Kung Fu Hustle

I watched Kung Fu Hustle in High School and loved it. Surprisingly, when I re-watched it for this class, I didn’t remember much but was still equally impressed by the film’s choreography, it’s beautiful images (even though a lot was CGI) and it’s clever twist of a genre that everyone is at least aware of.

We’ve been talking a lot about Post-Modernism, a term that could probably be explained to me a thousand times and I would still never completely grasp it. However, I think I have a pretty good idea of at least some of this movement’s (or thought process’) concepts. Kung Fu Hustle, a film that is very much grounded in references, is without a doubt an example of Post-Modernist cinema. Rather than creating an entirely new and inventive way to look at film, writer/director/producer Stephen Chow is more concerned with playing with already existing genres and narrative cliches. There is nothing new in Kung Fu Hustle. We find in this film the ridiculously skilled martial arts masters, the misfits who want to be something more important and more powerful than who they are, the gangs that overtly or subtly control their territories, and of course the ending showdown between all-powerful villain and “chosen one”.

While containing familiar plot points, characters, and elements of the Kung Fu genre’s style, Kung Fu Hustle outwardly references and parodies past films and other popular examples of worldwide media. When Sing sneaks into the asylum to retrieve The Beast for the ax gang, Chow references (or completely copies) a scene from Kubrick’s The Shining in which a river of blood falls from the ceiling and flows down the hallway. Also, when Sing is being chased after by the land lady, it is obvious that Chow has borrowed heavily from comedic television shows like the Looney Tunes, particularly the series with Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner.

Now, I know that I stated earlier that there was nothing new in Kung Fu Hustle, and I honestly do believe that that is true. However, there is something about Chow’s film that makes it both a unique and enjoyable experience. The unique aspect of post-modernist films is the fact that we are able to enjoy what we are seeing due to not only our engagement in the story we are watching unfold but also our previous love with other pieces of cinema. And Kung Fu Hustle does this without question, allowing us to feel that, while we’re not watching something entirely new or inventive, we are experiencing an entirely different feeling.

mulholland dr.

Hey guys sorry for not letting you know sooner but this will have to be a skipped blog for me simply because I could not have it in on time. Thanks and sorry again.

Heathers

Before this class I had never seen or really heard anything about the film Heathers. I had heard of the film, but had no idea what it was about and figured it would be a typical 1980’s film concerning teenagers growing up in a cliquey high school. While Heathers was without a doubt filled with these temporal and Hughes-like narrative elements, the film was definitely not what I was expecting. While I did like the film for it’s often clever satire regarding the topic of teen suicide, I couldn’t get over the unbelievable nature of the story, the corny dialogue and, more than anything else, Winona Ryder. Those somewhat biased judgments aside, I did think that Heathers was an interesting film and was, like many films we’ve watched this semester, a unique and entertaining experience.

The film opens with three girls, all named Heather, playing croquet in someone’s backyard. As the three girls play their game, it is eventually revealed to the audience that they are aiming at another girl, Veronica, who is buried up to her neck in the yard. From the very start, the film establishes itself aesthetically, stylistically and thematically. The images are filled with vibrant reds, yellows and greens (the colors of the girls’ clothes which curiously match their croquet equipment). The color pallet does not appear to be cohesive. Rather it simply bursts with vibrancy for the sake of being colorful and flashy, much like a lot of 1980’s fashion. The film also establishes itself as being comedic, its first scene ending in a way that we would never have expected. More than anything else, the theme of the film is introduced to us through the way the girls behave, particularly the way they treat Veronica. Although we soon find out that Veronica is part of the group, she is in a way being initiated, often being forced into doing things that she doesn’t want to do. We soon see that this is a film that concerns itself with popularity and where teenagers find themselves fitting in throughout high school, whether it is their choice or not.

As the film progresses, it attempts to bring us into this exaggerated portrayal of high school life by including stereotypical groups of people. In a scene early on in the film, as the three Heathers and Veronica walk around the cafeteria, we are introduced to the unattractive outsider, Martha “Dumptruck”, the sexually charged jocks, Kurt and Ram, the nerds, the proactive preppy students trying to raise money for different foundations, and the rebel, Jason Dean (played by Christian Slater and an obvious reference to the 1950’s “rebel” James Dean). It is the character of Jason Dean that completely changes Heathers and is the most intriguing aspect of the film to me.

In Nick Burns article “Heathers: Scent of Dominance”, he mentions the similarities between Christian Slater and Jack Nicholson. “…Christian Slater’s performance as J.D. easily can be seen merely as a parody/ pastiche of many early Jack Nicholson roles: the tilt of his head, the eyebrows, and even the nasal voice….” With not only his name being referential, but his character as well (for Nicholson, in roles like Easy Rider and Five Easy Pieces, was often a symbol of rebellious and dominating behavior), we begin to see that the character is nothing more than a recycling of previous figures, now slightly turned on its head by making him completely psychotic. The fact that Slater’s character is being recycled brings up the idea that we discussed of Post Modernism.

At one point, Burns mentions in his article that, “Heathers is clearly the bastard child of Hollywood Cinema,” and is “full of empty references to pop culture.” As we watch Heathers, we realize that it is not a film meant to transport us to another place or time. Rather it attempts to bring us into this exaggerated version of our own world, filling it with as many cultural references as possible (previous films, musicians, societal issues and historical events) in order to make it seem like the absurdity of the film can actually be found in our everyday lives.

Shaft

With his 1971 film Shaft, Gordon Parks introduces us to a new kind of hero. Richard Roundtree’s character is not unlike Eastwood’s revisionist western characters, a somewhat morally ambiguous figure that seems to cater to no one else’s desires or expectations, including the audience’s. Parks establishes Shaft’s character right from the start as we see him walking through the busy streets of New York City. One of the first images we see of John Shaft, and the first time we hear him speak, he yells at a taxi driver, flipping him off for confronting him about crossing the street, making it clear that although we’ve been forced to connect and recognize him as our protagonist, this man is far from the typical hero.

Shaft is considered by many to be one of the first Blaxploitation films. At least from my understanding, Shaft includes many elements of the unique genre. The film is set in the city and primarily focuses on African Americans, many of them with criminal backgrounds. Shaft is also overtly stereotypical. John Shaft is seen as being this extremely sexual figure who could not possibly be a better lover presumably because he is a powerful black man. Although he cheats on his girlfriend, women can’t help but be with him simply because of the sex. After picking up a woman at the bar and spending the night with her, he comes home the next day and completely disregards her, telling the woman that he has business to take care of. The woman replies, “You're really great in the sack, but you’re pretty shitty afterwards.” His attitude towards her and the fact that he has no qualms about doing this with another woman shows that Shaft is only out for himself, not something we would expect from our protagonist let alone hero.

While the film does contain many elements of the Blaxploitation genre, Shaft does something more than just focus on and poke fun at African American culture. Shaft is far from being a film like Petey Wheatstraw: The Devil’s Son In Law, another Blaxploitation film that was shown to us last year. Petey Wheatstraw is completely ridiculous, containing crude humor with its main plot being about a man who makes a deal with the devil in order to remain living and avenge his death. Shaft on the other hand is a believable and engaging narrative and while the film stereotypes John Shaft, this is not what makes the character memorable. In order for Shaft to have remained so popular and iconic, there has to be something about him that goes beyond simple stereotypes. For if this is all we saw of him, he would be like every other Blaxploitation character, the majority of which very few people have ever heard of.

To me, what sets this film apart from being just another ridiculous example of Blaxploitation cinema is not necessarily in the character at all but the way the narrative unfolds (This by the way could very easily be due to the fact that this was a Hollywood film made with a larger budget). As the film progresses, while Shaft is somewhat over the top, we see that he often finds himself in realistic situations that comment on American society as much as they establish character. At one point Shaft attempts to get into a cab when all of a sudden the driver pulls away to pick up a white man, showing that our dominant protagonist is still affected by racism and intolerance. In another scene, during one of the most heartfelt moments of the film (if there are any), Shaft sees a young boy standing outside on the sidewalk late at night. After speaking with the boy he gives him some money and tells him to go get something to eat. This not only shows us a particular side of John Shaft that one might not necessarily expect but also comments on poverty and the harsh lifestyle that many poor young children have to experience.

Along with addressing these particular issues, Shaft also explores this idea of masculinity and strength.

It was mentioned in class that one of the most interesting parts of the film was when Shaft speaks with Lieutenant Vic Ambrozzi in his office. At the end of their conversation, Vic holds a black pen up to Shaft’s skin claiming, “You ain’t so black.” Shaft replies by holding up a white mug saying, “And you ain’t so white.” I find this one of the most memorable parts of the film as well not only because of its clever dialogue but because it seems to be commenting on something more than what both characters realize or at least overtly recognize. This moment points out the absurdity of the labels each race puts on the other. And with the film clearly taking place in an intolerant world, the closeness of these two characters and their willingness, although not overwhelming, to work with one another, is one of the most enjoyable aspects of the film.

Vanishing Point

Vanishing Point is an incredibly strange and cryptic film to me. Not necessarily because of its style or plot but because of it’s overall lack (at least on the surface) of meaning or purpose. The film’s pacing is unusual; almost entirely slow with the exception of a few chase scenes that are edited together at a rapid speed. However, these sequences build up to a moment which should be and somewhat is climactic but is missing all of the emotion and intensity one would want or expect. That being said, after the second time viewing this film, I am beginning to see that Vanishing Point is not necessarily a film about plot or character, or one that even addresses these conventional elements of storytelling. Rather it is a snapshot of late 1960’s/ early 1970’s American society and how the troubled and existentialist thoughts and behaviors of the time period reflect ideas of both story and heroism.

Vanishing Point is almost entirely filled with both driving and chase scenes. We rarely see the main character not driving and after about an hour of the film we as viewers feel as if we’re taking this road trip as well, constantly being shown the interior of the car as well as the western landscape and the vehicle’s relation to these surroundings. As the film progresses, we begin to connect more with the car and the setting than we do with the main character, a mysterious man named Kowalski played by Barry Newman. The car, a white 1970 Dodge Challenger, with its speed and presence, has more personality than Kowalski. Furthermore, what we remember most about the film is not the closed off and rather stale main character, but the Challenger and the landscape, which become both a symbol of Kowalski’s interior energy as well as his yearn to, as many people wanted to do at this time, escape as fast as possible.

To be honest, I haven’t seen very many films from the 1960’s and 1970’s especially classics like Easy Rider and Bonnie and Clyde, ones that are known for reflecting American counterculture movements of the 60’s. However one film that was shown to me last year was the revisionist western High Plains Drifter, which pretty much introduced me to this idea of the antihero and why this character became so prevalent in films of that time period. Kowalski, while lacking the presence and attitude of Clint Eastwood’s character, might as well be a “man with no name”. While representing many of the ideas that Eastwood began to represent in Leone’s spaghetti westerns and later on in his own revisionist westerns, Newman does manage to portray a slightly different kind of antihero. Unlike Eastwood’s “man with no name” character, Kowalski is not entirely morally ambiguous. Throughout the film, while injuring and putting police officers in harms way, he never kills another person, something that Eastwood’s character has no problem doing throughout High Plains Drifter. Also, in Drifter, Eastwood is portrayed as this antihero that we as an audience root for not necessarily because he is any better than the “bad guys” (he harms just as much if not more people throughout) but because he is more charismatic and appealing. In Vanishing Point on the other hand, Kowalski represents an overall moral character that has been forced into a position by a corrupt and immoral system.

In John Beck’s article “Resistance Becomes Ballistic: Vanishing Point And The End Of The Road”, he mentions this idea that interstate highways (as well as all road building) is owned, managed and controlled by the government, something we discussed heavily in class. Beck states, “More than any other film of the genre, Vanishing Point seeks to make visible the “transparent overlay” of militarized landscape and the militarized consciousness produced by the inhabitation and traversal of it.” While highways and open roads have, as Beck says, “always functioned as a signifier of liberty and possibility”, in actuality they represent false hope. Roadway systems are disguised as free terrain, for they often suggest the pathway to that freedom (How many films end with the hero or heroes driving down a long stretch of road into the sunset?). Vanishing Point plays with this symbol, turning it on its head by placing as many barriers and blockades in front of it, taking away all freedom that the “open” road has come to represent.

From the start Kowalski is fighting a battle he cannot win because no matter how fast he travels he can never escape the government’s control. This element of pessimism is often found in films of this time period for it directly reflected the mindset of American society. The Vietnam War was coming to an end and was considered the lowest point in American history in terms of military efficiency as well as the people’s support and trust in their government. As details of events such as My Lai were being revealed to the American people, the morals of the United States were being questioned. This idea of questionable morality is directly addressed in Vanishing Point when Kowalski is revealed to have at one time been a police officer that ended up being discharged for stopping an officer of higher ranking from raping a young woman. Kowalski’s character represents a specific but popular response to authority’s immoral behavior, which was to find any way possible to “escape” and close off all association with the country’s evil behavior.

While I haven’t discussed much of the filmmakers’ aesthetic choices, the film’s landscape photography is gorgeous. With its overwhelming amount of warm earth tones, the cinematography was able to accurately capture the feeling of the desert-filled and mountainous western landscape. While many of the brown, gray and light blue colors of the film often blend together (the officers wear light brown uniforms which further disguise their connection and control over the “free” terrain) the bright white of the Challenger is what our eye is continually drawn to; A dynamic and urgent symbol of hope in a despairing world.

Dr. Strangelove

I just want to start off by saying that Dr. Strangelove is one of my favorite films and Stanley Kubrick is one of my favorite film directors. Even though many people have called him controlling, demanding and even selfish, Kubrick is an incredibly talented and unique auteur filmmaker and truly one of the greatest. Dr. Strangelove is frequently listed as one of the funniest films ever made, and although I had already seen it numerous times before this, the film seemed more humorous and ridiculous than ever.

Dr. Strangelove’s black and white cinematography is gorgeous. I have always admired and (probably more so than any other filmmaker) been aesthetically inspired by Kubrick. The cinematography (much like in Preminger’s Laura), while being both interesting and innovative in its composition and lighting, rarely calls attention to itself. While Kubrick constantly pushes boundaries with his visuals in terms of both mise en scene and shot selection, he is able to achieve a look in which no particular image stands out as being intriguing for the sake of being intriguing. While there are incredibly complex and at times unconventional shots (such as the wide shot of the war room or the sequence of the shadowy atmosphere of General Ripper’s office after he turns off the lights) nothing overtly stands out. For everything that he creates and sets up in this world fits in the world and we do not question its creation no matter how extreme of a perspective. I listened to an interview with cinematographer Roger Deakins (No Country For Old Men, The Shawshank Redemption) and he claimed that ideally cinematography should not call attention to itself. Rather it should fit so perfectly in the world that viewers cannot possibly recognize its creation. I think that’s what Kubrick does with this film. And although he is known for his unique visual style, with Dr. Strangelove he strikes a perfect balance between ordinary and eccentricity which allows us to take in the gorgeous imagery without necessarily knowing it.

Kubrick has an incredible eye for color, as one can obviously see in films like A Clockwork Orange, 2001: A Space Odyssey and Eyes Wide Shut. But to me, the black and white fits perfectly with Dr. Strangelove. The fact that the cinematography is black and white makes the film more believable which in turn calls attention to the absurdity of the situations. The scenes often reminded me of a newspaper or older newsreel footage of a war or political event. I think it was an excellent point made in class that the imagery reflected the mindset of most of the characters in the film. For the outlook of many of the characters is clearly black and white in terms of both their perspectives and the options they consider.

What I also find surprising is how simplistic Dr. Strangelove is. The entire film takes place, more or less, in three locations (the war room, General Ripper’s office/Air Force base and the one B 52 Bomber.

Maya Deren and Stan Brakhage

Mothlight is visually stunning. Its subliminal-like images vibrantly flash onto the screen, creating a chaotic display of texture and color. While watching, it is virtually impossible to entirely grasp what is going on but it almost feels like a science experiment, as if we’re looking at various subjects through a microscope. Putting together this film had to have been both tedious and exhausting. I can’t imagine ever pre-visualizing something like this simply because it is so fast and abstract that it must be nearly impossible to completely control.
At times, I felt as if I was watching not just a film but the process of filmmaking. It’s grainy film stock and selected images often call attention to the manipulation of individual frames. In researching about this film I discovered that Brakhage did not use a camera to make it. He collected various moths and what appear to be blades of grass and various other insects and plants and put them on strips of tape which he later printed on film. That is absolutely incredible. I have never heard of anyone being that innovative and artistic with the film medium.
On the Criterion Collection DVD, there is a quote from Brakhage regarding Mothlight which states, “What a moth might see from birth to death if black were white and white were black.” I’m not sure what to make of this statement and how literally I should attempt to connect it to his film. It’s clear that throughout the film there is a certain amount of speed and energy which can be associated with the movement of a moth as it hovers around a light. It’s as if Brakhage uses the intensity and vibrancy of natural images such as grass, plant life, insects and earth to establish the point of view of a moth (or a creature that is extremely aware of and sensitive to it’s surroundings), a perspective that viewers have surely never experienced before. With The Wold Shadow Brakhage creates an intriguing work of art in which his technique is as mysterious as its purpose. What I really loved about this film was it’s manipulation of what at first seems to be a stable and familiar image. Unlike a film like Mothlight in which we are unable to connect with anything, forcing us to free ourselves of comprehension and admire abstraction, The Wold Shadow begins with the comforting and relatively normal image of a wooded landscape. But not too long after the film begins, Brakhage begins to manipulate the subject matter, frantically adjusting the exposure.

"This is the art I prefer. The one I think we'll need tomorrow."

Federico Fellini is considered by many to be one of the greatest and most original filmmakers of all time. Having never seen one of his films, I needless to say was very excited to watch La Dolce Vita. This film was definitely not what I was expecting. Its epic length of two hours and forty seven minutes is rather difficult to get through, however not nearly as challenging as Last Year At Marienbad, a film that I will frequently use in comparison. Bridging the gap between Fellini’s Neo-Realist stage (where he co-wrote the classics Rome, Open City and Paisa) and his Surrealist stage, La Dolce Vita seamlessly blends these two completely different cinematic styles, creating a unique spectacle of celebrities and larger than life society.

The nearly three hours of La Dolce Vita are almost in no way plot driven. While there are various moments that result from established situations, the scenes, which are hardly connected, ultimately leave us feeling unfulfilled and carry on far too long for us to focus on a coherent or meaningful plot. Rather, the scenes are connected because of the main character, Marcello Mastoianni, a gossip journalist whose progression or lack of progression primarily drives the film. The film is in many ways a character study about a man whose obsession and decadent behavior consumes him, creating, for me, one of the most unlikeable and (as far as I can tell) static characters ever put on film.

In the article The Catholic Irrationalism of Fellini, Pier Pasolini discusses the idea of decadence and how Fellini’s established style reflects the film’s subject matter. This concept of decadence is extremely interesting when looking at Fellini’s choices regarding cinematography. La Dolce Vita’s camerawork is superb in both its composition and bold contrast between lights and darks. As Pasolini points out, Fellini’s cinematic vocabulary “is highly colored, out of the ordinary, bizarre…” and the film’s aesthetic elements are “always excessive, overcharged, lyrical, magical, or too violently veristic.” Fellini frequently uses long tracking shots to establish his gigantic sets and complex blocking of characters, which at times almost makes us feel as if we are watching scenes from an epic Hollywood musical. However, although he employs exaggerated elements of mise en scene and a lavish execution of blocking, Fellini never calls attention to the camera itself. Unlike Last Year At Marienbad, Fellini forces us to focus solely on the scene and not the manipulation of that scene through camerawork or editing. One might say then that Fellini, who has not yet reached his full stage of surrealism, has not yet reached his full state of decadence (in terms of style), an unrestrained and overtly obvious use of cinematic manipulation. (Not to say that one would need to use these techniques to establish decadent behavior for Fellini’s slight use of neo-realism makes these lavish situations look as if they were captured first hand without alteration.)

La Dolce Vita is fascinating to me. It, much like Last Year At Marienbad, is a beautiful and complex piece of artwork that is more impressive than the majority of films being released today. Sadly however, I think that most of the film is over my head. I am going to try to watch this film and publish another post on it by the end of the semester because it bothers me that I can’t quite figure out where Fellini was trying to go with it. I think what bothers me the most is that while watching the final moments of the film I do feel something, I just don’t know what it is. It’s very strange. We go through the entire film wondering why Fellini is showing us these moments of a man’s life and by the end he provides us with no obvious answers. I actually think that’s what I enjoy most about the film. I like not necessarily knowing what I’m seeing. It makes the film more enigmatic, more like a puzzle, which, to me, is more like real life. And ultimately, it allows me to truly connect with something even if it is so abstract that I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Last Year At Marienbad

Last Year At Marienbad is one of the most perplexing films I’ve ever seen. The film is confusing not because of its plot (for what little is developed is fairly easy to digest), but because of how director Alain Resnais chooses to present the plot. Its style is clearly connected to Surrealism as it disregards continuity of time and space and presents a narrative that is so abstract one can’t help but think that what we are seeing is without a doubt a man’s never-ending nightmare.

One thing that absolutely blew me away about this film was how much Resnais focused on its form. It seems like so much importance was put on how the narrative should be presented to us in order to make us feel a particular way.That being said, the film has absolutely no coherent structure or form. It is entirely representative of a dream-like or subconscious state. It’s as if we’re not simply following the protagonist through the story, watching events unfold logically. Rather we’re wandering with no restriction, much like the character himself, through various locations and times. The film is almost told from the point of view of the main protagonist’s uncertain mind, and as a result of this we feel the incoherence.

This feeling of circular wandering is established in the very first shots of the film. Last Year At Marienbad begins with various dolly and tracking shots which all move at the same slow speed, showing the large and extravagant setting of an expensive hotel. The fluid camera slowly moves through rooms and corridors, establishing the setting of the film. More so than simply establishing space (For Resnais could have began the film with a static long shot of the entire hotel), these series of shots establish an almost eerie mood and perfectly evoke this feeling of aimless wandering. A very unique voice over accompanies this series of shots as well. One of the first things we notice about the film that seems to be “off” is the fact that the voiceover is being repeated. It’s as if a poem is being read and then re-read multiple times. This adds to the feeling of wandering in circles. We are forced to listen to this haunting repetition of words that, along with the images, feels like a nightmare that we cannot awaken from. Tying everything together is the carnival-like music which, while being somewhat annoying, perfectly accompanies dialogue and image by adding another level of tension to the scene.

As the film progresses we realize that a man, who in the film is unnamed but in the screenplay is known as “X”, has come to this hotel to meet a woman, “A”, that he believes spent time with him in this very location one year ago. “A” repeatedly denies that they ever had a relationship which drives “X” mad for he appears to be certain about their time together. While this is going on a mysterious man named “M” who could be the husband of “A” repeatedly beats people in a game of numbers. As far as what I could recall (and I would like to watch the film again), by the end of the film nothing more is resolved and the characters appear to be forever trapped in this dream.

Now, with all that being said, I have a hard time believing that any of this is real. At no point does the film allow us to connect with any of the characters in a coherent way. Every scene is distorted and disconnected, never providing us with closure. Resnais often includes groups of people talking without any audible dialogue. Then, after a few seconds, we are able to hear the words they are saying only to have the audio get cut off again in the middle of their conversation. Characters could be talking to each other in one location and then switch to a different location in the same scene and even though this sudden change in space occurs the conversation remains unbroken. In one of my favorite sequences of the film, Resnais repeatedly cuts from “X” and “A” sitting in the hotel’s dimly lit bar to a brightly lit bedroom where “A” looks at her broken shoe. This is one of my favorite moments of the film not only because of the beautiful cinematography but because of the way the contrast between the dark and light scenes as well as the hard cuts back and forth create tension and mystery. It’s one of the boldest and most impressive parts of the film.

All of the techniques and narrative choices point to what Resnais appears to be focusing on the most. Rather than establishing a narrative and concentrating on a memorable plot and characters, Resnais focuses on putting viewers into the film, creating a memorable experience.

We discussed in class this idea of solipsism and how the film was connected to the philosophy of Descartes. I’m not going to pretend like I know what I’m talking about in terms of philosophy, but I do think that if you look at Last Year At Marienbad with these concepts in mind you can somewhat grasp what Resnais could’ve possibly been going for.

Solipsism is the idea that oneself is the only thing that we can know is real. Because we cannot prove that everyone around us actually exists, we can never be certain that we are not alone in our existence. Last Year At Marienbad can be looked at as an exploration of this concept. The entire film captures the thought process of a man that is constantly rethinking what happened to him, challenging not only his memory but the existence of people in his past.

One of the most interesting things that I found in the reading’s interpretation of the film was that “X” is the only person’s view we are permitted to see. The reading states, “All we ever have to go on is what X tells us, and what he conveys is uncertainty about alleged facts as much as a report of these facts. What is important is that all the above questions are in principle unanswerable. The film never provides the viewer with the means to tell what is real and what is fictitious.” Because “X” is uncertain throughout the entire film, it made me think of the unreliable narrator and how Resnais uses this narrative voice to the extreme. The film brings together so many elements to create this feeling of uncertainty and disorientation that it in many ways forces us, much like the main character, to look at the world in a solipsistic way.

Just to add some final thoughts that are in no way connected to the rest of this post, I would like to say that this movie is just incredible to me. I can’t believe that the man who made this film is still alive today, continuing to make movies. Last Year At Marienbad just seems like it’s in a completely different league than the majority of films that are currently being released (I do think that there are still exceptions). This film, to me, is clearly a masterpiece and if it came out today it would blow everyone away with its craft and originality. I think that too many movies today (especially Hollywood films) focus entirely on plot and character and not enough on the overall vision and form of the piece. Being a fan of narrative film I think that there is a balance that filmmakers can achieve. I guess I just wish that there were more films coming out today, especially American films, that are as stunning and original as Last Year At Marienbad.

I Must Be Dreaming

Last semester I took a Surrealism in film course and one of the early films we watched was Jean Cocteau’s The Blood Of A Poet (1930). Although it was somewhat difficult to watch, I loved the film and anyone interested in the Surrealist movement or early films with impressive visual effects should really see it. Twenty years and five films later, Cocteau made Orpheus (1950), his interpretation of the Greek myth and the second film in his Orphic Trilogy. I was once again blown away by Cocteau’s visual style and his ground-breaking (or at least what appear to be ground-breaking) camera techniques and visual effects. Orpheus, unlike The Blood Of A Poet, was easy to follow. However, Cocteau doesn’t provide us with a lot of answers, opening the film with voice over stating, “Where does our story take place… and when? A legend is entitled to be beyond place and time. Interpret it as you wish.”

One of the most interesting things about this film, for me, was how Cocteau found a way to incorporate stunning special effects into a film that overall appears very realistic. Orpheus begins in what I would guess is Paris at a small café where various poets and artists relax. With its everyday subject matter and purely diagetic sound, the style could be mistaken for Italian Neo-Realism. It looks no less real than a documentary. However, as soon as Orpheus enters into the car with the princess (Death) and Heurtebise, we realize that this world, or whatever world we are now entering, is skewed. When the princess orders Heurtebise to “take the usual route”, the scenery outside the car suddenly changes. It dissolves into what appears to be a negative image of what we previously saw. The men who ran over Jacques Cegeste return and now carry him into a mansion, looking like futuristic police officers. The princess asks Orpheus, “Are you sleepwalking?” to which he responds, “I must be.” This appears to be almost directly influenced by surrealism and tells us that what we are viewing should not necessarily be taken literally.









Cocteau’s use of mirrors for trick photography was incredible to me. He often places mirrors in particular spots and later takes the mirror out so he can achieve a desired effect that confuses, if not completely fools us. In one scene, Orpheus is about to follow Heurtebise through the mirror to either get back his wife or be reunited with his death. Orpheus puts on the gloves and walks toward the mirror, or what we think is a mirror, with his hands out in front of him. When I first saw this shot, I couldn’t understand what was happening. The shot is a P.O.V. where we can see his hands in front of the camera and his body in the mirror in front of us. If a mirror was actually located there, how is it possible that the camera would not be seen? It seems Cocteau used a mirror in this spot earlier in the scene and then removed it for this particular shot. We are not seeing actor Jean Marais’ reflection. However, we’re actually seeing him walking toward the camera with a different actor’s hands in front of the lens. It's kind of difficult to explain but if you watch it again, it’s remarkable, especially since Cocteau put another actor on the other side of the foreground board to fill in for Heurtebise's back reflection.

Professor McRae mentioned briefly in class that film has the ability to mess with time and Cocteau shows just how powerful that manipulation can be. As soon as we enter into the underworld, or what I’m assuming to be Cocteau’s version of Hades, there is absolutely no sense of real time. About two thirds of the way into the film, after Orpheus follows Heurtebise through the mirror, Cocteau cuts to a seemingly arbitrary scene where a mailman drops a letter into Orpheus’ mailbox. We then cut back to Orpheus as he follows Heurtebise through Hades. After about twenty minutes of the film, when Orpheus comes back to the world with his wife and Heurtebise, Cocteau begins the scene with the mailman’s letter dropping. By bookending this pivotal sequence with the beginning and end of this brief moment, Cocteau shows the magic of editing and the power to expand one second into twenty minutes of film.

In Naomi Greene’s article “Deadly Statues: Eros in the Films of Jean Cocteau”, she addresses this idea that the princess is much like a femme fatale figure. I would’ve never thought to look at her in this way but I can now see that there are many parallels. As Green states, “…the main narrative thread in these films involves the poet’s subservient and ambivalent relation to an icy and powerful woman.” Much like in Double Indemnity and The Third Man, Orpheus’ tale includes a character that in many ways is seduced by a female character and is introduced to a foreign world that is both complicated and dangerous.

Greene also discusses how Orpheus addresses masochism and sexuality. After watching the film, the obvious example of masochism is the fact that Orpheus feels compelled to be with his death, to the point of eventually falling in love with her. Towards the end of the film, in a very perplexing moment, Orpheus kisses his own death and lies down on the bed to embrace her. Because the princess is a manifestation of Death, she symbolizes darkness and pain. Orpheus feels for the princess, in other words, her feels pleasure whenever he is close to death. This relationship could easily be interpreted as a comment on masochism and could possibly explain Cocteau’s view on how the lifestyle of an artist. Many artists, whether they are a poet, writer, painter, sculptor or filmmaker, are often associated with depression and loneliness, if not only because they are more emotionally attached to the world around them. I think that Orpheus comments on this very concept and, to me, explains why Cocteau frequently blends the real with the surreal. For, when trying to portray the mind of an artist, it would be terribly inaccurate to present everything literally.

"Will you please stop dawling with that infernal puzzle!"

Laura’s visual realization and quirky characters are as puzzling and mysterious as the plot itself. I’ll be honest, I’ve seen a handful of film noirs and they all seem to have certain things in common, but this was unlike anything I’ve seen before. Watching Laura is like watching The Third Man or Double Indemnity mixed with Bringing Up Baby, with all of its ridiculous and often confusing behavior coming from the enigmatic characters themselves.

It was mentioned at the end of class that this film is about three men who are obsessed with a woman. However, the men seem to be more interested in the image of Laura rather than her actual self. Furthermore, the three main male characters come across at many times as if they have no sexual drive whatsoever (at least not in the masculine sense that we are used to), and rather than being sexually interested in Laura seem to almost flirt with each other. In the first scene of the film we are introduced to Waldo Lydecker. We first discover him, to our and Detective McPherson’s great surprise, lying naked in his bathtub writing his most recent column. Apparently feeling very comfortable with the situation, Waldo eventually gets out of the bathtub, dripping wet off camera, and asks McPherson if he can hand him his robe. While this action is puzzling in itself, it’s strange to see the detective’s reaction as he suspiciously looks downward at Lydecker, forming a slight grin on his face. Now, it was also mentioned that director Otto Preminger often incorporated controversial elements and subjects such as homosexuality into his films, and this series of actions seem to be directly acknowledging that sexual orientation.
Just as a quick note, Laura won the Academy Award for Best Cinematography (black and white) in 1944. This film has some of the most subtle camerawork I’ve seen. It’s lighting is genius, especially on Laura played by Gene Tierney who, when we finally see her for the first time is lit softly but with overall high illumination, making her appear to be the precious star that we’ve been waiting for and anticipating based on her portrait. The camera movements, as I said before, are subtle, it’s tracking very smooth and precise. This is of course contradicted however by various shots such as Waldo Lydecker’s introduction who Joseph LaShelle decided to reveal with a swish pan which comes across as unique and quirky as the character himself. This swish pan is used at the end of the film as well, when Waldo attempts to sneak into Laura’s home to murder her. By using this same camera movement a second time, we subconsciously connect his character with the two actions, an example of how camera angles and movement can establish characterization.


In his review, Nick Shager states that Laura is Preminger’s “critique of high society” and that Laura is “an affirmation of a traditional, hard-working, middle-American lifestyle.” But as it was proposed in class, while these statements may not be wrong, I don’t think that this is Preminger’s goal. It appears that Preminger uses certain accepted characteristics of film noir while filling his story with memorable and in many ways complicated characters that demand much more attention than the plot. In doing this, he allows us to keep coming back to this film and wonder what exactly is going on. And with the sheer ambiguity of the characters and overall purpose of the film, one could study this unique piece of cinema for quite some time.

The Power Of Light And Shadow

The Third Man is quickly becoming one of my favorite films. It’s just so unique. I watch it and think to myself that there never has and never will be another film like it. The making of this film, more than many others, seems to have been an instance where a group of incredibly talented and eccentric people came together and made something that just worked on every level. Graham Greene’s brilliantly written script, Anton Karas’ unique musical score, Robert Krasker’s intriguing cinematography and Carol Reed’s fearless directing combine to make an unforgettable film that is new and fresh every time you experience it.

The Third Man won the academy award for best cinematography in 1948, which comes as no surprise. Robert Krasker creates stunning images. This film really shows the importance of not only what is lit in the frame, but also what isn’t. When Holly Martins first sees his friend Harry Lime (who, for all he knows, is back from the dead), all the viewer is shown at first are two shoes planted to the ground and a cat that curiously rubs up against them. The doorway Harry stands in is completely black while a light, presumably created from a street lamp, floods the bottom half of the frame. Due to Holly’s loud voice, a woman turns on her bedroom light which allows for Lime’s entrance. The revealing of Orson Welles’ character is no less dramatic and spectacular than that of a star that has just appeared on stage.

Shadows play a very important role in film noirs. Considering the aesthetics, the high contrast lighting creates both a haunting and mysterious look that many of these dark detective stories require. We mentioned in class German Expressionism and the influence that this particular movement had on film noir. German Expressionist cinema relied heavily on mise-en-scene to create mood and capture emotion. In The Cabinet Of Dr. Caligari, rather than using expensive lighting setups, the filmmakers painted dynamic patterns on the walls to represent shadowed areas and to direct our eyes to certain parts of the frame. Rather than using painted diagonal lines, The Third Man tilts the camera and uses light and shadows to give us a skewed sense of reality.

Another aspect of the film’s cinematography is the way Krasker uses the “Dutch” or oblique angle. Last summer I was able to see the film Doubt which, in my opinion, was one of the most impressive films of 2008. The film was shot by Roger Deakins who not only created a beautiful looking movie, but also showed me the impact the “Dutch” angle can have in a film. There are only two moments where Deakins chooses to use these extremely tilted angles but when he does, they carry so much emotional weight. Krasker, much like Deakins, has a clear understanding of how this angle can be used to enhance the way we subconsciously experience the story. With The Third Man, Carol Reed creates a world that, right from the start, is off kilter. When Holly Martins gets off of his train, he heads straight for his hotel. As he enters the building, he walks underneath a large ladder which undoubtedly foreshadows the amount of bad luck he will very soon experience. When Holly enters the hotel, Krasker foreshadows the skewed cinematic world by showing us the porter in an obvious oblique angle. The porter tells Holly that his friend Harry Lime has just recently been hit by a car which killed him instantly. Nothing else could have possibly shook up Holly’s state of mind more than being told this news and Krasker expresses this through the frame’s composition.

Krasker also uses this oblique angle throughout many of Holly’s conversations and interrogations with people. While Holly talks to/interrogates the people that Harry was with when he supposedly died, we can’t help but think that some of the information we are being given is false or is slightly manipulated. Krasker uses oblique angles throughout the entire conversation between Holly and Baron Kurtz. Kurtz, who menacingly stared at Holly at Lime’s funeral, now acts completely different. He is suspiciously kind and gentile to Holly, providing him with all of the “advice” that he has to give.

In his article, “The Revenant of Vienna: A Critical Comparison of Carol Reed’s Film The Third Man and Bram Stoker’s Novel Dracula”, John Dern interestingly compares Harry Lime’s character to that of Dracula. Looking back at Nosferatu, an example of German Expressionism, one can see strong parallels between the two characters’ mystery and presence. While The Third Man is a 1940’s film noir and Nosferatu is a 1920’s German Expressionist horror, these two seemingly opposite films are quite similar in their aesthetic approach. The inspiration is clear not only in the very similar entrances of Count Orlok and Harry Lime but also in the way each one is often filmed in shadow. While Dern claims at the end of his article that he is in no way implying that Lime is a vampire, he makes an interesting statement where two opposite characters are conceptually and aesthetically connected through their cinematographer’s use of composition, light and shadow.

High Expectations

Alright, I’m going to start this blog with admitting that I am a film student and before this week I had never seen Citizen Kane. I obviously have wanted to because even if you aren’t able to watch the film, it’s what every professor talks about and what every text book can’t go without mentioning. In particular, the film’s use of deep focus, the unusual narrative structure, and Welles’ vision and performance are always discussed and analyzed. Needless to say, going into this film, my expectations were very high. I had recently seen Touch Of Evil and The Third Man and loved them both. I was anxious to see Orson Welles’ directorial debut and masterpiece. Having said all of this and set everything up… I thought Citizen Kane was... good.

While watching Citizen Kane a second time, I began to notice (and admire) so many more of the film’s technical aspects, including the various camera techniques and the film’s overall style of editing. Citizen Kane is a beautiful looking film. The first three minutes should be watched over and over again. Welles’ series of dissolves (which typically show the passage of time between two shots) introduce us to a world that is equally mysterious and magical as it is dramatic and solemn. Citizen Kane immediately establishes itself as being a film that will force us to think about not only what we are viewing but how we are viewing it.

A series of shots dissolve into one another, appearing to show different angles of Kane’s mansion Xanadu. However, there is something slightly skewed about what we are seeing. In every shot of Xanadu, we see that Kane’s bedroom window is lined up in the upper right corner of the frame, the exact same spot as it was in the previous shot (This effect, I’m guessing, must have been achieved through using some sort of projection or placing a painted background behind a series of changing foreground elements). While this forces our eye to a key location that we are ultimately brought closer to, it also forces one to wonder what exactly is going on in the frame. How can we possibly see what we are seeing? Can we believe everything that we are being shown to be the truth? These are questions that one will ask throughout the entire film, whether it be regarding the literary storytelling or the visual.

Another impressive thing about the first three minutes of Kane is that it is entirely visual storytelling. The only line of dialogue in this introduction is the word “Rosebud”. Interestingly enough, even without this line, Welles would have still been able to tell us everything that happened simply by using visuals. This mysterious introduction is contrasted and in some ways dwarfed by the ten minute long news reel, which, while necessary, comes across both boring and preachy.

As I mentioned above (and we briefly discussed in class), Orson Welles uses deep focus cinematography throughout the entire film. While this technique certainly brings out Welles’ unique compositions and complex set designs, I struggled with the logic behind the decision to use it entirely throughout. After watching Citizen Kane, one sees that the film is primarily made up of subjective viewpoints. Each part of the film represents a different facet of Charles Foster Kane, as seen through different people in his life. My question is, “Why does Orson Welles use deep focus cinematography, a technique one would use to show objectivity, throughout a film composed of and in many ways about subjectivity?”

Deep focus keeps the shot’s foreground, middle ground and background all in focus. Shallow focus on the other hand, often shows a certain subject within the frame in focus while everything else is out of focus. Filmmakers frequently use shallow focus to guide the viewer’s attention to various parts of the frame, adding a certain level of camera subjectivity. It seems like it would have been more fitting for Welles to use shallow focus whenever we listen to the stories of Kane’s colleagues and close friends, for they all have had different experiences and formed different relationships with Kane, and used deep focus for the scenes when we are experiencing things solely through the eyes of reporter Jerry Thompson. Bert Cardullo touches on this subject in his article “The Real Fascination of Citizen Kane.” Regarding the film’s use of deep focus, Cardullo states, “the image continually teases us, by seeming to include us within its confines, that we will be able to know Charles Foster Kane completely, even as we know his 'space,' his entire domain, completely. For this reason, we never leave ‘Charlie,’ unlike virtually everyone else who knew him.” While at first I didn’t agree with Cardullo at all, I’m now beginning to accept that this could have been what Welles had in mind. If this is the case, Kane is in no way a realist film (which I find interesting due to the frequent use of news and documentary style footage).

There’s something about the film though that I can’t seem to get past. I feel as if I never really get a chance to know who Kane is. I realize that this is somewhat the point but for some reason I don’t buy that. Why would someone want to watch a movie where we feel next to no emotional attachment or engagement? I think the beauty of cinema, and the power of good film, from its most literal and narrative approach to its most surreal and experimental, is that we can experience something real and honest and gain a better understanding of ourselves through watching it. I get that Charles Foster Kane is a tragic figure who yearns to experience the innocence of a childhood he was forced out of. But I can’t help but think that rather than being groundbreaking, Kane’s mystery and characterization is somewhat shallow. The film presents Kane’s life as being mysterious and even magical, which leads us to believe that Kane was perhaps more of a symbolic figure or concept than a man. My issue is that this concept did not seem to be incorporated throughout the film. Rather it was just thrown at the beginning and at the end while the middle provided us with no answers.









I’ll admit that I’m slightly exaggerating because I know that there are aspects of Citizen Kane that are breathtaking. The film is one that should be studied and without a doubt must have been a blast to see sixty years ago. All I’m saying is that in films like There Will Be Blood, I saw a progression of violence and desperation in Daniel Plainview that seemed to come from the core of his character. In American Beauty I was able to experience the frustration of Lester Burnham and fall in and out of love with his family simply through Kevin Spacey’s performance. In Citizen Kane, Orson Welles didn’t do this for me. And even though Kane is supposed to be unreachable and mysterious, I just wish I could have felt something more.