Reintroduction #30: Oldboy (2003, Park)


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#30. Oldboy (2003, Park)
First Seen in: 2006

I didn’t realize it had been so long since I had seen Oldboy, but that’s because the film sticks with you. I believe this was the first Korean film I had seen; actually I’m sure of it. Oldboy is a film where the mark of the overused violent revenge thriller pays off in new and exciting ways, even ten years later. It’s a film filled with delirious mania but it’s strangely funny and morbidly poetic at the same time.

Choi Min-sik, one of my favorite actors, is remarkable here. It’s a performance that moves across extremes. In one scene he can be stoic and hollow and in the next feral and feverishly physical. The scene where he begs is disturbing enough to begin with in context, but his performance pushes it to another level. I’ve never seen a character more desperate.

And that fight scene, my God that fight scene. I’ve revisited that particular scene many times but it’s just….it’s not just the ‘cool’ factor associated with pulling off a long take. It’s not just that it’s a fight scene. The one take here is doing something new. The distance and trajectory of it is like a performance art piece that showcases how far someone can push their body. This is perseverance, exhaustion, rage and bodily damage encapsulated, distilled. You feel the heaving, the sweat, and agony. It’s like a manga panel brought to bloody life. Ka-Pow.

Something I’ve noticed about Park Chan-wook is how obsessive he is with characters within frames, capturing them in poses, and using framing to further articulate characters in relation to the camera and each other. It can be used for humor, to accent a moment into our memory or to emphasize character. An example of this is the how Oh Dae-su adopts the face and motto of the painting in his prison room. When he smiles in pain several crucial times throughout the film, is becomes cemented for us and is also used to enhance character.

Park also has a tendency to expand time in the interest of moments but also condenses time through editing to create a slightly dreamlike sped-up linearity at all times. It’s not naturalistic; as Park says, he likes you to feel the ‘space between shots’. This de-emphaszies plot, putting a focus on the audience simply living in the film. I think it is this that allows the audience to easily go along with its more outlandish plot elements like the hypnotist.

Park and Chung Chung-hoon drown Oldboy in a sea of rusty grainy green, a world of grimy fluorescence with carefully placed splotches of red. It exists in nearly every shot, and Chung used bleach bypass to help get the seedy underground effect. It’s a very dark-looking film, and combined with the use of wide-angle lenses help make this a warped experience.

That final scene is just devastating, one of my favorite endings from any film. The ambiguous ending has become pretty overdone in recent years, often feeling like a cop-out. But this works because it’s a no-win and as an audience member you have to ask yourself which interpretation you prefer and it’s a tough one to answer. Like choosing between horrific and horrific.

One final thought; I forgot how much I love the score to Oldboy. It thumps and lulls and sways. It supports the ‘operatic’ quality of Park. “The Last Waltz” is a track I could listen to all day long. And have been.

Review: The Crowd Roars (1932, Hawks)


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Seemingly a pedestrian throwaway Warner Bros. production, but in fact a severely overlooked film within Howard Hawks’ filmography. He puts his own personal stamp on this racing film, making Joe a character always out of our reach with his near-psychotic obsession with ‘the lure of responsibility’ as Robin Wood calls it, and protecting his brother from ‘booze and women’. As a result, the film is extremely ostracizing to its women, played by Ann Dvorak and Joan Blondell. Dvorak is, once again, a self-sacrificing martyr, treated at worst like muck and at best indifferently. She’s a doleful ball of tears, following Joe to the ends of the earth; it’s shameful to witness. Joan Blondell starts as her wise-cracking hip-to-the-game self, only for the film to throw that back in her face once she falls hard for Joe’s brother. It seems like The Crowd Roars is going to give them a sympathetic perspective, as they have scenes between themselves, girls consoling and giving each other a dose of the hard facts. But no. Dvorak and Blondell, two of the best there ever was, are undermined at every turn. ‘Hawksian’ women these are not, at least not in the positive sense.

But Hawks was always like this. There’s room for some awesome women in his films, but when it comes between male bonding and the thrill of occupational hazard, women are seen as sniffling encroaching clumps of threat. Disrupting the purity of maleness and subsequently blamed so that the men don’t actually have to reflect on their own self-doubt. Joe has given himself to racing wholeheartedly. And to booze and women, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let his brother Eddie do the same. Joe is a fascinating character, mainly because he’s so unreachable and self-loathing, extending his misogynistic bile onto Lee and Anne and his projecting his own self-doubt onto Eddie. Hawks infuses a lot of complex and contradictory emotions into a standard racing pic.

Speaking of racing, Hawks also embeds his love and practice of racing into the film, making sure a concentrated authenticity enters the lengthy racing scenes. It pays off. We get actual racing footage, real racers cameo in the film, and an emphasis on the dirt, the tangibility of life and the dusty closeness of death. The singular depiction of Spud’s burning flesh, the racers horrified reaction to the smell as they drive through it. You feel it. Hawks makes you feel it.

I may have major issues with it, but I also have to love The Crowd Roars at least within the Hawks oeuvre and for the fact that it’s a Warner Bros. pre-code with James Cagney (fabulous as always), Joan Blondell and Ann Dvorak. It can’t get much better than that no matter the circumstances.

Films Seen in 2013 Round-Up: #67-73


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#67. I’m a Cyborg, But That’s OK (2006, Park)
A major departure for Park in subject matter, but his form and execution remain astutely his. Favoring the subjective, Park Chan-wook’s romantic asylum film works because he stays loyal to his deluded characters. One of the quirkiest films I’ve ever seen, it sometimes becomes overloaded with eccentricities and whimsy, but always bounces back to remind us that cutesy is not the name of the game. Each patient lives in their own universe, and Park unites them under his roof of his and Chung Chung-hoon’s camera, delighting in what makes them unique.

I love when the film goes off on tangents with the various residents, seamlessly moving between different perspectives, bringing their delusions to life. The central pair (one of whom is adorably played by Rain), are connected through their troubles, but the romance thankfully never tips into the straight-forward. Not even once. Park’s camera glides around, attentive as ever, always impeccably placing people within the frame, playing around with distance and relation. His hospital is filled with pop colors, a vibrant playground for the troubled where even the nurses and doctors barely register. I’m a Cyborg, But That’s OK lets the characters keep their elaborate inner worlds, using reality only add the necessary dose of underlying sadness.

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#68. Samaritan Girl (2004, Kim)
Samaritan Girl reminds me that I need to see all of Kim Ki-duk’s films even though this is probably my least favorite of the three I’ve seen. A triptych telling of a story, Kim, himself a Buddhist, weighs this film down in Catholic imagery and symbolism. It starts out about one character, shifts to another and then beings the two together for the final third which shows a breakdown in communication. A father and daughter who have dealt with grief and betrayal in equally misguided ways and can’t even come together to console each other. Kim retains the innocence of the girls involved in prostitution. He allows them to be schoolgirls, one possibly in love with the other. He veers into male fantasy territory in the way he retains this innocence and the at times oversimplification of the two girls. A lot of this is made up for by the fact that the oversimplification is part of the girls varying coping mechanisms.

Kim is a divisive provocateur, known for his challenging material and the way he marries peaceful stoic imagery with extremes in content. Samaritan Girl continues this fascination. Stunning lead performance by Kwak Ji-min.

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#69. Victim (1961, Dearden)
An important film that addresses the Sexual Offences Act in England and Wales, which lasted through to 1967, making homosexuality illegal. Humanizing homosexuality, being the first film where the word is spoken, and being told from the perspective of homosexual characters being tormented with blackmail and driven to suicide…all of this is pretty groundbreaking stuff. Yes, it often treats homosexuality as an it-can’t-be-helped-abnormality but it’s a product of the time, and there’s a ton of progressive rationalization going on in support of all the horrible LGBT social injustices still running rampant today.

But despite being a well-shot social problem film with a simmering lead performance by Dirk Bogarde, I wasn’t grabbed by the story or the characters. It interested me more for what it stood for but sadly it didn’t engage me.

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#70. The Cat and the Canary (1927, Leni)
You guys, Paul Leni is seriously underrated. I don’t think cinephiles give him his imagine-what-he-could-have-done due. The man died at 29 but was one of the key figures in German Expressionist filmmaking of the silent era. He brought his experimental distorted spook-fest techniques to Hollywood where he made a handful of films before dying in 1929 via blood poisoning. He also made one of my favorite films of the silent era, The Man Who Laughs. If you haven’t seen it, DO SO.

The Cat and the Canary doesn’t quite live up to the high standard of The Man Who Laughs, entirely because the film focuses too much on comedy instead of being pure haunted house horror, which I would have preferred. It being adapted from a horror-comedy play, it looks like Leni was kind of trapped as a result (whether he liked the material or not), mostly in the latter half. But Paul Leni’s magic bag of visual bedazzle is more than up to par. He does everything you can imagine, fooling and tinkering with the possibilities of the moving image to unsettle and splay the unconscious. Experimenting with point-of-view, distorted imagery, superimposed images, angles and set design, intertitles, tracking shots, etc; all of it and more. The result is that you feel the characters are caught in a haunted house illustration. The first half juggles comedy and horror really well, but the second half peters out in favor of comedy. Sad sack Paul Jones is our ‘hero; but he’s such a low-down dweeb that I was unrealistically hoping the film would pull a twist and make him the ‘Cat’. No such luck. And our ‘heroine’, Annabelle West literally has nothing to do. The entire duration has her insisting upon her sanity whilst becoming increasingly unstable. Surprise, surprise. She’s inactive from start to finish. And I lost track at just how many envelopes come into play at a certain point. So many envelopes.

But this is still enjoyably kooky and worth watching multiple times for Paul Leni’s unnerving expressionist playground.

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#71. The Crowd Roars (1932, Hawks)
Review: https://cinenthusiast.wordpress.com/2013/03/30/review-the-crowd-roars-1932-hawks/

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#72. You Can Count On Me (2000, Lonergan)
Playwright Kenneth Lonergan’s film debut takes a middle-of-the-road indie set-up and propels it to restrained insightful heights. I love sibling films, particularly films that explore brother/sister or sister/sister dynamics. There aren’t as many of them as there should be and they often fall through the cracks of mediocrity. But this one is deftly handled, looking at a brother and sister who lead disparate lives, depending on each other in a multitude of ways even as they push back. Their infinite grief over their parents death when they were children forever-defines and binds them as they navigate through what they may or may not want in life.

Laura Linney is prime cut for her role and Matthew “I like paperwork” Broderick is perfect casting but its Mark Ruffalo who really knocked my socks off. He’s played the irresponsible drifter before, but this is his bursting-on-the-scene role, and he plays on his ability to emit the kind of sympathy you’d have for a child. He makes you understand why Linney, besides the familial bond, constantly babies him and gives him chances. Almost as dramatically rewarding as the Linney/Ruffalo interactions are those between Mark Ruffalo and Rory Culkin. Longegan very smartly has Culkin underplay, so he’s never pulling at heartstrings and always quiet and observant, trusting the audience to understand the impact this is all having on him.

Lonergan mixes the humorous and the reflective together with well-timed perception. The scene between Ruffalo, Linney and Lonergan himself as a useless priest perfectly toes the line. Another stand-out scene, more on the serious side, is when Ruffalo and Linney meet up in the café. It’s their first scene together. She is ecstatic to see him, gleaming, and he’s happy to see her. It’s been two years. What starts as hesitant how-do-ya-dos quickly gives way to the ‘I’ve been in some trouble’ speech on guess-who’s part. A confession we see coming and even worse, deep down so does she. We realize this is a sort of cyclical conversation, raised from the grave every so often, rehashed but never resolved. Her giddiness to see him was authentic but also a front of self-denial. Maybe this time it will be different.

Also; yep, I cried during this one. Didn’t expect to, but the bench scene got me going.

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#73. Les Amants du Pont-Neuf (Lovers on the Bridge) (1991, Carax)
An exuberant burst of swirly fuzzy lights, as if we are seeing life through the eyes of Binoche’s going-blind street artist, taking life in in one last hurrah. Leos Carax makes a preposterously expensive (it’s well-known for its notorious production history as anything) ambitious love letter to Paris, that shouldn’t be oversimplified at least in his at-first glance adoration with the city. As far as content goes, this is a simple tale, one where a plot synopsis makes it sound limp and trite. But its simplicity, which favors broad and often startling poeticism, sends Carax careening with the kind of cinematic indulgence that sends me off to the stars. Starting in a pit of real-life gutter-poverty and slowly rising until the worlds of Alex and Michele feel strangely comfortable to us, misery and self-destructive tendencies included. Jean-Yves Escoffier’s camerawork is something majestic, always getting the grime and fantasy to mesh together in the same shot. He keeps up with the physical bursts of movement from Binoche and Denis Lavant, including their stunt work (Binoche’s waterskiing looked seriously life-threatening). Lights streak into each other, a semi-blind haze.

The freedom afforded by any rigid structure and the way Carax matter-of-factly handles events with no build-up, means we can never quite tell where the film is going, making it all the more engrossing. The tone is constantly shifting in subtleties and the relative enigma of the characters positions them in their own lore. The film even somehow rises above the problematic actions on Alex’s part, which in another film would destroy any semblance of attachment we have to the idea of them as ‘lovers’. What I love is that for most of the film is appears resolutely one-sided, more a dependent convenience for her than anything else. I can never take my eyes off Lavant, his acrobatic chimera grotesquery is something elemental. I could willfully digest any number of scenes again and again, and the famous fireworks sequence is bananas, the height of extravagance. I know I’m far from the first to point this out, but there are a lot of parallels to L’Atalante. It’s a force of questionably romantic, squalid, indulgent, joyous, raucous, unapologetic nature.

Hit Me With Your Best Shot: Jackie Brown (1997)


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This is my third time revisiting Jackie Brown within the past year and up until then I had only seen it once. When I saw that Jackie Brown was being showcased on “Hit Me With Your Best Shot”, I already knew which shot I would choose, and it’s one I expect to pop up on several posts. But before that, a few words on Quentin Tarantino’s third feature film, on his 50th birthday. His follow-up to the game-changing Pulp Fiction commonly gets the ‘overlooked’ label, so much so that it seems to be shedding some of its underrated skin. But then I look at the free-for-all praise heaped upon last year’s Django Unchained and I think to myself, Jackie Brown may be commonly considered a great film, but compared to the hyperbole generously thrown about in regards to his latest, I’d say ‘Jackie’ still goes wildly underappreciated, at least comparatively speaking. It’s the kind of filmmaking I’d like to see him get back to at some point. It’s the last time he’s made a non-revenge centric film. Think about that. But I digress.

Jackie Brown is wound-down intimate Tarantino through and through, a rare beast indeed compared to his now par-for-the-course hyper-kinetic ultra-violent pastiche. His patient table-setting, frequently attempting to break records for sustained tension, exists in its infancy here. Sure, there’s tension, but it’s all about the relaxed feel, a stealth mellowness that digs itself into his top-notch rhythms of character and beats of dialogue. He lets the whole film breathe, even casually repeating music cues with an uncommon ease. It’s filled with two-person scenes that juggle forward-motion and exploring developing idiosyncratic dynamics, vying for our favoritism. I can’t figure out whose scenes I look forward to more; Jackie and Max, Louis and Melanie, Ordell and Louis? The list goes on. The film stands out within his filmography. It’s one-of-a-kind, dealing in weathered average folks beaten down by life or dealing in low-level comparatively low-stakes crime. And it handles violence and romance with care and surprising maturity. There’s also a healthy dose of dark humor; the scene where Louis tells Ordell he shot Melanie might be the funniest scene he’s ever done. That scene momentarily turns the film into a fucked-up screwball comedy. Basically, there’s a lot to love in Jackie Brown and it’s one of my favorites from QT.

Chosen shot:

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Of course, of course, I’m picking the opening moving walkway shot. At first, knowing others would write about it, and surely more observantly, I sought to find another shot. There are plenty of other choices, and I looked at shots that illustrated the way violence is handled, or that showcase my favorite performance in the film, Robert De Niro as clueless schlub Louis. But I just keep coming back to that opening dazzler. And I just can’t resist choosing it.

It’s almost as if Pam Grier is bringing those LAX walls to colorful life. As Bobby Womack’s “Across 110th Street” glides and struts into our ears, a sort of anthem for Jackie, enter Pam Grier. Jackie Brown is in essence a tribute to Grier, that female vigilante icon of Blaxploitation, and right off the bat we’re given an opportunity to bask in her presence. Profile shot, bold blue stewardess garb as iconic identifier, fixed expression, unmoving statuesque body language. Take a good look because we won’t see her again for another thirty minutes. In another minute, towards the end of the sequence, she’ll be running and rushing in a hurry to get to work on time. But in this moment, this shot, she is a noble representation of the everywoman just trying to get by.

Speaking of Blaxploitation, Tarantino uses this opening shot to establish his total reworking of the genre with his film. Tarantino does Blaxploitation?! Oh, the possibilities! Well, I’ve never seen this as his take on Blaxploitation, but rather a reworked homage, fusing the former, via exalting its reigning female icon, with a grubby crime noir tale. Take the opening of Foxy Brown as a direct contrast to the opening of Jackie Brown.

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In the Foxy Brown intro, we focus on lips, eyes, breasts and silhouette, frozen and unfrozen in time, in space, in various contrasting colors. She faces the camera, winks at us and dances for us. She even multiplies! Like Roger Vadim objectifying Jane Fonda for Barbarella, the” Hit Me With Your Best Shot” pick from two weeks ago, so Jack Hill does for Pam Grier. With Jackie Brown, there’s an immediate subversion of expectations, a subdued but different minded celebration of Grier. Where the Foxy Brown opening was all about movement and close-ups, kaleidoscopic images upon kaleidoscopic images that repeat and enlarge and switch up every second, Jackie Brown’s credits are only a handful of shots, all of her going somewhere. She doesn’t have time to boogie down for us; she’s got to earn a living. Also, notice the yellow font Tarantino lifted.

But Jackie does have time to stand frozen on the moving sidewalk for us, if only momentarily, resembling that famous opening image from The Graduate. In each, the direction the characters face is not what we’re used to; right to left instead of left to right. It’s as if they’re drifting backwards while facing forward.

Where Foxy Brown celebrates Grier’s body, youth and spunk, Tarantino celebrates Grier as a rediscovered remnant, somehow more beautiful with age. I mean remnant only in the sense that she’s lived life and has some years under her belt. Isn’t it nice to see a  middle-aged black woman getting the lead in a major motion picture? It’s sad that in 2013, the 1997 Jackie Brown sticks out as a rare showcase for this, but it’s the sad truth. In its first moment, we see an African-American woman in full possession of herself appreciated and worshiped by the camera in this shot and throughout the film. No objectification here; it’s been replaced with the blind reverence of a deity. In case blind reverence also sounds like problematic gender-biased oversimplification, rest assured. Tarantino’s worship comes mainly in the form of a gift to Grier; the gift of a fully realized character like Jackie.

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For a final thought, Tarantino also couples this opening shot of Jackie’s coasting complacency and juxtaposes it with this one (pictured above) later in the film. Jackie is on her way to the drop-off point, once again with the camera moving right to left with Jackie on the right side of the screen. Except this time, she’s moving. She has determinative agency and things are looking up. Even the color on the wall matches her blue stewardess outfit.

Some runners-up:

Jackie Brown 5 Jackie Brown 6 Jackie Brown 7 Jackie Brown 8 Jackie Brown 9  Jackie Brown 12 Jackie Brown 13

Films Seen in 2013 Round-Up: #61-66


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#61. Wreck-It-Ralph (2012, Moore)

Sweet and endearing film that gets all the big-picture high concept material right on the money. John C. Reilly and Sarah Silverman are a couple of perfect odd-couple outsiders. What the film lacks in nuance it makes up for with heart, Loaded with video-game references that thoroughly went over my head, noted thanks to my boyfriend consistently guffawing at my lack of basic knowledge. There were a couple of wrenches thrown into the plot that pleasantly surprised me. There’s an undefinable feeling that some of the film’s run time could have been put to better utilized but I’m not sure how, and the score felt irritatingly ‘now’. All in all an endearing enjoyable animated feature.

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#62. Stoker (2013, Park) Full Review: https://cinenthusiast.wordpress.com/2013/03/19/review-stoker-2013-park/

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#63. Jewel Robbery (1932, Dieterle)
Full Review: https://cinenthusiast.wordpress.com/2013/03/20/review-jewel-robbery-1932-dieterle/

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#64. Seance on a Wet Afternoon (1964, Forbes)

My God, what an underappreciated film. I had been wanting to see this for several years, never getting around to it, and even had seen Kiyoshi Kurosawa’s reworking of it, simply called Seance. This did not disappoint at all. The peculiar and attention-grabbing synopsis draws you in, but it’s the intertwining psychosis of the husband and wife that drive the film. Kim Stanley gives one for the ages as the wife whose conviction remains unmovable but whose stability inches closer to oblivion. We try to parse out where that conviction belongs in her world, which Stanley uses to chilling effect as her conviction disguises her stability throughout. Her adamant and soul-cutting demeanor are often targeted at her husband, the weak-willed Attenborough whose dedication and empathy for his wife and her current mental state have driven him to constant reluctant commitment to their plan. Every time he questions, she cuts him down. He can’t get around her. Living in their world of accommodated delusion is a haunting experience.

As great as Stanley is, and it’s hard to put into words just how great, Attenborough captivated me even more. His cold frightened stare, off-putting prosthetic nose and penchant for looking down or away at Stanley make his internal will-he-or-won’t-he-of-course-he-will debate compelling. The focus is often on his reluctance and not on her stability, smartly cementing the necessary balance between the couple into place.

You know this scheme will go wrong. The question is when and how. The answers aren’t quite what I expected and the film is all the better for it. The direction of the story keeps character first, suspense second and uses this prioritization right up to the end. That final scene will stay with you. So will the whole film, a psychological drama that tests the devotion of marriage to its limits.

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#65. Class of Nuke ‘Em High (1986, Haines & Kaufman)

So this weekend I got to appear as an extra in a music video for Troma’s upcoming Return to Nuke ‘Em High. Lloyd Kaufman appeared in the video and was on-set all day. I figured since I’ve only seen 3 Troma films, I should probably see more. So last night my boyfriend and I sat down and had ourselves a Troma double feature of 2 films I’d been meaning to see for a while. Class of Nuke ‘Em High and The Toxic Avenger.

Class of Nuke ‘Em High is a lot of fun, excelling at that Troma brand of low budget self-aware horror badness. A lot of the comedy in these films comes from the acting. A main Troma trait are reliably awful performances, but I’d actually argue the opposite in many cases. It’s a brand of acting that focuses on self-aware comedy, an art to the bad performance. So many of these actors are able to milk every line for more than their worth. So much enjoyment just comes from this. Fun b-movie schlock, that starts out a lot stronger than it finishes, but still manages to mostly live up to its cult status.

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#66. The Toxic Avenger (1984, Herz & Kaufman)

The picture above is of Bozo, aka the greatest character ever. He is a prime example of a performance in which every single line delivery had me in stitches, working within the Troma brand to exaggerate every moment to its fullest potential. This was even more fun, what with the Avenger’s straight-laced superhero voice, the fitness center setting and the extreme moments of gore. Bozo forever.

 

Reintroductions #28-29: A Face in the Crowd & Forbidden Games


This year I’m devoting more time to revisiting films I’ve seen only once, a practice I’ve shamefully neglected. My Reintroduction posts are a place for me to jot down some thoughts and observations.

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#28. A Face in the Crowd (1957, Kazan)
First Seen in: 2007

My overpowering memories from A Face in the Crowd were the beginning and the end, the major landmarks in the transformation of Lonesome Rhodes. It’s still startlingly prescient today; its indiscreetness beaming out of the screen, full-on assaulting the audience. There’s a nightmarish quality to the film, with Andy Griffith at the helm. This is an in-your-face Method-like performance, an example of the more modern style of acting to be ushered into fifties American film, with Elia Kazan’s work being a major flourish zone of the time for  actors to strut their emotive bursts. Griffith starts grating and ends grating; it’s one of the great performances, all hoarse guffaws and boundless in-your-face stamina. Griffith loads his performance with endless shadings and variations on the character’s defining traits.

Screenwriter Budd Schulberg and Griffith could have made the Lonesome of the beginning and end unrecognizable to each other. But Lonesome always remains Lonesome, except now he’s drunk and deluded with both megalomania and alcohol. That streak of the wandering man is erased, substituted with a quickened sense of the power of influence, of his voice. I can’t harp enough about Griffith, because his presence is what had stayed with me through the years when I thought of the film and how much I loved it. In the latter half, another Lonesome personality emerges. He has a tendency to be still in his scenes, shrewdly observant in his business suit, daggers in his eyes. The more devoted his audience becomes, the more he despises them. The performance reflects a this-could-happen-to-anyone theme. All you need is a taste.

Elia Kazan and Harry Stradling use the lighting of the opening prison-set scene to influence everything that comes after. Stradling is heavy on shadowing, highlighting the escalating monstrous presence of Lonesome and the film’s bitingly sinister edge. I had forgotten the havoc Lonesome wreaks on Patricia Neal’s (who is fantastic) mental state. So many shots are concentrated on Marcia looking at him, at first like a chanced-upon discovery, then of desire, and finally a what-have-I-created haze paired with masochistic lovelorn. The closer you are to him, the more you’ll be hurt, unless you hurt him first. A race to the finish. A Face in the Crowd is pretty unrelenting stuff. We are at the whim of mass media and ‘personalities’, choice is an illusion and we are all suckers. Both a companion piece to Network, a fellow abandon-hope-all-ye-who-enter takedown of mass media, and my favorite Elia Kazan film.

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#29. Forbidden Games (1952, Clement)
First Seen in: 2011

Hit Me With Your Best Shot post: https://cinenthusiast.wordpress.com/2013/03/21/hit-me-with-your-best-shot-forbidden-games-1952/

Hit Me With Your Best Shot: Forbidden Games (1952)


Forbidden Games takes a look at how children grieve, how they learn to live in the face of death. Forbidden Games takes place during World War II, directed by René Clément with grace and delicacy.  In its opening minutes, Paulette is orphaned, her parents gunned down during the Battle of France. Her last link to the just-present is her dog Jock, but that link is dead too. She just doesn’t realize it. She wanders with her dead pet and pretty soon a cow runs up to her. The cow jump-starts her tears, but she tells farm boy Michel that cows don’t scare her. It is clear the cow is a catalyst, provoking Paulette’s emotional recognition of her newly orphaned state. In case clinging to the dead Jock didn’t make it clear, animals, death and grief now become inseparable to the child.

Grief turned into comfort. Grief poured into a child’s project. Grief as a shared way of bonding. By abstracting death into the shape of a cross, it becomes palpable and somehow reliable. Paulette and Michel don’t know exactly what they are doing or why they are doing it, but they give themselves to it whole-heartedly, stealing when necessary to help piece together their pet cemetery. They pick apart Catholic ritual and make it their own. Paulette stumbles into a farm far where the war is somewhat distant, present through newspapers, the sound of planes overhead, deserters and death from other causes. Conflict comes in neighborly squabbles. The world of the adults and children collide when their grieving indirectly escalates tensions. The forbidden games stop and Paulette and Michel are forced apart. What Michel and Paulette created together wasn’t a world of daydreams but a world where they saw themselves as blankets for the dead. Even this is snuffed out.

My chosen shot:

Forbidden Games_best shot

Michel walks up the stairs to visit Paulette who is still sleeping in her bed of white, surrounded by the greys of a modest farm life. The boy has brought her a dead chick as a present; a new addition to their cemetery. She is delighted. He knew she would be. She takes it in her hands, petting the animal. The omnipresent strum of Narciso Yepes’ score in the background as Michel looks on. ‘Are you happy?’ he asks. ‘Yes’ she replies. ‘Swear it wasn’t you who killed them?’ ‘No’. She talks about her burial plans for the animal as she continues to pet and comfort the dead thing.

Paulette is an angel in this shot. A bed of white, offerings brought to her like a deity, her hair translucent. The shallow focus makes the hay above her head look like a halo. This shot illustrates the shape Paulette’s grief has taken. This idea of grief turned into comfort. Paulette wants to be the source of that comfort for these dead animals, but really she is a source of comfort and protection for herself. In a film full of religious imagery and showing the way that symbols can take on meaning for us, René Clément makes Paulette a symbol here. She cushions her own trauma as she lies in her bed. Paulette and Michel’s way of coping with death lies at the heart of their burgeoning friendship and at the heart of the film.

Some other favorites:

Forbidden Games 3 Forbidden Games 4 Forbidden Games 5 Forbidden Games 6 Forbidden Games 7 Forbidden Games 8 Forbidden Games 9 forbidden-owl2