Truth, Ruth.

"But in terms of the film critic landscape, it’s just weird that these people get into these arguments. There’s all this weird drama. Like, people are talking about being afraid to say bad things about “Boyhood?” Who the fuck is afraid to say bad things about “Boyhood?” Who gives a shit? People say, “We need a culture that embraces dissent.” It’s not dissent! Dissent is… (impersonates old Russian Grandmother) "Dissent is when you’re living in Soviet Russia and you’re put under house arrest!" Big fucking deal, you have a different opinion. We don’t have to embrace different opinions, it’s called arguing. It’s what we do. “Oh, poor me, I’m the only person who didn’t like ‘Boyhood.’” Just get the fuck off the cross, man, we need the wood."-Glenn Kenny

Never Meant

Re-posting.  Wish I had made it…

Little Children

On Zion's Holy Ground

Come Life, Shaker Life

I Hunger and Thirst

The Rolling Deep

I thought I'd try something a little different and since I've deactivated my Facebook account, I basically have nowhere to promote this blog.

Therefore, I can do whatever I want!

I was inspired this weekend by seeing Kelly Reichardt's new film, Night Moves, and what I believe to be her superlative visual style.  Not that I think Reichardt represents some kind of experimental distancing from the traditional language of film but I have been thinking a lot about how cinema distinguishes itself from television in a media landscape where (or so we are often told) the two forms have almost become one.

Scratch that, I don't know how mainstream hollywood cinema should go about doing that (and from the looks of the latest in the Marvel slate, they've given up entirely) but independent or otherwise studio sanctioned smaller films have an interesting opportunity on their hands.  My view is that cinema should scale down while television attempts to scale up.  Instead of focusing on characters and drama (which has always been television's specialty), cinema should instead focus on the larger world.  If that sounds vague then it is quite possible I haven't worked this all out in my head, but I'll try to elaborate as much as I can.

What cinema does best (and better than any medium) is experiential.  You sit down, in a dark theater, surrounded by strangers, and you are supposed to feel something.  It's an experience, wether you're seeing the new Transformers movies or watching Shoah in an uninterrupted marathon.  Obviously those experiences are very different with regards to personal taste and objective merit, but both films represent an attempt to extract some kind of feeling from their perspective audiences.  I say, strip that down to the bare essentials and instead of showing us a horde of rampaging somethings from the something something system, show us instead what it's like stop at the intersection of a busy street corner and take a deep breath.  What it's like to hear the first sound after waking up, what it's like to feel the force of the wind, I know these sound hopelessly naive and unpractical but in the right hands, they can yield what i believe to be the very essential nature of cinema itself.  As the 3-D, interactive, never-have-to-leave-your-couch-to-travel-through-space aesthetic threatens to overwhelm all visual media, I think all one needs to do is remember that we are part of a planet that is beautiful, banal, wondrous, and terrifying.  It's all out there waiting for us.  So to close, I will present this image without comment:

Here is part 1-5 in a series of images I have captured inspired by the album Early Shaker Spirituals performed by The United Society of Shakers. They were meant to be inspired by instinct and have no larger purpose or meaning other than whatever one feels necessary to invest (possibly to escape the boredom).  Again, since nobody will read this, I feel I am relatively safe from any well-deserved criticism. 

Pickup On South Street "So I don't get to have the fancy funeral after all…"

    365 Films

Entry #161

Pickup On South Street (1953)

Directed by Samuel Fuller

*WARNING

The following clip contains whatever constitutes as SPOILERS for a sixty-one year old movie.  Proceed with caution. 

One of the trickier aspects to the new vantage point of this blog (specifically focusing on just one sequence in a film), is that devoid of context, these particular moments might not have any meaning.  Sure, one can admire them in a vacuum, but if I have any aspirations for this blog (aside from winning a pulitzer) it would be to inspire whatever fraction of an audience exists to catch up on the films that intrigue them.  That being said, I hope I can establish right here and now that the point of admiring individual moments from a film is not to suggest that these pieces effectively sum up the entire film.  More that they are the ingredients with which the filmmakers may concoct their diabolical recipes.  If I understand how food works, sometimes certain ingredients pop at certain moments, I believe that reference is quite apt to the film world as well. 

Which brings us to today's entry, Pickup On South Street, a film that was introduced to me by a co-worker almost as a blind taste but one I took to immediately (more food references!).  I hope it is also known that there is an unimaginable plethora of films that have gone un-watched by me (including still, Ferris Bueller's Day Off! I am still not sorry about it!), so do not conclude that this is any kind of viewing history to which one must aspire.  If you're wondering why I keep going off on tangents, it's because it's rather difficult to discuss this scene without giving away from major plot elements crucial to the entirety of the rest of Pickup.  The best I can offer you is that Moe Williams (played beautifully by Thelma Ritter) is a stool pigeon returning to her cramped apartment after a long day when she is suddenly confronted by the most nefarious of mid-twentieth century villains: a commie.  Beyond that, I'd rather not say much else but only implore you to watch Ritter's performance as she conveys a lifetime of bone-shattering and nerve-weakening compromise that most likely began as a one off but has since consumed her within the span of five minutes.  Fuller also gives her a shattering monologue and wisely lets Ritter dictate the blocking, cutting, and compositions of the scene.  It's telling that the character facing the business end of a pistol is ultimately more relaxed and dignified in her bed with a makeshift halo formed above her head in the guise of a bedroom lamp.  While the character who is seemingly in control is constantly pacing, sweating, darting in and out of the depth of the frame, and when he is shown in close-up, it's the look of a truly corrupted and rotting soul.  As previously stated, Moe is a stool pigeon, willing to sell anyone to everyone for the right price.  She's nefarious and untrustworthy for sure, but she has a line, and her bankroll needs to be padded in order to afford a nice, regular funeral and not be buried in one of the anonymous graves in Potter's Field, the place where all the unclaimed bodies wind up in New York City.  Fuller spends the film peeling away layer after layer of Moe's character, yet it's in a way that never feels exploitative or unearned.  Like all great story-tellers, the characters in Fuller's films are never the one thing they appear to be at the outset.  That's why his contributions to cinema are so important, he took sturdy and briskly effective genre plots and suffused them with frail, vulnerable, and achingly complex human beings.  Pickup on South Street is just one example of the multitudinous gifts his filmography preserves.  Discovering his work was one of the truly miraculous moments in my cinematic life.  In conclusion, thank you, Adam.  

   

The Deep Blue Sea (Molly Malone)

    365 Films

Entry #160

The Deep Blue Sea (2011)

Directed by Terence Davies

The moment in question from Terence Davies' ravishing film The Deep Blue Sea occurs a little past the midway point of the story.  Hester Collyer (Rachel Weisz) has just phoned her lover Freddie Page (Tom Hiddelston) in a vain attempt to reconcile before he leaves town with a promise of a new job.  The entirety of the film is set the day after Hester attempted to commit suicide because Freddie, the man she left her high society judge husband for in the first place, forgot her birthday.  Therefore, the series of shots that begin what is essentially one long, uninterrupted tracking shot through a track of the London Underground, remind us that this character has oblivion on her mind.  She races down the stairs before pausing right at the tracks, yet we don't hear a train approaching the station, so we begin to wonder what exactly she's doing down there.  Davies' transitions from a shot of Hester's POV looking down the dark tunnel, to the aforementioned tracking shot that lasts for a little over two and a half minutes, but speaks volumes.  

It's rare when you can remember such an exact moment when a film became "great" for you in your mind.  It's that moment when, if slouching, you are suddenly sitting upright and your eyes become attached to the screen as though magnetized.  This sequence was that moment for me.  Which is not to suggest that everything else in The Deep Blue Sea is lackluster, merely that, I'll probably never forget the intense reaction this shot stirred within me.  I'm very thankful for it too, because up until this film, I was gallingly unaware of Mr. Davies prior film work and speaking from experience, if you share a similar affliction, acquit yourself of that burden immediately. 

Back to the sequence, the aforementioned phone call with Freddie was an attempt at reconciliation because he had, in fact, discovered her suicide attempt and decided quickly that the affair was no longer worth his time and effort.  Hester spends a large portion of the present day scenes of the film in an intense isolation.  It is only fitting she would seek solitude underground.  And that's what is perhaps the most captivating element to Davies' handling of Hester's very personal memory of the London Blitz, it's almost calming. Davies' previous biographical films Distant Voices, Still Lives and The Long Day Closes (among others) display his absolute mastery of flashbacks that double as memory.  While never tipping into pointless nostalgia, Davies is able to simultaneously preserve a moment in amber and at the same time, achieve an aching distance from it as well.  This sequence is a perfect encapsulation of his abilities.  The dust that rattles loose from the tunnel walls is the only indication of the violence occurring above-ground but the devastating impacts of those bombs are felt in the faces of each and every person the camera passes by in that graceful tracking shot.  As we slowly creep down the tunnel, we see a civilization attempting to adapt by clinging to their former lives as much as humanly possible.  People are playing cards, tiny UK flags are adorned like christmas lights, and war propaganda posters are posted on about every available inch of tunnel wall.  The lights are dim and the mood is somber (the people almost look like diorama pieces from the Natural History Museum), but there is a deep sense of resilience to this new found community.  The Irish traditional Molly Malone, which begins as a solo performance and coalesces into a group sing-along whenever it reaches the chorus, doubles as a way to pass the time and remember the past.  When those voices muster the strength to collectively join in the procession, it was one of the most galvanizing moments of that movie year.  There isn't a director working today who can wring the magic out of a shared moment of song like Terence Davies.  There is no doubt in my mind about that fact.  Finally, the camera comes to a stop and lingers on Hester and Sir William Collyer.  Everything we have seen prior to this in the film suggests their marriage was one devoid of passion.  Yet in these moments, Hester seems to remember that even when they were cast out of their comfortable upper class lifestyle, they could face the onslaught together.  Holding onto each other while never forgetting to sing, nor look ahead of them into the darkness to ponder the surrounding devastation together.  

That push-pull, between the devil and the deep blue sea perhaps, (sorry that was terrible and I couldn't resist, but I'll do it again for sure in later posts) is at the heart of the dilemma for the character of Hester.  The war was a disastrous event, the effects of which are entirely visible even in the present day sequences of the film (the present day is set in 1950).  Yet, it has left Hester and William with a calamitous experience they shared in each other's arms, and from which neither can escape.  Her affair with Freddie is volatile and exciting, but he too has been damaged by his experience in the RAF, not to mention the rogue and somewhat naive nature of his personality in general.  What this suggests is that neither choice represents any kind of edenic ideal for Hester, which is refreshing for a film about infidelity, especially one where a female is the main focus.  Most movies that revolve around an affair (again, especially when a woman is concerned) have to present their current partners as devil incarnates or utterly boring ignorant dopes.  So much so, that we begin to wonder what they were ever doing with that person in the first place.  The genius of Davies' film (and Terence Rattigan's original play) is that the choice is never made clear for Hester.  This is a film about grief and mourning, and like the makeshift society formed in the London Underground, Hester can neither forget nor move on.  As if it were ever that simple. 

  

Rushmore "I'll take punctuality…"

365 Films

Entry #159

Rushmore (1998)

Directed by Wes Anderson

One of my regrets about abandoning the previous incarnation of the 365 blog the way that I did was that I was not able to complete a series of Wes Anderson posts to coincide with the release of Matt Zoller Seitz's wonderful book from last year, The Wes Anderson Collection.  So for those of you who know me and are fully aware of my undying love for Mr. Anderson's work, just remember, these could have been A LOT longer. 

To boil down Mr. Anderson's sophomore feature, Rushmore to one essential scene, moment, glance, or gesture is a fool's errand at best.  One of the most rewarding aspects to Anderson's work is how thoroughly his attention to detail and style burrows into his character's essential beings as well, resulting in the most devastatingly human moments that reveal themselves to you upon subsequent viewings.  Sure, there are uproarious moments in Rushmore (Murray's deadpan "never in my wildest dreams…" line comes to mind) but there has always been one moment that's stuck with me the most and it's when Murray's Herman Blume meets Bert Fisher (father of Max) for the first time.  The short little scene comes after both characters have reached their spiritual nadir with regards to the mutual admirations they both shared for Rushmore elementary school teacher Rosemary Cross along with the ensuing personal consequences their affections warranted.  There's a telling shot in this sequence which occurs right after we are geographically introduced to Blume standing in front of Mr. Fisher's barbershop.  Cat Steven's accompaniment in the background is rudely interrupted by a splash of water created by a passing cyclist.  It's obvious that the most likely freezing and dirty water has made contact with Herman, but his expression (perhaps best understood by comparing him to a human Eeyore) conveys this as just being another shitty, miserable thing that has happened to him today.  The defeat in his eyes is almost unbearable.  The camera cuts quickly to a low angled shot of his feet getting splashed and then immediately back to his reaction shot.  We never see a wide, master shot of the actual splash but we don't need to because this quick cutaway establishes the most important aspect to the beginning of this scene: Herman Blume's disconnection from even himself.  Yet at the same time, in the previous scene, there is a very similar shot of Max and Dirk Calloway's feet as Margaret Yang's radio controlled plane touches down for a smooth landing.  All of this could be best understood by Rosemary's earlier proclamation upon learning Max has tricked his way into her bedroom with fake blood: "You and Herman deserve each other, you're both little children."  An understanding followed through upon by Max when he presents Herman with his choice of the punctuality or perfect attendance pins from Rushmore.  The weary acceptance with which Blume chooses the punctuality button is not only absolutely heartbreaking, but also establishes the intense personal bond between these two characters.  Blume may have sorely let Max down in the past, but now he's here and now he's ready to show up.  

Max then takes Blume inside and introduces him to his father.  The background music changes to (perhaps being played on an old radio or record player in the barbershop) "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" from the Charlie Brown Christmas Soundtrack.  Not only is this significant in terms of the long-standing influence of the Peanuts over Anderson's work , but also because I can not think of another moment in the history of American television that denotes reconciliation like the final shot of A Charlie Brown Christmas.  The specific moment of forgiveness in this scene, however, occurs because Blume had been under the impression that Bert Fisher was a neurosurgeon (and by under the impression, I mean Max flat out told him this). The moment of sad acceptance on Murray's face when he realizes this fact gets me every single time.  What's most astounding about it is that it's just the slightest shift of his eyes, all of a sudden everything he thought he knew about Max has been radically altered within the span of a sentence.  Bert, oblivious to Blume's minor crisis occurring in his mind, gently requests that Blume refer to him on more congenial terms (Bert instead of Mr. Fisher) and then leads him into the chair reassuring him that what's about to happen is a relatively painless procedure.  Blume, taking one look at himself, and Anderson brilliantly staging the scene in such a way where Murray looks out into the audience so that we see exactly what he sees, can only offer "I just don't know, Bert…"  I may be way off base on this but the way Bert leans Blume back into the chair and places the towel on his face before commencing with the haircut, brings to mind a baptism of sorts.  The point (to me) hammered home by Max and Blume emerging from the barbershop, Blume offering a gentle wave goodbye to Bert and re-engaging with the world anew as a man reborn.

The two main character actions in this scene best personify Mr. Anderson's multitudinous and venerable gifts.  Often accused of being far too interested in his character's perfectly manicured wardrobe to the point of sacrificing what's going on inside their head, here we have three characters embracing the detritus of their world while at the same time refusing to be defined by it.  Max and his pins, Blume in his dilapidated appearance, and Bert with his barber occupation.  These physical things are not the point of their existence, but they are how the characters shelter themselves from the cruelty and disappointment brought down on them by the world at large.  And if we think about this scene, particularly from Blume's perspective, we see a man who is physically, spiritually, and mentally broken inside.  But rather than simply end his story with that realization, Anderson (ever the empathetic humanist) instead has the man call a truce with the rest of the world, and more importantly, with himself.     

Editor's Note:  Sorry, I couldn't provide a corresponding video clip with this one.  If anybody knows a legal, and relatively easy way to do that, I'm all ears.  I doubt that to be the case though.  In any event, I hope this suffices. 

   

Ali (Opening Credits Sequence)

365 Films

Entry #158

Ali (2001)

Directed by Michael Mann

I suppose I should begin this entry by explaining the school year length absence of posts.  All I can offer is that they're very good customers, and I'm not answering any more questions.  One of the initial problems I ran into with this blog is that, since I started it right before turning 29, I realized quickly that it would be a rather herculean effort to keep it updated on a day by day basis before turning 30.  Apparently, what you're supposed to do is write all the entries well before the actual year, that way you can just automatically post them as each day comes.  The idea of harnessing preparation before embarking on a task is an entirely foreign one to me, though I hope to become hip to its appeal over time.  In any event, re-watching, writing about and subsequently posting about one film a day proved to be too much for me and my incredibly dedicated team of whatever they're called.  Subsequently, I have decided to take a new approach.  This may not appeal to some of the 365 purists out there, but it works for me and since the only eyes that will ever read this site will be mine as I'm writing it, I have my full support. 

Instead of an entire film, I will write about a sequence, a moment, a look, a music cue, any smallish bite size portion of a larger whole.  I will try to personalize each entry and talk a little about my feelings regarding the overall trajectory of the film itself, but honestly, the more contained I can keep these posts, the more likely I'll be to finish them.  There you go folks, that's how the sausage is made, laid out on right on display for you.  That's how we do it here at Anti-Fanboy industries, we keep things real.  So to begin the re-boot of 365 Films in 365 days, I will take a look at the first 10 minutes (approx.) of Michael Mann's ambitious and undervalued 2001 biography film, Ali.  Bon appetit.

One of the things I find so remarkable about this opening sequence to Ali is the fact that the title character says merely two rather innocuous words for its duration.  He remains silent, dormant, and constantly in motion like a spinning top.  The rest of the film opens up Ali (and one can see it a bit at the very end of this clip), to examine his stage persona vs. his real life personality.  One thing becomes remarkably clear about both variations, he never shuts up.  To begin the film with him in a monk-like near vow of silence is to suggest a kind of passivity, but I feel that the images construe an entirely opposite scenario, this is a mind that can not stop thinking and a result, can not stop reinventing itself.  The opening title card displaying the date to be February 24, 1964 reminds us that he is still Cassius Clay and more to the point, NOT yet the world champion.  This sequence is about how he becomes not just a man but that man.  

Director Michael Mann, working with the mind-boggingly talented cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki achieve a special kind of documentary lyricism with the images in this sequence.  From the impenetrable wall of blinding white light held fast by the spot on Sam Cooke, to the flickering blur of the boxing bag that Ali works with a speed that appears to be beyond the human brain.  In the wrong hands, these images could appear rather commonplace and occurring in somewhat banal settings. They are certainly filled with the kind of laser focused attention to period detail for which Mann is known, and in his and Lubezki's skilled hands, they mange to flow evocatively from one gorgeous, impressionistic moment to the next.  The idea here is a mind, body, and soul in flux, constantly in motion, refusing to stand still.  A distinction one of Ali's trainers makes as he's jumping rope, "Never jump in one place, bad for the heart.  Forward, backwards, sideways, that's the most important thing."  In addition to defining Ali's fighting style in future bouts, we watch him take these words to heart while also making cognitive associations with his brain.  When then world champ Sonny Liston taunts him with "beat ya ass like I's ya daddy", the film cuts back to young Cassius watching his father paint a white Jesus and then taking a trip on a segregated bus as the newspaper images of a brutally murdered Emmet Till are literally shoved into his face.  This is followed by an adult Clay watching a speech given by Malcolm X wherein it is explicitly stated what Black men and women should do when somebody lays a hand on them.  Ali's father may not have beat him physically but he brought him into a world, a society, and a culture that seemed determined to beat him into absolute submission.  Again, we see Mann layering and constructing his images in a way that suggest a human being in evolution and he does it while never having to resort to distracting and unconvincing scenes of exposition like so many other biopics must do.  

Even the live performance medley of Sam Cooke serves as a harbinger of reinvention.  Up until the Harlem Square Club performance, Cooke was a cross-over gospel pop star with mainstream appeal.  This particular tour in 1963, however, saw him performing to predominately black audiences and giving a much more visceral, loud, and raw type of show that would have most likely scared the living shit out of his mainstream pop fans.  As a result, the record was shelved for fear of the damage it would do to his relatively clean cut reputation.  Watching Cooke in the film (at least the actor playing him) we see an artist truly engaged with his devoted audience.  Physically reaching out to touch them, and recreating a gospel style call and response with the jubilant Bring It On Home To Me chorus finale.  A style of recitation that Ali, himself would come to adopt in the film and his boxing career.  Particularly with his weigh-in orations and declarations of physical and mental superiority over all of his opponents.  Not to mention Ali's obvious contempt for mainstream acceptance of black  culture.  Again, the way Mann selects and cuts these images, it's almost as if we're watching Ali absorb the culture and radically alter it to his will through his work and through his mind.  

This is an electrifying ten minutes of essentially pure filmmaking.  It does come as somewhat of a let down when the rest of the run-time maintains a more conventional narrative while hopping and skipping around the best of Ali compilation disc.  That's not meant to write the film off completely, it certainly has its moments of pure transcendence, but on the whole it is perhaps Mann's most uneven work.  It is in these opening ten moments that we see what Mann utilizing the the skills of what Manhola Dargis refers to as those of a "thinking filmmaker."  The exactness of the ideas being conveyed by Mann and his images impart upon us a dedication by the filmmaker to fill every frame with as much thought and execution as he possibly can.  In a way, he's explicitly trying to keep up with Ali himself, who didn't merely throw punches so much as he expertly manipulated pieces on a chess board.  That's not to say those punches didn't have a super-human level of severity and accuracy, it's just that each one meant something.  If that is how I wrap this up (if there's been any trajectory to this post at all), it's to leave you with the idea that when you're watching a Michael Mann film, it is imperative that you pay very close attention.  Every image counts.