Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry

By Georgia Robert

Ai Weiwei: Never Sorry follows an artist’s political and ideological struggles with today’s omnipotent Chinese government. Weiwei navigates these battles through his installation art and photography works that combine ideas of individualism and the collective memory. The artist issues a call for transparency in government and freedom of the human spirit. The film captures the major projects undertaken by Weiwei at his studio in Beijing, FAKE Design. There is a slight echo of Warhol’s 1960’s art factory as other artists come and participate in the creative process. Directed by Alison Klayman, the documentary presents both an exciting and momentous message. She uses stimulating footage of the artist at work, and the camera captures art being created as well as the ideology behind the pieces.

Backpack Installation in Munich

It is the documentarian’s job to draw out the story from the subject matter. Klayman does just that with her probing questions and captivating constructed narrative. By following Weiwei’s 2009 Munich exhibition, ‘So Sorry,’ we see to the heart of his mission as he addresses the Sichuan earthquakes. He asks for transparency in government after the deaths of roughly 5,000 students due to poorly built school buildings that crumbled during the earthquake. The Chinese government refused to acknowledge, address or mourn these student deaths. Weiwei’s backpack installation dwarfs the audience – the camera pans across rows and rows of backpacks arranged on an exterior wall to visually portray a message. 

The film then moves on to Weiwei’s documentary project that addresses the unjust jailing of Liu Xiaobo, a political philosopher and friend to the civil rights movement.  Klayman follows the making of Weiwei’s documentary, choosing to screen powerful segments of the actual documentary project. The shaky camera tumbles about dark rooms as police knock at the door and physically assault Weiwei. The climax of the film occurs when Weiwei and his crew are detained at a hotel by police and unable to testify at Xiaobo hearing. Weiwei, as a political artist, addresses restrictive government control and challenges authority through his art.

Sunflower Seeds at Tate

Weiwei’s “Sunflower Seeds” installation project at the Tate Museum in London impressively communicates his thoughts on individualism and the collective. The exhibit includes over 8 million porcelain sunflower seeds hand painted by Chinese artisan workers. Museum visitors walk on the field of seeds marveling at the vastness; they crunch beneath their feet. A poignant frame captures Weiwei and his young son while the voiceover addresses the importance of rights being passed on to the next generation. The camera finds Weiwei in low angle, depicting the massive influence and power he has on the movement. He communicates his hope for democracy and individualism for China through the sunflower seeds; many making up a larger whole.

Weiwei reacts to the political injustices that he experiences through his art. The camera tightly frames his face in extreme close-ups as we get to know his easy-going personality and coy sense of humor. His studio home holds at least ten cats, one of which can open doors. While the film takes a hard-hitting look at socialist government policy and intolerance, it does not forget its humor. Klayman blends the right amount of ideology and activism onscreen to portray Weiwei’s stoic and calm qualities that he maintains throughout his profound statements on personal freedoms and indelible rights. 

Beasts of the Southern Wild

“Beast it!! Beast it!!” are the words chanted by the whimsical group of post-Katrina bayou squatters as six-year-old Hushpuppy breaks open the crab shell and sucks the delicious, white meat from the middle. The dinner scene exemplifies the joyful exuberance of life that prevails despite the profound sadness and poverty found throughout Benh Zeitlin’s Beasts of the Southern Wild.

On Saturday night, I walked to the High Museum’s Rich Theater for a sneak preview of the film. Having won prizes at Cannes and Sundance, Beasts already has the buzz of a highly successful independent film. Comprised entirely of non-actors, the film follows the fanciful imagination and brutal reality of six-year-old Hushpuppy living in “The Bathtub,” Louisiana. The narrative takes place sometime after Katrina in a nearly post-apocalyptic setting of vast waterlogged landscapes that dwarf the remaining people and houses.

The film opens with voice-over narration as Hushpuppy tells her story. She runs around the dilapidated property and tumbledown trailer wearing a white tank top and orange boys underwear, frequently pausing to listen to an animal or color on a piece of card board. Meals include a recently slaughtered chicken eaten by hand or cat food heated up on the stove. Hushpuppy and her father, Wink, spend their days on the boat – a buoyant truck bed powered by a motor – and catch crawfish by hand. Wink strives to harden Hushpuppy and to make her a self-sufficient and strong “man” of the world.

Magical realism runs deep in the film as Hushpuppy imagines aurochs – a prehistoric beast resembling a terrifying boar. The director Zeitlin uses these imagined creatures to represent the reality of Hushpuppy’s situation and the presence of danger that she confronts everyday. Zeitlin’s camera goes back and forth between Hushpuppy’s daily life and the primordial scenes of the beasts emerging from the melting polar icecaps. By the end of the film, we have the small Hushpuppy in courageous profile facing the aurochs saying, “I gotta take care of mine,” and she walks towards her ailing father. The Biblical animal imagery evokes Noah’s Arc and the aftermath of the flood.

Zeitlin tells a story of human suffering and endurance from the perspective of a child mature beyond her years. She exudes wisdom that cannot be taught. The poetic shot compositions show the microcosms of the world that only a child would notice. A close up of the crawfish dumped out on the table with the small fish still alive and jumping captures the tenuous circle of life.  Hushpuppy later watches raptly as an alligator is gutted, battered, and fried to serve. The film’s photography captures the luminous light of fireworks and twinkling lanterns at night that additionally create a childish magic.

Zeitlin chooses to focus on the beauty rather than the misery, and the images serve to distract from the constant poverty. He uses childlike folklore to create a unique and satisfying examination of a despairing chaotic situation. The strong score of violins and resounding drums pump the film with courage and echo the strength of Hushpuppy. Her story is timeless, triumphant and remarkable to behold on screen.

To Kill a Mockingbird

Last week I ventured to {Poem88} Gallery in Atlanta’s West Side Arts District for the screening of Robert Mulligan’s classic To Kill a Mockingbird (1962). Robin Bernat curates the series “Films for the 99%,” citing it as an opportunity for the community to engage in films that focus on politics and protest. Mockingbird explores civil rights injustices central to Harper Lee’s novel, as well as economic and class segregation. Set in Alabama, this courtroom drama follows the arrest and imprisonment of Tom Robinson (Brock Peters), falsely accused of raping a white woman. The narrative revolves around attorney Atticus Finch (Gregory Peck) and his children, Jem and Scout, who are all deeply affected by the events of that summer. Mulligan presents two main story lines that eventually intersect: the court case of Tom Robinson and the mystery of Boo Radley (Robert Duvall), a rumored “monster” who strikes fear in the hearts of children. The real villain of the story is the ignorant racist Mr. Ewell, the man who falsely accuses Tom of raping his daughter. 

Robert Mulligan and Russell Harlan employ authoritative camera work and framing to allow children and African Americans a voice. The film begins with the voice over narration of Scout as an adult reminiscing about her childhood. Children play a central role to Mockingbird, and Mulligan gives them exclusive narrative authority. Deep focus shots highlight children in the foreground and adults in the background. The childrens’ faces are often times shot in close up, and the story is told through their point of view. The camera empowers the children and lends credibility to their story. 

The camera also empowers the African American characters central to the film. Almost every shot of Tom and his family is full or low angle signaling the respect and consideration that they deserve, but unfortunately, do not attain in the story. [Low angle shots serve to visually empower the character. For example, Atticus is  shot mostly in low angle.] The camera work in the film communicates the respect given to African Americans, which echos the camera's treatment of Atticus.

Mulligan book-ends the film with the image of a hand moving across the screen representing both real and imagined threats. The first hand belongs to Boo Radley’s shadow, reaching out to pet the children. The second hand is Mr. Ewell’s in an attempt to harm the children. The children imagine Boo to be a monster, but in the end he is their savior. Mr. Ewell is the real threat to the children and the town at large.The race and class injustices throughout Mockingbird make the film a necessary addition to Bernat's series, "Films for the 99%."

A Dangerous Method

I recently saw an exhibit at Atlanta’s Oglethorpe University featuring art created by patients of 20^th century psychoanalyst, Carl Jung. Historically, the therapeutic art led Jung’s patients to self-discoveries serving as a creative window into their mental state. The colorful mandalas (ink on paper) prove that order can be found in a chaotic mind. Inspired by the exhibit, I decided to screen A Dangerous Method (David Cronenberg, 2011), a film that further illuminates the work of Jung and his relationship with the father of psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud. 

Method follows the early work of Jung, his relationship with patient Sabina Spielrein, and his tumultuous connection with Freud – all based on historical events. The screenplay by Christopher Hampton is less impressive than his earlier Atonement (Joe Wright, 2008); it lacks direction and focus, rambling through the years in Switzerland and Vienna, not stopping long enough to paint an accurate picture. However, Peter Suschitzky’s photography forgives Hampton’s writing with his deep focus framing and overhead shots. The countless conversations between Jung and Sabina, or Jung and Freud, are shot in deep focus to highlight the dynamic relationship between Jung and his patients and mentor. Jung psychoanalyses from behind which allows the camera to capture expression from both the patient and the doctor.  As viewers, we are given the choice of which character to focus on in the frame, thus increasing spectator interaction with the film itself.

 

The first half of the film focuses on Sabina and her deep rooted sexual feelings towards her abusive father. Jung takes her on as a patient using his novel “talk therapy.” Like Freud, he wants to get to the root of the patient’s issue. However, contrary to Freud he pushes the patient to address the problems and work toward change. If Freud is the father of psychoanalysis, Jung is his son who has Oedipal issues. Jung and Freud eventually come to an impasse and go their separate theoretical ways.  

David Cronenberg, known for carnage on screen, attempts a subtler palette with Method. There is no blood or violence, except recounted, but there is the palatable horror of mental distress. To see Keira Knightly as Sabina writhing in anguish reminds viewers of a torture scene. In juxtaposition to this pain, we find the quiet solace that Sabina and Jung find in each other later in the film. The overhead shot of the lovers lying in the sailboat evokes a peaceful pause to the chaos. Howard Shore’s score is a lilting piano melody as the sailboat floats past. 

A Dangerous Method received nominations at the festival circuit last year due largely to the acting. Keira Knightly plays Sabina with a ferocious and dedicated intensity. Her face twists in contortion as she recounts the first time her father hit her and the pleasure she experienced. Michael Fassbender is Jung with a quiet intelligence and conflicted loyalties; his character exudes a gracious subtlety. However, the dynamic between Fassbender and Viggo Mortensen’s Freud lacks adequate tension and passion.  Casually hysterical, Vincent Cassel is Otto, a “recovering” nymphomaniac, polygamist and psychiatrist. He eventually escapes Jung’s hospital but only after diddling the maid in the apple orchard.

 

Overall, a good film based on excellent material delivered by Knightly and Fassbender.

The Hunger Games - Violence as Spectacle

As a fan of all things “saga,” of course, I read The Hunger Games trilogy by Suzanne Collins. Founded on the premise of a dystopian society set in the future, the series follows Katniss Everdeen who volunteers in the annual tournament that selects children from each area to fight to the death. These “games” are televised to remind all of the citizens of Panem what can happen when a nation embarks on civil war and the resulting chaos. Katniss, played by Jennifer Lawrence, who exudes both courage and desperation, steps in to fight in place of her little sister, Prim. The rest of the film follows her heroic quest to win the hunger games for the sake of her family.

The film by Gary Ross brings to life what Collins has put to page. Shot in North Carolina, District 12 appears as a war-torn depression era slum. The shaky camera employed by Ross gives the feeling of instability - districts on the edge of revolt. Children shuffle in a single file line towards the reaping (name drawing) eerily reminiscent of concentration camp lines.

Opposite we have the Capital, where the powerful and elite live and prosper from the work of the districts.  Every detail from Collins' book is accounted for at the Capital from the other-worldly makeup to the futuristic furniture and opulent food in the hotel. The establishing shot of the Capital is right out of Metropolis (Fritz Lang, 1927 - a film that also explores the divide between classes). The opening ceremonies take place in a monolithic Roman colosseum and the metaphor continues as tributes ride in on chariots; they are gladiators readying for battle.  

Clearly, the film centers on the theme of violence. Not only do children fight children, but districts fight against the power of the Capital. The most striking image of the film is the District 11 revolt after their tribute fighter, a young girl named Rue (Amandla Stenberg), dies. An image, not unlike photos from the 1960s race riots, erupts as the district people attack the peacekeepers who work to keep the districts in line. Water hoses are aimed into the indignant crowd, freshly angered with pain and grief after watching Rue die on screen.  Unfortunately, the quick paced camera movements do not linger long enough to capture the full impact of Rue’s death. Rather the story quickly moves back to the arena. The film is afraid to linger on an uncomfortable subject for too long. 

In the arena, fast paced editing and a non-diegetic soundtrack mitigate the violence of children fighting to the death. The first killing scene in the games takes place at the cornucopia and sets the stage for the treatment of violence among children. The camera glances the quick and swift kills. A symphonic score covers the sounds of what should be children crying out in pain, or perhaps for mercy. The final scene faces violence a bit more directly as the last three tributes fight atop a metallic structure that looks like a Frank Gehry design. Katniss’ final kill is one out of mercy as her opponent is attacked by genetically altered dogs. She saves Peeta, secures the win, and avoids murder when she can.

The lack of long takes and diegetic sounds allow us as viewers to enjoy the film and feel decent about watching children fight to the death. The lack of graphic images not only lets in the 13-year-old fan base, but also allows us to feel okay with what we’ve seen on screen. Initially drawn in by extreme close ups, we come to know the characters well and form a close connection with Katniss. This connection also allows us to watch the spectacle and take pleasure in it; we are suffering with Katniss and Peeta. The film could have taken a grittier look at violence as entertainment, thematically, but I’m sure opening weekend wouldn’t have been as big a success.

It Should Happen to You at The High

This past Saturday I ventured up to Atlanta's High Museum of Art for the “Modern Masters of Film” screening of It Should Happen to You (George Cukor, 1954). Boyfriend in tow, I was surprised by the crowd (assuming that not everyone loves 1950s cinema as much as I do). Although I found Judy Holliday to be shrill and mostly annoying, the overall story concept was inventive. Holliday plays Gladys Glover, a young girl trying to make it big in New York City with no talent to speak of, but she dreams of seeing her name in lights. She laments to Peter, an aspiring film-maker played by young and dapper Jack Lemmon, that she yearns to be “above the crowd.” The rest of the film follows her spiral into fame after she pays to have her name displayed on a giant billboard on Columbus Circle. Gladys must navigate boardroom tycoons and advertising businessmen who want her billboard space and are willing to do anything to get it. Although It Should reads as light romantic comedy, feminist themes of domesticity and women's position in the home and workforce bubble up to the surface. Gladys’ ambiguous position in the male-centered business world as well as her struggle between domestic normalcy versus financial independence and fame illustrate the post war sentiment and the feelings of women in 1950s America.

George Cukor’s work is instrumental in the foundations of Classical Hollywood Cinema. His films from Camille (1936) to Gaslight (1944) feature great stars such as Greta Garbo and Ingrid Bergman. Starting in 1944 and well into the 1950s, he directed Judy Holliday in what we would today call romantic comedies. It Should is shot on location in New York City and jumps between animate shots in Central Park with sunlit paths and rustling leaves to Gladys’ chintzy cramped apartment. Cukor has a unique shooting style with his heavy use of close ups and pans. We are introduced to Gladys literally feet first. Cukor’s camera pans up from her feet to her face as she meets love interest Peter. Cukor returns to Gladys’ feet later in the film when she watches Peter’s documentary. The rest of the film is shot in classical Hollywood style, but the return to Gladys’ feet is an oddity worth mentioning.

It Should follows Peter and Gladys’ relationship as she becomes increasingly famous. Peter disapproves of Gladys wasting her money on the billboards, but her mind is made up; she purchases the billboard space and secures her celeb status through TV appearances and an ad campaign. She proves her business savvy and ability to create her own future. However, by the end of the film, Gladys decides Peter was right and chooses him over a career that could lead to more fame and fortune. She pivots from independent career woman back to a normative position in the home alongside the male. Like many films of the 1950s post war era, the female character exudes an independence, be it wealth or personality, but in the end it is subjugated by the man as she takes up the traditional position as wife/lover.

Although we get our classical Hollywood ending – Gladys and Peter happy and in love, I can’t help but feel unsettled and disappointed by her choice. It makes me wonder, would a woman in the audience in 1954 feel the same?  

The Artist

The Artist begins with an intertexual nod to our hero’s predicament. We see a silent film shown in a grand movie house. The scene unfolds as the villain tortures the hero with electrocution commanding him to “SPEAK!” through intertitles. George Valentin, dynamically portrayed by Jean Dujardin, refuses to speak quite literally. He won’t give up his secrets to the villain, and he cannot accept the change in Hollywood from silent to sound cinema “talkies.” Written, directed, and edited by Michael Hazanavicus, the film follows Valentin on an almost fatale trajectory and traces his decline from successful star to forgotten beggar due to his pride, hubris and inability to accept change.

I am instantly reminded of Murnau’s Sunrise (1927), Crossland’s The Jazz Singer (1927), and all things Chaplin as The Artist begins. The references to early Classical Hollywood Cinema are endless. The high key lighting, intertitles, and mickey-mousing effects are artfully and temporally incorporated into the film. The extreme close-ups and over dramatized facial movements are all reminiscent of the late silent period of Hollywood cinema. Historically, many silent film actors experienced difficulty switching to sound, and their public often had a hard time accepting their new “voice.” For example, an actor’s voice might not match with their projected silent screen persona. Valentin is unwilling to conform to the change as young actors and actresses easily embrace sound.

From the beginning we see Valentin as cocky and fame hungry. An early shot shows Valentin in the foreground dwarfed by his own monumental image on the screen - he is bigger than life.  As the actor du jour, girls swoon in his path and one such girl is Peppy Miller played by Bernice Bejo, the real hero of the film. Her tenacious attitude skyrockets her to fame, but throughout her rise she constantly tries to help Valentin as he becomes increasingly obsolete.

The interactions between Peppy and Valentin are tender and show an immediate attraction that they cannot act on. Alone in his dressing room, Peppy slips her hand into his coat, miming an embrace. Valentin is married, but takes Peppy under his wing and encourages her to act. An actual silent film star from the 1930s, Penelope Ann Miller, plays Valentin’s wife Doris. The demise of their marriage starts over the breakfast table, an overt homage to Citizen Kane (Welles, 1941). They grow increasingly distant as she seethes over coffee and takes her pen to his screen bills giving him black teeth and devil horns.

The film only disappoints in its predictability. The plot unfolds, and we expectedly see Peppy become the star and Valentin fall. He physically begins to resemble The Tramp, Charlie Chaplin’s signature character. His wife leaves him, he squanders his money on a failing silent movie, and he auctions off his possessions to pay for his drinking and smoking. All Valentin has left is his dog, another hero of the story. Ever the cinephile, Hazanavicus echoes the Italian neorealist film Umberto D. (De Sica, 1952) that also follows the story of a disillusioned old man and his dog.

Hazanavicus’ integration of sound into the film marks a change for Valentin as he starts to doubt his place in Hollywood, and he begins to dream in sound. The sound editing is ingenious; we hear the clink of the glass on the table, the dog barking, and all the other diagetic sounds of his dressing room. And then in a surreal moment, a feather falls to the ground making a “boom” noise. These small surreal moments are scattered throughout the film and bring an innovative edge to a redone silent classic.

The Oscar nods are well deserved.