I just contributed a piece over at Filmwell. Here’s a sampling:
Whit Stillman’s The Last Days of Disco came out over a decade ago, but its directionless youth who overestimate themselves seem even more prescient today than they did in 1998. That Stillman avoids making his characters hateful or unlikable while eliciting laughter and smiles is a testament to his skill as a writer and director, and to the film’s lasting place as a witty comedy rather than a wordy drama.
From Chaplin’s excellent 1918 short film, The Immigrant.
The first of Sergio Leone’s “Man with No Name” trilogy, A Fistful of Dollars stars Clint Eastwood in one of his most iconic roles, a fast-drawing, occasional-talking man who seems more a force of nature than a human being. He and his gun make an immediate impression on the small town of San Miguel, which has been crippled under the strain of a war between two criminal gangs. The film, a largely faithful remake of Akira Kurosawa’s original samurai picture, Yojimbo, is different in more than just the historical setting. Where Kurosawa’s film takes a detached, though at times, darkly comic view of the violence wrought by the nameless samurai, Leone’s film dwells on the sadistic pleasure the Rojo gang finds in decimating their opponents.
Two scenes, similar in effect, stand out in this regard: an early scene where Ramon Rojo murders an entire French army unit with a single machine gun, and a later scene where Ramon and a few members of his gang light the Baxter house afire and stand outside with guns drawn, shooting down their opponents as they flee the encroaching flames. In each scene, Leone not only shows the helpless group mowed down by bullets, but he highlights the faces of the shooters in close-up as they perpetrate their crimes. The joy and excitement is strikingly evident in their faces as they fire away, believing those moments to be decisive victories in their battle for control of the criminal enterprises in the region.
Leone highlights the shooters in each scene by repeatedly cutting back and forth between their faces and the carnage left in their wake. But what is the cumulative impact of sequences like these, sequences that use brisk cutting to combine looks of pleasure with falling and flailing bodies amid the spray of bullets?
On the face of it, it seems fairly ambiguous, which is exactly the problem. We know the Rojo gang, and Ramon in particular, are a violent and terrible group of people who take advantage of others for their own gain. That fact alone may create the necessary distance between the viewer and the Rojo gang so that we can pass judgment on their actions.
However, the Rojo gang is clearly not alone in their predilection for self-serving behavior. The opposing Baxter family, the military units, and even the (anti)hero all fall into that category as well. On top of that, when Leone chooses a way of shooting (!) these two scenes that uses quick cuts to combine moments of pleasure with moments of violence, the result is a couple of adrenaline pumping scenes, scenes that work more on feeling than on narrative. In that sense, Leone’s film, unlike Kurosawa’s, doesn’t seem to give the viewer any distance from which to judge the Rojo gang. These scenes muddy the waters, giving viewers an opportunity to enter into the violent minds of killers from afar.
This formal combination of intense pleasure and visceral violence has become standard operating procedure in action films these days, but at the time of Leone’s film, the tactic was relatively new. Eastwood’s anti-hero also offers little in the way of a strong presence for goodness, rather functioning as a power greater than the Rojos, come to exact some kind of neutral, karmic justice. The film even underplays the Rojo’s interaction with the village woman, someone they presumably kidnapped for more than her abilities at cooking and cleaning.
So where the film can distance the viewer from the evil of the Rojos, or play up the goodness of Eastwood, it refuses. In fact, it seems to take pains to move all the action downward on a spectrum of good and evil. The world in the film is one of great evil, of power exercised and checked, and where little or no good exists outside of self-interest. This cloudy moral universe means the viewer ends up having little basis within the film on which to make a strong judgment against the Rojos, even or especially within those scenes that highlight their sadistic thirst for vengeance and blood.
So while the film remains an unquestionably strong entertainment more than thirty years after its release, its disturbing use of subjective and sadistic violence means Leone’s film leaves a bitter aftertaste.
Mervyn LeRoy’s stunning 1932 drama, I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang stands as one of the landmarks of “social justice” filmmaking. The film follows the tragic story of James Allen (Paul Muni), a recent veteran of World War I. Before the war he worked a clerical job in a factory, but the upheaval in Europe created an upheaval in his aspirations as well. With a newfound desire to work in a career outside the regimented life of the factory or the military, he leaves his mother and brother for the road, hoping to establish himself in construction and ultimately, engineering.
However, Allen’s hopes for a life of spontaneity sputter on the long and arduous road to keeping a job. He struggles to find consistent work, and ultimately gets caught up in a robbery where the gunman forces him at gunpoint to participate. Sentenced to the chain gang for ten years, Allen bristles under the unjust punishment he’s received and comes to realize he’s found himself in a more regimented life than he ever thought possible. What he’d suffered so long to get away from he now found himself subject to for the next ten years of his life.
LeRoy’s film really takes off in the chain gang sequence as his camera expressively lingers on the heavy chains, the dirty surroundings, and the faces of the convicts. Some are murderers. Others thieves. But, the camera suggests, all are human.
However, chained to their beds for the night, chained to the trucks that carry them to the job site, and chained one foot to another, they seem more like zoo animals than people. Within weeks, Allen begins actively planning his escape. He finds his opportunity after only a few months and successfully escapes to Chicago, where he establishes himself as a hard working member of a construction company. After a few years, he’s one of the young stars in the city, giving speeches to the chamber of commerce and attending dinners at classy clubs.
However, having to live under a false name, and in a marriage to a woman who essentially blackmails him, dooms Allen to more of the same. That Allen is forced to live under another set of metaphorical chains in his newfound privileged world suggests something about the way injustice permeates all of modern society. Not even money or prestige buys freedom for the innocent. Eventually, when injustice gets the best of Allen, he turns into what the society has been trying to prevent—a criminal.
LeRoy’s film suggests that the desire to live outside the regimented standards of the world places one up against a life-sapping challenge. Allen wants little more than to contribute to society in his own way rather than the way that’s been provided for him. But I Am a Fugitive . . . has a dark, shockingly cynical perspective on life in modern society. It suggests that the world we’ve created for ourselves of our own free will seeks to stamp out all individuality. This world demands conformity, and those who do not comply will be punished.
In that sense, there’s almost an apocalyptic dread seeping through the film, one that LeRoy expresses beautifully in the film’s final shot. As Allen stands in an alley unshaven and wild-eyed, whispering in a hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice to his former fiancé, he slowly fades into the darkness. Our modern world, so full of wonderful technological marvels, crisp new clothes, and cultured people, also has a dark side, one that preaches conformity and threatens our value as individuals hoping to make unique contributions to our world. It’s funny, but LeRoy’s film seems to be required viewing more now than it was even in the chain gang era of 1932.
Michael Mann’s latest film, Public Enemies, pits two serious, brooding, and exacting minds against each other—one, Melvin Purvis, a tight-lipped lawman with justice on the brain, the other, John Dillinger, a likable bank robber that consistently eludes capture. The movie delivers on its promise of genre thrills, but in typical Mann fashion, there’s much more going on here than a simple series of action set pieces or even a documentary-style depiction of Purvis’s pursuit of Dillinger.
Unfortunately, Mann’s film has taken some heat for its many changes to the original historical material—major events are out of their historical, chronological order, Purvis comes across in the film as a better lawman than he actually was, and the cinematic Dillinger lacks the flair that he so readily showed during his crime spree. But these criticisms miss the point of Mann’s film. Were he attempting to offer a journalistically accurate record of events, he might be worth criticizing on these issues.
It seems clear though that Mann’s interest lies less in an accurate record of events and more in the presentation of two human beings whose similarities far outweigh their differences. Despite his criminal lifestyle, Dillinger was known to be a kind of heroic, Robin Hood figure, loved by the common man who saw in Dillinger someone sticking it to the greedy bankers. On the other side, Purivs had his own hero reputation, one that earned him the job of leading the chase for Dillinger in the first place. Yet when Mann looks at these two men, he sees a hero in neither of them—at least they’re not heroes in the way we’ve come to expect our heroes to act. No, Mann seems to want to show us a more personal and intimate—rather than mythic—side of this historical event. The subjective camera and the mumbled dialogue stand as two of the chief formal evidences of his intentions in this regard.
Early on in the film, the standard hero-villain narrative looks to be firmly in place. The first scenes of Dillinger and Purvis reveal their successes. Dillinger calmly breaks into prison so that he can turn around and break out the members of his gang still behind bars. The plan is exquisite, and while others go too far or a man gets shot, the plan results in Dillinger with most of his old gang back. Purvis also has a vivid, early success as he tracks down and calmly kills a fleeing Pretty Boy Floyd. He never flinches, even with bullets wildly flying in his direction. Purvis takes the lead, places himself in harm’s way before the other officers, and, like Dillinger, he gets the job done.
Both of these men seem to be coming from a firm position of strength, one that solidifies their role in society. They each know their role and fulfill it accordingly—Dillinger robs banks and Purvis chases him down. Each of these men operate based on ideals outside themselves. While Dillinger dreams of days in idyllic peace far from the towns of the upper Midwest, Purvis pursues that ever-present ideal of justice on behalf of the people.
The two men also have certain rules that bind or limit their work. Dillinger plans to achieve his goal without robbing banks with strangers or in desperation, while Purvis intends to catch Dillinger through every available legal means necessary. Though these two figures seem to embody their heroic roles fully, it’s in these rules or codes of behavior that the cracks in their heroism emerge. Neither can live up to the standards they’ve set for themselves, in part because both men are limited in their powers. Mann’s film shows us clearly that these men are not superheroes or demigods. They’re unable to marshal the power necessary to achieve their desired reality.
Dillinger starts losing people from his gang, either to prison or to death. Other supporters turn their backs on him. Dillinger can do nothing about either, too busy making sure he too doesn’t fall. For his part, Purvis, despite his modern methods of investigation, cannot capture and keep Dillinger in custody. He even has to take on another agent, a man more experienced in chasing the likes of Dillinger. These realities clearly illustrate both Dillinger’s and Purvis’ limitations and force them both to break their rules—Dillinger to work with strangers under desperation, and Purvis to bend immigration law to persuade an informant to work for him.
Both of these men fail to keep their respective codes. Both also fail to attain their ultimate goals. Dillinger doesn’t escape to his idyllic hideaway. Purvis fails to kill Dillinger. Mann’s film takes the traditional hero-villain narrative, places it in a historical crime genre, and instead of amping up the thrills and chills, he shows us the tragedy of the human condition: no matter how hard we try to live up to our standards of perfection, we fail.
We might be on the side of justice or the side of crime but at the end of the day we’re all human, so we all fail. In and of themselves, neither the pursuit of justice nor the pursuit of crime gets us closer to our goals. God help us.
What makes a happy man? From writer-director James Gray (who gave us the underrated 2001 film, The Yards), Two Lovers takes for its subject a single emotionally-damaged young man utterly lost in his search for happiness. Capably played by Joaquin Phoenix, Leonard begins the film by attempting to drown himself, not the first time he’s tried suicide, we’ll eventually discover. Unsuccessful, he immediately finds himself in the sights of his well-meaning, matchmaking parents.
Through them he meets Sandra, the delicate daughter of a family friend. Of Jewish heritage like Leonard, she promises a stable life approved by Leonard’s parents, though with that stability will come routine and responsibility. Sandra will also provide a constant reminder of Leonard’s former fiancée, a woman he loved deeply but whose parents broke off the engagement.
The connection between Leonard and Sandra is evident, but quickly fades when confronted with the radiant glow of Leonard’s damaged neighbor, Michelle. Leonard meets Michelle on the landing in front of his apartment as she listens to a man cuss her out from upstairs. That it might not actually be her father never occurs to Leonard, who’s too busy basking in her beauty and bowled over by her interest in talking with him. But her anything-goes attitude coupled with her status as a Gentile (outside the strict structure of his family life) offers Leonard something different, a move away from the painful past. Michelle draws him to look outside his world of family and tradition for the happiness he so desperately seeks.
The film proceeds by following Leonard’s alternating affections for Sandra and then Michelle. Meanwhile, Leonard’s emotional instability seemingly lays in wait, preparing to rear its ugly head at an inopportune moment. That Gray holds that card for so long without playing it is a testament to his skill as a writer, for it leaves the film with a palpable sense of life and death drama playing out before us. Further, Gray’s careful observation of his characters, his mobile camera, and his occasional evocative framing give the film a thoughtful air that draws the viewer into the central dilemma of the film.
In the end, Two Lovers presents Leonard with a choice between the film’s titular characters—the fun-loving, beautiful, but unstable Michelle, or the quiet, delicate, but supportive Sandra. One holds the promise of throwing off the constraints of family and expectations for the opportunity to fulfill his every desire. The other offers a simple, if unexciting life filled with hard work, children, and obligation. Unsurprisingly, Leonard ultimately chooses the former, just at the moment Michelle’s unstable situation places her out of Leonard’s reach. Leonard, jilted by the woman he believes is his true love, stands alone in a barred courtyard with only two choices before him: Sandra or death.
Gray’s deft move from the choice between two women to the choice between life and death highlights the significance of this moment for Leonard. That he ultimately chooses life seems less a sign of resignation and more an indication of a profound truth—that perseverance through suffering produces hope. In hope all things seem possible. Even finding happiness in a life that doesn’t promise to fulfill every whim and desire he might have.
For those interested, I contributed a piece over at Filmwell on Taxi to the Dark Side. You can find it here.
Directed by Susanne Bier, Brothers follows the trajectories of two lives in opposition, yet joined by blood. Michael is the typical favored son—his parents look on him with pride for his successful military career, his wife dotes in response to his attentiveness, and his kids laugh often in his presence. However, Jannik, the younger, seems everything his brother is not—just released from prison, gruff and overly sensitive personality, and spends more time in the company of bartenders and prostitutes than with those who care for him most.
The film takes these two men and flips them—placing one on a trajectory toward new life, while the other’s fate takes a turn for the worse toward death. Bier’s style, reminiscent of the Dogme films that have come out in the last ten years, relies on handheld cameras and natural lighting. Bier ensures that the handheld camera, which in many films detracts from the end product, contributes to the emotional immediacy of the film. This still feels a little like cheating, like Bier is taking a shortcut to a series of stirring catharses for the audience.
Though Brothers dictates some of our feeling to us, the narrative itself largely remains compelling at a fundamental level. One might quibble with an unlikely coincidence here or there, but the arc of these two young men is one played out in numerous stories and myths throughout human history—stuck in the mire, humanity always hopes for something more out of life.
Flannery O’Connor once said that “redemption is meaningless unless there is cause for it in the actual life we live.” Brothers offers cause.
These images from the film seem appropriate for this time of year—early spring, with fresh leaves sprouting on trees and, if you can imagine, the call of young sparrows in their boughs.
I first discovered director Jia Zhang-Ke through a recommendation from Chicago Reader critic Jonathan Rosenbaum, who expressed his fondness for Jia’s 2004 film, The World. An engaging, invigorating, and formally captivating film, I looked forward to learning more about this up and coming filmmaker.
His follow-up to The World was 2006’s Still Life, a meditation on the effects—personal, societal, and environmental—that occur during the building of the magnificent Three Gorges Dam across the Yangtze River in central China. As the dam moves closer to completion, more and more water is held back, meaning that low-lying communities close to the dam will soon be underwater. Therefore, a massive “deconstruction” project is underway in these communities, moving people out and tearing down old buildings and ancient neighborhoods.
The beautiful setting amidst a lush, green valley contrasts strongly with the piles of gray rubble scattered throughout the area. And this contrast in the physical world mirrors the contrasts taking place in the two stories Jia weaves together throughout the film: change and stasis, breaking down and putting back together, life and death.
These two stories, simple in their conception and careful in the way they reveal themselves, involve a man and a woman looking for their respective spouses. Neither couple has been together in years. The reasons for leaving remain unclear for most of the film, yet we know that each of these people wants nothing more than to find that spouse—for what, we can only presume.
That Jia allows these stories to develop slowly and makes close observation of their mostly fruitless searching imbues each character with a humanity that rings true. We know these people, or at least people like them—people with hopes and regrets, foibles and virtues. And as the events unfold, as the characters move ever closer to their respective goals, Jia records moments of such purity and poetry that the film strikes at the deepest chords of what it means to be human, summing up the film’s themes and ideas in images that bring contrasts together: out of rubble comes hope; out of death springs life.
In the latter months of 1950, John Ford was asked to make a film for the Navy chronicling the efforts of United States troops in the Korean conflict. Ford, with his love for the rigors, tradition, and camaraderie of military life, quickly agreed. He and a small team of his most trusted photographers took off from California on Christmas Day and arrived in Korea on January 1, 1951. After spending five weeks on the ground, at sea, and in the air, Ford and his men returned to edit the footage, turning in a 50-minute documentary that proved unsuccessful with theater owners and audiences alike. Though it lacked popular success, Ford’s film provides a fascinating insight into the mood of a country (the U.S.) and a shifting Western ethos that continues to this day.
Ford’s team arrived within two months of a major Chinese offensive that had pushed back U.N. troops, so the film ends up carrying a grim tone throughout. Ford uses a series of repeated set pieces that contribute to a dark and aimless vision of the war. Several times we see orphaned Korean children or homeless Koreans; soldiers marching down roads and through villages; naval ships firing their guns; artillery blasting barren hillsides; soldiers encountering yet another hill; planes dropping napalm bombs into wooded areas and villages. In the case of the last two, Ford highlights the repetition by having the narrator point out “another hill,” or “napalm again.”
The unrelenting nature of these realities is only compounded by a significant absence: the enemy. While the repetitions carry on throughout the 50-minute run time, we catch a glimpse of the enemy only once—three men who have been taken captive by the Americans and now are being held for questioning. They say little and threaten nothing. Completely disarmed, one fails to see the real danger of these “enemies.” If the enemy were completely absent, the viewer might imagine the terrible tortures of a war against the communist infidels. However, the weak presence of these men only serves to heighten the question lingering and unspoken throughout the film: Why?
Even more interesting is the strong contrast This Is Korea! makes with Ford’s earlier and masterful World War II documentary, The Battle of Midway. Where Korea offers nothing in the way of a clear enemy, and only a grim and mechanical determinism among the soldiers, Midway provides just the opposite. There we see real purpose and resolve on display, a clear and threatening enemy, and ample heroism on display. Where Midway stands as a document of the unambiguous struggle between good versus evil and the clarity of days gone by, Korea plants us firmly in the contemporary cultural milieu—a world without a collective purpose and only a grim resolve pressing us forward.
Throughout his career, Ford shows himself fascinated with the sense of community and tradition so evident in military life. Yet Korea sees an Army where those good things lose their significance in the face of an amorphous goal. Near the close of the film, U.S. warplanes drop bombs on a village, with the camera so near that it shakes violently at each impact. After two or three of these bombs, narrator John Ireland speaks the following lines as we watch the soldiers move in to clear the village: “For this is Korea, chums. This is Korea. And we go in.” The images combined with that line, from which Ford draws the film’s title, offer a chilling reflection on a post-WWII world—men slinking into a smoky ruin, without any apparent reason.
Gladsome Morning 