HopkinsCinemAddicts

Can we manipulate who we actually hate, and who we truly love?

Oldboy (2003), is a South Korean neo-noir film directed by Park Chan-wook. The film starts with the main character, Oh Dae-su, being kidnapped on his daughter’s birthday and locked in a sealed hotel room for 15 years. It is undoubtedly that the story develops with Oh’s avenge of the person who kidnapped him, but the film is indeed more about love.  

While the film is shot from Oh’s perspective, I would like to interpret the love and hatred of the antagonist, Lee woo-jin’s view. Lee fell in love with his sister, and Oh accidentally saw their incest in their high school. After Oh told the story to his friends, rumors spread out in their neighborhood and eventually led to Lee’s sister’s suicide. As bystanders, we recognize his sister’s death as the tragedy of the judgment from society towards incest. However, for Lee, Oh is the only specific person he could possibly blame, especially deep inside his mind, he knows that his cowardess and weakness to protect the forbidden love is another determinant of his sister’s suicide. Lee’s sister’s photos are all over Lee’s wall in his penthouse, but outside his house, he almost never committed his love for her to anyone. Lee’s sister is his most valuable treasure but his deepest secret. The beginning of Lee’s hatred of Oh is the only solution that Lee could think of to make justice for his existence after his sister’s death. Lee can’t manipulate the world to accept their love, but at least he can manipulate Oh.

Therefore, Lee uses hypnosis to set Oh to fall in love with his daughter, Mi-do, after he is set free from the cell. For Lee, letting Oh experience incest is the best way to revenge and torture him. Nevertheless, at the climax of the film, when Lee reveals that Mi-do is Oh’s daughter, Lee doesn’t gain the excitement he has been expecting for 15 years. To prevent Lee from telling Mi-do the truth, Oh knees down and licks Lee’s shoes, begging him like a dog. Eventually, Oh uses the scissors to cut his tongue, using this extreme way to punish himself for saying Lee’s incest, even though it was supposed to be the moment that Oh avenges Lee for the 15 years of torture he had been through. Both of them know that Lee has complete control over Oh, but Oh’s desperate reaction to keep the secret convinces Lee of his love for Mi-do and also arouses Lee’s compunction for letting his sister suicided. His hatred becomes the respect he has for the man who is now experiencing the same torn for loving his blood family, and Oh’s valor to protect Mi-do is what Lee wished he could have had. While in terms of the mise-en-scene, the intense violence and distorting bloodiness in this sequence were disturbing to watch at first, while it also functions as a way to contradict the dirty world and pure love. No matter how much blood they get, there is a place in their heart that needs to be kept absolutely clean.

The love between the immediate blood family in the film is controversial, and we never know if the love between Oh and Mi-do is because of manipulation or not. But if we think about this, the concept of “incest” is also the product of social restraint, a cage that human beings build for ourselves. And when this uncontrollable feeling appears as how it is, shall we embrace it, forget it, or destroy it? Should we manipulate our minds and fight against the world to protect the purity of our love, like how Oh chooses to get hypnotized again and forget that Mi-do is his daughter? Or should we give up on our lives like Lee and his sister and try reaching another world where there are no interruptions from outside?

Instead of searching for the answer to who we love, it might be easier to just accept the feelings we have and do our best to protect this uncontrollable feeling that almost every human being has.

Very Important Persons: Period Satire in The Death of Stalin and The Favourite

In the typical fashion of political satire, monarchies and oligarchies serve as wells of comedy in Yorgos Lanthimos’ The Favourite (2018) and Armando Iannucci’s The Death of Stalin (2017). Its subjects, however, are out of power; The Favourite depicts the court of Queen Anne of Great Britain in the early 18th century, and The Death of Stalin, while recent history, depicts the ruling committee of a now-dissolved nation. From score to costuming to set design, these films embrace period drama conventions and root themselves in history. This genre-melding provides a viewpoint of the human condition that neither contemporary satire nor straightforward historical accounts can access on their own.

Set in the Soviet Union in 1953, The Death of Stalin portrays the central committee’s response to their leader’s demise and their ensuing power struggle, which ends in one member’s execution and Nikita Khrushchev’s rise to power. The committee members are simultaneously old friends and bitter rivals, at times timid and other times ruthless. Comic actors play many of its essential roles, most notably Steve Buscemi as Khrushchev and Jeffrey Tambor as Malenkov, Stalin’s gullible successor. This casting reflects the film’s irreverent approach to depicting historical figures, as it imagines comedic situations and banter within the context of high-stakes political turmoil.

As the audience witnesses mythic figures portrayed as fallible humans, the characters themselves experience the same with Stalin’s passing. The committee finds their leader’s dead body on the floor of his office, collapsed in a puddle of urine. They perform grief, and it’s not clear who the exaggeration is meant to convince — it could be Stalin, the other ministers, even themselves. The film finds humor in this grief; Malenkov proclaims that Stalin is irreplaceable, for example, before pointing out that he’s the successor. “Calamity, calamity,” Khrushchev laments as he casually takes off his coat. As the characters state their distress, the camera remains impersonally distant rather than capturing their faces in close-up as one might expect.

There’s also the running joke of the urine puddle: After his proclamation of grief, Malenkov steps on the wet spot and asks, “Is this?” as the camera tilts down to the puddle. The others make the same mistake and then warn the others, who shuffle around the spot. Each time, the grief is quickly interrupted and abandoned. These trivial asides often occur in long shots where Stalin’s horizontal body remains in frame, rendering him an afterthought, which further minimizes the gravity of death as an individual — what his death means commands much attention. The men then hoist the body off the ground together, shuffling and giving each other commands as though they were transporting furniture.

The levity of this scene seems dissonant with the historical significance of Stalin’s death; the committee’s reactions ask us to consider the difference between what Stalin represented versus Stalin as an individual. His physical body becomes an inconvenience in this scene, and as the ministers deal with the material reality of his death rather than its abstract meaning, the film convinces us of their status as human beings rather than historical concepts.

The Favourite takes a similarly candid approach in representing Queen Anne, its highest-ranking character. I say highest ranking because Anne, while the most powerful character in name, is vulnerable to other characters’ emotional power over her. The film sees Anne most often in a passive role, reacting to her surrounding circumstances. The central conflict occurs between Anne’s trusted confidant and lover Sarah Churchill and her cousin Abigail, whose arrival changes the court’s status quo. While Sarah’s influence over Anne allows her to influence her decision-making, Abigail develops a friendship with Anne that challenges Sarah’s political and emotional power over her.

The value of winning Anne’s favor means that the smallest actions, like a certain intonation or glance, can have significant consequences for the characters’ relationships. Anne’s power — or rather, her title — actually makes her more susceptible to manipulation. She expects to be catered to and cared for, surrendering agency as an exercise of privilege.

Early in the film, Abigail pours Anne hot chocolate, but Sarah stops her, telling Anne it’s unhealthy. Anne protests; the camera captures Abigail, confused, facing the other two on the couch as they argue. She stands with the cup in a low-angle shot, as though from Anne’s vantage point. Though low-angle shots often assign the subject power, this one seems unique. This angle exemplifies the bizarre power dynamic in Anne’s close relationships, as Anne requires her subordinates to dote on her. Sarah, for instance, regulates Anne’s diet to a comical extent; although she allows Anne to drink the hot chocolate, Anne lets the cup sit untouched, signaling her faith in Sarah’s judgment.

The absurdity of this exchange also results from its contrast with Sarah and Anne’s preceding political discussion. As we watch Abigail pour the hot chocolate, the other two talk offscreen about Anne’s raising property taxes to fund the war against France, at Sarah’s insistence. “Are the people really angry about the land tax?” Anne asks. These far-reaching policy decisions take place in the background, speaking to Anne’s limited regard for her actual governing power. Severely detached from the nation she rules, she treats politics as she does interpersonal relationships. Her fickleness and naivety speak to the isolating effect that power can have on a human being, warping their perspective.

As a result, the competition for Anne’s affection is also a competition for power. Her lopsided priorities fuel much of the film’s humor, producing situational irony as the characters assign grave importance to trivial interactions. In this way, The Favourite achieves a similar tone as The Death of Stalin, balancing humor and darkness, but by depicting exaggerated reverence rather than irreverence.

Essential for both The Death of Stalin and The Favourite and distinguishing them from standard cinematic accounts of history is their focus on interpersonal pettiness, which not only brings abstract historical figures to life but makes their humanity plainly visible. The films derive humor from how their neuroses and social blunders fuel political conflict. These foibles aren’t just entertaining, though; they have major consequences for society at large. The contrast between characters’ earthly concerns and their lofty titles and responsibility allows both films to tread a fine line between comedy and darkness. With their faults amplified by considerable power, the ruling class drags subordinates and the public into their internal conflicts, a dynamic neither film allows us to forget.

Lost In America Embalms the New Hollywood Road Movie with 80s Cynicism

Lost In America (dir. Albert Brooks, 1985) tells the story of a married professional couple who “drop out” of society to roam the United States in an RV à la Easy Rider. The irony is inherent to the concept, but the narrative unfolds it to its full potential by prodding its characters incrementally toward their inevitable failure. Unlike its self serious predecessor’s approach of tragic irony, Lost In America handles the futility of the American dream with the deranged comedic detachment of resignation to the (admittedly comfortable, albeit monotonous) status quo in an arch eulogy for the New Hollywood road movie.

David and Linda Howard are quintessential yuppies. Their identity is defined by this era-specific term that denotes upward social and financial mobility. David quits his advertising job not on principle, but out of frustration after being denied a promotion. They liquefy all of their assets into a comfortable “nest egg” to live on for their remaining years: not exactly “free-spirited.” And their first stop is Las Vegas, the American mecca of consumerist debauchery. Again, every additional element heightens the film’s satirical premise.

In Vegas, soft-spoken Linda reveals herself to be a compulsive gambler and loses the entire nest egg in the middle of the night. David’s comically disgraceful attempt to convince the casino owner to refund the Howards their money, complete with a desperate advertising pitch featuring Santa Claus, establishes that his professional skills are unhelpful outside of an office and cannot help him in the “real world.” Linda, too, proves unadaptable to these non-yuppie environs through her inability to control herself at the blackjack table, thereby threatening a marriage built on stasis and responsibility and financial comfort.

Beside the Hoover Dam, the couple argue over the plot of Easy Rider. We never see the national landmark in all its glory; instead, we linger on the side of the road as the Howards bicker about whether Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper “dropped out with nothing” or “sold a ton of cocaine” at the beginning of the movie (they did the latter, a point which further tarnishes the ideological purity of both pairs’ endeavors).

Both David and Linda view the lifestyle depicted in that movie as exemplary in some way, even though the film itself is arguably about the disappointing “reality” of such a lifestyle. David and Linda bond with a police officer over their love of the film and he tears up their ticket as a result. That an officer of the law could adore a film with staunchly anti-establishment leanings indicates a misunderstanding and re-appropriation of an American cultural touchstone made possible by the superficial concerns of the “yuppie” era.

Linda and David’s decision to go to New York and “eat shit” for David to retain his old job, followed by a montage of the increasingly exhausted travelers driving across the country set to Frank Sinatra’s “New York, New York” satirizes the couple’s renewed faith in the stifling yuppie lifestyle as euphorically positive, highlighting the romanticized nature of that vision with the use of the iconic song over less-optimistic footage of the RV merging with choked-up city traffic - a less visceral but more insidious final image than the explosion at the end of Easy Rider.

Sleeping with a Friend: Sex, Friendship, and Love in "When Harry Met Sally" and "Sleeping with Other People"

Spoilers for When Harry Met Sally and Sleeping with Other People.

When Harry Met Sally (1989), a now–classic film, has plenty of references to other classic love stories, from discussions of Casablanca (1942) to the Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald oldies on the soundtrack. Interspersed throughout are talking heads of elderly couples sharing their love stories, marking the pivotal points of Harry and Sally’s story. At first, the pair is positioned as complete opposites — Sally the high–maintenance optimist to Harry’s smarmy cynic — yet as their friendship develops, their vulnerabilities and compatibility gradually come to the fore, and the two prove endearing and funny in equal measure.

But first, some false starts. The film begins somewhat stereotypically, trapping Harry and Sally in a car driving from Chicago to New York. Their initial antagonism and the question they debate — Can men and women really be friends? — are just red herrings, however, that mock the forced antagonism of other rom–coms. The road trip that might have taken ninety minutes in another film is over within fifteen, and Harry and Sally separate with no expectation of meeting ever again.

Nevertheless, this is a rom–com and they are reunited twice more — during a flight five years later, picking up their disagreement right where they left off, and then a third time five more years later, after both have just exited serious relationships. This time, they go to lunch, unpacking their respective breakups and finally agreeing to be friends. Although both are getting over their exes and have no intention of dating, the film hints at what’s to come — the beginning of their friendship mimics Harry’s dating pattern that he described earlier, getting a “safe lunch” together before going to dinner, as the film’s theme, “It Had to Be You,” plays unobtrusively.

© Sam Valadi / CC BY 2.0

What follows is a montage, both morose and comedic, of the pair moving on from their breakups and wandering New York City together, while a phone call between them is heard in voiceover. The sequence ends with a split screen as they watch Casablanca on the same channel from their respective apartments. Although the contrast between Sally’s cheery bedroom and Harry’s dreary one reflect their differing personalities, the scene emphasizes their compatibility and connectedness. The couple spends much of the film seated across from one another at various outings, filmed in shot–reverse shot, but here they are side–by–side.

Although their determination to remain platonic complicates their eventual romantic feelings and delays their happy ending by a few months, Harry and Sally’s compatibility is underscored by their friendship. They are brutally honest and courageously vulnerable with one another, sharing details of their romantic trials and sex lives, including the iconic scene in which Sally fakes an orgasm in a diner to prove to Harry how easy it is. The film’s ultimate message has nothing to do with whether men and women can be just friends, instead demonstrating that the best relationships begin with friendship.

Sleeping with Other People (2015) has a very similar premise and structure, to the point that writer–director Leslye Headland described it as “‘When Harry Met Sally’ for assholes.”¹ In it, Jake and Lainey, who lost their virginity to each other in college, reunite twelve years later after each has gone through a bad breakup. Both are serial cheaters who sabotage all of their relationships — Jake because he is cynical about love and too immature to just break up with his girlfriends; Lainey because she keeps going back to her neglectful recurring fling, Matt. Although it also asks whether men and women can be friends, the film is similarly disinterested in answering that question, but for different reasons.

Jake and Lainey admit to their mutual attraction very early on in the movie, but agree not to act on it, determined not to sabotage their nascent friendship. This accord is followed by a montage of the pair growing closer that mirrors that of When Harry Met Sally, including the split screen at the conversation’s end, the voiceover updated from a phone call to a text exchange. Yet while Lainey is shown getting over Matt, Jake continues his womanizing ways and the split screen of the last shot expands to fill the whole screen to show his departing one–night stand, out of frame while he spoke to Lainey.

Although Jake and Lainey have similar issues with commitment and even, it’s suggested, sex addiction, only Lainey is shown actually overcoming her problems, finally standing up for herself against Matt and applying to med school, a long–delayed ambition. Jake, by contrast, remains the same for much of the montage and the film, rarely opening up to Lainey, only to suddenly realize that he’s in love with her. Lainey reciprocates, but neither acts on their feelings — she’s moving to Michigan for med school and he’s afraid to ruin their friendship.

© Sofiamoreiralima / CC-BY-SA-4.0

Jake’s static character development is epitomized by the scene where he teaches Lainey how to masturbate, using a plastic bottle to demonstrate. Instead of mutually learning about relationships from each other, as Harry and Sally do, Jake instructs Lainey about relations with men and herself, placing himself in a position of mastery. He does not change so much as realize that Lainey is “the one,” a concept whose existence he spent his entire adulthood denying.

This is the one of the main differences between the two films. When Harry Met Sally is dominated by its leads and the growth they experience together. Rare is the scene that isn’t an intimate or important moment for the two, as they come to terms with their flaws and their love. Significantly, Harry and Sally watch their best friends Jess and Marie fall in love, an undeniable reminder to snatch up a compatible partner when you find them. In comparison, Sleeping with Other People distracts from its main romance with other flings and its secondary characters tell Jake and Lainey what their flaws are, instead of showing them. The movie is a little grittier, a little meaner — in its portrayal of its characters, the framing of New York’s streets, even in its EDM soundtrack and movie references (The Graduate (1967) and Misery (1990)). Although both films share a similar message — the importance of friendship as a foundation for love — and feature a happy ending, the former is a cleaner depiction, emotionally and filmically, while the latter isn’t afraid to show life’s messiness, even if it confuses the narrative.

¹ Nick Allen. “Sleeping with Other People.” Review, September 11, 2015. https://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/sleeping-with-other-people-2015

The Deconstruction of the Horror Film

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Bird's Coming-of-Age Journey

“I wish I could live through something,” states the protagonist of Lady Bird at the beginning of the film. As the titular heroine, Christine “Lady Bird” McPherson, rides in the car with her mother, Marion, she expresses this desire to attach a grand meaning to her life. This meaning, we quickly learn, does not exist for her in Sacramento, her hometown. “I hate California. I want to go to the east coast,” she says, and a close-up shot of her looking out the car window emphasizes how she yearns to be across the country, far from the colleges that she and her mother have just taken a road trip to tour. The flat, dull and unchanging landscape that the car moves through helps frame her desire for escape. 

This desire of Lady Bird’s launches the first conflict in the film: an argument between her and her mother, who sees it as an example of her daughter’s selfishness and lack of gratitude. The addition of this conflict in the scene is subtly matched by Marion’s turning of the car; their previously straight path and corresponding fluidity have been disrupted. They begin talking over one another, and their eyes fail to meet for the rest of the scene, as the camera alternates between individual close-ups of each of them. These elements serve to establish their opposing points of view; in this conversation, they are not truly listening, but simply speaking, reacting, and revealing their frustrations with the other. To free herself from this fight, Lady Bird jumps out of the moving car — an action that both comically and strikingly encapsulates her feelings of confinement. Marion screams, and the film quickly cuts to a close-up of a hot pink cast on her arm, with the words “fuck you mom” written on top. The cast matches her dyed pink hair, and both serve as markers of her individuality throughout the film.

These initial few minutes set up a focus on mother-daughter conflict and an adolescent’s struggle for what they want, which is a central theme of the film. In the first part, we continue to see that Lady Bird feels her life is lacking in several ways, some small and others large. For example, she and her best friend, Julie, walk through a wealthy neighborhood after school, with quick cuts of them longingly looking at the grand, beautiful homes. Then she wants her mother to buy her a magazine, so she can read it in bed as “rich people do”, rather than having to borrow it from the library. It is this dissatisfaction with her environment, and her to desire to leave California, that most prominently ties her to her mother. The film uses their perceptions of Sacramento, and their movements through it, to distance them at the beginning and connect them at the end. 

Early on in the film, Marion drives home from work, and there are several small, simple but beautiful cuts of Sacramento on her ride home. Shots of Marion are interspersed, and John Hartford’s “This Eve of Parting” plays. Marion is constantly grounded in reality, and an abrupt cut from the song to a slamming of her car door, reminds us of this at the end of the sequence. Before that, though, there appears to be her peaceful, almost romantic admiration of setting. 

Lady Bird, on the other hand, is focused on escape. She constantly rejects Sacramento, an act which Marion ostensibly takes to be a rejection of everything she has tried to give her. These opposing perspectives of their home, and what Lady Bird’s place in the world can be, push them apart. However, the end of the film brings them back together by recalling Marion’s drive in a couple of ways. When Lady Bird receives her acceptance letter for a school in New York, “The Eve of Parting” plays again. Marion, angry that Lady Bird had secretly applied to east schools, has ceased speaking to her at this point. But the song functions as a poignant reminder of their bond, and how Marion has to come to terms with Lady Bird’s departure. At the very end, after Lady Bird has arrived in New York, she calls her parents. As she speaks, the film cuts to shots of the same drive in Sacramento, and then it alternates between Marion and Lady Bird each driving alone in the car. As Lady Bird looks out of her window, there is a clear appreciation of and comfort in Sacramento that she never held before. Here, there is finally a resolution where we become aware of Lady Bird’s growth and her connection with her mother.

What is also interesting to me about Lady Bird is how much of her identity is ill-defined. She isn’t particularly interested in or good at one thing, but she hopes to be, which makes her a more ordinary yet more dimensional character than typical coming-of-age protagonists. For example, it’s her senior year and she sits in the office of a nun at her Catholic school, where she says it’s her tradition to run for student government, but she knows she won’t win. Similarly, she says she’d like to join the math olympiad team, to which the nun says: “But math isn’t something you’re terribly strong in.” The nun also pushes her to audition for the theater group’s fall musical, which Lady Bird didn’t even know existed until now. She gets a minor role in the musical, but complains: “The part I got was basically not getting in.” Then she abandons the group in the spring, refusing to audition for the play. 

What we never doubt that she genuinely cares about, though, is the abstract idea of freedom and what her future could entail. Her desire for going to New York isn’t rooted in something specific, but just in her belief that it has “culture”. Lady Bird stands in contrast to Julie and Jenna, the “popular girl” that she befriends, who are both content to stay in Sacramento. She also doesn’t have proof that she deserves what she aspires to have, and is reminded of this at different instances, like when her counselor initially laughs at the idea of her applying to east coast schools. Lady Bird simply wants, and she shows us that that’s reason enough.

Beyond Comedy: Napoleon Dynamite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ditch That Witch

Here’s a paradox, sort of:

Movies are a ‘visual medium.’ The Blair Witch Project is a movie. The central (most effective, most memorable) element of The Blair Witch Project is the Blair Witch. The Blair Witch never appears on screen.

Then where is the Blair Witch? You don’t hear it, touch it, taste it (thank god), or smell it. At best, you see where it’s been and what it’s done—or maybe not even that. You don’t really know for sure if it exists, although you’re given pretty good reason to believe that something awful and unexplainable lives in those woods.

So the Blair Witch doesn’t exist, but it also definitely does exist. It’s in the title, and the first section of the movie is just talking heads explaining the witch’s lore. It’s also in your head throughout the entire duration of the film (and, in my case, for several years afterwards).

The Blair Witch Project is an excellent example of a movie that scares you by not showing you something. This is a pretty widely talked about concept in horror across all mediums; you’ve probably heard the phrases ‘fear of the unknown’ or ‘the scariest monster is the one you don’t see’. Stephen King talks about this in Danse Macabre: “Nothing is so frightening as what's behind the closed door. The audience holds its breath along with the protagonist as she/he approaches that door. The protagonist throws it open, and there is a ten-foot-tall bug. The audience screams, but this particular scream has an oddly relieved sound to it. 'A bug ten feet tall is pretty horrible', the audience thinks, 'but I can deal with a ten-foot-tall bug. I was afraid it might be a hundred feet tall.’ ”

How does this work in The Blair Witch Project and why is it effective? I believe there are three key ingredients to a terrifying offscreen monster:

1. Your imagination is pre-loaded. – As I mentioned earlier, the first section of the movie is devoted to telling you all about the Blair Witch. This is incredibly important to the movie because it primes the audience’s imaginations. If the Blair Witch was given no more background than “Hey there’s a witch out in the woods,” then the audience would either not think too much about what the witch looks like or, worse yet, use their currently existing archetype of witches to picture it. The general concept of a witch in American lore is really not that scary (no thanks to The Wizard of Oz). A witch is usually a green older woman with a pointy nose and a pointy hat and a big cauldron (if you need evidence of this, google ‘witch’). The movie doesn’t want this kind of witch; it wants a creature so horrible and unimaginable that it can’t even be visualized on screen. In order to get the audience to create such a monster with their own imaginations, the movie plants seeds—little details, rumors, and legends at the beginning of the movie are kept just vague enough to allow the viewer to envision something far worse than any special effects could render.
2. You know it’s out there. – While trying to seem clever at the beginning of this post, I said The Blair Witch Project was like a paradox when really it isn’t. As with most all horror movies, what you see is what scares you—the only notable difference is that this movie’s visuals scare you through implication, specifically the implication that there’s something horrible in the woods. The Blair Witch is effective because it’s constantly reaffirming the idea that’s just around the corner, that it’s hiding in those bushes, that it’s right behind you. When our three protagonists wake up in the forest after a night of strange and unexplainable noises outside their tent, they find that something/someone has placed little wooden symbols all around the camp. The witch was right there in their camp while they were sleeping. This point is crucial, as it differentiates the witch from a character like Godot—the audience needs to know that the witch is a physical presence and a threat, not some far away concept.
3. You almost see it – The trick to the ‘unknown’ being so horrible is that you’re always almost on the brink of knowing it. Heather, the main character and director of the eponymous Blair Witch Project, screams something like ‘OH MY GOD WHAT IS THAT??’ when sprinting through the woods at night and catching a glimpse of something that was probably the witch. We don’t see what she sees, but we come so close that it’s agonizing. Sitting on the cusp of a horrifying revelation is sort of like a meta version of peeking around a corner. The tension of almost realizing our fears, of wanting to see it but also desperately not wanting to, elevates the terror of the monster to explosive levels.

The Blair Witch Project created its monster with a tiny budget and a whole lot of well executed creativity, and the end result was a solid proof of concept that the most chilling tool in a filmmaker’s kit can be simple exclusion.

Doctor Sleep and American Cinema Iconography (Cristina)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Red and Revenge in Oldboy and Lady Vengeance (Nita)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Good Place and Redefining the Sitcom (Cristina)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fury Road: The Car Is a Penis (Eric)

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

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

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

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

   

 

Sex and the Domestic Sphere in Slasher Movies (Charlotte)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spoilers ahead for the film!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

John Hughes and the "Silent" Scene (Charlotte)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until then, some house music:

In The Beginning (There Was Jack)

Move Your Body

Hot Stuff (Ralphi Rosario And Erick Ibiza 2018 Rework)

 

Finding a New God in Film (Jin)

 

 

The vampire movie genre has become so hopelessly imbued with the increasily cheesy image of Count Dracula and the overtly romanticized Twilight vampires, that it’d be a waste of time to argue that the film Let the Right One In could redeem the genre as a whole. When watching this film, it is best to forget the vampire context entirely and instead judge it with fresh expectations: not as a horror or romance movie, but as a film reframing human loneliness.

Oskar, the protagonist, with his elvish white hair and equally pale skin, is the perfect picture of adolescent frailty. Nothing conveys loneliness better than the spindly twelve-year old kid being viciously assaulted by school bullies. He is entirely defenseless against his tormentors, and when set against the stark landscape of Swedish winter, his despair is painfully palpable.

By the time his unlikely savior appears in the shape of a small scruffy girl, Eli, we’ve already grown a strong attachment to Oskar. Despite showing hints of nascent homicidal tendencies, such as collecting newspaper clippings of murder cases and habitually play-acting stabbing his bullies, Oskar and his alienation in his divorced home background and complete friendlessness stirs our own childhood memories of loneliness. He carries a deep-rooted longing for understanding that is seeded in each and every one of us, and watching Eli finally fulfilling Oskar’s aching need of a friend is nearly cathartic. The fact that she happens to be a centuries-old vampire and that she possesses a pedophilic, middle-aged caretaker, Håkan, fades away into the background when watching her and Oskar experience emotional intimacy for the first time. As they are lying in bed together, Eli playfully tapping her fingers along Oskar’s back, she is no longer a brutal murderer and he is no longer the troubled child. They are simply two children, bound by a keen longing for companionship.   

The film’s poignancy rises, not just from its ability to draw out our empathy, but on its contextual dissection of the human condition: isolation. Each character, such as the bullies, Håkan, and Oskar’s neighbors, are all marked by traces of loneliness, whether it be helplessly tormenting Oskar in fear of being bullied himself or living alone in a dim apartment broiling with cats. More importantly, each one has found themselves an object of worship: the schoolkid worships the bully leader, the isolated neighbor worships his cats, Håkan worships Eli, and more. Though the film does not rely heavily on religious references, Eli serves in clearly establishing the film’s existential worldview. Oskar, in his suffering, has created himself a religion. First, by poring over the murder-case newspaper clippings and recreating himself as a brutal avenger in his imagination, then by selecting Eli as his physical deity. Eli becomes his messiah, in a fitting reflection of her namesake, the Biblical prophet Eli.

Oskar’s obsessive reliance on this self-imposed religion, however, is not portrayed as a perversion, but rather, an innately human experience. It is a clear portrayal of carnal longing, the desire to fill an inner loneliness, that we, by nature, can fully identify with. Here, the real enemy is not violence nor the loss of morality, as many gore-ridden films are prone to depicting, but isolation. Isolation is the ultimate enemy that everyone fights individually, regardless of situation or social position. In other words, in the film (and perhaps in reality), isolation is humanity’s universal condition. Regardless of how much love one may receive or pour into another, the inner void can only be partially filled, and one is thereby forced to constantly seek objects of worship as temporary alleviation. Isolation is the greatest problem that remains unsolvable, and therefore, any attempt to solve it, no matter how destructive or morally ambiguous, is fully justifiable.

This worldview is further heightened by the film’s use of realism. Violence itself is presented as a natural act; it is an examination of human nature running its course, or rather, human nature given its chance to reveal itself. Stylistic choices, such as showing most of Eli’s attacks as long shots, having the massacre to take place off-screen, and avoiding the use of visual clichés such as jump-cuts and rapid cutting, allow for an objective consideration. Such assaults seem like a matter of survival: Eli finds no joy in killing her human victims, and when Håkan, her helper, murders for her sake, there’s an emphasis on his human clumsiness and horrifying matter-of-factness. Håkan is forced to drag a corpse on a red, plastic sleigh, comically grunting and slipping through the dense snow, and even shoos away a passerby’s poodle that starts lapping at a pool of blood. The violence becomes all the more understandable and relatable, because the film purposefully includes the messy, physical details that precedes or preludes the real killing of people.

The film surpasses most standard depictions of deity worship by redefining what is the ideal god. Eli has spent centuries in alienation, receiving one-sided love from a series of human servants. This indicates that Eli, despite possessing the incredible strength that Oskar needs in defeating his bullies, has equal need of Oskar and his love. This is the exact god we want for ourselves: a god who, despite possessing the greater power we desire, loves us because it needs us. It is not a god that only demands worship, but rather, returns our worship. Perhaps this is why this film so effectively draws us in– it is the depiction of an equivalent exchange, like an ideal human relationship, and of a god figure stunningly made sympathetic. 

Sleight of Hand or Hallucination? Magical Realism in Film (Mireille)

Magical realism. The genre in which the real, the natural, and the fantastical are intertwined. But what truly defines it? Take for example Guillermo Del Toro’s The Shape of Water (2017), the most recent example of a rather more mainstream magic realism film. In this film, Del Toro plays on the theme of “Beauty and the Beast”. However, in his version, the “beauty” is desirable, but also mute, and the “beast” is an immortal alien creature with supernatural powers, and not a transfigured handsome prince. Though they do fall in love, and “beauty” does save the beast, the beast ultimately also saves the beauty by resurrecting her from the dead. Thus, Del Toro’s magic is established by making possible true romantic love between two different species and also by defying death.

However, Del Toro’s approach is not one that can be applied to all films that address magical realism. Mexican director Alejandro González Iñárritu’s films that can be categorized under the same genre often take the opposite approach. Rather than relying on the creation of something fantastical, Iñárritu relies on blurring the premise for reality, and shakes up the audience’s ability to determine what is real and what is not. For example, in his film Birdman or (The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) (2014), the audience is never really sure if the main character Riggan Thomson, an actor who used to play the role of a super hero, actually possesses supernatural powers or is simply delusional. Iñárritu’s use of cinematography cleverly confounds the boundaries between what is actually happening and what may only be happening in the mind of Thomson. For instance, a scene is cut to create the impression that objects are breaking through telekinesis. In another scene, the audience is privy to a bird’s eye view of the cityscape as if Riggan were flying, but they never actually see Riggan in the sky. As a result, the film in its entirety has a surrealistic feel that nudges us into believing that the impossible may actually be possible. The ending of Birdman actually puts that question to the audience directly when Riggan’s daughter searches for her father by looking out of a window and into the sky and then starts smiling as if she has found him. The film cuts to black there, so we never really know, though the thought that Riggan is flying out there gnaws at us like a real possibility.

Another one of Iñárritu’s films that touches upon some of the same ideologies is Biutiful (2010). The film begins with a dreamscape sequence that features Uxbal, the main character. The sequence has almost no sound, and the ethereal quality of the filming creates a sharp demarcation between it and the rest of the film. The story is a view into the life of Uxbal, who is a working class man. In contrast to the peaceful opening scene, Uxbal’s life is noisy, difficult, dirty, and complicated. However, this film is also, and I would argue mostly, about death due to Uxbal being slowly killed by a terminal disease. The magic that Iñárritu injects into this film has to do with the mystical uncertainties of death and the process of dying. Throughout the film Iñárritu flashes images of death that are unexpected or implausible. In one scene, dead bodies are clinging to the ceilings of a building. In another those same dead bodies are now washed up on a shore, like beached whales. Uxbal also has a "gift" that allows him to hear what the dead have to say so the families can accept the death of their loved one. The audience views all these scenes without having the certainty that anyone other than Uxbal is also witnessing them. Iñárritu reiterates the feeling of uncertainty in more banal scenes as well such as when Uxbal’s brother and ex-wife Marambra are engaged in intimate activity and the camera is angled above them without showing Marambra’s face. The viewers are suddenly startled with the appearance of crimson liquid spilling from what seems like Marambra’s body. In the next cut, however, it becomes clear that it is spilled wine and not spilled blood. Iñárritu uses “sleight of hand” techniques such as this one to make the audience jittery about what is really taking place and what is being imagined in our mind, and perhaps also in Uxbal’s mind.

In sum, throughout all of Biutiful there is no clear cut boundary between what is real and what may be a manifestation of our imagination. In my opinion this blurring of reality creates an even more potent magic realism film than one in which fictitious, fantastical creatures are made up to create the magic. 

 

Bong Joon-ho: Balancing Politics and Cinema (Faith)

When Bong Joon-ho’s Okja premiered at Cannes this year, it was quickly surrounded with controversy. The news circulating was less about the film itself, however, and more about Netflix’s role as a producer. While the future of streaming services in the world of film is an legitimate debate, I was more interested in Okja for its content—specifically, how it would compare to Bong’s previous film, Snowpiercer (2013). Both films take place in the near future, feature ensemble casts, and tackle similar themes, from capitalism to environmentalism. Based on these similarities, I expected Bong’s eccentric and artistic style to convey these themes with equal strength in both films. After watching Okja, however, I realized that this ability to weave politics into cinema was a careful and tenuous balance, one which wasn’t struck properly in Bong’s newest film. When I asked myself what about Snowpiercer enables it to explore some of the same political themes as Okja without feeling incoherent and sanctimonious, the titular setting stood out to me as a possible answer.

Snowpiercer takes place in a post-apocalyptic future, where the last survivors of humanity withstand a new Ice Age in the confines of a train (called the Snowpiercer) where rigid hierarchy separates citizens into different train cars. The train travels immense distances during the film, but its nature as an entirely closed system keeps the characters tightly packed together. This physical immediacy effectively streamlines the social structure within the film world (car passengers increase in social status as one moves toward the engine) as well as the physical action and goals (the tail section must progress through the cars in order to reach the engine and take control). These two elements are so clear, precise, and simple that the film can be comfortably sprawling in other aspects—in particular, Bong is able to explore distinct and heightened visual styles without derailing the narrative or losing sight of the gritty reality of life aboard the Snowpiercer. This ability is particularly clear when the rebellious tail passengers violently storm a series of cars, as the viewer is subject to a series of distinct environments, from a dimly lit car of heavily armed guardsmen, to the bright and clean schoolroom car, filled with the smiling faces of children. These visually disjunct spaces are threaded together with a constant forward movement, as well as the tail passengers themselves—dirty, in drab and threadbare clothes, these passengers act as constant, sinister reminders of the true situation on the train. These characters are also given the crucial freedom to be ambiguous, complex, and contradictory without muddling the political issues that Bong explores. The protagonist and valiant leader of the tail car revolution, Curtis Everett (Chris Evans), is revealed to have a dark and troubled past. A father-daughter pair of genius drug addicts (Song Kang-ho and Go Ah-sung) are driven by pure self-interest, but become vital to the success of the rebellion. None of these or other characters are allowed to remain on the same moral footing that they were introduced on, however, as an increasingly dire situation prompts developments and revelations regarding their personal codes of ethics. Even the real nature of the revolution that Curtis leads, when it is finally explained, utterly upends expectations about good and evil, while the clear imagery about the evils of hegemonic government and the power of fear tactics remain as clear as they were when our knowledge was still limited to the reality of the tail car.

The action in Okja takes place over a much wider space, split evenly between the United States and South Korea. The film follows a young Korean girl, Mija (Ahn Seo-hyun), and Okja, her pet “super pig,” a species created by the sinister Mirando Corporation to make meat production more efficient and (supposedly) sustainable. The plot necessitates an ensemble cast, which is split into two general groups: those working with Mirando, and members of the Animal Liberation Front (AFL). Conflicts between these groups arise through the film, as both attempt to secure their own fate for Okja. As direct as these interactions may be (hijacking a Mirando truck, breaking into their facilities, and disrupting their operations), they lack much of the intimacy and immediacy that made Snowpiercer so visceral. That’s not to say that Okja isn’t violent or jarring at times, but these moments don’t land with the same effective artistry. One of the most violent scenes in Snowpiercer comes in the car of guardsmen, where an utter bloodbath takes place as the train passes through a tunnel. Bong plays with perspective and light here, portraying the violence with an obliqueness that makes it all the more grotesque. In contrast, violence in Okja mostly comes in the form of violence against Okja herself. Bong elects to show these scenes of animal cruelty completely, which serves as important motivation for the AFL but lessens their visual impact. In a similar vein, Okja’s action sequences are rooted much more in realism, further limiting opportunities for Bong to play with the extremes of his visual style, as well as opening a door for more specific political tangents that are ultimately more distracting than it is illuminating. One example of this allusion to modern politics that caught popular interest was a frame featuring the leaders of Mirando grouped around a table, watching a disastrous newscast on the activities of the AFL. The positions and appearances of the characters are designed to mimic the famous photo of the White House Situation Room following the killing of Osama bin Laden. The image is an interesting artifact of satire when viewed in a vacuum, but in the context of the film, however, political statements like this feel less clear—is the film about militarism or corporatism? Is the US government that subject of ridicule, and if not, who is? Because Bong decides to deal with such varied political topics, story coherence is instead found in the consistency of character morals. From the start of the film, those involved in corporate and commercial exploits, particularly the whimsically evil Mirando sisters (Tilda Swinton), have purely impure goals: that is, to continue with the cruel super pig program in order to maximize profit. On the other side of the spectrum are the members of the ALF—a sizable cast in themselves, these characters are almost all on the same page politically, and the complexity of their tactics of direct action are left mostly unexplored. When one member of the AFL makes a morally questionable decision, this is characterized as a personal fault rather than a systematic one among its members, making the reversal of the mistake a simpler narrative task.

Bong Joon-Ho is a filmmaker unafraid to make a statement, whether it be in the form of inventive visuals, eclectic storylines, or controversial politics. While Okja is the film of Bong’s that seems to be making more wave, both in terms of its production and its content, I feel that it’s Snowpiercer which deserves this notoriety. Of course, both films are visually striking and constitute noble forays into an eccentric and stylized world of sci-fi. But when it comes to politics, Snowpiercer is far more effective at delivering the message.

The Silent Horror of War in Film (Mireille)

It is probably fair to say that the theme of war is one of the most pervasive in film. Whether for propaganda, critique or shock value, cinema relishes in the recreation of the marching footsteps, the gun blasts, the frenetic flight of those in distress, and the reenactment of violence. I have probably had my fill of these, particularly the mainstream variety that tend to have a similar feel and construct. Specifically, the type of film that is loaded with sounds so intense that it becomes uncomfortable and has a vivid language that is as subtle as a bludgeoning instrument. These films also often follow a rigid plot line with a predictable outcome. It is almost as if humans want the full visceral horror of war, but then need to absolve themselves of the evil, by giving the film a conciliatory ending. The newest Hollywood war film, Dunkirk (2017) by Christopher Nolan in my opinion is no exception. This film once again reverts to the formulaic audiovisual assault, this time almost without respite, and perhaps that was the point. Any chance of uncovering the psychological struggle of characters or the subtle insinuations of humanity questioning its actions is muddied by the inability of your nervous system to recover from the stimulatory onslaught.

Don’t get me wrong, not every mainstream war drama fits this description. Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now (1979) twists the cacophony of light, sound and carnage together with a captivating psychoanalysis of the characters that leaves viewers captivated and not just exhausted. Roman Polanski’s The Pianist (2002) focuses on the human spirit not with respect to war, but with respect to art as the battle rages around the central character. However, there are other ways in which to convey the horror of war that may also leave us with enough strength to take away a message that is long lasting and meaningful. Fortunately I have discovered two very different films that do just that: Hungarian film Son of Saul (2015) directed by László Nemes and Zaza Urushadze’s Estonian-Georgian film Tangerines (2013).

In the Son of Saul, Nemes uses the camera to study the psychological makeup of the characters as they live the war rather than depicting the obstreperous elements of the war itself. This approach conveys a type of horror that, in my opinion, is more impactful than the buckets of blood and the gratuitous violence typically shown in war movies. Nemes creates a persistent haunting feeling by shooting on traditional 35mm film in a square aspect ratio. This tight aspect ratio creates claustrophobia and inescapability. The audience feels suffocated by the palpable anguish experienced by the principle characters. Nemes masterfully uses on the point-of-view and handheld shots to thrust viewers into the midst of the concentration camp and allows them to participate in the sadistic labor the prisoners are forced to carry out. The camera movement is slow and the depth of field is quite shallow, allowing the audience to linger in a confused and anxious reality. Nemes has no qualms about showing naked corpses being dragged to incinerators by prisoners or the unceremonious scattering of the ashes from the crematorium into a river to hide the evidence of the crimes committed. Nemes leaves out no detail and punctuates it against a backdrop of a mixture of muted diegetic and non-diegetic sound. The horror has both explicit and implicit components, but requires no brassy elements to bring it to the forefront. The edginess comes from the growing awareness of what is happening rather than a physical response to an exaggerated stimulus. In my opinion Son of Saul is the first film to capture realistically the relentless brutality of World War II.

Tangerines is almost the diametric pole of Son of Saul. Urushadze sets the film during the war in Abkhazia in the 90s. The film is shot in a single location in the Georgian countryside where two friends stay behind as the war erupts in order to harvest their crop of tangerines. In this way Urushadze is able to separate the audience from the war both physically and psychologically. This is in stark contrast to Son of Saul where the single location kept the audience locked into the inescapable horrors that the war creates. In Tangerines there is a utopic feel because there is never any explicit evidence of the war raging around the principal characters. As in Son of Saul, there is no need for the din of war paraphernalia. Rather, Urushadz, like Nemes, chooses muted sounds and background noise in order to bring the audience into the scene. The war becomes part of the narrative when the friends take in two wounded soldiers from opposite sides. The war thus becomes a question of tolerance and resistance of primal urges. Urushadze draws attention to compassion and the moral best that humanity can achieve during war time, a diametrically opposite message from that in Son of Saul. What truly stands out in Tangerines in comparison to Nemes’ film is the occasional punctum of color that occurs when the audience sees the main character picking the actual tangerine fruits from his orchard. This intense coloration enhances the peaceful surroundings in which the whole film takes place and lends it an aura of hope without the need for cliché happy endings. It is in fact the simple fruit, the tangerine, which serves as the symbol of unification allowing the wounded soldiers from different factions to transcend their cultural differences. In this way Urushadze concentrates on educating the audience about the other face of war: the possibility of peace and compromise and resistance to violence.

In the end, the approach to war as film genre could be bifurcated into two factions. One that barrages us with stimuli in the hopes of shocking, but in the end desensitizes, and another that leaves us with a lasting memory of evil or peace. In my opinion, the former may be more exciting, but the latter is more enlightening.

(Pseudo) Silence: A Short Study of Visual Comedy (Faith)

This year is the 100th anniversary of one of the greatest silent comedian’s first on-screen appearance—in 1917, a young Buster Keaton was featured in Fatty Arbuckle’s two-reeler The Butcher Boy, beginning his career in film. Coincidentally, this year also saw my first exposure to Keaton’s work; after watching The General, the director was transformed in my mind from a distant figure of history to a true genius of comedy. Though his greatest films are nearing a century old, I was struck with their lasting comedic power. Keaton’s films captured my interest on both a historic and cinematic level, but held my interest through something harder to describe: a kind of dual quality of familiarity and novelty. Some instinct seemed to draw me towards these films as undeniably funny, and yet, when I consider recent comedies, I saw nothing quite like Keaton’s work. I wanted to know more about how silent comedy has influenced films and what modern comedies can learn from its techniques. Delving into this topic quickly took me to the works of Jacques Tati, a filmmaker who was directly influenced by Keaton, and whose work Keaton praised repeatedly. To see where similarities and evolutions in comedy were present in the directors’ works, I decided to take a closer look at the films widely regarded to be each’s masterpiece—for Keaton, The General (1926); for Tati, Play Time (1967).

One of the most obvious similarities between these films is the relative lack of dialogue. Of course, this is partly because The General is silent, but Keaton also deliberately kept his use of title cards far below that of his competitors. In Play Time, a similar aversion to dialogue doesn't erase character speech altogether, but makes what little appears mostly nonsynchronous. This stylistic choice makes the sparse dialogue, whether it's the tittering of the tour group or ruckus of nightclub patrons, feel more like another component of the shot, rather than part of the narrative. This decision adds a particular sense of depersonalization to Play Time’s modern setting, but for both directors allowed a focus on more cinematic elements of comedy. Of course this didn’t entirely exclude sound—sound effects (or the lack thereof) are used in both films in the service of gags, and are always come hand in hand with the director’s understanding of how to play with perspective within the frame. A perfect example from The General is when protagonist Johnnie Gray (Keaton) rides his train across the front lines of battle, remaining oblivious to the war being waged right behind him simply because his back is turned. Using the lack of sound effects to his advantage, Keaton suggests that Johnnie’s perception is limited to that of the audience—what the viewer can’t hear is accepted as silent, and we’re able to both marvel at and believe in his ignorance. This interaction of sound and perspective appears throughout Tati’s films, and is used to masterful effect in Play Time. One scene early in the film follows Monsieur Hulot (Tati) as he waits in a sleek, modern office building. Tati exploits the environment—here, the clear glass walls—to repeatedly withhold the sound of Hulot’s motions. This initially postpones the audience hearing the sound of the squeaking chairs, for instance, and subverts our expectations of synchronous sound when Hulot begins slipping on the waxed tile floors. Instead of hearing the scuffles of his strained movements, our sound perspective is moved outside the building, where we hear only passing traffic. This manipulation of sound is simple but effective, as the audience is left with both the gleeful task of filling in these sonic blanks as well as the implication that Hulot is on display to the city around him.

For both directors, geometry is a crucial part of both their artful cinematography and the construction of jokes. Though the implications of each world is different, both Tati and Keaton construct highly stylized and perfectly orchestrated environments, the mechanics of which are exploited for our amusement. In one scene in Play Time, the camera rests outside a modern apartment building, where we see multiple families sit down to watch TV in a cutaway view made possible by their massive single-pane windows. Tati turns the camera degrees to the left and right, establishing each family’s positions as they sit in front of their screens. As the camera returns to the initial angle, however, the barriers of the apartment walls become invisible, and we’re suddenly able to imagine that the families are watching each other, rather than TV, combining their actions and reactions in unexpected ways. All the while, beneath the scene is Tati’s commentary on the ways in which modern technology structure lives and limit connection; though it seems that the families are interacting, the truth remains that they are each physically separate, confined by the box of their own window.

Though it has an entirely different tone from this scene of Tati’s, Keaton’s classic cannon gag in The General similarly utilizes the geometry of the film world in order to surprise us. By a series of unfortunate circumstances, train engineer Johnnie Gray (Keaton) finds himself hanging off of a moving engine, in the line of fire of a cannon being pulled along behind him. Everything about the geography of this scene is used to increase our anticipation: sharp lines and symmetric framing trap Johnnie in his situation; constant forward motion builds tension; the futility of Johnnie’s small and rapid movements contrast with the unrelenting stillness of the massive cannon. What ends the gag and saves our hero is an expected change in geometry—a curve in the railroad tracks sends the cannonball off at an angle, just missing Johnnie and nearly striking his enemies’ train instead.

This scene also works as a microcosm for the film’s take on the world, a view which The General shares with Keaton’s other works. Johnnie, though he has a different name and inhabits a different setting, is essentially the same as Keaton’s other protagonists: a plucky young man in a bewildering and hostile environment which can only be conquered with a combination of human ingenuity and sheer luck. Keaton uses the frame of the Civil War to create an underdog protagonist (meaning, unfortunately, that Johnnie wears the uniform of the Confederacy) and exploits the technology of the time in service of gags—principally through trains, but with other military equipment as well. Beyond this, however, the film’s setting is ultimately unimportant; it’s the greater greater struggle against an automated world which defines Keaton’s comedy. In contrast, Tati’s Monsieur Hulot is a constant throughout his films, down to his signature coat and pipe. This difference is vital to developing some of Tati’s themes: namely, the stark ways in which Hulot is at odds with his modern environment, constantly teetering on the brink of being utterly left behind. Whereas Johnnie is a literal engineer of his world, always able to move himself through his surroundings with determination and a little elbow grease, Hulot feels more like a tourist in his own life, moving with an uncertain rhythm between one attraction to the next. Play Time is also uniquely tied to its setting, as Tati uses Paris to draw our attention to the obliviousness of the tour group—the camera only ever glimpses the Eiffel Tower or Arc de Triomphe in the reflections on the gleaming glass doors the women pass through—and comment on the commercialization of culture—the travel agency features the same dull-looking skyscraper in its posters for France, America, and India. And unlike Keaton, Tati doesn’t try to suggest that his world is conquerable; Hulot doesn’t save the day and get the girl, after all. Instead, Tati uses the film to show us the absurdity of modern life and encourage us, if we can’t change it, to at least revel in it. If this idea wasn’t already evident in the core of the film, the final scene punctuates it perfectly. Given Tati’s artistic touch, we watch as the ritualized chaos of a endless traffic circle becomes a carousel, a symphony of pattern and sound that is all at once ridiculous, biting, and beautiful.

While Keaton and Tati certainly crafted very different worlds in these films, they nonetheless share striking similarities in their cultivation of cinematic comedy. Since the arrival of sound films, comedies have had dialogue as something to lean on for laughs. I find that too often, comedies simply feature characters delivering lines, letting us forget that we’re watching a movie rather than trying to exploit the medium to any artistic ends. Keaton’s origins in the silent era clearly pushed him towards these innovations, but Tati is the perfect example of how this legacy can persist, evolve, and flourish—if only directors are willing to look beyond dialogue and play with silence.

Dunkirk and the Evolution of the Modern War Film (Gabe)

I love to go to the movies, but my seemingly boundless physical inertia keeps me screening films from the comfort of my couch unless a true outlier comes into my life. However, over my summer in Los Angeles, my cousin, with whom I was staying, worked at the local movie theater, a five-minute drive away. After a full week of the latest releases like Baby Driver and the latest Planet of the Apes we rushed in to see Dunkirk, which led to our fiercest, but not our longest, cinematic debate of July.

My cousin was underwhelmed by the film because in his opinion the film’s structure prohibited emotional attachment to the individuals we saw portrayed because we never got a chance to know them individually. Rather, it was almost entirely nonstop action after the film’s initial commencement, and the dialogue was minimal to say the least. He additionally thought that these decisions by Nolan reduced his ability to empathize with the characters in a meaningful way because they were overwhelmed by the spectacle of the piece. This meant that in the balance of the story, individuals were given less attention. I however, while agreeing with his analysis of the film’s focus, disagreed as to its effect on the viewer and what Nolan’s directorial intention may have been.

It seemed to me that the fact individual humans were dwarfed by the combat was in many regards the point of the film. This movie didn’t read like his previous works in which he focused on specific characters and their evolution over time in the face of superhumanly long odds. This was no Memento or The Prestige in which the audience was being actively bonded with the protagonists and shown depths of their interiority that only film as a medium can capture and display. Here instead, Nolan seemed to be doing the opposite, and intentionally. By making a conscious decision to rework the war movie formula he presented battle in a new way that struck me as a departure from much of its genre. For example, the classic war film Saving Private Ryan, consciously and intentionally draws the viewers’ attention to the horrors of war in direct relation to the individual. Humans are horribly and bloodily butchered in all manner of traumatizing ways, and the camera forces you to look at it in excruciating detail. The camera swings around grotesque scenes where young soldiers hold their now detached limbs in anguish while still others are mowed down by machine gun fire all across a red misty canvas. I pointed out to my cousin that in avoiding these tropes, Dunkirk opted instead to present the events of this battle with a sense of historical reenactment that was not simple entertainment. I said that the film isn’t interested in forcing you to grapple with the brutal realities of war for individuals, it is instead showing you something so massive in scale that it cannot be fully appreciated by the casual viewer. I demarcated this difference in form and content, and suggested that perhaps his perspective might be informed by his preconceived expectations about the structure and focus of war films. This film relies more heavily on the viewer being able to separate out and individually note different elements of each shot, which neither of us had been expecting, so I saw how perhaps a perceived bait and switch had alienated him.

A scene I suggested as evidence of my theory was when the young British soldiers are trapped in the hull of a grounded civilian boat when they begin taking on machine gun fire. The bullets pierce the hull, water starts pouring in, and because the soldiers have no way to escape without being shot down they must plug up the holes with their fingers to avoid drowning, all the while as more shots whistle through the boat. This scene was perfectly emblematic of my perspective because the camera made no attempt to focus the viewer on the specific men being injured and killed by the firing. The attention was instead on the situation as a whole and the onus of actively participating in the that portrayal is squarely on the viewer. Additionally, it served to disguise the scope of the violence on screen by showing it as it occurs and not providing additional commentary. The lack of gore and extreme close ups of wounded men belies the film’s brutality and creates a separation between the audience and the film that only the viewer can close.

I articulated these points less succinctly and significantly more loudly than I have here, and despite my exquisite communication skills I think my cousin and I were simply on different pages. For me, this film has found room for innovation while operating in a genre that has a great propensity for stagnation. That alone held my attention.

When Films Put Words in Animals' Mouths (Mireille)

Let’s admit it. We have all watched films that feature pets, usually endowed with the power of speech, struggling to be reunited with their owners. They tug at our hearts as we drip in sobbing despair, and we love it. I have cried each time I have watched Duwayne Duhnam’s Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey (1993) or Lasse Hallström’s Hachi: A Dog’s Tale (2008), even though I know what’s coming and how it will end. I ask myself now why we are fascinated by the film portrayal of the hardship of animals? Furthermore, do we feel it is necessary to anthropomorphize an animal so that we can better relate to it? Or, do the film makers need an easy way of allowing the animal to tell us how it feels by giving it human language?

Two films that strike me as particularly interesting from the perspective of these questions are Rupert Wyatt’s Rise of the Planet of the Apes (2011) and Kornél Mundruczó’s White God (2014). These films tackle the theme of the relationship between animals and humans by taking completely different approaches that have to do with how language and behavior are used in conjunction with camera and filming techniques to convey the expression, perspective, and in the end, the very “psyche” of the animals portrayed in the films.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes starts with the story of Caesar, an ape raised by humans after its mother was killed. Caesar becomes a member of the human family as a pet. Though Caesar starts to exhibit very high levels of intelligence, he also becomes more aggressive towards humans and eventually has to be placed in an animal sanctuary. The film then takes a dramatic turn in both the plot and filming techniques. It becomes clear that Caesar not only has human intelligence, but also has human language. When Caesar bellows “No”, stunning zookeepers and apes alike, he essentially moves from non-human to human. Naturally, mayhem ensues and the primates invade the city, and by the end of the movie the audience knows that the apes will dominate not only the planet, but the humans themselves.

Director Rupert Wyatt captures the evolution from primate as pet to primate as human then to primate as dominator by shifting the camera from a more “personal” approach that incorporates medium and close up shots, to extreme wide shots and long aerial takes. The coloration of the film also shifts dramatically from warm toned frames to underexposed and darkly colored sequences. This shift in coloration helps the audience move from the warm, fuzzy “pet” feel at the beginning of the movie to the dark, violent feel, created by the apes, who in a god-like fashion, begin changing the nature of the world. As the movie progresses so does Caesar’s humanity. He now begins to exhibit the unique human qualities of revenge and spite. Ironically, although the intent of the apes’ rebellion is to obliterate the human race and its cruel traits, as they do so they themselves begin to take on these very traits. Wyatt brings home this concept by showing us the war between the two species through extreme long shots, creating an acute representation of the kind of war humans wage against each other. In this movie there are no sentimental buttons that are being pushed. Rather, this is a war movie in which humans battle their endearing “pets” only after the pets have been infused with the human qualities that make them able to engage in human war. As in Homeward Bound: The Incredible Journey, the Rise of the Planet of the Apes uses language as a vehicle to jolt our consciousness and to humanize our pets. The goal of the former is to create a mirror for empathy, the goal of the latter is to strike fear in our hearts.

In contrast, the director of White God does not use human language to communicate the feelings of the pets. This Hungarian film recounts the horror and abuse suffered by a dog after it is forcibly removed from its owner’s care and abandoned on the streets of Budapest. This sequence of events is not unlike what happens to Caesar in Rise of the Planet of the Apes, and the end result, the revolt of animals against humans, is also similar. However, the similarity ends there. In White God, the audience never hears the dogs speak. In place of language, Director Kornél Mundruczó incorporates Franz Listz’s Hungarian Rhapsody No. 2 as the sole method of “communication” between humans and animals. Mundruczó also films the animal revolt against humans in a drastically different manner. The camera is almost exclusively positioned at the eye line level of the dogs, playing an integral role in capturing the action and allowing the audience to interpret the emotional experience of the dogs at a personal level. Most of the shots are handheld and quickly cut, which only intensifies the difference in perspective between humans and animals. The entirety of White God is also filmed in a particular coloration and lighting that does not change when the dogs revolt against the humans. This choice creates homogeneity in the perspective of the dogs acting like dogs without having to take on human characteristics to achieve their goals. This film has no need to create a human-like scenario or obvious human character traits to bring the point home. The audience itself must decide to anthropomorphize the dogs or simply witness the action as pack mentality fighting in unison against a common enemy.

In the end, I cannot conclusively state if our desire to anthropomorphize our pets comes from a place of love or insecurity. When our pets are endowed with the traits that we consider make us human, we are at once touched and horrified. Yet, what I do know is that the anthropomorphization does not have to be blatant to be effective, we are perfectly capable of creating our own illusion of what our pets’ intentions really are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

My first, and favorite, female superhero (Madison)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Audience's Thirst for Retribution (Jaeyoung)

   

 SPOILER ALERT: Middle part of Moonlight discussed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Art in the Age of Corporate Cynicism (Conor)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Gialloween (Conor)

    Halloween is almost upon us, and in the spirit of the holiday I have decided to dedicate my next two posts to horror flicks. With that in mind, I will focus this particular post on Mario Bava’s best giallo, Blood and Black Lace (1964). Giallo is an interesting genre because it started in literature, not in film. Originally, the term “giallo”–the Italian word for yellow–referred to a running series of mystery and pulp novels printed with yellow covers all published by the same company. Eventually, giallo became a synonym for any mystery or thriller story and the loose genre of Italian films that adapted these stories eventually became known in America as giallo;  they are the original slashers. Masked killers stalk and murder numerous people, usually attractive women, and the plots revolve around police investigations and intrigue in a race against time to identify the killer. But giallo is so much more, and at best it falls into a kind of psychedelic noir.

    Bava’s Blood and Black Lace is one of the earliest, most influential, and perhaps the best of all the gialli. The film is moody, pulpy, and mysterious. Drawing from German expressionism, Blood and Black Lace uses elaborate lighting and mise-en-scène to convey character’s internal mental states, but with one major addition: vivid color. The film is full of bright, saturated colors paired with moody, deep shadows and brilliantly colored lights. It is not uncommon to see magenta, green, and blue lights all prominently featured in the same scene. One particular scene–a chase in an antiques warehouse–stands out for having multiple lights with different colors both flashing at the same time.

Blood and Black Lace is also extraordinary self aware: in the aforementioned warehouse scene the masked killer reaches out to turn the lights off while stalking his victim. A moment before he touches it he hesitates and backs off, implying that using the ridiculous lighting used during the actual chase was a conscious aesthetic choice on the part of the murderer. This self awareness is appropriate, as the killer’s near supernatural stalking prowess stems from cinematic tricks, such as restrictive framing. The killer seems to be aware that they are in a film and shamelessly exploits cinematic devices in order to terrorize his victims. In this way Blood and Black Lace is not just a giallo film but a film about giallo–and horror–itself and how it must fundamentally play with reality in order to create tension.

An overall feeling of decadence and superficiality permeates into the DNA of this film. Everything is intentionally skin deep. The models and their associates are, much like the mise–en-scène, all glitz and glam. They dress extravagantly in either black or very saturated color, and their encounters between each other are mostly sickeningly glib. The few glances we get of their inner lives paints a picture of seediness, corruption and moral bankruptcy. None of the victims are truly innocent in the eyes of the film, they are all guilty of egregious sins and at times it becomes hard not too root for the killer if they themselves were not also superficial and petty. Bava’s film comes across as intentionally and sharply skin-deep, a film made to be vacant and petty to mimic the pettiness inside the characters. Giallo doesn’t just flaunt its gaudiness, it revels in it and asks that the viewer does also. Blood and Black Lace demands that you engage with it on an immediately visual level; it is an orgy of color and shadow that commands the viewer’s attention across the film. The actual plot is pretty good too, especially for people searching for a film that can not only frighten but also enrapture. 

The Rise, Fall, and Re-Emergence of Gangster Films (Nick R.)

Power drives all of us. We desire, and we desire to control how we interact with those desires, and therefore, we want power. For some, this concept only serves as an accessory to their life. For others, the acquisition of power is all that there is, a lifestyle in and of itself. Gangsters are these types of people, and for this reason, they have been explored in film for decades.

In the 1930s, social and economic instability in America was at an all-time high due to the Great Depression. Honest hard work and careful investment of money was not being rewarded, leading to a distrust and disdain for the government that galvanized the organized crime subculture that existed in America. The most popular gangster films from this era were Little Caesar (1931), The Public Enemy (1931), and Scarface (1932). All of these films followed the main characters through a fast rise to the top, with an equally fast descent to their deaths. The abrupt and violent deaths served as a reminder of the consequences of crime, but viewers, suffering economically from the Great Depression and thirsty from Prohibition, were also able to identify with these charismatic anti-heroes. The gangster worked hard to earn his place in the world, only for it to be taken away in the blink of an eye.

                                                      

The appeal of gangster films grew over several years, but at such a critical time for regaining the nation’s stability, there were a great deal of efforts to combat the public’s infatuation with organized crime. This brought into play the Motion Picture Production Code, a set of moral guidelines in the film industry, established in 1930 and strictly enforced by 1934, that severely hindered the creative spirit of gangster films in their purest form. 1932 was the worst year of the Great Depression, and naturally, profits slid for Hollywood movies. Hollywood combatted this by increasing the sex and violence in gangster movies, which reached its peak with Scarface (1932). US capitalism was failing immensely, and Prohibition was being revealed as a failed social experiment on the already downtrodden common American, and the themes and depictions of violence that glorified crime in Scarface showed this. The film ended up being delayed over a year while director Howard Hawks toned down the incestuous overtones of the main character and his sister’s relationship. This film represented a new low for the public’s view of the conventional, law-abiding American dream, and how deep people would go into the psyche in order to analyze the desire for power which Americans now hungered for on so many levels. Now this exploration of power had proven to be about more than money, it was about love, it was about pride, it was about the exertion of anger. That was the core that gave gangster films life, but the powers that be saw how threatening an overarching acceptance of these themes and characters could be. The Production Code became increasingly more influential until the crime film in its original form was all but gone from theaters. Gangster films shifted towards the perspective of the law officers or criminals attempting to redeem themselves. The Motion Picture Production Code had a large amount of rules, which were particularly stringent on characteristics that were essential to depicting the criminal experience and the necessary themes behind it. Some of the rules you would expect to be included, while others really speak to the nature of the era. Some of the regulations included bans on profanity, suggestive nudity, illegal traffic of drugs, inferences of sexual perversion (i.e. the incestuous overtones of Scarface), as well as bans on white slavery, miscegenation (sexual relations between whites and blacks), and scenes of actual childbirth. Within these parameters, these movies didn’t get any less violent, but the subject matter focused on more clear cut protagonists and cast an inherently unflattering light on criminals.

In the 1950s, movies became threatened by the competition of a new technology, television. People no longer had to leave their house just to watch a moving picture. Television actually had more restrictive rules for censorship, but it’s widespread popularity and convenience forced Hollywood to make changes to offer people something they couldn’t see on TV. Another competitive threat came from foreign films, who were not required to follow the Production Code. Movies became more and more explicit, and by the late 1960s, enforcement was impossible. The Production Code was abandoned entirely and the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA) created the basis for the film rating system that we know today, allowing artists much more creative license as long as it was advertised appropriately. The door for gangster films had re-opened.

                                                     

It is impossible to talk about gangster films without acknowledging the immense role that The Godfather (1972) played in reinvigorating the genre. Directed by Francis Ford Coppola and written by Mario Puzo, The Godfather gave the nation just what it needed, violence with a little class. The film was based on a wealthy Italian-American family that did business outside the law, but who held a great deal of respect and power within their area. There was a slight re-emergence of gangster films preceding The Godfather, but Coppola’s film provided a previously unprecedented look into Italian culture and stereotypes in America, along with the mobsters being presented as characters with psychological depth and complexity. The gangster film was able to return to its thematic roots of power, legacy, and pride, with much more intellectual and cinematic flare. Coppola made a sequel, The Godfather Part II (1974), which was met with even more financial success and critical acclaim, opening the door for many more successful depictions of the Italian-American mobster. The successful gangster films that followed were able to look at a more gritty and realistic depiction of gangsters, such as Goodfellas (1990) which was based on the real life of Henry Hill, a former member of the Lucchese crime family in New York City.

Today, remakes and new adaptions of crime life in the 1930s through the 1970s remain, a glimpse into a unique time in American history, where lawlessness and desire blended together into a genre of depth and historical significance. If you enjoy watching movies, watch one of these incredible productions about the complexity of crime life. It’s an offer you can’t refuse!

Writer's Block in Movies, and Barton Fink as a Meta-Film (Jaeyoung)

 The author Charles Bukowski once wrote, “Writing about writer’s block is better than not writing at all.” Therefore, I will write this blog about screenwriters experiencing writer’s block.

 There are actually many movies that feature this nightmare, including Stranger than Fiction, Ruby Sparks, Secret Window, Limitless, The Shining, Barton Fink, and Adaptation.

 In Limitless and Ruby Sparks, writer’s block is featured early in the plot. Both protagonists of these movies, Eddie Morra and Calvin Weir-Fields, stare at blank pages and become easily distracted, until drugs and romance cure them of their disease.

 Meanwhile, Steven King doesn’t let his characters move on from this debilitating syndrome; the Secret Window and The Shining were both adapted from his novels, and they both feature a struggling writer who slips into a murderous rampage. Perhaps murder is the answer to every writer’s frustration?

 These films portray the frustration of writer’s block creatively and artistically (the tantalizing flashing cursor in Limitless, the anxious blank page atop Calvin’s typewriter in Ruby Sparks, the repeated "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy" in The Shining). However, the two films that fully explore the malaise of their respective screenwriters are Barton Fink and Adaptation, and I will view these works as meta-films.

 In the Coen Brothers' Barton Fink, the eponymous screenplay novice struggles to write a B-movie about boxer Wallace Beery. Unlike Limitless, Ruby's Spark, and The Shining, there is considerable emphasis on Barton Fink's environment; Barton's dilapidated hotel room, not him, seems to receive the most focus in the Writer's Block scenes. The slimy, peeling walls, the mysterious beach portrait, the persistent buzzing of mosquitos: it's almost as though the room is preventing him from writing.

 What makes Barton Fink so brilliant is how it meshes fantastical elements to explore Barton's frustration and confusion. It almost seems like the Coen Brothers knew poor Barton's situation intimately well...

 ...and they did! They wrote the Barton Fink when they themselves experienced writer's block with Miller's Crossing screenplay. In fact, there are so many connections between Barton and the Coen Brothers that it is difficult not to view Barton as a projection of the brothers' frustrated selves. Here are a few similarities:

• They wear glasses
• They are Jewish
• They all call New York their home
• They are highly educated
• They struggle with their writing material

 The first three similarities are fairly straightforward, but the fourth and fifth comparisons could use elaboration. Joel Coen went to NYU and Ethan Coen went to Princeton, where he wrote a 41-page essay titled, “Two Views on Wittgenstein’s Later Philosophy.” If that title doesn’t scream “educated elite,” I don’t know what would. This characteristic is also found in Barton, when he talks to Charlie, the "common man."

                               CHARLIE

               And I could tell you some stories –

                               BARTON

               Sure you could!  And yet many writers

               do everything in their power to

               insulate themselves from the common

               man – from where they live, from

               where they trade, from where they

               fight and love and converse and –

               and – and... so naturally their work

               suffers, and regresses into empty

               formalism and – well, I'm spouting

               off again, but to put it in your

               language, the theater becomes as

               phony as a three dollar bill.

 

 I'm not sure if the Coen Brothers are pretentious; if they are, I would definitely draw another parallel there.

 I've written that they both struggle with their writing material, but the material they work with are very different; Coen Brothers had been having a difficult time with the highly convoluted plot of Miller’s Crossing, while Barton Fink was tasked to write a bio flick about a boxer. In addition, Barton and the Coen Brothers have different degrees of freedom. The Coen Brothers have almost complete control over their movies (they direct, produce, write, and edit all their major films; they later created their own production company, the Mike Ross Company), but Barton’s screenwriting was heavily scrutinized by Libnick, his boss (must have a lot of action, be fruity, but not too fruity, have the Barton Fink quality, etc.). This is why the brothers have stated that Barton's struggles were not meant to reflect their own experiences with the industry. It is rather their frustration as writers that they channel unto Barton.

 To summarize, the Coen Brothers created a less likable version of themselves and dragged him through hell.

 Charlie Kaufman, on the other hand, does the opposite in Adaptation; he splits himself into the sad, frustrated but sophisticated Charlie Kaufman and the happier, simpler fictional twin brother, Donald Kaufman. In the movie (and in real life, apparently) Charlie struggles to write a film adaptation about the Orchid Thief, partly because it lacks a "filmable" plot, and mostly because he is extremely worried about not doing the book justice. On the contrary, Donald writes cliched psychological thrillers. With Donald's help, the movie about a mopey writer finally develops a faster-paced (and pulpy) plot, as they discover the author of Orchid Thief's secret and fight to survive her murderous rampage.

 What's interesting to note is that Kaufman treats both his characters with sympathy; how Charlie feels, thinks, acts is all laid out for the audience to observe, and Donald's unsophisticated (suggests that Flowers for Algernon is about flowers) and enthusiastic view of life is lovable. As works of meta-cinema, Barton Fink and Adaptation are the antithesis to each other; while the Coen Brothers are the smart-aleck bullies that make their character's life hard, Charlie Kaufman is the parent who asks, "Tell me what what's wrong."

Neon Dream (Conor)

      "Chiba" by Uqbar is Back is licensed under  CC BY 2.0

     Tokyo Drifter (1965) is a masterpiece of low budget, mass produced cinema. Despite the tight control the studio attempted to exert over the film, Director Seijun Suzuki defies the genre conventions of Japanese Yakuza films and completely ignores aesthetic tradition to create a stunning and complicated mish-mash between a B-movie and an art house film. Suzuki’s stubborn, revolutionary attitude towards film turned what was intended to be a potboiler Japanese gangster thriller into absurdist pop art. He is a film guerilla and Tokyo Drifter is one of his greatest and most powerful acts of rebellion.

            Despite the incredibly colorful and lively setting, the action that follows is tragedy. Tokyo Drifter is full of sense that the old times are changing. The many Yakuza that feature in the film are depicted as anachronistic and clinging to tradition and honor in the face of a world that values neither. Otsuka, the antagonist of the film is beholden not to honor and tradition, but to money. He is the new breed of gangster as he himself points out early on in the film. The many non-diegetic inserts of an enormous dead tree echo the feeling of impending permanent change–and with it, death–that permeates the entire film. The surreal urban setting of Tokyo best represented by the frequent montages of neon signs can now be understood to stand for the destruction of the old way of life by the new. The seductive allure of wealth, bright lights, and the type of unending leisure that comes from living one’s life entirely in Jazz clubs–something apparently every character in the film does–outshines the duty, honor, and restraint of the past.

    Suzuki is not lamenting the change, however. The old gangsters are by no means sympathetic, and Tetsu’s comic insistence on total loyalty to his boss almost kills him. Contrasting the seriousness of Testsu’s faithfulness to the old ways with the situations it places him reveals his devotion to be absurd. In one instance he is aided by an ally of his boss, Umetani, only to have that ally try to murder him. Umetani does not wish to kill Tetsu but does so out of unquestionable loyalty to his boss that just ordered the betrayal of the man he once called son. Suzuki exposes the incoherence of this ideology and lampoons it not just to make a statement about loyalty itself but to satirize an entire tradition of Japanese filmmaking based on characters like Tetsu. Suzuki isn’t just using surreal visuals to defy filmic conventions. The entire structure of his film is a conscious rejection of the standard dramatic form of yakuza films and chanbara.

    His absurdity and rebelliousness against standard film form manifest in some extremely radical ways. Suzuki was forced to make product placement details in order to finance his films and so he openly included advertisements in the most jarring way possible. There are two separate ads for hair dryers in Tokyo Drifter. Neither of them are even remotely disguised. One includes a close-up shot of an actual advertisement for the dryers and both of them completely disrupt the scenes they are placed in. In Worholian fashion Suzuki has embraced the commercial entirely and as such has stripped it of its power. Instead of letting the corporate subtly coopt his film into an ad he openly coopts the corporate into his art.

            Suzuki’s iconoclastic subversiveness elevated what should have been a B gangster movie into high art. What should have been a standard schlocky shoot-em-up became a visual meditation on the state of the B-movie form. Through Films like Tokyo Drifter and Branded to Kill Suzuki proves that with an aesthetic vision and a rebellious attitude towards everything under the sun it is still possible to make film art under the most unfavorable conditions. He is a living reminder that all cinema, even cheap B-movies, can be great cinema.

Bigger than Life: A History of Superhero Films (Nick R.)

        Superheroes have captured the American psyche since they emerged in comic books in the 1930s, and were very quickly adapted to the screen. Long before the special effects and modern technology that make superhero films what they are today, the subjects of these films appeared in serials, short films of generally 30 minutes, that were shown in parts to tell a larger sequential story. While it may sound like it was just a TV show, back in the 1930s, you could only watch them in theater. A lot of well-known clichés began with these serials, most notably, the ever-so-suspenseful (and occasionally very annoying) plot device of cliffhangers. Imagine watching your favorite superhero dangling from a building by their fingertips, and instead of just pressing ‘Continue Watching’, or popping in the next disc, you have to wait an entire week until next Saturday when the next episode of the serial would be shown. Netflix sounds pretty great now, huh?

         Superman: the Movie (1978), brought a new tone to superhero films, and with it mainstream popularity. It was the most expensive film in history up to that point, with a budget of $55 million. The film made over $300 million and was held in high regard on a critical level. What made this movie so successful was the more serious tone of the science fiction/fantasy storytelling (being written by Mario Puzo, who also wrote The Godfather) that superhero movies had rarely taken on, generally being directed at children. Superman: the Movie showed that superheroes weren’t just for kids any more, and they could be molded into a brand for all ages, while at the same time utilizing the fantasy elements that make them so special.

                                                

        The most obvious change that enticed audiences and put them right into the world of the modern superhero film are the special effects and CGI that made the supernatural look so real. Beginning with X-Men (2000) and Spider-Man (2002), these franchises launched huge blockbusters with very realistic special effects. The visuals of superhero films had suddenly gone from only being truly believable by a child, to epic and life-like proportions. Marvel saw the traction that their characters were generating for other studios, such as Fox (who produced the X-Men franchise) and Sony (producers of the Spider-Man franchise), and began to reclaim some of their most prominent properties. With the release of Iron Man (2008), this new studio released the first in what would be many self-produced movies by the company. Just over a month later, Robert Downey Jr. as Iron Man’s Tony Stark appeared in the Incredible Hulk (2008). This was the first step in what became the creation of the “Marvel Universe,” the connected storylines of different franchises under that company’s control. The Avengers (2012) really proved how far this concept could go, bringing together four characters, and their respective actors (excluding Edward Norton as the Incredible Hulk) from previous films. The Avengers now sits as the fifth highest grossing film of all time.

        While the connected storylines have created massive popularity for Marvel, I think that after a while it may inadvertently cause the downfall of, not superhero films in their entirety, but at least the success of Marvel. As the stories of each of these characters develops, such as previous meetings with other superheroes, and major story arcs that end up playing a role in the later films, the connected nature of the “Marvel Universe” inadvertently adds a complexity to superhero movies that the common viewer may just not be interested in dealing with. Superhero movies don’t feel like stand-alone projects anymore, and with story being something that drives the success of these films, it is likely that after a while, the collective storyline of these characters will simply just be too played out and have too complex of a history.

        So where do superhero movies as a whole go from here? Considering the huge amounts of money they make and the fact that they have caught on like wildfire, it doesn’t seem like blockbuster superhero movies are going away any time soon. However, Steven Spielberg and analysts within the industry have suggested that superhero movies will see a similar fate to that of the Western. The Western genre, packed with gunslingers and lots of action, was by far the most popular of the 1950s and 1960s, with hundreds of films created during that time period. Despite how popular the genre was, so many Westerns were pumped out of Hollywood that people eventually lost interest.

        As an optimist and an avid fan of superhero movies, I think it is much less likely that superhero movies share that outcome. Despite many superhero movies coming out in the past couple of years, this paled in comparison to the rate at which Westerns were created during the 50s and 60s. Secondly, the science-fiction aspect of superhero movies lends itself much more to an ability to evolve and adapt as times change. Westerns took place for the most part in one area of the world during one time period, the American Midwest and South in the later half of the 19th century. And while it is a fun and interesting period to explore, it is a concept limited by time. World War II movies, movies on the Vietnam War, and other types of period films have all seen their peak and decline, mostly because after a while, people want to learn about and delve into a new world or historical time period, or futuristic sci-fi concept for that matter. The science fiction characteristics of superhero movies mean that as the world changes and develops new technology and discoveries, these can be integrated into the lives of superheroes. 

                                                   

        If there is one thing that is spectacular about superhero films, it’s that they are, in a sense, bigger than life. What if our world had people who could do these miraculous things? What if it was me? It is an outlandish concept to believe that there are people among us bigger than life, bigger than the limitations of gravity, the human body, and the mind. For a moment, more accurately about two and a half hours, we can blur the lines between what we want to see, what we want to be able to do, and what is really there. Regardless of age, special effects and story allow us to visualize something that previously was impossible. Marvel may well have killed the comic book, but in the process have sparked a new age in the blockbuster movie experience for years to come.

The Line Between Fiction and Reality Was Overrated Anyway (Treva)

I have discovered a new favorite niche genre: paranormal mockumentary. Or whatever Mermaids: The Body Found can be defined as. Because this film, aired on Animal Planet in May 2012 and The Discovery Channel three weeks later, isn’t funny per se. There is no joke, no “mock” in sight. All 90 minutes are presented as an entirely straightforward, scientifically factual documentary on how mermaids exist—having branched off from human evolution some seven million years ago—and the US Navy is engaged in a vast conspiracy to conceal this from the public so they can continue testing SONAR weapons in the ocean.

I could make this up if I tried, which is why Animal Planet and The Discovery Channel should really hire me to write and direct a similar film on dragons—which they’ve made before, in Dragons: A Fantasy Made Real, but that took the coward’s way out and admitted that dragons do not, in fact, exist today. Mermaids: The Body Found does not for a moment admit to being fiction. In fact, it over and over includes just enough factual data to leave the viewer wondering, just briefly, “could this be real?”

Because there really has been debate about the Navy testing SONAR weapons and how those may or may not have a harmful affect on marine mammals. The “aquatic ape” hypothesis has been proposed twice, independently, in 1942 and 1960. Christopher Columbus really did claim to have seen mermaids on his way to the “New World”, there really are people in Brazil who partner with dolphins to fish, and there really is a cave in Egypt, in the desert by what used to be a shore, with primitive paintings of what anthropologists think are humans swimming.

Mind you, the people in the paintings don’t have tails, as Mermaids depicts. And historians are fairly sure Columbus saw manatees—he certainly didn’t describe them as having “pale, speckled bellies, dark blue backs, and paddle-shaped tails.” There was never a mass whale beaching in Washington in April 2004, and the Aquatic Ape Hypothesis has been discredited and disproved every time it’s been suggested.

Yet the film stands in fascinating contrast to something like What We Do in the Shadows, a 2014 mockumentary in which, per the explanation provided in text at the start, “each crew member wore a crucifix and was granted protection by the subjects of the film.” Yes, that’s right: it followed vampires around in their nightly lives.

In Wellington, New Zealand.

What We Do in the Shadows has all the mock. It parodies the sort of documentary that explores subcultures by presenting a subculture that obviously does not exist. It makes fun of vampires (and werewolves, zombies, witches…) by continuously playing with the incongruity between the darkness, terror, and perhaps even erotic intrigue the audience is led to expect from legends like Dracula and Nosferatu and the mundane details of living in a flat in Wellington, NZ. They bicker over the chore roster. Viago (Taika Waititi) puts down towels before he kills people, so the blood doesn’t get everywhere. And, my favorite (SPOILERS AHEAD): the romantic intrigue does enter with the Dracula-like character of Vladislav (Jemaine Clement), who once tyrannically ruled a small chunk of Eastern Europe before he was defeated in epic battle by his arch-nemesis “the Beast.” In classic documentary style, manuscripts and artwork of the battle are shown while Vladislav narrates his tragic story.

…Only for it to later be revealed that “the Beast” is his name for his ex-girlfriend, Pauline, who refers to him as “Asshole.”

Mermaids, however, has none of that. Even one of the most potentially incongruous moments, the one and only time a live mermaid appears onscreen in the modern day (rather than in the openly CGI segments set millions of years in the past) is absolutely serious. In Shadows, the head-height, handheld camera removes a great deal of grandeur from the occasional fights—as does the fact that the vampires look anything but elegant when they take to the air or hiss at each other like angry cats. It’s amateurish and ridiculous. Whereas the brief attack of two boys by a SONAR-wounded merman, shot with a shaky cameraphone from 2004, is amateur in a way that evokes true terror, not to mention unofficialism. That is, this is what the government doesn’t want you to see. The merman, too, hisses, as it lunges sideways into the narrow frame (who knows what else could be beyond the viewer’s field of vision…) But where the vampires, grown men is costumes from the 1700s and before, seem absurd, the mermaid is fierce and animalistic.

And terrified, and hurt. It’s already been established at that point that the other beached beings—whales—were literally bleeding from their ears, and had been something like physically bombarded by subsonic SONAR. They had blunt force trauma. It’s easy to see the merman’s distress as human, too. When the vampires in Shadows are humanized, they are made petty and amusing, with chore charts and ex-girlfriends—normal problems. The mermaids, on the other hand, are humanized with emotion, such as in the segment set 1.6 million years ago, in which one sacrifices himself to distract a megalodon shark away from the rest of his migrating pod. Though the voiceover calls the group of mermaids a “pod”, as if they were dolphins, rather than something more human like “clan” or “tribe”, the emotion in the merman’s eyes is as real as CGI can make it, and the music swells with piping sorrow as he awaits the megalodon’s jaws.

Yet the narration is dehumanizing, and it is the only words spoken in these part of the film in which the story of the NOAA scientists investigating mermaids in the modern day is punctuated with the same sort of flashback one would expect to see in any documentary on some animal’s evolution. The mermaids don’t speak a recognizable language, but the narrator has the same sort of deep, serious voice that always narrates nature documentaries. And we have all seen tragic nature documentaries, with death-by-predator and soaring, tragic pipes in the soundtrack. The conceit here is simply that instead of CGIing ancient mammoths or crocodiles or whatever, the teams at Animal Planet and The Discovery Channel have simulated mermaids. With just as much factual data as they would the mammoths and crocodiles.

I want more. I’m an imaginative woman; I can go along, laughing, with the conceit that there are awkward vampires living in Wellington. I’m perfectly to accept that as reality, just for fun. But it’s even better that every varyingly-accurate “fact” cited in this article was something I actually paused Mermaids: The Body Found in order to google, because I wasn’t sure whether to believe them or not. The film was entirely scientific, no magic in sight, but that only made it easier for my logic-conditioned mind to accept that the world might really be more magical than I had thought. That’s a gift.

So yes, I’d like one on dragons next, and then fairies—I know there’s a blurry photo of them somewhere from late 19^th century England or so. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that on the internet. Then maybe unicorns? Bigfoot? The Loch Ness Monster? I’m sure those already exist, but not professionally, by people actively making things up to support the theory. Yes, it might be confusing—but what’s wrong with looking up half a dozen different scientific and historical facts in an hour and a half? I learned things! And if you can’t be bothered to hit the search bar, well, the line between fiction and reality is overrated anyway

Screams, Teens, and Horror Scenes: The Power of Fear (Rachel)

This may come as a surprise, but I really don’t like horror movies. I’ve tried (mainly against my will) to sit through them in their entirety, but for the most part, I just cover my eyes and wish I had made better decisions. As a film person, I understand that I miss out on a lot of (apparently) great movies this way. I’ve never seen The Ring (2002), or any of the numerous Halloween’s, and I’m quite content with that. Sure, most people would say old school horror movies aren’t that bad, but even Scream (1996) has made an appearance in a nightmare or two of mine, and that’s just from catching a minute of it while flipping through the TV channels.

My friends don’t get it, and I don’t blame them. I’ve flown stunt planes, scuba dived with sharks, and fenced against Olympic athletes, but I won’t watch Saw with them. The only “horror” movie I’ve ever liked is 28 Days Later (2002), and that’s just because it’s just a plain awesome movie all around.

I was once tricked into watching a Rob Zombie film, as I had no idea who he was at the time. The film, which mainly consisted of my fingers over my eyes and lots of screaming, was probably the worst hour and a half of my life. At the same time, I was riveted. The wanton violence, the disturbing reality created by the characters, and the raw psychosis depicted was masterful in making me fear. I found myself creating two versions of the film-- the half that was scary and sucked the me into the director’s game, and the half that used incredibly iconic film techniques to create that game.

 For film class, the assignment this week was to watch the original A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984) in all its 80’s glory. I went through the stages of convincing myself to watch the film. The thoughts, “It won’t be so bad, it’s from the 80’s, they couldn’t even show dead people on TV,” and, “You’ll watch it with the lights on, nothing to worry about!” helped me get around to finding the film, but it took me a while to actually press play. How was I supposed to analyze a movie for class through my closed fingers? And worse yet, I had put off watching the movie until the night before class. It was 2am before I, hugging a security blanket, pressed play. 

The film itself is of course, full of 80’s angst. The main characters are two teen couples who begin to have odd dreams about a man with blades on his fingers. But besides the cheesy subplot, it really gets interesting when the dreams and reality begin to merge. With Freddy apparently able to kill from the dreamworld, no one is safe. The line between dreaming and reality becomes blurred both in editing and plot until the audience is waiting for Freddy to appear at any turn. The use of lighting and jump-cutting give subtle clues to what is more real than not, but without any prior knowledge of these clues, the audience is strapped in for a wild ride. Thankfully, I was able to watch most of Nightmare without the lens of my fingers, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t scared. But instead of being paralyzed by it, I knew why I was scared.

 I couldn’t tell you if I had nightmares after watching A Nightmare on Elm Street, but I certainly had a better understanding of why people actually like these incredibly violent and disturbing realities complete with their own sadistic villains. These films, in the iconic words of that masked guy from Saw, want to play a game with us. They dare us over and over again to question our own realities, and use editing, sound, and lighting to draw us each into our own private hells. Even if the plot is barely coherent, or they used way too much fake blood, a horror movie will play upon our most basic human fear, that our reality might not be all that it seems.

 

 _{By Screenshot from "Internet Archive" of the movie Dracula (1958) - http://www.archive.org/details/HorrorOfDracula-Trailer, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=11740931}

I still can’t quite pinpoint the exact reason for my hatred of horror movies. Maybe it’s because I can’t help but think the character’s dumb for even walking into the haunted house in the first place, or for not grabbing a gun when the killer only has knives for fingers, but you know, that’s just me. Whatever the case, all movies deserve at least a chance, and perhaps I’ll work my way up to a scarier one eventually. But no clowns. Definitely no clowns.

 

Romance and the New Bond Films (Treva)

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

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

                                            

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

[SPOILERS AHEAD!]

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

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

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

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

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

                                                    

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

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

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

Exactly that kind of movie.

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

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

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

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

Far more Romantic than any box of chocolates. 

 

Stripped Bare and on the Brink: Let the Right One In (Nicola)

There are a variety of myths surrounding the sanguinary creature we call the vampire. While the name and the minutia of the lore varies from region to region, the overarching theme remains consistent: the vampire, an undead creature of mythos, sustains its presence in the physical world by consuming the life-force of the living. In most cases, this requires feasting on the victim’s blood. Other characteristics of the vampire include transformative abilities, regenerative properties, super strength, and an aversion to daylight; today’s popular culture tends to pick and choose from the traditional attributes, combining them at their leisure. Admittedly, some interpretations take greater liberties than others (I’m looking at you, Twilight), but one rule remains almost universally acknowledged: a vampire cannot gain access to a home without an invitation. The establishment of such a law works to maintain a kind of balance – a buffer, even – between good and evil. As long as the victims remain self-aware, they stay master of their own domain, secure in a place that evil cannot penetrate. Unfortunately, that balance is delicate and easily tipped in the favor of the darkness.

Tomas Alfredson’s Let the Right One In is a Swedish vampire film that centers around the lives of two young outsiders. Though one is a vampire and the other is not, neither seems to be welcome in the world of humans. Our main characters hover on the brink of society, of adolescence, and of evil – looking in, waiting for an invitation to forge ahead.

The first of our two main characters is a young boy named Oskar. Oskar is an outsider in every sense of the word. The scrawny, pale-faced youth is bullied in school, shipped back and forth between two inattentive parents, and is left largely to his own devices. In his free time, Oskar indulges in the fantasy of stabbing his bullies and enjoys the morbid hobby of scrapbooking murder cases. Though these eccentricities indicate a worrisome dark side, his pitiful nature draws sympathy from the audience and paints his as a victim of his situation.

It is during one of his role-playing sessions that Oskar encounters Eli, a girl who looks to be about his age, has impossibly large eyes, walks barefoot in the snow, and smells of death. Eli is a vampire. For Eli’s part, she is well established in her way of life – she’s been twelve for a long time now and has managed successfully thus far. However, Eli, too, is in a precarious situation – she requires the protection of a faithful servant willing to acquire blood for her meals, and is therefore reliant on another for survival. Regardless of how long she has been twelve, she remains twelve at heart and possesses no desire to murder people. Cursed by her very nature, Eli is lonely.

The backdrop for this film – a beautifully white, minimalistic landscape doused in a wintry light, is also one that evokes feelings of lonliness and unease. The film’s palette is faded, void of bright colors save for the vivid red of blood that is guaranteed to set the viewer’s stomach churning. For all intent and purposes, the film itself seems frozen, each frame carefully composed with a steady hand. Like the main characters, the town itself is removed and forlorn, arrested in that moment of quiet before chaos. Alfredson has created a motionless, crystalline world that teeters on the precipice of danger, ready to slip off the edge and shatter at the slightest provocation.

Let the Right One In is a horror film that extends beyond the boundaries of its genre, and into the realm of social commentary. The inner-working of the characters takes precedence over the presence of monsters. Adolescence, dark inner desires, and companionship in shared loneliness are all themes explored in this piece of cinema that is delightfully cold and touching at the same time.

 

Anonymity and Ambiguity – the Waking Nightmare of It Follows (Nicola)

Horror movies…well, they’ve never really been my thing.

After a Lord of the Rings debacle in 2002 rendered my 7-year-old self incapable of going downstairs alone, I swore off anything scary. My parents actively supported this decision after a few dozen nights of waking to find me shivering sadly next to their bed. A few years ago, however, after easing myself back into the game with The Sixth Sense, I found myself on a bit of a horror movie kick. Pretty soon, I, a girl who panicked at the mere thought of Gollum, could sit unflinching in the face of some truly ghoulish creatures. Thriller or horror, ax murder or vengeful spirit – I was game. So when I went to watch David Robert Mitchell’s It Follows this summer, I wasn’t expecting anything out of the ordinary. Much to my surprise, I found myself on the edge of my seat pretty much from the moment the movie started.

For the first time in ages, I was freaked out.

But why? Besides the fact that there’s, you know, a relentless demonic presence, I found myself wondering what exactly it is about It Follows that is so deeply unsettling. As far as horror movies go, it’s relatively light on the jump scares and doesn’t depend too heavily on gore. I sat down to watch it again, determined to figure it out.

An hour and a half and two horrified roommates later, I came to the conclusion that the reason It Follows is so unnerving is because it seems like it shouldn’t be. It induces an unshakable feeling of paranoia where, even when everything looks entirely normal and safe, your gut says that it’s not.

The precedent of paranoia is something that is established from the moment the film starts. The title screen cuts to an average, nicely manicured neighborhood, when all of a sudden there’s a girl booking it down the street in high heels, desperately running from… nothing? It’s a disturbing, even genius, way to begin a movie. As an uninformed voyeur you are discombobulated. You’re given no context, and guess what?  You better get used to that instability, because that context you’re waiting for? You’re not going to get it.

Aside from a set of rules we can only assume were gathered by the preceding victims, there is no information given regarding the origins of this horrendous creature or why it follows – it just does. The creature seemingly has no motive for dedicating its entire existence to terminating of yours and, consequently, you are unable to sort it into any of your pre-existing schemas for why the heck would anyone want to kill me? If its relentless nature isn’t enough, there’s the fact that this presence can look like anyone. This ability to almost-but-not-quite blend into the scene is what leaves a perpetual tingling traveling up and down your spine.

The paranoia-inducing ambiguity is reflected in the setting as well. The time period doesn’t adhere to traditional standards and is a jumble of retro and futuristic technology and fashion. For instance, you’ll see an old-fashioned rabbit-eared television in the same room as a futuristic seashell tablet or seventies lingerie hidden beneath a modern dress. In a way, the setting of the movie is reflective of the monster itself – it appears familiar, even comfortable – but somehow wrong.

The demon in It Follows spends the majority of its time doing one of the most decidedly unfrightening things in the world – walking slowly in a straight line. And about half that time you’re not even sure if it’s the real creature because all you can make out is a humanoid blob trudging along in the background. For this reason, some of the most disturbing moments in the film aren’t when the monster is present, but when it’s not. Rather than take traditional horror tropes and turn them on their head, It Follows capitalizes on the aspects of life that we take for granted and adds the possibility of danger. As the viewer, you’re thrown off-kilter, never knowing if imminent death is about to appear.

Many critics have referred to It Follows as a coming-of-age film, primarily because the monster is basically a demonic STD. While the film certainly makes some strong assertions regarding sex, I find the most powerful aspect of the film is its ability to trap you in an adolescent mindset that’s somewhere between child and adult. Waking from a nightmare, you open your eyes to a quiet, familiar room. Though your blanket now clings to your body with sweat, the room is no different nor any less safe than it was when you first closed your eyes –  but now there’s the unshakable feeling that something is going to emerge from behind the door. It Follows transports you to that mental limbo in which you’re old enough to know that there’s nothing to be scared of, yet young enough to be certain that there is. As the director himself says, “There's no logic to it—you can't really explain a nightmare." And that’s exactly what It Follows is so good at - creating the sensation of a waking nightmare

When it comes down to it, It Follows speaks to the value of a simple concept done well.  The movie will have you counting exits and edging away from anyone who happens to be walking in a straight line. But don’t worry – it’s just a movie. You’ll be utterly and completely safe in your room tonight.

 …Probably.

 

 

Superhero Ideology (Elizabeth)

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

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

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

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

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

The Cronenberg Body Horror (Bedram)

There is arguably no bigger name in body horror than David Cronenberg. The Canadian is often credited as one of the originators of the genre, with his notable works including Rabid, Scanners, and The Fly. One of his best explorations into the genre was the 1983 film, Videodrome. While his earlier work, Rabid for example, displayed scientists experimenting on human bodies and the subsequent effects on societal order, Videodrome focuses more on the effects on the individual, though the individual in question can be viewed as representative of the masses.

The film revolves around Max Renn, the president of a television station, who is looking for new material. He is introduced to Videodrome by the man who runs the station’s pirate satellite dish, a show displaying the torture and murder of random strangers. When he asks what the plot is, he is told that there is no plot. The mutilation and murder just goes on for an hour. “Absolutely brilliant” is his response.  He becomes increasingly obsessed with the show, even watching it with his date. She becomes sexually aroused, and the two have sex with it on.

On the surface, one might think that the film is arguing that exposure to sex and violence leads to desensitization. The film does not seem so interested in tackling this issue, however, focusing more on showing that television is a weapon itself rather than the contents that appear onscreen. Max eventually uncovers the secrets around Videodrome, which involves a shady organization (Spectacular Optical) wanting to use the broadcast to manipulate the masses. The head of the organization, Barry Convex, tells him that the violence in the show affects the nervous system, “opening receptors in the brain and the spine” which allows the signal to sink into people, permitting them to be turned into drones. This establishes the idea of television affecting the body, taking it to the extreme and having it go all the way down to our organs and nerves. Max himself becomes a drone, carrying out the will of the organization. If the theme of media being able to influence individuals was not clear enough, Cronenberg includes a scene in which Max has a videotape shoved inside him by Convex, allowing Spectacular Optical to program Max’s mind and control his life. While over-the-top, it gets its message across: television (mass media in particular) programs its viewers.

The film ends with Max taking directions from a television, one that seduces and even shows him how to kill himself. The television is a manipulative object, and once again Cronenberg takes it to the extreme. While sex and violence were the trigger of this entire conflict, they were only a means to a greater end, a vehicle to spread a message. As Max is told, “…it [Videodrome] has something that you don’t have, Max. It has a philosophy, and that is what makes it dangerous.”

David Cronenberg’s foray into body horror is widely believed to have ended with his 1999 film, eXistenZ. His son, Brandon Cronenberg, however, has started from where his father left off. His directing debut, the 2012 film Antiviral, tackled the genre that his father had explored numerous times, taking a social and cultural issue (the power of celebrity culture) and exaggerating it to make a point.

Unlike his father’s films, Antiviral is clearly set in the future, one characterized as extremely sterile. Walls, chairs, clothes, and so forth are almost always stark white, adding to the biologically driven story. While some of David Cronenberg’s films were set in the near feature, they often felt like the present. The future in Antiviral does not feel that way, but at the same time, it does not appear too far away.

In this future, the celebrity-obsessed culture has escalated to unprecedented heights. In order to feel closer to the celebrities they love, people buy the viruses that plagued them, having it injected into their bodies. Syd March, the protagonist of the film, works for one of the companies that acquires and sells the viruses. To make extra money he pirates the illnesses, which involves injecting himself with it, his body serving as an incubator. The obsession over celebrities even carries over to an odd form of cannibalism, in which people can buy meat cultivated from the cells of certain celebrities.  

By combining celebrity culture with something as bodily as viruses, Cronenberg is able to explore the theme of celebrities as ideas and contrast it with the human beings behind those constructs. Syd injects himself with a virus from superstar Hannah Geist, but finds out soon after that she had died from that very disease. Syd is eventually contacted by Hannah’s family, and he learns that Hannah is not yet dead, though she is dying. Syd gets to meet her, and this is one of the very few times she is shown in person. She is simply a sick human being, bedridden and constantly coughing up blood. Her face is drained of its color, bearing no resemblance to the divine, pervading figure plastered on the news and ads across the city. Even when she is finally shown in person, she is emphatically human and not-human due to her ghostly figure.

Both Videodrome and Antiviral use the body horror genre to dissect a part of our culture, taking something already present in our society and exaggerating it. Videodrome is increasingly regarded as having been a couple decades ahead of its time, foreseeing the increasing impact of technology and media, especially with today’s Internet. As for Antiviral, it’s not difficult to imagine that celebrity obsession will continue. At times it appears that celebrity news already takes precedence over more pressing current events. Brandon Cronenberg does take a similar approach to satirical prediction as his father did in Videodrome, but despite his father’s rather grand status in the body horror genre, he manages to display his own unique vision. 

Dystopian Love Stories: Heartbreak in the Digital Age (Helen)

I usually find romantic film to be a subject that’s all too sugary-sweet, but the sub genre that has been building steam in recent years provides a refreshing, albeit somewhat terrifying, discussion on human intimacy with the ever-evolving technology of convenience. In the same way, generations adapted to telephones, Internet access, and smart phones, these fictional characters must tackle the paradox between having complete access to world from their fingertips and the strange sense of alienation from never having to leave their home to do so. These films ask the question, is such a thing as too much access? Too much information? Is contentment possible when there seem to be infinite options? Is the technology that is made to assist us, perhaps stunting us?

 

Spike Jonze’s most recent film, Her (2013), looks into these questions with a slightly different spin in what I would consider to be a fairly convincing realistic look at artificial intelligence and the moral ambiguity of developing a personal assistance technology that is capable of independent thoughts and feelings.  The story follows a recently divorced introvert named Theodore Twombly in the year 2025. The ethical questions raised in this film revolve mostly around his developing romantic relationship with his OS “Samantha”. Although, it is worth noting that there are a lot of interesting moral quandaries for the viewer to consider within the background of the main storyline. For example, Theodore works at a company that ghostwrites romantic letters to the customer’s significant other under the assumption that it was written by their spouse and of course, not contracted out to a stranger. Although this deceit seems to be with the best intentions, that ethical grey area is the crux of the film. Both his career and the OS provide parallel examples of modern services meant to make life simpler that seem to instead desensitize an over stimulated population. Although this film shows the delight and feverish highs of Theodore’s relationship with “Samantha” through beautiful cinematography, it is clear from the start that his love will end in tragedy.

 

One of the most striking scenes in the film is when Theodore goes on a blind date set up by his coworker Amy. The woman he meets, who is never given a name, is played by the stunning actress Olivia Wilde. Although she is awkward at first, the close camerawork is intimate rather than suffocating. Their interaction is slow to spark, but develops into a romantic chemistry. However, when she asks him about permanence and commitment he hesitates and recedes. After his failed date he speaks at lengths to “Samantha” about it. It is a subtle reminder than Theordore is retreating from life itself, comforted by the convenience of technology. As time passes, it becomes clear that more people have begun dating their OS, including his only close friend, Amy who is also struggling with her “human” relationship. Towards the end of the film, Theodore descends down the stairs to the subway, with his blue tooth in ear speaking to “Samantha”. As the camera follows him, the same blue tooth can be seen on the various strangers passing him by. This film is less of a cautionary tale, and more of a discourse on the complexity of human intimacy and desire being swept away in the changing tides of modern advancements.

 

Michel Gondry’s film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (2004) offers another perspective on the romantic drama with a science fiction twist. This film however, begins with the end of a relationship and shows the lengths to which someone will go to forget and suppress their former flame. While the technology in this film is entirely familiar with the exception of the memory-erasing machine from the fictional company, Lacuna Inc. Gondry mixes aspects of life that are entirely relatable into this science fiction story. The film opens completely unremarkably with Joel Barish waking up and commuting to the Long Island Railroad on a Valentines Day like any other, so he thinks. In reality, most of the film is presumed to be Joel’s memories running through his head as he is having them erased. Much of the film is shot in montage with Joel’s narration over top, similarly to how memory is perceived. The non-linear timeline forces to viewer to recall and reorder the scenes to piece together the story just as Joel does.

 

Although the story mostly works backwards through a relationship retroactively, the flashbacks recall moments of genuine tenderness and pain for Joel and the object of his affections, Clementine. However, just as in Her (2013), the technology meant to soothe proves to be harmful for Joel. The oversimplified solution to a breakup is too permanent for fickle human desire. The film raises other ethical dilemmas through the various relationships in addition to Joel and Clementine’s. For example, Patrick, the Lacuna employee that erases Clementine’s memories falls in love with her and begins dating her. He uses Joel’s journal to relive his experiences with Clementine in order to manipulate her affections, knowing she won’t remember them with Joel. Lacuna’s receptionist Mary, also learns that she had an affair with the married doctor that runs the company, but had all of this memory erased. Even though she had her memories erased, the attraction she had for her boss developed again. Proving, that the system is not only traumatic but also ineffective. Learning of their own pasts, Joel and Clementine decided to try their relationship again, with a somewhat optimistic ending. Although, the greater implication is that their relationship is likely doomed to fail again.

 

Both of these films and the subgenre of science fiction romantic dramas address an anxiety between technology simultaneously simplifying our lives, but also making things much more complicated, especially in how we interact with one another. I'm not sure how things will be in ten or twenty years, or if these fever dream ideas will ever be realized, but it's something to keep you up at night. To put it simply in the immortal words of 1986 one hit wonder, Timbuk3, "the future's so bright, I gotta wear shades".

 

 

Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde Go To Washington- Idealism and Cynicism in Politics, The West Wing and House of Cards (Taylor)

    I was watching the State of the Union on Tuesday night and got to thinking, what is it about politics that evokes the best and worst in humanity? No other human endeavor produces more greed, ire, and dishonesty, but also compassion, dedication, and hope for the future. Politics in America represent the quintessential Jekyll and Hyde paradox.

    Few things portray and contrast this paradox more readily than two popular and oppositely oriented political dramas: Aaron Sorkin’s network juggernaut The West Wing (1999- 2006), and Beau Willimon’s new Netflix series House of Cards.

    The West Wing takes place primarily within the White House and depicts the fictional Democratic Presidency of Josiah Bartlett and his senior staff members as they navigate the complicated world of political crises and disputes, public opinion, ethical dilemmas, and personal dramas.

     During each episode, the characters, (along with viewers at home) are presented with moral dilemmas relating to pressing contemporary domestic and world issues.  During the hour, the fearless leader and his hardworking staff think through these difficult problems  using facts, moral code, analysis, and gut-level intuition, only to emerge successfully from each challenge with their moral integrity intact. 

    The West Wing’s liberally idealistic White House is a chalice of heroism, morality, intelligence, and sense of duty. The message, slightly left of center in reality, was ostensibly unpartisan, whereby episode after episode, President Bartlett and his senior staff members considered all sides of an issue, both right and left, before making a decision.  When partisan divides were addressed in Sorkin’s rose tinted White House, it was with an endearing sense of transparency.  In a scene from season one of TWW, Donna Moss, assistant to deputy White House chief of staff Josh Lyman, asks why the President won’t return a budget surplus back to constituents. She says that she wants to buy a DVD player. She promises to buy American. Josh lets her know in no uncertain terms that it’s never going to happen. Why?

 “We don’t trust you,” Josh says.

“Why not?” Donna asks.

“We’re Democrats,” he replies. “You shouldn’t have voted for us.”

    Seven years later with House of Cards, we are presented with an entirely different depiction of the inner-workings of DC power circles. Narrated by House Majority Whip and South Carolina congressman Francis Underwood, the show revolves around the shady congressman, his cold-as-ice wife Claire, and an ambitious, cutthroat, up and coming young reporter name Zoe Barnes. Each of the main characters is primarily concerned with climbing the DC power ladder at the expense of everyone around them.

     It is clear that HOC lacks the warm and alluring appeal of the West Wing from the outset. The first episode begins with a cold opening, darkness, and the visceral sound of a dog being hit by a car. Underwood runs out of his DC brownstone, into the street where the injured dog lies. Crouching over the dog, he addresses the camera directly.

“Moments like this require someone who will act,” he says as he begins to suffocate the dog, “someone to do the unpleasant thing. The necessary thing,”

 The dog dies.

“There. No more pain.” Underwood says. He turns around and walks back into the house. This is just a taste of the utilitarian ruthlessness to come from Congressman Underwood.

    Another strong contrast between House of Cards and the West Wing is in HOC's harsh depiction of the media. In TWW, the press is largely portrayed in terms of in-house reporters who have personal and positive relationships with senior staff members, whereas the HOC media world cuts a more isolated, dissident figure within the offices of fictional newspaper the Washington Herald. Yellow fluorescent lighting casts harshly onto tired looking, rumpled reporters as they fight among themselves and vie for a leg up on their own power ladder.

    Finally, while patriarchal figure President Bartlett is revered for his age and wisdom, HOC seems to touch on clashing themes of aging and irrelevance. During an early episode in the first season, Claire finds herself ordering a coffee from an older woman who cannot operate the electronic cash register. Claire displays mild disgust as a younger woman steps in to take over.

    Later in the same episode, an insane man tries to storm the congressional office building, and police handcuff him to a light post. The man begins to scream in frustration. Exiting the building, Frank Underwood notices the man and approaches, crouching in front of him on the ground. Frank says, “Nobody can hear you. Nobody cares about you. Nothing will come of this.”

    The man begins to cry, perhaps overwhelmed by the futility of his actions. The message seems to be that individuals don’t actually have a voice in the greater scheme of human existence. That is…unless they occupy a desk on Capital Hill.

     So, despite all of this political doom and gloom, why does watching HOC seem like such a cathartic, (albeit cynical) experience?

    In a show-to-show comparison, the contrast appears to be between the idealistic greater good verses the cynical personal agenda. Optimistically, we all want to imagine that our government is being driven by the Lincoln ideal , “of the people, by the people, for the people”. 

      Honestly, I am a bit of a cynic, but even I find myself searching for hope in politics every once in a while. In fact, last Tuesday during the State of the Union, something that President Obama said got me a little teary-eyed: 

 “The America we want for our kids – a rising America where honest work is plentiful and communities are strong; where prosperity is widely shared and opportunity for all lets us go as far as our dreams and toil will take us – none of it is easy. But if we work together; if we summon what is best in us, with our feet planted firmly in today but our eyes cast towards tomorrow – I know it’s within our reach.

Believe it.”

      Seemingly ripped from the pages of a Sorkin script, our President had me, hook, line and sinker. But then the next day I woke up to seemingly scathing fact-checking reports from AP, HuffPost…you name it.

 “False promises!”

 “Stretching the facts!”

“Not without support from congress!”

“No real action!”

 Dr. Jekyll And Mr. Hyde again.

     Ultimately, the historical success of the idealistically minded drama The West Wing seems to indicate that there are still Americans who want to believe in the political idealism of a rising utopian America. 

    However, the growing popularity of Willimon’s political dystopia, House Of Cards seems to represent the other, more cynical portion of America’s constituents, who would perhaps answer Obama’s plea for faith with  “Mr. President, we will believe it…when we see it.”  Too much of our day to day reality seems to align with House of Cards, and much less with The West Wing.

 

                                                                                                              

The Utility of Government and Military Power: Why World War Z Isn’t Your Average Zombie Film (Yasmine)

People of a nation expect their government and other institutions of the law to honor their rights, protect them and, most importantly, to maintain a structured society. Ideally, should a catastrophic event cost the lives of citizens and threaten to crumble social order; people rely on the solidarity of their communities and expect swift and efficient intervention from government powers. Films and television shows depicting the zombie apocalypse such as Night of the Living Dead (1968), 28 Days Later (2002), and the Walking Dead (2010) challenge the notion that the government and military are capable of maintaining order and that communities are able to thrive in chaos. In fact, the zombie apocalypse symbolizes the devolution of civilization and the destruction of governmental, familial, and educational institutions, ultimately depicting a dismal future for humanity while simultaneously revealing the fragility of society. In Marc Forster’s World War Z (2013), Jerry Lane, a former employee of the UN, cooperates with the United Nations military, and the World Health Organization to investigate a possible solution to the zombie epidemic. Whereas an ineffective government and hopeless isolation are typical elements for many zombie films, World War Z illustrates the utility of government and military on a global scale in times of crisis.

             The opening titles, in which images of nature are intercut with shots of day-to-day human society, demonstrates the dichotomous nature of civilization. Shots of undulating ocean waves, clouds floating lazily in the sky, and the sun rising behind a quiet cityscape invoke a sense of tranquility. The film connects the peaceful picture of the natural world to human society with subsequent images of beautiful suburban homes and people commuting on trains, buses, and busy city streets. The juxtaposition of commuters with shots of an ant community marching in an orderly cluster implies social order within a structured, functioning society. As news and TV talk show segments flash on the screen, the sounds of various radio and TV media dialogues overlap. The trivial, less dire media information overshadows a grim message about a possible viral outbreak. In spite of the troubling information the people portrayed appear undaunted, continuing their commute even as reports of the virus become more frequent and prominently featured in the sequence—denoting a collective ignorance of impending danger. As if in response to the gravity of the message, the rhythm of intercutting increases, simulating a frenzied heartbeat, with each cut lasting no more than a second. The sudden onslaught of images represents the way in which social order can rapidly decay. Images of an aggressive ocean current, ants devouring a carcass, and wolves tearing other animals apart, supersede the serenity of nature. The transition from order and tranquility to violence and chaos represents the deterioration of social order and foreshadows the ensuing chaos of the zombie outbreak. The necessary response to the social turmoil—as suggested by the news broadcast on Jerry’s kitchen television—is martial law, which Jerry explains to his daughter is “like house rules, but for everybody.” Jerry’s “house rules” metaphor indicates his belief that government aid and military action can bring peace and order to an unstable world.

When the zombie outbreak occurs later in the film, local authorities prove to be ineffective—their movement restricted by the general chaos of cars and panicking civilians. In contrast, the UN military demonstrates its mobility by moving freely above the pandemonium in secure helicopters. The UN’s apparent mobility compels Jerry to entrust his family’s protection to the military, whose presence and authority Jerry must rely on throughout the film. In other zombie-related tales, a military helicopter extraction is nothing but a pipedream, ultimately leading to disappointment. However, for Jerry and his family the military helicopter signifies salvation, as it not only rescues them from the tumultuous infection site it brings them to a haven completely removed from the outbreak. The haven, a U.S. Navy vessel is an even more unlikely occurrence in the pessimistic zombie genre. Fully stocked with supplies, military personnel, and experts monitoring the outbreak the ship symbolizes the resilience of the government and its attempt to maintain order and control. Even as an officer reports that Washington D.C., the very center of American government, has been wiped out by the outbreak, other naval officers transport paintings and historical artifacts, symbolically preserving American culture. Jerry’s association with the UN and military affords him the mobility to investigate the apocalypse not only locally, but also internationally, making him one of the most mobile protagonists of the zombie apocalypse genre. The support of the United Nations and military combined with Jerry’s ingenuity and determination exemplify the indomitable fortitude of humanity and imply that society’s hope for deliverance is not lost.

           

 

Until the End of the World (Mina)

        Human beings can never remain indifferent in the face of death. Because we cannot be sure of the existence of afterlife, we always have this vague fear about death. This is why we expect a savior to come save us from this anxiety as we watch films like The Day the Earth Stood Still (dir. Scott Derrickson, 2008) or I Am Legend (dir. Francis Lawrence, 2007). When we see the protagonists fight against the cause of the apocalypse, and eventually save the world from collapsing, we feel peaceful as if we are also saved. However, Lars von Trier’s Melancholia (2011) and Béla Tarr and Ágnes Hranitzky’s The Turin Horse (2011), are different from these classic apocalyptic films. The protagonists from both films remain calm as they see their own world slowly come to an end.

       Melancholia and The Turin Horse begin with an ominous introduction, which reflects the central themes of each film. Melancholia opens with a 8-minute sequence with music from Wagner’s “Tristan and Isolde.” The sequence is mainly comprised of strange dream-like images. We see a bride running through a forest in her wedding dress and a large blue planet Melancholia heading directly towards the Earth. The stillness that comes from the extreme slow-motion images foreshadows an imminent death of the characters. The mournful prelude of “Tristan und Isolde” heightens this sense of crisis, yet at the same time, it also describes death from a different perspective. The music is about a secret love affair between Tristan and Isolde. Realizing that she has to marry a man she doesn’t love, Isolde chooses death over life. Similarly, Melancholia introduces Justine as an unwilling bride. It is soon revealed that the apocalypse, not the extravagant wedding, offers consolation to Justine. Justine becomes more energetic as Melancholia approaches Earth, proving that death is what ultimately offers Justine, as it did to Isolde, a cathartic emotional release.

        The opening scene of The Turin Horse shows a 5-minute long shot of a horse pulling a wagon after a minute of an impermeable black screen. Simultaneously, a voice-over narrates an event which occurred on 1889 in Turin, Italy. We are told that philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche encounters a cabman brutally whipping his motionless horse. Nietzsche stops this scene by throwing his arms around the horse’s neck, sobbing. When returned to his home, Nietzsche likewise lies still for two days until he lets out his last sane words, “Mother, I am silenced.” He spends his remaining life in a state of mental derangement. The reason why Nietzsche cried, collapsed in front of the horse relates to the core message of The Turin Horse. Nietzsche probably would have witnessed deep despair in the eyes of the horse. From birth till death, horses are used for farm work and transport for human being. Thus, the horse’s refusal to follow his owner’s order extends to his refusal of such a life. From this introduction, the theme of loss of will (reflected by the horse and Nietzsche's refusal to move) is constantly conveyed through the protagonists–the horse, the stableman, and the stableman’s daughter.

        Justine and the stableman respond to the apocalypse in a similar way; they both calmly embrace the apocalypse itself. For Justine, apocalypse has already happened. The catastrophic wedding decisively validates her belief that there is nothing to leave behind. By the end of the wedding reception, she entirely withdraws from the world, from its social norms; for example, she doesn’t feel guilty as she has sex with her coworker on her wedding day. Justine remotely says, “The earth is evil. We don’t need to grieve for it. Nobody will miss it.” Moreover, most of the time, the camera is handheld, floating around the space. The camera readjusts its focus as the screen abruptly changes from a tight close-up shot to a long shot and to another. By this unstable movement of the camera, we become detached from the characters and the plot just as Justine becomes detached from Earth. Hence, we are allowed to merely observe.

        The stableman and the stableman's daughter from The Turin Horse are also isolated from the world. There are several scenes capturing the stableman absent-mindedly looking through the window. Through the window, the stableman sees dirt and leaves rustling by–the external world. But he doesn’t seem to be connected to it. The scene then transitions into a larger shot of the living room, showing where the stableman belongs and remains to stay. This withdrawal from the world is displayed more clearly through repetitive scenes of daily lives of the two.

        It is important to notice that the plot is divided into six days; according to the Genesis, the God creates the world in six days. The first day is when the God creates the world out of nothing. But The Turin Horse reverses Genesis, so that time and existence move not from nothing but toward it. Every day, the stableman wakes up, the daughter boils the potato, the two take care of the horse, have a single boiled potato for dinner, and go to sleep. The black-and-white film accentuates the monotony. As the film slowly walks us to the end, the horse gradually refuses to eat, the stableman and the daughter become more and more indifferent. On the first day, the stableman peels and shovels the potato into his mouth as if it’s an obligation. The daughter eats in a much slower pace, but also without passion. Their bluntness culminates on the sixth day, when the daughter won’t eat. The stableman tells her to eat, but even he himself lacks the will to do so. At the end, they just silently stare at their plates.

        The planet Melancholia and the Turin wind are therefore are not a fearful threat to Justine and the stableman. They do not try to overcome death, but their lack of will doesn’t mean total misery or hopelessness. They accept the apocalypse and simply live until it all comes to an end. The apocalypse portrayed in both of the films is as beautiful as it is plaintive.

The Collision of Coincidence and Fate (Mina)

        Romantic films generally depict relationships and love in an unrealistic way. The male and female protagonists coincidentally meet each other at the right place at the right time and then they fall in love as if it is their destiny. The couple overcome obstacles and declare their love, and the film ultimately ends with a typical “they lived happily ever after” scene. Isshin Inudo’s 2003 film Josee, The Tiger and The Fish and Marc Webb’s 2009 film (500) Days of Summer also combine themes of coincidence and fate; however they refuse to conform to the convention of romantic genre. They point out how people easily fool themselves to misunderstand coincidence as fate. Mainly through the male protagonist’s perspective, these two films display how romance can fail and how love is reevaluated after the end of a relationship.

        In the opening scenes of (500) Days of Summer an omniscient narrator warns us, “this is a story of boy meets girl. But you should know upfront, this is not a love story”. We are then introduced to the male protagonist, Tom, who looks miserable and devastated due to the breakup with his girlfriend. As a twist on stereotypical gender roles, Tom Hansen is the one who falls in love with Summer Finn at first sight. Tom confesses that he believes in soul mates, yet Summer tells him upfront, that she does not believe in such fantastical concepts. Tom is nonetheless convinced that she is his destiny, and this intense feeling propel him forward and makes him harder to understand why Summer, the girl of his dreams, broke up with him.

        Like most failed relationships, Tom holds onto only the good memories. He recalls, for example, the morning after he spent the night with Summer. The film effectively reflects his happiness through a musical scene. Tom joyfully emerges from his apartment building with the soundtrack “You Make My Dreams” playing in the background. Water jets from the fountain (mirrors his bursting emotions), strangers smile at Tom and shakes hand with him. Tom even dances with the whole crowd of people dressed in blue, a color usually associated with purity and sincerity. For Tom, who grew up believing that he’d never truly be happy until the day he meets the “one”, it seems like the whole universe is encouraging his relationship with Summer.

        Tom gradually learns that he can’t hold onto this fantasy. The complete realization comes when he shows up for a party that Summer is hosting. The plot unfolds in split-screen, contrasting the screen projecting Tom’s hopeful expectations with that of the heartbreaking reality. The gap between the two gradually widens, to the point where Tom hastily leaves the party. He becomes aware of the fact that he and Summer will not reunite. Afterwards, Tom becomes mature and rebuilds himself. Tom stops himself from indulging in self-pity, blaming Summer for failing to be his soul mate and meets another woman. This doesn't necessarily imply that he has given up on true love, he still believes in it. He now knows that any romance can end, no matter how much passionate it was. However, Tom doesn’t hesitate to start a new relationship.

        Josee, The Tiger and The Fish opens with a series of snapshots with a voice-over of the male protagonist Tsuneo. In his retrospective moods, he talks about a trip he went with a girl named Josee. The film then goes back to the time when the two first meet by chance and become close friends. Josee, has been crippled most of her life. She lives with her overprotective grandmother who looks after her but regards her as “damaged goods”. Josee seems to also believe that nothing, not even love, can be done to make her life better. The camera often shows her spending time in a closed closet in close-up shots. A small lamp throws a warm light on her face, emphasizing her content in retreating to her own little world. Yet, confined by the closet walls, and surrounded by stacks of books, she looks lonely at the same time. Tsuneo, a college student in his early twenties, is more like Tom from (500) Days of Summer in terms of inmaturity. Tsuneo is more interested in girls than in his studies. Although Tsuneo has feelings for another girl–Kanae–he met from school, he frequently visits Josee. Tsuneo doesn’t make the final step in starting a romantic relationship with her until Josee’s grandmother passes away. Tsuneo promises to stay with her forever. At least at that time, Tsuneo thinks it’s his responsibility, or fate, to “fix” Josee.

        Although Josee and Tsuneo grow closer, Tsuneo notices that Josee is starting to feel like a burden with the passing of time. He recollects, “There were many reasons why we broke up. But, actually, there was only one. I ran away.” Tsuneo, who has thoughtlessly believed that he can be with Josee forever, runs away and returns to his old girlfriend, Kanae. Despite the sadness, the breakup scene is shot flatly. We see Tsuneo in a long shot, brought to his knees, crying. Cars rapidly pass by him, as if the world doesn’t care about his feeling of loss. Tsuneo faces the harsh reality, his life without Josee and the possibility of never seeing her again. Only after he leaves Jossee behind, Tsuneo fully realizes that his feelings weren’t based on charity, but on true love. Tsuneo has changed; he is is able to differentiate love from lust or charity. He understands true love, and the responsibility that follows it.

      Most of our relationships in the real world do not end up in happy endings such as in Pretty Woman (1990) or Serendipity (2001). We rather find ourselves in (500) Days of Summer and Josee and Josee, The Tiger and The Fish, making the wrong choices or following our instincts and emotions that often results in something we didn't expect.

Stroszek: Truth and Power (Steven)

Stroszek, Werner Herzog's 1977 tragic comedy, concerns the lives of three friends: Bruno, a street musician; Eva, a prostitute; and Scheitz, an older retiree. It begins with Bruno's release from prison in Berlin and an attack from Eva's pimps and tracks the friends as they try to make a new life in Wisconsin, where Bruno becomes employed with Scheitz's nephew Clayton. While Scheitz is an old eccentric, Bruno comes across as innocent (in both the usual sense and the more archaic meaning of mentally ill), if we can ignore the inherent ridiculousness of using that term to describe an alcoholic who has lived through prison and learned how to get by as an accordion player in Berlin's grimy squares. Eva has a more average outlook, but as the bills in Wisconsin pile up she becomes increasingly apathetic and depressed, spending many of her shots eating on the bed or couch or being forced back into her old job as prostitute. The hopeless defiance with which she thrusts one of their last payments at the man who collects their bills contrasts harshly with the happiness we saw when she got the money for the trip to America. Both of these sums come from what seems like the only way the impoverished friends can make any upward strides against their debts: Eva's prostitution. Bruno certainly never appears to make much money at all, and it's possible Clayton is underpaying him.

In Stroszek, Herzog explores the boundary between truth and fiction in an unusual way. While he implements many documentary-like techniques, such as a lack of saturation, a quick and low-budget shooting, a cast of non-professional actors who often play as themselves, an impartial, almost indifferent gaze, and a tarnished, peeling-paint realism, the plot is bizarre and dream-like and the characters, especially Bruno and Scheitz, bring with them an atmosphere of unpredictability. This juxtaposition lets a bleak film double as a very watchable comedy. In one scene, Scheitz walks along a grain-surrounded fence, testing the wood with a voltmeter. He comes across two American hunters and asks, in German, whether he can test a strange theory about “animal magnetism”. The bemusement we share with the hunters, who react naturally (and were probably not actors), is what makes the scene so humorous. They play along, not understanding German, but we know that even if they did it wouldn't matter since Scheitz's theory is so incomprehensible.

A Farm in Wisconsin. Licensed under CC at wikimedia commons.

When viewing Stroszek as a documentary, we naturally search for a slant. The most obvious one is its indictment, perhaps not of capitalism itself, but of its tendency to build and reinforce income and power inequalities. To build upon this premise, Herzog inverts many of the promises of America and wealth. The friends' tragic arc is a sad shadow of the American dream, and the predatory tendencies brought about by power are revealed through pimps' harassment, through an immigration office's confiscation of Bruno's bird (which occurs off-screen and gives Bruno yet another darkly funny line), and through the gleam from the gold rings of a painfully apologetic “man from the bank”. The auction, a staple representative of citizens' purchasing power, acts as a ruthless reminder of these cruelties. Rather than the fine art or antiques auctions so often portrayed in film, this one is for the humble prefabricated house on which Bruno and Scheitz have been unable to keep up with the payments. As the auction ends, Bruno walks aimlessly backwards with his usual inscrutable expression, homeless, while dogs cross the scene looking for food or attention. It's winter still and everything is a dull brown smeared with white and the trees are leafless against the drab sky.