JASON AND THE ARGONAUTS (Don Chaffey, 1963, USA)

Only the gods could create a magical object that both heals and preserves peace…yet is also an instrument of war. Jason seeks to avenge the death of his father King Aristo and claim back the throne to Thessaly, to bring prosperity and justice once again to his homeland and destroy the tyrant Pelias who usurped his throne. The story begins with a seer receiving answers from the gods, and the ambitious Pelias condemning the wishes of Zeus and attempting to alter his own destiny. Pelias is told that one of Aristo's offspring would survive the siege so he orders that all children be executed. He then profanes a temple of Hera by murdering Aristo’s daughter. Pelias is finally warned by a mysterious woman to beware the man with one sandal. A wicked prelude to a children’s film!

Director Don Chaffey and the now legendary Ray Harryhausen team up to create one the greatest fantasy films of all time, their magical alchemy resulting in a wonderful adventure story infused with breathtaking special effects. Though the acting is adequate but not exemplary, it’s Harryhausen’s vibrant creatures that come to life: from the creaking iron giant Talos to the Children of the Hydra’s Teeth, these stop-motion characters are realistically articulated and beautifully designed, reacting and moving with human emotion. In one scene, Jason discovers the giant’s Achilles’ heal and, as Talos’ lifeblood gushes onto the hot sand, the iron behemoth sways and grabs his throat in pain. Another fine example is the final scene as a group of skeletons attack Jason and his cohorts: one skeleton is stabbed through the heart and reacts accordingly and another clutches a wounded arm, like vestigial pain remembered from a previous life. The monsters are an extension of Harryhausen’s brilliance as an artist: he breathes his own life into the soft clay of nonliving matter. Bernard Herrmann adds the final touches to this extravaganza with a bombastic score devoid of his usual string section, utilizing clashing symbols and percussion to accentuate the Argonauts heroism while allowing subtle woodwinds to create suspense and melodrama: this is one of his best scores. 

Jason curses the gods though he accepts the services of Hera to complete his quest, but it’s his own relentless courage that allows him to persevere…and win the heart of the lovely woman. Jason believes that he is a free man...but the vicious gods have other plans. 

Final Grade: (B+)

LOVELY MOLLY (Eduardo Sanchez, 2012, USA)

Confronting Demons

Director Eduardo Sanchez has lovingly crafted an oblique horror film by utilizing genre conventions only to subvert them with subtle trickery. Sanchez does this by telling the story from almost entirely one perspective (Molly’s) and rejects any overt supernatural representation, although he expects the audience to make the supernatural a de facto proposition. But here in Molly’s world everything is not as it seems.

The subtext can be extracted through the character interactions and brief exposition: Molly and her sister were child victims if incest and domestic violence. At one point, Molly tells the Sheriff that she has no memories of police calls to the house when she was a child. Her suppressed trauma has led to drug addiction and dissociative behavior. This is a horror story but not a supernatural one: it is a true horror story of childhood rape and its destructive effects into adulthood.

Molly moves back into the house where the entire trauma which included the death (murder, actually) of her father. This is not uncommon for victims of domestic violence or sexual abuse to heal by confronting their past both physically and emotionally. Molly has a supportive husband (another genre cliché subverted) who is aware of her addiction but not so much the reasons: he seems to understand her struggle with the needle but fails to recognize that this is just the tip of the trauma. This is a fault in many who care about those with substance abuse addictions because the drug is only a temporary “cure”; one needs to get under the skin and find out the cause. Molly is soon subsumed by her past and becomes host to a destructive personality much like child victims becoming their perpetrator: that is, children who are sexually abused often abuse others. Molly focuses her aggression upon those who represent a dominant Patriarchy: husband and pastor. She stalks the neighbor woman in secret who has a young daughter that is an avatar of her own self as a young girl, so she kidnaps and buries her, as she wants to bury the past. This is also read as revenge against her husband who has sought solace in her arms (and more intimate regions). Heavy stuff for a modest indie “horror” flick indeed.

The “supernatural” horror is almost entirely subjective from Molly’s perspective. The first opening of the door and the alarm going off could have been an accident without ghostly cause. From there, the voices and sounds are her imagination or projection: very real to her (to support her nightmare logic) but invisible and unheard by everyone else. If this isn't real then she would have to face her own mental breakdown or loss of sanity. Patients with mental health injuries conjure their own fantasies to explain their world rather than accepting the fact that they are ill. The childhood bedroom is where she hears herself (or sister) crying from past events; either after a sexual assault or after her father’s murder (by her sister). It’s important to understand that the artifact of childhood abuse can lead to disassociate behaviors, of developing alternate realities and perspectives in order to survive these awful events. No haunting required. 

The significant objective occurrence is the video from the mall where she is pushed against the wall. The video is interesting because we watch the video from the audience perspective but we are first brought into extreme close-up with Molly. We never see if what is being shown is what is being seen by the manager. Molly sees herself being raped from behind (and it looks very much like an invisible force pushes her against the wall) but we are given conflicting dialogue from her boss. He is seeing something much differently, possibly Molly abusing herself. The scene is very powerful as she reacts with violent sarcasm, unable to believe he doesn't see what really happened. The Director confounds typical spectatorship tropes when the scene is reflected upon and deconstructed.

Her drug use is also a symptom of her abuse, a way of self-medication. The metaphor is clear: the needle is hidden inside of her childhood teddy bear. The supernatural appearances get stronger after she begins shooting heroine once again…as does her violence against men. In one edge-of-our-seat scene, Molly screams that her father is on the way up the stairs and her husband Tim tries to calm her down. Molly instead runs in the bathroom with her camcorder. This scene played out in a similar fashion earlier when Tim was away, and the “Entity” forced its way into the bathroom to take her. Here, as she hides and we see from her POV (from camcorder) Tim actually replaces the creature in her vision: he’s only a disjointed blur that forms into a human shape before becoming her husband. It’s very clear: in her mind, Tim is the creature too. Pastor Bobby also becomes a target of her infections once he shows interest in her sexually. Molly brings this about by seducing him or, more precisely, of awakening that which was dormant. She kills both men the same way: first by biting and then stabbing the screwdriver through the back of the skull. And the screw-driver represents more than just her sister’s murder weapon.

The horse motif is also interesting and very creepy. I see it as the fact that her father treated the horses on the farm with more humanity than he treated the family. The animals were an object of love and affection for him for which the girls were jealous. In other words, they (the girls) were less than animals: hence, the disemboweling of the deer. This is a lashing-out of pure rage and also of fulfilling the animalistic role assigned by her father. If the horses where his true love, she could see him as monster half horse/half man. The photo album where the horse heads are glued over her father’s visage conforms to this belief. 

This is a refreshingly complex film that transcends the horror genre where the conventions often lead to a bloody climax that is empty of subtext. We are left to imagine that Molly and her sister were raped often as children, their mother was unable to stop the abuse, and her sister actually murdered him. Molly was sent to a mental hospital where she spent the remainder of her childhood. The biting most likely mimics the fact that the abuse was or included oral sex upon her father, and the screwdriver a phallic symbol. The fact that this can be read as having no supernatural element, that this in reality could (and often does) happen is the grimmest horror of all. 

Final Grade: (B+)

IVAN'S CHILDHOOD (Andrei Tarkovsky, 1962, Russia)

Starlight in a handful of water

Ivan’s brief life is reduced to a cold bloody quagmire; his memories are shrapnel that create a vengeful soldier from the ghost of a child. Director Andrei Tarkovsky examines the intrepid Russian spirit and vicious emotional impact of The Great Patriotic War, refusing to glorify combat and bringing the murderous Nazi occupation into sharp focus upon a few insignificant lives.

The film begins as Ivan dreams of his mother’s gracious smile, embraced by her love then floating away (a great crane shot reminiscent of Fellini’s lucid dream sequence that begins 8 ½)…to be rudely awakened in a cold hideout pursued by German soldiers. Ivan is an advanced scout, a child soldier, because his small size allows him to sneak through the trenches and forests to reconnoiter the enemy forces. He eventually befriends Lt. Galtsev who becomes protective of the boy. Tarkovsky utilizes a linear narrative structure that eschews flashbacks: instead, we learn through dialogue and inference that the Nazi aggressors murdered Ivan’s family and village. This unsettling literary device of being told what happened forces the viewer to imagine the horrors which imbues the film with anxiety, fear, and maddening helplessness because now, in the present tense, we only see the final sum of Ivan's trauma. He has become tainted by the foul stench of death, a wraith whose only goal is to destroy the enemy. He shows little fear and doggedly disobeys orders to be sent away, and vows to avenge the death of his family and compatriots. Ivan is last seen disappearing into the vast swamp on another mission to never be seen alive again.

In the dark night of the soulless, he is possessed by the final pleas of the damned scrawled upon the wall of his hovel. Alone, he stalks an imaginary German soldier with a trophy knife, vowing death to those who have already murdered the humane part of him. Tarkovsky shows very little combat, explosions kept to a muffled distant roar, and instead concentrates upon a few soldiers in their dirty and barren hideouts, making small talk and awaiting orders: battle is kept to a vaporous backdrop. This heightens tension and allows the characters room to breathe, however briefly, and transcend genre simplifications.

Ivan is missing in action for much of the film though his presence haunts the shadows awaiting his return. A minor love story infuses the film with sadness because this basic human desire still exists in the midst of hell, a human need for companionship that inspires jealousy but is subdued by impending doom. In one scene, Masha is passionately embraced above a muddy trench surrounded by a barren forest like bleached bones, as if these soldiers tread tenuously above their own open graves.

Finally, Tarkovsky deliberately utilizes a narrative ellipsis to great effect as the story jumps several months (years?) as the Russians storm Berlin, and with the use of documentary footage we witness the fall of the Thousand Year Reich. We are shown gruesome newsreels of murdered children, some poisoned and others shot through the torso, and we realize that Art and Reality coincide at this hellish nexus. We once again see Lt. Galtsev but now his boyish features are obscured by jagged scars, his eyes hard as the Russian winter. As he searches through the litter strewn room, he discovers a dossier with a picture of Ivan detailing his capture and execution.

But our protagonist lives on in a dream, playing with his family on a deserted beach, seemingly walking upon water…but an ominous decaying tree dominates this fantasy, as intrusive as an exclamation point at the end of a secret. Ivan now runs forever, hand outstretched, grasping air, his life now as intangible as starlight in a handful of water. 

Final Grade: (A)

CONQUEST OF THE PLANET OF THE APES: ORIGINAL CUT (J. Lee Thompson, 1972, USA)

The King is dead. Long live the King! J. Lee Thompson casts a dark shadow upon the fourth film in the Ape franchise, an infusion of fear, paranoia, and repression where minorities, unable to access equal rights or the rule of law, stage a violent revolt and destroy the destroyers…thus ensuring their potential salvation will result in their own annihilation. 

The film’s premise is explained in the first few minutes: Armando saved the child of the time traveling hominids Zira and Cornelius, an evolved great ape that could lead his taxonomic family to enslave the human race (explained in the previous film). For the past twenty years, this ape was thought dead until an excited utterance reveals the truth: the world is inhabited by lousy human bastards! Now, apes have replaced domestic pets as objects of affection, and their superior intelligence (relative to dogs and cats), has cast them as servants and slaves. Caesar witnesses the barbaric cruelty levied against his kind and leads a bloody revolution, his crown a ring of fire, and spits his venomous curse towards all humanity for he is not born of man or woman, and he must set his kindred free. 

Once suspension of disbelief is successfully suspended (for all the apes other than Caesar are of the mundane type), the film is ripe with spoiled morality that urges violence as not only the means…but also the end. A film that refracts its time through the prism of social upheaval, echoing the screams of innocent students murdered at Kent State, or those beaten and ridiculed because of their race or religious (and non-religious) belief, capturing the frisson of the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago, where law only existed for those with Power. 

The film in its original cut is brutal. Caesar leads in a frenzy of violence, without recourse to the Rule of Law as this is his species only hope of freedom, however temporary. The Governor is nothing more than a racist caricature, scowling his way through the film, and his assistant MacDonald, a black man, is the subdued voice of reason, a man who cannot subscribe to this wholesale slaughter. Anger breads anger, the knife leads to the gun, the gun to bombs, until extermination rests in the hands of madmen. In this version, the Chimpanzee Lisa is unable to utter the compassionate plea for mercy, and Caesar commands his legion to batter the Governor to death. His fiery rhetoric inflames his minions and is the spark that burns away the old to make way for the New World Order. Like all Dictators, Caesar better watch his friends closely. 

Final Grade: (B)

HEAVEN'S GATE (Michael Cimino, 1980, USA)

FRUIT OF THE POISONOUS TREE

The DEER HUNTER is a tale that focuses upon character, specifically the love story between two men: the war is a means to propel the characters towards resolution. But here at HEAVEN’S GATE, Cimino is concerned with the war first, the grand sweeping epic that deconstructs American Mythology; the characters of Averill, Nate, and Ella exist as secondary elements, as a means to reflect upon the injustices and frustrations of the main theme.

The plot of HEAVEN’S GATE is based very loosely upon the true account of the Johnson County War in 1892. But Cimino is only tangentially interested with historicity (like THE DEER HUNTER, this is not a film based on fact but based on theme) so he makes dramatic changes to the characters and plot. However, he is very interested in making a real world of three dimensions for the tale to inhabit, of birthing a dirty and sodden reflection of the American West which is atypical in historical dramas or genre films. The plot involves the Association, a morally bankrupt organization that has the backing of the US President and his Cabinet which becomes a doppelganger of the US Government itself. This organization hires a cadre of criminals to execute without warrant or trial 125 immigrants named on a Death List. These citizens are accused of stealing cattle and procuring and settling land that is needed to propagate the Association’s big business opportunities. Cimino shows two distinct scenes of local immigrants stealing or possessing the Association’s cattle but the reason is quite obvious: they are poor and starving. What Cimino quite rightly points out in the narrative (and Averill mentions more than once) is that there is a lawful remedy for the Association. It’s called the Rule of Law. But the Association has its own ideas about Law and decides that vigilante Justice is the quickest and most economical Final Solution.  

THE OUTSIDERS

James Averill is a rich man playing at being poor and Nate Champion is a poor man playing at being rich. This is a story of outsiders, of people struggling to attain equal rights, to become something more, to struggle against the situation they are born into. This is the gateway to salvation (not starvation) where immigrants risk everything to come to America, the Land of (In)Opportunity. Averill is a wealthy man who comes to Johnson County as a Sheriff, to fight against injustice, to stand up for the rights of the poor immigrants. He is a good practical man who is respected but he has another life: he has a home elsewhere. This is explained through a photograph of his Harvard days that he keeps by his bedside, as he smiles next to a beautiful young lady beside a tree. (Which is a visual cue for the entire conflict: from the mock battle in the first act at Harvard twenty years before to the slaughter in the final act. Here Cimino joins the past and present, in one simple image, metaphor and reality are superimposed). Though Averill may have the best of intentions (and he does) he remains an outsider to the community, arguing against an armed conflict that cannot be won. It is revealed that he at one time belonged to the Association but he was banned because he stood up against their unethical practices.

Billy is a minor character who is a friend of Averill’s but still belongs to the Association, but he also stands against their decision to execute immigrants for stealing cattle. Billy doesn't quit, he follows along in a drunken haze, never participation and offering only a tepid voice of irony and sarcasm. Billy is also an outsider to this country: he’s English and therefore a neutral observer (because that war has already been fought and won by our county). He acts like a cipher of reason and subverts the events with barbed humorous insights condemning this travesty without actively participating. It’s no coincidence that Billy is shot in the jaw during the final battle while taking a slug of whisky: once again spoken truth is obscured and irrelevant and makes no difference to this Final Solution.

Nate Champion is an immigrant himself who now works as a hit-man for the Association. He is raised above the impoverished community and has made a place for himself, saved money and brought civilization to the wild. He executes farmers who steal his company’s cattle without warrant to charge, arrest, or trial. He is a specter of Death riding the range. Cimino aggravates (in a good way) our expectations by revealing Nate as a complex human being, a man who is not a cold blooded killer but one who struggles to become something more than his caste. Though he murders a man in his first scene, he spares another young boy in another. He curses at the wagon trains of immigrants to go back to where they’re from (a modern American sentiment) though he’s one himself.

Ella is also an outsider in her own community: she is a Madame of the local brothel. Cimino relies on the typical Hollywood cliché of the beautiful hooker with a good heart but this doesn't seem to upset the narrative. Excellently portrayed by Isabella Huppert, she also becomes a complex persona and not a trite characterization. She provides a service for the community and takes money and cattle as payment: unfortunately, much of the cattle are stolen property. The men would rather fuck than feed their families it seems. But she is largely irrelevant to the story until the halfway point of the film when Averill and Champion both visit her. Not only do they know her but they are friends with each other, or were close at one time. They both love her and Champion asks for her hand in marriage while Averill only wants her hand, her physical body, to remove her from the danger.

DEATH OF A NATION

This affair is only one variable of the whole equation. Ella agrees to marry Nate because she wants to stay at Heaven’s Gate, to be a part of the community of her peers and not a stranger in Averill’s strange land. When Nate takes her to his home (which sits outside of the town, isolated) it is wallpapered. He says this brings civilization to the wilderness and she smiles touchingly. So in a later scene when the building is on fire, the call-back is important: the fire curling and blackening civilization: the wilderness (or chaos) has won. Ella is a reactive person and joins the entire community (she warns them too) in the final battle.

In a typical story, this love affair would generate the fuel for conflict and would be important to resolve but here Cimino focuses upon a much greater theme. This anarchic narrative structure baffles many viewers who would prefer to be spoon-fed exposition, to be given every narrative link in an orderly fashion to reach some understanding of the linear story. But Cimino deconstructs the typical Western melodrama by revealing these character interactions much later in the film because the story is not about their love triangle: it is about the (still)Birth of a Nation and its impact, as these characters become victims of a corrupt notion, avatars of a repressed and impotent society. It is the Rule of law that levels the playing field and when it is manipulated by the powerful few (the 1% in modern terms) then Justice can never prevail and oppression is the norm.

Cimino’s use of circular motion fulfills at least two important functions for his theme of a class conflict. First, it ties together the privileged graduation celebration and the mock battle in the first act and the Immigrants roller skating dance and very real battle later in the film. This contrast between the rich and wealthy dancing to a classic waltz for entertainment, to come together and join in community, is exactly like the citizens of Heaven’s Gate who join together around their own folk music. This juxtaposition alludes to the elite and poor being not so much different after all. The use of The Blue Danube also hints of the European influence upon the upper class, that they are (or are children of) immigrants into this great Melting Pot. The fact is that the only true American is the Native American Indian, and they are not overtly represented in this narrative. So the circular motion of each dance thematically overlaps to become one, tying together two disparate social classes into one shared school of thought and emotion. The two battle scenes (the mock scene were Averill climbs the tree and grabs the bouquet) and the brutal conflict upon the windswept and bloodstained field (were Averill never reaches the tree) are also circular, possibly representing the corruption of society, of group conformity spiraling out of control. The motion also agglutinates the battle and dance, violence and entertainment as one movement, a prescient audience desire that often confuses the two, confounding both meanings. After all, this is a movie about war and people go to the movies to be entertained (at least viscerally or superficially). I believe this post-modern reading of the film stretches Cimino’s intent but struck me as visually and emotionally acute.

The title of the film denotes a Christian belief concerning the entrance to the ethereal realm of Heaven, an allusion that here in the United States is the gateway to a better life. But the reality of the gritty narrative seems pessimistic and pejorative, that this allusion is nothing but an amoral illusion. God is either absent or dead and the nearly powerless victims are left alone to fend for themselves. Bu the immigrants come to the New World with the best of intentions and work ethic, to raise families and own their own parcel of land, to gain a modicum of equality and political power. Since it’s self-evident (though not explicitly stated) that the town was named by the immigrants, the title of the film is full of hope and promise. Cimino subverts the original intent and offers a cynical reading: HEAVEN’S GATE is often the name of cemeteries too.

ORIGINAL SIN

The original one-sheet poster (see above) is also very interesting in what it depicts or, more precisely, what it redacts. The film is advertised as a passionate romance between Kris Kristofferson (as James Averill) and Isabella Huppert (as Ella) that reflects and encompasses their patriotism (which comes a close second). The story does indeed mirror their relationship and their patriotic fervor but not in a melodramatic way: the tragedy of their romance is contrasted against their (and our) national tragedy. Also, the All-American love story that the poster wants to promote is actually exposed upon viewing the film to be a sordid extra-marital affair, subverting the message from romantic ideal to polemic concerning patriarchal authority and entitlement. Then there’s the ghost of Nate Champion haunting the frame, a monochrome spirit imposed over the US flag. Note the three stars of the flag to hint at the lover’s triangle. Again, the image promotes a story that is but a shade to the film’s true narrative, revealing a love story that isn't even mentioned until the half-way point of a nearly 3 1/2 hour film! Does this represent the fracture between Cimino’s intent and the studio’s vague understanding of his vision? This could help to explain the misunderstanding and misinterpretation of HEAVEN’S GATE upon initial release. It’s like expecting to see Lean’s DR. ZHIVAGO and being shown Godard’s WEEK END instead. Both are masterfully constructed but for competing purposes, and audience expectations are set quite differently. The poster can also be read as the joining of two cultures or social strata, Averill the wealthy and Ella the poor, with the obvious Capitalist dominance of the privileged protagonist in the composition, towering above the meek and nearly powerless.

The final act depicts Averill arguing against an armed battle with the Association and their hired guns. He seems to be as frustrated as the townsfolk but here he is powerless, as his station as Sheriff is now an empty philosophy. He can do nothing but leave because, as I stated before, Averill has a home to return to. He cannot even save Ella from the coming storm because she is already home, an outsider now subsumed into this microcosm. Her intention is also one of revenge, of anger in discovering Nate murdered.

Averill does indeed join the final battle which revolves around a large tree, analogous to the tree at Harvard during his youthful idealistic days. Cimino once again displays a circular motif as the battle goes round and around like clockwork, as if metaphorically this is a conflict that will last forever. The people and places may change but the war is always the same. Averill is able to bring his education to bear and help build wheeled fortifications as shields to advance and attack. He is able to help the immigrants go on the offensive. And they almost win a Pyrrhic victory.

Suddenly the cavalry arrives to save the day, the American flag snapping in the cold hard wind. But the soldiers are not here to save the victims: they arrive to save the criminals. The government does end this cowardly charade but fails to right the wrongs, to see that the guilty are held accountable. It supports the status quo.

Cimino begins and ends the film with James Averill. He is full of lightening energy in the opening shot as he races through the maze-like streets of Harvard to attend his graduation. He is brimming with reconstructive anticipation towards a better and brighter future, not just for himself but the country. As the pretty women look on, Averill wins the bouquet during the mock battle scene as he climbs the tree, playfully pummeled and beaten by his adversaries. His bloody nose is a badge of courage and victory. Then Cimino cuts to twenty years later and the road map of frustration and violence has been written upon his face. Averill has experienced the real world but still holds on to his ideals. The final shot of Averill upon his yacht floating upon a calm sea has the feel of a funeral barge. As if the proceeding lifetime was nothing but a fever dream, unreal, and he has only ever existed in this purgatory of quiet desperation.

James Averill has suffered the death of his passion and ideology. Is the fruit of his labor corrupted by the poisonous tree? 

Final Grade: (A+) 

ELEPHANT (Gus Van Sant, 2003, USA)

A CLOCKWORK ELEPHANT?

Alex is an elementary particle, a charged electron unable to diffuse his energy, orbiting the periphery of his social circle. But charged by what? Director Gus Van Sant takes us on a journey inside of a high school on the morning of a massacre. He allows us to become voyeur into the lives of victims and perpetrators in this too brief span of time, but he does not travel inside of the mind, into that nebulous territory of fiction and fantasy to offer any easy answer or trite solution.

The title of the film has multiple implications. The director has stated that he believed it to stand as a metaphor concerning blind men each touching part of a whole and coming to different conclusions. But Art can be interpreted many ways also, even apart from the creator’s conscious intentions. I choose to read the film quite differently: that’s the prerogative of the consumer. I don’t pretend this is right or wrong only that I experience the film’s depth is illusory. ELEPHANT seems clear and shallow but it refracts light and meaning and is much deeper than it seems.

So what is the elephant in the room, the obvious truth that is never addressed or acknowledged? Gus Van Sant has some ideas and he offers them in very subtle and creative ways for us to consider. Does the fault lie with video game violence? Or is it easy access to assault weapons? The blame game as depicted in the film can also include bullying, mental illness, distant and uncaring parents, fascination with fascism, sexual repression…even Beethoven. My thesis involves an interpretation of the film in that Van Sant recognizes these influences but focuses directly upon the elephant in the room: the solipsistic perpetrators Eric and Alex.

I find the original poster artwork contains some very interesting details. The simple design of the poster (see above) is a white background with a small window box where John (not one of the victims) is being consoled by a friend with a kind kiss on the cheek. But this photo is dominated by a giant orange elephant, one that is too obvious to be ignored. This metaphor at first blush may seem to apply to the characters represented in the photo but watching the film dispels this idea. So what does the orange elephant refer to beyond its idiom? I believe it’s a veiled reference to Anthony Burgess’ novel A CLOCKWORK ORANGE, where the sociopathic killer shares the same name and appreciation of Lovely Ludwig Van as this film’s adversary. So a careful reading of this design points directly to Alex as literally the elephant. Not coincidently, there are only two elephant motifs in the entire film and both are contained within Alex’s bedroom: one is a black and white sketch upon his wall and the other is a blanket upon his bed. A subdued 360 degree pan reveals this information as Alex plays Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata while Eric lounges on the bed. Again, Van Sant pulls focus into this particular environment inhabited by the two perpetrators, this haven of respite from the rest of their world. Here they hang out, play a violent video game, and surf the internet for information on assault weapons.

The video game that Eric and Alex play is not a “game” at all; it is not a challenge. It is shadowy avatars haunting a white landscape in a static perspective. This can easily be read as a program created by these obviously bright kids in order to act out there fantasy. If so, then all cause and effect concerning this thesis (video game violence) is thrown out the window. Now, the video game becomes a safety valve that no longer fulfills its original purpose and the desire to act out physically and indiscriminately dominates. If we blame one element (and Van Sant offers us many disparate ones) then we can easily blame Beethoven whom Alex plays rather eloquently immediately before the school shooting. Or we can lay blame at sexual repression since the two boys each receive their first kiss (from each other) before embarking on their violent sojourn. The power of the narrative is that the obvious first cause is the one often overlooked because the issue becomes political instead of human.

Van Sant takes time to portray the complex social hierarchies and problems facing the other adolescents. The film begins with John’s drunken father driving him to school. His father is so drunk that John makes him get out of the car. After a brief argument, John drives them both to school (the child usurping authority) and gets punished by the Principal for being late (authority unfairly taking control). John shows very adult level decision making in taking the keys and calling his older brother to come get their father, and even as he reports to the Principal’s office for detention he doesn’t bicker and throw a tantrum: he accepts his fate with dignity. But in a later scene we see him cry alone in a room and he is consoled by a friend with a gentle kiss upon the cheek (see poster above). It is a truly lovely and heartbreaking scene. Van Sant then introduces us to Michelle, an invisible girl (even to herself) who is withdrawn and introverted, on the outside of the social structure. Her hunchbacked body language shows very little self-esteem, a girl who fears the whispers and ridicules of her peers so she doesn’t even wear shorts to gym class. We also meet a Goth couple early in the film that seems happy and well adjusted, agreeing to have their picture taken. They contradict the introverted and passive aggressive cliché often presented by the media. Even Elias the aspiring photographer is grounded by his parents (he can’t go to the concert) but accepts this punishment though not without a wisecrack. Though these teenagers each have situations that are awful (both subjectively and objectively), they don’t seem inclined to go on a murder spree or seek revenge.

We briefly see Alex in the back of a classroom being pegged with wet paper thrown by obvious “Jocks”. He then cleans himself off in front of a cracked mirror. The science teacher is lecturing on outer electrons and their increased charge but he never does answer the question as to whether a charged electron diffuses its energy or just remains volatile forever. This is another clue to the film’s thesis in that Alex (and by extension his friend Eric, whom we only know in relation to Alex) is already cracked and charged, that something inherent is wrong with him. The CLOCKWORK ORANGE analogy works here if we consider the novel (Kubrick subverted the metaphor and his film is contrary to the author’s intent) in that bad kids are born, they just are, regardless of environment or upbringing. Both Alex characters are crazy as a clockwork orange, so to speak. It begs the questions: If other kids are picked on, if other kids have very real and seemingly insolvable conundrums, if other kids are exposed to the same environment as Alex, why aren’t they killing or show desire to kill? The obvious answer is this: they’re not born to kill.

Van Sant begins the film with a clear sky that gradually becomes darker. Storm clouds brew on the horizon then take over later in the narrative, just before the killing. Van Sant uses one rather mundane scene to pivot the entire narrative upon so we can grasp perspectives and timeline. We see Elias photograph John in the hallway from three different perspectives (John, Elias and Michelle) which allow us to organize the events in our minds. This technique also allows the audience intimacy with all of the characters, following them languidly through the morning and lunch until the violent denouement. This is very important because when they are murdered we experience this as a tragedy, as real children being gunned down, not cinematic mannequins without pain or consciousness.

The film’s point of view is quite unique and apparently deliberate. Van Sant quite purposely uses a video game composition as statement to the narrative. The camera often begins by following slightly behind the characters as they go about their morning activities, then slowly wraps around to front or profile angles. For those of us who play computer or console games, we immediately recognize this perspective. But this skewed angle which seems unnatural but necessary in video games (in a virtual world, when you can’t turn your head without turning your whole body, or look down at your feet, this omniscient angle becomes valuable) and often creates a sense of distance from the gameplay, here does the opposite. The fluid camera develops an intimacy and sense of immediacy and kinship with the characters as if we the audience are sharing in the story. This faux context seems to draw a parallel concerning the fact that video games may not be as immersive (thus, as psychologically damaging) as feature films. Could Van Sant be pointing an accusing finger at the very medium he utilizes to understand this temporal phenomena?  

Van Sant portrays the carnage in a casually realistic manner and shows very little blood or gore, which condemns the violence instead of accentuating it. ELEPHANT therefore becomes an anti-action film. Michelle is the first victim (one who “deserves” it the least?) and we see her insides spattered upon the library books. Then the camera swoops in for tight focus upon Alex and we see only background shapes like video game avatars, some holding up their hands, other running (or trying to) and getting gunned down. The sound doesn’t oversaturate the film, the gunshots sound real and not overly punctuated like in action movies…or video games. The crying and begging have no effect upon Alex and Eric, who seem perplexed that their bombs didn’t go off, so on to plan B. Their attitude is indifferent, without haste or pleasure or pain they just go about their duty. Eric even pins the Principal down at gunpoint, lets him escape then shoots him in the back for some perceived wrongdoing. Then later, Alex shoots his accomplice as Eric is about to tell him how many people he shot. It’s important to note that their killing is indiscriminate because they are not seeking revenge: they are after something more. The need is to make a statement, to be something bigger than them, the desire to commit an act so despicable that it will bring them attention. In other words, to be Alex the Large.

The film ends as Alex corners the popular jock Nathan (one who threw the paper) and his cheerleader girlfriend Carrie as they hide in the freezer. Here Alex considers them with the same lack of empathy as he would a hunk of beef slung on a hook, and sadistically recites eeny-meeny-miny-mo to decide which one lives. We are never given an answer if one or both escape or die. Van Sant has shown us enough and suddenly fades out to a stormy sky. But the sky begins to clear and the sun peeks through the thunderheads. There is daylight after the storm. Nothing lasts forever, even tragedy.

Van Sant offers us a film whose answer is that there is no definitive answer. Eric and Alex are obviously to blame. To seek beneath the veneer of human motivation is to find only lies, misinformation and confusion. That’s why criminal prosecution never has to prove motive, only intent. We may never know why. We can only know whom…

Final Grade: (A+)

Korova Award Winners: Best Films of 2011!

Best Film 2011: THE TURIN HORSE.

Here are my Top Ten favorite films from 2011. What??? I’m a year behind? Since I mainly wait for films to be released on video I am always about 3 to 6 months behind the new theatrical releases. My year end lists tend to be very much incomplete and I usually don’t catch up until June or so. So I decided last year to just release a list a year behind. These films don’t get worse with time (some may even get better!).  So if you haven’t seen any of these yet I highly recommend them.

1. THE TURIN HORSE (Bela Tarr, Hungary)
2. MEEK'S CUTOFF (Kelly Reichardt, USA)
3. TINKER TAILOR SOLDIER SPY (Tomas Alfredson, UK)
4. THE KID WITH A BIKE (Jean-Pierre & Luc Dardenne, Belgium)
5. DRIVE (Nicolas Winding Refn, USA)
6. WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT KEVIN (Lynne Ramsay, UK)
7. MELANCHOLIA (Lars von Trier, Denmark)
8. TAKE SHELTER (Jeff Nichols, USA)
9. TYRANNOSAUR (Paddy Considine, UK)
10. THE THING (Matthijs van Heijningen, Jr., USA)

 

THE SWORD OF DOOM (Kihachi Okamoto, 1966, Japan)

Ryunosuke Tsukue has become Death, the destroyer of worlds. He is a weapon, his steely willpower contaminated by apathy, a natural disaster lacking empathy or remorse that leaves the stink of the grave in its wake. But he is not Evil; this would assume a possession of some outside force, a demonic influence to account for his actions. No, Tsukue is infused with an effervescent spirit of destruction but maintains a corrupt Buddhist morality. His is not the wanton killing on a whim; he kills when attacked, he kills when challenged, he kills when asked, and he kills for profit. His morality leads to the grave because he cannot forgive, feel compassion; he stares into the abyss and becomes the abyss. Often, his dark eyes seem to peer into the void, seeing Nothing, revealing Nothing, feeling Nothing. Tatsuya Nakadai’s performance is perfect as his blank visage reflects this unforgiving nihilism, and subtle inflections convey a wry emotional mimicry. 

Director Kihachi Okamoto films in a very Western style of extreme close-ups: a tight shot of eyes peering through wicker, a hand reaching skillfully for a sword, a silent step shifting body weight, or a severed hand blackening the purest snow. He utilizes the CinemaScope composition to its fullest effect with warriors divided by space, each silently observing the other’s technique looking to strike the fatal blow. When the violence begins this becomes a dance of death, a brutal ballet, revealing a ferocious mise-en-scene with lightening strikes of steel upon flesh. He doesn't resort to quick gimmicky montage; he shoots much of the savage combat in medium shot requiring well choreographic sequences that add a heightened realism. The ominous musical score owes more to Ennio Morricone than it does to any traditional Japanese rhythm. 

Finally, Ryunosuke must face his greatest foe: himself. His descent into madness is brilliantly captured as shadows haunt his vision, ghosts of his many victims, his sword now powerless against these shades. As a ruthless gang attacks him and he fights with reckless abandon, killing scores, bleeding from the few wounds they could inflict. But there is no escape or salvation; he is forever frozen in time, an inhuman weapon of mass destruction. 

Final Grade: (A)

A CHRISTMAS TALE (Arnaud Desplechin, 2008, France)

Henri is the ghost wolf who stalks the homely corridors, banished to the familial badlands: but even bad blood is thicker than water. Director Arnuad Desplechin’s chaotic portrait of a dyslexic family runs deep into the vein of emotion and duty, bonds that hold power stronger than steel…and also carry the anchor weight of guilt and denial.

This is a theme that Wes Anderson attempts to consistently remake but his stories are often bogged down in quirky antics instead of examining the realistic gut-wrenching sacrifices and jealousies that sometimes exist between siblings and their parents. Christmas is only the McGuffin, a plot device used to bring the family together so we can experience their turmoil and grief as the Matriarch is dying from a rare form of blood cancer. Desplechin begins the film with a child’s shadow play, stick figures that tell the family’s history, creating a series of dark and brooding caricatures. Henri is the outcast and his mother Junon makes it clear that he was conceived in hopes of saving their dying child Joseph, but his bone marrow was not compatible: he was a failure from the very beginning. Henri’s sister Elizabeth holds some unexplained and deep rooted contempt for her brother, possibly because her own son is very much like him: both suffer from mental illness. It is no coincidence that Henri and his nephew are the only family members whose bone marrow can now save Junon, and Henri makes the sacrifice despite being denied Junon’s love.

The film’s structure is like a scrapbook of fond memories and regrets, a novel whose perspective changes from chapter to chapter yet describing a brief and intimate portrait of each participant. The mood changes from humor to betrayal seemingly at a whim while the underlying malignancy remains distant, as if acknowledging this tumorous disease is accepting death. Desplechin films the medical act in sterile detail, never withholding the painful truth, and in a wonderful scene Henri’s bone marrow is delivered to Junon like a newborn infant…the son giving (re)birth to the mother. We are left in a midwinter’s night dream.

Final Grade: (B)

THE CHASE (Arthur Penn, 1966, USA)

Sheriff Calder chases the runaway American Dream, his badge a symbol of drowning authority amid the tumultuous sea change of the sixties, where money buys the soul and drugs the mind. This story is Harper Lee’s classic transposed in time to an unnamed Texas town, bereft of the golden hue of childhood nostalgia; this violently nihilistic drama reveals the dark secrets kept hidden behind the closed doors in Macomb, Alabama. 

Sheriff Calder haunts the streets, nothing more than a figurehead, struggling to navigate these troubled waters with his internal compass; to him, justice has true meaning, the Rule of Law is worth more than all of Val Rogers' millions, and integrity the vein of gold that rushes though his moral bedrock. Arthur Penn’s fascinating vivisection of America’s power structure is based upon Horton Foote’s play, who scripted the aforementioned TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD: this drama reflects the tainted prosperity of the white elitist class, who abuse themselves with vice and greed, and play (sometimes grudgingly) their pitiful parts in a corrupt social structure. The racism is tortuously exposed like an open wound, raw with infection, the townsfolk degenerate into awful god-fearing caricatures representative of a disintegrating society. 

The escape of Bubber Reeves is one of the great MacGuffins (as Hitchcock would say): this is not an action film involving any kind of chase; Bubber’s escape is only a plot device that sparks the conflagration. The story is concerned with Sheriff Caldur’s conflict against the powers structure, his stance of one against the many, his honesty and incorruptibility. Marlon Brando’s noble performance captures the heart of the character. Calder is a part of the town, its DNA defines his very nature, yet he brings a tangible “otherness” to the role that sets him apart from the raving lunatics who howl at the moon. While the townsfolk’s perceptions are an alcohol induced haze (your true personality emerges while intoxicated), the Sheriff’s vision is obscured by bloodshed and trauma, victimized but not a victim, stripped of power but not quite powerless. Above all, he keeps his Word. 

But a death sentence is announced by three loud rapports. Defeated, Calder and his wife leave the only life they've ever known and drive off into the great unknown. 

Final Grade: (A)