Tag Archives: Mel Gibson

Putting A Year To Rest

“Cinema also made the power of America abroad, its conquest of the world since the Second World War being due not only to military, technical and economic supremacy but also to the power of its cinema.” – Jean-Luc Godard, CINEMA: the archaeology of film and the memory of a century, 2000

“In other words, the validity and vibrancy of this important cinematic tradition depends upon a workable compromise between art cinema and popular cinema; between generic tradition and formal innovation; between political intentions and social fantasies; between private investment and public funding; and between a real appreciation for the local and regional and a critical examination of the national as a new/old  category of cultural identity within an increasingly streamlined global media landscape.” – Sabine Hake, German National Cinema, 2002

Andrew Garfield in Hacksaw Ridge

Introduction & Hacksaw Ridge

I have seen a number of blockbusters this Autumn.  Some were decent, some were terrible.  But each was indicative of the state of American cinema today in its own way.  Together these films provide a survey of the strategies and tactics employed by producers, directors, and studio executives in the effort to fill seats and entertain.

Of all of the films I have seen this Autumn, Hacksaw Ridge (2016) is by far the most indicative of America’s mass consciousness and how Hollywood chooses to address that mass conciousness.  Hacksaw Ridge is a return to form for director Mel Gibson.  Again he addresses the horrors of war, the morality of Christian duty and the circumstances that prompt Christian men to question their beliefs.  As always, Gibson does all of this at a fast pace, fast enough so that we the audience don’t have time to question nor ponder the significance of Gibson’s images.  Gibson’s film succeeds only in so far as it conveys his own Christian beliefs as well as serving up a violent spectacle so tantalizing to fans of Saving Private Ryan (1998) and video games that nothing else really does matter anymore.

That’s the issue at hand in American cinema today.  If a film conveys one articulate moral platitude and provides enough spectacle then nothing else really does matter.  This has been true of American mainstream cinema for sometime, though it has never seemed so blatant to me before.  The pretense of artfulness seems to have died in the wake of J.J. Abrams and Michael Bay.  Arguably the last really compelling mainstream commercial release with wide distribution in this country was Lee Daniels’ The Paper Boy (2012).  Since then, aside from some films released on the  “art-house circuit” (if one really can call it that), the best work available to American audiences is happening on television or online streaming platforms.  The cause of this jockeying in power and quality is inevitably born out of a competition between film, television and online streaming as well as a competition between the major entertainment conglomerates for successful branding or franchises (Star Wars vs. Star Trek, Marvel vs. DC, Harry Potter vs. Pixar, etc.).  Given this atmosphere  it isn’t any wonder why American media as a whole has stooped to pandering, placating and generally condescending to their audiences.

Blake Lively in The Shallows

Fede Alvarez’s Don’t Breathe & Jaume Collet-Serra’s The Shallows

In studying film history one tends to take it for granted that there can be innovation and controversy in B-Movies and exploitation films.  In the vein of exploitation films a number of remarkable filmmakers have cut their teeth.  One can often see evidence of this remarkability in the early exploitation films of such filmmakers as Jonathan Demme, Monte Hellman, Joe Dante, Robert Wise, and Abel Ferrara.  Regrettably, there is no evidence, as far as I can see, of any innovation or invention in either Don’t Breathe or The Shallows.

I saw both films at The Rave just off of UPenn’s campus with my friends Stephen and Virginia.  Virginia chose these films with our consent under the assumption that these films would somehow represent a contemporary manifestation of the kind of exploitative cinema that the three of us love (my expectations being set more specifically along the lines of Roger Corman’s productions in the eighties).

The experience of The Shallows certainly came closest to this.  As Virginia put it The Shallows was the first “serious shark movie” in a long time.  The Shallows was rather preposterous, a drawn out battle between Blake Lively and a CGI shark.  That was the film’s narrative; escape the shark.  The subtext of the film was that the love that Blake Lively’s character had for her deceased mother (a victim of cancer) could enable her to do anything.  This sentimental detail, designed to raise the stakes for the audience, really did nothing more than elicit a rather comical commentary from our fellow theater goers.

The true purpose of The Shallows though was to give the audience the opportunity to drink in Blake Lively’s body with our eyes for upwards of ninety minutes.  Don’t Breathe represents a similar impulse, though Alvarez seems to have run amok in creating images that sexually tantalize to the point that, due to the sheer volume and the inherent violence of these images, they become repulsive.

Don’t Breathe plays itself out as a sort of aesthetic marriage between Meir Zarchi’s I Spit On Your Grave (1978) and Wes Craven’s The People Under The Stairs (1991) with a sprinkling of Terence Young’s Wait Until Dark (1967) for good measure.  The narrative premise is wholly indebted to Craven’s film while the approach to sexual violence and retribution is that of Zarchi’s film.  However, unlike either film, though particularly I Spit On Your Grave, the phallic, and images representing the phallic, remain the brunt instrument of pain and sexual power.  The inverting of sexual dominance via castration that is the climax of I Spit On Your Grave is substituted in Don’t Breathe for a phallus in the control of a once female victim.  This is what was most troubling about Don’t Breathe.  The film lacked the audacity to empower the female protagonist on her own terms, thus subverting and disqualifying any claims to a feminist reading.

Tom Hanks & Aaron Eckhart in Sully

Cookie Cutter Perfection: Gavin O’Connor’s The Accountant & Clint Eastwood’s Sully

The Accountant is a troubling film.  It’s first act reads as the kind of genre-centric character study epitomized by Francis Coppola’s The Conversation (1974) while the second and third acts are dreadfully typical post-John Woo action spectacles.  The protagonist’s autism, initially treated with a sensitive humanism, metamorphoses into a kind of superpower or mutant ability with regards to how the script treats this condition.  In this respect the narrative design of the film implodes upon itself.  The latter half of the film eclipses the former, wiping away all of the nuance and subtlety.  In fact, the highlight of the film is right before this aesthetic shift in a short dialogue exchange between Ben Affleck and Anna Kendrick concerning painted portraits of dogs playing poker.  

Equally as generic, Sully represents the latest in a long line of films by Eastwood centering on a man fighting the system, though this time that man is played by Tom Hanks.  Hanks himself is no stranger to the “underdog” hero narrative as evidenced by last year’s Bridge Of Spies and The Terminal in 2004.  But Sully lacks the arbitrary whimsy and racism of Hanks’ collaborations with Steven Spielberg.  In the place of that whimsy Eastwood substitutes character.  The issue is that the script never really allows for the title character to exhibit more than one facet of himself, opting to play the same note over and over again.  The film can’t even bring itself to flirt with America’s post-9/11 paranoia or trauma concerning urban plane crashes, nor does it allow for the bureaucratic corruption to expand beyond three short sequences.

Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them

 Derrickson’s Doctor Strange & Yates’ Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them

I mentioned earlier how instrumental the successful franchise is to contemporary Hollywood marketing.  As a motivating factor as well as an aesthetic trend setter the franchise cannot be underestimated.  Consider the revival of the Star Trek, Star Wars, Transformers, and Power Rangers franchises.  Hollywood is franchise happy.

One such revived franchise is the Harry Potter franchise.  I have never read Rowling’s novels nor have I seen all of the original films.  However, I have been told that should not stop me from comprehending Yates’ Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them.

Immediately I was struck by a number of things in this film that are indicative of the Harry Potter franchise’s bankruptcy.  Firstly, another in a long line of nightmarishly awful performances by the acting atrocity Eddie Redmayne.  Secondly, the overwhelming number of jokes made at the expense of an overweight character.  Then finally the appropriation of the Marilyn Monroe type and of the early twentieth century period.  These first two issues speak for themselves.  The last two, at least in my perspective, represent an effort to establish familiar and marketable signifiers as well as lazy screenwriting on Rowling’s part.  New York of the twenties, as well as the twenties in general, have great currency with millennial audiences as they continue to fetishize the flapper era and its look.  The Monroe element is more elusive.  Typically an archetypally Monroe character is a sort of Janus.  The character will, to serve narrative needs, go from ditsy blonde sex object to an assertive and intelligent woman of the modern world.  This device has its root in the dispelling of the stereotype that Monroe was somewhere short of intelligence in the wake of her death and the thousands of ensuing biographies.  Popular films from the mid-sixties onward make use of this contradiction in a number of ways.  Rowling’s just doesn’t happen to be very interesting.

The construction of Rowling’s plot is a little less troubling in that it is generally so formulaic.  The hero is lost in a strange environment where he makes friends who can help him accomplish his task, save the world, and improve their own moral character.  The base approach to this structure and its literally magical charms allow Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them to fill the void left by Don Bluth so many years ago in the children’s film market (Fantastic Beasts & Where To Find Them is a remake of An American Tale right?).

Unlike the world of Harry Potter, the world of Doctor Strange is one that I know and love.  Rintrah is by far one of my favorite supporting characters in all of comic books.  I have two copies of the Amy Grant issue in my collection, as well as original trading cards of Kylian and Irish Wolfhound.  Not to mention my admiration for Steve Englehart’s groundbreaking run.  That said, I could rip Derrickson’s film apart from a fanboy perspective in a prolonged diatribe.  But I won’t.  I will stick to the film itself, dealing exclusively with it on its own terms.

Marvel/Disney has set out to create a universe in film that mirrors that in the comics; and it has.  The studio has produced about a dozen films that cross-reference and relate to one another at an alarming rate.  And it is into this universe that they have, with this film, introduced Benedict Cumberbatch as Doctor Strange.

Doctor Strange strives to inject hip and cool into the world of this often overlooked comic book character in the guise of visual effects lifted from Christopher Nolan’s Inception and the casting of Tilda Swinton.  Oddly, the film retains some of the jingoism of the comic.  The film’s structure itself is typical of the “origin story”.  The film is so remarkably mundane and familiar that there isn’t much to say other than that it looked better than Captain America: Civil War.

La La Land

Out Of The Theater And Back At Home

I opened this piece with two quotes.  One by Jean-Luc Godard and one by Sabine Hake.  I find both of their points to be valid and certainly true to an extent.  But are their ideas, their notions of what the cinema is and should be, applicable to the mainstream of Hollywood productions?  I don’t think so.  In the films I have discussed here there has been no evidence of a “workable compromise between art cinema and popular cinema” nor has the American cinema exhibited “power” as Godard puts it.  But I have seen such elements, components, and evidence in American films.  Though these films tend to be small, underground films playing regional film festivals.  Or, as is the case with Damien Chazelle’s La La Land, an rare exception that proves the rule.  

-Robert Curry

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The Issue Of War & Film In America

Griffith and Bitzer, 1913

There is no denying the controversial legacy of D.W. Griffith in the cinema. At this point Griffith and the ramifications of his work have been taken for granted if not out of context. But there is no getting passed Griffith’s momentous contribution to cinematic technique or to the marketing and sale of the cinema in America. Neil Sinyard has called Griffith “the cinema’s first director superstar; its first auteur; its first emperor.”

But such praise is derivative not of the narrative content of Griffith’s work, but of his radical approach to film technique. To single Griffith out only for the influence of technique his films had is to negate what is perhaps his furthest reaching influence on the American cinema; the potential for propaganda. Sergei Eisenstein has often held D.W. Griffith up as a sort of cinematic deity in interviews and writing. And its clear to anyone familiar with the Odessa steps sequence in Battleship Potempkin that Eisenstein was an ardent follower of Griffith’s style of montage, which he readily adopted as his own. And it is even more apparent that a connection can be made between Griffith’s distinct manner of montage and that of early Soviet propaganda films.

Yet, Griffith, despite his Victorian world view, valued human drama above all else, as evidenced in Broken Blossoms (1919). The effectiveness of his camera in conveying and capturing human emotion is still powerful, which is why Birth Of A Nation (1915) has become ever more difficult to watch. No one wants to root for the Klansman out to rescue the damsel in distress, though Griffith’s style brings out one’s most ardent sentiments of empathy.

This paradox is a by product of the Griffith technique which has been so often imitated if not replicated that one can experience the same paradox in films as diverse as John Ford’s The Searchers, Michael Cimino’s The Deer Hunter, and Mel Gibson’s The Passion Of The Christ. In each case it seems that the prejudices of the film’s author inadvertently seep through. This has become even more problematic in today’s gentrified society of political correctness where a sensitive audience will emphasize with Robert DeNiro despite the fact that the Viet Cong remain a gaggle of one-dimensional sadists. One could very well term this paradox “accidental propaganda”. I say this because, with the exception of Mel Gibson (apparently, despite being an anti-Semite, his film was not intended to convey that belief), there is no evidence that John Ford and Michael Cimino are racists. Their racial messaging comes out of what they see as narrative necessity. Though it appears each of these directors has some political agenda, the lack of other political texts in these films negates the accusation, supporting the supposition that the singular racial overtones are an anomaly. In certain respects, particularly with regards to John Ford’s career, these films are simply adhering to a political corrective ness that has since been revised.

But perhaps the genre, which employs this tactical paradox most prevalently, is that of the war film. It would be easy to single out older films such as The Guns Of Navarone or The Green Berets, but their ability to strip the “enemy” of any personality traits other than sadism is an art form still utilized by filmmakers today. Even if this is the age of political correctness and cross demographic accessibility, it would be difficult to discern as much from Black Hawk Down, Saving Private Ryan, The Great Raid, Zero Dark Thirty and We Were Soldiers. These films all promote a blind nationalism, vilainizing the opponents of the United States as faceless barbarians, for whom the stakes are only as high as their kill count.

Cpt. Miller (Tom Hanks) dies heroically if not predictably.

Cpt. Miller (Tom Hanks) dies heroically if not predictably.

This is, of course, typical of war films from any country or region; that the film would paint their side as heroic and selfless; a tradition going back further than Homer. The issue here is that these films present a highly prejudiced worldview and convey that perspective to an audience unaware that it is being sold a political idea or re-rendering of past events. European films have been, at least in my experience, more successful in presenting war without one-sided heroism or an inadvertent propagandist message. The reason these European films are able to escape such conventions of American cinema is largely due to the fact that these films do not adopt an “us and them” philosophy, opting instead to depict the horrors of war from the perspective of the civilian. The Mirror, Come And See, Coup De Grace, Bullet In The Head, Vukovar, Hope and Glory, and Forbidden Games all give accounts of both sides of a conflict from the perspective of a third party civilian observer, thusly negating the problematic terrain of a film like Saving Private Ryan. American films rarely deal with civilian participants of war. And when they do they often adopt the heavy-handed polemics of John Cromwell’s Since You Went Away.

These European films represent only a counter point to the conventions of American genre filmmaking discussed before and can only serve to contrast and illuminate this argument via that contrast. The real anti-thesis to the standard American war film exists in the work of a single filmmaker, Samuel Fuller. Consider Fuller’s third feature The Steel Helmet (1951). Unlike other films of its time, The Steel Helmet has an energy and realism that can only be accounted for by examining Fuller’s role in the American Infantry of WWII. Similarly, Fuller’s background in journalism allows him the recklessness to address such subjects as racial discrimination and Japanese Internment. Both subjects are breached naturally, and do much to humanize different characters of racial minorities, thus permitting them the same development and cruciality to the plot that the Caucasian characters have. In 1951 this was unprecedented, but Fuller went even further by humanizing the “enemy” of the film’s narrative, drawing distinct parallels between the views on warfare between the American and North Korean soldiers. In Fuller’s film, a hero is defined by his ability to simply survive, an idea that may appear to have minimal repercussions but in actuality is so broad that Fuller’s film, along with his subsequent war films, pays tribute to all who have died in a conflict.

With Verboten! and The Big Red One Fuller refines this approach by adding to the formula a sense of the historic and the romantic. The use of archival footage of concentration camps in Verboten! pre dates Stanley Kramer’s Judgment at Nuremburg, and serves not as a device to reinforce the inhumanity of Nazis, but rather to juxtapose the American treatment of German civilians as they occupy Germany. In this way Fuller conveys his concept that in war everyone is a victim and everyone is a killer, that responsibility permeates all of the societies involved. This philosophy on war mirrors that of Fuller’s counterparts in Europe, but without structuring the film from a civilian perspective. By the time Fuller makes The Big Red One he has added a sort of Romance to the histrionic. By opening the film with Lee Marvin’s character at the close of WWI, Fuller suggests that war will forever repeat itself, and that it is this notion that haunts not only the soldier, but also the society for which the soldier has gone to war.

Fuller's interracial The Steel Helmet

Fuller’s interracial The Steel Helmet

The Big Red One was Samuel Fuller’s last film about war, and remained the last American film about war to offer an alternative to the model D.W. Griffith put forth in his The Birth Of A Nation until Terrence Malick’s The Thin Red Line. Part of this may be due to the ambiguity of the Vietnam conflict. In an attempt to clarify that ambiguity, films such as Platoon, Full Metal Jacket and Casualties Of War set out to polarize the conflict with a touch of “good versus evil” rather than revel in the ambiguity that plagued our nation and its soldiers the way Francis Ford Coppola did in Apocalypse Now (1979). And just as Vietnam began to truly drift into our past, 9/11 occurred and sparked an ongoing boom in war films that sought to act out the retribution and revenge that America hungered for with an appetite that has yet to be quenched. Perhaps these symptoms in our society and the longevity of Griffith’s methods are indicative of America’s need to constantly reaffirm her dominance over the world?

-Robert Curry

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Gone, But Not Quite Forgotten

Few film directors have been granted the kind of critical reassessment Orson Welles has.  It is a widely acknowledged fact in the film community that during his life Welles’ films post-Citizen Kane (1941) were largely ignored and that the director spent much of his time attempting to raise money to complete what few films he could make.  Since the eighties, the Hollywood machine has done its best to gloss over their poor treatment of Welles, labeling him both an icon of the old studio system as well as a rebellious auteur.  In reality, a majority of Welles’ films were made over seas, and those that were made in Hollywood, with the exception of Citizen Kane, were never under the director’s complete control.

Simon Callow’s two-volume biography on Orson Welles, The Road To Xanadu and Hello Americans, does much to explain Welles’ tumultuous relationship with Hollywood.  For starters, Welles had a tremendous ego; often he would offend or undermine the authority of those upon whom he relied for financing.  Second, Welles refused to compromise, tyrannically pursuing his ideal visions despite monetary or personal repercussions.  In short, Orson Welles was a visionary genius, a loud mouth, an egotist, self indulgent, and controlling filmmaker.  These attributes, no matter how unseemly, made up a large portion of his style and his process as a filmmaker.  In old Hollywood, Welles’ personality alone was enough to be banned from the industry, without taking into account the controversial subject matter of his material.

Thus, Welles departed from the studio machine (with the exception of Touch Of Evil in 1958), and began making films independently in Europe, beginning with an adaptation of Othello (1952).  The monetary restrictions of these European productions were inhibiting at best, often Welles would end up shelving entire projects due to his financial situation (1969’s Don Quixote).  The conditions surrounding Welles forced him to adopt a style in total contrast with the grandeur and nuance of Citizen Kane and The Magnificent Ambersons (1942), shooting instead when actors, sets, and money were available, often traveling across Europe to best accommodate these circumstances.  The kinetic energy of Mr. Arkadin (1955), The Trial (1962), and Chimes At Midnight (1965) often appears to be the work of an entirely different director than the Orson Welles that brought us The Stranger (1946) and The Magnificent Ambersons.  Budget problems did not allow Welles the visual style he pioneered with Gregg Toland, so Welles opted for fast camera moves and jump cuts that pre-date the French New Wave by almost a decade.

The richness, and the texture of Welles’ scripts remained, for the most part, consistent in his later films as it had in the early studio pictures.  The differences are in the visual style of Welles’ films, clearly divided by what came before Othello and what came after Othello.  This division presents us with an interesting contradiction.  Orson Welles, the big studio icon, made his most influential films in Europe.  Take the battle scene in Chimes At Midnight for example.  Welles shot the sequence with a moving camera, reserving stationary shots for the comic relief of Falstaff or for close-ups.  These moving shots are cut based upon the action in frame to other moving shots, playing up the energy of the violence in the sequence to maximum effect.  The pace of these cuts is unprecedented in scenes of epic battle, yet gave Hollywood the blueprint from which to stage their battle scenes in more contemporary films such as Braveheart (1994).  The reflexivity and self-awareness of Welles himself in F Is For Fake (1974) predates Jean-Luc Godard’s film Keep Your Right Up (1987).  It quickly becomes evident that the second half of Welles’ career is far more expansive and meaningful in its influence than the first half.  Even considering Citizen Kane; it is the only film Welles made in Hollywood over which he exerted complete control, the other studio films are mere approximations of his original intentions (if we’re lucky) as they are available today.  In recent years this argument has gained strength from new “restored” versions of his uncompleted (Jess Franco’s edit of Don Quixote) and lost (the Criterion Collection’s release of Mr. Arkadin) films.

Now, let us return to the allegation that Orson Welles is a studio icon.  If we compare his films and his filmmaking process to other directors and their respective movements, he is more akin to the classic European auteur like Max Ophuls and Luchino Visconti, the French New Wave, or the early American Independents than to the studio films of Hollywood.  So is there even a “reassessment” at work here?

When Welles died, filmmakers such as Peter Bogdanovich, Martin Scorsese, Francis Coppola and Robert Altman who had been praising Citizen Kane for years were finally heard.  Directors had become superstars in the seventies, and the studios knew there would be much to gain by supporting the opinions of these filmmakers when it came to marketing the Welles’ films that they owned.   So what we are faced with is not a critical reassessment in the classic sense, but a marketing ploy.  This begins to explain why so many of Welles’ later films have yet to find distribution in the United States thirty years after Welles has died; there just isn’t a big enough demand.  The average filmgoer or amateur “movie buff” is entirely ignorant of the Welles films of the sixties and seventies precisely because of the studio’s “reassessment”.  When an audience doesn’t know a film exists, why would they want to see it?

-Robert Curry

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