In 1998, two filmmakers now considered modern geniuses released their debut films. Christopher Nolan released Following, a quiet black and white noir thriller about a man, obsessed with following people, who gets in too deep and ends up destroying himself in the resulting web of crime and deceit. Darren Aronofsky, at the same time, released Pi, a quiet black and white noir thriller about a man, obsessed with finding numerical patterns in the universe, who gets in too deep and ends up destroying himself in the resulting web of crime and deceit.
...I swear, I just described two films. And not just two films, but two very different films. But what is most interesting about them is what it says about the filmmakers, then just starting their careers, and how the differences in these films echo in the directors' later works. Because, and maybe this is just me, I believe if they had switched concepts, their debuts would have looked strikingly similar to what they are now.
Before I go any further, assume spoilers for all or most of both directors' movies. Also, I haven't seen Insomnia or The Fountain, so if I use phrases like "all their films", I mean with those (possible) exceptions.
First, as it is the freshest on my mind, Following. The film follows Bill, a wannabe writer, who in his loneliness, starts to follow people. At first, that's all he does; he follows people, sees what they do, and that's it. He attributes it to gathering material, but it's clearly because it gives him a sense of association with other people. However, his routine is soon upended when one of the people he's following, Cobb, confronts him and introduces him to his own special brand of very personal burglary. He falls deeper into the rabbit hole, particularly as he revisits and attempts to have a relationship with a woman whose house he broke into. As it goes on, you eventually see the conspiracy emerge, in which Cobb (with the help of the woman) is attempting to frame him for murder; or, as the film reveals in the last minutes, maybe he simply used him for a burglary and set everything up to ensure Bill was to blame.
The film isn't entirely clear about how it ends. Sound familiar? Inception comes immediately to mind, as do The Prestige and Memento to a much lesser extent.
I should come out and say that I have a number of problems with the film, certainly more than I have for Pi. I do, however, think I have a good idea of where the film's strengths and weaknesses lie, regardless of my opinions.
The film works almost solely on how well crafted it is. Both in script and direction, every event is written and placed in such a way to keep the plot intriguing, keep just enough details out of reach, and to maximize the effect of the film. It is very much a film that runs on what you don't know, on letting you build your own expectations then trashing them. It keeps you engaged by giving you little hints and tidbits and making you wonder how the hell it all fits together. Then, when the movie ends, it comes together in such a way that it couldn't have worked any other way, yet you're still surprised and alarmed.
This is a huge strength of Nolan. His ability to craft these really complicated plots, to dive and spiral and loop around a story without missing a beat, is what drives most of his films. Memento is one of his most acclaimed films, and all he had to do was tell a standard revenge thriller backwards. Saying it like that makes it sound easy though; it's amazing that he's able to tell such a compelling, thrilling story essentially backwards, and make it feel like you really truly don't know what's coming next (or before?). It shows in his direction too, particularly in his ability to bounce between the slowly rewinding story in color and the slowly unfolding story in black and white, without missing a beat or causing any confusion. Inception is a great example of this too, where the story has such potential to spiral into confusion, but his impeccably crafted script keeps the story very much intact and his direction keeps it straight in the film.
His other major strength is in his shocking surprise endings, the endings where you didn't see it coming but there's still no other explanation. It's obvious in Following, as you see when it's revealed first that Cobb and the blonde are both just using Bill, and again when Cobb kills the blonde and we watch as Bill's story collapses under scrutiny. In Memento it's huge, as we find out Leonard is living out a lie, and that perhaps that's exactly how he wanted it. It's also especially big in The Prestige, which is interestingly a good way to look at his films: he gives you these magicians, pits them against each-other, we watch as they one-up each-other, and finally in the end we see how they did it, which far exceeds anything anyone would expect at the start of the film, or even halfway through.
But I should point out weaknesses too. Following has a problem with characters. Frankly, it doesn't really have them. There are people who are there to fill out the plot and spout dialogue, but none of them feel like real characters, let alone people you can empathize with. Moreover, there's no character development. The characters are introduced, and never actually go through any changes, for better or for worse. It's unsurprising, looking at Nolan's later work, to see how weak the characters are, though that isn't to say he still can't write characters. The Prestige and Inception both contained adequate character development, but it was certainly far overshadowed by the plot.
Ultimately, the way he makes his movies, he doesn't necessarily need much character development. His films are puzzles, albeit puzzles he wants you to be too confused by so he can put it together for you as you watch in awe. This is part of why he's such a perfect fit for the Batman films. Batman, being very much a detective superhero, often involves very puzzle-like webs of crime that lead back to a grandmaster scheme from a supervillain; they concoct a huge series of elaborate plans that Batman finds out just late enough in the game to stop at the last minute.
But what's the point of all this? The point is that this film pretty conveniently serves as a picture of Nolan's natural strengths and weaknesses, in the same way Pi does for Aronofsky.
In Pi, we follow Max, a mathematical genius/loner working on finding a pattern in the stock market. His only real friend, former teacher Sol, tries to convince him to drop it and enjoy life, but he keeps going until he finds a mysterious number, just by chance, which appears in Pi, the stock market, and the Torah. He keeps pushing to find the full sequence, even while being harassed by a Wall Street company and a group of hasidic Jews. As he gets closer and closer, he slowly delves deeper and deeper into madness, until finally, upon learning the number, he puts a screwgun to his brain.
With this film, it's a bit harder to find Aronofsky's weaknesses as a director; Pi is a much stronger film than Following, and some of the flaws within the film aren't quite as prevalent in all his work as Following's flaws were in Nolan's. However, there are some very clear threads that can be followed.
Starting this time with the flaws, Pi suffers from a lack of focus. At times, this is actually a good thing; the film spirals into confusion and madness, so a lack of focus at times helps to amplify that. However, other times it seems unintentional, less like a tool to enhance the mood and more like amateur mistakes. The Wall Street company, for the first half of the film, is not only never really defined, but is shrugged off as a mere inconvenience for Max. When they finally emerge in the story, you expect them to be there in a misguided attempt to help Max, or maybe they're just salespeople; however, they very shockingly leap from inconvenience to a force to be reckoned with, trying to bribe him and eventually resorting to force, which comes off as a strange turnaround. You can sort of see what he's trying for in that group with the hasidic mathematicians; the first one comes off initially as an inconvenience, then piquing his interest as he realizes they might have information he could use. However, as it goes on, you see they just want his information and will do anything to get it, leaving Max to drive further from companionship into his own madness.
This lack of focus is one of the primary reasons critics bash The Fountain. However, in The Wrestler and Black Swan, he keeps the reigns on it really well, spinning an unfocused story in a focused way with The Wrestler and using confusion and lack of focus in Black Swan to enhance the descent into madness.
Speaking of The Wrestler and Black Swan, let's move to Aronofsky's strengths. Most notably, character.
Pi, The Wrestler and Black Swan can all be considered character studies (Requiem for a Dream is not a character study, but it doesn't tell the characters that). Each one has a rich main character, where even if the other characters are weak, these characters (and the actors portraying them) are extremely rich, human characters with extremely discernible character traits and flaws. The flaws are important, since all his films revolve around self-destruction. Each character has their goals, hopes, dreams, and reasons those will all be crushed.
His greatest skill as a writer or director is his ability to make you not just empathize with the characters, but completely understand and side with the characters, and to force you through whatever the character is going through firsthand. In being able to do this, he can make the same loose plot of self-destruction bring out different emotions. For example, by the end of Requiem, we are completely stripped of all hope, but at the end of The Wrestler, even though the character is going to die, we have a sense of purpose, belonging, that he wants it this way and that everything is right with the universe.
In Pi, he finds the number, and we get the sense that his entire life all built up to this moment; but at the same time, he's driving a screw-gun into his head, so we're left with a kind of unsettling, confused success. We've experienced the feeling of success against all odds that Max gets, but he's seen something we haven't; he's transcended our petty minds, so while we assume his success is a good thing, we can't help but wonder why it made him put a drill to his brain.
So after all that, it doesn't sound like these films are similar at all. And, yes, the writer-directors' far different approaches make the films very different, but the similarities still bleed through. Both films often aim to achieve a sense of mystery, and both tease you with information often, through different means.
Okay, so I wrote a wall of text about two directors. What can be gained from this? Besides nothing? Well, personally, I see it as a very clear example that similarly-concepted films from different directors, and by extension, remakes, are completely valid and worth watching.
I say that with a grain of salt; particularly in the case of remakes, you have an extremely good chance of simply releasing an unnecessary rehash of something you've already seen and loved. There are a million reasons not to remake a film, but there are quite a few reasons why it might not suck.
I'm not going to delve into this, because it's supposed to be the conclusion here, but let me highlight Fright Night. The original had no need to be remade; well, depending on who you ask, the film is brutally sluggish and bordering on too campy, but most critics and audiences seem to agree, it hits all the right vibes to create a fun 80's horror-comedy. I was among the crowd excited for the remake without having seen the original, solely based on the director and the casting, but after watching the original, I started to get second thoughts. It wasn't a perfect movie, but I couldn't see how a remake could improve without losing out what the original had.
Then I watched it, and I managed to be impressed. The concept, under this director, managed to differ hugely. In some cases, not for the best (the character of Peter Vincent took a hit, but let's be honest, they weren't gonna match Roddy McDowell anyway), but mostly, if it didn't distinctly improve on the original, it at least set itself apart. We have the same concept, but what feels like a completely different cast of characters, all thanks to being re-imagined by people who knew what they were doing.
The point I'm driving at here is that, since remakes aren't going anywhere anytime soon, you might as well admit they aren't always bad. You might have a bunch that aren't done well, but for every one of those, someone actually does it right, and instead of having a great movie and a dud, we have two great, distinct movies.
So, I guess what I'm inadvertently saying here on the whole is that I want Darren Aronofsky and Christopher Nolan to do remakes of 80's films. But I guess that's just me.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Friday, November 11, 2011
Three very different, very great movies.
In the last two days, I watched three movies. Two I watched for the first time, one I re-watched for the sake of the poor souls who hadn't seen it yet. All three of them are great enough to warrant my giving them a 5-star rating on Rotten Tomatoes, but they're all so completely different, in tone, style, and source material. I usually don't get lucky watching three movies in a row like that, so since I did, I thought I'd expound on why they're all so great in their own vastly different ways.
I should warn you about spoilers. There WILL be spoilers for The Shawshank Redemption, Annie Hall, and Oldboy. If you want to read one section but not another, just look for the title in bold and skip to the next one.
The first one I watched was The Shawshank Redemption. The fact that I hadn't seen it before now is a crime, but hey, at least I've seen it now. As you hopefully know, it's the story of an innocent man (Andy) thrown into a notorious prison for a very personal murder he didn't commit. From the point of view of Red, an older prisoner who quickly befriended the Andy, we watch as he slowly gains the friendship, respect, or loyalty of his fellow inmates, the guards, and even the warden, despite all odds.
Much of the film's midsection is padded out with various subplots, ranging from uplifting stories like that of Andy taking over and refurbishing the prison library, to the soul-crushingly depressing scene wherein an old man, released from prison after fifty years, fails to adjust back into society and kills himself. It comes to a head at the end of the second act, which combines the uplifting (Andy helps a new kid get his high school equivalency) with the depressing (the warden kills off the new kid to suppress evidence of Andy's innocence), which rolls into the extremely satisfying third act.
The film is big on payoffs. After an attempt to mislead Red (and the audience) that Andy is going to kill himself, it is revealed that he has escaped, in one of the more brilliant resurrection scenes I've seen put to film, as well as tied together with little bits of information collected from nearly every point in the film. He proceeds to sap the Warden of all his ill-gotten money and reveals the corruption and murder in Shawshank to the world, whereupon the bad guys get their comeuppance in spades; this is extremely satisfying as the Warden is brilliantly written as the kind of character you cannot help but hate with every ounce of your being.
So, what makes Shawshank so good? Most of it probably comes down to the payoffs, the cinematography and the humanity in the script.
The payoffs I mostly addressed, but I'll touch on them again in a bit. I haven't talked about the cinematography yet though. Every shot in the film seems both extremely thought out and grandiose without actually being too distracting. Whether it's the sweeping overhead shot of the prison as the bus of new prisoners approaches, or any of the shots illustrating Andy's escape, or the iconic wide, slow zoom out from afar as Andy and Red are reunited. Each shot is gorgeous without distracting from the content, and above all, it conforms to the style of the story. The story is slow-moving, long, mostly small and human-driven, with an air of quiet old-time grandiosity. The camera-work embodies that, with its long sweeping shots, slow panning and its attention to faces.
But cinematography is only one part. The humanity of the script is the cog without which the entire film would collapse. The plot helps, since the second act (and, really, most of the first act) consist of Andy's experience in Shawshank, without too much of a direction. He has goals, such as driving to build his library, but these are all subplots that add slowly build up the main plot until it's kicked into action.
Because of this, the second act can be used almost solely for character development, and it grabs this and runs with it. The script puts together a group of extremely human, relatable characters out of a bunch of prisoners, then tortures them to play with your emotions. That sounds sadistic, but it works; when you watch Brooks fail to integrate back into society, you're ready to crawl under a rock and die, which makes the payoff all the more satisfying.
The payoffs go hand in hand with the humanity, because that's the fuel to their fire. With what is probably the film's greatest achievement, the third act calls back on nearly everything else and drives home so many satisfying payoffs that you can't help but be completely satisfied. Some are obvious, like the Warden's comeuppance, but some are slightly less so; Red's reintroduction to society mirrors that of Brooks, up to the room he's given, but instead of succumbing to the outside world, the glorious hope and the promise he made to the friend who gave him this hope help him survive and, eventually, push him to find Andy.
But there are so many I can't even begin to address them all. The point is, the first two acts build up these extremely human characters and send them through hell, while the third act redeems everyone and everything while punishing everyone who stood in their way. It's this combination of humanity and payoffs that makes the film so popular among both critics and regular viewers.
So that's why The Shawshank Redemption is good. What about Annie Hall?
The quintessential Woody Allen film is the story of a man (he has a name but he's really just Woody Allen) trying to understand his relationship problems. He mentions previous relationships and marriages, but it mostly questions his problems through his relationship with the title character, Annie. The two hit it off, fall in love, fall out of love, fall back in love, fall back out of love and finally go their separate ways, except we don't see it all in that order.
To keep things consistent, I'll keep it at three main elements that make the film so great: The humor, the format and the ultimate tone of the film.
The humor is easy to address. It's everywhere, it's quirky and silly and nonsensical and full of silly neurotic-Jewish punchlines he does so well. It offsets the drama and does a huge part in creating the ultimate tone of the film, which I'll eventually get to. But, above all, it's hilarious and extremely distinct. I'm sure some of the jokes are things you may have seen before, but certainly not in the way they're handled in the film. Plus, I mean really, "Don't knock masturbation, it's sex with someone I love."
So, the format. Again, I could expound on how it effects the overarching tone, but I'll get to that. The best way I can describe the format is "stream of conciousness". It kind of resembles a stand-up monologue in a way, since it's less of a distinct narrative than it is a series of anecdotes occasionally tied together with Allen's narration. It also has this interesting disregard for reality, where despite most if the film seeming grounded in reality, occasionally they'll throw it all out the window for the sake of humor, or exposition hidden by humor. A great example of this is early on, when adult Allen appears in his own childhood flashback and gets in an argument with his classmates about Freudian ideas of sexuality.
But neither of these would mean too much without the overarching tone. It isn't uncommon for films to share similar tones, but Annie Hall has a very distinct tone, which is defined by the format and the humor.
The film opens with Allen using old jokes to frame his love life. He puts forth a silly joke, then puts it into perspective, which starts driving the tone; essentially, he uses humor to frame what would otherwise be a story of love and loss, and somehow this keeps the mood reasonably even instead of flapping around like it should in such an unstructured narrative. It keeps and enhances the unique format, and uses the humor to keep the mood in check. The result is an unusual interesting way to approach the romantic comedy, complete with an ending where the protagonist does not get what he wants, but still manages to end on what seems to be a happy note.
The film ends on the same note it starts, with Allen having looked back on his love life and reframing it with another old joke. It's a portait of the cyclical nature of relationships and the people dealing with them, just like the film itself, and it ends the film on a perfect note.
And now for something completely different. Oldboy!
So, this is a film that I'd recommend not spoiling, so go watch it right now. C'mon, it's on Netflix and Amazon Instant and all that jazz, go view it so I don't spoil it for you.
...watched it? HOW GOOD WAS THAT. If you've seen it already but need a refresher, it's the story of a loudmouth alcoholic (Oh Dae-su) who ends up kidnapped and locked in a hotel room for fifteen years. Then, on the verge of escape, he's released back out into the world and given a few days to find out why before killing off the only person to show interest or compassion towards him in fifteen years, Mi-do. He eventually discovers the captor was an old schoolmate of his (Woo-jin), whose sister killed herself after rumors of pregnancy and incest arose from Dae-su having accidentally spied on them and started the rumor before leaving for another school in Seoul.
...this is not the easiest film to summarize.
Upon finding this out, he confronts Woo-jin, who has clearly put far too much thought into this; he reveals that not only did he blame Dae-su, but that his revenge wasn't merely to lock him up; instead, the reason
Dae-su was locked up for so long was so that his (at the time) unborn daughter could grow up into the very woman he fell in love and had sex with. Upon dropping this bombshell, Woo-jin leaves and subsequently kills himself, and Dae-su attempts to mask this memory using the same hypnotist who worked on him in his imprisonment. The final shot is open, so as we watch Mi-do and Dae-su embrace and see Dae-su's face fall into what looks like anguished hysteria, we don't know if the hypnotism worked or not.
So, why was it good. Again picking out three specifics to go with the pattern, I'd say the biggest factors were the steady lack of information/sense of confusion, the distinct visual style and the ending.
I'll start with the visual style, cause it's easy: It's different, it's great, and it's exciting. It's prevalent through most of the film, but particularly when it's at its most distinct: The side-scrolling fight scene, for example, is one of the more brilliantly shot and choreographed fight scenes I've ever seen (I wouldn't call myself an authority though, so feel free to take that with a grain of salt). Also, little things like the date changing, or the shot with the hammer (you know what I'm talking about), or pretty much anything in the last five minutes (particularly the suicide and the final minutes in the snow). I could list so much more but I won't.
So I'll move on to the lack of information. Or, whatever the best way to put it is; the film's pacing, mostly in how it drops you into the dark and slowly drops you little strands of information here and there until finally, when you have enough to paint a blurry picture, the film beats you to death with the twist. I mean that, of course, as a compliment; the twist was brilliant and heartbreaking and almost hard to watch if it wasn't so brilliant.
And that leads right into the ending. For one, Woo-jin's recollection into his suicide was gorgeous and heartbreaking and brilliant, and the very end was perfect for the film. Not every film can effectively pull off an ending like that; most films have a tendency to end better on a solid definitive note (be it happy or sad or somewhere in between), but with the kind of mind-fuck-y movie that Oldboy is, an ending you have to question and discuss post-film fits with the rest of the film's tone. Plus, the film's ending itself it leaps and bounds ahead of most attempts at this. Inception, the most recent critically acclaimed implementation of this kind of ending, was pretty good, but felt like a cop-out. With Oldboy, the ending leaves a number of distinct possibilities, chief among them (in my opinion) that the hypnotist, instead of locking off the monster in his mind, instead locked off the rest of his mind, leaving both the murderous psychopathic killing machine and the memory of incest.
But maybe that's just me.
So, there are the films. I guess this is where I compare them all to eachother? I won't go too in-depth cause that'd just be annoying, but I'll go through a few little tidbits I noticed.
For one, the visual styles. Oldboy is extremely distinct and stylistic, Shawshank is much more subdued and sweeping, while Annie Hall's visual style is almost nonexistent, as the film focuses much more on the characters and story. I wouldn't say any of the films would be improved by a different approach; there's too much going on in Annie Hall for more distinct visuals to do much but distract from what's going on, while pulling back on Oldboy's visuals would be a step towards making it a generic foreign revenge thriller. I can't even say I prefer one film's visuals over the other; even Annie Hall has this kind of fly-on-the-wall vibe that does wonders towards enhancing the film's tone.
Then, the writing. All of them, I noticed after the fact, take place over a long period of time: Annie Hall is mostly in the space of a few years but stretches as far back to the character's childhood in flashbacks; Oldboy takes place over fifteen years, but the bulk of the movie takes place in the last few days of that; and Shawshank takes place over the course of two or three decades, and unlike the other two keeps a reasonably steady pace chronologically, considering the circumstances.
The stories are all just as varied. An inspirational, slow-moving story of a man's imprisoned life, the lives he touched and his eventual breakout; the musings of a neurotic Jewish-American comedian trying to figure out his continued relationship problems; and the twisted heartbreaking story of one man's revenge and fall into inhumanity within another man's revenge plot. The stories share a few minor similarities here and there - for example, both Shawshank and Oldboy look at what a man can do with patience and years upon years of imprisonment, the difference being that Shawshank focused on the human effects of this, while Oldboy obviously focused on the isolation. For the most part, though, they keep radically different in every way, from the way the story is told to the specifics and tone.
Can I say any of them are distinctly better than the others? That's tough. All three are brilliant pieces of cinema whose successes stem from completely different places. I don't think I can point out a clear 'Best', but if I had to pick favorites, I'd probably go with Shawshank by a close margin. I think that's a mood-choice though; I'm sure if I was in a revenge-mindfuck-thriller mood, I'd be going with Oldboy, or if I was in a Woody Allen mood, I'd be going with Annie Hall, but the old-fashioned Hollywood kind of inspirational charm that goes with Shawshank just feels especially fresh and exciting, particularly when implemented so well.
Have I accomplished anything here? Not really. It isn't exactly uncommon knowledge that movies are very different, but I like to think too many people take for granted how varied films can get, particularly in this cynical era of "oh boo-hoo remakes and adaptations and originality is dead and every story is the same" etc etc. That's bull-honkey, and you can use these films as an example; Annie Hall, the only original film, is admittedly from the 70's, but Shawshank is a mid-90's (post-Top Gun, I think that's supposed to be the death-knell for good original cinema or something) short-story adaptation, and Oldboy is technically a comic book adaptation, and you wouldn't know it if you watched the movie with no knowledge of that.
But that stuff doesn't even matter. The point is, quit being so cynical about the future of film. Just because you saw Thor and Captain America and they were the same movie doesn't mean all movies are the same nowadays. Hell, I could do the same kind of list with Midnight in Paris, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and Win Win, which all came out this year and are all very different.
So quit complaining and watch some more movies.
I should warn you about spoilers. There WILL be spoilers for The Shawshank Redemption, Annie Hall, and Oldboy. If you want to read one section but not another, just look for the title in bold and skip to the next one.
The first one I watched was The Shawshank Redemption. The fact that I hadn't seen it before now is a crime, but hey, at least I've seen it now. As you hopefully know, it's the story of an innocent man (Andy) thrown into a notorious prison for a very personal murder he didn't commit. From the point of view of Red, an older prisoner who quickly befriended the Andy, we watch as he slowly gains the friendship, respect, or loyalty of his fellow inmates, the guards, and even the warden, despite all odds.
Much of the film's midsection is padded out with various subplots, ranging from uplifting stories like that of Andy taking over and refurbishing the prison library, to the soul-crushingly depressing scene wherein an old man, released from prison after fifty years, fails to adjust back into society and kills himself. It comes to a head at the end of the second act, which combines the uplifting (Andy helps a new kid get his high school equivalency) with the depressing (the warden kills off the new kid to suppress evidence of Andy's innocence), which rolls into the extremely satisfying third act.
The film is big on payoffs. After an attempt to mislead Red (and the audience) that Andy is going to kill himself, it is revealed that he has escaped, in one of the more brilliant resurrection scenes I've seen put to film, as well as tied together with little bits of information collected from nearly every point in the film. He proceeds to sap the Warden of all his ill-gotten money and reveals the corruption and murder in Shawshank to the world, whereupon the bad guys get their comeuppance in spades; this is extremely satisfying as the Warden is brilliantly written as the kind of character you cannot help but hate with every ounce of your being.
So, what makes Shawshank so good? Most of it probably comes down to the payoffs, the cinematography and the humanity in the script.
The payoffs I mostly addressed, but I'll touch on them again in a bit. I haven't talked about the cinematography yet though. Every shot in the film seems both extremely thought out and grandiose without actually being too distracting. Whether it's the sweeping overhead shot of the prison as the bus of new prisoners approaches, or any of the shots illustrating Andy's escape, or the iconic wide, slow zoom out from afar as Andy and Red are reunited. Each shot is gorgeous without distracting from the content, and above all, it conforms to the style of the story. The story is slow-moving, long, mostly small and human-driven, with an air of quiet old-time grandiosity. The camera-work embodies that, with its long sweeping shots, slow panning and its attention to faces.
But cinematography is only one part. The humanity of the script is the cog without which the entire film would collapse. The plot helps, since the second act (and, really, most of the first act) consist of Andy's experience in Shawshank, without too much of a direction. He has goals, such as driving to build his library, but these are all subplots that add slowly build up the main plot until it's kicked into action.
Because of this, the second act can be used almost solely for character development, and it grabs this and runs with it. The script puts together a group of extremely human, relatable characters out of a bunch of prisoners, then tortures them to play with your emotions. That sounds sadistic, but it works; when you watch Brooks fail to integrate back into society, you're ready to crawl under a rock and die, which makes the payoff all the more satisfying.
The payoffs go hand in hand with the humanity, because that's the fuel to their fire. With what is probably the film's greatest achievement, the third act calls back on nearly everything else and drives home so many satisfying payoffs that you can't help but be completely satisfied. Some are obvious, like the Warden's comeuppance, but some are slightly less so; Red's reintroduction to society mirrors that of Brooks, up to the room he's given, but instead of succumbing to the outside world, the glorious hope and the promise he made to the friend who gave him this hope help him survive and, eventually, push him to find Andy.
But there are so many I can't even begin to address them all. The point is, the first two acts build up these extremely human characters and send them through hell, while the third act redeems everyone and everything while punishing everyone who stood in their way. It's this combination of humanity and payoffs that makes the film so popular among both critics and regular viewers.
So that's why The Shawshank Redemption is good. What about Annie Hall?
The quintessential Woody Allen film is the story of a man (he has a name but he's really just Woody Allen) trying to understand his relationship problems. He mentions previous relationships and marriages, but it mostly questions his problems through his relationship with the title character, Annie. The two hit it off, fall in love, fall out of love, fall back in love, fall back out of love and finally go their separate ways, except we don't see it all in that order.
To keep things consistent, I'll keep it at three main elements that make the film so great: The humor, the format and the ultimate tone of the film.
The humor is easy to address. It's everywhere, it's quirky and silly and nonsensical and full of silly neurotic-Jewish punchlines he does so well. It offsets the drama and does a huge part in creating the ultimate tone of the film, which I'll eventually get to. But, above all, it's hilarious and extremely distinct. I'm sure some of the jokes are things you may have seen before, but certainly not in the way they're handled in the film. Plus, I mean really, "Don't knock masturbation, it's sex with someone I love."
So, the format. Again, I could expound on how it effects the overarching tone, but I'll get to that. The best way I can describe the format is "stream of conciousness". It kind of resembles a stand-up monologue in a way, since it's less of a distinct narrative than it is a series of anecdotes occasionally tied together with Allen's narration. It also has this interesting disregard for reality, where despite most if the film seeming grounded in reality, occasionally they'll throw it all out the window for the sake of humor, or exposition hidden by humor. A great example of this is early on, when adult Allen appears in his own childhood flashback and gets in an argument with his classmates about Freudian ideas of sexuality.
But neither of these would mean too much without the overarching tone. It isn't uncommon for films to share similar tones, but Annie Hall has a very distinct tone, which is defined by the format and the humor.
The film opens with Allen using old jokes to frame his love life. He puts forth a silly joke, then puts it into perspective, which starts driving the tone; essentially, he uses humor to frame what would otherwise be a story of love and loss, and somehow this keeps the mood reasonably even instead of flapping around like it should in such an unstructured narrative. It keeps and enhances the unique format, and uses the humor to keep the mood in check. The result is an unusual interesting way to approach the romantic comedy, complete with an ending where the protagonist does not get what he wants, but still manages to end on what seems to be a happy note.
The film ends on the same note it starts, with Allen having looked back on his love life and reframing it with another old joke. It's a portait of the cyclical nature of relationships and the people dealing with them, just like the film itself, and it ends the film on a perfect note.
And now for something completely different. Oldboy!
So, this is a film that I'd recommend not spoiling, so go watch it right now. C'mon, it's on Netflix and Amazon Instant and all that jazz, go view it so I don't spoil it for you.
...watched it? HOW GOOD WAS THAT. If you've seen it already but need a refresher, it's the story of a loudmouth alcoholic (Oh Dae-su) who ends up kidnapped and locked in a hotel room for fifteen years. Then, on the verge of escape, he's released back out into the world and given a few days to find out why before killing off the only person to show interest or compassion towards him in fifteen years, Mi-do. He eventually discovers the captor was an old schoolmate of his (Woo-jin), whose sister killed herself after rumors of pregnancy and incest arose from Dae-su having accidentally spied on them and started the rumor before leaving for another school in Seoul.
...this is not the easiest film to summarize.
Upon finding this out, he confronts Woo-jin, who has clearly put far too much thought into this; he reveals that not only did he blame Dae-su, but that his revenge wasn't merely to lock him up; instead, the reason
Dae-su was locked up for so long was so that his (at the time) unborn daughter could grow up into the very woman he fell in love and had sex with. Upon dropping this bombshell, Woo-jin leaves and subsequently kills himself, and Dae-su attempts to mask this memory using the same hypnotist who worked on him in his imprisonment. The final shot is open, so as we watch Mi-do and Dae-su embrace and see Dae-su's face fall into what looks like anguished hysteria, we don't know if the hypnotism worked or not.
So, why was it good. Again picking out three specifics to go with the pattern, I'd say the biggest factors were the steady lack of information/sense of confusion, the distinct visual style and the ending.
I'll start with the visual style, cause it's easy: It's different, it's great, and it's exciting. It's prevalent through most of the film, but particularly when it's at its most distinct: The side-scrolling fight scene, for example, is one of the more brilliantly shot and choreographed fight scenes I've ever seen (I wouldn't call myself an authority though, so feel free to take that with a grain of salt). Also, little things like the date changing, or the shot with the hammer (you know what I'm talking about), or pretty much anything in the last five minutes (particularly the suicide and the final minutes in the snow). I could list so much more but I won't.
So I'll move on to the lack of information. Or, whatever the best way to put it is; the film's pacing, mostly in how it drops you into the dark and slowly drops you little strands of information here and there until finally, when you have enough to paint a blurry picture, the film beats you to death with the twist. I mean that, of course, as a compliment; the twist was brilliant and heartbreaking and almost hard to watch if it wasn't so brilliant.
And that leads right into the ending. For one, Woo-jin's recollection into his suicide was gorgeous and heartbreaking and brilliant, and the very end was perfect for the film. Not every film can effectively pull off an ending like that; most films have a tendency to end better on a solid definitive note (be it happy or sad or somewhere in between), but with the kind of mind-fuck-y movie that Oldboy is, an ending you have to question and discuss post-film fits with the rest of the film's tone. Plus, the film's ending itself it leaps and bounds ahead of most attempts at this. Inception, the most recent critically acclaimed implementation of this kind of ending, was pretty good, but felt like a cop-out. With Oldboy, the ending leaves a number of distinct possibilities, chief among them (in my opinion) that the hypnotist, instead of locking off the monster in his mind, instead locked off the rest of his mind, leaving both the murderous psychopathic killing machine and the memory of incest.
But maybe that's just me.
So, there are the films. I guess this is where I compare them all to eachother? I won't go too in-depth cause that'd just be annoying, but I'll go through a few little tidbits I noticed.
For one, the visual styles. Oldboy is extremely distinct and stylistic, Shawshank is much more subdued and sweeping, while Annie Hall's visual style is almost nonexistent, as the film focuses much more on the characters and story. I wouldn't say any of the films would be improved by a different approach; there's too much going on in Annie Hall for more distinct visuals to do much but distract from what's going on, while pulling back on Oldboy's visuals would be a step towards making it a generic foreign revenge thriller. I can't even say I prefer one film's visuals over the other; even Annie Hall has this kind of fly-on-the-wall vibe that does wonders towards enhancing the film's tone.
Then, the writing. All of them, I noticed after the fact, take place over a long period of time: Annie Hall is mostly in the space of a few years but stretches as far back to the character's childhood in flashbacks; Oldboy takes place over fifteen years, but the bulk of the movie takes place in the last few days of that; and Shawshank takes place over the course of two or three decades, and unlike the other two keeps a reasonably steady pace chronologically, considering the circumstances.
The stories are all just as varied. An inspirational, slow-moving story of a man's imprisoned life, the lives he touched and his eventual breakout; the musings of a neurotic Jewish-American comedian trying to figure out his continued relationship problems; and the twisted heartbreaking story of one man's revenge and fall into inhumanity within another man's revenge plot. The stories share a few minor similarities here and there - for example, both Shawshank and Oldboy look at what a man can do with patience and years upon years of imprisonment, the difference being that Shawshank focused on the human effects of this, while Oldboy obviously focused on the isolation. For the most part, though, they keep radically different in every way, from the way the story is told to the specifics and tone.
Can I say any of them are distinctly better than the others? That's tough. All three are brilliant pieces of cinema whose successes stem from completely different places. I don't think I can point out a clear 'Best', but if I had to pick favorites, I'd probably go with Shawshank by a close margin. I think that's a mood-choice though; I'm sure if I was in a revenge-mindfuck-thriller mood, I'd be going with Oldboy, or if I was in a Woody Allen mood, I'd be going with Annie Hall, but the old-fashioned Hollywood kind of inspirational charm that goes with Shawshank just feels especially fresh and exciting, particularly when implemented so well.
Have I accomplished anything here? Not really. It isn't exactly uncommon knowledge that movies are very different, but I like to think too many people take for granted how varied films can get, particularly in this cynical era of "oh boo-hoo remakes and adaptations and originality is dead and every story is the same" etc etc. That's bull-honkey, and you can use these films as an example; Annie Hall, the only original film, is admittedly from the 70's, but Shawshank is a mid-90's (post-Top Gun, I think that's supposed to be the death-knell for good original cinema or something) short-story adaptation, and Oldboy is technically a comic book adaptation, and you wouldn't know it if you watched the movie with no knowledge of that.
But that stuff doesn't even matter. The point is, quit being so cynical about the future of film. Just because you saw Thor and Captain America and they were the same movie doesn't mean all movies are the same nowadays. Hell, I could do the same kind of list with Midnight in Paris, Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy and Win Win, which all came out this year and are all very different.
So quit complaining and watch some more movies.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Links in Thematic Styles of Writers and Filmmakers
So I like to think I'm a budding writer, which means, of course, that one of my greatest talents* is procrastination. I'm no amateur; I don't just watch videos of cats, I spend all my time and energy reading about writing, reading about filmmaking, reading books and watching films so that I can stay convinced that I'm not procrastinating.
So pro.
Anyway, the point: I've done a lot of meditating (well, procrastinating) on the thematic styles of writers and filmmakers, particularly directors who aren't writers. Sometimes, it's extremely painfully hard to find; Sidney Lumet, for example, has a vast and intriguing filmography that seems to avoid any kind of coherent overarching thematic style. At least, on the surface. Maybe there's a distinct link between all his films, or maybe everything is exactly as it seems, I'd be lying if I told you I knew.
But, upon examining a decent selection of filmmakers, I'm inclined to believe there's something there, if only because many of these filmmakers seem to be doing this by accident. In some cases it's the director's personal style and how they approach different stories, and in some cases it's a writer-director simply rehashing the same plot points. In some cases, though, the writers/directors simply write or choose stories that resonate with them on some deep, subconscious level, which produces thematic links in a director's filmography despite even attempts to vary their work.
One example of this I like is Danny Boyle, who has some very clear thematic links through his work even though the genres and types of stories he's telling, even the formats, are so completely different, ranging from a rowdy stylistic take on the harrowing addiction movie to his stark, realistic, and humanity-driven view of the post-zombie outbreak; to his quiet contemplative marriage of hard sci-fi and spirituality to his gripping true story of man versus the elements, isolation, and his own self; to his kids' Christmas movie to his foreign film to his dark comedy and so on.
It seems silly to think all his work has a common thread, but it does. I'd go into that, but then what am I going to write new blog posts about?
What I CAN go do is present a few more examples. Some of these filmmakers are really obvious: Guy Ritchie movies almost always consist of the everyman-petty-criminal, character with street sense and a slightly more reasonable set of morals than most of the cast, who nonetheless screws up and ends up in debt to a big intimidating mob boss. To get on the right side of said mob boss, they come up with a great plan that inadvertently ends up a perplexing situation that ends in a lot of death, and the ultimate success of the protagonist, often through sheer luck and the efforts of all the other characters over their own.
...that's an oversimplification, but you get the idea. The point is, anyone who has seen some of his movies can pick out Guy Ritchie's style from a mile away, both in the way he directs and the way he writes. Tarantino is similar, though certainly a bit more nuanced and varied with his writing style.
On the other hand, some directors seem attracted to certain arcs, thematic elements and internal conflicts. This is readily apparent in Darren Aronofsky's work: He gravitates towards character studies, and particularly the effects of being absorbed or destroyed by their passion. However, the details and style can be radically different, as between The Wrestler and Black Swan, which share major themes and arcs, but are otherwise completely different in nearly every way.
So between and during whatever my other blog posts turn out to be, I'm going to be attempting detailed analyses of whichever filmmakers or writers that happen to strike my fancy. I'll probably start off with obvious directors with tiny filmographies like Ritchie, Tarantino and Aronofsky, but eventually I'll move up the ladder until I get to directors like Scorsese, Ridley Scott, Spielberg, and hopefully, eventually, Lumet.
Okay, clearly I've only been thinking about directors, cause to be completely honest, I find it more interesting when a non-writing director has these thematic links through his or her work. But I'll certainly take into account screenwriters (Aaron Sorkin, Charlie Kaufman, Paddy Chayefsky all come to mind) and writers of prose (Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut spring immediately to mind, but that's because I've been on a them-binge). But for now I'm focusing mainly on filmmakers.
The only problem in my way is that I need to actually watch every one of their movies, or at least most (I'd like to think I can ignore widely-regarded shite like Ritchie's "Swept Away", or films where the studio held far more sway than the director, like Fincher's "Alien 3", but I'll nonetheless go for all of them, cause even bombs have something useful to say). I'm also gonna keep a minimum three movies, partly so I can justify looking at Edgar Wright and Tom McCarthy, but also just because when you have so few movies, it might seem easy to find links that tie together movies when, in reality, their larger filmography over time will end up looking nothing like that. Tarantino is a good example of this, since his first two films are much more similar to eachother than they are to the rest of Tarantino's work, and looking at those films alone, one would likely paint a much more specific picture of his style.
It may seem silly and easy to have to cut out directors with only one or two movies, as opposed to cutting it at four or five or six, but it's a lot more painful than it looks. Duncan Jones and Rupert Wyatt are both intriguing, talented directors I wouldn't mind looking at, and there are a number of recent first-time directors who have caught my attention (such as Joseph Kosinski, for his extremely undervalued work on Tron Legacy). But I won't touch on any of them, especially not the first-time directors. Maybe I'll take a look at Jones and Wyatt in some form in the future, but not to any huge extent.
To top all this off, if all goes according to plan, I'm going to use this as a way to break out of my procrastination. That's right, ending where I started, I'm so clever.
More specifically, I've been working a little on a series of projects which are likely too expensive to actually implement, but writing words costs me no money, so I can at least write them. Essentially, once I've come to a clear understanding (at least, as clear as it can get) of a director or writer's style, I'm going to attempt to apply this style to an original story. Chances are, most of these will dance the thin line between parody and love letter; an already in-progress Aronofsky-fueled story, for example, is, despite his heavy dramatic tone, a positively goofy concept, if a bit less silly in practice.
So there's that. Tune in for more, or log in, or whatever the reading-a-blog equivalent is. If you're wondering why you should care, you don't necessarily have to. I'm doing this for my own improvement and simply offering my findings on the internet.
So.
*Not my greatest talent, because that is Diddy Kong Racing. If people still played it I'd be a world champion, I swear.
So pro.
Anyway, the point: I've done a lot of meditating (well, procrastinating) on the thematic styles of writers and filmmakers, particularly directors who aren't writers. Sometimes, it's extremely painfully hard to find; Sidney Lumet, for example, has a vast and intriguing filmography that seems to avoid any kind of coherent overarching thematic style. At least, on the surface. Maybe there's a distinct link between all his films, or maybe everything is exactly as it seems, I'd be lying if I told you I knew.
But, upon examining a decent selection of filmmakers, I'm inclined to believe there's something there, if only because many of these filmmakers seem to be doing this by accident. In some cases it's the director's personal style and how they approach different stories, and in some cases it's a writer-director simply rehashing the same plot points. In some cases, though, the writers/directors simply write or choose stories that resonate with them on some deep, subconscious level, which produces thematic links in a director's filmography despite even attempts to vary their work.
One example of this I like is Danny Boyle, who has some very clear thematic links through his work even though the genres and types of stories he's telling, even the formats, are so completely different, ranging from a rowdy stylistic take on the harrowing addiction movie to his stark, realistic, and humanity-driven view of the post-zombie outbreak; to his quiet contemplative marriage of hard sci-fi and spirituality to his gripping true story of man versus the elements, isolation, and his own self; to his kids' Christmas movie to his foreign film to his dark comedy and so on.
It seems silly to think all his work has a common thread, but it does. I'd go into that, but then what am I going to write new blog posts about?
What I CAN go do is present a few more examples. Some of these filmmakers are really obvious: Guy Ritchie movies almost always consist of the everyman-petty-criminal, character with street sense and a slightly more reasonable set of morals than most of the cast, who nonetheless screws up and ends up in debt to a big intimidating mob boss. To get on the right side of said mob boss, they come up with a great plan that inadvertently ends up a perplexing situation that ends in a lot of death, and the ultimate success of the protagonist, often through sheer luck and the efforts of all the other characters over their own.
...that's an oversimplification, but you get the idea. The point is, anyone who has seen some of his movies can pick out Guy Ritchie's style from a mile away, both in the way he directs and the way he writes. Tarantino is similar, though certainly a bit more nuanced and varied with his writing style.
On the other hand, some directors seem attracted to certain arcs, thematic elements and internal conflicts. This is readily apparent in Darren Aronofsky's work: He gravitates towards character studies, and particularly the effects of being absorbed or destroyed by their passion. However, the details and style can be radically different, as between The Wrestler and Black Swan, which share major themes and arcs, but are otherwise completely different in nearly every way.
So between and during whatever my other blog posts turn out to be, I'm going to be attempting detailed analyses of whichever filmmakers or writers that happen to strike my fancy. I'll probably start off with obvious directors with tiny filmographies like Ritchie, Tarantino and Aronofsky, but eventually I'll move up the ladder until I get to directors like Scorsese, Ridley Scott, Spielberg, and hopefully, eventually, Lumet.
Okay, clearly I've only been thinking about directors, cause to be completely honest, I find it more interesting when a non-writing director has these thematic links through his or her work. But I'll certainly take into account screenwriters (Aaron Sorkin, Charlie Kaufman, Paddy Chayefsky all come to mind) and writers of prose (Douglas Adams and Kurt Vonnegut spring immediately to mind, but that's because I've been on a them-binge). But for now I'm focusing mainly on filmmakers.
The only problem in my way is that I need to actually watch every one of their movies, or at least most (I'd like to think I can ignore widely-regarded shite like Ritchie's "Swept Away", or films where the studio held far more sway than the director, like Fincher's "Alien 3", but I'll nonetheless go for all of them, cause even bombs have something useful to say). I'm also gonna keep a minimum three movies, partly so I can justify looking at Edgar Wright and Tom McCarthy, but also just because when you have so few movies, it might seem easy to find links that tie together movies when, in reality, their larger filmography over time will end up looking nothing like that. Tarantino is a good example of this, since his first two films are much more similar to eachother than they are to the rest of Tarantino's work, and looking at those films alone, one would likely paint a much more specific picture of his style.
It may seem silly and easy to have to cut out directors with only one or two movies, as opposed to cutting it at four or five or six, but it's a lot more painful than it looks. Duncan Jones and Rupert Wyatt are both intriguing, talented directors I wouldn't mind looking at, and there are a number of recent first-time directors who have caught my attention (such as Joseph Kosinski, for his extremely undervalued work on Tron Legacy). But I won't touch on any of them, especially not the first-time directors. Maybe I'll take a look at Jones and Wyatt in some form in the future, but not to any huge extent.
To top all this off, if all goes according to plan, I'm going to use this as a way to break out of my procrastination. That's right, ending where I started, I'm so clever.
More specifically, I've been working a little on a series of projects which are likely too expensive to actually implement, but writing words costs me no money, so I can at least write them. Essentially, once I've come to a clear understanding (at least, as clear as it can get) of a director or writer's style, I'm going to attempt to apply this style to an original story. Chances are, most of these will dance the thin line between parody and love letter; an already in-progress Aronofsky-fueled story, for example, is, despite his heavy dramatic tone, a positively goofy concept, if a bit less silly in practice.
So there's that. Tune in for more, or log in, or whatever the reading-a-blog equivalent is. If you're wondering why you should care, you don't necessarily have to. I'm doing this for my own improvement and simply offering my findings on the internet.
So.
*Not my greatest talent, because that is Diddy Kong Racing. If people still played it I'd be a world champion, I swear.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Obligatory "Obligatory First Post" Post
I wasn’t going to do one of these, cause this is the way every single blog that ends after ten posts about lack of posts seems to start.
But whatever. I'd rather look at this than an empty page.
There are going to be words and junk in this blog. Yep, you don’t believe me, I can tell. You’re sitting out there saying “The next post is going to be about lack of posting and then we’ll never see another word here”.
...okay, you may be on to something. Except, I’m already nearly done something. A short story, which I’m going to post in full when I’m finished.
That’s right! A short story, on the INTERNET. You never find tha-oh wait they’re everywhere.
It’s also totally silly, since every scumbag steve* with an internet connection is ready to copy-paste anything good and original to their own blog with their name on it. But I’m pretty sure intellectual copyright law can do something about that. Maybe. Hopefully. I should probably just refrain from posting anything good so no one wants it.
Anyway, back to the point: This will be a blog full of words I type at the internet. Sometimes it’ll be short stories, sometimes huge incoherent rants or impassioned reviews of some brilliant piece of fiction or maybe a 5,000 word essay on why Mel Gibson should have won Best Actor before the nominations are even released.
Maybe sometimes I’ll include pictures. Or short snippets of larger things. But this blog will mostly consist of a whole lot of words, so if you like looking at words, you shouldn’t be too disappointed. Maybe I’ll throw in some good ones, like Bostonian or distraught or, if you’re really lucky, acquiesce.
*I apologize to all the nice people named Steve. You’re all pretty cool guys. But not that guy, he’s a scumbag.
But whatever. I'd rather look at this than an empty page.
There are going to be words and junk in this blog. Yep, you don’t believe me, I can tell. You’re sitting out there saying “The next post is going to be about lack of posting and then we’ll never see another word here”.
...okay, you may be on to something. Except, I’m already nearly done something. A short story, which I’m going to post in full when I’m finished.
That’s right! A short story, on the INTERNET. You never find tha-oh wait they’re everywhere.
It’s also totally silly, since every scumbag steve* with an internet connection is ready to copy-paste anything good and original to their own blog with their name on it. But I’m pretty sure intellectual copyright law can do something about that. Maybe. Hopefully. I should probably just refrain from posting anything good so no one wants it.
Anyway, back to the point: This will be a blog full of words I type at the internet. Sometimes it’ll be short stories, sometimes huge incoherent rants or impassioned reviews of some brilliant piece of fiction or maybe a 5,000 word essay on why Mel Gibson should have won Best Actor before the nominations are even released.
Maybe sometimes I’ll include pictures. Or short snippets of larger things. But this blog will mostly consist of a whole lot of words, so if you like looking at words, you shouldn’t be too disappointed. Maybe I’ll throw in some good ones, like Bostonian or distraught or, if you’re really lucky, acquiesce.
*I apologize to all the nice people named Steve. You’re all pretty cool guys. But not that guy, he’s a scumbag.
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