Genre Hybridization in Dreamgirls

            On the surface, 2006’s Dreamgirls seems less Baroque than other contemporary musicals, including Moulin Rouge and Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Although it contains a fairly straightforward narrative, it uses the postmodern technique of hybridization to both mix the musical with the gangster film as well as blending the types of musicals themselves.

            The film’s narrative closely parallels the gangster film. It is a story about starting at the bottom and rising through the ranks. Instead of the crime underworld, however, this is about making it big in the music industry. Jamie Foxx’s character, Curtis, serves as a stand-in for the types of characters James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson were known for in the 1930’s. He is starts with nothing but his ambition and his ideology of breaking through the glass ceiling of the lily white pop charts. He faces an industry that uses shady tactics such as payola and flat out stealing material from the black music scene. He responds by beating them at their own game, also paying to have his music played on the radio.

            As he begins to rise through the ranks, he usurps Danny Glover’s role as manager to Eddie Murphy’s musician. This is very similar to a gangster having his immediate supervisor killed to help climb the ladder quicker. His rise to prominence is shown through a series of montages, much like in the gangster films of the past. This even includes the clichéd spinning newspaper, this time touting the success of his “Dreams” instead of a crime wave. The backdrop of the civil rights movement even gives the characters to fear being on the streets, much like the threat of drive-by shootings always loom on the gangster mind.

            Upon reaching the top, Curtis must do whatever it takes to stay there, including stealing Effie’s own music in much the same way his music had been stolen for American Bandstand. He takes illegal loans from Mafia backers, adding to the crime film allusions. Taking these measures to maintain his position turns corrupts him in much the same way a 1930’s gangster eventually goes from being an anti-hero to a straight antagonist. Once on top, there is nowhere to go but down, and Curtis faces the same downfall as the Scarfaces’ and Little Casesars’ of the gangster film as he is “ratted out” by Beyonce’s character. This breach of loyalty is another motif heavily borrowed from the gangster film.

            In addition to bringing elements of the crime genre into the musical, it also blends musical tropes. The film manages to be a backstage musical, cue for song, and integrated musical all at once. Its subjects are in showbiz and the story focuses on the behind the scenes of their rise to fame. It also has cue for song moments, such as Eddie Murphy’s character teaching the girls his music, which transitions into a musical number. In addition to the songs just being the character’s performing, they also serve as integrated sequences. The characters go in and out of song during fights, discussions, and celebrations that are not part of the Dream’s act. The most interesting use of the cue for song in the film is its use of one song to cue another, such as Effie’s “And I’m telling you…” which is cued by the previous song.

            By blending the “rags to riches” narrative of the gangster film into the musical and adding elements of all types of musicals, Dreamgirls manages to both feel fresh as well as having a familiarity that genre films thrive on.  The tried and true narrative keeps the differing approaches to musical numbers from being distracting in a way it might have otherwise.

Reception Theory and Pulp Fiction

            In defining reception theory in Literary Theory: an Introduction, Terry Eagleton writes, “The text itself is really no more than a series of ‘cues’ to the reader, invitations to construct a piece of language into meaning.” Reception theory gives power to the reader. They take what is implicitly written about setting, characters, and plot and use this context to form a richer “wholeness” to the text that can’t be found with merely the information made explicit within the text. A film like Pulp Fiction allows viewers to engage with the work in similar ways, while also exposing the limitations of the theory.

            Quentin Tarantino’s 1994 film Pulp Fiction weaves four separate stories together, not only jumping back and forth between narratives, but also chronology. The film begins and ends with a couple attempting to hold up a restaurant, a scene that takes place chronologically in the middle of the rest of the action in the film. The highly stylized editing of the film forces the viewer to engage with the film and make connections in a way that contrasts with the more passive viewing allowed by a straight forward narrative.

            The film features two hit men, Jules and Vincent. They act as the “cues” to the viewer. Through their clothing and dialogue, the film clues in the audience as to where the story is within the whole. One of them is even killed at one point in the film, only to be seemingly resurrected a few scenes later. It is the job of the audience to make the connection that what they are now seeing is taking place before the scenes that preceded it. By returning to an earlier point in the film, the viewer is given more information about an earlier event. The knowledge of the characters eventual death adds an extra layer of poignancy to scene. Without this level of reception on the viewer’s part, the film is merely a collection of scenes with no apparent structure. A passive “reader” of the film would likely be confused; assuming they had seen a film in the middle of the editing process, not yet put together properly.

            Eagleton addresses this in his writing on reception theory, using it as an example of the theory’s limitations. A viewer who is not confused by Pulp Fiction’s radical structure is assumed to already have the capacity to view a film in this manner and therefore is not truly challenged by it. The film is not doing its job, which according to Wolfgang Iser is to question our belief in what literature (or in this case, cinema) is. All that has really happened was that a viewer saw another film, albeit a film that requires more work on the part of the audience.

            This limitation to reception theory is illustrated by the way Pulp Fiction was hailed as an instant classic upon release. The way the film called attention to editing was lauded immediately, an exercise in style over substance that would have surely appealed to the Russian Formalists of the early twentieth century. The instant acceptance into the canon of film history showed that critics were not having their critical assumptions properly challenged, a supposed tenant of the reception theory. A film that calls into question these beliefs is much more likely to be panned initially, only to be recognized for its revolutionary qualities as time catches up to it.

            Reception theory allows for a reader to have more fun with a text through its interactive nature, especially for an imaginative brain. Its failure to transform prior assumptions on the part of the reader doing all the work, however, does proves to be its largest contradiction.

Film Noir Conventions in Chinatown

            Although devoid of the historical context of the first wave of Film Noirs from the 1940s and 50s, Chinatown manages to retain key story elements and some of its signature style and adapts them for the 1970s. The film’s self-aware nature as well as its unique use of the water imagery and McGuffin device serve as a call back to the heyday of Noir, without actually being a part of it.

            Whereas the original cycle of Noir films were produced before “Noir” was even a part of the film lexicon, Chinatown is very aware of itself as a noir. The film opens with a vintage Paramount logo and fades into opening credits with an art deco font. The very first scene has Detective Gittes calling attention to his new venetian blinds. The biggest nod to Noir, however, is the casting of John Huston as Noah Cross. Huston began his career by directing The Maltese Falcon, a definitive noir that also features a tough detective protagonist. “The film draws one aspect of its power from the way… Huston makes Cross an attractive figure, mobilizing our sympathetic response to the pioneer archetype before they reveal to us Evelyn and Noah's past. Partly this is an effect of the wry humor and tough-minded realism of the language Towne writes for the character, as when he pleads guilty to being "respectable" by growling "Politicians, ugly buildings, and whores all get respectable if they last long enough"(Shetley 1092). This line is ironic because noirs were once seen as “B” pictures, but now the casting of Huston pays homage to the film’s inspiration while also giving it legitimacy and respectability as a noir itself.

            Chinatown also uses recurring motifs of Noir in interesting ways. The first is the film’s use of water. In past Noirs, water is an integral component of the films. It seemed to complement the hopelessness of the world that the films took place in. Just like William Holden floating dead in a swimming pool in Sunset Boulevard or Orson Welles being pursued through the underground waterways of Vienna in The Third Man, Chinatown prominently features water. Rather than used strictly as symbolism, it is the driving motivation of the characters and the key to solving Gittes’ investigation. Using the control of the water system as the scheme of the antagonist is very fitting for the 1970s when trust in government entities was extremely low. “Over and above the noir tendencies of Polanski’s film, therefore, it is the expansion of Simi Valley, the control of the LAPD, zoning, immigrant segregation and ghettoization that bind together the historical and the cinematic. From Mulholland, Eaton and Otis, on through …Richard Nixon, Ronald Reagan, Tom Bradley, Richard Riordan and Arnold Schwarzenegger: these are the people … that waited in the wings to copy the modus operandi of the elite incorporated into Chinatown; those that became its successors and future torchbearers” (Scott 23). The film is looking into the past to explain the present state of power in the U.S., California especially.

            The McGuffin is given a new spin in Chinatown also. Instead of an arbitrary object like treasure or clothing setting up the plot, it is a human, Hollis Mulwray. Gittes is hired to investigate Hollis, but by the first half hour of the film, Hollis is killed and mostly forgotten as the plot moves on to the waterworks conspiracy and Gittes relationship with Evelyn. The lowering of a human into a role traditionally filled by an object could also be read as an attack on the establishment of the 1970s and the way young soldiers were used during the Vietnam War. Like Mulwray, Vietnam era soldiers were viewed by some in power as insignificant in the grand scheme of gaining power. “Chinatown was no longer movie folklore, or cultural narrative, but historical re-enactment. In the words of Michael Eaton, Chinatown was “not just a place in the past where no one knew what was going on […] but, much more dynamically, a metaphorical site still mentally present,” (Scott 20). The film seems to be looking to how Hollywood dealt with WWII as a way to work through the horrors of Vietnam. “Chinatown’s conclusion is generally taken to be the filmic equivalent of an existential shriek of despair” (Novak 269). With no real life answers to contemporary culture, Polanski deals with it through film, again finding no answers.

Although Chinatown does not adhere to the traditional black and white, city at night settings of the original Noirs, It uses specific aspects of the genre and style such as casting, water, the McGuffin to reflect a new set of fears and anxieties that Americans faced in the 1970s due to Vietnam, Watergate, and the general cynicism that had set in by 1973. This functions in much the same way that the original Noir cycle reflected the social concerns of the post WWII years.

Works Cited

Novak, Philip. "The Chinatown Syndrome." Wayne State University Press 49.3 (2007): 255-69.

            Web. 4 Dec. 2014.

Scott, Ian S. "'Either You Bring the Water to L.A. or You Bring L.A. to the Water': Politics,

Perceptions and The Pursuit of History in Roman Polanski’s Chinatown.” European Journal of American Studies 2.2 (2007): 20-23. Web. 4 Dec. 2014

Shetley, Vernon L. "Incest and Capital in Chinatown." MLN 114.5 (1999): 1092-109. Web. 7

            Dec. 2014.

Violent Masculinity in Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid

Movies, particularly the western genre, use aggressive violence as a qualifier of masculinity. It is essential for the western hero to resort to killing as a way to prove their “true grit”. Those who resist taking up arms are almost always branded as “yellow-bellied”. Operating in this most masculine of genres, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid attempts to re-evaluate the necessity of violence in defining masculinity. The film achieves this through the reluctance of its title characters to embrace violence, its subversion of the western generic conventions, and by director Sam Peckinpah addressing his own reputation as a violent filmmaker.

            Although both Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid are both violent characters in the film, there is a sense of reluctance from both of them. Pat comes to town and warns Billy of his orders to drive him out. Billy accepts the news peacefully because they share a friendship that dates back to the “good old days”. During his initial raid on Billy, Pat arrests Billy instead of shooting him when he has the chance. Pat’s ability to kill Billy is questioned by several characters in the film including the men who hired him to do so. It is also Pat’s masculinity that is being called into question. This reflects “the struggle to define, prescribe, and sanctify masculinity as the site where violent power is exercised with a skill that embodies beauty and socially constructive results” (Dowell 8). Pat is called upon to prove his manhood while also making the world a safer place by killing.

            Pat’s reluctance gives way to violence when he does ultimately kill Billy. He doesn’t want to kill his old friend, but does so because he feels he must live up to what it means to be a man. Garrett instantly gains a place in history and respect as a real man, but the event changes him forever. “Garrett, after killing Billy, shoots his own reflection in the mirror…signifies not only Garrett’s self-disgust, but also his realization that he [is] dead inside” (Winkler 525). Similarly, the film ends this way not because it feels it is the justified ending, but because the film must live up to the conventions of the western.

            Onscreen violence is an essential convention of the western. The violence “can be seen as an especially telling manifestation of the struggles of popular cinema to balance the forces changing society and those controlling it” (Slocum 649). Because the western is inherently political and uniquely American, Violence is used in allegorical ways to represent the means that men has sought out their own identity as men as well as their national identity as Americans. Within the genre, Violence was accepted and expected during the classical and refined phase. As a baroque period western, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid begins to question those assumptions in a way that later films such as Dances with Wolves and Unforgiven would take even further.

            In addition to challenging the expectations of the genre, Sam Peckinpah is also addressing his own reputation of masculinity. One of his most well-known film, The Wild Bunch, embraces the violent nature of the genre freely and even pushes it to extremes. It ends in an extremely graphic shoot out that reinforces the masculinity of the protagonists. This theme is also addressed in some of Peckinpah’s non westerns, notably Straw Dogs where the pacifist protagonist must give up his non-violent ideology and violently deal with his situation. In Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, Peckinpah appears to use violence primarily because it is expected of him. He shoots the violence in slow motion as a way to “convey the horrors of the era to viewers inured by media to the real violence in society” (Slocum 659). The bloodshed in Pat Garrett is extreme because society has built up a tolerance to it, not because it is a marker of masculinity.

            Peckinpah further defies the expectations of the genre by having Pat Garrett kill Billy the Kid by sneaking up on him after Billy has made love to his girlfriend. Most westerns end with an exciting shoot-out in which the hero has a fair chance. Here, the ending feels anti-climactic. By having the antagonist use his gun to win out over a protagonist who has just had sex, the film suggests that violent tendencies aren’t preferable to being loving or passive. Even though they aren’t preferable, they still win out. This confusing and genre defying ending is an example of how “violence grew more and more prevalent in cinema and society alike, while efforts to make sense of it remained disjointed” (Slocum 660).

            Like Destry in Destry Rides Again, The lead characters of Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid can’t escape the violent nature of the western genre that is used as the definition of manhood. Because society is so violent, the western heroes and villains are obligated to conform to these masculine expectations in order to act as a reflection of said society. No matter how reluctant the characters, genre, and director seem to be of violence, they can’t help but succumbing to it.

Works Cited

Dowell, Pat. “The Mythology of the Western: Hollywood Perspectives on Race and Gender in

            the Nineties.” Cineaste 21.1/2 (1995): 6-10. JSTOR. Web. 16 Oct. 2014.

Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Dir. Sam Peckinpah. 1973. 2005. DVD-ROM.

Slocum, J David. "Film Violence and the Institutionalization of the Cinema." The New School

            Stable 67.3 (2000): 649-81.JSTOR. Web. 16 Oct. 2014.

Winkler, Martin M. "Classical Mythology and the Western Film." Comparative Literature

            Studies 22.4 (1985): 516-40.JSTOR. Web. 16 Oct. 2014. 

The Trouble with the Truth

                                                      

                   2011’s The Trouble with the Truth, directed by Jim Hemphill, is a modest film about a divorced couple reuniting over dinner following their daughter’s announcement that she is engaged. Robert (John Shea) is a lifelong jazz musician who is still struggling through life well into middle age. His ex-wife, Emily (Lea Thompson), lives a more financially stable life as a recently successful writer. The couple spend the dinner simultaneously attempting to find closure to their relationship while also exploring the possible of reconnecting romantically.

                The film’s strength comes from the combination of casting and screenplay. Shea is one of those actors whose face you swear you have seen in everything, but you can’t quite place where. Here, Shea plays Robert with charisma that makes up for his lack of appropriate social skills. He is blunt and a bit disconnected, which probably led to the dissolution of his marriage and continues to cause friction with his daughter. The genius of Shea’s line readings help to dull the edges of his straightforwardness and gives Robert a warmth despite these flaws.

                Thompson’s Emily seems to be the only person in the world who gets Robert. She gives a grounded, honest performance. It is relieving to see Thompson in a role that isn’t simply trying to cash in on her former work or winking at the audience in the way many actors of her age and stature are given. The chemistry between Shea and Thompson is spectacular. They play off each other in a way that clearly communicates that these characters have spent a significant portion of their lives together. There is also a fun cameo from Danielle Harris as their daughter. Harris doesn’t have a fully fleshed out of a character as the two leads, but it is refreshing seeing her in a film that doesn’t involve blood and gore.

                The film’s screenplay, also written by Hemphill, is delightful. The dialogue is rich and layered without falling into the traps of being overtly self-aware in the way so many other “talky” films are. The few references in the script, ranging from C.S. Lewis to Mork and Mindy, aren’t what can be considered hip. They are, however, true to the characters ages and interests. The screenplay flows throughout and holds the audiences interest. This is a triumph for a film with no traditional plotting, instead serving as an intimate character study.

                The formal elements of the film are not flashy, but are appropriate to the material. The lighting gives off a bit of a golden glow, enhancing the feeling of nostalgia and sense of ease that are felt by the two characters. The camera is mostly static, but due to the framing of the actors, it doesn’t feel amateurish. A constantly moving camera in this film would only give a feeling of car sickness. The film is entirely shot in interiors. This is probably due to budgetary reasons, but serves as a nice parallel to the way the characters, particular Emily, seems to be stuck in her head, unable to express herself with anyone other than Robert.

                The film is not inherently cinematic. The story could work equally as a play or novel. Film, however, is the primary mode of storytelling in today’s society. People rarely go to the theatre and a book only has a chance of being culturally important if it is written for an eighth grader. It is refreshing to see a film that is mature and features characters of this age and intelligence front and center. Robert laments in the film that the movies have become nothing but “Giant robots and talking Chihuahuas”. Hopefully, Hemphill continues to make intimate and engaging films like this one that doesn’t need millions of dollars or green screens and gives actors such as Thompson and Shea rich parts that match their talent.

                The Trouble with the Truth is available now on DVD as well as on Amazon Instant and ITunes. 

Prodigal Sons (2008)

               

Kimberly Reed’s 2008 documentary Prodigal Sons is one of those rare, yet rewarding experience of film discovery that one hopes for each time they see a film. Seemingly inspired by the autobiographical documentaries of Ross McElwee (Sherman’s March), Prodigal Sons is narrated by Reed, born Paul McKerrow, and starts out as her story of returning to her hometown in Montana to attend her High School reunion. The film’s focus quickly turns to her older adopted brother, Marc, whom she has been estranged for a decade, as he battles mental illness seemingly caused by brain damage from a previous accident.

                The film addresses preconceived notions in a fresh way. It opens with the title card in font used in Citizen Kane, arguably the greatest film of all time. This immediately comes off as pretentious as it is assumed that the choice of font is meant to signify the filmmaker’s ego in comparing herself to Orson Welles. It is later learned that Marc’s birth mother is Rebecca Welles, daughter of Orson and Rita Hayworth, explaining the choice of font.

                The treatment of Reed as a transgender reflects an ongoing paradigm shift in society. Rather than politicizing or making it the film’s focal point, it becomes an afterthought to the audience. The “so what?” attitude that Reed’s family and former classmates takes towards her new identity is refreshing and allows the central theme of Marc’s struggles to take center stage.

                Marc’s arc in the film is its primary strength. He is first presented as somewhat buffoonish, quick to turn the attention of any conversation to himself and his brain damage. He seems unaware of how inappropriate the behavior is in social situations, causing many people he meets to become awkwardly uncomfortable. Marc’s personality then becomes monstrous and downright scary as he becomes physically abusing to Reed and fellow family members. The violent behavior and homophobic slurs make it easy for the viewer to write him off as crazy and dismiss him as many of his own family members have had to. It is Reed’s continuing love and support that turns that around, causing the audience to question their own beliefs about the violent, unstable nature of mental illness.

                The scenes involving Marc’s abuse at first feels exploitative.  Moments of a family in crisis are inherently private and witnessing them feels inappropriately voyeuristic. These are necessary, however, to get a full picture of the damage Marc causes his family and himself. Witnessing a family falling apart amid the backdrop of Christmas causes the realization that seeking professional help is not only needed, but essential.

                In an age where mass public murders have become the norm, the film serves as a unique tool to look at mental illness and its taboos without also having to discuss gun control. Marc is not evil, even though that is the easiest way to view him. Reed convinces the audience not to approach him this way by standing by him as his strongest supporter, even though she is one of his primary victims of abuse. Her bravery is inspiring and gives the film a hopeful tone that transcends other social problem documentaries.

                As a filmmaker, Reed is revelatory and will hopefully continue to make films that are this personal and raw. She presents herself as a masterful champion and voice for both transgendered and mentally ill, two groups historically neglected or misrepresented. Prodigal Sons is difficult to watch, yet ultimately rewarding in its ability to inspire conversations about topics that are ordinarily easier to ignore.

On Bonnie and Clyde

(Note: This post is comprised of two term papers I wrote this semester in my film appreciation class. One deals with visual style, the other on storytelling.)



          1967’s Bonnie and Clyde, directed by Arthur Penn, uses a Great Depression era setting to convey anti-authoritarian themes of social class struggles, feminism, and a generational disconnect as well as critiquing consumer based culture. The cinematography, editing, and sound design uniquely complement these themes and adds to the overall mood of the film.
          The subversive ideology of the film can be read through various film theories. Primarily a Marxist film, Bonnie and Clyde explicitly sides with the poor and under privileged. Clyde has a disdain for banks, choosing them as his primary target for robberies. Banks are seen as an evil institution, taking advantage of the common man. When introducing himself to C.W. Moss, Clyde states, “We rob banks, nothing wrong with that.”
          The poor, common man is depicted in a similar fashion as the soviet proletariat. Clyde refuses to take a bystanders money during one of his robberies, insisting that the man pocket it himself. While stealing a car from Gene and Velma, he is friendly towards them up. He buys them food and takes them along for the ride, telling them that they are, “just folks, just like us.” While Bonnie and Clyde have a hatred for authority such as police, they depend on the poor to protect them during their getaways. They even stop at a shanty town and the inhabitants are very charitable, providing water and respect to the outlaw gang.
          While the lower class is presented as good, the older generation is seen as either monstrous or void of usefulness. C.W.’s father is abusive both verbally and physically, throwing objects as well as insults at C.W. at every opportunity. He even rats out Bonnie and Clyde to Captain Hamer, betraying their trust in him and coordinating their deaths. Bonnie’s mother is seen as weak and slow witted. After visiting with Mrs. Parker, Bonnie writes her off as useless, telling Clyde “She’s just an old woman now.”
          The film is also a work of feminism, portraying the female characters as dominant over their male counterparts. Prior to their first robbery, Bonnie is calm and collected in comparison to Clyde’s nervous small talk. The character of Blanche seems meek and passive at first, but she clearly wears the pants in her relationship with Buck, even ensuring that she gets her fair share of the loot from robberies. Both female characters are so headstrong that they often clash throughout the film, battling for alpha-female status.
          Clyde’s impotency not only reinforces the feminist nature of Bonnie and Clyde, but also allows for a Freudian reading of the film. Unable to dominate sexually, he uses his gun as a proxy for his manhood. His ability to protect Bonnie with his gun makes up for his inability to satisfy her sexually. It isn’t until he feels immortalized by her published poem that he can overcome his lack of prowess. Bonnie is also psychologically scarred as the film progresses. She becomes more and more obsessed and frightened of death, even kicking their new friend Gene out of the car when she learns he is an undertaker.
          These themes add up to a pessimistic view of the world. Consumerism and fame seeking have driven ordinary, decent people to acts of graphic violence and an unfulfilled life on the run. Logos of brand such as Coca-Cola adorn most buildings in town and getting a picture in the paper is the highlight of existence. The only escape from the world seems to be death. The bleakness of this world is highlighted by the cinematography of the film.
          The movie is primarily shot naturalistically, with straight forward angles and lighting that give off a realistic feel. The color palate of the film adds to the realism. Earth tones such as green, brown, and beige are used for set dressing and costumes. The lighting is bright and sunny for exteriors, while the interiors are more darkly lit and shadowy. The interior shadows cast by the draped and boarded windows shows the realism of the gang in hiding. The crisp photography and sharp focus give the film a down to earth feel.

         There are a few instances of formalism, however. The scene of the gang visiting Bonnie’s family is photographed as hazy and dreamlike, almost like a distant memory. Much of the scene is in slow-motion and the characters are primarily dressed in black as opposed to the more natural colors of the rest of the film. The expressionism of the scene shows that Bonnie is no longer a part of that world.
          The color red is also seen throughout as a signifier of death. Before Clyde shoots the bank employee during his getaway, a red car is shown. There is a red chair and roses inside the gang’s rented Missouri house just prior to a shoot-out resulting in several police deaths. Buck wears a hat with a red band around it, foreshadowing his fatal gun wound to the head.
          Several types of camera movement are used, adding to the energetic feel of the world. Many of Bonnie and Clyde’s conversations are filmed with a tracking shot and the getaways combine crane shots, pans, wide shots, and close ups. There is a mixture of both objective and subjective shots. When Clyde enters the first bank he intends to rob, we see the bank from his point of view, humorously realizing that the bank has closed at the same time he does. The film opens with an extreme objective close up of Bonnie’s lips before it zooms out and she turns around to look into the mirror, becoming a subjective shot from her point of view as she gazes at herself.
          The variety of camera movements and shots are enhanced by the editing. The robbery and getaway scenes have an intense feel due to the quick cuts of crane shots, car close-ups, tracking shots, and interior close-ups of the gang inside the getaway vehicle. The more calm scenes use shots longer in length; combining the establishing, medium, close-up classic Hollywood editing format.
          Straight cuts are used within a scene with dissolves used for scene transitions. Each sequence begins and ends with a fade, such as the end of Bonnie and Clyde’s introduction and after the whole gang has been gathered. The film ends with a cut to black.

          The rhythm of Bonnie and Clyde is made up of a mixture of the two types of scenes. There is a dialogue heavy, slower paced build-up to crime followed by a fast paced crime and getaway, which leads the characters back into a slower paced hide out scene. This is repeated three or four times throughout. The mood of the film is always tense even in the quieter scenes due to the anticipation of the gang being discovered.
          There are several scenes that use interesting edits. C.W.’s father is shown exiting an ice cream parlor after conversing with an unknown man. He stops in a medium shot outside the parlor when a truck passes in front of him, obscuring the view. When the truck passes, Capt. Hamer is in his place, revealing him as the mystery man. It is a neat way to hide an edit and serves as a pseudo-graphic match.

         The final scene of the film has a calm dread that builds to Bonnie and Clyde realizing they have been trapped. The edits then speed up, with four quick subjective shots of the couple making eye contact with each other and saying goodbye with their eyes. The massacre is loud and violent, with several cuts back and forth between the guns in the bushes and the outlaws being riddled with bullets. The scene then goes silent with the exception of the sound of wind as the two dead bodies settle in slow motion.
          When Bonnie writes her poem, she then reads it out loud to Clyde inside their car during a rainstorm. The scene cuts to Captain Hamer reading it from a published newspaper clipping as Bonnie’s voice-over continues to narrate the poem. The scene then transitions from a close-up of Capt. Hamer’s clipping to another copy of the newspaper being held by Bonnie while on a picnic with Clyde, her voice finally finishing the narration. It is a cool use of a graphic match with the newspaper as well as sound that goes from diegetic to non-diegetic and back to diegetic without a pause in the reading of the poem.
         With the exception of that scene, the dialogue in the film is diegetic and naturalistic. It is mostly character based as opposed to plot driven exposition. The characters speak their minds in a plain spoken manner, adding to their depiction as salt of the earth types. The characters coded as “bad”, such as Captain Hamer, Moss Senior and Bonnie’s mother, have dialogue and delivery that reinforce this. Both of the men appear trustworthy to Bonnie, Clyde, and Blanche during their face to face conversations and use the gentle façade to gain their trust. Mrs. Parker speaks slowly and doesn’t seem to be all there in the head, implying that senility comes with age.
          Sound effects comprise the majority of the films soundtrack. The soundscape is layered with a combination of background noise, sounds of nature, and the higher volume sounds of cars and guns. The outdoor scenes are enhanced by the sounds of wind rustling leaves, birds chirping, and footsteps on dirt roads. The gun fire during shootouts is noticeably louder in volume, giving the scenes a chaotic feel.
          The score in the film is sparse, made up primarily of the banjo music of Flatt and Scruggs. There are a few other instances of music, such as during the dreamy Ma Parker scene and over the opening credits. The use of the banjo music acts as a leit motif, accompanying the many getaways from crime. Its berserk string picking accompanies the frantic escape of the gang from each robbery and close call with the police. Only after the death of Bonnie and Clyde does the banjo slow to a more peaceful pace as the credits roll, signaling that our main characters no longer have to be on the run from a world that regards them as outsiders.
          In Bonnie and Clyde, Arthur Penn blends the narrative style of the International Art Cinema with the traits of classic Hollywood. This fusion produces a films that serves as a prime example of the themes and motifs that establish Arthur Penn as one of the first auteurs of the New Hollywood cinema. The film also establishes the screen personas that most of its cast continue to perfect over the course of their careers.

          Rejecting the conventional three act structure, Bonnie and Clyde instead relies on a narrative structure that is episodic and filled with character based scenes rather than event based. Although there is plenty of action, the film is more interested in the interplay between the Barrow gang than it is in documenting their careers as thieves. This International Art Cinema influenced narrative structure is one example of how the film breaks with the tradition of classic Hollywood cinema, but the break is not a complete one.
          Clyde Barrow, like most Hollywood heroes, is a white male. He is handsome and confident, but is not simplified as “good”. He is both a thief and murderer, traits that break with tradition. The antagonists are also in conflict with how Hollywood has traditionally depicted “villains”. Here, the primary antagonists are Captain Hamer, a Texas Ranger in pursuit of the Barrow gang and Mr. Moss, gang member C.W.’s father. The antagonists are both white males who are representative of the American values of old, anything but foreign. The conflict between the protagonists and antagonists is not simplified, but complex. The protagonists rob banks and commit murders, while the antagonists seek to uphold the law. Instead of their actions, it is the motivations of the characters (looking out for the poor vs. monetary reward) that defines them as protagonist and antagonist.
          The women in Bonnie and Clyde are not typical love interests, passive and inconsequential. Bonnie is stronger than Clyde, calling the shots and establishing herself as the de facto leader of the gang. Even though Blanche is emotionally fragile, she is also the decision maker in her relationship with Buck and is the only member of the group who is not afraid to stand up to Bonnie and question her leadership role. It is the men in the film who tend to be more passive, adopting the role traditionally given to women in classic Hollywood cinema.
         While the characters represent a break with tradition, Bonnie and Clyde’s style stays true to it. The film has an omniscient objective point of view. No single character is the focal point of every scene and the camera is able to observe any character or event. The editing style is hidden by cuts on action, graphic matches, and other tricks of continuity editing. The visuals are primarily plain and realist, with the exception of the hazy expressionism used for the scene when the gang visits with Bonnie’s family. The narrative is linear, free of any flashbacks or framing devices. Although the film ends abruptly and violently, all loose ends are still tied up. Bonnie and Clyde are killed and the surviving members of the gang, Blanche and C.W. are assumed to have returned to life with their respective fathers.
          The marriage of modernist characters in a classic style is presented within the Gangster genre, taking the conventions of the genre and deconstructing some of them slightly. Like the Warner Bros. gangster films of the 1930’s, Bonnie and Clyde presents a dystopian society beat down by the depression, but the typical urban setting is instead moved to the rural south. The iconography of the gangster film is still intact; including guns, car chases, hide outs, and bank robberies. Instead of detailing the Horatio Alger like rise of a gangster, the Barrow gang seem to never get rich. They are constantly on the run and barely breaking even, not able to enjoy the spoils of their crimes. The film does uphold the most important aspect of the gangster film: The death of the antihero protagonists, allowing the audience to be free of complicity while still rooting for them.
         Similar to the revisionist westerns of the same time, the gangster film is updated to reflect the cultural changes of its time of production. Whereas the gangster film was once a reflection of the prohibition era, it now has characters who seem alienated from society and authority. This seems to be a direct correlation to counter cultural ideals of the late sixties.
          Taking place during the baroque phase of the gangster genre, Bonnie and Clyde tends to deconstruct the genre more than other gangster films of it period. It is in stark contrast with a film like The Godfather, which maintains more of the generic conventions, including an ethnic protagonist, the Italian Corleone. The typical fast talking jargon of the gangsters is replaced by a slower southern drawl, softening the rough edges that marks the depiction of most gangsters.
         Bonnie and Clyde also serves as an example of Arthur Penn as auteur. Although he is not as synonymous with the New Hollywood era as other filmmakers, his films have reflected similar themes which suggest the work of an auteur. Like his deconstruction of the gangster film, Penn uses other genres to reflect the counterculture. He updated the western with Little Big Man, presenting the Native American as protagonist. Penn also directed Alice’s Restaurant, a pseudo-musical based on star Arlo Guthrie’s life. These films, along with his earlier film, The Miracle Worker, seem to present characters who don’t or can’t connect to the mainstream society. This theme is central to his work and is on full display in Bonnie and Clyde.
          Although the film’s central author is director Penn, the cast’s contribution cannot be overstated. Each member of the Barrow gang is a reflection of the personality of the actor portraying him or her and the chemistry between the five leads is a primary driving force in the film’s success. Penn casts the film with a mixture of movie stars (Warren Beatty, Faye Dunaway) and character actors (Michael Pollard, Estelle Parsons). Gene Hackman can even be described as both movie star character actor, portraying leads and supporting roles throughout his career.
          One of the most interesting aspects of the cast is how their star personas seems to come directly from this film. Warren Beatty is the only actor in the cast known prior to Bonnie and Clyde. As Clyde, he perfects the weak willed charmer who uses his good looks to mask his ineffectual nature. This character type is revisited by Beatty again and again throughout his career. The remaining cast members establish their personas with the film. Faye Dunaway uses a cold, commanding exterior to mask her inner fears and insecurities. She uses the same qualities to establish herself as one of the most respected actresses of the 1970’s in films such as Chinatown and Network. Gene Hackman’s Buck introduces viewers to his unique ability to use his folksy persona as a way to cover up the darker nature hidden underneath. Michael Pollard’s baby faced naivety as cover for violent perversity has given him a career longevity, specializing in low budget horror. Finally, Parson’s aged her shrill and opinionated performance as Blanche into her signature role as Roseanne Barr’s mother on television’s Roseanne.

       The characters that comprise the Barrow gang are all dynamic; relying on each other for survival, but ultimately failing to survive. The betrayal of Bonnie and Clyde by C.W. and Blanche reflects not only the way the characters interact and change throughout the film, but also another key theme of the gangster film: Loyalty and betrayal. Blanche and C.W. both betray Bonnie and Clyde as a way to ensure their own safety from the law. By the end of the film, Bonnie and Clyde are the only two characters who have remained loyal, which ends up costing them their lives. 
          The unique episodic narrative, Penn’s signature themes and the cast’s charismatic performances coupled with an updating of the gangster genre has allowed Bonnie and Clyde to be timeless, perhaps more so than the real life crime spree the film is based on.

My Favorite Movie Musical Moments

           I finally got around to seeing Les Miserables (2012) the other night and I thought it was solid, but nothing too innovative. Anne Hathaway did blow me away with her performance as Fantine and “I Dreamed a Dream.” The film and Hathaway’s performance in particular made me think of my other favorite numbers from movie musicals. Here they are, in no particular order: (I tried to find clips from YouTube, but I couldn't for a few.)

Cabaret (1972) - “Maybe This Time”

Joel Grey’s Master of Ceremonies is my favorite character from the film, but “Maybe this Time” is the most poignant song from the film. It sums up the optimistic, yet cautious attitude that Sally Bowles (Liza Minnelli) has adopted in response to too many past abandonments. That song alone tells us all we need to know about Bowles.

Dreamgirls (2006) - “And I Am Telling You I’m Not Going”

                Like Hathaway in Les Miserables, It can be argued that this one song clenched the Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Jennifer Hudson. Seeing this during its theatrical release, the audience burst into applause after she finished the number, something I had not seen before or since. This is one of my favorite introduction to an actress I've ever seen.

Singin’ in the Rain (1952) - “Good Morning”

                Arguably the greatest musical ever made, Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen’s film is full of great sequences featuring recycled songs from past musicals. “Make them laugh” and the titular number are both classics; but it is Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connors’ rendition of “Good Morning” that always puts a smile on my face. It’s super catchy to boot.

The Wizard of Oz (1939) – “Somewhere over the Rainbow”

                What now seems like an obvious choice famously almost landed on the cutting room floor to make for a speedier trip to Oz. Like Minnelli’s number from Cabaret, This song serves as an encapsulation of Dorothy’s (Judy Garland) feelings and character. I used to watch The Wizard of Oz at least weekly as a kid, and I would always watch this song, then fast forward to the tornado scene.

Once (2007) – “Falling Slowly”

                2007 was, in my opinion, the greatest year in film that I have seen during my lifetime. Out of all the great films released that year, Once is probably my second favorite. It was one of those films that I didn’t know a lot about going into and it surprised me, putting me in a good mood for the rest of the day. The secret to its charm is in its simplicity. It’s not overly choreographed and doesn’t even have a plot, really. It’s about two people connecting at the right time and the right place. “Falling Slowly” is the first glimpse at that connection. 

The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982) – “The Sidestep”

                This is without doubt the cheesiest film on this list. It is the standard southernspolitation that Burt Reynolds excels at with musical numbers thrown in. It’s not even that great of a film. That being said, there is something infectious about Charles Durning’s Texas Governor dancing in the corridors of the Capitol while avoiding the press that is attempting to hold him accountable. Durning’s large frame along with his fast paced dance moves are a bizarre juxtaposition that is hard to take your eyes off of. You find honest depictions of the political system in the strangest places sometimes.

Chicago (2002) – “Mr. Cellophane”

                Although the film is known for its jazzier numbers, John C. Reilly’s lone solo performance is what won me over while watching Chicago. I think the surprise of seeing Reilly singing so well is part of why I love it so much. It’s crazy to think that Reilly was in 3 of the 5 Oscar nominees for Best Picture that year, including getting a nod himself for this film. He’s since sort of reinvented himself as a member of the “frat-pack”, but his recent performances in Roman Polanski’s Carnage and Lynn Ramsay’s We Need to Talk about Kevin hint at a return to more dramatic roles.

The Muppet Movie (1979) – “Rainbow Connection”

                My 9 month old son has started to fall in love with Sesame Street, Elmo in particular. It’s amazing that Henson’s Muppet creations are still relevant and vital in the digital age. It’s likely due to the heart behind the felt creations. This is perfectly summed up by Kermit the Frog’s rendition of “Rainbow Connection” from the original Muppet film. It was nominated for a Best Original Song Oscar, losing out to a song from Norma Rae that I’ve never heard of.

The Rocky Horror Picture Show (1975) – “Sweet Transvestite”

                I’ve never gotten the Rocky Horror screening craze. I love the film, but all the audience participation and props and bad re-enactments only serves as a distraction to me. I’ve been to a few of them, but I always end up getting annoyed at not being able to pay attention. I guess I’m a grouch. My favorite moment in the film has to be the introduction of Tim Curry’s Frank-N-Furter. Curry’s career longevity is a testament to his acting abilities because a lesser actor would have surely been type cast following this film.

The Producers (2005) – “Springtime for Hitler”

                There is something so absurd and ridiculous about this song that it makes me forget how offensive it really is. In the same way that Once finds charm in simplicity, This number’s secret is its over the top choreography, costumes, and editing. It’s also dangerously catchy. I have found myself unconsciously singing it out loud in public on more than one occasion.

Bad Movies: Escape from L.A.

Released 15 years after Escape from New York, John Carpenter’s Escape from L.A. rehashes the original plot as Snake Plissken (Kurt Russell) is again dropped in a dystopian metropolitan area on a mission from a villainous U.S. President. The film was a huge flop both critically and financially, but most of all, artistically.

Carpenter and Russell together made several classics during the eighties, including The Thing, Big Trouble in Little China, and Escape from New York. By the time Escape from L.A. came around, both were in a bit of a slump. Carpenter had just directed the ill-conceived remake of Village of the Damned and Russell’s flattop hair style had appeared in the crap fest, Stargate. It is easy to see why the two would want to capitalize on their past success, I just wish they would have brought their A-game. Here are ten reasons why Escape from L.A. is cinematic garbage:

1.       The CGI. It is beyond bad. Three years earlier, Spielberg revolutionized movie-making and made audiences believe dinosaurs existed in Jurassic Park. This film looks like a bad video game, and the effects are worse than the SyFy channel’s bargain basement monster movies. Carpenter has used practical effects in such inventive ways in the past that it is a shame he didn't employ them here.

2.       Kurt Russell’s acting. Russell’s characterization in this film plays more like an over the top Clint Eastwood impression than the bad-ass Snake. I’m sure the script has a lot to do with that, but Russell is listed as a co-writer. I guess that doesn't let him off the hook.

3.       Kurt Russell’s stunt double. It’s pretty convenient that every time Snake does something dangerous, his back is to the camera and his big hair is blocking his face. I suppose it is more believable than the amateurish green screen work of the rest of the film.

4.       Stacy Keach’s pony tail.

5.       The “message”. Carpenter brilliantly satirized U.S. politics in They Live. It is perhaps one of the best responses to the Reagan administration on film. Here, the satire is both lazy and heavy handed. Sure, Cliff Robertson’s President vaguely foretold the religious zealotry of George W. Bush, but in a completely silly way. Also, the President’s daughter is named Utopia? Way to hit us over the head with ironic symbolism.

6.       The year 2013. Why is the fashion of choice in futuristic 2013 black leather? Why is grunge rock being played from the thugs cars? Why is the password on the MacGuffin only three numbers? Shouldn't it be at least twelve digits; including an uppercase and lowercase letter, at least one number and one special character?  Come on, 1996!

7.       The helicopter sequence. How does the helicopter catch on fire and burn everyone in the back seat, without the fire spreading to the front? Snake’s luxurious hair doesn't even catch on fire.

8.       The supporting cast. I am a fan of Steve Buscemi, Pam Grier, Bruce Campbell and Peter Fonda; but they are at their lowest in this film. Buscemi’s character somehow has zero personality, which I didn't think was possible. Pam “The Man” Grier should be offended by this film, as should transvestites the world over. She is dubbed with the deepest voice I've heard this side of Darth Vader. Is it supposed to be funny? I missed the joke. Campbell would seemingly excel in a film like this, but he isn't allowed enough screen time to have any fun with his character, instead only serving as the obligatory plastic surgery in L.A. joke. Finally, I have no idea what Fonda is doing in the movie. He serves no purpose other than to deliver lines such as, “far-out” and “bitchin’, man.”

9.       Surfing ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

10.   And hang gliding ?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

I wish that Carpenter and Russell had gotten together and wrote something that was more than just a lazy remake of the original. I believe that the Snake Plissken character lends itself to franchising. Putting the character in a different situation with more dynamic motivation could have yielded a much better film. Instead, we got post-apocalyptic surfing and hang gliding. Shame. 

My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done?

            Werner Herzog’s My Son, My Son, What Have Ye Done? (2009) at first seems like it will be another entry in the hostage subgenre of crime films. A lesser filmmaker would have taken the premise and carried it through to a climax involving Willem Dafoe’s cop character bravely entering the house and having a shoot-out with Michael Shannon’s deranged psychopath following an extended sequence of macho exposition.

            Herzog, of course, is not interested in convention. He turns this genre on its head as he has with countless other genres, including POW movies (Rescue Dawn) and corrupt cop movies (Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call- New Orleans), as well as his numerous meditative documentaries.

            The film is primarily set outside Shannon’s San Diego home as the police, led by Dafoe’s homicide detective, try to piece together why Brad (Shannon) has murdered his mother and holed up with two hostages. Brad’s fiancée, theatre director, and neighbors all provide narration for flashbacks that show Brad’s unraveling following a trip to Peru.

            I may be mistaken, but this film paired with the same year’s Bad Lieutenant is the first time Herzog has set his films in the U.S. Known for his ability to find uniqueness and something new in far off locales, He does the same thing with San Diego. Herzog presents Shannon’s home as a bizarre and colorful structure of 1950’s kitsch. The home informs Shannon’s character, allowing us to see that his upbringing was not quite as “normal” as ours.

            The primary reason behind Brad’s lack of normality is his mother, portrayed by Grace Zabriskie as an over controlling nightmare of a woman, unable to see that her son is no longer an eight year old. Their relationship reminded me a lot of Norman Bates and his mother in the way that they seem to be co-dependent. Brad’s murdering of his mother coupled with Psycho’s similar plot device makes me wonder if the Oedipus complex still exists in single parent houses, the mother eliciting both of the subconscious desires within a child. The use of pink flamingos as hostages serve as symbolism for Brad’s desire to keep his mother’s spirit alive even after murdering her.

            I also found the relationship between Udo Kier’s theatre director and Shannon’s crazy actor interesting. It is hard not to imagine that they are a comment on Herzog himself and his mythical collaborations with the late wild man actor Klaus Kinski. I would like to have seem a whole film focusing on that production of ancient Greek theatre.

 The film is not all gloom and doom, however. There is a lot of humor amidst the insanity, another signature Herzog touch. The scene of Brad Dourif’s uncle planning to have a little person ride a miniature pony is a call back to one of Herzog’s earliest films, Even Dwarfs Started Small. There is also a hilarious sight gag as Shannon is surrounded by the Swat team and one of the Swat members trains his gun on the flamingoes rather than Brad. This is perhaps a nod to Herzog’s passionate aversion to another bird, the chicken.

            The cast is top shelf. Shannon is perhaps the quintessential psycho of modern cinema, also playing crazy in Bug and Take Shelter. He has a face that suggests he is in a different reality from the rest of the world. Shannon is a master at using these facial tics to their maximum effectiveness. Dafoe, another actor whose image lends itself to off kilter characters, plays the straight man here. His detective character seems unfazed by the oddness that is going on around him. Having the usually unhinged Dafoe play the normal character underlines the insanity of the situation. Brad Dourif plays Brad’s racist and homophobic uncle and is presented as perhaps a cog in Brad’s meltdown. Dourif is great as always, but he seems to have worn the same costume in every movie he’s made in the last 10 years. The ensemble is rounded out by Udo Kier, Cloe Sevigny, Michael Pena, Irma P. Hall, and Loretta Devine; none of them a weak link in the cast.

            The film is very inventive and it is amazing that Herzog still continues to produce such strong work so late in his career. Many directors, even some of my favorites, tend to lose their edge as they age and have their artistic appetite replaced with a monetary one. With help from producer David Lynch, this film supports Herzog’s status as one of our greatest living filmmakers.