There Is Still Time .. Brother

On the Beach (Stanley Kramer, 1959) and the End of Stories

Something I would like to investigate in the future. On the Beach, the film adaptation of Nevil Shute's 1957 novel, was directed by Stanley Kramer and starred Gregory Peck, Ava Gardner, Fred Astaire and Anthony Perkins. It depicts the aftermath of a global nuclear war in Melbourne, Australia, which has been spared by the disaster. The rest of the world is presumably destroyed, but there is no certainty, and no one is even sure of how the war was started -- all that is known is that the northern hemisphere has been devastated and the atmosphere has been poisoned from nuclear fallout. It is estimated that five months remain until the fallout reaches southern Australia.

From this starting point, I would like to investigate how the film deals with the end of history, and by extension, the end of stories. Rather than the world ending with chaos, the last of humanity fades away with a sigh of everyday life. Drinking port, fishing for trout, endless cups of tea, playing on the beach, racing boats and cars, taking care of the baby, religious gatherings, pomp and circumstance.

The film is a mixture of kitchen sink drama, love stories, and military missions to investigate the possibility of survival, with numerous frescoes of daily life as depicted by cinema (the kind of stuff that we see as 'everyday life' when watching movies, but no one actually does on a daily basis). We don't have the thrilling chase scenes. There is very little dramatic discussion over the nuclear holocaust. Even the love story between Peck and Gardner barely reaches the level of melodrama. The film is a stately sigh, more mournful than gut-wrenching.

What kind of stories will be told when time comes to an end? Will we have the exciting drama that we expect -- the collapse of civilization, the looting, the rampages? Or will our final days be with our loved ones, drinking tea and reminiscing of how we met? On the Beach is part of the apocalyptic lore that explores the possibility of numb civility, rather than the Mad Max chaos many of us think of when we hear "post-apocalyptic fiction".

It would be a very interesting study to identify the literature in which On the Beach exists. The ones that I can think of immediately, however, have a significant difference: they all feature the possibilities of humanity continuing on. It is a hope for more stories to be told. On the Beach doesn't do this: what we are shown is the end. There are no more tales to tell. Who is the banner speaking to in the final shot? "There Is Still Time .. Brother" it tells us -- but there is no one there to see it.

Other possibilities to explore:

The use of "Waltzing Matilda"

Evidence for humanity elsewhere -- or the lack thereof

Vignette style editing

Best of the Decade: 2000-2009

Internet saturation, IMDb buzz, an expanding number of critics & bloggers, downloading left and right, watching movies on your two-inch smart phone screen, a fascination with everything retro, 'indie' films and the takeover of indie studios, the complete and utter death of genre (or so we like to think), the rise of the new comic-book movie, the Romanian new wave, terrorism, the American religious right, global economic chaos, nihilism and hope.

I think it's rather illuminating to see what people have taken into consideration for this decade. Yes, the decade technically started on January 1, 2001. But by most film geeks' accounts, we're counting the year 2000 in our lists, and ending with 2009. We don't care - it's time for another list!

An interesting tid-bit: not a single film in the past decade topped the box office for more than 3 weeks. Crazy, eh? Looks like Avatar may buckle this trend, but the 2000s were a decade where almost every Hollywood film made most of its money on opening weekend, followed by a sharp decline. Evidence of product quality? Or evidence of a market dominated by short attention spans and young audiences simply going to the theatre every weekend, not caring what they see? I for one am quite glad to have spent most of my theatre experiences at the Princess Cinemas or in the classroom. I simply can't afford dropping 20 bucks every time I want to see a film -- and why would I care to see most of the stuff at the multiplex, anyway? Yes, the 2000s were also a time where if you wanted to see quality films, you had better skip the multiplex entirely. Metacritic's review of the decade and their top 100 rated films reveals a list dominated by smaller, art-house fare:

"a large portion of that Top 100 is occupied by foreign films and less-publicized art house films --films that played in few thatres (especially outside of Los Angeles and New York). A full 43% of the films listed [...] are foreign-language films, and many of those that are in English are obscure gems..."

Apparently, only two films of the top 100 are in the top ten box-office hits of the decade, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers and The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. Audiences simply ate up, by most critical accounts, utter duds. Sequels, remakes, reboots, cliché after cliché. To make bucketloads of money, you gotta appeal to the lowest common denominator. *le sigh*

And now, my list. I'll start with my Top 50 of the decade, followed by my top selections for each year. Let's keep in mind that I'm a white gay boy from Canadian middle-class suburbia when looking at these choices: relatively limited access, a bias towards English language films, and a penchant for dramas.

TOP FIFTY OF THE DECADE

2000-2009

1. Children of Men (Alfonso Cuaron, 2006)

2. The Lord of the Rings (Peter Jackson, 2001-2003)

3. Capote (Bennett Miller, 2005)

4. Moulin Rouge! (Baz Luhrmann, 200

5. No Country for Old Men (Joel & Ethan Coen, 2007)

6. There Will Be Blood (Paul Thomas Anderson, 2007)

7. Brokeback Mountain (Ang Lee, 2005

8. Inglourious Basterds (Quentin Tarantino, 2009)

9. C.R.A.Z.Y. (Jean-Marc Valée, 2005)

10. WALL-E (Andrew Stanton, 2008)

11. In the Mood for Love (Wong Kar-Wai, 2000)

12. Caché (Michael Haneke, 2005)

13. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (Ang Lee, 2000)

14. Finding Nemo (Andrew Stanton, 2003)

15. Kill Bill (Quentin Tarantino, 2003-2004

16. The Hours (Stephen Daldry, 2002)

17. Paranoid Park (Gus Van Sant, 2008)

18. Spirited Away (Hayao Miyazaki, 2000)

19. Vera Drake (Mike Leigh, 2003)

20. Dancer in the Dark (Lars von Trier, 2000)

21. Munich (Steven Spielberg, 2005)

22. Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter... and Spring (Ki-duk Kim, 2003)

23. The Queen (Stephen Frears, 2006)

24. About Schmidt (Alexander Payne, 2002)

25. Lost in Translation (Sofia Copolla, 2003)

26. Chicago (Rob Marshall, 2002)

27. A History of Violence (David Cronenberg, 2005)

28. Mulholland Drive (David Lynch, 2001)

29. Once (John Carney, 2006)

30. The Last King of Scotland (Kevin Macdonald, 2006)

31. Flight of the Red Balloon (Hou Hsiao-Hsien, 2007)

32. Little Children

33. Y Tu Mamá También (Alfonso Cuaron, 2001)

34. Milk (Gus Van Sant, 2008)

35. Far From Heaven (Todd Haynes, 2002)

36. Happy-Go-Lucky (Mike Leigh, 2008)

37. Hero (Zhang Yimou, 2002)

38. Bowling for Columbine (Michael Moore, 2002)

39. Hunger (Steve McQueen, 2008)

40. Atonement (Joe Wright, 2007)

41. The Diving Bell & the Butterfly (Julian Schnabel, 2007)

42. The Lives of Others (Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, 2006)

43. Sophie Scholl: The Final Days (Marc Rothemond, 2005)

44. Little Miss Sunshine (Jonathan Dayton & Valerie Faris, 2006)

45. Pan's Labyrinth (Guillermo del Toro, 2006)

46. The Constant Gardener (Fernando Meirelles, 2005)

47. The Hurt Locker (Kathryn Bigelow, 2009)

48. Sweeney Todd (Tim Burton, 2007)

49. Synecdoche, New York (Charlie Kaufman, 2008)

50. Sideways (Alexander Payne, 2004)

And how'bout a run-down of each year? What barely missed the Top 50? What would make it in on another day?

2000

In the Mood for Love / Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon / Dancer in the Dark / Traffic / The Emperor's New Groove / Memento / Erin Brockovich / Before Night Falls / O Brother, Where Art Thou?

2001

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring / Moulin Rouge / Mulholland Dr. / Spirited Away / Y Tu Mamá También / Donnie Darko / Waking Life / Amélie / Hedwig and the Angry Inch

2002

The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers / The Hours / About Schmidt / Chicago / Far From Heaven / Punch Drunk Love / Adaptation. / The Pianist / Bowling for Columbine

2003

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King / Finding Nemo / Lost in Translation / Kill Bill vol. 1 / 28 Days Later / The Triplets of Belleville / Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter... And Spring / The Saddest Music in the World

2004: Sideways / Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind / Kill Bill vol. 2 / Downfall / Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban / The Incredibles / The Aviator / Kinsey / Fahrenheit 9/11 / I Heart Huckabees / Spider-Man 2 / Shaun of the Dead

2005: Capote / Brokeback Mountain / Munich / C.R.A.Z.Y. / Caché / A History of Violence / The Constant Gardener / King Kong / Match Point / Syriana / Hostel

2006: Children of Men / The Queen / The Last King of Scotland / Little Children / The Lives of Others / Volver / Little Miss Sunshine / Pan's Labyrinth / Babel / Borat / Away From Her / Apocalypto

2007: No Country for Old Men / There Will Be Blood / The Diving Bell & the Butterfly / Atonement / Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street / Once / Flight of the Red Balloon / I'm Not There / The Bourne Ultimatum / Into the Wild / Grindhouse / Persepolis / Ratatouille / Before the Devil Knows You're Dead / Michael Clayton / The Savages / No End in Sight / Hairspray

2008: WALL-E / Milk / Synecdoche, New York / Paranoid Park / Let the Right One In / Hunger / Happy-Go-Lucky / Waltz With Bashir / Rachel Getting Married / Slumdog Millionaire

2009: Inglourious Basterds / The Hurt Locker / District 9 / (500) Days of Summer / Up / Up in the Air / An Education

So what's probably missing from this list? I need to catch up on my Michael Haneke, for example; the Romanian new wave (admittedly, I've seen none); documentaries (The Beaches of Agnes, Grizzly Man, The Fog of War and Man on Wire come to mind); Yi Yi, Talk to Her, Ghost World, The Squid and the Whale, 2046, United 93, Dogville, In the Bedroom, Kings & Queen, 35 Shots of Rum, Wendy and Lucy, Russian Ark, Amores Perros, The Assassination of Jesse James, Oldboy, My Winnipeg, L'Enfant, The Class, Moolaadé...

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

The Apartment

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.”

Rewriting the Top 20

Recently, I was updating a list of films that I have seen via the wonderful website icheckmovies.com. Given the huge influx of films I have seen over the last 3 months, thanks to time off between my one-year role at the Federation of Students and school in September, I thought it was probably time to re-do my Top 20 list.

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.

"Remember My Forgotten Man"

It would be easy to criticize Gold Diggers of 1933's "Remember My Forgotten Man" from a contemporary viewpoint: it's a bit jarring when Joan Blondell declares that every woman's "got to have a man", the curtain cuts are a bit off, and the marching silhouettes don't quite line up at the climax. But it still gives me chills.

It strikes me that we rarely hear about the First World War, as the focus has been shifted almost exclusively to the hyperbolic horrors of the Second, rife with Nazis, Auschwitz and Pearl Harbour. The 1920s have been reduced to little more than romantic visions of gangsters, the Charleston and boozehounds. The Depression is a dusty visual metaphor of food lines. M. Kieth Booker and Frederic Jameson's versions of the 'death of history' are highlighted when viewing this number, as it depicts a historical relic that we have morphed into an alternate edit, or indeed forgotten. Our veterans are Private Ryans or Oliver Stoned, WWI is merely an event that led to WWII in our high school history books, and the waves of feminism in the later half of the 20th century make a statement such as Blondell's cringe-worthy. But if we are in a period that lacks a proper culture and chronology of history, we must task ourselves to be in a 1933's audiences 'shoes'. The times were-a-changing, but the pathos that we see here is indeed heart-breaking; once glorious war heroes are now street urchins, and the women, taught to be good housewives, have been abandoned. The sequence is at once an auteurist spectacle of geometrical chaos, actors to be directed and patterned, yet it feels deeply human. It is universal, yet personal. The fact that the silhouettes don't line up quite right reminds us that the figure made anonymous by shadow and Berkeley is actually an actor who is having difficulty fitting into the grand scope of marching. He becomes a real person, not a pawn. And for a contemporary audience, he moves beyond a role of moving wallpaper; he becomes our double. What was going through his mind at the time? Was he trying to speed up to fix the spectacle, or did he even realize that he became out of sync? Did Bubsy Berkeley scold him afterwards, along with the other dancers, for not lining up perfectly?

Gold Diggers of 1933 breaks the illusion of the stage right from the get-go, when "We're in the Money" gets cut off by the financial reality of Depression-era theatre. The performances range from the self-reflexive to the downright transparent (compare Aline MacMahon to Ruby Keeler), and the tongue-in-cheek melodramatics are obvious for what they are, a necessity in Hollywood narrative. But for a film advertised as "The Biggest Show on Earth", it doesn't shy away from the realities just outside the darkened theatre. "Remember My Forgotten Man" sticks out in the song roster, combining harsh reality with its theatrics. Joan Blondell becomes an actress playing an actress playing the role of women she probably knew. The men who play the Forgotten Men may have been in a food line just the day before. There is no disguising here. It may be an escape, but it's not naïve or ignorant. We can thank Jack Warner and Darryl F. Zanuck for insisting that "Remember My Forgotten Man" end the film, rather than "Pettin' in the Park". The film could have ended on a purely fantastical note of sex and silliness. Instead, we follow the happy ending of all the gold diggers getting their men with a sombre shake of what's waiting outside the door. But that doesn't mean it can't be fantastic, too.