The name Quentin Tarantino has become something of a shorthand reference for “cool movie nerd”. The oxymoronic nature of that quoted phrase notwithstanding, it’s a pretty accurate description of the guy. However, those kinds of reductive generalizations, while useful in some situations, rarely give the total picture of whatever it is you’re reductively generalizing. Don’t worry, I’m not going to launch a preachy, pretentious diatribe defending Tarantino as an artist. I’ll just accept that as a given, and move on to talking about his War Movie That’s Not Really About War, Inglourious Basterds (2009). After reading that, you may be asking yourself, “What’s so special about a movie that can’t even spell its title right?” That’s an astute, fair question. Here’s my attempt to answer it with a money shot right to your face:
I’m a big proponent of individual scenes in movies that, while serving the practical purpose of moving the story along, also exist to tell the audience something more about the film they’re watching. Almost any movie worth its salt has at least a few scenes that meet this description, and I usually find those to be the most valuable when discussing said movie. In the case of Inglourious Basterds, the “For Bravery” scene you just watched IS the film. I guess you could call it a microcosm of the film itself, but that feels a bit too insignificant. It’s more like a thesis statement.
Tarantino’s aims with the movie are all on full display here. It’s a scene that, through the dialogue, camerawork, editing, and use of music, works toward a very specific goal. What, exactly, is that goal? Well, in a broad sense the movie is a look at how art influences culture, and how that influence is something to acknowledge with caution. In a more narrow sense, the movie is about the danger of romanticizing war heroes, nationalism, propaganda, or any other tactics used to manipulate people’s feelings. Once you’re able to make large groups of people think a certain way, it’s easier to get them to do what you want. That’s kind of dangerous, right?
The “For Bravery” scene accomplishes what a great deal of the rest of the movie accomplishes – it spends time building a legend/myth, tears that myth to shreds, and does it all comically. The purpose of the scene is twofold. First, throughout the film, Tarantino creates various legends (the character of Hans Landa, the Basterds themselves – both individually and collectively, concepts of bravery and honor) only to tear down those legends by the end of the film. The point is to show that these men aren’t necessarily the heroes we’ve come to expect from watching war movies, and the nobility we commonly associate with them isn’t necessarily there, either. At the end of the day, they’re repeatedly committing heinous, dehumanizing acts. Secondly, and the film’s stroke of genius, is that the events are portrayed so that the audience sees the Basterds as the good guys. They’re shown as a funny, “badass” group. The audience is supposed to root for them. What’s not to like about a group of hilarious Jewish-American soldiers going around Europe killing Nazis?
As usual with movies, the meaning of certain scenes is just as much about the how as it is the what of what’s being shown to the audience. With that in mind, it’s time to finally start breaking these four minutes and 43 seconds down:
Beginning of the clip – 1:05: Aldo Raine’s (Brad Pitt) interrogation of the captured German soldier is written to be funny. Hell, the German soldier even laughs at one of Raine’s jokes towards the beginning of the clip. As an audience, this sort of lighthearted approach to what we’d normally expect to be a deadly serious situation makes us feel as if the events we’re seeing aren’t as gravely serious as they should be. Also, the manner in which this conversation is shown will become important later in the clip. For now, note that the conversation is edited into a standard shot/reverse shot format where the camera is focused on each man as he speaks his lines. This is the most common way conversations between two people are shot.
1:05 – 2:06: The instant the German soldier “respectfully refuses” to give Aldo the information, Tarantino goes into legend creating mode. Right on cue, we begin to hear The Bear Jew (Eli Roth) beat his bat against the walls of the cave he’s in as Aldo begins asking the German what he knows about The Bear Jew. Through this quick conversation, the audience is made aware of exactly who The Bear Jew is and the kind of reputation he’s garnered. At the 1:11 mark, the movie even cuts away from the conversation to show the reaction of another captured German soldier, furthering the effect of this legend. Through dialogue and editing, Tarantino has created this legend in about one minute. By the second time Raine asks the German to give up the information, the entire tone of the scene has gone from playful and lighthearted to dark and grim. The German knows the consequences of his actions, and his “fuck you” response etches his death in stone. Again, the conversation is being shown in the standard shot/reverse shot format.
2:06 – 2:22: The German’s response emits laughter from the rest of the Basterds. It’s here where Tarantino begins to criticize the actions of the unit. Up to this point that standard shot/reverse shot format has been used to keep the audience literally in the action of the scene. We’ve been visually encouraged to see the scene as one of the group. When the Basterds laugh at the soldier’s response, the movie cuts to an overhead shot of the landscape. We’re removed from the action of the scene and we’re no longer invited to see the events as one of the group. By removing the audience from the action they’ve been so close to, Tarantino is visually condemning what’s taking place. This exact same shot will be used again later in the scene for similar reasons.
As we’re brought back into the conversation, we’re shown Aldo standing up as he says the lines, “Actually Werner, we’re all tickled to hear you say that. Quite frankly, watching Donnie beat Nazis to death is the closest we ever get to going to the movies.” These specific lines are the closest the film ever comes to outwardly stating its theme. Contrasted with the end of the film (which I won’t be going in to), it becomes the most important line of the movie. In effect, all the violence in the film is put on trial with this one simple, comedic line.
2:22 – 3:30: At this point the setup of the scene is complete, and we finally get to see it all play out. Like much of the movie, the scene is drawn out for effect before being paid off with grizzly violence. Here, the German’s willingness to die for his country is romanticized through the use of music and juxtaposition. As The Bear Jew performs his little song and dance, the film cuts between the German’s stoic, unflinching stare and the cave The Bear Jew will emerge from shortly. At the 2:40 mark, the film breaks this and cuts to another reaction shot from the other captured German soldier. He’s clearly frightened and upset, which is in complete contrast to Werner’s unwavering glare. The film is telling us that Werner’s the strong one, the hero. We go back to alternating shots of Werner and the cave, and then the film once again cuts to another reaction shot at the 2:50 mark. This time it’s of Aldo looking off into the distance. He has the look of someone who’s seen this countless times and is getting a little bored. It’s another shot that’s completely in contrast with what’s happening in the scene. The German is about to die for his country, the film’s music is swelling in an effort to place this ideal on a pedestal, yet Aldo can’t even feign interest.
As The Bear Jew walks out of the cave, the Basterds give him an ovation, and the German never blinks. At the 3:25 mark, when The Bear Jew asks if Werner got his medal for killing Jews, all of a sudden the camera tilts and shows the close-up of the question at an angle. Werner’s response of “bravery” is also shown at an angle. These two shots begin to betray this romanticized ideal of bravery with their jarring camera placement. It tells the audience this isn’t normal; it’s a little off.
3:30 – 4:24: We’re shown about 10 more seconds of music swelling and German idealism, until, at the 3:40 mark, The Bear Jew finally smashes Werner’s brains in. The music stops abruptly, the Basterds cheer, and the violence is unsettling. At the 3:45 mark, the camera zooms out to another overheard shot, again taking the audience out of the action they’ve been so close to. As with before, this shot is used to condemn the actions taking place on screen. We see the other German soldiers scared out of their minds, the Basterds laughing and making horrible jokes (albeit it funny ones too), and The Bear Jew puffing his chest out in a display of pride. Finally, The Bear Jew brings the German soldier who we’ve seen reacting to all of this insanity for the duration of the clip over to Aldo.
4:24 – end of clip: Aldo brings down the translator, Cpl. Wicki (Gedeon Burkhard) as Reactionary German is interrogated to the whereabouts of the same patrols his countryman just died protecting. He divulges the information quickly in order to save his own life. At the 4:34 mark, the camera begins quickly moving from Aldo as he questions, to the translator as he translates, to Reactionary German as he answers, and back. A laugh track is inserted as the German points out the location as fast as he can. The camerawork and laughter are used to switch the scene back to its former lighthearted tone. The scene again becomes comedic. It’s funny that this German would so quickly give up the information his countryman died protecting. In this way, the film maintains being entertaining and avoids becoming preachy as it asks the audience three questions: 1) Was it really brave of the first German to die protecting information that was so easily obtained? And 2) Why did the Basterds go through such an extravagant, seemingly unnecessary, farce with The Bear Jew to obtain such easily elicited information? And 3) Are these guys heroes or not? After all, one man is killing for his country, one man is dying for his country - both can be seen as heroic. One man is a Nazi, the other is beating a guy to death with a baseball bat - both are the exact opposite of heroism.
At the end of the day, this is a scene designed to conflict the emotions of the viewer. The things we find unsettling, like the brutal violence, the odd camera movements, the drawn out length of the scene, and even some of the comedic moments, unsettle because they aren’t what we’ve been trained to expect as viewers. We expect a man dying for his country to save lives and become a hero. Instead, we get to watch him being viciously beaten to death and those lives sacrificed immediately after that. We expect a man killing for his country to do so with honor and a sense of duty. Instead, we get psychopaths who do so sadistically and with great joy.
I think it’s easy to paint the movie as anti-American, or anti-soldier, but I don’t think that’s the case. I’d call it more anti-manipulation. Art is a powerful tool, and it should be used with great care. You know, typical Spiderman stuff – with great power comes great responsibility. It shouldn’t be used as a political tool or propaganda, but to enlighten. Tarantino hopes you are enlightened by his film, but if you fall into the traps of comedy and cool that he so masterfully sets for his audience, you in effect prove his point regardless of whether or not you understand that.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Royal Tenenbaums' Money Shot
If you’ve read the title of this most recent Money Shot, it’s clear to you that I’ll be discussing the film The Royal Tenenbaums. If you haven’t read the title, well, what’s wrong with you? Who does that? Your eagerness is appreciated, but as a general rule you should probably pay attention to titles of things you’re about to read. You don’t want to jump right in and find yourself 500 words deep before you realize you’ve entered into a discussion on the commonly accepted environmental policies of penguins. It’s too late to turn back once that happens. The words “Penguins – Green or Mean?” would have saved you the trouble. Luckily, you’ve been made aware of this and it shouldn’t be a problem for you in the future. Onto the movie clip (feel free to watch the entire 7 minutes, but the part I’m referencing begins at the 4:30 mark and goes until the end of the video):
The video you just watched is the conclusion of a visual idea the runs throughout Wes Anderson’s film. It’s an idea that’s setup from the movie’s opening moments (which I’ll show in a bit) and gradually comes together as the film progresses (I’ll show that too). It’s a visual motif that is just as important as the written narrative and actor’s performances in telling the movie’s story. So, what is this idea I’m only vaguely touching on so far? Not so fast. First, a little context.
Anderson's portrayal of the dysfunctional Tenenbaum family is as hilarious as it is touching, as poignant as it is absurd. If you’ve seen any of Anderson’s other movies, you know family dynamics play a huge part in everything he does. The Royal Tenenbaums is no different. The picture is a wonderful exploration of family, failure, and how the support of the former is necessary to overcome the latter. The movie is about a family of former child geniuses (how, exactly, does one become a former genius?) who seemingly peaked very early in life and are having trouble dealing with adulthood. Their parents have split up, the children have grown apart, and, for all intents and purposes, the standard family model is broken. During the film, in their own weird and offbeat way, the fractured family slowly begins to repair itself. As funny and quirky as the movie can be at times (not at bad thing to me, personally, but definitely not everyone’s cup of Earl Grey), at its core, it’s a movie about a splintered family regaining what made them special in the first place. As with Fargo, it’s another personal favorite (in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m using movies I love to keep this thing easy for me at the outset – it’s just a lot easier and more fun to write about things you genuinely care about). It’s well done in just about every aspect of filmmaking, and it strikes an emotional chord. There’s an underlying sadness to the whole movie, but that sadness ultimately becomes something hopeful. That kind of authentic compassion and understanding of people is something I can never get enough of. If a movie pulls that off well, and cinematically, there’s no chance I’m not going to love it. But enough about what I like - let’s get back to this visual motif I’ve hyped up plenty by now.
Now, another clip. I know, I know. Just bear with me. It’ll all come together. I promise. This one is of the film’s opening minutes – a prologue that tells the audience just how the Tenenbaum family came to be as they currently are. It’s only necessary to watch the first 1:10 of this one:
At the 15 second mark, the camera moves down the Tenenbaum house and shows one child on each of the three floors framed in a window. The movie begins showing the fractures in the family from its first images. After Royal knocks on the door, the movie cuts to the conversation of Royal telling his children that the parents are getting a divorce. Don’t pay attention to the dialogue - just concentrate on how each shot is framed. Conventionally, this sort of scene would be shown from the side so that one end of the table is on the left side of the screen (the one with the children) and one end is on the right (the one with Royal). All the characters would be in the same frame, just on opposite sides. Instead, in order to begin showing the family’s divide, Anderson shows the children in their own separate frame as they speak, and then cuts to Royal in his own separate frame (which is also shown from a longer distance than the children to show his emotional distance) as he speaks. This is done throughout the conversation, and a later scene that takes place at the same table with the grownup versions of the children is filmed the same way. This tactic is used to show the split between Royal and his family.
Immediately after the prologue, there is a “cast of characters” montage that introduces the main characters in the film. Obviously, this serves a practical purpose for the audience, but it also furthers this fractured motif. Each character is shown separate from the others. This present day version of the family is completely broken, and that’s shown in the way the characters are introduced to the audience in this montage. Here it is:
A large deal of the first 20-30 minutes of the movie is shot like this. However, as the film moves along, the family begins the healing process and the way the characters are framed begins to change. This is a clip of Margot greeting Richie at a bus stop as he returns home from a self-imposed exile:
As Margot gets off of the bus at the 35 second mark, it looks like this scene is going to be shot similar to the others in the film up to that point – each character in their own separate frame, with little to no movement. As Nico’s “These Days” begins, we see Margot, then a close-up on Richie. Instead of repeating this throughout the scene, we see a shot of Margot walking towards Richie, then a shot of Richie with the camera slowly zooming in to him. Finally, there’s a shot from behind Richie’s head that has them both in the same frame. There are a couple more shot/reverse shot sequences with each character in their own frame until at the 1:47 mark when there’s the previously mentioned conventional shot with each character in the same frame on opposite ends. They walk towards each other and embrace as the camera zooms in on their hug. Healing is usually a gradual process, and Anderson does an excellent job of showing that visually with this specific scene. The camerawork mirrors the psyche of the characters. As that psyche begins to shift, the camerawork does as well.
As the film progresses, there are more and more moments where characters are shown in the same frame, or shown closer together. The broken family is healing, but not completely healed until, finally, the money shot that began this entry. Shot all in one take with no cuts, Anderson claims on the film’s director’s commentary that the shot took 18 takes to get right. Ben Stiller wanted an extra camera in case he didn’t nail his “I’ve had a rough year, Dad” line, which would have resulted in the shot having a cut. Anderson wouldn’t allow it. As you can hopefully see (and if I’ve done a good job you’ll be able to), the shot couldn’t be cut. It’s the most important shot in the movie. It had to be done in one take. The movie had to visually show the healed family. This scene is in direct contrast with how the film opens. The “cast of characters” montage showed each family member in their own individual space. There is no individual space in this final shot. It’s all one, flowing take that is the culmination of the healing process and shows a group of individuals as one unit. It’s beautiful.
And that's that with regard to Wes Anderson's masterful The Royal Tenenbaums. As always, I hope you've enjoyed reading. Until next time...
The video you just watched is the conclusion of a visual idea the runs throughout Wes Anderson’s film. It’s an idea that’s setup from the movie’s opening moments (which I’ll show in a bit) and gradually comes together as the film progresses (I’ll show that too). It’s a visual motif that is just as important as the written narrative and actor’s performances in telling the movie’s story. So, what is this idea I’m only vaguely touching on so far? Not so fast. First, a little context.
Anderson's portrayal of the dysfunctional Tenenbaum family is as hilarious as it is touching, as poignant as it is absurd. If you’ve seen any of Anderson’s other movies, you know family dynamics play a huge part in everything he does. The Royal Tenenbaums is no different. The picture is a wonderful exploration of family, failure, and how the support of the former is necessary to overcome the latter. The movie is about a family of former child geniuses (how, exactly, does one become a former genius?) who seemingly peaked very early in life and are having trouble dealing with adulthood. Their parents have split up, the children have grown apart, and, for all intents and purposes, the standard family model is broken. During the film, in their own weird and offbeat way, the fractured family slowly begins to repair itself. As funny and quirky as the movie can be at times (not at bad thing to me, personally, but definitely not everyone’s cup of Earl Grey), at its core, it’s a movie about a splintered family regaining what made them special in the first place. As with Fargo, it’s another personal favorite (in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m using movies I love to keep this thing easy for me at the outset – it’s just a lot easier and more fun to write about things you genuinely care about). It’s well done in just about every aspect of filmmaking, and it strikes an emotional chord. There’s an underlying sadness to the whole movie, but that sadness ultimately becomes something hopeful. That kind of authentic compassion and understanding of people is something I can never get enough of. If a movie pulls that off well, and cinematically, there’s no chance I’m not going to love it. But enough about what I like - let’s get back to this visual motif I’ve hyped up plenty by now.
Now, another clip. I know, I know. Just bear with me. It’ll all come together. I promise. This one is of the film’s opening minutes – a prologue that tells the audience just how the Tenenbaum family came to be as they currently are. It’s only necessary to watch the first 1:10 of this one:
At the 15 second mark, the camera moves down the Tenenbaum house and shows one child on each of the three floors framed in a window. The movie begins showing the fractures in the family from its first images. After Royal knocks on the door, the movie cuts to the conversation of Royal telling his children that the parents are getting a divorce. Don’t pay attention to the dialogue - just concentrate on how each shot is framed. Conventionally, this sort of scene would be shown from the side so that one end of the table is on the left side of the screen (the one with the children) and one end is on the right (the one with Royal). All the characters would be in the same frame, just on opposite sides. Instead, in order to begin showing the family’s divide, Anderson shows the children in their own separate frame as they speak, and then cuts to Royal in his own separate frame (which is also shown from a longer distance than the children to show his emotional distance) as he speaks. This is done throughout the conversation, and a later scene that takes place at the same table with the grownup versions of the children is filmed the same way. This tactic is used to show the split between Royal and his family.
Immediately after the prologue, there is a “cast of characters” montage that introduces the main characters in the film. Obviously, this serves a practical purpose for the audience, but it also furthers this fractured motif. Each character is shown separate from the others. This present day version of the family is completely broken, and that’s shown in the way the characters are introduced to the audience in this montage. Here it is:
A large deal of the first 20-30 minutes of the movie is shot like this. However, as the film moves along, the family begins the healing process and the way the characters are framed begins to change. This is a clip of Margot greeting Richie at a bus stop as he returns home from a self-imposed exile:
As Margot gets off of the bus at the 35 second mark, it looks like this scene is going to be shot similar to the others in the film up to that point – each character in their own separate frame, with little to no movement. As Nico’s “These Days” begins, we see Margot, then a close-up on Richie. Instead of repeating this throughout the scene, we see a shot of Margot walking towards Richie, then a shot of Richie with the camera slowly zooming in to him. Finally, there’s a shot from behind Richie’s head that has them both in the same frame. There are a couple more shot/reverse shot sequences with each character in their own frame until at the 1:47 mark when there’s the previously mentioned conventional shot with each character in the same frame on opposite ends. They walk towards each other and embrace as the camera zooms in on their hug. Healing is usually a gradual process, and Anderson does an excellent job of showing that visually with this specific scene. The camerawork mirrors the psyche of the characters. As that psyche begins to shift, the camerawork does as well.
As the film progresses, there are more and more moments where characters are shown in the same frame, or shown closer together. The broken family is healing, but not completely healed until, finally, the money shot that began this entry. Shot all in one take with no cuts, Anderson claims on the film’s director’s commentary that the shot took 18 takes to get right. Ben Stiller wanted an extra camera in case he didn’t nail his “I’ve had a rough year, Dad” line, which would have resulted in the shot having a cut. Anderson wouldn’t allow it. As you can hopefully see (and if I’ve done a good job you’ll be able to), the shot couldn’t be cut. It’s the most important shot in the movie. It had to be done in one take. The movie had to visually show the healed family. This scene is in direct contrast with how the film opens. The “cast of characters” montage showed each family member in their own individual space. There is no individual space in this final shot. It’s all one, flowing take that is the culmination of the healing process and shows a group of individuals as one unit. It’s beautiful.
And that's that with regard to Wes Anderson's masterful The Royal Tenenbaums. As always, I hope you've enjoyed reading. Until next time...
Boogie Nights' Money Shot
With a blog titled Money Shots, I feel obligated to write about Paul Thomas Anderson’s Boogie Nights (1997) for a few reasons. On one level, it’s a movie filled with shot after shot that could be considered worthy of monetary compensation. On another level – porn! The title of this blog…a movie about the porn industry – it just makes sense. So, with stars perfectly aligned, with penises perfectly erect, and with fake boobies purposely equally as erect (seriously, those things don’t move; it’s weird), here we go:
The clip associated with this entry that you (hopefully) just watched is the first 10 minutes of the film (duh). Those are 10 minutes of your life that you aren’t getting back. That’s not a pleasant thought, but don’t worry. You made a smart investment. What you’ve just watched is the best first 10 minutes of any movie ever made. Hyperbole? Certainly. Inaccurate? I honestly don’t think so.
A great opening should grab the attention of the audience and get them involved in the movie right away. At the 55 second mark the film begins by bursting onto the scene with bright colors, loud music, and incredible camerawork. For the next 2:52, we’re treated to one lengthy take that follows the inhabitants of a glamorous, glitzy night club. This is what’s called a master shot, which is usually a long take that follows the action of the characters in one specific location. It was initially used (think 30s, 40s, and 50s) to give the audience a sense of place so they could easily follow along once the film began to cut between characters within the same space. These days, while still serving the same purpose, the technique has become much more of a stylistic calling card because master shots have become more and more complex and can be extremely difficult to pull off. For instance, compare this shot from Boogie Nights to the one from my last entry on The Royal Tenenbaums. In Wes Anderson’s film, the camera just pans from left to right while showing the different characters. Compared to all of the different kinds of camera movements in the Boogie Nights master shot, that one looks almost amateur. That isn’t an insult to The Royal Tenenbaums; it’s just to show that the camerawork in Boogie Nights is tremendously accomplished. It’s exhilarating, dizzying filmmaking that is certainly attention grabbing.
The other intelligent thing this master shot does is introduce the audience to the movie’s characters. This serves a practical use for an audience, but the nature in which these characters are established in Boogie Nights is what truly makes this a great opening. The film intentionally opens with a display of breathtaking spectacle and shows its characters in this extravagant environment. Shown all in one take, and with multiple complex camera movements, the filmmaking mirrors the stylish, showy nature of the club and the character’s lives. In contrast with all of this showmanship is the final five and a half minutes shown in the clip. This last half of the clip shows the uglier side of this kind of life, one complete with prostitution, alcohol and drug use, a woman begging to see her child, and infidelity (this one actually happens a few seconds after this clip ends, but it’s what William H. Macy sees in the room he begins walking toward…you’ll just have to trust me on that). This mini montage serves the same purpose as the opening master shot – it introduces the film’s characters and begins to develop them. The shot selection here is much more conventional and workmanlike. There’s nothing showy about how any of these scenes are presented, nor should there be. The camerawork mirrors what is being displayed.
It’s probably important to take a second here and mention the structure of the movie. The film’s narrative is a classic American rise and fall story. This is far from an uncommon story arc in American films. From Citizen Kane to Goodfellas, it’s one of the most distinctly American stories told in all of cinema. In this particular incarnation of the story, the rise takes place in the 1970s during the Golden Age of Porn, and the fall takes place in the early-to-mid 80s, known for reveling in excess. The movie chronicles Eddie Adams/Dirk Diggler’s (Mark Wahlberg) rise to pornography prominence during the 70s and fall during the 80s. The first half of the film (the rise) is depicted similarly to the opening master shot – glitzy, glamorous, and carefree. The second half of the film is shown similarly to the second half of the clip that shows the depressing “real” lives of the characters – excess ridden, dim, and kind of sad. Those opening minutes, while introducing and developing characters efficiently, also serve as a microcosm of the structure of the overall film. This rise and fall is visually foreshadowed...
Boogie Nights is an ambitious, sprawling epic. It aims high and wears its influences proudly on its sleeve (films as diverse as Singin’ in the Rain, A Star is Born, a good chunk of Martin Scorsese’s filmography, and another good chunk of Robert Altman’s filmography). The movie is part Hollywood satire, part dissection of the American Dream, all tied together by a classic loss of innocence storyline. It’s a movie with big ideas, but what makes it truly special are the characters. Personally, the best kinds of movies (and books, plays, etc.) are those that can merge character with idea. Boogie Nights is a film that has almost as many ideas as it does characters, all well-grounded and realistic. There are no explicit references to anything the movie is about; it’s all implied through the characters and filmmaking. It’s important for an ensemble piece to be as efficient as possible with character development. Otherwise, you could easily end up with a four hour movie. In order to do that, you can’t always just use dialogue between characters to develop them. It’s something that should be done visually as often as possible, and it’s something that Boogie Nights does terrifically. As I’ve shown, that all begins with the opening of the movie, specifically with how these characters are introduced.
Boogie Nights is a film where style and substance mesh perfectly and with purpose. That’s a concept many filmmakers lose sight of, but Paul Thomas Anderson nailed it in 1997. This is never more present than it is in the opening minutes of the movie. Those opening minutes go a really long way in establishing character and theme within the film. Simply put, it’s how you’re supposed to open a picture.
The clip associated with this entry that you (hopefully) just watched is the first 10 minutes of the film (duh). Those are 10 minutes of your life that you aren’t getting back. That’s not a pleasant thought, but don’t worry. You made a smart investment. What you’ve just watched is the best first 10 minutes of any movie ever made. Hyperbole? Certainly. Inaccurate? I honestly don’t think so.
A great opening should grab the attention of the audience and get them involved in the movie right away. At the 55 second mark the film begins by bursting onto the scene with bright colors, loud music, and incredible camerawork. For the next 2:52, we’re treated to one lengthy take that follows the inhabitants of a glamorous, glitzy night club. This is what’s called a master shot, which is usually a long take that follows the action of the characters in one specific location. It was initially used (think 30s, 40s, and 50s) to give the audience a sense of place so they could easily follow along once the film began to cut between characters within the same space. These days, while still serving the same purpose, the technique has become much more of a stylistic calling card because master shots have become more and more complex and can be extremely difficult to pull off. For instance, compare this shot from Boogie Nights to the one from my last entry on The Royal Tenenbaums. In Wes Anderson’s film, the camera just pans from left to right while showing the different characters. Compared to all of the different kinds of camera movements in the Boogie Nights master shot, that one looks almost amateur. That isn’t an insult to The Royal Tenenbaums; it’s just to show that the camerawork in Boogie Nights is tremendously accomplished. It’s exhilarating, dizzying filmmaking that is certainly attention grabbing.
The other intelligent thing this master shot does is introduce the audience to the movie’s characters. This serves a practical use for an audience, but the nature in which these characters are established in Boogie Nights is what truly makes this a great opening. The film intentionally opens with a display of breathtaking spectacle and shows its characters in this extravagant environment. Shown all in one take, and with multiple complex camera movements, the filmmaking mirrors the stylish, showy nature of the club and the character’s lives. In contrast with all of this showmanship is the final five and a half minutes shown in the clip. This last half of the clip shows the uglier side of this kind of life, one complete with prostitution, alcohol and drug use, a woman begging to see her child, and infidelity (this one actually happens a few seconds after this clip ends, but it’s what William H. Macy sees in the room he begins walking toward…you’ll just have to trust me on that). This mini montage serves the same purpose as the opening master shot – it introduces the film’s characters and begins to develop them. The shot selection here is much more conventional and workmanlike. There’s nothing showy about how any of these scenes are presented, nor should there be. The camerawork mirrors what is being displayed.
It’s probably important to take a second here and mention the structure of the movie. The film’s narrative is a classic American rise and fall story. This is far from an uncommon story arc in American films. From Citizen Kane to Goodfellas, it’s one of the most distinctly American stories told in all of cinema. In this particular incarnation of the story, the rise takes place in the 1970s during the Golden Age of Porn, and the fall takes place in the early-to-mid 80s, known for reveling in excess. The movie chronicles Eddie Adams/Dirk Diggler’s (Mark Wahlberg) rise to pornography prominence during the 70s and fall during the 80s. The first half of the film (the rise) is depicted similarly to the opening master shot – glitzy, glamorous, and carefree. The second half of the film is shown similarly to the second half of the clip that shows the depressing “real” lives of the characters – excess ridden, dim, and kind of sad. Those opening minutes, while introducing and developing characters efficiently, also serve as a microcosm of the structure of the overall film. This rise and fall is visually foreshadowed...
Boogie Nights is an ambitious, sprawling epic. It aims high and wears its influences proudly on its sleeve (films as diverse as Singin’ in the Rain, A Star is Born, a good chunk of Martin Scorsese’s filmography, and another good chunk of Robert Altman’s filmography). The movie is part Hollywood satire, part dissection of the American Dream, all tied together by a classic loss of innocence storyline. It’s a movie with big ideas, but what makes it truly special are the characters. Personally, the best kinds of movies (and books, plays, etc.) are those that can merge character with idea. Boogie Nights is a film that has almost as many ideas as it does characters, all well-grounded and realistic. There are no explicit references to anything the movie is about; it’s all implied through the characters and filmmaking. It’s important for an ensemble piece to be as efficient as possible with character development. Otherwise, you could easily end up with a four hour movie. In order to do that, you can’t always just use dialogue between characters to develop them. It’s something that should be done visually as often as possible, and it’s something that Boogie Nights does terrifically. As I’ve shown, that all begins with the opening of the movie, specifically with how these characters are introduced.
Boogie Nights is a film where style and substance mesh perfectly and with purpose. That’s a concept many filmmakers lose sight of, but Paul Thomas Anderson nailed it in 1997. This is never more present than it is in the opening minutes of the movie. Those opening minutes go a really long way in establishing character and theme within the film. Simply put, it’s how you’re supposed to open a picture.
Fargo's Money Shot
To kick this thing off, I’m going to discuss what I often call my favorite movie – Fargo. Choosing my one favorite movie is hardly a set-in-stone sort of thing (it usually fluctuates between 15-20 or so different films), but I’d venture to guess that the Coens’ film is my favorite on 4 out of the 7 days of any given week. That’s over 50% of the time! Point being, it’s really, really good and worthy of a much more in-depth discussion than I’m about to put forth here as soon as I quit long-windedly stalling. Ok. Done stalling. Here we go:
The scene is basically the Coens in a nutshell – a microcosm of their artistic perspective. I see the brothers as being almost obsessed with the ugliness of how people treat one another, and how that leads to the majority of our problems. It's an idea I see in almost all of their films (hell, they even have a movie that’s titled Intolerable Cruelty and is explicitly about people treating each other shittily), and it’s the driving force behind Fargo. They use this idea to address a variety of thematic interests from film to film. This individual scene really gets to the heart of Fargo’s message - it’s the people in your life that give it meaning, and you should treat them accordingly. To quote Francis McDormand’s Marge Gunderson, “There’s more to life than a little money, you know…don’tcha know that?”
This being my first entry and all, I’d appreciate it if you allowed me to go off on a tangent for a moment here. Film is a visual medium. The best movies are ones that know and embrace that. Movies should always show, not tell, whenever possible. It’s why things like shot selection and camera movements are so important – that’s when the filmmaker can really show. That isn’t to say writing is of lesser importance, but a great film should accentuate the strengths of its script by conveying some of the writer’s ideas visually. Something like Fargo could have some nicely placed speeches about the greed of people and folks who miss the point of life, and it would be a fine film. Instead, the closest we ever get is the previously quoted, albeit truncated version of, Marge Gunderson’s speech toward the end of the film. This “speech” is roughly a minute long and is only about 5-6 lines. However, since the film has conveyed so much of its meaning visually (and also because of McDormand’s amazing performance), the scene is one of the best in the film and is emotionally affecting. Ok, tangent over. Thanks for the indulgence, time to get back on track. Show, don’t tell.
If you’ve read this far, I’m assuming you’ve already watched the Youtube clip after my first paragraph. If you haven’t, go ahead and do so. I’ll wait. Ready? Cool. Me too. As I’ve already said, Fargo is a movie about the importance of the people in your life. The clip I’ve linked to is an example of the Coens showing their audience that thought. We start outside of the cabin with a simple establishing shot to give the audience a sense of where the action is taking place. In this case, it’s where Carl Showalter (Steve Buscemi) and Gaear Grimsrud (Peter Stormare) are holding Jean Lundegaard (Kristin Rudrüd) captive. We then cut to Gaear sitting in a chair staring at something…or possibly nothing. We can hear Carl yelling at something angrily. The next shot is of Carl beating on a TV set, trying to get reception. This is followed by a shot a Jean tied to a chair with a blindfold over her face. Each shot is slowly zooming in on each character, and the series of shots is repeated as each one gets closer and closer to the character until finally settling on the snowy television set. As we zoom into the set, we hear Carl growing audibly more frustrated with the lack of reception until, finally, the picture changes to a nature program where we’re told a bark beetle will carry a worm to its nest and feed its young for 6 weeks as the camera slowly zooms out from the screen. We then cut to a shot of Marge Gunderson (McDormand) and Norm Gunderson (John Carroll Lynch) lying in bed. Norm is asleep and Marge is clearly about to doze off. She tells Norm she’s turning in, he mumbles something, and the scene ends.
You can tell so much about the characters from what is shown and how it is filmed in this scene. In the cabin where Jean is being held, all three characters are framed in separate, individual shots. This is done to convey how isolated and distant they are from their roommates, despite their physical proximity. We see cold breath coming from their mouths. Gaear is just sitting there staring blankly at nothing, uninterested in everything around him. Jean has a hood over her head, blind to everything going on around her. Carl is beating on the TV, trying to get some kind of reception, oblivious to everything going on around him. Then we begin the slow zoom-in on the TV itself. Carl's room has no reception – its inhabitants clearly aren't “getting” whatever they're supposed to be “getting”. When the TV switches to the image and voiceover of the bark beetle, we’re made aware that the inhabitants of this new room are “getting” whatever it is they’re supposed to be “getting”. We're then shown Marge and Norm in complete contrast with what we saw in the other room. They're framed together in one shot cuddling in bed and warm under the covers.
Everything about these two rooms and the characters in them is in contrast. The whole scene does a perfect job of showing its audience an idea. In the context of the film, the Gundersons are a caring bunch - the film’s moral center. Carl and Gaear are the low-lifes with no compassion or care for others - the morally corrupt portions of the movie. This one scene is packed with a ton of information and combines how a filmmaker can use the camera to his/her advantage (shot selection in this case, both in framing and editing) and the use of visual metaphor (the TV set/lack of reception idea being a metaphor for missing the point or not understanding something) to cram it all in to 75 seconds.
This is my favorite example of how a film can visually convey information to its audience from Fargo (and probably any other movie, too), but there are countless more scenes in the film that do something similar. That, combined with its humanitarian, hopeful message, are why it’s a personal favorite of mine. If you haven’t seen the movie, go watch it immediately. If you have, watch it again. It only gets better. That’s all I’ve got for now. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading the first entry in a series I hope to continue for quite a while.
The scene is basically the Coens in a nutshell – a microcosm of their artistic perspective. I see the brothers as being almost obsessed with the ugliness of how people treat one another, and how that leads to the majority of our problems. It's an idea I see in almost all of their films (hell, they even have a movie that’s titled Intolerable Cruelty and is explicitly about people treating each other shittily), and it’s the driving force behind Fargo. They use this idea to address a variety of thematic interests from film to film. This individual scene really gets to the heart of Fargo’s message - it’s the people in your life that give it meaning, and you should treat them accordingly. To quote Francis McDormand’s Marge Gunderson, “There’s more to life than a little money, you know…don’tcha know that?”
This being my first entry and all, I’d appreciate it if you allowed me to go off on a tangent for a moment here. Film is a visual medium. The best movies are ones that know and embrace that. Movies should always show, not tell, whenever possible. It’s why things like shot selection and camera movements are so important – that’s when the filmmaker can really show. That isn’t to say writing is of lesser importance, but a great film should accentuate the strengths of its script by conveying some of the writer’s ideas visually. Something like Fargo could have some nicely placed speeches about the greed of people and folks who miss the point of life, and it would be a fine film. Instead, the closest we ever get is the previously quoted, albeit truncated version of, Marge Gunderson’s speech toward the end of the film. This “speech” is roughly a minute long and is only about 5-6 lines. However, since the film has conveyed so much of its meaning visually (and also because of McDormand’s amazing performance), the scene is one of the best in the film and is emotionally affecting. Ok, tangent over. Thanks for the indulgence, time to get back on track. Show, don’t tell.
If you’ve read this far, I’m assuming you’ve already watched the Youtube clip after my first paragraph. If you haven’t, go ahead and do so. I’ll wait. Ready? Cool. Me too. As I’ve already said, Fargo is a movie about the importance of the people in your life. The clip I’ve linked to is an example of the Coens showing their audience that thought. We start outside of the cabin with a simple establishing shot to give the audience a sense of where the action is taking place. In this case, it’s where Carl Showalter (Steve Buscemi) and Gaear Grimsrud (Peter Stormare) are holding Jean Lundegaard (Kristin Rudrüd) captive. We then cut to Gaear sitting in a chair staring at something…or possibly nothing. We can hear Carl yelling at something angrily. The next shot is of Carl beating on a TV set, trying to get reception. This is followed by a shot a Jean tied to a chair with a blindfold over her face. Each shot is slowly zooming in on each character, and the series of shots is repeated as each one gets closer and closer to the character until finally settling on the snowy television set. As we zoom into the set, we hear Carl growing audibly more frustrated with the lack of reception until, finally, the picture changes to a nature program where we’re told a bark beetle will carry a worm to its nest and feed its young for 6 weeks as the camera slowly zooms out from the screen. We then cut to a shot of Marge Gunderson (McDormand) and Norm Gunderson (John Carroll Lynch) lying in bed. Norm is asleep and Marge is clearly about to doze off. She tells Norm she’s turning in, he mumbles something, and the scene ends.
You can tell so much about the characters from what is shown and how it is filmed in this scene. In the cabin where Jean is being held, all three characters are framed in separate, individual shots. This is done to convey how isolated and distant they are from their roommates, despite their physical proximity. We see cold breath coming from their mouths. Gaear is just sitting there staring blankly at nothing, uninterested in everything around him. Jean has a hood over her head, blind to everything going on around her. Carl is beating on the TV, trying to get some kind of reception, oblivious to everything going on around him. Then we begin the slow zoom-in on the TV itself. Carl's room has no reception – its inhabitants clearly aren't “getting” whatever they're supposed to be “getting”. When the TV switches to the image and voiceover of the bark beetle, we’re made aware that the inhabitants of this new room are “getting” whatever it is they’re supposed to be “getting”. We're then shown Marge and Norm in complete contrast with what we saw in the other room. They're framed together in one shot cuddling in bed and warm under the covers.
Everything about these two rooms and the characters in them is in contrast. The whole scene does a perfect job of showing its audience an idea. In the context of the film, the Gundersons are a caring bunch - the film’s moral center. Carl and Gaear are the low-lifes with no compassion or care for others - the morally corrupt portions of the movie. This one scene is packed with a ton of information and combines how a filmmaker can use the camera to his/her advantage (shot selection in this case, both in framing and editing) and the use of visual metaphor (the TV set/lack of reception idea being a metaphor for missing the point or not understanding something) to cram it all in to 75 seconds.
This is my favorite example of how a film can visually convey information to its audience from Fargo (and probably any other movie, too), but there are countless more scenes in the film that do something similar. That, combined with its humanitarian, hopeful message, are why it’s a personal favorite of mine. If you haven’t seen the movie, go watch it immediately. If you have, watch it again. It only gets better. That’s all I’ve got for now. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading the first entry in a series I hope to continue for quite a while.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Why Does this Blog Exist?
Good question, me. You might think that this blog is going to be a compilation of the best ejaculation moments in porn history. You'd be wrong...and kind of weird. That's a gross idea for a blog. It also doesn't sound very interesting. Ideally, I'd like this blog to serve as a form of film criticism for normal people who enjoy movies, but don't have the desire to seek out time consuming essays from scholarly sources. What I'd like to do is to keep this as informal as possible, while still providing insight into what makes film such a rich art form.
My approach is going to be pretty simple and straightforward. I plan on taking one individual shot, or take, or sequence from a particular movie and building my criticism of that particular movie out from there. There will be a video of each chosen sequence posted at the beginning of the blog that can be seen as something of a thesis statement for the post. I'll delve into why that particular clip was picked, how it fits in the context of the movie, and break it down technically. I may even reference other clips from the movie if that proves essential.
As for what kinds of movies I'll be choosing, I can't promise to concentrate on any specific genre or type of film, but I can promise that the selections will be diverse. Nothing is off limits, from the obscurest of art house movies to the latest big budget mainstream popcorn flick. Film is an amazing art form for many reasons, not the least of which is it's ability to entertain on a visceral level. You can't really talk movies without including all kinds of movies. I have a slew of ideas to begin with, but feel free to suggest specific examples in the comments section.
So, there you go. That's the plan as of Friday morning, September 16, 2011. If this sounds like something you'll enjoy, great. If not, proceed living your life.
My approach is going to be pretty simple and straightforward. I plan on taking one individual shot, or take, or sequence from a particular movie and building my criticism of that particular movie out from there. There will be a video of each chosen sequence posted at the beginning of the blog that can be seen as something of a thesis statement for the post. I'll delve into why that particular clip was picked, how it fits in the context of the movie, and break it down technically. I may even reference other clips from the movie if that proves essential.
As for what kinds of movies I'll be choosing, I can't promise to concentrate on any specific genre or type of film, but I can promise that the selections will be diverse. Nothing is off limits, from the obscurest of art house movies to the latest big budget mainstream popcorn flick. Film is an amazing art form for many reasons, not the least of which is it's ability to entertain on a visceral level. You can't really talk movies without including all kinds of movies. I have a slew of ideas to begin with, but feel free to suggest specific examples in the comments section.
So, there you go. That's the plan as of Friday morning, September 16, 2011. If this sounds like something you'll enjoy, great. If not, proceed living your life.
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