Directed by Fritz Lang, filmed by Karl Freund.
From the Internet Movie Data Base (imdb.com): In a futuristic city sharply divided between the working class and the city planners, the son of the city's mastermind falls in love with a working class prophet who predicts the coming of a savior to mediate their differences.
What follows, now, is a rant about the brilliance of this film. Much of this implies a certain understanding of the previously available versions.
The current version of Metropolis, now available from Kino Video, is an incomplete restoration. A recent discovery in South America of approximately 30 minutes of previously thought to be missing footage was edited into the existing prints. Prior versions had been found, and this new nearly-restored version made great use of everything that had gone before as well as the newly-discovered missing pieces.
The editing process was directly attached to the existing score that was written to accompany the performance of the film. The score makes references to certain events that transpire in the story line, and the result, incomplete as it is, is now the closest thing to The Definitive Version of this master work.
The first thing that was noticed by this author was that the new South American footage was not cleaned up, not remastered. That was a disappointment, at first. There is a torn, damaged quality that is, at first, more than a little annoying. Having seen several severely damaged classics on the Criterion Collection series, this author is very aware of how current digital technology can be used to restore damaged visual images to an approximation of their original quality.
This choice to NOT do so lead to a moment, however, in the opening of the film that startled this author to such an extent that there was a verbal outcry, and the companion (Mr. Scot Murphy) noticed it. Quickly using the formula of 24 frames per second, and the approximate time of that clip (about 1.5 seconds), this author determined that the piece of damaged footage was about 36 frames in length.
From that moment forward, the realization dawned: it had to be presented in its damaged form, as that was the only way for those who have seen the other versions could identify just how flawed every existing available print had been.
Entire subplots were woven into the fabric of what was a familiar story. This author has seen Metropolis many times, and the Giorgio Moroder re-creation from the 1980's (still unavailable on DVD!! Crime against film...), went so far as to colorize the film to the original specifications: the original was hand-tinted, a practice that is rarely identified. Several classic silent films have bursts of color.
One moment in the film, where our hero, Freder takes the place of a worker, is rightly remembered as one of the high points in all of cinema; the mindless physical labor of standing before a giant circular gauge, the worker has to move two hands on the face of the gauge to match a pair of flashing lights. What is returned to us is that worker's subplot. In the Morodor version, a recently dismissed employee, now working for the son, becomes seduced by the lure of a decadent night club. Here, we now see it was the worker the hero had replaced.
The recently dismissed employee mentioned above has a fuller story, and he is harassed by the hero's father via a thug. The thug has multiple parts, the same actor playing several roles, wildly divergent from the others but slowly integrating into one character. This, in itself, is something that modern cinema has attempted but largely failed to do with this level of coherency and poignancy.
The villain of the piece, a demented soul named (of all things) Rotwang. With a lengthy sequence found in South America, a previously missing back story comes into focus: both Rotwang and Joh Frederson (the father of the hero) were deeply in love with Hel, the mother of the hero. The sequence brings a level of depth that shakes a lot of the prior understanding of the film to such an extent that this author was forced to study while viewing.
The Whore Of Babylon sequence, now longer and more fully realized, has been elevated in the mind of this author as one of the most perfect example of what cinema, as an art form can do, and should be remembered and championed, as the infamous Shower Sequence is in the Hitchcock film Psycho. Brilliant, poetic, disturbing, it now underscores the depravity of those members of society who have access to enough disposable income that they can spare time, time that the workers simply do not have, to follow not a pleasure but a sin.
Sin is now exposed in this film, sin and redemption, in such depth, in such detail that by the end of the film, this author determined that this film is possibly the single most Christian of all films made in the 20th Century. Watching it, seeing the progression of the characters, following the new segments, this author was at one time actually possessed to begin "Hail Mary, full of Grace, blessed are you among all women..."
One sequence has always been troubling to this author: the Seven Deadly Sins and the figure of Death are shown as statuary that comes to life. Now replaced to its correct setting, and supported by a previously unseen exposure of the hero to the statuary, with his sudden, heartfelt prayer to the figure of death (as recollected, it was "Yesterday, I would not have thought of you, but today, I beg of you, please pass by my beloved.") the sequence is no longer just an oddity but a vital and important portion of the story.
The restored score, performed live at the Michigan Theater on original Barton organ, was in and of itself a revelation. The music has hints of music even now considered to be experimental. Several musical passages sound more like Philip Glass than anything else. This author had the great personal pleasure of meeting the performer (Dr. Steven Ball, http://www.stevenball.com/TheaterOrgan.htm ), the organist received two separate and well deserved standing ovations.
There are portions of this film that now bring tears to the eyes, as well as swelling emotional responses that have rendered every other existing print obsolete. This is a work of genius and should be enjoyed by anyone who holds the film experience a great pleasure.
With the incompleteness of the current restoration, this author holds in his heart the notion that someday, while he still lives, that the entire film will, someday, be returned to its fullest glory.
It is a Must See.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Suvai (restaurant review)
On 12 September 2010, I had to incredible pleasure to encounter an establishment in the city of Ann Arbor, Michigan. Located at 217 S. State Street, next to the State Theater, the front of the restaurant is easily passed by, but fortunately for me, and my taste buds, I was with a good friend (Mr. Scot Murphy) who suggested that we inspect this place, and I am most grateful he made that suggestion.
The menu that day offered a buffet at $9.95 per person, so that was the route that we chose to follow. Entering, the interior of the restaurant was inviting, the decor eye-catching and the space intimate where so many others would have been confining.
The wait staff was, to a soul, open and willing to assist. One in particular suggested certain dishes and a wonder combination of chutneys to improve the already superior displayed foods.
There is no way to single out a specific dish. The curried goat was a huge hit for both of us, there was a dish that included baby eggplant that was To Die For, and a vegetable stew that was described repeatedly as magnificent.
Buffet line style service is rife with potential to go horribly wrong, but not when the staff is focused totally on the dining experience. The staff at Suvai was attentive to everything.
Both Scot and I filled two plates and enjoyed cups of soups and stews. Seasoning and spices within Indian cuisine can be intimidating, on occasion reaching what I refer to as Test Of Manhood Hot. Here, the spices were flawlessly balanced, each bite an explosion of flavor and texture. This balancing act is not to be taken lightly; this restaurant is a perfect, flawless example of what can be done with a cuisine and menu that can often intimidate those inexperienced in the spices and cooking style.
The highest praise I can offer, then is this: if you have always wanted to try Indian cuisine, or if you have a taste for it and wish to introduce others to the wonders of India, Suvai of Ann Arbor is the finest example I have yet encountered for such an experience .
To miss out on this superior experience is to cause a deficit in dining pleasure.
The menu that day offered a buffet at $9.95 per person, so that was the route that we chose to follow. Entering, the interior of the restaurant was inviting, the decor eye-catching and the space intimate where so many others would have been confining.
The wait staff was, to a soul, open and willing to assist. One in particular suggested certain dishes and a wonder combination of chutneys to improve the already superior displayed foods.
There is no way to single out a specific dish. The curried goat was a huge hit for both of us, there was a dish that included baby eggplant that was To Die For, and a vegetable stew that was described repeatedly as magnificent.
Buffet line style service is rife with potential to go horribly wrong, but not when the staff is focused totally on the dining experience. The staff at Suvai was attentive to everything.
Both Scot and I filled two plates and enjoyed cups of soups and stews. Seasoning and spices within Indian cuisine can be intimidating, on occasion reaching what I refer to as Test Of Manhood Hot. Here, the spices were flawlessly balanced, each bite an explosion of flavor and texture. This balancing act is not to be taken lightly; this restaurant is a perfect, flawless example of what can be done with a cuisine and menu that can often intimidate those inexperienced in the spices and cooking style.
The highest praise I can offer, then is this: if you have always wanted to try Indian cuisine, or if you have a taste for it and wish to introduce others to the wonders of India, Suvai of Ann Arbor is the finest example I have yet encountered for such an experience .
To miss out on this superior experience is to cause a deficit in dining pleasure.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Film review: Hard Candy - (2005)
Directed by David Slade, starring Ellen (Juno) Page and Patrick (Watchmen) Wilson, featuring Sandra Oh.
A cat and mouse thriller, mostly confined to one home and two characters. A harsh and disturbing examination of pedophilia: not for the squeamish. Nothing here too grotesque, just straightforward, and really, isn't that enough?
Page's performance here is amazing. The phrase "just a kid" takes on a whole new depth: think of Kids (1995), with its ugly and unrelenting viewpoint. Her character, and the way she presents it here, shows an Ellen Ripley (from the Alien franchise) as a teen: no bovine excrement accepted.
Wilson is sly, sneaky, creepy and weak, sick and tormented. Nuanced and subtle, his performance goes from the "I want this" to "I'm sick, please help" and everywhere in-between. A difficult part but done with style and substance.
Oh is mentioned because, well, she is Sandra Oh.
In the extras on the DVD, the director stated that the audiences that saw Hard Candy were evenly divided into thirds: loved it, hated it and "I'll have to get back to you on that." Slade said that response made it a total success in his mind, and I would concur.
This is the kind of film that should inspire long, intense conversations and fierce debate. Worthy of owning, but with the codicil: it is not an easy film to watch.
A cat and mouse thriller, mostly confined to one home and two characters. A harsh and disturbing examination of pedophilia: not for the squeamish. Nothing here too grotesque, just straightforward, and really, isn't that enough?
Page's performance here is amazing. The phrase "just a kid" takes on a whole new depth: think of Kids (1995), with its ugly and unrelenting viewpoint. Her character, and the way she presents it here, shows an Ellen Ripley (from the Alien franchise) as a teen: no bovine excrement accepted.
Wilson is sly, sneaky, creepy and weak, sick and tormented. Nuanced and subtle, his performance goes from the "I want this" to "I'm sick, please help" and everywhere in-between. A difficult part but done with style and substance.
Oh is mentioned because, well, she is Sandra Oh.
In the extras on the DVD, the director stated that the audiences that saw Hard Candy were evenly divided into thirds: loved it, hated it and "I'll have to get back to you on that." Slade said that response made it a total success in his mind, and I would concur.
This is the kind of film that should inspire long, intense conversations and fierce debate. Worthy of owning, but with the codicil: it is not an easy film to watch.
Psychedelic Soul by The Temptations (remastered) - Review
They could out sing, out dance, out perform and outclass anyone, anywhere, at any time. It is the harsh attitude malfunction of this writer that The Tempts were beyond a doubt the finest vocal group to come out of Motown (in itself enough to cause fistfights), if not the entire era in which they recorded.
The remastered version of this spectacular album runs two CD's long, and to hear it with the extra cuts, previously unreleased versions of classics will be a revelation for those who think that funk/soul and especially Motown was incapable of going into the Sgt. Pepper or Bitches Brew territory.
The Fabulous Funk Brothers were never so well served as they are here, and that includes the must-have 20th Century Masters Millennium collection. The FFB are given more room to run and their longer leads into the songs as well as their stronger backing of the five powerhouse voices is amazing.
This is the kind of musical revelation that is unworthy of downloading. It is the kind of re-working and remastering that makes the actual, physical purchase a requirement. It in and of itself renders greatest hits packages and the monster 5-disc Emperors Of Soul box set obsolete.
Ball Of Confusion here clocks in at 4:09, Psychedelic Shack
runs 6:22, Runaway Child Running Wild 9:35, and Papa Was A Rollin' Stone has been brought to 12:04. I cannot fathom having ever heard Papa Was A Rollin' Stone in the form here, more strings, stronger, fuller: how was that possible? It was flawless to begin with, one of the greatest shining moments of the era, possibly the single greatest moment in Motown: that bass line, the way the voices sneak in and around each other, taunting the lyrics... amazing.
The Tempts here also walk up to War, made famous by Edwin Starr, and claim it for themselves.
Front to back, a magnificent statement.
The remastered version of this spectacular album runs two CD's long, and to hear it with the extra cuts, previously unreleased versions of classics will be a revelation for those who think that funk/soul and especially Motown was incapable of going into the Sgt. Pepper or Bitches Brew territory.
The Fabulous Funk Brothers were never so well served as they are here, and that includes the must-have 20th Century Masters Millennium collection. The FFB are given more room to run and their longer leads into the songs as well as their stronger backing of the five powerhouse voices is amazing.
This is the kind of musical revelation that is unworthy of downloading. It is the kind of re-working and remastering that makes the actual, physical purchase a requirement. It in and of itself renders greatest hits packages and the monster 5-disc Emperors Of Soul box set obsolete.
Ball Of Confusion here clocks in at 4:09, Psychedelic Shack
runs 6:22, Runaway Child Running Wild 9:35, and Papa Was A Rollin' Stone has been brought to 12:04. I cannot fathom having ever heard Papa Was A Rollin' Stone in the form here, more strings, stronger, fuller: how was that possible? It was flawless to begin with, one of the greatest shining moments of the era, possibly the single greatest moment in Motown: that bass line, the way the voices sneak in and around each other, taunting the lyrics... amazing.
The Tempts here also walk up to War, made famous by Edwin Starr, and claim it for themselves.
Front to back, a magnificent statement.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The thermodynamic miracle
The question in regards to human development has been ongoing and annoying for far too long. Is it nature? Is it nurture? As in most either/or debates, the most logical answer is somewhere in between.
How much of the human condition, in the form of personality and behavior, is genetic? The primary reason used to dismiss genetics as a driver of personality development is an open attack on fate. If everything is genetic, then everything is predetermined, everything is a much in place as the color of the eyes or skin.
How much of the human condition is from nurturing and conditioning? This would suggest a differing means of determination, human beings are no more than the combination of their influences.
Birth order, genetic make-up, Skinnerism.... this-ism, that-ism, ism-ism-ism...
Consider a few things, if you will...
We know, from the sad story of Thalidomide, that chemicals ingested during pregnancy can affect the physical make-up. Alcohol, tobacco, pretty much any form of chemical ingestion: the body can be changed while being made up.
We also know, from medical research, that the body changes, not only as it ages, but from external circumstance. Again, chemicals (or foods) ingested, but also circumstances; stress kills.
Two odd things, now...
One: there was an article in Psychology Today, back in the early '80's, that told of a child being born with an undetermined ailment. After much examination, it was determined that the child was born with a peptic ulcer, the type normally associated with long term stress. This was a tad difficult to explain in a newborn. Doctors began to assess the mother's life and lifestyle during the pregnancy, and discovered that the mother and father had separated shortly after she'd become pregnant. The father (or rather, donor) went a little, well... batshit insane, calling at all hours of the night, harassing the woman, throwing rocks through the windows, etc. (NOT a good role model...)
Two: on an episode of the television program CSI: the notion of the behavior of twins separated at birth was raised, and the (then) main character, "Gruesome" Grissom stated that it is no surprise about the twins. After all, he said, they see the world, literally, through the same eyes, hear with the same ears. Why is it so surprising that they would see the world the same, be attracted to the same type of person, be drawn to the same type of career?
Consider: the human body has a form of cellular memory, imprints made into the brain and body, electrochemical reactions invisible to the eye but deeply ingrained.
The human female, at birth, comes equipped with the entirety of her reproductive egg content. These eggs are present at birth, only so many to a customer, as it were. They remain a constant until menopause. These eggs, then, represent something suggested in Frank Herbert's Dune: the human female, being female, carries inside her a lasting echo of everything her life has brought her. Each new experience is added, cellular memories building, and thus, in a chemical form, attached to the egg, the pending generation.
The human male does not have sperm at birth. This is something that develops, and while the changes would be similar, the male creates billions of sperm, only to have them sent away. These seed cells are created every day, huge production but of only limited duration. It would appear that these cells are created as a form of cellular moments, created in a "now" that is ever-changing and at best temporary.
Perhaps, more than anything else, this is the primary difference between the XX (cellular memories) and the XY (cellular moments).
When in the graphic novel Watchmen, written by Alan Moore, one character speaks of the thermodynamic miracle of human life, he mentions the staggering odds of THIS woman meeting THIS man at THAT moment and somehow beating the odds and creating another human being.
Ask anyone that has had difficulty in conceiving and they will be glad to explain just how nigh impossible it is for a human female to get pregnant. Those odds are indeed staggering; the fact that there is human life at all is astonishing, but to see so many billions...
The only question you should be asking at this point is: So what?
Consider the family unit. Any family unit will do: yours, someone else's, whatever... A large family is best for these purposes. Ever wonder why one sibling is so different than the others? Not just the odd little physical quirks but those occasions when it appears that one (or more) is totally unlike the others that even the family themselves have to wonder: what the hell happened there? Everyone raised in the same house, same values, diet....
Well, how about: XX brought the past, everything up until that one moment of conception, and XY brought that moment of conception. That which was and has been and that which is combine, and at conception, each of us becomes in that instant that which shall be.
And then the process begins again...
This make more sense to me than most other theories.
How much of the human condition, in the form of personality and behavior, is genetic? The primary reason used to dismiss genetics as a driver of personality development is an open attack on fate. If everything is genetic, then everything is predetermined, everything is a much in place as the color of the eyes or skin.
How much of the human condition is from nurturing and conditioning? This would suggest a differing means of determination, human beings are no more than the combination of their influences.
Birth order, genetic make-up, Skinnerism.... this-ism, that-ism, ism-ism-ism...
Consider a few things, if you will...
We know, from the sad story of Thalidomide, that chemicals ingested during pregnancy can affect the physical make-up. Alcohol, tobacco, pretty much any form of chemical ingestion: the body can be changed while being made up.
We also know, from medical research, that the body changes, not only as it ages, but from external circumstance. Again, chemicals (or foods) ingested, but also circumstances; stress kills.
Two odd things, now...
One: there was an article in Psychology Today, back in the early '80's, that told of a child being born with an undetermined ailment. After much examination, it was determined that the child was born with a peptic ulcer, the type normally associated with long term stress. This was a tad difficult to explain in a newborn. Doctors began to assess the mother's life and lifestyle during the pregnancy, and discovered that the mother and father had separated shortly after she'd become pregnant. The father (or rather, donor) went a little, well... batshit insane, calling at all hours of the night, harassing the woman, throwing rocks through the windows, etc. (NOT a good role model...)
Two: on an episode of the television program CSI: the notion of the behavior of twins separated at birth was raised, and the (then) main character, "Gruesome" Grissom stated that it is no surprise about the twins. After all, he said, they see the world, literally, through the same eyes, hear with the same ears. Why is it so surprising that they would see the world the same, be attracted to the same type of person, be drawn to the same type of career?
Consider: the human body has a form of cellular memory, imprints made into the brain and body, electrochemical reactions invisible to the eye but deeply ingrained.
The human female, at birth, comes equipped with the entirety of her reproductive egg content. These eggs are present at birth, only so many to a customer, as it were. They remain a constant until menopause. These eggs, then, represent something suggested in Frank Herbert's Dune: the human female, being female, carries inside her a lasting echo of everything her life has brought her. Each new experience is added, cellular memories building, and thus, in a chemical form, attached to the egg, the pending generation.
The human male does not have sperm at birth. This is something that develops, and while the changes would be similar, the male creates billions of sperm, only to have them sent away. These seed cells are created every day, huge production but of only limited duration. It would appear that these cells are created as a form of cellular moments, created in a "now" that is ever-changing and at best temporary.
Perhaps, more than anything else, this is the primary difference between the XX (cellular memories) and the XY (cellular moments).
When in the graphic novel Watchmen, written by Alan Moore, one character speaks of the thermodynamic miracle of human life, he mentions the staggering odds of THIS woman meeting THIS man at THAT moment and somehow beating the odds and creating another human being.
Ask anyone that has had difficulty in conceiving and they will be glad to explain just how nigh impossible it is for a human female to get pregnant. Those odds are indeed staggering; the fact that there is human life at all is astonishing, but to see so many billions...
The only question you should be asking at this point is: So what?
Consider the family unit. Any family unit will do: yours, someone else's, whatever... A large family is best for these purposes. Ever wonder why one sibling is so different than the others? Not just the odd little physical quirks but those occasions when it appears that one (or more) is totally unlike the others that even the family themselves have to wonder: what the hell happened there? Everyone raised in the same house, same values, diet....
Well, how about: XX brought the past, everything up until that one moment of conception, and XY brought that moment of conception. That which was and has been and that which is combine, and at conception, each of us becomes in that instant that which shall be.
And then the process begins again...
This make more sense to me than most other theories.
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.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Racism and other forms of stupid human behavior
What is the essence of racism?
Some will say ignorance, and being ignorant and racist do indeed go together quite nicely. Ignorance, however, should never be confused with stupidity. I ignore others at my peril. That would be ignorant. Stupid, well: there is no cure for stupid, and from sad, painful experience I can say that stupid does leave a mark. In my case, often in the form of scars. Literal scars: stitches required; cause: stupidity.
Others will lean towards prejudice. That, too, goes nicely. To look at a person and judged them in advance (to pre-judge, the meaning of prejudice) does underscore the nature of this ugly issue.
What I have found, however, in long careful consideration, is that racism is founded on a more simple, more direct and far more destructive thing than either ignorance and prejudice combined. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced of this. I began to apply this notion to other forms of human stupidity like sexism, ageism, sizeism (yes, there is such a thing!) and a goodly portion of other ills, like hatred based on religion, politics and sexual preference...
Elitism.
It starts at the very bottom, the most simple of things. First, we notice the differences: you and I are not alike.
That should be obvious, of course, unless you are a middle aged overweight bald-by-choice white man of *debateable* intellect... We are different.
The problem, as I see it, starts with two notions, either separately or together.
A) Because we are Not The Same, I Am Superior To You, and:
B) Because we are Not The Same, You Are Inferior To Me.
Again, this may seem like a hair-splitting contest, but the more I thought about it, the more true it became.
I began to see how these two mindsets would cause what would normally appear to be a rational being to treat a fellow human in an abominable fashion. Consider, then, the following racist, sexist, etc., things that I have heard spoken aloud, to me, to my face. Changing only a certain few words, it becomes clear how deeply this is ingrained into the psyche of my country and its citizens....
White men cannot dance.
White men can't jump.
White people have no soul.
White people cannot get to heaven, because they are white and God won't forgive that.
And, of course...
White men have inferior sexual organs.
That last is literally hitting below the belt, but it was the comment prior that really flipped the switch from "We can have a rational conversation" to "Fuck you and yo momma both!!!"
See, I confessed the truth, was laid beneath the water as a dead thing and brought back up as a forgiven, living person. What I was being told, straightforward, was that due to the color of my skin, the forgiving power of the Christ, His shed blood and His message of hope and redemption was not available.
Even God cannot save the white man...
Before I go any further, this is where I have to say, in all honesty, that I have also heard similar verbal bilge from white people about those who are not white: being non-white, the "others" were not fully human, and salvation is only for humans.
Seriously? What manner of madness inspires this horseshit?
The same then began to apply to gender (All men are pigs, because they are men), sexual preferences (Damned breeders are destroying everything), religion and politics (fill in the blank with the Stupid Thing Of The Day from just about everyone)... it just goes on, and on, and on.
What is the real difference between myself as a "white" man and a "black" man? (The majority of the screen about these words is truly white and the words themselves are truly black and, frankly, I don't know any human being that is either color.) The answer is simple genetics: a DNA pattern that says I am one shade and someone else is another.
Just like eye color.
Would we discriminate against someone because of the color of their eyes? Would we make some kind of value judgement, demand retribution... due to ocular pigmentation?
Gender? XX or XY.
It goes on, and on...
I am (A) and you are (B) and therefore we are not the same. Bullshit. We ARE the same, just with some minor appearance and behavioral patterns. That does not make either of us better than the other.
Some will say ignorance, and being ignorant and racist do indeed go together quite nicely. Ignorance, however, should never be confused with stupidity. I ignore others at my peril. That would be ignorant. Stupid, well: there is no cure for stupid, and from sad, painful experience I can say that stupid does leave a mark. In my case, often in the form of scars. Literal scars: stitches required; cause: stupidity.
Others will lean towards prejudice. That, too, goes nicely. To look at a person and judged them in advance (to pre-judge, the meaning of prejudice) does underscore the nature of this ugly issue.
What I have found, however, in long careful consideration, is that racism is founded on a more simple, more direct and far more destructive thing than either ignorance and prejudice combined. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced of this. I began to apply this notion to other forms of human stupidity like sexism, ageism, sizeism (yes, there is such a thing!) and a goodly portion of other ills, like hatred based on religion, politics and sexual preference...
Elitism.
It starts at the very bottom, the most simple of things. First, we notice the differences: you and I are not alike.
That should be obvious, of course, unless you are a middle aged overweight bald-by-choice white man of *debateable* intellect... We are different.
The problem, as I see it, starts with two notions, either separately or together.
A) Because we are Not The Same, I Am Superior To You, and:
B) Because we are Not The Same, You Are Inferior To Me.
Again, this may seem like a hair-splitting contest, but the more I thought about it, the more true it became.
I began to see how these two mindsets would cause what would normally appear to be a rational being to treat a fellow human in an abominable fashion. Consider, then, the following racist, sexist, etc., things that I have heard spoken aloud, to me, to my face. Changing only a certain few words, it becomes clear how deeply this is ingrained into the psyche of my country and its citizens....
White men cannot dance.
White men can't jump.
White people have no soul.
White people cannot get to heaven, because they are white and God won't forgive that.
And, of course...
White men have inferior sexual organs.
That last is literally hitting below the belt, but it was the comment prior that really flipped the switch from "We can have a rational conversation" to "Fuck you and yo momma both!!!"
See, I confessed the truth, was laid beneath the water as a dead thing and brought back up as a forgiven, living person. What I was being told, straightforward, was that due to the color of my skin, the forgiving power of the Christ, His shed blood and His message of hope and redemption was not available.
Even God cannot save the white man...
Before I go any further, this is where I have to say, in all honesty, that I have also heard similar verbal bilge from white people about those who are not white: being non-white, the "others" were not fully human, and salvation is only for humans.
Seriously? What manner of madness inspires this horseshit?
The same then began to apply to gender (All men are pigs, because they are men), sexual preferences (Damned breeders are destroying everything), religion and politics (fill in the blank with the Stupid Thing Of The Day from just about everyone)... it just goes on, and on, and on.
What is the real difference between myself as a "white" man and a "black" man? (The majority of the screen about these words is truly white and the words themselves are truly black and, frankly, I don't know any human being that is either color.) The answer is simple genetics: a DNA pattern that says I am one shade and someone else is another.
Just like eye color.
Would we discriminate against someone because of the color of their eyes? Would we make some kind of value judgement, demand retribution... due to ocular pigmentation?
Gender? XX or XY.
It goes on, and on...
I am (A) and you are (B) and therefore we are not the same. Bullshit. We ARE the same, just with some minor appearance and behavioral patterns. That does not make either of us better than the other.
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