Disclaimer: This is not a Money Shot. Since the movie is still new and in theaters, it isn't possible to legally get any clips of the film. However, since I wrote almost 2000 words on the movie and have nowhere else to put it, it's going on this blog. That is all.
One would think a movie with numerous speeches about freedom, explicit reference to Weapons of Mass Destruction, manipulative government organizations withholding information, and a climactic battle that destroys a huge chunk of New York City (in Manhattan no less!) would border on heavy handed. Instead, if you read the reviews or listen to moviegoer reactions to Joss Whedon’s newest blockbuster to top all blockbusters, The Avengers, you’d find the masses calling it “exciting”, “action packed”, “fun”, “a thrill ride”, and, my personal favorite, “mindless entertainment”. It boggles my mind that a film that so proudly wears its intentions on its sleeve, that’s so obviously about the War on Terror, is being seen as nothing more than the latest easily digested, quickly forgotten, summer popcorn action flick. To quote Marge Gunderson, “Well…I just don’t understand it.”
So, in an effort to spark some discussion, open some eyes, and get a movie I can’t stop thinking about out of my head, I’m here to give an analysis of the film that hopefully shows just how unmindless (totally a made up word) the movie is. Even if no one agrees with the thoughts I put forth, I’ll feel better getting them out of my brain. I feel like I have to avenge The Avengers. I’ll take solace in knowing that the movie with the largest box office take for an opening weekend IN THE HISTORY OF MOVIES(!!!) isn’t some insipid piece of action porn from the Michael Bay school of filmmaking, but a real movie that puts forth a legitimate worldview, and has a real, worthy agenda. And with that, I promise no more flabbergasted exasperation or whining – just film analysis.
Ok, I lied. We aren’t going to analyze the film just yet, but at least I won’t be whining. Before we get into any analysis of the movie, we should briefly talk about Joss Whedon. He wrote and directed the film, and anyone who’s familiar with his previous work will tell you he’s a writer’s writer. His biggest strength is his ability to create characters you truly care about and mesh those characters with whatever ideas and statements he’s trying to get through to the audience. His work is always about something. He doesn’t just take characters through a plot and tell a story. Why anyone thought The Avengers would be any different because it had a big budget, I don’t know (shit…that probably counts as whining). Whedon’s stuck mostly to TV (the only other movie he’s directed was Serenity (2005), which was based on his cancelled TV show Firefly and mostly made to wrap that series up), which employs a much longer format that naturally allows for more character development than a 2-3 hour film. He also typically works with ensemble casts and has experience writing comic books. So, to recap, he’s an idea guy who is good with working with lots of characters and has experience in comics. I mean, could you ask for a better fit to helm The Avengers?
At this point you might be asking, “What idea is this guy working with this time? Good guys stop bad guy from taking over the world?” Well…yeah. That’s exactly the idea he’s working with. Only it isn’t the idea that a supervillain from another universe is going to take over the world by using his super powers. Ok, well, it is, but there’s this tricky little thing in works of fiction called allegory that allows what’s literally taking place throughout the entire story to stand for something else altogether. In this sense, Loki = terrorist (more specifically, power hungry terrorist meets Shakespearean Iago). In this same vein, The Avengers represent society as a whole. The movie contrasts these two concepts through the characters in the film to arrive at a very specific point – that the people within a society, through their beliefs and actions, ultimately decide what that society stands for. Those who fight for a cause bigger than themselves will always prevail over those fighting for purely selfish interests. In order for that to happen, however, the individuals that comprise said society must make it happen. As a society, we can’t be more than the sum total of all the individuals within. We make what happens happen (of course, it helps if you have an Iron Man suit to help you make things happen). How does the movie say all this? Well, now it’s time for some good old-fashioned film analysis:
Whedon is a better writer than director (which is why he’s so good on TV), so it makes sense for a lot of the film’s ideas to be told through dialogue and character interactions. However, that doesn’t mean the movie isn't without its moments of visual prowess. There are, at least, a handful of individual shots and scenes that convey the movie’s concepts visually. To start, let’s take a look at the relationship between Loki and The Avengers, since their dueling ideologies are the film’s main source of conflict.
As already mentioned, the movie contrasts these characters (and what they stand for) to make its main point. First, there’s Loki. He brings war to Earth for purely selfish reasons. He wants to get back at Thor and the rest of Asgard and wants to accumulate power while doing so. He wants to rule the world with fear, enslave the human race, and will kill whoever is in his path. It isn’t the biggest leap of faith to see him as a terrorist. He even tries to infect the minds of the people he meets to show them the advantages to his way of thinking (and quite literally does so to the minds and hearts of Hawkeye and others with his scepter). Loki’s biggest problem is someone like him can never “win” because one of two things will always happen: 1. He'll run into someone/some group fighting for the same reasons, and he’ll lose. This is pointed out to him by the old man who refuses to kneel before him in Germany: “There will always be men like you.” Captain America even references Hitler immediately afterwards when he saves the old man’s life. 2. He'll run into someone/some group fighting for a real, selfless purpose that are capable of sacrificing themselves for a higher cause, and he'll lose. The film uses the concept of conviction to make this point. A dying Agent Coulson tells Loki he’s going to lose because it’s in his nature. He lacks conviction. In Loki’s first scene, he says that he’s “burdened with glorious purpose,” but Coulson sees through it. He has no real purpose. He’s not fighting for anything that truly matters. He is a child throwing a temper tantrum because he didn’t get his way. He just wants. And what he wants is to show big brother that anything you can do, I can do better. He’s a wimp playing a wolf. No conviction, indeed. To bring the allegory full circle, what are terrorists after? Power through fear. Is that a real purpose? Does that have conviction? Coulson certainly doesn’t think so.
The Avengers, after many squabbles, become that group fighting for a tangible, selfless purpose through the very act of fighting. Obviously, they’re also the ones that defeat Loki and his army. However, more important than the group besting Loki is how they’re able to defeat him. The fights amongst the group when they first come together are hugely important. In a brilliant, excellently constructed scene, where the mind-controlled Hawkeye attacks the Helicarrier, Whedon begins making his case that attacks arise when a society is divided and individuals bicker over their own self-interest. They become blind to the world around them. As the quarrel within the Helicarrier is taking place, the movie cuts back and forth between the fighting on ship and Hawkeye setting up and launching the attack. Cutting between the Avengers arguing and Hawkeye attacking isn't exactly formally inventive, but it is effective. It's simply the correct directorial choice for what the scene is trying to accomplish. It makes the film's point by showing us, again and again, that the "bad guy" is coming as they bicker. It's a visual accentuation of the point.
Eventually, The Avengers are able to set aside their differences and work together as a team to fight Loki. Again, it isn’t just that this happens, but how. Each member of the team, as previously mentioned, has to make those choices to put the good of the cause over their own self-interest, and even safety. Captain America has to decide to go for the red lever to help out Iron Man even though he’s under fire. Thor has to decide to put his issues with Loki aside for the time being to help the team fight off Loki’s army. The Hulk has to decide to embrace "the other guy" and try to tame/control him. Iron Man has to decide he's willing to sacrifice himself and take the nuke into the portal. The movie shows this idea visually with a single, long take during the climactic battle that shows each member of the team working together and helping one another out while fighting the army. Sure, it's really cool moment, but it's more than just showy. It's the movie using it's visuals to show the team coming together, to tell the story. The pairs helping each other in the scene are even the exact pairs that are physically fighting in the Helicarrier earlier. All the pettiness has vanished, and a team has been born. In another symbolic gesture after the final battle, the film shows the “A” in Stark on the massive Stark Tower becoming The Avengers' A. Since Stark makes the biggest change from selfish to selfless in the film (and is ultimately willing to sacrifice his own life for the cause), it's fitting that the movie uses the former symbol of his massive ego to make an emphatic statement that this isn't just a group of individuals anymore.
All of this is right in line with Whedon's worldview as a self-described humanist. If The Avengers stand for society as a whole, we'll be what the individuals within it want it to be. Real power isn't making people fear you and kneel in your honor – it's a group of selfless individuals choosing to fight for a cause. The film uses the concept of sentiment to make this point. Loki sees it as humanity’s weakness, when the reality is it’s our greatest power. Having a reason, a purpose, leads to conviction.
I'm not saying this is the most profound thing in the world, or that the dichotomy between the opposing sides is that complex. Essentially, it’s a standard comic book story about a group of superheroes fighting off the latest evil threat. However, it isn't mindless. Given Whedon’s own track record and the manner in which the film presents itself, both through the writing and the filmmaking, it attempts to tackle a pretty significant subject. Whedon obviously knows the idea of fighting for the “greater good” is old-fashioned, and maybe even a little corny. The film is all the better for being self-aware enough to point this out and poke fun at itself. Again, that’s right in line with Whedon’s typical style, and it’s why his work never feels preachy or pretentious. He can humor an audience and give them characters to care about. His ideas just wash over you, and that’s something only the best writers are able to accomplish.
So, there you have it. That’s my case for The Avengers as a substantial film. Feel free to dispute every point I’ve made or tell me I’m fantastic for making them. The latter option is much preferred, but I’ll take whatever I can get.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Requiem for a Dream's Money Shot
Sometimes movies are about their plot, and sometimes they aren’t. That seems simple enough, right? Often, movies are about how they’re about what they’re about (Roger Ebert coined this phrase, not me). That’s just a fancy, concise way of saying that things like camera movements and placements, editing, and story structure are more important than just what happens. There are also things common to the art of writing like allegory and metaphor that allow for more interpretation than just what happens. What’s happening on-screen constitutes the plot, but that plot can stand for something else altogether. A recent example is Christopher Nolan’s The Dark Knight (2008). The plot concerns Batman and The Joker battling for Gotham City, but, allegorically, the film is about the U.S. involvement in the War on Terror. The best films (and books) are able to marry plot, idea, and technique seamlessly. Ideally, the viewer will be able to appreciate a work of art on the surface level as pure entertainment, but also be able to get something of value out of it with a deeper analysis of both larger significance and technique. I’m not sure Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream (2000) can be enjoyed purely as entertainment (unless you’re a masochist), but it’s worth taking a look at to see how to combine film technique and allegory effectively. And no, I won’t be talking about the infamous ass-to-ass scene.
Adapted from Hubert Selby Jr.’s novel of the same name, Requiem for a Dream’s plot deals with the horrors of hardcore drug abuse. It’s a difficult film to watch at times, but that’s by design. Aronofsky’s decision to not shy away from just how far into despair these characters fall is why the film is effective as an anti-drug piece. However, a well done anti-drug movie isn’t exactly the most insightful or ambitious idea ever put on celluloid. Selby is after more than just showing that doing drugs isn’t the most intelligent life choice. His goal is to show the death of the American Dream. The American Dream, as defined in American culture, is the idea that through hard work, prosperity and success in life is attainable, regardless of things such as social class. After all, if “all men are created equal,” logic dictates that actions alone will determine who is successful and who isn’t, right? Selby (along with many, many other authors and artists) calls bullshit on this ideal. The novel (and film), published in 1978, posits that these characters fall into utter desolation and hopelessness from a life spent chasing this unattainable Dream. Lives are spent attempting to achieve an ideal and find happiness that might not ever come. The harder people chase and hold on to that false sense of purpose, the worse off they become. They turn to things like drugs as an escape from reality to cope with being unable to achieve what was promised to them. This allegory gives the title of the work added significance. On a story level, the requiem, which is a mass for the dead, is being played for these characters’ individual dreams, which have been crushed by their choices to live life in a drug addled state. On a broader societal level, the requiem is being played for those who have spent their lives chasing this unattainable ideal.
Now that we’re clear on the allegorical significance of the piece, we can finally get to watching the Money Shot from the film. The four minutes and five seconds you’re about to watch is the ending montage of the film. As we break it down, you’ll see how Aronofsky is able to wrap up the movie’s plot while also visually showing the death of the Dream.
Unfortunately, YouTube seems to have disallowed embedding of any and all videos of this particular film, so I can only provide the following link to the clip. It sucks, I know. Trust me, I wouldn't even post the link if I hadn't spent an entire day writing 2000 words on the clip. For future reference, I'll make sure the clips are embeddable before I begin:
http://youtu.be/uuzNohk5cYw
Beginning of clip – 0:30: This first thirty second sequence is taking place inside of Harry Goldfarb’s (Jared Leto) head. It’s a dream and purely metaphorical. The first shot is of Marion Silver (Jennifer Connelly) standing at the end of a pier in a red dress with her back to Harry (the shot is actually an homage to Alex Proyas’ 1998 sci-fi noir, Dark City, which also stars Connelly). It’s an idyllic shot, full of warmth and color. We alternate between shots of Harry running to the end of the pier and of Marion with her back to him. When he finally gets there, she’s gone. Symbolically, Harry’s been chasing an illusion. As Harry realizes this, we see a look of confusion and fear on his face as he begins to retreat. We see a shot of his shoes walking backwards until he’s hanging on the edge of the pier. He falls into what looks like a back alley as he calls for Marion. Again, this symbolizes Harry’s life. The pier might not be a cliff, but it might as well be. Once Harry realized he was chasing an illusion, he falls into the darkness of fear and confusion. It’s poignant that as he’s falling, he calls out for the same ideal, despite his revelation.
0:30 – 1:10: Now that we’re back to reality, it’s important to acknowledge the significance of the juxtaposition of reality and the last moment of Harry’s dream. Harry’s dream ends with him falling into darkness, and then reality has come crashing into Harry’s dream. This sequence is the visualization of reality setting in. The scene consists of a simple shot/reverse shot pattern. A nurse is telling Harry that everything is ok and that Marion will come for him, but Harry realizes that isn’t going to happen. In the dream Harry is chasing Marion in a warm, beautiful place. In reality, he’s lying in a hospital bed with no chance of her coming.
At the 56 second mark, two of the clip’s three main stylistic calling cards kick in. First, Clint Mansell’s brilliantly haunting score, titled Lux Aeterna (which has been used in many other movies, but was written for this one), begins. Second, the camera begins to pull away from Harry in an effort to distance the viewer from the character. This distance is essential, as it’s how the film is able to condemn its characters. Both of these devices will be used over the next few minutes as the montage checks in with each of the film’s four main characters. The devices link the characters together to show the audience that, while these people are in different places and have had different experiences, their plight is the same. As the camera pulls away from Harry, we see his amputated arm as he breaks down and curls into the fetal position (the third stylistic calling card).
1:10 – 2:12: With Harry’s story told, the film shows us brief snippets of each of the other three main characters. We see Marion entering her apartment in a stunningly symbolic shot that begins with her illuminated in the doorway of her completely dark abode. As the door shuts and she turns the light on, we see paper, which will later be revealed as Marion’s fashion sketches, strewn all over the floor and table. She’s gone from the light to the dark, and her dreams, in the form of those sketches, have been trashed. Next, we’re shown Tyrone as just another one of the drug addicted masses in prison. The shot of the inmates walking in a line to their beds makes us feel that there are a lot of Tyrones in the same predicament. Finally, the film gets around to showing us Sara Goldfarb (Ellen Burstyn), but not before we see the shocked and appalled reactions of her friends. To end this sequence, the camera again begins to pull away from the characters in the film, but from Sara’s two friends that visited her in the hospital instead of from Sara herself. In a pretty bold statement, the shot places the friends alongside Sara and the other drug-addicted characters, complicit and equally as foolish in their pursuits. It isn’t just the druggies who are at fault and misguided here - it’s a larger issue.
2:12 – 3:20: The film, again, recycles through Marion, Tyrone, and Sara. This time, as the music swells, each character is framed in the same way and curls into the fetal position as the camera pulls away. Marion is looking at a wad of cash, her ruined sketches still all over her apartment floor. Tyrone is on his prison bed, and we see him thinking about his mother. Sara is in a psych ward and dreams of the game show she hoped to appear on. Along with how the film left Harry in reality, each character’s reality is shown in ruin, the direct result of clinging to the dreams they have been chasing throughout the entire movie (Harry to Marion, Marion to money, Tyrone to his mother’s acceptance and love, and Sara to getting on that game show). The fact that these people are still clinging to those dreams, despite the current state of their lives, is the ultimate condemnation of them and their actions. They’ve so desperately wanted to escape and find happiness that they’ve reduced themselves to…this. All the while, they still cling to those dreams. They haven’t really learned anything at all. They’re just fucked up.
3:20 – end of clip: The clip ends with another dream sequence, this time Sara’s. She looks great – healthy and happy. Amidst the glowing stage lights and cheering audience, we’re told that Sarah has won the grand prize. Her prize? To quote Tappy Tibbons (Christopher McDonald): “Your prize has a sweet smile and his own private business. He just got engaged, and he's planning to get married this summer. Will you please give a juicy welcome to Mrs. Sara Goldfarb's one and only son -- Harry Goldfarb!” Her son as a success. The ideal. Harry comes on stage, and as the two embrace, they tell each other that they love one another. It’s a wonderful moment. It’s a great, loving embrace. However, as Sara’s final look of the film shows, it’s also bitterly sarcastic. In a great bit of facial acting, Burstyn conveys to the viewer that Sara realizes this isn’t reality. At the 3:50 mark she has a look of sheer panic on her face before she suppresses it and goes back to smiling. The audience cheers, and the film fades to black – how Aronofsky ends most of his movies (he’s very invested in how what takes place affects those watching, but that’s another idea for another essay).
The ending of the film is bleak, hopeless, and ultimately punishes the viewer. It says that these people know exactly what they’re doing to themselves; on some level, it’s a conscious choice. They’d rather live in a dream world than in reality. In a larger sense, it’s saying that this is what the American Dream does to people. There’s no sympathy for these people, just a cautionary tale that practically screams at the audience to not be like these people. We see the last act of what are mostly decent people doing unspeakable things in an effort to escape and find happiness. The finality of it all is soul crushing. The film also takes the comment one step further by condemning the “innocent” onlookers. Not only do they stand by and let it happen, but sometimes they’ll even cheer it on. Aronofsky uses his camera to place the same judgments Selby used his pen to place, and that’s why the film adaptation succeeds in keeping the spirit of the book.
As you can see, this isn’t a movie made for entertainment. This isn’t a film I love, but rather respect a great deal. I’m not sure I agree with everything it puts forth, but I can’t really argue that it isn’t incredibly well crafted. Hopefully I’ve done a good job of showing you how.
Adapted from Hubert Selby Jr.’s novel of the same name, Requiem for a Dream’s plot deals with the horrors of hardcore drug abuse. It’s a difficult film to watch at times, but that’s by design. Aronofsky’s decision to not shy away from just how far into despair these characters fall is why the film is effective as an anti-drug piece. However, a well done anti-drug movie isn’t exactly the most insightful or ambitious idea ever put on celluloid. Selby is after more than just showing that doing drugs isn’t the most intelligent life choice. His goal is to show the death of the American Dream. The American Dream, as defined in American culture, is the idea that through hard work, prosperity and success in life is attainable, regardless of things such as social class. After all, if “all men are created equal,” logic dictates that actions alone will determine who is successful and who isn’t, right? Selby (along with many, many other authors and artists) calls bullshit on this ideal. The novel (and film), published in 1978, posits that these characters fall into utter desolation and hopelessness from a life spent chasing this unattainable Dream. Lives are spent attempting to achieve an ideal and find happiness that might not ever come. The harder people chase and hold on to that false sense of purpose, the worse off they become. They turn to things like drugs as an escape from reality to cope with being unable to achieve what was promised to them. This allegory gives the title of the work added significance. On a story level, the requiem, which is a mass for the dead, is being played for these characters’ individual dreams, which have been crushed by their choices to live life in a drug addled state. On a broader societal level, the requiem is being played for those who have spent their lives chasing this unattainable ideal.
Now that we’re clear on the allegorical significance of the piece, we can finally get to watching the Money Shot from the film. The four minutes and five seconds you’re about to watch is the ending montage of the film. As we break it down, you’ll see how Aronofsky is able to wrap up the movie’s plot while also visually showing the death of the Dream.
Unfortunately, YouTube seems to have disallowed embedding of any and all videos of this particular film, so I can only provide the following link to the clip. It sucks, I know. Trust me, I wouldn't even post the link if I hadn't spent an entire day writing 2000 words on the clip. For future reference, I'll make sure the clips are embeddable before I begin:
http://youtu.be/uuzNohk5cYw
Beginning of clip – 0:30: This first thirty second sequence is taking place inside of Harry Goldfarb’s (Jared Leto) head. It’s a dream and purely metaphorical. The first shot is of Marion Silver (Jennifer Connelly) standing at the end of a pier in a red dress with her back to Harry (the shot is actually an homage to Alex Proyas’ 1998 sci-fi noir, Dark City, which also stars Connelly). It’s an idyllic shot, full of warmth and color. We alternate between shots of Harry running to the end of the pier and of Marion with her back to him. When he finally gets there, she’s gone. Symbolically, Harry’s been chasing an illusion. As Harry realizes this, we see a look of confusion and fear on his face as he begins to retreat. We see a shot of his shoes walking backwards until he’s hanging on the edge of the pier. He falls into what looks like a back alley as he calls for Marion. Again, this symbolizes Harry’s life. The pier might not be a cliff, but it might as well be. Once Harry realized he was chasing an illusion, he falls into the darkness of fear and confusion. It’s poignant that as he’s falling, he calls out for the same ideal, despite his revelation.
0:30 – 1:10: Now that we’re back to reality, it’s important to acknowledge the significance of the juxtaposition of reality and the last moment of Harry’s dream. Harry’s dream ends with him falling into darkness, and then reality has come crashing into Harry’s dream. This sequence is the visualization of reality setting in. The scene consists of a simple shot/reverse shot pattern. A nurse is telling Harry that everything is ok and that Marion will come for him, but Harry realizes that isn’t going to happen. In the dream Harry is chasing Marion in a warm, beautiful place. In reality, he’s lying in a hospital bed with no chance of her coming.
At the 56 second mark, two of the clip’s three main stylistic calling cards kick in. First, Clint Mansell’s brilliantly haunting score, titled Lux Aeterna (which has been used in many other movies, but was written for this one), begins. Second, the camera begins to pull away from Harry in an effort to distance the viewer from the character. This distance is essential, as it’s how the film is able to condemn its characters. Both of these devices will be used over the next few minutes as the montage checks in with each of the film’s four main characters. The devices link the characters together to show the audience that, while these people are in different places and have had different experiences, their plight is the same. As the camera pulls away from Harry, we see his amputated arm as he breaks down and curls into the fetal position (the third stylistic calling card).
1:10 – 2:12: With Harry’s story told, the film shows us brief snippets of each of the other three main characters. We see Marion entering her apartment in a stunningly symbolic shot that begins with her illuminated in the doorway of her completely dark abode. As the door shuts and she turns the light on, we see paper, which will later be revealed as Marion’s fashion sketches, strewn all over the floor and table. She’s gone from the light to the dark, and her dreams, in the form of those sketches, have been trashed. Next, we’re shown Tyrone as just another one of the drug addicted masses in prison. The shot of the inmates walking in a line to their beds makes us feel that there are a lot of Tyrones in the same predicament. Finally, the film gets around to showing us Sara Goldfarb (Ellen Burstyn), but not before we see the shocked and appalled reactions of her friends. To end this sequence, the camera again begins to pull away from the characters in the film, but from Sara’s two friends that visited her in the hospital instead of from Sara herself. In a pretty bold statement, the shot places the friends alongside Sara and the other drug-addicted characters, complicit and equally as foolish in their pursuits. It isn’t just the druggies who are at fault and misguided here - it’s a larger issue.
2:12 – 3:20: The film, again, recycles through Marion, Tyrone, and Sara. This time, as the music swells, each character is framed in the same way and curls into the fetal position as the camera pulls away. Marion is looking at a wad of cash, her ruined sketches still all over her apartment floor. Tyrone is on his prison bed, and we see him thinking about his mother. Sara is in a psych ward and dreams of the game show she hoped to appear on. Along with how the film left Harry in reality, each character’s reality is shown in ruin, the direct result of clinging to the dreams they have been chasing throughout the entire movie (Harry to Marion, Marion to money, Tyrone to his mother’s acceptance and love, and Sara to getting on that game show). The fact that these people are still clinging to those dreams, despite the current state of their lives, is the ultimate condemnation of them and their actions. They’ve so desperately wanted to escape and find happiness that they’ve reduced themselves to…this. All the while, they still cling to those dreams. They haven’t really learned anything at all. They’re just fucked up.
3:20 – end of clip: The clip ends with another dream sequence, this time Sara’s. She looks great – healthy and happy. Amidst the glowing stage lights and cheering audience, we’re told that Sarah has won the grand prize. Her prize? To quote Tappy Tibbons (Christopher McDonald): “Your prize has a sweet smile and his own private business. He just got engaged, and he's planning to get married this summer. Will you please give a juicy welcome to Mrs. Sara Goldfarb's one and only son -- Harry Goldfarb!” Her son as a success. The ideal. Harry comes on stage, and as the two embrace, they tell each other that they love one another. It’s a wonderful moment. It’s a great, loving embrace. However, as Sara’s final look of the film shows, it’s also bitterly sarcastic. In a great bit of facial acting, Burstyn conveys to the viewer that Sara realizes this isn’t reality. At the 3:50 mark she has a look of sheer panic on her face before she suppresses it and goes back to smiling. The audience cheers, and the film fades to black – how Aronofsky ends most of his movies (he’s very invested in how what takes place affects those watching, but that’s another idea for another essay).
The ending of the film is bleak, hopeless, and ultimately punishes the viewer. It says that these people know exactly what they’re doing to themselves; on some level, it’s a conscious choice. They’d rather live in a dream world than in reality. In a larger sense, it’s saying that this is what the American Dream does to people. There’s no sympathy for these people, just a cautionary tale that practically screams at the audience to not be like these people. We see the last act of what are mostly decent people doing unspeakable things in an effort to escape and find happiness. The finality of it all is soul crushing. The film also takes the comment one step further by condemning the “innocent” onlookers. Not only do they stand by and let it happen, but sometimes they’ll even cheer it on. Aronofsky uses his camera to place the same judgments Selby used his pen to place, and that’s why the film adaptation succeeds in keeping the spirit of the book.
As you can see, this isn’t a movie made for entertainment. This isn’t a film I love, but rather respect a great deal. I’m not sure I agree with everything it puts forth, but I can’t really argue that it isn’t incredibly well crafted. Hopefully I’ve done a good job of showing you how.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Up's Money Shot (and why The Artist sucks)
At their core, movies are a string of images connected together to create meaning. The dialogue, acting, special effects, and music that normally accompany them are simply evolutions of this basic concept. At its inception (mostly out of necessity), film had no sound and existed in this primitive state. As technology developed, the medium began to evolve, but the most powerful films still remain largely visual. It’s this reason why I’m always preaching things like “show, don’t tell” on this blog. The power of the image is what movies are about.
I start with all of this nonsense that you already know because I’ve recently seen 2011’s critical darling and Oscar frontrunner, The Artist. Michel Hazanavicius’ silent film about the transition from silent movies to “talkies” is being praised for harkening back to film’s early days and serving as a way to remind modern audiences just how wonderful and awe-inspiring movies can be. Now, you might think all that sounds silly (and you’d be right – it does), but I urge you to check out some of the reviews of the film. Critics are going ape shit. In an effort to avoid turning this post into a scathing critique of The Artist, I’ll just quickly point out why the film is a fraud and move on to the as-promised-by-the-title discussion of Up.
Silent films are so wonderful because, more than any other kind of film, they rely on visuals to tell the story. Every great silent film is great because of how it presents its images in relation to one another. Hazanavicius’ film doesn’t really do this. The movie seems content to simply have scenes where two people are having a conversation, and then inset a title card to let the audience know what was said. That just isn’t very interesting visually. Given that the movie itself has no ambitions other than to show audiences of today what the silent films of yesterday looked like, this doesn’t really make a lot of sense. The film is nothing more than an attempt at mimicry, and it fails in that regard. Not only does the movie fail at what it’s trying to accomplish, but the goal is ridiculous as a concept. There’s nothing valuable about preserving the past for the sake of preserving the past. There should be a reason aside from just showing the people of today what existed way back when. And then, there’s this: Why do we need a 2011 movie that shows us what the silent movies of the 1910s and 20s were like? A good deal of those movies still exist! Just watch them! If people don’t search them out, then we should accept that tastes have changed along with technology and not force said older technology onto a public that clearly doesn’t care. In other words, stop telling people what they should like. Let them make that decision.
I start with this little (ok, much too long) rant because Pixar’s Up (2009) achieves in a little under five minutes what The Artist took 100 minutes to try and fail at miserably. And with that, here’s the clip:
Hopefully your eyes aren’t too blurry to continue reading. If they are, feel free to pause here and get a Kleenex. If it makes you feel any better, I had to watch the clip 3 times (in addition to all the times I’ve seen the movie itself) before I could even begin writing this. Now that I’ve officially outed myself as a softie in an effort to make you feel better about (possibly) also being a softie, we should probably get to it.
The title of this scene in the film (and the song accompanying it) is Married Life. It’s a fitting title – nice and simple, like the scene itself. However, it’s that simplicity that gives the scene such heft. The film takes easily recognizable images and associates them with common ideas in order to create meaning. For example, when we see a car tire blow out, followed by Carl and Ellie breaking their savings jar, we know they’ve gone into their savings to pay for the repair. By placing those images against one another, the film creates meaning. The scene is able to capture an entire life this way. It’s a concise and affecting sequence and a perfect use of the techniques of silent film, largely due to this juxtaposition of images.
The scene’s practical purpose is two fold: 1) it serves as exposition for the audience, and 2) it invests the audience in Carl’s character and relationship with Ellie. Since the majority of the film follows Carl’s life after his wife’s death, doing both of those things are essential to the film being successful. These goals sound easy enough to attain, but good exposition is few and far between in the movie world. Voiceover narration that plainly and blandly tells the audience everything they need to know is a common tactic. That sucks. As always, show, don’t tell. The reason this particular example succeeds is because it does just that. The fact that it’s basically a short silent film all to itself makes me get all Film Geek Nerdy, but it works within the larger context of the film beautifully, as we’ll see when we break the scene down:
0:16 – 1:23: The sequence begins with a series of small vignettes that depict Carl and Ellie as newlyweds. We start by seeing Carl carry Ellie into their new home (the house they met in, incidentally). It’s a classic fixer-upper. We then see Ellie sawing a piece of wood and Carl hammering nails in a doorway, followed by a shot of the two sliding chairs underneath a window. Since the previous shot showed the condition of their house, we know that the two are making home improvements. Carl then accidentally leaves his handprint on the mailbox, and Ellie does the same to make him feel better as the two share a laugh. This first vignette ends by showing the finished house, which looks exactly like their childhood drawing. Their life together has started, the couple clearly cares for each other, and they’re happy.
The second vignette begins as Ellie runs to the top of the hill, while Carl has to stop and catch his breath. The couple then shares a picnic and watches the clouds shape as Ellie educates Carl on animals and shows off her imagination. This vignette ends with the camera panning from Ellie’s explanation to Carl’s smiling face. This is important because it forces the viewer to see things from Carl’s point of view. The remainder of the film is about Carl dealing with the loss of Ellie, so it’s essential for the audience to see things through his eyes. Once again, these two are enjoying a happy life together.
Next, we’re treated to two short vignettes that show the couple at work and at leisure. First, Carl is the balloon man at the zoo, while Ellie’s outfit and bird tell us she works with the animals. Second, the couple holds hands as they each read a book in the chairs we saw earlier. Again, we know they’re in their house since we previously saw them place those chairs in that exact spot.
At the 1:02 mark, the couple is having another picnic (again, since we’ve previously seen...ok, you get the idea by now). Instead of an animal in the sky, Carl sees a baby. Ellie then sees lots of babies. Carl’s smile is all we need to indicate that the couple is going to try to have a child together.
What this first minute or so of the sequence has accomplished is quite impressive. Each small vignette has a specific purpose (whether it be home, work, family, leisure time, etc.) – they take broad ideas commonly associated with a young marriage and place them together to paint Carl and Ellie’s picture. This linking of separate small scenes is basically how film, as a storytelling device, came to be. It’s more pronounced in silent films because there isn’t a whole lot to focus on other than the visuals, but these sorts of tactics are still the building blocks of all movies. These five short sequences, when shown together, show the audience a healthy, happy new marriage.
1:23 – 1:35: The couple is turning a room into a nursery for the new baby. The camera pans to the right and shows the couple talking to a doctor and Ellie burying her hands in her face. We realize that a baby isn’t coming. The use of color and music are vital in this vignette. The colors in the nursery are bright, vibrant, and, most importantly, lively. The colors in the doctor’s office are dark, drab, and indicative of death. The music throughout the clip has been upbeat and happy. As the couple is working on the nursery, the music begins that same way. But, after only four notes, the tone turns melancholy to mirror what we’re seeing onscreen. Both the use of color and music within this vignette are very simple forms of contrast that both work incredibly well. As a viewer, you just get it, without any real thought on the matter.
1:35 – 2:03: Carl looks at Ellie from a distance (shown again from his POV). He goes to her, gives her the adventure book, and smiles. The couple paints a picture of their house on a cliff, and then we see a coin placed in a jar marked “Paradise Falls”. The two then each cross their heart with a hand raised. We realize that the two still plan to live for each other and follow their dreams. Despite being unable to have a child, their bond is reinforced.
2:03 – 2:43: At this point, the film uses a series of mini-montages to pass time. We see Carl and Ellie filling their savings jar. We see various unexpected things go wrong (a blown out tire, a broken leg, a tree falling onto their house) and the two breaking their savings jar each time. We see Ellie straightening Carl’s tie before work each morning, which then turns into a second mini-montage. After the tie montage, we see the couple again. They are elderly, but they kiss and laugh and still seem just as in love. These series of montages, along with the vignette about losing the baby, serve to show the audience a middle aged couple focusing on their careers and going through the ups and downs of life. The stroke of genius is that through the savings jar and tie montages, the movie has condensed 40 years into 40 seconds without losing any emotion. The use of montage here is also important, as it tells the audience that these ups and downs are essentially what life is.
2:43 – 3:04: Now as an elderly couple, we see that Carl and Ellie aren’t too terribly different. They’re still doing things we’ve previously seen them doing (working, cleaning the house, and having fun together). The film repeats some of the images from earlier in the scene in order to show us the couple is still as happy as they’ve always been.
3:04 – 3:22: This is a pretty brilliant little sequence as Carl picks up a picture of Ellie as a child, looks at the painted picture of their house in Paradise Falls, and looks at the elderly, “real-life” Ellie. Carl’s disappointed reaction and subsequent idea connect the three images. If the couple wants to make good on the dreams of their youth, they should act now before it’s too late. He buys plane tickets, and plans a picnic to surprise Ellie.
3:22 – end of clip: As Carl rushes to the couple’s familiar picnic spot and prepares to spring the surprise on Ellie, the image mirrors a pleasant moment shown earlier where Ellie rushed up the hill and Carl lagged behind. The mood turns melancholy as we see Ellie fall to her knees and Carl rush to her side. The message is clear – no matter how hard Carl tries to recapture the dreams of their youth, it can’t happen. At the 3:30 mark a dissolve to transition into the next scene. Up until this moment, the entire sequence has been a series of individually constructed shots placed next to each other which make up small vignettes. These vignettes have also been placed next to one another to create another, broader layer of meaning. Each shot ended with a cut before showing the next image. Here, when Ellie falls and Carl runs to her, the image bleeds into the first image of the next scene (or dissolves into it, hence the term). Dissolves are used for a variety of reasons, and here it’s used to visually and thematically link the final few images of the montage. The rest of the film is going to deal with Carl’s difficulty moving on with his life without Ellie, and by bleeding these final images into one another, the film begins to show that visually. Carl can’t let go of these memories, so the film, being told from his perspective, doesn’t want to either. It’s an excellent example of film technique used to say something a little more substantial.
After the dissolve, we see Ellie reading a book while lying in a hospital bed as a balloon floats towards her. The balloons throughout the scene are important because they, along with the house, later become a symbol for Carl’s inability to truly let Ellie go as well as a symbol of unfulfilled childhood dreams. The fact that the montage takes the time to set that up by having them in their lives throughout the entire scene is pretty great. This sequence once again uses music to create mood. The music is simple throughout the scene, employing different takes on the same structure in order to convey emotion. Once Ellie gives Carl their adventure book, the couple holds hands as Carl kisses Ellie on her forehead. The image speaks for itself – this is their goodbye.
Another dissolve is used at the 4:00 mark as we see Carl sitting alone with the blue balloon in a funeral home, presumably after Ellie’s funeral. At the 4:07 mark, a final dissolve is used and we see Carl, again with the balloon, walking alone into their home. At 4:20, we fade to black and the scene ends.
In just over four minutes we see comedy, tragedy, and everything in between. Simply put, it’s a life lived. The film uses the power of the image to show this and marries it seamlessly with technique. As far as homages to silent films go, you can’t really find a better example of what makes them so great. You also can’t really find another film today that uses these techniques and this kind of homage for a distinct and real purpose other than to just do it. The sequence wouldn’t be so concise and affecting without the use of these techniques, and it makes the rest of the film that much richer.
I start with all of this nonsense that you already know because I’ve recently seen 2011’s critical darling and Oscar frontrunner, The Artist. Michel Hazanavicius’ silent film about the transition from silent movies to “talkies” is being praised for harkening back to film’s early days and serving as a way to remind modern audiences just how wonderful and awe-inspiring movies can be. Now, you might think all that sounds silly (and you’d be right – it does), but I urge you to check out some of the reviews of the film. Critics are going ape shit. In an effort to avoid turning this post into a scathing critique of The Artist, I’ll just quickly point out why the film is a fraud and move on to the as-promised-by-the-title discussion of Up.
Silent films are so wonderful because, more than any other kind of film, they rely on visuals to tell the story. Every great silent film is great because of how it presents its images in relation to one another. Hazanavicius’ film doesn’t really do this. The movie seems content to simply have scenes where two people are having a conversation, and then inset a title card to let the audience know what was said. That just isn’t very interesting visually. Given that the movie itself has no ambitions other than to show audiences of today what the silent films of yesterday looked like, this doesn’t really make a lot of sense. The film is nothing more than an attempt at mimicry, and it fails in that regard. Not only does the movie fail at what it’s trying to accomplish, but the goal is ridiculous as a concept. There’s nothing valuable about preserving the past for the sake of preserving the past. There should be a reason aside from just showing the people of today what existed way back when. And then, there’s this: Why do we need a 2011 movie that shows us what the silent movies of the 1910s and 20s were like? A good deal of those movies still exist! Just watch them! If people don’t search them out, then we should accept that tastes have changed along with technology and not force said older technology onto a public that clearly doesn’t care. In other words, stop telling people what they should like. Let them make that decision.
I start with this little (ok, much too long) rant because Pixar’s Up (2009) achieves in a little under five minutes what The Artist took 100 minutes to try and fail at miserably. And with that, here’s the clip:
Hopefully your eyes aren’t too blurry to continue reading. If they are, feel free to pause here and get a Kleenex. If it makes you feel any better, I had to watch the clip 3 times (in addition to all the times I’ve seen the movie itself) before I could even begin writing this. Now that I’ve officially outed myself as a softie in an effort to make you feel better about (possibly) also being a softie, we should probably get to it.
The title of this scene in the film (and the song accompanying it) is Married Life. It’s a fitting title – nice and simple, like the scene itself. However, it’s that simplicity that gives the scene such heft. The film takes easily recognizable images and associates them with common ideas in order to create meaning. For example, when we see a car tire blow out, followed by Carl and Ellie breaking their savings jar, we know they’ve gone into their savings to pay for the repair. By placing those images against one another, the film creates meaning. The scene is able to capture an entire life this way. It’s a concise and affecting sequence and a perfect use of the techniques of silent film, largely due to this juxtaposition of images.
The scene’s practical purpose is two fold: 1) it serves as exposition for the audience, and 2) it invests the audience in Carl’s character and relationship with Ellie. Since the majority of the film follows Carl’s life after his wife’s death, doing both of those things are essential to the film being successful. These goals sound easy enough to attain, but good exposition is few and far between in the movie world. Voiceover narration that plainly and blandly tells the audience everything they need to know is a common tactic. That sucks. As always, show, don’t tell. The reason this particular example succeeds is because it does just that. The fact that it’s basically a short silent film all to itself makes me get all Film Geek Nerdy, but it works within the larger context of the film beautifully, as we’ll see when we break the scene down:
0:16 – 1:23: The sequence begins with a series of small vignettes that depict Carl and Ellie as newlyweds. We start by seeing Carl carry Ellie into their new home (the house they met in, incidentally). It’s a classic fixer-upper. We then see Ellie sawing a piece of wood and Carl hammering nails in a doorway, followed by a shot of the two sliding chairs underneath a window. Since the previous shot showed the condition of their house, we know that the two are making home improvements. Carl then accidentally leaves his handprint on the mailbox, and Ellie does the same to make him feel better as the two share a laugh. This first vignette ends by showing the finished house, which looks exactly like their childhood drawing. Their life together has started, the couple clearly cares for each other, and they’re happy.
The second vignette begins as Ellie runs to the top of the hill, while Carl has to stop and catch his breath. The couple then shares a picnic and watches the clouds shape as Ellie educates Carl on animals and shows off her imagination. This vignette ends with the camera panning from Ellie’s explanation to Carl’s smiling face. This is important because it forces the viewer to see things from Carl’s point of view. The remainder of the film is about Carl dealing with the loss of Ellie, so it’s essential for the audience to see things through his eyes. Once again, these two are enjoying a happy life together.
Next, we’re treated to two short vignettes that show the couple at work and at leisure. First, Carl is the balloon man at the zoo, while Ellie’s outfit and bird tell us she works with the animals. Second, the couple holds hands as they each read a book in the chairs we saw earlier. Again, we know they’re in their house since we previously saw them place those chairs in that exact spot.
At the 1:02 mark, the couple is having another picnic (again, since we’ve previously seen...ok, you get the idea by now). Instead of an animal in the sky, Carl sees a baby. Ellie then sees lots of babies. Carl’s smile is all we need to indicate that the couple is going to try to have a child together.
What this first minute or so of the sequence has accomplished is quite impressive. Each small vignette has a specific purpose (whether it be home, work, family, leisure time, etc.) – they take broad ideas commonly associated with a young marriage and place them together to paint Carl and Ellie’s picture. This linking of separate small scenes is basically how film, as a storytelling device, came to be. It’s more pronounced in silent films because there isn’t a whole lot to focus on other than the visuals, but these sorts of tactics are still the building blocks of all movies. These five short sequences, when shown together, show the audience a healthy, happy new marriage.
1:23 – 1:35: The couple is turning a room into a nursery for the new baby. The camera pans to the right and shows the couple talking to a doctor and Ellie burying her hands in her face. We realize that a baby isn’t coming. The use of color and music are vital in this vignette. The colors in the nursery are bright, vibrant, and, most importantly, lively. The colors in the doctor’s office are dark, drab, and indicative of death. The music throughout the clip has been upbeat and happy. As the couple is working on the nursery, the music begins that same way. But, after only four notes, the tone turns melancholy to mirror what we’re seeing onscreen. Both the use of color and music within this vignette are very simple forms of contrast that both work incredibly well. As a viewer, you just get it, without any real thought on the matter.
1:35 – 2:03: Carl looks at Ellie from a distance (shown again from his POV). He goes to her, gives her the adventure book, and smiles. The couple paints a picture of their house on a cliff, and then we see a coin placed in a jar marked “Paradise Falls”. The two then each cross their heart with a hand raised. We realize that the two still plan to live for each other and follow their dreams. Despite being unable to have a child, their bond is reinforced.
2:03 – 2:43: At this point, the film uses a series of mini-montages to pass time. We see Carl and Ellie filling their savings jar. We see various unexpected things go wrong (a blown out tire, a broken leg, a tree falling onto their house) and the two breaking their savings jar each time. We see Ellie straightening Carl’s tie before work each morning, which then turns into a second mini-montage. After the tie montage, we see the couple again. They are elderly, but they kiss and laugh and still seem just as in love. These series of montages, along with the vignette about losing the baby, serve to show the audience a middle aged couple focusing on their careers and going through the ups and downs of life. The stroke of genius is that through the savings jar and tie montages, the movie has condensed 40 years into 40 seconds without losing any emotion. The use of montage here is also important, as it tells the audience that these ups and downs are essentially what life is.
2:43 – 3:04: Now as an elderly couple, we see that Carl and Ellie aren’t too terribly different. They’re still doing things we’ve previously seen them doing (working, cleaning the house, and having fun together). The film repeats some of the images from earlier in the scene in order to show us the couple is still as happy as they’ve always been.
3:04 – 3:22: This is a pretty brilliant little sequence as Carl picks up a picture of Ellie as a child, looks at the painted picture of their house in Paradise Falls, and looks at the elderly, “real-life” Ellie. Carl’s disappointed reaction and subsequent idea connect the three images. If the couple wants to make good on the dreams of their youth, they should act now before it’s too late. He buys plane tickets, and plans a picnic to surprise Ellie.
3:22 – end of clip: As Carl rushes to the couple’s familiar picnic spot and prepares to spring the surprise on Ellie, the image mirrors a pleasant moment shown earlier where Ellie rushed up the hill and Carl lagged behind. The mood turns melancholy as we see Ellie fall to her knees and Carl rush to her side. The message is clear – no matter how hard Carl tries to recapture the dreams of their youth, it can’t happen. At the 3:30 mark a dissolve to transition into the next scene. Up until this moment, the entire sequence has been a series of individually constructed shots placed next to each other which make up small vignettes. These vignettes have also been placed next to one another to create another, broader layer of meaning. Each shot ended with a cut before showing the next image. Here, when Ellie falls and Carl runs to her, the image bleeds into the first image of the next scene (or dissolves into it, hence the term). Dissolves are used for a variety of reasons, and here it’s used to visually and thematically link the final few images of the montage. The rest of the film is going to deal with Carl’s difficulty moving on with his life without Ellie, and by bleeding these final images into one another, the film begins to show that visually. Carl can’t let go of these memories, so the film, being told from his perspective, doesn’t want to either. It’s an excellent example of film technique used to say something a little more substantial.
After the dissolve, we see Ellie reading a book while lying in a hospital bed as a balloon floats towards her. The balloons throughout the scene are important because they, along with the house, later become a symbol for Carl’s inability to truly let Ellie go as well as a symbol of unfulfilled childhood dreams. The fact that the montage takes the time to set that up by having them in their lives throughout the entire scene is pretty great. This sequence once again uses music to create mood. The music is simple throughout the scene, employing different takes on the same structure in order to convey emotion. Once Ellie gives Carl their adventure book, the couple holds hands as Carl kisses Ellie on her forehead. The image speaks for itself – this is their goodbye.
Another dissolve is used at the 4:00 mark as we see Carl sitting alone with the blue balloon in a funeral home, presumably after Ellie’s funeral. At the 4:07 mark, a final dissolve is used and we see Carl, again with the balloon, walking alone into their home. At 4:20, we fade to black and the scene ends.
In just over four minutes we see comedy, tragedy, and everything in between. Simply put, it’s a life lived. The film uses the power of the image to show this and marries it seamlessly with technique. As far as homages to silent films go, you can’t really find a better example of what makes them so great. You also can’t really find another film today that uses these techniques and this kind of homage for a distinct and real purpose other than to just do it. The sequence wouldn’t be so concise and affecting without the use of these techniques, and it makes the rest of the film that much richer.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Inglourious Basterds' Money Shot
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.
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.
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.
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