Film

Rosetta (1999)

Having seen two of the three most recent Dardenne efforts (2002’s The Son and 1996’s La Promesse), I figured I was prepared for their style. Handheld camera. Close-ups. Following behind characters, without being able to see their faces. What I was not prepared for was the relentless energy that this style can bring to the table. Maybe I just missed it in their other films, but Rosetta (1999) has a much greater immediacy to it than their other work. This, I think, is accomplished in two ways: First, editing. Second, Rosetta, the main character.

The opening scene is a great combination of these two factors. As Rosetta storms down hallways and stairwells on her way to who knows where in some non-descript, fluorescent building, the camera strains to keep up. When she goes through a doorway, sometimes the camera follows. At other times, it cuts ahead, almost as if to say that it couldn’t keep up, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, could they start again. These cuts are immediate, yet the individual shots have continuity to them, in that they continue with her journey through the building. Eventually, as the scene concludes with a confrontation with co-workers, the quick cuts, shaky camera, and extreme close-ups lend a sense of chaos that is appropriate to the character. And while this chaos is not always explicit through the rest of the film, it is always implicit, and through various circumstances, we receive hints about the kind of chaos that must be going on inside Rosetta as she tries to scrape by in life.

She has job troubles, family troubles, and friendship troubles, and has little going for her outside of sheer determination to make something happen for herself. An early scene makes this apparent, as she confronts her mother about some fish she is preparing for dinner. Mom acknowledges that the fish was given to her, which 18-year old Rosetta finds unacceptable. “We aren’t beggars!” she yells at her mother, all the while trying to wrest the fish from her to throw it in the garbage. Rosetta will make it on her own initiative, through her iron will and fierce work ethic. Every time she is offered help, she refuses. She asks for it only once, by my count, and it comes at a particularly low moment for her, when she asks her friend, Riquet, for boots.

This determination and perseverance in her character also reveal themselves in other ways. With the desire for a normal life, yet being surrounded by chaos, Rosetta builds a routine into her life. This includes a hiding place for her boots, her fish traps, and maybe even the waffle stand. She visits these places repeatedly, going through the same motions. These things have a practical purpose, but their placement in the film is at such odds with the hectic pace of the rest of her life that they are almost like touchstones, both for her and for us – finally, something familiar and expected. We know what she is doing with the boots and the traps. We know why she goes to the waffle stand (looking for work).

Yet even with all this structure she tries to build in, and though she finally gets the job, she does not achieve a normal life, at least not like what she had in mind. Even with getting what she wants, she is still confronted with the problems that plague her life, and that cannot be healed with a steady job. All of which leads to the affecting conclusion, where Rosetta’s will reaches its limit. She tries and tries and tries to carry the burden of her life alone, but she cannot. The brilliance of this scene by the Dardenne’s is in being able to illustrate this physically, as Rosetta attempts to get that canister home. As she plods through the RV park, we feel the weight of her burden, yet we cannot do anything to help her. And the only person around, Riquet (on his motorbike, with a use of sound in this scene to create a troubling tension), seems only to want to heap burning coals on her head in judgment. She finally falters, falling to the ground in tears and defeat. She has nothing left. Yet, at her lowest point, there is hope. And in those final few frames, we are treated to a wonderful picture of love and hope. And we have a moment to realize what is happening before the camera cuts away and the credits roll. An abrupt but deeply moving finale – sometimes you can’t make it on your own.

What Time Is It There? (2001)

The film opens with a medium shot inside a small home, which could be mistaken for a photograph were it not for an old man slowly moving up and down the hallway between his dining room, his kitchen, and his son’s bedroom. He has prepared a meal, and as it sits hot on the table, he calls out for his son, presumably to come and eat. He receives no answer, so he moves beyond the kitchen, onto the patio, and after moving a plant, he gazes out beyond the house.Next comes an immediate cut to his son, Hsaio-kang (Lee Kang-sheng) holding an urn, on his way to bury his father’s ashes. The cut between these two scenes is abrupt, creating a jarring sense of disillusionment that serves this moment of vulnerability well. The father’s gaze has gone unmet, and in this single cut, already there is a palpable sense of loss and guilt over things unsaid. The meaning is created through these scenes occurring one right after the other. Nothing much happens in either scene, yet when brought into contact with one another, the significance of each begins to become apparent.

What Time Is It There?, by director Tsai Ming-Liang is full of these strange juxtapositions, as the edits between scenes create both discontinuity and synchronicity. The scenes themselves contain little dialogue (and sometimes none at all). Often, not much of consequence seems to occur in any single scene. The acting is mostly nondescript, with the character of Mother (Lu Yi-Ching) getting the most opportunity to emote. All of this reminds me of the Bresson films I have seen, especially Au hasard Balthazar.

The story itself is rather simple. After Hsaio-kang’s father dies, he meets a woman, Shiang-chyi (Chen Shiang-chyi) while selling watches as a street vendor. She wants to buy his own watch, which he eventually agrees to, and then she treks off to Paris. Yet in his fragile state, his memory of her is strong, and he finds himself thinking about her quite often. He starts trying to track down French films, and eventually begins resetting clocks he sees to Paris time. She too longs for connection, sitting in a crowded French café alone, listening to her upstairs neighbors walk through their apartment, and so on. Hsaio-kang’s mother also suffers from loneliness, wanting nothing more than to welcome her husband home in his reincarnated body. This film is about going on a journey with these people in exploring certain aspects of the human experience. It is a glorious and beautiful trip, that concludes with a scene of such simplicity and beauty that I find deeply affecting, even if I am not sure what it all means.

A couple of other observations: After the first couple of scenes, as I settled in for long static shots, with little movement and dialogue, I was pleasantly surprised by the liberal use of comedy throughout the film. Often, comedic scenes involve characters going in one direction and for some reason, immediately turning around and going back the way they came. Hsaio-kang creeping into his hallway, or Shiang-chyi following a stranger on her way home come to mind as examples of this.

Second, it seems Tsai is especially concerned with the bodies and the physicality of his characters. It often feels as if the shot is pushing us to look closely at the actors. The nondescript acting and static shots no doubt encourage this phenomenon. I think here of Shiang-chyi’s brief friendship with the woman in Paris (Cecilia Yip). In one scene, Shiang-chyi simply looks at this woman as she moves ever closer to her. Yet the camera is firmly on Shiang-chyi’s face, and we are invited to look at her, to invest some thought and imagination as to what she might be thinking and feeling at that moment. This is a kind of filmmaking that challenges the viewer to engage what they see on the screen. I look forward to seeing more of Tsai’s films.

The Adventures of Prince Achmed (1926)

I heard about this a few months back, and thought it might be an interesting movie to experiment with. Its claim to fame is that it is the first feature length animated film. It was made in Germany in 1926, directed by a woman, Lotte Reiniger, and tells a tale loosely based on a story in Arabian Nights. Of course, being from the mid-20’s, the film is silent, with musical accompaniment and title cards, but if there ever was a film created for visuals, this might be it.The animation is beautifully rendered with cutouts. Each scene is meticulously formed by laying these cutouts on a lit and tinted glass. Then the characters are placed within the scene, and much like stop motion animation in films like Wallace and Gromit and Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride, they are shot, then moved, then shot, then moved. The characters all have movable limbs, mouths, fingers, etc. The animals are movable as well. But the effect of these figures on the tinted glass is quite stunning, and must have been quite alien to the movie-going public of Germany. I was shocked at the level of detail that went into each scene. The film is full of beautiful and intricate designs.

The story follows Prince Achmed, who is given a magic, flying horse by a magician trying to woo the Prince’s sister. Because Achmed has no experience with such a creature, it flies and flies before he can figure out how to control it. By this time, he lands on some sort of magical island filled with women. While here, he meets his love, who is being held captive on the island by demonic creatures. He eventually takes her with him, and now pursued by the demons and the magician (who had no luck with the King’s daughter), Achmed must fight them off, keep hold of his love, and somehow make it back to his kingdom. Along the way he meets strange creatures, witches, and even Aladdin (pictured above). It all adds up to an enjoyable film presented in unique and beautiful fashion.

Hell House (2001)

The Film
In the documentary Hell House (2001), director George Ratliff has made a film about religion that is not preachy, presents its subjects with fairness, and gives the viewer an opportunity to make up their own mind about what they are seeing. And the situation is so compelling, that it really is difficult to avoid taking a position.

The film spends its first half introducing not only the concept behind Hell House, but also the people involved with it. Some of the people we meet through more extended interviews. Others get snippets here and there in front of a glaring white background. It then takes us chronologically through the preparation, rehearsals, construction, and final touches of Hell House. The last half of the film allows us to experience much of what one might encounter going through it as a paying customer. We are first taken into a school classroom scene, where a young man named Jeremy shoots himself (using a real gun with blanks, mind you) in front of his class (a pretty obvious allusion to the Pearl Jam song of the same name). Having killed himself, Jeremy is quickly dragged from the room by a demon, taken to Hell because of his suicide.

Onlookers are also treated to scenes of a father beating up and killing members of his family, a young girl raped at a rave, who then goes on to explicitly reject Christ and kill herself, and a drunk driving incident where the driver is taken to hell. Most extreme for many is a hospital scene in which a young girl has just aborted her baby, and before dying, cries out for God to save her (which He does). In the bed next to her, a homosexual man dying of AIDS rejects God, blaming Him for his pain, and as he dies, is taken to Hell. All of this leads to a scene in Hell, where those same people are being tormented, with the few who called upon God being taken to a bright and shining Heaven.

All of this leads up to a presentation of the Gospel in a plain room by a tough, straight talking man. He gives people a few seconds to make a decision for Christ by walking through a door off to the side. The rest wait a few moments more, and are then taken out through that same door, walking by all the people who have just made some kind of decision. Reactions from people leaving are varied, with some people in the final room shaking their heads in approval. Others who leave voice their discontent.

In the note included with the DVD, Ratliff describes his film as “even-handed” and I absolutely agree. It would be so easy for many people to hear about this event and immediately conclude that the people putting it on must be kooky and back woods freaks. Ratliff doesn’t make it so easy for us who’ve seen the film to draw that conclusion. He presents the people who put on Hell House with fairness, talking about things that are important to them, and involving themselves in an event that they believe in. And he draws us into their world by showing us things about them that connect with the common, human experience. I think of the daughter taking forever to blow dry her hair. Or the boy who’s come to pick up his girl, and even though it’s raining, he hasn’t thought to bring an umbrella and seems unable or unwilling to figure something else out. Or even a guy like Thad, who seems really concerned with finding out the name of the date rape drug for the filmmakers, wanting everything to be official. We can relate to these people because we’ve had these sort of common, everyday experiences. I also think of the damage done these people in their past – rapes, adultery, drugs. They have suffered, and have found something at this church that is helping them connect to God. This is handled in compelling fashion, and I’m glad to know they have found something that is helping them.

And yet these are all people doing something most of us have never even considered: putting on a haunted house with its purpose being not simply to scare people, but to scare the Hell out of them – literally. They take to their task with such vigor, and Ratliff’s presentation of them as funny, driven, and sometimes damaged people adds a dimension to this film that takes it out of an “issue” documentary, and into something much more interesting: an exploration of human behavior, and how this group of people chooses to articulate the answers to the big questions in their lives. We begin to get a sense not only of what they think about God and the world, but also of how they have dealt with their own painful and/or sinful experiences. And all of this brings me back to those intermittent scenes with members of the church in front of the bright white background. It’s as if Ratliff by default identifies them as people of the light, because that is how they identify themselves. He refuses to judge, merely attempting to best present them as they are, and letting the viewer make the judgment. The more I think on it, and the more I see it, the more I am convinced this is truly a great film.

Theological Reflection

Having said all of that, the film’s portrayal of the Hell House itself is akin to a punch in the gut. People are dying throughout. The guns are real, and the gunshots are piercing. Demons float in and out of scenes, with an angel entering only when someone has cried out to God for help. The world of Hell House is decidedly dark. The light only breaks in after someone asks for aid. Otherwise, God is absent from the world. He has turned it over to Satan and his minions, and everyone is out of luck unless they take the initiative and make the move toward God. The Pelagian roots of this kind of theology are plain, but I frankly find that to be less problematic than the larger issue (in my mind) of presenting a world in which God is absent. I’m not sure these well-meaning folks have any idea what that kind of world would look like. I’m not sure I do either, but I have to believe it is far worse than anything they are presenting.

But the problems do not end there. In coming to issues more closely and explicitly associated with the Christian gospel, historically, Christianity has always confessed that one’s salvation is based solely on the work of Christ. Yet, when in several of the scenes, people are taken to Hell for their poor choices, the implication is clear – make good choices and go to Heaven; make bad ones, and you can go to Hell. This places the work of salvation into the hands of the individual. And because of the way they sometimes show the negative choices as being determinative of one’s salvation, the way to God becomes more about avoiding “The Big List of Bad Things Christians Shouldn’t Do” and less about responding to the invitation the Christ makes through the cross.

Finally, in writing scenes with questionable conclusions, in portraying demons as in control of the earth, and in a world where a single poor choice leads to eternal damnation, the creators of Hell House set themselves up in opposition to the world. There are no Christians in the world of Hell House, because all the Christians have huddled up together away from the world and created their own group of people that avoid “The Big List of Bad Things Christians Shouldn’t Do.” They occasionally break their huddle to try and get others to come be a part of it. But they really want nothing to do with the world.

The film ends with two young ladies vocalizing what has been implicit throughout. They say: “With rape, with suicide, with abortion, with homosexuality, with school shootings, with all these things…The world is the worst that it’s ever been; it’s an ugly, evil world. And that’s a scary thing, but at the same time, it’s a good thing because that means that Jesus is close to coming and he’s about to come back for his bride.” Certainly they are right to note the heinous evils of the world, but there are two root problems here. One, evil and sin are something other people do (by and large, these are not people who shoot up their school or commit rapes). Where are the more pervasive evils of our world – pride, avarice, envy, and lust? They do not exist in the world of Hell House. Second (and this is crucial to the problematic theology behind Hell House), the perspective of these folks, is that there is nothing good about the world. It is simply evil and ugly and fallen. Yet this forgets the notion that God created the world good. According to Christians throughout history, the world does not become evil as a result of sin. It is instead tainted by it. This is where theological problems really overwhelm Hell House. This kind of “spirit is good,” “world is bad” kind of theology falls into Gnosticism, a set of beliefs from which historic Christianity separates itself. And because Hell House presents such a distorted view of reality, it seems to me they also present a distorted gospel message, one I think much of Christendom would want to distance itself from.

I have no doubt that Hell House is run by well-meaning people who have great intentions. I also would be willing to bet that in the many years they have been doing this, quite a number of genuine decisions have been made. But is this a results at any cost kind of thing? Do Christians really want to go down that path – achieving results at the expense of truth? I would think not. Hell House remains a tremendous film for portraying these people and issues with such heart. The kinds of conversations it spurs are worth having, and for a film to be able to encourage something like that is really heartening.

Touch of Evil (1958)

It’s been a busy month, what with out of town trips and dissertation progress, but while I have seen a number of films throughout October, I haven’t really felt compelled to write on anything. That is, until tonight, as I have recently returned to an old favorite, Orson Welles’ Touch of Evil (1958). While I realize that Citizen Kane is his film that is canonized, I think I might like this one a bit better.

The same directorial flair is present in both films, though one could argue that it is even extended in Touch of Evil. This time through the film, I was constantly marveling at this shot or that angle. There’s a boldness to the camerawork that is genuinely exhilarating, yet it only adds to and doesn’t distract from the rest of the film (this boldness reminds me of certain moments in P.T. Anderson’s work, especially Magnolia and Boogie Nights). I think of a scene near the end of the film, when Menzies (Joseph Calleia) tries to bring his partner Quinlan (Welles) outside, away from the music in the brothel. The camera sits outside, under the edge of the porch, and Quinlan walks out, almost on top of the camera – he towers above us. But then there’s an abrupt shift, and the camera strikes upward quickly, as it follows Quinlan and Menzies out into the street, looking down on them. This simple switch communicates one of the many contradictions in Quinlan’s character – he is a strong, towering, menacing figure, yet as he walks off with Menzies, approaching his end, he becomes just another figure in the street, on an even keel with his weaker partner.

An aside: This kind of thing is working all through the film, I think, and we therefore have a film in which the form contributes to the meaning. These are the most exciting films for me these days, as I begin to see more and more that truth and beauty are often (best?) communicated without the use of words.

Also I love the interplay between the two leads: Quinlan, the dirty cop north of the border, and Vargas (Charlton Heston), the man most concerned with upholding the law south of the border. The film travels effortlessly between north and south, until they become nearly indistinguishable. In the same way, we go back and forth between Quinlan and Vargas, and while they look so distinct from one another at first, they end up being more similar than anyone could have guessed. I find the change in Vargas later in the film particularly interesting. All through the investigation, he harps on following the law, upholding it at all costs. When he sees Quinlan bending and breaking rules, he’s off to investigate and nail him to the wall. Yet, when it comes to Vargas’ wife being kidnapped, suddenly, law flies out the window, and he roughs up whoever is in front of him until he gets some answers. But the key here is that it’s his wife that triggers this. How unlike Quinlan is he then, since it seems most of his issues hearken back to the incident with his wife? All this leads to one of things I love so dearly about this film – it’s picture of humanity demands empathy for the other, because as good as we are, we are still human, and capable of terrible things, just like the worst offenders. This is such an interesting and morally complex film. I look forward to revisiting it soon.

Sanjuro (1962)

I’ve long admired Akira Kurosawa for his skill at combining so many of the elements of filmmaking into a cohesive and compelling whole. His photography is top-notch, as each scene is painstakingly situated. I am often struck by how he frames his shots, placing characters in relation to one another, using the foreground and background to reveal things even as the scene progresses, and returning to certain shots throughout a film for one reason or another. Also, I admire his use of music, his dramatic sense, the suspense in many of his films, the detailed characterizations, and even some laughter in certain films.

None have made me laugh though, as long and loudly as Sanjuro, which I finally caught up with recently. Toshiro Mifune is a known commodity, of course, and I figured that in the spirit of the earlier, Yojimbo, that the film would elicit some chuckles. How surprised I was then, with the portrayal in this film of the unnamed samurai played by Mifune. The most obvious is the sarcasm, which comes out from Mifune’s “Sanjuro” with regularity. But comic moments arise with the hostage, with the nine inept swordsmen, with the city officials, and even with the key villain, Muroto, whose forehead appears larger and more pronounced than anyone in the film. Of course, why wouldn’t it be, since he is known as “the brain” of the operation? The level of irony here is almost stifling, as Kurosawa pushes the conventions of the genre. It seems as if he’s poking fun at what his partnership with Mifune is based on. No doubt, the public had expectations, when such a popular team worked together and Kurosawa seems to be intentionally subverting those expectations. Yet he does so in such a brilliant manner, than one cannot help but appreciate the craft on display.

This irony climaxes in the final exchange, as the two swordsmen face off. The audience has no doubt had their fun, yet now, our hero is met with a master, and we fear for him. As they face off, many seconds pass without action, and then it is over quickly, but not without a last jab at convention – the dying man spews blood at an inhuman rate. It is clearly overdone, and yet, even through the irony, a moral weightiness lingers in that final scene. As the samurai walks away from the battle, he is clearly tired of the killing and recognizes the deep flaw in himself to constantly finish disputes with his sword. Yet he is a samurai, a man who lives by the sword, and it’s almost as if he is doomed to that fate, a wandering, sword-fighting existence. So in the midst of the comedy, we are left with the sobering reality of this character. What a great tension that is.

The Thin Red Line (1998)

Just caught this for a second time, and there are so many things to talk about in such a beautiful and complex film. However, it struck me this time what an incredible meditation this is on the beauty of the divine seen in and through the world. And while many would want to see the beauty in the gorgeous landscapes that Malick paints with his camera, what is most striking to me about the film is how it forces us to consider the witness of the horrors of war to the same glorious divine. After all the suffering, killing, and blood-curdling screaming, the men leave the island. And as they look back on it, in the distance, we hear the final narration: “Oh, my soul, let me be in you now. Look out through my eyes, look out at the things you’ve made. All things shining.”

The things that have been made by their creator, they shine. And what we see in this film, it seems to me, is the tension created when one witnesses that shining in all things, even in the most dire of circumstances. To me, that film portrays a disturbing truth about reality, and maybe even about God: that even in the midst of terrible evils, the creation (including humanity) shines, it reflects his glory – even as we kill and maim our fellow man. But how can we see glory in something as painful and disturbing as war? This gets to the heart of what might be the greatest problem for humans in all of history to deal with – the problem of evil. As portrayed in this film, evil is definitely evil, but the glory shines through it as well. A line by Witt (Jim Caviezel) earlier in the film states this more clearly: “One man looks at a dying bird and thinks there’s nothing but unanswered pain. That death’s got the final word, it’s laughing at him. Another man sees that same bird, feels the glory, feels something smiling through it.”

Whenever I reflect on these topics, I return to a quotation by C.S. Lewis, in A Grief Observed, which is a series of journal entries around the time his wife, Joy, succumbed to cancer. His words express my own middling position on all this. He says: “Not that I am (I think) in much danger of ceasing to believe in God. The real danger is of coming to believe such dreadful things about Him. The conclusion I dread is not ‘So there’s no God after all,’ but ‘So this is what God is really like. Deceive yourself no longer.’”

Look at Me (2004)

This is the second directorial effort for Agnes Jaoui, and it shares a number of thematic similarities with her first, The Taste of Others (2000). I find her two films to be stimulating, textured, and unique in the way they capture the ins and outs of relationships. And when I say that, I am not simply referring to dating or marriage, but to parent/child, business, and plain old friendships.

In Look at Me, which involves the intertwining stories of several related characters, Jaoui explores all of these, and one of the key points of tension is the degree to which no one seems to be able to communicate with anyone else. Oh, there’s talking, and plenty of it – but the characters never really seem to be able to connect with anyone else, often due to the inordinate amount of distraction in their lives. What is so terribly sad about their situations, is that nearly all these people have others in their life that want to know them deeply, that want to love them in spite of themselves. But each of these people is so caught up in their own life and pursuits. They are so focused on what they want, that they miss what they already have.

Of note here is that a simple act of kindness near the beginning of the film sets the stage for the transformative experiences a number of the characters have later. Yet, this act is such a throwaway moment for this character, that she doesn’t realize the significance of it, neither for herself nor for the person she helps. Jaoui frames the film with this scene at the beginning, and another like it at the films conclusion. In doing so, I think it’s clear that some kind of transformation occurs in this character, that at least this person has begun to see outside herself.

But I think the transformation goes further than that. Jaoui seems particularly attuned to her female characters, and I find it interesting that in general they come off looking quite a bit better than the men, excepting one. The women are among the first to bring some clarity into the lives of these people. They are the ones who take positive action, in an effort to purify relationships that have been poisoned by self-centeredness.

And in thinking about these ideas of characters transforming, what I love about Look at Me (as well as her previous film), is that it is clear change will only occur as people are in relationship with one another. That ultimately, any transformation that comes into someone’s life comes because they were with people, they struggled through difficult times in the relationship, and were better people on the other side of it. But don’t get the wrong idea: Jaoui is not so pie in the sky that she tacks on some big happy ending where everyone has their big breakthrough. Far from it. Instead, she hints at changes through simple actions, preferring to leave things subtle and understated. This brings the viewer into the film – we have to kind of put together for ourselves where these people are headed. Some are going one way, some another. That resembles life. It resembles the people I know. And maybe that’s what I like so much about Jaoui’s films – they’re filled with human beings.

The Machinist (2004)

I caught up with this the other night after a couple of recommendations from friends. This is another of those films I think I should love, but end up merely admiring, feeling a bit distant from it (it is also one of those that you need to see before I ruin it for you here). I appreciate the craft involved here, from the storytelling to the photography to the Hitchcock-like (or is that Hermann?) score.

The film is most famous for the lengths star Christian Bale went to in preparing for the part, evidently shedding a third of his body weight to achieve a skeletal 120 pounds. It’s somewhat unfortunate that the film is known for this, because while it adds to the creepy atmosphere of the film, in simply focusing on his looks, one might miss out on the more interesting elements of the piece.

The Dostoevskian nature of the story stands out, as a man (Trevor) descends into his psyche, and he (as by proxy, we) begin to lose touch with reality. Early on, the film hints at the dream-like nature of many of his experiences. The clock is always stuck on 1:30 in the cafe. The mysterious Ivan just kind of appears out of nowhere, complete with thunderstorm in tow (which was digitally enhanced, it seemed, and therefore didn’t work as well as it should have). These oddities are a result of his insomnia, as Trevor notes that he hasn’t slept in a year. So then what is the source of the insomnia?

Well, that is the mystery of the film, and it is solved in a pretty satisfying way. Ultimately, we see that Trevor is an insomniac because he is wracked with guilt, over his part in a hit and run accident involving a child. Throughout the film, he is presented with a crossroad, three separate times. The first two, he chooses the path of darkness and concealment (the road to hell, as it’s called in the carnival ride), which drives him deeper into his guilt and further from the truth. However, while driving in his vehicle at the end, he chooses to go right, which is away from the airport and escape, and toward the police station, confession, and ultimately salvation. This then is Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment with the hooker, the guilt, and the added twist of not knowing the principle character had committed the crime.

And while the twist is interesting, and makes for a good ride, I think it ultimately takes away from the story. For a character like this to work, one has to be able to get into his head. He is the protagonist of the film, but we are always fairly distant from him because not even he knows why he is how he is. So, the film sets up this great atmosphere of mystery. It is accompanied by a great performance from Bale and a subdued score reminiscent of the great Bernard Hermann. With all these positives, I should love this film – yet because of the distance of the lead character, the payoff is not what it should be in a film like this – when you come through the darkness and find the light at the end of the tunnel.

The Son (Le Fils) (2002)

I wish I could say I have a lot of interesting and insightful things to say about this film, treasures and perspectives that have not yet been mined by writers superior to me. I’m not sure that I do, but I simply love this film, and felt the need to jot a few lines about it here. (BTW, if you haven’t seen this yet, stop now, go see it, then read this and give me a call. This film is too good to have that first experience tainted by my ramblings.)

The brothers Dardenne have crafted what seems to me an extraordinarily tight film. There are no throw away lines. There are no throw away moments. With this film like few others, I feel like every image and word spoken need to be there. It’s been remarked by more than a few folks that the camera follows behind Olivier too much. What is so damn interesting about the back of his head that we need to keep seeing it?

In my mind, it serves at least two functions. First, it creates suspense. As we follow behind, weaving around corners and through hallways, we are forced to wonder what he’s coming up on next. Often, he obscures our vision of what he sees. At other times, our vision is obscured by a door, a window frame, a wall. This obscuring both creates tension, for we feel he is doing something important and it forces us to begin to imagine just what it is he might be doing. Thus we become more engaged, and the tension of the moment rises a bit.

Second, by placing the camera so often behind Olivier, we are forced to relate to him – we experience this film through his eyes. We are therefore able to enter into his decision-making process, at times. And so for the bulk of the first half of the film, we are looking mostly at him. Later, when he is joined by his apprentice, we see the boy through Olivier’s eyes, both for better and for worse.

And of course, this experience of things through Olivier brings us into the center of this film, that which makes it such a universal work of art. In those final scenes, as Olivier so clearly struggles in his relationship with this boy, we ride the roller coaster of his emotions. We see the growing frustration with the boy, as he slams the brakes, and later snaps at the idea of being a guardian to the boy. We see him moved to intense anger in the car as he questions the boy about his past. We see that anger continue to seethe as he slides the ruler to the boy as they cut the planks. And of course, we see all that come to a head in the conclusion, only to see the anger subside, and the boy resuming his place alongside his teacher.

Many will say that this is a film about forgiveness. One cannot argue with that assessment. That process works itself out in Olivier. And the only way it happens is for one to have some meaningful contact with the offending party. But the true greatness of this film is that it goes beyond forgiveness, to another level entirely. Forgiveness merely paves the way that Olivier might adopt him as a son. He will make him his own, and care for him as his own and give him all that is his – not as a replacement of his biological child, but because of the death of that child.