It’s a Comic Book, Not a Film. (TFR Article)

By Meseret Haddis

Jean-Luc Godard’s Made in U.S.A. is hard to describe. Anna Karina plays Paula Nelson, a proto-type of noir-film detectives, who often narrates the film as she processes her thoughts. She’s a journalist who has come to Atlantic City (Paris) in search of her lover, Richard, whom she discovers is dead. The film follows her, following leads, questioning suspects, all to get down to the truth of Richard’s death.

It’s not surprising that when I watched this film I was reading as much as I was listening, which was something that started to happen when I began watching Godard’s post Pierrot Le Fou films. Made in U.S.A. and Pierrot Le Fou, both use the images of comic book characters and cartoons juxtaposed to images that were filmed. Masculin féminin, released in 1966, also splits narrative into boxes (or vignettes), mimicking the method of comic book storytelling. A comic book, much like these three Godard films, can have juxtaposed ideas, images, and dialogue; characters hare panel frames and, subsequently, thoughts.

What Godard does in Made in U.S.A., is transform each scene into a kind of panel. An example would Paula’s attempt to follow a lead into a doctor’s office), turning her head in paranoia while a nearby female doctor puts on her coat (pictured above). Later on, these two characters are introduced; Paula points a gun at her, and leads her into an examining room. When another gun-toting doctor enters, Paul turns her head again, mimicking the same motion she made a few seconds earlier. Through the flash-forward (something effectively used in comic books), we watch the sequence play-out in the context of the situation. This repetition of movements or sequences seems arbitrary at first but, when viewed in context, they fit together.

Made in U.S.A.’s visual style also creates parallels to comic books. A color palate of red, white and blue litters the background of many scenes, which all take place in Atlantic City, France (fictional, of course, but so is Gotham City). The Technicolor pops like the color in a new comic book pops, with an abrasive punch. Godard’s words don’t fail in their punch, either, as he takes the panel frames of how comic books are structured and uses that fragmentation to structure the film’s story.

The way the film’s narrative is atomized into pieces and fragments adds to the characters relationship to time the same way comic book characters relate to time. Super heroes are generally a certain age, perpetually defeating villains and saving the day. Made in U.S.A. mirrors that feeling. Paula tells a barman that she’s 22. He replies, “22 years from now, you’ll be double that,” to which Paula adds, “Yes, I’ll be 26.” Time has no effect on Paula, who is trying to discover the cause of Richard’s death. Time seems to stand still, with dates being mentioned, but again, without the context, they’re just words.

At the bar, Paula talks with a man named Thomas about sentences. Thomas believes that sentences are meaningless (”The dictionary says so”). Paula explains that words put together make sentences, “Which makes perfect sense”. Thomas replies, “I disagree. Sentences can’t both be meaningless and make sense.” Soon after, the barman interjects: “If you won’t make sentences, I can’t understand or serve you.” In reaction, Thomas conjures a few nonsensical sentences (”The glass isn’t in my wine,” “The barman is in the pen’s jacket pocket,” etc).

Godard’s film is a sentence with missing words, yet those missing words are essential to understanding the sentence/film. Each given word, like a frame in a comic book, is an important contributor to your understanding of the film. Sometimes the most memorable panels and frames in a comic book are at the beginning or end, but they are only memorable because of the frames between them. Which means essentially, that you need words to make a sentence, not the other way around.

Made in U.S.A. is now playing at the Film Forum until January 22.

The Realism of Wrestling (TFR Article)

By Meseret Haddis

Director Darren Aronofsky described The Wrestler as a back-to-basics film and, within the first few seconds that Mickey Rourke appears on-screen, this becomes immediately apparent. Randy “The Ram” Robinson is sitting in a chair with his head down; the camera sits low to the ground and at a distance, showing Randy in his costume as he sits in an elementary classroom. It’s just you and him. No music playing, no dramatic lighting.

The film follows Randy as he tries to restore his wrestling career. His chance to get on top again comes out of a rematch with an old wrestling rival. Randy prepares for the match by juicing up and getting stronger, but the mix of his age and steroids gives him a heart attack after a match that sidelines him. Randy then tries to repair his relationship with his daughter, whom he left when she was a child.

With its grainy picture that looks like it was shot on the family home camera, we quickly feel a sense of intimacy with Randy. The film works like a documentary and is without a definable visual style, relying solely on its performances.

I don’t think this film could have been as effective otherwise. Tracking shots, crane shots - all the visual aides that have become natural and almost unnoticeable in films – would have proven too distracting here. When Randy first examines the scar on his chest left by a bypass surgery, the camera zooms-in to grab a closer look. This image struck me: I felt as though I was watching was a documentary (of course, I knew it wasn’t, but that zoom was something instinctual, foreign even). It could have been just a simple close-up shot, through a cut, but that zoom reveals a subjective eye, something you notice in documentaries.

That eye has moments of subjectivity in a film that’s fairly objective throughout, as we follow Randy through his troubles. After Randy retires, he is working at a grocery store on his new shift at the deli counter. He puts on his hair net, walks to his “ring” at the back of the store and, soon, we begin to hear the cheer of the crowd. As he moves closer to the back of the deli counter, the cheers and roars become louder. Once he walks through the counter’s dividers, however, the roar stops. Of all the moments depicting Randy outside of the ring, it’s one of the most endearing. Randy’s persona feeds off of others and it’s clear that he doesn’t like to be alone. His contemplative moments are awkward and sometimes lead to destructive consequences (his heart attack, his last fight with his daughter, etc.).

The Wrestler is a beautiful photographic look at an American protagonist, someone who’s broken, beaten, old and weary, but continues to fight on for the love of the people. Randy is self destructive, something that is a product of years of physical abuse in the ring and emotional abuse outside of it. The realism of the sport of wrestling is that these are actual people who go home afterwards, who work and raise families. Randy’s struggle is that he’s never felt comfortable outside of the ring and why, when he tries to fit in with the world, he can’t stand it. He can’t stand the silence, the banality, and the heartbreak. He’d much rather live, flying between the ropes until he dies.

Che: A Viewer’s Guide (TFR Article)

By Meseret Haddis

I saw Che back in December during its road show circuit here in New York. These are some of my thoughts and impressions of the film, which are marked in italics.

The Argentine

For those going to see Che, now being screened at the IFC Center, it’s good to know a few things beforehand. At this point, it’s hard to not have an opinion about Che Guevera. For those who believe that he’s a symbol and a revolutionary, The Argentine is a film you want to see.

It’s tough to analyze something that’s such a symbol for the revolution. As far as objectively looking at Guevara goes, Soderbergh holds him up to an ideal that confirms most people’s preconceptions of the man.

Soderbergh remarked in a recent interview that it would be interesting to gauge people’s reactions to the film if they saw each film on a different weekend. Seeing the film back to back gives each film context, but it also doesn’t give the viewer breathing room. What’s interesting about the style of The Argentine is that it’s disjointed, often showing three different periods in Che’s life. This back and forth is accentuated by the visual style of each section.

The U.N. is shot in 16mm black and white while the Cuban revolution shot in Technicolor. The interplay between the visuals adds to the dynamic of the black and white images, which show a foreboding Che in the 60s after the revolution. In comparison, the color images represent the rich culture of the Cubans who want reformation.

Bencio Del Toro’s performance as Che is very likable; you are drawn to him, much like many Cuban’s were during the period. The disjointed feeling of the story adds to this likeability; when he’s speaking at the U.N. about the La Cabaña executions, it’s hard to look at the executions objectively because of what is being shown before and after it. He looks like a hero at the U.N., while boasting that the Cubans have executed and that they will keep on executing. In an odd way, Guevara appears more heroic at the beginning of the film than he does later on, in the mountains in Cuba.

Bencio Del Toro is playing Che as a sick and weak man, constantly coughing and holding his side and not being able to physically endure the struggles of fighting in the Sierra Maestra with his soldiers. His performance shows someone who’s moving forward because of will power.

To reiterate, the first part still holds Che as a revolutionary and it would be hard for someone to leave the film without a sense of this symbolic weight. Yes, the atrocities of La Cabaña are brought up, but they’re almost hidden, and you lose the context of those executions, which in a way diminish their importance. The disjointed structure is able to hide the bad within the intercutting of the events, but it also de-glamorizes what people think when it comes to the revolution and when it comes to Che .

In the second half, I don’t know what I’m going to expect - whether this symbol (Che) will be uplifted further (which may be difficult to do, since it seems like he could do no wrong at this point). If I weren’t already familiar with Guevara’s story, the first part of Soderbergh’s film would lead me to believe that this revolutionary leader could do no wrong. I don’t know if Soderbergh wanted the audience to think a certain way for the first half so that he could convince them of something else in the second half, but I think it will be interesting to see how he deals with Che’s representation for the Cuban revolution. There’s clearly a side that we’re suppose to take (and it’s Che’s side).

The Guerilla

Going into the second film, I was wondering if the symbol of Che would be maintained – (it’s clear that it won’t be maintained; slowly breaks down in the second film).

The first time we see Che, he’s bald, he’s older, and he looks like a different man. He’s in a disguise, but the duality of a figure like him having to impersonate a normal person in order to kick start a revolution in Bolivia, goes to what he believes as a bottom to top movement. Just because of the fame and success he is known for in Cuba, doesn’t make other revolutions any easier. In fact it proves harder for him, because he now has the US and Bolivian government focusing on eliminating him.

Probably the most signifying shot here is of Che lying in bed in a Bolivian hotel. He’s quietly reading the paper.

This comes off as very distinct change from the first film, where you can’t catch your breath in between switching time periods and locations. Here it’s just him, the symbol, bald and alone. His process in Bolivia begins similarly as it did in Cuba; recruit peasants and build support among the community, but what’s different now is that people are on to him. The Bolivian government is working for the United States, using propaganda to dissuade its people from assisting the rebel forces. Not only is the government against him, but many of the people he meets will also turn against him. This force of revolution, which pushed him through the mountains of Cuba to make his way to Havana, slowly loses its color to the point of destruction. Bad luck turns worse as his health deteriorates and becomes more of a problem as they trek through the mountains. The Guerilla does an exceptional job at debunking the idea that one man is capable of creating a revolution. Che wasn’t the reason the Cuban revolution succeeded - it was the people’s revolution, something that he tries to express in The Guerilla, but doesn’t translate like it did in Cuba.

The second film was narrative story. We went from disjointed pieces in the first film to a complete linear story that traverses the struggles of the Bolivia movement for 300 some days. I think the second film establishes the deconstruction of the symbol and the myth without glory. Che doesn’t die in glory and, in a way, it makes it personal, it demystifies Che and it shows that he’s just a person who was able to achieve these things. It’s not clear if that is a call for arms or not, although I don’t believe it is. I think it’s a great showing of how the myth of someone can not only be debunked but also destroyed. In the first film, he’s very affable and you want to be on his side, and in the second film you still are connected, but you know it’s not going well.

Once The Guerilla finished, Soderbergh came and took questions from the audience and it soon turned emotional. People were yelling out, “He was a murderer!” “He was a revolutionary!” and it was clear that the film brought produced strong emotions. Soderbergh ended up having to defend why he didn’t show the La Cabana executions, which were mentioned during Che’s U.N. speech. Everyone has an opinion of Che, and I believe that Soderbergh wanted us to look at him in a different light, regardless of these opinions. I think for those who want to keep him a symbol are heeded to watch the first film only, because you will be tested of that belief in the second film and it doesn’t end neatly justifying him as a symbol. But it’s good to have a sense of objectivity when viewing this film because, without it, you will be limiting yourself.

As Soderbergh adds in a recent interview:

“He is a murderer to them. He is irredeemable, and it’s hard. And sometimes you can have a reasonable conversation about it, and I can talk to them about context. And I can talk to them about balance and my reasons for showing the two periods that I show, and addressing the issues of the executions in the way we do. But some people literally can’t… I was having a discussion with this journalist in Europe, and he said, ‘I don’t know how you can make this film and not address the executions’… And I said, ‘It’s in the film. It’s in the UN. He says in a close-up, ‘We execute people. We’ve never denied it, and we’re going to keep executing people because this is a fight to the death’…

For people who don’t like Che, he is defined by the events at La Cabaña, and to me, the events at La Cabaña are consistent with what I read about him and what I heard about him.”

For people who know Che and his history, the film will be a great starting point for discussion of whether or not Soderbergh has a subjective aim or not. The film presents us with a history that goes beyond the T-shirt with that curious-looking, bearded man on the front.

Che opens January 9th at the IFC Center in New York City.

April 3, 1998 (Diary of Tim Scheft)

Read the introduction to the diary here.

April 3, 1998
Dear feeling's eater,

I don't know what to say anymore. I'm having the worst time with women. My mother won't stop with the baby talk. Just because my brother became sterile from excessive bull riding, doesn't give anyone the right to push for children. In all honesty I would love to give my mother a grandchild, but that isn't the problem. It's really the womens fault. What does a guy have to do to get noticed? Maybe I'll start boxing or something. (NOTE: call Clark about boxing trainer) It's just to tough for me to start anything new, let alone meet a nice girl.

Like today, for example, I was sitting in a subway car, on my way home from work and something caught my attention. After squinting, it became apparent that the shape was actually a woman. For some reason she was looking my way and was winking incessantly. I looked behind me to see if she was signaling someone in morse code, but there was just an add for safe sex "Don't wink unless you know the consequences." I looked back at her and pointed to myself and she nodded assuredly.

The subway car skidded to a stop and I exited the car only to notice the woman follow me out. I turned around and looked at her curiously.

"Can I help you?" I inquired.

"Who me?" she said in a playful manner. "You could help me with a lot of things."

I blacked out for a few seconds as I suddenly realized, this is how many erotic videos and audio tapes start. I took a deep breath and examined her. She was wearing a business type light red blouse, with a black skirt and shiny heels.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what I can help you with." I stuttered.
"It's OK sweetie." she said as she took my hand.
I became like a child as we walked up the subway stairs to the street. Who was this woman taking my hand? The last time a woman took my hand I was spanked and put in time out.
It started to get dark out, but I felt safe with her. She saw my eyes light up when I looked at the cart selling snow cones and she stopped to buy me one.
"What kind do you want?" she asked.
"Blue." I responded. God I love blue flavored snow cones.
"That's my favorite to." she smiled as she said it. I almost fell to the ground, but thank god she caught me. We continued to walk, until we got to a hotel. She invited me to her room and I agreed on the condition that I could use the bathroom first. I hadn't gone since lunch.
Her room was nice, especially her bathroom. She said it was all done by a modern designer, Claubert. When I got out of the bathroom, I found her sitting on the bed, taking off her heels. I sat on a chair near the window, which I'm pretty sure was a desk, and took off my shoes, remembering what my mom says about shoes on the carpet "Patty Hearst wore shoes on the carpet and you know what happened to her."
We started to talk and she continued to undress. It became really awkward and at one point she was just in her pantyhose and hair clip. She just lunged at me in the chair and we had sex. It was amazing. I'm pretty sure I satisfied her, because when I asked her if I did, she said, "I'm pretty sure." We laid there, on the chair, her naked and me in just my overcoat, just taking in the modern decor. I wondered if Claubert had made love in his room and if he knew his chair/desk was the perfect place for two people to have sex and then organize their files. He probably did.
She got up and started dressing again. I asked her why she had sex with me.
"Because, I wanted to." she replied calmly.
I was happy and excited, since I thought we'd pretty much spend the rest of our lives together. I asked her what her name was. "What ever you want it to be, darling" she said.
I thought to myself, "Wow, she really is a catch. She just wants to please me."
I walked up to her and tried to kiss her, but she suddenly got cold. She asked what I was doing, and I said I was trying to kiss her. She said she didn't do that and was wondering when she was going to get paid.
That's when I realized she was a prostitute. Apparently my mother found her on a site, where she was listed as a "friendly companion who's willing to go all the way". When I later told my mother about it, she said she thought it meant to go all the way to the alter and that's what she told her. Lola, as I later found out her name, did give me the Tuesday special which was sex in a Claubert designed room (or "The Alter" as they called it).
I was a little paranoid when I finally got home. Partly because I didn't have the $400 on me that she required for her services and because their was a knife stuck in my front door with a note attached that said "$400 or your nuts. You decide."
I guess I'll have to go to the bank tomorrow. Ah women.

The Diary of Tim Scheft

Introduction to "The Diary of Tim Scheft" by Meseret Haddis:

How many of you keep a diary? Captain's Log? Journal? Memoir? I personally don't keep a diary, because the thought of reliving my day on paper is nauseating. But I have found it a common occurrence of people finding writings or things of the sort, in the trash, or in coffins and then posting them on the internet, or showing them to their friends. It's a odd thing finding something that wasn't meant for your eyes or wasn't of very much value to the original person. It's less illegal than voyeurism, but still as thrilling.

This here is the diary of Tim Scheft. Let me tell you the story of how I happened upon the diary. One day, I was walking on Mercer street, in lower Manhattan, admiring the noises of an Armenian man yelling at Dutch tourists for not understanding that they aren't the only people walking the sidewalk. Walking along the street, I saw a small little grassy area, which is amazing to find in Manhattan. For people who move to a city that has so much concrete per square mile than almost any other city, they sure love there small grassy patches. Lying in them, reading Kafka, silently judging people as they walk by. 

Walking by I noticed a park bench, but what was under it really grabbed my attention. From my distance I couldn't asses the hand sized item. Being a citizen of America and especially a citizen of New York, I adhered to the common practices of civilized humans. Before approaching said item, I called the police and the bomb squad to be safe. I saw something, now I must say something about it. After they cornered off three blocks, putting traffic into a deadlock, they decreed the suspicious item not harmful. After a steep fine the started to pack up there things. Apparently it's a new policy, where if the police are tipped, and the bomb squad finds nothing dangerous, the person that tips the police off is actually fined for the inconvenience. So I proceeded to pick up the item, which was this diary of Tim Scheft. I began reading his diary, partly because I couldn't find him (he wasn't listed) and I had recently burned all my books. Little piece of advice: Don't sign up for a book burning, without contacting your attorney first.

Tisch Film Review: January

Articles on the Tisch Film Review for the month of January '09.

A Battle of Objectivity 

My Favorite Films of 2008

Che: A Viewer’s Guide

The Realism of Wrestling

It’s a Comic Book, Not a Film.

Sincerely, Not Surprised

Samuel Fuller: 3 Films, 1 Sound

My 5 Favorite Films of 2008 (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

By Meseret Haddis

Of the nearly 120 films I watched in 2008, these are my five favorites:

Umberto D. (1952) Vittorio De Sica

In 2008, I watched many Italian films, most belonging to the Neorealist era. For me, Italian Neorealism starts and ends with De Sica. Bicycle Thieves (1948) was the first De Sica film I saw and, as with almost everyone else who experiences it for the first time, I was floored and moved. However, the pinnacle De Sica film for me was Umberto D. The heartbreaking tale of an elderly man who has nothing to live for but his dog encapsulates everything I feel toward Neorealist cinema. A stripped-down visual style couples with the struggles of post-war Italy. Andre Bazin writes that everything screenwriter Caesar Zavattini and De Sica tried to achieve in Bicycle Thieves was realized in Umberto D. and I couldn’t agree more.

Une femme est une femme (1961) Jean-Luc Godard

It’s no mystery that I like Godard. I enjoy both his pre and post 60’s films because each has something to offer. While watching Godard’s post-60’s work, you can’t have the same attitude you had when you watched his earlier films. The best example of pre 60’s Godard, however, is Une femme est une femme (A Woman is a Woman). It’s a light, carefree, and a funny film, but not without its New Wave roots. It mirrors a lot of Godard’s attitude toward film that his fellow New Wave counterparts saw in him, which was a good hearted prankster and not as a morose character that people identify with his later films. It is difficult to not mention Brecht when discussing Godard’s, but this film shows Brechtian acting at its best (with dialogue such as, “The line between reality and musical comedy is absurdly blurred” and, “Before we act out this farce we must bow to the audience”). It’s one of his most fun and energetic Technicolor projects – and, let’s face in, one’s better than Anna Karina.

Les enfants terribles (1950) Jean Cocteau/Jean-Pierre Melville

Les enfants terribles (The Strange Ones), based on Cocteau’s novel, is credited as having been directed by Melville, but because Cocteau was constantly on set - making changes and guiding the actors - the film more appropriately belongs to Cocteau. The visual style falls between French New Wave and surrealism, using an objective voice with narration much like many New Wave films that simply describe the action or emotion of a character or a subjective dream world that borders on reality. While Melville’s other films (Bob Le Flambour, Le Samourai, Army of Shadows) are much more straightforward, stylistically, The Strange Ones stands apart from the rest. The tension between the film’s on-screen adolescent siblings mirrors the tension of Cocteau and Melville behind the camera. Both sides wanted control over the other, and - as in any fight - there is only one winner. In this case it was Cocteau, but Melville’s influence can still be felt. Because of the influence of the two directors, however, the film remains timeless.

Zazie dans Le Metro (1960) Louis Malle

I have yet to see a more visually ambitious comedy than Zazie dans le Metro. The film is an inventive farce, which is best matched with its absurd style. Most of the Malle films I’ve seen feature clean, simple compositions (as exemplified in his documentaries) but, in this film, it’s as if he wanted to re-write the camera trick book. Zazie dans le Metro is more similar to a cartoon than a live action film - if you think that’s impossible, take a look for yourself.

Synecdoche, New York (2008) Charlie Kaufman

Kaufman’s film is ambitious; by putting us so strongly in its story, the film makes us question its motives. This isn’t common in today’s cinema. Each shot, each line of dialogue can be used to help us understand Kaufman’s complete message – however, each little revelation is also small enough that it doesn’t initially contribute to our full understanding of the film. Synecdoche, New York is rich with material, references, emotions and dialogue but, dramatically, it is fairly simple. Despite the fragmentation, you could have called this film Umberto D., as it is similarly concerned with the banality of life and the search for something meaningful. Kaufman’s writing style is abrasive (compared to his previous scripts), and it’s good to see an artist break away from his own conventions to explore areas that are less comfortable and manageable for the audience. Mel Brooks said that all writers eventually want to direct because they’re going to want to protect what they’ve written. In his first directorial effort, Kaufman achieves what many filmmakers accomplish only later on in their careers: he encourages the audience to think.

Honorable Mentions:

Crisis (Ingmar Bergman)

The Flowers of St. Francis (Roberto Rossellini)

Diary of a Country Preist (Robert Bresson)

Monkey Business (Norman McLeod)

The Kid (Charlie Chaplin)

The Elephant Man (David Lynch)

The Lodger (Alfred Hitchcock)

Three on a Match (Mervyn Leroy)

Che (Steven Soderbergh)

Punch Drunk Love (Paul Thomas Anderson)

A Battle of Objectivity (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

By Meseret Haddis

As I do with most stage to screen adaptations, I had my doubts about John Patrick Shanely’s film Doubt, which he adapted and directed from his Pulitzer Prize winning play.

Cinematographer Roger Deakins’s visual style reminds me of Vittorio Storaro’s work on The Conformist, where the camera provides an almost internal look into the characters through Dutch angles, ominous establishing shots and slow dolly sequences that put extraordinary importance in a movement. Despite its stylistic similarities to The Conformist’s clean visual style, it’s hardly as fancy. Here, the film’s reliance on its performances keeps the visuals in the realm of staged theatre. The performances shift from the mannered to the melodramatic, leaving you with mixed reactions for both the authentic and the melodramatic performances.

The first scene immediately establishes the film’s dynamic. Father Flynn (Philip Seymour Hoffman) begins speaking about his sermon topic: doubt. While reciting the sermon, he stands before us (the audience in the church and in the theater), establishing a hierarchy in the film and in the setting. Sister James (Amy Adams) is sitting in the pews, near the front of the church, listening. Ensconced with her parishioners, Sister James is provided with facts, and she uses them to guide her understanding. Sister Aloysius (Meryl Streep) is shrouded when we first see her; strolling the pews, smacking talking children in the back of the head, scolding others who are nodding off, she represents a dynamic counterpoint to Sister James and Father Flynn. She represents the authority of everything on that level (the school and the children), while Father Flynn represents an authority over them (with God and the children’s parents). Even before any confrontation, a conflict with control already exits.

The performances born from this dynamic are predictable. We find Sister Aloysius put in contradicting light towards the beginning of the film, giving us contention with our perception of her. We don’t like her cold demeanor, but can’t help but be touched when she prevents an older, partially blind nun from being expelled from the convent. This sense of empathy quickly deteriorates once the ball is rolling in the quest against Father Flynn. There’s even a point when (after the first acquisition about Father Flynn’s inappropriate behavior with an alter boy, Donald, has been made) Father Flynn asks Sister Aloysius if the elderly nun who hurt herself was losing her sight. Sister Aloysius denies it without hesitation but, at that point, her compassion is almost secondary and a little alien to the moment.

Surprisingly, this feels like a very non-directorial film, meaning the performances seemed very much in the realm of the actor’s ability and what was presented didn’t surprise me when it came to these actors. When you have a cast this spectacular, you know what you are getting, but there are moments in this film that feel like a performance. When Streep explodes at Hoffman in their second, secluded, confrontation I expected all of their loud yelling and sharp movements, but it felt alien and out of place and particularly like a performance.

Throughout Doubt, the camera becomes a God-like figure that watches and influences what it sees. When Mrs. Miller (Donald’s mother) leaves Sister Aloysius on her way to work, after Sister Aloysius tries to recruit her to fight against Father Flynn, the camera is angled right above Streep, looking down, much like the hand of God pointing down on the gossiper in Father Flynn’s sermon. The sermon is about a woman who confesses to a priest that she had a dream where she saw the hand of god pointing down on her after she had been gossiping. The priest tells her to leave and to take a pillow and bring it to the roof of her house, cut it open and come back. When the woman had done this, the priest says that she must now go and gather back all of the feathers from the pillow. The woman remarks, but I don’t know where they all are and the priest says that’s what a gossip is, and after it’s out it can’t be recalled. This image immediately cuts to a level shot, as a gust of wind violently blows the leaves like the feathers of a gossiper in the Father’s story, spreading out so much that it marks the point of no return for Sister Aloysius. It’s no surprise that the next scene is the biggest confrontation of the film.

The camera’s objectivity is something beyond theater that can’t be expressed in any way but through the camera. It’s impossible to show the importance of a background character checking the time on his watch in a play, unless the character does it calling attention to the audience or it’s blatantly stating that he’s doing so. In a film a quick shot of a character checking their watch can’t be missed by the audience. It’s a form of subtlety that easier in film. When you have a play, it’s two-dimensional, meaning we are only able to see the characters and the setting from one angle (from our chairs in the audience). We can’t see them from behind or from below or above like you can in a film. Angle can influence how we view a character, or place importance in an object or location; it’s essentially unspoken dialogue. In Doubt, that simple over the head shot expresses something that words can only complicate

The Dawn of a New Era: Part Three (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

Part Three: Sustaining the New Era

By Meseret Haddis

In this three-part examination, I will look at cinema as an industry and as an art form. In Part One, I examined the dying industry; in Part Two, I examined the rebirth of the industry and, in Part Three, I will examine how to sustain it.

Everyone’s a critic

One of the most important elements for sustaining an artistic medium is criticism. This can mean both professional and amateur critics. The general population of filmgoers are amateur critics. You might think: “I’m not blogging my opinions or giving speeches about them, so how can I be a critic?” Making the choice to see a film makes you a critic. Once you spend those twelve dollars on a ticket, you have just made a critical choice.

When The Dark Knight swallowed hordes of money at the box office this summer, most viewers said, “We like this film. We like action, we like drama, we like suspense and I think you would like it, too.” A critic’s job, when deconstructed and simplified, is to get people to see a movie. Bad reviews are often defended because they protect the audience member from wasting their money - but who asked them?

One argument says that critics should use their power to showcase great films that aren’t getting attention; the other argument questions whether or not these same critics should be trusted at all. Let’s look at it this way: If you are a critic for an entertainment publication or company (i.e. E! or Rolling Stone) that depends on selling papers or getting website hits, don’t you think you would feel pressured to hand out positive reviews? The other alternative is to be an independent critic and, well, if no one reads your reviews, then you might as well keep them to yourself. It’s a tricky position to be in, as we need independent critics who can cut through the complacency of the mainstream critical establishment.

The Internet’s ability to give weight to a variety of smaller voices has benefited independent criticism (just like the idea that digital cameras could save independent cinema by giving more people an opportunity to create films). However, quantity does not always mean quality. It does, however, give opportunities to those who hadn’t previously been given a voice.

Critics are as powerful as the art form. When art forms suffer, so do their critics. Not in their talent but, rather, in their potential to influence audiences. When an art form thrives, everyone’s a critic.

Two Audiences

I’m not someone who believes that there are two audiences: audiences that are passionate about the art form and those that are merely casual participants. When something transcendent happens in an art form, it will affect both audiences. This is proof that the distinctions between the two audiences are arbitrary. What we have is a collective audience that everyone - artists, critics, fanatics and casual fans - share and experience together. Thus, distinctions between audiences are arbitrary, because we all experience the human condition. Yes, we might live in different places, know different people, like different things, but that doesn’t change the fact that we get sad, or happy, or angry, or depressed. It’s not surprising why successful films are so successful. They capture something that isn’t defined by the physical or regional, but by the whole, which we all experience. It’s like string theory. It’s an idea that forms the fabric of all our lives, something that we know is there, but can’t grasp or manipulate.

What has happened, with the audience, is a conscious split between them. This again goes back to artistic and economic cinema. A film that caters exclusively to one of those audiences has a much better chance at being successful (financially) than trying to please everyone. Independent films, for example, have limited releases, because that’s the best way to effectively spend limited resources while getting a profit. People who appreciate independent cinema are not necessarily fans of commercial, popcorn films; however, when a film is great, these distinctions collapse. The only catch is to make great films.

How do you make great films?

To call a film great is subjective, of course, but what can do is measure great films by their reception (financially and critically). Case in point: Hollywood’s Golden Age. The rate at which films were made during this period was enormous, producing terrific work. Of course, with every great Golden Age film, there were about fifty mediocre releases on the side. The good releases, however, were most certainly good: romantic comedies (The Philadelphia Story), crime dramas (The Big Sleep), war films (Only Angels Have Wings), westerns (Stagecoach), and so on.

Besides the obvious rate of production, another difference between films being made during this period and those being made now is the quality of collaboration. Howard Hawks worked with Ernest Hemingway and William Faulkner on screenplays. Internationally, Jean Cocteau wrote dialogue for Robert Bresson’s Les Dames du Bois de Boulogne and, later, worked with Jean-Pierre Melville on Les Enfants Terribles. Dalí worked with Buñel, as did Pasolini with Fellini.

Great films around the world are able to speak to both audiences; they examine something important. The great films of the past eighty years all share a passion about telling stories through images; 8 1/2, Citizen Kane, The Godfather, Bicycle Thieves, Seven Samurai - all are films made by auteurs, by filmmakers who are telling stories with a unique eye and a particular worldview. Importantly, another common thread through all of these films is that they are inspirational. That is, they are influential for future filmmakers, they encourage them to want to make films.

Learning should be cheap…

Education, of course, is important for sustaining a growing community. Free education, however, should not mean bad education. One place of learning that has become exceedingly costly is the movie house. In New York City, for instance, I have yet to find a single dollar theater. Here, when asked why they don’t go to the movies, most people reply that the cost of admission is too expensive. Why do you think Netflix is such a successful company? It’s because it’s become less expensive to watch a film at home than at the theater. However, watching films in the cinema is still unsurpassed by any recent technology or alternative; films, after all, are made for the big, silver screen.

One way for cinemas to combat complete financial ruin is by showing older films inexpensively. Here in New York, we have a number of movie houses that feature extensive retrospectives of older films and filmmakers, but these venues still charge the same prices as other theaters.

In Conclusion…

To be at the cusp of artistic change is frightening for artists and for audiences alike. And I can assure you that we are nearing the cusp of such a change. Artists will take chances and audiences will grimace and complain, but there has to be an understanding. A change artistically can’t happen unless time warrants it. That’s one big issue I’ve had with Jean-Luc Godard and some of his later films; they weren’t about the audience anymore, it became about the revolution, the change, the method. Godard is someone I admire and think has altered modern cinema forever, but he moved too quickly for his audiences. You can call him boring, you can call him pretentious, but you can’t deny that the man takes chances and is willing to put it all on the screen. How many filmmakers (let alone artists in general) would you say do that same thing? He’s not a successful filmmaker because of these choices, but that’s the price you pay for trying to instill change in your audiences. Don’t get me wrong, one day Godard’s films will have a significant place in our culture, where casual audience members and students alike will look at them for artistic and cultural understanding, but for future filmmakers we can’t lose sight of that important thing we are making our films for: the audience. As filmmakers, it is your job to not lose sight of that. We have to understand, we have to study, we have to relate, we have to disagree with our audiences, but the moment we think we are above them, it’s over.

The Dawn of a New Era: Part Two (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

Part Two: A Time for Rebirth

By Meseret Haddis

In this three-part examination, I will look at the cinema as both an industry and as an art form. In Part One, I examined the dying industry; in Part Two, I will examine the industry’s rebirth; in Part Three, I will examine how to sustain it.

How will we know it’s dead?

When an art form suffers financially and artistically, the result is often death. Unlike a recession, this death is noticed after it occurs. But since an art form can’t be lost forever, it has the opportunity for rebirth. This rebirth is actually the first sign of death. Only when the change from death to rebirth happens will we be able to identify unproductive and stagnant periods. When François Truffaut’s A Certain Tendency of the French Cinema appeared in Cahiers du Cinéma, it was the beginning of a rebirth. Published in 1954, the piece describe what Truffaut identified as “Tradition of Quality” films, which featured uninspired scenarios of adapted novels (typical of commercial French cinema at the time) and a need to champion directors who were already proving that French cinema didn’t have to sell it’s soul to make a great film. He described filmmakers like Bresson and Renoir as early, exemplary figures of an artistic sensibility that Andre Bazin, Godard, and the other Cahiers critics were heralding as auteur cinema. “I do not believe in the peaceful co-existence of the ‘Tradition of Quality’ and auteur’s cinema,” Truffaut wrote. These critics and filmmakers saw the stagnation of uninspired films and decided to change it. Our goal shouldn’t be to wait for the cinema’s death, but to start the rebirth before the effects of its death can cripple us.

Rebirth or Revolution?

There are many similarities to an artistic rebirth and a political revolution. Sometimes an artistic rebirth and a political revolution happen simultaneously (i.e. French Revolution, American Civil War, etc). Art is one of the best ways to think about and acknowledge cultural problems without having to set off a bomb; the effect, however, can be just as catastrophic. Some fight wars with guns and some fight wars with words, paint, music, and images. Jean-Luc Godard’s “political” era, for instance, was an effort to bring about a revolution in France. Although one person cannot start a revolution alone, Godard provided the political ideas and circumstances symptomatic of revolutionary thinking. Brecht, like Godard, wanted to involve his audience intellectually. In Two American Audiences (a Pennebaker documentary about Godard at NYU in April 1968) Godard takes questions about his new film, La Chinoise, and is asked if he thinks Brecht is “someone who does philosophy by means of art and if that applied to him and the film.” Godard agreed with the student about Brecht, but said La Chinoise “was art by means of philosophy.” Both of these men changed the way we look at art in their respective fields. Both of these men also used politics and philosophy in their work to examine the culture of the time. Not all works of art have to be analytical or steeped in philosophical theory to be revolutionary, however. Plays like Arthur Miller’s The Crucible and Bertolt Brecht’s Mother Courage and Her Children were both period pieces that told stories with implications for the cultural and political climates within which they were preformed. In an indirect way, these were political works.

Re-education: From the bottom up.

Ernesto “Che” Guevara says, “You can’t start a revolution from the top down.” It can also be said that cinema can’t be reborn from the top down. Education is the most important part of any revolution and that’s precisely what a rebirth in cinema is: a revolution.

Let’s take a look at past cinematic revolutions. From silent films to the first talkies, early filmmakers created the bedrock of cinema. Whether it was Eisenstein’s montage, or Griffith’s close ups (or genres like Ford’s Westerns, or the Marx Brother’s farce comedies), cinema was being reborn over and over again, without ever dying. A post-World War II world brought about a sharp distinction in films. On the one hand were films imbued with abject realism (i.e. Italian Neorealism) and, on the other, were films that generated for the war effort (i.e. American war pictures). This was an important separation between a narrow reality and a grand delusion (something that still exists with contemporary cinema). These were all revolutions, educating filmmakers and audience members alike to make a choice about how they view films. Do I recognize cinema’s importance in expressing a reality, or do I enjoy something that doesn’t remind me of my experiences outside of the theater?

Once the studio system started to collapse, the idea that films could be shot on location with a low budget became a reality. However, these new films also experienced periods of stagnation, and the urge to create new works and examine new places dwindled. David Lynch still made surreal films, Scorsese still made gangster films and, as audience members, we became O.K. with that. When a director was good at something, he stuck to it. When he ventured from it, he suffered financially. In a climate where taking chances and creating new, risky work prevents an artist from taking those chances again, could ultimately stifle the artist’s creativity forever. Even Chaplin had to leave the tramp; it cost him an audience (Monsieur Verdoux was a box office flop and ruined Chaplin’s reputation in the United States). Chaplin, however, felt it was time to move on.

Cinema is a two way street. Filmmakers have to take chances and progress and, as audiences, we have to progress with them. Some consider cinema simply a medium of entertainment – and that’s fine. However, for those of us who expect more from a film than mere entertainment, we have to be mindful of a certain process, to be alert and engaged film viewers. For instance, each time I hear the names of new books, movies, paintings and people in a film, I create a list, do some research and, in the process, become more acquainted with the film’s meaning and complexity. This research - into a film’s political, cultural and aesthetic background - makes the second viewing a richer and more rewarding experience. Not only is the film more enjoyable, but the black and white, grainy picture also doesn’t look so alien anymore.

A rebirth comes from a need for change. If this need doesn’t exist, change doesn’t exist. Politically, we made history this election year because the time for change was ripe. If eight years of Bush can be compared to the “Tradition of Quality” films Truffaut described, then Obama would represent a New Wave. But a political revolution, just like cinematic revolution, doesn’t come because people at the top say it should. It has to start with us.

The Dawn of a New Era: Part One (TFR Article)

(Link to article)

Part One: The Dying Industry

By Meseret Haddis

In this three-part examination, I will look at cinema as an industry and as an art form. In part one, I will examine the dying industry; in part two, I will examine the rebirth of the industry; in part three, I will examine how to sustain it.

Cinema as a Definition

When examining something, it’s important to be clear about what’s under examination. Here, when I refer to “cinema,” I am thinking specifically of two kinds: an economic cinema and an artist’s cinema.

By economic cinema I mean the financial aspects involved in making a movie (production costs, distribution, etc.), separate from artistic and creative decisions. Commercial cinema is a main product of an economic cinema; producing films that are created to make money. It’s something that has stayed since the golden era of Hollywood. When you have films funded by big studios, you’re expecting something that generates a big return. Big stars (like Humphrey Bogart, Clark Gable, Bette Davis, Greta Garbo, etc.) worked specifically for certain studios, and they would draw money for those studios by making picture after picture. Today, the intentions of studio films are the same, except that it costs more money to make them. The formula seems to be that putting more money into a film will get more money out of it.

By artist’s cinema, I mean the creative and artistic aspects of filmmaking (subject matter, methods, etc). Artist’s cinema doesn’t necessarily mean the films don’t make money; it simply means that money isn’t the main goal. Here, the goal is in trying to express a feeling, story, or image in a way that transcends money. Each kind of reformation in cinema (and in other art forms) changed the world and how we looked at it, but never planned to do so. You can’t look at Paul Thomas Anderson’s films without thinking about Scorsese or Altman (or then at Kurosawa and Fellini). Artistic cinema is a bond that can’t be defined by weekend sales, but by its cultural and psychological impact.

Can cinema die (and should it)?

When people say that cinema is dying, they are only partially right. Economic cinema, one that lives on profit, can wane and flutter, but because cinema is also an art form, neither (economic or artistic) can die. Economic cinema will always cross the line of profitable and not profitable; and at the moment, it’s not making money. This assessment isn’t difficult to make when our economy is dying; furthermore, when you look at other art forms, the death of an economic medium isn’t always bad. Sometimes it forces artists to focus on the art and not the spectacle that comes in creating it or presenting it. In some cases, it’s actually needed. In the 1980s, for instance, a stand-up comedy boom happened in the United States. Practically anyone who wanted to become a stand-up comic soon became one, since the demand for them on television grew. But, at the end of the 1980s and following into the next decade, the frenzy died down. What didn’t die was stand-up comedy; the people who wanted to be stand-up comedians stuck through the bad period, while the people who wanted their fifteen minutes got it and were never heard from again.

An economic cinema needs to go through the same process. You know you have a problem when films like Synecdoche, New York and Che can’t find distributors by the time they leave Cannes. As the economy fails, so does its art (economically). When life is good, art is great (think Renaissance literature, art, philosophy, architecture, science, etc.). When people have money and are content with their lives art can flourish, creating a necessary supply to an earnest demand. When life isn’t great, a period’s art either flounders or is transcendent. Shakespeare was born in a time of economic unrest in England, where the gap between the rich and poor was growing. That’s why it’s not surprising when people say his plays can pander to the rich in the balcony and to the poor in front of the stage. There was a need for it.

An artistic cinema sometimes needs to go through the same process. Of course, an artistic cinema can’t die, but it can go through stages that force a rebirth. Each new wave (French, American, German, Czech, and so on) began when filmmakers (and critics alike) needed to not only put their stamp on the medium, but to redefine it for their generation, their ideas, and their culture.

Are there no quality films?

It’s not that there aren’t any good films; rather, the way films are being made is changing so significantly that it’s becoming more difficult to produce good work. The big news at last year’s Oscars was that foreign backers financed a majority of the Best Picture candidates. When someone gives you money, they control what you make. Remember: distribution dictates production. And when a film like Che leaves Cannes without a distributor, not only is the industry effected (i.e. the crumbling of the specialty divisions Picturehouse and Warner Independent Pictures), but the filmmakers are, as well. One could say that Che was finally purchased solely because of the Soderbergh/Benicio brand.

In artistic cinema, money should never effect how a film is created. However, with the commoditization of art films, business and art are now even more inseparable. So the choices we will be left with are these:

Big budget blockbuster movies (some good, some not, but you’ll be able to see it at any theater in the country). Or: Low budget movies (again some good, some not, but will be regulated to New York and L.A. for limited engagements).

When it gets harder for Joe Shmoe to see a film like Synecdoche, New York in Kansas City, or Seattle, or Minneapolis, that’s the death of cinema. It shouldn’t be a question of whether or not we think Joe Shmoe might be interested in a film like Kaufman’s, because it isn’t our place to decide what his interests may be. Henri Langlois, the late co-founder of the famed Cinémathèque Française in Paris, took all films into his museum. He said, “One must save everything and buy everything. Never assume you know what’s of value.” I believe the same goes for showing films. How will you ever know the impact a film can have on you if you’ve never see it?