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Film + TV Reviews

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Movie Review: IN A LONELY PLACE (1950)

While watching Nicholas Ray’s In a Lonely Place (1950), I was conscious of my body’s physical and emotional reaction while seeing the film take a dark and sinister turn. These near visceral reactions reminded me of those I felt when seeing other films that deal with obsessive, fatal attraction: Lolita (1963), Fear (1995), Obsessed (2009) to name just a few. None of these re-imaginings, however, seem to resonate as deeply and be as successfully charged with social commentary than In a Lonely Place, which follows a troubled Hollywood screenwriter (Humphrey Bogart) and his beautiful neighbor (Gloria Grahame) as they begin a love affair in the midst of a murder investigation.

Ray’s film is yet another self-reflexive film about the world of Hollywood, and the exhausting people and creative processes that seem to keep the infamous community thriving. Still, it’s innovative and refreshing in the way it presents its commentary through a dark, pessimistic, and immersive lens. Not only does the film argue that Hollywood bewitches and entraps the souls who fly too close to its light-- it swallows these souls whole, with no apparent hope of redemption, let alone reincarnation.

For validity’s sake, this motivation can be seen when comparing the differences between Dorothy B. Hughes’ book, In a Lonely Place, and Nicholas Ray’s cinematic adaptation of the book. In the book, Dixon is a wannabe writer for the purpose of gaining his uncle’s money. Hughe’s version of Dixon never writes a word, so the film’s writers, Edmund North and Andrew Solt, created Humphrey Bogart’s Dixon with the intention of making him an experienced, even tired, screenwriter. This is an integral aspect of the film’s plot (“artistic integrity,” anyone?).

A quick and shallow read of this film may produce feelings of animosity or resentment towards Dixon, who seems to play a role in creating a narrative of dispensable or commodified women at the hands of charming yet deeply tormented men. However, Dixon is a veteran of the Hollywood scene and, parallel to the ways we as humans develop our own values and personalities, is just a reflection of the environment he’s grown in. He’s tired of the monotony he endures, surrounded by sell outs, social climbers, and boring, predictable screenplays. 

Much like his last name, Dixon Steele has grown hard towards the false pretenses, trimmings, and ideologies of Hollywood, and doesn’t soften up until Laurel Gray brings color and meaning back into his life. In seeing the redeeming and lovable qualities she coaxes out of him, I felt for him. I mourned for him as he reacted to Laurel’s “betrayals” and mistrust, because I knew he was only reacting out of the penetrative love he has for her, and taking out his deep-seated resentment towards a city full of relentless isolation.

In the book Dixon is a complete, psychotic murderer and he’s so far gone that readers are unable to sympathize with him at all. Bogart’s Dixon, occasionally showing glimpses of his sweet, charming self when around those he loves, is just another cog in the morally compromised system of Hollywood.

With a genre and style as engaging and heart-pounding as film noir, and with a theme as emotionally evocative as love and how far one is willing to go to maintain it, In a Lonely Place constructs two beautiful, empathy-evoking characters in Dixon and Laurel. The film seduces audiences into rooting for their hopeless love story.

The ending is film-noir at it’s finest; dark, tragic, and emotional. It’s representative of the unique love human nature craves from others, but more than that, it echoes the self-nurturing human nature desperately needs.

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Movie Review: ADAPTATION (2002)

Charlie Kaufman’s Adaptation (2002) is strange. Nicolas Cage and his fictional twin are strange. The last 20 minutes of the movie is even stranger. Yet, while some feel that the movie’s bizarreness is its Achilles heel, its peculiarities are what forced my mind into a frenzy of existentialism. Adaptation is strange only because we as humans are even stranger.

Directed by Spike Jonze (Her, Being John Malkovich) and written by Charlie Kaufman (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Being John Malkovich), Adaptation follows Charlie (Cage) as he adapts a book into a movie, in the midst of dealing with his personal demons: his severe self-doubt and anxiety, and his twin brother, Donald.

Indiewood writers can have a superiority complex against Hollywood blockbusters, as these mainstream studio films are often considered to lack in depth and creativity. This is represented in Adaptation, through Charlie’s frustration and resentment towards his brother Donald, who one day decides that he wants to write a script. Charlie groans as Donald uses terminology like “the industry” and inserts the stereotypical character of a serial killer with multiple personality disorder into his screenplay. Still, it’s Donald who finishes his script and gets a huge payout. In a New York Times Article that was written in 2007, writer Rachel Abramowitz argues why Indiewood films from that year were not popular in theaters. “Given the war in Iraq, the housing slump, global warming, the fires, are audiences just tired of challenging -- and sometimes depressing -- fare?” 2002 was a year filled with Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Star Wars sequels, yet few of these mainstream Hollywood films had such a unique impact and message that Adaptation had.

As a movie about making a movie, Adaptation is inherently self reflexive. Yet, real-life Charlie Kaufman takes this self-consciousness to the next level by (and try to stay with me here) creating a movie, about a movie (The Orchid Thief), that’s written by a guy (Cage) who is, not only going through a parallel experience of the movie he’s writing about, but who himself is based off of the guy (Kaufman) who wrote the movie that he (Cage) is a character in. (Still with me?)

However confusingly meta the plot and its concept may be, Adaptation’s self reflexiveness is what makes it deceiving at first glance, but so surprisingly clever after some deeper contemplation. There are a plethora of introspective layers to this movie and each layer reveals something about the movie making process, and reveals many things about the human mind and conscience. At the core of this discovery is the often forgotten yet profound idea that no one holds more power over you than yourself. Adaptation frames this affirmation within the context of the emotionally taxing process of writing a screenplay and what results is a vulnerable, contemplative, and provocative cinematic work that leaves my mind racing as I think and write about it now.

Adaptation doesn’t romanticize human fallacy, and it proves that audiences can go into Indiewood films expecting a headache of a plot and message, but come out from a transcendental experience with an expanded mind.

Works Cited

‘Indie films could use a little more ‘Sunshine’’ by Rachel Abramowitz  https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-2007-oct-25-et-mouth25-story.html

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Heist Movies Are Fun and Games Until They’re Literally Comprised of Fun and Games. Arthur Penn’s BONNIE AND CLYDE Can Speak to This.

Every heist movie I’ve seen features a wealth of skillful and intelligent criminals. With movies like The Killing (1956), Heat (1995), and Ocean’s Eleven (2001), it seems near impossible, save for the occasional parody, for a heist to take place without a character who has the brains to pull it off.

Then there’s Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker in Arthur Penn’s Bonnie and Clyde (1967), a cinematic representation of the infamous crime duo, their gang of like minded criminals and the robberies they’re able to pull off. Played by Warren Beaty and Faye Dunaway, Penn’s Clyde and Bonnie make up the most simple and rudimentary crime duo that has ever graced the heist genre.

Clyde is portrayed as a trigger-happy delinquent, egged on by the expectations his lover, Bonnie, thrusts upon him. For this reason, my own expectations for him were not high to begin with. His lack of prudence and wisdom is irritating but acceptable in the beginning of the film, as I had expected Bonnie to take on the role of the brains behind the operation. Her character is introduced by way of extreme close ups on her physical attributes, seducing audiences into believing she will use her attractiveness to her advantage. 

However, the movie quickly climaxes and spirals downwards (it saves itself from an atomic bombing with its thrilling finale) as soon as one realizes that even Bonnie’s emotional maturity and foresight reaches a small extent, thanks to the expectations Clyde puts on her. The musical score, which consistently made me think of Cletus Spuckler and his ‘hillbilly’ family in The Simpsons, and the other characters that make up the Barrow gang (ie. Blanche and her utterly painful shrill of a scream), do not help.

Bonnie and Clyde revolutionized the role of the protagonist, glamorizing the thrill and destruction that on-the-run criminals endure during their illegal careers. Yet this romanticization could’ve been elevated by making the main characters seem intellectually capable of pulling off the stunts they somehow achieve.

I applaud the film for the impact it had on film and genre, and for Gene Wilder’s “Step on it, Velma”, but that is all I will say is worth watching from Arthur Penn’s sixth film. Compared to the expansive list of heist films that exist, most of which feature dynamic characters who garner some admiration for their clever intellect, Bonnie and Clyde falls disappointingly short.

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‘THREE IDENTICAL STRANGERS’ Review: Should Ethics Be Compromised for the ‘Greater Good’?

"It’s a little darker than a Disney movie.”

“Anybody could just walk around the corner and discover that [they] have a twin out there.” Though it comes at the film’s end, this final line of dialogue deeply transformed my entire viewing experience of Three Identical Strangers, from one filled with undeniable and complete empathy to one that was invasively personal, and nearly suffocating. More than evoking empathy, however, this powerful statement essentially frames the provocativeness that this film embodies by questioning one’s previously established beliefs on who or what should be sacrificed for the benefit of all.  

The greatest element of Three Identical Strangers is its intentional and intelligent narrative, that is how director Tim Wardle decides to tell the story of identical triplets Bobby Shafran, David Kellman, and Eddy Galland reuniting after being separated at birth only to eventually be torn apart by the very same cause that separated them in the first place-- an experiment which studied whether nature or nurture matters most in human development. 

In three distinct acts, audiences are literally taken along the triplets’ intimate journey as each new piece of information is presented to viewers in much of the same, linear way it was presented to the three brothers; we rejoice with them when they finally meet up with each other for the first time, we laugh with them as they discover their uncanny similarities, we scratch our heads in angry frustration along them as they question the motives of their adoption agency, and so on. This manner of linear storytelling, combined with the pacing of the documentary as a whole, enables even the most distracted and unsympathetic viewers to remain wholly engaged as they're forced deep into the catacombs of their emotions-- and only deeper into them as the story progresses.

Considering the undeniable immorality of the twin experiment, it is the seeming utter lack of empathy displayed by previous research assistants of the study, specifically Natasha Josefowitz, that affected me just as well. Josefowitz, a small but sprightly woman of 90 years, is introduced to viewers as she walks along her sunny beachfront home. She proudly shows off her array of prized possessions-- framed photographs of her and highly revered celebrities and political figures and several art pieces by Pablo Picasso-- before she impatiently asks the filmmakers, “When are we going to talk about the twin study?” Her joy and simultaneous indifference stands in stark contrast to the previous images we see of Bobby and David, who are distraught and heartbroken in talking about their and their brother’s estrangement and its detrimental effects that came at the cost of scientific advancement. I was almost personally offended on behalf of the triplets at this woman’s reaction, which, to me, felt like sociopathic disassociation. (Author’s Note: I recognize that my anger may be misdirected as she wasn’t in charge of this experiment, but Josefowitz for me represents the researchers and supporters of the study who remain unbothered by the damages the study itself has had on its subjects).

It’s hard for me to consider that the ethics of the 1950s are vastly different in comparison to the ethics of our present time. Still, it’s one thing for someone to recognize how ethical differences can change with time and adjust their feelings accordingly; it’s another thing for someone to recognize this difference and not care anyway. Natasha Josefowitz starts off her interview by saying she wasn’t a main researcher on the twin study, then defends the study by stating that the advent of psychology was more prominent than ethical concerns. Most disturbing of all, she attributes any anger someone may have upon discovering the experiment or its findings to people feeling upset about “how little influence they have, how little control they have.” She seems to remain unflinching at the fact that her shared mentality caused the destruction of the beautiful and potentially long-lasting familial relationship.

While it may actually be upsetting to some to find out that there’s some aspects of their lives that they can’t control, it’s more upsetting to me that multiple families and numerous relationships have had to suffer for the purposes of that very discovery. Bobby, David, Eddy, and all who knew them or their story may have been naive by only focusing on the phenomenal and heartwarming similarities they shared, but it was cruel and immoral for the researchers of the twin experiment to lust after their differences.

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‘PARASITE’ Review

Bong Joon-ho brilliantly and shockingly critiques class disparity in his Cannes Festival Palme d’Or and Golden Globe winning film.

Though the film takes place in South Korea, the themes of Parasite are universal and know no racial, ethnic or geographic bounds. Director Bong Joon-ho (Snowpiercer, Okja) highlights the timeless yet ever critical issues of financial inequality and class disparity through the Kim family (seen pictured above), who lives in near poverty in a basement, and the Parks, who are excessively wealthy  on top of living in an architectural masterpiece of a home. The Kims hatch a plan to personally work for the Parks in an effort to gain financial freedom.

I had heard such phenomenal reviews of the film that I walked into the theater with extremely high expectations. Still, I had no idea what exactly to expect. I came out of the theater with my expectations completely blown to pieces.

Joon-ho’s ability to transcend genre is masterful in Parasite. A member of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association perfectly summed it up by saying it’s a thriller, horror, family melodrama, tragedy and -- most influentially -- a black comedy film, all rolled up into one. “The comic sense is the most eminently human reaction to the mysteries of human life,” so while comedy makes a film attractive and easily digestible for audiences, the “dark” element of a black comedy film grounds seemingly exaggerated events and characters in reality (a reality in which there are infinite amounts of wrongdoings, injustices, and vulgarities). Parasite is full of hilarious, horrifying, and tragic moments that accumulate into a powerfully memorable film. And while it explores the wildly unjust contrasts between opulent wealth and inhumane poverty, the film shows it all through the lens of what it can mean to be a family (spoiler: family is not all good).

Actor performances are incredible all around, but the patriarch of the Kim family, Ki-taek (played by Kang-Ho Song), and his daughter, Ki-jung (played by Park So-dam) really impacted my viewing experience. Joon-ho’s directing and writing are intelligent (one would even say metaphorical..), the visuals are meaningful, and the score is emotional.

The one thing I find interesting about foreign films is that while they can be a gateway to eliminating cultural and language barriers, cultural differences can sometimes reinforce those very cultural barriers (and not necessarily in a bad way). There were only a few scenes in Parasite in which I wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to be laughing or on the verge of tears in repose to seemingly culturally specific dialogue or gestures. Rather than deter me, however, these moments of confusion only increased my desire to discover and immerse myself in more foreign films.

I came out of seeing this movie not knowing what to think about what I had witnessed, but after thinking on it for a number of days, I can confidently say that Parasite is a must watch for everyone. In a world ruled by capitalist notions, where there are billionaires and trillionaires existing at the same time that homelessness is only ever increasing, powerful social critiques such as Parasite are the catalysts that remind us that human beings and their institutions are far from perfect.

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‘1917′ Review

Director Sam Mendes and DP Roger Deakins join forces once again to bring an epic to life by way of raw and vastly immersive-- often too immersive-- storytelling.

1917 takes place in the midst of WWI, and it follows two young British soldiers who are given the unimaginable task of going through No Mans Land and the German frontline in order to deliver a message to a British Battalion-- if they fail, the 1,600 men of that battalion will unknowingly walk into a German ambush.

Other than the fact that it’s directed by Sam Mendes (American Beauty, Skyfall, Spectre) and photographed by DP veteran Roger Deakins (No Country for Old Men, Skyfall, Blade Runner 2049), 1917 has garnered major interest and publicity for it’s technical feat; the whole film takes place within a single shot.

Naturally, the single shot element doesn’t allow for cuts to scenes of different locations or characters, in which the action and/or plot development may be taking place. Mendes seems to over compensate for this inflexibility by throwing every worst case scenario at MacKay (Corporal Schofield) and Chapman (Corporal Blake) throughout the film’s 119 minuete entirety. The story takes place within a day and a half, so the constant, extreme conflict that arises for the two young soldiers sometimes comes off as being inconceivable.

Moreover, the single shot, while extremely immersive, ironically takes away from the immersion it aims to achieve. There are many moments where the two soldiers are walking down seemingly miles and miles of trenches. Not only did I as an audience member feel as if their lengthy strolls would never end, but, as they turned corners, and as the camera used a block of extras and props to change angles, I was more aware and conscious of the use of the single shot than I was aware of what was actually happening within the story itself. Of the same cause, many beautifully heart-wrenching images and highly tense moments were shattered due to camera movement or editing that was necessary in order for the single shot to function properly. 

Despite the effectiveness (or lack thereof) of the single shot, the cinematography, as can be expected from someone like Deakins, is beautiful. With meaningful composition and compelling lighting, each and every single image can be frozen and taken as a photographic still.

Dean-Charles Chapman (known for his role in Game of Thrones as Tommen) is good, but relative newcomer George MacKay steals the show. He perfectly embodies a character whose emotional reticence is robbed by the perpetual chaos happening to and around him. There are other big names in 1917-- Colin Firth, Benedict Cumberbatch, Mark Strong, Richard Madden, Andrew Scott-- most of whom become distractions to the plot and narrative since their star power take over such small and unexpected roles.

The plot-- intense, action-filled, emotionally tumultuous-- is fantastic, and gives viewers a raw, unperturbed perspective of how traumatizing and perilous war can be. I’d assume this is partially thanks to the single shot feature, and largely due to the extensive planning that went into actor rehearsals and production design. If the film achieved nothing else, 1917 accomplished extremely high production value thanks to complex and powerful production design. Even with the limitation of having no breaks between shots to repurpose props and move them about, every single half-decayed dead horse, dirtied and cracked skull, and pale and lifeless body was carefully thought out and placed within shot.

Ultimately, the technical feat, while impressive, took away from what was a on-the-edge-of-your-seat action-thriller filled with enough war realism to last one for years to come. It’s Deakin’s immaculate camera work, MacKay’s superb performance and the impeccable production design that saves the day.