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 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.

My Week with Marilyn: Wait to Rent

Monroe in the 1957 film

Although Michelle Williams impeccably portrays the late, great Marilyn Monroe, there’s no need to rush to the theaters to see this one. It’s a light and mostly comical story about Marilyn Monroe shooting The Prince and the Showgirl in England in 1957. Based on the memoirs of Colin Clark (The Prince, the Showgirl and Me), the film is narrated by Colin (Edie Redmayne). He plays the third assistant on the movie set and imagines he can restore Monroe's self-confidence and dilute her profound sadness. If you look at stills from The Prince and the Showgirl, the resemblance of costumes and sets is uncanny; the film is markedly accurate in its portrayal. True to the tail, Laurence Olivier acts and directs the film. Kenneth Branagh is commanding as Olivier, seething at Monroe when she shows up late to set, but in love with the idea of her. 

The film opens with Monroe on stage, performing a musical number. As the camera pulls away, we see that it’s a cinemaplex with a large audience watching her on screen. In fact, Monroe doesn’t make an actual appearance in the film until the 20 minute mark when she debarks from the plane with the paparazzi’s bulbs flashing away. We are introduced to Monroe as an enigma, a star on stage always performing as “Ms. Monroe” for her public. She says sadly of her 3 failed marriages that people always want to be with "Marilyn" and when they find out its just her, they run. Monroe is a brand that sells well. The film also ends with Monroe on stage, performing again for her public.

I’ve seen a lot of Monroe films, and William’s portrayal of the actress is spot on with every affect. Her humor and lilting voice exude sex with every slow blink of her eyes. With excellent acting and a stellar soundtrack, it’s a nice film to rent at home but lacks the drama and force to pull you into the theater.

Queue it up!

Add this to your Netflix queue: King Arthur, 2004. Just popped in this 2004 classic and loved it. Granted I'm in a bit of a Game of Thrones mood as I'm reading the saga, but the film was a quintessential Arthurian tale that hit all the high points of young Arthur's first years as a knight (pre-Camelot). Clive Owen as Arthur partners with Merlin to defeat the Saxons - led by none other than Stellan Skarsgard (Pirates of the Caribbean) who with every whispered battle command the volume on the TV must be turned up.

The photography takes on a noir effect with blue hues, especially on Guinevere (Keira Knightly) who first meets Arthur in this tale. It's hard to believe that Guinevere is a feared Woad (the wildling group that later fights alongside Arthur), and seeing her run around the battlefield with two belts as a shirt does not paint the picture of our classic lady fair.

The cast of Arthur’s knights of the round table is impressive, and the battle scenes will have you gripping the edge of your seat with the best sword fighting I’ve seen in a while. However, some scenes wane over-dramatic with Arthur yelling to God and asking why....why, are his knights dying. Well, this is war, Arthur. There are other scenes that have Clive Owen displaying his stage presence with goosebump raising vigor, stating things like "There is no worse death than the end of hope." So it’s a trade off.

All things said, if you like knights, kings, and maiden's fair, this is a great film to put in your Netflix queue. The lack of CGI and animitronics that we have today lends a realistic effect to the film. A particularly harrowing battle is fought on a frozen lake that begins to shatter and take the enemy into its icy depths. The film is shot on location across Ireland and Britain. Also, as a horse lover, seeing the gorgeous breeds from that area is an extra treat galloping across the screen. The soundtrack is uber-dramatic but just right for the content, making you want to jump on a horse yourself and help Arthur out. If you can ignore the cheesy chivalry that peeks through at opportune moments, its certainly worth the 2.5 hours.

The Ides of March

George Clooney has tried his hand at directing again with The Ides of March. Based on the 2008 play, Farragut North by Beau Willimon, the name was fittingly changed to reflect Ceasar’s days of betrayal as well as Shakespeare’s great work Julius Caesar. Clever Clooney puts many literary allusions to work. The plot, in short, focuses on a political race for the democratic seat where the real players are the men behind the scenes calling all the shots. On a larger scale, the film is a psychological drama set in a political arena that revolves around thematic ideals of loyalty and allegiance - but at what cost to individual honor? The opening scene shows Stephen, the young campaign manager played by Gosling, as he checks the stage and microphone for the Governor’s (Clooney) debate already suggesting that he is the puppet master. The film continues with the fight for the democratic seat, as the moral ambiguity of the central characters (played by Gosling, Clooney, Hoffman and Giamatti – all finely acted, we already know they are good at their craft) creates a thrilling power struggle until the end. It also makes us question who the good guy is and who the bad guy is as ideals and allegiances change.

The film contains realistic character studies of people in the political realm which will strike close to home with the upcoming elections in Washington. Aside from the political jargon that might float over your head, Clooney and his team did a great job with the script adaptation and dramatic dialogue. But the climax of the film that shifts the choice and path of the characters has holes. The intern, a title that already makes one think “sex scandal,” played by Evan Rachel Wood, lacks character development. Her eventual situation with the governor and tragic demise (however Ophelia-esque it might be, since Clooney is clearly thinking of Shakespeare) lacks credibility. We don’t know enough about her past to make her actions realistic, which unfortunately leads to plot holes, and takes away from the film at a pivotal moment.

The visuals and camera work border on corny, and Phedon Papamichael’s cinematography plays it safe. The camera lingers too long on Gosling silhouetted by the giant American flag that takes up the screen. In another emotional moment, he cries as the rain beats down on the windshield. The lack of subtlety leaves nothing to the imagination. However, I did like the close ups on intimate conversations. For example, the shot of Gosling and Wood flirting in the bar draws us in and suggests the secrecy of politics in general; the framing is suggestive and dangerous. The musical score creates a jarring turn that reflects the anger and revenge Gosling feels towards the Governor. But other musical moments, for example the random jazz song that gets too much camera time in the bar, seem out of place and without reason.

At the end of the film Gosling confronts Clooney in the shadowed kitchen of a closed restaurant – an almost mafia moment – where he proclaims “you don’t fuck the intern.” This political cloak and dagger again alludes to Shakespeare’s play and shifts the power back to Gosling. For him, the end will justify the means even if it calls for blackmail. The final shot is a slow zoom to an extreme close up on Goslings face, with his ear piece, as the face of the governor’s campaign. He now has all the power, but we are left to wonder what he will do with it.

Garage Projects - film screening Friday night

What: Film screening - BRANDED TO KILL (Suzuki, 1967)

When: 8 PM, Friday Oct. 14

Where: Castleberry Hill - Garage Projects- 261 Peters St.

Spread the word!

http://garageprojects.blogspot.com/view/classic

Johnny Guitar- Oct. 11 on TCM at 10 PM

Set your DVR for an amazing post-war Western on Turner Classic Movies. Johnny Guitar (Nicolas Ray, 1954) is the focus of my 2010 Master's thesis. I've included an excerpt of my paper below.
  
Women Take the Reins: Star, Social Discourse, and the Duality of Readership in the 1950s Western

from page 20... a passage on the actions and dress of the female characters in Johnny Guitar and The Furies (Anthony Mann, 1950)

The masculine positioning of Crawford in Johnny Guitar also suggests her sexual confidence over men. Her ability to function within the masculine geography of the western creates a unique character that can function as both male and female. When Vienna first appears onscreen, one of her employees makes a comment about Johnny Guitar: “That’s a lot of man your carrying in those boots stranger.” Interestingly, this comment is off-screen while the camera lingers over Vienna. Jennifer Peterson argues that, “Despite her gender – or more accurately because her gender is not static but floating, both ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ – Vienna is allowed to stand as a self-sufficient individualistic western hero.”[1] However, by allowing Vienna to function as a man, problems arise that question Vienna’s moral ambiguity. She is unfulfilled in her role of female and is obsessed with positing herself as a man. Ray adeptly acknowledges this with Vienna’s stance – legs always spread apart counter to a feminine stance, with a gun strapped to her leg. This illustrates Vienna’s phallic lust for power that is thwarted by the end of the film.

 

Figures 3 - Vienna in position of power

The traditionally masculine garb is more noticeable when juxtaposed to the heroines’ feminine costumes. For example, Vienna dons a luminous white dress with a layered skirt and puffy sleeves when she closes her saloon. Similarly, we first see Vance in her deceased mother’s ball gown trying on jewelry. These images of excessive femininity serve to call attention to the alternative masculine costumes, calling the viewers attention to the power that has been given to the female. The costumes serve both types of readership. Importantly, even while these women are in feminine dress, they still possess authority and strength. The dimorphic costumes of both Vienna and Vance suggest mobility between male and female spheres. On the one hand, Vance is a daughter and Vienna was a prostitute, but they now assume roles as businesswomen as their formal pants would suggest. With these costumes they move into the male position in the western. 

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[1] Jennifer Peterson. “The Competing Tunes of Johnny Guitar: Liberalism, Sexuality, and Masquerade.” The Western Reader. Ed. Jim Kitses, Gregg Rickman. Limelight Editions. New York. 1998. p. 331.

Moneyball

I'm not a huge baseball fan. In fact, I find it uninteresting, boring even. That being said, Moneyball is charming. Brad Pitt and Johan Hill lead as Billy and Peter, two men using an unorthodox method to change the game of baseball for the Oakland A’s. These two actors captivate the audience; Hill with his subtle shyness and unassuming intelligence, Pitt with his emotionally charged relationship with the game of baseball and the past decisions that haunt him in the form of flashbacks.

Typically the classic narrative of “losing team rises to stardom against all odds” would translate as stale and clichéd. However, the story of Moneyball rings true and fresh. The direction of Bennett Miller, who also directed Capote in 2005, is superb as he creates silences that speak more than any dialogue in the film. The evocative performances of Pitt and Hill are tangible, tense at times, and truly draw the viewer into the story. Aaron Sorkin, now a household name due to The Social Network, co-wrote the adapted screenplay based on Michael Lewis’s book Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game. Sorkin again creates an unforgettable story.

The majority of the film explores Billy’s relationship with the game of baseball. He mentions that baseball is truly romantic. The film points to the fact that major league players are paid so much that some of the romance has been taken out of the game. For Billy and Peter, they have a miniscule budget which doesn’t allow them to pay the 12 million dollar salaries, so they work with what they can afford based on the statistics of each player. With this new form of recruiting and managing, Billy’s relationship with the game changes, and a new type of baseball is born.

Visually, the film is pretty standard and unfortunately lacks ingenuity.  The only point of deviation from classic editing seems to be the abstract charts and numbers that pixilate across the screen as Peter goes through stats and figures with Billy. But where the film lacks visually, it is made up in the writing and acting.  

Throughout the film we question what drives Billy.  Is it trying to fulfill the baseball career he never had after high school? Is he trying to right the fact that the scouts were wrong about him? And then there is a young daughter who is prevalent in his life that fuels many of his decisions and ultimately his final one. Peter’s metaphor of Billy “hitting a home run” at the end of the film reads a bit sappy, but overall the poignancy of the film is on point and worth sitting through the extra innings.  

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (Leone, 1966) follows three different men on a quest for gold in the form of a long archetypal narrative structure. These 3 men, named in the title as such, each have their own way of getting to this treasure, their paths inevitably crossing. Leone’s last installment of the “Man with No Name” trilogy illustrates the humanistic nature of men and how certain traits are rewarded. Most interesting is the relationship between Blondie and Tuco (Eastwood and Wallach). The position of power in their relationship is constantly shifting - Blondie using Tuco, Tuco getting back at Blondie – they use each other. When the two chance upon the infamous Bill Carson who reveals the whereabouts of the money, ironically he reveals the general location to one, and the specific grave where it is buried to the other. Tuco and Blondie have no choice but to help each other if they want to see the treasure. The third party in this story, “the bad” Angel Eyes, lives up to the name, also hunting for the money through the guise of serving in the Yankee army. Lee van Cleef is positively sinister, all in black, on his prancing black Andalusian stallion, always following through with his jobs to the death, so he says.

Rather than a story of idealism, heroism, and something “greater than man,” the film deals explicitly with the human nature of greed and fairness. Unlike some present day westerns like Cowboys & Aliens (Jon Favreau, 2011) which throws at us clichéd themes of coming together against a common enemy – yes, the whites and Indians ban together to fight the aliens – Leone takes a look at human nature, leaving idealism aside. Even “the good” has his own interests at heart, but he’s fair. Leone’s story is a depiction of what makes humans tick – in this case, money. Unlike classic westerns (specifically early American westerns by the likes of John Ford), the protagonist is not necessarily the hero. The antagonist is clearly bad - personified by Angel Eyes, he defies the code of Western honor from the beginning, shooting a child. But the hero is not quite as clear, perhaps not there at all. The question of what makes man good is not so clearly defined either. In the classic old west the rules of the game are black/white, good/evil, hero/villain; however Leone is able to muddle right and wrong in favor of showing the humanism of Blondie and Tuco, who are concerned with their own well being rather than something bigger than themselves.

Most beautiful is the rhythmic montage taken straight from the pages of Vertov, particularly at the final duel in the circular middle of the graveyard where the treasure waits at a grave marked “Unkown.” Not only does the editing cut in perfect time with Ennio Morricone's score – who frequently collaborated with Leone – but the movement from eye to gun to hand to eye over and back again creates a thrilling lead up to the demise of Angel Eyes. Regardless of the length of this film, the final scene, an editing masterpiece, is worth the wait.

The Good, the Bad and the Ugly certainly takes a classic western plot line of men seeking treasure and allows us to look at the characters under a humanistic lens. It is a refreshing derivative of the classics we see with Ford and Hawks. Leone makes his autuerist mark on this film as well – a nice final installment to his trilogy.