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Gateway Cinephile

Appreciation and Criticism of Cinema Through Heartland Eyes
Blog
About
Indices
Films by Title Gateway Cinephile Posts by Date The Take-Up and Other Posts by Date Horror Cinema David Lynch's Shorts John Ford's Silents H. P. Lovecraft Adaptations Twin Peaks: The Return Westworld Freeze Frame Archive
What I Read
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The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian

2008 // UK -  USA // Andrew Adamson // March 30, 2010 // Netflix Instant

It was probably a foregone conclusion that the dreariest of C.S. Lewis' Narnia books would make for a much more schematic, lifeless film than director Adamson's reverential but suitably vigorous The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. This tale of a royal youth deprived of his rightful throne by a scheming nobleman is pure fantasy paint-by-numbers. Without the series' talking animals—who remain its most charming trait, especially when placed alongside the dour mythological critters—and the parallel-world plot wrinkles, there wouldn't be much to distinguish Prince Caspian from countless other epic sword-and-destiny outings. Adamson is doing his level best to give Disney their own Lord of the Rings, but neither he nor the source material is up to the task. The Pevensie kids, who seemed so perfectly actualized in the previous film, now feel static and far less compelling. The most conspicuous problem is that neither the medium nor Adamson's crude Jackson-cribbing approach provide much room for Lewis' curious cosmology to unspool, and so we're left a mildly entertaining and largely anonymous adventure... and not much else.

PostedMarch 31, 2010
AuthorAndrew Wyatt
CategoriesDiary
3 CommentsPost a comment
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ThanksKilling

2009 (USA) // Jordan Downey // March 30, 2010 // Netflix Instant

​There’s something to be said for a slasher picture so ineptly made and thoroughly cracked in its sensibilities that it resembles one of those public access fever-dreams on Tim and Eric’s Awesome Show, Great Job!. I just don’t know what that something is. I suppose it’s a given that a direct-to-video “film” that looks like it was made for about $5,000 and features a sentient, demonic turkey would be odious and mind-shatteringly stupid. I just didn’t expect it to be dribbled with such batshit-crazy weirdness. ThanksKilling feels like the brainchild of a thirteen-year-old delinquent with a hard-on for glue-sniffing and girl-murder fantasies, or, in its best (worst?) moments, like a live-action, R-rated Bugs Bunny cartoon. I could point to one character’s gossamer reverie about his slain best friend (complete with skipping, hand-holding, ice cream-sharing, and swing-pushing), or the killer turkey’s scheme to impersonate a victim by wearing his face (a successful scheme, I might add). However, the scene that takes the pumpkin pie, as it were, is a short sequence where the Groucho-bespectacled turkey and the dressed-as-a-turkey sheriff amicably share a cup of coffee. The sheer dada WTF?-factor of it almost makes it worth the brain cells and hour of my life that I lost forever.

​

PostedMarch 31, 2010
AuthorAndrew Wyatt
CategoriesDiary
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The Art of the Steal

2009 // USA // Don Argott // March 25, 2010 // Theatrical Print (Landmark Theaters Tivoli Theater)

B - Narrowness of scope serves The Art of the Steal well. While the film boasts the righteous outrage of a more sweeping polemic such as Food, Inc., director Don Argott approaches his subject--the legal looting of the priceless Albert Barnes art collection by Philadelphia's political and cultural elite--as an act of slow-motion theft. Accordingly, the film has the feel of a heist documentary stood on its head, detailing how one man's bequest to the world was systematically dismantled by those who object to his unconventional views on art. The film's uneven pacing and undistinguished style aren't especially bothersome when the story is this intrinsically compelling and passionately told. Argott frames his story as part Lear-like tragedy about the reaving of a legacy, and part exposé on the dastardly deeds of rapacious Philly blue-noses. It's fairly stunning that several of Argott's villains--a former head of the Barnes Foundation, former governor, and former attorney-general--were willing to appear in his film and smugly characterize the looting of the collection as a proud moment. These confessions only heighten the film's potent sense of loss, as does the reverential footage of Barnes' museum in both its early and final days.

PostedMarch 29, 2010
AuthorAndrew Wyatt
CategoriesQuick Reviews
1 CommentPost a comment
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Not Doing Anything: The Theology of A Serious Man

The sublime brilliance of Ethan and Joel Coen's A Serious Man hinges on how seamlessly the brothers blend the film's absurdist comedic elements with its grave, even despairing ruminations on sin, mystery, and revelation. It's a film in which the broad silliness of a stoned bar mitzvah can co-exist comfortably alongside a devastatingly affecting moment of brotherly love. A Serious Man's spirit is distinctly comical, but the dense, perceptive script favors moments that are funny because they hurt, with the pain often resulting from an emotional mangling. Larry Gopnik's velvet steamrolling by his wife Judith and her creepy-avuncular paramour Sy at the ludicrously incongruous Ember's (not the forum for legalities) is hilarious in the way that a grand piano landing on Donald Duck is hilarious. Both contain a glimmer of self-satisfied relief: "Thank God I'm not so stupid as to let something like that happen to me!" Unlike most comedies, however, A Serious Man presents questions that are genuinely vexing, and shares with us pains that are profoundly felt. It is a story, contra our confidence that we are more assertive and discerning than Larry, about the universality of calamity and the philosophical and spiritual agonies that often flow from personal ruin. [Spoilers below.]

Most explications of the film's story have taken note of its similarities to the biblical story of Job, and, indeed, the film includes a few overt allusions to that tale (more on that later). However, in the original story, Job was an exceedingly prosperous and righteous man, and the momentum for Satan's wager with God was his cynical suspicion that a man would abandon the latter if deprived of the former. Larry Gopnik, as the Brothers themselves have pointed out, is neither especially prosperous nor especially righteous. His middle-class success, although it represents the sort of sweeping absorption into the majority culture that would have been unthinkable to the shtetl-dwellers in the film's prologue, is purely middle-of-the-road in the context of 1960s America. Meanwhile, Larry's faith is strictly of the "only-on-holidays" stripe, a cultural marker rather than a way of living. Prayer never crosses his mind, and he has to be prompted by a family friend to even seek out the temple's rabbis for advice when troubles start to swallow his life.

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Like the characters in the film, we have no knowledge of what, if any, cosmic bets are driving Larry's travails. (There are no privileged scenes of gods playing chess as in Clash of the Titans, or of angelic exposition as in It's a Wonderful Life.) Larry's sheer ordinariness and the absence of any God's-eye view leaves us to wonder, as our hapless protagonist does, just what his misfortunes mean. This, of course, is the tension that powers the film, and A Serious Man is, in essence, the Brothers' theodicy piece. It confronts what theologians term the Problem of Evil: If God is all-good and all-powerful, then why do bad things happen? The dilemma would more accurately be described (with a Buddhist spin) as the Problem of Suffering, as it is concerned not only with malevolent acts, but also the panoply of Bad Stuff that can befall us, from root canals to tsunamis. Monotheistic theology generally forestalls a karmic rationale for misfortune: not every stubbed toe and dribble of bird shit on the car can be traced back to a particular sin. Larry's mantra--"I didn't do anything!"--is therefore somewhat misplaced. As his conversations with the rabbis make clear, the salient question is what, if anything, God is trying to communicate to him through his miseries.

Catholic priest Robert Barron points out in his video commentary on A Serious Man (hat tip: Jim Emerson) that the characters in the film dwell in a world where the existence of God and his involvement in humanity are accepted as foregone conclusions. Larry's quest is to discern the presumed meaning in his misfortunes; no one suggests to him that his misfortunes have no meaning and that God is not behind them. Put less delicately, no one remarks that shit just happens. The film is thus a piece about people of faith and how they confront adversity, although it is by no means a film solely for them. In this, A Serious Man reveals itself as a religious companion to No Country For Old Men. The latter film pulls a stunning fake-out in its third act, as what seemed like a pitch-perfect thriller centered on Llewellyn Moss abruptly diverges into a harrowing lament by Sheriff Ed Tom Bell. Through the lawman's despair, the film confronts the problem of how a world filled with unfathomable evil and terrible injustice can be navigated without God. A Serious Man is the religious reverse of this coin, focused instead on a man for whom faithlessness is not feasible (it's not even within the universe of possibilities presented to him, really). In contrast to No Country's absence of meaning--that film ultimately rejects Ed Tom's "signs and wonders" and Chigurh's destiny--A Serious Man assumes the significance of earthly events, although it is never clearly asserts whether the meaning of those events can be divined by mere humans.

I'm not religious, and I'm still struggling with why exactly A Serious Man had such a profound effect on me. I think it's because Larry's plight resonates as a truly universal experience, one that should be familiar to all viewers, whether devout, apostate, or indifferent. We've all had days (or weeks, or months, or years...) when it seems as though the universe is taking a colossal dump on us, when we feel like we're getting kicked while we're down. There's a natural impulse, whatever our beliefs, to ask "Why?" when misfortune lands with a thud on our heads. (Although not so much when positive things come along; curious, that.) Fundamentally, A Serious Man is about the search for answers. Not in the abstract manner of greybeard philosophers, but the raw need of someone who has been bloodied and battered by one calamity after another. Whether that search for answers is pointless, misguided, or underlain by erroneous assumptions, that doesn't detract from the film's potent evocation of the sensation of that all-too-common crisis state.

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Still, my approach to A Serious Man is predominantly an irreligious one, and from such an angle I regard the film's recurring motif to be failure: the failure of Larry's beloved physics or his neglected faith to provide answers; the failure to accept that there may not be an answer; the failure to hear or heed messages; the failure to act to prevent calamities big and small. To my eye, the film possesses a palpable cynicism regarding the utility of that "deep well of tradition" so glowingly described by Larry's friend, as our poor schlemiel protagonist ultimately discovers that the rabbis (the ones who will even deign to see him) only answer his questions with airy quips and more questions. Most films portray religion as a character trait that signifies uprightness, sincerity, or, more rarely, bigotry. Few films are willing to call out the broader phenomenon of religion out as a big pile of nothing, sucking up its adherents' money and time in return for worthless bromides.

That said, the Coens obviously have a lot of nostalgic affection for Jewish traditions and sensibilities. Despite the film's flabbergasted stance towards the rabbis and the apparent uselessness of their advice, Father Barron is correct in that the Coens also include moments that seem to validate (or at least call back to) that advice. As hollow as Rabbi Scott's parking lot sentiments might be, it's undeniable that a "change in perspective" plays a significant role in the film at select points.  It's evoked literally in Larry's rooftop aerial adjustments--an attempt, pointedly enough, to pick up an incoming message--which provides him with a glimpse into Mrs. Samsky's libertine world. Larry's and Danny's pot-smoking also represents a kind of chemical change in perspective. And in one of the film's most emotionally potent moments, Larry is gobsmacked with the realization that his brother regards him as a profoundly blessed man. (Was there an actor's moment in 2009 more devastating that Richard Kind's blubbering wail, "Hashem hasn't given me shit!"?) This isn't to say that Father Scott is "right"; his advice is so bland and obvious that Larry could just as easily have arrived at it himself. It's just that the Coens, in their inimitable way, are loathe to dismiss the words of any of their characters, no matter how repugnant or foolish. (Look at how easily the Dude picks up words and phrases from those around him in The Big Lebowski, whether they are friends or enemies, intellectuals or lackwits.)

The ambiguity regarding the rabbis--are they empty vessels or founts of wisdom?--of course reflects the film's emphatic preoccupation with mystery and uncertainty. Physicist Larry, who "understands the math," knows that we can't ever really know anything, but he has failed to internalize the lesson of Schrödinger's cat and apply it to his everyday reality. Most of us, like Clive, can wrap our heads around the alive/not-alive cat (sort of), but would quickly become lost in Larry's voluminous, arcane equations, which serve as his own secular kabbalah, only slightly less obscure than Arthur's Mentaculus. Larry, meanwhile, admits that he doesn't understand the cat's dual state, just as he can't accept that Clive both did and did not attempt to bribe him ("You can't have it both ways!"). Larry has been agitated by the mystery of his own misfortunes, and unlike Dr. Sussman, he can't just let go and get back to his life.

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Larry might crave answers, but we repeatedly see that he is willfully deaf to messages. His secretary hands him messages from Sy and Columbia Records, but he disregards them until the consequences come home to roost. He seems to have had entire conversations with Judith that he barely recalls, and is only vaguely aware of the overwhelming signals that she has evidently been broadcasting for some time ("I begged you to see the rabbi!"). Even his television aerial is unable to pick up the one program that his son obsesses over, F-Troop. (That show, incidentally, featured the advice-dispensing Chief Wild Eagle, who, echoing the rabbis of the film, was full of vague Indian sayings that he rarely understood himself.) When Columbia Records finally track Larry down, he at first denies his identity, then hotly rejects the monthly selection, Santana's Abraxas. Knowing that "abraxas" is a Gnostic title for a god or other primeval entity renders Larry's vehement refusal all the more stinging: "I do not want Abraxas, I do not need Abraxas, and I will not listen to Abraxas."

This refusal to listen highlights Larry's most essential flaw: his lack of attention to his own life. At first glance, the film presents Larry as a pathetic victim, on whom a spate of terrible misfortunes are inflicted through no fault of his own. However, many aspects of Larry's situation stem from his own inaction and lack of assertiveness. He permits those around him to step all over him, and his feeble attempts to resist only render him all the more pathetic, a milquetoast who practically asks for others to shove him aside. Time and again, he is presented with opportunities to take command of his situation--with his wife, children, Arthur, Clive, Mr. Brandt, and particularly Sy--only to let such openings slip through his fingers. Larry's statement of blamelessness, "I didn't do anything!," becomes one of inaction, "I didn't do anything!" This shift in meaning is hinted at by Larry himself when he admits that he has not published or performed any research as a professor. And, as the Columbia Records fellow explains, one can, in fact, incur debts by doing nothing. The infernal dybbuk is invited into one's house by a lapse in the duty to sit shiva for a departed soul; similarly, Larry invites all kinds of terrible things into his life by his sins of omission, by his negligence towards the integrity of his own life.

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The final scenes of the film invite an inevitable question: Is the phone call from Larry's doctor, intruding at the very moment that he changes Clive's grade, a message from God, a indirect punishment for his trespass. Is the tornado bearing down on Danny an extension of God's retribution, a cruel instance of the sins of the father being visited upon the son? Despite the link the Coens establish between Larry's actions and his (presumably) dire medical news, I think the Brothers are playing with us a bit. Elsewhere, the film makes it clear that the juxtaposition of an action and an event has no particular significance (or perhaps simply a significance that is forever beyond our ken). Again, Larry does not live in a karmic universe. We should draw no inferences between his decision to accept Clive's bribe and the phone call / tornado. (One could even argue that Larry is indeed "helping others" as Rabbi Nachtner urged, in that he is helping Clive avoid the loss of his scholarship, a probable expulsion, and deep family shame.) The arrival of a grim prognosis, just after Larry's happiest day in weeks, is not a divine sign, but merely an unfortunately timed example of the cosmos' random indifference. Cancer doesn't care whether we're having a good day or a bad day. It simply is. Like a tornado, it is one the "evils" that theodicy must account for in this world. As Danny stands outside his school, his determination to do the right thing and pay his debt to Fagle (and thereby avoid a beating, not incidentally) fades at the sight of nature's fury. Moral duty diminishes in the face of such uncanny chaos, and we are reminded of God speaking to Job from within a whirlwind. If God truly exists in the world of A Serious Man, he is speaking to Danny through the tornado. It is not a direct communication, but a stark demonstration that Danny's preoccupations--money, weed, television, his radio, even the Torah--are paltry in the grand scheme of things. For all the harrowing despair roiling in those final images, it in fact represents a mellowing of the film's indictments. Larry is responsible for much of his plight, but what we can control in our lives is far outweighed by that which we cannot control. That fearsome funnel cloud epitomizes the universe at its most capricious and destructive, and highlights the fragile character of human life. The threat of the tornado urges us, paradoxically enough, to relax. It's out of our hands.

PostedMarch 25, 2010
AuthorAndrew Wyatt
CategoriesEssays
2 CommentsPost a comment
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It's a Strange World: Six Figures Getting Sick (Six Times) (1966)

David Lynch created Six Figures Getting Sick (Six Times) during his sophomore year at the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Art, entering it into the school's annual exhibit of experimental painting and sculpture.  It represents a first tentative toe into the medium of film for Lynch, who up to that point had primarily worked in painting.  Six Figures was originally presented as a one-minute sequence of animated film looped six times, projected onto a sculpted screen that included three casts of Lynch's own head, and accompanied by the sound of a wailing siren.

The version of the film that is included on The Short Films of David Lynch DVD is a surprsingly high-quality transfer, given that the original was a 36-year-old student film. Of course, viewing it in one's home doesn't exactly replicate the experience of the work as Lynch originally intended it.  Furthermore, a one-minute snippet of film, which was but one component of a larger multi-media installation, isn't really an example of "cinema" under even the most generous definition.  However, Six Figures does provide a valuable embryonic glimpse of the aesthetic sensibility and themes that would come to characterize Lynch's films. Moreover, there is something intrinsically compelling about the first work to post-date the artist's realization that, to paraphrase Lynch himself, his paintings could be paired with sound and made to move.

The film presents a row of six humanoid heads that undergo a violent biological transformation.  Fives heads appear in quick succession, left to right, with heads four and five issuing forth pseudopodia that create a sixth.  Five figures have a faint digestive system, with the sixth head instead boasting a torso X-ray.  The frame rapidly fills with a dark substance that sharply outlines the figures' stomachs and esophagi.  Hands appear and fly to the figures' faces--in shame, disgust, or horror, perhaps--and the image flashes red.  A red liquid fills each figure's stomach as the word "SICK" flickers on the screen, the hands moving down to clutch or cover the stomachs.  Eventually the abdomens ooze white fluid and seem to become scorched, as the figures cover their faces again.  Vertical lines of energy and tongues of fire appear over the figures, and a wave of flames moves across the screen.  Finally, the frame is filled with purple, and the figures vomit long streams of white fluid.

If you didn't know anything else about it, you might hazard that Six Figures was the work of an art student who adores Francis Bacon and thinks being shocking and incomprehensible is the shortest path to profundity.  The former might be accurate--Lynch was and remains a Bacon worshiper--but the latter is a glib dismissal of the film's relatively straightforward presentation of theme.  With its repeated motif of fluids that fill up, spill out, and act as catalysts for transformation, Six Figures represents a singularly repulsed reaction to the phenomena of the life cycle.  The repetition of both the figures themselves and the shared, violent revolt of their bodies indicates the universality of their experience, implying that however abhorrent their evolution might be, it represents a process that is normal in their reality.  The "spawning" of the sixth head and the presence of the X-ray heighten the sense of anxiety: even children are not immune from this sickness, and medical science cannot help them. The looping of the sequence reveals the cyclical nature of this biological violation--it is regular and repeating, not aberrant--and the never-ending siren highlights that this is not a peaceful condition but a state of permanent crisis.

In hindsight, Six Figures dovetails remarkably well with Lynch's later films, which frequently regard biological processes with a combination of disgust and amusement, while also using them as metaphors for cognitive and emotional transformations.  In particular, the director's first feature film, Eraserhead, treats childbirth and children as repugnant, partly as an expression of Lynch's own notorious ambivalence towards young fatherhood. Six Figures demonstrates that the director can express this sweeping aversion to the life cycle in a succinct and decisive manner within only a minute of film.  Lynch equates symptoms thought of as abnormal (vomiting, bleeding, inflammation, abscessing) with normal biological processes, suggesting that such phenomena--birth, eating, defacating, ejaculating, menstruating, etc.--are all indicative of a sickness.  Namely, life itself.

There is no indication as to whether Six Figures regards this wretched cycle of violent illness as humanity's natural state or the result of some contagion.  Certainly, although Lynch's career evinces a profound appreciation for the beauty of industrial spaces, it also exhibits a fear of the modern landscape as a hazardous place where people can be contaminated. Thus, we might regard Six Figures as a proto-environmentalist's grim view of the insidious havoc that toxic environments can wreak on humankind, without mercy or discrimination. One can easily imagine Six Figures as the nightmare of Carol White, the chemically sensitive, possibly delusional housewife of Todd Haynes' Safe.

Taken strictly as a first animated film, Six Figures is an auspicious debut for Lynch, showcasing his talent for rendering detailed lines and shapes that accrete in an almost cellular manner.  Balancing these are the bold splashes of color and sudden excretions of white liquid that create the film's distressing atmosphere.  Lynch would turn to animation frequently in his early works, most conspicuously in his almost witty, Gilliam-like use of human figures in The Grandmother.  However, it would be Lynch's next work, his first "real" short film, in which his animation technique is given its most unsettling workout.

PostedMarch 24, 2010
AuthorAndrew Wyatt
CategoriesDavid Lynch's Films
1 CommentPost a comment
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Antichrist

2009 // Denmark // Lars von Trier // March 19, 2010 Format: Netflix Instant

For me, Lars von Trier's films, whatever their merits, have never begged for a second viewing. Therefore, I suppose it's an achievement of some kind that Antichrist yowled out for another look. My first foray into the film's ghastly spectacle of physical and emotional cruelty left me eroded and shaken, but on a second visit the film seems softer, its lurid edginess and uncanny chills less impactful. The excellent sound design is, if anything, more striking, but the emotional scorching of that first viewing simply cannot be replicated. That said, the virtues of the film's entire approach--forcefully sociological, mythically literate, and yet strangely aloof--seem even plainer to me now. What makes Antichrist audacious isn't its shocking content, but von Trier's determination to make a horror film that neither coyly conceals its psychological subject matter nor concerns itself with funhouse entertainments. Which means that it barely qualifies as a horror film at all, despite the fact that it traffics in the genre's customary currency of dread and revulsion. Whether von Trier has a "woman problem" or not, Antichrist strikes me as the most provocative and challenging film about gender in years. Charlotte Gainsbourg might have won at Cannes, but it's Willem Dafoe's arrogant and smoothly monstrous He that stands out as the film's most memorable and disquieting creation. That notorious fox is strictly a runner-up.

PostedMarch 23, 2010
AuthorAndrew Wyatt
CategoriesDiary
CommentPost a comment
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