It’s midnight and I’m in the living room of a small suburban house. The TV is chattering away in the background, casting a harsh, bluish glow over a middle-aged couple that I’ve never seen before. They’re on the couch, unmoving, and the woman’s head is cocked at an odd angle. I glance down at the cool, heavy object resting in my palm – a 9mm Smith & Wesson – before I hear the voice behind me, annoyed, frustrated, and cold-blooded: “You picked the wrong house again, Aarons.” I turn slightly and see one of the most eccentric-looking men I’ve ever laid eyes on. At 6’4” and a hair shy of 140 lbs., Doug Jones resembles nothing more than one of Tolkien’s tree-like Ents made flesh and blood. He grins, but it isn’t an I’m-so-happy-to-see-you grin: he’s holding a gun to my head.

With a casual shrug, as if to say, “C’est la vie,” he pulls the trigger. POP POP goes the gun and I’m sailing through the air, my body slamming into the foot of an oversized armchair. It’s a spectacular death. The high-pitched giggles that follow a moment later only ruin it slightly. I turn over to see Jones, bent double, attempting to stifle another outburst. “I’m sorry, it’s just that this is all so mean. I can’t believe I’m killing all these nice people!” he says by way of apology, nodding to the couple on the couch who have just miraculously resurrected. “Cut!” yells the director. Along with the rest of the crew, he’s trying not to laugh himself.

We’re on the set of Greyscale, an independent film being shot in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and Jones is playing Jamison, a remorseless mob hitman. The scene in question is a botched assassination, and Aarons (played by yours truly) has just become the unlucky recipient of Jamison’s wrath.

The mob bagman with a wicked streak of black humor is one of the rare roles where audiences will actually see the 48-year-old actor’s face. That’s because Jones’ pencil-thin visage is usually obscured by pounds of makeup, rubber latex, and computer generated imagery. While you may recognize some of the characters Jones has brought to life – Abe Sapien, The Faun, or The Silver Surfer (from Hellboy I and II, Pan’s Labyrinth, and Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer, respectively) – you probably wouldn’t recognize Jones himself.  “I’m not usually the guy who has people hiding in his bushes and saying, ‘Will you love me forever and ever?’”

No paparazzi are lurking in the shadows tonight, hunting for a superstar money shot, which is just as well; it’s late and Jones is tired from a full day of shooting. Exhaustion seems to have done little to curb his practically stubborn cheeriness, however. Between takes Jones hobnobs with the crew, his bright shock of red hair floating from one person to the next. First he’s giving a quick massage to the Assistant Director; next he’s complementing the set photographer on his work; and finally he’s whispering genuine advice to the behind-the-scenes videographer. Watching Jones bounce from one “puppy” to the next, (his affectionate nickname for “fresh faced, bright eyed twenty-somethings”) it’s difficult to imagine him as a heartless killer. “I’m a very happy-go-lucky lover of all mankind as a person in real life,” Jones says. “So when I play a darker character, I have to tap into something that isn’t my natural way, and what I found was that I think human beings have the potential for all of these emotions. We have the full paint palette within us and it just depends on what we dip our brush into that day. There are people out there who are in prison right now who have dipped into the colors that some of us don’t ever dip into, but we have them, and we have the potential to do that.”

Jones’ road to becoming Hollywood’s go-to guy for roles involving complex makeup and prosthetics work, many of which involve dipping into unfamiliar paints, began in the late ‘80s when he received “big break number one,” as he calls it. He was hired for McDonalds’ Mac Tonight campaign, a job that required him to wear a large crescent moon for head and jive around like an overzealous Burt Bacharach in front of a baby grand on top of a rotating Big Mac. “That was a job that marked me as a guy who can wear a big mechanical head, express [himself] physically, and – most importantly to the creature effects and makeup people – who doesn’t complain. And if you don’t complain they will tend to remember you.”

Jones’ can-do attitude and ability to emote underneath layers of latex caught the attention of director Guillermo del Toro in 1997 during the filming of Mimic, a sci-fi horror flick about man-eating insects that was the Mexican director’s first American studio picture. “I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the biggest relational break of my career. I don’t know what I did, it was very simple what I had to do, but Guillermo del Toro remembered.” Five years later when del Toro was casting for his live action adaptation of Hellboy (based on a popular comic about a large red demon who regularly saves the world), Jones was at the top of the list. He was a perfect fit as Abe Sapien, a rail-thin, hyper-intelligent, telepathic fish-man who serves as Hellboy’s sidekick. While most actors primarily communicate using their eyes and facial expressions, the rigid blue mask enclosing Jones’ head made that impossible. Instead, Jones relied on body language and voice alone to craft the idiosyncratic, thoughtful character of Abe Sapien. Watching the performance, it’s amazing how much he is able to communicate with only his fingers.

For Jones, acting is a “head-to-toe experience,” and he’s a firm believer that when you’re hired to play a part, you’re hired to play the entire part – visually, audibly, everything. It was a rude awakening, then, when David Hyde Pierce was brought in to re-voice Abe Sapien in Hellboy. It wouldn’t be the first time, either, that part of Jones’ performance was replaced in post production by a studio. In 2007, despite having performed all of the Silver Surfer’s dialogue on camera, Laurence Fishburne was hired to dub over Jones.

When these instances are brought up, a quiet sadness enters Jones’ eyes; it’s easy to see this is a touchy subject for him. “I don’t believe any performance should be replaceable. When a studio makes a decision to replace part of [an actor’s] performance, be it visually with CG, or audibly with another actor’s voice, they might be doing a disservice to the part. I could be very one-sided in my belief, because it was very personal to me, but I’m an actor who doesn’t want to see part of his performance taken away from him. I don’t think any actor wants to see that.”

Although Sapien and the Surfer were featured prominently in the marketing materials for both films, Jones’ name was notably absent. “When I’m told by directors, producers, and castmates that the voice I’ve given for the character is perfect – ‘Oh, wow, I love what you’re doing with it!’ – and then I go to see the movie and a big name voice is coming out of me, that doesn’t feel good. Of course it doesn’t. If I had some horrible speech impediment or an accent that they couldn’t replace or whatever, then that would make sense, but in these instances that was not the case. When you have a baby in your hands, and someone’s ripping the legs off and putting different legs on, it’s like [Jones groans audibly], that was my baby a minute ago and now it looks different. But it made sense to them, they wanted different legs on there. But all of a sudden you have a Franken-baby.”

Jones is quick to point out that he’s not “a bitter actor who’s stomping his feet around. In film there’s a creative side to it and at the big studio level where they’re spending millions and millions of dollars on a film, there has to be marketing involved. I know these decisions get made for reasons, reasons that I don’t need to completely understand. But when a story like this gets better is when a situation like Hellboy II comes around.” In 2008, for del Toro’s second installment in the comic book franchise, Jones was finally given the opportunity to voice the character himself. In the credits his name appears third behind Ron Perlman and Selma Blair. “This is just like the evolution that happens with any actor’s career: with time and with reputation comes trust. And I think [the studio] finally does trust that they can keep my performance intact now.”

Seeing as Jones has become del Toro’s unofficial muse, will he be in the director’s next film, an adaptation of J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit? “I have no definitive answer for you, but [Guillermo] was asked this very question on the red carpet of the Saturn Awards: [Jones lowers his voice and begins to, quite believably, impersonate del Toro] ‘Well, I’m sure I’ll be putting Doug through some sort of pain and torture. Let me say this: if I direct a hemorrhoid commercial, Doug Jones will be in it.’”

Jones, sharply dressed in a brown pinstripe suit, is slinking through an abandoned warehouse, enormous hunks of industrial machinery casting blocky shadows across the floor. It’s the film’s climax and Jamison is dragging a cruel-looking sledgehammer behind him as he hunts down the hero character, played by Ryan Dunlap (who is also Greyscale’s director). He sees movement in the corner of his eye and instinctively lashes out with the mallet. It misses Dunlap by a good two feet, but the momentum carries Jones around in an acrobatic arc that any professional dancer would be jealous of. CLANG goes the hammer as it shoots out of Jones’ hands. He lands on his rump with a dull thud, legs splayed out in a very un-threatening manner. “Dougie the Hammer!” shouts one of the crewmembers before the whole set bursts into laughter. Since arriving in Tulsa, Jones has systematically bestowed all of the crew with mafia-like nicknames (“The makeup artist is Five-Fingered Freddy, the videographer is Joey Knuckles…”), and they’ve been eager to return the favor. Jones’ graceful sledgehammer maneuver has given them their opening.

The nicknames are just one indicator of the affection that Jones has generated amongst Greyscale’s crew in the two short days that he’s been on set. He seems to have an almost magical ability to endear himself to the young students and volunteers that compose the independent film’s team. At any given moment, when he’s not tearing up the scenery on camera, Jones can be seen deep in conversation with this crewmember or that, genuinely interested in who they are and how they’re doing. At first it’s suspicious: why would a bona fide movie star used to multi-million dollar special effects blockbusters be so deeply attentive to a handful of college-age filmmakers in Oklahoma? But once you speak with him, you realize that it’s not an act: Jones genuinely cares for you, even if he barely knows you.

“My wife and I have never been able to have kids of our own. Physically, it’s impossible. The doctor checked. So we tend to unofficially adopt lots of twenty-somethings. I have a real soft spot in my heart for youth. It never seems like a mistake, it’s never forced, it’s never us out looking for them. They just show up in our lives and all of a sudden they’re sitting on our sofa and talking about life issues and dating and jobs and also about their faith in God and where is he and all of that. [It] gives us a sense of fulfillment and it really makes us think that maybe we were never meant to have our own kids. Maybe this is what God had in mind for us all along.”

Jones is confident about his faith, but not overbearing, more interested in forming personal relationships with those around him than proselytizing everything with a pulse. His attitude towards Hollywood is equally confident and stands in marked contrast to the opinions of many conservative Christian leaders, who often paint Hollywood as a modern-day Babylon. “Honestly, I have never felt shunned or been treated poorly because people found out that I was a Christian. I think that the key to all of this is not to come into the Hollywood workplace with any kind of agenda, to be either overt about your faith or covert about it. Overt being one who comes in with the agenda to change Hollywood overnight: ‘I’m going to witness to everyone; I’m gonna get on those movie productions and I’m gonna save everyone from Schwarzenegger to Julia Roberts.’ Coming in with that demeanor will make people recoil. It’s proven, they will. Then there’s the covert approach, which is, ‘I’ll [be silent] because I don’t want to be persecuted for my faith; I’ll start losing jobs.’ I think that if you’re just honest – if the subject matter comes up, speak about it freely. But if it doesn’t come up then maybe it’s not that time yet. Just be honest with the situation day by day.”

The final shot of the night, Jones’ last scene in Greyscale before he’ll pack up and fly home to L.A. tomorrow, is a complex setup involving a dolly track and a 360º camera move around Jamison as he threatens to light Dunlap’s character on fire. The only problem is that the shot takes place outside and a winter storm is rapidly approaching. A production snag holds things up, and within an hour the temperature has plummeted below freezing. The wind is vicious, slicing through coats and gloves like a knife, and just as the crew is getting ready to film, it begins to sleet. Dunlap, duct-taped to a chair in short sleeves and doused in gasoline for the scene, suffers the worst, but Jones is right there with him, delivering his lines with a measured professionalism even as he’s being whipped by the wind and pelted with chunks of ice.

Once Dunlap is pleased with the footage (it looks amazing – no one will believe that the sleet is actually real), everyone heads back inside for mugs of hot chocolate. Jones, visibly drained by the cold and wearing a blindingly shiny coat emblazoned with Fantastic Four on the breast, stands off to the side, head slumped slightly from an intense, 12 hour work day. Is he game for one last question? He looks up, smiles, and puts his arm around my shoulder. Of course he is.

What would you like to be remembered for?

“Of course, on the professional side, ‘He was an actor, he was in these various films and TV shows, etc.’ And film does make you immortal for a while; your image will live on. But I really want to be remembered as someone who had a light behind his eyes that made you ask why. And someone who, when they spent time with you, did you feel loved? I hope yes. Did you feel that you had my full attention? I hope yes. Did you leave my presence in better condition than when you entered it? And I hope yes.” Watching each crew member receive a warm goodbye and a final word of encouragement from the gentle, towering Jones, it’s easy to see he’s accomplished that a hundred times over.

Oh, wait, you want to know who won? Well then…

…congrats to Fox of Tractor-Facts, winning with the lucky number 13! Your new copy of Transsiberian should be in the mail shortly. Death by Ben Kingsley is, sadly, not included.

Thanks to everyone who entered, and hopefully we’ll have more free goodies to give away in the near future.

There's something in the mist....

The blogosphere is all a-twitter on big holidays like today, chomping at the bit to post something related/themed/marginally relevant. Never one to stand back as the lemmings rush over the cliff, MovieZeal is joining the fray by cataloging all of the horror reviews we’ve written over the past 9-10 months. Not surprisingly, Luke has written almost every one.

Wondering what to watch tonight at your Halloween party tonight? Concerned that The Strangers might be as bad as everyone says it is? Inquisitive about whether The Orphanage is really that awesome? Look no further, my gore-hungry friends.

Oh, and Happy Halloween. Hit the jump for the goods.

MovieZeal RECOMMENDS:

• The Mist –
  Some people hated this; I loved every nerve wracking second of it. The most terrifying moments happen at the hands of normal human beings, and the ending is the gut punch to end all gut punches.
• Sweeny Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street –
  Who doesn’t like a little music with their murder? The crooning of Johnny Depp mixed with Tim Burton’s ruby-red arterial sprays is a tasty combination.
• Nosferatu –
  The vampire flick to end all vampire flicks. You cannot call yourself a true aficionado of horror without having taken Max Schrek and his Count Orloff for a spin.
• The Orphanage –
  This film might not break any new ground, but it scared the bodily fluids right out of my system. A woman needs to fins her lost son, but the truth is much simpler – and nastier – than she could ever imagine.
• The Signal –
  A film in 3 acts, each one overseen by a different director, about a nasty signal coming through the boob-tube and convincing people to murder one another in horrid ways. It can be a bit of a mixed bag (the pure horror of the first act gives way to slapstick black humor in the second), but horror flicks are rarely this creative.
• Frankenstein –
  Classic option number two. ‘Nuff said.
• Diary of the Dead –
  Luke and I divide sharply over this film. He loved it (and wrote the review, hence the 4 star rating), but I loathed it and was suppressing chuckles the entire time. If you love Romero, check this out if you haven’t already, but otherwise I would recommend looking at one of the films above this one.
• Poltergeist –
  “They’re here.” One of the first “creepy kid” horror flicks (a gimmick that really needs to be retired now, thank you very much), this is another veritable classic. A bit lighter on the scares and viscera than some of the other options here, it nevertheless provides a few chills down the ‘ole spine.

MovieZeal does NOT RECOMMEND:

• Saw V –
  When will the madness stop? When I say?
• The Strangers -
  Funny Games for the idiot set. “Based on a true story,” yada yada yada, Luke groaned his way through this one. The most horrifying part about it? The soundtrack, which defies common decency.
• Shutter –
  Why make something new when you can just steal an average Asian horror flick and do a crappy remake of it?
• Aliens Vs. Predator: Requiem -
  Fox does not care about one of their most valuable IPs, as evidenced by this steaming pile of celluloid. See as a last resort, only.
• The Ruins –
  Dumb white kids get killed by a mysterious jungle creature. Perhaps you can view it as a vicious immigration revenge parable. Yeah, try that out.
• 30 Days of Night –
  If you don’t mind your vampire flicks with a healthy dose of stupid, then check this one out. The premise is as high-concept as it comes (an Alaskan town, where for 30 days the sun don’t shine, is besieged by a horde of bloodsuckers), but the execution is tepid.

In order to be eligible, just leave a comment on this post and be sure to use a valid email address. That’s it. Just leave a comment (duplicate comments will be punished with fire & brimstone, however). We’ll randomly select one of the entries and announce the winner a week from today. Piece. ‘O. Cake.

You can find more information on the film at its official website and you can watch the wicked-cool trailer here. Transsiberian hits DVD and Blu-ray on November 4th, a week from today.

Thank you to everyone who helped make Noir Month the modest success that it was. To all of our contributors…you guys did a fantastic job. I was consistently surprised at the quality and intelligence of the work you turned in, and enormously appreciative of the effort that you expended for MovieZeal. In addition, thanks to all of those who took the time to contribute prolifically in the comments section. Most of you know more about film noir than I ever will, and your insights were both entertaining and enlightening.

We’ll be taking a bit of a break before running another theme month. This was a blast but also a bit exhausting. And for those of you who could have cared less about film noir, we’re hoping to launch some less “academic” features this month. There’s new stuff on the horizon and one project that I am very excited about, which we will unleash upon you mid-September.

In case there was anything you missed, all of the reviews and articles are listed below for your reading pleasure. Seriously guys, we wrote a freaking book this month.

ARTICLES

Top 10 Noir Inspired Comics by Graham Culbertson
Noir Romantics: The Urban Poetry of Assault on Precinct 13 by Christian Divine
M: The Original Film Noir by Matt Gamble
The Top 10 Noirs of the Last 10 Years by Graham Culbertson
Rain, Guns & Cigarettes – Noir’s Past and Present by Anil Usumezbas

FEATURED NOIR REVIEWS

The Maltese Falcon – – by Evan Derrick
This Gun For Hire – – by Evan Derrick
Double Indemnity – – by Phillip Johnston
Laura – – By Luke Harrington
Mildred Pierce – – By Graham Culbertson
Detour – – By Luke Harrington
The Killers – – By Joseph Demme
The Big Sleep – – By Daniel Getahun
Notorious – – By Nick Plowman
The Lady From Shanghai – – By Luke Harrington
Out of the Past – – By Alexander Coleman
Nightmare Alley – – By Phillip Johnston
The Third Man – – By Luke Harrington
White Heat – – By Evan Derrick
Gun Crazy – – By Joel Ehly
In a Lonely Place – – By Chuck Bowen
Sunset Boulevard – – By Phillip Johnston
The Asphalt Jungle – – By Daniel Getahun
Night and the City – – By Craig Kennedy
Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye – – By Luke Harrington
Ace in the Hole – – By Phillip Johnston
Strangers on a Train – – By Daniel Getahun
The Big Heat – – By Alexander Coleman
The Night of the Hunter – – By Graham Culbertson
Kiss Me Deadly – – By Evan Derrick
Rififi – – By Rick Olson
The Big Combo – – By Alexander Coleman
Sweet Smell of Success – – By Luke Harrington
Touch of Evil – – By Phillip Johnston

If you have started reading this article here, then you probably know what a film-noir is. Chances are, you are also knowledgeable about the basic elements and characteristics of a film-noir to some satisfactory extent. Initially, I have intended this article to be informative and exhaustive; I wanted talk about the thematic and stylistic attributes of this genre as well as the whole timespan of influences and spin-offs; but then I decided it would be a little boring and completely unnecessary to do so, considering the intellectual capacity of the target audience. You have been told numerous times, I’m sure, by various other articles in the blogosphere that a film is not a film-noir without shadows, light-dark contrast, a femme fatale, a detective/private investigator, morally ambiguous existentialist undertones, complicated plots and an overall sense of pessimism. Therefore I will not merely remind you what I presume that you already know.

Instead, with your permission, I would like to wind the clocks back to 700 years ago.

Noir Always Existed

In the 1300s, Europe witnessed the birth of probably the grandest artistic revolution in the history of mankind, which would later on be called and known as ‘The Renaissance’. Neither time nor the feasibility limits of these blog spaces will allow me to talk about all the aspects of this upheaval, but there was one technical innovation that was critical to the development of the whole idea; something that is also closely related to the stylistic attributes of film-noir which automatically places it in the scope of this article. Tired from the conventions preceding them and in search for more natural and realist depictions of whatever constituted their subject matter, passionate Renaissance artists discovered the secret appeal of contrasts, especially that between white and dark; between light and shadows. Leonardo da Vinci blended this technique with his command over the anatomical details of humans to create some of the most impressive and lifelike depictions of people he knew or more legendary figures that he read about. Raphael used it with his delicate linear perspective to illustrate buildings, locations or simply portraits with more crowded backgrounds. Michelangelo was their reflection on architecture and sculpture.

The technique I’m talking about is of course ‘Chiaroscuro’ – ‘Tenebrism’ if the contrast is more dramatic. It is denial of harmony as the central element in painting and of two dimensionality as the basic principle. Since scholasticism was the predominant doctrine during the early Renaissance and religion was the agency that was most sceptical to accurate depictions of humans in paintings, it is also an indirect refusal of extreme fundamentalist limitations on art. But more important than all these aspects, chiaroscuro aesthetics was a trend that would persevere and endure even the most unfavorable circumstances. Before influencing cinema, it would be exaggerated in Baroque visuality by painters like Caravaggio and Rembrandt and prove for the first time its permanency in different artistic movements.

Fast forward 600 years: Germans are in trouble. Devastated after World War I and torn apart by extreme social and economical humiliation, depression is the color of human spirit. That, and the darkest of blacks. In the meantime, painting ceases to be the one and only visual art form: Louis Daguerre introduces photography -the first rival- and a couple of years later come the moving pictures. Audiences, who sneered at even the most wonderful paintings of their time, now scatter at the mere sight of a train approaching to the station. During more or less the same times; fueled both by their profound depression and the exhilarating potency of these new mediums, all German artists but especially the filmmakers create a movement known to us today as ‘Expressionism’ (or as ‘German Expressionism’ as far as cinema is concerned), where expressing emotions -often those that are dark, bizarre and gloomy- becomes the primary concern. These new generation artists oppose the views of the Renaissance people in nearly all aspects; naturalism is abandoned in favor of surrealist imagery that aim to capture the essence rather than merely copy what’s visible; reality is distorted and religious themes are alleviated or at times completely replaced by humans and their earthly desperation. The understanding is so different that art historians today categorize Renaissance paintings under the ‘Classical Period’ while expressionists are considered ‘Modernist’. Only one thing from the past endures and somehow manages to survive in this vastly dissimilar artistic movement.

One little idea that was also the aesthetic forefather of the film-noir genre.

Yes, you guessed right. Especially directors and cinematographers but also 20th century painters never renounced the magical beauty of chiaroscuro; on the contrary, they enhanced and emphasized this visuality with sharp angles, exaggerated makeup, surrealist set pieces and more daring compositions. With the help of new technological developments, they played with light and darkness in so many different ways that as a result, truly original and audacious pieces were created. As far as the movies are concerned, directors like Fritz Lang, F. W. Murnau and Robert Wiene channeled the overall feeling of despair that haunted their country into their works; dealing with the notions of madness, insanity, betrayal, injustice and moral ambiguity with an intellectual complexity that Hollywood would fail to reach even decades after the first expressionist film. They also invented the first modernist narrative elements in cinema such as flashbacks, visual effects, plot twists and surprise endings. From then on, more complex and nonlinear stories would make their way towards the cinematic medium. Their vision was unprecedented, is still unsurpassed but unfortunately short-lived.

Due to lack of major funding opportunities and marketing support as opposed to the gigantic proportions of the movies industry in Hollywood (which was reached thanks to the golden age of studio system) these gems failed to survive against their American contemporaries; despite vastly surpassing them intellectually and artistically. The German government of the time was in no shape to take measures that would support its artists as well – more basic needs regarding its ordinary citizens were at stake. A few years later Nazis came to power and that was the last drop that spilled the cup. Nearly all expressionist cinema artists (primarily the aforementioned three) migrated to United States, one after another like an endless stream, in order to escape from the numerous difficulties that infested their homeland; and to better fund the movies they would make in the future. Not that it would be remarkably easy to do that in America – they had brought their unique vision with themselves but they were forced to trim their extremities in order to please the public and therefore the wallets of the studio bosses. Their idealist European perspective would be challenged by cold, hard cash. And they would have to blend those two in order to survive.

Prevailing at more or less the same time in United States was the American pulp novel tradition. These inexpensive, thin, paperback books/magazines, which had no intellectual value whatsoever, were widely published and read from 1920s through the 1950s. This eventually turned them into a legitimate phenomenon, which would be frequently quoted, pastiched and paid tribute to by American postmodernists (the best example of which is undoubtedly Tarantino’s Pulp Fiction). This should not be surprising, considering how these pieces were blatantly typical in terms of their narratives, dialogues and literary styles – when a trend becomes as distinctly ridiculous as this, it is bound to be parodied once its heyday is over.

Admittedly, the whole thing was quite tedious and inane, but the variety in subcategories was nonetheless astonishing. Among the uncountable many were sword & sorcery fables, horror tales, mythical adventures, science fiction, westerns, war chronicles and sports stories; but it soon became apparent that only two of these genres were the real deal: softcore erotic romances occupied the number one spot (with the support of the rare female readers of these pulp magazines), followed closely by detective mysteries. Needless to say, the whole fad was extremely male-centric.

The detective fiction of this era was marked by the dominance of hardboiled crime stories, thanks to a bunch of guys like Raymond Chandler and Dashiell Hammett, whose novels would later on would be adapted into quintessential film-noirs. Complex and enigmatic plots of the whodunits, which primarily consisted of a central riddle and its logical solution as the climax, were replaced by relentless action and gritty realism. Unsolved puzzles, unanswered questions and failed protagonists became more and more common. Crimes were unsentimental and plots became more sexually driven. Surprise endings were superseded by pessimistic anti-climaxes. The overall writing style was more lean and direct.

It was around this time that cocky American crime fiction impregnated delicate European sensuality that had been dispersing towards United States since the rise of Hitler in Germany. While the baby would inherit his plot devices and existentialist undertones from his father, the mother gave him the unique technical magnificence that had been dominating a continent for more than 6 centuries. He would be loved and praised by the masses due to his father’s popularity; while retaining the intellectual quality of the maternal side. The birth took place in the hands of a couple of German immigrants who had been working as filmmakers in U.S. for some time and had been greatly anticipating a half-breed with such potency. Impressed by the beauty of the baby, some French guys lost no time naming him themselves. He was called ‘film-noir’ and no one objected.

The rest of the story, up until 1960s, has been told here in MovieZeal since the beginning of this month with an impossible attention to detail and in dazzling variety. “Why did you write about all this?” you might be asking at this point; “Why the history lesson?” Because, like Joker says in The Killing Joke, “I want to make a point.” I want you to realize that noir has been out there much longer than we tend to believe and in places outside where it was born. Since the Renaissance and probably even before, you can track traces of noir in nearly all the artistic achievements of humanity; constantly changing, evolving, splitting and merging; constantly disguised under many different shapes and forms. The story of noir is a continuous one and that’s exactly why it’s hard to pin down the exact period of its existence or to come up with precise definitions as to what a typical film-noir really is. That is also why you hear a lot of discussions regarding what films can be included in this movement as neo-noir or retro-noir: how can you evaluate an organic entity using synthetic terms? How can you divide the lifetime of a natural phenomenon into abstract periods? Needless to say, it’s impossible and the proof to that is everywhere.

Why then? What makes noir so different from all the other movements we have seen in the history of film? What makes it so unique? The answer to that is indeed many and none of them is more true than another. My own observation is that the noir mentality, not only the films but everything related, deals with human condition more honestly and intensely than all the other artistic movements mankind has ever seen. It had a direct relationship to us, to the meaning of our existence on this planet (or the lack thereof) and has evolved with the humanity itself; adapted constantly to the changing conditions, survived and existed. Not one nor a group of people created it, so it has never been a temporary artistic movement that would be abandoned at the first sight of a major change. It does not tie itself to minute and unimportant earthly matters like politics, social conditions or technical issues related a certain art forms. Thematically and stylistically its concern is the human spirit, therefore it endures; all the while looking for best narrative and visual elements to do justice to its significant subject matter. And like humans, it never stays the same.

But that’s not all I had in mind when telling you all these. I also wanted you to realize that noir is not the result of an immediate discovery, an instant revelation or an innovation; which finally brings me to the second point that I want to make.

Noir Is A Postmodern Concept

Film-noir is not something original, nor is it an influential novelty. There is absolutely nothing new about it, technically or otherwise. What it does beautifully and where its real success lies is how it manages to blend fantasy and real-life drama; how it melds realism and surrealism together so smoothly that these two opposing ends of the same artistic spectrum fit into each other as gracefully as never before. Also, being a movement that has been founded by Italians, improved by Germans, brought to life by Americans and named by French, noir definitely enjoys the multicultural influences in its formation. American pulp novel tradition feeds on two different European movements in order to ascend and become noir: French poetic realism and German expressionism. As you can see, film-noir did not come out of nowhere like Dogma 95 (which was probably the most artificial and shortest-lived movement in film history) did, nor did it reflect the collective understanding of a group of filmmakers like Italian neo-realism did. The first noir artists borrowed techniques, recycled themes and looked for the perfect blend as opposing to their contemporaries who were seeking to discover the purest single malt.

Periodically, classical noirs should be considered modernist avant-garde; but the way I see it, noir represent altogether a different concept. The term ‘Avant-garde’ refers to works that are experimental and innovative and it represents “a pushing of the boundaries of what is accepted as norm or the status-quo”. This means denial of the past movements in favor of discoveries and new styles. In this sense, German expressionism is definitely an avant-garde concept, because although it borrowed a lot from Renaissance techniques, certain visual elements it embodies such as heavily-emphasized angles, surrealist sets and exaggerated gothic makeup were new; not only to the cinematical tradition but to all branches of visual arts. What constituted their subject matter, which I have mentioned a bit in roughly the 7th paragraph of this article, was never before touched upon in any art form by any artist. It was the denial of all preceding ideals (including but not limited to Renaissance, Baroque and Neo-classicism) and was pushing of the limits for something much more.

On the other side of the spectrum, we have the postmodernist agenda and its intertextuality principle, which refers to “an author’s borrowing and transformation of a prior text” to be used in his/her work. Cultural theorist Jean Baudrillard completes this definition with his statement that goes: “Everything has already happened… Nothing new can occur”; asserting that the attempts to create, produce and invent have become futile after a certain point in history. What we can do is merely recycle and use the older texts/styles, use them in different contexts or merge them together to come up with something sensible and worthwhile to pay attention to. Same principle applies to all the technical aspects as well. Considering the fact that postmodernism originally arose as a reaction to modernism, this kind of a declaration seems hardly surprising.

Whatever new or exciting we see in the film-noir movement is completely back-traceable. There are no gaps between postmodern art and the classical noir examples, save for the fact that in a real postmodern work, the intertextual attitude I have been talking about would be deliberate. In noir’s case, it’s more of a natural evolution. And this is exactly the reason why I have refrained myself from calling it ‘a part of the postmodern movement’ and contented with the term ‘concept’. Still, it has been my intention to prove this assertion by deconstructing all the so-called ‘originalities’ of a film-noir to show where they have been inherited from. Noir poses no innovation or invention; instead it constantly looks back and emulates past themes/techniques. The way all these things from the past blend together and are adapted for silver screen is what deserves the praise; along with the exhilarating idea that noir artists contributed to the formation of a postmodern concept way before the postmodernist movement started gaining momentum. Has any movement in the history of film ever been so much ahead of its time?

What Happens Today?

After passing through the mirror of postmodernity in 1960s, the classical period of film-noir ended when it ceased to be the outcome of the intertextual approach and became the source that much of the inspiration is drawn from. The brilliant collage of chiaroscuro, mannerism, low-key lighting, complex narrative, fatalistic realism, moral ambiguity, hardboiled attitude, mystery stories, existential loneliness, labyrinthine urban settings and sexually motivated, self-destructive endings now hardened into a shell until all these segmented components became indistinguishable. With its increasing popularity due to its nostalgic quality and swanky French name (which, when uttered, immediately makes you appear more intellectually capable than you actually are) the notion of film-noir was encapsulated into a mass that is more important than the sum of its parts. And that inseparable mass influenced a lot of new-age filmmakers.

It has always been profitable to pay homage to the noir style because noir clichés are so much fun to watch and play with. On a more depressing level though, noir-stained films always worked because it’s extremely hip nowadays to appreciate this genre and all its spin-offs. Because aside from everything else, noir has become a tool, used by film buffs all around the globe to convincingly fake an intellectual orgasm. Because cunningly hidden in its simple name are allusions to cinema’s most recent history, to stylized black & white visuality and to European understanding of art. Because a sentence that contains this word at least once will imply your listener/reader that you are well-informed about movies; that you are capable of evaluating older and more intellectual films; and that you have a firm grasp over film history as a whole. It has become the table around which many cinephiles like to circle-jerk all the time. Consequently, if you have referenced a film-noir in your movie, people should better like it; because if they don’t, it becomes evident that they are a bunch of illiterates who simply don’t get it.

This should not be read as my complaint regarding the noir-influenced films of our day, for they are great. It’s the holy and almighty quality that is attributed to noir and the untouchable status it has reached that’s bothering me. But it seems to be the prominent intellectual trend of our day, so I guess I must learn how to deal with it. On a final note, those of you who like noir for what it is and who are not afraid to criticize certain examples of it whenever necessary, please don’t be offended by my remarks. I am aware that people such as yourselves do exist, but you have to realize that you are not as big a majority as you would like to believe.

When Evan first approached me to write an article on a noir film of my choice I was both excited and apprehensive. Excited because noir has always been one of my favorite genres and who wouldn’t enjoy writing about a film and style they love? But while noir is often classified as an American film style (much like the Western) and as such Evan rightfully tabulated an exhaustive list of fantastic American noir films, which brings us to my apprehension.

You see my favorite noir film is High and Low, directed by the great Akira Kurosawa, and that film is slightly less than American, and thus was excluded from Evan’s list. So knowing that it would be difficult in trying to explain why I was reviewing High and Low, I decided to switch gears and review an entirely different foreign film, that film being Fritz Lang’s M.

M focuses on a child murderer in Germany and the hysteria that occurs in the community and the underworld as both groups attempt to capture him. M is one of the many renowned films that were part of the German Expressionism movement, it has influenced numerous films and directors, and it is often credited as being the foremost precursor to what would eventually become known as film noir.

See, the introduction to this entire episode is the easy part. It is rather simple to say a film influenced noir, but proving it? That would mean coming out from the shadows and separating out the influences of noir and how they appear in M, no small task. No small task at all.

M has had many influences on modern film, but one of the easiest to notice, as well as being one of the first to appear in the film, is its dialog. Specifically, how Lang purposely chose to have the dialog carry over from one cut to the next, using the dialog to act as both a scene transition and a link connecting each scene in a giant web in which to entrap the viewer.

By doing this, what would normally seem like a standard delivery of dialog now feels with each scene transition like the pace of the delivery is increasing, ratcheting up the pace of the film as the characters become more and more frantic with how to catch the killer and just who might be to blame. While few films would follow Lang’s lead and seemingly string together so many scenes in succession, noir keyed in on the rapid delivery and went in their own direction with it.

While noir is known for its fast paced, and often times witty dialog, and while it would keep these exchanges encapsulated within a single scene, the speed of the delivery was specifically used to dazzle the viewers and make the characters on screen seem larger then life. This verbal swordplay also had the added benefit of keeping audiences constantly on guard. So rather then spending their time trying to figure out the twists and turns of the story before the film revealed it, the audience was instead simply attempting to keep up with the frantic pace. While noir doesn’t directly co-opt the dialog delivery from M, it does recognize that the pacing of the dialog’s delivery is an effective way of disorienting and entertaining the audience.

The next influential aspect of M is in its character introduction, specifically the introduction of Peter Lorre as the titular character Hans Beckert. M chooses to introduce the character of Beckert through a simple newspaper article describing his crimes; from there Lang is careful not to reveal the killer’s face. First, using a simple leitmotif, which is a common opera technique of using a sound or song to identify a character and M is recognized as the first film to ever use, of Beckert whistling In the Hall of the Mountain King, then only showing the killer’s shadow as he stalks his latest victim, and even later simply showing his hands as he
ferociously scribes a letter to the newspapers describing his exploits.

During the first Act Lang also makes sure to have characters continually talking about the murderer, so that while you may not know what he looks like, and he may not be visible on screen, but so his presence infects the entire film. This has the effect of keeping the viewer focused on discovering the killer, even though he is absent throughout many of the early scenes. Later in the film Lang will use the leitmotif to even greater effect, incorporating the song as part of the score to help the viewers know that Beckert is lurking somewhere nearby, even if the audience can not see him, causing the hysteria that is covering the characters in the film to infect the audience as well.

While these are not standard techniques for noir films, this process was used to even greater effect in Carol Reed’s The Third Man, as the character Harry Lime (played to perfection by Orson Welles) is audibly present in conversations in nearly every scene in spite of not appearing in the film until a full hour after it started, and even then his scenes only added up to a few scant minutes of screen time.

Following the use of a simple shadow to introduce our killer, Lang took even greater liberties with his camera work throughout the course of making M. Lang often employed extreme angles, long takes and shadows to make the visual look of M standout as much as the audio.

M opens with an impressive overhead shot of a group of children playing a game while singing a song about a child murderer. The camera then slowly drifts past the children and moves further upwards to catch an adult scolding them for singing such a wretched song. It is an ominous, and thoroughly morbid, opening to the film and it acts as a precursor of what is to come. Lang would use similar camera positioning throughout the film, often times giving the viewer a fly on the wall perspective, and thus adding a feeling of voyeurism for the viewers. The look was so fitting and distinct that Roger Ebert came to label it a “rat’s eye view”.

But where M stands out, and was often emulated, was in its use of shadows. From the introduction of Beckert, to an impressive chase sequence through the city streets, Lang time and again uses shadows to add a layer of visual dread to the film so thick you practically feel the need to wash it off when the film finally ends. But the single best use of shadows in M is when Beckert is hiding in the attic of and old building, desperately trying to hide from those who are hunting him.

Due to Lorre’s seriously unconventional looks Hollywood directors often struggled to find ways to use him as anything but a supporting character. But in M, Lang takes Lorre’s large and expressive eyes and has them peer out from the darkness, standing in stark contrast to the darkness engulfing the rest of his body. The visual is so distinct it registers as an almost cartoonish effect, and it isn’t surprising that the visual of eyes peering out from pitch black darkness would quickly become a cartoon staple.

Now noir isn’t well known for fancy camera angles or long takes, though to be perfectly fair such techniques crop up fairly frequently, but noir is well known for its use of shadows and back lighting for dramatic effect and a rather distinct look to the genre. With the films often occurring during storms, fog filled evenings and other natural visual obstructions; noir clearly was influenced by German Expressionism in many respects in terms of visual style. But while many German Expressionism films typically leaned towards the fantastic, M was one that remained grounded in reality as well as dealing with a seedy underbelly that noir often patterned itself after. And with its visual flair and complicated characters, M was the perfect mold to base the genre on. This leads me to the last major influence M had on film noir, that of its depiction of the criminal underworld.

Far from relying on cookie cutter stereotypes or black and white archetypes, M created a vast and complicated world that operated on multiple levels. After exploring a similar dynamic in Metropolis it is rather easy to see why such a story would appeal to Lang. But rather then focusing on the separation between the cultural elites and the working class, Lang focuses instead on the differences between the honest and the dishonest.

The criminal underworld is shown to operate on similar principles and scruples as that of those who make an “honest” living. Thieves don’t steal from other thieves, they coordinate with each other so as to not limit their takes or force their mark into poverty, and they do not kill for the sake of killing. The phrase “honor among thieves” truly applies to M.

When Beckert’s murderous rampage causes the police to react by rounding up the usual suspects for interrogation, the thieves, rogues and scoundrels quickly come to the conclusion that the killer’s actions are making them all look bad, and even worse, it is ruining their business. He must therefore be dealt with as swiftly as possible setting off a race by both the mob and the police to catch Beckert and bring him to justice. But in an interesting twist neither the mob nor police are portrayed as incompetent or superior to the other. In fact, Lang clearly demonstrates that the police would have caught Beckert if the mob hadn’t intervened minutes earlier.

Noir would often take a similar approach to its various characters by prominently displaying anti-heroes, femme fatales and other layered and complex characters that couldn’t easily be labeled as good or evil. And much like the second half of M, which exists almost entirely in the world of the criminals and the mob, noir typically focused on the criminal elements that exist just around the corner from normal society, often times dragging individuals previously ignorant of such locales and characters, and following them as they attempt to navigate and survive in such a foreign and dangerous environment.

But the greatest trick M ever pulled wasn’t merely making criminals out to be a lawful society that follows its own rules and regulations like you or I would. No, it was taking a sadistic, unfeeling murderous scumbag like Beckert and turning him into a sympathetic creature driven by insanity and habit, albeit a twisted habit to be sure. Lorre’s monologue in defense of his actions as he is being tried by a jury of his criminal peers is both masterful and borderline heartbreaking, and it comes from a character who for the better part of two hours you spent loathing. The scene adds a surprising dose of ambiguity to what had seemed to be a rather obvious solution. Lang isn’t attempting to provide answers, but rather complicate the questions to the degree in which they would be in real life. That ending is the true genius of M.

But what about one of the most iconic aspects of film noir, the femme fatale? Does it exist in M? Are the children that seduce the dark desires of Beckert representative of such a recognizable archetype? To a degree they are. The children shown t be the eventual victims of Beckert are typically fair haired, fair skinned and quite innocent, as a femme fatale is typically portrayed. And these victims bring about the downfall of Beckert as he is powerless to resist his horrible desires. But as with the rest of the film, M has a far more complicated and darker relationship with femme fatales. For the children do not represent them, but rather Beckert does.

You see the film revolves around Beckert, and much like a femme fatale, it is his exploits and choices that bring about the events of M. He is the one venturing from the underworld to proper society to influence and manipulate the innocent. He is the one who draws outside elements into his world, in the form of the police and the criminal underworld, to try and stop his sinister plan. And he is the one that is revealed to be powerless to resist his very nature, that of his unquenchable desire to kill children, and who will stop at nothing in a frivolous attempt to satiate those desires. Even his basic character progression follows a similar path as that of the prototypical femme fatale. He is initially introduced as a kindly gentleman, only to have his true dark nature revealed later in the film. This is followed up with his textbook “I’m not bad, I’m just drawn that way” speech to conclude the film. Do any of us truly know what it is like to be such a character?

And thus, with a cramped hand and a beleaguered brain, I conclude my take on M’s influence on the film noir genre. It has been a fun and interesting ride through the bowels of one of cinema’s premier films as I attempted to identify and describe the many bridges connecting it to my favorite genre of film. Now if you will excuse me, it is time for me to slither safely back to the cover of darkness, where I can safely and soundly screen any number of noir films in their proper environment.

While John Carpenter clearly belongs in a class of recognized film auteurs, the scripts for his movies can be wildly uneven. He has an instinctual knowledge of film and music rhythm (he directs in a kinetic comic panel style) but the limitations of the auteur theory come into focus when one watches The Fog, Christine, Memoirs of An Invisible Man, Village of the Damned and Vampire$ (throwing away most of John Steakley’s fastpaced, funny novel was a bad idea). In other words, his unique widescreen vision cannot always compensate for low-priority narrative. It’s to Carpenter’s testament that we’re willing to go along for the ride anyway. Critics and –audiences — rarely note Carpenter’s films are often satirical (even Escape From LA is more humorous than exciting). To his credit, Carpenter remains a child of the 1970’s cinema: his films usually have ambiguous endings.

However, my favorite John Carpenter film and screenplay, the one that probably reveals most about him as a storyteller, remains the cult favorite from 1976, Assault on Precinct 13. The plot is simple, a broad mash-up of Howard Hawk’s Rio Bravo (1959) and Night of the Living Dead (1968), as a multicultural gang, armed with a cache of stolen weapons, attempt to wreck vengeful havoc on a closed police station inhabited by cops and convicts, who must band together to survive the siege.

What sets this low-budget exploitation film apart from others of the grindhouse/drive-in era is how Carpenter frames a world of urban angst (cops; gangs; prisoners; ghettos) as an expressionist horror film with Hawksian heroes. For a film that cost around 100 grand, the cinematography is striking and influential (I bet James Cameron is a fan too). Blue shadows cover the characters as they speak in a highly stylized manner, with bold dialogue that seems incongruous to the gritty 70’s setting. Yet AOP13 delivers the genre’s prerequisite violence all while tweaking and redefining the hardboiled poetry of film noir.

The first clue that Carpenter has something different on his cinematic mind is when newly promoted Lieutenant Ethan Bishop (nicely played by Austin Stoker), an eager African-American police officer on his first night out, receives uninspiring instructions from his superior:

CAPTAIN COLLINS
I’ve got a temporary re-assignment for you. A little supervisory job for the police department. Proceed to Precinct 9, Division 13 and take over from Captain Gordon.

LT BISHOP
Isn’t that the Anderson precinct? Well they’re
closing it down. Nothing for me to do there but pack boxes and stare at packing crates.

CAPTAIN COLLINS
You want to be a hero your first night out, Lieutenant?

LT BISHOP
Yes, sir!

CAPTAIN COLLINS
There are no heroes anymore, Bishop. Only men
who follow orders.

That odd comment about the lack of heroes turns a routine bit of exposition into the main theme of the movie: outcasts who stand united will overcome adversity and become heroes.

Film Noir rarely celebrates valor, instead focusing on the souls trapped or corrupted by a malevolent society. There are exceptions, as in Fritz Lang’s films. He and other German refugee artists helped create the melancholy standards of noir, yet Lang’s subjects usually sought a way out of the darkness. His focus was on those who challenged the masses — which explains why he left Germany right after Goebbels offered him the Nazi film division. Metropolis (1925) presents a future where humans are actual cogs in the fascist machinery. In Fury (1936), the protagonist is lynched by a town mob, until he returns as what I call the “shadow man” seeking justice. The Big Heat (1953) shows how a policeman, stripped of family and badge, aligns with other outsiders (a disfigured waitress; a disabled clerk) to regain his humanity from the oppressive city.

Above all, the urban milieu is integral to film noir. As my former UC Berkeley professor Anton Kaes notes in his excellent 2000 BFI monograph on Fritz Lang’s classic M (1930), “The street is the site of unplanned possibilities and unknown dangers.” Kaes’ visionary theory also posits a society governed under “total surveillance” — the most apt description of our voyeuristic century. He believed that aspect was key to the genre, wherein the protagonist is subjected to the city mobilizing around him or her, the collective anomie creating a fascistic state of violence and observation. Lang obviously had strong feelings about this as his American films often contain this theme in plot or execution. His Hollywood film, Fury (1936), features Spencer Tracy as the “shadow man” who goes underground until he can confront his attackers in a courtroom. And how does he confront them? By showing newsreel footage of their orgiastic faces during the lynching. Lang was quite aware of the power of a mob to drown out all reason.

To this end, AOP13 features a deadly Southern California gang known as “Street Thunder,” who become blood-brothers and prowl the city looking for innocent prey. They prowl the outskirts of the desolate city, watching and judging potential victims through the scope of a sniper rifle. Some critics argued that the ghetto underclass are presented here as cold silent assassins, eliminating any emotional attachment and espousing a reactionary message. Still, this is diffused by the unlikely multi-racial make-up of the gang.

Actually, the arch dialogue and heroic characters place the world in a clearly metaphorical realm: the gang only represents the decadent world out to destroy noble ideals (even his fellow policemen mock Lt. Bishop for his aspirations). The multicultural protagonists are philosophical minorities, oppressed by a desensitized society. They are then forced together for a common cause. The gangs do have their own loyalty (they’ll fight to the death for each other), but their cause is destruction.

The script’s other major character, Napoleon Wilson, an infamous prisoner awaiting execution, represents the “shadow man” — the film noir persona with a dark past who walks the edge of society. One nifty exchange between the police bureaucrat Starker (Carpenter regular Charles Cyphers) and stoic criminal Wilson illustrates how a brief camaraderie forms between the two disparate men:

WILSON
You got a smoke?

STARKER
No, you asked me already. Remember?

WILSON
I never got a definite answer.

STARKER
I don’t smoke.

WILSON
That’s a definite answer.
(beat)
Another one gone. When you’re in my position,
days are like women: each one is so goddamm
precious. They always end up leaving you.
(beat)
What do you want?

STARKER
Why do I have to want something?

WILSON
You’re a cop. Either you’re curious
about me or you want to give me some shit.

STARKER
I don’t understand you, Wilson.

WILSON
Curious.

STARKER
You’re not crazy, you’re not stupid–

WILSON
I am an asshole. Can’t take everything
from me.

STARKER
Why did you kill those men?

WILSON
Everybody always asks me the same thing.
I always tell ‘em the same thing. When
I was young, a preacher told me, “Son…
you got something to do with death.” Being
real young, I believed him.

STARKER
Come on. That’s no answer.

WILSON
I thought it was pretty good.

STARKER
Where did you get a name like
Napolean Wilson?

WILSON
I’ll tell you some time.

STARKER
When?

WILSON
Moment of dying.

STARKER
I’m going to try to be there when
your time comes.

They finish the scene with a smile between them, sealing their outsider’s bond (Starker not liking the way Wilson was roughed in his cell). Wilson’s “Got a smoke?” refrain is a clever way to establish personality (and has a good pay-off). His crime is wisely kept a mystery, except for that obtuse “Why did you kill those men?” One imagines Wilson being motivated by an honorable vengeance. In any case, this is a shadow man clearly headed for redemption.

Carpenter generates suspense by flashing the time onscreen at various points, i.e., “Saturday, 8:00 PM”. This sets up the convergence of the principals, which culminates when a father seeks refuge in the precinct after avenging the murder of his daughter, killed in one of the most shocking scenes of the decade that still packs a wallop. Once the players and motives have been established, the massive “Street Thunder” gang position themselves outside the station and The Assault On Precinct 13 begins proper.

While this allows Carpenter to direct some kick-ass battle scenes, he also develops the forced bond of the trapped ensemble. Lt. Bishop becomes the de facto leader, operating under the proviso, “I want everybody alive tonight.” Arguably, Ethan Bishop remains one of Carpenter’s most decent and uncynical characters (not to mention an unusual African-American lead role in the decade of Shaft and Superfly). This decency inspires Wilson to shed his shadow self — at least for the night. The pair become a true team when Bishop tosses a shotgun to Wilson, who then blasts three incoming gang members in what is to me, Carpenter’s greatest action moment. After this, Napoleon Wilson becomes one of the good guys.

AOP13 features only a hint of romance between Wilson and the tough police secretary Leigh (probably named after screenwriter Leigh Brackett, who wrote for Howard Hawks). Happily, the two never declare cheap movie love, only a quiet mutual admiration born of unrequited passion. For example, Wilson finally gets his cherished “smoke” when Leigh, using one hand (her other arm wounded), brings up a cigarette out of nowhere, places it in his mouth and lights it with a single match. Venetian shadows cover her face as Wilson luxuriates in his cigarette:

WILSON
You are good.

LEIGH
Sometimes.

An archetypal noir moment, worthy of Bogart and Bacall, updated for the New Exploitation Cinema. They briefly acknowledge their attraction as the conversation becomes more hard-boiled:

LEIGH
The very least of our problems is that
we’ve run out of time.

WILSON
It’s an old story with me. I was born out
of time.

While Big Trouble in Little China would mock these John Wayneisms, AOP13 revels in them. Some find the film problematic because of its quasi-poetic language, yet this is right in line with the purple prose of Hammett and Chandler. Carpenter gives these characters similar extravagant (and unwieldy) speech. Yet they do talk like real people and demonstrate real wit, as when convict Welles (played by the excellent Tony Burton) decides to risk his selfish neck to help the others:

WELLES
Ain’t nobody gonna wish me good luck?

BISHOP/LEIGH
(unison)
Good luck.

WELLES
(to Wilson)
Look at that. Two cops wishing me
luck. I’m doomed.

He is, but not without living up to his word.

After an explosive stand against the full suicidal force of Street Thunder, only Bishop, Wilson, Leigh are left standing as the smoke clears (literally) in a strong image of weary victory. The societal misfits have become a powerful team and did their job protecting the father. The final scene aptly sums up their redemptive evolution. As police try to handcuff Wilson, Bishop angrily pushes them back:

BISHOP
I said get away from him!
(To Wilson)
It would be a privilege if you’d walk
outside with me.

WILSON
I know it would.

BISHOP
(laughs)
You’re pretty fancy, Wilson. You know that?

WILSON
I have moments.

As Carpenter’s coolest synth theme rises, Ethan Bishop and Napoleon Wilson walk together down the blasted hall and ascend the steps…as heroes. Noir becomes light. With this coda, what started out as bleak exploitation ends up as urban poetry. Assault on Precinct 13 remains a bold genre statement and strangely, John Carpenter’s most romantic film.

If you’re like me and you love all kinds of “genre” entertainment, comics are a great way to get your fill of superheroes, police procedurals, horror, fantasy, science fiction, mice with swords, and all the other fun escapist pleasures that are ignored or reserved for hackwork in the film world.

One of these is noir. Ever since Frank Miller revitalized Batman in 1986 with the noir-influenced The Dark Knight Returns, noir comics have been a steadily growing commodity. As part of Noir Month, here are 10 great comics that can get you through these dark times where the Hollywood noir is as rare as the well-written Fantastic Four movie. Happy reading!

I’ve broken the list into two sets of 5. The first set is straight noir for those of you purists. The second five represent noir intersecting with science fiction, superheroics, or some other genre exercise. If you only like your noir straight up, the first five are for you, but if you can handle a cocktail, the whole list is for you.

1. Sin City
Art and Words by Frank Miller
7 volumes ($12-$28 a volume)
Library Likelihood: High

Frank Miller’s Sin City is a black and white wonderland; if you saw the movie, the comic looks exactly like that, except possibly more violent, more misogynistic, and more over the top. Miller got his start in superheroes, and his noir characters have a tendency to jump off buildings and come out alive. No worries. This series has got style to spare, and the dialogue sounds like Hammett on crack. This is the definitive noir comic, by which all others are judged.

2. Criminal
Words by Ed Brubaker; Art by Sean Phillips
3 Volumes, and ongoing ($12-$15 a volume)
Library Likelihood: Low

If Frank Miller is the aging former king of comics noir, Ed Brubaker is the ascending star taking his throne. Criminal is Brubaker’s masterpiece; he’s described it as Sin City with a more realistic tone. Like Sin City, the volumes follow different characters but are set in the same city, with one book’s star a bit player in the next volume. Each volume so far is a genre exercise: v1 is a classic heist noir, v2 is a revenge bloodbath, and v3 is a 70s blaxsploitation flick complete with an intro by John Singleton. Brubaker’s less flamboyant dialogue goes great with Sean Phillips’ iconic drawing and murky colors.

You Might Also Like: Scene of the Crime: A Little Piece of Goodnight

3. Why are You Doing This?
Words and Art by Jason
1 Volume ($13)
Library Likelihood: Low

Norwegian cartoonist Jason is a minimalist: he uses few lines and even fewer words. He also, for unknown reasons, draws anthropomorphic animals instead of people. No matter: he’s a master of all genres, including swashbuckler, zombies, science fiction, and coming of age story, but he specializes in noir. In this comic, a regular guy is mistaken for a murderer and must go on the run, trying to find out the reasons for the murder while staying alive when the real killer wants him dead. Like Woody Allen, Jason is a genius with final scenes, and the last panel of Why Are You Doing This? will have you thinking for days.

You Might Also Like: The Iron Wagon, The Left Bank Gang

4. Torso / Fortune and Glory
Words and Art by Brian Michael Bendis
Torso: 1 Volume ($25) Fortune and Glory: 1 Vol ($15)
Library Likelihood: Medium

Most people would put Bendis up with Brubaker as modern noir masters, but frankly, I can’t stand his Mamet-influenced reams and reams of meaningless dialogue. My favorite Bendis noir is Torso, the true story of Eliot Ness’ attempt to catch the torso serial killer in Cleveland after taking down Capone in Chicago. But the best part of reading the grim Torso is getting to read Fortune and Glory, the hilariously true story of Bendis trying to get Torso made into a Hollywood movie. It may not be a true noir, but there are enough false leads and red herrings to fill a dozen films. But mostly, it’s just fun to watch an outsider satirize every human in Hollywood, including the “smartest man in Hollywood” who is sure that Eliot Ness is a fictional character.

You Might Also Like: Bendis’ Goldfish, Jinx

5. Fell
Words by Warren Ellis; Art by Ben Templesmith
1 Volume, and ongoing ($15)
Library Likelihood: Medium

For reasons unknown, Detective Richard Fell has requested a transfer across the bridge to the decaying urban wasteland of Snowtown. Sci-fi writer Warren Ellis throws every gruesome real-life story he runs across into Fell’s path: alcohol enema murders, stolen fetus spirit wards, fecal injections…you name it, Ellis has ripped it from obscure headlines and turned shit into shit-based art. Multimedia artist Ben Templesmith takes this mess and somehow, with his array of atmospheric effects, makes it even more distasteful than you can imagine. Many people (including myself) consider this to be the best comic currently being published, but it’s not for the faint of heart – or for people afraid of homicidal nuns in Nixon masks.

Image Comics has actually placed the entire first issue of Fell online, which you can find here.

You Might Also Like: Crimes Against Humanity, Pure Depravity, Moral Decrepitude

Fine, you say, those are all well in good, but what if I like my noir with a slice of scifi technology or Nolan-style superheroics? These five are for you:

1. The Dark Knight Returns / Batman: Year 1
DKR: Words and Art by Frank Miller; Year 1: Words by Miller, Art by David Mazzucchelli
DKR: 1 Volume, $15; Year 1: 1 Volume, $15
Library Likelihood: If your library has only 2 comics, these are probably it

If you ask anyone who knows anything what the best Batman comic is, they’ll either point you to Miller’s tale of excessive chaos and murder, The Dark Knight Returns, or his more restrained tale of Batman’s origin, Batman: Year One. In other words, if you liked Batman Begins, you’ll love Batman: Year One, and if you thought The Dark Knight was creepy, you need to see The Joker on Letterman in The Dark Knight Returns. These are the comics that made Batman relevant, that made noir comics cool, and that made Christopher Nolan’s Batmovies possible. If you only ever read two comics, these are your choices.

As of the writing of this, Amazon has each volume available for only $9. I would spend that $18 immediately. Hell, buy two of each!
You Might Also Like: Grant Morrison’s current run on Batman

2. Desolation Jones
Words by Warren Ellis; Art by J.H. Williams III
1 Volume ($15)
Library Likelihood: Low

The science fiction equivalent of Fell, this is Warren Ellis’ reworking of the classic film The Big Sleep. Except this time, L.A. is the prison for every intelligence operative in the world who was burned, and many of them have been augmented, including our hero Mr. Jones, who can no longer feel any emotions or sleep for more than a few minutes – a year of horrific experimentation did that to him. A rich man’s Hitler porn has been stolen, his daughters are somehow involved, and Jones is willing to get the job done. That is, he doesn’t mind sticking his fingers through someone’s eye and into their brain if they’re threatening him. He’s a sick bastard.

You Might Also Like: See You Might Also Like: Fell

3. Sleeper
Words by Ed Brubaker; Art by Sean Phillips
4 volumes ($18 a Volume)
Library Likelihood: Medium

Before they collaborated on Criminal, Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips were the men behind Sleeper, a long-running superhero noir that followed Holden Carver, a government agent masquerading as a member of a criminal organization comprised of superpowered villains. Sleeper covers a lot of the same ground as The Departed – Carver’s contact is in a coma, so he’s on his own, with no allies and a number of sticky situations which require him to balance his real and his cover identity. This series features Brubaker’s finest female character, and one of the finest femme fatales ever to smolder her way through a noir: Miss Misery, a superpowered woman who feels sick and loses her powers whenever she’s not doing the wrong thing. She sleeps with Holden for kicks, but eventually starts falling for him – and puking whenever they’re together. As always, Phillips’ art delivers, and the long-burning story never ceases to ratchet up the tension.

In related news, Tom Cruise and Sam Raimi are currently developing the silver screen version of Sleeper. Hopefully the Scientology disciple won’t squander all the goodwill he earned with his raging-studio-exec-in-a-fat-suit turn in Tropic Thunder. Fingers crossed.

You Might Also Like: Brubaker’s Catwoman

4. Powers
Words by Brian Michael Bendis; Art by Michael Avon Oeming
11 Volumes, and Ongoing ($15-$21 a Volume)
Library Likelihood: Low

As I stated earlier, I’m not really a big fan of Bendis’ dialogue, and frankly his noir plots aren’t that compelling either. But with Powers, he’s created a full fledged superhero universe that is as noir as Sin City itself. The real master here is Oeming; his art is glossy, colorful, cartoony, and somehow every bit as noir as Phillips’. This series follows the misadventures of two police detectives, a hardened veteran and his new partner, and indulges in almost every cop cliche imaginable. But just look at the pictures. They’ll get you through.

You Might Also Like: Bendis’ run on Daredevil

5. Daredevil
Words by Ed Brubaker; Art by Michael Lark
4 Volumes, and Ongoing ($15-$18 a Volume)
Library Likelihood: Very Low

The consensus is that the best Daredevil stories since Miller turned that third-rate superhero into a noir hero come from Bendis. Well, yeah, if Bendis didn’t suck. Brubaker is currently writing the title, aided by longtime collaborator Michael Lark, and it’s a fun ride through superhero and noir territory. Again, Brubaker tries lots of genres on for size: Welles style European mystery, hard-boiled prison narrative, and classic detective work. Michael Lark’s gritty and realistic artwork turns some silly Marvel super-villains into deadly serious business, and this series has got patsies and femme fatales to spare. But please, ignore the movie – even if Lark’s Daredevil does look exactly like Ben Affleck.

You Might Also Like: Brubaker and Lark following Jim Gordon’s major crimes unit in Gotham Central

Is it just me, or is this clip art awesome?

Piper over at the Lazy Eye Theatre has had a little “meme” going for about a week now, and Evan and I at MZ have been tagged no less than three times, so we thought we’d better do it.

The rules are simple: If you could pick twelve flicks to be shown at the New Beverly Cinema (a popular “revival” theater), what would they be? In more detail, it goes like this:

1) Choose 12 Films to be featured. They could be random selections or part of a greater theme. Whatever you want.

2) Explain why you chose the films.

3) Link back to Lazy Eye Theatre so I can have hundreds of links and I can take those links and spread them all out on the bed and then roll around in them.

4) The people selected then have to turn around and select 5 more people.

Anyhoo, Evan and I were thinking, since there are two of us, that opens up a world of “gimmicks” for our choices. Long-time readers may remember a debate we had on the site back in March…it went pretty well, all things considered, so we thought we’d try it again. But this time, rather than sling words, we’re going to sling movies. The rules go something like this:

1. The first person picks a pair of films for the first night that he thinks makes a point.
2. Person # 2 picks a pair of films for the second night that somehow undermine Person # 1’s point.
3. Person # 1 picks a pair of films for the third night that somehow undermine Person # 2’s choices.
4. Etc.

Confused? Yeah, Evan was too, when I tried to explain it to him. (I thought it was pretty straightforward…) But lucky for you, you only have to read the debate, not participate in it. Here we go…

Being a sporting man, I chose to give Evan first pick.

Night the first. Evan says…

They Can Do Drama!

Films where comedians prove they have significant dramatic range. Whodathunk? My picks are…

Will Ferrell in 'Stranger than Fiction'

Robin Williams in 'One Hour Photo'

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Night the second. Luke says…

Dramatic skill means nothing if you’re not relevant to begin with.

Robin Williams in 'What Dreams May Come'

Will Ferrell in 'Semi-Pro'

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Imagine a world without these two films. Not hard, is it?

Night the third. Evan says…

Obscure pre-1980 sci-fi literary connections trump your picks.

The Last Man on Earth

A Scanner Darkly

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Both The Last Man On Earth and What Dreams May Come are based on books by Richard Matheson, and A Scanner Darkly was written in 1977 by Phillip K. Dick, and stars Woody Harrelson, who also stars in Semi-Pro.

Nigth the fourth. Luke says…

Yeah, maybe, but sci-fi is never any fun…

Tim Burton's 'Corpse Bride'

Ralph Bakshi's 'The Lord of the Rings'

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…A pair of fantasy flicks for you. One to satisfy your need for the living dead, and the other to satisfy your need for rotoscoping. And both more fun than either of those.

Night the fifth. Evan says…

Too bad you’ve picked the worst from both directors. Why not turn back the clock a few years for each and showcase some real animation?

Tim Burton's 'The Nightmare Before Christmas'

Ralph Bakshi's 'Wizards'

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Night the sixth. Luke says…

…Because I’d rather showcase fake animation.

Hoodwinked

The Mask

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“Fake,” meaning, in this case, “bargain basement CG” and “live action that happens to look like animation.” Plus, this way we get to end the week on a couple of fun ones…and we’ll need it after two Bakshi/Burton nights.

Okay…that’s a wrap. Now I just have to tag five blogs (trying, of course, to tag people who haven’t participated yet). I pick…

1. 353 Review
2. Movies et. al.
3. Final Girl
4. Doodad Kind of Town
5. The Evening of Kent (which isn’t actually a “film blog,” but I’ve been reading his stuff, and he’s awesome, but there’s nowhere on his site to comment, so I’ll say it here: I love you, Kent!)

This is part the second of a two-part article examining the ways in which one might become a better film critic. You can find the first part of the article here.

I was surprised by and appreciative of the responses that I received on the first part of this article. I also must admit that I found it quite surreal to see my name jutting out from blog posts in Spanish and Vietnamese. Hopefully the second part of this article is as much of a conversation starter as the first was. Again, your feedback is warmly welcomed.

6. Don’t Be Dull
The grand majority of people who read reviews are not doing so because they want to figure out whether they should see Spiderman 3 or if Saw 18 is worth their money. They’ve typically made up their mind long before they reach your critical prose. Jim Emerson at scanners::blog had this to say about the motivation to read movie reviews: “As the founding editor of RogerEbert.com I can tell you that a lot of people still read Roger for guidance and suggestions — but a lot of them also read him because they enjoy reading HIM. Some of the most popular reviews are also some of the most negative ones, and I’m pretty sure it’s not because there were so many people anticipating Basic Instinct 2 and dying to know whether Roger thought it was any good.” People read reviews either for entertainment or because they like the style of the critic in question; often those two things are virtually synonymous. Reviews can be analytical, they can be clever, they can even be abstract; the one thing they should never be, however, is boring. Dullness will be the death of your future as a film critic. If you’re going to write a film review, make sure you have something interesting to say.

I’ve selected a highly entertaining bit by Pauline Kael on Rambo, a punchline from James Berardinelli that made me LOL (I apologize, I couldn’t help myself), and links to the full reviews for The Covenant by Nathan Lee and The Cat in the Hat by Mahnola Dargis. The latter two are unconventional and good examples of thinking outside the oftentimes tiny film critic’s box.

• Pauline Kael on Rambo: First Blood Part II:
  “Rambo: First Blood Part II explodes your previous conception of “overwrought” – it’s like a tank sitting in your lap firing at you. Jump-cutting from one would-be high point to another, Rambo is to the action film what Flashdance was to the musical, with one to-be-cherished difference: audiences are laughing at its star and progenitor, Sylvester Stallone, who comes across as a humanoid Christ figure with brown leather skin and symmetrical scars. Rambo has been programmed with (a) homoeroticism, (b) self-pity, (c) self-righteousness, (d) sweat, and (e) an insatiable need to be crucified over and over. He has a sour pout on his face, and he’s given to deep enigmatic utterances, such as “To survive a war you have to become war.”… David Morrell, whose novel First Blood was the basis of the first Rambo picture, has written the novelization of this sequel, from the screenplay by Stallone and James Cameron. It’s a love letter to Rambo’s weaponry – his nasty serrated knife and his bow and exploding arrows. In the author’s note at the front of the book, Morrell tells us who “created” the weapons and where we should write to order them. I can hardly wait for my set to arrive.”
  - The New Yorker, June 17, 1985, taken from “For Keeps: 30 Years at the Movies”

• James Berardinelli on Shutter:
  “The original Shutter is a Thai film, not a Japanese or Korean concoction, but there’s nothing to differentiate it from all the other movies where spirits have pasty faces and fail to recognize the value of the slogan “rest in peace.” Ghost stories are to the 2000s what slasher films were to the 1980s. There are only so many interesting ideas one can apply and, after a while, they all seem the same. What makes it worse with Asian horror is that most of these are re-makes of somewhat better foreign language entries, so they literally are the same (except for the obligatory changes necessary to create a comfort level among Western audiences). If a viewer wanted to argue that Shutter was the worst of all those to reach the market so far, I would have a hard time countering him. For a good clue to the quality level contained herein, take the title of the movie and replace the ‘u’ with an ‘i.’”

• Nathan Lee on The Covenant, from the New York Times

• Mahnola Dargis on The Cat in the Hat, from the Los Angeles Times

7. Invest Yourself in Other Pursuits
This point expands on the first and second points, broadening their scope. Not only should a film critic seek to expand their cinematic vocabulary (which is a veritable given considering the profession) and develop an appreciation for all the arts, but they should also invest themselves in other pursuits outside of the cinema or the arts. Although this may seem contradictory, the film critic who only watches films to the exclusion of all other pursuits will deliver introverted, myopic reviews. To put it bluntly, a film critic should have a hobby. To put it even more bluntly than that, a film critic should have a life.

Phillip Lopate in his introduction to “American Movie Critics: An Anthology From the Silents Until Now” writes, “We also glean the critic’s other interests: that Otis Ferguson loves jazz, Manny Farber is knowledgeable about painting and prizefighting, Stanley Kauffmann has a deep feeling for the theater, Stanley Cavell is devoted to Emerson, James Agee seems interested in everything. Renata Adler, preparing herself to becomes the New York Times critic, commented: ‘The best criticism I read was still by writers who simply felt moved by film to say something about it–without reverent or consistent strategies, putting films idiosyncratically alongside things they cared about in other ways.’ Paradoxically, the really good film critic has to show an interest in something else besides movies; a well-stocked mind remains the mark of the true essayist.

I’ve included a single selection here from a critic you have not likely heard of, but I love the point he is making here and how he makes it.

• Greg Wright on Cassandra’s Dream:
  “Early on in Woody Allen’s latest drama, Ian takes a female coworker for a drive in the country. As the couple romps through the hills and enjoys a picnic in a meadow, Allen’s camera lingers for a moment—and the shot is framed by some rather colorful yellow flowers. I particularly noticed these flowers because I’ve had some landscaping problems with them here in Seattle; and I’ve also seen them in meadows in the U.K., meadows not unlike the one that Ian shares with his date.
  And I happen to know that these flowers are Tansy—which is actually a noxious weed poisonous to horses. And as I took in that shot, I thought to myself, Huh. Maybe Allen, that die-hard Manhattanite, doesn’t know he’s just framed his shot with poisonous (if beautiful) flowering weeds.

  But the shot that follows this is also framed by Tansy—and even more prominently. I started to take notice a little more deeply.

  And in the very next shot, we are introduced to the film’s femme fatale: a woman who looks beautiful enough, but whose influence proves very very poisonous to Ian and his brother Terry.

  I’m pretty sure Allen knew what he was doing with the Tansy.”

8. Become an Excellent Essayist
The best pieces of film criticism could comfortably be included in a book of personal and intellectual essays. They are not so much about the film itself, but about the experience of the film (and whatever that entails). Great film criticism isn’t simply a plot synopsis. It isn’t a list of likes/dislikes and pros/cons. It should not attempt to address all of the usual suspects (i.e., the acting was _________, the writing was _________, and the special effects were _________), but instead should create a distinct impression of the film being reviewed. It’s the difference between writing the Five Paragraph Essay your high school teacher taught you to write (Introduction, 3 Assertions with Specific Support, Conclusion, shoot me in the face now) and writing passionate, creative essays that engage, ignite, and entertain the reader.

At Kevin B. Lee’s Shooting Down Pictures, he recently provided extensive notes on the NYU Film Conference, which featured Jonathan Rosenbaum and Adrian Martin as speakers (I suggest you read all 5 insightful posts, starting here). Martin is quoted as saying that “powerful criticism [is] writing that both describes the sensual experience of watching the film while eliciting a profound, startling thought. [This writing is distinguished] from the mundane criticism that attaches synopsizing with general like/dislike responses to the acting and story.” As per point number 4 above, great film criticism isn’t necessarily about convincing someone to see or avoid a certain film (although that does enter in at times) – it’s about constructing an elegant portrait of the film that is sometimes personal, sometimes intellectual, and oftentimes both.

Phillip Lopate, in his introduction to “American Movie Critics: An Anthology From the Silents Until Now” said, “The film critic we trust and read regularly becomes a kind of old friend whose conversation we cherish and to whom we turn eagerly for opinions and advice. Stanley Cavell said it best: ‘the writing about film which has meant something to me has the power of the missing companion. Agee and Robert Warshow and André Bazin manage that mode of conversation all the time; and I have found it in, among others, Manny Farber, Pauline Kael, Parker Tyler, Andrew Sarris.’ In this sense, the best film criticism verges on the personal essay, where the particular topic matters less, in the long run, than the companionable voice.” Great film critics, then, are great essayists.

It is impossible to provide selections to illustrate this point without including the reviews in their entirety, so instead I direct you to Roger Ebert’s Great Reviews column. I find his pieces on masterworks of yesteryear to be grand examples of the great essay, equal parts history, personal experience, and reflection. Here, then, is a brief snippet, his final paragraph for Bonnie and Clyde.

• Roger Ebert on Bonnie and Clyde:
  “When I saw it, I had been a film critic for less than six months, and it was the first masterpiece I had seen on the job. I felt an exhilaration beyond describing. I did not suspect how long it would be between such experiences, but at least I learned that they were possible.”

9. Avoid the Reviews of Others Before Writing…Study Them Afterwards
As a critic, one of the most crucial skills you can cultivate is the ability to quickly distill your subjective perceptions of a film into a clear, well-reasoned, entertaining piece of criticism. Your experience at a film is truly unlike anyone else’s experience, and your work will be better the more unique and personal it is to you. Reading the reviews of others beforehand, apart from encouraging the pitfall of plagiarism, will simply dull and neuter your own experiences and thoughts. Do you really want to churn out a piece that resembles every other critic’s review? And on films that are particularly difficult to resolve in your own mind, don’t succumb to the temptation of looking into the opinions of others. The challenge (and time) it will take to enunciate your own loves/questions/disagreements with an obtuse work of art will result in a much richer review than if you had gleaned ‘help’ from others who had already successfully wrestled with the film.

However, once your piece is written, dive into the work of others. Discover points and observations that have been made that you may have missed. Study the composition of other critics and how they attacked the difficulties (or simplicities) of a given film. It’s a valuable exercise, one that the growing film critic can learn a great deal from.

10. Develop a Philosophy of Trash
One of the hazards of a critic’s job is being forced to sit through an unending parade of mediocre, boring, and just plain bad movies…and then having to write about them. After years, some critics crack with the strain of it, becoming bitter, unpleasant, armchair cynics who seem to hate anything the least bit commercial. Familiarity breeds contempt, and they disconnect with the public primarily because they’ve seen thousands upon thousands of the same films–the latest Bruce Willis action flick or Will Ferrell comedy offer them nothing but eye strain. Thus the critic who is in it for the long haul needs to divine a method for dealing with the flicks and flops that pander to the lowest common denominator, the kinds of films that Hollywood churns out on a weekly basis. Without such a method they will soon come to hate the very thing they had originally loved.

Phillip Lopate (I realize I have quoted from Lopate ad nauseum, but this book truly is an invaluable resource–by all means, purchase it immediately), in his introduction to “American Movie Critics: An Anthology From the Silents Until Now” writes, “The film critic cannot be solely preoccupied with identifying instances of film art because to many movies are clearly not artistic in any manner. It won’t do to sound piously outraged at each instance of a movie’s failing to rise to the level of art. Working critics have to develop…strategies for writing about entertaining junk, either by isolating those gifted cameos or enjoyable moments that rise above the general mediocrity or by employing a variety of ironic, satiric, humorous tones to illuminate the triumph of tripe. Still, how do you find something fresh to say about the unremarkable commercial pictures that accomplish what they modestly set out to do, but frankly elicit no new exciting thoughts? How do you maintain the integrity to speak your mind, resisting coercions from the movie industry, your editor, your peer group, and the public?”

My first selection is from Roger Ebert’s 1/2 star review of Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever which I find terribly entertaining (I mean the review, although the movie is also entertaining, if only for all the wrong reasons). My second choice is from a piece by J. Hoberman, senior critic at the Village Voice, simply titled “Bad Movies.” And finally, I’m including another lengthy selection from Pauline Kael’s legendary essay, “Trash, Art, and the Movies,” not only because it perfectly illustrates this point, but because I love the essay, I hope you read it in its entirety, and it is the perfect piece with which to close this article.

• From Roger Ebert’s review of Ballistic: Ecks Vs. Sever:
  “Both Sever and Ecks, once they discover this, have the same enemy in common: Gant (Gregg Henry), a DIA agent who is married to Talisa Sota and raising her child, although Sever kidnaps the child, who is in fact … but never mind, I want to discuss Gant’s secret weapon. He has obtained a miniaturized robot so small it can float in the bloodstream and cause strokes and heart attacks.

  At one point in the movie, a man who will remain nameless is injected with one of these devices by a dart gun, and it kills him. All very well, but consider for a moment the problem of cost overruns in these times of economic uncertainty. A miniaturized assassination robot small enough to slip through the bloodstream would cost how much? Millions? And it is delivered by dart? How’s this for an idea: use a poison dart, and spend the surplus on school lunches.

  The movie ends in a stock movie location I thought had been retired: A Steam and Flame Factory, where the combatants stalk each other on catwalks and from behind steel pillars, while the otherwise deserted factory supplies vast quantities of flame and steam.”

• J. Hoberman, from his essay, “Bad Movies”:
  “There are a number of reasons to consider bad movies. The most obvious is that tastes change; that any, if not most of the films we admire were once dismissed as inconsequential trash; and that trash itself is not without its socio-aesthetic charms. Then too, bad movies have a pedagogic use value, even though the evolution of film form has largely been based on mistakes. A third reason is that movies, to a certain degree, have a life of their own. They mix the documentary with the fictional, and the worst intentions aspect of one can overwhelm the worst intentions of the other. In other words, it is possible for a movie to succeed because it has failed.
  With their perverse, pioneering affection for the detritus of industrial civilization, the Surrealists were the first to cultivate an appreciation for bad movies. ‘The best and most exciting films [are] the films shown in local fleapits, films which seem to have no place in the history of cinema,’ advises Ado Kyrou in Le Surréalisme au Cinéma. ‘Learn to go see the “worst” films; they are sometimes sublime.’ This taste for Elixer of Pot-boiler–junky spectacles, cheap horror flicks, anonymous pornography, juvenile swashbucklers, movies ’scorned by critics, charged with cretinism or infantilism by the old defenders of rationality’–was based on the innate capacity of such films to produce (if only in random moments) that ‘crux of Surrealism,’ le merveilleux.”
  - Taken from “Vulgar Modernism: Writing on Movies and Other Media”, by J. Hoberman

• Pauline Kael, from her essay, “Trash, Art, and the Movies”:
  “Like those cynical heroes who were idealists before they discovered that the world was more rotten than they had been led to expect, we’re just about all of us displaced persons, ‘a long way from home.’ When we feel defeated, when we imagine we could now perhaps settle for home and what it represents, that home no longer exists. But there are movie houses. In whatever city we find ourselves we can duck into a theatre and see on the screen our familiars—our old ‘ideals’ aging as we are and no longer looking so ideal. Where could we better stoke the fires of our masochism than at rotten movies in gaudy seedy picture palaces in cities that run together, movies and anonymity a common denominator. Movies—a tawdry corrupt art for a tawdry corrupt world—fit the way we feel. The world doesn’t work the way the schoolbooks said it did and we are different from what our parents and teachers expected us to be. Movies are our cheap and easy expression, the sullen art of displaced persons. Because we feel low we sink in the boredom, relax in the irresponsibility, and maybe grin for a minute when the gunman lines up three men and kills them with a single bullet, which is no more ‘real’ to us than the nursery-school story of the brave little tailor.
  A good movie can take you out of your dull funk and the hopelessness that so often goes with slipping into a theatre; a good movie can make you feel alive again, in contact, not just lost in another city. Good movies make you care, make you believe in possibilities again. If somewhere in the Hollywood-entertainment world someone has managed to break through with something that speaks to you, then it isn’t all corruption. The movie doesn’t have to be great; it can be stupid and empty and you can still have the joy of a good performance, or the joy in just a good line. An actor’s scowl, a small subversive gesture, a dirty remark that someone tosses off with a mock-innocent face, and the world makes a little bit of sense. Sitting there alone or painfully alone because those with you do not react as you do, you know there must be others perhaps in this very theatre or in this city, surely in other theatres in other cities, now, in the past or future, who react as you do. And because movies are the most total and encompassing art form we have, these reactions can seem the most personal and, maybe the most important, imaginable. The romance of movies is not just in those stories and those people on the screen but in the adolescent dream of meeting others who feel as you do about what you’ve seen. You do meet them, of course, and you know each other at once because you talk less about good movies than about what you love in bad movies.”
  

America, and like…1989, I think?
Directed By: Probably Steven Spielberg. He’s a director, right?
Written By: Not those guys who wrote the Pirates movies. So I don’t care.
Starring: Some dude who sounds like that mouse from Animaniacs
Running Time: Too friggin’ long.
Rated PG…for boring-ness.
(out of 57 rectangles)

Note: This was written for the Bizarro Blogathon at Lazy Eye Theater.

Okay, so I was just, like, hanging out, when this guy Evan says to me, “Why don’t we watch this movie?” and I’m all like “What movie is it?” and he says “It’s called Citizen Kane.” I say, “Citizen Kane? Is that one new? I’ve never heard of it.” And he’s all like “No, I think it’s been around a while now.”

“So it’s like, 80’s? Does it have Patrick Swayze in it?”

And he’s all like, “Patrick Swayze? Like in Dirty Dancing? That’s barely even a movie!” and I’m all like, “Whatever,” so he pops it in the DVD player, and it starts up.

OMG, it sucked.

Okay, so like first off, they must have been using some weird new digital effect or something, because the colors were, like, missing. I mean, I don’t get it. Everything was in, like, shades of gray, or something. There was just black…and white. Um, excuse me? Maybe it was supposed to be like that other movie, Sin City? OMG, Jessica Alba was sooo hot.

Yeah, that kid in the window? Totally distracting.

So, it opens with this shot of an old guy. Yeah, like I want to see an old guy????? And I’m totally serious: the camera was, like pointed straight up his nose! Ew! And then he said some word that I didn’t understand, so I’m all like, “What did he say?” and Evan’s like “Sssh!” but I’m like, “Whatever, I want to know what he said,” and he’s like, “Let me watch the frickin’ movie,” but I’m like, “Please just tell me,” and finally he goes, “Rosebud! He said Rosebud, okay?! Just watch the movie!” so I’m all like, “Where did that come from? Chill.” And he just glares at me. What did I do?

So because Evan was talking I missed most of the next part. I think it was like a news show, or something? But they were, like, watching it in a movie theater. Why would they do that? I’m like, is that supposed to be funny? Where’s the joke? I mean, I’m sorry, but a movie that wants to make me laugh needs to try a little harder than that. Like that new movie with the guy from Austin Powers. That movie was good. And also, I totally got to make out at it.

So anyway, the news show ends and there’s some people in the theater and they’re all like, “What does Rosebud mean?” and I’m like “Duh! That’s what I’ve been asking Evan for the last ten minutes!”

And he’s like “Ssshh!”

And I’m all like, “Just tell me what Rosebud means! I hate movies that are hard to understand. This is like that time I tried to watch Knocked Up and I was like, why is everyone fighting? I thought this was a comedy! Hello!” And so Evan tells me to shut up again, and I tell him I can’t follow this movie cuz I don’t know what “Rosebud” means.

This movie sucks.

So then there’s this guy who’s, like, going around, and um, talking to people. So I’m like, “I don’t get it. Was that the old guy from earlier?” and he’s like, “No, this is a reporter.” OMG, what??? Why do they keep giving me new characters?

Um...seriously. I don't watch movies to see girls wearing clothes.

So, then my friend Chris totally texted me, and I had to have this way-important conversation with him because he can’t find the tap for our kegger, and I’m trying to solve his crisis, and then when I look up, there’s this kid on a sled or something. Whatever. Then later on, I guess, this guy gets a newspaper company, and—seriously—those girls aren’t even hot. What are they doing in a movie???

Yeah, so I finally avert this crisis with Chris, and I have, like, no idea what’s happening. What good is a movie if you lose the plot the second you take out your cellphone? Who likes garbage like that?

Okay, so I guess later on, there’s some sort of scene in a tent, or something? And this guy totally slaps his wife, which is so not cool. This is why this movie sucks—it has a guy slapping his wife. I’m just so totally against domestic violence, and everything it, like, stands for, and, like, any movie that has it, and stuff.

Then Old Dude throws a temper tantrum, and then he dies again. So like, what? They think that, like, when I watch a movie, I like, wanna see a guy die twice? Oh, and then they burn a sled. Like, who burns a sled? I guess that part was supposed to be funny, again. This movie was total crap.

Yeah...People do not stand on stacks of newspapers. This movie blows.

So, like, I don’t even know what Hollywood was thinking when they made this movie. First off, when you make a movie, it needs to make sense, okay? Like, if there’s a guy and girl, they need to fall in love. And if there’s a car, it needs to explode. And if you want to be funny, you can’t have characters that just sit around and talk, without ever wearing funny underwear. This isn’t that hard, okay people? Also, it was way too unrealistic. Like, people don’t die twice. The world has more than two colors. And Xanadu is so not some mansion in California. It’s an Olivia Newton-John movie, okay???

How people can be so totally dumb…it just makes me…um…y’know…mad.

This is an epic article, one that I have been working and retooling for months. I’m splitting it into two parts because reading half of it in one sitting will be daunting enough. Most of the length can be attributed to the selections from other critics that I’ve included. As such, I hope it serves more as an introduction to the work of many a great critic some of you may have overlooked or never heard of, rather than a personal ego trip expounding My Important Opinions. The selections I’ve included, if nothing else, are worth the time and effort it will take to make it through this article. Expect the second half later this week or early the next.

Since beginning MovieZeal, I’ve thought a lot about what makes a good film critic. There are no books or how-to dummy guides out there on the subject, perhaps because there is an intangible, subjective element to film criticism that is difficult to pin down. Ignorant film watchers will resort to the tired judgment of “A critic is someone who couldn’t cut it as a filmmaker,” but they miss the forest for the big fat tree staring them in the face. There is much more to it, and film criticism over the past century has become an art in its own right. This article contains my humble thoughts, in no particular order, on how one might get better at it.

I fully expect a few of these to generate some debate, and while I’m not new to serious filmwatching, I am rather young in terms of written film criticism. In other words, I’m not claiming to have it all figured out. I’m also excluding some points that I think are obvious. For example, if you’re neither passionate about film nor consistent in your cinematic intake (multiple films per week), then you’re likely to prove a poor critic, no matter how many of the pointers below you take to heart.

Some of my suggestions are specifically practical, some are more subjective, and many of them overlap one another to varying degrees. In addition, I’ve included excerpts from reviews and critics that I think illustrate the point at hand, as well as provided links to the full review or where to purchase the book I found them in. Please note that while I’ve drawn exclusively from English speaking critics, I’m not saying that there aren’t vibrant, influential film critics elsewhere in the world, just that it’s difficult to find translations of their work.

1. Expand Your Cinematic Vocabulary
Good film criticism often involves making astute comparisons. The more diverse and numerous the films in your vocabulary, the more insightful, relevant, and intelligent your observations will be. For example,V for Vendetta owes an incalculable debt to Fritz Lang’s 1927 silent masterpiece Metropolis; Akira Kurosawa has had a staggering effect on Western film, directly inspiring Star Wars, Vantage Point, and the entire spaghetti western genre (The Hidden Fortress, Rashomon, Yojimbo, and The Seven Samurai respectively); the anime classic Ghost in the Shell served as one of the Wachowski’s key inspirations forThe Matrix; and the lasting influence of films like Birth of a Nation, Citizen Kane and The Wild Bunch have echoed through the frames of every modern motion picture since. Film critics who exclusively limit themselves to modern movies or certain genres will write weak, myopic reviews. Expose yourself to the silent era, German expressionism, 70+ years of Best Picture winners, the French New Wave, documentaries, Japanese & Western animation, Bergman, Eisenstein, and Hitchcock, and you’ll become a better critic.

I’ve included two examples, the first in which Jonathan Rosenbaum observes The Thin Red Line through the lens of silent cinema, and the second in which Roger Ebert recognizes Alien’s spiritual predecessor.

• Jonathan Rosenbaum on The Thin Red Line:
  “Malick’s intimate acquaintance with the aesthetics of silent cinema reaches well past Murnau. The punctuating shots of nature in the midst of combat – a wounded bird, a riddled leaf, a hill of waving grass – are pure silent-movie syntax, as is the notion of a collective war hero (often found in films and fiction about World War I; William March’s 1933 book Company K is one distinguished example). The poetic and philosophical internal monologues of Malick’s various soldiers, often paired with a sustained and soulful close-up of the character, are the structural equivalent of intertitles in silent films of the teens and 20s. This is a precious legacy that most major filmmakers of the 90s (excepting Godard, Tarr, Tregenza, Manuel de Oliveira, and a handful of others who live outside the Oscars sweepstakes) have either forgotten or never discovered in the first place – a sensibility that frees images from the tyranny of the sound track, allowing them to register in all their primordial power – and the major achievements of The Thin Red Line would be unthinkable without it.”

• Roger Ebert on Alien:
  “At its most fundamental level, Alien is a movie about things that can jump out of the dark and kill you. It shares a kinship with the shark in Jaws, Michael Myers in Halloween, and assorted spiders, snakes, tarantulas and stalkers. Its most obvious influence is Howard Hawks’ The Thing (1951), which was also about a team in an isolated outpost who discover a long-dormant alien, bring it inside, and are picked off one by one as it haunts the corridors. Look at that movie, and you see Alien in embryo.”

2. Respect the Medium You Are Criticizing
Filmmaking requires blood, sweat, and tears, sometimes literally. Directors often pour so much of themselves into their films that it becomes physically and emotionally dangerous. And while the role of a critic isn’t to recognize the effort that went into something, only to evaluate the result that it produced, something can be said for maintaining a respectful tone. Granted, many films do not accord such respect, and you can often tell that the players were just drawing paychecks, but approach your critiques with fear and trembling. Don’t compromise your integrity (there are many critics who lavish praise on every piece of dreck that passes before their eyes – look to the latest TV spots for evidence of this), but be prepared to give the benefit of the doubt. In this day and age of the Great Internets, anonymity has revealed the worst in many of us (I once saw an equation that read Opinion + Anonymity + Online Forum = A**hole).

To put it plainly, when reviewing films, don’t be a prick.

I’ve selected two less-than-positive reviews of Arnonofsky’s polarizing The Fountain in order to illustrate this point. It should be easy enough to tell which one I feel is the pathetically limp of the two. Also, I’ve included the opening paragraphs of James Agee’s brilliant first column for The Nation in 1942, as well as Andrew Sarris’ humbling reversal of his opinion of Billy Wilder.

• The Daily Mirror on The Fountain:
  “Think I made that last bit up? If only I had, because aside from being ludicrously affected, The Fountain is also as dull as hell. In fact, you might want to take your own time machine along so you can fast-forward yourself to the end credits…As far as the plot goes, I’m at a loss to explain exactly what it’s about – and whoever wrote the press notes didn’t seem to have much of a clue either. As far I can tell, it’s about how we’re all, like, too busy worrying about death to live, yeah? So we should all just chill out a bit and accept that one day we’re going to pop our clogs. Deep, huh?…The film does look good, while Oscar winners Rachel Weisz and Ellen Burstyn provide solid support. But what they’re doing wasting their time in this junk is as unfathomable as the film itself.”

• Roger Ebert on The Fountain:
  “That said, I will concede the film is not a great success. Too many screens of blinding lights. Too many transitions for their own sake. Abrupt changes of tone. And yet I believe we have not seen the real film. When a $75 million production goes into turnaround and is made for $35 million, elements get eliminated. When a film telling three stories and spanning thousands of years has a running time of 96 minutes, scenes must have been cut out. There will someday be a Director’s Cut of this movie, and that’s the cut I want to see.

• James Agee on being a film critic:
  “I would like to use this column about moving pictures as to honor and discriminate the subject through interesting and serving you who are reading it. Whether I am qualified to do this is an open question to which I can give none of the answers. But I can begin by describing my condition as a would-be critic. I suspect that I am, far more than not, in your own situation: deeply interested in moving pictures, considerably experienced from childhood on in watching them and thinking and talking about them, and totally, or almost totally, without experiences or even much second-hand knowledge of how they are made. If I am broadly right in this assumption, we start on the same ground, and under the same handicaps, and I qualify to be here, if at all, only by two means. It is my business to conduct one end of a conversation, as an amateur critic among amateur critics. And I will be of use and of interest only in so far as my amateur judgment is sound, stimulating, or illuminating.”
  - From The Nation, December 26, 1942, taken from “James Agee: Film Writing and Selected Journalism

• Andrew Sarris on reevaluating Billy Wilder:
  “People often ask if I have any regrets over my ranking of directors in The American Cinema. Actually, there have been shifts and slides, rises and falls, all along the line. Film history is always in the process of revision, and some of our earliest masters are still alive. The American Cinema was a very tentative probe designed mainly to establish the existence of a subject worthy of study. The rest is refinement and elaboration. To go back to the question, however, at this time, I must concede that seemingly I have grossly under-rated Billy Wilder, perhaps more so than any other American director. His twilight resurgence in the seventies with such mellow masterpieces as The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1969), Avanti! (1972), and even the very flawed The Front Page (1974) made me rethink Wilder, but, mostly, I have been motivated by rueful memories of how somehow I managed to let people talk me out of my instinctive enthusiasm for his films. Whereas the moviegoer in me traipsed back again and again to see The Major and the Minor (1942), Double Indemnity (1944), The Lost Weekend (1945), Sunset Boulevard (1950), Stalag 17 (1953), Love in the Afternoon (1959), Some Like It Hot (1959), and The Apartment (1960), the film critic in me was always heard clucking that Wilder was too clever and cynical for his own and everyone else’s good. Somehow his clinkers always did double duty to discredit his classics. With other directors, the classics were credited to them, and the clinkers to the “system.” But Wilder was thought of as the system personified with all its serpentine wiles and crass commercialism.”
  - Taken from “American Movie Critics: An Anthology From the Silents Until Now”, by Phillip Lopate

3. Develop an Appreciation For All the Arts
This point is similar to the first one, except it is broader in scope. All of the arts resemble one another to some extent, and they all liberally plagiarize across the lines. Cultivating an appreciation for other art forms will enhance your ability to write articulately about film. Visit art museums (The Passion’s cinematography is modeled on the works of Caravaggio, a 16th century Italian painter), actually read Shakespeare (Much Ado About Nothing singlehandedly birthed the romantic comedy), listen to classical music (John Williams, composer of some of the greatest movie themes ever, was directly influenced by Wagner and Richard Strauss), and even read comic books (Batman Begins would not exist if not for Frank Miller’s seminal 1986 collection The Dark Knight Returns).

Nathan Lee, ex-Village Voice Critic and posterboy for the death of film criticism, recently conducted an interview with Rottentomatoes.com where he said something that perfectly dovetails with this point: “I’m reading all the time, but I can learn more about the movies I’m seeing this week from reading a great 19th century novel than I can from whatever XYZ critic has to say this week about whatever. I think another problem with movie writing is that it’s insular, especially Internet writing. It’s so narrow and insular and just about movies, and I think to be a really good writer and film critic you need a range. You need to know what’s going on in painting, you need to know what’s going on in music, you need to read books, and get laid, and go to restaurants, you know what I mean? A lot of movie writing is very impassioned but it’s very limited, very narrow. And I think good critics can put movies into a larger cultural and social perspective.”

My first selection is opening paragraph for A.O. Scott’s review of The Passion, in which he brings to bear his encyclopedic knowledge of The Simpsons in order to make a wonderfully astute observation. Please allow me, in my second example, to submit the closing paragraph of my own review on Funny Games. I realize this may be the height of arrogance, but I think it fits the point at hand, I’m rather proud of it, and I promise I won’t do it again for the rest of this article.

• A.O. Scott on “The Passion of the Christ”:
  “There is a prophetic episode of The Simpsons in which the celebrity guest star Mel Gibson, directing and starring in a remake of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, enlists the help of Homer Simpson, who represents the public taste (or lack of it). Homer persuades Mr. Gibson to change the picture’s ending, replacing James Stewart’s populist tirade with an action sequence, a barrage of righteous gunfire that leaves the halls of Congress strewn with corpses. The audience flees the theater in disgust. I thought of Homer more than once, with an involuntary irreverence conditioned by many years of devotion to The Simpsons, as Mr. Gibson presented his new movie, The Passion of the Christ, to carefully selected preview audiences across the land, making a few last-minute cuts, and then taking to the airwaves to promote and defend the film. It opens today nationwide. Given the Crucifixion story, Mr. Gibson did not need to change the ending.”

• My closing thoughts on Funny Games:
  “One final observation. At the Hirshhorn Museum in Washington D.C. there is a light bulb on a stand. A plaque next to it explains that the bulb randomly turns on once every year for ten seconds. Your participation – how long you’re willing to stand there in the off chance you’ll see it light up – is part of the art. The exhibit is fascinating to think about and enjoyable to discuss, but it is neither compelling nor amusing to experience. Such is Funny Games. I’ve never had a more engaging post-film discussion, but I’ve never had a more miserable, manipulative, and soul-crushing cinematic experience either.”

4. Study Classic Film Criticism
Mastering any art form (and film criticism is an art form) inevitably requires studying the old masters of that form. A composer with no knowledge of Mozart, a writer with no appreciation for Shakespeare, and a filmmaker with no understanding of Hitchcock are all poor artists indeed. If you’ve never read (or even heard of) James Agee, Pauline Kael, Andrew Sarris, Manny Farber, or Otis Ferguson, then you lack a basic understanding of the foundation that modern film criticism is built upon. These five (and there are others, to be sure) are considered the titans of early American film criticism, and each is a valuable resource for the burgeoning film critic.

While it is not necessary to agree with or even like all five (although Kael and Sarris have had entire schools of thought spring up around their style, I find myself returning to the humble, piercing observations of Agee and the dense, devil-may-care prose of Farber), a familiarity with each is invaluable. The earliest, Ferguson (1907-1943), displayed an accessible, man-about-town sensibility towards the Hollywood picture; James Agee (1909-1955) was humble, witty, and employed a flamboyant style that was both accessible and intellectual; Manny Farber (b. 1917) danced all over the page, sometimes offering contradictory observations in the same sentence, burrowing down into films like a schizophrenic gopher; Andrew Sarris (b. 1928) brought to bear (and still does, as critic for The New York Observer) his encyclopedic knowledge of film history, delivering compassionate and guileless critiques with a scholar’s touch, as well as birthing the auteur theory into the English language; finally, Pauline Kael (1919-2001), who may be considered the finest of the lot, brought a personal touch to the world of film criticism, writing passionate, sensual pieces that exemplified her life-long pursuit of “falling in love” with the cinema.

I’ve included selections from each that I felt typified their style, although my grasp of their vast bodies of work is a weak one.

• Otis Ferguson, on Citizen Kane’s inspirations:
  “There has been so much snarling and blowing on the subject of what this picture is about that it won’t hurt to clear the issue: most of the surface facts parallel incidents in the career of one W. R. Hearst; some traits are borrowed from other figures; some are pure ad-libbing. But any resemblance is distinctly coincidental; I could, and would if the editor were not afraid of libel, give you quite a list of Hearst’s undesirable characteristics not possessed by Kane. As for the importance of the figure as an element of society, I don’t think you can make that stick either. Kane started a war to get circulation for his paper; we hear in casual reference that he is a yellow journalist, and we see in a three-for-a-nickel montage clip that he fought graft and some corrupt trusts; there is a prophecy, not followed up, that when the workingman becomes organized labor he will not love the workingman; he is interviewed by the press and makes wild statements with gravity; when anyone gets in his way he calls him an anarchist. Otherwise his troubles are personal, and his death is that of a domineering and lonely man, known to all for his money, loved by none. The only possible moral of the picture is, ‘don’t be that way or you’ll be sorry.’”On the joy of unassuming cinema, from his review of Hands Across the Table:
  “These things taken by themselves are not much, but they indicate a wisdom of procedure that it is good to find in pictures, where careless use of camera devices, the didactic cutting in of wheels, clocks, calendar leaves and what not, and all march-of-timing and Eisensteining in general, are often confused with intelligent and true exploitation of the medium…Whatever its label may indicate in the way of old stuff to those who count on reading the label, it is encouraging to remember that anything which is delightful is never old in any real sense of the term, because delight is a fragile and immediate thing, and new always.”
  - Taken from “American Movie Critics: An Anthology From the Silents Until Now”, by Phillip Lopate

• James Agee on The Bells of St. Marys:
  “The Bells of St. Marys, like Going My Way, is distinguished for leisure and spaciousness, for delight in character and atmosphere, for its use of scenes which are inserted not to advance the story but for their own intrinsic charm. One such set-piece – in which primary-school children rehearse a Christmas play – is almost magically deft and pretty; and the picture is full of shrewed and pleasant flashes. It is also fascinating to watch as a talented, desperate effort to repeat the unrepeatable. But on the whole it is an unhappy film. Bing Crosby’s priest, who was so excellent in the earlier picture, at times looks just bored, cold, and sly, as if he knew that this sort of thing had gone on too long for the good of anybody’s soul, his own first of all. Ingrid Bergman replaces Barry Fitzgerald and, for my money, cannot compete with him in sex appeal, though she has and uses a lot too much to play a Mother Superior, comes painfully close to twittering her eyes in scenes with Crosby, and in general, I grieve to say, justifies a recent piece of radio promotion which rather startlingly describes a nun: ‘Ingrid Bergman has never been lovelier, hubbahubbahubba.’”
  - Taken from “James Agee: Film Writing and Selected Journalism”

• Manny Farber, skewering the art-house and praising the genre flick, from his essay “Underground Films”:
  “It is not too remarkable that the underground films, with their twelve-year-old’s adventure story plot and endless palpitating movement, have lost out in the film system. Their dismissal has been caused by the construction of solid confidence built by daily and weekly reviewers. Operating with this wall, the critic can pick and discard without the slightest worry about looking silly. His choice of best salami is a picture backed by studio build-up, agreement amongst his colleagues, a layout in Life Mag. (which makes it officially reasonable for an American award), and a list of ingredients that anyone’s unsophisticated aunt in Oakland can spot as a distinguished film. This prize picture, which has philosophical undertones, pan-fried domestic sights, risqué crevices, sporty actors and actresses, circus-like gymnastics, a bit of tragedy like the main fall at Niagara, has every reason to be successful. It has been made for that purpose. Thus, the year’s winner is a perfect film made up solely of holes and evasions, covered up by all types of padding and plush. The cavity filling varies from one prize work to another, from High Noon (cross-eyed artistic views of a clock, silhouettes against a vaulting sky, legend-toned walking, a big song), through From Here to Eternity (Sinatra’s private scene-chewing, pretty trumpeting, tense shots in teh dark and at twilight, necking near the water, a threatening hand with a broken bottle), to next year’s winner which will probably be a huge ball of cotton candy containing either Audrey Hepburn’s cavernous grin and stiff behind to more of Zinnemann’s glacéed picture-making. In terms of imaginative photography, honest acting, and insight into American life there is no comparison between an average underground triumph (The Tall Tiger) and the trivia that causes a critical salaam across the land. The trouble is that no one asks the critics’ alliance to look straight backward at is “choices,” i.e. a horse-drawn truckload of liberal schmaltz called The Best Years of Our Lives. These ridiculously maltreated films sustain their place in the halls of fame simply because they bear the label of ART in every inch of their reelage. Praising these solemn goiters has produced a climate in which the underground picture-maker, with his modest entry and soft shoe approach, can barely survive.”
  - Taken from “Negative Space: Manny Farber on the Movies”

• Andrew Sarris on The Birds:
  “The theme, after all, is complacency, as the director has stated on innumerable occasions. When we first meet each of the major characters, their infinite capacity for self-absorption is emphasized. Tippi Hedren’s bored socialite is addicted to elaborately time-consuming practical jokes. Rod Taylor’s self-righteous lawyer flaunts his arrogant sensuality. Suzanne Pleshette, his ex-fiancee, wallows in self-pity, and Jessica Tandy, his possessive mother, cringes from her fear of loneliness. With such complex, unsympathetic characters to contend with, the audience quite naturally begins to identify with the point of view of the birds, actually the inhuman point of view. As in Psycho, Hitchcock succeeds in implicating his audience to such an extent that the much-criticized, apparently anticlimactic ending of the film finds the audience more blood-thirsty than the birds. Although three people are killed and many others assaulted by man’s fine feathered friends, critics and spectators have demanded more gore and more victims.”
  - Taken from “American Movie Critics: An Anthology From the Silents Until Now”, by Phillip Lopate

• Pauline Kael, from her essential essay, “Trash, Art, and the Movies”:
  “The Thomas Crown Affair is pretty good trash, but we shouldn’t convert what we enjoy it for into false terms derived from our study of the other arts. That’s being false to what we enjoy. If it was priggish for an older generation of reviewers to be ashamed of what they enjoyed and to feel they had to be contemptuous of popular entertainment, it’s even more priggish for a new movie generation to be so proud of what they enjoy that they use their education to try to place trash within the acceptable academic tradition. [This] is a more devious form of that elevating and falsifying of people who talk about Loren as a great actress instead of as a gorgeous, funny woman. Trash doesn’t belong to the academic tradition, and that’s part of the fun of trash—that you know (or should know) that you don’t have to take it seriously, that it was never meant to be anymore than frivolous and trifling and entertaining. It’s appalling to read solemn academic studies of Hitchcock or von Sternberg by people who seem to have lost sight of the primary reason for seeing films like Notorious or Morocco—which is that they were not intended solemnly, that they were playful and inventive and faintly (often deliberately) absurd. And what’s good in them, what relates them to art, is that playfulness and absence of solemnity. There is talk now about von Sternberg’s technique—his use of light and décor and detail—and he is, of course, a kitsch master in these areas, a master of studied artfulness and pretty excess. Unfortunately, some students take this technique as proof that his films are works of art, once again, I think, falsifying what they really respond to—the satisfying romantic glamour of his very pretty trash. Morocco is great trash, and movies are so rarely great art, that if we cannot appreciate great trash, we have very little reason to be interested in them. The kitsch of an earlier era—even the best kitsch—does not become art, though it may become camp. Von Sternberg’s movies became camp even while he was still making them, because as the romantic feeling went out of his trash—when he became so enamored of his own pretty effects that he turned his human-material into blank, affectless pieces of décor—his absurd trashy style was all there was. We are now told in respectable museum publications that in 1932 a movie like Shanghai Express “was completely misunderstood as a mindless adventure” when indeed it was completely understood as a mindless adventure. And enjoyed as a mindless adventure. It’s a peculiar form of movie madness crossed with academicism, this lowbrowism masquerading as highbrowism, eating a candy bar and cleaning an “allegorical problem of human faith” out of your teeth. If we always wanted works of complexity and depth we wouldn’t be going to movies about glamorous thieves and seductive women who sing in cheap cafés, and if we loved Shanghai Express it wasn’t for its mind but for the glorious sinfulness of Dietrich informing Clive Brook that, ‘It took more than one man to change my name to Shanghai Lily’ and for the villainous Oriental chieftain (Warner Oland) delivering the classic howler, ‘The white woman stays with me.’”

5. Develop a Unique Voice
Previously, this point was titled “Recognize Your Prejudices,” and I spent multiple paragraphs extolling the virtue of acknowledging your critical blind spots, as well as a ludicrously in-depth analysis of Roger Ebert’s hatred for Adam Sandler comedies. After reviewing what I had written, I realized I was promoting a form of generic, audience-pandering criticism. Some critics take pride in their prejudices, slinging vitriolic barbs at a specific actor or genre with relish. They develop unique voices out of their subjective views, which speaks to the heart of the critical enterprise: of the two things that set a critic apart (the first being their talent at writing), their specific subjectivity (and ability to subsequently communicate that subjectivity) is the most important in establishing a consistent readership. Rather than curb their prejudices, critics should seek to harness them.

This lesson can be clearly seen from the previous point on Ferguson, Farber, Agee, Sarris, and Kael. Each of these critics register clearly in the mind’s eye the same way the best auteurs of the cinema do. In other words, Pauline Kael didn’t write film reviews, she wrote Kael reviews, and so forth. In order to become a successful critic (the kind people like to read on a regular basis and say things about like, “I wonder what [insert your own name] had to say about that film?”), the pursuit of a distinct, personal style that distinguishes one from the gray, undulating mass of interchangeable film critics is of the highest priority. The style can be humble, it can be arrogant (although see point 2, please), it can be conversational, it can be academic, it can be exhaustive or succinct, it can be personal, schizophrenic, or even profane, but it must be unique.

I’ve included selections from critics that, in my mind at least, stick out like neon-orange lifeboats in a sea of sameness. I don’t like all of these critics, and some flaunt their egos and arrogance to a disgusting degree, but they have set themselves apart. Nathan Lee, recently ousted from the ranks of the Village Voice, brings a glib, uber-sarcastic, and biting wit to his writing, which is insightful as often as it is juvenile. Regardless of one’s opinion of him, he remains a unique voice. I’ve chosen one his milder, yet fully entertaining, rampages against Pirates of the Carribean. My second selection is from a critic I cannot stand, Armond White, who will not (apparently) be content until he has insulted every human being on the face of the planet. With that said, he has carved a specific, unique niche for himself in the world of film criticism. No one else does quite what he does, which is saying something.

• Nathan Lee on Pirates of the Carribean: At World’s End:
  “And so Disney’s immense, booty-busting, pro-piracy epic has come to an End. I doubt very much that Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End is, in fact, the last we’ll be seeing of Captain Jack Sparrow and, you know, all those other people. How could it be? Treasure remains to be squeezed from Planet Earth, great swaths of which are evidently held captive by the grip of this imbecilic Giant Squid. Far be it from me to spoil the conclusion of the picture, which may or may not hint at adventures to come. Not that I could even if I tried: Long before the third, fourth, or fifth climax in this endless, obligatory summer diversion, I slunk into my seat in a passive, inattentive stupor, fully submitting to the fact that I hadn’t the slightest idea what the hell was going on.”

• Armond White on The Incredible Hulk:
  “Norton probably thought he’d get away with joining the same fake-political franchise as Iron Man (Robert Downey Jr. does a morose cameo as Tony Stark). His only smart idea was hiring director Louis Leterrier. But Leterrier (who did the terrific Transporter II) is hemmed-in by this King Kongification of The Hulk. Action fans who ignored the Èlan of Transporter II and such Luc Besson–influenced films as Unleashed, Crank and Hit Man will be settling for less if they accept The Incredible Hulk’s busyness. There’s a dull Cloverfield urban rampage and a behemoth battle royale no different than the damn polar bears fighting in The Golden Compass. Summer audiences are expected to forget Ang Lee’s attempted enrichment and simply go along with the Marvel inanity. After The Incredibles, couldn’t we reasonably expect Bruce and Betty to domesticate and become, say, The Flintstones? And the sex scene where Banner warns Betty, “I can’t get too excited.” is lame after The Simpsons’ Paul Bunyan episode where Marge cautioned, “Just let me do a few more yoga lessons.” Instead, The Incredible Hulk is another asexual Marvel adaptation, sublimating eros with pubescent violence. Hulk comic fans should reject it, grow up and become cineastes who appreciate Humphrey Bogart’s masculinity crisis in Nick Ray’s In a Lonely Place. That’s what Ang Lee rightly knew.”

…(see Part 2 here.)

Last December, I sat down with my father to watch Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest. To me, it’s one of the best summer blockbusters in a long time (yeah, you heard me: the second one). Yet, after we finished, my Dad turned to me and said, “Where are the feel-good action movies?” I asked him what he meant and he replied by recalling movies that weren’t so oppressively dark. Where were the real good guys? he asked. Where were heroes like Indiana Jones?!

My introduction to Indiana Jones was with my Dad. He never bought movies when I was young. Ever. If it was good, you could just catch it on TV. So I knew it was something special when he brought home a VHS of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. I didn’t know what it was, so when my father sat me down in my grandparents’ basement in front of our little 14″ TV, I had no idea what awaited me. I was young (no more than five) and probably didn’t even know what the movie was about. I imagine my Dad fast-forwarded through some of the kissing and I know he made me cover my eyes at the end when Donovan chooses the wrong cup and melts into a dusty skeleton.

Over the next few years, I watched the film again and again. I remember being filled with wonder at the music and humming it everywhere I went; it was the first soundtrack album I bought. I can recall sitting at the little school desk in my room and drawing The Keeper of the Grail’s shield emblem on a piece of parchment paper. Growing up in a religious household, I was especially interested in how Indy’s search for these ancient religious artifacts would conclude. Heck, I actually thought the real Cup of Christ was housed in the ancient city of Petra.

But more than any of this, Indiana Jones captured my imagination because my young, impressionable mind saw in him a hero. He was someone I felt like I could stand beside and join in the adventure. Because of him, my perception of heroes were people who went after the good in the world unselfishly, did battle with those who would want destroy that good, and ended up achieving their goals in the end. After all, Dr. Jones isn’t in the business of archeology to make millions of dollars or get his face plastered all over the headlines of national newspapers. He may get the girl in the end but most of the time the artifacts he retrieves are boxed up and put in a warehouse or entrusted to a good friend or a museum. His is a business of finding and giving, not discovering and keeping.

Flash-forward to the “heroes” in the Pirates of the Caribbean saga in which we’re asked to constantly cheer for characters whose claim to fame is committing acts of piracy. By the time things wrap up in the messy third installment, there are no “heroes” you can feel good about rooting for, whose motivations don’t change every other second, and whose allegiances are always sure. In the end, no “good guys” remain — we’re left with a boatload of selfish people willing to betray anyone and everyone to satisfy their own lust for fortune and glory.

“Fortune and glory, kid. Fortune and glory,” says Indy to Short Round in The Temple of Doom. Yet Indy says it in an extremely flat monotone, expressing that fortune and glory have perhaps worn out their welcome for him. How fitting that Indiana Jones and The Temple of Doom is a prequel to the other two Jones films, for in it we witness an immense change in Indy. Matt Zoller Seitz points this change out beautifully in his recent post on The Temple of Doom by saying, “‘Fortune and glory’ is the lie that the old Indy has to tell himself, in order to give himself permission to start the adventure that will birth the new Indy: a man willing to risk his life for principle.”

Each generation has their own set of movie heroes. Members of Generation X will no doubt think John Wayne’s many incarnations or T.E. Lawrence of Lawrence of Arabia. A list from Generation Y, my generation, would assuredly include Indiana Jones, accompanied by a few other movie franchise faces. But what kind of heroes do Generation Z, the earbud, iPod, text-message generation have? Heroes willing to risk their lives for principle are becoming few and far between. Perhaps a visit from Indiana Jones will prove timely, even if he only serves as a faint reminder of that “old-fashioned” (but never outdated) kind of hero.

In lieu of planning another themed month here at MZ (which is coming as soon as we recover from this one), we have a number of new columns and features in the pipeline, so keep your eyes peeled (what does that mean, excatly? Has anyone ever stopped to think what a horrible prospect it would be to actually peel one’s eyes?).

MZ is in its infancy, and we are (hopefully) ever evolving into a better, more streamlined destination for all things film.

Hit the jump for the list of articles and reviews.

• Original Articles
  Musings on the Coen’s Music – PART 1 and PART 2 – by Daniel Cook Johnson of film babble blog
  O Brother, Indeed – by Dylan Fields of Blog Cabins
  Joel and Ethan Coen: Feeling (and Fooling?) Minnesota – by Daniel Getahun of Getafilm
  The Coen Brothers and the Spirit of Chaos – by Rick Olson of Coosa Creek Mambo
  The Coen Twist on No Country - by Craig Kennedy of Living In Cinema
  The Top Ten Most Memorable Coen Brothers Scenes – by MovieZeal contributors

• Reviews
  Blood Simple – – by Evan Derrick
  Raising Arizona – – By Evan Derrick
  Miller’s Crossing – – By Evan Derrick
  Barton Fink – – By Evan Derrick
  The Hudsucker Proxy – – By Luke Harrington
  Fargo – – By Luke Harrington
  The Big Lebowski – – By Luke Harrington
  O Brother, Where Art Thou? – – By Luke Harrington
  The Man Who Wasn’t There – – By Phillip Johnston
  Intolerable Cruelty – – By Joseph Demme of Cinexcellence
  The Ladykillers - – By Phillip Johnston
  No Country For Old Men – – By Phillip Johnston

“The book was better than the movie.”

How many times have you heard someone say that? The truth is, books and movies are two very different things and the strengths of one don’t always play into the strengths of the other. There are exceptions of course. Gone With the Wind and The Godfather spring to mind as films that are equal to or better than their source novels. The movie versions might not be as rich or as in depth as the novels upon which they’re based, but they get the important things right and they still manage to work as movies.

To that list we can surely add the novel No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy and the film based upon it by Joel and Ethan Coen. The first thing that stands out in a direct comparison of the two is how faithful the Coens were to their source, yet how they still made a film with a recognizable Coen stamp. No Country is unmistakably a Coen movie, from the basic framework of McCarthy’s noir plot, to the strong regional characters, to the dialogue; it’s at home in the Coen canon, yet they seem to have changed very little. Much of the dialogue was delivered intact and even the structure of the narrative survived the translation. Somehow it’s McCarthyesque and Coenesque all at the same time.

By necessity, the Coens did a lot of trimming and condensing, but they did a remarkable job of squeezing in the important details. So often, films feel like they’re missing something as they rush from one plot point to the next with little time for richness of detail. The Coen version of No Country wallows in its West Texas milieu, taking its time looking at the scenery, but somehow manages to thrum along like a narrative freight train.

Tommy Lee Jones as Sheriff Ed Tom Bell

Though it’s similar to its source, No Country isn’t a scene for scene, beat for beat recreation like a Harry Potter movie. One key difference is that of focus. The novel belongs to Sheriff Bell. Each chapter begins with Bell’s narration, which dovetails and counterpoints the action of the main story. Though the film opens with Bell speaking, much of what he says in the book is condensed and it turns up in other forms. Also, Bell has an entire backstory in the book that doesn’t make it into the film. The result is a movie that is more simplified thematically, but one that gives more of the characters an opportunity to shine.

There is one other curious change that happens quickly, but adds a whole new element to the film that wasn’t in the book. It goes a long way to changing the tenor of the story. This is a massive spoiler so if you haven’t seen the movie, well first of all shame on you for missing out on the best movie of last year, but also you shouldn’t be reading this paragraph. The scene in question is near the end when Chigurh confronts Carla Jean and gives her the opportunity to save her own life with a coin flip. In the book, she chooses heads, the coin comes up tails and Chigurh kills her. It’s a sad, but inevitable ending. In the movie however, Carla Jean resists, saying basically her life means more than just flip of a coin and she won’t let Chigurh reduce her to that.

CHIGURH: This is the best I can do. Call it.
CARLA JEAN: I knowed you was crazy when I saw you sitting there. I knowed exactly what was in store for me.
CHIGURH: Call it.
CARLA JEAN: No. I ain’t gonna call it.
CHIGURH: Call it.
CARLA JEAN: The coin don’t have no say. It’s just you.
CHIGURH: Well, I got here the same way the coin did.

Kelly Macdonald as Carla Jean

The end result is no less inevitable, but Carla Jean’s brief defiance is everything. She represents the clearest assertion of humanity in the whole film and ought to come as a slap in the face to those who insist the Coens are cold filmmakers who despise their characters.

On paper it’s a pretty subtle difference, but so clearly intentional and important. In the book, she capitulates, but in the film she resists and it’s a beautiful yet sad moment. Though she still dies, Carla Jean maintains her humanity – something Chigurh most certainly does not have.

I’m reminded of the scene in Miller’s Crossing where Tom is sent out to kill Bernie and Bernie begs for his life saying he doesn’t want to die like some kind of animal. Tom relents – he believes a man deserves better. Like Carla Jean he later pays bitterly for his sentimentality, but he maintains his dignity at all times.

In the end, though No Country is bleak, the movie version has a slightly warmer center and a bit of resonance the novel does not have thanks to some of the subtle changes the Coens made with their brilliant screenplay. Regardless of the hell the Coens seem to enjoy putting their characters through, the characters are ultimately allowed their basic humanity. It’s all we enter the world with and if we’re lucky, it’s what we take with us when we leave. As retold by Joel and Ethan Coen, No Country for Old Men is an acknowledgement of that.

When Evan asked me to write a piece on spirituality in the films of Joel and Ethan Coen, I said “Huh? What spirituality?” Because as big a fan as I am, the last thing I think of when I think of the Coens is spirituality. But as I began to think about it, some spiritual chinks in the brothers’ cynical armor, and thought why not? I can do that . . .

The first thing one has to understand about the Coens is that they are consistently post-modern in outlook. Their films are steeped in irony and ambiguity, and they’ve never met an authority figure they like—all avatars of the post-modern zeitgeist. Modernity — loosely associated with the Enlightenment and the Industrial Age — was all about a constant progress, a constant advancement in knowledge and understanding and, thus, human wellbeing. Postmodern theorists say that all that has ended; perhaps more accurately, people no longer believe it is true. The notion of continuing progress, of things continually getting better, has become obsolete. In a post-modern world-view, change is constant, but it’s a zero-sum game: there is no direction to it, for good or bad, it is random.

Ed Crane the barber.

This is very clearly seen in the Coen oeuvre, where nothing really changes or, if it does, it’s the result of random chance . . . in The Man Who Wasn’t There, their film noir mash-up, the hero’s search for advancement and “getting ahead” are nullified, leaving the hero no better off—and in this case, much worse—than he was before. Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thorton) attempts to get ahead through a blackmail scheme that gets out of control. But although he tries to take the rap for his nominally-femme-fatale wife (Frances McDormand), she is not his undoing; it is blind fate that gets him – he’s not executed for the murder he does, but for the murder his victim does.

Interestingly, throughout it all, Crane is unmoved, unchanged by his experience. Even though he is going to die, he has not “grown” an inch. His character arc is more like a character loop, where many things happen, but he ends up basically the same. As the priest and warden come to get him for the chair, he muses in voice over about his fate: “[They] also asked about remorse . . . yeah I guess I’m sorry about the pain I caused her,” talking about his wife, “but I don’t regret anything, not a thing . . . I used to, I used to regret being a barber.” He’s on his way to the chair, but hey! At least he’s not a barber.

Gaear Grimsrud, watching soap operas...evily.

The message of the creation story in Genesis —the first one, anyway—is that God creates order out of chaos. For Israelite subsistence farmers, in the seemingly random, marginal Palestinian climate, this was of paramount importance. If you could count on conditions being predictable, you could do much better for yourself and your family. Order, in other words, was vital. In the Coen filmography, that is no longer assured, no longer to be counted upon. And nowhere is that seen more clearly than in two films that are in many respects alike . . . in Fargo, Chief of Police Marge Gunderson (Frances McDormand), representative of order and control and authority, is challenged by a completely amoral force represented by the killer (Peter Stormare). Grimsrud is implacable, cold, and without affect . . . an impersonal force that opposes the ordered life of the little town of Brainerd. Grimsrud represents chaos—he’s unpredictable, a random act, you can’t control him.

Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, weary and worn down.

In No Country for Old Men, the theme is more explicit . . . here again, order and control are embodied by a law officer, this time Sheriff Ed Tom Bell (Tommy Lee Jones). Bell is an avatar of the old days, the old ways. In the film’s prologue, he muses on the difference between being a lawman “back then” and now: “Some of the old-time sheriffs never even wore a gun. A lot of folks find that hard to believe.” In the old days, the force of the office of Sheriff itself was enough to carry the day, but no longer. The counterpart to Grimsrud in No Country is of course Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem), who is even more emotionless, even less human. He embodies the new, the amoral, the orderless which Bell laments.

The amorality that Grimsrud and Chigurh represent is unfathomable to those with conventional morals; although there may be an internal compass governing their actions, it is known only to them, and available only in hints and flashes to the outside world. The Coens understand this well—witness the coin-tossing of Chigurh, the rules which only he can understand. To the conventionally-moral, their actions seem random, but they flicker with an internal logic.

Marge Gunderson:

In the end, in Fargo, order is restored and chaos is banished, for the moment, at least: Marge rides in her squad car with Grimsrud in the back, Jerry Lundegaard (William H. Macy) is captured ignominiously in his underwear, and the last we see of Marge and her husband is in bed, watching television, in an embarrassingly normal scene.

In No Country, it’s not so simple . . . after killing off Carla Jean (Kelly Macdonald) Chigurh disappears into a calm, structured Texas neighborhood. That he does so in broad daylight is telling: he is no longer a creature of darkness, but of the light. He is no longer the exception, but the rule. But though he disappears, it’s not before he is touched by fate himself . . . a car runs a light and broadsides him, completely at random, and his “rules” are compromised by the chaos he himself represents.

Anton Chigurh, force of nature.

Although Chigurh gets away, the last words belong to Bell, that symbol of law and order, of the fight against the primordial chaos that threatens to envelop us all. He sits in his bright kitchen window and recounts a dream to his wife. Two trees are in the background, one dead, the other alive but twisted. And even though he’s done, even though the forces of chaos have won, he still hopes, if only at night, when things are quiet and dark. In the dream, his father rides on before him, carrying the light, carrying the hope in a horn. “And I knew he was going on ahead,” Bell says, “and he was fixin’ to make a fire somewhere out there in all that dark and all that cold, and I knew that whenever I got there, he’d be there.” The past carries the hope of the future into the darkness, the hope of a return to some kind of order and moral rightness, but Chigurh disappeared in broad daylight, poisoning the order of that Texas neighborhood, and Bell’s dream falls short of the mark as well. Before he can catch up with his father, before he can get to the light, it all ends. “And then,” he says, “I woke up.”

The other day, I talked to an older pastor who was enraged by this film, and especially its conclusion. It wasn’t the lack of a conventional happy ending, where the good guys win and ride off into the sunset—he’s too much of a realist for that. What he objected to, whether he fully understood or not, was the negation of his conventional view of the divine, which is very deeply ingrained into believers of a certain generation. They are profoundly invested in the view of an orderly, moral universe, created by a God who protects us from the forces of chaos. In Joel and Ethan Coen’s universe, that just isn’t the case.

“Fargo’s naht even in Minnesoda, ya know!”

So has begun many a contentious conversation with Minnesotans about the Oscar-winning film from native sons Joel and Ethan Coen. A word of advice: if you’re visiting, don’t bring it up. Ironically, we obsessively claim the brothers as our own, while at the same time distance ourselves as much as possible from their most famous portrayal of us. Over the course of their filmmaking careers, the relationship between the brothers and their home state has indeed been a delicate one.

Born and raised in the Minneapolis suburb of St. Louis Park by their professorial parents (dad at the University of Minnesota, mom at St. Cloud State University), the Coens were already making films on a Super 8 camera before they reached adolescence. The boys grew up at an interesting time in Minnesota, and not just the 1950’s were smack dab in the middle of the Baby Boom. The state was notoriously anti-Semitic during and after World War II, and it would be hard for me to believe such sentiment was totally absent from their childhood, even in their (still) predominantly Jewish neighborhood. Bob Dylan was probably crossing paths with their father as he wandered the U of M campus in Dinkytown. Prince was picking up a guitar for the first time across town. Heck, Al Franken practically grew up with the Coens in St. Louis Park. Like their soon-to-be-famous contemporaries (and me, decades later…), Joel and Ethan headed elsewhere after high school, broadening their horizons at NYU (Ethan), Princeton (Joel), and Bard College at Simon’s Rock (both). It was clear they would not be back to Minnesota anytime soon, and by 1984 they had their first film (Blood Simple) and their first addition to the Coen family (Joel’s marriage to the actress Frances McDormand). We wouldn’t see them again until, of course, Fargo in 1996.

You need to know that Minnesota, like many of the tragically named “flyover states,” is a place that swells with pride. For the rural population in the state, moving to “the cities” (Minneapolis and St. Paul) is akin to disowning your family, your roots. To a lesser but still noticeable extent, this thinking also translates to those who move out of the state altogether. Who did the Coens think they were, leaving and never coming back? They’re too good for Minnesota? They’re better than us? Perhaps you can see why Fargo, with its exaggerated accents and pathetically provincial characters, wasn’t selling out theaters around here. On the contrary, many Minnesotans (perhaps already hurt by the Coens departure) were infuriated with the film. The initial reaction was so dramatic, in fact, that the Minneapolis Star Tribune warned filmgoers that “many Minnesotans may be offended by parts of Fargo.”

Oscars and accolades for Fargo.

The Coens, for their part, were puzzled by the reaction in their home state. Said Joel Coen after its release, “We were born and grew up in Minnesota, which is one of the reasons why we were interested in the story…We feel very much sort of a part of it, having some from that culture. That’s another thing that sort of surprises us about the attitude of the outsider condescending to the yokels from Minnesota.” Nevertheless, one quote I found from a Fergus Falls resident summed up the general sentiment at the time: “I left that movie feeling violated and lied about. The Coens should be ashamed.” It didn’t help the situation when the film would go on to win two Academy Awards and be named as the one of the 100 greatest films of all time by the American Film Institute. Then, ten years after its release, the Library of Congress added Fargo to its prestigious National Film Registry, ensuring that this source of embarrassment for Minnesotans would be “preserved for future generations.”

“I think Minnesotans will eventually come to like Fargo,” said prescient Minneapolis storyteller Kevin Kling upon the film’s release in 1996. Indeed, as the film rose to become an American classic, the local hostility towards it faded. By the time the Coens were back on the national stage in 2007 for their next American classic, No Country for Old Men, half of Minnesota practically claimed familial relations with the brothers (Mine? One of my best friends auditioned for the role of Scotty Lundegaard in Fargo). This tendency to unabashedly jump at the chance for national attention seems to happen a lot here, but not without notice. “I guess I would say it’s fun, but it always strikes me as the sort of thing that a place that wants to be someplace else does, not a place that’s secure in itself,” said media analyst David Brauer in an MPR interview about Minnesota’s obsession last year with the Coens (and also with Diablo Cody of Juno fame). True to form, the City of Brainerd, MN, has been using Fargo as an appeal to tourists for years. Turns out the fine citizens here don’t really care if people think they’re attention-starved, they just care if people think they talk funny.

While it seems too easy to relate the Coen brothers exclusively to Fargo when talking about their link to Minnesota, none of their other films (full disclosure: I haven’t seen all 12 of them) so prominently feature the state and culture that influenced them, and none of their other films left such an impression here. And although it may still be considered their career-defining work, Fargo was not an anomaly or change of pace for the Coens, but an emblematic example of their unique style. But what sets them apart from other filmmakers? Or rather, what is uniquely “Minnesotan” about their films?

In order to bolster both my knowledge of film and my credibility in writing this, I spoke with Minneapolis Star Tribune film critic Colin Covert about Joel and Ethan’s relationship to their home state. He identified two aspects of their films that could be considered “Minnesotan”, and I agree with both. “I think they have a very down-to-earth, Midwestern and specifically Minnesotan quality to their films,” notes Covert. “They’re very observant of the details of everyday life,” he added, citing Raising Arizona as an example. To be sure, this is an understatement. The brothers are well-known for their meticulous attention to the regional characteristics of their story settings, including accents, landscapes, music, religion, and cultural traditions. The Los Angeles of The Big Lebowski; the Deep South of O Brother, Where Art Thou?; the West Texas of No Country for Old Men. Minnesota, with its deep commitment to preserving Scandinavian traditions, served as a perfect model for the young Coens. Growing up Jewish, the Coens must have looked on with curiosity at the Lutherans around them eating lutefisk and telling Sven and Ole jokes with funny accents (those of you outside of Minnesota don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?) – exactly the kind of specific cultural details present in so many of their films. Had the Coens grown up in a more culturally diverse place, they may not have had the same fixation on the regional characteristics that helped define their distinct style.

Secondly, Covert pointed out the “dry, dark, pessimistic humor that runs through their films.” Those of you familiar with “Minnesota nice” might find this surprising, but Minnesotans can actually be a pretty perverse bunch of Scandinavians. I don’t know how many times I’ve looked around half-shocked and half-disturbed by the hoots and guffaws around me in the theater during an unsettling or bloody scene, especially at the Uptown Theater in Minneapolis. Covert nailed it on the head with his description, and while it might not be a style exclusive to the Coens, neither is crass humor exclusive to witty New Yorkers or above-it-all Los Angelenos. While others were laughing at the funny accents in Fargo, Minnesotans (those who went) were cackling during the wood chipper scene. This subtle humor is palpable in many of the Coens’ films, from the silly (The Hudsucker Proxy, Raising Arizona) to the suspenseful (the gas station scene in No Country for Old Men). There’s one other observation that I have to make here, and that is the fact that many of the characters in their films just seem like typical Minnesotans. John Goodman (originally from Missouri), for example, could easily pass for a local in the Twin Cities.

And what about Fargo’s eventual celebration here in Minnesota? “At first I thought it was extremely condescending,” said Covert. “Minnesotans don’t talk like that,” he continued, referring to Frances McDormand’s turn as Marge Gunderson (which incidentally earned her the Academy Award for Best Actress). So how did we come full circle? Laughing, Covert admitted that in the years following Fargo’s success, he realized, “Minnesotans really do talk like that. On the first viewing you’re terrified of the condescension, and that blinded us to the more affectionate aspects of it.” But after multiple viewings, Covert observed (and I agree) that while the satire cannot be ignored, the Coens balance it out with subtle tributes to the special culture and character in which so many Minnesotans take pride.

When it rains, it pours for No Country.

So twelve feature films into their career, where are we in the ever-interesting relationship between the Coen brothers and Minnesota? Soon after No Country for Old Men began its road to glory last year, the pair announced that their upcoming film, A Serious Man, would start filming in Minnesota in 2008. The story ( a “dark comedy”) focuses on the life of a Jewish professor in the late 60’s, and it will mark the first time they’ve filmed locally since Fargo. Because of its non-contemporary story and non-traditional main character, I personally don’t expect A Serious Man will make as much of a splash here as Fargo, but the fact that the brothers wrote the screenplay (instead of adapting it, like No Country) increases the likelihood that an “authentic” Minnesota will be a prominent presence on the screen. Perhaps the moviegoing American public will see a new side of the state, if they see the state at all. I wondered about this aloud, and Covert agreed that the rest of the country “doesn’t know Minnesota from Nebraska.”

Well, we can’t fault the Coen brothers for trying, even if Fargo wasn’t the side we wanted to show. All we can do is hope that one day, the “Land of 10,000 Lakes” will receive its due credit for shaping the careers of two legendary American filmmakers.

PART II: From A Movie Mix-tape Made By The Dude To A Muted De-Countrified Terrain With Some Soggy Mountain Boys Songs On The Side (1998-2007)

In late 1997, not long it felt after the buzz of the awards and accolades for Fargo died down, a trailer appeared that announced the Coen brother’s next film was going to be a loud colorful comedy about an aging hippie bowler caught in, yep, another kidnapping caper! I know I was not alone when watching the preview in thinking “bring it on!”

The Big Lebowski blew me away when I first saw it on the big screen with the music being no small part of the experience. Especially since the movie is wall to wall music – from the first frame to the end credits over 30 songs are heard in either fragments or filling entire scenes. The issued soundtrack is the first Coens’ recording to consist of songs – not composed tracks – with only one Carter Burwell original – “Technopop (Wie Glauben)”. That’s because there is almost no Burwell in the film – a bit of suspenseful strains to heighten the tension in the ransom drop-off sequence is the only bit I can find. With A-list producer T. Bone Burnett brought in as “musical archivist” it’s apparent that the songs are where it’s at in the world of The Dude. In an interview in Entertainment Weekly at the time of the film’s release Ethan Coen said: “We were trying to find signature songs for each of the characters so the only thing [the songs] share is that nothing is particularly contemporary sounding. They’re all from previous eras, consistent with the characters, who had attitudes shaped by the ’60s, ’70s, or earlier.”

Lebowskifest - proving fanboys can always take it to the next level

The movie begins with Bob Nolan’s immortal “Tumbling Tumbleweeds” underneath the rambling narration of Sam Elliot as The Stranger – simple enough, huh? The soft scratchy strings of “Tumbleweeds” accompany The Stranger nearly every time he appears and they lure us into the tall tale introducing us to The Dude (Jeff Bridges). After a classic cold opening involving the Dude’s rug getting defiled, Bob Dylan’s uncharacteristically catchy “The Man In Me” hits the screen set to a bowling montage credits sequence. “Oh, what a wonderful feeling” Dylan sings as we see bowling shoes getting sprayed, pins getting knocked down, and bowlers in a choreographed line hitting their marks in sweet succession. This obscure 1970 song from Dylan’s New Morning LP defines The Dude in all his off the cuff ramshackle charm – maybe the only Dylan song ever to have repeated “la la la la la la” lines. We hear the song again later in the film as it’s on a tape in The Dude’s Walkman labeled: “A: Venice Beach League Playoffs 1987 B: BOB”. If you have the itch to actually hear the Dude sing “The Man In Me” – there are various clips on YouTube of Jeff Bridges covering the song at a few Lebowski Fests funnily enough.

The Dude also listens to CCR, usually when driving with bits of “Run Through The Jungle” and “Lookin’ Out My Back Door” rearing their swamp rock heads. He has the lone new song on the soundtrack by Elvis Costello (“My Mind Swings”) blaring in his headphones when he goes to the doctor – one of the odd musical pieces that doesn’t quite fit. He worked as a roadie for Metallica (“bunch of assholes”) and hates the Eagles who he can’t abide playing on a cab stereo (“Peaceful Easy Feeling”). The Eagles are also interpreted by the Gypsy Kings in a standout scene that has a Spanish version of “Hotel California” assimilating itself as the theme song of minor character but pivotal rival bowler Jesus Quintella (John Turturro). Musical motifs continue throughout – the millionaire Jeff Lebowski (David Huddleson) has Mozart’s “Requiem” on his hi-fi in an intense dark chamber scene. Daughter Maude Lebowski (Julianne Moore) has an eclectic collection of vinyl including the fictional Autobahn (which features Red Hot Chili Peppers’ basist Flea) – “their music is a sort of–ugh–techno-pop” she says. Another tuneful thematic treatment: pornographer Jackie Treehorn (Ben Gazzara) has Henry Mancini’s “Lucon” to suavely set his tone. Like a tuneful tumbleweed itself, Townes Van Zandt’s cover of the Rolling Stones’ “Dead Flowers” speaks volumes of all these folk as the film wraps up.

In their use of the many songs in The Big Lebowski the Coens were coming too close to making a full throttle musical. Especially when you consider the central sequence, another dream-scene in which The Dude imagines a huge Bubsy Berkely-type musical number. Kenny Rogers and The First Edition’s “Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)” serenades the Dude joining dancing girls in Roman garb with Maude Lebowski as their leader and a Saddam Hussein look-a-like. This rousing set piece incorporated from another era forecasted the Brother’s next phase. On the horizon approaching fast was coming a plucky period piece in which the music mightily overshadowed the movie.

The soundtrack for O Brother, Where Art Thou? is the most successful soundtrack of all of their films – a #1 hit (certified 8 times platinum) on the Country and Soundtrack charts that inspired a concert tour (documented in Down From The Mountain) and earned a Grammy for Album of the Year (2000). This time T. Bone Burnett was “Music Producer” with Burwell credited with “additional music” so again the songs take the center stage. Over 50 performers are listed as personnel on the soundtrack including Alison Kraus, The Stanley Brothers, Emmylou Harris, Tim O’Brien, Gillian Welch, the Fairfield Four, the Cox Family, and everybody else in the Americana roots genre available it looks like. The film is a great screwball romp about escaped convicts (George Clooney, Tim Blake Nelson, John Turturro) making their way across Depression-period Mississippi. They befriend blues guitarist Tommy Johnson (Chris Thomas King) who claims to have sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads. Many folks have thought that this was based on Robert Johnson but there was a real Tommy Johnson who made the same claim. His tunage, though, is supplied by Delta blues legend Skip James – King performs James’ “Hard Time Killing Floor Blues” in one scene. Johnson lends a hand when the wanted men form a makeshift band – The Soggy Bottom Boys. With Clooney lip-syching to Dan Tyminski’s vocal, they record a invigorated version of the standard “Man Of Constant Sorrow” that becomes a regional hit proving that life does a pretty fair impression of art every once in a while.

In a 2000 interview, when asked if he was a fan of country music by the British magazine Uncut, the normally elusive and ironic Joel Coen said he was but that “[the soundtrack is] not exactly country music. It’s American roots music – folk music, in a way – and there’s lots of different strands. In the movie there’s Delta blues, early mountain music, and gospel music. They’re all different but they all come from that time and that general area.” The gospel must be stressed as much of the music in O Brother is spiritual. Prominent are such songs such as “Oh Death”, “Angel Band “, “Lonesome Valley”, and the beautiful rendition of the traditional “Down to the River to Pray” by Allison Kraus, who appears in the film. While Clooney has help from overdubs, Tim Blake Nelson takes lead vocal on “In The Jailhouse Now” – a reprieve from the heavy hymns dominating the proceedings.

Now that the Coens had taken on the stylings of an old school era and with the help of T. Bone Burnett put their stamp on an entire musical genre in the process it again looked like the right time to scale back. Minimalism, both movie and music-wise, was the order of the day on their next project.

Joel Coen told a reporter that the The Man Who Wasn’t There was “about a barber who doesn’t want to be a barber”. Shown in luxurious black and white (there are color versions of the film available in Europe and Japan), the film is another period piece taking place in 1949 Southern California. With Billy Bob Thornton as the barber we’re back to Burwell basics with no T. Bone track-picking involvement – which means spooky repeated piano figures and swelling string sections punctuating key plot points. Mind you these points are few – most of the movie plays with no music and often when music does appear, it lurks beneath the surface, a separate non-intertwining track. Apart from his tasteful cues Burwell conducts his muted orchestra through a few truncated Beethoven numbers – “Pathétique,” “Piano Sonata No. 25” and “Appassionata” respectively. Among Thornton’s hardships in this eccentric existential exercise is his longing to help Scarlett Johansen as a piano prodigy get recognized for her talent. When told by a pretentious teacher (Adam Alexi-Malle) that she would make a good typist – “tap tap tap” – one can see Thornton’s tortured long face get longer and sense his heart sinking. The aforementioned classical pieces with smatterings of opera and big band bits are just blips on the radar of this soundtrack. Fittingly, The Man Who Wasn’t There has a score that is barely there itself.

For the most conventional comedy they’ve made to date, Intolerable Cruelty has a soundtrack that, despite Burwell’s inspired contributions, is pretty indistinguishable from most rom-com platters. Tom Jones, Chuck Mangione, Edith Piaf, Simon & Garfunkel, (even a Melissa Manchester track!) – this could be a bland background mix for a cozy cocktail party. Actually I’m sure that’s pretty much what they intended. While I think the movie is better than its critical and commercial reception implies, I think the only really truly notable musical element is the credits sequence use of Elvis Presley’s “Suspicious Minds”. Summing up the theme of the entire escapade and providing the tone with some much needed punch – especially after the less than classic cold opening (maybe the worse first scene in the Coens’ canon), the King’s mature yet winking vocal on top of crudely animated cupid imagery works wonders for a few minutes at least. Intolerable Cruelty has few fans but I’ll go on record to say it’s not without its musical merits.

Back with T. Bone Burnett, The Ladykillers’ soundtrack was a failed attempt to catch the O Brother lightning in a bottle a second time. Nevermind that the film is unneccessary on many fronts – as a remake, as a farcical retread, as an ensemble piece – it also just goes through the motions and never quite hits any stride. The spiritual old timey leanings here just call attention to the ground already trodden. The soundtrack alone though is a nice listen, split between “Trouble” songs (“Trouble of this World”, “Trouble In, Trouble Out”, and “Troubled, Lord I’m Troubled” by the Nappy Roots and Bill Landford respectively) and the “Let Your Light Shine On Me” songs, there is an infectious unity, but these flourishes come off cynical and smarmy in the context of the flimsy on-screen shenanigans. Still, the Coens’ brand of cinematic silliness does redeem itself in some surprisingly sincere segments in The Ladykillers, as few and far between as they are.

There are only 16 minutes of music in the Coen brothers Oscar winning Cormac McCarthy adaptation of No Country For Old Men. Burwell sans piano uses singing bowls and Buddhist metal bells to make his most minimalist score ever. The result is the first Coen movie to have no issued soundtrack. There are 2 Hispanic songs heard in the movie – “Puño de Tierra” and “Las Mañanitas” – but like the almost non-existent backing in The Man Who Wasn’t There, movie-goers should be instantly forgiven for not remembering them.

In methods mostly circular – like the old timer said in Raising Arizona – the Coens and collaborator Carter Burwell have tracked and back-tracked over styles and genres, fearlessly leaving marks on the movie and musical map for pop culture appraisers and explorers to chart for ages to come. They again will have the chance to hit the mark coming this fall with their next film, Burn After Reading. ‘Til then we’ll have their scenes and songs to soothe our cinematic souls. Any one of the tracks I talked about may be the “Same Old Song” like the Four Tops sang in Blood Simple, but they sure have a different meaning since the Coen brothers came along.

Ethan and Joel Coen

• “If me and my brother had to work together it wouldn’t be happy days. They’ve got an amazing amount of respect for each other and they’re both making the same film. There were never any decisions that had to be made one way or another. It was just easy. Before you actually start a film that’s going to be directed by two people you think, “well that’s going to be weird…” But after about five minutes you forget and you don’t even notice.”
  - Kelly McDonald on her experience working with the Coen brothers.

Much is made of the fact that Joel and Ethan Coen are brothers. It’s understandable – people are curious how any two people, much less siblings, can work as equals on a film, when doing so could easily become a nightmare. The slightest decision that one filmmaker must make now becomes a collaborative process. Does this make it easier to create a film or harder? Is hair pulled out? Who “owns” the ideas, and is the dynamic changed when one does?

Though the Coens aren’t the first directing team to win the Best Director prize at the Academy Awards (that would be Jerome Robbins and Robert Wise for West Side Story), they are the first pair of siblings to do so. However, they’re hardly the first pair of successful directing brothers, nor the last (I can find no record of any “known” sisters team). I wondered: how do all these pairs get along? What trends are there, if any? Here are my findings:

Peter and Bobby Farrelly

If you didn’t know better, you might think that Peter and Bobby Farrelly (There’s Something About Mary, Kingpin) were twins. In an interview with Random House, Peter stated “It’s half as difficult. Everything’s a lot easier when you work with someone you know just about as well as you know yourself. We take a lot of the load from each other. When in doubt, we can just look at each other and the other guy either has a quizzical look like ‘I’m wondering about this too,’ in which case we have to look further, or he just kind of gives a nod like ‘It’s okay.’”

Mark & Michael Polish

Relative newcomers to the scene, Mark and Michael Polish broke out with their film Twin Falls, Idaho and followed it up with the Billy Bob Thornton-starring The Astronaut Farmer. They are in fact twins, and identical ones at that, though they don’t seem to be quite as in tune as you might expect from a couple guys that were born at the same time. Says Mark, “I mean, it’s give and take. We’re not really competitive where we’re saying like that’s mine or that’s yours. It’s always for the better of the movie, or the truth of the movie. If he has an idea I think is good or just an idea that he’ll throw out sometimes I won’t go with it.”

Larry and Andy Wachowski

The notoriously shy Wachowski brothers have been making films together since 1996’s Bound, and have been pretty much out of the public eye ever since. However, Movie Poop Shoot managed to get them to open up a bit at the time Bound was released, as Larry had this to say about working with his brother: “Well, we’re both very very lazy and having someone else do half the work is very convenient.”

Paul and Chris Weitz

Chris and Paul Weitz of American Pie fame started out as a directing team, and though they seem to help each other out on their own recent films, they haven’t directed together since 2001’s About a Boy. Says Paul about working together again, ” I’d love to but it basically would require us to be equally excited about a project and, and that doesn’t seem to happen all that often. I mean basically the reason I did In Good Company was that Chris didn’t particularly want to do it. We don’t have any kind of rules about what we will or won’t do together or not, and I really hope that we will. But to do that it would kind of have to be something that, that he really wanted to do.”

Ridley and Tony Scott

The anomaly in all this has to be the Scotts. Ridley and younger brother Tony have each been making movies for decades, but the two have not directed a feature together (not counting childhood work). However, in 1995, they did form a production company together (Scott Free Productions), and both have produced their subsequent films under that banner. Also, they both produce the CBS drama Num3ers. I can only imagine that their age difference (Ridley is seven years Tony’s senior) is the leading factor for their lack of collaboration, as Ridley was already established by the time Tony’s first feature was released in 1983 (though he had made a pair of shorts earlier).

If anything is to be gleaned from all this, it might be that nothing is to be gleaned. No pair seems to be alike in terms of their work process, yet they are all alike in the mutual respect each gives the other. Joel and Ethan for their part, have this to add: “It’s loose and informal. We don’t split things up, like one person does a scene and the other reworks it. We sit in a room together and talk each scene through, and we work without an outline; we just start from the beginning.”

Finally, my favorite quote, from a Hollywood.com interview with the Coens:

• HW: Did you always dream you would end up working together like this? Are there added benefits to working with a brother?
  JC: I haven’t detected any benefits yet. [Laughs] I don’t think it was an intentional…
  EC: We didn’t do it on purpose.
  JC: We didn’t really. Sh*t happens, you know? And then you look back and go “Oh, that’s how it worked out.”

As the Chemical Brothers might say, Brothers Gonna Work It Out.

PART I: From the Dark Debut To The Snowblind Breakthrough (1984-1996)

Even the most casual Coen brothers fan has to know how pivotal and perversely precise their soundtracks have to be to match their meticulously crafted movies. To this credit – Carter Burwell, composer on all of their films, has consistently provided scores that are purposely powerful or seethingly subtle (or both) in the fashion of the old time masters like Bernard Herrmann (the Mercury Theater radio shows, Citizen Kane, all of Hitchcock’s films, etc.) yet with his own unique and knowingly contemporary edge. Scores aside, the Coens have utilized many famous and obscure songs from all genres in a Scorsesean manor – jukebox or sing-along tunes with familiar voices and beats that set tones, imply back-stories, and get us toe-tappingly into their tall tales. So let’s look back and listen up to the music in the entire Coen’s canon starting with their cheap but brilliant 1984 debut.

The beginning of the Coen Brothers’ filmography is also the beginning of Carter Burwell’s filmography. A New York born Harvard graduate, Burwell brought his classical piano expertise into the tension building circular spine-tingling key cues in Blood Simple. Discovered in a club playing in a band he joined in college by the Coens’ sound mixer Lee Orloff, Burwell’s sensibilities fit into the brother’s world right off the bat. Echoing many of their actors and collaborators, Burwell commented: “They let me do what I wanted to do. I didn’t get a lot of specific instructions from them.” His piano and ambient synthesizer sounds haunt every dark corner of Blood Simple. Meanwhile the central barroom location has the sound system blaring such standards as the Four Tops “It’s The Same Old Song” (which also plays over the end credits), “Louie Louie” performed by Toots and the Mayals, and Patsy Cline’s “Sweet Dreams” which lighten up the proceedings a bit. The mixture of sinister keyboard stylings with hand-plucked seemingly ironically placed songs had Burwell and the brothers off and running…but in a different direction than anybody could’ve ever predicted.

The Country-fried whistling and yodeling backing the opening sequence of Raising Arizona declare immediately that we are in different territory – a fast paced screwball comedy terrain, that is, populated by mostly outlaw oddballs who all speak in an eccentric elevated manner of elocution. So to speak, it only seems natural that these folks caught up in a kooky kidnapping caper would be musically accompanied by wizened back porch banjo with said whistlers and wailers. There are also scene washing organ strains and a prominently featured Pete Seeger sample (he’s the yodeler) from “Goofing Off Suite”, originally recorded in 1955. With nothing on the soundtrack even remotely resembling “incidental,” Burwell again proved he was on the same twisted plain as his bosses, but next time out they were going to up the ante.

For the Coens’ third film Miller’s Crossing the brothers and Burwell decided that it had to have an orchestral score. There was just one problem – Burwell knew nothing about orchestral music. He said to an interviewer at the time that this didn’t faze them and that “I would learn orchestral film music and do it.” By doing so Burwell incorporated the Irish 16th century “Limerick’s Lamentation” into the main theme and the result is stultifying. Jazzy big-band numbers of the 1920’s era like Jelly Roll Morton’s “King Porter Stomp” help illuminate the illusion of the Daschel Hammet derived ambiance. None of these flourishes though quite beat the incredible scene in which mob boss Leo (Albert Finney) annihilates approaching assassins with a Tommy gun (a Thompson submachine gun) to Frank Patterson’s “Danny Boy”- one of the best and most affecting uses of a pre-existing track in the entire Coens’ canon. Burwell’s focused grasp of orchestral music foreshadows the sweeping build-ups that he would spectacularly develop down one such icy Mid-Western road years later, but I won’t get ahead of myself. The side paths down a wretched writer’s block and the jump over the Hudsucker hurl also predict even later minimalist uses of music.

By Barton Fink’s opening credit shot Burwell has got the orchestral deal down without compromising the spare spooky piano tinkling one bit. As another of the Coens’ misunderstood output this involves a neurotic pretentious playwright (John Turturro) on the brink of either a literary masterpiece or a literal breakdown. Barton Fink has at first what appears to be a by-the-book score full of appropriate bombast alternating with below the surface tones and measures fitting to each character and plot manipulation. A closer listen reveals a sound effect-ridden backing track with typewriter noises intertwined with odd piano tunings and everything including the kitchen sink cacophony. The title character is hopelessly attuned to every little distraction so the score and soundtrack is right there with him. On the song front “Old Black Joe” is drunkenly sung by John Mahoney and Barton dances his ass off after finishing his script, celebrating at a U.S.O. big band dance deal. Otherwise the overlaying doom is pretty obvious in every measure of Burwell’s symphonic sympathy.

Unfairly dissed at the time of its release (1994), The Hudsucker Proxy has gained many supporters over the years but still, in my opinion, has much re-appraising to go through. One aspect of the Coens’ return to screwball comedy that barely anybody mentions is its score. That’s a shame because it is grand and majestic with a compelling compassion for the characters even at their most pathetic. Reportedly loosely based on the “Adagio” and “Phrygia” movements of the ballet Spartacus by Aram Khachaturian, the music swells with proper punctuation throughout Tim Robbins’ crazy climb up the corporate ladder. A few perfect-for-period Duke Ellington numbers make the cut too but the icing on the Coens’ cake musically is the cameo by Peter Gallagher as fictitious crooner Vic Tenneta who briefly steals one nightclub scene with his rendition of “Memories Are Made Of This”.

Don’t call it a comeback but Fargo undoubtedly not only reclaimed their acclaim, lifting the Coen Brothers from cult-only status, but also made them a household name. Burwell’s glorious moving fanfare was no small part of the film’s success. In a review of the soundtrack, Jonathan Broxton of Movie Music U.K. wrote “Cleverly, the main theme is based in part on an old Norwegian folk tune (many of Minnesota and Dakota’s inhabitants are of Scandinavian descent, hence the unusual surnames in the film).” As the film begins, a plaintive mandolin makes out the movement’s melody over the bogus disclaimer “THIS IS A TRUE STORY…”. As the screen dissolves into a completely blank white shot of a snow covered landscape the tempo rises with a violin floating the main theme over the black credits (and a lone bird in the distance flying through the flurry) aided by what sounds like a xylophone. As a vehicle emerges over a hill in the center of the frame, defining the horizon, the percussion pounds in and the entire orchestra comes alive. A stark but stirring and excellent beginning in a career filled with excellent beginnings. As the vehicle’s owner Jerry Lundegard (William H. Macy) walks into a dive bar, Merle Haggard’s “Big City” is playing on a jukebox. It fades as he meets with shady types played by Steve Buscemi and Peter Stormare to plan yet another Coen Bros. Kidnapping caper.

Except for some automobile dealership muzak, thrash metal on Buscemi and Stormare’s car radio, and the theme from “The Tonight Show” blaring from a hotel room TV, there are long stretches with no music at all, so when Burwell’s crew comes in they really sting. Stinging as in fierce piercings of strings in the scene in which the kidnappers break into the Lundegard’s house and abduct Jean (Kristin Rudrüd). The main theme, used sparingly, haunts the bleak moments of the protagonists as time and tension collide. Fittingly enough, the music mostly leaves Frances McDormand’s Oscar-winning Marge Gunderson character alone almost as if it is out of respect. Standing apart from the score and other background sounds is the odd cameo by José Feliciano singing his 1983 minor hit “Let’s Find Each Other Tonight” which Buscemi (apparently on a date-night break from the caper) had enough class to take his hired whore…sorry, escort…to see at the Celebrity Room at the Carlton Hotel. On the quality of the room Buscemi says to his date: “Depends on the artist – José Feliciano, you got no complaints.” No complaints at all on that touch, the intensely impactful soundtrack and the rest of one of the finest Coen Brothers’ films.

You can find the second part of this article by following the link: PART II: From A Movie Mix-tape Made By The Dude To A Muted De-Countrified Terrain With Some Soggy Mountain Boys Songs On The Side (1998-2007)

Editor’s Note Again: Oh, and check out film babble blog. I insist.

LIGHTLY LIKEABLE

Joel and Ethan Coen (1954, ’57 – )
FILMS: (noteworthy entries in italics) 1984 – Blood Simple, 1987 – Raising Arizona, 1990 – Miller’s Crossing, 1991 – Barton Fink, 1994 – The Hudsucker Proxy, 1996 – Fargo, 1998 – The Big Lebowski, 2000 – O Brother, Where Art Thou?, 2001 – The Man Who Wasn’t There, 2003 – Intolerable Cruelty, 2004 – The Ladykillers, 2007 – No Country For Old Men

The most impressive accomplishment by Joel and Ethan Coen is how, in spite of working in wildly disparate genres (exploitation, noir, gangster, screwball, remake), they manage to not just make films, but to make Coen films. One would say of most directors, “Their first film was just practice, so we can forgive it if it bears little resemblance in content or quality to their later work,” but Blood Simple, the Coens’ debut, is so scarily assured and effortlessly confident that we can see unmistakable similarities between it and their Oscar lauded No Country For Old Men. How many other directors can claim a distinct style that has been preserved over the course of 12 films and 23 years?

Each of their films showcases idiosyncratic writing, atypical characters, loving homage to genre, obsession with abstract symbolism, loyalty to specific actors, self-reference, and ethnographic regionalism. Some are slight (Intolerable Cruelty, The Ladykillers) while others reveal great depth (Fargo, No Country For Old Men) but all are quintessentially Coen.

The greatest criticism one can make against them is that they are an acquired taste. Their cinema isn’t universally indicative of the human condition (although they flirt with it); it is indicative of themselves. As such, what can you say to the cinephile who does not think Raising Arizona is funny? How can you convince a filmlover to embrace The Man Who Wasn’t There if their first viewing of it was dissatisfying? You may as well try convincing a person who abhors pickles that they are the tastiest morsel on the planet. The niche appeal of the Coens’ style is a double-edged sword: it produces both legions of cultish fans (look no further than Lebowski Fest for evidence of this) and disinterested filmgoers who shrug their shoulders and wonder what the fuss is all about.

Categorizing the Coens, then, is difficult, if not impossible. By their very nature they defy the act. The temptation would be to place them in Sarris’ canon of Pantheon Directors, of which he says, “To speak any of their names is to evoke a self-contained world with its own laws and landscapes.” Certainly true of the Coens, but they are too irregular to join the ranks of Chaplin and Griffeth and Hitchcock. Directors who go from The Ladykillers to No Country For Old Men are, if nothing else, uneven.

Thus the choice lies between Lightly Likeable and Strained Seriousness, the latter of which Sarris describes so: “These are talented but uneven directors with the mortal sin of pretentiousness. Their ambitious projects tend to inflate rather than expand.” Those who have read my writings on the Coens’ early efforts (Miller’s Crossing, Barton Fink) will easily note that if I have lambasted the brothers for anything, it has been pretentiousness. Barton Fink bleeds pretension like a murdered writer’s assistant. There is, however, a disarming charm to their films that cuts through the pretension, and so I cannot condemn them to what is one of Sarris’ most belittling categories.

Therefore, in my estimation, Joel and Ethan Coen are Lightly Likeable, “talented but uneven directors with the saving grace of unpretentiousness,” even though Sarris’ description here is only 50% accurate. It seems quite fitting, however, to place the Coens in a category that does not fully describe them, since they are filmmakers who proudly defy description.

The elephant in the room, however, is No Country For Old Men. Coming off a string of critical and commercial failures, the Coens crafted what many consider to be their opus magnum (I would personally trump it with Fargo, a less grandiose work that better personifies their style, due in no small part to the fact that it is original to them, whereas No Country was spawned from the mind of another). Following their greatest success, both critically and commercially, their future output appears to stretch confidently into the distance, but whether it will be stocked with Ladykillers or No Countrys remains to be seen. Suffice to say, a decade down the road may find the Coens comfortably snugged within the Pantheon.

Ethan and Joel Coen

We’re trying something a bit different this month at MZ by devoting all of April to the Coen Brothers (as you can see, our nifty random banner up top is already cycling through classic frames from their films). We’ll be reviewing each of their films chronologically on every Monday, Wedensday, and Friday, beginning with Blood Simple later today. As well, we’ll be participating in Film at Eleven’s blog-a-thon later this month, updating Andrew Sarris’ seminal The American Cinema with an entry on the Coens. Also expect insightful articles and witty observations on their evolution as filmmakers, Top Ten Lists (that crack cocaine of the internets), and featured guest contributors.

Look for essays and features from (in no particular order) Craig Kennedy at Living in Cinema, Joseph Demme of Cinexcellence, Daniel Johnson from Film Babble Blog, Dylan Fields (aka Fletch) of Blog Cabins (and purveyor of LAMB), Nick Plowman at Fataculture, Daniel Getahun from Getafilm (I just made that connection, Daniel), Rick Olson of Coosa Creek Mambo, and hopefully a few others who haven’t confirmed yet. Take a second to visit some of their excellent sites.

Basically, we’ll be ingesting all things Coen until Joel and Ethan come shooting out of our eyeballs. Not to be missed!

Funny Games

The second round of our debate on the validity or worthlessness of Funny Games. A summary of the posts so far:

• Round 1 of our debate, including an overview of the Double Shot ground rules
• My original zero star review
• Luke Harrington’s 4 star review
• Ghost Lyon’s 1 1/2 star review of Haneke’s original 1997 version

Here is round two of Luke and I’s debate. For redundancy’s sake, I am arguing against the film, while Luke is arguing for it. Comments and further insights are, of course, encouraged and welcomed (although I noticed a distinct trend toward siding with Luke last time…tsk tsk guys, I’m obviously correct here).

2nd Argument Against: Funny Games logically fails because it employs the very thing it seeks to condemn
Evan Derrick

Luke, from your review: “Funny Games is relentless in its criticism of a culture filled with people who are all doomed to die but still constantly seek their own survival, all while enjoying the deaths of others.” I cannot directly disagree with this (Americans seem to love their torture porn). It’s the rubbernecking syndrome – when there is a wreck on the side of the road, we instinctively slow down. Haneke’s goal with this film is to condemn that desire to rubberneck, that desire to see suffering as long as it isn’t our own. The only problem is that he’s created his own wreck in order to condemn us for looking at it. Experimentally this has merit. Logically it makes no sense, since it furthers the very thing he’s trying to condemn. Take his own words: “Anyone who leaves the cinema doesn’t need the film, and anybody who stays does.” If Haneke truly wanted to change our appetite for violence he would create films that promote love and forgiveness and human charity, films that instinctively make us say, “I want more of that in my life and less of the violent stuff.” Instead, he’s created a film that utilizes the very thing he (apparently) abhors: cruel, unthinkable violence. He rails against the audience for playing in the mud, all the while being covered head to toe in muck himself. There is a word for this: hypocrite. In terms of the film, Funny Games implodes logically because it cannot sustain the weight of its own goals.

Rebuttal
Luke Harrington

Evan, you make the mistake here of assuming that finding a solution is somehow more important than identifying the problem, when in fact the one depends on the other. To put it simply, the muddy kid won’t be motivated to clean himself off if he’s not made aware of his own muddiness. You propose media that promotes “love and forgiveness and human charity” as a solution to the problem of our culture’s obsession with violence, but no one is going to be interested in a solution if they’re not aware there’s a problem. Haneke’s acting as prophet but you want him to act as priest instead. Doesn’t culture need both? In any case, Funny Games hardly wallows in the mud the way the films it criticizes do—the vast majority of the violence takes place off-screen, and none of it is romanticized or sexed up the way it is in the vast majority of Hollywood pictures. Funny Games strips the glossy sheen off of violence and makes the audience acutely aware of their thirst for it. The intent is satirical (whether or not it’s actually humorous): Haneke gets himself muddy to show others their own muddiness.

2nd Argument For: Funny Games delivers what the marketing promises; you get exactly what you pay for and therefore have no room for complaint
Luke Harrington

Evan, you seem, in your original review, to be implying that the trailer implies something other than what the film delivers. Having watched the trailer (which, admittedly, I didn’t get around to doing until after seeing the film), I’m not sure that’s the case. The trailer promises scenes of well-to-do young men in white gloves terrorizing a family for no reason other than their own entertainment. Doesn’t the film deliver on this? The reason you seem to be rejecting it is that it doesn’t end the way you’d like it to. Of course, the trailer can’t show you the ending for the same reason the critics aren’t supposed to: the majority of moviegoers are (erroneously, I would argue) convinced that part of the enjoyment of a film is being surprised at the end. Experience, however, says that this is almost never the case. No one walks into the theater expecting Rocky to get clobbered in the third round, or expecting Richard Gere and Julia Roberts to break up at the end. This, if nothing else, makes for an interesting dualism, where nobody wants to know the ending but everybody does anyway. The ending that Haneke has provided here is, in a sense the ultimate “twist ending,” as it’s the last ending anyone expects to see. This is, of course, the point: this sort of victimization and violence almost always ends in pointless tragedy in real life, and almost never does in film. Haneke is seeking to undermine the romanticized expectations of his audience, and he’s clearly succeeded in this. If they reject this, it’s simply because they’ve allowed Hollywood to lie to them for far too long.

Rebuttal
Evan Derrick

I don’t reject Funny Games because of the ending. I don’t reject it because I feel the trailer is misleading (which I do, but I’ll deal with that in a second). I don’t even reject it because it involves torture, human suffering, or “pointless [real life] tragedy.” I reject it because all of those things are not the point – the experiment is. I’ll put the next sentence in bold to emphasize my point, which is the entire crux of my argument: if Haneke had not broken the fourth wall in the way that he did or included the ‘rewind’ scene, I would not discount Funny Games’ value as a film. If those elements had not been present (i.e., this would be the film that is advertised in the trailer) you would be left with a grim picture of nihilistic violence. I would not enjoy such a film, but I would have to accord it more respect than I currently do. Subverting the audience’s expectations is a common cinematic convention and one I have no quarrel with. The issue is that once Haneke has subverted our expectations, he takes it two steps further: he calls attention to the fact (Michael Pitt’s fourth wall addresses) and mocks us for it (the scene reversal). This reveals his hand in an unflattering and detrimental way. Up until that point I was engaged with the characters and the story, but once I became aware of Haneke’s goal I recoiled from the film in an immediate and shocking way. I wanted to leave, not because of the content, but because I could see, with absolute clarity, the Wizard pulling levers from behind his emerald curtain. The joke was up and I was the punchline. I have never before experienced such an instantaneous reversal in my attitude towards a film.

If Haneke had left those elements out, he would have succeeded more surely in condemning violence as entertainment. Because he does include them (for him, this arrogant insistence to show his cards is part of the point), Funny Games is reduced to a manipulative Pavlovian experiment.

Note: Look for our conclusions and final thoughts later this weekend

Tentatively titled DoubleShot, this feature will involve two of us hashing it out in the public forum over a film we strongly disagree on. Although battle axes and morning stars in a cage match to the death would undoubtedly be more entertaining for you, the blood thirsty masses, we have instead elected to duel with words and wit. Here are the ground rules:

• Round 1: Each critic makes one argument for/against the film, specifically citing the opposing author’s review. Each critic then gets a rebuttal.
  
• Round 2: Round 1 is repeated, with two more assertions and the accompanying rebuttals.
• Round 3: Each critic gets a closing statement and a chance to respond to the other’s overall position.

Obviously, we encourage participation from you, whether you have seen the film in question or not. This exercise will only be successful if others get in the ring with us.

Funny Games

Our first film up for debate is Michael Haneke’s recent remake of his own film, Funny Games. A good primer would be to read our original reviews.
You can read my zero star review here.
You can read Luke’s 4 star review here.
Ghost Lyon, another contributer, reviewed Haneke’s original version, which he gave 1 1/2 stars, and you can find that review here.

Here is the first round of points and counter-points. Look for round 2 and 3 later this week.

Let the games begin (no pun intended).

First Argument Against: Funny Games abuses the conventions of film to an unforgivable extent
Evan Derrick

Luke, the language you used to describe Funny Games is very different from the language I used. You enter into specific discussion over the genre it might occupy (”is Funny Games really a horror film?”), label Paul and Peter as “antagonists,” a conventional cinematic term, and even liken it to a mash-up of other films. While I’m straying close to the unanswerable question of “what is art?”, I think a convincing case could be made that Funny Games is not a film, but rather an experiment by Michael Haneke that happens to occupy a reel of celluloid. My assertion is proven in the ‘rewind’ scene. Anna grabs the shotgun, blowing Peter away. Haneke then has things reverse so he can show you a second version – the one where Paul wrests the gun from Anna, shooting her husband instead. Haneke is not only turning the tried-and-true conventions of cinema on their heads, he’s rubbing your face in it. I’m fine with a film breaking the rules. Run Lola Run did this quite well. That is not what is happening here, however. Haneke is blatantly stepping across the line from cinema into gross manipulation (it is, admittedly, a fine line). He cares more about screwing with you, the viewer, than about the film itself. So what do you call a ‘movie’ where the entire point is to mess with the audience in a very direct way? Easy, you don’t call it a movie, you call it something else (like an experiment). As a post-modern exercise, Funny Games gets 5 stars, but since you and I are in the business of reviewing movies, it rates zero.

Rebuttal
Luke Harrington

You’re drawing a distinction between a “film” and a “post-modern exercise,” but you’re simply using the word “film” as a euphemism for “what I expect a film to be.” If Haneke has subverted these expectations, then he’s succeeded on his own terms, and you’ve simply played into his hand. Sure, there’s quite a bit of arrogance inherent in this, but the day we reject artists for arrogance is the day we erase 98% of what is canon in the world of art. As to filmmaking, you’ll have to agree with me that Funny Games possesses many of the hallmarks of a “good” film—beautiful and expressive cinematography, nuanced acting, and a slow and believable build in tension. The scene leading up to the initial attack is a masterpiece of suspense. And so what if Haneke is engaging in manipulation? Every Hollywood film ever made does so—should I accept the emotional manipulation of Sleepless in Seattle, Schindler’s List, and Die Hard but reject that of Funny Games? Hollywood films manipulate you into feeling good about yourself; Haneke’s manipulate you into feeling bad about yourself. I leave it to you to decide which is the more honest (and isn’t honesty the most important aspect of art?).

First Argument For: Funny Games is an exceptional example of interactive art, for which there is great precedent
Luke Harrington

Evan, your criticism of Funny Games seems to stem more from a rejection of its aesthetic than a problem with the film itself. Specifically, you have a problem with the filmmaker “toying” with you. To put it crassly, though, it takes two to tango. You’re the one that bought the ticket, you’re the one that sat down in the theater, and you’re the one who paid attention to the film, allowed yourself to get emotionally involved in it, and stayed until the end. In other words, Haneke can’t make you feel miserable here without your consent. You assert that Haneke “is playing at something very different than filmmaking,” but taken at face value, this simply can’t be true. Haneke successfully created a film—he put pictures on a strip of celluloid and then wound it around a spindle so that it could play in a projector (I’m being somewhat facetious here, but bear with me)—so your assertion must have more to do with your own assumptions about filmmaking than fact. You seem to be of the opinion that storytelling is the essence of filmmaking. Is it? There are plenty of well-respected films that possess little story or no story at all. What about Fantasia? What about The Man with the Movie Camera? What about all of Thomas Edison’s films—some of the first films to be made? Story simply isn’t an essential part of the film the way it is part of the novel or the epic poem. Haneke’s intent here isn’t to tell his audience a story so much as it is to interact with them, and I don’t think you can reject interactive art out of hand. There’s great precedent for it in the world of fine art—the works of Marco Evaristti, for instance—and it’s even more prevalent in the popular arts: Ever been to a rock concert? Or played a videogame? (Try and tell me Fumito Ueda’s Ico and Shadow of the Colossus aren’t art—I dare you.) If you dislike what Haneke’s doing, that’s your personal preference—but don’t reject it simply for being what it is.

Rebuttal
Evan Derrick

True, true, it takes two to tango. But what if, in the middle of the dance, your partner kicked you in the crotch? Are you still at fault for that? You said, “Haneke can’t make you miserable here without your consent.” The problem with this statement is that from the moment you step into the theater, you are setup to be miserable, period. What if you do get up and leave halfway through? Then you’re miserable that you spent $10 bucks and wasted an hour of your time. Maybe you can get your money back, but it’s going to be a nuisance to do so. If you stay to the end, you’ll be equally if not more miserable, as everything I’ve written so far indicates. The only way to not get involved is to never step into the theater, but considering the marketing and the pedigree of the talent, Haneke and company have stacked the deck against the audience. I have no problem with interactive art (indeed, I consider Shadow of the Colossus to be one of the finest video games of all time). I do have a problem when part of that interaction is being lied to, manipulated, and sucker punched. I’m not rejecting what Haneke’s doing here – I’m rejecting the method by which he has chosen to do it. He’s created Faces of Death, but instead of being honest about that, he’s included a plot and characters and great acting to trick you into watching it. Once you’re there, you have no choice but to be miserable, whether you stay or go. I’ll say it again, if your dancing partner kicks you in the crotch, who’s really to blame?

Well, here are my thoughts on who should win/who will win, although to be honest, most people make their Oscar predictions based on buzz and marketing, and since neither of those things exist for the short film nominees, I’m shooting in the dark.

At Night (Christian E. Christiansen & Louise Vesth, Denmark)
I’m not going to even slightly suggest that cancer, suicide, comas, and death aren’t subjects worth dealing with in film, but to have all of them crammed into a 40 minute span with no break is a bit much, even for my masochistic self. You need moments of humor in order to grapple with such heavy topics, and this story of 3 women in a cancer ward at Christmas has none.
Will it win? I hope not, but it is depressing enough to be a front runner.
Should it win? No. It shouldn’t.

The Mozart of Pickpockets (Philippe Pollet-Villard, France)
A sweet film about two bumbling pickpockets who luck out when they take in a homeless child with hidden talents. My second favorite of the lot.
Will it win? Not likely. The film has a certain charm to it but ends up being the most generic of the bunch.
Should it win? No. Its a competent film but not deserving of Oscar.

The Substitute (Andrea Jublin, Italy)
I will freely admit to not understanding this one in the slightest. It is a comedy, and I did laugh a few times, but I have to assume there was an Italian element to the humor that I just couldn’t grasp. An unlikely substitute teacher shows up for a class and proceeds to work them into a frenzy. Hi-jinks ensue, as well as a twist ending.
Will it win? This one is my dark horse simply because I don’t get it. I wouldn’t be surprised if it won, but I wouldn’t know why it did.
Should it win? Uh, no?

The Tonto Woman (Daniel Barber and Matthew Brown, United Kingdom)
The only short in English (and it’s actually from the U.K. – are Americans not making any good short films these days?), it’s an art house western based on a short story by Elmore Leonard. About a secluded woman scarred by her captivity among the Mojave Indians and the mysterious stranger who falls for her, I was underwhelmed. A romance needs time and chemistry, and neither of those exist here. That the only gunfight in the film is heard off screen doesn’t help matters.
Will it win? The most epic and ambitious of the bunch, this one is a likely contender.
Should it win? A romance without chemistry or logic and a western without a gunfight? Of course not.

Tanghi Argentini (Guido Thys and Anja Daelemans, Belgium)
I saved the best for last. This gem from Belgium is not only the shortest of the nominees (13 minutes) but it is also the standout. About a man who has to learn the tango in two weeks from a coworker in order to impress a woman he has met over the internet, Tanghi Argentini is charming, witty, and surprisingly touching.
Will it win? My money is on this one, and I’m betting that Oscar takes a shine to it.
Should it win? Yes, yes, yes!

So now you know a little bit more about a category that typically elicits no more than a “Huh?” from viewers on Oscar night, and if you get a chance to see Tanghi Argentini (iTunes might have it for sale next month), by all means, take it.

Even Pigeons Go to Heaven (Samuel Tourneaux, France)
In this stop-motion missive, a priest tries to sell a man a machine that he claims will take him to heaven. The animation is excellent, but the morality play is a little facile and a bit overdone.
Will it win? Possibly. Oscar does love iconoclasm.
But should it? Any film that features Death as a central character is okay by me.

I Met the Walrus (Josh Raskin, Canada)
Based around the actual audio of a high school student’s interview with John Lennon in 1969, this one is essentially a free-association piece that consists primarily of computer-processed 2D animation.
Will it win? I doubt it. Of the five, it’s the least ambitious. But then, it is short and sweet.
But should it? It’s my personal favorite, and easily the most thought-provoking of the lot.

Madame Tutli-Putli (Chris Lavis and Maciek Szczerbowski, Canada)
This is easily the weirdest of the five, which is saying something. Essentially a surrealist stop-motion piece, it explores the psyche of a lonely woman on a train. It’s intelligent, but unfortunately, the animation is downright ugly—though perhaps that was intentional.
Will it win? It’s just pretentious enough to pull off an upset, I think.
But should it? It does have a certain charm that’s hard to resist.

My Love (Alexander Petrov, Russia)
How you feel about this one pretty much depends on how you feel about impressionist painting and Oedipal melodrama—because that’s pretty much all it is.
Will it win? Only if the members of the Academy can stay awake through the whole thing.
But should it? No. Note to Russia: A “short” should be…y’know…short.

Peter and the Wolf (Suzie Templeton and Hugh Welchman, U.K and Poland)
A new, wordless adaptation of Prokofiev’s program music, done this time with stop-motion. The attention to detail here is incredible: if you were to walk in halfway through, you might think for a second that you’re watching a live action film.
Will it win? As the least weird of the five, this one could be the dark horse.
But should it? What’s not to love here? Fantastic music, beautiful animation, happy ending. This is definitely one of the two best.

You’ll probably notice that there’s not a single American short on the list—mildly surprising, given that the Oscars are in place to honor American filmmaking and all. Then again, maybe it doesn’t make sense to give an award to a country that doesn’t appreciate short-subject filmmaking in the first place. In any case, now you know what they’re all about, so feel free to impress all your friends with this knowledge at your Sunday Night Oscar Party.

…And I’m out.