Change Your Image
wshelley
Reviews
The Squid and the Whale (2005)
The Filet of Indie Cinema
After co-scribing the screenplay for one of the most casually humorous and oddly affecting flicks from a year prior, Noah Baumbach returns to his niche in an auto-biographical recollection of the striking similarities between dastardly divorce and arrested adolescence with The Squid and the Whale. Sitting in for our young Baumbach is one Walt Berkman, a sixteen-something suburbanite with a passion for plagiarism and an inexperienced eye for the opposite sex. Taking mostly after his father, a once successful novelist turned community college instructor, Walt curiously shares Bernard's taste in movies, books, verbosity, and eventually women. Walt is quick to defend his father at every chance possible, even as Bernard's once illustrious career begins to slowly spiral downward along with his once successful marriage. As Joan's notoriety begins to spread following the publication of her first novel, the Berkman boys quickly split over loyalties, with Frank taking his mother's side, and Walt predictably standing in his father's corner. Baumbach's characterization of this peculiar sibling rivalry is certainly quite apt in its psychological connotations. Walt clearly latches onto his father because he can more readily help build the bridge toward manhood, and Frank clearly chooses his mother because she can satisfy the nurture and intimacy (and perhaps sexual curiosity) required by a young child. And yet, oddly enough, as Bernard and Joan begin to drift further apart, the children seem to come closer together, strengthening their own bonds as their parents' grow weaker.
The heart of the movie is found in the unadjusted gaze of Jeff Daniels, a wayward eye that strikes out at the audience violently, but in a discreet, slightly jovial manner. His relaxed yet secretly paranoid mannerisms help to conceal an indignant identity, lending Bernard a fragile profundity that oscillates between naive sympathy and sickly neuroticism. We're never quite sure how to approach Bernard's persona, as he is constantly providing us with sufficient reason to find him both quietly compassionate and overtly reprehensible. Daniels plays the combination of detached sarcasm and childlike arrogance to perfection, forging a character that is neither easy to love nor despise. Daniels miraculously manages to take Bernard's imperfections and make them unusually endearing, allowing us to occasionally see and understand the hidden frailty lurking behind his guarded pomposity. When Bernard unexpectedly screams at his wife that her years of unabashed infidelity were "fucking torture", we're given a very brief glimpse beyond the wall of bravado and insincerity, allowing us just a fleeting moment to examine the ugly underbelly that makes the character all the more perplexing. Daniels' work is some of the most accomplished, complicated acting that I've seen from a Hollywood mainstay in years, and his inability to muster any serious award consideration should serve as an unsightly indication of the unfortunate status of our current critical climate.
Equally impressive are the contributions from two of the movie's other big-four collaborators, the always spectacular Laura Linney and the shockingly mature youngster Owen Kline. Linney's performance exudes equal amounts of overt emotional anguish and reserved affliction. But perhaps more importantly, her character also unknowingly exhibits a form of habitual sensuality, thus creating confusion within her children, causing Walt to pull away in shameful disgust and intriguing Frank to further exercise his pre-adolescent officiousness. Joan and Frank's relationship becomes further complicated once a new fling is thrown into the mix, forcing both characters to attempt to reconcile the expectations of motherhood and bachelorhood without carelessly blurring the lines together. Joan's nurturing maternalism becomes interwoven with her mysterious sexual affections, constructing a character that is both a symbol of protective adoration and inaudible eroticism. Joan's duel persona causes further discordance between her two boys, leading one to perverse experimentation and the other to reluctant sexual apprehension. Because neither child can fully divorce the whore from the mother, both Walt and Frank feel the repercussions in their own lustful pursuits, struggling to find the distinction between familial attachment and animalistic desire.
Unsurprisingly, in the end this is ultimately Walt's movie. Baumbach's fictional self becomes the movie's focal point by the conclusion, tracking the troubled teen's failure to either recognize his father's obvious bullshit or appreciate his disorderly fidelity. Walt slowly begins to suspect his father of an unwilling duplicity, and the movie's final confrontation between the two stubborn figures isn't so much an elaborate battle of the wits as a silent skirmish of unrealized emotions. Walt is finally able to see past the charade, to look behind the mask and discover his father's inherited imperfections, and in the process, he finally recognizes the similarities of his own mistakes and shortcomings. It's as if Walt is Dr. Frankenstein looking down upon his bedridden creation, first recognizing the monster for what it truly is, and then seeing his own reflection in its eyes. The movie's final scene has drawn plenty of wasted ink from well-intentioned but stuffy and conceited cineastas. Some might say it's a metaphor for Walt's turbulent episode of arrested development, some might say it's a clever symbol for a game of parental tug-of-war, and others might say that it's just a freaking squid and a whale. It's not the image that matters so much as the moment, allowing us our first glimpse at a new character no longer afraid to open his eyes in wonder. The object of his attention is merely incidental, the act itself is revolutionary.
The Limey (1999)
"I'm looking for a different kind of satisfaction."
Upon receiving news of his daughter's accidental death, an English ex-con by the name of Wilson takes a hop across the pond to further investigate the possibility of foul play. Wilson first contacts the man who informed him of Jenny's passing, a friend from acting class named Ed. As Wilson slowly begins to piece the puzzle together with Ed's help, he comes to surmise that his daughter was murdered by a record-producer by day, cocaine-smuggler by night, named Valentine. After confronting and disposing of Valentine's second in command, Wilson decides to pay a visit to Valentine himself. Valentine's head bodyguard, Mr. Avery, quickly catches wind of the upcoming storm, and sets about paying off a hit-man to take care of his problem. Unbeknownst to Avery, Stacy the hit-man has a few cards up his own sleeve as well. A difficult situation becomes even more precarious once a third party shows up for the dance, and everything ties together with a resounding bang in the movie's unforgettable conclusion. The Limey builds up to a climactic shoot-out that is quick, calculated, and businesslike, but it ultimately leaves you scratching your head, searching for that fulfilling final bullet needed to put everything to rest.
The Limey is unlike your typical revenge flick in the sense that you never really get the payoff that you expect. The good guy doesn't ride off into the sunset with Grace Kelly, with all of his problems solved and all of his troubles left behind. Wilson says that he wants Valentine to know why he has to do what he has to do, but when he's finally given his chance, he discovers that he has more to learn from Valentine than he had initially suspected. Was Wilson hoping to provide Valentine with answers, or was it the other way around? Was Wilson always out for vengeance, or was he secretly looking for redemption? Was Wilson somehow responsible for Valentine's actions? Could Wilson see his own reflection in Valentine's eyes, and could he achieve the satisfaction he desired without any sense of guilt or remorse? These are some of the questions that the movie's final scene proposes, bringing about a flurry of possibilities and uncertainties in a matter of mere minutes.
Few of America's lone gunmen movies take the time to try and detail exactly what it is that makes its wayward triggermen tick, and maybe that's why it's so fitting that The Limey is about, well, a limey. Wilson is still a mysterious and soft-spoken murderer, but he's infused with a subdued humanity and incredulous charm that makes his actions all the more sympathetic and understanding. We understand why Wilson feels the need to carry out his revenge, and yet we are able to recognize the hypocrisy of his actions well before he comes to the same conclusion. It is only by seeking to rectify his daughter's death that Wilson realizes he is simultaneously cheapening her life, allowing his own sense of wrath and justice to serve as scapegoats for his own hidden regrets and remembrances. By the end of the movie, Wilson comes to discover that he has simply been hunting after himself all along. Valentine is not his daughter's murderer, he's simply the man who pulled the trigger. Wilson's daughter was dead long before she died, and all of the violence in the world could never bring her back.
The Limey could aptly be described as the thinking-person's thriller, relying upon drama, psychology and emotion rather than purely non-stop action. The movie's interest does not lie in Wilson's angry actions so much as the motivations behind his pursuit. The Limey asks us many important questions that extend well beyond any specific genre. How far are we willing to go to avenge our loved ones, and at what point does it stop to be just about them, and start to become about us? What happiness can we find in projecting our own suffering onto others, and how does any of it bring us back to what we once cherished so much? How culpable are we in our own misery, and at what point does revenge become not nearly enough? Is atonement found in blind retaliation, or earnest introspection? And perhaps most importantly, what could we have done differently to simply avoid it all? The Limey shows us that our actions always influence those around us, and that our mistakes will always come back around to us in the end. When we fail to take responsibility for our failures, we lose sight of what truly matters, and we're left with nothing but regrets and fading memories of what truly might have been.
Grizzly Man (2005)
Grizzly Men
It would be rather easy and quite comforting to simply label Timothy Treadwell as a delusional crackpot who ultimately received his just deserts. Treadwell's woefully naive idealism coupled with his willful rejection of the most basic realities of his natural surroundings make him a rather wieldy target for even those with terrible aim. Treadwell's inability to anticipate the inevitable consequences of his actions has been interpreted by many to signify the man's complete separation from any resemblance of realism and sensibility, thus marking his extensive efforts as purely frivolous and futile. But by merely dismissing the man's Utopian vision of a harmonious existence between humankind and nature, we're ultimately doing a great disservice to ourselves as well. Werner Herzog, one of the cinematic world's preeminent cynical jackasses, was able to both understand and empathize with Treadwell's contorted optimism, refusing to conveniently sticker Tim as some sort of brain damaged, new-age spiritualist. Herzog discovered inside of Treadwell's madness an alluringly gullible romanticism that carefully shielded a secluded demonic realism. Treadwell's refusal to succumb to the demands of our world's primitive natural order clearly fascinated Herzog just as much as Tim's secretively smoldering fixation with the indigenous inhumanity of the unforgiving material world.
Herzog ingeniously incorporates Treadwell's tangential metaphysical ruminations into the movie in order to communicate his own conflicting philosophical perspectives while also conveying a semblance of sympathy and familiarity, if not outright accordance as well. Herzog immediately empathizes with Treadwell's desire to search for some higher meaning beyond the discernible limits of both sanity and security, but does not fail to readily concede the enigmatic stupidity of Timothy's misguided enthusiasm as well. In many respects, the movie explores many similarities between Treadwell's adventurous pursuits and Herzog's well-documented desire to impose his own will on the natural world. For all of Herzog's pontificating on nature's unmistakable indifference, such confessed naturalism has never stopped the man from attempting to conquer these impartial forces through sheer fierce determination. Similarly for Treadwell, even the unequivocal evidence suggesting the inapplicability of his philosophical disposition (the murder of a baby fox, the infanticide of a baby cub, instances of cannibalism during an extended drought) is not enough to dissuade him from the attractiveness of his hallucinatory insistence on the beauty and simplicity of the natural wilderness. While Herzog mocks and scolds Treadwell for his blatant ignorance with regards to the childlike Quixotism of his pilgrimage, he also seems to secretly admire him for his refusal to conform to others' expectations, even when all the impulses of the universe seem to be conspiring against him. Like Aguirre and Fitzcarraldo, Herzog is able to extract carefully hidden noble qualities buried within a man of very questionable character.
In many respects, Timothy Treadwell's quest for natural harmony was an unattainable search for spiritual absolution as well as social vindication. Herzog shows great respect for Treadwell's intense desire to discover a sense of place and purpose within a higher immaterial order, while similarly displaying affection for Timothy's corporeal drive to convincingly demonstrate both his superiority and masculinity to all of those who had expressed doubts and engaged in interference. Herzog has always reserved his greatest admiration for those great historical figures who have unleashed their greatest ambitions upon the natural world around them, and Treadwell is clearly no exception. But this is not because of some juvenile fascination with conquest and subjugation; Herzog's veneration has always been directed towards the instinctual human passion to satisfy one's greatest aspirations, forces of the uncaring universe be damned. Treadwell's absurd eagerness to prove the feasibility of his ideological utopia is sufficient enough to earn Herzog's qualified approbation, but it is not practical enough to stave off Herzog's equally powerful adherence to rational skepticism. Just as Herzog ultimately recognized the folly of Aguirre's ways, Timothy Treadwell is similarly depicted as a man who has become so lost within his untamed search for grandeur that he has forgotten the very purpose of his once innocent expedition.
Many people have taken issue with this back and forth dialogue between Herzog and Treadwell, bemoaning the use of voice-over narration as manipulative, theatrical and unnecessary. Many people have accused the movie of being quite staged and overtly fictional, while needlessly abandoning the most basic purpose of Treadwell's adventure in order to posit some hackneyed, sophomoric philosophical dichotomy that was completely beyond Timothy's intentions and perhaps comprehension as well. But without Herzog's added abstract speculations, Treadwell's undertakings lose a great deal of larger significance and withstanding permanence. Without Herzog interjecting his own balanced suppositions, we're unable to see just how Treadwell's acts of defiance are not only acts of pure lunacy, but acts of poignant proclivity as well. It would indeed be easy to categorize Treadwell's activities as little more than the product of years of alcohol and drug abuse coupled with prolonged bouts of frustration and isolation, but it is infinitely more difficult to recognize his actions as a manifestation of a much deeper, exclusively human predilection to create meaning in one's life by imposing order upon one's natural surroundings. Werner Herzog's (and it is Werner Herzog's) Grizzly Man is not only a fervent rebuke of the unfeasible insanity of Timothy Treadwell's hopeless optimism, but also a tempered celebration of humanity's imperishable stubbornness, arrogance, and inspiring audacity.
Les yeux sans visage (1960)
The Eye of the Beholder
In the recently released Criterion edition, director Georges Franju comments in a supplementary interview that he strongly disproves of being labeled as a master of the "fantastic" form of cinema. Rather, Franju argues, he prefers to be known as the master of the "unusual". What is the difference between these terms, and is Franju simply cowering behind obscure semantics? The director argues that the "fantastic" is an artificial creation that lacks resonance or plausibility, while the "unusual" is simply derived from everyday reality. It is in this sense that Eyes Without a Face is unequivocally an "unusual" rather than "fantastic" picture, choosing to forgo fabricated concoctions in favor of identifiable abnormalities. Franju prides himself on being able to bridge the often insurmountable gap between the audience's perception of feasibility and the intrinsically absurd nature of typical horror film-making. The reason that Eyes Without a Face is so undeniably effective and lasting is because it never ceases to stray into exaggeratedly improbable situations, whether dealing with the progression of the plot or the actions of the characters. Franju's film clearly takes great pains to avoid the "fantastic" stretches of the imagination that most horror fare tends to require from its audience. Consequentially, what emerges is a work of art that is both terrifying and profound in its implications, evoking conflicting images of confounding beauty and untempered depravity, inspiring thoughts of pure repulsion and morbid curiosity.
In this same interview, Franju further expounds upon the distinction between the two forms of the "mad" scientist. One of these types is characterized by the "abnormal actions of an abnormal individual", while the other is characterized by the "abnormal actions of a normal individual". The former is indicative of the "fantastic" style of film-making that Franju wishes to distance himself from, while the later is clearly more representative of the "unusual" style that Franju readily advocates. Eyes Without a Face is centered around such an "unusual" character, Dr. Genessier, who appears to be a perfectly ordinary individual, but clearly possesses unfathomably atypical traits carefully hidden beneath his unsuspecting facade. As the audience slowly begins to realize that all is not well with the good doctor, they are suddenly pulled into an unanticipated underworld of the most irresponsible and destructive immorality, signifying an abrupt tonal and thematic revolution that begins the viewer's descent into the realm of the "unusual". This transition, while unexpected, transpires absolutely seamlessly, eschewing the need for any extensive suspension of disbelief from the audience, and thus allowing Franju the freedom to continue on without the assistance of any unnecessarily overwrought explanation. The transformation into the "unusual" is impulsively abrupt but perfectly understandable, and most importantly, tangibly identifiable.
What are some of the most prevalent themes within Eyes Without A Face, and what importance should we attribute to them? As was mentioned previously, Franju's film is not only an instinctively repulsive piece of shock cinema, but it is also a considerably sophisticated film undoubtedly intended to arouse questions and concerns from the audience. There are many compelling moral dilemmas that the film proposes, as well as some noticeable social criticisms dealing with the importance of physical appearance and the potential destructiveness of pride and vanity. Perhaps the clearest question that the film proposes deals directly with the unpardonable undertakings of Dr. Genessier. Does he commit such acts out of love for his daughter or out of a selfish desire to successfully fix what he considers to be his own responsibility? Are his actions guided by a concern for his daughter's happiness, or a twisted combination of guilt and egotism? More importantly, are his actions justifiable if they are committed with the interests of his daughter in mind? Could any person honestly say that they would never consider resorting to such tactics to ensure that their loved ones would not suffer needlessly, even if alleviation came at the expense of several perfectly innocent strangers? These are just a few of the ambiguous ethical inquiries that dig beneath one's skin and uncomfortably settle there, forcing the audience to unconsciously confront such difficult scenarios in their own respectively hypothetical contexts. Perhaps one could not foresee themselves regressing to such a state of extreme debauchery, but could one categorically deny the possibility without any reservations whatsoever?
More abstractly, but no less realistically, lies the obvious criticism of society's largely superficial obsession with physical attraction. Christiane is no less of a human being despite her tremendous disfigurement, she only perceives herself to be an unapproachable figure. Unfortunately, her loved ones do nothing but reinforce this self-fulfilling prophecy, risking their very lives to vainly restore Christiane to her previous state of incomparable beauty. To make matters worse, the only individual who could possibly empathize with such a tragedy, Christiane's fiancée Jacques, is left completely oblivious to the quandary. In a futile effort to restore a sense of normality, Dr. Genessier seeks out a series of attractive young women to be selfishly used simply for their physical beauty, with no concern for their thoughts or feelings whatsoever. Their physical allure is viewed as the ultimate reward, as well as the ultimate purpose for their being. Dr. Genessier feels no ethical regrets for his actions because he views these unique patients as lowly means to an end, possessing no unique or enduring traits beyond their easily separable grace and fairness. In this respect, Eyes Without a Face proposes many significant questions with regards to our own considerations on the importance of physical appearance. Just how much emphasis do we place upon our personal attractiveness? How far would we go to ensure that we maintained or improved upon those standards of beauty? Is there such a thing as a beautiful person who is forced to hide behind a mask, or does our own superficiality preclude such a possibility? These are legitimate questions that require individual answers, and what may hold true for some most certainly may not hold true for others.
The Conversation (1974)
Privacy and Responsibility - A Conflicting Moral Choice
Francis Ford Coppola's 1974 classic is an ingenious, meticulous examination into the nature of voyeurism, as well as a harsh criticism of the deceitful morality of privacy. At its basic form, however, The Conversation is a film that carefully follows a man who is curiously trapped within his own secretive existence of solitude. Harry Caul is nothing more than an observer; we do not witness any noticeable personal interests outside of his profession, aside from his occasional musical performances. But notice how Harry is always playing along to another band (contrast this to the solo at the ending), and never performs for an audience. There is no audience for Harry, a man who is entirely absorbed within his occupation, and allows his neurotic obsession to control his personal relationships. Harry treats himself like he treats his clients, he divulges no personal information, displays no easily distinguishable characteristics, and remains blissful in his peaceful state of ignorance. Whenever he is not entirely engulfed within his work, Harry disappears into his apartment, satisfied with his general indifference towards any truly beneficial, active existence. Harry has thoroughly convinced himself that it is inappropriate to become involved in his client's affairs. After all, Harry's job is not to take responsibility for himself, or to investigate any potential consequences resulting from his surveillance intrusions. Harry's job is to take orders, display no personal interest in the content of his recordings, and deliver the results completely unconcerned for anyone's potential safety or security. It is only after Harry accepts his need to take responsibility that he is able to take interest in his client's mysterious, dangerous affairs.
As Harry slowly drags himself into the precarious business of strangers, the film's intentions become increasingly suspenseful and perplexing. Coppola maintains his deliberately methodical pace throughout the entire film; it is only through our imagination that we are capable of creating and perpetuating such a consistently fascinating atmosphere surrounded by a cloud of tension and mystique. The Assistant Director never physically carries himself as an intimidating antagonist; it is through the complexity of the film's plot and through the continual uncertain environment that we are able to associate this element with his character. Every person that carries himself in a convincingly dubious manner immediately becomes a potential suspect. Harry becomes compulsively obsessed with the fate of his client's targets, completely submerging himself into the substance of the recordings, looking for any potential details that might assist him in solving the mystery. Harry's investigation quickly becomes our task as well, as we begin to subconsciously observe and scrutinize each character involved. The beauty of Coppola's film is the fact that it makes its point by using the audience as proof of the inherent devious nature of privacy. The movie transports us into Harry's world, as we become infatuated with the secretive plot unfolding before us, and we desperately search for clues into the lives of the film's characters. Of course, after intense investigation, Harry ultimately comes to realize that he has violated all of the principles that he had once stood proudly for. Whether or not Harry ended up better off by becoming involved in the dealings of others is a completely subjective matter, but it is a crucial question that the viewer must ask him/herself.
The ending of the film is what interested me the most about The Conversation. The consequences of Harry's obsession become manifest through the destruction of his own privacy, his property and even his faith. Was Harry morally appropriate when he decided to intervene into the relationship and associations of complete strangers? Did Harry do the right thing by taking responsibility for his actions, and reaching out to help another in desperate need? These are the most important questions that the film ultimately asks its audience. The final shots of Harry perfectly capture the ambiguous mood of the film's finale. Harry is sitting alone in his stripped down apartment looking exhausted, humiliated, and defeated. But if you look closely you will realize that he is indeed playing the saxophone to his own beat, for a change. At what costs do we accept the need for our responsibility to others?
Nosferatu - Phantom der Nacht (1979)
Dracula Reinterpreted
The story of Dracula, in all its many forms, is an ever-evolving twist on a cooperatively fabled tradition, gaining new meaning and significance with each passing generation, adding unforeseen observations while subtracting antiquated interpretations, embracing shifting cultural norms while rejecting obsolescent generalizations. The extracted meaning of the story is quite frequently relative to the respective historical era of the audience; the original intent may remain unaltered, but like any good story, the morals remain of a highly elastic nature, dependent upon the beliefs and customs of those retelling the tale to those who will someday contribute their own unique perspective to the flexible fabrication. When F.W. Murnau adapted the tall tale to the silver screen in 1920, his understanding of the source material strongly corresponded to the written story's rudimentary purpose, by all accounts available. Nosferatu was nothing short of a condemnation of restricted sexual and social mores, castigating the obstructionist cultural values of late Victorian society. In 1979, Werner Herzog radically reinterpreted the base meaning of Count Dracula's existence, substituting the outdated social quips and misgivings with a postmodernist critique of faith and spirituality. Dracula no longer symbolized the consequences of a reclusive, conservative existence, but rather came to symbolize the unavoidable fate of humanity, transforming a plea for social reformation into a derisively nihilistic dismissal of humanity's capacity and willingness to change.
Herzog's unmistakably cynical recreation envisions a society plagued by the interminable materialization of death, disease and despair. A world inhabited by aimless creatures not so dissimilar from the scurrying harbingers of pestilence and remorse carelessly wandering the remains of the earth. A world depleted of rhyme or reason, pattern or resonance, purpose or order. A world without God, left to the unthinking impulses of man's actions, without reward or consequence, damnation or salvation. A world where man's prayers are left unanswered, where strength is found in the acceptance of futility, and death is welcomed as the cure to eternal suffering. Nosferatu, in this context, is portrayed as the omnipresent force behind this movement, offering a merciful escape from an unimaginably bleak existence characterized by incessant adversity and hardship, unrestrained anguish and imperishable misery. In Herzog's unremittingly cruel and fruitlessly illogical universe, God is dead and man is left to elicit meaning from a crumbling empire of greed and pain, anger and destruction. This absurdist dilemma challenges us to find a source of resolve within a maze of hollow vanity, to find hope and ambition among the barren plains of a forgotten wasteland, to derive meaning from the meaningless and substance from the insubstantial. In Herzog's estimation, the story of Nosferatu is nothing less than a reaffirmation of our greatest apprehension; the possibility of an unrequited existence distinguished by recurring dreams of a benign release, and the unforgiving reality of our idle banality.
In Herzog's contemporary rendering, Nosferatu no longer symbolizes the impersonal forces of a corrupt civil society, nor does he signify the authoritarian impulses of social conformity. Nosferatu is, quite simply, the replacement for humanity's absent benevolent savior, the merciful anti-Christ who offers a desperately desired emancipation from incessant anguish and intemperate ill fortune. Herzog ingeniously transforms the story of Nosferatu from outdated social commentary into existential spiritual inquiry, neglecting the comparatively minute grievances of an antique society in favor of a much larger denouncement, targeting the very foundation of our moral structure rather than frivolously striking at the inconsequential details. Herzog's captivating rendition questions the very purpose of our being, unreservedly depicting an environment destitute of any resemblance of a higher order or objective, reducing all of life's catastrophes to a frivolous monotony of unregenerable tribulations. The unforgettable conclusion further reinforces this twisted vision; Lucy's unselfish decision to give her own life in return for her husband's renewal is ultimately coordinated entirely in vain, as the irredeemable circle of misfortune continues to spin into the unrewarding grasps of eternity, enclosing the hopes and dreams of fate's unfortunate victims into the vise of perpetuity.
It is hardly coincidental that Kinski's Nosferatu is not a frighteningly unidentifiable monster, but rather an empathetic symbol of human misery, loneliness, perplexity and emptiness. Herzog's Dracula may be immortal, but his deepest fixations and feelings are recognizably human rationalizations. Just as the world's mortal inhabitants must suffer through an incomparable endurance of unbroken anxiety and unappreciated tragedy, Nosferatu must abide by the fate of the undead, forced to passively subsist in an intolerable world of melancholy for centuries upon centuries, living a life of solitude amidst a static universe of predictable fortune. The reason Herzog depicted Nosferatu as such a distinguishably fragile specimen is rather simple; Nosferatu is nothing short of a reflection of our own blackish identity, representing the worst in humanity and the most brooding truth of our most basic reality. Herzog's Nosferatu is the image that we cast upon the clearest of mirrors during our darkest of moments, the unspoken understanding of our most disreputable possibilities, and the evocation of our unequivocal destiny. Herzog's modern revisionism of the Dracula fable is the most deeply depressing, discouraging recitation imaginable. It shows no hope for the future of humanity, and takes great delight in doing so. It is a coldly seditious interpretation of popular folklore, replacing the superficial scares of a cartoonish monster with the realistic dread of a vacuous universe indifferently inhabited by the waking dead. While some may turn to the Dracula tale for cheap thrills and fleeting yells, Herzog found the basis for a story about the death of spiritual conviction, and the birth of modernity.
Maboroshi no hikari (1995)
Maborosi
The title of the film comes from a Japanese word that loosely translates into "illusory light". A maborosi is an inexplicable mirage that sporadically unveils itself along the waves of the sea, leading many curious sailors to their impending doom. Nobody questions where this mysterious light originates from; nobody wonders why so many men are lured by the maborosi's false promises of otherworldly beauty. The answers are patently unexplainable, leaving no feasible alternative but submissive acceptance and temperate remembrance. There are many aspects of this world whose origins are rationally indecipherable; perpetual mysteries as perplexing as the shifting of the tides or the changing of the seasons, the rising of the sun or the positioning of the stars, the birth of a son or the death of a father. The lesson of the maborosi is quite comforting in its reductive simplicity; there are some tragedies in life that cannot be readily understood or accounted for, but these setbacks should always be treated with a tacit acceptance of the unalterable past, and an unbroken willingness to overcome.
Yumiko is confronted with such a confounding loss following the unanticipated death of her husband, Ikuo, an otherwise cheerful individual occasionally prone to brief interludes of somberness and incredulity. As the film opens, we are shown passing indicators of the memories that will continue to haunt Yumiko long after her husband has departed: the stolen bicycle that the couple re-painted together, the intrusively endless loop of train-tracks that entangle the neighborhood, the dark empty hallways of a home encompassed by unfulfilled hopes and abandoned promises. These are the lingering images of a time long since passed, but never forgotten; the remaining links to a previous era divided by enigmatic fate, replacing the comforts of life's certainties with an encircling string of unanswerable inquiries. As Yumiko struggles to combat her own doubts and insecurities, her regrets and reservations, she is forced to reconcile the unaccountable cause for her grief with the prospect of an eventual regeneration of love and companionship. While Yumiko cannot escape from the memories of her past, she can still find hope in embracing an unforeseen direction, discovering solace and comfort in the arms of another man. But even the blissful serenity of the ocean's archaic blue cannot remove the painful memorials from the deepest recesses of Yumiko's imagination. The crashing of the offshore waves does not represent the progressive cleansing of the past, but the uninterrupted calamity of the storm, suggesting that Yumiko's thoughts are just as violently conflicted as the impartial forces of her surroundings.
Yumiko's struggle to assimilate her ways into an unfamiliar terrain is further compounded by the insolvable puzzle echoing throughout the barren corners of her new home, reverberating off the timeless waves of the indifferent sea. In spite of this continuous anxiety, there are many fleeting moments that would indicate a sense of personal advancement: images of a family finding comfort in each other's tragedy, reciprocally seeking to forge new identities out of an identical past. Some of the film's most memorable scenes occur with Yumiko's new found source of compassion, as Koreeda primarily focuses on the more joyful, celebratory moments of a strengthening bond between intimate strangers. However, a return visit to the city of Osaka brings back a flood of painful reminders, returning Yumiko to her previous state of inescapable depression. The journey further complicates the delicate situation unfolding within the confounding confines of her deepening psychological turmoil, exacerbating the tensity of her gradual acclimatization. Yumiko's inability to fully commit herself to her second husband is a direct consequence of her inability to comprehend the destabilizing effects of her innermost fixation; a persistent uncertainty concerning the nature of death, and a refusal to receptively acknowledge that which we cannot control.
Koreeda's transcendent depiction of the esoteric natural beauty of Yumiko's rural environment is a calculated effort to further reinforce the principle message of the film, which is simply the message of the maborosi. Why does Yumiko's husband selfishly succumb to the unfathomable temptations of the mystic light beyond the horizon? Why does the maborosi indiscriminately engulf the souls of its unwarranted victims? These are questions without answers, frustratingly enlightening reminders of the limits of our mortality, and the fragility of our most basic human certainties. The point of the film, however, is not to mock or ridicule our rational sensibilities, nor does Koreeda intend to paint an exceedingly bleak portrait of untenable despair and incomprehensible misfortune. Rather, the lesson of the maborosi is an alleviating reaffirmation of hope and anticipation, providing an acceptable resolution to an inconclusive affliction, dispensing clues to the solution of one of life's greatest riddles. The maborosi fable teaches us that closure cannot begin without acceptance, and that acceptance is ultimately earned through procession.
4 Little Girls (1997)
A Spike Lee Joint
On September 15th, 1963 Robert Chambliss murdered four innocent children at the Sixteenth Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama. The tragic event resulted in earth shaking ramifications witnessed throughout the country. Millions of people previously unaware of or indifferent to the racial crisis existing within the South were suddenly forced to take issue with a righteous cause that refused to vanish conveniently. The murderer commonly known as 'Dynamite Bob' had hoped to reinforce previously existing segregation laws by committing a desperate act of terrorism against a most sacred and beloved institution. Much to his surprise, these violent tendencies only strengthened the Birmingham community in their quest for equitable treatment for all Black citizens. However, it should not be forgotten that such a cowardly act caused indescribable grief and unbearable pain for the families of the victims. While the death of these four little girls was undoubtedly a crucial turning point in the civil rights movement, it was also a crushing blow dealt to four harmless, unsuspecting families.
Spike Lee's debut documentary is a film that is engulfed with anger, pain, and disappointment. At the same time, however, it is a film that is presented as a message of hope. As Alpha Robertson passionately exclaims, 'God has a greater plan in mind, we all serve His purpose in some manner'. This quote is something that Lee presents as a rather speculative inquiry in his film. Was God acting within some enigmatic mode in an attempt to assist people in the realization of the need for equality and fairness in society? Could Queen Nunn's vision of the bloody Sixteenth Street Baptist Church have been a divine premonition? Lee leaves this possibility open to intense scrutiny and supposition. However, this approach raises another interesting question within the secular realm that relates to ideas on morality. Is the death of four innocent girls an acceptable loss if it means a greater purpose shall be served? To the family and friends of the victims, this is obviously not the case. However, to the greater public at large, does such a monstrous act become beneficial and perhaps even admissible? Not admissible in the sense of forgivable or understandable, but perhaps valuable or advantageous? Did Dr. King and other civil rights leaders exploit the deaths of the children for their own greater cause? These are all very difficult questions that Lee presents within his documentary. It is up to the viewer to come to his or her own distinct conclusion.
4 Little Girls raises many interesting possibilities with regards to faith, destiny, and pre-determination. Could these four girls have been chosen by God to serve as martyrs for a righteous cause? Could God have been expressing his dissatisfaction or perhaps only attempting to expand the recognition of one of societies greatest ills? Or could this event have been entirely secular in nature, could the death of these four girls have been entirely coincidental and ultimately unnecessary? Was the increased awareness of discrimination a justifiable end to the horrific means? While the documentary does not dive into these serious inquiries very heavily, it does present them to the audience, whether consciously knowledgeable of it or not. As with all of Lee's films, Four Little Girls is encompassed by an atmosphere of uncertainty. While Lee never attempts to justify 'Dynamite Bob's' actions (and understandably so), he also doesn't attempt to explain why a man would commit such horrendous acts. This is not a fault of the film, rather it is indicative of the nature of Lee's films. There are some questions that cannot be easily answered as if one were merely responding to a true/false examination. However, it is these difficult questions that often spark the most intense and valuable discussions. Perhaps that is the true legacy of these four little girls. Perhaps their death, while tragic, ultimately saved many lives by bringing compassion and empathy to a society blinded by hatred.
Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes (1972)
'We will stage history, the same way as other men stage plays.'
This proclamation comes from Don Lope de Aguirre, sailing aboard a lifeless raft, drifting aimlessly down the interminable run leading to the fabled city of El Dorado. This quote is a perfect representation of the mindset of Aguirre, 'The Wrath of God'. He is consumed within his unrelenting determination to satisfy his deepest desires of avarice, supremacy, and grandeur. His obsessions slowly begin to affect his judgment, and his passion enthusiastically blinds his perception of reality, blurring the distinct line between actuality and fabled illusion. Aguirre becomes firmly intent on conquering all of South America, of breaking away from the Spanish crown and beginning a new world securely under his unconditional domination.
Aguirre becomes capable of garnering support among his men through promises of unimaginable riches, impenetrable authority and security, and perhaps most importantly, with the promise of a glorious adventure into the heart of the unfamiliar. However, it must be understood that Aguirre was able to initially succeed in his plans due to the willingness and complicity of the men under his control. The absence of dissension was due not only to fear of the potential consequences, but was also a result of the general attitude of the available men. The promises of the power of greed were compelling enough to create strict uniformity and acquiescence to the selfish goals of Aguirre. The story of Herzog's film is as old as the history of Western civilization itself. One infatuated madman becomes able to rally the spirit of a foolish herd behind him through the false promises of unrestricted glory, indestructible power, and incomprehensible wealth. Of course, the second part of Herzog's film is also the most common, recognizable conclusion to such a familiar story. All authority must cease eventually, as nothing built on the foundations of deception and falsity can stand forever. It is through this identifiable situation that Herzog is able to illustrate the fragility and insanity of such wild quests for power. All men maintain the same illusions of grandeur and magnificence, however the attempted acquisition of such desires can often result in tragic consequences, as is made evident in Aguirre's most logical conclusion.
What are the tragic consequences of Aguirre's pursuit of the unattainable? The most obvious response to this question would be the loss of his only daughter, his sole reason for being and continuance in the face of adversity. His quest for power is not only a self-satisfying attempt to escape the dreadful monotony of mortality, but it is also meant to bring veneration, allegiance and complicit submission to the forthcoming generations of his family line. The death of his daughter is the signification of the death of Aguirre's unforeseen future, and the cessation of his greatest hopes and aspirations. The tragic separation between a father and his daughter is a universally empathized situation, and Herzog does well to incorporate this moment of indeterminable significance into his film's climactic infusion of incalculable remorse and impending self-destruction. However, despite the realization that his journey has ended in complete failure, Aguirre remains entrapped within his ideological pursuits. He refuses to accept his defeat, and remains steadfastly determined to conquer all that surrounds him. Even the death of his own daughter is not enough to shake the madman from the foundations of his deepest latent fixations, made manifest through the complete destruction and manipulation of his encompassing environment. Aguirre continues to outwardly express his darkest desires, failing to identify his complete isolation and withdrawal from reality. Even when there is nobody to share his inane ramblings with, Aguirre remains absorbed within his delusions. His slow descent into madness comes full circle at the film's conclusion, as Aguirre remains the sole survivor aboard the aforementioned direction less raft, sailing toward some unmistakably predetermined termination. The film's ending is illustrative of the typical conclusion of the typical madman's expedition. There is nobody left for Aguirre to command or abuse, to consult with or confide in, to inspire or to befriend. This is because Aguirre failed to grasp the inevitable futility of his situation, and the enigmatic insanity with which he conducted his operation.
Herzog's conclusion is not quite as clear and decisive as some would leave you to believe. Certainly, Aguirre has lost his source of power, his meaning for continuation, and his sanity in the process. However, he is still alive, and he has not learned anything from his experience; he is just as stubbornly determined as when his exploration began. Perhaps this can be viewed as a not so subtle commentary on the inability of selfishly driven men to realize the folly of their ways, and to seek forgiveness from those that they have harmed in the process. Or perhaps Herzog is suggesting that men like Aguirre will always survive the repercussions of the materialization of their own insane aspirations, and it is only the sheep that will suffer the consequences from compliance and strict obedience. Or perhaps the survival of Aguirre is an illustration of the indestructible perpetuation of human greed, cruelty, and irrationality. With men like Aguirre readily available in the world, it is only plausible that such failed expeditions will be tried again. Logic that 'The Wrath of God' himself employs as justification for the continuance of his adventure in the face of overwhelming odds. Whatever Herzog's implications in the final scenes suggest, it is only certain that Aguirre's stubbornness resulted in a path of unnecessary obsessive destructiveness; An obsession that destroyed all hope for the future, and made a mockery of the past.