Cinema and the American City

Cinema is a postcard of images, sounds and uncharted space - signed by the director who reflects a specific story on its limited canvas. If cinema is a messenger, then so is the cinematic city which bears similar, if not identical resemblance to reality it portrays on-screen. But it is also more than just a landscape or location which audiences have gathered to explore. Film, after all, is a medium projecting not only its protagonist’s stories and carefully embedded moral codes, it is also taking spectators places they have / have not been before or might never be able to get to. From musical to action, drama, comedy and sci-fi etc. cinema has trapped cinemagoers into the web of emotions, beliefs and unexpected physical reactions. But even those who fainted during the screening of Lars von Trier’s Antichrist (2009) in Cannes and later slammed it in the media have voluntarily submitted themselves to such sadistic experience. The old saying appears to be true: we go to cinema for the experience while cinematic scenarios are scattered all around and within us.

This paper will for that reason concentrate on two of the most depicted American cities in the history of cinema- New York City and Los Angeles within the context of Steve McQueen’s Shame(2011) and Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive (2011). Both directors share European origins and portray America as a somewhat overcrowded and lonely place, encompassing French theorist Jean Baudrillard’s vision which will also be briefly presented in the lengths of this paper.

In his work, Jean Baudrillard has addressed America with equal fascination and critique. When talking about its cinematic representation in relation to reality he suggests that,

The city was here before the freeway system, no doubt, but it now looks as though the metropolis has actually been built around this arterial network. It is the same with American reality. It was there before the screen was invented, but everything about the way it is today suggests it was invented with the screen in mind, that it is the refraction of a giant screen ( in Davies 2003:218).

A simple shot of a yellow cab stuck in Manhattan’s traffic says more than superimposed text announcing “New York” against the city’s background, and in a way it also does both, indicates the location and sets the tone. Similarly, the skyline of downtown Los Angeles paints a different picture by day and night, and yet remains familiar through its lengthy celluloid appeal. Cinematic images therefore work hand-in-hand with reality, blurring the boundaries of the two in order to encompass the notion of an American dream on the spectators. What has to be noted here, is that consumption of postmodern images exposes those in front of the screen to an instant bodily affect which has been intensified by 9/11 events. Erasure of Twin Towers from New York’s landscape has permanently altered the way spectators perceive the Big Apple. In other words, lack of the iconic image triggers memories and evokes bodily responses to the extent that even Woody Allen’s heartfelt dedication Manhattan (1979) is nowadays viewed with sadness. In Mark Shiel’s view, however, ‘cinematic representations of New York had long since degraded into dystopian projections of that particular city as the purest distillation of urban nightmare (2003:166-167)’. He sees industrialization and issues of race and class as forces of fragmentation – affecting the city as much as the individual living in it. With this in mind, McQueen’s film paints a picture of a darker, impersonal NY where various aspects of sexuality are still commonly overlooked by the society.

McQueen’s Shame is primarily centred on Brandon Sullivan, a thirty-something white New Yorker who’s seemingly effortless belonging to the society is overshadowed by an unhealthy addiction to sex and sister’s sudden intrusion in his carefully camouflaged life. This is indicated in the opening sequence where he is firstly seen from a bird’s-eye-view lying in his apartment. Half-covered in crumpled blue sheets Brandon’s protagonist stares vacantly at the ceiling, ready to slide his hands back underneath the covers. Ignoring Sissy’s repeated voice messages on the answering machine he then leaves the impersonal apartment and encounters a young married woman on a subway train, who arouses his senses yet again. Although Shame is, indeed, a character study of Brandon and his inner struggle, its New York setting is an equally significant part of the narrative. Film’s director avoids outlining contemporary icons of the city’s landscape, such as Statue of Liberty or The Empire State building, yet the spectators see New York’s milieu as constantly present in Brandon’s world. It is, as noted by Adam Woodward in “Little White Lies: Shame Issue”, a mundane urban tapestry of cheerless streets, synthetic light and sterilised interior spaces. This is New York City, specifically Manhattan, imagined by McQueen as a sleepless cosmopolitan bordello ready to cater for any vice, however illicit or insatiable (2012:6). Sex is a commodity Brandon occasionally pays for yet genuine attention is not for sale. He offers his prostitutes to have a drink – they swiftly decline since time is money everywhere, be it the financial district or the streets. Simple human contact thus becomes an unavailable commodity, almost a privilege which Brandon hangs onto by taking a subway and observing fellow passengers. In Cinematic Urbanism, author Nezar AlSayyad points out, that ‘when the New York City subway opened in 1904, the New York Times declared, that ‘in modern city life, distance is measured in time’ (2006:22). At the present time though it seems to be one of the few places where people of different race, class, sexuality, political and cultural views come together voluntarily – even if for a single stop only.

Brandon’s lifestyle indicates his belonging to an upper middle class and therefore suggests that subway is a chosen (and not economically necessitated) way of getting around for him.  At home, however, high-density living draws attention to other imperfections of Brandon’s world. He walks around without a sense of purpose, trying to guard the apartment which is the only thing he owns and controls in the city. Director McQueen talks about his own experience with high-rise apartments in relation to Shame:

 It’s almost like funnel; you’re standing at the small end and there’s a whole world out there but you’re very far away from it. It’s like cinema screen in your house, but it isolates you. There’s always this sense that you are one in a million, you have no significance (in Woodward, 2012:26-28).

The film thus paints a strong visual picture of the city that never sleeps through Brandon’s perspective – through experiences of a lone individual amongst millions of its other inhabitants, pointing out not only one’s alienation in the ‘melting pot’ of New York, but also the level of ignorance such society projects on others. Jean Baudrillard notices this trait in his book America when prompting a question:

Why do people live in New York? There is no relationship between them [...]. A magical sensation of contiguity and attraction for an artificial centrality. This is what makes it a self-attracting universe, which there is no reason to leave. There is no human reason to be here, except for the sheer ecstasy of being crowded together (1988:15).

But in spite of Brandon’s alienation and excessive use of viridian blues and sandy yellows in Shame’s composition, even such melancholic projection of New York City appeals to celluloid. Sissy’s emotional interpretation of Frank Sinatra’s “New York New York” (filmed as a long close-up sequence) enhances the overall mood through its familiar lyrics: “If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere, It's up to you, New York, New York”, also hinting at the events that might have shaped troubled siblings, but are never revealed in the context.  Here, the cinematic affect produced via images and sounds plays with spectators own knowledge and experiences, offering either identification or complete rejection of the image. Regardless, images possess an ability to interpellate to the extent that spectator’s body ultimately surrenders under their visual pressure.   

In Cinematic Body, Steven Shaviro explains this by examining cinematic images as events that unfold on both sides of the screen, thus bringing in Foucault’s views on such occurrence:

An event is neither substance, nor accident, nor quality, nor process; events are not corporeal. And yet, an event is certainly not immaterial; it takes effect, becomes effect, always on the level of materiality... (1993:24).

Even though Brandon’s persona might be fictional, his story isn’t. Artlessly, its projection on celluloid confirms the inevitable existence of numerous closeted addictions and, as argued by Baudrillard, reveals cinema’s constant presence in the city through its continuous performance of films and scenarios (in Davies, 2003:219). And while Shame is an intrusion into Brandon Sullivan’s New York – with its skyscraper buildings, their cold corporate offices, daily commutes and closeted problems – audiences have voluntarily submitted themselves to being a part of it until the end credits appear to signify release from cinema’s masochistic imprisonment.

When it comes to modernity, New York and Los Angeles both embody the essence of industrialized, urban space on not only their geographic East and West coasts, but also on camera. Yet the affect of a particular city is not to be underestimated and anyone who has ever been to either would agree. The difference is masterfully highlighted in the opening narration of Paul Haggis’s Crash (2004):

It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In LA, nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something.

Likewise, protagonists in Shame and Winding Refn’s Drive are caught up in the milieu they inhabit and are thus somewhat forced to seek this ‘touch’ while playing by the rules of the city. Those, however, differ due to individual architectural design of the city and it is hence worth looking at neon-lit Drive and its Los Angeles setting closer.

Drive comes from a Danish filmmaker Nicolas Winding Refn who’s own relationship with Hollywood has leaped between the contradictory extremes of acceptance and rejection, and thus makes his latest return to LA setting rather surprising. Moreover, the winner of Cannes Best Director award 2011 can not drive himself, having failed his driving test numerous times. Drive can therefore be seen as a manifest to his own fears as much as a critique of the cinematic clichés of the Hollywood system obsessed with CGI and 3D. Contradictory to the title, there are no Vin Diezel-like characters to perform Cirque du Soleil worthy moves on a freeway while the engines roar and occasional blood spills. Instead, Drive focuses on a sole, unnamed flaneur whose safe heaven appears to be behind the wheel, whose home is the freeway itself. This concept constructs most of the cinematic space as camera silently observes Driver from every angle within the vehicle- consequently projecting events from character’s point of view and inviting audiences to not only see, but also feel the city the way he does.

The film opens with a phone conversation confirming the heist for which Driver is to provide getaway while its location is established with a quick focus on the window overlooking LA. As the heist happens, cinematically familiar American urban space confirms its significance within the narrative. Having eavesdropped on the police frequency and followed radio broadcast of the latest basketball game, Driver’s Chevy (described as the most popular car in California) passes city’s iconic Staples Centre, enters its parking lot and blends with the crowd. Tension of the scene is unleashed on audiences who are taken along for a ride with a complete stranger whereas his status as a hero or a villain is yet to be confirmed.  In film viewing, as pointed out by Steven Shaviro, there is pleasure and more than pleasure: a rising scale of seduction, delirium, fascination, and utter absorption in the image (1993:9). Driver thus becomes a mystery audiences are challenged to decode via limited content of the image - which in Drive’s case also bares short dialogues paired with mood setting 80s pop rhythms. It is not to say that the picture is incomplete, it is rather that those watching are compelled to work with its every element in order to satisfy their rising curiosity. Driver’s own statement in the previously mentioned opening sequence describes the city as much as it describes him:

“If I drive for you, you get your money. You tell me where we start, where we're going, where we're going afterwards. I give you five minutes when we get there. Anything happens in that five minutes and I'm yours. No matter what. Anything a minute on either side of that and you're on your own. I don't sit in while you're running it down. I don't carry a gun. I drive”.

It is subway and freeway that connect fragmented spaces of NY and LA, affecting the way millions of people ‘crash into each other’. Per contra, such circumstance is prearranged by the city as an existential code for its inhabitants, no matter how wealthy or deprived. In an urban city, people are required to move around the industrial network and do so as quickly as possible. As noted earlier in relation to Shame, this is where the sense of alienation tends to emerge despite the overwhelming number of individuals passing each other in haste. Both films acknowledge this “alone-in-the-big-city” phenomenon when placing Brandon and Driver in the centre of a faceless crowd – occasional by-passers who have little effect on one another and the milieu.

It has to be said that New York and Los Angeles are at the centre of the world, even if we find the idea somehow both exciting and disenchanting. We are a desperately long way behind the stupidity and the mutational character, the naive extravagance and the social, racial, moral, morphological, and architectural eccentricity of their society (Baudrillard, 1988:22)

In its core, American landscape, especially the metropolis, is largely a product of the 20^th century, lacking the prehistoric appeal encountered in Europe, Africa and Asia; its culture immersed in consumerism and discourse of an all-American dream. Nonetheless, Baudrillard agrees that the whole country is cinematic; – it is by no means perfect, but simply charming. Adding to the criticism, AlSayyad calls Los Angeles a superficial place that is ‘less serene than gray-green New York’. Thus, the roles of light and dark are ‘expanded’, exaggerated, and ‘reversed’ (2006:184). LA depicted in Drive articulates around this statement with its overall noir-ish tone – the game of shadows and unknown dangers those might reveal, gangs, crime, dishonesty and urban nightlife. On the contrary, it’s also an urban fairytale where an urge to change the milieu occurs because of a woman in danger. Driver has Chevy in place of a white horse, appearing to be more of a hero than a character when compared with Brandon. In fact, Driver’s entire relationship with the city is built on four wheels. As noted by Baudrillard, only immigrants from the Third World are allowed to walk. It is, in a sense, their privilege (in Davies 2003:220). There, car is no longer a symbol of wealth, it’s a must-have without which one’s relationship with the metropolis falls apart.

In Shame, Brandon uses New York’s urban setting to blend with such crowd in hopes that his inner affliction would become less apparent as a result. Spectators are subjected to long takes, such as his midnight run through Manhattan’s nocturnal streets, thus adding the real-time-voyeurism feel to Brandon’s odyssey. In the final subway sequence, he spots the same woman he had come across in the beginning, he gets closer and suddenly film’s ending credits start to roll. Audiences are left rather betrayed by such open-ended finale, willing to jump on the moving train if only to satisfy their curiosity. In the end, cinema prevails as it teases, fascinates and then discharges of spectators – leaving them begging for more.

Summing up, AlSayyad’s view on this boundary-blurring relationship has to be considered: he turns to Paul Virilio when pointing out, that

The screen and the lens become new models through which the city is experienced and policed, leading to a ‘revision of point of view and a radical mutation of our perception of the world (2006:147)’.

All in all, protagonists discussed in the length of this paper are encountered in the middle of their journey, beginning of which is untold and destination – unknown. Their true colours show when shadows fall over the city they inhabit. In case of Drive, it is film’s neon-noir feel that depicts the City of Angels, while Shame’s composition reveals New York’s raunchiest corners behind the wall of sterile offices and impersonal public space. Both therefore create a new perspective of the world in a short period of film’s running time. Having voyeuristically followed Brandon’s and Driver’s demons, one should be able to leave his/her cinema seat feeling either relief or sadness brought by the end of this cinematic relationship.  And while cinematic images are there to alter our perception of the world, film as a whole has the power to affect audiences, both bodily and emotionally. This affect produced by pictures, sounds and special effects, because of the rich experiential potency embedded in film medium, plays around the relationship between the image and the reality of the representation. Cinema, after all, holds a mirror over the world which does not feel very cinematic at times.

_________________________________________________________________________________

Bibliography:

Baudrillard, Jean. (1988) America, London: Verso.

Davies, Jude (2003) “Against the Los Angeles Symbolic: Unpacking the Racialized Discourse of the Automobile in 1980s and 1990s Cinema”, in Shiel, Mark & Fitzmaurice, Tony (eds.) Screening the City, London: Verso

Shaviro, Steven (1993) The Cinematic Body, Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press

Woodward, Adam (2012) “Chapter in which we Review Shame”. Little White Lies. Issue 39, London: The Church of London

Woodward, Adam (2012) “Heavyweight”. Little White Lies. Issue 39, London: The Church of London

 Filmography:

Crash (Paul Haggis, 2004, USA / Germany)

Drive (Nicolas Winding Refn, 2011, USA)

Shame (Steve McQueen, 2011, UK)

Please be silent behind the screen

Being able to see a silent film showcased around the globe is quite a unique experience in 2012 – made possible by a French filmmaker Michel Hazanavicius. He writes a loving black & white postcard to an art form unjustifiably perished in the 20^th century. Heartfelt, charming and concluded with a happy ending, it manages to leave lasting feel-good impression with hint nostalgia for the genre. And while the storyline of the film should be known to most media-aware individuals, there are other values The Artist manages to bring to the table.

Thoroughly well received at film festivals in 2011 the unusual (if not extinct) awards contender has earned its lead Jean Dujardin the Best Actor gig in Cannes. A few actors could truly embrace the role without making it look like a pantomime and Dujardin plays George Valentin rather brilliantly. And although roles in The Artist were written for its actors, Valentin never looks like a contemporary protagonist transferred to 1927 Hollywood setting – a danger every modern script attempting to embody the essence of the silent era will come across. Petite Berenice Bejo is equally charming as Peppy Miller and both – the actress and her character – have an ability to light up the screen of any colour. Hazanvicius has thus made a clever move by casting relatively unknown actors. He wants us to see the film because of the art form it salutes, and not because of the star power someone might bring to the box-office. But how many people will actually dare to see it? How many will leave their stereotypical perceptions behind and choose The Artist over latest instalments in the never-ending Mission Impossible saga or Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows?

Screening of The Artist at 3pm in a buzzing shopping mall gathers 14 people – 4 couples past their 50ies, who have grown up watching silent films, and 6 younger females on their own. Ironically, pre-screening commercial questions: “Why do I go to the cinema?” to soon come upon an answer – “For the experience”, setting off The Artist the best way possible. It salutes the cinema of attractions with its every take, bringing us back to the heyday of cinema when watching moving images on screen used to be an event, an EXPERIENCE. It was simple and extraordinary in its ability to unite and entertain, in its purpose – to show. And maybe Hazanvicius is onto something else here – maybe the cinema these days does say too much without really saying anything?

Hollywood won’t miss an opportunity to cash in on the ‘novelty’ while the idea is still hot – expect black & white sequences in the upcoming releases and possible references to the genre in American parodies. With 6 Golden Globes noms, 3 wins and all the Oscar-buzz surrounding the picture (which has a good chance of becoming the first silent film to pick up the main award since Wings in 1927), it has surely become bigger than Hazanavicius has ever expected. Let’s hope the success of The Artist won’t turn the film against everything it represents. It is, after all, called The Artist for a reason.

The Artist is out in cinemas now. Go see it while you can!

Melancholia as a scar

          Lars Von Trier’s latest movie Melancholia (2011) looks like a painting and reads like a poem. It is, however, blurring boundaries not only of cinematic genres, but also presenting alternative tools for their delivery. The image of an apocalypse in a post 9/11 cinema appears marked by destruction and melancholy, and although the title of Von Trier’s film suggests sheer sadness, it is also a (fascinatingly) beautiful apocalyptic tale balancing between life and death. Melancholia starts and ends with the ultimate culmination - fin de siècle while its border is drawn by the notion of acceptance. This paper will therefore explore apocalyptic boundaries highlighted in the film and look at their significance within a rather unique context produced by a Danish director and screenwriter Von Trier.

          Melancholia begins with an 8min slow-motion prologue where the opening close-up shot of Justine reveals birds falling from the sunset stricken sky and moves on to illustrate a descending  painting of a village, eventually coming to an image of  a red star approaching the Earth – all to Richard Wagner’s prelude to “Tristan and Isolde”. A woman holding a child runs through a golf course seemingly drowning in its marshy grass, a horse stumbles to the ground and Justine appears again – this time in a long shot surrounded by butterflies and snow-flakes. But this dreamy cinematography is not an overture for a happy ending – Justine examines her hands shedding light in a medium shot and is afterwards seen running through the forest trying to avoid its ensnaring branches. Another planet is shortly seen coming into view and we know the Earth is about to end. We see the collision and a dark screen before the narrative resumes back to the start.

          Von Trier has divided his film into two segments: “Justine” and “Claire”, thus placing sisters as binary oppositions alongside contrasting issues of life & death, happiness & sadness, The Earth & Melancholia. Film’s tone consequently often shifts between science fiction, disaster and drama. Sukhdev Sandhu’s review in the Telegraph describes the overall feel of Melancholia best:

 The film seethes with ideas, darkness, bruising soulfulness, visual invention. Its monstrous conceit, its excess and complexity, its sheer unreasonableness: this is cinema that refuses to know its place, that doesn’t cater to an instant-response. But make no mistake: this is cinema as scar.

Most of it is filmed with a handheld camera in a way that we see the events unfold through character’s point-of-view. This adds a familiar, almost documentary feel to the picture while shots produced by a steady positioned camera take us to the dreadful, yet beautiful unknown. In “The sense of an ending” author Stephen Keane reminds readers that ‘it is important to remember that the disaster genre has always been based around familiarity and novelty (2001:76). Death is therefore a novelty in a form of impending doom which suddenly casts a shadow upon family’s familiar surroundings. But what makes Melancholia different from other disaster/ sci-fi films?  

          As pointed out by film critic Roger Ebert, ‘Von Trier limits himself entirely to the meandering conversations at the house party. He avoids all the usual sci-fi clichés; there are no TV news updates, no Cabinet meetings, no nuclear rockets fired at it, no surging mobs in the streets. It looms larger. It "appeared from behind the sun (www.rogerebert.suntimes.com).”’ This portrayal of an apocalyptic dread is not only Von Trier’s autheuristic statement but also his critique of the traditional Hollywood cinema dealing with existential fear and life in the future.

Firstly, he avoids the ‘terror in the big city’ scenario where panic spreads amongst the population, buildings collapse as people try to run or hide and more importantly – fight. Altogether, he avoids mass destruction and unfamiliar casualties. Instead, he offers a quiet countryside villa to focus viewer’s attention on a few characters inhibiting it as a result. We do not know about the outside world and its reaction towards the approaching event since the off-screen space is guarded by carefully chosen dialogues between those characters. No one makes hysteric good-bye calls or invites loved-ones for a last get-together. It is obvious that the apocalypse happens globally but we are told about it through a closeted cinematic space.

Moreover and secondly, the absence of media plays with the portrayal of scopic dread – the dread of looking. Von Trier masterfully unites estranged family members as oppose to creating global solidarity via universally panic-ridden television broadcasts (which would only boast anxiety and fear). According to Thompson,

Scopic dread is concerned with what is unseen, but which [...] metonymically points out to something which is already there (2007:138).

They know it’s coming. In fact, they can see it coming, but they decide not to almost till the very end – and the only response to the unseen derives from human emotions, not news stories or collective fright (e.g. 2012, Day After Tomorrow). This style of filmmaking is thus empathizing not only on isolation between characters and the outside world, but also segregates cinemagoers so as they become somewhat intimately bond to the scenery in return.

Regardless, it comes as a surprise when Claire enters dreading words “melancholia” and “death” in a search engine, simply seeking a confirmation of what she already knows. This proves that Von Trier is not denying the role media and technology may play should the worst happen– yet he’s showing it can be used differently...if not more privately. All in all, by doing so he succeeds in telling the story of apocalypse without conventional mise-en-scene (‘terror in the big city’ )and violence of the mass media.

Thirdly, the director keeps away from typecasting a hero who’s going to save the world, which in a classical Hollywood narrative would have been a well-known white male (e.g. Bruce Willis in Surrogates, Fifth Element and Armageddon, Keanu Reeves in The Matrix trilogy or Tom Cruise in Minority Report and War of the Worlds). In contrast, Von Trier favours complicated female protagonists who are so distressed from within that they embrace danger when it comes. Yet again, these women do not fight aliens, robots or Mother Nature – they excel in an inner fight with the inevitable. Male characters are, however, present for a while and leave the narrative in almost comic way: Justine’s new husband Michael departs unable to cope with the odd behaviour of his wife on their wedding night whereas Claire’s scientist husband John commits suicide realizing that the end is near. If men are meant to be strong and powerful and women – helpless and weak – then Von Trier swiftly changes the order of these oppositions in a way only a few filmmakers can.

          Furthermore, since women are driving the narrative it is worth looking at leading martyr-heroine characters closer. The first segment shows Justine (played by Kirsten Dunst) as a beautiful bride approaching wedding reception with her newly wed husband Michael. Her striking exterior, however, hides a troubled and alienated individual who, as the night proves, finds transcendence in masochism along with some other weird choices – such as disappearing to urinate in the garden, taking a bath midway through reception or spontaneously raping a new colleague. Nevertheless, Justine is the only one to notice a red star in the sky and so her depression only grows deeper as it approaches. She doesn’t seem to care about the pricey wedding or her new husband, and descends into a memory of the forthcoming future as if she had envisioned a previously mentioned prologue before. Justine mourns the loss of life before it even happens and thus alienates herself from the crowd while her tradition-hating mother Gaby ironically proclaims: “enjoy it while it lasts!” And she will, in the most masochistic way possible.

In mourning it is the world which has become poor and empty; in melancholia it is the ego itself (Freud, 1957:246).

Indeed, melancholia is not only the name of a planet hurtling towards the Earth to destroy it; it is also a state of mind which Freud talks about in "Mourning and Melancholia". Ironically, we do not know which truly destroys Justine. But while the lost object in Freudian terms is another life, our protagonist narcissistically mourns her own. She claims to “know things”...and she knows that “life is only on Earth” and that it is “evil.” In fact, mourning and self-torture are her answers to anxiety and fear, converting into acceptance when she finally gets out of bed to witness the end instead of hiding away.

          Claire (Charlotte Gainsbourg), on the other hand, initially appears as Justine’s opposite: she is calm, optimistic and organized. She oozes balance during the chaotic wedding and takes care of her fading sister, only to fall into despair when coming to understand the darker recess of her own humanity. Claire was blindfolded believing her husband when rumours of the two planets colliding started to spread. “Trust me, I’m a scientist” he said, before cowardly committing an act of taking his own life. Seeing is believing – and Claire’s denial was overshadowed by evidence. As said by Sigmund Freud,

The interdependence of the complicated problems of the mind forces us to break off every enquiry before it is completed—till the outcome of some other enquiry can come to its assistance (1957:285).

She also mourns her loss, but her previously serene persona will have a longer journey towards acceptance. Subsequently, the two sisters exchange personalities and it is now Justine who’s holding Claire’s trembling hand in the ‘magic cave’ whilst Melancholia enters the planetary boundary layer.

          Lars Von Trier adds another twist to the narrative – as he is usually known to do (e.g. talking self-destructive foxes in the Antichrist) in order to confuse the spectator. John confronts irritable Justine during the party, concluding with a seemingly random question:

“How many holes are on the golf course?”

-          “18”, she answers.

Nevertheless, one of the final shots produces an image of Claire and her son Leo falling to the ground on a golf course – next to the 19^th hole. On one hand, golfers speak about the nineteenth hole when the game is finished and they gather for a drink at the clubhouse. Another explanation is found in the 80ies TV series Knight Rider where it is used as a slang term - meaning the place where they bury people who get in the way. With Von Trier, though, this idea has to be explored further. Does he refer to life as a game which eventually finishes? Or is he comparing Melancholia’s arrival to the golf ball which, having reached the final hole, plummets into nothingness? And finally, is the nineteenth hole the end or, possibly, a new beginning? This scene toys with the viewer as much as film’s revealing prologue which discloses its finale before the main body of work, and presents life & death in a different light yet again.

          Two planets. Two sisters. Life and death. Von Trier succeeds in delivering his vision of apocalypse through contrasts and binary oppositions. He avoids cinematic clichés of the genre and focuses on the inner journey towards acceptance. It’s a dark, yet visually enriched and therefore beautiful poem about The End of the World, the magnitude of which eventually blurs all boundaries. All the more, Melancholia does not rule out that death might be only the end of a poem before the new chapter begins; hitherto we are left with a black screen and a scar...for now, at least.

Bibliography:

Ebert, R. (2011) “Melancholia: by Roger Ebert”, Chicago Sunday Times online, 9^th Nov, viewed 7^th December 2011,

http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20111109/REVIEWS/111109970

Freud, S. (1957) "Mourning and Melancholia", Standard Edition of The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud, vol. 14. London, England: Hogarth Press

Keane, S. (2001) “The sense of an ending”, Disaster Movies: The Cinema of Catastrophe, London: Wallflower

 Sandhu S. (2011) Melancholia review, The Telegraph, 29^th Sept, viewed 7^th December 2011,

              http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/film/filmreviews/8797335/Melancholia-review.html

Thompson, K. M. (2007) Apocalyptic Dread: American Film at the Turn of the Millennium, Albany: State University of New York Press

TheGiO (user) (2011), Melancholia Prologue video, YouTube, 2^nd Oct, viewed 8^th December 2011,

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xWQ2YZG8kcA

Filmography:

Melancholia (Von Trier, 2011, Denmark/Sweden/France/Germany)

... ... ... ''Wanna get out of here?''

Crazy Stupid Love (dir. Glenn Ficarra and John Requa, 2011) is exactly what it sounds like – another relationship-mocking rom-com. Insert a bit of heart and a few male characters unhappily in love instead of traditionally distressed women, and you get a watchable film with Steve Carell, Ryan Gosling, Julianne Moore and Emma Stone leading the pack.

Carell plays Moore’s husband Cal Weaver who has been “buying the wrong size suit for 20 years” and whose wife has thus ordered a divorce for dessert (no pricetag for that one-bummer!). Oh, and there’s this David Lindhagen (cameo by Kevin Bacon) guy who plays the third wheel, but we’ll be hearing that name a lot in the context...be warned! Having overheard Cal crying in the bathroom his boss is pleased to point out it’s not cancer, ONLY a divorce...but that’s where films irony only starts to emerge. Cal’s 13-year old son Robbie (Jonah Bobo) is in love with his slightly older nanny Jessica (ANTM graduate Analeigh Tipton) while she has hots for the newly divorced daddy himself. Complicated yet? It only gets better.

Unable to forgive & forget (and somewhat returning to his 4o year old virgin self) Carell’s character starts heading to a bar where he witnesses Ryan Gosling’s Jacob leave with a different girl every night. Surprisingly...ok, not really, but still: macho man himself offers help in finding Cal’s manhood yet again. In reality, he must be as tired of hearing Lindhagen’s name as the rest of us. The credit cards then come in handy and Cal soon becomes and older version Jacob himself...on the outside at least. He still wants to get back with the missus and live happily ever after (stupid, but not crazy, and most certainly L.O.V.E.) and, luckily for Cal, it only takes bedding 9 women in the process. Lindhagen can’t beat that!

Feminists might erupt in fury at the sight of women in the bar who appear to be nothing more than sexual objects, falling for Jacob’s cheesy lines like bees for honey. That certainly is the first impression until...let’s face it: the film indirectly critiques those who decide to wake up the morning after as oppose to denying the “wanna get out of here?” invite. Head to your nearest bar for evidence and witness a real-life irony of the narrative in Crazy Stupid Love (in your own time).

It is still a misery to me why has Golsing – who’s gradually building a reputation of an indie king – chosen the role of Jacob? Was he looking for an easy way to establish himself as the Hollywood’s ‘it boy’? Whatever the reason, ladies will certainly take notice while critics may dwell on limitations of this macho man character. Either way – notice taken twice!

Ficarra and Requa might not have made the best rom-com ever and neither were they aiming to do so. Regardless, it is a very watchable piece with a dash of irony and occasional laughs just where they belong. Not an eye-opener, but, hey, at least someone has made a good joke about what’s become of old-school first dates and romance altogether.

Predictably (spoiler alert), those not looking for love find it eventually and those with a broken heart get cured. Yet you cannot help but wonder: why do men get through the relationship drama easier and with, err, more grace?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eK68Y3oMEk8

The Only Edward I’ll Ever Love Has Scissors For Hands

INTRO

Humanity has truly come a long way – built cities, formed countries and languages, invented and destroyed. Yet there are timeless issues which we have not mastered to address – and dealing with otherness in the society is certainly one of them. The topic has been approached by many filmmakers, but I’d like to focus this paper on Tim Burton’s Edward Scissorhands (1990) - a film which also reflects on director’s personal experiences growing up in Burbank, California and not being able to find a sense of belonging in its suburban community. It is a dark modern day fairy-tale telling a story of a misperceived individual Edward who has scissors for hands thus criticizing social conformity and its inability to accept otherness.

WHERE DO YOU COME FROM?

Edward’s alienation becomes evident instantly. He comes from a dark mansion on top of the hill where his scientist-father had died before completing his creation with regular hands. We do not know how long Edward has been observing the town and neither do we know if he ever wanted to escape isolation, but Peg’s arrival gives him a chance to become a part of community for the first time. Consequently, film’s director Tim Burton creates an illusion of two contrasting worlds through films colourful imagery and his Gothic protagonist which spawn stronger atmosphere than meaningless action or long dialogues. As argued by Manuel Aguirre, ‘One of the identifying features of the continually shifting definition of the Gothic is the fascination with thresholds and boundaries, the places where two worlds and two kinds of experience meet. One of the key ways this idea is explored in Gothic narratives is through placing ‘ordinary people in “extraordinary positions (in Bloom, 2007:235)”’. For that reason much of film’s meaning is conveyed through Burton’s use of colours, camera angles, symbolic codes and material’s intertextuality.

THAT OTHERNESS OF YOURS

First of all, a panning aerial shot reveals a suburban location where families reside in evenly distanced pastel-colour houses and live seemingly perfect lives. Their cars are equally colourful, and so are their accessories and even the food they eat; men go to work while women handle household activities and pamper themselves. The picturesque town is a place where people of the same social class gather and know each other...or do they, really? It is a 1950’s suburban existence which, despite its colourful exterior, is rather blank, unstable and unwilling to welcome change in its core. Although younger generation is seen as more rebellious in their appearance (wearing T-shirts and jeans) and behaviour, it still comforts to the same set of values without questioning those. Edward’s arrival thus interrupts and confronts this false utopian narrative, causing interest and excitement as soon as Peg’s car pulls in town. Overwhelmed neighbours soon invite themselves for a traditional barbecue and having met Edward call him “so different “and “mysterious”, and yet he is mutely observed as the Other and therefore a threat. Moreover, Edward comes across as pale, clumsy and rather gothic, hence not conforming to the certain image his new-found friends find normal. Giving the impression of acceptance towards the newcomer they start calling him Eddy, change his clothes and introduce their ethics, emphasizing on the “nice thing to do” and the “correct thing to do”. Ironically, it is Avon lady Peg Boggs who seemed as the most caring and human resident of the society proclaiming: “it’s all about blending in” whilst trying to conceal Edward’s facial scars. And it is, indeed, either blending in or eternal exile from the suburb where the interior is much darker and frostier than what its domestic outlook suggests at first glance. Burton’s outlandish character hence proves that invaders are not always extraterrestrial while, in fact, Edward is simply a minority and therefore forced to change in order to become part of the mainstream – speaking to those who have ever felt alienated among their own kind.

Edward’s discourse is set to confront the viewer not only through film’s binary oppositions of colour, but also through its symbolic codes: although we know that Edward wasn’t born, his creator thought of humanizing him when noticing a heart-shaped cookie and drawing it towards Ed’s chest. He acts as any other human and bares emotions - either pain, love or anger – yet remains a misunderstood outsider, a villain against his own will and, as Burton explains himself

“[...] a character who wants to touch but can’t, who was both creative and destructive. I think a lot of people feel that way to some degree, because it’s frustrating and sad to feel a certain way but for it not to come through (Burton, in Salisbury, 1995:87)”

In response, Burton creates another contrast and questions humanity of the kinky suburban community whilst highlighting its inability to see clearly through the narrow windows of the town’s indistinguishable residences. Christmas theme is equally symbolic in contest and shows that Edward is cast out community when no one should be alone - abolishing not only the holiday spirit, but also proving that traditions are often cherished until selfishness and personal gain take over. All in all, the society Edward encounters is as fake as the artificial snow decorating its festive rooftops and he runs shredding the given white shirt which was meant to make him look ‘normal’, to be one of them. Subsequently, Burton toys with colours once more – denying white as the colour of purity.

There is enough power in Edward to charge the film with energy and poignancy. The creature with scissors is multi-layered and complex enough as a symbol to invite multiple, and conflicting, interpretations (Bassil-Morozow, 2010:16).

Edward Scissorhands is, after all, not only a fantasy tale about a likeable misfit who happens to have scissors for hands, but also a critique of the American suburban community which often fails to recognize talent and creativity. It masterfully explores destructive power of the social order which has a tendency to evolve into a powerful villain in fighting those who actually require support & encouragement. Subsequently, Burton proves that in a battle of good and evil the side with a white flag is not always representing a hero, whereas the one wearing black is not necessarily a villain. Likewise, otherness in the society might appear somewhat scary and unwelcoming on the outside, but - as seen in Edward Scissorhands – be humble, creative and kind on the inside, and by no means should result in alienation of the individual whose only sin is being different.

Bibliography:

Aguirre, M. (2000) “Narrative Structure, Liminality, Self-Similarity: the Case of Gothic Fiction”, in Bloom, C. (2007) Gothic Horror: A Guide for Students and Readers. Basingstoke: Palgrave/Macmillan

Bassil-Morozow, H. (2010) Tim Burton: The Monster and the Crowd. East Sussex: Routledge

Salisbury, M. (1995) Burton on Burton. London: Faber and Faber Limited

Filmography:

Edward Scissorhands (Burton, 1990, USA)

HURTS

Blue Valentine (2010)

Boy meets girl. They fall in love. 6 years later the fireworks end.

Yet Blue Valentine is not a typical Hollywood produced relationship drama and certainly not a common pick for lovers’ day. First-time director Derek Cianfrance casts carefully selected Ryan Gosling as his leading man Dean alongside Michelle William’s Cindy to portray a story of two people uniting for a 6-year journey only to part ways having nothing in common left. The choice of actors is remarkable – Cianfrance had to convince Williams to take the part and it almost feels like Cindy’s character has been created with her in mind. Gosling, on the other hand, comes out of his shell to prove that he is now a mature actor ready to challenge the acting elite and that there’s more to him than 15 minutes of fame gained in the Mickey Mouse Club and The Notebook. It never feels like neither Gosling nor Williams are acting and their performance onscreen might be easily confused with a silent observation of neighbours next door. But what if it turned out to be a mirror of your own failed relationships (?) – that’s one question not easy to ignore during film’s running time.

Blue Valentine is charming in its simplicity and leaves out exaggerated love expressions in favour of understated middle-class romance. Nevertheless, Gosling’s melancholic performance of You Always Hurt the Ones You Love alongside William’s tap-dancing won’t leave anyone longing for a more magical love expression. What the film lacks is explanation of why the relationship between Cindy and Dean was short lived – although Cianfrance’s filmmaking debut acknowledges that there won’t always be answers to all the questions beginning with ‘why’. The story of couple’s journey is therefore left to viewer’s imagination while the narrative cuts between scenes of their first meeting and the growing distance in present day. Sometimes relationships work, sometimes they don’t, and fireworks end. And Cianfrance has definitely has found the right color to deliver the message.

Rutterfly Rating: R R R R R

Memorable Moment: You Always Hurt The Ones You Love performance

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