The Destructible Spy Thriller: Brad Bird's "Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol"

“Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol” surprises us by recycling the plot from two of the first three films in the series and still managing to rework it into something truly inventive and engaging. I could have sworn that this franchise was long out of gas, and I admit that I groaned a bit when I heard that “M:i-III” was not going to be the final chapter in the chronicles of Ethan Hunt, superspy. “Ghost Protocol” is helmed by Brad Bird, the man behind Pixar’s “The Incredibles.” This automatically makes him the most unexpectedly obvious directorial selection this year. In the hands of such a creative as he, I’m not only convinced of the franchise’s continued vitality, but also on board for however many more they want to make, as long as they don’t hire a complete idiot to spearhead the operation.

In point of fact, this might be the first true sequel to the 1995 blockbuster that we’ve seen. “Ghost Protocol” is the only follow-up so far to replicate the pleasantly campy atmosphere that made the original so endearing. Most of us will agree to forget John Woo’s terrible second film, which concerned itself more with slow motion and karate chopping (oh yeah, and lots and lots of doves) than plot. J.J. Abrams’ third installment had the best villain of the series in a creepily deadpan Philip Seymour Hoffman, but the worst MacGuffin in the “Rabbit’s Foot,” which Abrams’ tiresome secret-mongering refused to let us know the slightest detail about. Not to mention that Ethan’s impending marriage, though a handy plot element, felt more like a gimmick than anything else. “III” was a blast of an action film, but didn’t feel any more ideologically in line with the original than “2.”

I was surprised, honestly, that “Ghost Protocol” didn’t try to sweep Ethan’s wife under the rug, and even more astonished that it managed to get some drama out of her mysterious absence. And that’s the first of its storytelling innovations. “Ghost Protocol” provides us with two other phenomena that are virtually unheard of in espionage fiction. 

First, it shows us an adventure that is, in essence, the purest dramatic realization of Murphy’s Law I’ve seen. Everything that can go wrong in this film does go wrong, often in a darkly comedic manner and always at the least opportune moment. Ethan and his team are, for quite possibly the first time, in way over their heads. Watch any James Bond film before “Casino Royale,” and you’ll know that this is simply not done. The master spy always knows what to do; is always cool under any circumstances. But in “Ghost Protocol,” we see a team pushed to its limits. Ethan’s sarcastic reply to a comrade’s statement of the obvious – while dangling harness-free along the face of Burj Khalifa (a truly harrowing and beautifully shot sequence that serves as the film’s centerpiece)– is not only the biggest laugh of the film, but also one of its most human moments. 

“Ghost Protocol’s” second innovation is what may be called the singe-handed creation of the physically vulnerable action character – you know, the antithesis of the bullet-resistant hero that we mock whenever we watch an Arnold Schwarzenegger film. When gunshots are taken in this film, our team members feel the effects… and when bones are broken, as in the frantic climactic showdown between Ethan and this year’s psycho-villain extraordinaire Hendricks, they stay broken. This means that by the end, the two men aren’t sparring anymore so much as crawling. It is both a strangely humorous and riveting image, and it certainly means that the action hits home more than it would otherwise. It really is the simple things like these that can make or break an action movie this outrageous. “Ghost Protocol” succeeds in a big way. 

A word must be said about Hendricks, because his character is unfortunately the film’s weakest element. It’s the second time this season that an excellent Swedish actor (here Michael Nyqvist, another “Dragon Tattoo” alum along with “Sherlock’s” Noomi Rapace) is left with woefully little to do. Nyqvist is mostly asked here to stand aloof from the action and look evil, though he must also occasionally spout some really ludicrous stuff about nuclear war being necessary for “reaching the next stage of human evolution,” and reluctantly fistfight Tom Cruise in the film’s final minutes. Critics complained about Philip Seymour Hoffman’s “Owen Davian” having no personality in the third film, but I think that can be said far more of Hendricks in this one. The Hollywood gears must be grinding hot in preparation for Christmas. I’ll never understand what compels executives (or sometimes even the actors themselves) to stick good people in lousy roles.

Hendricks, however, is honestly such a small presence in the film that his blandness doesn’t distract much from the fun. And there is the best sort of fun to be had here. For sheer holiday spectacle, the IMF has you covered, and looks to be in business for quite a while.

Well-Played: Guy Ritchie's "Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows"

In general, there is little that can be said about “Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows” that was not already said about its predecessor. Because the 2009 reboot of Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous detective series was one of the best films of its year, this is almost better than anyone could have hoped for. Robert Downey, Jr. is still manically brilliant as the eponymous master sleuth. Jude Law’s Watson, ever the straight man, still rolls his eyes and covers his partner’s back. Sherlock purists are still balking at the very idea of this update, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s their own fault. I too grew up reading the short stories, but made a promise to myself before seeing the first installment of this new used franchise that I wouldn’t try to fit director Guy Ritchie’s gritty, action-heavy product into Conan Doyle’s decidedly more urbane mold. It worked; I think the only film of 2009 I enjoyed more than “Sherlock Holmes” was “Avatar.”

I will say, however, that the purists do have a point this time around. “A Game of Shadows” isn’t only a loud “Sherlock Holmes” movie; it’s just a loud movie. It’s got enough explosions, gunfire, and slow motion to make Michael Bay take notice for more than his typical fifth of a second. The crime-fighting duo are always running, gunning, or both, usually with their gypsy client Simza (a cruelly underused Noomi Rapace) in tow. 

Granted, the stakes here are high: either Holmes and Watson succeed, or World War I breaks out thirty years early. But the level of action in the first film, though undeniably high for anything Conan Doyle might write, never struck me as gratuitous. Here, it’s occasionally distracting, and I felt that certain story elements, like Holmes’ signature powers of deduction, were left in the dust while we careened from one set piece to another. “A Game of Shadows” is really more of a chase movie than a mystery, so there’s woefully little detective work for Holmes to do here, unlike before. I also think that with a little more breathing space in between action sequences, as spectacular as some of them are, poor Noomi Rapace (the original “Girl with the Dragon Tattoo”) could have shown American audiences more of what she can do. Apparently, she’s an incredible actress. You’d never know it from this film – she exists here more as a plot device than an actual character.

Thankfully, the same cannot be said of Holmes’ arch nemesis Professor James Moriarty. I had concerns that he would become simply another “villain of the week,” and that his implications in story and theme would go untapped. They are not, and whatever criticisms I level at “A Game of Shadows” in terms of action and pacing are completely redeemed by the sheer power of the scenes between the Professor and Holmes. 

The “Napoleon of Crime” is played by relative unknown Jared Harris, who has apparently existed on the lower levels of the Hollywood superstructure until now. He’s brilliant, and his portrayal of Moriarty is, in my opinion, definitive.  He doesn’t speechify on matters of twisted philosophy like Ledger’s Joker, but he exists on a very similar plane. Harris is masterful at hinting at the madness behind Moriarty’s placid façade. We see it in subtle ways, like the manner in which he’ll stare blankly at whoever he’s speaking to regardless of whether he is being conciliatory or making a dire threat. Indeed, there’s a torture scene that features the cultured Moriarty, for dramatic effect, singing a Schubert art song with complete and terrifying lack of expression. Harris’ performance is deeply unsettling, bordering on sociopathic. In other words, pitch perfect. And don’t even get me started on the final showdown between Holmes and Moriarty, in which Holmes’ habitual previsualization of fighting moves is cleverly turned against him. This is a moment of inspired storytelling, and would be worth the price of admission even by itself. 

For the second time this week I am in danger of churning out another review that seems to be divided against itself, so let me be clear. “Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows” is more than worth a view, and establishes itself as a very worthy sequel to the excellent 2009 film. Though it doesn’t quite improve on the formula set by the first installment, it is at the very least a highly successful carry over. I enjoyed it just as much, and for a sequel that’s no elementary achievement.

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "Children of Men"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here.

 

Nominated at the 79^th Academy Awards for its film editing, Alfonso Cuaron’s critically acclaimed “Children of Men” is at first glance admirable more for its handheld cinematography than for the work done on it in the editing suite. It is doubtless the single best example of handheld photography that I have seen, making ideal use of the much-contested “shaky-cam” technique to create immediacy without once sacrificing scene geography or visual sense.

And yet, since an Academy Award nomination so often means more than an Academy Award win, there must be something to the editing work that Cuaron and Alex Rodriguez completed before the film’s theatrical release. One may begin an analysis of the edits contained within “Children of Men” with discussion of the film’s numerous “oner” sequences – scenes shot and allowed to run for minutes at a time seemingly without cuts whatsoever. The most impressive of these include a bombing that opens the film, an attack on a car in the middle of the woods, and an elaborately staged urban warfare sequence that runs for an unbelievable 9 minutes in length. If you listen carefully, you can hear Orson Welles weeping with shame.

Further research may prove comforting to him, however: digital trickery was used to blend separate 3-4 minute shots together into one seamless whole. You can see this through only very subtle give-aways. The most obvious occurs during the aforementioned battle scene, when a few small droplets of blood that splashed on the camera lens mysteriously disappear halfway through the shot. 

It took me at least five minutes to register their absence, and to be honest I can’t quite remember whether or not there was an actual hard cut to another camera angle that marked the disappearance of those droplets. Ironically, I was so busy marveling at the sheer improbability of the shot length that if there were any edits to break it up, I must have missed them.

And therein lies the reason for the nomination. “Children of Men,” as far as I’m concerned, defines the concept of the “invisible edit.” Such edits are an essential component of its documentary-style verisimilitude. “Children of Men” seeks to create a complete illusion of reality, and for two hours, through its flawless use of subtly jerky cinematography and edits that carefully conserve directional camera movement from one shot to another, it succeeds in placing the viewer within a future world that is only a hair’s breadth away from existence in our own. 

From the outset, it is made clear to us that the camera, and therefore we by proxy, are a participant in this world and the story that drives Theo and the other characters. Rarely, if ever, is the camera ever standing still. It is always in motion, trailing the action, circling tense situations like a combat photographer might. But I digress; these are matters of cinematography. I will assert, however, that if the camera serves as our avatar, the edits here serve as our eye blinks. This film is rated R for graphic violence, and it lives up to its certification – but not necessarily because of content. There is blood, and there are deaths. But Cuaron is careful to never show more than he has to – and when the camera cuts away from a particularly violent image, it is timed to the exact moment at which we realize what we are actually seeing. Look, for example, at the opening scene: Theo has just narrowly escaped being a victim in the bombing of a coffee shop on a major London thoroughfare. He looks in shock back at the smoke, and the camera runs past him. Through the haze, we see the shape of a woman staggering towards us. She is screaming. And in the microsecond before the camera cuts to the black title card, we realize that she is carrying one of her severed arms. The camera cuts at the precise instant an observer might have squeezed his or her eyes shut from shock and nausea. It is not the image we see, exactly, or remember; it is the impression. And it is this visual shorthand, this form of truncation, which forces us to fill the rest in with our imagination, and thus magnify its intensity within our minds.

“Children of Men” is a film that thrives on impression. We never truly understand the politics of the society we find ourselves surrounded by, nor do we understand why humans, as Michael Caine’s character puts with characteristic delicacy, “can’t make babies anymore.” We see only glimpses on the ground – flashes of propaganda or gore or violence that say infinitely more than any narration. Cuaron and Rodriquez were nominated because they chose exactly the right elements to make the impression, and spliced them together in a way that lets us experience them as someone who is actually there.

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "Collateral"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here.
 

I had always wanted to see this one, but for some reason never got around to it until just now. Perhaps because of my inherent interest in the story, then, “Collateral” was the easiest to sit through of all the films required for this class. And this is a story that lived up to my expectations thematically and narratively. It’s hard for me to remember when I last saw a film with characters that were so well-drawn and believable - yes, even the Cruise character, though sociopathic to the extreme, seems to be grounded in the film’s reality. Though they are abstract, he has motivations, and a clearly defined personality. I specifically remember the scene just after Vincent shoots the lowlifes who rob Max while tied to the steering wheel in the alley. For an instant, as Vincent stalked back towards the taxi, I feared for Max’s life. Then I chided myself, because I knew instinctively that retaliation for Max’s attempt at attracting attention would be out of character for Vincent. Sure enough, he simply unties Max and they go on their way. That is truly great character writing. A lesser screenwriter (myself included) would have resorted to at least a pistol-whip. But to Vincent, Max is just a means to an end – hardly worth the exertion. He is coolly confident that the unlucky cab driver is cowed.

That said, let’s talk about Michael Mann’s camera work and lens language. It seems that a common thread between his films (especially his later ones) is his consistent decision to shoot in HD at higher frame rates than is standard. This lends his footage a real-life veracity that is usually missing in other films. The shots look and feel real – there is none of the almost imperceptible “slow-down” that occurs with 24 fps film that distinguishes shot footage from real life. 

As far as the overall mood of claustrophobia is concerned, I noticed specifically that there is very little camera tilt or pan. The camera is always level, and more often than not, it looks straight ahead, even while action is taking place. Cuts take place from one stationary angle to another, and it created the feeling for me that I was unable to turn my head, almost as if Vincent’s gun were being held to my head. Camera motion only seems to occur when an action by a character would take him out of frame otherwise. I also took note of a large number of clean singles, especially close shots of Max as he frets, or on Vincent as he dominates the frame. We feel trapped with the characters inside their own minds, or trapped with them under the influence of Vincent. 

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "O Brother, Where Art Thou"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here.

“O Brother, Where Art Thou,” like some of the other Coen Bros. films that I’ve seen in the past, is so steadfast in its own brand of quirkiness that much of its humor was lost on me.  I understood the gags, and chuckled at a few here and there (“We’re in a tight spot!”), but never really connected with them.

I suppose, then, that my own personal brand of humor is too narrow, but it does not prevent me from saying that of the Coen films I have experienced, this is one of the best looking. I imagine Roger Deakins collaborates with the Coens so much because his visual style is as earnest and straight-faced as their deadpan wit. His work is always just what it needs to be – clear, focused, and correctly exposed. It is never flashy, so it is sometimes difficult for me (still largely uninitiated in the technical world of filmmaking) to recognize his shots as more than adequate, although they are, in reality, quietly flawless.

“O Brother, Where Art Thou” certainly marks the heaviest use of color correction I’ve ever encountered from Deakins. This is, for all intents and purposes, a monochrome film - black and white isn’t really the correct term, because the final aesthetic is more reminiscent of sepia-tone photographs from the Depression-era. The color effect, I imagine, was completed almost entirely in post, though Deakins‘ eye for beauty in bleakness must have provided a natural in-camera starting point. Is it effective? I can’t imagine this film working without it, so I would say so. The color correction not only perfectly represents the dustiness and heat of the setting and era, but also adds a crucial element of the surreal to the story as a whole, providing at least some grounding and stability for the Coens’ bizarre narrative. The film would be unwatchable if the sheer strangeness of its story were not acknowledged by Deakins’ use of color. 

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "The Duellists"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here. 

It’s interesting to watch “A Good Year,” a later and less conventional Ridley Scott film, and then turn around to see “The Duellists,” where Scott was largely still perfecting his style. They are both classic examples of his framing, camera motion, and devotion to careful lighting. “The Duellists,” however, is (expectedly) less refined. This may sound like a strange diagnosis, because Scott so carefully builds every scene and painstakingly composes every shot, every frame. But I say that it is a less mature work from a technical standpoint simply because it is so heavily structured. We might not mind it, because it fits the subject matter of military regimentation very well (I’ll even give Scott the benefit of the doubt and assume that this is what he meant it for). But it feels rigid, almost as if he’s confident in the theory and style he’s found but has yet to really experiment with them. Or maybe that’s just me.

Let’s talk about some things that make this film distinctively Scott. The lighting is indeed spectacular, not simply because there seems to be so little practical or motivated light use throughout. The majority of the film takes place outdoors, at the magic hour, and it gives the whole production a very painterly, poised feeling (almost mimicking the neo-classical paintings of the Napoleonic period). But the real wonder, for me, was that Scott was able to make use of such great light in his interior scenes, as well. There was only one scene in the entire film that I felt was obviously made possible by motivated light (when d’Hubert meets with the doctor late at night, and he lights two candles on the desk). Otherwise, either little to no practical light was necessary, or it was so well disguised that I took no notice.

Another Scott trademark is his use of push-ins or move-ins. Often, in this film, he’ll start with a sweeping, tableau-like establishing shot and then focus on a part of it. At one point he does the opposite, starting close on what looks like a still life setting for a painter and moving out to include the entire room in the shot.  It’s a good idea, because it allows us to experience the idealization of the period as if we were viewing a piece of fine artwork, and then focuses us in on the key actions and players in the scene. It is also, in my opinion, overused here, and seemingly done not with a dolly or crane but a simple zoom lens. It often feels flat and cheesy (although the flatness might contribute to the concept of the “living painting”), and I’m glad Scott decided to use it less in his later films (the degree to which he uses them in films like “A Good Year” is less distracting and more of a recognizable element of personal style).

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "A Good Year"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here.

Romantic comedy struck many people, myself included, as an odd choice of genre for Ridley Scott and his favorite lead actor Russell Crowe. “A Good Year” is a huge departure from Scott’s typically gritty subject matter, and the character of Max Skinner is nowhere close to the tough guy roles that we’re used to seeing Crowe inhabit. The final result is, therefore, understandably awkward at times. Scott tries everything in his power to keep the energy level up, even resorting to humor that can really only be described as slapstick. When this happens, it feels forced, and verges on exhausting at times. But Scott and Crowe (who will never have to prove his dramatic range in any other way) did manage to get some big laughs from me, and I’ve never considered myself to be much of a comedy person. Perhaps the most fascinating thing about “A Good Year” is that it is still, through and through, a distinctively Ridley Scott production, even down to his characteristic pans, move-ins, and impeccable credit typography.

The thematic use of color in “A Good Year” is clever, but not really original or groundbreaking. Steven Soderbergh’s “Traffic” is another good example of this concept. It utilizes different color temperatures to distinguish between its many storylines, and to show the emotional and ideological remoteness of some characters from the subject of drugs. Ridley Scott uses contrasting warm and cool color temperatures here to contrast the cold, calculating worldview of the London stock exchange with the balmy, down-to-earth ethos of the vineyard workers in Provence. In so doing, the distinctness of the two worlds from each other is made clear, and we really do get a sense of how far removed Max’s adult beliefs are from the ideals that his Uncle tried to instill within him in childhood. 

But then again, when we first meet Max, he is essentially an oversized child. He’s got the life experience of a thirty-five year old, but he’s still interested mostly in winning, making money, and gloating over his vanquished financial opponents. Beyond those things, he really takes nothing seriously. The blue hues and plush settings of his world in London are the polar opposite of his Uncle’s world in Provence: superficial, glossy, and sterile, like he is (on an emotional level). The sunny tones of the vineyard in France, like Uncle Henry, may seem more frivolous and lazy in comparison, but they actually reflect a deeper truth: simple living yields many more joys than living for worldly success. “A Good Year” isn’t about Skinner’s shift from living responsibly to living freely; it is about his realization that a more fulfilling life awaits him when he is not living for empty wealth. He is finally growing up.

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here.

 

I began "Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?" after twelve one night, and finished well after three in the morning. It was a unique and disturbing experience, one that helped me to realize more vividly the nightmarish quality of the drama. Bleary-eyed, tired, and on the verge of incoherent at times, I felt as if I were stuck in the mire of that ferocious grudge match with the characters. It was not a pleasant experience. I felt afterwards less like I had finished a movie than survived an ordeal.

“Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” is all about staging. This is hardly surprising. It is adapted from a play, and it is shot like a play. The takes are long and the cuts are few and far between. The lighting is deliberate, but stationary. The major difference that I see between normal theatrical staging and the staging we experience here within the frame is that our set or location is three-dimensional and envelops both the characters and us as the audience. And when you think about it, this is the reason that this particular play, more so than so many others, is such a success on the screen. Put simply, we are trapped with the characters in the situation and the scene. The walls are narrow, and the camera puts us in fairly close proximity to our fellow “participants” (namely Martha, George, etc.). It’s no wonder that whenever we transition to an outdoor location, the pace slows and the hateful tone simmers down from boiling for a moment. When we are indoors, we are in a dreadful pressure cooker of emotional violence and psychological warfare.

Much could also be said of director Mike Nichols’ careful selection of camera angles, many of which bring to mind the stylistic flourishes of Orson Welles a la “Touch of Evil.” Dutch tilts are used, for example, almost exclusively in quick reaction shots of Nick and Honey, reflecting their confusion and state of mental imbalance regarding Martha and George’s abusive relationship. Another interesting touch, and one that also brings to mind the translation of the drama from stage to screen, is Nichols’ close framing of George and Martha during their several respective monologues throughout the course of the plot. The camera holds right up on them, and stays with them for excruciatingly long takes. This is very theatrical, and focuses the viewer on dramatic rather than cinematic method. When the camera does move during these long takes, however, it directly reflects the emotional state of the character in question. Look, for example, at one of Martha’s monologues, where the camera stays tight on her face even as it pans back and forth as if pacing with her.

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "Girl With A Pearl Earring"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here.

A languidly paced but quietly fascinating film, “Girl With A Pearl Earring” is a much more successful exercise in restrained temptation/attraction than all of Stephanie Meyers’ “Twilight” films and novels combined. I found its conclusion to be realistic, even if the motivations of the characters are somewhat unclear by today’s standards. I imagine, however, that the eponymous pearl earrings were seen as much more than simply adornment – they were a status symbol, and bestowed upon a lowly servant girl rather than the mistress of a household they represented the crossing of a now-antiquated but powerful societal line.

Those familiar with the works of Johannes Vermeer (I confess I am not) will no doubt recognize the most important location in the film, his private studio, as the setting for many of his more famous pieces. It is, of course, painstakingly recreated here, but it is not primarily the replication of image or space that cements for us the sensation of inclusion in a living version of Vermeer’s paintings. Rather, it was for me the careful use of lighting, especially within such key areas as the studio and such key scenes as the completion of Vermeer’s painting of Griet.

I know from shooting emulations of famous photographs for Holland’s “Introduction to Photography” course that exact replication of lighting in any situation is very difficult to achieve. The angle of lighting has to be right. If you’re working in color, the light has to be of the correct warmth and hue, and there can’t be too much or too little of it. In this film, director Peter Webber nails all of the above, especially the element of diffusion in the light that Vermeer painted. All of the works of his that I’ve seen feature very soft lighting. Shadows exist, but they are not often sharply defined or clearly bounded. The overall tone is hazy and cool – comfortable, and almost sleepy. It is Webber’s particular stroke of genius to shoot the entire film this way. The image appears softened, and this is not simply a product of enlarging the small format of the mp4 file I viewed. In this way, we get the sense that the whole movie is, in fact, one big Vermeer painting, and that we, like Griet, are little pieces of his artistic vision. 

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "Touch of Evil"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here.

I need to watch “Touch of Evil” again. I found myself completely unprepared for, and confused, by Orson Welles’ directing style, and consequently drew a blank on much of the first twenty minutes.

Once my wits were about me, though, I did indeed notice more of cinematographer Russell Metty’s style, and Welles’ careful framing of each individual character. This is a very deliberately shot film, and I took a surprisingly deep satisfaction in admiring the constant compositional balance, even in the face of some really bizarre camera angles.

Interesting, isn’t it, how more unorthodox methods of framing like the “Dutch tilt” are more frequently used as the mental state of the villainous Hank Quinlan becomes progressively more precarious? This gives the final, climactic scene a disturbingly dream-like (nightmarish, if you will) quality, and serves to suggest Quinlan’s drunken state of rage.

Ironically, it also increased my sympathy for Quinlan in his final moments. His (and our) sense of reality is by that point so corrupted that his death seems like more of an act of mercy than retribution. Notice, also, how his character’s “native” camera angle changes suddenly and drastically. Before, shots of Quinlan had been predominantly low-angle, emphasizing his bullish stubbornness and headstrong determination to solve things his way. This made the shot of Quinlan under the mounted bull-head at Tana’s place even more surreal, and unexpectedly hilarious. After he is shot, however, we look down on Hank from the “high road” that his partner finally chose to take by taking action against him. The huge man that seemed to radiate so much physical threat before now seems powerless and pathetic. Welles also tosses in, for good measure, Menzies’ dead hand, its index finger oddly and tellingly outstretched towards Quinlan as it drips lifeblood onto his own hand. This, of course, proves too much for poor Hank. Who knows what this guy was like before he lost his way. 

As for Miguel Vargas (I didn’t buy Charlton Heston as a Mexican, by the way), he always seems to be located at the vertices of lines of linear perspective, placed carefully atop the vanishing points at the ends of corridors or objects. He is perpetually moving towards them, striving towards a goal, or away from them, as if determined to escape some impending fate. Sounds fitting for him, if you ask me.

9 Reviews from the Land of JBU Cinema: "How Green Was My Valley"

Written for various prompts in and out of my Cinema classes at John Brown this past semester, these reviews/analyses seemed to warrant inclusion here.

Much can be said of "How Green Was My Valley," directed by John Ford in 1941, that is outside of the suggested range of topics. I, for one, found it to be surprisingly moving, if an early example of what contemporary pundits dub “Oscar bait.” The criticisms I have of its plot devices echo those I recently had for “The King’s Speech” – “How Green Was My Valley” is a skilled exercise in heartstring-pulling, but definitely errs on the side of melodrama. Indeed, my own cynicism almost blinded me to some of the rich spiritual nuggets that could be found from time to time throughout. It is best enjoyed outside the constraints of more modern storytelling sensibiliies.

I digress, however. Arthur Miller’s cinematographic style is quite striking, and serves at many points to highlight key thematic elements and tonalities. Yes, it is more photographic in nature than one might expect. However, at least from a technical standpoint, not many of the elements here that one might deem photographic are necessarily foreign to cinematography. We see long depth of field often, as well as high contrast, especially in older films such as this one. 

The most striking photographic element for me, aside from frequent (and brilliant) uses of contrast (the smokestacks belching noxious black fumes vs. the idealized countryside) and visual repetition (the houses leading up towards the mine, itself practically a main character in the story), was the feeling that so many of Miller’s establishing shots were carefully composed to act almost as tableau. In fact, the extreme contrast we see in so many frames is borne of great lighting, almost on the order of what you’d see in use in a studio as a portrait was being shot. It is almost as if Miller aims to take a “portrait” of every key setting or scene; every element in the frame is arranged just so, and everything is in crisp focus. It seems counter-intuitive at first to consider this idea in the context of Huw’s longing for a more naturalistic, freer past, but don’t you idealize your childhood now that you’re an adult? I know that my earlier memories and Miller’s cinematography seem very similarly stylized.

 

Another feature of tableau that I sensed (though individual perception and opinion regarding this will likely vary) is that in Miller’s wider establishing shots, relatively few of the elements in frame are actually in dynamic motion. Think of the shot where the crowd of miners walks down the lane away from the mine. The lighting is steady. The houses are stationary. The mine broods silently atop the hill. The smoke billows overhead, of course, but this is hardly startling movement. Even the miners, perhaps through the use of a longer lens, seem like they move their feet more than they actually progress down the hill. Again, this would fit thematically. Huw, like most of us, remembers his life in carefully polished images barely more than still-frames.

An Open Discourse on Discernment

It’s catch-up week for me. After months of article ideas and concepts filling my head (they come from everywhere – films I see, news items, sermons, etc.) I am visiting my family in Houston for Christmas and find myself mostly alone with my computer. I have a long list of features to write, and worked my way through two of them yesterday. One of them, as you’ll recall, was a fairly mixed-bag review of the recent remake of “The Thing,” which I began writing in October but never finished.

I make an assertion at the end of that review that I want to reference and discuss now, because I realize that up to this point I have only done so in passing.  Here is the exact text, as it appears on the home page of Film/Culture:

“I am frequently a champion of films that are dismissed by Christian viewers and critics simply because of disagreeable content. I make no bones of the matter that I consider this strategy of “discernment” to be shallow, and lacking in true understanding of what is “pure and holy.” Many times, films either make a statement that is powerful and true enough to warrant an overlooking of explicit content, or make a powerful and true statement through the use of explicit content.”

I believe these words, and if I were to write a “mission statement” for Film/Culture, it would sound something like the quote above. But as I went back to reread my post after waking up this morning (as I often do to check for typos and wording changes that I wish to make), something caused the words to catch uncomfortably in my mind. I realize that I may have been too harsh in my wording, and too narrow-minded in my own right to be justified in challenging the viewing habits of my readers.

I meant simply to say that I believe any film to be more than the sum of its incidences of vulgar language, sexual content/themes, violent content, etc. I don’t believe it fair to label a movie as “worthless” or even “evil” simply because it is graphic in some way.

Every filmmaker is a storyteller, and every filmmaker will use different artifices and strategies to tell a story as effectively as possible on a visual plane. The vast majority of directors and screenwriters living in Hollywood today are unsaved, and possibly live without any belief structure at all. Because of that, they are not uncomfortable with showing more, if they believe that more is necessary. Their decisions are the result of their circumstances and worldview.

Most directors are not, however, without a sense of morality, and many film their stories through lenses that often unexpectedly square with Christian belief on a thematic level. Sometimes, this can even be seen in the way explicit content is handled within the context of the story. Consider the recent film “Shame,” which stars Michael Fassbender as a man struggling with a crippling sexual addiction. It is one of the few films to garner such a reasonably wide release after being branded with an NC-17 rating. By all accounts, “Shame” is a film that lives up to its rating. It features a veritable parade of graphic one-night stands and online porn sessions. It has also been called one of “the least sexy movies about sex” ever made. Fassbender’s character, named Brandon, has what many ignorant people would call the ideal life. He has no problems attracting women, and even fewer issues with getting them into bed. But Roger Ebert, whose opinion I esteem highly, makes this interesting statement at the opening of his review:

“There's a close-up in "Shame" of Michael Fassbender’s face showing pain, grief and anger. His character, Brandon, is having an orgasm. For the movie's writer-director, Steve McQueen, that could be the film's master shot. There is no concern about the movement of Brandon's lower body. No concern about his partner. The close-up limits our view to his suffering. He is enduring a sexual function that has long since stopped giving him any pleasure and is self-abuse in the most profound way.”

No reviewer, from the most liberal of film critics to the most conservative, has any notion that the sex in “Shame” is glorified, or that its depiction is the ultimate end of director McQueen’s storytelling. Brandon’s addiction is shown for what it is: a deep wound in his soul that leaves him feeling empty and helpless. Without the sex that is included in the film, his suffering would be meaningless to us. We would have no sense for it; nor would we understand why something so inherently pleasurable would cause him so much pain. We would also have no baseline to reference as Brandon’s redemption, as it were, begins. Does he find Christ? No, but even the film’s recognition of his need for deliverance is in itself an echo of God’s truth and grace.

Is “Shame,” then, worthless because it is so sexually graphic? I have not seen the film, but plan to in the coming weeks. I believe I can do so safely because after deep examination of my motivations, I have been able to determine that I am not driven by any desire to become aroused by the content. Many will consider this a mistake, and will say that I am failing to fulfill the command of Philippians 4:8 by filling my mind with things that are unclean, rather than pure. But much seems to be honorable thematically in “Shame,” and whatever explicit content exists within the film’s plotline appears to be necessary. It is certainly possible for extreme content to exist in service of themes that are just, and even Christlike. “Shame” could be the most high-profile example to hit theaters in the past decade. In either case, “Shame” is a film that needs to be discussed from a Christian standpoint, and so far, not one Christian reviewer or review site has bothered to touch it. In my opinion, that’s the real shame.

After all, even though we’re told to avoid being of the world, we are also commanded to exist in it, and to engage it. I believe that this cannot be done in a study of film, with the hopes of reaching other filmgoers, without learning to see past content level and connect to the truth at the core of a film. Most movies do possess nuggets of revelation, and even some that don’t (like “The Thing”) are noteworthy simply for their craft. “Even a story told well reflects the ultimate creativity and authorship of God,” I say in my “Action!” page on Film/Culture. Therefore I have believed, and will continue to believe, that discernment means more, and must necessarily include more, than tallying swear words, sex scenes, and shots that feature nudity. By themselves, those things alone mean little in comparison to the manner in which they are employed to persuade, to make statements. If we want to know what filmmakers believe and want their viewers to believe, then every line, every shot, must be carefully analyzed and painstakingly compared with scripture. Only then will we know what is truly Christ-like about a film and what is simply incidental, or what is actually unnecessary and what is merely misunderstood.

At the same time, the mistake I made in my review for “The Thing” was to suggest that those who avoid films with explicit content by choice are ignorant. That was profoundly unjust, and if any at all read my review and were offended I offer my deepest apology. I go to school with, am friends with, and am related to many very intelligent people who will disagree with my unorthodox manner of examining films.

We are told in 1 Corinthians 8:8-9, in regards to the eating of food offered to idols, “Food will not commend us to God. We are no worse off if we do not eat, and no better off if we do. But take care that this right of yours does not somehow become a stumbling block to the weak.” After Christ had come, Paul states, because he makes us clean and because we know that he, the Father, and the Holy Spirit are One God, eating food offered to idols was no longer sinful as it had been. Some, however, Paul warned, would still find their consciences breached by eating such food. The decision of whether or not to imbibe is between them and God… but the duty of the mature brother or sister in Christ is to refrain from forcing any other believer to commit acts that would conflict with their personal boundaries.

I view films in much the same way. Movies have no inherent value in and of themselves, because we know what we believe and we know that Christ has redeemed us through his saving grace. Some, like me, are perfectly fine with partaking of them freely, as long as their motivations for doing so are honorable. The Holy Spirit does not normally convict me on such matters. I must recognize, however, that the consciences of others might indeed prevent them from seeing films above a certain rating, or with a certain level of explicit content, and I must be careful not to make generalizations or force conclusions that would put them in jeopardy if universalized.

I will continue to say what I think, and to call things as I see them. As a Christian reviewer, it is my responsibility to do so. But know that you, my loyal few readers, are important to me as well. I apologize again for my abruptness before. Understand that as Christ has commanded, you are free to make your own decisions and conclusions regarding the films that I review. Do it all to his glory, and I will endeavor to continue doing the same.

Thank you,

David Amonsen

Also read Roger Ebert's excellent review of "Shame," which I referenced above:

 http://rogerebert.suntimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20111130/REVIEWS/111139997

Unnecessary Evil: Matthijs van Heijningen's "The Thing"

Our society’s fear of Communism has long since faded from front and center, but it would seem that the idea of invasion from within still weighs heavily on our collective consciousness. John W. Campbell’s short science fiction story “Who Goes There?” has now been thrice adapted for the screen. Most memorably, John Carpenter used the concept of a shape-shifting alien creature to emphasize our fear of infection as AIDS began to appear. The resulting film, entitled “The Thing,” is now a cult classic of twitchy paranoia and body horror to make Cronenberg proud.

It would be interesting to know if Dutch director Matthijs van Heijningen, Jr. is attempting to capture any purposeful kind of fear in his new version of Carpenter’s original film. Yes, ladies and gentlemen: despite the fact that the events of this “Thing” take place before, and lead up to, the happenings portrayed in the 1982 adaptation, it is for all intents and purposes a remake. The plot structure is the same, and with the exception of a glossy new CG sheen Carpenter’s brand of gory, macabre thrills is preserved intact. There’s even an obligatory Kurt Russell lookalike in Joel Edgerton, who scowls his way through a straight-man role that mostly requires him to point a flamethrower menacingly at suspected extraterrestrials. (Russell, die-hards know, was the lead in Carpenter’s “Thing.”) It doesn’t do anything radically new or original with its concept. Perhaps the highest compliment we can pay it, then, is that it is a functional (if not altogether necessary) retread.

It’s really a shame, because I enjoyed this movie and could see at the outset that it had a lot going for it, though I entered the theater with admittedly low expectations. Mary Elizabeth Winstead (of “Scott Pilgrim” fame) has a nice turn as a Ripley-esque character who’s just as tough as Sigourney Weaver’s alien hunter, but more likeable. Heijningen also shows a surprising amount of restraint in his narrative direction, especially for a film that is being marketed as, and essentially is, an R-rated gorefest (more on that later). He takes at least a nominal amount of time (read: above average for most 21^st century horror films) to build atmosphere and suspense, and the result is a splendid rerendering of the jittery tension that I suspect fans of the original loved even more than all the grotesque creature effects. The new “Thing” is deeply affecting in its quiet stretches. 

It doesn’t last, though, because Heijningen’s commitment to developing dramatic tension is ultimately revealed to be shallow pretext for a tableau of wall-to-wall blood, guts, and gag-inducing metamorphosis during the film’s final twenty minutes. A man’s face splits open to reveal rows of teeth. Spidery alien limbs explode from torsos. An alien’s otherwise human-looking hand detaches from his arm and shoves itself down one poor scientist’s throat. It’s enough to make you wonder how much of the suspense that existed within the story earlier was actually created by Heijningen’s directorial decisions, and how much was simply endemic to the film’s premise and subject matter.

The answer, as is usually the case, is likely a little of both. Even the most unskilled cinematic helmsman could produce a nice sense of dread by simply constructing the plot structure of “The Thing” correctly. All of the ingredients for a truly frightening film are pre-packaged here: a small number of human characters (and therefore suspects). A remote location: the snowy Antarctic wastes. An unnerving idea: that the person standing next to you could be an alien facsimile that is waiting to catch you alone, messily devour you, and spit out a perfect copy of you. But if all semblance of intelligent pacing were eliminated, you’d get a flat, predictable theme park ride. Heijningen’s pacing is not unintelligent. Relatively few transformations occur before the two-thirds mark. As suspects are lined up and inspected at close range, tension mounts as Winstead’s character approaches, flamethrower in hand… and left unresolved as more and more suspects turn up apparently innocent. Fear is created by our logical sense of elimination: as more characters are cleared, the chances that the next person in line is human grow lesser. Heijningen does not fail to exploit this fear, and as such there is no question that “The Thing” is more suspenseful than it might have been otherwise.

I suppose my major critique, then, is that when a shape-shift does occur, Heijningen suddenly drops all of his cards on the table. We are shown every detail in full, gut-wrenching CG definition. In these moments, especially in the early alien reveals, this is a serious miscalculation. In an instant, we are made fully aware that Heijningen has changed gears and is now aiming to glean his scare solely from the gory visual. The visuals are, granted, not without the power to frighten. But an image in film is ephemeral. When you are watching a movie, you see 24 distinct images every second. Once you see an image, your mind processes it; copes with it in a millisecond. The second you see something, it begins to lose its power to scare you, and your carefully constructed dramatic tone is squandered. Every time Heijningen showed a transformation or violent death merely for the sake of showing it, he meaninglessly forced himself to rebuild his film’s sense of dread from square one. Imagine how much more frightening “The Thing” would have been had we seen almost nothing until the end. Perhaps we should be thankful – such a cut might have been so terrifying as to be unwatchable.

I am frequently a champion of films that are dismissed by Christian viewers and critics simply because of disagreeable content. I make no bones of the matter that I consider this strategy of “discernment” to be shallow, and lacking in true understanding of what is “pure and holy.” Many times, films either make a statement that is powerful and true enough to warrant an overlooking of explicit content, or make a powerful and true statement through the use of explicit content. “The Thing,” however, has nothing to say. One cannot call it worthless, because it is a story with a structure that is crafted with just enough care to be artistic. But its extreme content serves no other purpose than to disgust, and as such I cannot in good conscience condone it. Heijningen’s gore is the worst kind of unnecessary evil.

The "Good" Man: George Clooney's "The Ides of March"

“The Ides of March” is an excellent film about the kind of politics we like to forget about when things are good, and grumble about when the going gets tough. As the political and financial climates of our nation are currently anything but stable, it is also a very timely exploration of what makes our system, though well-intentioned, fundamentally imperfect.

We know George Clooney mostly as an actor – and a good one at that. He has been recognized with literal hosts of awards and nominations. Few to none of us are familiar with Clooney as a director, but it is his keen dramatic sense that makes him successful both in front of and behind the camera.

His most important dramatic decision here is to make the major public players in a political campaign incidental, and focus on the men and women who work tirelessly to make sure that the figure they support wins as many votes as possible. Whether we like it or not, it is really these workers that decide the future of our country. The decisions they make regarding a campaign can make or break policy for their employer, the man running. And, most dangerously, they are human - not motivated by conviction or belief but by their need to work, and sometimes their desire for advancement. Politics is not a civic duty for them; it is a job. 

Steven Myers, played by Ryan Gosling, would disagree at the first. “Politics is my life,” he exclaims at one point. He is a self-professed true believer in the democratic system and Governor Mike Morris (George Clooney), whom he represents. He is also, I believe, lying to himself, and the film is about the discovery within his person of a hidden vein of ruthlessness and selfish disregard for common decency.

We can see it dimly at first, in his eagerness to spread potentially unfounded rumors about an opposing candidate and to enter an ill-advised physical relationship with a young intern (he’s 30; she’s 20). An opening monologue in which he jokingly lampoons Morris’ statements during set-up for a debate strikes a chilling note as we realize that perhaps, deep down, he doesn’t really think he’s being funny.

Then, one day, Steven is contacted by the opposing campaign’s manager, Tom Duffy (Paul Giamatti). He is not supposed to have any contact with “enemy” campaign figures, but something drives him to attend a secret meeting with the other man, which he then lies about to Morris’ senior campaign advisor (Philip Seymour Hoffman). From there, his path is a downward spiral, and almost everyone is tied to it, however unwittingly.

Ironically, it is Steven’s apparent amorality that makes him such a brilliant political mind, and it is here that the film reveals its primary thesis. Mike Morris is a good, but imperfect, man. Steven, in contrast, is a bad man, but a perfect political machine. He is unfit to lead the country, but his decisions eventually make it impossible for Morris to succeed in his campaign without making terrible compromises. His nature indirectly becomes the nature of America. And he is in the game, at long last, only for himself – for his income, for his advancement, and for his future.

Thrillers about dirty politics have been done before, and “The Ides of March” stops shy of greatness simply because it is a latecomer on the scene. It has nothing really groundbreaking to say, even if it does hint at dark secrets that we all know about but so often wish to gloss over. It achieves excellence because it is flawless in its craft and footwork. The cinematography: textbook, exactly what it needs to be to produce the appropriate tone, and then some – Clooney and his director of photography produce some fascinating multi-layered shots that are pregnant with subtext. The writing, adapted from a play entitled “Farragut North”: subtle and sharp. The acting: spot on. The film is a cogent examination of the motivations behind the grandstanding and the speeches. No wonder the country is broken, it says. It is run by broken people.