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Wayne’s World: Penelope Spheeris and the Amplified Femininity

Back in February of 1992, a ‘Saturday Night Live’ spinoff head-banged its way into theaters in the form of Wayne’s World, an ode to music and personal creativity that caused a “Schwing!” to be heard from around the world. It’s a sound that carried with it an affirmatively virile pelvic thrust, one that’s used to rate notable women – their photo enlarged to poster size –acting as its own gesticulating male gaze. With its sexual utterance, forever engrained in the pop canon, comes the sound of money – also brought forth into the cartoon cash lexicon by our film – its “Cha-ching” indicating a tremendous box office success. This so happens to play to the tune of both money and industry sexism, frequent collaborators that have been a discordant scratch on the records of female directors since the birth of Hollywood.

Marking the 25th anniversary of Wayne and Garth’s own cable access show turned film; Wayne’s World cemented Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ as a carpool companion, and director Penelope Spheeris as a successful female powerhouse. Spheeris, a trailblazing director who embodied the sound of a generation with The Decline of Western Civilization, came on to direct Wayne’s World after writing a few ‘Saturday Night Live’ skits with Albert Brooks. Although she would go on to direct two Golden Age television remakes and a spiritual successor to ‘Tommy Boy,’ Spheeris was ultimately prevented from returning to the basement-set in Aurora, Illinois by Mike Myer’s, his thinly veiled machismo masquerading as Hollywood clout. She was never given the creative opportunities either, ones that typically come from turning a $20 million dollar couch-skit into a $121 million dollar domestic riff, resorting to the comedic corner she was muscled into by an industry cranked to 11 with executive testosterone.

Despite its release into almost 2,000 domestic theaters, a number that toppled the draws of buddy-surf crime caper Point Break– another paramount success for a female director – Spheeris was never green-lit to expand outside the comedic confines that distributor Paramount had established. Recalling her time working with the studio, Spheeris told Vanity Fair back in February, “I don’t think of the world as funny, but that’s maybe what makes the comedy in the films work. But I wish I would’ve been able to do other kinds of films after Wayne’s World.”

Spheeris’ father, a Greek immigrant who owned a traveling circus and was a side-show strong man, was killed during a racial dispute when she was only six, later bouncing around to different trailer parks with her mother, who took to bouts of alcoholism in an already unstable mental condition. “I interpreted my mother’s lack of interest in my life as a lack of love,” she recounts to The Guardian back in 2015. Similarly it wouldn’t be difficult to interpret Spheeris’ lack of interest in comedies as a lack of humor, though for anyone that has seen Wayne’s World, it would be an egregious statement that has perhaps been discriminately labeled towards one too many women. What makes Wayne’s World work, similarly to the dynamic intricacies reflected in Bigelow’s Point Break duo – undercover cop turned surfer Johnny Utah and surfer sage Bodhi – is Spheeris’ ability to amplify the masculine frailty in a way that fine tunes the feminist point of view.

Our own duo, waxing philosophically about the attractiveness of Bugs Bunny in drag while waiting for the overhead adrenaline rush of a landing plane, observe the women around them in the same light as unobtainable objects. Garth pines over his dream woman from afar, one who feels out of place slinging late night donuts at a diner named after a local hockey star, while Wayne dreams of Cassandra, a badass bassist in a rock n’ roll bubble, Gary Wright’s ‘Dream Weaver’ playing overhead. For Wayne, it’s an immediate lust that mirrors a ’64 Stratocaster guitar, imprisoned in a glass case at the local shop with a price tag that isn’t quite within his league. “It will be mine. Oh yes, it will be mine,” a trance induced utterance Wayne directs towards each, and for him, they both don’t quite fit his budget.

It’s a male fantasy played for laughs, one that Mike Myer’s writes and stars for the camera – at times breaking on through to the other side – though it’s Penelope Spheeris’ seriousness that keeps Myer’s comedic note from becoming an over-extended jam session. The responsiveness to Wayne eclipses the male point of view, one that never really diminishes our few empowered female characters; he adores and objectifies from afar, his words replacing the male gaze that would potentially dominate under the hands of a less self-assured and empathetic director. We get the impression that Wayne tosses the women in his life aside when he’s found no use for them, evident in Stacy, a well-intentioned insecure woman who never quite grasps the concept of a break-up. Sure, she might be a psycho hose beast to Wayne, but she’s one that Spheeris paints with shades of complexity, in one scene framing her behind his new object of obsession Cassandra, her own feminist perspective constructing Stacy’s shaky narrative.

In an interview with Forbes in February, Spheeris stated that “….I do better with buddy movies, male testosterone movies,” and beneath the product peddling and corporate take-over is a subverted buddy film, where waves are traded in for air waves. While Wayne and Garth embody the Laurel and Hardy of the 30’s, the Curtis/Lemmon of the 50’s, and the Utah/Bodhi of the 90’s, its Spheeris own feminist lens that separates them from an amplification of machismo. Just in the same way Kathryn Bigelow was able to impact Point Break with a crushing sense of male embodied adrenaline, revealing an aching fragility between her beach buddies, Spheeris is able to pick Wayne’s very strings with a woman’s hand.

#waynes world #penelope spheeris #film #writing #movies

The Night of the Hunter and the Fear of Christian Antipathy

When director Charles Laughton’s first and sadly final film, ‘The Night of the Hunter’, was released back in the summer of 1955, it marked an irrevocable burden on the mind of one of Britain’s most applauded stage and screen actors. Laughton, who trained in London at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, starred in more than 50 works of film, both short and theatrical, before stepping behind the camera to adapt Davis Grubb’s novel of the same name. That burden that caused Laughton to abandon the director’s chair came in the form of critical disdain and audience dismissal upon release of his debut, an outcome that many believed to be caused by little to no marketing. Given the subject matter, themes and tones stalking every frame, marketing it to a wide audience in 1955 would have been a difficult and daunting task, even if we weren’t judging its history through decades of reflection. Though no matter how many lobby cards filled theaters, television spots small screens, or write-ups newspapers, the new Christianity of the Eisenhower era wasn’t ready for such a film.

There’s the stalker, a murderous hand of god that roams the Ohio countryside preaching the cataclysm of sinners, predominately women and their sexual proclivities. The two orphans eluding the preacher along a hauntingly serene riverbed, a sound stage Laughton had constructed as to manipulate sights and sounds. The heavy tones and shadows that layered the film beyond simply another film noir, the lighting bouncing off its expressionistic architecture like geometric thunder.

Sex wasn’t exactly a taboo subject back then, with the first issue of Playboy hitting newsstands in 1953, a mere two years before Laughton made it the focal point behind damnation, but it was years from being deemed fit as table talk. While the world had its Monroe and Mansfield’s, the visual stimuli brushing shoulders with every name in cinema, it also had the one thing that stretched higher than the Hollywood hills; God.

There’s a scene early in The Night of the Hunter that has John (Billy Chapin), our hunted child, reciting a passage from the bible to his younger sister Pearl (Sally Jane Bruce), the light of a kerosene street lamp casting a looming silhouette against their bedroom wall. “Just a man” John says before hopping into bed, the imminent danger not quite apparent. It’s a threat that would slowly and persistently make its way into the children’s lives, guided by a hymnal song – “Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms” - that threatened more than the lives of two children.

This hymn, gaily sung by Robert Mitchum, was written in 1887 by Anthony J. Showalter, who was inspired by a phrase in the Book of Deuteronomy – the fifth book in the Christian Old Testament – that reads “The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.” It’s a hymn that, like the preacher, considers itself guiding and benevolent, a spiritual observer of the great land that pricks the ears of those lost. The further John and Pearl run, the closer this song comes to being a warning of the self-righteous slaughter that plagues their path, a fear of the hand of god, rising up and striking them down from above.

Under the Eisenhower administration, fearing Russian missile strikes, people turned to the only sanctuaries they knew–theater and church–to relieve the fear for Russian missile strikes and combat the Communistic atheism.

As God moved further into the beliefs of Americans, it too moved swiftly to the aid of John and Pearl, kneeling before Harry’s mighty sword – or phallic switchblade – in the form of cinematographer Stanley Cortez’s angularly gothic shots of rural Americana. Working with deep shadows that highlighted the dark thematic elements, Cortez framed ‘The Night of the Hunter’ with triangular shapes, their three equal sides suggesting what it means to be three in one: the son (John), the father (Harry), and the Holy Ghost (Rachel, an aged caretaker of lost souls, played by Lillian Gish). Each plays their own believed role of God, with the preacher blasphemously masquerading as a false prophet, a bearer of bad fruit that Rachel hints at in the opening credits:

“And then the good Lord went on to say, 'Beware of false prophets which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly, they are ravening wolves. Ye shall know them by their fruits. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit. Neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit. Wherefore by their fruits, ye shall know them.”

Laughton and Cortez who also worked on Orson Welles’ The Magnificent Ambersons’, employed the use of German Expressionism, a post-WWI movement that explored oblique lines and sharp, heightened angles, often painted on canvas. Combining these gaunt expressionistic lines with the drenched qualities of film noirs shadows, Laughton, along with Art Director Hilyard Brown (Cleopatra), highlighted the many geometric shapes of mid-century American architecture.

For many Christians, the use of triangles symbolizes a sort of spiritual doorway that is considered as a place of idol Worship in the Old Testament – which our preacher embraced through hymn – that saw demonic influences and activities. Equally, sacrilege could be unveiled in a scene that has John and his friend Bernie (James Gleason), an old drunkard with a good heart, killing a fish after scooping it up from the very river that swept our orphans downstream. The idea of the fish within Christian faith distinguished brethren from foe, a marker for like ideologies throughout Greece and Italy. Subsequently, the killing of the fish by John and Bernie can be seen as a rejection of the very faith that was sweeping a terrified nation, one that kneeled before the credence of cinema and faith.

Perhaps the artistic interpretations turned away audiences, many of whom were clutching Christianity as a substitute for Red Fear. Perhaps it were the impiety that radiated from the script, one that Laughton reworked himself with James Agee (The African Queen). Perhaps all of this is mere speculation, a casualty of coincidence that floundered on the lack of promotion by producer Paul Gregory (The Naked and the Dead). Flourishing decades after its initial release thanks to the preservation by the National Film Registry, The Night of the Hunter faired so poorly in the states that Laughton never returned to helm another film. Ironically, in 1955, the same year of its release, the phrase “In God We Trust” became immortalized on paper money across the country.

#the night of the hunter #charles laughton #film #writing #movies

The visual effects wizardry of THE VOID

#the void #horror #Horror Movies #Horror movie #film #movies #effects #gore

Review: The Void (2017)

The Void

Runtime: 90 minutes

Directed by Jeremy Gillespie & Steven Kostanski

We might have Ti West to blame for this massive resurgence in 80’s injected horror films. When he came creeping out of the devils womb in 2009 with the throwback gem ‘House of the Devil’, audiences were treated to a satanic morsel they weren’t even sure they were hungry for. Hitting every note on the Walkman, Ti West’s debut feature gave horror fans a reason to revisit one of the grandest and gravest decades in the genres sordid history. Brandishing a look that mirrors ‘The Amityville Horror’ with a feel that captures the ambiguous cult terror of Dario Argento’s work, West helped introduce many to the contenders of early satanic 80’s satanic cinema, which is precisely where our film steps in.

A circuit gem, ‘The Void’ first began making waves when it premiered at Fantastic Fest, later expanding through a limited release after it ensnared audiences even further at Toronto’s After Dark Film Festival. And what better of a festival to garner accolades than a city that regularly highlights its very own Canadian darlings, with Lowell Dean’s ‘Wolf Cop’ splashing in the shallow end of celluloid, along with Denis Villeneuve’s heavy hitter ‘Arrival’. It’s a circuit that applauses its own cinema, as well as one that embraces lower budget genre fares, which is a camp that ‘The Void’ falls squarely in.

Taking cues from much beloved but often scrutinized upon release films such as John Carpenter’s ‘The Thing’ and Fulci’s ‘City of the Living Dead’ – hinting more at themes than visual cues – ‘The Void’ drops us into a poorly staffed hospital, where one of its nurses is ineffectively in training (Ellen Wong), and soon becomes the focal point of demonic possession after a man (Evan Stern) is taken in by a local sheriff. As the hospital begins to experiences the onslaught perpetrated by the cloaked beings surrounding the hospital, its survivors must band together to put an end to what may be a breach of our dimension.

Now it’s understandable if demonic, dimension, and beings are keywords that immediately put you off, as this type of horror has been handled many times, though it’s really a sub-genre that can’t get old if placed in the right hands. Unfortunately for us, ‘The Void’ is not that film. On paper it’s got everything a retro horror enthusiast could ask for – practical effects, blood soaked and dimly lit corridors, anti-religious undertones, and grizzly deaths. It’s a formula that has been embraced with affection by gorehounds and splatter fans alike for decades, which might give rhyme and reason for such a massive retrolution (I don’t know if this has been coined yet, but I’ll just go with it.)

Where directors Jeremy Gillespie and Steven Kostanski (Father’s Day) go awry is in attempting one too many character expositions and arch’s amidst writhing tentacles. Our central leads, Sheriff Daniels (Aaron Poole) and Nurse Allison Fraser (Kathleen Munroe), now divorced after a miscarriage tore them apart, are given enough flashbacks and hints at what once was that we feel an emotional link between them; they observe their pain and also their past love with subtlety that we begin to want more of it. Instead, we are bombarded with supporting characters who create a sort of vacuum, sucking the life out of something with soul, that all the copious amounts of gunk and decay begin feeling as if it’s meant to cover up rather than reveal.

There are the rifle-toting backwoods locals (Daniel Fathers and Mik Byskov) who seem privy to the evil doings that are overtaking the town. The local sergeant (Art Hindle) whose soul existence is to bust balls before becoming fodder for the special effects team. Then there’s Richard (Kenneth Walsh), the head doctor whose paternal and protective instincts shine a dim light on our leads, right before being picked off and given the ‘Event Horizon’ treatment, waxing prophetic in an eye-roll induced character arch. I understand paying films to a bygone era, but ‘The Void’ tosses all of its chips onto the table, showing us what horror once was rather than what it can be. There’s only so much we can take before shit hits the fan and horror whiplash sets in.

As our survivors begin making their way into the hospitals basement, sections of it not existing in the original blueprint, we are treated to some brilliant tension beset by early survival horror games such as Resident Evil. Making their way further in, we are treated to a demonic chamber of contorted bodies and flayed cadavers. It’s a sight to behold, as practical effects wizardry begins unraveling right in front of us, the creatures of ‘The Void’ stepping in pools of blood and floating over enough mangled bodies it would make the Doom generation weep. Unfortunately that quickly dissolves into one too many quick cuts and strobe lighting that focusing on the action becomes its own decent into hell. It’s a technical choice that strips away a wealth of appreciation that could be poured into how cool the creatures actually look, which isn’t to say we don’t get our fill.

One of the earlier transformations consist of a nurse turned scalpel wielding hell-spawns becoming a grotesque horse like being after being shot and left for dead. It’s a startling and awe-induced scene that helms the films more gore-thrilling moments, with the nurses face hanging in front as it stumbles around. We witness a sight that’s becoming rarer nowadays, as computer generated effects replace the artistic molding of practical magic, that ‘The Void’ deserves applause for its ambition. However, it becomes an obscured visual feast with its oversaturation of shadows and unnecessary quick-cuts that it winds up feeling more like an afterthought than a necessity.

What we do get plenty of is an idea that seems pieced together by a fondness and love for a genre, rather than an ingenuity and comprehension for the medium. There’s a core idea that feels muddled by perhaps too much ambition, attempting to tie-in multiple characters with similar backstories, which grounds the films themes but manages to lose focus of its subjects along the way.

Where Ti West made us want to simultaneously re-watch ‘House of the Devil’ and revisit the babysitter sub-genre it pays respect to, Gillespie and Kostanski only drive us to take a look at what made the films it mirrors so engaging. While it’s difficult to praise ‘The Void’ for being the masterclass in horror it’s lauded as, it is easy to applaud its attempt at retroism, one that deserves to be seen. Just don’t be surprised when you find yourself wanting to watch the numerous films it regards only half-way through its 90-minute run time. Then again, who knows; like ‘The Thing’ and so many audiences upon its release, perhaps it will find its stride with me. It just isn’t today.

#the void #horror #horror movies #film #Film Criticism #film review #Film Writing #movies

Le Samourai and the Caged Warrior

Cigarette smoke hovers above him like the morning fog after an early battle. A light grey fedora rests atop a stone gaze that pierces the air around him, searching for warriors that aren’t there. A tan trench coat is the armor, protecting an exterior exuding the particular cool that has befallen the French New Wave for almost a decade, cutting through celluloid with samurai precision. It’s the kind of cool that Akira Kurosawa encapsulated since Drunken Angel (1948) had shown the world that he wasn’t just katana’s and kimono’s, or the cool that Seijun Suzuki fires with a single jazz-note using a loaded gun in Tokyo Drifter (1966) just one year earlier. Genre is not necessarily the common ground where these films meet, but the roles portrayed by the gangsters that disappear amidst the urban battlegrounds. These aren’t men imitating gangsters, but gangsters becoming samurais, their one hand resting on the hilt of a gun that slices through the night with a piercing definitude. Where Toshiro Mifune carried with him the wildfire of a thousand suns, our samurai Jef Costello (Alain Delon) holsters the isolation of a sheltered man; a single jazz note that has left the cool of the club in search of harmony. Yet in the city streets, the only type of peace comes in the form of constant running, from the men who hired Jef to make a hit, and the police officer (Francois Perier) who believes his alibi (Natalie Delon) to be a false cover. Similarly to Delon, Mifune was never without his loneliness, an alibi in and of itself, realized through heavy drinking (Drunken Angel) and manic behavior (Rashomon), a frequenter to the outcast warrior. Delon portrays Jef with a cold exterior that deeply yearns to break away from his life, symbolized through a lone bird that flutters between the barred confines of a cage, resting in the center of his minimalist apartment. Opening the film is an epigraph ascribed to the bushido, a moralistic code of conduct the samurai adhered to, that states “There is no solitude greater than that of the samurai unless it be that of a tiger in the jungle…. perhaps.” There’s a hesitant sense of confidence in this, the “perhaps” lingering long after the words fade to black. Jean-Pierre Melville (Army of Shadows) operates off this wavering confidence, infusing it into Jef’s rigid presence. Before leaving a dimly lit apartment, its occupying gangsters eyeing the poker chips that rest stacked in front of them, Jef declares that he “never loses. Not really.” If we were to take this brazen declaration at face value, it wouldn’t be difficult to see the fault in the armor that carries with it the bushido epigraph, our hitman a mirror image of a caged bird rather than a mighty tiger. Despite Jef living alone, acting alone, and ultimately feeling alone, there is a looming sense of feminine company throughout Le Samourai, a presence that is linked more to seppuku, the ritualistic act of suicide, than any alibi. Early on our hitman, commandeering a stolen vehicle, makes eye contact with a strange woman in an adjacent car, Jef’s emotionless exterior clinging to our eyes like rain on glass. Though nothing is said, it becomes abundantly clear that the female gaze plays an intrinsically crucial role in Jef’s life. The only alibi against his investigated hit on a nightclub owner is Jane (Nathalie Delon), a woman whom he may or may not love, though we know that he needs her. The only clear witness to the murder is jazz pianist Caty Rosier (played with a shy observance by Cathy Rosier), who denies that it was Jef that she saw exit the scene of the crime. These acts of denial force Jef to run hopelessly through the streets and subways of his own prison, realizing, too late, that even birdcages have corners. There’s a moment towards the end of the film that defines Jef’s ultimate decision towards self-sacrifice, where his winged companion malts its feathers due to the stress of plain clothed officers infiltrating his apartment in an attempt to tap it. We become aware, through a man who hides under a hardboiled uniform, that even when emerging anew, you’re still the same caged bird, isolated from those around you. Realizing that no matter how far he shakes the gangsters that want him dead, or the officer that wants him detained, Jef will always lead a solitary life of crime, living through a moralistic code that has become engrained in his very essence. As Jef approaches the stage of the same nightclub he made his ill-fated hit, his calculated blue-steel inspection turned to exhausted acceptance, we waver between the point of view of our hitman and his target, the jazz pianist turned accomplice Caty Rosier. It’s Melville’s use of perspective that sheds light on who Jef is and what he has been driven to. Jef’s hard, confirmative expression bounces off Caty’s soft, assured look of denial the same way a bird hits a window; with a stunned belief of what’s standing between him and freedom. Pulling an unloaded gun on a target he’s told to kill is Jef denying the code of the samurai, committing a type of seppuku. It’s a sacrifice that flings open the door to a caged and isolated existence, one that flutters between the acceptance of the samurai code, and the unbearable desire to be free from a life estranged from the accepting hand of a woman.

The Day the Earth Stood Still: Sensationalizing and Distorting Fear

To take a line from ‘The Wizard of Oz’, “we aren’t in Kansas anymore, Toto.” Except this time, Dorothy’s a newly transplanted alien named Klaatu, Toto an 8-foot-tall steel gargantuan named Gort, and Kansas a post-WWII America. Even though over 60 years have passed since Robert Wise’s monumentally impacting sci-fi classic ‘The Day the Earth Stood Still’ was released, the parallels between then and now are still interchangeable.

Political fears shape the foundation of social ideals, suspicions of foreign outsiders eat away at our core values, and the use of media still incites false representation of facts and world views. After WWII and the defeat of Nazi-occupied Germany, the lens of war was shifted, with many of the atrocities and destruction being misrepresented to your average citizen. Through this screen, fear and suspicion were established, instilling in Americans mistrust for others, specifically those from foreign soil.

When an alien spacecraft touches down in Washington DC, panic washes over the nation as fear of another world war and a home invasion spreads like wild fire. Emerging from the craft is Klaatu, a humanoid declaring his arrival a peaceful one with good intentions. Regardless, a soldier fires upon Klaatu, injuring him and prompting Gort to disintegrate the weapons and tanks that have gathered around the area. Soon after managing to escape, Klaatu finds himself at a roadside inn, where with the help of Helen Benson and her son Bobby, he begins to understand the methods of this world.

After World War II, much of the world was uneasy, a growing sense of suspicion arising from an instilled fear of pain and suffering. When Allied soldiers liberated the prisoners of Nazi concentration camps, images of what went on came back in pieces, fractured through the biased lens of television and radio. This increasingly popular box became a gateway for information, sought after by millions of Americans who believed what they heard as the ultimate declaration of life, liberty and truth.

As reports of Klaatu’s arrival begin filtering through the media, we are taken inside a television set that rests in front of a broadcaster, instructing the people that there is no immediate cause for alarm. However, we are transported into a lens that shows panic, hysteria, force, and fear, as what we don’t comprehend arrives not on Earth’s soil, but America’s Earth. This entitled pride and skewed patriotism encouraged by the media cause the people of Earth to be unable to appease Klaatu’s urgent message of unity and strength.

And how could one expect such things from a people who utilized atomic energy, not for travel as Klaatu has through his space craft, but for destructive power? When we dropped the atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, hundreds of thousands of human lives were taken, as “a rain of ruin from the air” was cast down on Japan– a message from Harry Truman that came with a heavy warning similar to the one directed at Earth by Klaatu. It was this immense and swift act of terror that won the war and subsequently destroyed the hope of a united and trusted nation of one.

With Klaatu having escaped the confines of his guarded hospital room and experiencing life in the world he’s come to warn, we are given a sense of the information as it is skewed and directed towards the people. Newspaper headlines reading “Man from Mars Escapes” fill the racks while radio broadcasts filled the airwaves in an attempt to correct the worry that this galactic being has tentacles.

This misinformation and misguided caution arises from the very ashes of the atom bomb’s infinite power, the translation of its destruction being celebratory joy and victory. Reporting’s of those three days, August 3 to August 6, came back in the form of falsified accounts, with many American citizens being force fed little-to-no statistics on what really happened. Similarly, the arrival of Klaatu’s craft, powered by atomic energy, represents a sort of bomb being leveled on American soil, as its peaceful landing and objective creates a terror that had yet to be seen. Working off post-WWII suspicion, the calm of such an unannounced arrival is shifted into a cumulative unease that winds up creating a shift in American sensibilities–harmony turning to violence, order into chaos and understanding into irrationality.

It isn’t until Bobby, a young boy unaware of the world’s political unease and mistrusts, befriends Klaatu, now disguised as a Mr. Carpenter that the humanoid is able to see, first hand, what the wonders of life on Earth can be. Wearing a Yankees cap and filling his days with schoolwork, movies and train sets, Bobby demonstrates what it means to view the world, not through the lens of media and fear, but through a simplified understanding that we are all the same.

Perhaps Klaatu’s arrival is only alien through media representation, altering how we think and feel, like the differing views of the war seen from the safety of home. Maybe he’s a symbol of unity and hope that has only been casted out based off our own fear. If we valued and viewed things right in front of us and not by what’s reported, would our idea of humanity expand passed a sea of ill feelings? While it might take the chaos of a tornado to send Dorothy from the safety of Kansas to Oz, it doesn’t require a whirlwind of fear to bring us back to reality; a place where values and kindness are reportedly no different than that of another planet.

#the day the earth stood still #scifi #film #movies #cinema #writing #filmwriting

Get Out (2017)

At first glance, one could easily make the snap judgement that Jordan Peele isn’t a horror director. Widely known for his comedic presence alongside Keegan Michael Key on the popular Comedy Central show ‘Key and Peele’, Peele mainly riffs off his co-host (which they both do in equal measures) on topical issues ranging from cultural name pronunciation to soul food, all the way to slave auctioning. What all of these sketches have in common is the severity of their underlying issues re: race, the fact that Peele himself is responsible for scribing many of them, and that racism is outright terrifying. ‘Get Out’ is a film that doesn’t shy away from being overtly transparent in its subject matter, being as obtuse in its racism as the many videos of police brutality against blacks. Many might chastise a film, especially within the horror genre, for lacking subtlety and ambiguity, but this is the kind of story we need, and now.

Centering on a couple, Chris and Rose (Daniel Kaluuya and Allison Williams, respectively), who are heading away for the weekend to meet her parents, played by Bradley Whitford and Catherine Keener, ‘Get Out’ takes very little time in touching up on interracial dynamics. Rose didn’t tell her parents that Chris is black, feeling as if it isn’t a cause for awareness, where Chris finds that approach naïve, a feeling his TSA friend Rob (LilRel Howery) shares with a comedic approach. Once introduced to Rose’s affluent parents, her father a neurosurgeon while the mother a psychiatrist, things begin to quickly unfold in a true Hitchcockian fashion. It’s here where Chris is confronted with white suburban racism in the form of stereotypes, discrimination, and class barriers. Similarly to his show, Peele hits on the everyday plethora of racism, but within a storytelling structure that never lets go, like the hypnosis Rose’s mother uses to cure patients of addiction.

If you happen to find the inability to grasp at anything pertinent within the social constructs of this reality, one that never strays too far from ours, then there’s a central issue in you that resonates from the very essence of ‘Get Out’, a film that values story in as much as it does context. Being a white male operating with luxury in a world where being a person of color can get you shot with absolutely zero justification, it doesn’t take an elephant in the room to point out how we as participants should be absorbing the blatant symbolism placed in front of us.

Tucked away, divided by a lake that separates them from their equally wealthy neighbors, Rose’s parents live hidden behind a brick façade that might as well be draped in a pointy white sheet. They justify their established position by stating their proclivity for a 3rd Obama term, and their fascination with being able to experience other people’s cultures through artifacts, statements that are as transparent and crippling as the fact that the help is all black. It’s this undisguised nature that resides within ‘Get Out’, carrying Chris further into a whiteout, only blinding him momentarily when his calculating and unrealistic girlfriend attempts to reassure him.

Tensions between our two parties begin to escalate over popped corks and cheese boards, all in a fashion that eclipses any notion of fiction. Peele unravels the very thread in which racial tension rests on, uncovering a tattered fabric eaten away by the unending climate of civil friction woven into our nation. Despite polite smiles and brisk responses to an unending wave of black stereotyping, we are ceremoniously given entry into the mindset of a maligned and discriminated individual; one who gives ‘Get Out’ the cogs and steam necessary to become more than just another horror cliché. While there’s nothing supernatural about the terror unfolding in front of us, aside from a few plot devices, by the time we’re freed from Peele’s tight grasp we’ll eagerly want to get back into what is the tensest and most relevantly necessary film to be placed on celluloid in recent years.

#get out #jordan peele #horror #Horror Movies #race #writing #Film Criticism #film #movies #cinema #review #film review

Star Wars: Rogue One (2016)

If you’re a Star Wars fan, then for the most part, you’ll love ‘Rogue One’. Probably. There are new and exotic worlds, a plethora of unknown faces with names that are difficult to pronounce, let alone remember, and it all fits seamlessly into a universe we have come to recognize as household. Seeing all of this on the big screen can be awe-inspiring, the fan within feeling nostalgic over sights and sounds that light up our senses like a lightsaber. While these feelings for something alternatingly new and old may lead you to believe Rogue One is a well-oiled machine, it isn’t without its loose parts.

Before the title card even stretches across the screen, we are introduced to multiple characters that are both of Rebel and Galactic affiliation. Galen Erso (Mads Mikkelsen), an ex-engineer turned farmer who is pulled back into his former job with the Empire by Orson Krennic (Ben Mendelsohn), an underling in the operation of the Death Star. A Galactic fighter turned traitor in search of Saw Gerrera (Forest Whitaker), the radical freedom fighter and man who rescued Galen’s daughter Jyn (Felicity Jones) from a life of Empirical evil. Cassian Andor (Diego Luna), the Rebel Alliance spy in search of the Death Star plans. A blind recluse who is the only connection between the Force, with the Jedi remaining behind closed doors for the first time in a Star Wars film.

If this seems like a lot to digest, it’s because it is. We are drastically thrown into the midst of the battle between good and evil right from the very beginning, as ‘Rogue One’ drops us off 19 years after the tumultuous events of Episode III. It may seem like a large enough gap within the films story, but in our time it feels like a couple of months (there is no Luke Skywalker to tell us otherwise). It’s jarring to begin understanding s fresh set of characters that run on their own timeline, but after the first hour or so, it becomes ultimately refreshing. Gone are the similarities that got so many riled up with ‘The Force Awakens’, instead offering up its own unique blend of humans, cyborgs, and aliens.

As things begin picking up pace after a necessarily drawn out and operatically dramatic opener with Ben Mendelsohn and Mads Mikkelsen (it’s no Deniro and Pacino, but it’s close), we can’t help but get swept up in what makes the Star Wars Universe so gripping. This is a film that knows when to slow down and when to hit warp speed. Consider ‘Rogue One’ the ‘Fellowship of the Rings’ of the series, as its exposition leads our rag-tag team on foot over being tucked away in a ship. It’s what allows us to become familiar with each character who we know will never truly surpass our fondness for the Leia and Han’s, and who have a much shorter shelf life.

Director Gareth Edwards, previously taking on the lost world introduced by Steven Spielberg, flexes his muscle for franchise blockbusters, replacing the man-made Indominus Rex with the man-made Death Star. Edwards has a particular knack for pacing, placing us in a hailstorm of poorly fired Stormtrooper lasers once our dialogue driven story has temporarily worn out its welcome. It’s a welcome that is worn out fairly too often, as the script, while cutting to the point, feels watered down for the young Jedi’s of the families. It’s not so much an issue as it is a preamble to the marginally better dialogue that Lucas laid out with ‘New Hope’.

However, we aren’t here for the nuanced banter and witty one-liners, as quotable as the previous entries have become. No, for the most part we’re here for the nostalgia of a universe crafted for fans and the action that destroys it, in as much heart as ‘Rogue One’ carries (and it does tug on your heartstrings). If you’ve ever played the Star Wars Battlefront games, you can expect the same sprawled out epicness of a 65 plus man game, though our focus on our Rebel led mission is never lost. Despite an abundant amount of panned shots featuring a new planet to become lost in, Edwards’s camera and explosive set pieces tend to lead our eyes just where they need to be. It’s enough of a film where we don’t feel like we need to be holding a controller, despite another entry that forgets the power of prop magic.

Given our current state of affairs, the White Houses attempted travel ban a very real and terrifying thing, maybe the jolt and disorientation of something new, different yet comforting in its aesthetic is just what we need. Coexisting in our universe, where the powers that be attempt to tell us who is a threat and what names are synonymous with terror, perhaps a film with plenty of faces that aren’t familiar and names that sound unheard of is exactly what we need. For all its faults, ‘Star Wars: Rogue One’ feels like a film that stands tall in the face of both fictitious and real tyrannical terror.

#star wars rogue one #gareth edwards #star wars #film #cinema #movies #writing #film writing #reviews

The Red Turtle (2016)

What does it mean to drown? The obvious answer is to succumb to death, to be overtaken by a form of liquid in the lungs. I believe it also means fighting to survive, living until your muscles give way to exhaustion and you can’t fight anymore. I imagine this is how it also must feel to be stranded on an island, marooned with only a sliver of hope, embraced for as long as humanely possible.

When we are first introduced to our soon-to-be-stranded survivor (he exists without any name given), he is battling the waves of a raging storm, the fear of drowning near, or perhaps it isn’t the fear of death but that of what’s to come; being marooned on a deserted island. After waking up and scourging the island for life, our survivor begins constructing a raft. It isn’t clear what he was before his new life, but none of that really matters-what matters are the differences.

That’s where life on the island and ‘The Red Turtle’ begin running parallel to each other, as both, over time, start to show exquisite beauty in nature. The film, like our survivors new life, harbors a patient grace that can at times be trying; there’s little to no dialogue save for some screams of despair, one continual score by composer Laurent Perez del Mar and a canvas that isn’t, well, ‘Zootopia’ in its colors and movement.

If you can get past these notably unique and necessary traits, then there is a richly painted and unforgettable world filled with more charm and humanity than most of the Best Picture nominations combined. There’s a scene early on that has our survivor trapped between rocky crevices submerged in water that features one of the most intense and terrifying moments in any film this year, showcasing the range of its emotions and the power of animation.

As our survivor experiences life on the island, we can’t help but get caught up and lost in the delicate tapestry of life’s intrinsic beauty, many of Studio Ghibli’s characteristics speaking volumes without the need to say anything. Strength, resilience, courage, fear and sorrow bury themselves deep in the sand of the island and our heart, as one of the most endearingly true and genuinely told relationships opens up right before our very eyes. What we come to realize is how connected nature is with our survivor, how entwined we can become in the essence of animation, and how survival can be so much more than fighting to breathe.

#the red turtle #studio ghibli #animation #film #cinema #movies #writing #film review

Paterson (2016)

I haven’t seen many films by Jim Jarmusch. I think my favorite would have to be ‘Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai’, tough I saw the first 40 or so minutes of ‘Down by Law’ and I really enjoyed its mellow oppressive humor. There’s a quirk and oddball charm that comes through his films, at times making them a bit tough to digest re: ‘Coffee and Cigarettes’. ‘Paterson’, the story of a New Jersey bus driver and poet, isn’t without its charm, which it exudes in spades, though it might be Jarmusch’s most subtle and lovingly straightforward film to date.

Chronicling a bus driving poet, aptly named Paterson (Adam Driver) who lives in Paterson, we are introduced to his life through a series of mundane acts; he wakes up instinctively around 6 am, eats Cheerios, sneaks in writing poetry before driving the 23 bus, eats lunch under the Great Falls Bridge and walks home to his wife Laura (Golshifteh Farahani), a practicing artist and decorator who spends time painting shower curtains in blacks and whites with her bulldog Marvin (Nellie). There’s a safety and comfort to this routine, his wife trying to push Paterson out of it by adoringly urging him to expose the world to his poems.

At night, Paterson walks Marvin around the block, tying him up outside a neon lit bar for one drink. This is where Jarmusch enlivens his film up, not so much with dialogue, but with themes of longing. Perhaps it’s this solitude that Paterson seeks away from the constant motion of work, and the pressure of being something (a poet) he fears he might not be. There’s a chess competing bartender with a penchant for Paterson celebrities, a love torn actor and his escaped muse, twin pool players and the ebb and flow of a nightlife Paterson can only dip his pen in. It’s an escape that centers him, the actions of those around him leaving poetic imprints on him.

It’s an imprinting that Paterson seems to relish, a smile creeping over him as he listens in on conversations of passengers. Life might seem simple to us, but it’s these simplicities that aid in his poetry, a passion that creates meaning out of the mundane.

As the work week progresses, the repetitious nature of life begins to hit speed bumps, Jarmusch creating a sense of looming unease, mostly centered around Marvin. One night Paterson is stopped by a car that warns him of “dog-jackers”, a surprising notion to him, one that slowly begins to unravel the poetic continuity of his everyday life-not because of any outside force trying to take Marvin, but because of his presence. He sits on an armchair that appears to be his, grunting and observing his surroundings, very much like Paterson does on his bus route. Both represent something greater in a world that appears much larger than them, Paterson’s stature looming over Marvin the way the Great Falls Bridge hangs over the citizens of the town.

There’s a poetic grace to the imagery laid out before us, as the brick factories and monochromatic details of his home give Paterson’s blue uniform uniqueness, the way his poems unfold on screen as he writes or thinks them. Jarmusch takes a color palette he normally muddles with greys, either tonally (’Broken Flowers’) or literally (’Deadman’) and breathes life into each frame, treating celluloid as a page awaiting a poem.

While ‘Paterson’ is an elegant yet quiet film, it’s one that is also grand in its meaning. Observing our poet observe life is something mundane yet exquisite, using cinema in a way that’s as majestic as the words that piece together poetry. One can only hope that others would find beauty and grace in viewing our everyday life as we do Paterson’s, though that might be discrediting a director who has given us one of his, and the year's, best poems.

#Paterson #jim jarmusch #review #writing #Film Writing #film #cinema #movie

Sight & Sound: the Harmony of ‘La La Land’ and ‘Manchester by the Sea’

Kenneth Lonergan’s Manchester by the Sea and Damian Chazelle’s La La Land, two Oscar contenders with more differences than similarities, use music in contrasting yet complementary ways. La La Land is a love letter to both the bygone era of movie musicals (shot in Cinemascope, for all you West Side Story fans) and that supposedly dying art form known as jazz; while Manchester by the Sea is a sorrowful tale of coping with loss and placing both feet back on the ground. If each were a dance, one might be West Coast swing, the other a listless shuffle to a shoe-gaze band. Yet when looking at each film and its music, one sees the appropriateness of this cinematic pairing.

In La La Land, we hear the faint discord of car horns before we see anything, and we realize we’re in the middle of a congested highway. Immediately, the film is telling us to use our ears as much as our eyes in this story. As the bumper-to-bumper traffic becomes more defined, the honking turns into a variety of musical styles coming from the various car stereos, and then into the score for the film’s first (and one of its grandest) musical numbers. This act of embracing the dissonance of daily life as music influences the camera movement, tracking alongside cars from different eras.

What’s notable about these different cars is how they represent Chazelle’s infatuation with sound from decades prior. Each one hums and purrs, growls and sputters just a little bit differently, and that’s exactly what Chazelle does with the varying musical pieces that fill La La Land. Gosling and Stone’s first duet evokes Fred Astaire and Ginger Roger’s “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off,” where their falling-in-love dance is reminiscent of Astaire and Cyd Charisse’s number in “The Band Wagon.”

Both of these numbers represent a different time, when dance was a movement between its subject and song and less about story. The number of times a musical has included a song that depicts its characters falling in love while they claim not to be is enough to clutter a dance floor. It’s a note that eventually shifts into heavier songs, represented in the minimalist set piece of “Audition (The Fools Who Dream),” which features Stone singing directly into the camera. La La Land begins with music, then eventually develops a relationship with its subjects and with its themes of love and loss, moving hand in hand with Justin Hurwitz’s score. Sure, we’re witnessing a blossoming love that’s inevitably going to fade, but it’s told through a partnership of music and film that is rare in its panache and sincerity.

Kenneth Lonergan’s Manchester by the Sea has a sort of revisionist take on film and score, casting its modern-day New England setting against centuries-old baroque concertos. Its grey-torn visuals rest operatically on waves of classical pieces from such composers as Handel, Massenet, Albinoni and Poulenc. It’s a unique and bold choice that composer Lesley Barber makes, producing harmony set against visual discord.

There’s a scene in the second act in which Lee (Casey Affleck), having had a few of his friends over, walks to the convenience store for more beer. It’s a tracking shot that might normally overstay its welcome, if it weren’t for the foreboding and eloquent nature of Handel’s Messiah that seems to carry Lee to his late-night destination. The use of Handel’s Pastoral interlude, which begins with the Pifa, an ode to the pipes played in the streets of Rome during Christmas, allows for a comforting and familiar piece to help us adjust to the emotional baggage of the film. It’s a musical choice that speaks to both the tone of the shot, its harsh shadows lying thick over the snow, as well as the film’s theme.

Handel’s Messiah, containing three parts — birth, passion, and resurrection — adds even greater importance to this scene. The strings flutter around Lee as if carrying him, while the idea of birth — purity, beauty, innocence, fragility — contrasts with the tragic events about to befall Lee. Yet therein lies the wonder of Barber and Lonergan’s collaborative dance. They are able to take a composition written over 250 years ago and have it guide their subject through the harsh winter toward an even harsher outcome without feeling the necessity for any interaction between camera and music. Given the many components that make up Messiah, the choice of having it shovel a path for its subject is one that resonates throughout Manchester by the Sea, as Barber’s minimal piano and strings contradict the very nature of its film.

But that’s what breathes life into a film rife with sorrow and listlessness: this ability to use musical choices to starkly divide the thematic elements. Replacing Handel’s Messiah with Run DMC’s “Walk This Way” (for example) would show the same exact imagery, and might actually work from where Lee is coming from (the theme of sex, drugs, and rock & roll being a bit too blatant), but it’s a choice that would lose its footing. Instead, both Manchester by the Sea and La La Land marry sight and sound in a refreshing way. Both films show that a strong relationship between music and film is possible, even if only one of them is dancing.

#la la land #manchester by the sea #film #music #movies #filmwriting #writing #film criticism

AFI’s Top 100 Greatest Films

There were a lot of cool cars being driven by cool kids in high school; Mustang Mach 1’s, BMW Series 5’s and Mazda MX-5’s. Sure, they weren’t technically their cars, but they became their identity. Popped polo’s and slim-fit khaki’s traced with a fresh iron were just as much their identity, even if they also weren’t technically their clothes. These bi-products of early Brooks Brother’s fashion and Abercrombie & Fitch roughness would work on ingraining themselves in these factors of cool by lingering as long as humanly possible in these symbols that would later assist in inventing the term “Netflix and Chill”.

From behind the windshield of the Dodge Caravan that would unfortunately define me, along with the Incubus ‘Make Yourself’ CD that spun on repeat in an attempt to mask my inherent softness, I would observe these propped up pre-fuck boys and their donated cool. Why couldn’t my parents have sprung a modern day muscle car on me upon realizing I wouldn’t be gifted the powers of Sabrina the Teenage Witch on my sixteenth birthday?

Well, because my image wasn’t something I could run from. My overweight lethargy and transparent nu-metal image, despite baggy khaki’s and an oversized button-down, were something that I couldn’t hide – I had to own up to it despite the suffocating geek I suppressed within. No matter how many times I had my mom bring me to the local mall’s American Eagle, there was no amount of maroon polo’s and pre-faded jeans that could cover up the Cheetos stained fingers and shamefully forlorn look towards the Hot Topic entrance. This was something I had to own.

So I got a job at Blockbuster.

Now mind you, this was before the concept of working at a video store was “interesting” or “cool”; this was an era of subservient cinema slavery, where discussing film wasn’t as universally embraced, at least not in the suburban whiteness of Connecticut. This was a time where the heavy sighs from illegally parked soccer moms were as prevalent as the late fees they accrued. A time where eye-rolls from senior-citizens looking to rent an already-checked-out Cocoon for the eighth time were as blatantly obvious as the over-crowded DVD rack trying to push M. Night Shyamalan’s ‘The Village’.

The dress code for such a highly respected and sought-after position was one that I already had experience attempting to hide behind; a navy polo tucked into khaki’s, my American Eagle façade proving a warm-up to the minimum wage job I hoped to embrace. It wasn’t necessarily egregious attire, as there was minimal flare and not an iota of suspenders in sight, yet it was one that highlighted an already maligned position. There was no blending in, fading back behind the romance of the Frank Capra’s or William Holden’s; this was an empty and exposed prom-floor with me alone in the middle, a fresh piece of toilet paper clinging to the bottom of my father’s loaned dress shoes.

Perhaps the corporate heads of Blockbuster realized this complete lack of concealment from the myriad of high school anguish, as we were given 7-free rentals a week. That’s 28 movies a month, and if it’s February, that’s a movie a night for the entire month! Sure, you could surmise that it was profoundly necessary to know our releases, to understand the sub-genres of film in order to better serve suburbia, but that would be looking at things a little too blankly.

The languid conspiracy theorist in me suggests that it was a corporate take-hold of employee turnover, looking to submerge the high school outcast even further into their new after-school job. That the cinema pariah would be content rising to district manager without noticing that they’re now 38 years old and failing to make payments on their Chrysler Lebaron. However, I took these tepid offerings from the powers that be and I began scaling my own escape ladder, tackling the AFI’s 100 Years 100 Movies; a cinematic structure that has remained unclimbed for almost 15 years.

Now it remained untouched for so long, not because of its daunting nature (yes, ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’ feels tremendously disconcerting, despite heavyweights such as ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ and ‘The Best Years of Our Lives’) but because I was fired for deleting a $10 late-fee off my dad’s account. Without the free rentals aiding in my quest to become even more American through the lens of film, I was relegated to driving 6 miles out of town to Dial-M-for-Movies, a hip indie store that resided in the corner of a shopping center with a liquor and grocery store.

Something happened though, in between those passing days of observing the cultural shift in ‘Easy Rider’ and ‘Do the Right Thing’; I went off to a tiny liberal arts college in New Hampshire. There, the idea of cool – cool cars, cool clothes and even cool cinema no longer remained prevalent. Cars were replaced with Birkenstock’s, clothes with thrift store trades and cinema with pot-induced discoveries. In between watching David Lynch’s ‘Mulholland Drive’ or Fellini’s ‘8 ½’ over crab Rangoon with an intelligent and film obsessed girlfriend, there were countless viewings of F.W. Murnau’s ‘Nosferatu’ synched to Radiohead’s ‘Kid A’ in a dorm room full of jocks, slackers, geeks and dweebs.

The perception of viewing film and what it meant was completely subverted; no longer were my escapes an alienating process of societal masochism. For once they represented a greater niche that was at once examined and embraced for what it was. Running across the quad to make my Foreign Film class on time might have given me flashbacks to sprinting across the parking lot of my hometowns strip mall, except I had embraced who I was through working at Blockbuster and the American Film Institute’s 100 Greatest Films of All Time; a list that has so far remained unmarked, 39 of the 100 going unseen and unappreciated.

Looking back, I realize that the high school fraternity of popularity and locker room bravado that clung to their cool cars and clothes acted as a nudge, a catalyst for my own cool. Without sitting in my Dodge Caravan and observing this state of existing, Weezer’s ‘Perfect Situation’ oozing 80’s synth pop-sadness from the speakers, I never would have ultimately seen me for what I was. In doing so, I was able to embrace 100 films that further acted as a catalyst of cinema cool, sending me into other countries of exploration, spending most of my paycheck on Criterion’s collection or obscure martial art flicks that did nothing but allow me to think my fists were snacks.

After years of getting to know Ozu, Kurosawa, Wong Kar-Wai, Fassbinder, the Bergman’s (both Ingrid and Ingmar) and Truffaut, I’ve been feeling as if it’s time to go back and finish what I started. I think it’s time to revisit a list of films that helped me shed my heavy exterior; not only introducing me to cinema, but the world that cinema gleamed from. So grab your ragged pair of Birkenstock’s, leave your Trapper Keeper at the door, your Incubus CD spinning, and sprint across your living room to enjoy a little bit of Americana from an ex-Blockbuster employee as I go through the American Film Institute’s 100 Greatest Films of All Time.

#american film institute #film #movies #writing #afitop100 #filmwriting

Lord of Illusions: Film Noir and the Deception of Control

Lord of Illusions plays out like Clive Barker’s take on film noir, introducing us to wealthy and notorious stage illusionist Philip Swann (Kevin J. O’Connor): a Criss Angel performer who can float and juggle fire without batting an eye. Swann’s wife Dorothea (Famke Janssen), our film’s femme fatale, requests the presence of hard-boiled private eye Harry D’Amour (Scott Bakula) after a fellow illusionist is murdered by Butterfield (Barry Del Sherman), an occult-leader’s disciple. After a fatal accident involving Swann’s newest illusion, Harry and Dorothea become entangled in a case that fears the return of Swann’s supposedly dead mentor, Nix (Daniel Von Bargen), a man now known as ‘The Puritan’.

When we are first introduced to D’Amour, he sits behind a desk in his New York City apartment, his dirty undershirt and holstered gun a throwback to the grit and grime of noir films such as Scarlet Street (1945), Out of the Past (1947) and Touch of Evil (1958), even if they never featured the booze-lacquered symbolism that Lord of Illusions does. There’s a puppy-dog charm to D’Amour, still reeling, his down-on-his-luck stained on his shirt that’s remained locked away ever since his last case, involving the possession and exorcism of a small boy. Like this boy, our gumshoe feels controlled – not by any demonic being – but by the cases in which he gets caught into, and perhaps there is a diabolical force guiding his feet. This control brings Harry to Los Angeles, film noir’s sunnier city of sin, where he lands on the doorstep of Dorothea, a woman who also happens to be possessed.

Like Harry, she is haunted by a past that possesses a different kind of strength, one that forced her to marry Swann. As a young girl, Dorothea was kidnapped by Nix and his illusion-hungry followers and taken to a remote desert compound surrounded by dust and decay, a nightmarish mirage to her seemingly innocent life. This event acted as a catalyst for Swann, who felt drawn to the portion of his psyche that was still human and not quite god-like. It was this powerful grip the capabilities bestowed upon Swann, by Nix, had on him, both directing and forcing his mind. In saving Dorothea from becoming a sacrificial lamb, Swann inadvertently shifted control onto her, gratitude becoming obligation, as she eventually married – not out of love but out of commitment to a man that gave her life.One could very well look at D’Amour (amour forthright meaning a love affair) and Dorothea as interconnected, entwined in this gravity that brought them together through their inability to disconnect from their pasts. However, that would be looking at their situation in a trivial light, as from our first encounter with Dorothea at a young and impressionable age, she has been under the dominance of a male figure, and while that theme rings true in almost every sense of film noir, it’s a pendulum that swings both ways.

Once in Los Angeles, D’Amour quickly becomes enamored with the glow and aura of Dorothea, first laying eyes on her in a graveyard, their souls resting literally on top of the remains of pasts-not just of others, but their own. After an illusion-gone-wrong takes Swann’s life, it’s D’Amour who is obligated to unearth the secrets behind such a death, the illusion of control operating in a way that tricks our senses into thinking it's Dorothea who is once again dominated by a male force.

And while it would be easy to point an accusatory finger at Dorothea for allowing these men into her life, seemingly falling under their controlling male gaze, it would be cheap and inaccurate of us to do so. While her deep-seated obligation towards Swann is strong, it’s merely an illusion to the strength of love that keeps Swann so close to Dorothea. She may not have married Swann for love, but he himself has a sort of Florence Nightingale effect playing out. It’s this same love that continues to pull D’Amour in, not just to the case but her life, as they both excavate the skeletons that rattle the cobwebs of their darkest recesses.

As the awakening of Nix approaches, we are driven back to Dorothea’s past as she is once again kidnapped and brought to the same ill-forgotten desert depot from the beginning. It’s a setting that evokes the same feeling of lost control and desolation that separated our film from its noir elements, donning the feel of a Peckinpah western. What kicks up sand and ties itself closely to this type of genre is its necessity for a “strong” male savior, and that’s not to say D’Amour isn’t; he’s determined, gung-ho, fearless and armed. And while all of those are facts, none of them overshadow or take focus from the reality that Dorothea has remained in control and been our film’s savior from the get-go.

After all, it was our captive who inevitably rescued Swann from Nix, releasing him with a well-placed bullet to the chest. In doing so, Swann was able to contain his mentor with a medieval contraption, one that covered his face like an illusion. It’s an act that would ultimately mirror our films end, as Dorothea fires a shot into a revived Nix’s third eye, a symbol of power used to control his captors. This wound only works in so far as to give D’Amour the facade of control, as he overpowers Nix with the help of a dying Swann’s illusion - a variable Swan song if you will, one that acts as an ode to both film noir and the illusion of control.

#lord of illusions #clive barker #film #cinema #film noir #horror #movies #film writing #writing

Top 10 of 2016

For the longest time I've been compiling my TOP 10 list of 2016, and it has been something of a struggle. Not because there aren't many great films this year, actually it has turned into a monumental year in cinema, but exactly because of that. From horror breaching the mainstream even further to genre pieces being highlighted throughout the year (‘Green Room’, ‘The Wailing’ etc etc), 2016 has seen the rise of independent cinema even further. Suffice to say it, while 2016 has taken a many things from us, it has provided a score of incredible films that will last an eternity.

So without trying your patience any further, here is my

#10 The Invitation

Director Karyn Kusama, having taken 6 years in between ‘Jennifer's Body’ (yes, that ‘Jennifer's Body’), disposes of the angsty melodrama of high school and gives us one of the year’s most tension induced dinner parties. What begins as a heartbreaking and delirious ode to loss and pain quickly spirals into a who-done-it of psychological mysteries, asking us whether we believe what we see or how we feel. As our guest (Logan Marshall Green) begins his descent into hallucinatory sorrow, we start questioning the reality of things, until Kusama kicks over the party tray to unravel a Hitchcockian ending for the books.

#9 Hell or High Water

When the bank forecloses the farm of two brothers (Ben Foster and Chris Pine), they decide to take measures into their own hands by robbing the very branch that deems ownership of land that dates back generations. It's with this simple premise that Scottish director David Mackenzie (‘Starred Up’) delivers one of the most rousing and representative films of the year. At once both subdued and thunderous in its voice and action, this neo-western features some of the grandest cinematography and action set pieces of 2016, bolstered by a commanding performance by Ben Foster. In a time when big banks sit atop the shoulders of America's working class, Mackenzie has delivered a pertinent film strewn with bullet holes and crushed souls, with a message that rings loudest when it isn't firing a gun.

#8 10 Cloverfield Lane

When ‘Cloverfield’ hit theaters almost a decade ago, the consensus was indecisive over the found-footage monster flick-some were lost in its style while the remainders were absorbed in the destructive path it set forth. From the rubble rose one of the surprise hits of the year, offering up a tensely woven extended cut of what surmounts to a 'Twilight Zone' episode. Shot primarily within the confines of what might as well be the blueprint of a paranoid architect's mind, director Dan Trachtenberg (Harriet the Spies brother) infuses two of cinemas most undervalued genres-horror and sci-fi. Acting as equal parts slasher, survival horror and creature feature, ‘10 Cloverfield Lane’ quickly became a nerve twisting breath of fresh air in the early months of 2016, showing audiences that you don't need to look to the stars to discover something both illuminating and terrifying.

#7 Indignation

Based on the book by Philip Roth, Indignation tells the story of two college students (Logan Lerman and Sarah Gordon) who fall in love within a Catholic college during the Korean War. Backed by a commanding performance by its two leads, director/writer/producer James Schamus takes a tried formula and down-casts its themes with heavy narrative elements and grounded romantic archetypes. From its deeply affecting story to its use of deep saturation framing its characters and the war that rages on the outside, ‘Indignation’ stands out like a heart on a sleeve, leaving its blood stains exposed as a reminder of life's love and loss.

#6 The VVitch

One of the earlier films of 2016 came in the form of a thickly spun tale of witchcraft set in 17th century New England, showing a puritan families encounter with the evil that lurks within the woods. First time director Robert Eggers layers his film with enough historical details and panache that it feels like a time warp, fading into a manner of life that once was. Like the music that trickles into every frame, the horrors in ‘The VVitch’ lurches towards you on broken legs, taking its time to get close enough for you to feel it's breath against your neck. In an era where the horror genre exposes its monstrosities, Robert Egger's meticulous tale of religious fear slow burns your senses with what you think you see, not on the screen but within the recesses of your imagination.

#5 La La Land

After the reverb kicked up from ‘Whiplash’, the second feature from writer/director Damien Chazelle, scores of scripts were offered to the young Harvard grad. However, keeping in tempo with his adoration for music, having studied jazz in high school Chazelle went into the vault of CinemaScope to bring audiences a sendup to Hollywood. Highlighted by its audacious dance numbers and dizzying one-takes, ‘La La Land’ tells the story of a young jazz enthusiast and actress, both trying to make it somewhere by the beat of each other's drum. Delivering a toe-tapping and eye-opening intro, Chazelle's third film, an ode to the musicals of yesteryear, shines through in waves of longing and love, not just for each other but for their calling.

What allows its two romantic leads (Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone) to keep dancing in line with each other is a musically propelled chemistry that keeps the heart of its cast and audiences grounded, even when the stars are illuminating our eyes. Working with composer Justin Hurwitz (‘Whiplash’), Chazelle appears to have found his stride, taking heartfelt leaps that force you to remember the purity of cinema, even if musicals aren't your thing. When the credits finally roll and the lights go up, you'll find yourself pinned to your seat in awe with a heart that dances atop your own stage, the floorboards telling you that anything is possible.

#4 Green Room

In 2013, director Jeremy Saulnier introduced the world to his off-brand style of cinematic reality with ‘Blue Ruin’, a festival darling about a downtrodden and newly paroled man out for revenge. Rather than choreograph and romanticize brutality, Saulnier showed the fallacies of one's actions, a trait he would highlight even further in his latest film, ‘Green Room’. Featuring one of the last performances by the criminally underrated Anton Yelchin,Saulnier's latest introduces us to the Ain't Rights, a down on their luck punk band who encounters a murder and must fight a gang of neo-Nazi’s in order to make it out alive.

Underneath the ragged band tees and socio-political vitriol lies a stark and quiet film that utilizes the uncomfortable silence like a 3-chord progression; pumping you up for what ultimately never comes. Cutting from one room to the exterior with an understood patience, Saulnier builds and builds on an undisturbed tension that stretches across the screen, only to ignore it and severe the hand holding it in place. When the violence in ‘Green Room’ does come, it hits you like a blistering punk number, cutting itself short before you even know how it happened. With bouts of sustained silence interspersed with unbridled chaos, ‘Green Room’ stands as one of the year’s most brutally honest and powerfully brutal films, showing you that it doesn't matter who's listening, just how loudly you play.

#3 Manchester by the Sea

When a listless Boston custodian (Casey Affleck) is summoned back to his hometown after his brother (Kyle Chandler) passes away, he must confront the skeletons in his closet while looking after his nephew (Lucas Hedges). It's a basic premise that writer/director Kenneth Lonergan fleshes out through the use of timely flashbacks and orchestral pieces that wash over our central characters like high tide, eventually receding back into its core themes of family. Resonating at the center of ‘Manchester by the Sea’ is a borderline placid yet brilliantly subdued performance by Casey Affleck as Lee Chandler, who has attempted to run from his demons; ones who have stripped him of his children and wife, played by Michelle Williams.

While our film focuses on Lee, it's Williams and Hedges who stand out as the emotional catalysts for Lee, shifting seamlessly into their characters. As the biting cold surrounds our New England town, seeped in gray tones that mirror the destructive power of sorrow, Lesley Barber's orchestral score, interspersed with desolate pieces by Handel, carry our characters and themes to a point, demonstrating the capacity of collaboration. While the subject matter of Lonergan's film weighs heavy, ‘Manchester by the Sea’ elevates itself above the surface, demonstrating the gravity of forgiveness and perseverance while showing you the beauty in misery.

#2 Moonlight

There's a scene in the 3rd act of ‘Moonlight’, director Barry Jenkin's coming of age story divided into 3 specific character arches, that features a grown-up Chiron (Trevante Rhodes) driving down the road after having met-up with Kevin (Andre Holland), an old high school acquaintance. There isn't much said between the two, though that isn't what makes it so remarkably tender and powerful. It's what's conveyed through subtle gestures; a sheepish grin, shy yet playful eyes, tense demeanor that makes it standout. The innocence and heartache within Jenkin's film, based loosely on both his and playwright Tarell Alvin McCraney's upbringing is both startling and pure, allowing the audience to become so close with Chiron we can almost feel the outpour of love and confusion that radiates from his heart.

What we're witnessing is something that teeters on the edge of universality, yet keeps itself from stepping past that because ‘Moonlight’ (based partly on McCraney's piece In Moonlight Black Boys Look Blue) isn't a film for everyone, which isn't to say it doesn't have themes that will resonate and connect with many. However, it's an incredibly specified tale of a child’s upbringing, played out in various stages re: i. Little (Alex Hibbert), ii. Chiron (Ashton Sanders) and previously mentioned iii. Black (Trevante Rhodes). What makes this a specific coming of age story is that Chiron is both black and gay, placing our film outside of arms reach for white America, and that's exactly where it should remain. ‘Moonlight’ is a film that shouldn't be seen, but needs to be felt by white America; one that's as necessary for us to see, feel, understand, accept and praise, just as it is told. Barry Jenkin's hasn't just created a gorgeously framed and fleshed out film, but one whose echoes will be heard through generations, marking ‘Moonlight’ as a masterpiece in both cinema and humanity.

#1 Arrival

If you've seen Denis Villeneuve's previous films, then you know of his masterful storytelling representing greater and very relevant themes. His film ‘Enemy’ (2013) deals with identity, ‘Prisoners’ (2013) with desperation, loss and family and ‘Sicario’ (2015) with masquerading masculinity and rape culture set amidst the raging drug "war". If his repertoire were the human body, Enemy would be the calloused hands identifying oneself, Prisoners the grieving legs in search of answers and ‘Sicario’ the contorted face mouthing "no" against a devious grin. The idea of Denis Villeneuve's body of work being likened to well, a body, isn't farfetched, as communication is a vital motif in each film.

With ‘Arrival’, his latest film about the appearance of alien vessels and our struggle as a planet to understand their motives represent the eyes-a symbol of communication distinguishable in every culture. Powered by a deeply rich score by Johann Johannsson and cinematography by Bradford Young that shifts seamlessly from wide exterior shots to cramped close-ups, ‘Arrival’ unfolds as a vastly important and vital science fiction tale wrapped around a humanly story of survival. In an age where our own communication has shapeshifted into suggestively symbolic photos stored online and 140 character quips, Villeneuve has crafted an engaging and deeply felt film that stands out as one of the most important allegories, not just for the 21st century, but of all time. Where cinema acts as an escape for humankind, ‘Arrival’ stands atop the notion of both art (films) and pop (movies), showing us that our own interaction with the very people we coexist with is something worth saving, even if it means putting down our phones and looking each other in the eyes.

#film #movie #movies #bestof #topten #2016

Pan’s Labyrinth and the Matriarchy of War

If you were lucky enough to catch Pan’s Labyrinth in theaters 10 years ago, then I’m sure you haven’t forgotten the fantastical cinematic experience it imparted on you and everyone you were surrounded by. Coming off his reign as the father of everyone’s favorite Baby Ruth chomping boy from hell, Guillermo Del Toro decided to take cinema back to its roots and craft a sort of spiritual successor to his 2001 gothic ghost chiller, The Devil’s Backbone. In doing so, Del Toro created not only a film rife with richly layered imagery and themes of fantasy set amidst the weening years of the Spanish War, but one that skews the coming of age story while penetrating the matriarchy of fantasy.

When our film opens, we witness an injured and possibly dying young girl, the dark blues of the night’s air resting heavy over her bleeding body. As a trickle of blood escapes her, we are plunged into the depth of her eye, where we are taken back to the beginning of our story and told that beneath the hills lie an underworld bereft with Princesses and Kings. However, our Princess escapes the underworld from her keepers, emerging anew into a war torn world where women are imprisoned by the keepers of a 20th century patriarchy.

Here we are introduced to Ofelia (Ivana Baquero) and her pregnant mother Carmen (Ariadna Gil), who are both traveling towards a waypoint harboring soldiers under rule of Falangist Captain Vidal (Sergi Lopez). We are then introduced to Mercedes (Maribel Verdu), Vidal’s handmaiden if you will, who secretly fights for the guerilla faction that hides in the trees of the surrounding countryside. It’s these central female protagonists (equals under the all-male watch of the Falangist regime) that comprise our films matriarchy, each woman existing between a reality and a fantasy.

Ofelia is a 12-year old girl who loses herself in leather-bound works of fiction in order to escape the realities of war. Soon she discovers a stone labyrinth that introduces her to an earthen-clad faun (Doug Jones) who instructs her that she is really Princess Moanna of the underworld kingdom. What one world offers, the other strips away without mercy, forcing Ofelia to become somewhat indebted to the faun, unfolding a path that would allow her a reprieve from reality. However, her escape from the atrocities of war and the domineering grip of Vidal is through her mother and unborn half-brother, who becomes the imperiled focal point in Ofelia’s fantastical quest.

Our other two matriarchal mothers arrive in the form of Vidal’s wife Carmen and handmaiden Mercedes, both subservient and domineered by a tyrannical figure who feels the people of Spain are not all equal. While Carmen rests weary from pregnancy, her potentially unborn boy acting as her savior from harm at the hand of her husband, Mercedes works effortlessly between cook and caretaker to Ofelia, a dual maternal nature working its course. In between these roles she struggles to aid the rebels, led by her brother Pedro (Roger Casamajor). Tucked away and folded under Mercedes clothes is a knife she uses to chop vegetables, one that acts as her own unborn child protecting her from the dangers that lurk around every corner. Through our own lens we observe the maternal grace bestowed upon Ofelia by Mercedes, taking her as her own child, and perhaps at one point she was a mother, though Del Toro leaves very little exposition between fantasy and reality.

What we do know is what we see-that Ofelia’s fantasy lies below, Mercedes lies outside the camps borders and Carmen’s rests within; her world dissolving into sickness and despair in an attempt to carry her husband’s child. As the audience, we don’t know how long Mercedes has been separated from the outside world, when her brother and she were united. What we do know is the dire reality cast before her, of sneaking away to the woods with antibiotics and food for the rebels. It’s an act that unites Mercedes with Ofelia, as they are both able to move, a bit restrictively, between their fantasies and realities; one fulfilling the commands of a faun while the other acts under the rule of a captor.

Even through war itself we are shown a barbaric fantasy, a divided world between control and chaos, where men battle each other through a schoolyard game. When we first realize the war around them, it’s through a strategic tabletop battlefield with toy battalions that are moved around in the manner of a board game. As Vidal positions his army through this mock war, it becomes clear that he lives in a fantasy separated from the rational confines of reality, where he has won and no man is equal.

As the war rages on around them, Ofelia begins taking up the dual role of daughter and nurturer, as Carmen’s health becomes graver and graver. We’re unsure at first whether the fantastic has played a more vital role in Ofelia’s upbringing than her own mother. However, it becomes abundantly clear when she is given a mandrake root by the faun as to renew life into her fever-ridden mother that her fantasy has become a subverted reality that feeds off the other. When the mandrake is discovered by Vidal, we see for the first time the interaction and confrontation between fantasy and reality, and how destructive the war between both can be on the matriarchal foundation.

Guillermo Del Toro’s masterpiece plays with themes of choice and obedience within its story, yet it’s our 3 symbols of hope amidst a battle scarred world of patriarchal blood and bullets that breathes new life into both the fantasy and war genre. While we begin and conclude with the same image of death, the importance lies not in the reality of it, but in witnessing the strength it takes to die for something. In the end, the fantasy of Pan’s Labyrinth becomes the realities of our own hope, one patriarchy becoming another woman’s matriarchy, as we witness not the death of a child, but the birth of a woman.

#film #movies #writing #pans labyrinth

Brooklyn: “Hey, Umbrella of Cherbourg!”

Umbrella of Cherbourg: *singing* “Quelle?”

Brooklyn: “Mind if I wear your background colors?”

Umbrella of Cherbourg: *not singing* “Peu importe.”

#brooklyn #umbrella of cherbourg #film #movie

Throne of Blood: The Masked Fragility of Man

First published in 1623, Shakespeare’s Macbeth has seen a myriad of adaptations, stemming from its cultural relevance within political history. The great Orson Welles, a decade before turning to the silver screen, directed Macbeth for the Negro Theatre Unit in 1936, which stirred controversy within the black community of Harlem, accused of mocking black culture. Though on a grander scale, Welles’ production can be viewed as a telling tale of evil abroad, as Europe became engulfed in strife with the rise of Hitler’s regime, it quickly became an imperative reflection on the duality between reality and fantasy–how difficult it must be to sympathize with a character that so greatly reflects a tyrant’s hysteria.

Shakespeare himself, having already written Hamlet and Othello, took in observance the conflicting histories of England, Scotland and Ireland, crafting a tragedy that imparts cultural purpose amongst 17th century Europe. Based on the Scottish King of the same name, Macbeth ingrained itself in the repertoire of both cultural and theatrical relevance, becoming a significant and vital piece of written history. Rarely did Shakespeare stray from source material unfamiliar to the people, writing tragedies that derived from the rich history rooted in the European people.

When acclaimed director Akira Kurosawa (Rashomon) took up the pen to adapt Macbeth, he did so with a keen observance of Japanese panache and cultural motifs; Noh theatre elements and Jidaigeki settings symbolize an observance of Japanese tradition and history, while the story itself yields to Shakespearian roots.

Throne of Blood encapsulates the deceit and doubt that winds up plaguing General Washizu (Toshiro Mifune), who along with fellow General Miki (Minoru Chiaki), encounter a prophesizing spirit deep within Spider’s Web forest that accounts their rise and subsequent fall within the ranks. As Washizu becomes wracked with fear over Miki’s son eventually taking up lordship over Northern Garrison, his wife Asaji (Isuzu Yamada) begins spreading seeds of doubt, manipulating Washizu to the point of treason.

On the surface, Kurosawa’s film is replete with common tropes within a genre he had come to perfect through a mere two films; 1950’s Rashomon and 1954’s Seven Samurai. However, where commonality unites these three samurai films, their visual expressiveness divides them in a unique fashion that weaves a tapestry of operatic Shakespearian candor. Rolling fog cascades the mountainous landscape, creating an illusion of ghostly aura, where man lies teetering on the brink of war. Lush, rain soaked forest sprawls in different directions like a spider’s web. Lofty garrisons loom over rocky, soot-burned terrain in an attempt at immortalizing man. It’s these set pieces that help pave the way for a stage that fuses Shakespeare with samurai, wielding a katana that cuts through theatre of yesteryear.

Underneath the turmoil of impending war in Macbeth is the fragility in masculinity that appears wholly expressive, as Kurosawa utilizes traditional Japanese symbolism to tell a tragedy that is overtly familiar with adaptations. As Washizu becomes burdened by the weight of doubt and deceit, his face becomes withered and concaved. When we are introduced to his wife Asaji, she wears makeup that is representative of classic Noh, a form of Japanese musical drama.

However, music is replaced with the howl of the elements surrounding Washizu’s garrison, and both Yamada’s makeup and Mifune’s expressive facial features showcase Noh’s integration of masks as a means of foretelling. It’s this foretelling nature that offers Kurosawa the ability to meld both Japanese theatre with that of Shakespeare, as Washizu’s gaunt features symbolize a man on the edge of sanity, driven further by the power of femininity and his own treacherous thoughts. Traditionally, Noh masks are worn by men in theatre, yet Asaji wears the face to symbolize the feminine power and sway over manipulated masculinity, often leading Washizu to second guess his own thoughts and actions.

As our ill-fated Macbeth sits solemnly with his wife, we are often looking in through doorways, detached from the reality of war. Resting upright in the background is Washizu’s katana, never far from reach. When he eventually pierces the armor of Lord Tsuzuki, it isn’t with his own weapon, but that of a spear handed to him by his wife. There’s a feminine control over Washizu that penetrates his own armor, weakening a man who feels like he is about to lose everything. As our tragedy progresses, Mifune gradually establish a crooked smile, often emulating the face of Hannya, female demons representative of extreme fear and jealousy.

Perhaps his own splintered masculinity begins to shapeshift into the woman closest to him who poisons his mind, or perhaps his face merely becomes a stronger ideal that realizes his error at a point of no return. As a volley of arrows from his own troops reign down on Washizu, our armor-clad Lord transitions from a spiritual being crippled by his own masculinity into a man indicative of his own violence. It isn’t the violence that is glorified, rather disillusioned, as he attempts to prop himself up with his own sword; a weapon that had until now lingered in the foreground as an observance of man and the casualty war has on the human spirit.

#throne of blood #akira kurosawa #writing #Film Writing #film #cinema #movie

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