A History of Violence (Cronenberg, 2005)

This is re-posted from a forum, so pardon its sloppiness:

A History of Violence. It’s a series of identity replacements. The film opens with two characters, presumably gangsters or just plain criminals, for several minutes before the film itself has its first identity shift and becomes about a middle-aged man and his typical, initially idealized, middle class American family. The idealization is quickly given its first challenge when when there’s revealed to be a power struggle going on between the son and father. Not abnormal, of course, but not quite keeping up with the spotless 50s Americana image Cronenberg perpetuates on the fringes throughout. The score is perfectly indicative of this. Tom is followed by his violent past — America’s violent (cinematic) past — that is, men in classic black cars with tinted windows, an archetypal gangster image going all the way back to Dillinger. So far the film covers, ostensibly, America from its early Depression-era days producing gangsters like Dillinger, Al Capone, etc. Many of them are east coast personalities like Joey and those who chase him. Tom’s violent past conjures the archetypical western hero — and you’ll notice those films tend to follow an incredibly similar trajectory with similarly disquieting endings that see the “hero” alienated and unsure of his ability, or right, to exist in this new world. In saying that, you could say the film has covered much more ground timeline-wise and speaks to America’s past going all the way back to Manifest Destiny and the violence toward the Natives. That, again, constituting a major identity change for the country.

Tom has gone from gentle father to curiously adept fighter and given a hero label he’s not fond of. This speaks to America’s status as a worldwide superpower, utilizing perhaps less than ideal means (accidental civilian deaths, military aggression) to come to generally decent ends (usurping dictators, helping install democracies). Jack shifts identities from meek nerd to outspoken aggressor. Here is where the film itself sees its second identity change. If the 50s was all about emotional turbulence buried under a sheen of perfection, one seemingly designed from the outside to mask America’s sordid past, then the 60s, 70s and 80s was all about breaking away from that image and embracing our more animalistic selves e.g. the “free love” movement and the rise of violent horror. The sex scene on the stairs brilliantly exemplifies this ambivalence. Their aggressive sexual encounter proves arousing but simultaneously disturbing, if only for the manner in which it was initiated. Edie displays this dichotomous emotional state by clearly enjoying the sex, but refusing to come to terms with the new Tom AKA the old Joey, so she kicks his hand away in disgust and shame.

Violence, finally, becomes a source of catharsis later in the film, where the proverbial timeline has shifted from the 60s et al to the modern state of cinema (and TV), where blood, gore and all manner of violent imagery is ubiquitous and a source of near universal pleasure, especially in America. America no longer shies away from violence. Nor does its cinema. But I’m curious: is the ending of the film symbolic of this? Surely the daughter wants her father around, but at her age she’s incapable of comprehending the actions of her father and the ramifications henceforth. Edie and Jack seem less enthusiastic. Tom, or more rightly Joey now, looks like an intruder at the dinner table. He looks upon his old standard family milieu and can muster no energy to even eat. He looks up slowly toward his wife, each of them crying as if they’ve come to a mutual understanding regarding his status around the house. Their tears their, and more broadly the country’s, lament.

New Media Reality in Breaking News (To, 2004) and Unstoppable (Scott, 2010)

It is the responsibility of the media to provide the best possible condensed version of reality out of our immediate reach. This means a lot of footage and aspects of that reality not deemed part of, or fundamental to, the appropriate narrative are excised at the request of the director or editor. It doesn’t escape me, nor do I think it escapes either Tony Scott or Johnnie To, that what I just described sounds identical to the process of filmmaking. After all, both mediums use the universal power of film and images to tell their respective stories. More and more, does the general populace really expect anything different from either? A representation of “reality?” Film-goers criticize films all the time for not being realistic (much to my chagrin), but recently that same criticism is being directed toward the likes of the news media. In both Breaking News and Unstoppable, the projected image is of the utmost importance; as much, if not more so, than that of the lives in danger. Diegetically, we have the roles of Tony and Johnnie represented by females (a subtle but significant indication of feminist progress), staging, directing and filtering all of the information around them into concentrated bits of pseudo-reality to be released to the masses. Almost instantaneously, they decide what is or isn’t prudent or kosher enough to be used in molding their respective realities. Questions are hastily responded to with only so many people’s best interests in mind.

Bureaucratic hurdles and the seemingly insignificant amount of time it takes to field a quick phone call or walkie-talkie order pile on and make managing time a life or death aspect of the directorial process. Breaking News and Unstoppable present a world in which professional media dissemination (the police often refer to how they act and how they leak information and video as a “show,” and they seek to put on a good one) only accounts for part of how information and images make their way across the globe. In the former, nearly every individual is wired to the teeth with recording and communication devices of the video and audio variety, rendering all of their contacts secondary spectators experiencing the action at the same speed, yet without the first-hand sensory knowledge. A brilliant 7 minute take that opens the film establishes the camera as an ubiquitous but subjective presence. In the latter, dozens of cell phone camera-ready people record and witness with eerie detachment the fate of a train barreling down the tracks with two men attempting anything and everything to halt its progress toward the track’s end. The effect of an amateur videographer’s recording of the humiliation of a police officer at the hand of a criminal is all it takes for the Hong Kong of Breaking News to lose its faith in their police force’s ability. Reporters rush to capture the action for the sake of a scoop, themselves yet another filter for reality to pass through before it makes its way to the average civilians’ home. Is this any different than getting an image-less anecdote relayed to you by a friend? You understand the basic premise, but you don’t really grasp the entirety of the scenario. You’re deprived of key sensory knowledge, but you enjoy and are invested regardless. The news media is like a depressing, but exciting film; it’s only partially based in reality and can be a bit of a bummer.

Drive (Refn, 2011)

As of this very moment, having just returned from my viewing of the film, and having experienced The Tree of Life, I feel relatively confident in proclaiming this film as the better of the two artistic juggernauts thus far in 2011, even if the gap between them is negligible and the comparison isn’t necessarily appropriate. Allusions to Michael Mann’s window-gazing crime fighters and criminals and Walter Hill’s nearly identically-plotted and mounted The Driver from 1978 are merely points of reference. Drive is not just an homage film. It is Refn’s creation. It is a slowly building crime opera with a concurrent topical theme of the exploited worker. It is a self-consciously 80s creation in the year 2011, complete with a highly technical soundtrack, pink credit text and the presence of Albert Brooks, whose career in film and neurosis Refn slyly references in his character’s past in the film industry producing films critics deemed “European” but he thought “were crap.” Gosling’s subdued Driver is his occupation, exemplified quite simply in his lack of a name or identity outside of his work. His initial interactions are awkward and plagued with shyness. He’s a highly disciplined worker who owns and is humbled by his work. Refn weaves moody reverence for the moral gray areas of desperate men. His moral consciousness is in the post-violence contemplation. Gory, repulsive violence is never played for gags or cheap cathartic release. Gosling’s face emotes deep, residual remorse, and Refn’s camera ensures we take it all in. Further to his credit, he places his tongue firmly in his cheek at appropriate times to inject a sense of humor and self-awareness that thankfully doesn’t take away from the emotional gravitas. A terrific soundtrack informs the atmosphere wonderfully. Consider me excited for Gosling and Refn’s next project, Only God Forgives, scheduled for release next year.

Gamer (Neveldine/Taylor, 2009)

I’ve used the term “zeitgeist” more often than I’d care to in the short duration this blog has existed to describe films, but, as is always the case with the modern directorial duo of Neveldine and Taylor, this is simply what they do. Gamer is, by and large, an extension and expansion of similar themes, ideas, cliches and caricatures previously explored in Crank and Crank: High Voltage. The gaming theme is pushed to the forefront and imbued with genuine human emotion and anxiety. Gaming has, since its inception, strove for little more than realism. Every year brings a new game said to push the envelope in that regard, and as technology advances, it’s beginning to get more and more difficult to discern between the digital and real world. Gamer takes this premise to its extreme and sees gamers controlling real people in “real” environments. They are, for all intents and purposes, characters, or avatars, to those who control them. Too far removed to be sympathetic creatures sharing your same human condition. This disconnect is emboldened by the fact that those being controlled are death row inmates. They’re irredeemable. They’ve forfeited their humanity in their taking of another life. But with the efforts of an underground group of hackers known as Humanz (a bit silly and on the nose, but Neveldine and Taylor don’t shy away from that) who see the corporate manipulation and destruction of corporeal human on human interaction being propagated by these advances in technology and soon break down the wall that separates the convict from the player, bringing forth a very natural sympathy and important connection, even for those who’ve supposedly given up their right to life. Humanz play old arcade games that necessitate another person in close, tangible proximity.

While I’m not sure the directors intended it to come off as such, this method of distinction comes off as needlessly patronizing in a “my generation is better than yours” fashion even if it does serve as an effective manner of distinguishing between the voyeuristic indifference of the film’s modern world and possibly more sympathetic ways of a mere decade or so ago from now. Thankfully, Neveldine and Taylor come out ambivalent on the subject of future technology thanks to its assistance in bringing back Kable’s wife from her career as a digital sex worker (she’s shrugged off when she seeks custody of her child, acknowledging the lack of human progression in this future world) and giving him back control of his life after it being seized from him by his new digital overlords. I’m unsure how much credit the writer/directors deserve for examining and criticizing a culture they seem to so enjoy indulging in themselves. I could argue the violence in their films is gratuitous or cartoonish enough to sap its real world corollary away, but it still feels too much like the product of a team that is trying to have its cake and eat it too. Can you simultaneously critique and employ for entertainment purposes? Can you be a ridiculously violent and sexual film criticizing hedonistic disconnect? I’m not sure the answer to that question is as important as the means to being able to ask it, which is why I’m comfortable praising this film and other films of its ilk. Perhaps the superficial draw of the violence and sex is the bait and the criticisms and observations are the hook and we’re the fisherman (or woman, of course). Or maybe that’s a terrible analogy.

China Girl (Ferrara, 1987)

Abel Ferrara has always maintained a certain level of camp. Not quite full-on B movie camp, but a level of camp that accentuates his particular vision of New York nicely. In China Girl, Ferrara’s vision of New York is one of racial tension, more specifically between the Chinese of Chinatown and the Italians of Little Italy. Both are vibrantly traditional portrayals, each culture attempting to retain its identity while giving way to the ongoing and ever-increasing status of New York as a cultural and racial melting pot. The elders of each community have an understanding; a mutual “respect” and agreement that attempts to keep matters from escalating beyond either of their grasps. The younger men don’t care about the agreement and are constantly at war with each other, which is what makes the central romance so rife with drama, but their young and idealistic love can’t be foiled by petty cultural conflict, and this is where Ferrara’s sentimental heart kicks in and applies a glimmer of hope, romance and shine on the otherwise grimy and gritty tales he tells. The New York of China Girl is a kaleidoscope of colored lights. The gangs concoct plans in dingy apartments and in dimly lit back alleys, moving through them like ghosts in the night, their shadows leaving impressions on the street and walls. These shadows, the shadows of morally questionable men, and their attitudes, paint the city’s reputation and darken its heart and facade, obscuring the beauty of the humanity sprinkled within. A chase scene near the beginning exploits New York’s nighttime lighting schemes, is reminiscent of film noir and is one of the highlights of the film, along with a scene in which the China Girl’s older brother quietly saunters into her room following a meeting between the two communities’ leaders while she’s asleep and scans her room, seeing nothing but American products and a cheesier one in which the two lovers exchange “I love you”s in the other’s native tongue.

Crank: High Voltage (Neveldine/Taylor, 2009)

I saw Crank in theaters and enjoyed it. I enjoyed it as pure entertainment value. Fluff, but amusing fluff. Since then, Neveldine and Taylor have become the “videogame directors.” With Crank: High Voltage and Gamer, there is an emerging trend of topical themes relating to digital interaction and the current generation of teens and 20-somethings. Having not seen Gamer yet, I’ll stick to commenting on the former, which I feel, having now seen it, is vastly underrated and ignored by the critical community. From the opening 8 bit credits and the ongoing disbelief that the events in the film are in any way reasonable or realistic, we know what’s on display is absurd and satirical, but that doesn’t prevent it from being the most all-encompassing zeitgeist parable and send-up I’ve ever seen. Similar to the way in which Tony Scott used them in Man on Fire, Neveldine and Taylor employ subtitles in a comically expressive fashion to speak directly to its typeface-obsessed audience. The directors here take it further by incorporating text message language short cuts like “4″ in place of “for” and “U” in place of “you.” Also in that vein is the incredibly short ASL emphasizing immediate sensationalized images quickly replaced by another. Neveldine and Taylor are far less coy about their approach, though. The action scenes are incomprehensible amalgamations of striking violence and highly sexual camera angles. No moment is wasted to cater directly to the caricatured mindset of the modern young male. Of course, this approach is not a one way street. They don’t simply flash fetishistic imagery and hope to retain your attention. Chelios’ male genitals are constantly being threatened by silly stereotypical characters, so his masculinity is always kept in check and the machismo therein is poked fun at. Not close to a source of electricity, Doc tells Chelios to create friction to keep his heart going. This turns into a YouTube-style sex display with hundreds cheering him on as he has sex with Eve in the middle of a horse track. During a shootout in a strip club, the film cuts back and forth between the action and a stripper’s fake breasts deflating, effectively cutting down the superficial sexual thrills the club and poster girl fakery offers. In a time in which college kids are consuming energy drinks in record numbers just to function, it brings the fact that Chelios needs electric shocks just to stay alive into more digestible terms. Crank: High Voltage operates on videogame logic. In that way, it’s likely the best videogame movie we’re ever going to see. There is a tendency to dismiss explicit and graphic cinema as needlessly so without giving it much thought, and in many cases, people may be right to do so, but in this case, I can’t help but see a lot more here to chew on and discuss than many of the Oscar-situated middlebrow mediocrity that makes its rounds in the theaters in the holiday season.

Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors (Parajanov, 1965)

Given my recent fascination with Eastern European cinema, I decided to give this one another go. I was fond of it back when I first saw it some 3 or 4 years ago, but I had a feeling my appreciation would grow with a rewatch, especially now that I’ve come to develop a special fondness for the cinema of the region. I was right. I don’t think I’ve seen many more films so concerned with sensation. Yuri Ilyenko’s delirious handheld camera places itself in various positions and states of movement all uniquely assisting the tangibility of the picture. It dances around crowds and blurs focus in a whirlwind of emotive circling. It sits on or near the ground and stares up at larger than life images and characters. Horns blaring, traditional songs and overheard gossip compose most of the soundtrack again contributing to that very important sense of tangibility. Parajanov utterly saturates the film in the customs of the era to an almost overwhelming degree which serves to enhance the subjective digestion of the environment. In Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, love coincides with nature. Most of the more memorably evocative moments between Ivan and Marichka take place in the woods. And there is color and passion in the foliage and trees that invade the frame. It’s a beautiful Romeo and Juliet style romantic fable steeped in the textures of its setting.

Big Green Valley (Kokochashvili, 1967)

For seemingly no real reason other than a passing curiosity, early this year I decided I wanted to explore the cinema of Georgia. The closest thing I had to any experience with Georgian cinema prior to this recent excursion was with Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, a film by a native Georgian, though not filmed in the language. As one can imagine, there isn’t exactly a plethora of Georgian cinema with English subtitles available for those interested, but thanks to Karagarga, I’ve got enough to maintain me for a little while longer. In my last blog post, I spoke of two of my current favorites from my ongoing Georgian cinema binge, and Big Green Valley is to be added easily near the top of that list. With a Fordian simplicity and an eye for beautiful rural landscapes, Merab Kokochashvili has woven a tale that no doubt speaks to the heart of many a Georgian. A group of geologists discover oil under the fields where Sosana, the aged and anachronistic father, raises his herd with his unhappy wife, her friend and his growing boy with whom he displays a wonderful rapport. The land is invaded by big machinery that feels remarkably alien to the serene and natural aesthetic of the valley. The family all enjoys the pleasures and storytelling capacity a slide projector grants them, but it too feels distinctly out of place in a town with no plumbing. Also similar to what is often witnessed in Ford’s cinema, the wife, likely due to the less than thrilling station that is allotted all women in such an archaic environment, is much more interested in moving forward and embracing the winds of change. Sosana is stubborn, misogynistic and clinging to his heritage. He’s not an entirely unsympathetic character, though. We witness his kindness to an elderly man who decided to leave the farm after a number of years leaving more questions than answers as he exits almost as if he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He remarks something about his parents, but it hardly seems sincere. It’s likely that he knew the farm was going to be demolished and was simply saving himself the grief of watching a friend be torn down with it. This sort of narrative strikes me as an incredibly profound and devastating one; a man at odds with what is inevitable and maybe even better for the country at large. Man is one with nature in Georgian cinema, and Kokochashvili’s long distance shots position man as a mere speck in the midst of it.

Blue Mountains, or Unbelievable Story (Shengelaya, 1983) & The 19th Century Georgian Chronicle (Rekhviashvili, 1979)

An author — a passive young man — enters the Soviet-controlled bureaucracy of Georgia attempting to get his novel published only to be neglected and compartmentalized at every turn in Blue Mountains, or Unbelievable Story. Starting the film is a slow pan across a set of windows overlooking the city and eventually coming across a single batch of purple grapes. This is used throughout to better visualize the passage of time in the film and how it relates to the constantly elevating level of complex absurdity at hand. The government building the entire film is set in is slowly crumbling due to the subway being built underneath it, an obvious metaphor for the coming Soviet collapse. Our hapless protagonist is trapped in a rotating door of nonsensical scenarios that keep his novel from being read by anyone and similar situations playing out over and over again with slight variations, but always the same end result. To cite a few examples: One of the higher-ups is always being called away before he can read or discuss the novel. Another is afraid the painting above his head, titled “Greeland,” will fall on his head, thus he refuses to work. He refuses to move, but nobody will take down the painting. A kind elderly gentlemen returns regularly wishing to speak to the director, but is told time and again that he’s either busy or gone, and is only paid attention to when he puts on his military uniform. All of this craziness culminates in the meeting to discuss the author’s book that involves nobody who’s actually read it, so they only ever mention the title and never properly begin the meeting before the building begins to collapse and everyone is evacuated. One doesn’t need to live under Soviet rule to be able to sympathize with frustration, both bureaucratic and otherwise. The film scales up wonderfully. I don’t recall the exact quote offhand, but that old adage about tragedy repeating itself until it becomes absurd and humorous is about as appropriate a descriptor as one can apply to this, and it’s really a pretty fantastic film.

The 19th Century Georgian Chronicle is sort of a companion piece to The Step from the same director. Both films suggest a need for mutually-productive cohabitation with nature via a push-and-pull narrative featuring young dreamers determined to do their best for their respective communities. In the rather memorably serene, yet subtly disturbing scene pictured above, Nico’s small room is invaded by water slithering down the walls like snakes. Nature’s way of reminding him of his duty to his people, perhaps. The committee in charge of deciding the fate of his small community and the forest around it, conducts their meetings in the middle of the wilderness; tables, chairs and formal attire and all. A refreshing bit of cutting irony. Including the previously mentioned elements invading Nico’s room, Tarkovsky’s influence shows itself here as well with winds whipping through tall grass in an almost spiritual manner, further symbolizing the symbiosis of man and nature. The only real negative here is the fact that the only version of this film available features a Russian language track dubbed over the original Georgian in a really awkward fashion in which the Georgian is spoken, then interrupted partway through for the sake of translation by the Russian voiceover. A straight dub would’ve been easily preferable.

American Madness (Capra, 1932) & A Double Life (Cukor, 1947)

So, I may be slightly overrating American Madness, my first Capra, but it just worked so well, and its highly topical framework endeared it a bit more to me. The entire film takes place within the confines of Union National Bank, a bank run by an idealist who insists on the qualities of honest capitalism and operates his business on reasoned faith as opposed to sheer numbers. He believes the economy is running smoothly when banks are lending and people aren’t afraid to spend. Partway through, the bank is robbed of 200k with the help of an employee indebted to the robbers for 50k from gambling. Post-robbery, the entire town is abuzz with panic and rumors that grow increasingly detached from the reality of the situation highlighted with a montage of shots isolating upper bodies and faces screeching into their phones informing others of the unreliability of the bank, which prompts a massive gathering at the bank, everyone seeking to remove all of their money, and some chiding the bank’s employees for lying to them about its security.

Featured throughout the film is a love triangle that mirrors the bank’s crisis, if only in terms of chronologically matching codas. There’s a slice of life quality to the proceedings that ease some of the concerns over that love triangle, making it feel more a part of the mix of drama as opposed to the main narrative thrust. Maybe I’m a sucker, but it was — despite the unpleasantness of the circumstances — nice to see a film feature a principled, sympathetic CEO that doesn’t lay down for anyone. This is not to speak of Capra’s visual eye and knack for rapid-fire, crackling dialogue that really help things along.

A Double Life is probably one of the earliest in the still growing line of “actor lost in a role” films. To draw a recent and popular parallel, the big narrative points are essentially identical to Black Swan, but for my money, this is the better film. While both retain a level of camp throughout, A Double Life never loses its emotional impact due to any (inadvertent) goofiness. In A Double Life, we have a man who tends to lose himself in roles regardless of subject matter. When acting in comedy plays, he’s a joy to be around. When acting in more intense roles, he’s generally a hassle. When the notion of starring in Othello gets introduced by a producer, and utilizing ideas he’d previously came up with, the role immediately begins infecting him making his choice to star in it less a matter of choice and more something that would happen whether he liked it or not.

The usual blending of fantasy/reality follows, but that blending is played equally as a sort of Jekyll/Hyde physical change parable and a necessary, but not pleasant, transformation of persona. Cukor’s excellent lighting schemes pit light versus dark in fun and expressionistic fashion; the dark symbolically representing the Othello character and the light the amiably passionate Tony. An interesting opposing aspect to the narrative is less capably handled, but a worthy counterpoint nonetheless, and it’s the art of perception. Citizens openly share their viewpoints, sometimes in unison, sometimes in total opposition to one another. This motif furthers the dichotomy and broadens the impact of Tony’s transformation. The artistic and acting process are made into horror, with the closing curtain becoming synonymous with death. It’d be nice to see a true restoration of this that really brings to life all those shadows, though the print I saw was hardly poor. A really fun thriller.