Saturday, July 4, 2015

Mookie and the Right Thing

Spike Lee may "privilege morality over politics" as Douglas Kellner argues in "Aesthetics, Ethics, and Politics in the Films of Spike Lee," but morality is far from black and white in Do The Right Thing. Neither morality, politics or racism is given an easy solution because, Lee would argue, there isn't one. Radio Raheem, in adopting the "love/hate" speech from The Night of the Hunter portrays a worldview that isn't exactly cut and dry (let's not forget Rev. Powell is one of the greatest cinematic villains of all time). He ends his speech saying, "if I love you, I love you. But if I hate you..." and never finishes the thought. Do the Right Thing may be a postmodern morality play, but Mookie is an everyman character: he doesn't know how to respond in this exchange with Radio Raheem saying only, "well, there you have it: love and hate," baffled by Radio Raheem's rant.

Radio Raheem seems to be purporting the MLK philosophy that love can conquer societal hate, and this thought it what Mookie has a difficult time reconciling after Radio Raheem's death. Mookie throws the trash can through the window of Sal's Famous, and I don't believe it has anything to do with protecting Sal's family. Mookie screams "HATE!" as he hurls that can and, with the act, completes the ellipses of Radio Raheem's statement. Kellner seems to criticize Lee for failing to spell how how "a system of exploitation oppresses Black," as if racism were that clear-cut. 
Mookie throws that trash can because of this system, but also because of how this system affects the individual. In the moment, Sal's Famous represented another white establishment entering the Black community for economic gain despite harboring racist attitudes toward the very community it exploits. No, Sal was not directly responsible for the death of Radio Raheem, but these actions all occurred through a thread of hate. Sal hating the Black community he served is only a step (through the narrative) of the police officers' disregard for Black lives. Mookie's destruction of property changes the conversation, trying to get the community to "wake up" (like the moral of School Daze) to the system of hate in their community. 

As we have seen recently in Ferguson and Baltimore, America still gets very hung up on the destruction of private property and neglectful of human lives. Mookie did the right thing, not in the act itself, but in forcing the conversation to be one about the larger community issues and systematic racism rather than eye-for-an-eye violence. It is not surprising to me that many people still don't understand why Mookie did what he did when we can turn on the news and, instead of hearing outrage over the death of Freddie Gray, presidential candidates instead Tweet "Blatant and rampant property destruction in Baltimore as the police stand by and watch. Should be a lesson on how NOT to handle riots. SAD!"

And it is sad in Do the Right Thing, too. Mookie and Sal's morning after is not a time of rejoicing, but they come to a sort of ambiguous understanding: Sal tries to play the martyr, bemoaning the store he built with his "bare hands." Mookie's response to what that means is, "it means you owe me $250." That is to say, private enterprise doesn't trump social responsibility. Sal has a debt to the Black community he serves.
Mookie wasn't deliberately directing attention away from Sal and his sons in order to protect them. When the conflict arises, Mookie is standing alongside Sal and his sons while the community looks at them with disdain. This is where Mookie trades sides in disassociation. This is partially self-preservation, but more important, it is Mookie's decision to take a very political stance.

Mookie seems like the kind of character who would let Sal hear about it if he was acting heroically in order to save Sal's family. When the two discuss the night's events the next morning, Sal accuses Mookie of ruining the place and Mookie says nothing like "you should be thanking me for saving your ass out there" and, furthermore, Sal doesn't interpret Mookie as doing anything other than escalating the situation. He blames Mookie for the window whose response is "motherfuck the window. Radio Raheem is dead." These few words say everything about Mookie's intentions. Mookie may not have participated in any violence directed at Sal and his sons (I don't think most of the characters in the film would have, I don't think many of the protestors in Baltimore today would have), but it's difficult to read his actions in the scene as deliberately deflecting attention away from Sal. 

Furthermore, it isn't clear Spike Lee is concerned with dichotomous morality in the situation. Love/hate are presented like Martin/Malcolm: neither has all the answers. Mookie's actions suggest that the philosophies of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Malcom X are only ethereal until you're forced into a real-world situation. Their photos burning together inside Sal's Famous isn't so much to say that their philosophies are antiquated, but that we need to act rather than merely pontificate. The film challenges us to do, not buy a photo or subscribe to a given ideology. Our goal should be a common one and there isn't a prescribed road to attain it. By "doing a thing" in the name of fighting against a disenfranchising system and by opening social eyes to lives mattering more than property, Mookie did do the right thing. He acted.

Mookie didn't do the best "relative" or "situational" thing.  Yes, Do the Right Thing is a postmodern work and, undoubtedly, a nihilist fog surrounds the community in terms of dealing with systematic racism, but Lee lack of clear-cut answers doesn't suggest he thinks morality is relative. The title of the film is a call to action and not one to be taken ironically. Sal's Famous was a symbol, but also a real place. Radio Raheem was not a symbol, he was a human life. Doing the right thing is not a matter of ineffable philosophy (no matter the good intentions behind King or Malcolm X), it's a matter of taking action in the real world against injustice.

The film may not be overtly political (in the binary sense), but it's important to note that it ends with Mister Senor Love Daddy saying the city's Mayor will get to the bottom of the dispute because "the city of New York will not let property be destroyed by anyone." Radio Raheem is not in the news or the purview of the city. Black lives do not matter here. That's why the Love Daddy follows the news by encouraging people to register to vote. The system is broken, it disenfranchises Black, and, despite Kellner's essay, that is a very political message. It would not be nearly as powerful if Lee gave a trite explanation as to how to solve the nation's racist ills. Spike Lee doesn't provide political answers to solving the race problem because its solution is beyond the realm of politics and he doesn't see the end of racism occurring in his lifetime. I tend to agree on both accounts.

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Friday, July 3, 2015

Cinematography as Romantic Catalyst in Woody Allen's Manhattan

Of the many great eras of American film, the 1970s, are often considered a return to form—an almost filmic Renaissance. Here, films, directors and actors grew increasingly cynical and increasingly complex. By the 1970s, film had not only become an established medium, but an acceptable form of expression and art. American directors became post-French New Wave auteurs, not only creating a filmic style all their own, but skewing Hollywood convention in the beginning stages of postmodernism.

Relationships became increasingly complex in the cinematic realm, possibly as a mirror to what film auteurs saw as an increasing societal complexity. Here, seen most clearly in the work of Woody Allen, the camerawork becomes increasingly complicated as the character relationships become increasingly complicated.

Allen's 1979 follow-up to Annie Hall and the less successful Interiors extends the thematic elements of the prior two films yet becomes even more relational than Annie Hall (Manhattan, while still all too autobiographical, is much less about Allen's neuroticism and much more about interaction) and more focused on space than the aptly titled Interiors.

Much of Manhattan's magnificence is due to the fact that it is seemingly unclassifiable, but unmistakably romantic comedy. Allen knows how romantic comedy works, both thematically and formally. One look at It Happened One Night or Bringing Up Baby will lie out the framework for the romantic comedy Allen reconstructs. In these classic, quintessential screwball comedies, lovers move from careful one-shot to two-shot compositions, always bringing the couple together in such a way that the audience knows who will end up together before the characters do.

A further exploration into comedy reveals that physical comedy (as evidenced in Allen's own Bananas and Sleeper) takes place in long-shot, only moving into the range of medium-shot for a character to deliver a one-liner. Manhattan acts within these cinematic rules as the characters move from one-shot to two-shot depending on the nature of their intimacy, and the physical distance always has us questioning what exactly is funny about the human condition and the desperate search for love.

Even more so than the intentionally funny Annie Hall, Manhattan presents us with greater complicated situations shown, again, though increasingly complicated camerawork; situations are less funny to the characters and more challenging to the audience. In a scene where the Isaac Davis (Woody Allen) and Mary Wilkie (Diane Keaton) converse though in separate rooms, the fragmented nature of their relationship and the tension and uncertainty of their future (due, in part, to their own personal issues) is dealt with almost exclusively through Allen's camerawork.

Allen demanded that the video version of Manhattan be letterboxed—the first of its kind—for aesthetic reasons: to preserve the aspect ratio of intentional one-shots so that they are not mistakenly formatted as conventional one-shots. In this particular scene, the two are communicating from separate rooms and are never seen on screen together. Not only that, even the one-shot compositions are not conventional one-shots. As Isaac talks to Mary, he’s in the far left of the screen with a wall taking up the majority of the frame. The same is then shown when the camera cuts to Mary who is to the extreme right of the screen, with wall still taking up the majority of the frame. The emptiness of the visuals speaks more clearly about the character's situations than Allen's witty, brilliant dialogue ever could.

Of the myriad relationships manifest throughout Manhattan, the one that works best is no less complex. The relationship between Isaac and Tracy (Mariel Hemingway) is complicated in that she is less than half his age and still in high school. In what would be a typically romantic scene in conventional Hollywood cinema (thought this particular scenario would never manifest itself in traditional Hollywood cinema), Isaac descends the stairs to the right of the frame and moves to sit on the sofa with Tracy at the left of the shot. Yet, though the two are framed together, it would be hard-pressed to call the composition a two-shot. They are seen in extreme long-shot, barely recognizable if not for the voices, and far left of center. This is the least conventional “romantic” two-shot of anything in romantic comedy through the 1970s as the detached camera work expresses the intrinsic problems of the relationship.

Allen forces the camera to become a recognizable tool that draws attention to itself—more an omniscient character rather than a subversive apparatus. Yet Manhattan is much greater than the camerawork. The visuals are, quite uncynically, breathtaking. Perhaps a love deeper than any relationship explored throughout the course of the film is Allen's love for New York City. If Allen deconstructs the idea of the romantic, there is no cynicism in Allen's directorial eye and Gordon Willis's cinematography. One need look no further than the cover to see that Allen can make the 59th Street Bridge become a place you'd actually feel safe observing from a park bench at night. Only in the movies.

Whether or not Isaac believes the naïve Tracy when she tells him that "not everybody gets corrupted," (despite the optimistic conclusion, Allen's cynicism has no one convinced he believes it possible) New York is so painstakingly uncorrupted that we understand where Allen's heart lies. Gershwin's "Rhapsody in Blue" underscores Allen's narration in one of the finest opening sequences in film history, challenging both the human desire and instinct (which is the true joke of the piece: the long-shots are examples of physical comedy at the characters' expense—love is funny) while simultaneously embracing Manhattan who, despite the barrage of complex relationships, becomes the true star.

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Authorship as Art Cinema in Ingmar Bergman's Persona

There is an old story of how the cathedral of Chartes was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. Then thousands of people came from all points of the compass, like a giant procession of ants, and together they began to rebuild the cathedral on its old site. They worked until the building was completed—master builders, artists, labourers, clowns, noblemen, priests, burghers. But they all remained anonymous, and no one knows to this day who built the Cathedral of Chartes. 

—Four Screenplays of Ingmar Bergman

In this commentary on his own film, The Seventh Seal, Ingmar Bergman would have us believe that film stands on its own as a work of art, as if somehow any pretension of "art cinema" can be washed away by the simple analogy between a concrete and abstract work of art—that any ideas of authorship are irrelevant because, somehow, the artist is not solely responsible for his work.

In a way, Bergman is right, as the auteur theory has allowed some filmmakers the right to produce painfully self-absorbed work with little social purview, and others to never move outside a rut of established convention. Instead, most art cinema exists in between these extremities; the director is obviously important to the films he produces, but in order for the work to have social value, it must not be limited to individual reflection. Perhaps in art cinema, more than any other genre, the films strike a balance between social value of new modes of filmmaking and the significance of an auteur's canon.

That isn't to say there are no establishments within art cinema. The model is more abstract than—and in many ways runs counter to—the modes of classical production, but there remain certain tendencies in art cinema which indicate, while these films may not be necessarily formulaic, they also do not exist on such an abstract, independent plane.

In Visual Pleasure And Narrative Cinema, her attack on traditional narrative film, Laura Mulvey argues for the institution of a new kind of cinema. She states that the classic narrative is, by its very nature, degrading to women. The scopophilic instinct which intrinsically presents women as passive objects of the male gaze makes narrative cinema a male institution. Narrative cinema also portrays a façade of "avoidance of choice." Not only are the thematic and formal tendencies of narrative cinema made to look as if there is no other way for the story to be told, but the nature of narrative cinema also strives to avoid the obvious: the film is a film.

However, though art cinema acts as an establishment with key—almost calculated—inconsistencies, it still possesses a liberty unique from classic cinema. Classic cinema takes on a male point of view in its narrative. Art cinema does not take on a female perspective, nor do its directors (still mostly male) seem to address the issue. However, art cinema is, by definition, more open to these changes in point of view and realities portrayed on the screen. Mulvey recognizes that a more postmodern approach needs to be taken that would, as Jim Naremore writes, "fragment identity and identification, decentering the character, the reader, and the author" (Naremore).

Perhaps the "new cinema" for which Mulvey advocates can be found in the canon of Ingmar Bergman films. Not that his films exist as a solitary unit in which one must understand the artist in order to understand the thought represented, but art cinema represented in the works of Bergman, specifically his 1966 film Persona, represent this new narrative technique. His films do not operate contrary to the establishments of narrative cinema; rather, art cinema is a new cinema altogether parading a new reality. Bergman's work is important not simply in the conventional sense of auteur theory, but is much broader in scope. François Truffaut believed that a true film auteur "...brings something genuinely personal to his subject instead of merely producing a tasteful, accurate but lifeless rendering of the original material" (Buscombe).

In this sense, Bergman is truly an auteur. His films are a work of his own, as he wrote the majority of his filmography himself as well as being a perfectionist behind the camera. Bergman didn't settle for stale interpretations of previously written work; rather, his work contained highly personal struggles with universal appeal. Just as Fanny and Alexander is autobiographical in the psychological and spiritual abuse under a strict Lutheran household, much of his work deals with such personal struggles that grew out of these experiences with the silence of God (The Seventh Seal, Through A Glass Darkly, Winter Light), suggesting authorship is apparent beneath the works.

Persona also holds highly personal elements, but the finished product stands on its own foundation. As Bergman stated, "Art is free, shameless, irresponsible," he would have us believe his films don't exist in relation to the artist (Ingmar Bergman: …) . However, Persona could not have come about without personal experience. Written in a hospital amidst dizzy spells that left him immobile, Persona clearly deals with issues of isolation and knowledge of self. Afraid that he would never be able to make films again, Persona also suggests that the artist needs art, and art needs life. These elements draw from each other, relative to the combination of Alma and Elisabeth's identities. Although Bergman believed that art was essentially in a postmodern state as early as 1965, comparing art to a "snakeskin full of ants"—long dead, yet filled with life—Persona was indeed created out of personal need, but stands as a whole, a critique of art as well as a piece of innovative art cinema (“Ormskinnet”). Like the Cathedral at Chartes, Persona is an artistic vision that bears its own weight.

The critique of classic narrative cinema often revolves around the representation of women. Classic narrative cinema often simplifies representations in order to move the plot. Since women are often mere objects, their roles are just as simplistic. Diametric oppositions play a large role in narrative cinema, and women are viewed in opposition to the stereotypical positive and aesthetic masculine roles. Character complexity often muddles the plot of narrative cinema, so female roles have historically been distilled to "whore" and "virgin"—as if women can only be viewed in relation to their sexual nature. Sure, Ingmar Bergman has represented both virgin (The Virgin Spring) and whore (Sawdust and Tinsel), but the character representations are never merely at surface level.

Bergman consistently represents women in cinema not only as complex while operating away from the established structures of narrative cinema. It could be said that Bergman avoids these sexist binaries because he makes, just as Mulvey advocates, a new kind of film. His work operates outside of established formal boundaries and transcends historical gender representation because of it; not that it is of primary importance, nor even the intent of much of art cinema, but the new tendencies of art cinema allow these innovative narrations to occur.

Art cinema is, in a way, a postmodern practice. It calls for new interpretations of realism, which oppose the classic paradigm thus obliterating classical diametric oppositions. If classic narrative cinema followed the objective reality revolving around a central plot as a series of coherent events, art cinema sought to search for a new reality in a new form. These new forms are represented as subjectivity, which not only lean more towards psychological and social application than a singular objective view, but incorporate a mise-en-scène of voluntary formal incongruities.

Unlike classic narrative cinema, Persona makes no attempt to appear as if it has avoided choice in formal decisions. Although narrative cinema is driven by plot, Persona's plot is as murky as its subject matter. An actress, Elisabeth Volger (Liv Ullmann) has walked off stage and gone (voluntarily?) mute and is admitted to a psychiatric ward. Nurse Alma (Bibi Andersson) is given watch over her. The two travel to a secluded summer beach house, where Alma is to document Elisabeth's progress.

Simple enough, but Persona is clearly not about plot. The events teeter between fantasy and reality—with no grounding structure—as the viewer is isolated by both spatial and chronological discontinuities. Form becomes the medium in which art cinema exerts its differences from the classical paradigm. Mulvey would be in favor of the complexity—indeed, the inconsistency—of identity between Elisabeth and Alma. Their characteristics are never constant, and we question not only the extent of Alma's deterioration, but the purpose of her actions, as the film offers neither solutions nor closure to the situations it presents.

Alma and Elisabeth trade places. Alma becomes mentally weaker, questioning her sanity.  Elisabeth becomes stronger, metaphorically (and physically if one adopts the vampirism interpretation near the end of the film) draining Alma of her strength. But as the film unravels through what are essentially monologue sequences as Alma is the only character talking, the film is presented, for the most part, as a series of scenes in which Alma talks to Elisabeth. These scenes alternate between day and night with no indication of chronology. Formally, Bergman often displaces characters, both by having them appear in different places while apparently in the middle of the same story, as well as constantly breaking the 180-degree rule, viewing characters from different angles throughout rooms, and jarring audiences with spatial incongruity.

The multifaceted reality of Persona intentionally leaves these gaping holes. These unsettling plot differences, sometimes as apparent as actual objects appearing out of place (Elisabeth sits at a table with a picture of her son that she ripped up earlier in the film) hearken to David Bordwell’s theory of "calculated gaps in the syuzhet" (Bordwell).  To stray from the objectivity of the classic narrative, art cinema must take on formal objections to undo the linear establishment of cause-and-effect.

The difficulty of the film is made no easier by the subject matter. In one scene, Elisabeth appears to whisper that Alma had better go to bed before she falls asleep. Alma responds, as if confused by saying, "I better go to bed before I fall asleep." This scene is followed with Elisabeth entering Alma's bedroom, Alma seeing her, and Elisabeth exiting. The next morning, Alma asks Elisabeth if she came into her room or talked to her last night, to which Elisabeth quizzically shakes her head, no. The audience has no reason to believe that Elisabeth is lying, yet the film offers no objective truth. No camera transitions, lighting differences, or visual effects indicate whether these discontinuities are subjects of fantasy by either character, hallucinations by Alma, or actual events. And that is the point. We are not allowed easy answer to these situations; instead, Bergman adopts these tendencies of art cinema to broaden our reality. It is no coincidence that there is so much talk of psychology in Persona; this film is intended to operate on a psychological level. The formal discontinuities free the viewer of linear thinking, establish the differences between objective reality of classic narrative and open up new possibilities for the narrative of art cinema.

For the same reason, there is also no closure to the film. Alma boards a bus in one of the final shots without any closure and, though there is a brief shot of Elisabeth on stage, it parallels the shot at the beginning of the film, making the audience wonder at what point in time the shot takes place. The same could be said of the scene in the clinic at the end the film. Alma asks Elisabeth to just repeat for her a single word to which Elisabeth finally whispers, "nothing." The circumstances are identical to the clinic at the beginning of the film and the viewer is left wondering if the event actually took place, when it took place, if either character is stronger than the other, and to where was Alma headed on that bus? These questions are not answered, nor are they meant to be answered. Bergman's thematic and formal discontinuities give us a film of characters, not resolutions.

In addition to incongruent mise-en-scène, art cinema stresses the trivial aspects of everyday life as equally important to cause-and-effect tendencies of classic narrative. What begins with Alma happening to drop her glass on the patio—an entirely innocent and happenstance event—becomes a way in which Alma's psychological deterioration is measured. Again, it is by chance that Elisabeth fails to seal her letter, which Alma takes to the post box. Alma's increasing hatred for Elisabeth, and eventual mental decline is not due to a clear cause-and-effect relationship as in classic narrative, but to the chance occurrence of Elisabeth failing to seal an envelope. These techniques, while in contrast to objective reality, can at the same time point the finger back at themselves.

Film is also, by nature, a social event meant to be experienced within a group of people. Art cinema is postmodern in the sense that the work is a collage of edits which offers up difficult questions posed by the director who nonetheless rarely offers bias nor answers to them. The culmination of image and sound therefore are left open to interpretation and discussion to an audience as varied as each individual in the theater.

But above all else, Persona  is exactly that: a film. And Persona knows it is a film. While classic narrative cinema uses film to tell a story, it avoids thematic and formal choice insomuch as it tries to not look like a film. Bergman makes clear from the opening shot that Persona is nothing but a film and reminds us of this throughout. The film begins with shots of a projector and film reels, followed by a series of rapidly edited shots throughout the opening credits ranging from a silent comedy to an erect penis projected onto a screen. This onslaught of imagery reminds the viewer of the power of imagery, and how Persona is a moving image.

The film opens with an unidentified boy looking up and touching a screen undulating between the blurred faces of Elisabeth and Alma. The boy is placed in an isolated, white room with the camera facing him in bed. As the camera reverses shot, we see the boy floating in front of the screen, which takes up the entire shot. This shot recalls the voyeuristic nature of cinema, as the boy (one of only two male characters in the film, and not central to the "narrative") caresses the screen, just as the viewer relates to the motion picture. The film ends in much the same way, as the boy is still looking at the screen, still separated from the narrative, until the final shot represents a film being pulled from the reel and the screen goes white.

This isn't the only blatant formal reminder that Persona is a film, and in many cases, form is used as a metaphor of the relationship between Alma and Elisabeth. What could be more distracting to narrative cinema than having the film literally break just as the tension is mounting? This is the technique Bergman employs. As soon as the first signs of physical and emotional violence surface between the two, Bergman interjects with projector noise, and cuts off half of the screen as if the film has broken. This is followed by an animation that looks as if the film has been burnt, and after seconds of white screen and backwards dialogue, the film repeats the violent, rapid edits from the opening sequence and a close-up of an eye; not only reminding the viewer that Persona is a film, but rather bluntly, turns the eye back onto the audience.

If form follows function, it is clear Bergman isn't intending Persona to be a direct narrative. It simply doesn't follow the rules. Instead, the film takes on a rigid form for a different purpose altogether. Formal techniques are made to be noticed—the choices are deliberate and Bergman wants the audience to understand this. Form parallels the struggle between the characters and helps pose the questions Bergman is asking. These are not questions of narrative but of character psyche.

By not utilizing the traditional narrative style, Bergman is able to create characters that exist outside of its constraints. Women are, therefore, not subject to gender roles but a thorough character exploration encompassing both polarities of the pre-established gender spectrum. That isn't to say Persona is not about gender—it clearly is—however, Bergman both establishes an uncanny understanding of women and destroys narrative conventions, allowing the audience to associate with the main characters, in a way contrarian to Mulvey's arguments.

Conventional narrative cinema has defined women in opposition to appealing and decidedly masculine qualities. The male role (which has consistently been the dominant role throughout the history of cinema) is not only to be admired, but becomes a surrogate through which the viewer vicariously lives. Characteristics such as strength and dominance are acceptable and encouraged in the active male role while the female role, by default, becomes the passive and powerless object to be looked at rather than looked through.

Women, too, have positive qualities (traditionally nurture, motherhood and faithfulness) but these attributes are loaded as each buys into the precept of subordination. Each quality comes through sacrifice of individual will, as if women can only exist in relation to others, lacking individual agency. Bergman recognizes these binaries, but refuses to operate within the simplistic (and as Mulvey argues, sexist) formula. Male roles are notably absent in Persona, and Bergman slides both female characters up and down the pre-established diametrics.

Indeed, women hold the full capacity for both physical and emotional strength and weakness, violence and helplessness, sacrifice and dominance and are neither admired nor despised because of it. Rather, Bergman deals with these distinctions as a result of human nature, irrelevant to gender. The film begins at the extreme ends of the established female poles. Alma, a nurse is given the traditionally female role of nurturer and caretaker. Elisabeth is given the traditionally female role of physical weakness and mental instability, as she is admitted to a hospital. As Bergman weaves us through the narrative, he shows us different characteristics for each woman. Each takes on roles that would be considered "masculine" in traditional narrative cinema, but Bergman isn't pleased with such simple associations.

Alma and Elisabeth slowly become competitors—not for the attention of men—but feeding off of each other for individual strength. In this sense, gender is transparent. Elisabeth begins the film in a visibly weakened state. She lays helpless, lethargic and apathetic in a secluded hospital room. Though she remains mute, there is identifiable progress after the two move to the beach house. Elisabeth walks around the beach, keeps up with Alma, and appears happier and more active. At one point, Alma notes that she will inform the hospital of Elisabeth's progress, as she is now enjoying novels. However, Elisabeth seems to be drawing her strength from Alma. Elisabeth becomes a subtle, yet omniscient symbol of mental strength, despite her diagnosed state of unrest. She appears as if her state is a chosen one; a role acted out as if she were on stage once more.

Her mental strength becomes so dominating that Alma physically threatens her on multiple occasions. At the end of the film, one is left to assume that if Elisabeth has not returned to full strength, she is at least in a stalemate with Alma, who visibly weakens in emotional and mental health. Though Bergman introduces Elisabeth in a traditionally female role, her following attributes differ greatly from the stereotype. Her helplessness turns into strength, and Elisabeth is seen more as an individual than an object. Neither is Elisabeth selfless, rather she seems to gain her power through the lessening of another.

In one of the final scenes, Elisabeth takes Alma by the wrist, bends down and puts her mouth to it. Metaphorically, Elisabeth is sucking the physical and mental life from Alma and is gaining at her expense. Elisabeth is portrayed as a character outside of traditional female roles, neither selfless nor cruel, and portrays the strength of an individual rarely seen in cinema.

Alma is no less an interesting female figure. Again, Bergman places her in a traditional female role as nurse and caretaker. She is placed in a position of authority over Elisabeth yet the authority is questioned as Alma's own mental strength declines. Alma possesses both ends of the spectrum, as she is both nurturing and violent. As soon as Alma catches on to the possibility that Elisabeth might be using her, she puts aside her nurturing characteristics, as if they are independent from character and nature. Alma drops a glass while sunbathing yet deliberately leaves one shard on the ground while Elisabeth is walking barefoot. Bergman captures the internal struggle of human nature, despite gender, as Alma possesses both selfish and selfless attributes.

It becomes quite evident that the struggle for power between the two increases when Alma questions Elisabeth's intentions. At this point, Elisabeth is the strongest in the relationship yet, when Alma demands that she speak, the conventionally uncharacteristic female struggle for power is put in motion. Alma threatens Elisabeth with a pot of boiling water (in another formally jolting scene which crosses the 180-degree line, appearing as if the two are in a new location altogether) to which Elisabeth declares, "No, don't." For one moment, the power has shifted in the relationship between Alma and Elisabeth, as the physical threat of violence is employed for personal gain. In the scene in which Elisabeth appears to suck the blood from Alma, Alma is in such a state of physical weakness that she begins slapping Elisabeth repeatedly. Violence is far from a traditional female attribute, but Bergman is uninterested in convention. Alma and Elisabeth are both human and both move along the stereotypical binary opposition of gender. Both are helpless and violent. Both are weak and strong. Both are selfish and selfless. Bergman creates two females who exist in contrast to classic narrative cinema, thus both are essentially more real despite the film’s self-reflexivity.

Gender is therefore defined not in contrast to a pre-established masculine role, but the formal tendencies of art cinema allow these alternate realities to exist on film. Sex becomes an equally important element to art now that classical narration has been removed. Just as Bergman suggested, many of these elements operate on psychological levels because of the relationship between art and life. Many may not be intended by the author; in fact some formal techniques came about by accident. As if a blatant critique on classical narrative, Persona contains elements of voyeurism that point to the voyeuristic nature of cinema.

Not only does Bergman turn the camera on the audience, both by using screens within the movie, and one shot in which Elisabeth pops up in front of the camera with a camera of her own, as if taking a picture of the audience, he presents the voyeurism within the film as uncomfortable through thematic and formal techniques. The most sexually graphic scene in Persona is relayed solely through dialogue. By denying the visual element to the events, the viewer is even more uncomfortable. He is not placed at a distance, watching as if others are unaware of his presence; instead he is in a dark room hearing Alma confess sins in a way which can evoke no visual pleasure. The predominant shot of evoking voyeurism employs formal techniques to again make the viewer aware of the voyeurism.

Again, in the scene in which Alma breaks her drinking glass and determines it to be a way for her to induce physical pain in retaliation for her weakening mental state, Bergman places the camera at a distance. The shot, framed by a tree, suggests the voyeuristic nature of cinema as Alma is also in a bathing suit. The formal technique employed is the long-shot, and Bergman holds it for an extended take of almost ninety seconds. Through such an elapse, the viewer becomes aware of his watching, and grows increasingly uncomfortable.

The most striking scene of formal innovation occurs toward the end of the film, in which Alma confronts Elisabeth about her marriage and her son. The film is presented in two takes: the first, a close up of Elisabeth's face while Alma lectures her about her weaknesses as a wife and mother; the second, reversed and repeated, this time as a close-up of Alma's face as she fervently lectures. Immediately, it is the formal technique which draws the most attention as the audience is again asked to remember the film is a film.  Voyeurism, too, is brought into practice as we watch and hear the same dialogue twice at different perspectives.

Metaphorically, the scene describes how each character comes to a realization that they are feeding on each other. Each recognizes her traits are similar, and her weaknesses are shared. The scene ends with Elisabeth appearing to suck the blood from Alma's wrist, as we are again reminded that the two draw from each other. Interestingly, this scene stands as a testament to film standing as a piece of art without pretense of authorship, as its formal arrangement offers judgment of complex realities in a way classical narrative cinema could not, though it wasn't originally intended to do so. Liv Ullmann explains that the scene "...was supposed to be cut up, using the best from each. But when he saw it as a whole, he didn't know what to pick. So he used them both." Of course, Bergman made the formal decision to place both scenes in the film, however the free conventions of art cinema allowed Bergman to recognize the importance both takes captured and was able to formally place them together in a way that, regardless of authorship, the film is all the stronger for.

Voyeurism is thus employed not only in gender experimentation, but as a metaphor for film as art. Bergman's formal techniques make the viewer not only recognize that Persona is a film, but recognize that he tends to project himself onto the screen in order to find, as art cinema intends, new realities about the world. The audience projects itself onto the screen, just as Alma and Elisabeth project their personas onto each other. Elisabeth, an artist, feeds on the life of Alma as the audience feeds on the film. The film is also the product of the author's feeding from life. These new identities within art cinema are exactly the complexities that Mulvey insisted were missing from classical narrative cinema. Persona stands as a work which allows these complexities between characters, viewers, and artists and, just as Mulvey suspected, the gender roles change drastically.

Art cinema intentionally sets out to present new realities in film. Classical narrative is too narrow in scope, and does not suffice for the realities art cinema needs to address. In a sense, the conventions of classical narrative cinema are obsolete. Classical narrative was quickly becoming "film history," and new interpretation and judgment was needed to understand the modern world. These new interpretations were presented in innovative formal arrangements which followed the philosophy that multifaceted realities did not follow linear storytelling. The meaning is, instead, given through intense personal introspection. Within art cinema, authorship becomes another formal technique to present these realities.

Persona is a difficult film. However, its difficulty is its strength as personal expression and objective realities can only exist through these complexities. Authorship is a formal tendency, perhaps, most important to art cinema. It presents alternate realities because it includes personal expression of the author. The personal nature of film simultaneously presents broad realities and expressive motifs. Classical narrative cinema cannot provide these broad definitions of reality due to its narrow-minded, linear structure.

Bergman is able to work on many levels because of art cinema's formal tendencies. Persona is therefore equally important as a work of personal expression and a "free, shameless, and irresponsible" piece of art. The film offers no easy answers, which is exactly why complex issues such as psychology and gender can exist within the work. Authorship is monumentally important as a formal technique in art cinema. Bergman shows how these techniques can address issues in film previously repressed within the classic narrative paradigm. As in the anecdote of the building of Chartes Cathedral, it is not for the author's sake that we ponder these ambiguities, but for the film's.


Works Cited

Bergman, Ingmar. Four Screenplays Of Ingmar Bergman. London: Lorrimer Publishing, 1960.

Bergman, Ingmar. “Ormskinnet” <> 1965.

Bergman, Ingmar and Roger W. Oliver. Ingmar Bergman: An Artist's Journey on Stage, on Screen, in Print. New York: Arcade Pub, 1995.

Bordwell, David. Narration in the Fiction Film. Madison, Wis: University of Wisconsin Press, 1985.

Buscombe, Edward. “Ideas of Authorship.” Screen 14.3 (1973): 75-85.

Mulvey, Laura. "Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema." Screen 16.3 (1975): 6-18.

Naremore, James. "Authorship and the Cultural Politics of Film Criticism." Film Quarterly 44.1 (1990): 14-23.

Ullmann, Liv, and Robert E. Long. Liv Ullmann: Interviews. Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 2006.

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Friday, February 20, 2015

87th Academy Awards – Dream Ballot

Despite seeing nearly 300 features and shorts which I qualify as being 2014 releases, the Academy has much stricter rules.  Due to the evolving landscape of cinematic exhibition (and the proclivity of genre films being rushed to VOD) many of my favorite films of the year weren’t even given the chance at contending as a dark horse:  I have seen only 87 productions that Oscar™ deems eligible for the big award.  I don’t expect these percentages to get any better as it seems doubtful the Academy will seek to accommodate for films which circumvent the box office.

I was going to do my traditional “who will win”/”who should win” thing, but I don’t want my wife stealing all my picks in our pool so I’m doing something a little different.  Here are the nominations and wins if they were selected by me, but still holding to Academy rules (with one notable exception).  I saved this document on my hard-drive as “bizarro Oscars,” so please understand this format is weird, self-indulgent and that reader feedback is highly encouraged.

(For obvious reasons I have ignored the shorts categories.  I have no idea how a film becomes eligible in these categories and even less of an idea how they are effectively narrowed down such that an individual film makes an impact.  The short film has an incredible medium called the Internet, and the Academy’s failure to recognize this is a testament to their devotion to punctilio rather than innovative artistry.)

The envelopes, please:

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Monday, February 16, 2015

The Western as Ethnographic Barometer in Gunsmoke and Deadwood

James Arness, the actor who portrays Marshal Matt Dillon in all twenty seasons of Gunsmoke (CBS: 1955-1975), had an interesting take on the ideologies behind the genre’s success. “A cowboy wasn’t tied down to one place or one woman,” he told TV Radio Mirror in 1964. “Nowadays people just don’t seem to have the intestinal fortitude to live the way they’d like. That’s why they tune in on Westerns, to get a breather from stifling conformity. They don’t want to see Matt Dillon—or any other lawman—come home and sweep the kitchen” (McBride 64).

While, perhaps, coy or playing to character, the assertion is odd given the nature of the television medium. The American Western, more than any genre, reflects the morals and cultural feelings of the era in which they were produced. However, unlike the film industry’s predication of rugged individualism dependent on the trope of cowboys riding off into the sunset, during the heyday of the television Western, heroes needed to be domesticated in recurring roles.

Arness’s ideologically ambiguous statement does any amount of cultural work. It presumes the television Western’s narrative is coded with rigid masculinity as well as insinuates its audience is (and its network would allow its program’s target to be) exclusively male. It ties (contrary to the ideological view of the very show he stars in) law and morality to non-conformity and self-government. It suggests the masculine ideal is too individualistic for community yet offers it through a social medium.

Though fragments of these assumptions share some truth with the early Western in print and film, the television Western largely subverts these assumptions through both their serial format and consumerist ideologies. Textual analysis of the first seasons of Gunsmoke and Deadwood (HBO: 2004-2006) will examine how the television Western, though employing traditional genre tropes and themes, does not perpetuate absolute ideologies but is elastic, reflecting the cultures and formats in which they were produced. As paranoid, commercial artifacts of the Eisenhower-era Cold War and the lingering shadow of post-9/11, these programs’ use of Western language exposes an ethnological rift as the culture shifts from the perspective of victor to that of victim in terms of foreign policy.

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Saturday, February 7, 2015

Thursday, January 29, 2015

My Thirty(one) Most Anticipated Films of 2015

Hey, have you guys heard they're making a new Star Wars movie?

Conventional wisdom dictates that all of the good, award-worthy movies come out at the end of the year while all of the billion-dollar popcorn movies run May-July.  Don't get me wrong, I'll consume all of that as well, but it is almost always the films that fall between the cracks that make the biggest impression on me.  Here's what I'm most looking forward to as we wave goodbye to the 2014 Oscar™ parade caboose.  For a much shorter read, check out a list of My Wife's Most Anticipated Films of 2015.

30. White God (Fehér Isten) (d. Kornél Mundruczó)
This Hungarian film opened to mixed reviews at Sundance despite winning the Prize Un Certain Regard at the 2014 Cannes Film Festival.  It looks like a pretty hokey drama but a pretty sweet B-horror.  It'll be interesting to see how the two are reconciled.
U.S. limited release: 27 March 2015

29. Seymour: An Introduction (d. Ethan Hawke)
Another audience favorite (taking second runner-up for the People's Choice Award in Best Documentary at Toronto last fall), Ethan Hawke's examination of concert pianist Seymour Bernstein is hopefully the musical equivalent of Golub.

28. Mad Max: Fury Road (d. George Miller)
His first non-Happy Feet movie in almost two decades, George Miller's return to roots looks like the best kind of over-the-top, Drive Angry, grindhouse exploitation.
U.S. release: 15 May 2015

27. The Look of Silence (d. Joshua Oppenheimer)
Danish documentarian Joshua Oppenheimer has won huge accolades on the festival circuit with his sequel to 2012's The Act of Killing.  This is sure to be harrowing.
U.S. limited release: July 2015

26. Ned Rifle (d. Hal Hartley)
The third, final and-- if it lives up to the hype-- best chapter in Hal Hartley's extended Henry Fool trilogy casts Parker Posey alongside Aubrey Plaza.  The film is scheduled for screening at the Berlin International Film Festival in February and will hopefully get a limited U.S. release by the summer.

25. 3 and 1/2 Minutes (d. Marc Silver)
On the heels of #blacklivesmatter, Marc Silver's documentary debuts at the Sundance Film Festival and recounts how gun culture and racial bias culminated in the 2012 death of 17-year-old Jordan Russell Davis at a gas station in Jacksonville, Florida.  Like last year's Citizenfour, this appears to be a timely, relevant and uncompromising historical document and, hopefully, work of art. 

24. Round Up (d. Sufjan Stevens)
This is a weird Sufjan Stevens "documentary" that appears to be an environmentalist art installment of a slow-motion rodeo.  Maybe this one is only for me, and who knows if I'll ever even be able to see it.
Release: It'll probably show up on Vimeo in like three years.

23. Killers (d. Kimo Stamboel and Timo Tjahjanto)
This seems like a crazier (and probably more straight-genre) version of I Saw The Devil.  Brutal.
U.S. limited release: 23 January 2015

22. It Follows (d. David Robert Mitchell)
This looks like a really stylish genre piece in the vain of Starry Eyes and The Guest.  This is the kind of thing that seems fit for VOD nowadays, but I hope I can see this somewhere outside of FilmBar.
U.S. limited release: 27 March 2015

21. High-Rise (d. Ben Wheatley)
The prolific Ben Wheatley has given us Kill List, Sightseers and A Field In England all since 2011.  I don't even know what this movie is about; I'll be there.

20. Mistress America (d. Noah Baumbach)
Baumbach has found his muse in Greta Gerwig in what looks like a combination of mumblecore and screwball comedy.  #mumblescrew
Release: I'd guess limited late-summer

19. The Witch (d. Robert Eggers)
Sundance darling that apparently sounds like exactly what it is.  You had me at "witch."

18. Spring (d. Justin Benson and Aaron Moorhead)
In their follow-up to the genre-bending Resolution, Benson and Moorhead return with a "romantic horror" which looks to buck convention while making me real uncomfortable.  This is a lot of what I loved about Under the Skin and Trouble Every Day, so I have high hopes for this one.
U.K. release: 17 April 2015; hopefully U.S. will follow suit

17. Nie yin niang (d. Hsiao-Hsien Hou) 
His first feature since 2007's Flight of the Red Balloon, marking his longest professional hiatus by some distance, this film-- which I know nothing about (including pronunciation)-- is on here by reputation alone.  It's currently listed on IMDb as in post-production and sounds like the kind of thing that will debut at Cannes and half of the audience won't be into it.  

16. The Sea of Trees (d. Gus Van Sant)
I'm hoping this is Van Sant's return to form (like "Death trilogy" form, not self-congratulatory crowd-pleasing form) in teaming with Matthew McConaughey and Naomi Watts in something that sounds an awful lot like Gerry.  Gerry with trees.

15. Z for Zachariah (d. Craig Zobel) 
I can't say enough good things about the under-recognized Compliance, but where Zobel turned huge performances from a non-recognizable ensemble cast, his latest currently credits only Margot Robbie, Chris Pine and Chiwetel Ejiofor who are, possibly, the last known survivors on earth.  This title may compete on my short list of "favorite Z-titled films" alongside Zelig, Zero for Conduct, Zero Dark Thirty and a few Zatoichi pictures.
Danish release: 16 April 2015.  Thanks, IMDb.

14. The Duke of Burgundy (d. Peter Strickland)
Technically, this thing is already out.  From the guy who brought us Berberian Sound Studio and the Björk: Biophilia Live concert film, the unofficial prequel to Anchorman.  
U.S. limited release and VOD: 23 January 2015

13. Kamakura Diary (Umimachi Diary) (d. Hirokazu Koreeda)
A domestic drama adapted from the manga of the same name, this thing seems to be right up the alley of Japanese director Hirokazu Koreeda (Still Life, Nobody Knows).  I wouldn't be surprised if this thing debuts at Cannes as it's set to open in Japan a month later.
Japanese release: 13 June 2015 

12. Love in Khon Kaen (d. Apichatpong Weerasethakul) 
From Thai director Weeransethakul's website, Love in Khon Kaen "tells of a lonesome middle-age housewife who tends a soldier with sleeping sickness and falls into a hallucination that triggers strange dreams, phantoms, and romance." Sounds par for the course for the guy that brought us Uncle Boonmee.

11. The Lobster (d. Yorgos Lanthimos)
From the crazy Greek who brought us Dogtooth, here's hoping that The Lobster follows the recent European arthouse tradition-- alongside Attenberg and Borgman-- of confounding fever dream.
U.S. limited release: March 2015

10. From the Dark (d. Conor McMahon)
Irish creature-feature which casts only two actors.  From the director of Stitches.

9. Crimson Peak (d. Guillermo del Toro)
"But basically what it is is a really, really, almost classical gothic romance ghost story, but then it has two or three scenes that are really, really disturbing in a very, very modern way. Very, very disturbing, it's a proper R rating. And it's adult."
— Guillermo del Toro
So, basically, Pan's Labyrinth with Jessica Chastain?  This could skyrocket close to #2 on my list, but my excitement is tempered by my disinterest in returning to Pacific Rim
U.S. release: 16 October 2015

8. Green Room (d. Jeremy Saulnier)
I'm looking for Saulnier to catapult to the forefront of American directors (genre or otherwise) after the exceptional Murder Party and Blue Ruin with this killer tagline: "A young punk rock band find themselves trapped in a secluded venue after stumbling upon a horrific act of violence."  Starring Imogen Poots and featuring Patrick Stewart as a Neo-Nazi. 

7. Darkness by Day (El día trajo la oscuridad) (d. Martín De Salvo)
I've been excited about this movie since I first heard of its existence and it still has no U.S. distribution.  I hope someone picks this up before it hits Latin American torrents.

6. Yeezus: The Film (d. Hype Williams)
No one knows anything about this movie, including if it even exists.  Kanye released a teaser trailer last February.  Expect me to be camping out if this gets a theatrical release.

5. Tomorrowland (d. Brad Bird)
The next in the proud tradition of theme-park related films, Brad Bird will again play King Midas to something that would sound like a dumpster fire in anyone else's hands.
U.S. release: 22 May 2015

4. '71 (d. Yann Demange)
Full disclosure:  I've seen this one and it rules.  I don't expect this to play well this side of the Atlantic, but it should further flex Jack O'Connell as an A-list actor where his last few American features let him down.
U.S. release: 27 February 2015

3. The Hateful Eight (d. Quentin Tarantino)
Tarantino continues his foray into historiological metafiction through redemptive violence and blissful cinematic commentary.  Inglourious Basterds was no mere Dirty Dozen knock-off, Django Unchained re-Americanized the essence of the spaghetti Western, and we have every reason to believe The Hateful Eight will play genre in a way that pays healthy respect to, but completely transcend expectation and source material of, its Magnificent Seven reference.  I mean, look at that poster.
U.S. release: 13 November 2015

2. Midnight Special (d. Jeff Nichols)
Jeff Nichols may very well be the next true American auteur.  Midnight Special seems to follow familiar themes in Take Shelter and Mud of the disillusionment of childlike wonder and the seams where the fabric of paternal leadership begins to tear.
U.S. release: 25 November 2015

1. Knight of Cups (d. Terrence Malick) / Untitled Terrence Malick Project (d. Terrence Malick)
I'm cheating by ending this list with a twofer, but it is an unprecedentedly exciting place in cinema where the short distance between 2011 and 2015 can produce as many Terrence Malick films as the previous 39 years.

What do I know about Knight of Cups?  Very little.  I don't even understand what the title possibly refers to, and I'll keep it this way.  Remember when The Tree of Life was coming out and people were touting how it took Malick a long time to balance the harsh representation of fatherhood with the developing technology which made the dinosaurs look legitimate?  There was no way to wrap my mind around a statement like that without actually seeing it, and my visceral and emotional connection was heightened by this ignorance.  I know Christian Bale is in it.  I know Natalie Portman is in it.  I know Imogen Poots, Cate Blanchett and Nick Offerman are in it.   I know '70s posterboy Ryan O'Neal adds Terrence Malick to his already crowded résumé of New Hollywood directors he's worked with (including Stanley Kubrick, Peter Bogdanovich, Blake Edwards, Norman Mailer, Richard Attenborough).  But I'm not convinced any of them could even tell us what it is about at this point.

I know even less about the second feature.  Including its title.  I know it has a slightly improved cast (if that can be fathomed) with a few carryovers and I know the two films were shot, more or less, concurrently. Maybe Untitled will come out in 2015?  If not, the recent trove of Malick will hold me over for a lifetime.

I also know To The Wonder is my favorite film of 2013, and I know The Tree of Life is my favorite film of my lifetime.  That's all I need to know.  By all means, watch the trailer.  But I haven't.

U.S. release: 11 December 2015 (Knight of Cups)

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