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...
Thursday, November 3, 2011
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.
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