Written and directed by Randall Wallace, starring Mel Gibson, featuring Greg Kinnear, Sam Elliot, Madeline Stowe and Barry Pepper.
Based on the book We Were Soldiers Once ... And Young by Lieutenant General (Ret.) Hal Moore and reporter Joseph L. Galloway, both of whom were at the battle.
Mel Gibson has become a punchline due to his out of control ravings while drunk. So be it, selah. That outrageous activity bears no reflection on this, possibly his single greatest effort as an actor. In fact, this film is a "plane gone down" effort: had the entire cast and crew died after its release, every man and woman involved should have its title engraved on their headstones.
As per the DVD extra Getting It Right: behind the scenes of the making of We Were Soldiers, the director stated that while reading the original source work, the line "... Hollywood has never gotten it right..." was the impetus for the creation of the film. Moore and Galloway were present during the filming and Wallace referred to them again and again to be certain of the highest degree of accuracy. The result: a gut wrenching work that induces uncontrollable sobbing, bursts of roaring laughter and flat out heart stopping moments of the purest form of drama.
The war in Vietnam has never been shown so perfectly in all of its horrific, nightmarish glory, if glory can be used to describe any arena in which two competing groups of human beings gather for no other purpose than the wholesale slaughter of one another. This is not only the best depiction of that "rancid picnic" (as Stephen King called it) but possibly the single best film about war ever made.
The training is there. The real people are shown. The combat is there, not as a flag waving idiot my country right or wrong but in its visceral ugliness. The families and the shock waves of Hell (literally) brought to their door is there. Tactics and logistics are there.
There are some films that do a little of some, to great effect. The human cost is a matter of record in so many other films that one more would seem to be pointless, but here the cost is shown on the men in the field as well as the impact on wives and families left behind. Often, though, a film that turns its eye to this and this alone tends to forget the rest. Those that look at tactics and logistics forget the family at home.
It is all here. All of it, in its horror, its honor and its agony.
The soundtrack is flawless, a few moments of pop culture infused prior to the men being shipped out, but mostly a brilliant score. The fine art of the film score is all but ignored, but this film is a great return to classic form, as well as pushing the envelope as to what is played, and when. Often, there is nothing, just the sounds of hellfire combat and broken hearts. When the music is used, it is to underscore a moment, not to overwhelm or coerce the audience into a mindset. The music meets the sadness.
Each performance is carved in bittersweet moments, and the simple life pleasures are given as they are lived, no treacle or maudlin sniffle-sniffle-oh-how-sad, just... it is what it is. That direct approach is common of every moment in the film overall.
A film with no humor, regardless of how bleak the moment, is unworthy of consideration, and during a massive firefight the commanding officer demands to know why the mortars have stopped. One of the enlisted men explains that the tubes are so hot the men cannot use them again for fear of the shells exploding in the tube from the heat. Brief pause: commander walks over to one, and as we look between his legs, we see a stream of urine from him, cooling the tube, then, after a brief pause: "Well?!?" The men then stand in a circle around each mortar tube and follow their leaders example.
A superior effort for all involved and a grand way to remember them as have served, regardless of politics, for the reminder of Armistice Day.
Showing posts with label film criticism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label film criticism. Show all posts
Friday, November 11, 2011
Monday, October 31, 2011
1 Mystery, 2 Houses and lots o' Wax
So, I blew the dust off of the covers of a couple of flicks and decided on a pre-Halloween mini-marthon.
When the remake House Of Wax was released to disc, I was a little in doubt as I normally am with anything that has "Paris Hilton" on it anywhere, porn included. However, on the massive plus side was a re-release of the Price version, and much to my shock and joy was finding it was a dual sided disc, with, almost a footnote, the flip side being the Lionel Atwell/Fay Wray Mystery Of The Wax Museum.
What the hell, right? So, off I went, starting with the middle piece, a dreamscape with which I am most familiar.
Watching it now, it is a little worse for the wear, Carolyn Jones' character giving a giggle that sounds as if it were stolen from The Music Man (missing only "Ye gods!"), and she along with Price are really the only two worthy of being on screen as often as they are. Not to slight the rest, but for the most part the remainder of the cast is phoning in a quick check, very common for the B list.
Two things immediately leap off the screen, however. The first is that the film was attempting to cash in on the Can't See This On Your TV empty headed crap Hollywood was grinding out in the then latest innovation Jump Off The Screen O Rama! aka 3-D. Like the current embarrassments, there is one scene in particular that makes the eyes roll and the hand to lurch towards the eject button. A hawker is sent out to drum up business, and in doing so is using a paddle and ball bouncing the ball into the camera, going so far as to cry out "oh, there is a man with some popcorn! Don't move, sir!"
Egad.
However, on the much more interesting side is that being shot in 3-D lead to a more close inspection of creating the illusion of depth via camera angle and focus, which when viewed in 2-D gives the film a certain beauty. Deep focus, when used correctly, does not need 3-D, film itself is an illusion and this is rather magical... or magickal, if you prefer.
The real reason to sit through this again is, of course, Price. His performance here may well be the one capping moment of his career, other and greater to come, some outstanding prior, but it is here that one sees the Iconic Price take center stage. His man is bitter to literal insanity, but there is a wild black humor dished with every syllable and facial motion. He is hysterically funny, the Clown Prince Of Horror that his fans know and adore, but here it is "funny." The lines are comedic and played to full comic effect, but his delivery makes for a nervous laughter: this character is fully insane, tormented at his deepest portion of his id.
More important, if that can be possible, is that Price often thought of himself as something other than an Actor, thinking himself more workmanlike. This was neither false nor mere humility, and the man turned down many "legit" stage options, not thinking himself capable, which fortunately lead to his accepting Dr. Phibes Part 3 (or as it is known, Theater Of Blood) and the entire supporting cast rushing over from The Royal Shakespeare Company just to have the chance to perform The Bard with Price... if you have never seen it, love Price or really enjoy well done Shakespeare, you owe it to yourself.
Price here is shown as a remarkably physical actor. Here, he uses his body in a manner that is more in keeping with Brando, Dean or Clift. Not a series of twitchy movements or mumbling, though: body motions of surgical precision. Watching him without his mask, he is contorted, one foot twisted, and I did go back and check. He never missed a cue. Total character immersion. Flawless.
The issue was the dialog. This is where the film nearly jumps the shark. My eldest son, 28, was watching it with me, and the groans lead to his excusing himself. A workmanlike performance is no loss, but the actors have to have something to use, and Price alone makes every syllable count.
Flipping it over, and watching Mystery Of The Wax Museum lead to a series of shocks.
Filmed 20 years prior to the first House, color was a new thing, and sound was still in and of itself rather new to the scene. Needing the Criterion Clean Up (as we call it here at our house), the weird washed out color actually adds to the overall effect of the film. It looks like a bad, bad dream.
The story is the same, but it is presented in such a manner as to be far different, and it is here that my personal film theory is underscored... that the times and era are captured, warped and reflected back onto the audience, zeitgeist as auteur.
This film, released in 1933, would have come out during the Depression, and after WWI. The sense that the world was a violent, disturbing place and one of debatable future was a precursor to the aftermath of WWII and the existentialist movement. Atwill's performance is based almost word-for-word the same as Price's, but the differences are shocking when seen back-to-back.
Atwill is also a bitter man driven to madness from his loss and disfigurement, but his rage is not hidden beneath a thin veneer of black humor, but instead is barely controlled rage, lashing out at everyone and everything that does not attach itself to the obsessive pursuit of his art.
Price is more of a serial killer, or signature killer may be more appropriate, putting his "art" on display, and in doing so mocks the world around him. In comparison, then, the "lesser" performances suddenly take on a different weight. Price's film, released in 1953, seems more a slam on the times, Price as hep cat beat artist, similar to Dick Miller in A Bucket Of Blood than anything else, and really, in essence, that is both the Phibes/Lionheart characters in a nutshell (forgive the wanton pun...).
Atwill is mad in a 1933 sense, mad meaning both insane and enraged.
In Mystery, too, the remaining performances take on a wholly different meaning and depth. The dialog is machine gun fast, crackling like a screwball comedy, razor sharp delivery. That heightened sense of verbal daring is the source of comedy then, and it is important because the humor and its source shifts from the Greek Chorus of the supporting players and onto the star. Thirty years made the difference.
The Zeitgeist as auteur has been in the back of my mind for a couple of decades, but watching these three films so close to one another really carved it in stone. Films are produced as art, of course, but in some cases art comes from merely the correct grasp of the mindset of the audience. The film is made in the hope of gathering enough of an audience to recover the cost of its production, and those films that act as our collective id, horror, reflect back to us more of where we were and are than other genres. It is there in our darkest recesses that we see the most clearly defined shadows.
Mystery was released 1933. Price's House was released in 1953. Consider the social changes, the era, and how much things had changed in that 20 year period. The essence of the actual story remains for the most part unchanged: the focal villain is a genius sculptor, albeit odd, who has chosen wax rather than stone as it is more real, more fleshlike. Both have focused on creating Art, capital A included via intonation, and both are poor. At open, both have been approached by a Dickensian Rich Man who will make all financial worries end. Both have a commercial partner, but the partner has been pushing the Artist to give the audience what they want: Blood, death and torment.
Because in Horror there is cash.
The Artist refuses, tells of the Rich Man bail out approaching, but it is too little, too late for the partner, and in both films the fire insurance scam is enacted. This leads to violence and mayhem, the fire begun, and both capture what must be said are still, even now, rather disturbing images of melting human faces. From this moment, both occurring in the first 10 minutes of screen time, all else follows. Disfigurement and loss of fine motor skills to the Artist feeds bitterness at the injustice, which feeds an internal "fire" of rage, and that way leads to madness.
Flash forward, then, to 2005, and the film that has been so wrongly discussed as the "Paris Hilton" House Of Wax.
The title is the same as the Price film. There is murder, and public placement of victims as a form of art.
The times, though, have changed, and changed so drastically as to render the earlier films to nothing more than a mere nod.
This is the post Viet Nam audience, butt more than that, an audience that has little frame of reference to that conflict other than the notion of madmen walk among us. This is the post 9/11 era, and from that comes the notion of a world that resembles nothing so much as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, a world that allows for no rhythm to destruction, no sense of Art that would allow for a pattern, any one can die at any moment with no warning whatsoever.
It is also an era that has grown weary of irony, tired of clever for the sake of clever that even the most inspired of clowns would face groans. It is impossible to see Price in this world; he would be groaned off the screen. Instead, we have the visual pun, the crude innuendo and, of course gore. Lots of gore. Implied sex combines with violent, painful death.
The film takes more than one viewing to see its value, and in watching it in context with its two older, somewhat peculiar siblings, the film takes a rather remarkable twist. Rather than one central villain, it has two, formerly conjoined brothers. Is this a comment on the two, earlier films? If yes, I doubt if it was intended to be so, but it does serve the third film well.... think of the bottled hatred and rage that drips off of Atwill, and that defines one of the brothers perfectly. His rage and madness is all-encompassing. He commits acts of brutal ferocity to release that rage.
The other brother is shown as the Artist. His genius is unmistakable, and it is his face that is mangled, but not due to a fire set for insurance fraud, but in the surgical disconnect to the Mad brother, and this sets an entirely different mindset.
It is the Mad brother that controls the entire community, creating it in his twisted image, an entire town that could have come from the mind of Ed Gein, taxidermy and wax statues combine to fill a small town. The Artist brother is, interesting, without speech. His work speaks for him, a fetishistic approach that perfectly combines with the Atwill/Price characters. Atwill/Price were both mad, but they also had a passion for the figures they created, openly speaking with the inanimate objects as if they lived, and did so openly, repeatedly. Here, the Artist appears mentally challenged, and just as importantly, the "weaker" of the two brothers, more inclined to follow the Mad instructions and simply pleased to continue the Work.
What does this say of our era? What can we discern from this?
More important than that, however, is the notion of taking the title and turning it into a reality: instead of a Wax Museum that is called a House of Wax, the entire building is made of wax.
What madness is this? Surely not: a home built entirely of wax would collapse... but then... this is the post 9/11 world, the world of a morality that shifts from one discussion to another. By 2005, the world around the audience is so completely alien to both worlds of 1933 and 1953 as to have almost no basis of comparison at all.
It is also a world in which a person famous for naught but fame can affect our perception of a work in and of itself: the "Paris Hilton" effect, if you will.
So much discussion of the 2005 House is based on her appearance in the film that the film itself becomes a punch line, a joke: Fame is now a virus, a destructive disease that corrupts the perceptive capacity.
Thus, we now turn back to the 1933 and 1953 versions, and compare them to the 2005 version, considering the passage of time and perception of our own era and place.
Carol Clover must now enter into the discussion. Frankly, there is no true critical discussion of the genre without her. It would be less than rude, but disingenuous. Ms. Clover is the one that brought out the understanding of gender in horror film, and identification, and in so doing, coined the most important critical analysis term in regards to the genre: The Last Girl.
Watching the earlier versions, prior to Ms. Clover's Last Girl, the creakiest part of both films becomes apparent primarily because there IS NO Last Girl. There is no central character to identify with other than the villain, and to the 21st century mind that is incompatible with the way we view the genre as a whole.
In the 2005 House, however, as the film struggles to make its point (one... more... rewrite... just one, that was all that was needed), which is that at the core is: The Last Girl and The Bad Boy.
The mirroring used here is the two brothers, the Mad Killer and The Weak Artist on the one side and The Last Girl with The Bad Boy on the other.
Normally, any current horror film that would have at its core a both female and male characters would have to generate some kind of romantic/sexual tension, but here, siblings, also twins. The Bad Boy has a hidden heart of gold (should have shown some of that earlier in the film, would have made him stronger), but his devotion to his sibling is based on a caste and pure love.... just tempered by the fin de siecle pomo dysfunctional family. Comedy replaced by pathos.
It is significant, then, in looking at this film and pay attention to the idea that the dysfunction but murderous brothers reside in a house built of wax, a house that is not a home, and is not purified by fire, but instead is distorted into a melting stream.
The major weakness come at the end of the film, and that too is indicative of the 21st Century horror genre. With a wave of a hand, the ending becomes nothing more than a grab for "Hey, if this makes enough money, we can grind out a sequel!"
Sadly, although so much of the culture of the 70's is rejected, and rightly so, it was in the media of film that such great strides were made, endings in films did not have to be a closing of a book but allowed for the notion of "there are no third acts in America," a feeling that there is something more, however elusive.
That allowed the film makers to create a work that stood alone, said its piece but opened the door for discussion, for contemplation of the work just presented.
It was the horror genre, more than any other, that crushed that invitation to the audience to do more than passively be entertained, but to actually participate in the critical discussion. It is here that again we must acknowledge Ms. Clover, and we as fans must restart that fire, that driving need to look deeper into a film and no longer be content with merely sitting in the dark watching others die.
When the remake House Of Wax was released to disc, I was a little in doubt as I normally am with anything that has "Paris Hilton" on it anywhere, porn included. However, on the massive plus side was a re-release of the Price version, and much to my shock and joy was finding it was a dual sided disc, with, almost a footnote, the flip side being the Lionel Atwell/Fay Wray Mystery Of The Wax Museum.
What the hell, right? So, off I went, starting with the middle piece, a dreamscape with which I am most familiar.
Watching it now, it is a little worse for the wear, Carolyn Jones' character giving a giggle that sounds as if it were stolen from The Music Man (missing only "Ye gods!"), and she along with Price are really the only two worthy of being on screen as often as they are. Not to slight the rest, but for the most part the remainder of the cast is phoning in a quick check, very common for the B list.
Two things immediately leap off the screen, however. The first is that the film was attempting to cash in on the Can't See This On Your TV empty headed crap Hollywood was grinding out in the then latest innovation Jump Off The Screen O Rama! aka 3-D. Like the current embarrassments, there is one scene in particular that makes the eyes roll and the hand to lurch towards the eject button. A hawker is sent out to drum up business, and in doing so is using a paddle and ball bouncing the ball into the camera, going so far as to cry out "oh, there is a man with some popcorn! Don't move, sir!"
Egad.
However, on the much more interesting side is that being shot in 3-D lead to a more close inspection of creating the illusion of depth via camera angle and focus, which when viewed in 2-D gives the film a certain beauty. Deep focus, when used correctly, does not need 3-D, film itself is an illusion and this is rather magical... or magickal, if you prefer.
The real reason to sit through this again is, of course, Price. His performance here may well be the one capping moment of his career, other and greater to come, some outstanding prior, but it is here that one sees the Iconic Price take center stage. His man is bitter to literal insanity, but there is a wild black humor dished with every syllable and facial motion. He is hysterically funny, the Clown Prince Of Horror that his fans know and adore, but here it is "funny." The lines are comedic and played to full comic effect, but his delivery makes for a nervous laughter: this character is fully insane, tormented at his deepest portion of his id.
More important, if that can be possible, is that Price often thought of himself as something other than an Actor, thinking himself more workmanlike. This was neither false nor mere humility, and the man turned down many "legit" stage options, not thinking himself capable, which fortunately lead to his accepting Dr. Phibes Part 3 (or as it is known, Theater Of Blood) and the entire supporting cast rushing over from The Royal Shakespeare Company just to have the chance to perform The Bard with Price... if you have never seen it, love Price or really enjoy well done Shakespeare, you owe it to yourself.
Price here is shown as a remarkably physical actor. Here, he uses his body in a manner that is more in keeping with Brando, Dean or Clift. Not a series of twitchy movements or mumbling, though: body motions of surgical precision. Watching him without his mask, he is contorted, one foot twisted, and I did go back and check. He never missed a cue. Total character immersion. Flawless.
The issue was the dialog. This is where the film nearly jumps the shark. My eldest son, 28, was watching it with me, and the groans lead to his excusing himself. A workmanlike performance is no loss, but the actors have to have something to use, and Price alone makes every syllable count.
Flipping it over, and watching Mystery Of The Wax Museum lead to a series of shocks.
Filmed 20 years prior to the first House, color was a new thing, and sound was still in and of itself rather new to the scene. Needing the Criterion Clean Up (as we call it here at our house), the weird washed out color actually adds to the overall effect of the film. It looks like a bad, bad dream.
The story is the same, but it is presented in such a manner as to be far different, and it is here that my personal film theory is underscored... that the times and era are captured, warped and reflected back onto the audience, zeitgeist as auteur.
This film, released in 1933, would have come out during the Depression, and after WWI. The sense that the world was a violent, disturbing place and one of debatable future was a precursor to the aftermath of WWII and the existentialist movement. Atwill's performance is based almost word-for-word the same as Price's, but the differences are shocking when seen back-to-back.
Atwill is also a bitter man driven to madness from his loss and disfigurement, but his rage is not hidden beneath a thin veneer of black humor, but instead is barely controlled rage, lashing out at everyone and everything that does not attach itself to the obsessive pursuit of his art.
Price is more of a serial killer, or signature killer may be more appropriate, putting his "art" on display, and in doing so mocks the world around him. In comparison, then, the "lesser" performances suddenly take on a different weight. Price's film, released in 1953, seems more a slam on the times, Price as hep cat beat artist, similar to Dick Miller in A Bucket Of Blood than anything else, and really, in essence, that is both the Phibes/Lionheart characters in a nutshell (forgive the wanton pun...).
Atwill is mad in a 1933 sense, mad meaning both insane and enraged.
In Mystery, too, the remaining performances take on a wholly different meaning and depth. The dialog is machine gun fast, crackling like a screwball comedy, razor sharp delivery. That heightened sense of verbal daring is the source of comedy then, and it is important because the humor and its source shifts from the Greek Chorus of the supporting players and onto the star. Thirty years made the difference.
The Zeitgeist as auteur has been in the back of my mind for a couple of decades, but watching these three films so close to one another really carved it in stone. Films are produced as art, of course, but in some cases art comes from merely the correct grasp of the mindset of the audience. The film is made in the hope of gathering enough of an audience to recover the cost of its production, and those films that act as our collective id, horror, reflect back to us more of where we were and are than other genres. It is there in our darkest recesses that we see the most clearly defined shadows.
Mystery was released 1933. Price's House was released in 1953. Consider the social changes, the era, and how much things had changed in that 20 year period. The essence of the actual story remains for the most part unchanged: the focal villain is a genius sculptor, albeit odd, who has chosen wax rather than stone as it is more real, more fleshlike. Both have focused on creating Art, capital A included via intonation, and both are poor. At open, both have been approached by a Dickensian Rich Man who will make all financial worries end. Both have a commercial partner, but the partner has been pushing the Artist to give the audience what they want: Blood, death and torment.
Because in Horror there is cash.
The Artist refuses, tells of the Rich Man bail out approaching, but it is too little, too late for the partner, and in both films the fire insurance scam is enacted. This leads to violence and mayhem, the fire begun, and both capture what must be said are still, even now, rather disturbing images of melting human faces. From this moment, both occurring in the first 10 minutes of screen time, all else follows. Disfigurement and loss of fine motor skills to the Artist feeds bitterness at the injustice, which feeds an internal "fire" of rage, and that way leads to madness.
Flash forward, then, to 2005, and the film that has been so wrongly discussed as the "Paris Hilton" House Of Wax.
The title is the same as the Price film. There is murder, and public placement of victims as a form of art.
The times, though, have changed, and changed so drastically as to render the earlier films to nothing more than a mere nod.
This is the post Viet Nam audience, butt more than that, an audience that has little frame of reference to that conflict other than the notion of madmen walk among us. This is the post 9/11 era, and from that comes the notion of a world that resembles nothing so much as The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, a world that allows for no rhythm to destruction, no sense of Art that would allow for a pattern, any one can die at any moment with no warning whatsoever.
It is also an era that has grown weary of irony, tired of clever for the sake of clever that even the most inspired of clowns would face groans. It is impossible to see Price in this world; he would be groaned off the screen. Instead, we have the visual pun, the crude innuendo and, of course gore. Lots of gore. Implied sex combines with violent, painful death.
The film takes more than one viewing to see its value, and in watching it in context with its two older, somewhat peculiar siblings, the film takes a rather remarkable twist. Rather than one central villain, it has two, formerly conjoined brothers. Is this a comment on the two, earlier films? If yes, I doubt if it was intended to be so, but it does serve the third film well.... think of the bottled hatred and rage that drips off of Atwill, and that defines one of the brothers perfectly. His rage and madness is all-encompassing. He commits acts of brutal ferocity to release that rage.
The other brother is shown as the Artist. His genius is unmistakable, and it is his face that is mangled, but not due to a fire set for insurance fraud, but in the surgical disconnect to the Mad brother, and this sets an entirely different mindset.
It is the Mad brother that controls the entire community, creating it in his twisted image, an entire town that could have come from the mind of Ed Gein, taxidermy and wax statues combine to fill a small town. The Artist brother is, interesting, without speech. His work speaks for him, a fetishistic approach that perfectly combines with the Atwill/Price characters. Atwill/Price were both mad, but they also had a passion for the figures they created, openly speaking with the inanimate objects as if they lived, and did so openly, repeatedly. Here, the Artist appears mentally challenged, and just as importantly, the "weaker" of the two brothers, more inclined to follow the Mad instructions and simply pleased to continue the Work.
What does this say of our era? What can we discern from this?
More important than that, however, is the notion of taking the title and turning it into a reality: instead of a Wax Museum that is called a House of Wax, the entire building is made of wax.
What madness is this? Surely not: a home built entirely of wax would collapse... but then... this is the post 9/11 world, the world of a morality that shifts from one discussion to another. By 2005, the world around the audience is so completely alien to both worlds of 1933 and 1953 as to have almost no basis of comparison at all.
It is also a world in which a person famous for naught but fame can affect our perception of a work in and of itself: the "Paris Hilton" effect, if you will.
So much discussion of the 2005 House is based on her appearance in the film that the film itself becomes a punch line, a joke: Fame is now a virus, a destructive disease that corrupts the perceptive capacity.
Thus, we now turn back to the 1933 and 1953 versions, and compare them to the 2005 version, considering the passage of time and perception of our own era and place.
Carol Clover must now enter into the discussion. Frankly, there is no true critical discussion of the genre without her. It would be less than rude, but disingenuous. Ms. Clover is the one that brought out the understanding of gender in horror film, and identification, and in so doing, coined the most important critical analysis term in regards to the genre: The Last Girl.
Watching the earlier versions, prior to Ms. Clover's Last Girl, the creakiest part of both films becomes apparent primarily because there IS NO Last Girl. There is no central character to identify with other than the villain, and to the 21st century mind that is incompatible with the way we view the genre as a whole.
In the 2005 House, however, as the film struggles to make its point (one... more... rewrite... just one, that was all that was needed), which is that at the core is: The Last Girl and The Bad Boy.
The mirroring used here is the two brothers, the Mad Killer and The Weak Artist on the one side and The Last Girl with The Bad Boy on the other.
Normally, any current horror film that would have at its core a both female and male characters would have to generate some kind of romantic/sexual tension, but here, siblings, also twins. The Bad Boy has a hidden heart of gold (should have shown some of that earlier in the film, would have made him stronger), but his devotion to his sibling is based on a caste and pure love.... just tempered by the fin de siecle pomo dysfunctional family. Comedy replaced by pathos.
It is significant, then, in looking at this film and pay attention to the idea that the dysfunction but murderous brothers reside in a house built of wax, a house that is not a home, and is not purified by fire, but instead is distorted into a melting stream.
The major weakness come at the end of the film, and that too is indicative of the 21st Century horror genre. With a wave of a hand, the ending becomes nothing more than a grab for "Hey, if this makes enough money, we can grind out a sequel!"
Sadly, although so much of the culture of the 70's is rejected, and rightly so, it was in the media of film that such great strides were made, endings in films did not have to be a closing of a book but allowed for the notion of "there are no third acts in America," a feeling that there is something more, however elusive.
That allowed the film makers to create a work that stood alone, said its piece but opened the door for discussion, for contemplation of the work just presented.
It was the horror genre, more than any other, that crushed that invitation to the audience to do more than passively be entertained, but to actually participate in the critical discussion. It is here that again we must acknowledge Ms. Clover, and we as fans must restart that fire, that driving need to look deeper into a film and no longer be content with merely sitting in the dark watching others die.
Friday, September 30, 2011
The Final Destination series
Currently the series appears to be over and this is in the face of the 4th film in the series, which was wrongly titled The Final Destination, suggesting it was going to be the series finale. The main problem I have is that, with the release of Final Destination 5, that was a fools' errand at best.
This series has been maligned and misunderstood by just about everyone, and while not maligned usually misunderstood by its fans, of which I am one.
Each film runs the exact same pattern: a collection of characters are shown, mostly young, gathering together such that all parties involved will be in one place at one time. Something goes disastrously wrong, everyone dies a horrific death and then Zip! Into the eyeball of the character whose path we will then follow to the end we fall, and that person comes to the sharp, sudden understanding that they have just had a premonition, panics, and in their panic saves the lives of the rest of the cast members. Throughout the film to the end, each of these characters will die in a manner that has not been seen outside of a Rube Goldberg cartoon: extravagant circumstances lead to a sudden (and often literally) splashy demise. At the end, we are given usually one last Big Splashy Death, and the credits roll.
Those who do not comprehend the genre of horror at all, or possess the slightest understanding with no respect for the genre, are befuddled about this series. It has been called The Dead Teenager Movie, a bit of flick that exists for nothing other than the depiction of gruesome human demolition.
One non-word explains it all: Duh. If I must elaborate, then: Ya think?
Dumbass....
All horror films do this. All. Barring none. Some are captives to the era in which they were created, those times in which the open depiction of body parts and blood had to be kept to a minimum, or in the dark, all agonies in shadow.
Consider then the film Theater Of Blood, starring Vincent Price and featuring a goodly portion of the Royal Shakespeare company. The entire film is based on the works of Shakespeare and death upon gruesome death stacks up along with a rather impressive body count. Both Price films in which he played Dr. Phibes do the same.
What makes the Final Destination films worthy of attention is this: the essence of tragedy is placed throughout each of the (currently) five films. By using the term "tragedy" I think the actual nature of the original term as used by the ancient Greeks must needs be re-examined and removed from its current incorrect usage and for that we need return to Aristotle, The Poetics and the myth of Oedipus.
When Aristotle wrote that the play Oedipus Rex was the greatest tragic play written, what was used as a yardstick for that assessment were the six basic elements in all true tragedy. The first element, and it is first because it is the most important, is plot. This term, "plot," is the basic format, the tale told, the story. In the L. J. Potts translation, published by Cambridge University Press, the term "plot" is replaced with "fable."
Now plot and fable mean two separate things, and in reading Potts' footnote, the original Greek term was mythos. This is of interest here, as the term "mythos" (from which the term myth is derived) has begun to mean That Which Is Not True, a silly little thing with which to entertain children. This level of disrespect is the actual cause of this article.
The myth of Oedipus is currently misunderstood, and once that is clarified, the Final Destination series becomes much, much more interesting.
Oedipus has been reduced, by Freud, as the story of the man who loved his mother and killed his father. While that is indeed the truth, and is the focus of Oedipus Rex, there are layers of importance that the ancient Greek society would have understood that lends a deeper and more powerful impact to the play.
Oedipus was born to the king of Thebes, and as tradition held at the time, the newborn was taken to the Oracle to have the future of the child be foretold. There, the Oracle advised that the Fates had decreed the following: that the boy would grow to kill his father and marry his own mother.
The issue is not the action, but the source: the Fates. In Greek mythology, the Gods themselves bowed to the Fates. Once the Fates had unveiled (however cryptic it may be) what destiny awaited, it was so. There was no argument, no debate.
What makes Oedipus Rex a tragedy of the highest value is that from prior to the opening curtain of the play, the audience knew the story. Aristophanes just did a "cut to the chase," opening the story as close to the action as possible.
The parts of the myth NOT in the play though, continue after the king hears of the destiny of his child, and performs an action that pushes the rest of the play deeper into tragedy with every line and event. The king decides to defy Fate: he has both of the child's Achilles tendons cut, writes out the warning of the Oracle, puts the scroll and the child into a box and throws the babe into the ocean. From there, the box washes ashore, and a childless couple finds the baby, reads the scroll and decides to raise the child as their own. When the boy becomes a man, the adoptive parents decide he needs to know his Fate, and tell him that he can stay with them. Before they can do so, Oedipus finds the scroll, reads it, and decides to flee, so that he can avoid his Fate, not knowing that the man he thought of as his father was not. In his travels, he comes to a crossroad, there meeting a wealthy man who decides to demand the right of way, there is a struggle, and Oedipus kills the wealthy man. Going onwards towards Thebes, Oedipus finds the Sphinx has taken control of Thebes due to the death of their king and presents a riddle, which Oedipus solves. He is shortly thereafter made king of Thebes and marries the widow of the king, the beautiful Jocasta.
It is here that the play begins. A plague has spread throughout Thebes, a curse brought from the gods as a man has slain his father and married/lay with his own mother.
Everything that happened prior to the beginning of the play would have been as familiar to the ancient Greeks as the story of Christ prior to His crucifixion to current Christians.
The tragedy is not the murder of the father and marrying the mother: the tragedy comes from the hubris of man in attempting to thwart the decree of the Fates.
And that takes us back to Final Destination.
Fate decrees that a plane will explode, that there will be an horrific multi-vehicle accident, that a roller coaster will come off its tracks, that a series of collisions at a raceway will enter the stands and that a bridge will collapse. People will die: so the Fates have decreed. One person will have a premonition of each event and will attempt to thwart Fate. They will fail, over and again.
Each of the five films in the series does this, and does it fairly well with a certain consistency. The sneering comment that these films are "Dead Teenager Films" is not only wrong, but dismissive. Granted, they are not high Art, but the films approach an understanding of Fate that has been long absent from film.
The major failing in the series is not the gore but rather the notion of using the tragic element of Fate for nothing more than mere suspense.
The major success in the series is that the suspense works.
This series has been maligned and misunderstood by just about everyone, and while not maligned usually misunderstood by its fans, of which I am one.
Each film runs the exact same pattern: a collection of characters are shown, mostly young, gathering together such that all parties involved will be in one place at one time. Something goes disastrously wrong, everyone dies a horrific death and then Zip! Into the eyeball of the character whose path we will then follow to the end we fall, and that person comes to the sharp, sudden understanding that they have just had a premonition, panics, and in their panic saves the lives of the rest of the cast members. Throughout the film to the end, each of these characters will die in a manner that has not been seen outside of a Rube Goldberg cartoon: extravagant circumstances lead to a sudden (and often literally) splashy demise. At the end, we are given usually one last Big Splashy Death, and the credits roll.
Those who do not comprehend the genre of horror at all, or possess the slightest understanding with no respect for the genre, are befuddled about this series. It has been called The Dead Teenager Movie, a bit of flick that exists for nothing other than the depiction of gruesome human demolition.
One non-word explains it all: Duh. If I must elaborate, then: Ya think?
Dumbass....
All horror films do this. All. Barring none. Some are captives to the era in which they were created, those times in which the open depiction of body parts and blood had to be kept to a minimum, or in the dark, all agonies in shadow.
Consider then the film Theater Of Blood, starring Vincent Price and featuring a goodly portion of the Royal Shakespeare company. The entire film is based on the works of Shakespeare and death upon gruesome death stacks up along with a rather impressive body count. Both Price films in which he played Dr. Phibes do the same.
What makes the Final Destination films worthy of attention is this: the essence of tragedy is placed throughout each of the (currently) five films. By using the term "tragedy" I think the actual nature of the original term as used by the ancient Greeks must needs be re-examined and removed from its current incorrect usage and for that we need return to Aristotle, The Poetics and the myth of Oedipus.
When Aristotle wrote that the play Oedipus Rex was the greatest tragic play written, what was used as a yardstick for that assessment were the six basic elements in all true tragedy. The first element, and it is first because it is the most important, is plot. This term, "plot," is the basic format, the tale told, the story. In the L. J. Potts translation, published by Cambridge University Press, the term "plot" is replaced with "fable."
Now plot and fable mean two separate things, and in reading Potts' footnote, the original Greek term was mythos. This is of interest here, as the term "mythos" (from which the term myth is derived) has begun to mean That Which Is Not True, a silly little thing with which to entertain children. This level of disrespect is the actual cause of this article.
The myth of Oedipus is currently misunderstood, and once that is clarified, the Final Destination series becomes much, much more interesting.
Oedipus has been reduced, by Freud, as the story of the man who loved his mother and killed his father. While that is indeed the truth, and is the focus of Oedipus Rex, there are layers of importance that the ancient Greek society would have understood that lends a deeper and more powerful impact to the play.
Oedipus was born to the king of Thebes, and as tradition held at the time, the newborn was taken to the Oracle to have the future of the child be foretold. There, the Oracle advised that the Fates had decreed the following: that the boy would grow to kill his father and marry his own mother.
The issue is not the action, but the source: the Fates. In Greek mythology, the Gods themselves bowed to the Fates. Once the Fates had unveiled (however cryptic it may be) what destiny awaited, it was so. There was no argument, no debate.
What makes Oedipus Rex a tragedy of the highest value is that from prior to the opening curtain of the play, the audience knew the story. Aristophanes just did a "cut to the chase," opening the story as close to the action as possible.
The parts of the myth NOT in the play though, continue after the king hears of the destiny of his child, and performs an action that pushes the rest of the play deeper into tragedy with every line and event. The king decides to defy Fate: he has both of the child's Achilles tendons cut, writes out the warning of the Oracle, puts the scroll and the child into a box and throws the babe into the ocean. From there, the box washes ashore, and a childless couple finds the baby, reads the scroll and decides to raise the child as their own. When the boy becomes a man, the adoptive parents decide he needs to know his Fate, and tell him that he can stay with them. Before they can do so, Oedipus finds the scroll, reads it, and decides to flee, so that he can avoid his Fate, not knowing that the man he thought of as his father was not. In his travels, he comes to a crossroad, there meeting a wealthy man who decides to demand the right of way, there is a struggle, and Oedipus kills the wealthy man. Going onwards towards Thebes, Oedipus finds the Sphinx has taken control of Thebes due to the death of their king and presents a riddle, which Oedipus solves. He is shortly thereafter made king of Thebes and marries the widow of the king, the beautiful Jocasta.
It is here that the play begins. A plague has spread throughout Thebes, a curse brought from the gods as a man has slain his father and married/lay with his own mother.
Everything that happened prior to the beginning of the play would have been as familiar to the ancient Greeks as the story of Christ prior to His crucifixion to current Christians.
The tragedy is not the murder of the father and marrying the mother: the tragedy comes from the hubris of man in attempting to thwart the decree of the Fates.
And that takes us back to Final Destination.
Fate decrees that a plane will explode, that there will be an horrific multi-vehicle accident, that a roller coaster will come off its tracks, that a series of collisions at a raceway will enter the stands and that a bridge will collapse. People will die: so the Fates have decreed. One person will have a premonition of each event and will attempt to thwart Fate. They will fail, over and again.
Each of the five films in the series does this, and does it fairly well with a certain consistency. The sneering comment that these films are "Dead Teenager Films" is not only wrong, but dismissive. Granted, they are not high Art, but the films approach an understanding of Fate that has been long absent from film.
The major failing in the series is not the gore but rather the notion of using the tragic element of Fate for nothing more than mere suspense.
The major success in the series is that the suspense works.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Film Review - United 93 (2006)
Written and directed by Paul Greengrass.
Like many others, when this film was first released, I stayed away. Too soon, too soon.
Now, having taken the time to sit through the film, it may still be too soon.
Watching this movie, based loosely on the events within the fourth flight on 9/11 where the passengers attempted to stop the terrorists, all I could do was choke back the uncontrolled rage and horror. That day, for me as so many others, is a permanent imprint on my spirit and soul. Yes, like so many other events, we remember where we were and what we were doing when we first heard about it.
What I wasn't prepared for was that the film made me feel exactly as I did that day: confused, angry, frightened, sad...
And that, in and of itself, makes the film worth watching. So rare is it to be moved emotionally by a film, so remarkable, that I feel that on this 10th anniversary of those events, that the film should be re-examined.
There is no "plot" or "story," just a restaging of the events. The people on board United 93 are merely moving from one place to the next, and they start to slowly become aware of the two planes that struck the two towers, and the one that hit the Pentagon. As their understanding grows, they begin to react, not only to one another but to the situation and the terrorists that are bringing on their collective destruction.
The terrorists are not shown as hideous monsters or as stereotypes, more like (dare I say it? I dare) human beings wrapped up tightly in their own furor, and the phrase "We're on a mission from God" has never seemed so sad or so sickening. (Fortunately, no one actually speaks that particular line, but it did start to echo inside my head while watching the film.)
There is no spoiler here: the plane went down, ending the lives of everyone aboard it. Everyone dies, it is that simple. What is so disturbing about a film like this is that it is not Titanic, there is no love story, there is no sense of sweeping grandeur, just common folk caught up in a situation that no one could truly imagine themselves being thrust.
While the film is gripping, and tense, it is the last five or ten minutes that cap this dark ride into our recent past. Watching as human beings become more and more desperate, more and more angry and finally throwing themselves into harm's way is a deeply moving and disturbing experience.
Like many others, when this film was first released, I stayed away. Too soon, too soon.
Now, having taken the time to sit through the film, it may still be too soon.
Watching this movie, based loosely on the events within the fourth flight on 9/11 where the passengers attempted to stop the terrorists, all I could do was choke back the uncontrolled rage and horror. That day, for me as so many others, is a permanent imprint on my spirit and soul. Yes, like so many other events, we remember where we were and what we were doing when we first heard about it.
What I wasn't prepared for was that the film made me feel exactly as I did that day: confused, angry, frightened, sad...
And that, in and of itself, makes the film worth watching. So rare is it to be moved emotionally by a film, so remarkable, that I feel that on this 10th anniversary of those events, that the film should be re-examined.
There is no "plot" or "story," just a restaging of the events. The people on board United 93 are merely moving from one place to the next, and they start to slowly become aware of the two planes that struck the two towers, and the one that hit the Pentagon. As their understanding grows, they begin to react, not only to one another but to the situation and the terrorists that are bringing on their collective destruction.
The terrorists are not shown as hideous monsters or as stereotypes, more like (dare I say it? I dare) human beings wrapped up tightly in their own furor, and the phrase "We're on a mission from God" has never seemed so sad or so sickening. (Fortunately, no one actually speaks that particular line, but it did start to echo inside my head while watching the film.)
There is no spoiler here: the plane went down, ending the lives of everyone aboard it. Everyone dies, it is that simple. What is so disturbing about a film like this is that it is not Titanic, there is no love story, there is no sense of sweeping grandeur, just common folk caught up in a situation that no one could truly imagine themselves being thrust.
While the film is gripping, and tense, it is the last five or ten minutes that cap this dark ride into our recent past. Watching as human beings become more and more desperate, more and more angry and finally throwing themselves into harm's way is a deeply moving and disturbing experience.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Film review - Malcolm X (1992)
Based on the book The Autobiography Of Malcolm X, as told to Alex Haley, screenplay by Arnold Perl and Spike Lee, who also directed and played Shorty. Denzel Washington as the lead role, featuring Angela Bassett, Delroy Lindo (as of this writing one of the best reasons to watch The Chicago Code) and Al Freeman, Jr.
An epic film based on the life of a real person is always cause for both excitement and alarm. Short of a complete, second-by-second film of a person's existence any book or film is going to be edited, whittling out the parts that Sir Alfred Hitchcock called "the dull bits." We cannot as an audience actually bear witness to every moment; it is impossible. It is just as impossible for a writer or filmmaker to bear witness, even if the tale they are telling is their own. Memory, as Stephen King wrote, is such a subjective thing.
Epic films, for me, always have at their center one figure. (Usually it is a man; how I wish someone would give an epic treatment to the life of Mahalia Jackson.) As the film weaves its tale, the central figure usually has to fight their own demons until they see that they themselves are not as others and simultaneously the times around them are in a similar upheaval. The central figure of an epic, then, is a showing of the zeitgeist; their tale is the story of us all, writ large, showing on the expansive canvas of history as it unfurls.
Think of Lawrence Of Arabia; Gandhi; Patton; even The Ten Commandments. Here, we see men, men like no other but not seeing that they are different until events surpass them. (Granted, the real Patton had a rather clear view of himself in history, but he is an exception rather than the rule.) As the events of their world overtake them, they rise up and refuse to bend, standing taller than the rest but showing a reflection of that which we all know and feel.
The story of Malcolm Little, who later became Detroit Red, and then Malcolm X and finally El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, is the story of the United States writ on the flesh of one man, whose soul and blood make clear so much of what has been missed.
His own story is the story of a man's journey, from angry heartbroken child to thug pimp hustler to an awakened soul to, finally, a soul of legendary proportions. In the book's introduction, Haley remarks how, upon meeting (the then) Malcolm X, that the man was closed, refusing to open himself up until Haley asked X about his mother. That caused a moment, a breakthrough and the tale began to flow.
This film is massive, like any other epic. It catches the ebb and flow of the times and the tsunami of a man's understanding of his own soul and his proper place in history.
To be completely honest, I was raised during the time of his ascendancy and the man was not a man but a monster, hate filled and rage possessed.... or at least I was told. When the film came around, my family was in one of our periodic moments of low funds, so I had to wait until it came out on video.
I was most interested in the film mostly due to the director. Spike Lee has made some truly astonishing films. Also, I have been a fan of Denzel Washington from his days on St. Elsewhere, and the two men working together sparked a real desire. I'd already seen She's Gotta Have It (which was hysterical) and Do The Right Thing (genius but misunderstood). DtRT was an angry film, a different form of hysterical, and I could see how people thought it was about hate when it was, instead, about anger. Hot days, hot nights, hot tempers: how could the film NOT end any other way?
I approached School Daze with some trepidation, then, fearing more rage, and instead was shocked back to my core. The film did not come out and say to me, Hey, White Boy, you don't get it half what you think you do, but it could have, and maybe should have. The last line, spoken by another acting giant Mr. Laurence Fishburne "Please. Wake up." was a kick in the balls.
From that moment, I was totally all about Spike, as I had in the past with his closest peers, Ingmar Bergman, Frederico Fellini, Sir Alfred Hitchcock, Akira Kurosawa.... brilliant.
Finding the first pairing of Washington and Lee Mo' Better Blues, I was stunned. Not that the film was so good (I expect no less from Lee), not that the acting was first rate (no less from Washington) but that it was so damned neglected... the fucking thing ends with a brilliant montage that is, at heart, a music video for John Coltrane! What's not to love and adore here?
Thus, seeing them team again, to approach one of the biggest figures of my childhood... I could hardly contain myself.
There was absolutely nothing to prepare me for this film. I am glad of that. The first thing I want/need to say is that the film was so powerful, so perfect in its rendition, that after I rewound the tape I dug my copy of the book. Had I not had to be at work, I would have read it cover to cover in one sitting. I was stunned: the first thing that went through my mind was the old Firesign Theater album: Everything You Know Is Wrong.
I was also stunned into a silent rage that this film, so sweeping, so grand, so epic in every conceivable manner was utterly neglected by the Oscars. Nothing, not a nomination or recognition.
The supporting cast is brilliant. Watching Delroy Lindo's character go from street power to hopeless waste of a man is heartbreaking. Angela Bassett, so beautiful as to bring the film to a halt is so flawless in her portrayal that one cannot fathom why she isn't in more films. Al Freeman, Jr., a familiar face in so many films, carries a quiet sense of personal dignity that is majestic.
It is Washington, though, that carries the burden of bringing this misunderstood man to the screen and to life. He performance of the man mirrors Lindo's at some points, and Freeman's and is a perfect foil with Bassett. The man's life is shown as a series of movements in the symphony of American History, powerful, strong and (as Arthur Miller wrote) needful of attention. We dare not ignore this man.
An epic film based on the life of a real person is always cause for both excitement and alarm. Short of a complete, second-by-second film of a person's existence any book or film is going to be edited, whittling out the parts that Sir Alfred Hitchcock called "the dull bits." We cannot as an audience actually bear witness to every moment; it is impossible. It is just as impossible for a writer or filmmaker to bear witness, even if the tale they are telling is their own. Memory, as Stephen King wrote, is such a subjective thing.
Epic films, for me, always have at their center one figure. (Usually it is a man; how I wish someone would give an epic treatment to the life of Mahalia Jackson.) As the film weaves its tale, the central figure usually has to fight their own demons until they see that they themselves are not as others and simultaneously the times around them are in a similar upheaval. The central figure of an epic, then, is a showing of the zeitgeist; their tale is the story of us all, writ large, showing on the expansive canvas of history as it unfurls.
Think of Lawrence Of Arabia; Gandhi; Patton; even The Ten Commandments. Here, we see men, men like no other but not seeing that they are different until events surpass them. (Granted, the real Patton had a rather clear view of himself in history, but he is an exception rather than the rule.) As the events of their world overtake them, they rise up and refuse to bend, standing taller than the rest but showing a reflection of that which we all know and feel.
The story of Malcolm Little, who later became Detroit Red, and then Malcolm X and finally El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, is the story of the United States writ on the flesh of one man, whose soul and blood make clear so much of what has been missed.
His own story is the story of a man's journey, from angry heartbroken child to thug pimp hustler to an awakened soul to, finally, a soul of legendary proportions. In the book's introduction, Haley remarks how, upon meeting (the then) Malcolm X, that the man was closed, refusing to open himself up until Haley asked X about his mother. That caused a moment, a breakthrough and the tale began to flow.
This film is massive, like any other epic. It catches the ebb and flow of the times and the tsunami of a man's understanding of his own soul and his proper place in history.
To be completely honest, I was raised during the time of his ascendancy and the man was not a man but a monster, hate filled and rage possessed.... or at least I was told. When the film came around, my family was in one of our periodic moments of low funds, so I had to wait until it came out on video.
I was most interested in the film mostly due to the director. Spike Lee has made some truly astonishing films. Also, I have been a fan of Denzel Washington from his days on St. Elsewhere, and the two men working together sparked a real desire. I'd already seen She's Gotta Have It (which was hysterical) and Do The Right Thing (genius but misunderstood). DtRT was an angry film, a different form of hysterical, and I could see how people thought it was about hate when it was, instead, about anger. Hot days, hot nights, hot tempers: how could the film NOT end any other way?
I approached School Daze with some trepidation, then, fearing more rage, and instead was shocked back to my core. The film did not come out and say to me, Hey, White Boy, you don't get it half what you think you do, but it could have, and maybe should have. The last line, spoken by another acting giant Mr. Laurence Fishburne "Please. Wake up." was a kick in the balls.
From that moment, I was totally all about Spike, as I had in the past with his closest peers, Ingmar Bergman, Frederico Fellini, Sir Alfred Hitchcock, Akira Kurosawa.... brilliant.
Finding the first pairing of Washington and Lee Mo' Better Blues, I was stunned. Not that the film was so good (I expect no less from Lee), not that the acting was first rate (no less from Washington) but that it was so damned neglected... the fucking thing ends with a brilliant montage that is, at heart, a music video for John Coltrane! What's not to love and adore here?
Thus, seeing them team again, to approach one of the biggest figures of my childhood... I could hardly contain myself.
There was absolutely nothing to prepare me for this film. I am glad of that. The first thing I want/need to say is that the film was so powerful, so perfect in its rendition, that after I rewound the tape I dug my copy of the book. Had I not had to be at work, I would have read it cover to cover in one sitting. I was stunned: the first thing that went through my mind was the old Firesign Theater album: Everything You Know Is Wrong.
I was also stunned into a silent rage that this film, so sweeping, so grand, so epic in every conceivable manner was utterly neglected by the Oscars. Nothing, not a nomination or recognition.
The supporting cast is brilliant. Watching Delroy Lindo's character go from street power to hopeless waste of a man is heartbreaking. Angela Bassett, so beautiful as to bring the film to a halt is so flawless in her portrayal that one cannot fathom why she isn't in more films. Al Freeman, Jr., a familiar face in so many films, carries a quiet sense of personal dignity that is majestic.
It is Washington, though, that carries the burden of bringing this misunderstood man to the screen and to life. He performance of the man mirrors Lindo's at some points, and Freeman's and is a perfect foil with Bassett. The man's life is shown as a series of movements in the symphony of American History, powerful, strong and (as Arthur Miller wrote) needful of attention. We dare not ignore this man.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Gestalt: Zeitgeist as Auteur
The Auteur theory of filmmaking was based on a series of articles in the Cahiers du Cinema (Movie Notebooks). Within the pages of that magazine were critical analysis' of certain trends found in cinema, notably within the cinema of the United States. (It was also here that the genre known as film noir was coined.)
The Auteur theory was: the director of the film is its author, more so than the screenwriter. It was the unique vision of a given director that marked their films. Both Howard Hawks and Sir Alfred Hitchcock were used as examples, and for the most part this theory has remained, along with genre criticism, as the foundation of film theory.
For the most part, there is a good, solid foundation for this. The filmography of certain directors show a tendency to various patterns: Woody Allen, Martin Scorsese, Akira Kurosawa, Ingmar Bergman, and others, all created films (and some continue) that had a unique stamp, not only visually but in all manner of the presentation. The dialog, the music, the editing and, of course, the camera work and editing.
What caused me to post this was the work of various directors whose work is largely uneven, sometimes brilliant, sometimes merely pedestrian and sometimes... the only term that is appropriate would be Epic Fail. Joel Schumacher immediately comes to mind. His brilliant 8MM and flawless Falling Down are superb, A Time To Kill is good, solid filmmaking but hardly a work of lasting art as is his rendition of the Weber version of The Phantom Of The Opera, and his two entries into the Batman series are, at best, regrettable.
It was, however, in looking at his career that I started to wonder. Why? Why so uneven?
I began to notice how certain directors were also stuttering along, one moment grand opera and the next barely a cut above porn.
Here, then, is a little background.
In what was once called The Studio System, the studio (usually in the form of the producer) would assign certain films to certain directors. This was due to a track record of success; Hitchcock made thrillers and mysteries, Hawks made westerns. As the director grew in terms of monetary return to the studio, that given director would be given a little more authority over the film (or product) and some (certainly not all) directors began to thrive.
Hitchcock made few Epic Failures, but one that comes to mind was Jamaica Inn, an attempt to do a period piece. It is wretched. That last three word sentence is overly kind.
Be that as it may, as the auteur theory took hold, and Hollywood saw that the directors were growing in stature, the reins began to loosen. Granted, at the same time, the Studio System was faltering, but the era of the Auteur that was self-aware of the Auteur theory began. From this era, we got: Coppola, Scorsese, Spielberg, Allen, Altman. The list goes on and on, but more interesting is what was happening underground.
In the cheapie, grade Z movie industry, certain studios (much smaller than the majors) were still using the old Studio System, even if they weren't completely aware of it, but also tagging young directors and giving them a certain freedom, if only on a restricted budget.
From here, then, we find Bogdanovich being allowed to make a film so long as he included Boris Karloff. This gave us what may be one of the best films of his career, Targets.
As the years have gone on, and the director became weaker in authority (losing final cut privileges, for example: the studio can hack and re-edit without consent of the director), and the free agent style of actors and directors wandering from studio to studio, the films of the United States as a whole started to take on a different feel.
While a film can be (and sometimes is) a work of High Art, it must never be forgotten that a film is, first and foremost, a product. It is meant to make money, pure and simple. What this mindset has birthed is the idea of using an audience survey prior to releasing a film. This is nothing new: Stan Laurel (of Laurel & Hardy) would often preview a film before an audience. The difference was, though, that Stan stood at the back of the theater with a stopwatch and would time the laughter, so that he could then return to the editing and tighten up the comedy.
Now, however, the audience dictates editing. Sometimes to the point of rewriting the entire film.
On the DVD release of Final Destination, the producer, director and screenwriter all talked about using the audience preview to make changes in the film. Of importance here was that the film was completed, but the audience reaction was such that nearly the entire film had to be rewritten, re-shot and re-edited.
As making a film has become an expensive endeavor, and as the director has become less powerful, what is starting to happen is that the group effort in making a film has become paramount. There is no one particular voice, but rather a group.
This leads us to M. Night Shyamalan.
While his very first film, Praying With Anger is sadly not available for purchase, his second, Wide Awake is, and there, in that film, there is a significant difference between it and that which follows. Wide Awake is the last film he has made that uses someone other than James Newton Howard as the music director.
Newton Howard creates a score for Shyamalan's films that never cease to be anything other than brilliant, making a good film great, and a great film classic. Think of Hitchcock with Hermann, or Lucas with Williams (or Spielberg with Williams), or Burton with Elfman.
This is a gestalt, a group of separate minds gathering together, and adding their own touch to an overall work.
When we, the intended audience, are brought in, which is becoming more and more the norm, to witness the "finished" (if not released) product, then the gestalt widens, and the zeitgeist, the collective unconscious begins to alter the direction of the film. Here, everyone is involved, if only loosely.
When this works, it is unmistakable, the film ends up making a dent in the minds and psyche of the viewing populace that was not involved in the creative process. When the film makes a return grand enough to inspire the studios to continue in a similar vein, then the process repeats itself, as if the zeitgeist demands more, the collective consciousness of the global brain says to a smaller, more selective few: Here, this: this is what we want, give us more.
Coming to mind also, then, was the fact that two separate novels had been written and released within months of each other, and each was optioned by different studios. One was The Glass Inferno (by Thomas N. Scortia and Frank M. Robinson) and the other was The Tower by (Richard Martin Stern). Both novels dealt with the same premise: fire breaks out near the top of a superstructure and the stories of the people trying to survive as well as the efforts of the rescue workers to get them out and stop the fire. Rather than release two competing films of the same nature, the two studios joined to cover production costs and split the returns and the resulting film was the entertaining and rather flawed film, The Towering Inferno.
Armageddon and Deep Impact were released the same year by differing studios as were Volcano and Dante's Peak. The first two deal with an impending impact of a meteor /comet, and the second pair deal with the results of a volcanic eruption.
Some of this is mere happenstance of course, but there is also that sense of multiple minds gathering to create one, new fable, a story that wants to be told.
The Auteur theory was: the director of the film is its author, more so than the screenwriter. It was the unique vision of a given director that marked their films. Both Howard Hawks and Sir Alfred Hitchcock were used as examples, and for the most part this theory has remained, along with genre criticism, as the foundation of film theory.
For the most part, there is a good, solid foundation for this. The filmography of certain directors show a tendency to various patterns: Woody Allen, Martin Scorsese, Akira Kurosawa, Ingmar Bergman, and others, all created films (and some continue) that had a unique stamp, not only visually but in all manner of the presentation. The dialog, the music, the editing and, of course, the camera work and editing.
What caused me to post this was the work of various directors whose work is largely uneven, sometimes brilliant, sometimes merely pedestrian and sometimes... the only term that is appropriate would be Epic Fail. Joel Schumacher immediately comes to mind. His brilliant 8MM and flawless Falling Down are superb, A Time To Kill is good, solid filmmaking but hardly a work of lasting art as is his rendition of the Weber version of The Phantom Of The Opera, and his two entries into the Batman series are, at best, regrettable.
It was, however, in looking at his career that I started to wonder. Why? Why so uneven?
I began to notice how certain directors were also stuttering along, one moment grand opera and the next barely a cut above porn.
Here, then, is a little background.
In what was once called The Studio System, the studio (usually in the form of the producer) would assign certain films to certain directors. This was due to a track record of success; Hitchcock made thrillers and mysteries, Hawks made westerns. As the director grew in terms of monetary return to the studio, that given director would be given a little more authority over the film (or product) and some (certainly not all) directors began to thrive.
Hitchcock made few Epic Failures, but one that comes to mind was Jamaica Inn, an attempt to do a period piece. It is wretched. That last three word sentence is overly kind.
Be that as it may, as the auteur theory took hold, and Hollywood saw that the directors were growing in stature, the reins began to loosen. Granted, at the same time, the Studio System was faltering, but the era of the Auteur that was self-aware of the Auteur theory began. From this era, we got: Coppola, Scorsese, Spielberg, Allen, Altman. The list goes on and on, but more interesting is what was happening underground.
In the cheapie, grade Z movie industry, certain studios (much smaller than the majors) were still using the old Studio System, even if they weren't completely aware of it, but also tagging young directors and giving them a certain freedom, if only on a restricted budget.
From here, then, we find Bogdanovich being allowed to make a film so long as he included Boris Karloff. This gave us what may be one of the best films of his career, Targets.
As the years have gone on, and the director became weaker in authority (losing final cut privileges, for example: the studio can hack and re-edit without consent of the director), and the free agent style of actors and directors wandering from studio to studio, the films of the United States as a whole started to take on a different feel.
While a film can be (and sometimes is) a work of High Art, it must never be forgotten that a film is, first and foremost, a product. It is meant to make money, pure and simple. What this mindset has birthed is the idea of using an audience survey prior to releasing a film. This is nothing new: Stan Laurel (of Laurel & Hardy) would often preview a film before an audience. The difference was, though, that Stan stood at the back of the theater with a stopwatch and would time the laughter, so that he could then return to the editing and tighten up the comedy.
Now, however, the audience dictates editing. Sometimes to the point of rewriting the entire film.
On the DVD release of Final Destination, the producer, director and screenwriter all talked about using the audience preview to make changes in the film. Of importance here was that the film was completed, but the audience reaction was such that nearly the entire film had to be rewritten, re-shot and re-edited.
As making a film has become an expensive endeavor, and as the director has become less powerful, what is starting to happen is that the group effort in making a film has become paramount. There is no one particular voice, but rather a group.
This leads us to M. Night Shyamalan.
While his very first film, Praying With Anger is sadly not available for purchase, his second, Wide Awake is, and there, in that film, there is a significant difference between it and that which follows. Wide Awake is the last film he has made that uses someone other than James Newton Howard as the music director.
Newton Howard creates a score for Shyamalan's films that never cease to be anything other than brilliant, making a good film great, and a great film classic. Think of Hitchcock with Hermann, or Lucas with Williams (or Spielberg with Williams), or Burton with Elfman.
This is a gestalt, a group of separate minds gathering together, and adding their own touch to an overall work.
When we, the intended audience, are brought in, which is becoming more and more the norm, to witness the "finished" (if not released) product, then the gestalt widens, and the zeitgeist, the collective unconscious begins to alter the direction of the film. Here, everyone is involved, if only loosely.
When this works, it is unmistakable, the film ends up making a dent in the minds and psyche of the viewing populace that was not involved in the creative process. When the film makes a return grand enough to inspire the studios to continue in a similar vein, then the process repeats itself, as if the zeitgeist demands more, the collective consciousness of the global brain says to a smaller, more selective few: Here, this: this is what we want, give us more.
Coming to mind also, then, was the fact that two separate novels had been written and released within months of each other, and each was optioned by different studios. One was The Glass Inferno (by Thomas N. Scortia and Frank M. Robinson) and the other was The Tower by (Richard Martin Stern). Both novels dealt with the same premise: fire breaks out near the top of a superstructure and the stories of the people trying to survive as well as the efforts of the rescue workers to get them out and stop the fire. Rather than release two competing films of the same nature, the two studios joined to cover production costs and split the returns and the resulting film was the entertaining and rather flawed film, The Towering Inferno.
Armageddon and Deep Impact were released the same year by differing studios as were Volcano and Dante's Peak. The first two deal with an impending impact of a meteor /comet, and the second pair deal with the results of a volcanic eruption.
Some of this is mere happenstance of course, but there is also that sense of multiple minds gathering to create one, new fable, a story that wants to be told.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Blacula (1972) and Scream, Blacula, Scream (1973)
The sub-genre (if it can be called that) of blaxplotation can be considered either the most racist series of films created, or as is my opinion, just another example of what most people forget: the film industry is an industry, first and foremost. Its employees may be artists of varying caliber, but it is an industry, and thus, creates and releases product with the intent and hope that a profit will be seen.
In the 1950's, the burgeoning market was Youth, and its enthusiasms. This lead to a burst of films being made that were geared to the youth market, what it was perceived as being what that market wanted. Mass producing any form of entertainment leads to the creation of a lot of what can be charitably referred to as dreck or garbage, and rightly so. Periodically, however, a film or twelve will rise up through the mountains of twaddle and reveal an artist, or a vision that is rather unique.
In the 1970's the market targeted was what became known as blaxplotation. Some of these films are, at best, so racist as to be terminally disgusting, brutal assaults on the human condition that should be at best ignored.
Several, however, raise so far above this level of public humiliation that they need to be championed and re-examined.
First then, the two films involving the African Prince Mamuwalde. In the first film Blacula, he is see traveling with his beautiful wife in an attempt to eliminate the slave trade. Sadly, the powerful prince he is attempting to convince is (of course) Count Dracula. He is bitten, and from there the story spins on.
There were other attempts to sell vampire stories in modern dress, but the first standout feature here is the fact that it not only puts the vampire in the 20th century, but along with another film released that same year The Night Stalker, it deals not in the territory of Oh, Look, A Beast Of The Night but more to the point of Are You Kidding??? Do You Really Believe That A (from The Night Stalker, one of my favorite lines) Real Live Vampire Is Killing People?
More importantly, though, is the plot line that shows Mamualde's wife, Luva was not brought into the ranks of the undead, but left buried alive with her husband so she may hear his desperate cries of bloodlust and he can hear her slowing dying. His torment is inflicted from without, underscored by the horrific loss. One can only imagine the madness that would have roiled within his tortured psyche, unable to help, unable to offer comfort, just to remain locked in his coffin, and then, the eventual abyss of silence.
When Mamualde comes to "life" in the 20th century, it isn't long before he meets what is the spiritual twin of his wife... Attention: for those of you who just said, hey! That sounds familiar... that is because it is the basic plotline of the Coppola version of Dracula.
The harsh negatives about this film are many: skid row budget, poor cinematography, the makeup (several of the undead are a pale, lime green), the images surrounding Mamualde when he becomes Scary Blacula rather than Hip And Cool... these are forgiven easily due to the serious horror maven's approach to the horror genre, which was stated by Stephen King as you have to have a taste for good bologna.
What makes the film worthy of consideration?
First and foremost, there have been many, many portrayals of Dracula. From the silent Max Schreck (called Count Orlok) to Bela Lugosi to Frank Langella, David Niven, Leslie Neilsen, Lon Chaney Jr., Willam DeFoe and on and on... BUT: There is ONLY ONE Blacula, and that is the place to start with the swooning fanboy approach; the brilliant performance of William Marshall.
Marshall's Mamualde is a prince, regal, authoritative and powerful, a man's man that happens to be in a position of power. When he becomes the blood lust infected night stalker, however, there is a real sense of longing and regret; he is no longer human, and that awareness torments him.
That longing, that existential torment is what takes the sequel Scream, Blacula, Scream a work of enormous power. While the flaws remain from the first film, the performance by Marshall is if anything stronger and more subtle at the same time. While in the first film, he was (if only briefly) an abolitionist, here he is more of a Black Pride spokesman.
One scene stands out (among many), in which the Prince walks the streets at night, and is accosted by a black prostitute. Being a gentleman, he turns her away, not with visible disgust but with a sense of distaste. When moments later he is assaulted by her two pimps, his comment about how they had destroyed a black woman (leading to one of the better slides from Prince to Vampire) underscores what the best of these films can offer, a generic (and sometimes muted) call to personal responsibility that echoes the change in El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (aka Malcolm X).
What really makes the second film interesting is, of course, Pam Grier. Not the best performance of her career, to be sure, but the mere inclusion of her magnificent presence makes any movie (to me) worthy of sitting through.
It is her character that moves this film from simple monster movie aimed at a certain market to a deeper, more interesting film. Ms. Grier is a voodoo priestess, and while her character seems more suited to the I Am Going To Stand Here And Scream Because I Am An Idiot Female, she is a spiritual person, wanting to help the tortured soul who seeks release. Release rather than redemption is the point, and that makes the film more than mere sequel but a perfect bookend to the first film.
Spoiler alert....
Why is the title Scream, Blacula, Scream? Because, at the ending, he is screaming, Ms. Grier's magick is bringing the torment to an end, but the ceremony is a form of surgery, if you will, and it cannot be interrupted or slowed for it to be complete. Once the door is kicked in and the "good guys" rush in, the ceremony is shut down, and Marshall here is perfection and horrifying, not because he is a Thing That Sucks Blood, but because he is on the verge of peace and it is torn away from him. The supposition would be that there was not enough of a market to continue, or maybe the notion that the blaxplotation subgenre was flawed in and of itself (see below) but I feel it has more to do with the fact that the ending scream ended the series. Why continue? It isn't going to get better. Marshall caps both films in that one agonized cry. The series really has nowhere else to go.
The last thing that must be examined here is the notion that this subgenre is full of racist depictions. While that argument can be made of other films, in both of these films one sees much, much more.
For every pimp, hustler or whatever stereotype, there is a doctor, publisher or businessman; imagine that, black men are more than just a stupid stereotype! What is also interesting is the preponderant view of other blaxplotation films that white men are all corrupt and evil, but in these two films, while men of differing colors are antagonistic to one another, the antagonism is based less on skin color but more on the men are simply being men, butting heads.
In Scream, Blacula, Scream one of the main characters Justin Carter (played by Don Mitchell) is mentioned as running his own publishing company, but when people start dying in A Certain Strange Manner, his past comes out: he was formerly a police detective. Not a beat cop, a detective. His counterpoint, still on The Job, is Sheriff Harley Dunlop (played by Michael Conrad, most widely known for being Sgt. Phil Esterhaus on TV's Hill Street Blues). These two men do not get along, but the sense, from dialogue and performance, has more to do with life choices and the strangeness of the situation. They may not like each other, they may not socialize, but there is a respect that one wishes people would approach in real life.
Of course, for my friends that are all about the music: watch Blacula and see, not once but twice, The Hues Corporation perform, and neither time do they perform Rock The Boat.
Packaging both films together, and watching them back to back, is not only a grand pleasure but a rather eye-opening experience.
In the 1950's, the burgeoning market was Youth, and its enthusiasms. This lead to a burst of films being made that were geared to the youth market, what it was perceived as being what that market wanted. Mass producing any form of entertainment leads to the creation of a lot of what can be charitably referred to as dreck or garbage, and rightly so. Periodically, however, a film or twelve will rise up through the mountains of twaddle and reveal an artist, or a vision that is rather unique.
In the 1970's the market targeted was what became known as blaxplotation. Some of these films are, at best, so racist as to be terminally disgusting, brutal assaults on the human condition that should be at best ignored.
Several, however, raise so far above this level of public humiliation that they need to be championed and re-examined.
First then, the two films involving the African Prince Mamuwalde. In the first film Blacula, he is see traveling with his beautiful wife in an attempt to eliminate the slave trade. Sadly, the powerful prince he is attempting to convince is (of course) Count Dracula. He is bitten, and from there the story spins on.
There were other attempts to sell vampire stories in modern dress, but the first standout feature here is the fact that it not only puts the vampire in the 20th century, but along with another film released that same year The Night Stalker, it deals not in the territory of Oh, Look, A Beast Of The Night but more to the point of Are You Kidding??? Do You Really Believe That A (from The Night Stalker, one of my favorite lines) Real Live Vampire Is Killing People?
More importantly, though, is the plot line that shows Mamualde's wife, Luva was not brought into the ranks of the undead, but left buried alive with her husband so she may hear his desperate cries of bloodlust and he can hear her slowing dying. His torment is inflicted from without, underscored by the horrific loss. One can only imagine the madness that would have roiled within his tortured psyche, unable to help, unable to offer comfort, just to remain locked in his coffin, and then, the eventual abyss of silence.
When Mamualde comes to "life" in the 20th century, it isn't long before he meets what is the spiritual twin of his wife... Attention: for those of you who just said, hey! That sounds familiar... that is because it is the basic plotline of the Coppola version of Dracula.
The harsh negatives about this film are many: skid row budget, poor cinematography, the makeup (several of the undead are a pale, lime green), the images surrounding Mamualde when he becomes Scary Blacula rather than Hip And Cool... these are forgiven easily due to the serious horror maven's approach to the horror genre, which was stated by Stephen King as you have to have a taste for good bologna.
What makes the film worthy of consideration?
First and foremost, there have been many, many portrayals of Dracula. From the silent Max Schreck (called Count Orlok) to Bela Lugosi to Frank Langella, David Niven, Leslie Neilsen, Lon Chaney Jr., Willam DeFoe and on and on... BUT: There is ONLY ONE Blacula, and that is the place to start with the swooning fanboy approach; the brilliant performance of William Marshall.
Marshall's Mamualde is a prince, regal, authoritative and powerful, a man's man that happens to be in a position of power. When he becomes the blood lust infected night stalker, however, there is a real sense of longing and regret; he is no longer human, and that awareness torments him.
That longing, that existential torment is what takes the sequel Scream, Blacula, Scream a work of enormous power. While the flaws remain from the first film, the performance by Marshall is if anything stronger and more subtle at the same time. While in the first film, he was (if only briefly) an abolitionist, here he is more of a Black Pride spokesman.
One scene stands out (among many), in which the Prince walks the streets at night, and is accosted by a black prostitute. Being a gentleman, he turns her away, not with visible disgust but with a sense of distaste. When moments later he is assaulted by her two pimps, his comment about how they had destroyed a black woman (leading to one of the better slides from Prince to Vampire) underscores what the best of these films can offer, a generic (and sometimes muted) call to personal responsibility that echoes the change in El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz (aka Malcolm X).
What really makes the second film interesting is, of course, Pam Grier. Not the best performance of her career, to be sure, but the mere inclusion of her magnificent presence makes any movie (to me) worthy of sitting through.
It is her character that moves this film from simple monster movie aimed at a certain market to a deeper, more interesting film. Ms. Grier is a voodoo priestess, and while her character seems more suited to the I Am Going To Stand Here And Scream Because I Am An Idiot Female, she is a spiritual person, wanting to help the tortured soul who seeks release. Release rather than redemption is the point, and that makes the film more than mere sequel but a perfect bookend to the first film.
Spoiler alert....
Why is the title Scream, Blacula, Scream? Because, at the ending, he is screaming, Ms. Grier's magick is bringing the torment to an end, but the ceremony is a form of surgery, if you will, and it cannot be interrupted or slowed for it to be complete. Once the door is kicked in and the "good guys" rush in, the ceremony is shut down, and Marshall here is perfection and horrifying, not because he is a Thing That Sucks Blood, but because he is on the verge of peace and it is torn away from him. The supposition would be that there was not enough of a market to continue, or maybe the notion that the blaxplotation subgenre was flawed in and of itself (see below) but I feel it has more to do with the fact that the ending scream ended the series. Why continue? It isn't going to get better. Marshall caps both films in that one agonized cry. The series really has nowhere else to go.
The last thing that must be examined here is the notion that this subgenre is full of racist depictions. While that argument can be made of other films, in both of these films one sees much, much more.
For every pimp, hustler or whatever stereotype, there is a doctor, publisher or businessman; imagine that, black men are more than just a stupid stereotype! What is also interesting is the preponderant view of other blaxplotation films that white men are all corrupt and evil, but in these two films, while men of differing colors are antagonistic to one another, the antagonism is based less on skin color but more on the men are simply being men, butting heads.
In Scream, Blacula, Scream one of the main characters Justin Carter (played by Don Mitchell) is mentioned as running his own publishing company, but when people start dying in A Certain Strange Manner, his past comes out: he was formerly a police detective. Not a beat cop, a detective. His counterpoint, still on The Job, is Sheriff Harley Dunlop (played by Michael Conrad, most widely known for being Sgt. Phil Esterhaus on TV's Hill Street Blues). These two men do not get along, but the sense, from dialogue and performance, has more to do with life choices and the strangeness of the situation. They may not like each other, they may not socialize, but there is a respect that one wishes people would approach in real life.
Of course, for my friends that are all about the music: watch Blacula and see, not once but twice, The Hues Corporation perform, and neither time do they perform Rock The Boat.
Packaging both films together, and watching them back to back, is not only a grand pleasure but a rather eye-opening experience.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Film review - Feed (2005)
Directed by Brett Leonard, starring Alex O'Laughlin (who assisted with the story) as Michael Carter and Patrick Thompson as Phillip Jackson.
Phillip Jackson works in a cybercrime unit, and was last involved in an arrest in which one man paid another for a strange sex act: the willing victim was to be eaten alive.
This film, obviously, has something to say about the human condition, for good or ill. At its' beginning, then, the underlying premise is established: this entire film will deal with the seductive nature of evil and how it slowly destroys more than flesh but soul.
The body of the film, the real story, begins when Jackson discovers a website that endorses the sexual/erotic act of eating, and a woman, gigantic in girth, is fed to death. The man doing the feeding is our villain, Michael Carter.
While the majority of the film focuses on the tracking of the villain by the hero, it is the villain here that is the most important aspect. Similar then to 8MM, there is a sense of the journey into the abyss, the journey not taken by the outsider but by the man who so chose his own destination.
It is most interesting to note that hero and villain meet more than once and have ample time to react to one another. The hero, the force for Good, is not ineffectual but often stymied by his own passion for justice, and his back story suggests that very passion has caused more than a little consternation form his superiors. Good is shown as persistent, but a matter of preference, differing notions of Good (in that Good is that which should be done) interfere with one another.
In the course of film history, the nature of evil is usually shown in some form of violence and in the last few decades that evil is superhuman. What should be a fatal blow or GSW merely annoys the villain. There is much running and screaming and flailing about (what this author thinks of as "normal response" to such external stimuli). Evil here is shown as a form of seduction, the gradual assistance of the victim to their own demise, one step at a time. The villain is a con man, unrelenting, unflinching and cold-hearted and cruel. He knows who he is and what he is, and he is quite okay with that. Evil is calculating, patient and consistent. Little in this film is done by force: the victims are shown as willing, walking into their own grave and happy for the choice to do so. The villain leads, and the victim follows.
From the very opening of the film: this opening, about characters that never again appear in the story, as stated above, is the touchpoint. While disturbing and often disgusting, it is an extremely moral tale. There is much here in this film that is unworthy of attention, to be sure. This author prefers the low budget end of filmmaking, as it requires the creators to be more resourceful, but that does not forgive sloppy technical errors. A lower budget generally means the high dollar acting talent won't be seen, and there are more than a few eye-rolling moments here.
Not for all audiences, but definitely worth notice. Not many mainstream films are so possessed of such a strong moral worldview.
Phillip Jackson works in a cybercrime unit, and was last involved in an arrest in which one man paid another for a strange sex act: the willing victim was to be eaten alive.
This film, obviously, has something to say about the human condition, for good or ill. At its' beginning, then, the underlying premise is established: this entire film will deal with the seductive nature of evil and how it slowly destroys more than flesh but soul.
The body of the film, the real story, begins when Jackson discovers a website that endorses the sexual/erotic act of eating, and a woman, gigantic in girth, is fed to death. The man doing the feeding is our villain, Michael Carter.
While the majority of the film focuses on the tracking of the villain by the hero, it is the villain here that is the most important aspect. Similar then to 8MM, there is a sense of the journey into the abyss, the journey not taken by the outsider but by the man who so chose his own destination.
It is most interesting to note that hero and villain meet more than once and have ample time to react to one another. The hero, the force for Good, is not ineffectual but often stymied by his own passion for justice, and his back story suggests that very passion has caused more than a little consternation form his superiors. Good is shown as persistent, but a matter of preference, differing notions of Good (in that Good is that which should be done) interfere with one another.
In the course of film history, the nature of evil is usually shown in some form of violence and in the last few decades that evil is superhuman. What should be a fatal blow or GSW merely annoys the villain. There is much running and screaming and flailing about (what this author thinks of as "normal response" to such external stimuli). Evil here is shown as a form of seduction, the gradual assistance of the victim to their own demise, one step at a time. The villain is a con man, unrelenting, unflinching and cold-hearted and cruel. He knows who he is and what he is, and he is quite okay with that. Evil is calculating, patient and consistent. Little in this film is done by force: the victims are shown as willing, walking into their own grave and happy for the choice to do so. The villain leads, and the victim follows.
From the very opening of the film: this opening, about characters that never again appear in the story, as stated above, is the touchpoint. While disturbing and often disgusting, it is an extremely moral tale. There is much here in this film that is unworthy of attention, to be sure. This author prefers the low budget end of filmmaking, as it requires the creators to be more resourceful, but that does not forgive sloppy technical errors. A lower budget generally means the high dollar acting talent won't be seen, and there are more than a few eye-rolling moments here.
Not for all audiences, but definitely worth notice. Not many mainstream films are so possessed of such a strong moral worldview.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Film review: 8MM (1999)
Written by Andrew Kevin Walker (after Se7en), directed by the hit or miss Joel Schumacher (Falling Down, A Time To Kill, Batman & Robin), starring Nicholas Cage, featuring Joaquin Phoenix, James Gandolfini, Peter Stomare (Spun, Dancer In The Dark, The Big Lebowski) and Anthony Heald (Manhunter, The Silence Of The Lambs, Hannibal).
Tom Welles (Cage) is a private investigator, a quiet homebound man when not working, is hired by a Mrs. Christian to determine if an 8mm film found after her husband died is real or faked. The film is the by-now urban legendary snuff film. Off goes Welles, deeper and deeper into the pits of a most human based Hell. On his way down, he meets Max California (Phoenix), a porn shop employee who reads Truman Capote's In Cold Blood hidden behind a porn magazine. California leads Welles deeper and deeper into the under-underground porn industry, until he meets up with those who know the truth about the film, its making and its star. By the end of his journey, most of the people involved are dead, and his life is torn apart.
Schumacher's career is largely uneven, capable of creating fine bits of entertainment, but just as capable of creating the cinematic equivalent of fecal matter. 8MM is a dark, brutal examination into the notions of evil and morality. Possibly his best film (if not this, then Falling Down), it is unrelenting, allowing us as viewers to follow Welles' descent up close and personal.
Cage, also guilty of an uneven career, gives a performance that is perfect for the part. Cold, remote from his clients and his tasks at hand, a private detective that makes a name for himself delivering the goods and walking away silently. His home life is his true life (everyone leads a double life in this film), and at home he is an adoring husband and a loving father. He is also self-delusional at home, pretending to himself that his wife doesn't know when he has been smoking inside their home. This point is repeated, and to good, subtle effect: a man whose career is based on rooting out those things others want to stay hidden cannot see how his attempts to hide things away are just as meager and failing.
The script, the first film produced on a script written by Walker after his deeply disturbing Se7en, suggests that he had more dark territory to examine. One can only hope that there is something equally dark aborning in his twisted mind... or not. Where Se7en approaches the notion of the serial killer as renegade genius, 8MM gives the idea that we are all capable of levels of evil that we prefer to pretend are not possible. The idea that a snuff film (true torture porn, a pornographic depiction of an actual murder) is an urban legend is in and of itself a type of societal self-delusion.
If someone can actually make kiddie porn, is the notion of murdering someone on film for twisted sexual pleasure really be impossible? Has it actually happened? Most likely.
What really drives the script, again and again, is that notion that everyone has something they want to keep hidden, an addiction, a sexual preference, whatever... and that, for lack of a better term: Be ye sure, your sins shall find you out. The true difference between those who wish to live a life of (if only public) morality and those who are truly evil is that those who are evil simply do not care, and only keep things hidden to protect their income and keep themselves out of jail.
In fact, the film goes where few films ever go, and horror films occasionally approach but rarely examine deeply: the very nature of evil itself.
The question throughout the film begs to be asked, and Welles does, several times: why do people do these terrible, horrible things?
The answer, which only becomes more disturbing on repeated viewings, is pretty much the same: because we can. Nothing more, just that: we kill, rape and torment the flesh of our fellow humans for no other reason than... we can.
One character even goes so far to ask Welles "What did you expect? A monster?" That moment underscores everything that has gone before. Hannibal Lector is a true monster, a genius so far removed from any conception of morality that he is all but super-human (or should that be supra-human?) and we can dismiss that character as too far-fetched. In 8MM that monster is, as Walt Kelley said it best via his comic strip Pogo: "We have met the enemy and he is us."
There are differing levels of darkness throughout the film, what light comes in seems to become corrupt, dirty and dust filled.
Each supporting character drives the plot, causing Welles to continue, not only for the client at the beginning of the film but for the romantic notion of the Private Eye As Avenging Knight when he meets the mother of the girl for whom he is searching.
Tom Welles (Cage) is a private investigator, a quiet homebound man when not working, is hired by a Mrs. Christian to determine if an 8mm film found after her husband died is real or faked. The film is the by-now urban legendary snuff film. Off goes Welles, deeper and deeper into the pits of a most human based Hell. On his way down, he meets Max California (Phoenix), a porn shop employee who reads Truman Capote's In Cold Blood hidden behind a porn magazine. California leads Welles deeper and deeper into the under-underground porn industry, until he meets up with those who know the truth about the film, its making and its star. By the end of his journey, most of the people involved are dead, and his life is torn apart.
Schumacher's career is largely uneven, capable of creating fine bits of entertainment, but just as capable of creating the cinematic equivalent of fecal matter. 8MM is a dark, brutal examination into the notions of evil and morality. Possibly his best film (if not this, then Falling Down), it is unrelenting, allowing us as viewers to follow Welles' descent up close and personal.
Cage, also guilty of an uneven career, gives a performance that is perfect for the part. Cold, remote from his clients and his tasks at hand, a private detective that makes a name for himself delivering the goods and walking away silently. His home life is his true life (everyone leads a double life in this film), and at home he is an adoring husband and a loving father. He is also self-delusional at home, pretending to himself that his wife doesn't know when he has been smoking inside their home. This point is repeated, and to good, subtle effect: a man whose career is based on rooting out those things others want to stay hidden cannot see how his attempts to hide things away are just as meager and failing.
The script, the first film produced on a script written by Walker after his deeply disturbing Se7en, suggests that he had more dark territory to examine. One can only hope that there is something equally dark aborning in his twisted mind... or not. Where Se7en approaches the notion of the serial killer as renegade genius, 8MM gives the idea that we are all capable of levels of evil that we prefer to pretend are not possible. The idea that a snuff film (true torture porn, a pornographic depiction of an actual murder) is an urban legend is in and of itself a type of societal self-delusion.
If someone can actually make kiddie porn, is the notion of murdering someone on film for twisted sexual pleasure really be impossible? Has it actually happened? Most likely.
What really drives the script, again and again, is that notion that everyone has something they want to keep hidden, an addiction, a sexual preference, whatever... and that, for lack of a better term: Be ye sure, your sins shall find you out. The true difference between those who wish to live a life of (if only public) morality and those who are truly evil is that those who are evil simply do not care, and only keep things hidden to protect their income and keep themselves out of jail.
In fact, the film goes where few films ever go, and horror films occasionally approach but rarely examine deeply: the very nature of evil itself.
The question throughout the film begs to be asked, and Welles does, several times: why do people do these terrible, horrible things?
The answer, which only becomes more disturbing on repeated viewings, is pretty much the same: because we can. Nothing more, just that: we kill, rape and torment the flesh of our fellow humans for no other reason than... we can.
One character even goes so far to ask Welles "What did you expect? A monster?" That moment underscores everything that has gone before. Hannibal Lector is a true monster, a genius so far removed from any conception of morality that he is all but super-human (or should that be supra-human?) and we can dismiss that character as too far-fetched. In 8MM that monster is, as Walt Kelley said it best via his comic strip Pogo: "We have met the enemy and he is us."
There are differing levels of darkness throughout the film, what light comes in seems to become corrupt, dirty and dust filled.
Each supporting character drives the plot, causing Welles to continue, not only for the client at the beginning of the film but for the romantic notion of the Private Eye As Avenging Knight when he meets the mother of the girl for whom he is searching.
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Whispers Of Night
As of this writing, I have not yet had the opportunity to view two of M. Night Shyalaman's (hereafter referred to as MNS) films, Praying With Anger and The Last Airbender. The latter is merely a matter of time, and the former has yet to be released on DVD, his first feature length film.
Of his films, it is Wide Awake which I feel to be weakest, although weak is not really a fair assessment of the overall work. It is, however, the only film MNS has made that was not scored by James Newton-Howard. The soundtrack is fine, nothing against that composer: it is the collaboration between MNS and Newton-Howard that is a kickoff point for looking at the body of work of MNS.
There has not been such a flawless and richly rewarding pairing of composer and filmmaker since Hitchcock and Herrman.
A brief backtrack/annoying autobiographical pause: as an only child, I had a lot of time on my hands, and found the regular offerings of older movies to be a relief from boredom, as well as a means of avoiding loneliness. The more of them I viewed, the more I began to develop a cache of favorites, the blending of light and sound. At first, it was the actors that stood out, the studio system focused on faces that caught light and held shadow. Their voices were unique, and as I grew older, I began to deliberately speak with a slightly sibilant "S" like Bogart and Karloff did.
As I grew older, I began to focus on the genres. Bogart lead me to noir, and Karloff to horror. Certain themes and subtexts began to stand out, and fitted into my developing worldview perfectly. Just as important, I also noticed certain films were more to my liking, and rather consistently, the films I loved the most had the same thing in the opening credits: Directed By, and the actors were then paired with certain directors. Howard, Lang, Whale, Mamoulien... the list grew.
My tastes continued to grow, and the single name that consistently stood out was Alfred Hitchcock.
Even the Master's "lesser" works was worth at least one viewing, and the first film of his that I recall seeing, and it took my breath away was North By Northwest. My mother was a Cary Grant fan, and I liked his smooth, suave style, and there was James Mason, Eva Marie Saint and Martin Landau. It was here that I first noticed the editing of a film, the images pieced one by one, perfect.
It was also here that I noticed the opening titles of the film. The titles were in and of themselves entertaining, names and words merging into the visuals. More, and back to the point, was the music.
The images, the words and names and the music all fell together in a flawless, seamless and (seemingly) effortless manner. The titles of a film are often ignored, but here they were given up in such a manner that I was immersed.
Bernard Herrmann's name was added to a growing list of names to look for, names that would mean to me that a film, unseen, would be worthy of the time to not merely sat through but studied.
Back to MNS...
MNS makes "old" movies, and by "old" I mean he is returning film as a medium to its glory days. While others may not agree (feel free, I won't change my mind), I feel that MNS is one of the few current filmmakers producing work that I know I will want to see, and see again.
His films are gentle, even his horror films. They are smooth, and have a sense of timelessness that most other filmmakers reject. The characters rarely raise their voices and rarely if ever curse. Violence is hinted at, and often is off screen. Even when it is shown onscreen, as in The Happening, it is shown swiftly, enough to allow the audience to piece together the details and then move on. His films are not about flash and assault, but about telling a story, as fully and completely as possible.
There is a strong undercurrent in all of his films that suggests MNS has an understanding of the past of the medium of film, and a deep and abiding respect for his audience.
There is a deep and abiding sense of classicism to his films, bringing the sense that these films have been around for far longer than they actually have been, but also bringing with them the feel that they are 21st century in theme.
The scoring of Newton-Howard underlines this sense. Many directors and studios have fallen to simply using existing music for soundtracks, like Quentin Tarantino. I like QT's soundtracks, in fact I love them. With QT's success though, seems to have followed the near-death of the original, scored soundtrack, and Newton-Howard has brought that richer, fuller sound back.
A little known fact: Thomas Edison was focused on created a motion picture device, not so much as a medium unto itself as a means by which he could sell more of his audio recordings. This connection can be seen in the works of the best filmmakers when assisted by the scoring of a great composer. Again, Hitchcock created masterpieces, but with Herrmann, his works transcended his own creations, the blending of perfect sound with the visual component causing the mind to lock the film as the jointly accepted dreamscape of the audience.
MNS has created such deeply woven Hitchcockian tapestries of story, all character driven, that to casually dismiss his work is a crime against the medium of film itself.
While The Sixth Sense remains his most popular work, his film Unbreakable is to this writers sense, a far deeper, far more complex film.
Unbreakable is, first and foremost, part of a growing subgenre of the action film, the comic book movie. It is also, quite possibly, the single best and greatest comic book movie ever made, as well as the primary reason for this post.
Originally planned as the first part of a trilogy, it is considered a box office failure when compared to The Sixth Sense. It was damned with the faintest of praise at the time, and apparently for no better reason that it wasn't The Seventh Sense. It did not contain the now-infamous MNS Twist Ending. The audience was not "surprised."
Of course, we weren't: he was telling us the myth of modern times, the origin story of a superhero. Myth, according to Aristotle, is the primary focus of the dramatic art, and myth is part of the collective subconscious. MNS takes us down that path, leading us deeper and deeper into the greatest mystery of call, who we are and what our place is in the universe. The Samuel L. Jackson character underscores this, saying the "worst thing in the world is to not know who you are." Every frame is perfectly composed, and the soundtrack is astonishing. The music whispers, swoops and builds, bringing out every nuance and subtlety.
MNS took us into the cave and showed us the shadow on the wall, saying, Look: that is who we really are. Newton-Howard brought the music that (should have) prevented us from looking away.
What makes MNS such a personal favorite is that in watching his films, I always have the feeling that he is not pandering to us, he is a teller of tales, and he wants us to join into the process of storytelling, bringing our inner Self to the dark and letting him orchestrate a collective moment.
Of his films, it is Wide Awake which I feel to be weakest, although weak is not really a fair assessment of the overall work. It is, however, the only film MNS has made that was not scored by James Newton-Howard. The soundtrack is fine, nothing against that composer: it is the collaboration between MNS and Newton-Howard that is a kickoff point for looking at the body of work of MNS.
There has not been such a flawless and richly rewarding pairing of composer and filmmaker since Hitchcock and Herrman.
A brief backtrack/annoying autobiographical pause: as an only child, I had a lot of time on my hands, and found the regular offerings of older movies to be a relief from boredom, as well as a means of avoiding loneliness. The more of them I viewed, the more I began to develop a cache of favorites, the blending of light and sound. At first, it was the actors that stood out, the studio system focused on faces that caught light and held shadow. Their voices were unique, and as I grew older, I began to deliberately speak with a slightly sibilant "S" like Bogart and Karloff did.
As I grew older, I began to focus on the genres. Bogart lead me to noir, and Karloff to horror. Certain themes and subtexts began to stand out, and fitted into my developing worldview perfectly. Just as important, I also noticed certain films were more to my liking, and rather consistently, the films I loved the most had the same thing in the opening credits: Directed By, and the actors were then paired with certain directors. Howard, Lang, Whale, Mamoulien... the list grew.
My tastes continued to grow, and the single name that consistently stood out was Alfred Hitchcock.
Even the Master's "lesser" works was worth at least one viewing, and the first film of his that I recall seeing, and it took my breath away was North By Northwest. My mother was a Cary Grant fan, and I liked his smooth, suave style, and there was James Mason, Eva Marie Saint and Martin Landau. It was here that I first noticed the editing of a film, the images pieced one by one, perfect.
It was also here that I noticed the opening titles of the film. The titles were in and of themselves entertaining, names and words merging into the visuals. More, and back to the point, was the music.
The images, the words and names and the music all fell together in a flawless, seamless and (seemingly) effortless manner. The titles of a film are often ignored, but here they were given up in such a manner that I was immersed.
Bernard Herrmann's name was added to a growing list of names to look for, names that would mean to me that a film, unseen, would be worthy of the time to not merely sat through but studied.
Back to MNS...
MNS makes "old" movies, and by "old" I mean he is returning film as a medium to its glory days. While others may not agree (feel free, I won't change my mind), I feel that MNS is one of the few current filmmakers producing work that I know I will want to see, and see again.
His films are gentle, even his horror films. They are smooth, and have a sense of timelessness that most other filmmakers reject. The characters rarely raise their voices and rarely if ever curse. Violence is hinted at, and often is off screen. Even when it is shown onscreen, as in The Happening, it is shown swiftly, enough to allow the audience to piece together the details and then move on. His films are not about flash and assault, but about telling a story, as fully and completely as possible.
There is a strong undercurrent in all of his films that suggests MNS has an understanding of the past of the medium of film, and a deep and abiding respect for his audience.
There is a deep and abiding sense of classicism to his films, bringing the sense that these films have been around for far longer than they actually have been, but also bringing with them the feel that they are 21st century in theme.
The scoring of Newton-Howard underlines this sense. Many directors and studios have fallen to simply using existing music for soundtracks, like Quentin Tarantino. I like QT's soundtracks, in fact I love them. With QT's success though, seems to have followed the near-death of the original, scored soundtrack, and Newton-Howard has brought that richer, fuller sound back.
A little known fact: Thomas Edison was focused on created a motion picture device, not so much as a medium unto itself as a means by which he could sell more of his audio recordings. This connection can be seen in the works of the best filmmakers when assisted by the scoring of a great composer. Again, Hitchcock created masterpieces, but with Herrmann, his works transcended his own creations, the blending of perfect sound with the visual component causing the mind to lock the film as the jointly accepted dreamscape of the audience.
MNS has created such deeply woven Hitchcockian tapestries of story, all character driven, that to casually dismiss his work is a crime against the medium of film itself.
While The Sixth Sense remains his most popular work, his film Unbreakable is to this writers sense, a far deeper, far more complex film.
Unbreakable is, first and foremost, part of a growing subgenre of the action film, the comic book movie. It is also, quite possibly, the single best and greatest comic book movie ever made, as well as the primary reason for this post.
Originally planned as the first part of a trilogy, it is considered a box office failure when compared to The Sixth Sense. It was damned with the faintest of praise at the time, and apparently for no better reason that it wasn't The Seventh Sense. It did not contain the now-infamous MNS Twist Ending. The audience was not "surprised."
Of course, we weren't: he was telling us the myth of modern times, the origin story of a superhero. Myth, according to Aristotle, is the primary focus of the dramatic art, and myth is part of the collective subconscious. MNS takes us down that path, leading us deeper and deeper into the greatest mystery of call, who we are and what our place is in the universe. The Samuel L. Jackson character underscores this, saying the "worst thing in the world is to not know who you are." Every frame is perfectly composed, and the soundtrack is astonishing. The music whispers, swoops and builds, bringing out every nuance and subtlety.
MNS took us into the cave and showed us the shadow on the wall, saying, Look: that is who we really are. Newton-Howard brought the music that (should have) prevented us from looking away.
What makes MNS such a personal favorite is that in watching his films, I always have the feeling that he is not pandering to us, he is a teller of tales, and he wants us to join into the process of storytelling, bringing our inner Self to the dark and letting him orchestrate a collective moment.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)