other and to the images they see on the screen. We are bombarded everyday by faces and bodies of physical perfection, something that couldn't happen in the days of the radio. Plastic surgery now even services children still in high-school. We try our best to be physically perfect and that's why our heroes have to be.

 Masculinity in today's mainstream cinema is a two faced: on one hand, romantic comedies deflate the male mythos. The romantic leads are a reflection of today's audiences, they are the ones who we empathize with and feel for. If it has happened to us, we are more likely to laugh. On the other hand, our action movies have injected testosterone into our heroes. Our heroes now are strong, violent and Machiavellian. They are who we secretly want to be. They are physical perfection. These two projections of what it means to be a man are a product of society interweaving with each other and I can only wonder what tomorrow's heroes will be like.

Watch Out for "The Watchmen" - the blue guy gets naked (Tyler)

            With the somewhat recent release of The Watchmen, a film based on the mid-eighties comic book series created by Alan Moore, I got to thinking about the evolution of films adapted from comic books and graphic novels. This film, the latest installment in a long and distinguished line, undoubtedly ranks among the best of its kind (in my opinion, the best so far – no question). Considering the content and the themes of the film, however, Superman would be spinning in his grave if only someone could figure out a way to kill him and make it stick; maybe make the grave out of kryptonite and just to let him spin around a bit - that’s how far this film pushes the envelope. It’s closest predecessor, Sin City, contains more violence and about the same amount of sex, maybe a little more, but, it comes no where near broaching the themes fundamental to Watchmen. The most recent in the extensive collection of Batman movies, The Dark Knight, also raises disturbing questions but, both it and Sin City consist essentially of a morbid look at the dark underbelly of fictionalized urban settings resulting in graphic, violent and, sexual scenarios which inevitably lead to a bleak reflection upon human nature and the state of humanity. Although crime-ridden city streets start out as the problem in Watchmen, things become infinitely more complicated.

With the creator, Moore, and his original illustrator signed on, the screenplay remains as true as possible to the original comics and graphic novels. The plot surrounds several retired superheroes following the unlikely murder of an old crewmember. Although super heroes have fought crime since the 40s, the Cold War and nuclear proliferation pose bigger problems (especially for heroes with limited capacities - the powers of incredible strength and masterful fighting abilities; basically Bruce Lee in a spandex jumpsuit). That is except for Dr. Manhattan, who may be a god. With almighty weapons and entities in the mix, themes of relativistic atheism and post-postmodern dread almost inevitably rise to the surface. What’s more, the all-too-human nature of several heroes shrouds the moral standards of the protagonists in an uneasy, unresolved ambiguity (it goes substantially further than the callous but noble stereotype exemplified by Batman or Hell Boy). Needless to say, it gets complicated.

Director Zack Snyder (300 and the remake of Dawn of the Dead), an apt director in light of the content noted above, continues his legacy of pristine, slow-motion-savvy filmmaking (i.e. 300) with incredibly dynamic shots - most notably, a montage of nearly still frame shots in which the contents move very slightly in slow motion. The effect of these shots is best described as the wet-dream of the Ken Burns effect (slowly zooming into photographs and documents in an attempt to animate an otherwise still frame); like the moving photos in Harry Potter but, much slower, more subtle, and aesthetically pleasing from a cinematic viewpoint. Unsurprisingly, Snyder makes further use of slow motion and airtight effects to impressively heighten important action sequences.

Everyone enjoys a good, solid super hero movie but, Superman, Spiderman, Ironman, Batman, the Punisher, and Daredevil (among many others) represent only the cheesy, goody-goody protagonists of the comic book world (that isn’t to say the Punisher is exactly nice). Even the Hulk, Ghost Rider, Spawn, and Hell Boy, who get into some difficult moral territory due to the nature of their superpowers (technically Spawn and Ghost Rider work for the devil and, to a certain extent, Hell Boy is the devil), still remain innately good characters. The X-Men series makes everything extremely complicated in that mutants change sides, political and military action causes riffs, new mutants foster new agendas, etc. but, for the most part, one side, headed by Professor Xavier, has generally good intentions, and the other side has intentions hinging upon the notion that the ends justify the means (bad intentions). The world in which the Watchmen live has good guys, the super heroes, and bad guys, the villains, but, after a decade of retirement, the lines begin to blur, their relatively sturdy moral foundation falters, and, all the while, the world sits on the brink of nuclear holocaust. The prospect of dynamic characters and compelling themes has only recently broached this sub-genre of films. The Watchmen makes a great deal of progress at raising the bar that much further, which is probably why it’s three hours long.

What is the Cleanest Way to Kill Male Chauvinism?: Divorce Italian Style (Kelsey)

Marcello Mastroianni enters the film "Divorce Italian Style" with his hair perfectly slicked back, his ubiquitous sunglasses covering his world weary eyes, and a cigarette holder dangling from the side of his mouth.  He is the picture of over-coiffed, under-worked, chauvinistic hauteur.  He also happens to be exiting the bathroom of a train.  And this entrance sets the tone of the entire movie: a bored aristocrat with a very distinct image of himself, perpetually undercut by the image being presented to us by Pietro Germi, the director of this 1962 Italian film.

The film is not merely Italian; however, it is very specifically a film about Sicily.  In Sicily, sons of Barons have nothing to do but sit around in their fathers' decaying castles, ruminating on their lineage and their honor while the voices of overbearing wives and screaming parents echo throughout the halls.  Such is the fate of Ferdinando, called Fefe by his adoring wife, who wanders about the overcrowded rooms in the family estate with the air of someone who is one last gasp away from asphyxiation.  So when this thirty-seven year old "falls in love" with his sixteen year old cousin, a pretty girl who lives on the other side of the crumbling castle, a viewer is less inclined to see it as true love and more inclined to greet the burgeoning relationship with a resounding "ew."  However, longing looks soon give way to physical affection, and in a way only acceptable in Italian films and E.M. Forster novels.  But while Fefe and his cousin Angela are off playing garden of earthly delights, there is still the problem of his wife, Rosalia.  And here we come back to Sicily.  Because in Sicily, divorce is completely, utterly, it's not even negotiable illegal.  Murder, however?  Is kind of okay, as long as there is sufficient reason.  So, Fefe hatches a plot to kill his wife, involving one of Rosalia's old flames, a tape recorder, a hole in the wall, and a fair amount of falsified evidence.  And his attempts at playing the mastermind work almost perfectly, until one night when the entire town has gathered to watch "La Dolce Vita."  Just as Anita Ekberg implores Fefe's onscreen counterpart to "Follow me, Marcello, follow me!"  Rosalia and her once upon a lover are following the last train out of town.  And of course they leave on a train, because in this tiny little world of Sicily, where the only thing people have to do is sit around in stifling rooms and narrate their own lives, trains don't merely give people momentum: they give the narrative momentum as well.

So poor Fefe is left in something of a quandary.  He has been dishonored, women spit at him in disgust, and he receives bags of hate mail.  However, he greets these new circumstances with the same level of detached disinterest with which he greets everything.  Indeed, when shuffling through his mail, when he comes upon a letter sympathetic to his plight, he tears it up, deeming it detrimental to the inevitable court case to come.  And come it does.  It is every bit as wonderful as Fefe had imagined it would be, as the lawyer touches on every topic from emotional distress to disreputable fathers.  And Fefe, of course, gets off with three years of jail time, the minimum sentence for crimes of passion.  And when he gets out, Angela has waited for him.  Sort of.  So perhaps life really does begin at forty.  Or perhaps Fefe is just sinking, sinking, sinking, just like his reputation post Rosalia's runaway and just like all those fantasies he had of Rosalia's death (death by boiling vat of soap and death by quicksand were the standouts).  But there is little else to do but sink, in this world where one day the news headline is about a man in space and the next day it's about a man killing his wife and getting away with it.  The times are changing and this world of Fefe, coated as it is in layers of hair pomade, sweat, and male chauvinism, is inevitably going to sink.  And personally? I vote death by vat of soap.     

Le Samourai: The Stuff that Dreams are Made of? (Kelsey)

The first shot of Jean Pierre Melville's 1967 film Le Samourai is of an impossibly sterile apartment room, a cold and impersonal place so drained of color that the film begins to echo the black and white film noirs from which it gets its inspiration.  But Le Samourai is saturated not with color but with an indefinable cool, and the mixture of film noir visuals, samurai ethos, and French existentialism creates a self contained world that is not so much Humphrey Bogart as it is Humphrey Bogart's fever dream.  Welcome to a world where fedoras are perfectly straight and trench coats are perfectly belted, where a hired assassin operates on a strictly regimented code of honor, and where such a code of honor is not only acceptable but, indeed, almost rational.   

The titular "samurai" is Jef Costello, a hired killer who says little and emotes even less. He has no past and no future, and he moves through the film like a ghost lurking in the shadows, surveying his prey with the detached eye of an observer.  He is invariably methodical about his job, but one day he is seen leaving the scene of a crime by a night club singer and his carefully constructed world begins to unravel.  He is questioned by the police, who have no proof of his guilt and to the very last can find no proof of it.  Thus begins the essential dilemma of the film: there is a man, a detective, searching for a concrete answer to a crime when the perpetrator of that very crime is an enigma, a character who has no reply to the question "What sort of man are you?"  If that question was posed to the anti-hero in an American film noir, it would be met with a pithy quip and perhaps a lingering shot on an inscrutable close-up. In Le Samourai, however, the question is answered by silence and an abrupt cut to a new scene, a fact that makes sense in this film, where dialogue is replaced by wordless overtures and where extended sequences are uninterrupted by speech.

In this mostly silent world of unanswered questions, the only way to answer the all-important "what sort of man are you?" conundrum is with a meticulous devotion to order.  The only way out of a world devoid of order and meaning is to impose order upon it, and that is exactly what Jef does.  In his world, this existential problem is solved by the perfectly straight row of mineral water on his bedside table and by his perfectly anachronistic Humphrey Bogart attire.  The problem is, as soon as he dons his genre-defining outfit, his fate is essentially sealed.  Because not only does Jef Costello operate on a code of ethics, the film itself does as well, and in its adherence to the generic precepts of both noir and samurai films, Jef is essentially left with a pre-ordained future.  And this future comes when he inevitably violates his own code of honor: when he establishes a personal connection with an intended victim, and when he steps out of the shadows and into the line of sight, his fate is as sealed as it is self-inflicted. 

At the end of The Maltese Falcon, when Humphrey Bogart is asked by a detective what the falcon is, he replies: "The stuff that dreams are made of."  Jef Costello has no such emblem of wasted effort and unreachable goals, but he too has a bird: a sad, molting thing that sits in the corner of his apartment and chirps.  It is grey, just like the rest of the room, but it is strangely anomalous, this tiny bird living in the midst of Jef's sterile orderliness.  And yet it is details like this that make the film so potent and that come to define the strange world that Melville has so fastidiously created.  And at the end of the film, when no platitudes or definitive answers are offered (in fact, the last spoken word is translated into English as "wrong"), one can't help but wonder what happened to Jef's sad little bird, left alone in his cage in that sad grey room.  But in this minimalist dream world of taut suspense and hired killers with a code, this is perhaps the least of the unanswered questions.

Against the Odds - Chris & Don: A Love Story (Carlos)

You could argue that “Chris & Don: A Love Story” is a documentary about two gay men who serendipitously meet and fall in love. You could also say that it's about a thirty-plus year relationship between two individuals thirty years of age apart. It's also about an acclaimed and accomplished novelist who takes a young lover under his wing and inspires him to become a prolific portrait artist. The filmmakers contend that these aspects, while relevant, are merely incidental: the documentary at its core is a moving story about two people who felt an ineffable connection to one another and fell madly in love, and a lot of good can come from just that.

British author Christopher Isherwood (The Berlin Stories) meets 18-year-old LA-native Don Bachardy at a Santa Monica beach on Valentine's Day 1953. He and Chris hit it off with a bang: their clumsy first kiss smashed a glass window. This event was the start of an unconventional thirty-four year relationship between two openly gay men embedded in Hollywood society at a time where such a thing was strictly taboo. 

 

Don Bachardy recalls the early years as ecstasy. Despite the jeers and homophobic remarks from such people as actor Joseph Cotton, who regarded Chris and Don as "half-men" (never to Chris's face, of course), the electric couple was blissfully happy, each man confessing that they'd finally felt complete. Don explains that although he was born and bred in California, he began to develop a British accent and a heightened tone of speaking, as a result of spending so much time with Chris during those years. He likened himself to a chameleon, unconsciously mimicking his lover, idol, and father figure. As the documentary states, Don had successfully cloned himself... "In some weird way." 

 

“Chris & Don” is peppered with enriching anecdotes, of both the relevant and extraneous sort. One of the more memorable stories involves Bachardy's first encounter with hashish on a trip to Morocco with Isherwood. The drug doesn't sit well with him and he spends the rest of the night in a state of horrific paranoia. Curled up in bed, Chris holds and comforts Don throughout the night. Filmmakers Guido Santi and Tina Mascara have chosen all the right events to recount. Moments like these are particularly poignant in that they illustrate a truly affectionate and unconditional romance between two men who care deeply for one another. 

 

What make the film a treat to watch are the featured clips of home movies captured by Chris and Don themselves. The 16mm color film footage is vibrant and pristine -- without any evidence of deterioration or discoloration. It looked as though it could have been shot yesterday. After the screening the directors concurred it was miracle the footage had survived all this time. Don had "stored" them for years at room temperature, in the living room cabinet, facing the ocean. The footage documents the couple passing time with friends and traveling together, giving all the talk about a loyal and loving relationship weight and texture. Also interwoven are animated sequences reflecting Chris’s and Don's correspondences in which each was assigned a symbolic animal: a horse and a kitten, respectfully. Over these sequences we hear their letters spoken. What first appears to be a silly and playful exercise develops into a device demonstrating stalwart devotion and mutual respect, introducing a dimension of tenderness that continues to resonate throughout the length of the film. 

 

A brilliant and thoughtful move by the filmmakers was their approach to documenting Isherwood's passing. Stricken with prostate cancer, the last months of Chris's life were tough on the couple. Don stayed very close and tended to Chris's every need. He continued to sketch portraits of Chris until his dying day -- sometimes up to nine or ten drawings a day. Over Don's narration, the documentary runs through these intimate portraits and the result is incredibly moving. Don asserts that as an artist he cannot help but identify with his subjects, and in Chris's case Don was dying alongside him. 

 

Always in the shadow of his accomplished significant other, it was very difficult for Don Bachardy during the early years of their relationship. It was only until Don established himself as a gifted portrait artist that he was able to overcome this stigma. The tail end of the film documents Don's prolific artistic career, which was spurred by Chris's insistence that he attend art school. Even today, at 74 Don continues to paint and sketch portraits, most notably of celebrities and other painters. It's clear Don's talent is all his own; the filmmakers confirm for any lingering doubters that “Chris & Don” is a story about not one, but two extraordinary men in their own right. 

 

“Chris & Don” for others may be about two gay men triumphing over constraining societal conventions, but for me it stands well enough as a touching love story that craftily and elegantly pulls at the heart strings and convinces viewers to acknowledge, quite persuasively, that love can happen between anyone, and if you give it your all it gives back plenty.

 

"Chris & Don: A Love Story" (2007). 90 minutes. Directed by Guido Santi and Tina Mascara

Street Symphonies (and Period Piece Cacophonies): Keitel and DiCaprio as Scorsese's Leading Men (Christen)

Regardless of the few projects he probably should have left alone, Scorsese has made a lasting impression in the gangster genre with two films made over thirty years apart. After I finished The Departed (2006) and watched Mean Streets (1973) for the third time, I resolved that Scorsese’s gangster films were gospel to my eyes. Both films are marked by impressive casts, which are led by Leonardo DiCaprio and Harvey Keitel, respectively, as well as the reverence Scorsese shows to his early film influences. Scorsese’s first feature length film, Who’s That Knocking At My Door (1968), also stars Harvey Keitel and it screams inspiration from French cinema; however, there are definitely the starting patterns of Scorsese’s interest in religion as a thematic concern and the infamous use of his personal record collection. The movie is about a young man in New York City, J.R. (played by Harvey Keitel), and his relationship to a girl with no name (played by Zina Bethune). Their relationship is innocent enough until she confides in him that she was raped before they started dating. For the rest of the film we see J.R. stumble through this conflict between his love for the Girl and his resentment toward her, which produces few memorable moments other than the eyebrow raising final scene. For me, the best scene in the film is after she tells him what happened to her; this particular scene brings out a lot of genuine hurt in Harvey Keitel that you wouldn’t expect from such a young actor. Considering he had to play against a pretty stale Zina Bethune, I have to applaud Keitel for being able to work with anything. In acting classes, I’ve learned that if you listen to the other person in a scene, your dialogue will be golden; you can see Keitel hearing what she’s said and then taking it in, slow to understand at first and then faster, his confused fury gaining momentum. In the end, this screenplay doesn’t give him much; I think Mean Streets is infinitely better.

 Mean Streets starts with a black frame and a voice (Martin Scorsese’s) saying: “You don't make up for your sins in church. You do it in the streets. You do it at home. The rest is bullshit and you know it.” Charlie (Keitel) then wakes up in a sweat, as if he just suffered a bad dream; but we’ve seen only darkness, and we only hear the words that pull Charlie out of this darkness and guide his actions for the rest of the film. Charlie wants to do his own penance as opposed to saying the ‘Hail Marys’ and ‘Our Fathers’ that the priests give to sinners looking for guidance. He tries to look out for his loud-mouthed, juvenile friend Johnny Boy (played by Robert DeNiro) and maintain a secret relationship with Johnny’s cousin, Teresa, all while trying to pull off some upward mobility by collecting owed money for his uncle. Harvey Keitel does a lot as Charlie that is worth watching again and again; in fact, the entire cast works ridiculously well together, which makes it an instant classic. Scorsese is speaking more in this film than in Who’s That Knocking At My Door, as we see him playing with his notorious tracking shot, red lighting and his affection for New York City in so many shots.

Thirty-three years later, The Departed boasts an almost entirely male cast list that still blows my mind and Scorsese makes a move up north to Boston as his featured locale. If you’ve never heard of it, it’s Scorsese’s most recent gangster film and it is downright wonderful. Before I watched it, I had some qualms about Leonardo DiCaprio playing a lead role and that’s because Leo in Scorsese’s hands equals me falling asleep. I may be the only person in the world that thought Gangs of New York (2002) and The Aviator (2004) were kind of on the mundane side (again the Academy Awards and I totally disagree), but I don’t think Scorsese was being reasonable when he invested in the belief that DiCaprio could help well-rounded actors like Daniel Day-Lewis and Cate Blanchett carry a film. A young Harvey Keitel probably would have knocked DiCaprio’s Howard Hughes out of the park, but the world will never know. Suffice it to say, I think Scorsese finally cast DiCaprio appropriately as Billy Costigan in The Departed, which got Scorsese the long awaited Best Director Academy Award.

Then, just as I was patting Scorsese on the back for a job well done, he went and made a choice I may never forgive him for: he cast Leonardo DiCaprio as Theodore Roosevelt in an upcoming biopic. I nodded off just thinking about it! Leo, Marty and period films do not mix; I’m especially concerned with period films about mortal legends like Teddy. Coincidentally, I learned a good deal about Theodore Roosevelt this summer from a good friend; I learned that Teddy Roosevelt was probably the most awe-inspiring president to exist…ever. I won’t go into details here, but he truly led a remarkable life and I’m not sure if DiCaprio can handle it. In order for Leonardo to earn this role, in my eyes, he would have to take a crash course in Teddy-ism. He needs to create and join a cavalry regiment to the same extent as the Rough Riders, as well as wrestle a bear. If Leo can survive, then he may have what it takes to tell the tale of a truly remarkable man. In other words, Harvey Keitel is probably up for playing the part.