(Click to enlarge)
Interlude - Bill Comic
I found this old thing on my hard drive. I still think it's one of my best.
(Click to enlarge)
(Click to enlarge)
Another thing coming up
Another thing to add from two posts back:
Dead or Alive trilogy
Not the video game, not the movie based on the video game, but the original direct-to-video "V-movie" cult classic trilogy of films by Takashi Miike. I only discovered these recently, but has piqued my interest in terms of its absurdity - almost at PFFR level - and exploration of false symbolicism. The art of mis-leading an audience into thinking there is something of substance when in its depths there is emptiness. It's almost like a satire on actual symbolicism. Is this what post-modernism is? Perhaps I should throw in a parallel analysis of Final Flesh - the mysterious Vernon Chatman (of PFFR) project which in my opinion crowns him as the King of Absurd.
Tideland
The ultimate disasterpiece of Terry Gilliam (that is if Brazil can be considered his masterpiece). There is that kind of movie which can only be reviewed by analysing a whole career (before and after the work in question) of the artist. Haneke as Funny Games, Lynch has Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Herzog has Fitzcarraldo and Gilliam has Tideland. This movie is the example of what movies should not be, and could only be pulled off by Gilliam, and only in the headspace that he was in at the time. I see it as a summary of Gilliam's career, and what he is. Just wait until I make the post. Perhaps a long wait, but just wait. In the meantime feel free to discuss in the "abominable scrawls".
Dead or Alive trilogy
Not the video game, not the movie based on the video game, but the original direct-to-video "V-movie" cult classic trilogy of films by Takashi Miike. I only discovered these recently, but has piqued my interest in terms of its absurdity - almost at PFFR level - and exploration of false symbolicism. The art of mis-leading an audience into thinking there is something of substance when in its depths there is emptiness. It's almost like a satire on actual symbolicism. Is this what post-modernism is? Perhaps I should throw in a parallel analysis of Final Flesh - the mysterious Vernon Chatman (of PFFR) project which in my opinion crowns him as the King of Absurd.
Tideland
The ultimate disasterpiece of Terry Gilliam (that is if Brazil can be considered his masterpiece). There is that kind of movie which can only be reviewed by analysing a whole career (before and after the work in question) of the artist. Haneke as Funny Games, Lynch has Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, Herzog has Fitzcarraldo and Gilliam has Tideland. This movie is the example of what movies should not be, and could only be pulled off by Gilliam, and only in the headspace that he was in at the time. I see it as a summary of Gilliam's career, and what he is. Just wait until I make the post. Perhaps a long wait, but just wait. In the meantime feel free to discuss in the "abominable scrawls".
Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami
I feel I should update this blog with something. I finished reading a book, which is an accomplishment by my standards, and so perhaps I should review it? I don't want this blog to go stale, so yes, I will review it (no pictures for this post).
Can I really comment on style if the book is translated from another language? If I'm talking about style, I would be addressing the translater, Philip Gabriel, and then I'd easily be straying from the point. No, I have to address structure, then I'd be getting to the guts of the original author (I'm sure he wouldn't mind, he seems to have plenty of fascination with guts and intestines in the story). So let's jump straight in the dirt and see what we can flesh out.
I happen to notice this book in a bookstore simply by its cover, specifically the word "Kafka", but when I read the blurb on the back I knew right away I would want to read it. I love anything with surrealism and mysterious symbolism. Even if this book has nothing to do with Franz Kafka, I figured it shouldn't be an accident that Murakami used his name in the title. In reading the book I find out he used the name for two specific reasons: firstly because the protagonist is a fan of Franz Kafka, secondly because "Kafka" is the Czech word for "Crow", and he wants to be strong and independent, like a crow. There is a mysterious imaginary friend called "the boy named Crow" who plays a role in the overall mythology of this world. Among the specific reasons, the protagonist, who has run away from home on his 15th birthday, renames himself "Kafka", which plays a significant part in the big coincidence later on, that is the resemblance to the fictional 60's pop-song "Kafka on the Shore". I would like to mention briefly in regards to the translation; the lyrics of this song are laid out in full at one point and it is strange - to me - that they have rhythm and rhyme. I have to wonder how much alteration took place in the translating to achieve that.
However, on to the structure, the story is an overall modern retelling of Oedipus Rex. I didn't have to figure this out myself, though, the book lays it all out for me. It even explains the whole play in detail! But there is a twist, not only does Kafka sleep with his mother, but with his (foster) sister too! I didn't have to figure out that twist myself, the characters explained all this in the story as well. Here begins my complaint. The book is really fat. Too much fat! It could have been slimmed down about 20% without the unnecessary repetition or the drawling explanations of its own references. There's even a point where a character explains Chekhov's Gun! Is it supposed to be clever or 4th-wall breaking to point out your own plot devices? I don't know. But this is the extent of my complaining, this book may be fat but it's not grossly obese. Heck even I learned a couple new things:
p. 379:
"...It's a labyrinth. Do you know where the idea of a labyrinth first came from?"
I shake my head.
"It was the ancient Mesopotamian's. They pulled out animal intestines - sometimes human intestines, I expect - and used the shape to predict the future. They admired the complex shape of intestines. So the prototype for labyrinths is, in a word, guts. Which means that the principle for the labyrinth is inside you. And that correlates to the labyrinth outside."
Which brings me to the guts. I mean of the story. This is the part of the book I liked. Every alternating chapter switches back and forth between the two lead characters, with the exception of the introduction and another small interlude titled "The Boy Named Crow". Firstly you have Kafka Tamura, the run-away 15 year old kid, told in first-person narrative. There are plenty of hormonal-angst-driven monologues and strange existential observations, including the occasional erotic fantasy. Most of all, Kafka is just describing his actions. He is well introverted, even to the reader, which is somehow alienating and engaging at the same time. It's in Kafka's chapters I find the most frustration as I've explained above. Secondly there is Mr Nakata, first introduced through uncovered military reports about a strange event that happened during World War II. Once we get into the actual narrative, when Nakata is an old man in retirement, the story is told in third-person. Later in the novel we are not just limited to the point of view to Nakata, but to other supporting characters as well. I find these chapters are the most exciting to read, for example we are introduced to Nakata when he is speaking to a cat, investigating another missing cat. The most interesting thing I find about Nakata, and later his accomplice, Hoshino, is that they are two lovable dunces, yet somehow not subdued to an Idiot Plot. They might say and think a bunch of stupid things, but somehow manage, often thanks to mysterious outside influences, to make all the right moves and advance the story where it needs to go.
Speaking of mysterious outside influences, it's time I start to mention David Lynch. I can not say if either Murakami or David Lynch bear any influence on each other, but there is definitely a resemblance between their stories. It's in these stories we find an access to a "hidden" world and a cast of mysterious conceptual characters, bearing influence on our own world and forcing us to confront events that we may not fully understand. I'm thinking of the David Lynch characters like the bald creepy guy from Lost Highway, the cowboy from Mulholland Drive, Bob and a whole cast of spirits from Twin Peaks or those strange rabbits from Inland Empire. Likewise, Murakami revels in these strange characters and hidden worlds. The primary difference, I've noticed, is that David Lynch will use these characters to throw a curve-ball and twist the story's conclusion to completely unforeseen locations. Places we were never invited or dared to tread, and they tend to be unforgiving and merciless. Murakami, on the other hand, uses his mysterious characters to eventually set things right, only after a long way into the story we have figured out that there are many things wrong in the first place. I could summarise by saying that Murakami sets things right, and David Lynch sets things wrong.
Perhaps this book is a good companion to anyone who is a fan of Lost. Apart from when the nameless villain explains he is "in limbo", something the Lost creators militantly denied, both stories are equally referential to outside-sources and mysterious events or characters described as "concepts". The whole mythology of these worlds are fully fleshed out, yet not completely explained. If I ever get around to it, I should get myself into a regular schedule of watching Lost, at least one episode per night.
That's it for the review for now. I have tried not to give away too many things about what happens in the story, I mainly just wanted to touch on the essential impressions it has made on me. I'm currently caught up in the TV show, The Wire, and it has sucked up all my concentration for the time being. I'd like to leave this post with one last passage from the book, which resonated with me in a special way. If I were to ask myself where my point was, it would have been around when I was 12-13 years old, maybe younger.
p. 173:
Oshima reaches out and lays a hand on my knee in a totally natural gesture. "Kafka, in everybody's life there's a point of no return. And in very few cases, a point where you can't go forward any more. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That's how we survive."
Can I really comment on style if the book is translated from another language? If I'm talking about style, I would be addressing the translater, Philip Gabriel, and then I'd easily be straying from the point. No, I have to address structure, then I'd be getting to the guts of the original author (I'm sure he wouldn't mind, he seems to have plenty of fascination with guts and intestines in the story). So let's jump straight in the dirt and see what we can flesh out.
I happen to notice this book in a bookstore simply by its cover, specifically the word "Kafka", but when I read the blurb on the back I knew right away I would want to read it. I love anything with surrealism and mysterious symbolism. Even if this book has nothing to do with Franz Kafka, I figured it shouldn't be an accident that Murakami used his name in the title. In reading the book I find out he used the name for two specific reasons: firstly because the protagonist is a fan of Franz Kafka, secondly because "Kafka" is the Czech word for "Crow", and he wants to be strong and independent, like a crow. There is a mysterious imaginary friend called "the boy named Crow" who plays a role in the overall mythology of this world. Among the specific reasons, the protagonist, who has run away from home on his 15th birthday, renames himself "Kafka", which plays a significant part in the big coincidence later on, that is the resemblance to the fictional 60's pop-song "Kafka on the Shore". I would like to mention briefly in regards to the translation; the lyrics of this song are laid out in full at one point and it is strange - to me - that they have rhythm and rhyme. I have to wonder how much alteration took place in the translating to achieve that.
However, on to the structure, the story is an overall modern retelling of Oedipus Rex. I didn't have to figure this out myself, though, the book lays it all out for me. It even explains the whole play in detail! But there is a twist, not only does Kafka sleep with his mother, but with his (foster) sister too! I didn't have to figure out that twist myself, the characters explained all this in the story as well. Here begins my complaint. The book is really fat. Too much fat! It could have been slimmed down about 20% without the unnecessary repetition or the drawling explanations of its own references. There's even a point where a character explains Chekhov's Gun! Is it supposed to be clever or 4th-wall breaking to point out your own plot devices? I don't know. But this is the extent of my complaining, this book may be fat but it's not grossly obese. Heck even I learned a couple new things:
p. 379:
"...It's a labyrinth. Do you know where the idea of a labyrinth first came from?"
I shake my head.
"It was the ancient Mesopotamian's. They pulled out animal intestines - sometimes human intestines, I expect - and used the shape to predict the future. They admired the complex shape of intestines. So the prototype for labyrinths is, in a word, guts. Which means that the principle for the labyrinth is inside you. And that correlates to the labyrinth outside."
Which brings me to the guts. I mean of the story. This is the part of the book I liked. Every alternating chapter switches back and forth between the two lead characters, with the exception of the introduction and another small interlude titled "The Boy Named Crow". Firstly you have Kafka Tamura, the run-away 15 year old kid, told in first-person narrative. There are plenty of hormonal-angst-driven monologues and strange existential observations, including the occasional erotic fantasy. Most of all, Kafka is just describing his actions. He is well introverted, even to the reader, which is somehow alienating and engaging at the same time. It's in Kafka's chapters I find the most frustration as I've explained above. Secondly there is Mr Nakata, first introduced through uncovered military reports about a strange event that happened during World War II. Once we get into the actual narrative, when Nakata is an old man in retirement, the story is told in third-person. Later in the novel we are not just limited to the point of view to Nakata, but to other supporting characters as well. I find these chapters are the most exciting to read, for example we are introduced to Nakata when he is speaking to a cat, investigating another missing cat. The most interesting thing I find about Nakata, and later his accomplice, Hoshino, is that they are two lovable dunces, yet somehow not subdued to an Idiot Plot. They might say and think a bunch of stupid things, but somehow manage, often thanks to mysterious outside influences, to make all the right moves and advance the story where it needs to go.
Speaking of mysterious outside influences, it's time I start to mention David Lynch. I can not say if either Murakami or David Lynch bear any influence on each other, but there is definitely a resemblance between their stories. It's in these stories we find an access to a "hidden" world and a cast of mysterious conceptual characters, bearing influence on our own world and forcing us to confront events that we may not fully understand. I'm thinking of the David Lynch characters like the bald creepy guy from Lost Highway, the cowboy from Mulholland Drive, Bob and a whole cast of spirits from Twin Peaks or those strange rabbits from Inland Empire. Likewise, Murakami revels in these strange characters and hidden worlds. The primary difference, I've noticed, is that David Lynch will use these characters to throw a curve-ball and twist the story's conclusion to completely unforeseen locations. Places we were never invited or dared to tread, and they tend to be unforgiving and merciless. Murakami, on the other hand, uses his mysterious characters to eventually set things right, only after a long way into the story we have figured out that there are many things wrong in the first place. I could summarise by saying that Murakami sets things right, and David Lynch sets things wrong.
Perhaps this book is a good companion to anyone who is a fan of Lost. Apart from when the nameless villain explains he is "in limbo", something the Lost creators militantly denied, both stories are equally referential to outside-sources and mysterious events or characters described as "concepts". The whole mythology of these worlds are fully fleshed out, yet not completely explained. If I ever get around to it, I should get myself into a regular schedule of watching Lost, at least one episode per night.
That's it for the review for now. I have tried not to give away too many things about what happens in the story, I mainly just wanted to touch on the essential impressions it has made on me. I'm currently caught up in the TV show, The Wire, and it has sucked up all my concentration for the time being. I'd like to leave this post with one last passage from the book, which resonated with me in a special way. If I were to ask myself where my point was, it would have been around when I was 12-13 years old, maybe younger.
p. 173:
Oshima reaches out and lays a hand on my knee in a totally natural gesture. "Kafka, in everybody's life there's a point of no return. And in very few cases, a point where you can't go forward any more. And when we reach that point, all we can do is quietly accept the fact. That's how we survive."
Coming up
There are many topics I want to touch on in this blog, however I am restricted with time (my job) and resources (no computer). I am currently moving houses right now too so it's going to be a rough few weeks. When I'm settled I'm thinking of getting a credit card and max it out on things I need right now but can pay off later. Here are some upcoming ideas I have in mind:
Writing a novel
I'm currently writing a novel. Do I have a novel in me? Maybe just one, and it's this one. I can not divulge in what it's about right now, but it will be interesting to see how far I can take it. Will it get published? Will it be shelved, unread? Will it ever be finished? The experiences I'm going through will be exercised here, hopefully.
The films of Krzysztof Kieslowski
Once I get around to watching Dekalog and Three Colours Trilogy I hope there will be some fuel for reviewing and commentary.
Shakespear, WIlliam
My Hitchcock phase has fizzled recently and has been replaced by a new fascination with another highly overrated icon. This and other book reviews may be in the works.
The dying art of 2D animation
This is probably going to be a series of posts. To keep it interesting I may have to work other angles than the many series of posts at John K. Stuff, who comes more from inside the animation studio system, whereas I am just a spectator and amateur practitioner of 2D animation, I would like to discuss the aesthetics of the medium, why it's so appealing - or at least should be - and what is its purpose? How this purpose is lost in what the studios are doing to it now. I'd like to point out that "dying" does not mean "dead". It won't ever be dead, save for the end of the world, but it is suffering.
Writing a novel
I'm currently writing a novel. Do I have a novel in me? Maybe just one, and it's this one. I can not divulge in what it's about right now, but it will be interesting to see how far I can take it. Will it get published? Will it be shelved, unread? Will it ever be finished? The experiences I'm going through will be exercised here, hopefully.
The films of Krzysztof Kieslowski
Once I get around to watching Dekalog and Three Colours Trilogy I hope there will be some fuel for reviewing and commentary.
Shakespear, WIlliam
My Hitchcock phase has fizzled recently and has been replaced by a new fascination with another highly overrated icon. This and other book reviews may be in the works.
The dying art of 2D animation
This is probably going to be a series of posts. To keep it interesting I may have to work other angles than the many series of posts at John K. Stuff, who comes more from inside the animation studio system, whereas I am just a spectator and amateur practitioner of 2D animation, I would like to discuss the aesthetics of the medium, why it's so appealing - or at least should be - and what is its purpose? How this purpose is lost in what the studios are doing to it now. I'd like to point out that "dying" does not mean "dead". It won't ever be dead, save for the end of the world, but it is suffering.
Hitchcock's ROPE - a brief review
If there is one thing Hitchcock was best known for it was his total exaggeration of subtlety. Take PSYCHO for example: we find Norman Bates' office filled with taxidermy - an allusion to the real-life Ed Gein's hobby of dressing up in his victim's skin. In ROPE, we have a tale of two inexplicit homosexual lovers who commit a murder. We're never told they are homosexual, it is only subtly implied, then the subtlety is exaggerated by the plot - they share a unique moment together in murdering their inferior classmate.
The charm of ROPE, and the reason I think it stands above Hitchcock's other works, is primarily due to its two ultimate gimmicks. The first ida Hitchcock had was to make a film that gives the viewer the feel of watching a stage play. This means the entire story must flow in real-time and the film will not have any editing. ROPE was not so much "cut" but "stitched" together, with a couple minor exceptions. Wherever one roll of film had ended (usually with someone or something passing in front of the camera) the beginning of the next roll was attached, giving the illusion of one long continuous take. While this gimmick does remain obvious, the technical precision between the minor shortcomings is still impressive. The second gimmick was the film was to be shot in glorious Technicolor. Back in 1948 this was very new technology which required a high-maintenance beast of a camera:
This is comparible to the cameras used for shooting in 3D in use today. The combination of these two gimmicks have, in my view, clearly raised the game of everyone involved in the movie - from Hitchcock to the D.P. to the actors to the stage-hands and grips and everyone inbetween. I would like to think Hitchcock was too pre-occupied with the technicalities of this picture than to deal with the details, since unlike his other movies I can see the actors have some room to become their characters, there is even overlapping dialogue! While this movie is much more reliant on the characters not screwing up thanks to the first gimmick, the result is a film with watchability.
I would typically complain that Hitchcock's films are well written but poorly filmed. Perhaps not "poorly", but "disagreeable", none-the-less worthy of debate. In the case of ROPE it is the other way around; well filmed but a kind of disagreement in the writing. It's not very badly written in terms of plot, but seems hardly informed in understanding Nietzsche's philosophy on the übermensch (translation - "over-person" or otherwise "superman" in the context of this movie). The two lead characters were supposedly raised on the philosophy of the superman, only grossly mis-interpreted, not unlike Hitler only without the racism. The main scenario where this idea was revealed was when the murder-victim's father questions one of the leads: "So you subscribe to Nietzsche's theory on the superman?" and the protagonist replies with "yes" to which the father responds "so did Hitler". Of course, the protagonist goes into a passionate rant of why Hitler got it wrong, yet he does not justify that he gets it right himself. I can understand this film was made not long after World War II had finished, and Nietzsche's "übermensch" philosophy was probably losing favour thanks to Hitler, but in a story keeping an open mind on homosexuals, I don't see why the writer could have done some extra research and have an open mind on Nietzsche.
The übermensch is not very easy to explain, but the list of the many things it is not, by contrast, is very large. The concept was introduced in the book "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" which briefly explains the übermensch is a new step in evolution for mankind. It is not a biological evolution but a mental one (the first thing the Nazi's got wrong), suited more specifically for the individualist who wishes to be seperated from the "herd mentality" (the second thing the Nazi's got wrong); in other words more suited for a hermit. It is in my observation that even someone who posesses extreme intellect, perhaps even an athiest, is still prone to fall into the "herd mentality". Nietzsche was a hermit, he invented the übermensch as a way to overcome the crushing despair of nihilism. It should also be mentioned that he was born in a family with strong religious conviction (Lutherianism to be precise) and in his dissatisfaction with the pre-conceived God he invented a new God, one that belongs to the individual.
To stray a little from the review, I personally have found contentment in nihilism. I think the destruction of belief is both liberating and also revealing of a much deeper truth: you don't have to believe in existence of things for it to exist, you can simply accept it as knowledge. I haven't read "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" all the way through. Firstly it's a very difficult book to read (an explanation of this is that Nietzsche had no peer-commentary, plus wasn't well known in his lifetime, so any criticism and affirmations come only from himself - within text itself - leading to laborious repetition and self-rebutal monologues). Secondly I found the book about as preachy and self-righteous as any other religious text.
I conclude by saying ROPE is neither right or wrong, it remains open for discussion, perhaps more about the nature of mis-interpretation. Zarathustra himself was constantly concerned with the mis-interpretation of his messages. My take on the übermensch is that it is really only a task meant to be learned by the individual, individually, and that there is no "one-size-fits-all" teaching method.
REVISED EDIT: I hadn't made any mention of James Stewart's character (the "Professor"), who was the only one vaguely approaching a proper understanding of the übermensch philosophy, however I'm only going by the plot of the film. Stewart is one of the most stale actors who has ever graced the stage in front of Hitchcock's camera lens, probably why Hitchcock liked him so much up until Vertigo. I haven't seen him in a non-Hitchcock movie yet, perhaps I will make that my next assignment.
D-D-L-THON AT MY PLACE
- Eversmile New Jersey -
- My Left Foot -
- The Crucible -
- The Last of the Mohicans -
- The Ballad of Jack and Rose - (this one is just to clear the house in case any one is still around)
See you there!
PS--My ex-housemate took away his projector so we'll have to watch these on a small television screen.
PPS--My small television screen just crapped itself and died, so we'll have to watch these on my even smaller computer monitor, only my graphics card isn't working right now so the image will be a bit stretched and warped. You'll get used to it eventually, thanks to our good friend perceptual consistency.
Time to get personal.
I'd like to take some time off talking about movies and start talking a little bit about my job - the movies. I can't talk about my job too often to people because it turns out that not many people really care all that much about movies. I've seen people roll their eyes at me when I tell them what I do, other people say "oh, the movies, huh? Must be good money in that!" Well, no, there isn't, but there is a lot of sentimentality for my work, if I cared any less about film I would have left a long time ago.
I have been given the immense responsibility to make sure certain blockbuster events have their exposure to many locations all around Queensland (basically I despatch boxes of 35mm film and/or hard drives to cinemas). The distributers I work with are "clients", but they really function more like my bosses, as they are the ones ultimately responsible for my paycheck. This week I was responsible for the third installment of the TWILIGHT saga, "ECLIPSE", and although I will never see this movie in my life (the only exception is if it gets a Rifftrax commentary) I can say I have had a kind of connection with this movie, a bonding, in a special sort of way.
Each movie title I deal with, there is always a kind of bonding with it. I make sure I am aware of what the film I'm dealing with is about - and I don't really have to - and take special care of the distribution, because I do care, even if I don't care about the movie. Some films I am extremely glad to have had a relationship with, particularly some Universal titles like A SERIOUS MAN or CORALINE, two films that constantly give me despatch troubles to this day, but they are truly worth the effort for they are excellent films. I regret that INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS has fallen flat, because that film was great too. But even films like BABY MAMA, THE MUMMY III and MAMMA MIA! (all of which were being screened at different places at the same time) are memories that have shaped my journey. That's more than I can say about some of my favourite films of all time.
Up until now with TWILIGHT: ECLIPSE - where every cinema wanted to marathon the first two prequels on the opening night causing one of the most busiest and emotional weeks in my life -, a film distributed by Hoyts (who I started working for only this year), I would have to say the two other biggest ordeals of this job were involving Twentieth Century-Fox, namely AUSTRALIA and AVATAR. Other than having to send out ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW at least thrice a year, these two films have had the biggest impact on me (the result of big-shot directors making last-minute adjustments), and I haven't even seen AUSTRALIA. But perhaps I am fortunate enough to start this job when I did (I started in July 2008), hearing stories about what the guy before me had to go through with the STAR WARS movies (Episodes I, 2 and 3), and TITANIC as well.
I can't say my clients are wholly dependent on me to make sure their blockbusters or whatever film of the week gets its complete exposure; if I were to quit on the spot then someone else will easily replace me. But responsibility is responsibility, and although times get stressful, thinking about how big a role I have in looking after an entire state of a country makes it all worth while. Just don't talk to me about the fucking A-TEAM. Just...don't.
I have been given the immense responsibility to make sure certain blockbuster events have their exposure to many locations all around Queensland (basically I despatch boxes of 35mm film and/or hard drives to cinemas). The distributers I work with are "clients", but they really function more like my bosses, as they are the ones ultimately responsible for my paycheck. This week I was responsible for the third installment of the TWILIGHT saga, "ECLIPSE", and although I will never see this movie in my life (the only exception is if it gets a Rifftrax commentary) I can say I have had a kind of connection with this movie, a bonding, in a special sort of way.
Each movie title I deal with, there is always a kind of bonding with it. I make sure I am aware of what the film I'm dealing with is about - and I don't really have to - and take special care of the distribution, because I do care, even if I don't care about the movie. Some films I am extremely glad to have had a relationship with, particularly some Universal titles like A SERIOUS MAN or CORALINE, two films that constantly give me despatch troubles to this day, but they are truly worth the effort for they are excellent films. I regret that INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS has fallen flat, because that film was great too. But even films like BABY MAMA, THE MUMMY III and MAMMA MIA! (all of which were being screened at different places at the same time) are memories that have shaped my journey. That's more than I can say about some of my favourite films of all time.
Up until now with TWILIGHT: ECLIPSE - where every cinema wanted to marathon the first two prequels on the opening night causing one of the most busiest and emotional weeks in my life -, a film distributed by Hoyts (who I started working for only this year), I would have to say the two other biggest ordeals of this job were involving Twentieth Century-Fox, namely AUSTRALIA and AVATAR. Other than having to send out ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW at least thrice a year, these two films have had the biggest impact on me (the result of big-shot directors making last-minute adjustments), and I haven't even seen AUSTRALIA. But perhaps I am fortunate enough to start this job when I did (I started in July 2008), hearing stories about what the guy before me had to go through with the STAR WARS movies (Episodes I, 2 and 3), and TITANIC as well.
I can't say my clients are wholly dependent on me to make sure their blockbusters or whatever film of the week gets its complete exposure; if I were to quit on the spot then someone else will easily replace me. But responsibility is responsibility, and although times get stressful, thinking about how big a role I have in looking after an entire state of a country makes it all worth while. Just don't talk to me about the fucking A-TEAM. Just...don't.
HITCHCOCK-BLOCKED
(This post will remain pictureless)
1.
I have recently been going on an Alfred Hitchcock-spree, not so much "getting into" his movies but more like "catching up". I've already seen PSYCHO and I think enough has been said about that movie by others so I will not go into length about it right now. I recently caught up with ROPE, which I consider more of an experiment rather than a film, however I still enjoyed it and not much needs to be said other than appreciating it for its technical feats (and follies) --NOTE: between writing the first draft of this post and now I also saw THE BIRDS and it was fantastic, but will require its own posting after this-- The film I will be discussing here is VERTIGO, but first I must express my feelings towards Hitchcock in general.
2.
I am not a Hitchcock fan. The closest I can get to love the majority of his work is if I loved to hate them (THE BIRDS and ROPE excluded). The reasons why will be discussed using VERTIGO as the prime example, but the fact remains is that Hitchcock is a lasting influence for film-makers and story tellers to this day, if not then he is an influence of the influences. I can understand this, although I'm a fan of Orson Welles and he is considered influential to Hitchcock (compare TOUCH OF EVIL where Janet Leigh gets into trouble at an out-of-way motel with PSYCHO where Janet Leigh gets into trouble at an out-of-way motel). Hitchcock did things differently and told stories in new and exciting ways, in doing so creating everlasting conventions which have stuck with the modern film-makers of our time. Very often you find people making films refering to a scene as a "Hitchcock moment" or talking about "what Hitchcock would do", so where else is a better place to look for the leading moments of cinema than from the leader himself? This is when I decided to watch VERTIGO.
3.
VERTIGO contains everything I love and hate about Hitchcock. VERTIGO was apparently Hitchcock's "personal masterpiece", the one he self-indulged in the most out of all his films, the one he had to struggle with the most to get made. All the greats have them: Miyazaki has PRINCESS MONONOKE, Kubrick has EYES WIDE SHUT, Welles has CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT, Hanake has TIME OF THE WOLF, Kurasawa has RAN and Werner Herzog has just about every film he's ever made. These are the films that are the most difficult to sit through but the most revealing of its creator; and the most rewarding to the creator's ardent fans. You only really watch them in order to understand your heroes on a more personal level, like they are opening up their deepest secrets and fears just for you, but you have to prove your worth by actually making it to the end of the film first (not as easy as it sounds), then you can start appreciating the depth of what you just saw. Research is an important factor in understanding these types of movies, it's equally important to have seen the entire body of work from the director, or as much as you possibly can. Naturally, I dived right into VERTIGO without doing any of this, so my review will be biased towards the more "casual viewer" mentality.
4.
VERTIGO suffers from an ailment in film-maiking I call the "Hitchcock Stale". Many horror movies and, oddly enough, comic-book adaptations suffer from this. It's not to say Hitchcock invented it, but Hitchcock truly defines it and mastered it as his trademark. The "Hitchcock Stale" is made up of a combination of many symptoms, mainly to do with the director's total demand for complete control. Firstly, Hitchcock commisions a script to be written, commonly adapted from a book - sometimes the book is commissioned by Hitchcock - and adapted by a rotation of screenwriters. Once the script is approved by Hitchcock then he will never deviate from it. These scripts, by the way, are written more like shot-lists; basically the movie is already made before it is even filmed. It is frustrating for me when I can clearly notice a film-maker unable to "let go", the ones who suffer the most are the actors. The actors are not given any breathing room to give life to their characters. The spoken lines are flatly delivered, the movements are mechanical. I don't think it should be required of me to pay extra attention to a casual mundane conversation when it reveals required exposition. It's hard enough in an Orson Welles movie where he constantly provides visual distractions during an important complex conversation, Hitchcock on the other hand is boring me to sleep.
Another symptom of "Hitchcock Stale" is almost metaphorically egregious in VERTIGO. The protagonist's acrophobia - irrational fear of heights - seems to reflect Hitchcock's irrational fear of shooting on location. I wouldn't be surprised if all the outside scenes were shot by second-unit. A particular moment of conspicuous staleness is a scene with James Stewart and Kim Novac supposedly on a bay of rocks by the ocean, but obviously super-imposed over a pre-photographed movie behind them (including complimentary fake wind generated by off-screen fan). Hitchcock believes that close-ups must be shot with studio lighting, however I'm too distracted by the studio lighting on the actors mis-matching with the natural lighting of the outside location (a common problem that is noticeable on compositing special effects to this day). I'm guessing Hitchcock wanted to time a specific tidal-crash to a specific point of the conversation, but really, who cares?
5.
Despite its staleness, there are parts of VERTIGO I found extremely impressive, and I see in these parts where the Hitchcock inspiration comes from. Perhaps Hitchcock's inability to "let go" comes from the great ideas he has to tell a story. I think the parts that shine the most in VERTIGO are the parts where Hitchcock puts faith in his collaborators. After a particularly long and boring expositional conversation (where I mentioned I nearly fell asleep) there is an extremely long set of scenes - almost like a slowed down montage - that eliminates dialogue altogether. It is here when the music of Bernard Hermann does the talking and I was able to become emersed in the world of the film. I don't know whether it's true or not that Hitchcock snatched Hermann from seeing CITIZEN KANE, but he certainly saw the benefits of putting more trust in the composer than anyone else (Bernard Hermann was even given credit as "sound adviser" on THE BIRDS, which was a scoreless movie save for the synthesised bird sounds).
I liked the editing of VERTIGO. There is a particular moment when James Stewart is following a car that seems to drive endlessly down-hill, which we can see is an editing trick that cuts out any flat-road or up-hill driving, but also an editing effect which expertly inserts the protagonist's distorted perspective into the viewer. Another distorting effect on the viewer is when it gives an "ending" about half-way through the film, and then provides a coda which seems to keep going and going, then you realise after thirty minutes or so that maybe there is more to the story, and you have to kind of re-position yourself to get back into the movie again. Unless that's just me, I don't know.
6.
(more to come)
I have recently been going on an Alfred Hitchcock-spree, not so much "getting into" his movies but more like "catching up". I've already seen PSYCHO and I think enough has been said about that movie by others so I will not go into length about it right now. I recently caught up with ROPE, which I consider more of an experiment rather than a film, however I still enjoyed it and not much needs to be said other than appreciating it for its technical feats (and follies) --NOTE: between writing the first draft of this post and now I also saw THE BIRDS and it was fantastic, but will require its own posting after this-- The film I will be discussing here is VERTIGO, but first I must express my feelings towards Hitchcock in general.
I am not a Hitchcock fan. The closest I can get to love the majority of his work is if I loved to hate them (THE BIRDS and ROPE excluded). The reasons why will be discussed using VERTIGO as the prime example, but the fact remains is that Hitchcock is a lasting influence for film-makers and story tellers to this day, if not then he is an influence of the influences. I can understand this, although I'm a fan of Orson Welles and he is considered influential to Hitchcock (compare TOUCH OF EVIL where Janet Leigh gets into trouble at an out-of-way motel with PSYCHO where Janet Leigh gets into trouble at an out-of-way motel). Hitchcock did things differently and told stories in new and exciting ways, in doing so creating everlasting conventions which have stuck with the modern film-makers of our time. Very often you find people making films refering to a scene as a "Hitchcock moment" or talking about "what Hitchcock would do", so where else is a better place to look for the leading moments of cinema than from the leader himself? This is when I decided to watch VERTIGO.
VERTIGO contains everything I love and hate about Hitchcock. VERTIGO was apparently Hitchcock's "personal masterpiece", the one he self-indulged in the most out of all his films, the one he had to struggle with the most to get made. All the greats have them: Miyazaki has PRINCESS MONONOKE, Kubrick has EYES WIDE SHUT, Welles has CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT, Hanake has TIME OF THE WOLF, Kurasawa has RAN and Werner Herzog has just about every film he's ever made. These are the films that are the most difficult to sit through but the most revealing of its creator; and the most rewarding to the creator's ardent fans. You only really watch them in order to understand your heroes on a more personal level, like they are opening up their deepest secrets and fears just for you, but you have to prove your worth by actually making it to the end of the film first (not as easy as it sounds), then you can start appreciating the depth of what you just saw. Research is an important factor in understanding these types of movies, it's equally important to have seen the entire body of work from the director, or as much as you possibly can. Naturally, I dived right into VERTIGO without doing any of this, so my review will be biased towards the more "casual viewer" mentality.
VERTIGO suffers from an ailment in film-maiking I call the "Hitchcock Stale". Many horror movies and, oddly enough, comic-book adaptations suffer from this. It's not to say Hitchcock invented it, but Hitchcock truly defines it and mastered it as his trademark. The "Hitchcock Stale" is made up of a combination of many symptoms, mainly to do with the director's total demand for complete control. Firstly, Hitchcock commisions a script to be written, commonly adapted from a book - sometimes the book is commissioned by Hitchcock - and adapted by a rotation of screenwriters. Once the script is approved by Hitchcock then he will never deviate from it. These scripts, by the way, are written more like shot-lists; basically the movie is already made before it is even filmed. It is frustrating for me when I can clearly notice a film-maker unable to "let go", the ones who suffer the most are the actors. The actors are not given any breathing room to give life to their characters. The spoken lines are flatly delivered, the movements are mechanical. I don't think it should be required of me to pay extra attention to a casual mundane conversation when it reveals required exposition. It's hard enough in an Orson Welles movie where he constantly provides visual distractions during an important complex conversation, Hitchcock on the other hand is boring me to sleep.
Another symptom of "Hitchcock Stale" is almost metaphorically egregious in VERTIGO. The protagonist's acrophobia - irrational fear of heights - seems to reflect Hitchcock's irrational fear of shooting on location. I wouldn't be surprised if all the outside scenes were shot by second-unit. A particular moment of conspicuous staleness is a scene with James Stewart and Kim Novac supposedly on a bay of rocks by the ocean, but obviously super-imposed over a pre-photographed movie behind them (including complimentary fake wind generated by off-screen fan). Hitchcock believes that close-ups must be shot with studio lighting, however I'm too distracted by the studio lighting on the actors mis-matching with the natural lighting of the outside location (a common problem that is noticeable on compositing special effects to this day). I'm guessing Hitchcock wanted to time a specific tidal-crash to a specific point of the conversation, but really, who cares?
Despite its staleness, there are parts of VERTIGO I found extremely impressive, and I see in these parts where the Hitchcock inspiration comes from. Perhaps Hitchcock's inability to "let go" comes from the great ideas he has to tell a story. I think the parts that shine the most in VERTIGO are the parts where Hitchcock puts faith in his collaborators. After a particularly long and boring expositional conversation (where I mentioned I nearly fell asleep) there is an extremely long set of scenes - almost like a slowed down montage - that eliminates dialogue altogether. It is here when the music of Bernard Hermann does the talking and I was able to become emersed in the world of the film. I don't know whether it's true or not that Hitchcock snatched Hermann from seeing CITIZEN KANE, but he certainly saw the benefits of putting more trust in the composer than anyone else (Bernard Hermann was even given credit as "sound adviser" on THE BIRDS, which was a scoreless movie save for the synthesised bird sounds).
I liked the editing of VERTIGO. There is a particular moment when James Stewart is following a car that seems to drive endlessly down-hill, which we can see is an editing trick that cuts out any flat-road or up-hill driving, but also an editing effect which expertly inserts the protagonist's distorted perspective into the viewer. Another distorting effect on the viewer is when it gives an "ending" about half-way through the film, and then provides a coda which seems to keep going and going, then you realise after thirty minutes or so that maybe there is more to the story, and you have to kind of re-position yourself to get back into the movie again. Unless that's just me, I don't know.
(more to come)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
