Just Watch.

Jesus: The King of Kings

Cecil B. DeMille, 1927

First a warning: I'm in the midst of writing an article, so there are probably going to be a lot of posts like this. Secondly, for the sake of transparency: the Criterion DVD offers two different cuts, the 1928 general release (which clocks in at 112 minutes) and the original cut (155 minutes). I took the shorter route; I have to get through a lot of these. The box says that there are two soundtracks for the short version. I have no idea which one I listened to, but it was notable for its incorporation of some choice sound effects as well as some hymns that I recognize from church. 

I don't believe I'd ever seen a DeMille picture in is entirety before, and looking at this you immediately get why he was the king of the epic. No one tells story as boldly and on such a large scale. Some of the scenes look like David's history paintings; they're just as large and detailed and have the same incredible depth of field. Casts of thousands, opulence up to your eyeballs, zebra-drawn carriages: this film's got it all. The sheer awesomeness of scope is reason enough to watch.

Whether King of Kings succeeds on a theological or narrative level is a different story. DeMille makes a very smart decision to use quotations from the various gospels as intertitles; it lends the proceedings a certain gravitas while ratcheting up some good old-fashioned dramatic tension. Part of the problem is that he starts off so strong, in the glorious extravagance of Mary Magdalene's bordello, that we want to stay in that world rather than getting dragged into the more dour sphere of faith and righteousness. The portrayal of Jesus' miracles pales a bit in comparison. Perhaps using other stories -- the raising of Lazarus is the only real show-stopper -- would have made things more compelling. You have to work overtime to keep your audience with this material, because, like Titanic, everybody already knows the ending.

Which isn't to say that the whole thing just goes downhill. Never count out the big man in the sky. God's wrath after the crucifixion is something to behold; looking at it I am -- much like one might observe a miracle -- dumbstruck and unable to figure out how it was accomplished.

Ugetsu

Kenji Mizoguchi, 1953

 This movie teaches us three lessons:

1. Don't be greedy!

2. Men, you should listen to women.

3. Women, don't bother: even if you warn men not to stupid things, they're going to go out and do them anyway.

All kidding aside, Mizoguchi is known for his female characters and his sympathy with their plight. We have very complex, fully realized women in this film. All three actresses turn in incredible performance, but the film belongs to Machiko Kyo as Lady Wakasa. She gives us a lot, being simultaneously creepily ingratiating and vaguely otherworldly, yet consumed by human passion.

Mizoguchi is also known for his exquisite lighting, and that's most assuredly at play here. (Credit is also due to DP Kazuo Miyagawa. The lighting style is by no means chiaroscuro, but there's a lot of contrast achieved by working with shades of grey. The boundaries between these contrast are soft and fluid, creating a misty effect. This story is a fairy tale, and this misty quality beautifully complements the supernatural element of the story. There's one scene, set on the water, that executes a subtle yet breathtaking play between fog and light.

I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't tell you that it takes a while to get to the main thrust of the story. But it's not at all like Repulsion, where the first 40 minutes are like watching paint dry. The setup is interesting, and these subplots return in the rest of the film, adding depth and richness.

Le Samourai

Jean-Pierre Melville, 1967

The first thing that needs to be said is that this movie is really cool. It's so cool that it's almost uncool to say you like it because it's such a hipster affectation. But it's got it all: sharp suits, big hair, stylish sets. 

Which is not to say that anything's lavish or overstuffed; minimalism is very much the name of the game here. There's an almost Zen-like quality to the austerity; given the film's title, I don't think that's an accident. If we're calling this a film noir -- or a neo-noir or a revisionist noir, whatever -- then it's certainly one of the few to have a good chunk of its scenes set in the daytime. This gives Melville the chance to show off a muted palette of grays and greens that's quite subtle and beautiful. Props should also be given to cinematographer Henri Decaë.

But the economy isn't solely visual. The washed out images are well complemented by Francois de Roubaix's sparse yet haunting soundtrack. And this is not even the only example of auditory economy.  If "show don't tell" is a tenet of good writing, it applies equally to good filmmaking. The first ten minutes are silent (or, more correctly, contain no dialogue.) All the same, you learn everything you need to know about the protagonist. (Interestingly, it is a woman who breaks the silence. You can insert your own "chicks can't shut the hell up" joke here. Actually, although the women in this film are not in the least treacherous, you can read this fact as a tip of the hat to the criminal world, where the film takes place, and where women double cross you and "sing." Speaking of women, the film is, if not daring, then at least unusual in its suggestion of interracial romance, occurring a year before Kirk was macking on Uhura.

Perhaps the greatest minimalism of all comes from Alain Delon's performance. I'm taking this class right now and the professor keeps stressing the notion that in film noir clothing and styles are a kind of armor. Jef's trenchcoat with the upturned lapels and his sharp grey hat clearly protect him, not only from the ravages of his world, but from the audience's attempts to analyze and decipher him. His face is, in Tennyson's words, "icily regular, splendidly null." It is a visage that says everything with its blankness.

In the Realm of the Senses (Ai no corrida)

Nagisa Oshima, 1976

Do you ever have one of those days where you say, "What the hell, I'm in a weird mood anyway, might as well watch some Japanese porn"?

To echo what millions of men have uttered to millions of women throughout eternity: it's not porn, it's art. I'm not going to get into that whole porn vs. "erotica" issue, because it's just a lot of bullshit irrelevant hair splitting that doesn't get you anywhere. I don't think it's a movie you can get your rocks off to -- although you can certainly feel free to try -- mainly because, while it depicts realistic (and real) sex, it's not set up for maximum exposure like porn is. And while porn can have perfectly serviceable, sometimes interesting plots, this does shoot for something a little bit higher. In spite of -- actually, because of -- the explicitness of the whole thing, it reveals incredibly incisive truths about sex and love, desire and obsession.

Gilda

Charles Vidor, 1946

So I was thinking about this one through the framework of film noir, but I'm not entirely convinced. The investigatory element is sparse to say the least; as a rule the crime aspect of noirs are labyrinthine and convoluted, but in this one, there's no there there. I don't know if you can reference MacGuffins in non-Hitchcock films; nevertheless, the tungsten in this film is one, just as surely as the sand in the wine bottles in Notorious. Stylistically, Gilda jibes with the convention -- there's a lot of beautiful chiaroscuro lighting -- and technically there's a femme fatale and a hard-boiled guy, although I'm not sure how much those roles apply here. I feel that maybe this movie is another, unquantifiable kind of film masquerading as a noir, just as the characters are playing parts.

Sometimes its hard to tell whether a performer is not very good, or just pretending to be bad because the role requires it. It's possible that I tend to believe the latter more often, perhaps too readily, because I want to view women characters as complex and interesting beings. My potential biases aside, I'm fairly sure Rita is playing a girl who's faking it. Remember, this film is all about masquerade.

More Thoughts on Mad Men

So the thing about this show -- the reason we keep coming back -- is that the writers can either be really kind to us, but they can also be very very cruel, and you never know which one is coming.

Case in point: I was talking to my best friend a few weeks ago, and we were commiserating about how much we hated Jane from Jane street. (I think all women do, or at least all the ones that I know.) That was the week before the Kentucky Derby episode, and Jane's little drunken antics were at first very gratifying, because that bitch needed to be taken down a peg. But then you can't help but feel sorry her, because it seems like she's taking the Betty Draper Express to the Valley of the Dolls. Then you see her and Roger dancing, and you think it's possible that she might actually be happy, and the hatred returns.

A question: did I miss any earlier hints that Joan had married the rapist doctor? Or did we only know for sure when Roger called her "Mrs. Harris"? Because if that's how we found out, then that's just twisting the knife.

While we wait eagerly for tonight, just a few more thoughts on women on the show:

If the women on the show are objectified, is this necessarily a bad thing? Being an object can be both useful and empowering. Just ask Joan. Bobbie Barrett put succinctly when she told Peggy, "Be a woman. It's a powerful business when done correctly." The only problem with being an object is if you think that's all that you are. I don't think Joan thinks she's only an object -- her suggestion for Peggy's roommate notice shows she has real potential in the advertising business -- but I think she's a little flummoxed about how to get people to know about her other facets. The script reading job in season two made no doubt of her capabilities, only to shoot down and replace her with a man. Joan's always completely implacable, but I think, underneath it all, that stuff really did a number on her. 

Khal Nayak

Subhash Ghai, 1993

I was asked to rate my top 15 films recently, and I struggled, wondering if this one should make the cut. (You can watch the whole thing on YouTube, if you've got the stamina.) Basically, I wanted to see if I liked the film as a whole, or if I'd inflated its merit because it contains this, which is one of the most awesome things ever, and caused a huge scandal in India when the film was released. (Maddeningly enough, most of the songs in Bollywood DVDs are never subtitled, but the lyrics are usually beside the point. All you need to know for this one is the tension between the provocative question ("What is behind the blouse?") and the demure answer ("Behind the blouse is my heart"). 

There's this weird double standard in Bollywood: you can show erotic, highly suggestive dances, but kissing is taboo. Recently, there have been kisses in a few films, but they're still the anomalies. When Aishwarya Rai, who's probably the biggest Bollywood star of the moment (and often called the most beautiful woman in the world), started doing bit parts in English speaking films, the press was all atwitter about whether she would kiss. I don't know whether she has or not; there's no way I'm getting anywhere near The Pink Panther 2.

The fact remains that Bollywood -- even though it's a much bigger money maker than Hollywood films -- is not for everyone. You can't go into one without accepting certain essential tenets:

1. The films are long. Really long. Like 3 hours or more. In Indian theaters, people often walk out in the middle of the film if they don't like a scene, and then come back later. This is a very radical and interesting form of spectatorship; it makes each viewer his or her own editor. The other cool thing about moviegoing in India: you get samosas instead of popcorn.

2. The plots follow very strict -- often socially conservative -- formulas. The film usually has a love triangle. There's the hero, who wants to win the love of the pure girl, then there's the fallen woman (almost always a prostitute) who sleeps with him and comforts him until the end, where she sacrifices herself so the hero and the pure girl can marry, maintaining the status quo.

OMG!

Tonight marks the hopefully triumphant return of "Gossip Girl." And while the show has garnered its share of superlative accolades -- New York's Daily Intel calls it, quite rightly, "The Greatest Show of Our Time" -- it has yet to be recognized for what it is: an important feminist text.

Don't believe me? Let me cite no lesser source than Simone de Beauvoir. (Actually, she was talking about Stendhal's characters, but whatever, "The Red and the Black" was totally the "Gossip Girl" of the 19th century):

"The so-called serious man is really futile, because he accepts ready-made justifications for his life [Dan Humphrey!]; whereas a passionate and profound woman revises established values from moment to moment [Serena!]. She knows the constant tension of unsupported freedom; it puts her in constant danger; she can win or lose all in an instant. It is the anxious assumption of this risk that gives her story the colors of a heroic adventure. And the stakes are the highest there are: the very meaning of existence. [Blair!]"

Spooky, no? Nothing about Chuck Bass, but I'm sure Simone would have some thoughts about him, were she not currently too busy discovering that hell is other people.

Flippancy aside, but the truth is this is the story of two people who have very different strategies for dealing with being a woman. There's Serena, who flits from one scenario to another, completely affable and unruffled, never taking anything too seriously. And then there's Blair, who's afraid of ever unleashing the wild, feral, lustful creature she's got stored under her carefully constructed armor. So she tries to manipulate any given scenario using sheer willpower, until she unleashes some of the crazy and tries to destroy everything in her path just to see what will happen. And the fact that these two can fight, and struggle to communicate with each other, but nevertheless come to forgive and love each other is... pretty damn awesome.

So what can a girl learn from Gossip Girl? Let's prep (pardon the pun) with a short primer.

(Generations of future gender studies professors: you're welcome.)

Are There No Mad Women?

Nerve ran Nicole Ankowski's interesting piece last week bout Mad Men, and the dangers of watching the show with one's significant others. 

Not to oversimplify a thoughtful, nuanced piece, but we can limn Ankowski's criticisms of the show fairly adroitly. They go a little something like this:

1. I cannot watch this show, because all the female characters are unhappy and I don't want to be like any of them.

2. I cannot watch this show with my boyfriend, because if he enjoys it it means he endorses the actions and opinions of the male characters in the show, and I am afraid this endorsement will have an effect on our relationship. 

Oh no you di'nt!

Listen up, young lady. I know that, now you have that little gold tchotke you campaigned so long and disingenuously for, you're a little full of yourself. You think you can do anything.

But, honey, listen up: I know Joan Crawford. I have seen her butch it up, I have seen her "in that ch-air!," I have seen a monstrous caricature of her chewing the scenery in a movie that should have been made by Lifetime. And you, missy, are no Joan Crawford.

On the other hand. Todd Haynes is supposed to direct it, and I think he should be allowed to do whatever he wants, so maybe this will be incredibly awesome?