Good finds

This photo project by Miranda July is kinda neat.

This is the guy who found it for me. He has a great blog, too.

And here is an article about David Lynch's paintings, which he evidently cranks out between films.

Lola

I used to study German, and I was actually pretty good at it. Considering I was engaged in German classes for so long, I sometimes feel guilty about my lack of knowledge in the German film arena. Since they have one of the most interesting national cinemas, this is sort of a crime--one that I am beginning to remedy. I know about Expressionism, but I've only seen the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, and truthfully, I barely remember it. Since I didn't feel like challenging my attention span with another silent film just yet, I forayed into another sub-genre of German cinema that I know next to nothing about--the New Cinema. According to the Criterion Page, German filmmakers in the late 1960s and early 1970s went through the same crisis of faith that the New Wavers in France did. They wanted to make more artistic and challenging films about the state of Germany, which I guess, diverged from the filmmaking they grew up with. Out of the filmmakers associated with this movement, I picked Fassbinder at random. I also happened, most intelligently, to pick the third film in his BRD trilogy. Luckily, each one stands alone, analyzing a different time period in the history of Germany.

Lola takes place sometime in the late 1950s. Undoubtedly, there are critical holes in my historical and cultural knowledge that would enlighten me about this film even further, but... whatever. I'll get to it when I get to it.

In Lola, nearly every character leads a double life; every character has a public face and a private face. The town in which they live functions on this dichotomy; people are respectable by day, at night they enter into the amoral underbelly represented by the nightclub. When the new building supervisor Mr. Von Bohm (Armin Muehller-Stahl) arrives, this division ceases to hold. Not knowing who she is, Von Bohm falls in love with the nightclub singer/whore, Lola (Barbara Sukowa). When he discovers her secret, his perceptions unravel completely. He also finds that his fellow government officials are associated in various ways with the nightclub. The two worlds are kept separate, a notion that Fassbinder accentuates by having each scene end with a melting effect, as if someone has splashed a bucket of water on a painting. This also brings a sense of fragility to the environment, as if reality might actually melt away.

The use of color in this film is truly amazing. Each frame is fractured by prisms of color, giving the whole story the aura of a fairy-tale. These candy-colored hues do imply a false sense of well-being, that the apparant affluence is hiding something seedy, which it is. The night-club scenes are a deep, velvety red, while those outside of it are often a bit more muted. Aside from the pure beauty that these watercolor effects convey, they also provide divisions within the frames. When Lola and Von Bohm go on a date, they are each confined by a different color, as if to represent the separate states they live in. (Also, the colors sometimes seem like a nod to Jean-Luc Godard's Pierrot Le Fou). These dividing lines also demonstrate the double lives led by the characters. Often, during the scenes that most directly demonstrate this divide, there is a newsreel commentary in the background, provided by a television set or a radio broadcast. This subtly ties the history of Germany into the story, and into the fracture.

The notion of identity, particularly, fractured identity is central to this film. In one nightclub scene, Shuckert (Mario Adorf), a builder is pleased to discover that Von Bohm has described him, with his cunning and guile, as a bird of prey. Lola argues that he is a pig, or a vulture. The discussion stretches on as the two argue over the identity that suits him best. Later, Von Bohm discovers that he is not above putting on a mask, as he dons a new sporting suit to woo Lola. The discovery of posturing within himself unnerves him. Lola herself lives under two names. As a whore she is Lola. By day she is Marie-Louise. For all of these characters, it seems to be the veiled, underworld identity that provides their true livelihood.

Von Bohm is a curious character. He is staunchly capitalistic, yet morally conservative. Unlike the rest, he seems to have one foot in the past, one in the present, making him just as divided as the rest, if not as overtly. In the end, he gives in to his own corruption, allowing the state of things to continue. Despite his knowledge of what Lola is, he marries her. Barging into the nightclub, he pays to spend the night with Lola. The bleak corruption of this unnamed town is representative of capitalism; everything, even sex can be bought. After their marriage, it seems that Lola will continue to whore herself, but will ask more money for the service.

The Cook, the Thief, his Wife and Her Lover

The reputation of this film precedes it, but don't assume you have any idea what you're in for. Unless, that is, you are more informed than me. Intially, I found this film extremely difficult to get into, which isn't surprising, considering Peter Greenaway's filmmaking style. His script is at turns overly verbose and totally silent, but its the wordy parts that are harder to stomach. The camera is nearly always at a discreet distance, without enough close-up shots to allow us to engage with the characters. Much of the time, the experience of this film is akin to watching a theatrical production--an analogy Greenaway seems to encourage with his relatively barren sets, expressionistic lighting, and careful attention to framing. Oh, and excruciatingly long takes, of course. Often after allowing the camera to linger, the static shot will be followed by a swift, long pan through the restaurant in which the bulk of the film takes place.


The domninant theory about the meaning of this film is that it is an allegory about Margaret Thatcher. Honestly, this is a little beyond me. And anyway, if you throw aside the allegory, there's still an awful lot going on in this film. Actually, if you go and read the imdb faqs, there's a fascinating discussion about this film and all the different theories about it. That's here.

I hate to use the world "self-reflexive" again, but let's face it; it's here. Filmmaking is not necessarily coming to the forefront, but Greenaway is clearly saying something about the nature of art, and I think, about filmmaking too. Part of the way he does this is by making the film surrealistic and painterly, as well as stage-like. Everything is blatant in its superficiality--from action that marches in time to the soundtrack, to sets that mirror Dutch paintings. Careful attention is paid to framing, and at the end, the curtain closes.


As the title might lead you to believe, the main players in this film are a cook, a thief, his wife, and her lover. Georgina, the wife (Helen Mirren) begins a wordless affair with Michael (Alan Howard) after making eye contact with him while dining in her husband's restaurant. Minutes later they have sex in the lady's restroom, while Albert (Michael Gambon) dines in the other room. The next time they do it, Georgina takes him back to the kitchen where they fornicate amongst the bread, later, the chickens, after that, a meat locker. Their lovemaking is interspersed with a few rare close-ups... of cooks dicing various ingredients, making an all encompassing comparison to violence, food, and artistry. The cook (Richard Bohringer), hovers around them innocently, and they reveal themselves to him fully, unashamed of their actions, of their nakedness. He is somewhat God-like, controlling the backstage like the director, yet also having free reign over everywhere else. At the same time, his apparent objectivity, in a way, mirrors our own perspective. Like him, we are privy to all the information, yet we are kept at a discreet distance, not able to engage, and so, able to think for ourselves.

While it is hard to say what this film is truly about, certain themes are latent throughout this atmospheric drama (if you want to call it a drama). This film is filled with sex, gluttony, feces, blood, and rot. It opens with Albert and his gang beating a naked man, and smearing him with feces. They leave him in the parking lot, where he becomes surrounded by dogs. Bowed on all fours, he visually becomes one of them--an visual metaphor that defines the characters from then on. The sex scenes take place in bathrooms and amongst the food. It is humanity reduced to its most basal elements. Counteracting this is Michael's oft-noted affinity for books and higher learning. When the lovers escape, his library becomes their haven. When Albert encounters him reading in the restaurant, he notes that Michael must be the only man in the room who has read that book, but every man has read the graffiti on the bathroom walls. He grunts, "Makes you think, doesn't it?" Indeed.

Here's where the super spoilers come in, because I really can't talk about this movie without giving away nearly everything important that happens in it.

Appropriately, Albert kills Michael by shoving books into his mouth. In a jarring moment, the camera pans down from Albert and his goons to reveal Michael, bloodied and moaning on the floor. Like the pro that he is, Greenaway skims over the part where Albert tracks him down, and cuts directly to the gore. At any rate, the dichotomy between art and the physicality of life comes crashing down here as Michael's insulating books become the weapon of his undoing. Still, as much as erudition seems to be distrusted here, art provides the framework for this whole story. Clashes abound throughout the plot between artistry and raw humanity. Most characters seem to possess a little of both. Except for Albert, a monster who knows only how to tear things apart.

This all culminates in an astonishingly disgusting final sequence, which nothing can really prepare you for. Georgina has the dead Michael cooked, and forces Albert to eat him. Michael's body is totally dehumanized, turned into poultry, a soulless piece of meat. It's horrifying, and unforgettable. Finally, in a rare close up, we can see the horror on Albert's face as he becomes a cannibal.

The Big Sleep

I don't know what to say about this film that hasn't already been said, so the following is just some thoughts. One this is clear to me; this is one of the most influential noirs ever made. I know because I've seen its influence without even knowing it. For one example, I saw Roman Polanski's Chinatown about a year ago for the first time, but I really should of seen this first. That film, and many other postmodern noirs contain infinite homages to this film.

Philip Marlowe (Humphrey Bogart), while quick-witted and sharp tongued, knows no more than the audience who sits behind him, following his progress through the lamp-lit back rooms, casinos and mansions. It is the undertaking the journey, and not comprehending the twists and turns of the plot that is really important in the film (but if you're curious, Wikipedia has a thorough summary... which still managed to confuse me). This film is famous for its fabulous writing, which combines the screen-writing skills of William Faulkner and Leigh Brackett, who is actually a woman, despite the gender ambiguity of her name. According to imdb, Howard Hawks liked her because she wrote "like a man." What exactly does that mean? Without sentimentality? I'm not sure either.

Anyway. Howard Hawks' film represents a familiar story-line: the detective goes off to work on a seemingly simple case, but things are darker, and more convoluted than they initially appear to be. Marlowe starts out looking for one thing, and ends up looking for something completely different, and of his own volition; he is paid off by Vivian (Lauren Bacall) to stop pursuing the case. But like all good hard-boiled detectives, he is not influenced by money, but by his personal sense of right. There is no sense of dread, of imminent fate, as there is in many classical noirs (like Double Indemnity). The viewer becomes enmeshed in this entropic environment, with no sense of whether the right people will be punished, or who deserves punishing. In the end, Marlowe and Vivian get out of the mess they're in, but that's it. They are left looking at each other, a little bit awed by what they have just seen--unsure of what to make of the new order of the world.

One noticeable theme in this particular film, as in many older films, is the gender construction. As played by Bogart, Marlowe is the epitome of masculinity, while Lauren Bacall's Vivian serves as a perfect foil for him because of her atypical femininity. She is sultry and powerful at the same time. At the outset, Bogart confronts Sternwood (Charles Waldron), the tired, wilting old General surrounded by a bed of Orchids, as if awaiting his own funeral. He is past his prime and emasculated, which is represented by his inability to drink or smoke (oh, and the wheelchair). By comparison, Marlowe, with the perennial cigarette dangling from his lips, is wiry and virile. We get the feeling that, in a way, Marlowe is looking at a mirror of his future self.

As the film goes on, Marlowe's quick wits are not enough to save him from the entropic elements of the universe. In the scene depicted above, he is tied up, literally and metaphorically, while Vivian hovers over him, lighting his cigarette for him. She then saves him by using her own cunning, a position usually reserved for the male. In this film, the women are on an even playing ground--dangerous because of their ability to beguile, lie and evade with the best of their male counterparts, while in the process, turning them into empty and powerless figures like General Sternwood.

Ace in the Hole

Together, Sunset Boulevard and Ace in the Hole form a pair of atypical noirs--less concerned with seedy crime than they are with the beauty inherent in collapse. For one thing, this serves as a good reminder that the genre that we today call noir is just a vague list of characteristics that characterize a large number of films made from the 30s to the mid 50s. At the time, no one really knew what they were doing; mostly, they were making B movies. Anyway, when it comes to shadows and venetian blinds, this film falls short. There are no detectives in dark alleys. More often than not, the action takes place outside, in direct sunlight on the dessicated plains of New Mexico.


These sun-saturated, dusty exteriors are contrasted against the Dantian darkness within the caves that provide the opportune accident that instigates reporter Chuck Tatum's (Kirk Douglas) breaking story. Driving across the desert on an assignment from his small town newspaper, Tatum accidentally comes across a trading post where a man has been trapped in a collapsed mine. He smooth-talks his way into the center of the operation until he is pulling all the strings. When Tatum enters the mines, there is no need for shadows. Wilder uses the caked dust on his face to the same effect. The capitalistic criticism is overt; Leo (Richard Benedict) is trapped when he goes too deep into the mountain in order to find an artifact that might be worth something. Tatum, in turn, exploits him totally.


With its subtle traces of self-reflexivity, this film forms a sort of set with Sunset Boulevard's backstage Hollywood noir. The tall-tales Tatum spins become the reality for the people flocking to the desert; he is a constructor of the truth. This is also interesting in light of the fact that Ace in the Hole was the first production for which Wilder operated as producer and director, giving him the escalated creative control that he had been seeking. In some shots, the crane that lifts Tatum up onto the cliffs is very much like the type of crane used to lift the camera and director for a bird's eye shot. As Tatum stands atop the cliffs looking down at the flock of gawkers below, it is not hard to imagine Wilder in his place, uttering directions through the megaphone. With all the inner frames of the film, Wilder also seems to be giving consistent references to the framing lens.

The setting of the film, in combination with the use of deep focus and wide angles creates an equation for some compelling and memorable imagery, which it delivers. When Tatum stands over the ant-like crowd, the camera reveals his power over them. My favorite moments are when the camera sweeps over the crowds that have convened for the literal "media circus" that ensues. The build-up to this "circus" is intriguing as well. It starts with an almost unnoticeable passing of balloons in the distance and soon becomes a frenzy.

Dead Ringers

Being a twin myself, I think I'm in a position to adequately judge this movie, as far as the portrayal of twinning goes. Unfortunately, portrayals of twins in literature and film rarely have anything to do with accurate representation of what being a twin is like... and honestly, it would be kind of boring if that was the aim. This, er, condition, if you want to call it that, offers an incomparable stage for authors to play out their complexes.

In Cronenberg's film, Jeremy Irons turns in a brilliant performance as both Beverly and Elliot Mantle. Not only does he act out a good half of the film against himself, but he creates two very different characters without taking the easy way out and polarizing them entirely. Both are very real and unique, while also being subtly similar, as real twins might be. Irons' performance is just one thing that makes this film great. The rest has to do with the atmospherics that Cronenberg always brings to his films, as well as psychological turmoil, and good ol' Howard Shore tagging along to create mood music.

The brothers, although obvious individuals (one course, one more gentle), live life almost as if they were a unit. They share a profession (incidentally, at a fertility clinic), an apartment, and the sleep with the same women. When Claire (Genevieve Bujold) steps into the office, Beverly and Elliot prey on her immediately. It is this misstep that sends a unfathomable chain of events rocketing into motion. Claire is no ordinary woman. She is an actress. She wants a baby... She has three sets of ovaries. Unlike most people, she is perceptive enough to figure out on her own that she is sleeping with two different men.

This film is an exploration of the surface and the metaphysical that lies behind it. The Mantle brothers are preoccupied with inner beauty in the way most people are preoccupied with outer beauty. But their version of inner beauty is equally superficial. They are fascinated by internal organs. It is perhaps even more unsettling that the human obsession with outer beauty. In film and subsequently, often in reality, the appearance of a person is perceived to be symbolic of the kind of person they are. When it comes to admiring the beauty of internal organs, what exactly is the denotation? Presumably, all organs are nearly exactly the same. Interestingly, the internal organs the brothers have primary contact with are the female sexual and reproduction organs--the origins of life. Beverly and Elliot cannot seem to fathom their own uniqueness, as they are physically identical. Claire, on the other hand, has, out of necessity split her outer self from her metaphysical self; she is an actress. Her constantly changing facade represents nothing of what she actually is.


One of my favorite scenes was especially representative of this. Claire is in the make up room. We see her in profile as Elliot comes to visit her, to rectify what he and Beverly have done and to get her back. He insinuates that most women are more than happy to overlook the difference between them, and to take them both. Claire refuses him. During their conversation, the camera jumps from the initial profile to her opposite cheek, on which a bruise has been colorfully applied with make up. "Are we really that different?" he asks. "Yes," she replies, "you really are."

It is interesting that this is the woman they both initially fall for: imperfect by their standards of "inner beauty", and also incapable of conceiving.

Later, we get into more Cronenbergian territory when Beverly has special tools made up for dealing with "mutant women." As he becomes more tortured (as his relationship with his brother becomes more tortured), he becomes frightened by the women he sees, claiming that their bodies are "all wrong." His tools look like Medieval torture instruments, with no discernible purpose. In the operating room, Elliot is suited for surgery in a red, full-bodied gown that looks like something out of A Handmaid's Tail. Framed in the window with arms outstretched, he is some kind of twisted Prometheus. With the power he holds over human conception, he is, perhaps the closest thing to a God on earth.

This was my first time viewing this film, and though it failed to answer any questions for me, the meditation it inspired was fantastic. Sometime soon I'm going to give it another try, but not before it must go back to the library, from whence it came.

American Psycho

In accordance with my promise to make women directors a prominent feature of this blog, I recently watched American Psycho, which is a Marry Harron film. Actually, it was more of a fortuitous accident, since my family felt like communing to watch some kind of horror movie. The Blockbuster selection was epically weak, but they did have this one. And I thought, aha!

For the most part, I really dig this movie. It's an excellent adaptation of the Bret Easton Ellis book. Harron's film is equal parts satire and moody horror. For the most part, she manages to negotiate between fear and humor (though more fear and less humor would have been appreciated on my part, but that's just personal taste). Both the film and the novel are an overt criticism of the Reagan era. It appears that the deranged psycho-path, Patrick Bateman (Christian Bale) is forged in the primordial ooze of inescapable superficiality and dog eat dog economics that characterized mega-rich society in Reagan's America. With his immaculate exterior and rotten core, Bateman is the embodiment of the Regan 80s. Working an ambiguous job on Wall Street, Bateman spends his free time either fantasizing about or commiting brutal and disgusting crimes. It is the American dream gone haywire. When you were born at the top, I guess the only place to go is down, and to take as many people as you can with you. Interestingly, Bateman does not have a preference for victims. He takes the lowest of the low (a homeless man, a hooker) along with the most successful, without discretion.

One can never quite tell whether Bateman actually performs the gratutious acts depicted, or if they are elaborate, consuming fantasies. If they are real, they are readily ignored in the solipsistic city-dwellers. Not only are the characters self-absorbed, but they are practically interchangeable, reduced to virtual clones by marketing schemes, the drive to have the best. Actually, they are literally interchangeable--so alike that men are constantly mistaken for one another. It is never apparent whether Bateman gets away with murder because the people around him are truly apathetic, or if his fantasy world has overtaken his reality. This is just one more way Harron creates a duality throughout the film. She also has a way of portraying unease through the extravagances of the rich, showing the rawness lurking behind the perfect facade. The intense close up of syrup on a gourmet plate is blood spatter, and the face mask Bateman removes makes him look like a slasher villain a la Michael Myers.

Visually, this film is practically noirish. In the office buildings, we often see the shadows of venetian blinds cast across the scenes. In a way, its not hard to draw comparisons to noir, here. A private detective even shows up, yet there is too much conflicting evidence to pin down whether a crime has been committed or not. Shot mostly at night, the city is very Gotham-esque, overbearing, angular and grim; it is a city where evil abides, yet there is no superhero to counteract this menace. The outdoor scenes starkly contrast the interior scenes, particularly those in Bateman's apartment, where there is nothing but clean, uncluttered, modern lines.

The film would have benefited from a larger part for Bateman's secretary, Jean (Chloe Sevigny), who offers a more empathetic perspective. She is bumbling and pathetically naive. As a result, during her too-short screen time, I found myself praying for her deliverance. It's an interesting film, although it sort of peters out at the end. It is left ambiguous whether Bateman has imagined it all. As a result, nothing changes. There is no digging to find a message, either. At times the satire is just a bit too over the top, like the moment where Bateman is dragging a body through his building and an acquaintance inquires about the make of the bag. It's an imperfect film, but still a very interesting one.