Inception

2010 // USA // Chistopher Nolan // July 27, 2010 // Theatrical Print (St. Louis Cinemas Moolah Theater)

[Note: This post contains spoilers.]

My second descent into Christopher Nolan's breathless heist-of-the-mind proved to be a far richer experience than I had anticipated. I settled into my seat prepared to engage in a little due diligence: putting to rest some lingering questions vis-à -vis the mechanics of the film's "shared dreaming" conceit, as well as resolving my creeping suspicions that Inception's aspirations of thematic profundity would prove to be hollow in the cold light of another viewing. On this second point, I was pleased to be proved wrong.

While the film's labyrinthine plot has been subject to endless online parsing—see Sam Adams' essential, exhaustive summary and exegesis at Salon, if you're still sorting it out—all the crunchy specifics quickly receded into the background on a second viewing. A pre-existing familiarity with the story's stacked levels of consciousness and elaborate science-fiction rules (thin on the science end though they might be) allowed me to engage with the film's other facets, which proved to be deeper than I remembered.

With hindsight, it's apparent that Cobb is not only not the hero of this story, but may actually be the villain, albeit one that is more negligent and selfish than actively malicious. His obsessive attachment to Mal and his determination to be re-united with his children (and who can fault him for the latter?) results in a horrendous lack of judgment, setting up the story's most perilous conflicts. For the other team members, there's not that much as stake in the inception of Robert Fischer. If their mission fails, all that's lost is a share of their reward from Saito. Cobb's deceptions—he conceals both his problems with Mal and the risks associated with Yusuf's custom sedative—put them all in danger, including Saito himself, who's bank-rolling the whole endeavor. Almost as quickly as she is introduced, Ariadne steps into the role of Cobb's conscience: she's having none of his taciturn, lone wolf posturing, in light of the peril he's placing them in. These aspects stand out much more starkly the second time down the rabbit hole, almost to the point where the heady action—which is so intrinsic to the film's initial wallop—becomes its least interesting aspect to dwell on.

Admittedly, there's not much spark between DiCaprio and Cotillard, and Nolan isn't willing to do the heavy lifting to justify his leads' glistening tears and howls of anguish. Still, Cobb's reluctance to let go of his wife's memory is the dynamo that generates Inception's dark energy, and on my second go-around, I was much more taken with the story of the man's profoundly damaged psyche. In this, the film shares much with Nolan's Memento, as both feature protagonists who exude confidence and street-smarts, and yet dwell inside bubbles of fantasy and denial. At least in poor Leonard's case, his delusion is entwined with his short-term memory loss; Cobb, meanwhile, has no excuses for his behavior, other than his apparent belief that his skill at extraction makes him exceptional, and therefore above his own rules. If the story of Fischer Senior and Junior is somewhat lacking in emotional vigor, it's nonetheless fascinating to witness all the ways in which Cobb's journey parallels that of the young billionaire. The film's heist is, of course, as much about Cobb's catharsis as Fischer's. While I'm not convinced that Cobb is "really" the subject of the inception, or the more baroque theory that Araidne is actually his therapist, the contours of Nolan's script suggest that Cobb's tale is the one that matters here. Everything else in the story comments upon and adds texture to that fundamental drama of one man's stubborn refusal to move on.

While my own reaction to the film has been quite positive, some of the criticisms aimed at the film are nonetheless observant and ably articulated. Dennis Cozzalio's take, particularly his trenchant pinpointing of some of Nolan's questionable storytelling choices, comes closest to the reaction of my own Dark Side, a bitter imp that hates everything brash, everything self-important, and especially everything brashly self-important (which Inception most certainly is). That said, talking about criticism itself (or, horrors, talking about criticism about criticism) makes me a little queasy, so for now I'll just point you in the direction of some of the usual suspects, some of whom are much less sanguine than I about the film's merits: Glenn Kenny, the Film Doctor, Jason Bellamy, J.D. at Radiator Heaven, and, naturally, Jim Emerson, whose antipathy for Nolan's films is well-known and always impressively elucidated.

Metropolis (The Complete Version)

1927 // Germany // Fritz Lang // July 26, 2010 // Theatrical Print (Landmark Tivoli Theater)

My first experience with Metropolis was, unfortunately, a relatively cheap DVD that was apparently released after the film's American copyright had lapsed. You can imagine the quality. I have never seen the 2002 Murnau Foundation / Kino International restoration, so the new "Complete" Metropolis now enjoying a limited theatrical release in the U.S. was akin to a brand spanking new film to my eyes. This iteration of the film seemed almost twice as long as the version I had recalled. Certainly, the narrative is more coherent, although still not without its plot holes. (As Glenn Kenny wonders, where exactly is the army that Joh Fredersen was presumably going to use to crush the workers' rebellion?) The "Argentinean footage" that was the impetus for this version of the film is in rough shape and not especially revelatory, but it does provide more connective tissue, so to speak, rounding out aspects of the story that might otherwise have seemed even more perplexing.

To contemporary sensibilities, the film's treacly message of cooperation and moderation seems like naive, feel-good moralizing, a ridiculously flimsy attempt to resolve the fundamental conflict between capitalism's grinding indifference and socialism's revolutionary flame. However, the visual achievements on display here are undeniable. And yet, for all of Metropolis' seminal design and stunning ambition—and those crowd shots do look remarkable on the big screen—the most fascinating aspect of the film for this viewer remains its curious (and under-developed) attitude towards robotics and artificial intelligence. Here we have one of the first cinematic depictions of a machine crafted to resemble a person, and yet such a marvel becomes secondary to the film's enthusiasm for sheer spectacle and its half-baked portrayal of the antagonism between management and labor.

Nonetheless, I think that the way that the Robot Maria is portrayed in the film is quite revealing. Our contemporary conception of artificial intelligence is tightly entwined with the notion of cold rationality, where even the most fearsome mechanical being (a Terminator, say), is assumed to simply be following its programming with ruthless efficiency. From the moment she attains consciousness, however, the Robot Maria displays an almost comically malevolent lust for chaos and destruction. Brigitte Helm's astonishing performance—which is grotesque even for a silent film portrayal—shrieks one message loud and clear: this woman-thing is bad, bad news. Helm conveys an automaton that visibly revels in its role as an instigator and idolatrous object. Heck, she's laughing with satanic glee even as they lash her to the stake for an old-fashioned witch-burning. The portentous use of biblical imagery simply bolds and underlines the current of moral terror that Helm establishes with her performance. One wonders whether Lang and writer Thea von Harbou thought that all artificial beings would necessarily turn out to be wicked monsters. Or perhaps Rotwang's own ambitions were so tainted by sorrow and vengeance that his creation was inevitably corrupted? Who can say? The film doesn't, so we're left to speculate. Nonetheless, the Robot Maria's almost manic need to destroy strongly suggests a deeply skeptical view of humankind's capacity for creation, well before words like "android" even existed.

Throne of Blood

1957 // Japan // Akira Kurosawa // July 18, 2010 // Theatrical Print (Webster University Moore Auditorium)

[Throne of Blood was screened on July 18, 2010 as a part of the Webster University Film Series' retrospective on the films of Akira Kurosawa, in honor of his centennial birthday.]

When it comes to adaptations of Macbeth, restraint is not usually part of the equation, and Kurosawa's thrilling take on the Bard's succinct, bloody tragedy is no exception. I'll let those more familiar with Japanese culture than I hold forth on the director's use of Noh drama conventions in the film. For me, the most remarkable aspect of Throne of Blood is the potency with which the director and writers convey the tragedy's distinctly Greek patrimony. I've always found one of Macbeth's most compelling themes to be the mystery of free will, a focus that marks the play as an heir to a vital Hellenistic tradition, epitomized in Sophocles' Oedipus the King. However, Shakespeare and Kurosawa probe beyond the rudimentary paradoxes that crop up wherever prophecies of doom are concerned, conveying the supremacy of our baser natures over our noblest aspirations, as well as the essential helplessness that characterizes so much of the human experience.

Moreover, there's an undeniable and incredibly fruitful tension at work in Throne of Blood between the Kurosawa the tale-spinner and Kurosawa the humanist. It's clear the director has a lot of affection for the bombastic, exaggerated dimensions of the story, evident in the way Toshirô Mifune's Washizu stalks around bow-legged, stiff-spined, and eyes bulging. Or in the discordant whistle that pierces the soundtrack when Washizu learns he has been named master of the Northern Garrison. (Just! Like! The! Spirit! PREDICTED!) However, the film always retains a sense of mournfulness and desperation that gives it greater weight than that of a mere wicked fairy tale. Kurosawa and Mifune manage to make Washizu genuinely pitiable—he actually evokes a whimpering child when Miki's ghost makes its appearance—even as the man succumbs to the blackest, most putrescent excesses of hubris. And of course, there is Isuzu Yamada's turn as the terrifying Asaji, who makes Lady Macbeth seem like a quivering piker by comparison. It's not a perfect film. Too often, Kurosawa laboriously extends sequences that don't seem to warrant such treatment, as in Washizu and Miki's wanderings after their encounter with the forest spirit, or in the Lord Tzuzuki's funeral procession. Yet Throne of Blood stands out as one of the finest filmic adaptations of Shakespeare I've seen, capturing the spirit of the source material perfectly while also serving as an exceptional cinematic work in its own right.

Ran

1985 // Japan // Akira Kurosawa // July 5, 2010 // Theatrical Print (Webster University Moore Auditorium)

[Ran is being screened on July 2-6 and 8, 2010 as a part of the Webster University Film Series' retrospective on the films of Akira Kurosawa, in honor of his centennial birthday.]

Ran is something of a seminal film for me. It was not only the first Kurosawa film I ever saw, but also the first non-animated Japanese film and the first non-English-language epic. It remains the only staging, adaptation, or re-imagining of King Lear I've ever seen, live or filmed. On this point, I think that Kurosawa's take—which owes as much, if not more, to legends of the historical daimyo Mori Motonari than it does to the Bard—makes for better cinema than a stricter adaptation of Lear might have made. Ran doesn't really have any analogues to the often confusing Gloucester plot threads in Shakespeare's tragedy. The story rests on the simple formula of the Great Lord and the Three Sons, with Lady Kaede thrown in as the wild card (or the ace up Misfortune's sleeve, depending on you look at it). That said, at its core, Ran is fundamentally a singularly bleak Shakespearean tragedy, stocked with characters who lament (to the heavens, no less) the cruel, capricious, bloody nature of the human condition in suitably purple prose. It's a flawlessly grim film, where even the jester Kyoami's japes seem ripe with dire portent, and it is this discipline in tone that prevents Ran from sliding into the depths of angst-ridden self-parody.

Consistent with what I suspect is the pattern for most viewers, the first time I saw the film, the bloody siege of the Third Castle is what stuck in my mind, along with Tatsuya Nakadai's frightening visage. To be sure, the siege remains a brutal, utterly de-romanticized depiction of warfare, but repeat viewings reveal a slower film than one might remember, replete with pauses, meanderings, and lengthy shots of little more than Nakadai's Hidetora reacting to each fresh twist of fate with stupefied, goggle-eyed horror. Which isn't to say that Ran is a sedate film, by any means. With the exception of the opening sequence on a bucolic green hilltop, the scenes in which very little action is occurring are nonetheless characterized by an uncanny "offness," frequently underlined by natural sounds that intrude into visually placid moments, bestowing a sense of alarm and discord. This gives the audience ample time to savor the pure cinematic majesty of the film, while still maintaining a gnawing awareness that events are tumbling into chaos.

This was my first time experiencing Ran on the big screen, and I discerned endless details that I had never picked up on before. The most startling occurs in the final shots, as Suburo's army marches away in grief across a barren plain. Eventually the films cuts to a closer shot of the orange cliffs that loom behind the army, where blind Tsurumaru waits on the precipice for his sister. I had never before observed that Tsurumaru is actually visible in that initial long shot, as little more than a dot on the cliffs. That detail, putting an actor on that precipice, all so that there would be that little shadowed speck there, and the audience would gasp, "Oh my God, is that the blind guy, still standing there...?" just before the cut that confirms it... well, that's what epic film-making in the days before CGI was all about.

Orphan

2009 // USA // Jaume Collet-Serra // June 13, 2010 // Blu-ray - Warner Brothers (2009)

[Note: This post contains spoilers.]

Steadfastly ridiculous from its opening moments to its unnecessarily prolonged conclusion, and yet still a rather fun, ghastly ride, Jaume Collet-Serra's odd little thriller gets lots of mileage out of the Evil Kid archetype. We know from the outset that Isabelle Fuhrman's Esther—all chestnut curls, lacey ribbon, and icepick glares—is Bad News (even if her dimwit adopted father doesn't), but the exact nature of her schemes is a revelation left for the final scenes. Evil Kid thrillers have long been a favorite haunt for creaky nature-versus-nurture questions, going all the way back to Mervyn LeRoy's The Bad Seed. If Orphan were merely a weary retread of such paths, it would be entirely forgettable. However, this murderous nine-year-old girl is, in fact, a murderous 33-year-old Estonian dwarf. That changes things, no? On the one hand, this twist turns Orphan into just another Homicidal Maniac film, robbing it of the Evil Kid sub-sub-genre's unsettling appeal. On the other hand, Esther's adulthood spikes the film with Freudian voodoo, giving Collet-Serra space to engage with twisted themes that most horror films can't tackle, especially the notion of child as spousal replacement. Orphan has its spatters of brutally graphic violence (I'll never look at a workbench vice the same way again), but its most memorable moments are those the revel in their emotional and visual perversity. Chief among these is Esther's vampish seduction of her adopted father, which is, frankly, about nine levels of Fucked Up. Nonetheless, an audacious high concept can't entirely atone for over two hours of ludicrous implausibles, foolish character behavior, and dreary narrative predictability.

Shutter Island

2010 // USA // Martin Scorsese // June 11, 2010 // Blu-ray - Paramount (2010)

[Note: This post contains spoilers.]

Grading on a curve is a tricky and sometimes ill-advised endeavor, but now that I find myself at the halfway point in an apparently dismal year for cinema, Martin Scorsese's relentlessly moody labyrinth seems to merit a bit more affection than I afforded it back in February. Granted, the flaws that were in evidence on a first viewing are still present: the dearth of gratifying horror rhythms; the relative aimlessness of the middle act; the fragility of Dr. Crawley's outlandish scheme. However, the whiff of disposability that emanates from any film reliant on a concluding twist proves to be phantasmal here, for a second visit to Shutter Island provides bountiful avenues for engagement. Foreknowledge of "Teddy's" situation reveals a marvelously scrupulous aspect to the film's assembly, especially vis-à -vis its performances. One could dedicate a screening solely to observing Mark Ruffalo or Ben Kingsley, each of whom delivers a stunningly modulated portrayal that operates on two planes simultaneously. Even the reaction shots from the bit players offer a peculiar kind of amusement, with each actor discovering their own way to convey, "I can't believe we're going along with this..." In the end, however, the film succeeds on the strength of DiCaprio's throbbing performance, unquestionably his best in years, which arrives brimming with sweaty, anxious hostility and descends to place where oblivion seems a sweet release. What might have been a garish carnival hoax is synthesized into a searing portrait of a man hollowed-out by unsettled guilt and rage. While the film's ruminations on aggression are of a piece with Scorsese's absorption with "men of violence," as Dr. Naehring describes Andrew, the film is far more compelling (and vigorous) when it is occupied with memory's double-edged sword. In this, Andrew shares with Lost Highway's Fred Madison a preference for "remembering things in his own way," as opposed to confronting the horrors that he has witnessed and wrought.