LONESOME (Paul Fejos, 1928)

       A major flaw with modern audiences' perception of film is the overemphasis on story and audiences' fixation of it even when it is unimportant and only aids a theme. Some films can have great visuals, yet not hold up at all because of the lack of story and the fact that it attempts to make the story important and a true fixture of the film, like a "traditional" film. A film like this would be Tarsem's The Fall, a shallow, stupid film with admittedly lovely issues.
       Two late silent era films are often criticized today for their lack of an interesting story, relying on old cliches of love. The first is Sunrise, which is certainly the more well-known of the two, but the second is Paul Fejos's often forgotten Lonesome. Lonesome was lost for many years, and could be criticized for its run-of-the-mill plot- two lonely individuals meet and fall in love, only by knowing each others first name, and soon are separated. The plot doesn't do much, but Lonesome is still a spectacle to behold today, with its unconventional structure, awesome tinting and hand-painting, and its odd use of sound and dialogue.
         Paul Fejos, a European who was a doctor and anthropologist as well as a filmmaker, builds the atmosphere of Lonesome by first dissecting New York city at a whole. Much of the film serves as a New York city symphony, which was an early documentary mode, most famously seen in Veratov's Man with the Movie Camera. The first inter-title describes New York as a machine, and we soon see its inner workings through an array of shots, and a good amount of superimpositions. This graphic structure itself is interesting, and makes up most of the film. A good portion of the film takes place at (presumably) Coney Island on the Fourth of July weekend, serving as an event documentary, displaying the sprawl of the city and its often dehumanizing effect. This theme aids the simple plot, and takes the weight of the theme off of the literal story.
       Tinting and hand-painting of old film is a technique that still impresses to this day, as one can really appreciate the amount of hard work one puts into the process. On top of that, it just looks beautiful. Fejos changes the color of the tint on a mid-shot of the two lovers multiple times, while a great sequence shows the gentle coloring and lighting of a two lovers, alone on a bench (despite the fact that the dock is always packed besides this scene, and in fact, the lovers almost lose each other in the herd, but is empty for this one shot, which works emotionally instead of literally-rare for such an old film) adorned in yellow amongst a dark blue surrounding, again showcasing a "us and them" mentality, separating lovers from the swamp around them.
       It is worth noting that Lonesome was an incredibly early sound film, I believe Universial's first, and only three or four scenes have spoken words. However, the dialogue is just bizarre, stilted, and hokey, reminding me of the great early sound parody "Tomatoes Another Day." The last sound sequence shows a confusing dialogue between the man and a cop, where the police commander speaks with sarcasm, but it is completely covert- and intended to be so, since our hero is upset. The dialogue is usually incredibly weak, but the one instance of deliberate toying with tone is an interesting direction experiment.
       Lonseome is far from perfect, and it certainly makes sense why it was forgotten for so long. It is a strange, strange film which doesn't ever really know what it wants to be. However, its indecision makes it incredibly interesting and certainly worth a watch. All in all, Lonesome's oddity warrants a watch for its history and sustained entertainment value.

Luis Bunuel Retrospective- Pt. 2- THE MEXICAN JOURNEYMAN

       Luis Bunuel was specifically brought in to Mexico to be a commercial director, and ultimately was, working mainly in melodrama, yet always including a personalized surreal touch that he had perfected. To quote the Swedish mater Ingmar Bergman, "Bunuel always made Bunuel films." Bunuel's style always surfaced in one way or another, be it in dream sequences, themes, or certain images. Bunuel made the bulk of his filmography in Mexico, from La Grand Casino to Simon of the Desert. 
        This is the area where Bunuel receives his distinction of under appreciated and often forgotten, at least in America. Many of these films are completely unavailable in America on DVD, or at least very, very, rare. I admittedly have not even seen the bulk of them since they are just unavailable. Terrible Mexican video companies own the rights to many of the films, and utterly refuse to sell them or even release them on DVD. The subtitles often have typos, and the image is a true travesty.
       Bunuel's earliest film of the period that garnered serious attention was Los Olvidados, a Bunuel-take on the neo-realist movement that was capturing world cinema. Bunuel takes his camera to the streets, using non-actors and real settings to show the plight of youths forgotten by society. Bunuel's major touch comes in the form of a dream sequence, with slow-motion feathers floating to the ground, a la Vigo's Zero du Conduit and a bloodied dead boy laughing on the ground. The sequence is truly stunning, and hides the otherwise bleak nature of the film for just a moment. Bunuel is brutal and relentless in his portrayal of poverty.
       Another major film for the period is El, returning to literally examine the theme of sexual repression and obsession, showing a man who loves the very idea of a woman so much he is willing to do anything to hold onto her. The film is stacked with Bunuel's religious iconography and carries serious criticism for the Catholic church, where a priest not only refuses to help the tortured heroine, but actually rats her out to her husband. This is an early direct example of Bunuel's treatment of religious hypocrisy, which was later visited time and time again.
       Again, I must lament the fact that so many of these films are unavailable, including Ensayo de un Crimen, Susana, Subida Au Cielo, and Wuthering Heights. It represents a huge blind spot in our consciousness of a great filmmaker who overcame producers to stay true to his vision. I dream that one day a company like Criterion will pick up these titles and finally do them justice.
       Bunuel's most acclaimed film of the period is Nazarin, a film that is thematically similar to his well-known follow-up. Nazarin follows Father Nazzario, an idealistic and certainly good Catholic priest who risks his reputation for a prostitute and constantly battles the church. The story is a critique of the cold church and of idealism and general, yet it also parodies the story of Christ. Nazario is often mistaken as a "second coming" type figure. Two of the prostitutes follow the man to the world's end, even though he urges them against it, saying he is just a humble man. Nazario arrives at a village where a young girl is sick. The villagers urge him to perform a miracle, which he refuses, but he does pray for the girl. The next morning, the woman praise the priest, but he insists God intervened. However, Nazario is silent when the group stumbles upon a massive disaster, and is unable to help anyone, even unable to hear a woman's confession as she is fixated only on seeing her lover. The film's final image is incredibly powerful, involving intense despair and a pineapple. Although I covered what seems like a good amount, much more is in store in the film and  do not wish to spoil.
       The follow-up was made not in Mexico, but was instead Bunuel's return to Spain. I don't mean to exaggerate, but Viridana may be my all-time favorite film, and is, in my opinion, cinematic perfection. The story is mainly a critique of idealism, but dives in against organized religion, obsession, lust, chastity, poverty, and sensitivity. It's a truly deep and spellbinding work that follows a cold young nun as she visits her uncle. Perhaps that may not sound thrilling, but I urge anyone to watch it. I do not wish to give away a single detail of the plot explicitly. The film's message is best seen in an odd image Bunuel presents to us- a character sees a dog tied to the bottom of a cart. The character is shocked, as if the tired Dog stops moving, it will be strangled. The character attempts to convince the owner to let the dog in the cart, and when  the owner refuses, the character outright buys the dog, much like what our heroine Viridiana does with the beggars. However, as out character walks away with the dog, another cart passes, which has another dog walking under it, tied to the axle. It's a hugely powerful and slightly abstract image that perfectly captures the film.
        Bunuel's next film, The Exterminating Angel, made again in Mexico but attempting to look like France, offers another abstract analogy, this time taking on the ruling class directly. A dinner party, for unknown reasons, cannot leave a room. In such a simple, absurd concept, Bunuel shows us his opinion of the human lab rats that make up the upper class, stuck in the regime of parties and excess. AT the film's end, the priest and church goers in a Catholic cathedral suffer the same fate.
        This period of Bunuel's career is characterized with his most accessible and straight-forward films, as they were made with the intention of profitability first and foremost. Bunuel's later career is defined by him attempting to unlearn the narrative trick of this period, creating more challenging and difficult films.
     

Luis Bunuel retrospective- Part 1- EARLY LIFE AND EXPERIMENTS

       July 29th, 1983 (30 years ago, today) marked the death of Luis Bunuel. To some who consider themselves fans of film, this may not mean anything, while it may mean everything to some. Luis Bunuel, despite his sterling reputation (for example, They Shoot Pictures lists him as one of the three "master" directors, meaning a perfect 10, along with Howard Hawks and Alfred Hitchcock), is criminally unwatched and undervalued among the general public. Many of his films are rare and hard to find, but I'll get into that later.
       Now, I have written on Bunuel much before, but now, I just don't want to republish something, which I've done on a few occasions. My writings on Bunuel earlier were academic and lengthy. Perhaps I will publish it at a later date, but for now, I will write new material. I may borrow from my previous writings, however.
       Now, perhaps a little bit of background on Bunuel is needed to truly understand him. Bunuel was born in 1901 in Spain, and grew up in a religious aristocratic family, two relations which run deeply through pretty much every film he has ever done. Additionally, Bunuel admits in his (excellent) biography that he was very sexually oppressed, another constant theme. When he was eighteen, he went of to University in Madrid, where he met several creative minds that like Federico Garcia Lorca and Salvador Dali, with whom he would be closely affiliated.
       Bunuel's artistic awakening came in Paris in the late 1920s. At this time, he allied with many of the surrelists, such as Max Ernst. One of the most fascinating parts of Bunuel's biography The Last Sigh is that the book works as a first-hand report of the surrealist movement, and Bunuel really dives into what the movement was in his eyes- less artistic, and more of a new system of reality which rejected everything society cherished. In Paris, Bunuel worked as an assistant for the early French silent director Jean Epstien.
       In 1929, Bunuel and Dali set out to make a film with funds Bunuel secured from his mother, despite her never actually seeing the film, and never expressing any interest in doing so. The result was Un Chien Andalou, which still is Bunuel's most popular film, although it does not show off the director's skills sufficiently. Bunuel's genius was in story-telling, and Un Chien  is pure non-narrative, and Bunuel stated several times that it is supposedly total nonsense. I must admit that when I was an early teenager I first heard of Bunuel through Un Chien, where he was essentially just "the guy that's not Dali."
       Un Chien Andalou had an instant and massive influence, specifically for its odd structure and bizarre images, which in fact does capture much of Bunuel's essence. Perhaps one of cinema's most iconic images is the woman being held by a man (who is actually Bunuel) as we see a cloud slice through the moon. Then we see an eye sliced (where, yes, the name of this blog comes from) with plasma oozing from the slit. It's instantly memorable, as is another fantastic image, of a man weighed down by a dead donkey, a grand piano, and two perplexed priests (one of whom was Dali), which represents a recurring Bunuel theme- the strains of upper society and religion on all aspects of one's life. Dali's influence can be felt in many of the images, such as ants crawling through a man's hand. Bunuel's dreams were much more rooted in a worldly reality than Dali's, which kept him grounded and decidely unpretentious.
       Next, Dali and Bunuel collaborated one more time before breaking their partnership permanently. This film was L'Age D'Or and is certainly much more Bunuel's than Dali's. The collaboration was fading quickly due to the emergence of Galla Dali, Dali's falling out with the surrealists, and that the duo simply wasn't as inspired together as they once were. The film was just over an hour long, and bore the distinction of being one of the earliest sound films made in France. The film is certainly a spiritual sequel to Un Chien and resembles it like no other part of Bunuel's filmography. Here, Bunuel revisits many of the same themes, but takes an extra blade out towards the church with the final scene, which is a reenactment of a scene from De Sade's 120 Days of Sodom with Jesus as the perverse duke. The Christ figure comforts a young girl, leads her back into the cave, and after a scream, he emerges, now without a beard. The final image is a cross adorned in scalps of women, which implies violence against woman is the trademark of church history.
        Compared to Bunuel's later filmography, his first two films are unique and worth visiting, but certainly do not reflect Bunuel's filmography at all. Bunuel was so much more than chocking imagery, and I have a tough time getting some people to watch any of his films if they are familiar and dislike his trademark eye slice. L'Age D'or shocked France so much that it caused riots and was banned by the government until 1980. Bunuel fled France, not returning until the 1960s. He went to Spain, where he filmed the thirty minute Las Hurdes, financed for a minimal amount of money.
        Las Hurdes receives a good amount of recognition for its status as an early documentary, and one of the earliest with such a political statement like showing the crippling poverty of regions in Spain. We see several shocking images again, but now, they are rooted within reality. We see close ups of a young girls mouth, as we hear that in a few days, the toddler will be dead. A donkey is stung to death by a hoard of bees while orchestral music and a dry narration goes forth. Bunuel again seizes an opportunity to attack a favorite target by focusing on a massive structure among this wasteland- a catholic cathedral, of course.
        Las Hurdes again caused huge controversy, halting Bunuel from making any films from years to come. Bunuel fled Spain for the United States on the heels of the Spanish Civil War, where he would have certainly been viewed as a political threat subject to assassination. Bunuel landed in Los Angeles at first, living with Charlie Chaplin for some time (Chaplin allegedly used to scare his daughter, Geraldine, by telling her images from Un Chien Andalou  before bedtime) and then worked at the studio. Eventually, his wife came over with his two sons, and the director moved to New York, where he was on the MoMa board before Communist ties forced him to resign. Bunuel was broke in New York with no job and no prospects, until an old friend living in Mexico contacted him with a directing opportunity. The year was 1947, and Bunuel had not been behind a camera in fifteen years, and had never even made a feature length narrative, but he accepted the job to make La Gran Calavera.

FRUITVALE STATION (2013, Ryan Coogler)

       Few directorial debuts have garnered as much attention as Ryan Coogler's Fruitvale Station, which won the top prize at Sundance as well as a huge amount of relevancy in the wake of the Trayvon Martin shooting. The film, which was just recently released nation-wide, tells the story of Oscar Grant, a young man who was unjustly shot by police early on New Year's Day. That is no spoiler, as the film assumes you know the story, which was national news a few years ago, and how the film markets itself as the last few hours in a man's life.
       Dealing with such an intimate and real-life situation such as Oscar Grant's death requires a great amount of polished talent to make the story dramatic and interesting. Coogler just doesn't have it, although he certainly shows flashes of potential. Too often the film aims too low, and the first hour simply shows how nice of a guy Oscar Grant is. Sure, he was a drug dealer and was in prison, but he's over that! In a particularly ridiculous early scene, Grant pets a dog at a gas station, and moments later when the dog is hit by a car, we see Grant moan and cry. Coogler is prodding us to go "Look, he cried about a dog, how nice!" Coogler seems unconfident that an audience would accept a former convict as a nice guy, so he pads the film with all sorts of ridiculous scenes showing off how damn nice this guy is, bluntly telling us rather than showing anything. However, despite the weaknesses of the writer-director, Michael B. Jordan does a fairly good job, especially given his hokey material.
      The cinematography is also a major issue, as Coogler and his D.P. resort to the current mark of current low-budget cinema- sloppy shallow focus. Fruitvale may be a prime example of the aestetic, where the D.P. shoots mainly in closeup and occasionally shifts focus for no reason (well, his reasoning is to show the "distorted nature of the scene", but really, it just looks cool. It's typically totally unneeded.) Nichol's Mud is another prime example of poor usage of this technique, while Ciranfrance's A Place Beyond the Pines uses it exceptionally well, shooting characters behind patterns and structures, letting the textures and not the open area be blurred.
       After an hour of Lifetime Movie-grade fluff, the film slowly grows into its own during a short, energetic scene of Oscar and his friends having a good time. The film shows a more realistic side of Oscar, as he's not helping people at every turn and talking to old women playing with flowers.
       The climax, where Oscar is shot, also carries a certain energy to it, and is well-shot and acted. Here, the film is at its absolute strongest. The sequence is heavily indebted to Spike Lee's Do The Right Thing, which still stands on its own. Afterward, we are truly kept in suspense through realistic operation scenes, but ultimately, the film whithers back to its sentimental roots. After a long speech by his mother that any viewer could see coming forty minutes ago, we see Oscar playing with his daughter again to an overexposed film. Of course. It's such a typical ending that it robs any emotional climb the last twenty minutes built.
       Fruitvale, quite simply, is poor melodrama which refuses to let its characters breathe and its audience watch on its own. The audience is taken by the hand and told directly how nice Oscar was despite his past, as we could never get that without seeing him cry over dead dogs, Grandmas picking flowers, sneaking his daughter fruitsnacks, and weepy mom-alogues. Despite good performance and a few bursts of creative potential, Fruitvale Station is a melodramatic film that insults its audience by hand-feeding them every detail, robbing any possibility of true drama and intrigue.

SPING BREAKERS (Harmony Korine, 2013)

       Harmony Korine, the low budgeted, inventive, and likely crazy auteur known for semi-experimental films such as Julien Donkey-Boy, Gummo, Mr. Lonely and Trash Humpers shocked the film community by announcing Spring Breakers, utilizing several former Disney stars and documenting a Spring Break party lifestyle.
       Even though it still had a small budget, the film drew in many high-profile stars, such as former Disney products Selena Gomez (who still has ties with the mouse, so plays the moral center of the group), and Vanessa Hudgens, as well as ABC Family star Ashley Benson. The girls, along with Rachel Corine, are "typical" college girls who declare that they need a break from getting drunk and high at school by getting drunk and high in Florida, and to raise funds, rob a restaurant.
       Korine already is presenting something atypical and unexpected, even to those who think they know what they are getting in to. The structure itself is especially bizarre, since the plot focuses on the group on break at first, before even introducing the main catalyst of the plot, Alien.
       The editing style is particularly noteworthy, as it often functions in an upfront and direct manner. Honestly, it is hard for me to explain in words what Korine does, but I can compare it to Dennis Hopper's work on Easy Rider, where he flashes several images to bridge scenes, and in one instance, shows an event well into the future. Korine plays with the chronology frequently, for example, showing a character bleeding and crying from a gunshot wound before the shot is even fired.
       The film at a whole is just very strange, starting from its story and language. The film operates very symbolically and covertly, often color coding the information and working in layers of meaning. However, sometimes the story can be just much too blunt and straightforward by how absurd the images and characters are supposed to be, yet it doesn't give the sense it even know it.
       The film's biggest star arrives nearly halfway through the film in James Franco, playing a crazy drug dealer, Alien, who very well could be a stand in for Korine himself, injecting a level of chaos and insanity into the already bizarre adventures of our main characters while we can practically hear Harmony Korine cackle off screen.
       Alien certainly brings the issue of good and evil into our minds, but why? We already know what the girls are capable of after the early robbery. Perhaps we are meant to see how low they went, and how some of them will attempt to escpae, drawing out of the chaos. Morality? Injury? Both play a role in some of the girls' insistance to stop the experiment. The film represents how different people react when a situation is escalated to absurd extremes, yet is less of a character piece than it is a study of the "party" mindset that thrives in many youths. Spring Breakers can sometime be a bit meandering and sometimes too spoken-out and obvious, but it is truly beautifully and originally shot, and offers up a fresh take on college films, in a way that certainly isn't intended for its subjects.

The growing distance between film and television

       Television, with the birth of original, in-depth programming such as Breaking Bad, has been seen as a more artistic and in depth story telling medium than ever before. Content is riskier and freer than what broadcast television could ever offer. Shows can now tell completely inter-connected stories without trying to bring in new viewers week after week. Now, with the internet, viewers can get caught up to date on their own time.
       Some even argue that television is the new place to tell in-depth dramatic stories, and film is becoming a mix of two extremes- low-budget indies, and high-budget popcorn fare. Studios no longer want to take the risk on higher budget dramas, and the public suggests that television is the place to tell them. If Game of Thrones was published ten years earlier, it would likely be a movie series. To many, television is the medium to tell new dramatic stories. It makes sense in a way- you can obviously go so much more in depth by telling a story over twelve hours than in two or three.
       Now, I don't mean to generalize here- there have been some great higher budget dramatic films in the last few years, such as Lincoln, and the superiority of television is a pretty controversial opinion, even though many serious writers now swear by it. People seem to want to write for TV much more than film today, and see it as not only either to get into, but more exciting and free to work for.
       Film, to me at least, is more effective than television because of its brevity. The longest of (commercial) films run about 3 hours. Every frame holds so much power and meaning. Stories must be completely fulfilling within the small time frame, while an episode of a TV show must complete a small arch but is expected to leave many answers that can be picked up on. Sure, some films have sequels, but usually they are unexpected and only leave a few questions.
       Film, I also argue, is most certainly freer. A single 2-hour film can be made much cheaper than a small run of episodes for a television show that will garner serious attention. Film, when made on a small budget or with total freedom, can be much more experimental and adventurous. Television, I believe, will always be narrative. There will likely never be an experimental television show, and Television's modern rebirth simply means telling much more adults plots, like those on The Sopranos and Breaking Bad.
       In a lot of ways, the brevity and smaller scale (which lends to freedom) of film can never be replicated in an episodic television show, at least in its typical format that can be expanded upon for years and years. Mini-series are an entirely different case, like Fassbinder's Berlin Alexanderplatz, but there could never be a Season two of something as sprawling and unusual as that. As great as something like Breaking Bad, The Sopranos, or The Wire, I don't think its even possible to compare it to a two or three hour film. I won't say one is better than another, but simply different, and as a writer and filmmaker myself, I feel more comfortable and free working within a time frame that forces a critical exclusive editing process as intense as a film screenplay and feature film. Obviously, this is just an opinion, but I assert that the two mediums are simply incomparable, and their only shared similarity is that they are watched on the same screen.

DR STRANGELOVE (Stanley Kubrick, 1964)

        As relevant as it was in 1964 since the threat of nuclear war has not withered, Stanley Kubrick's first great film still is relatable, hilarious, terrifying and thrilling at the same time. Since I yet again am incredibly busy and poorly managed my time over the weekend, yet still want to keep the blog running at its rampant pace (even though, let's face it, no one fucking reads this, at least at the moment), I yet again have decided to republish an older essay.




        Throughout  Stanley Kubrick’s 1964 black comedy Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb, Kubrick presents a bleak vision for the world’s demise: Nuclear weapons placed in the hands of bumbling, incompetent governments. However, Kubrick proposes that sex drives all decisions, including, or perhaps especially, matters concerning warfare, politics and public safety. Kubrick shows, through the framing of shots and the actions of the characters, that primitive male sexuality is to blame for much of war, and even directly compares war to the act of making love. Kubrick, through the use of complicated film language, creates a frighteningly possible scenario under the arms race, and critiques the world that allows such absurdities to occur.
Kubrick first introduces the concept of sex controlling the government with General Buck Turgidson, who is called into the war room while with his secretary and mistress. At first, the secretary alone occupies the frame, with Turgidson yelling back his responses. Then, Turgidson appears in a mirror behind his secretary. The shot displays the prominence of sex in politics, but also conveys how personal experiences and relationships often eclipse judgment and decisions. Later in film, Turgidson ignores the president discussing the grave situation at hand to field a phone call from his secretary, further proving the point suggested by Turgidson appearing far off in the mirrors. However, the most serious example of Turgidson putting his personal feelings and opinions first are shown when he must talk to the Soviet Ambassador. Turgidson is immediately distrustful, repeatedly mocks the ambassador politically and personally and refuses to civilly acknowledge him. Turgidson’s personal beliefs again take forefront, with rationality being forced in the background, at the film’s conclusion, when Turgidson describes how well pilots can jam radars. Turgidson excitedly explains that the pilots are trained to do so, failing to realize that if the pilots jam the radar and drop the bomb, the world is doomed. The general puts his arms out like airplane wings, and begins to demonstrate, before adamantly declaring that the bomber has a very good chance of getting through, before the reality of the situation hits him. Turgidson’s emotion based decisions is a sinister breed of ultra-patriotism, and relates back to Kubrick's image of a young, beautiful woman lounging in the foreground, with the half-naked general in the back, distorted from the reflection.
Similar to Turgidson, Jack D. Ripper, the renegade general, is motivated by similar thoughts of sexulaity and ultra-patriotism. Ripper is obsessed with the concept of “bodily fluids,” and his conspiracy theory that the Soviets were poisoning them with the fluoridation of water. Ripper says he first realized that his bodily fluids were tainted during sex, essentially meaning Ripper ordered a fleet of jets to bomb Russia, eventually destroying the world, because he experienced problems in bed. As Ripper first explains his theory, he is shot from an extreme low angle, with a cigar limply hanging from his lips, symbolizing his bedroom troubles. Ripper’s belief that the Russians poisoned America’s water supply in order to sap males of their sexual power is a display of “penis envy,”according to film critic Michael Hollister. Ripper’s belief that the jealous Russians want to deplete the sexual power of the American male is symbolic of the cold war itself, which Hollister explains is depicted in Dr. Strangelove as penis envy, where the two major world powers developed bigger and more powerful weapons, culminating in the doomsday machine. When the war room hears of the doomsday machine, the occupants are not disgusted and horrified, but instead ask why America has not developed a doomsday machine. Kubrick shows that much of politics consists of male-oriented envy and endless rounds of deadly competitions in order to show who is stronger, smarter, and ultimately, who has the biggest penis.
Ultimately, Dr. Strangelove in its entirety serves as an allegory for sex, according to film critic Tony Macklin. Beginning with the film’s opening titles, Kubrick’s film closely relates war to sex. As the opening titles roll, footage plays of two jets refueling in air. The imagery is obvious, as one jet hovers above the other and extends a long, stiff pole into to gas tank of the other. According to writer and filmmaker Chris Sheridan, the guns and planes in the film are direct reference to sex, further aiding Hollister’s theory of penile envy causing the film’s war and destruction. With the vessel being the penis, its ammunition acts as the ejaculate, further adding to Kubrick’s sex-focused interpretation of the arms race. As the film progresses, the penises and ejaculates become larger and larger, beginning with guns, then progressing to tanks, before turning to bombs. Near the film’s end, Major Kong straddles the hydrogen bomb between his legs and rides the weapon down to Russia, which is, as Sheridan explains “the largest penis and ejaculation imaginable.” The film end directly mirrors the foreplay of the beginning. As doomsday machine is triggered, atomic bombs detonate all over the world, signaling the ultimate orgasm. Throughout the course of the film, Kubrick mirrors war with the act of sex, beginning with foreplay and initial intercourse, ejaculation, and ending the film with the earth-shattering, universal orgasm.
Stanley Kubrick’s film serves as a critique of societies that support the notion of Mutually Assured Destruction, the theory that no nation will drop an atomic bomb, since an attack will always mean a counter-strike. Kubrick paints sex-obsessed characters, who are primarily motivated and controlled by sex, suggesting the primitive nature of man. However, when viewed as a whole, the entire film mirrors the physical act of making love, further demonstrating Kubrick’s view that war is ruthless, primitive, and, in some sense, natural. Kubrick recognized war as an essential aspect of human nature, albeit an ugly and undesirable one. Kubrick took solemn, grim topics, and even adapted Peter George’s Red Alert, a serious novel, into a peice of satire which shows the primitive, absurd nature of war.

STORIES THEY TELL (Sarah Polley, 2013)

       Sarah Polley's personal documentary Stories We Tell draws off of many influences, yet comes up with something truly original. Obviously Polley drew off a wide array of documentaries such as Capturing the Friedmans, Nobody's Business, and the works of Errol Morris, such as Thin Blue Line. Polley blends documentary and fiction in a twisting tale of domestic drama that makes us question commonly regarded facts of our own lives and always puts into doubt what we are seeing.
       Polley tells the story of her family, specifically her late mother, and her conception from an extra-martial affair. The story tells like a thriller, and every person has a unique angle to add- "both" of her fathers (biological and adoptive), siblings, and friends of her mother. The story is fresh and very interesting, despite being so personal, which usually does not make for good cinema. In reality, as the end reveals, Polley originally did not think this would be a publicly released feature.
       The way Polley compiles the film is truly fascinating. She conducts interviews with her family and friends in a playful manner, but when needed, can ask direct questions. Since we hear her questions, it is a prime example of how to conduct an interview with people you actually know- let them speak, be kind, but keep them focused and on track.
       Much of the film consists of "found footage." In reality, while some of it is legitimate, much is freshly shot footage on 16mm film. Actors were hired to play her younger family members, and in a particularly great sequence near the end, we see footage of Polley directing her family. Consistent with the real footage, there is no sound, and narration covers the reenactments, even in a reenacted scene that took place less than 10 years ago- where there was no reason to use 16mm or shoot without sound. I'm not complaining about a lack of authenticity, but simply marveling at the style Polley used.
       Polley also uses a scripted, rehearsed, and professionally recorded story that her adoptive father, who she still calls Dad, written with a developed literary flair. The shows Michael Polley in the recording studio and also runs footage over his narration, which is distinct from his interview. Sarah often instructs her father to read back lines, breaking our immersion in the film in a even more captivating way. Stories We Tell is a shining example of the successes when one makes a self-aware, conscious film.
       However, the film is really far from perfect. The last act drags on much to long- we know who her father is, we know how both families react, and we see reactions to the film, by this point. However, the film drags on and on, falsely sending about 5 times. Oh, there's a fade to black. Here's the end. Nope. Oh, a long pop song and we see every family members reaction, this is it. Nope. Okay, a touching monologue by her father, there's no way in hell this can continue, right? Wrong. I usually don't get bored in films, but really, the last third dragged on for infinity, and it was marginally entertaining at least. Most of it could be completed cut without any loss to the plot, and it was just frustrating to sit through. However, it really can't destroy the power and genius of the proceeded Hour and a half, but really tries its best.
      Despite that, Stories We Tell is a great, innovative documentary. Polley uses the form of film to her advantage to tell a captivating story that can only be told, at least this effectively, through film, bringing in many different modes to tell her story. The film is destined to be screened in film classes until the end of time, and I mean that in a good way. I just feel bad for the students around the hour-thirty mark.
     

ASHES AND DIAMONDS (Andrzej Wadja, 1958)

       Despite being critically praised, the films of Andrzej Wadja are criminally underwatched, and largely forgotten. Unlike the other underwatched filmmaker I constantly laud, Luis Bunuel, Wadja carries little name recognition despite the truly marvelous work that he often does. Ashes and Diamonds, made in the height of communist Poland in 1958, captures the tumultuous period of the nation at the tail end of WWII.
       From the first scene, the audience is instantly drawn in by three soldiers- a hardened commander, a double agent who also works for the communist leaning mayor, and Maciek, a young aloof soldier- and their botched attempt to assassinate a communist official. However, although we see most of film through Republican soldiers, the film refuses to make the targeted communist official a villian. We even see him attempting to rescue his long lost son from imprisonment, a move that ultimately seals his fate but allows us to view him in a very sympatetic light.
       When viewing Ashes and Diamonds, it is obvious that Wadja watched many American films of the time, notably Citizen Kane. Wadja utilizes deep focus in ways similar to Wells and constantly uses low angles and shadowy surroundings to emphasize the action. The film's climax just looks stunning, as the action occurs as fireworks celebrating German surrender explode in the background. One would think that sequence would only truly work in color so we could see the bright lights of the explosions, but I don't think that's true after seeing it. The white sparks against the black sky and grey figures is such a captivating memorable image, especially with the tense long take delivering the film's narrative climax.
       The film's strongest dynamic comes from its three leads. Maciek, the dreaming, relaxed, sunglass-wearing young man, falls in love and is quickly torn between his country and himself. Maciek shines in an early scene where he manipulates an old hotel clerk to give him a premium hotel room by discussing the old days of Warsaw, before the Uprising and destruction of most of the city. Maciek still has his eyes on using the old man, but is truly lost in the memories of the old city.
        However, perhaps the most entertaining storyline regards the double agent, as he lets an old drunkard in to an exclusive government engagement, and likely loses his job in the ensuing chaos. Drewnowski, uptight and seen as stupid by Maciek and Andrzej, the senior officer, allows himself to celebrate the German defeat and is soon coaxed in to drinking heavily by an old dunk man. Drewnowski, while intoxicated, can no longer keep his double life separate, and causes a scene by insulting the lauded mayor and allowing the old man to flip over tables. He loses his job, but when drunk, he doesn't care. We never get to see his reaction when he comes to the next morning, but that is a great thing. We get to debate ourselves what he thinks. Is he upset? Relieved? The character is so well written it could go either way.
        Wadja's film deserves to be seen more frequently. While it takes much from American cinema, cinema at a whole has taken much from it. It's loose structure, multitude of characters yet contained setting can be seen in many modern film, such as the work of Robert Altman. Ashes and Diamonds is a all around great film, whose influence is greater than its current recognition.

DO THE RIGHT THING (Spike Lee, 1989) and Trayvon Martin

       With the events of the past few days involving the Trayvon Martin-George Zimmerman trial, it only feels natural to discuss this film, and what it implies for race in America, and what it really means in relation to the trial. I've already heard it mentioned in regards to the "Not Guilty" verdict, a comparison I believe is wholly inaccurate.
       First, let's discuss the film's construction at a whole, trying to keep it spoiler free. Do The Right Thing, along with 12 Angry Men, uses heat in such a visible way to keep the tension high and rising that it is practically a character. People are quicker to anger, and speak more directly than they probably should. Lee's character Mookie walks around a Brooklyn neighborhood delivering pizza, trying to stay cool, physically and emotionally, as a minor protest is formed in front of Sal's pizzeria where he works, based on the race of the members of "the wall of fame."
       Race rears its head in many ways- ownership of the neighborhood, interracial romances, and racial ownership of ideas. But as the film progresses, its clear that Lee sees the world as Asians, African-Americans, Hispanic, and etc. against the white community. Sure, like the United States, whites are outnumbered in the neighborhood, but they still hold the power. The have the businesses. They have the antique brownstones. The still are the the power. For the record, as a white man, I completely belive this is true, and is even more confusing recently than it ever is. Black culture has been for nearly 100 years the cool scene in America, yet those that dictate the in, the cool, and the now are mainly white, and are very influenced by the caucasian power.
         The film builds as the heat rises in Brooklyn, and its climax falls just after sunset. A fight ends with police intervention and the murder of a young black man. Silence cuts through the street. Eyes are on Sal, who started the fight with racial slurs and insults. And then, Mookie, our relatable, likable, kindly hero, picks up a trashcan and hurls it through the window of the pizzeria- the crowd follows his action, and soon the pizzeria is a pile of ashes. Audiences are often repelled by the action, mainly because Mookie is the film's hero, and is definitely seen as a good person. But in the end of the day, its a pizzeria against a human life, and not just that, a human life that ended moments before, and one of Mookie's best friends.
        And it saddens me to hear this iconic and poignant scene in cinema brought up with the Martin-Zimmerman verdict. There are superficial similarities- neither victim was truly innocent, but neither deserved to die.  That's not even debatable in my mind. But now with the verdict? It is true Justice. We don't always get it. The world is a complicated place with complicated laws. I believe in the American Justice system, and it states that one must be guilty without reasonable doubt. There was doubt, twelve random citizens decided. And he is free.
        And you may not like it. But what do you know? Really, how do you know about this case? You only know what you are told. The jury has received the details of the case undiluted, without any bias, and thus they possess better judgment than anyone else hearing months of opinionated releases. It is still devastatingly sad, but that is all.
       Now, I hear people talk about Mookie throwing that trash can, and calling us to throw the trashcan at Zimmerman. Mookie's act was not meditated. There was barely a minute to think, and not months of nonsense reporting feeding him. People argue that Mookie threw the trash can to defend Sal and his sons, but I don't really buy that, not was that Lee's intentions. He threw the can in rage, plain and simple, and a rightful rage at that.
      Mookie attacked a store, deciding that human lives were less important. But what are those advocating violence against Zimmerman promoting? They want others to suffer what they feel. They are saying Zimmerman is less important than Trayvon Martin, which is simply untrue. Mookie really did the right thing with his trashcan through the window of Sal's. But action against Zimmerman, or just in the name of Trayvon months later just to make one feel better is just wrong.

IL POSTO (Ermanno Olmi, 1961)- Coffee

       Il Posto, a criminally overlooked film by criminally overlooked Italian director Ermanno Olmi is in a lot of ways the anti-Bicycle Thieves (a film I hope to discuss soon). While Di Sicca's acclaimed masterpiece shows the dehumanizing effects of being in deep poverty, Il Posto shows the dehumanization that goes with a life-long, steady job. Truthfully, there is much more I could say about this film, and hope to compare it directly to The Bicycle Thief (personally, my preferred title. It's amazing I could write just about the film's title!) and many other neorealist films soon, as I see it as a reaction against the themes of the movement.
       However, this is actually an older essay of mine, which deconstructs a pivotal scene in the film. Hopefully, I will look at it on a wider scale (although this is still written with the rest of the film in mind, and is not a reading of a detached scene) and link it more closely to other films and related styles.






        Ermanno Olmi’s 1961 film Il Posto deals with the themes of corporate dehumanization and loss of personal identity. The film follows Domenico, a young Italian man (who bears more than a passing resemblance to influential Czech writer Franz Kafka, which given the film's message and content, is just too perfect to be chalked up as an amazing coincidence), as he seeks to get a job in a large corporation. Near the middle of the film, Domenico is called in to speak with the corporate supervisor about his job. The corporation promised him a job, but he does not know of his position.  Domenico's meeting with his supervisor is the first communication he has within the company. The meeting marks Domenico's official initiation into the company, and though the scene’s makeup and cinematography, Olmi reveals Domenico's future employment in the company, as well as the rest of his life.

       As Domenico enters the office, he stands in front of the supervisors desk. He is not officially a part of the company, and is unsure what to do in the office. He looms over the supervisor, who is sitting down at his desk. However, as soon as Domenico sits down, he is a part of the company, and placed near the bottom of the pyramid, well below the supervisor. Domenico’s chair is much lower than the supervisor’s, showing great power the supervisor has over Domenico. Domenico’s chair is also at a peculiar angle. He has such little power in the corporation, that he is not even allowed to directly face the supervisor. However, the problem is not unique to Domenico. Behind the protagonist is a line of chairs pressed up against the wall. However, the wall, as well as the chairs, are at a forty-five degree angle from the desk. The  corporation’s inequality applies not only to young adults just beginning their career like Domenico, but to very common worker in the corporation. Domenico  will probably never be supervisor due to the corporations structural inequality.

       Although Olmi makes clear through the film’s visuals that Domenico will most likely never rise to become a supervisor, Domenico seems to be unaware of that fact during this scene in the film. During the meeting, another employee enters the room near the back of the frame, and walks to the supervisor’s desk. His long walk is reminiscent of Domenico’s just minutes prior, when the protagonist walked the long, nondescript hallway alone to the supervisor’s office. The similar images further point to the fact that one’s position within the company never changes. The man hands the supervisor his coffee and walks away, leaving the supervisor alone in the foreground. The focus shifts to Domenico, sitting in the frame’s middle, staring at the supervisor drinking his coffee. Earlier in the film, Domenico goes into a coffee shop, where he is visibly uncomfortable and confused in the bustling environment, seemingly having no idea what to do while drinking his coffee. Now, Domenico watches the supervisor comfortably drink his coffee at a large desk in his own massive office. Domenico stares at the man drink his coffee for several seconds. Domenico aspires to be in his own office one day, comfortably drinking coffee delivered to him instead of ordering a cup in the shop and having to wait in line then move through the crowded shop to a seat. However, the supervisor and his coffee, representing Domenico’s dream, are out of focus for the office, symbolizing they are out of reach for Domenico.

       Soon after the supervisor finishes his coffee, a woman enters and gives the supervisor a written excuse for being late to work. The supervisor briefly chastises her, telling her her children are old enough to take care of herself. Domenico, who is uninvolved in the conversation, is captured in  a closeup. Domenico’s mouth is open, apparently deeply interested in the woman’s situation, and is turning his head in order to look at both subjects. Then, the supervisor returns the excuse to the woman, and his hand juts out of the foreground. The out of focus hand and paper block Domenico’s face. Momentarily, Domenico’s face is the peice of paper, representing his grim status within the corporation: Another faceless worker, without an identity. The fact that the paper is an excuse symbolizes Domenico’s sole purpose in the corporation: work. His identity is not only unimportant, but is also in a position to hurt the company, as the woman just did by being late to tend to her children. For the company, it would be best if Domenico had no personality at all.

       Throughout a seemingly simple scene in Il Posto where Domenico is told he must temporarily work in another position until a job opens up in his field, Olmi reveals complex information about Domenico’s future through images. Domenico needs a job urgently, so his fate is working at the corporation, where he will have a decent paying job for life. However, Domenico must face inequality within the corporation, seemingly little possibility for a promotion, and an eventual loss of identity. These ideas greatly impact the message of Il Posto,  turning a coming-of-age story into a grim prediction of a likely hopeless future.

DJANGO UNCHAINED (2012, Quentin Tarantino)

       The reputation of Quentin Tarantino is certainly glowing. After his 1994 hit Pulp Fiction, Tarantino has experimented with various genres, although sticking to his typical style. However, Tarantino's career has been slipping, and a statement which not many would agree. He followed Pulp Fiction with the genre caper Jackie Brown, and while it's certainly good, it's nowhere near Pulp Fiction's ambitious style and flair. However, it doesn't really even try to be, and Tarantino plays it somewhat traditional.
       Tarantino followed with Kill Bill and Death Proof, which I lump together, but not many would. Personally, I prefer Death Proof to the Kill Bill films. Kill Bill is popcorn cinema in disguise. The popcorn aspect is not the problem- that's what make Death Proof so enjoyable. The disguise is where my concern lies, as it is essentially a pair of Groucho glasses. Tarantino ropes us along for three hours in a fake blood extravaganza, yet the film is so self aware, its essentially a parody. But then Tarantino layers it with lofty, lengthy conversations about seemingly nothing- a trademark of his style, but it's out of place and pointless here.
       Tarantino followed with Inglourious Basterds, which is a return to form to Pulp Fiction quality. Yes, it's violent, over the top, and absurd, but now, there's a point to it. Tarantino mocks historical and war films, the winning sides treatment of history, and war and violence at a whole. It's a ton of fun, but it also packs a lot of meaning to it.
        Django, frankly, is a two hour mess that has no idea what it is trying to do. While the cinematography is great, that's about the only thing it has going. Tarantino tops Kill Bill in regards to self parody and overall confusion of tone, while his Oscar-winning screenplay is just an overloaded mess. Additionally, the absence of the late Sally Menke is certainly felt in the editing room, robbing Tarantino of his style's fluidity  The first hour of the film is downright meandering, which honestly isn't even a bad thing, but so much time is wasted by backstory details.
        Tarantino's fixation with fake blood and over the top, just distracting violence continues as endless hordes of baddies are shot by Jamie Foxx's dully portrayed Django. Foxx just floats from scene to scene, adding very little depth to the character, showing one emotion: a flat, monotone anger. The screenplay, which bafflingly won an Academy Award, is just tired and uneven, and is the film's greatest flaw. The pace is completely uneven, and the film kills its momentum with about forty minutes to go. The conclusion is completely boring and utterly predictable. Django's plan for recapturing his love is completely over plotted and over-complicated, with tons of holes forming in his, and Schultz, Django's partner in bounty hunting, reasoning in logic. Holes and logic, if not explainable by character, are just a sign of poor writing, and their is no reason Django would find this plan acceptable. The editing is just the final nail in the coffin for Django Unchained. The film just feels choppy, and its assembly allows one to see the duct tape holding it together. So much just feels out of place, and the rapid fire of shots in one of the many action scenes just comes off as overdone and ineffective.
       Leonardo DiCaprio an Christoph Waltz certainly are the film's greatest assets. Waltz, who won an Oscar for his gentleman bounty hunter, returns with as many dry and snarling quips as in Basterds but now applies them to a decent human being, with interesting results. We have a similar character, but only with mainly good intentions. DiCaprio is good, but far from great, in his over the top portrayal of a false gentleman slave owner. DiCaprio is just distracting at times, but still shines, yet occasionally doesn't fit in the world Tarantino creates, just another inconsistency in Django.
       Django Unchained is perhaps Tarantino's weakest film, a title it almost shares with Kill Bill. The two (or three) film's share many similarities- neither know what they really want to do, and as a result, are rambling and totally inconsistant.

STRANGER THAN PARADISE (Jim Jarmusch, 1984)

       Its hard to describe Jim Jarmusch's 1984 film without using on fo the great cliches- "the shot heard around the world." Really, I don't know how else I can express the massive influence that Jarmusch created by its relaxed tone and plot, tearing down the cliches of Hollywood, breaking both the model of high-octane blockbusters and deep, twisted think pieces from the 70s.
       Jarmusch's film is one of the most captivating  interesting pieces of art  ever made about boredom, a feeling pretty much everyone experiences. Willie, played by musician John Lurie (who also supplied the score), wanders the eerily empty streets of New York, Cleveland  and a Florida suburb without anything to really do. He is eventually joined by his friend Eddie and his young foreign cousin Eva.
       Essentially, it's a hang-out film, and a great one at that. They watch TV, play poker, go to the track,  and watch old movies. They try anything to fill the time, and fail miserably at it. The film puts forth its message when Willie declares that despite his Slovakian background he is American- boredom is the American pastime. Eva does nothing in America, but eventually becomes content with it when she steals some food to impress her cousin. Eddie, a natural American, just wanders around for the most part. No one has a serious commitment, and the only employed one, Eva, can leave her job without notice.
       Its easy to see how far Jarmusch's influence has spread. Just its black and white cinematography  long, relatively static takes and soundtrack have been endlessly referenced and parodied. Just in general, the modern Indie film movement was born with Stranger Than Paradise. It is easy to see how mumblecore, talky Linklater-esque films, and modern arthouse cinema derives from Jarmusch's early work. Simply, the idea of making a film without effects, major production values, or a solid plot was appealing to young filmakers lacking funds and resources. They had ideas, but not the budget or the acting talent. Jarmusch's film has a amateur quality to it, where anyone could make it with their camera, but few could make a film so captivating, interesting, and downright excellent as Jarmusch.
       Stranger Than Paradise's influenced by showing its viewers what one could do with lesser production values and a story that aids an idea, not the other way around. In a way, it was an open challenge to young filmakers, and to this day, they are accepting and treading in its footsteps, although they are forging their own paths.

Film Education

        Film is over one hundred years old at this point. This isn't just the creation of the medium, but the creation of the formal language that is film. However, few have a firm grasp on film. Sure, nearly everyone watches the latest blockbusters, but everyone gets film in some way- TV, commercials, just simple videos online. And now, with the internet, video is all around us, yet we really don't understand it any more than people did fifty years ago, and not even that much more than one hundred years.
       Perhaps that is one of the joys of film- the fact that it is an ultimate escape. You understand it all, understand the movement of time and editing as it is presented to you. You know that it can cut and resume in an entirely different place at an entirely different time. But is simple basic literacy enough? Film can go so much deeper than basic narratives, and can be picked apart and analyzed, like literature.
       Which brings me to the main comparison and point: There should be a greater movement to teach film education, like there is to increase literacy and literary appreciation. Film is all around us, and to understand it, we must know more about it. We must know its history, its uses, and its dangers. We must understand how it can be manipulated and how it can communicate ideas through complex cinematography and editing. We must learn how to understand filmic devices, like various types of montage, and how to analyze them and pull the author's intentions out.
       That is what we learn in English classes. Sure, we write daily, so we must know how to write, and how to interpret writing, but now, many important messages are conveyed through film and videos. While making film is not needed, understanding and comprehension is.
       Many documentaries, especially political ones, and topical drama films use filmic language to manipulate the audience into buying the message presented. This is also used in literature, and while it occasionally finds success, tricking audiences is much easier with film, which is ironic in a sense since in literature you are only required to show words, while film requires so much more input  However, every aspect can be subtly manipulated, allowing the author to convey his point with ease and keep audiences in the dark in regards to the attention.
       And so we are taught how to read critically. Another aspect of literary education is quality. People generally read good books. Sure, someone's going to throw a jab in about Twilight or Fifty Shades but that is a different mission. Books like that are not made with the same intention as acclaimed best sellers, and that's perfectly fine. However, I can't honestly say the majority of the most successful films are good. A large part of the reason is, and I'm really trying not to sound like a total fuck right here, is that they simply don't know better. Now, I'm not saying everything is a piece of shit and people are idiots, but I honestly believe the majority of audiences don't realize what films can do. They can do so much more than tell a simple narrative story, which most do. Sure, I love narrative film, but it is perhaps at its most interesting when it toys with the concept of story and works outside of that. Experimental(ish) literature has found great success, while experimental film has mainly received public backlash.
       Sure, some people love experimental films, but most don't get them at all. And that's fine, but perhaps the best use is blending it with narrative and conventional film language. Literature that "thinks outside the box is rewarded and publicly well received because a wider audience gets it, due to literary education. If you teach people how to understand written words, but not how to read they will fall back on primitive stories, not knowing how else to communicate. And that is where film currently is.
       However, the medium is still very young. The first stylistic works are about 100 years old, like the 1913 Student of Prague, which a still is shown from above. I'm not saying that the artform is dead, or decrepit  or dried up, or anything of that sort. In fact, I'm saying the opposite. I'm saying that it's so young that there's so much more to be discovered. We can understand much more. Film's language will become much more complex and its history much more dense. An exciting time awaits us. However, education is essential in the advancement of anything. People must know in order to create. And perhaps that has never been more true than in film.

IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT (Frank Capra, 1934)

       Screwball comedies, rarely produced today except those made exclusively as a tribute, were ushered into existence with the advent of sound cinema. In silents, they were practically impossible, as their largest asset is quick, snappy dialogue. Perhaps one of the early defining examples of the screwball comedy is Capra's Academy Award winning It Happened One Night. Not only is the dialogue quick, witty and just funny, it also focuses on a humorously off-beat couple, another mainstay of the genre.
       Produced in the height of the Great Depression, the poor economy creeps its way into the film, although not overtly. Gable's streetwise, out of work journalist, Peter Warne, is the major link to the depression. He hitch-hikes, cons hotels, but still has a good heart, evident in his overall kind treatment of spoiled heiress Ellie Andrews, played by Claudette Colbert. Ellie has run away from her father after he blocked her marriage to stuffy aviator King Westly. Andrews faces the depression drained world alone, and quickly learns the harsh realities of America at that moment.
       Her bags are stolen. People try to con her left in right, and several times she is nearly outed to the papers for the hefty reward. This is where the audience clearly sees the ugly head of the depression. But since it is a comedy, and an escapist one at that, the depression leaves just a shadow. Our heroic couple overcomes all obstacles thrown at them, and retain their spirit.
       At first, Warne can barely stand Andrew's spoiled attitude, and she can barely stand his drunken rude behavior. But, of course, they learn to bond, and eventually fall in love. One of the most memorable features of the film is the vibrant supporting cast- Andrews's father, who constantly expresses a dry glee in her would-be-husband's misfortunes, a loud, annoying bus passenger who constantly tries to flirt with Ellie until Warne imitates a gangster who claims to have kidnapped her, making him shrink into a mouse, and a singing, goofy, yet thieving man who offers the mismatched couple a ride. The hilarious supporting cast shines, yet doesn't distract from the chief dynamic at play- the couple.
       Andrews and Warne come to love one another, and learn off of one another. Warne softens, while Andrews hardens. However, of course, compilations soon arise, and the Andrews finds herself still in love with Warne, yet at home with her dull husband. Normally, the final act in romantic comedies, but here, it is still fresh- both characters love each other, but refuse to admit it, even to their face. Both go out of their way to hurl insults, but under pressure, admit their love.
       It Happened One Night is a shining example of early sound studio filmmaking, and of the screwball comedy. Simply, it's escapist filmmaking at its best. Sure, audiences felt the depression lurking over the characters, but mainly saw how it didn't keep them down and they didn't even dwell on it. They had each other, and that, for them, was certainly enough.

BEFORE MIDNIGHT (Richard Linklater, 2013)

       Before Midnight, likely the final film in an outstanding romantic trilogy by off-beat auteur Richard Linklater, resembles Linklater's other films more than it resembles its predecessors- Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. Jesse and Celine are certainly at the forefront, but Linklater focuses more on other characters than the two lovers, like his sprawling, open films like Slacker, Dazed and Confused, and Waking Life, just to name a few.
       As a result, the first act begins to lag (after two scenes, involving a Jesse dropping his son off, and a long drive back to their Greek country house). Personally, Linklater's writing style- involving multiple characters dropping huge words and "inherent truths" and philosophies comes off as pseudo-intellectual and simply full of itself. The characters say all they want, but they don't really mean anything. Although   the scene where Jesse discusses concepts for a novel is at least interesting, albeit slightly overdone, the following segment involving a table full of Linklater stock characters discussing love and relationships seems to go on forever and drys up an momentum the film had. Jesse and Celine eventually leave on their own, and essentially, must rebuild the film's tone.
       However, they certainly do so quickly, as Before Midnight recovers as Jesse and Celine walk the streets of Greece, in a scene that instantly recalls the earlier two films. For the first time, the two are truly alone, and are now back on the streets of Europe, where we first saw them twenty years ago. The couple arrives at their hotel, at which point the film's tone slowly shifts from the relaxed discussion recalling the first two films to an emotionally intense hour of name called, secrets, accusions, and a total lack of rationality.
       Truthfully, I really don't want to spoil anything. However, I need to point out the conflict of gender the film puts forward. I'm sure 90% of men will sympathize with Jesse as he tries to combat the "Mayor of Crazy Town," while I think most women will realize Celine's concerns and how quickly Jesse rebuffs them. The film itself drops its viewers into the argument and almost forces them to take sides.
       Before Midnight blossoms into a very good film, although not rising to the spectacular heights of the original film from 1995. All three are exceptional, but the first and the last are clearly the strongest- perhaps because they capture a definitive period of time. Sunrise is youth, where we do not care to look into the future, while in the middle age of Midnight we must. Sunset is the odd transition period, where it is really only clear to us that this is a permanent change, and the characters do not. Perhaps the reason I prefer the first film is because of my age- at 20, I relate much more towards the young, idealistic Jesse and Celine, who refuse to exchange numbers out of the principal, not realizing the heartbreak it will cause in the future. In Midnight, they must truly break down their idealism and address their true desires.