Mulholland Drive

Mulholland Drive seems to require a lot of focus. I had little on Tuesday. I dozed off a number of times throughout the film. Based on what I was able to stay awake for, I did learn that boobs hold my attention a lot longer than, well, just about anything else. But Mulholand Drive itself was dreamy, and I think this - along with the heat of the room - contributed to my dozing off. There was one scene, though - a scene entirely free of nudity I might add - that I couldn't drift away from if I tried: The scene with the Spanish singer.

For me, this scene expressed most succinctly the point of the film -- or at least a point. To star off the show at Club Silencio, the announcer demonstrates a seemingly simple idea: "This is all a tape recording, and yet, we hear a band," he says. This point seems not to warrant the drama produced in the announcer's voice. But then he summons sounds of thunder accompanied by mysterious blue, flickering light, and Betty shakes uncontrollably. This sets the stage for Llorando, the Spanish opera singer.

What amazed me was that as a spectator of Club Silencio, where the announcer pounds into us that this is all a recording, I was totally duped by Llorando. The emotion she expressed felt so connected to the singing. The tear, literally painted on her face to suggest a sort of superimposed emotion, seemed appropriate given the sadness I saw in her eyes. Never mind that she didn't quite cry -- her eyes did, and in this way she tricked me into feeling her "pain." In anticipation to the moment of truth, Llorando just poured on the emotion -- bringing her passion to new heights with every measure.

The moment when she fainted was revealing. I had been tricked, and so had Betty. What really interested me was that Lynch brings Betty to this incredible height of compassion for Llorando and there seems to be nothing sadder than what is going onstage -- until he pulls the plug on the act. This is the saddest thing of course, that it is all an act. You can see it on Betty's face, too. That the performance is pre-recorded seemed like a trivial statement when only band music was at stake. But when applied to the elements of nature -- thunder -- and further, to one of our own in the form of the singer, the statement becomes profoundly upsetting.

Heathers

"Whether to kill yourself or not is one of the most important decisions a teenager can make."
This was by far my favorite line of the entire film. When I heard it, the absurdity of it just struck me. I soon realized that this line, above all others, proved that Pauline Fleming was not even an attempt at a real person. Who says that?

Heathers is not a commentary on life as a teenager. If it was, the characters would be exaggerated approximations of real life. Instead the cast of characters consists of extremes, but extremes that could only come from a different world than the one we inhabit: John Hughes' world of film.

I think this is why for all the grasping we did in class the other day, we could not settle on a rough estimate of what Heathers is supposed to say. Is Veronica a hero? Can we really forgive her for falling under J.D.'s maniacal wing? What do we make of J.D.'s suicide? These questions garnered a wide range of responses in class -- I think because we were digging for gold in a landfill. A better question might be, how does Michael Lehmann take the John Hughes film format and turn it on its head? And further, what does this do to us as viewers? How does Heathers play with our expectations?

In a Hughes film like Ferris Bueller's Day off, the characters have very specific roles. You know Bueller is cool, Cameron is eccentric and Sloane Peterson is too pretty to be that easy going, and to easy going to be that pretty. As the plot develops, it doesn't take long to figure out that Ferris will get just about everything he wants, including the girl, while his goofy friend provides laughter, support, and graciously takes the blame. This is a format we're used to seeing, so the characters do not need long introductory backstories for us to know what to expect. In Heathers, we expect the same based on similarly minimal introductions, but what we get is totally different.

Looking past the shear darkness of the opening segment -- where the Heathers aim their crochet balls at Veronica's sprouting head -- I was lead to believe that Veronica would play the underdog role we're all so familiar with from John Hughes films (see Pretty in Pink) and rise above the click that at first keeps her down. The turning point for me was when Veronica first tell her diary that she "wants to kill and you have to believe me." She concludes, "Tomorrow I'll be kissing her aerobicized ass, but tonight let me dream of a world without Heather, a world where I am free." So she's got a dark side. Even at this point, I thought she was just expressing herself. But, as it turned out, with just a little help from a "Dark Horse," she could be a killer.

As Nick Burn points out in "Scent of dominance," Heathers "offers no 'map' for predicting or understanding emotions raised within the plot." This is partly why we don't expect Veronica to have murderous thoughts, but what Burns doesn't say is that our expectations have been shaped by John Hughes. Lehmann has deliberately messed with Hughes' road map, and that, for me, is what makes the experience of watching Heathers so shocking.

Gettin' Some

Shaft has a confidence and swagger that can only be defined as mojo. And his mojo comes from "gettin' laid." When asked by the twerpy detective, "Where you goin?" Shaft takes the opportunity to say, "Gettin' laid." *pause* "Where you goin'?" *laughs* Without mojo, this exchange doesn't happen. Without mojo, Shaft isn't Shaft at all.

I'd say he wouldn't have the same presence without the help of Isaac Hayes and the funk genre. The song is so key to setting the tone of how cool we can expect Shaft to be. The song is also the film's big seller. When asked in class Tuesday who among us had seen Shaft, few hands went up. But I'm just about certain every single one of us had heard the Shaft theme elsewhere, whether it be in a preview for the remake or out of the mouth of Chef (voiced by Isaac Hayes) on Southpark. The song is a big part of our culture, and I think Shaft as a sexy cat is the Shaft most of us had envisioned before seeing the film. His reputation precedes him.

This is at the heart of Matthew Henry's essay, where he compares the Shaft we viewed in class to its 2000 remake. He points to the decreased sexuality in the remake, which has been replaced with added violence. I haven't seen the remake so I can't say too much about it, but if Samuel Jackson is as unsexy as Henry's essay makes him out to be, well that's just too bad. It leads me to wonder, how can John Shaft's sexual presence decline with Isaac Haye's groovy theme song still in place? Shaft is a cool cat, one unphased by danger, but he 's also, as Hayes sings, "a sex machine to all the chicks."

With all this in mind, the makers of Shaft (2000) must have felt intense pressure to transform John Shaft into some kind of modern day action hero. The song was a must, but keeping the movie in line with the funk genre clearly was not a priority.

In class we talked about the build of John Shaft compared to action heroes of today. John Shaft was in no way edged out of stone like we see with someone like Vin Diesel. Nor was he fast and furious like Vin Diesel, whose name says it all. While Samuel L. is not Vin Diesel, it sounds like the remake was heavily influenced by the typical action flick of today. Considering that we discussed Vin Diesel, I found it interesting, and relevant, that Shaft (2000)'s director John Singleton would go on to direct 2 Fast, 2 Furious, starring none other than Diesel. There's just nothing cool about Vin Diesel when compared to the mojo of the original John Shaft. In fact, he seems to be the opposite of John Shaft: hot (headed) vs. cool, fast vs. unhurried, abrupt vs. smooth.

Today's action hero has evolved into some kind of militaristic super hero, and clearly John Singleton was not the director to keep Shaft clean of that influence. The only recent example that I immediately think of as a cool, suave action hero is James Bond, yet he is not a product of today but more so left over from the past. He, too, has a theme song to go along with his cool persona. The music, I think, is key in all cases. Can anyone think of a theme song to go along with Vin Diesel? There just isn't the same connection between the action hero and a song. The original Shaft was a film built in cohesion with its theme song. Shaft (2000) sounds like it has effectively shattered this unit, leaving behind just another action flick with no funk.

The Road

After watching Vanishing Point, I can't stop thinking about the protagonist. Kowalski is completely deadpan throughout the film. He is first and foremost a driver with his eye on the finish line. I loved this about him. His focus on the road allowed me to focus on the road, and the experience was visually awesome.

There were moments throughout Vanishing Point that challenged Kowalski to break from his disaffected demeanor. But he never did. For one, he didn't show overt signs of surprise when Super Soul first addressed him over the radio waves. But I was more intrigued with his rejection of the nude biker's offer to fool around with him. So much of Vanishing Point exploited our desires as an audience, especially those of an alpha male, America loving, desperate for speed kind of guy. The nude biker was a gift to anyone who'd ever dreamed of that. The lighting and music even made her look like a dream. As a consequence, I expected Kowalski to say yes to her offer to have some fun. But he was focused, his goal in mind, and nothing was going to get in his way. Sexual desire seemed trivial up against Kowalski's drive.

And yet that drive wasn't enough. Kowalski's ride comes to an explosive finish when he drives straight for the center of the barricade set up by the state police. In the reading, John Beck says that Vanishing Point "refuses the escapism of the road movie genre and instead pursues the logic of maximum efficiency internalized by the film's protagonist. As such the film questions the libertarian rhetoric of the open road and instead proposes that American fictions of free mobility mask the fact of containment by military-industrial imperatives." Beck's argument is vast and hard for me to pick apart. But I agree with the general ieas he proposes, that Vanishing Point is not about escape but containment. This containment is demonstrated by the forces that keep Kowalski from making it to the finish line. These forces consist of the state police, who seem inadequate as individual squads, but simply outnumber Kowalski--it's an unfair fight.

Kowalski s not the only one to lose out; the citizens who cheer him on are left unsatisfied. So is Super Soul --but this doesn't quite last. While the white Americans in this seem completely deflated at the loss of a hero, Super Soul returns the the radio waves -- even after being brutally defeated by the police officers -- to broadcast from the boarded up station. Unlike Kowalski, his spirit seems to come from something more than just Kowalskis. He has religion and an unbelievable faith in what he's doing on the radio. Director Richard Sarafian seems to value this kind of individual persistence. Super Soul has soul: an important resource to survive the oppressive landscape of America mapped out in Vanishing Point.

Dr. Strangelove, Herman Kahn, Barack Obama, King Kong, and a Giant Exploding Phallus

Here's what I think. Dr. Strangelove is Herman Kahn. No doubt in my mind on that one. What tipped me off to this representation was Charles Maland's list of concerns that Kahn wrote about, specifically "the large likelihood of vomiting post war fallout shelter." Dr. Strangelove's plan to save so many attractive women (in comparison to men) to allow for ample fertilization is certainly taking possible world abomination and using it as an excuse to give himself plenty of babes to choose from, but Kubrick mainly includes it because it's rational. In a world dominated by the threat of nuclear attack, both vomit and repopulation are serious concerns to have.

Focusing just on Kahn, it sounds like he was extremely rational. But we can't help but laugh at the tedious nature of his speculation, which encompassed even bodily fluids (this brings to mind the numerous jives by Kubrick at the importance of bodily fluids). The shear humor of Kahn's speculation proves to me just how intense the 70s were -- just how real the threat of nuclear warfare must have felt at the time. On that note, it's strange to me that our sense of threat level has dropped so drastically. We may have tamed Russia, but shouldn't we be even more concerned that "Rogue" nations like Iran and North Korea might possess the means to blow up the earth?

Obama pinpointed the irony in a speech in Prague last spring, noting that "in a strange turn of history, the threat of global war has gone down, but the risk of a nuclear attack has gone up."

He said something else in his speech that shows just how far we've come as a nation in our dealings with the threat of nuclear warfare. Here's a hint: it sounds a lot like the cold war policy of Mutually Assured Destruction. Obama: "Make no mistake. As long as these weapons exist, the United States will maintain a safe, secure, and effective arsenal to deter any adversary, and guarantee that defense to our allies."

"[A] safe, secure, and effective arsenal..." Sounds a lot like Kahn's description of a rational deterrent: "It should be frightening, inexorable, persuasive, cheap, non-accident prone, and controllable." Considering the enormous debt America is now sitting on, Obama really ought to rethink his rhetoric to include "cheap." And another thing -- a safe, secure, and effective defense to our allies? As Dr. Strangelove so masterfully showed us, if we have to resort to our defenses, it's too late!

To be fair, while Obama's talk on missile deterrent might resonate with a lot of cold war era rhetoric, his actions reflect a smarter, informed-by-history approach to the situation. From Newsweek magazine: "On April 8, the president will sign an arms-control treaty with Russia that will set limits on numbers of warheads and launchers, lower than any previously agreed."

Is there a Barack Obama in Dr. Strangelove? I'd say definitely not. That's the point. The president in the film is weak, clumsy and lacking a backbone. But Dr. Strangelove satirizes the issue of nuclear warfare on so many issues, which makes me think that even if the president were competent -- or at least strong willed -- the days of the atomic bomb's power being contained to one man, or nation, are long over. And there are plenty of Major 'King' Kongs in the world who might not hesitate to flip the switch if given the opportunity to go out with a bang -- in his case on a giant exploding phallus.

It's 3:30 a.m. and I'm not sure how to end this. I guess all I can say is that while after watching Dr. Strangelove I'm a little more terrified of nuclear destruction, I've always been terrified of giant exploding phalluses. Kudos to Kubrick on making me laugh at both.

Deren and Brakhage - but mostly just Brakhage

In all of the films we watched in class Tuesday there was a common theme: visual stimulation. This was done in both public and private settings. For example, a party moving in slow motion Deren's "Ritual in Transfigured Time" and the intimate steps of a woman's birth process in Brakhage's "Window Water Baby Moving."

It's easy to see why the presentation of "Ritual" does not give the viewer the feeling of a spy looking in. It's an everyday occasion, and Deren lets us view what is going on at the sort of cocktail party taking place. She puts us right up to the action with the close camerawork, and there's just nothing going on that we feel we should not be privileged to see. But the fact the Brakhage's "Window Water Baby Moving" does not give off the feeling of spying with it's the private place it takes us -- well I found that interesting.

Okay, so maybe "Window" does give many the sleazy sensation that they're watching something private, but this comes out of moral and ethical constructions rather than the actual viewing process. Seeing another woman's bleeding vagina is not something our society is accustomed to at all. Brakhage speaks of the infant's eye as "an eye which soon learns to classify sights," and writes of this as a sad fact. One can never go back he says, "not even in imagination" to the time before words obscured our vision of the world. And yet, Brakhage suggests, "there is a pursuit of knowledge foreign to language and founded upon visual communication." "Window" definitely brings this pursuit of knowledge into focus for us; again, I do not feel there is anything voyeuristic about the way in which the the film was shot. Additionally, Brakhage makes a thing of beauty out of something that we have never felt the privilege to see as beautiful. In these ways, he has altered the way we look at the world the film. This is the "magic" he refers to in his essay.

When speaking of "looking in," otherwise knowing as scopophilia, we can't help but think of "Vertigo." But honestly, it's hard to compare a filme like "Window Water Baby Moving" to "Vertigo," but I guess I'll give it a shot. The former does not have any aspect of scopophilia in the way it was filmed, but of course the viewing process feels invasive because of the content. So Brakhage is working against social connotations and expectations. With "Vertigo," Hitchcock has society on his side. The viewer knows what it means to spy on Judy as Scottie does, and taking part in this activity can be shared with Scottie - who is caught up in it - as a guilty pleasure. The downward, around-the-corner filming of Vertigo serves to remind us of the activity we're engaging in. That Scottie is often hidden from Judy's view and that we see her but she doesn't see us confirm the activity as spying. But with "Window," there is no character acting invasively on another. We are the only ones seeing something we feel we're not supposed to be seeing. And this is based on our experience with and knowledge of intimate relationships.

This brings up an interesting dilemma. The viewer who says "I wouldn't want someone watching me in this situation" but continues to watch "Window Water Baby Moving" might be called a hypocrite. This is because Brakhage has presented a morally invasive activity very objectively through film. To view a man and woman's intimate relationship, a woman's vagina during menstruation and a crowning baby so closely, in normal light, at normal film speed, would have a different effect than what has Brakhage has done. I don't know what exactly, though I imagine we would feel more invasive as viewers if there was no quality of "art" to it. By producing the events of "Window" non-linearly, Brakhage creates a cohesive work that puts all aspects of love and birth on the same playing field. He equalizes them in a way, and we view each in less biased ways because of it. Of course, being squeemish at the sight of blood coming from a vagina is something that Brakhage cannot prevent, but his objective presentation of everything at least serves to make us think that maybe, just maybe, we shouldn't be so squeemish.

I am not exactly sure how Brakhage makes "Window" as artful as he does. I'd probably have to watch it again, too, to come up with more reflection on lighting techniques and lense speed and things of that nature. Any one with more ideas on this, please feel free to post them.

La Dolce vita

We've watched a few films with subtitles this semester, and the viewing process always feels a little disjointed. For one, when reading the dialog my eyes are taken away from important visual elements. It's also near impossible to take notes without missing something. While these are just a few problems that arise when watching a foreign language film, I'd say it's definitely worth the sacrafices. And of course, it beats becoming multi-lingual. But of all the foreign films we've viewed so far, La Dolce vita was by far the most conflicting on my eyes. There were just so many moments of visual euphoria that I did not wish to avert my attention from, but I had to to know what was going on. And for what? For the most part, there wasn't anything going on, in the sense of a plot or structure (at least within my own comprehension). For this blog post I decided to devote my attention to the parts of La Dolce vita that conflicted my eyes and left me wondering...well, just wondering.

Frankie
The only thing I was certain about when it came to Frankie was that he looked a lot like Will Ferrell's character in Zoolander, Mugatu. I did like how Sylvia's description of him as"an actor" was good enough justification for his insanity. The reading helped me understand the role of Frankie more than I did upon first viewing. He definitely serves as a "charicature" within the film's "almost documentary realism, making us see the "unusual in a familiar context."

Sylvia's voice
Did anyone else notice how hers was often the only discernible voice? It would be normal for her voice to standout among the mashup of background noises in an effort to let her be heard, but in the dance scene, for instance, the background noises were incredibly muffled, and no one even responded to what she was saying. She was the focal point to an extreme, with no legible responses from anyone.

EYES
Eyes were a prominent symbol in this film, but of what? When the one celebrity gets off the plane, the paparazzi beg to see her eyes but she refuses to take off her sunglasses. She has no problem accomodating the photographers in other ways, but her eyes are off limits. Then there are the portraits of the women in the one family. They all have the same eyes, Marcello says. To me they all shared similar intensity to the Mona Lisa's. And of there's that mysterious fish that washes up onto the coast in the closing scene. I couldn't tell what it was, but I could see two very large eyes, the only real proof that it was a once-living creature at all. And finally, we are left with the image of the girl, with the focus on her thoughtful eyes. I have one proposal about this symbol: perhaps Fellini meant to question the way we view people. With eyes such a focus of the film, he seems to stress the importance of how we use our eyes, how we perceive the world from our own perspectives, and how others perceive us.

Marcello rides the girl like a horse
This was clearly meant to shock. Not only in what Marcello was doing to the "chubby country girl," but the way she put up with it. He rode her like a horse, feathered her to look like a chicken, and what did she have to say for herself? "SQUAWK!" It was disturbing. If anything, the extremes Marcello used in depicting women as defenseless had me siding with the women. But they did not seem like real depictions at all and in some cases I honestly wasn't sure what to feel other than perturbed. When Marcello left his wife stranded after verbally abusing her, however, because she had put up somewhat of a fight I naturally felt far more sympathy for her -- she seemed more real.