Monday, February 1, 2010
Oscar Nominee Predictions 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
There Is Still Time .. Brother
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Best of the Decade: 2000-2009
Monday, November 30, 2009
Mildred Pierce Scene Analysis
The opening scenes of Michael Curtz’s Mildred Pierce are marked by a tense narrative ambiguity, heightened by classic noir visual techniques that entice the audience. Mildred Pierce is dominated by the melodrama form, but the opening scenes are striking in their noir atmosphere of shadow, moral complexity and surprising characterizations.
The opening credits feature a looping shot of waves lapping onto a sandy shore, washing away the names with a dramatic score. The beaches of California will be an important setting in the film, as the place of life-changing events; the waves can then be seen as a metaphor as to the constant changes we experience over time. The credits fade to black before we are throttled directly into the story in classic noir style. Gunshots ring out, a darkened beach house is lit in shadows, and we see a man collapse muttering his final words: “Mildred.” As he calls out this name, we are not sure of the tone - is it an accusation? Is he looking at this Mildred with a tinge of damning regret, or is he fondly recalling her as he dies? Tantalizingly close views of the killer refuse an answer, as the camera cuts between the broken mirror behind him and a car escaping. Questions are immediately raised, and the following shot is one that seems to suggest an answer. A darkened, humid pier with seedy neon lights appears, and we begin to follow a beshadowed female figure. She is a regal-looking woman with a devastated face, one that appears to be strain with guilt. We instinctually know this to be Mildred, but we do not know her role quite yet. The score swells with harps and pathos. With her tears and her determination to drown herself, we are still not sure of her motives. When she heart-breakingly mutters to the policeman that stops her “leave me alone”, our sympathies are established, but our suspicions are raised.
Meandering back from the pier, she is stopped by her apparent ex-business partner into his shabby club, a crowded, smoky joint. The following conversation between the two is a terse, hard boiled affair, yet full of melancholy and apology. When she says that he can “talk his way out of anything,” he responds with a casual, almost flippant, “In my business you have to be.” The exchange is marked by a tinge of accusation on her behalf, and forced aloofness from him. When he blatantly makes a sexual approach to her and we learn that this is a common occurrence, his profile in the audience’s mind is diminished into sleaze. Our impression of Mildred becomes more complex when she downs her drink in a single gulp, sighing that she has ‘learned a lot these last few months’ and invites him to her home, the scene of the murder. “Is that a dare?” he asks coyly, and we realize that we do not trust either of these characters.
The beach house is enveloped in angular, flickering shadows, and the camera follows them from low angles. Mildred is painted as a black widow, leading Wally into her trap - but with a striking tinge of melancholy. In their conversation, she flimsily explains that her husband is ‘away’. Wally begins to suspect that something is awry. We anticipate him to accuse her of malice, but instead he continues his pathetic sexual approaches. The screenplay is playing with the audience, and it is delicious. The atmosphere becomes even more tense after she throws his glass when he attempts to kiss her and she announces that she wants to change her dress, coded language for sex. He seems aloof as ever, but when she ducks into her room she is panicked. Is she regretting her actions? Is she nervous about what she is going to do?
The following sequence is one of claustrophobia and classic noir technique, with heavy nods to German Expressionism. Realizing that he is locked in the house, the score picks up and the editing quickens. Shadows dominate, and a striking shot of Wally running up the stairs creates an atmosphere of claustrophobia and panic. The ‘elephant in the room’ is literally illuminated when he knocks a lamp over, revealing the body, and a revealing shot of character occurs when he unplugs a ringing phone. Police pull up to the house and hit it with a spotlight, just as Wally breaks through a window. With little warning, the police shoot at him. First impressions, it seem, can have undesirable consequences.
Mildred pulls up to a mansion, and the connection is obvious; wealth is always to be met with suspicion, especially from women. The police are waiting for her, and we are introduced to her daughter, dressed in virginal white complete with flower in her hair, contrasting her mother’s lavish fur coat. The relationship between mother and daughter which features so prominently in the film is already evident, as Mildred eloquently attempts to protect a shrill Veda. The role of the femme fatale is dissected between the two characters. Mildred is lead out of the house, where the reason for their visit is announced: her husband is dead. Her reaction is one of genuine concern, and we still do not know what to make of her as she drives off into the blackness.
The opening scenes of Mildred Pierce play with the audience and revel in ambiguity. Any possibility seems as likely as the next, and whenever we are lead into one conclusion about a character, an alternative is suggested. This sense of intrigue submerges the audience into the world of Mildred Pierce, where melodrama and noir collide with delightful results.
Touch of Evil Scene Analysis
In Orson Welles’ 1958 masterpiece Touch of Evil, a deadly incident reveals the tensions bubbling just beneath the surface of an American-Mexican border town. The threat of violence is ready to present itself in the ominous, confusing atmosphere that is elegantly constructed through a single five minute long shot. A classic exercise of film noir, this scene in Sanchez’s apartment displays the Wellesian sense of innovation with visuals, sound and dialogue that is so well respected today.
The shadows that are so integral to the noir atmosphere are in full display here; sunlight filters through blinds and light glows from low-set table lamps resulting in shadows that cut across the actor’s faces and loom on the wall behind them. The stark contrast between black and white results in menacing doppelgangers, creating a claustrophobic sense of police dominance. Actors’ faces are hidden by shadows; intentions are uncertain, as all appear to be concerned with their reputations rather than with the carry-through of justice.
The question of race is clear in Touch of Evil, but perhaps nowhere as obvious as here. Sanchez, in his panicked state, reverts to Spanish to communicate his frustration. Vargas appears to be the only other Spanish-speaking individual in the cramped apartment and acts as a translator for the xenophobic Captain Quinlan, who declares that he doesn’t “speak Mexican”. Confusion emerges as the characters begin to speak over one another in an Wellesian/proto-Altmanesque fashion, each one trying to gain dominance in the conversation. The frustration of bilingual communication reaches its peak as Quinlan slaps Sanchez across the face for speaking in Spanish - who merely told Vargas in a polite tone where the telephone was. Quinlan’s reaction is perhaps the only time we see a sliver of remorse cross his face.
The differences between Manolo Sanchez, Marcia Linnekar, Ramon Vargas and their legal situations powerfully depicts the themes of race and class. Linnekar, as the wealthy daughter of a white American, is able to hire an attorney, speak when she desires (she absent-mindedly answers an officer’s question with little concern) and leaves early to “rest” with only a few questions, most of which are easily dodged by her lawyer. Sanchez, as a Mexican shoe clerk, cannot afford such luxuries. He is brutally questioned, beaten and framed. Quinlan openly floats various theories in front of him, each more condemning than the next, and Sanchez is never treated with even a morsel of respect. Even Vargas is treated with more civility than Sanchez; he too is a foreigner, but he is a man of influence and wealth. Quinlan may despise both of them, but the questions of class and power mean that Vargas can not be openly harmed.
An interesting dichotomy between visuals and sound emerges as the camera follows Vargas to the bathroom, in what initially appears to be a meandering move away from the central action. We can still hear the escalating exchange between Quinlan and Sanchez, but it becomes muffled and distant, and our attention is visually focused on Vargas washing his hands. However, our attention is truly on the events unfolding off-screen through sound, as Quinlan punches Sanchez in the gut as to not “leave a mark”. The camera carefully focuses on the (empty) shoe box that Vargas knocks over into the bathtub, but it seems to be such an uneventful action that we hardly notice. Later, when the importance of the box is revealed, we are left to search our memories over what we saw. We doubt our recollection, and the atmosphere of tense confusion strengthens.
Quinlan’s vile aura comes into full bloom within this scene. While we have already been introduced, here his unkempt appearance contrasts greatly against the suave Vargas, dressed in an elegant dark suit, slicked back hair and handsome sunglasses. Quinlan waddles into the room with a protruding stomach, sweaty brow, unbuttoned jacket and messy tie. It is a clear and obvious juxtaposition, but an effective one nonetheless. Quinlan’s officers are almost pathetic in their reverence. When Quinlan finally enters the apartment, he asks if anyone has touched anything. “We know better than that, Captain,” replies one of the officers. “We were waiting for you.” He goes on to send one of his inferiors to fetch him coffee, and then reacts with gluttonous disappointment when he doesn’t bring back a donut or sweet bun, too. He is overtly confident that he will charge Sanchez with the crime: when asked about the lack of any real evidence, he smugly responds with “Oh, we’ll get it.” His vocal mannerisms recall an aged ‘gumshoe’ from early gangster films, tinted with tired vanity; his monologues are lengthy yet terse, and as mentioned previously, he has little hesitance to speak over others. It is a startling contrast to the eloquent Vargas, the cosmopolitan anti-drug official from Mexico, a rising star in a new wave of educated, sympathetic law enforcers. Yet when the tension explodes in the final act of Touch of Evil, even Vargas has not been able to escape the treacherous, back-stabbing schemes as perfected by Quinlan. His touch radiates evil.
Capote's Cold Blood
CAPOTE’S COLD BLOOD
“On the night of November the 14th, two men broke into a quiet farmhouse in Kansas
and murdered an entire family.”
While Bennett Miller’s 2005 film Capote may not initially appear to fit into the noir pantheon, a careful analysis of the film through the noir lens reveals surprising results. Truman Capote fits into British film critic Raymond Durnat’s description of the noir anti-hero as a Detective-Murderer-Executioner, in addition to his status as an homme fatale. Capote betrays everyone around him in his attempt to gain narrative closure for his “non-fiction novel” In Cold Blood, which ultimately becomes a source of personal grief. The lack of trust integral to noir is spread throughout the film as the urbane invades the rural and the quest for Art trumps human relationships. Morality is ambiguous and damning, as both Capote and the audience demand the carrying of justice while having an increasingly sympathetic view of Perry Smith.
The desaturated visual scheme of Capote is striking in its subtlety. At points the film almost mimics black-and-white, with only the occasional splash of emerald green whiskey bottles, dusty pink overcoats and the clear blue Spanish sky. Otherwise the film is dominated by neutrals, blacks and greys, all set in natural light and often in deep-focus long shots. Along with the minimal score of echoey piano, minor chords and thin, dissonant strings, the mood is tremendously mournful. The sure yet slow pacing of the film is tense, and the stretches of near-silence are remarkably absorbing. The noir atmosphere of dread is in full swing, tainted with a clear sense of sorrow.
Where Capote firmly establishes itself in the noir tradition is within the characterization of Truman Capote, who can be seen as a noir conglomerate. As a journalist, he is an astonishing detective, with a self-proclaimed 94% recollection of all conversations. Stopping at nothing to see the completion of his book, he is a murderer and executioner, delaying the inevitable to extract as much information as he can from Perry Smith and Richard Hickock before he sends them to their death. He is even an homme fatale: a seducer of knowledge, using his charm and wit to manipulate his way through his investigation. Capote is above all a performer; on his quest to “blaze a different path” and invent “an entirely new kind of writing, the non-fiction novel”, his persona of aloofness begins to come apart at the seams, and those he casually betrays begin to abandon him. He cannot sustain his performance, as it has become much more than that: it has become his entire life.
Death’s impact is Capote’s motivation to create. While he never commits a physical act of violence, he is unspeakably drawn towards it. In an early scene, Capote is sitting in his apartment searching for a new topic to write about, when he comes across a small story in the New York Times. It is the brutal murder of a family of four - the Clutters - in a small Kansas town. We see a close-up shot of him slowly cutting out the story with elegant black scissors, the black-and-white photo of Mr. Clutter juxtaposed with the blade. Real-world violence is reduced to paper and ink, and Capote is visually equated with the blade. The analogy is apt: he is sleek and urbane, cutting straight through the town with little effort while irreparably changing the very nature of the story, the crime, and the people involved. He is cutting out a piece of their lives for his own purpose. Little does he know is that this small act will forever change his life. It is important to note that the only images we ever seen of the family are either in smiling photographs, or silent recollections of the crime. Only remnants remain, and they will be reduced to little more than macabre wallpaper in Capote’s eloquent and hauntingly descriptive prose.
The honesty of the journalist are the first audible words from Capote in the film, at a smoky, jazz-fueled party in New York: “Exactly. But at least be honest about the facts.” He continues to say that “being true to who you are is important. I’m not saying that you need to be psychoanalytic about the whole mess, but don’t be afraid.” It is obvious that this is part of his social performance; in fact, as the conversation continues he contradicts himself by stressing that he doesn’t “think you actually need to be honest”. What he is implying is that it is the appearance of honesty, that being convincing to your audience that you are indeed speaking truth, is what creates compelling writing. In Cold Blood will appear to be an honest telling of the story, but it will also be an exaggerated account. Art may be proclaimed as Truth, but the reality is that they must meet at a compromise.
As Capote begins his investigation, one of the first people he meets is Detective Alvin Dewey of the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. Greeted with looks of disdain from the officers for his flamboyant postures and clothing, Capote requests an interview from Dewey - before saying casually “I don’t care one way or the other whether or not you catch whoever did this.” It is one of the few mistakes he makes. Dewey responds, simply and gruffly, “I care.” The interview is over before it even began, and Capote has been exposed for his true nature: aloof and self-interested.
However this does not stop Capote from reaching his goal, as he simply seduces Dewey’s wife Marie, a fellow Southerner and avid reader of literature. His role as seducer presents Truman Capote as a more expansive noir conglomerate than Durnat’s trifecta of Detective-Murderer-Executioner; he is also the homme fatale, seducing those around him into revealing information. Unlike the femme fatale who seduces with her sexuality, Truman Capote uses his flamboyant wit and his exuberant charm; but like the femme fatale, he uses his perceived weakness to gain the upper hand, tricking people into believing him. Both the female and the gay male are seen as weak when compared to straight white male, but fatales use this to their advantage. Capote presents himself as a dandy, emphasizing his status as an Other.
Throughout the film, Capote is able to easily seduce those who are also perceived as outsiders, and through these people, seduce those in power. He is able to create a perversion of the bureaucratic rules that surround him; he twists them, bribes the officials, and uses the Law as his pawn, all in the name of Art and Truth. When he is unable to reach Inspector Dewey, Capote simply lures the wife instead. As Laura Kinney shuts down in her interview with Nelle Harper Lee, presumably because she perceives Capote as a male threat, he convinces her of his Otherness in his high-pitched, droll voice: “Oh, it’s the hardest thing when someone has a notion about you and it’s impossible to convince him otherwise. Ever since I was a child, folks have thought they had me pegged because of the way I am. You know, the way I talk. And they’re always wrong. You know what I mean?” Suddenly, Laura smiles at him. He has seduced her into revealing more, and even giving him Nancy Cuttler’s diary. Nelle shakes her head with knowing disbelief. She sees right through him. To gain access to one of the killers, held in the women’s cell in the Sheriff's residence, Capote goes through the Sheriff’s wife Dorothy Sanderson, bringing her “breakfast, news and literature” one morning when she has been “left all alone by that hardworking husband of [hers]”. The literature he brings is his first novel Other Voices, Other Rooms inscribed with the following: “To the maiden of the Midwest, the priestess of the plains, the queen of the kitchen, my first novel. Truman.” It is a resoundingly successful move. He has gained the trust of the Sheriff’s department, and has gained access to one of the killers.
Yet, the single most important person for him to seduce also proves to be the most difficult. Not because of the subject’s resistance, but because of Capote’s increasing attachment to him; Perry Edward Smith will turn out to be the ultimate source for his novel, but will also be the undoing of Truman Capote himself. Having gained access to Perry through his dual-purpose attack on Mrs. Sanderson, Capote begins his seduction by bringing him Aspirin. Throughout the rest of the film, the seduction continues but becomes muddled as Capote begins to fall in love with the intellectually astute, articulate and artistic Perry Smith. Suddenly Capote’s role as aloof journalist and Executioner becomes much more personal than planned. In order to complete some sense of traditional narrative, Capote must have closure. In this case, it means the hanging of Perry and Edward - yet he pays for their appeal process, nurses Perry to health from the point of suicidal starvation, provides him with literature, and visits them incessantly. Why does he do this? He claims it is to extend the process of the interviews, and to coax the lurid details of the murders out of Perry. Eventually Capote’s ambitions eclipse his emotional attachment to the killers, but the effect almost destroys him. He slips into depression and alcoholism. Only those closest to him see the toll which the moral dilemma behind In Cold Blood has taken on him. Yet their is little sympathy for the man who brought this upon himself. The final words in the film are definitive.
Truman Capote: There wasn’t anything I could have done to save them.
Nelle Harper Lee: Maybe not; the fact is you didn’t want to.
The atmosphere of distrust that is so prevalent in the film is reinforced through two noir staples: the invading of the rural by the urban and the American distrust of the artist. Truman Capote represents both of these themes in a singular figure. He is a controversial novelist, a rural transplant, a member of the New York social elite, and an openly gay man. When he arrives in Kansas, his presence is an overtly urbane shock. Resistance is inevitable, but Capote does not back down; he tackles their distrust head-on with caustic wit. In an interview, Capote tells a magazine writer that “two worlds exist in this country. The quite, conservative life, and the life of those two men. The underbelly, the criminally violent. And those worlds converged that bloody night.” It is obvious which of these two worlds Capote belongs to, and the townspeople intuitively feel it.
There is a final element in Bennet Miller’s Capote that establishes the film as part of the noir pantheon. It is the humanization of villains. Perry Smith is painted in such a fashion that we can’t help but ache for him, despite his horrible crime. Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s performance encapsulates the persona of Truman Capote so much, it goes beyond mere imitation into the realm of pure personification; he is able to allow the audience to truly understand Capote, ultimately humanizing a role which in a lesser actor’s hands would turn into pure monstrosity. We understand both of these men’s upbringings, their regrets, and their tattered souls which they hide under a veneer. The film’s most memorable line establishes their connection, blurring the line between artist and murderer. Speaking to Nelle, Capote says of Perry: “It was like we grew up in the same house. Then one day, he left out the back door, while I went out the front.”
Monday, August 10, 2009
Rewriting the Top 20
Which got me thinking: how do people rank films? FlickChart has a pretty good system of ranking movies by direct comparison. The concept is simple. Two movies will pop up, and you are asked which one you prefer. Eventually, a list is created based on these preferences.
But that got me asking more questions. What am I basing these preferences on? The film I think is better, the film I find more entertaining, the film that I would rather watch? Let's be honest here; Raging Bull is awesome. But would I voluntarily put it in my DVD player for movie night? It's a harrowing, uncomfortable experience, one that I would rather not repeat if I have other options available. Is it better crafted than most films out there? Probably. But are other films more watchable? Yes. So what happens when I'm presented with the choice between something that is expertly crafted but difficult to watch, and something that is flawed but accessible? It's like comparing a really dry champagne (full of depth, but sometimes harsh) and a spumanti (a bit thin, but delicious). Do I choose Persona or Finding Nemo?
Another question to ask, and one that I find really ponderous, is how much my current list is influenced by canon. I'm bordering on obsessed when it comes to film rankings. I compare lists, print them out, cover them with highlighter, and gawk in horror at the IMDb Top 250. I am fascinated with how they have evolved over time. I am ashamed when I see a complete lack of films from anywhere other than Europe and Hollywood. I understand when I see a lack of films from beyond 1980. But since I spend so much time with these lists, how are my choices influenced by them? Do I really think that The Godfather is a better film than Videodrome? Are they part of the reason why I've seen so few African films?
Perhaps.
And so, I'm going to start afresh. I'm going to reconsider some "lesser" films, not be afraid to include very recent selections, and critically look at some exalted canonical entries; but that's not to say that I haven't done that in the past. I finally saw Lawrence of Arabia in the winter, and I hated it. I would give Star Wars a mere 7/10. I consider The Red and the White one of the finest films I have ever seen, and I simply adore Children of Men. So I'm using FlickChart to start me on my path of rewriting my list. There are huge problems with the site, however --- it's missing a pathetic amount of films, especially foreign. Breathless is nowhere to be found. It's difficult to keep track of all the films you have seen, and you can't force showdowns between films. If I want to raise a film to a higher level, I must compare it to three random selections; it's taken me more than a dozen of these triple-showdowns to raise Rashomon into my Top 20.
You can see my current profile here.