Film blogs are for hipsters.

Who the hell likes being stuck in a place where you can’t even smile? It’s hot as balls, everybody’s an asshole.

There are always exceptions that prove the rule and this is no different in the film industry; despite having moved on from the American New Wave time period some thirty odd years ago there are still some independently made New Hollywood-esq gems out there, one of my favorites (and blog URL’s name sake) being Goran Dukic’s Wristcutters: A Love Story. Seems morbid, doesn’t it? I suppose it is, to some extent, the film is indeed about someone who slits his wrists and that seems to be the biggest turn off for people. No one wants to sit down and watch a movie about suicide victims; they want romance, or explosions, something New Hollywood doesn’t tend to actively offer. What it does do, however, is put emphasis on reality, and therein lays the reason why I love it so much. We’ve gotten to the point where we’re not sure whether or not art is imitating life, or life is imitating art, the answer to which is irrelevant, we should just be content with the fact that the two are becoming synonymous.
Wristcutters it seems is the epitome of this. We see in the film that there is nothing glamorous about life after death, in fact, it kind of sucks. You go from being alive working a job you hate, living in a crappy little apartment with no girlfriend to being dead working a job you hate, living in a crappy little apartment with no girlfriend. Joy. Again though, it seems morbid, I know, but to some extent it’s meant to be. You’re forced to ask yourself, “Well, what the hell, why am I working so hard now if that’s all I have to look forward to?” As we watch Zia (Patrick Fugit) drift aimlessly through life, and later through death, not only do we empathize with him, but we look to ourselves to see if maybe we’re just doing the same exact thing. That’s where New Hollywood films hit you, where it hurts. They make you take a long, hard look at life, at miserable and sometimes insane characters that are going through the exact same things you are. It’s only in New Hollywood that we’re not required to distract ourselves in the world of the film, but confront ourselves with it, head on.Wristcutters, for me, is a modern take on New Hollywood film making. Strange and honest, sprinkled with just the right amount of dark humor it’s everything, life, or rather death, should be. 

I’m not going to debate you, Jerry.

There are few films in the world that bother me in a good way. They’ve weaseled their way so deeply underneath my skin that removing them is near impossible, and I like it that way. The Coen Brothers have a true knack for it, in fact, particularly with Fargo. There’s just something about this film that constantly has me coming back, and whether it’s the deliciously dark humor or the satisfying nature of thriller flicks I’m not sure, but it’s something. Having just watched Hitchcock’s Vertigo, though I’m struck with the impression that the plots of these two films are strikingly similar, yet the emotional payoff is entirely different. Husband wants rich wife gone so he can collect the money, investigation ensues, mystery is solves, the end. Sounds simple, yeah? Apparently it isn’t. The plot though, isn’t what really matters in terms of these two films, but rather the ways in which characters are created and handled.
In Fargo there is no way possible for you to not feel bad for Jerry Lundegaard (William Macy). Sure, he essentially sends his wife off to her death so he can avoid bankruptcy, but just look at him, have you ever seen a more pitiful loser in your life? He can’t even stand up to the men he’s hired to do the job, he’s the ultimate pushover, harmless at best. It isn’t his fault he’s awful at planning a kidnapping. As for Showalter (Steve Buscemi) and Grimsrud (Peter Stormare) we already know they’re generally speaking the scum of the Earth. They’re lousy kidnappers, even worse murders and we’re perfectly fine with what’s coming to them. In Fargo there are no mixed feelings, we feel the same way we do about a character from the beginning of the film until the end. Vertigo, however, is an entirely different animal, we’re constantly identifying with different aspects of the same character. One of the more disturbing aspects of that film happened to be when I found myself feeling badly for Ferguson (James Stewart) as he attempted to change Judy’s (Kim Novak) appearance to resemble that of Madeline’s. It’s entirely sick and wrong but you can’t help but feel as if it isn’t all his fault, he was dragged through the mud and this is the product of that. Strangely enough you find yourself walking away from that film not knowing exactly how to feel. There’s redemption in Vertigo as there is in Fargo, Ferguson is left a free man and although we’re uneasy with this we still think it’s right…maybe.
It’s not that the CoBros are cutting corners they’re just using a different technique. Hitchcock is interested in there being no easy way out, for him it is absolutely necessary for you to think about his film days, even weeks afterwards. If you leave that theater feeling uneasy than he’s accomplished what he’s set out to do in the first place, scare you without you even realizing it.

You shouldn’t keep souvenirs of a killing.

Whenever something in your life has gone array, whether it’s being sick, or upset, or just feeling “off”, you always know you have that one thing to fall back on that will make you feel better. For me that just happens to be cuddling up and watching horror movies. I’m not sure why, but maybe on a sort of subconscious level I need to know that someone out there has it worse off than me, yeah I’m not getting that job I wanted but at least I’m not getting eaten by cannibals. Being the horror buff that I am though, I’ve always given Alfred Hitchcock, a man who has said a number of deplorable things about the genre, a bit of the cold shoulder. In my opinion he has no room to talk, despite being the “Master of Suspense” the majority of his films incorporate just as many elements of horror as they do suspense, and for a good film in either genre one could not survive without the other.
What do horror films do? They use your most primal fears against you to incite some sort of negative reaction. In terms of Vertigo that’s exactly what Hitchcock is doing, except it isn’t just the audience’s fears he’s using against them, but his own as well. “I am scared easily, here is a list of my adrenaline - production: 1: small children, 2: policemen, 3: high places, 4: that my next movie will not be as good as the last one.” Is that not what the entire film is based around, the fear of high places? Well, yes and no. Yes, in the sense that Hitchcock is indeed tapping into a fear held by countless people and using it to his advantage in a horror-esq way. At the same time, however, he plays on fears that run just a bit deeper than that, the idea that your fears end up owning you. In Vertigo it’s clear that John Ferguson (James Stewart) is afraid of heights, but it’s his adequacy due to that fear that really leaves a lasting impression. Three people are dead because this fear of his, deaths he could have prevented. Hitchcock understands fully the human psyche, he knows what exactly it is that will cut you to your core, and it’s not simple and sometimes irrational fears, it’s what comes about because of those fears. 

For me it seems like people are more terrified of their own inadequacies than anything else, they want to know that their murder was so flawless that it couldn’t possibly be traced back to them, or that they haven’t lost their touch as one of the best detectives around despite having to leave the force. Unlike other directors Hitchcock demonstrates with his characters what those inadequacies can manifest into; murders are never as clean and easy as you once thought, and your fears will indeed hold you back, regardless of what your ego may think. On a subconscious level the films of Alfred Hitchcock are much more frightening than just the notion of a deranged man trying to kill his wife or a psycho killer on the loose. Vertigo doesn’t simply make you afraid of heights, it makes you afraid of being human.

Revenge is a dish best served cold

I’m a firm believer in the phrase “less is more”. I want things to be done in a simple and thorough manner, ensuring the best quality possible. Apparently in the film industry this is much easier said than done. I suppose then, that this is the same reason why Golden Hollywood films make me squirm in my seat. I just can’t do it. There is just so much going on at one time, the singing, the dancing, the actors overacting, and dear God, every time Technicolor rears its ugly head my soul dies a little. I feel like I’m over dosing on stimuli; there’s no time to catch your breath. What really does kill me though is the color. Goddamn it, Technicolor, you’re not even trying to seem real! You’re giving people false perceptions of color, and I’m glad you’re dead. Golden Hollywood musicals try so hard to seem real and genuine and spontaneous that it just strikes me as ironic how fake they really are, right down to the color.
There are, however, a handful of instances in film where I appreciate overly vivid colors, and no, none of those instances happen to exist between 1920 and 1960. Surprisingly, they mainly exist in a universe created solely for one man’s films, Quentin Tarantino. Yeah…out of all of the “quintessential Tarantino” aspects of his films I happen to choose color, but I think it’s an interesting aspect that people tend to overlook.  There’s almost something seemingly fake about the colors he chooses to use, not quite Technicolor, but close. Tarantino has a tendency to focus in on primary colors, regardless of the lighting, high or low key; he makes it a point to emphasize primary colors. This approach allows for vivid colors to be present within the film while at the same time not have it be over stimulating.
Although he plays with this technique in nearly all of his films (think the yellow Mustang in Death Proof, or the red lipstick in Inglorious Bastards) I find it to be most evident in Kill Bill. Primary colors tend to makes things appear cartoony, as if they aren’t real, and by integrating this into his film Tarantino creates a world that toes the line between reality and fantasy. By only emphasizing certain colors, rather than all colors, our attention is caught but not to the point where we’re rolling our eyes. We want to believe that this world exists; it’s just vivid and interesting enough to be believable while at the same time unobtainable.
Maybe it’s just me but I truly enjoy almost not picking up on something when I watch a movie. Quentin Tarantino is often criticized for his “in your face” directing style, his films are so absurd, so over the top that they can’t be ignored, even if you try. I disagree wholeheartedly, however, and feel that way about Golden Hollywood films. There is something so much more subtle about the way Tarantino handles color in his films, almost to the point where he doesn’t want you to notice it. That’s what I like about it though, it may be an afterthought but it ties the entire mood of the film together, it isn’t just done for show. I guess I just prefer my false reality plausible yet seemingly just out of reach instead of vibrant and noticeable and also outwardly fake.

I’m not even supposed to be here today.

Going through some of my movies this week I was thinking about how the majority of them involve some sort of a double plot. There’s always another journey for the character somewhere in the film, whether it be one of romance or revenge there is always something. Why? Why do audiences need that extra something? Why are we not content with just one plot?  Better yet though, why are some people, myself included, so utterly fascinated by films that have no plot at all?
Case in point, Kevin Smith’s Clerks. As a general rule Kevin Smith doesn’t have all too many redeeming qualities as a director, in fact, most people blame Clerk’s popularity purely on dumb luck.  I’ve heard time and time again people trying to defend its brilliant dialogue, its artistic use of  black and white film, its avant garde nature of lacking a plot altogether. In reality I’m pretty sure the script consist of about 85% curses, it was shot in black and white because Smith couldn’t afford lighting equipment to shoot in color, and the plot isn’t there because well, that isn’t what we care about. Does knowing all this make me love this film any less? Not at all, in fact I’m pretty sure I love it all the more. In this sense I want it to be a little rough around the edges, I want to know what it’s like to be a part of Generation X, something Kevin Smith clearly identifies with.
So why is it that films like Clerks, Dazed and Confused, and Lost in Translation thrive outside of the box office despite their inability to bring in revenue during their time of release? Because they’re movies that don’t focus on moving things forward; they’d much rather just exist in their own time period, left to exist in cult classic infamy. What I mean is these movies aren’t made for the everyday movie goer. Plotless movies tend to lack everything that attracts people to films, there’s no violence, no real romance, and the actors tend to be no name B-listers. And so what’s left? You’re left with a movie that’s not glamourized or over the top; you have a movie about real life. (Quite the jump from the films of the 1950’s.)
Clerks is first and foremost a generational film meant to speak to a specific group of people who would understand what it felt like to be a 22 year old college dropout who works a job he hates yet does nothing to change it. Despite the lack of plot and the fact that it’s geared towards a specific audience there’s something about Clerks that is almost endearing.  We’ve all been to slightly sketchy convenient stores, we’ve seen the weirdoes that hang out in and around them, we’ve known people that are too smart to be working a menial position at a dead end job. I suppose that’s why I love it so much, there’s authenticity in its absurdism. For once Hollywood isn’t attempting to glamorize real life; there’s solace to be taken in just shooting the shit with your best friend about the moral ramifications of blowing up the Death Star. It’s an amateur film directed by an unassuming director, painfully different from what we’ve been learning about in class.

Spectacular spectacular

I’ve never consider myself to be a fan of musicals…and then I realized that I know every word of every song from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Rent, Chicago, Grease and way, way more than I’d care to name off right now. I suppose I don’t consider myself a true fan of musicals mainly based on the fact that I would never watch one on my own, despite being a pleasure (guilty or otherwise) for some they just aren’t my cup of tea. My boyfriend, on the other hand, is a different story.  While I flip through the disturbingly gory horror films I tend to lean towards I at the same time anticipate his enviable question of, “Why don’t we watch Moulin Rouge?” I’m dating a guy who would watch a musical rather than a quality slasher flick. Yeah. I don’t get it either.
 Every now and then though I’ll cave and let him throw it on, because at the end of the day I do enjoy it, even if I have the sound track sung to me on nearly a weekly basis. Despite enjoying the film though, I must admit, the more I watch it, the more often I question as to why I like it. The acting is so beyond over the top at points, the colors garish, the mise-en-scene overwhelming, everything about this film oozes “Look at me! I’m a musical!” I think the worst part of it all though is that it seems intentional, as if Luhrmann wanted it to be this way.
Much like Singin’ In The Rain, Moulin Rouge draws attention to itself, it wants you to realize that you’re watching a film and something about that doesn’t sit right with me. At least with Singin’ In The Rain humor was used as a sort of a buffer, they were acting over the top for the sake of poking fun at themselves, but Moulin Rouge has no excuse. Personally, I think it has to do with Baz Lurhmann’s style of film making; he makes a point to be over the top. All of that aside however, I understand where he’s coming from with this one, musicals are meant to be absurdly excessive and I think Lurhmann’s in his element here.
Moulin Rouge definitely plays up all of the qualities we as an audience look for in classic Hollywood musicals, elaborate costumes, matched with equally elaborate dance numbers. I lost track of the amount of crane shots used within the first half hour, and of course we have the inevitable love story. It’s clear to some extent that Lurhmann is attempting to be cliché, but for nostalgia’s sake. People watch musicals (and movies in general) to lose themselves in a world completely unlike their own, and although musicals have a tendency to draw attention to themselves as being films they are also the prime example of creating a false reality. They present the audience with a world that is so absurd, so far removed from reality that it couldn’t be anything but false. Ultimately I think it’s the consistency of the genre that keeps people coming back, there’s some type of solace found in knowing exactly what’s apt to happen. That, and the fact that there’s something strangely satisfying in belting out your favorite show tunes when you’re home alone, don’t you dare say there isn’t.

Are you here for an affair, sir?

My grandfather was nearly forty years old when he walked out of the theater less than an hour into Mike Nikols’s The Graduate. My father, nearly fifty at the time, acted in the same manner, dismissing the film simply as “smut” as he walked out of the living room, disappointingly shaking his head at his daughter’s choice in films. (I would like to note here that this is the same man who watched the entirety of Daniel Fincher’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo with me, as deeply uncomfortable as that was). You may be wondering how it was possible for me to have explored the world of cinema in my youth when even PG films such as The Graduate sent my father into a whirlwind of “In my day…” lectures. Well, I’ll tell you this much, watching Pulp Fiction and Boogie Nights under your blankets with head phones in and your lap top screen dimmed considerably, isn’t nearly as fun as it sounds. Regardless, I find it interesting just how differently movies can be interpreted. I love The Graduate, wholeheartedly, and I think the biggest difference between my take on it and my father’s stems off from the fact that I’m about thirty years younger than him. The Graduate, much like Bonnie and Clyde, and Easy Rider are the more modern day, and I use that term lightly, equivalent of Rebel Without a Cause.
There seems to be a consistent cycling in of rebellious teenager movies from Hollywood, which of course, is all thanks to their inception not sixty years ago. As movie moguls fought for power in the 1950’s, the film industry began to change. Teenagers were no longer interested in seeing the same films as their parents and because of this Hollywood had a new type of audience to please. Not only was the younger generation getting a taste of James Dean’s angst ridden vulnerability, but also the “assets” of sex symbols like Marilyn Monroe. Once again America was confronted with the fact that sex sells, and it still always will.
Produced just one year before the Production Code turned into the Motion Picture Association of America, The Graduate tends to handle some rather racy issues. Ben Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) takes part in a summer long affair with a married woman, the same woman who just so happens to be the mother of his current love interest. Obviously this film is apt to carry more than its fair share of blatant sexuality. But it doesn’t. And I think that, above all else, is what drove teenagers and young adults to connect with it the way they have. There’s no hidden meaning, no bias, or propaganda, and in the midst of the Vietnam War American youth needed something to turn to that wasn’t shoving ideals down their throat. The Graduate sort of just showed how things were, or how things could be without being offensive about it. It reinforced the idea that perhaps not everyone’s future was in “plastics”, and although you don’t have a single clue what to do now that you’re on a bus with a run-away bride things will still turn out alright, and at the end of the day, that’s all teenagers need to hear.

Play it, Sam.

Everyone knows about Casablanca. Everyone knows the lines. Every girl wants to be told, “Here’s looking at you, kid”, and let’s face it guys, you’ve practiced your Bogart smolder once or twice in the mirror sometime within your life, don’t say you haven’t. Although its fame comes with the territory, a cast of A-list actors a mile long, Casablanca was never intended for this sort of reputation. Produced in 1942 the studio system was in full swing and Warner Brothers, Casablanca’s distributor and studio, was cranking out films every week. Casablanca just happened to be one of them.
Like any studio actor, Humphrey Bogart was under contract and in this case it was with Warner Brothers at the time, surprisingly the same studio which had no intention of making Bogart into a “movie star”. Bogart, devil that he is, often retaliated against the unfair requests and demands of the studio (Warner Bros. actually went so far as to change his birthday in the public eye, claiming he was born of Christmas as a way to romanticize him) by speaking up against it. Although, often times Bogart was given the left-overs from bigger named actors when it came to scripts, producer Hal Wallis only ever considered Bogart for the role, and even wrote to Jack Warner about how the role of Rick Blaine was made for him.
This film tended to break a lot of the studios “rules”. Not only was it delayed for six weeks, a travesty at that time considering Bogart was averaging one film every two months, but it went over budget as well. The studio not only had to pay for the film itself and all that involves, but the unfinished play script which the film was based off of as well. Because the script was unfinished at the time the studio had to shoot the movie chronologically (something that just wasn’t done, then or now) and write the ending as they went. And you know all of those lines audiences have come to love and quote so feverously? “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid” was never intended to be in the film, it was something Bogart made up on the spot, again, something that just wasn’t done at the time.
Despite what people may think, shocked that Warner Bros. would produce a war film during this time period when everything was intended to be glamorous and audiences were shown films to distract them from the war, Casablanca represents the American attitude towards the war. Taking place prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor, we’re presented with a man who has no intention of choosing sides until forced to. Sound familiar? Audiences were so wrapped up in the love story however, I’m sure Rick could have been a Nazi and everyone still would have clapped when he was willing to sacrifice his love with Ilsa Lund so she could go on to bigger and better things. Although there are a number of aspects which lend themselves to the idea that Casablanca was beyond the realm of studio films, that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s ingrained in the studio system, in its actors, its content, even its studio settings. Casablanca was not only a box office smash and considered one of the best films ever made, but ultimately it’s also the quintessential classic Hollywood film.

Christopher Nolan and I are not friends

 I’m involved in a love hate relationship when it comes to Christopher Nolan-everyone loves him and I truly cannot stand anything with his name on it. I firmly believe that his work was put on this Earth purely to irritate me to no end. So, why, you may ask, did I agree to sit down and watch Memento? I didn’t, I was forced against my will, but regardless, I watched it. Initially, walking away from it, as everyone else was in awe of the “complexity” of the film, I was annoyed. I will admit however, that I was far too caught up in the GIANT plot hole that everyone seems to just casually over look (how does someone with short term memory loss remember that he has short term memory loss? They don’t, so shut up Christopher Nolan). Looking back with less hostility there are some aspects of it that have grown on me, especially the idea of it being a neo-noir.
     Much like Billy Wilder’s Sunset Boulevard both films contain an abundance of noir techniques and tendencies, yet neither had me walking away feeling like a noir should make me feel. All the low key lighting and gritty murder scenes in the world cannot make up for a solid good guy/bad guy protagonist in my book. And again, although Leonard Shelby (Guy Pearce) in Memento and Joe Gillis (William Holden) in Sunset Boulevard may embody some aspects of the good guy/bad guy noir stereotype within their character they don’t fully personify it. I think that’s the biggest problem I have with these two movies, the noir aspects are there but not the noir attitude.
      In the case of Memento the closest I felt to it being a true neo-noir were in the black and white scenes. This is where I found the beauty in the chaotic narrative structure Nolan implemented with the flashbacks and flash forwards. By taking out the color, yes, we’re put into that classic film noir mindset, but we’re also able to see the film for what it is. In some cases color tends to be distracting, it leads to a sensory overload within the film. Between the constant cuts and general fast pace nature of the film audiences don’t know what or where to focus their attention on. Nolan uses these black and white scenes as sort of a frame plot, it moves forward, alternating between the colored scenes which move backwards, and ultimately give background for the colored scenes. In these black and white scenes the audience can take part in the true voyeuristic nature of noir films. The camera is acting as an omniscient third party and it’s only in these scenes that the audience can form a relationship with Shelby.
     The film is also able to come full circle when it comes to the black and white scenes, ending where the colored scenes began. It’s here where we find ourselves on the edge of our seats, where the true noir attitude shines through. Not only are we slightly disorientated by the cuts to previously colored scenes representing Shelby’s memories, but the low key and edge lighting plays a much stronger role here than it had in any other part of the movie. Something about black and white just makes shadows deeper, darker, and more mysterious, allowing the scene to fully express how Shelby is feeling, and how we feel about him. He’s on the verge of enacting his revenge, and we’re just as anxious to see it as he is to fulfill it.
     It’s interesting to note as well that both of these films, Sunset Boulevard and Memento, play on the audience’s idea of trust. How are we supposed to trust that what we’re being told by a dead man is the truth, and equally, how can we believe anything told to us by someone who can’t remember something that happened fifteen seconds ago? The manipulative nature of these films lend themselves to being placed in the noir category, though, I’m still not buying it Christopher Nolan.

Le Samourai

A four hour flight, in my book, generally equates to about 200 pages worth of reading and maybe two good movies, if I’m lucky, and I prepared for as such this spring break. Sadly no, I did not perfectly prepare for the three hour delay we had but, so is life.  After settling in and hitting cruising altitude I pulled out my laptop in an attempt to finally get around to watching Le Samouri, a French neo-noir film recommended to me by a friend. Guess who didn’t burn the English subbed version to her laptop. Yeah, this girl. Regardless, I figured it was worth watching, because, well, I have four hours to kill.  So what do you do when you’re only slightly aware of the plot, story, and character motivations? You pay attention to the details. You become hyper aware of mise-en-scene, score, and really, sound in general.  That’s the thing that really got me actually, the sound, and I don’t mean in the sense of non-diegetic sound, the film’s score and the like, I’m talking purely diegetic, in the world of the film. Maybe it was just my attempt to drown out the constant hum of the airplane engine in the background but it seemed as if the sounds within the film, doors slamming, footsteps, flicking of light switches, were all emphasized. I found myself having to lower the volume on multiple occasions, just to accommodate for an, what seemed to me, overly loud chirping bird, or screeching train. It was only then that I realized just how little dialogue the film contained. In fact, there was nearly none at all, which also happened to be the case with a score as well. When there was music it was almost went unnoticed it was so soft, it became something of an afterthought.

Considering this film is generally seen as a neo-noir (some even go so far as to insist that it should be considered simply a noir, despite being made in 1967) it was interesting to think that there was such an emphasis put on sound, but not score. It was much more delicately handled in this film than in most noirs, which insist on forcing you into feeling, or suspecting something of situations or characters. This film seems to build itself on starkness in fact, reflecting not only in mise-en-scene, but also in the character of Jef Costello (Alain Delon). He remains expressionless throughout the film, our calm, cool, and collected anti-hero who seemingly lives off black coffee and cigarettes. The murders he commits within the film are clean, well planned, and go off with few hitches, which the sounds within the scenes mirrors. There are rarely any other sounds made than terse dialog and gunshots between characters. This seems to be the intention of the director, Jean-Pierre Melville; however, as we as an audience are left feeling just as barren watching this film as the main character feels within his life. He is cold, and he is concise, just as both his characterization and the film’s sounds (and lack of score) indicate. Although I don’t suggest watching a nearly two hour movie in a language completely unknown to you, I do suggest putting yourself in a situation which forces you to notice the things you normally wouldn’t. The  exaggerated volume of sounds within the film only further emphasize the idea of bleakness in the world in which film noirs take place. The sound of a slamming door resonates not only in Costello’s empty apartment, but also in the viewer’s soul, pushing the idea of loneliness, and more importantly cynicism.