A Million Dollar Recipe

In 2005, Million Dollar Baby knocked out the competition to become the year’s Best Picture according to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. However, according to Robert Sklar and Tani Modleski (2005), the film was an underdog from the beginning, just like it’s protagonist Maggie Fitzgerald. Adapted from a short story, the screenplay seemed to get lost in the huddle of other scripts being shopped around Hollywood. The search for a director went through a list of names with none sticking. The process for finding a production studio was similar as well. But when the formula was finally solved, the results should have been enough to give American a wet dream. Clint Eastwood. Morgan Freeman. In a boxing movie. Isn’t that just what America would want?

Clint Eastwood has long been a fixture of American cinema. Audiences have been drawn to him across all generations. Maybe it’s his honest face or his unique way of speaking. He has that strange gravelly tone that comes out like a whisper but with all the force of an echoing shout. It’s disconcerting when you’re in trouble, but comforting when he’s in your side of the ring. Sklar and Modleski make their explanation for his appeal: “…Eastwood has appeared in films for nearly half a century. Given the male privilege of aging on screen, he has transcended the callow beauty of his youthful visage to become an older man’s body, and even more a face, the interest of which has come to transcend politics and ideology, left and right. There is a metaphor for life in the taut skin, wrinkled neck, lined face, and deeply creased forehead that speaks of longevity and mortality more than it does of conservatism versus liberalism” (p. 8). Sounds like the honest face is the winner then.

The Academy itself has given Eastwood his due respect. He’s a recognizable and decorated leading man, but his directing has commanded its own attention “…Sprawling as it is, his output has unmistakable signatures. His doomed underdogs, reluctant avengers, lawless lawmen, unlikely fathers, and damaged children are captured by a camera

that is never flashy but is exactly where it needs to be…” (Sullivan 2011, p. B13).In Chronicle of Higher Education, author Jack Sullivan even laments that his semester-long college course on Eastwood has to be narrowed considerably; the amount of material he has produced is simply too much to be contained. His presence on-screen in Million Dollar Baby is equally without restraint. His constant guidance as Frankie goes beyond what we are presented with onscreen. We can feel his paternal patience and love towards his fighter right through the screen. We want him in our corner.

Eastwood’s directing capabilities added to his automatic magnetism as an actor is more than enough to make a successful film. But why not sweeten the pot with a little dose of Morgan Freeman? To put it simply, “He’s [Freeman] become the go-to guy for directors needing an avatar of unimpeachable decency” (Timm 2008, p. 57). The author continues on to describe the actor in only one word: perfect. Freeman commonly serves as the wise supporting character, the constant voice of reason, and often just the voice of the entire film. Such is the case of Million Dollar Baby. He provides the film’s narration in soothing, easy to listen to bass tones. He guides the story, even through the most painful of events in Maggie’s career as a boxer.

These two men could headline any film into the stratosphere. But Million Dollar Baby tosses them a softball, a boxing film. A film genre almost inseparable from American history and culture. Rocky and Raging Bull both solidified their place in film culture and Academy Award history through their take on the boxing genre. Resonating with almost all viewers are the core conflicts in a boxing film: “body versus soul; opportunity versus difference; market values versus family values; and, finally, anger versus justice (Grindon 1996, p. 54). These conflicts are cross-cultural, appealing to truly American ideals- to be a hero, to be a fighter, to be a victor. We are Maggie, conquering our age, living out our dream. We are taking every chance, every opportunity for what we believe we are meant to do. We are hooked in her fight as it proves cathartic for our own fight. Grindon continues his discussion, isolating nostalgia and pathos as lynchpins in the emotional response of a boxing film. 2003’s Best Picture provides us with that, too. Raising Maggie up in the ranks as a fighter, helping her grow and mature as an adult, and showing her the way out of the previous life she was accustomed to, her trainer Frankie cares for her like the daughter he never knew. He’s almost nostalgic for something he never had but wanted so dearly. We end up feeling pathos, or sadness, pity, sympathy, for almost everyone portrayed in the film, but specifically for our female boxer. Maggie struggled for so long chasing her dream, and when she finally realized it, it was such a short ride at the top. Her downfall at the end is painful and difficult to watch. We wanted our girl to finish on top, not seemingly dead last.  Maybe in this way, Million Dollar Baby breaks some boxing film tradition. In the end, our hero is no longer the victor.

In many ways, it seems as if this film would in fact have been the perfect recipe for an American drama. Actors who we love doing the routine of a genre with which we can identify. However, after viewing, Million Dollar Baby leaves behind a confused feeling. It’s power can be felt and even pondered for days, but you’re not quite sure if you would have cast your vote for it as Best Picture. Maybe the naysayers were right. A perfect recipe does not always a delicious dish make.

 

References:

Grindon, L. (1996). Body & sould: The structure of meaning in the boxing film genre. Cinema Journal, 35(4), 54-69.

Sklar, R., & Modleski, T. (2005). Million Dollar Baby A Split Decision. (Cover story). Cineaste, 30(3), 6-11.

Sullivan, J. (2011). Clint eastwood: Hollywood’s enigmatic icon. Chronicle Of Higher Education, 58(14), B13-B14.

Timm, J. (2008). But morgan freeman is so perfect. Maclean’s, 121(33), 57.

Chicago: The Oscar Winning Musical

In 2003, the little golden guy went to Chicago, the first musical to win in thirty-three years. Now, the possibility of a musical film winning Best Picture had been almost realized two years prior when Moulin Rouge! was nominated for the category but failed to nab the trophy away from A Beautiful Mind. Regardless of the win-loss record, film musicals seemed to be making a comeback or at least gaining attention as worthwhile forms of entertainment. It also seemed to be worthwhile for some of Hollywood’s biggest stars, hooking Catherine Zeta-Jones, Richard Gere, Renee Zellweger, and Queen Latifah into the cast. Backed with star power and easy to get stuck in your head show tunes, Chicago presented the epitome of a film musical, typifying the genre for a more contemporary audience.

The iconography of a musical even for stage hinges upon the lavish production. We expect extravagant costumes, scenery, lighting, elaborate dance numbers, and powerful vocals. That is simply what is expected of a musical or musical film. According to Cara Ann Lane (2003), “…All of these patterns contribute to the film musical’s reputation of being larger than life. Movies in this genre pull their audiences into a fantastical world, while, simultaneously, providing them with tools for identifying how the movies create the fantasy” (p. 74). Beginning with the look of Chicago alone, it is easy to detect its musical roots. The initial settings and scenery of the city and Roxie’s transition to life in the jailhouse appear very stage-like. They look stylized, flat, and almost whimsical in a way as to suggest hand painted backdrops that could be lifted away by a pulley system. The film revolves heavily around a female cast, all of whom are decked out in everything from drab uniforms to sequined flapper dresses, and all without a single hair out of place. Certainly, the film remains a work of visual art, just as a production on a stage. It’s all about spectacle.

Chicago delivers all of the “fantastical” qualities of a stage musical and then some through its employment of certain strategies that are only made possible when musicals make the leap to film. Certain liberties are taken when making the adaptation, and the film musical is only enhanced by these. Again, Lane of Film & History (2003) notes one tactic, “…when presenting acts in a theater or club venue, the films make use of camera angles that do not correspond to a theater audience’s perspective, displaying events from points of view that would be impossible for an actual theater audience to witness—such as a view of the audience from the stage or a view of the stage from the ceiling” (p. 74). Our scope is not limited to what we can see from our seat, around the head of the person in front of us, or with our binoculars. The film plays out in front of the camera, our own, personal moving theater seat. This sort of mobile perspective is very apparent in one of the film’s most recognizable numbers performed by Queen Latifah.

All of the numbers in Chicago also utilize another interesting privilege that liberates musicals upon their transition to musical films. In the consciousness of leading lady Roxie Hart, played by Renee Zellweger, all performances become not only occurrences in the plot, but they seem to transcend into the play within a play territory. It’s as if we see each song twice, once in the content of the plot, and another nondiegetically as a separate cabaret number performed by the featured cast member. Carla Hay (2003) of Billboard explains: “Chicago is a captivating film that effectively wraps a movie within a movie: the reality of what happens in the characters’ world, interwoven with the idealized version that plays out in Roxie’s mind. The musical numbers spring from her imagination, in which she sees life as one big performance” (p. 1). Perhaps the most dazzling example is when her own murder trial instead becomes a three-ringed circus act. They’re not just singing about a circus in a courtroom. They are literally singing about a circus at the circus and then sometimes also in the courtroom.

 The film Chicago is presented with as much allure and mystique as the world of show business that it seems to satirize, a common characteristic of film musicals. We want to suspend our disbelief of reality for a short period of time and simply accept the show-stopping numbers as reality, but at the same time, we are always called upon to specifically notice how spectacular and extraordinarily these numbers of accomplished. Chicago is no exception, “…Both the presentational technique and the narrative events in Chicago provide a means for the audience to accept and challenge the fantasy world of the film—a contradiction that defines the film musical genre” (Lane 2003, p. 74).

References:

Hay, C. (2003). Can ‘chicago’ spell a comeback for the movie musical? (Cover story). Billboard, 115(2), 1.

Lane, C. (2003). Chicago (review). Film & History, 33(2), 74-75.

The Departed- 4 Scenes in 1

We know that Martin Scorcese knows how to make movies. Hugo, Goodfellas, The Aviator, and Taxi Driver only represent a small portion of the films that have made him a stable name in the industry. However, only one film has won him the Academy Award for Best Achievement in Directing, and that same film has won him his only Best Picture statuette as well. That film is The Departed, a gritty crime drama on the streets of Boston, and a veritable treasure trove of A-list stars. Martin Sheen, Leonardo DiCaprio, Mark Wahlberg, Jack Nicholson, Matt Damon and Alec Baldwin are all either cops or criminals, and sometimes they are both.

The best example of the cop/criminal crossover comes from Leonardo DiCaprio, in a scene for which we will direct our attention. It comes almost an hour into the epic long 151 minute film, and the scene itself is prolonged over a lengthy period of time, spanning about 10 minutes. We begin with Leonardo’s character, Billy Costigan, sitting in a therapy session with Madolyn Madden. Costigan is an undercover police officer posing as a low-level criminal for the biggest crime boss in Boston. However, Madden doesn’t know this. She simply thinks that he’s a failed police cadet forced to attend a session, and that means that his cover is working. He’s also doing a good job of controlling the conversation, keeping as much of the attention and analysis on the therapist as she is on him. Then the audio transitions over to a new setting. Costigan alone in a packed up home, clearly emotional, looking over old family photos. Let’s not stay too long, as we are quickly moved to him busting open a door, weapon in hand, undercover now, in what is soon to become a crime scene. Back to the photos. Back to the crime. Photos. Crime. Photos. Therapy. With each transition, the tension in that setting becomes greater. Costigan is becoming more and more distraught staring at the photos in his packed up home. He’s quickly losing control over the break-in situation, as he’s hit in the head by a thrown object, just before the victim is shot and killed. The therapy discussion is becoming more reflective now as he recounts things he learned about himself while in prison, a stint he served for his undercover guise. The transitions continue, but the therapy session serves as the anchor, with more time being spent there than any other place. At the photos now, Costigan is taking oxycontin to help cope with his distress.

Before the scene is finished, a fourth setting is introduced, a heated discussion, followed by a brief fist fight, between Costigan and the two police officers who assigned him to the undercover gig.

In our final return to the therapy session, he describes to the doctor exactly all the physical anxiety he has been experiencing.

Clearly,  Costigan is slowly coming unraveled. The undercover, double life he has been leading has left him confused and disoriented. He’s essentially experiencing an identity disorder, unable to cope with the balance of what he’s been tasked to do and what is really him. According to Stanley Kauffman (2006), “…Scorsese was apparently concerned with the idea of identity, one of the ancient themes of drama, and how it affects one’s actions, emotions, self-knowledge, even dreams.” By watching these four scenes converging upon one, we are brought into the whirlwind experience of Costigan. We may even be experiencing a little anxiety ourselves as we try to map out these occurrences. The break-in gone murderous and the fight with his cop bosses at the river could have happened early, and although we may be fairly certain that the therapy session is in the present, Costigan is already popping prescriptions at his home. Perhaps their old instead of newly prescribed? So our timeline is disjointed and jumbled, much as the character’s is. We rely on the subtle, continuous string melody that plays behind this erratic collection of moments. The score serves as our guide to piece together this puzzling section of narrative.

The use of parallel editing is the device that accomplishes our confusion. Action is emphasized in many different locations, yet all featuring Costigan. Therefore, we know that they cannot all be happening at once like traditional parallel editing. Instead, these cuts are like snippets of his memories, his own thoughts tumbling around in his head. The order is not important, but the effect of these moments upon his character is. In Cineaste (2009) Kenneth Dancyger claims that there is no “…lack of clarity about their goals [in editing] and how those goals fit into the overall narrative direction. There is also no doubt that the film will be primarily about character rather than plot” (p. 40). Undoubtedly, he’s right. We knew Costigan’s path between the two worlds of criminal and cop would get messy, but we maybe did not expect him to become so messy, so wholly affected. He loses the composure with which he began, and our attention is no longer on his individual activities, but rather upon his journey as a person. It’s a character driven scene that provides some of the most solid acting from Leonardo DiCaprio as does any other scene from any actor in the film. It provides a gold mine of character study so early for the viewer that we are given plenty of time to chart the progress through the remaining ninety minutes of The Departed. 

References:

Dancyger, K. (2009). Editing for subtext: Altering the meaning of the narrative. Cineaste, 34(2), 38-42.

Kauffmann, S. (2006 October 30). Themes and schemes. The New Republic, (235)18.

Form and Meaning of The Hurt Locker

The Hurt Locker represents the epitome of an Oscar surprise. Beating out films like Avatar, The Blind Side, and Up, it is the lowest grossing film to ever be crowned as Best Picture, doing so in 2010.

The film’s opening seconds already set up a provocative and ominous feeling that pervades the entire picture. We begin with a quote: “The rush of battle is often a potent and lethal addiction, for war is a drug.” As the quote fades from the screen, we are left with the words “war is a drug.” The Hurt Locker itself almost acts as a drug, keeping audience member’s eyes glued to the screen despite the emotional and distressing nature of the film. The movie follows the story of three soldiers serving in Baghdad in a troop named Bravo Company. They work to locate, identify, and dismantle improvised explosive devices used by insurgents. However, the feelings we are left with after the film apply to more than just these three fictional soldiers. We are left with a colored opinion on all soldiers, the experiences they go through, and even war itself.

In the film’s lighter moments, which remain fleeting and are often juxtaposed alongside moments of extreme tension, we can clearly see the camaraderie and teamwork amongst members of this elite group. They crack jokes, wrestle, and poke fun at each other when they can, to direct their attention away from how seemingly hopeless their situation is. They function like a rambunctious football team in the locker room before, at the half, and after a huge game, whether it be a win or a loss. The film shows us just how deep the vein of a soldier runs, how wholly affected they are by the entire wartime process. They carouse and drink, blast loud rock music, and pass the time with violent video games, offering a fictional respite for their minds, yet still honing their kill skill. They are almost an enigma according to Bernard Beck (2010): “…those devoted to the conduct of war have their own precious and exclusive culture about war not available to the ordinary members of society. Furthermore, the larger society focuses with great intensity on the presence among them of this strange, specialized caste with its own peculiar rules and beliefs. It seems to the members of the larger social world that these strangers among them are both inevitable and inevitably disquieting” (p. 213).

They appear almost desensitized to war, as they almost need to be. The soldiers of The Hurt Locker can never take a day for granted, but they can also not dwell on their mortality. Within minutes of The Hurt Locker‘s open, a sergeant has fallen. Sanborn, played by Anthony Mackie, is shown collecting the fallen soldier’s things in a giant white box, just one in a row of identical boxes, surrounded by rows upon rows of the same. Specialist Owen Eldridge in the film even requires regular sessions with a therapist to grasp the realization that any minute could be his last. He can never tolerate the unknown of when and how his death may come. The film demands a new respect be given to the nation’s soldiers. The entire film is a countdown to the end of the Bravo Company’s rotation, the end of their tour in the physical hurt locker. Risking life and limb, the soldiers exude a sense of commitment and duty to serve while also showing a great sense of expertise. Their calling is not everyone’s calling. Sergeant First Class James Will, played by Jeremy Renner, confesses to dismantling 873 IEDs in his career with the military, a magnanimous feat indeed. Yet, every time another one appears, he approaches it with the same brash, bravery, and almost idiocy as every one before. According to Eldridge, “you’re in Iraq…you’re dead.” To serve is to have a death wish. But these men do it willingly. And for those like Sgt. Will, they do it repeatedly as if they truly are addicted to the drug of war. In some ways, they may even wonder why we are not addicted to it, why they have to represent us in a fight we should all be willing to play a part in: “When we send soldiers off to fight on our behalf, we create a novel group in our society with its own powerful and highly prized subculture. They bring that subculture back with them from the war. These movies suggest our concern that they might have a bone to pick with us, the dominant majority” (Beck 2010 p. 216).

The Hurt Locker provides contradictory images of America’s security effort in Iraq. The message “STAY 100 METERS BACK OR YOU WILL BE SHOT” is emblazoned on a sign on the back of Bravo Company’s Humvee. This kind of cool, nonchalance for the Iraqi civilians’ lives seems prevalent in the film. The troops’ efforts to crack down on insurgent bombings almost take the form of bullying at times concerning how aggressively they drive out people from their own homes and make of the area what they wish. These examples are shown in contrast to Sergeant Will’s cordial relationship with a local boy and street peddler, Beckham. Will gives the boy money and plays soccer with him, forging a real connection. And if the goal was not in fact for the betterment of the people of Iraq, wouldn’t the actual dismantling of the bombs be superfluous? If they truly did not care and were simply serving to bully their way through a foreign nation, why take the risk? Clearly, the call to help those in need is stronger than most and exists even throughout the less attractive of moments.

It is this dichotomy, showing both the good deeds and questionable deeds of soldiers, the camaraderie gained with a common purpose and the dread of never knowing when your number will be called, that causes some critics, like Caetlin Benson-Allott of Film Quarterly to wonder what political affiliations The Hurt Locker director Kathryn Bigelow holds for herself. What meaning was she trying to construct with the film? The author continues “…Bigelow makes films that challenge the way we think about the relationship of agency to environment, acknowledge the effects Hollywood genres have on the way we see the world, and invite us to see differently” (p. 43). Therefore, the meanings lie in our own interpretation. We are provided with plenty of evidence, but it may take us a time or two to clearly see the picture.

In the film, Eldridge’s psychologist tries to convince him “Going to war can be a once in a lifetime experience…it can be fun.” Eldridge remains unconvinced, and so do we. The fun is not experienced. But, the sense of purpose, rush of adrenaline, and the complexity of how it all affects our own simple lives and our ambivalent opinions are all resonate within The Hurt Locker. 

References:

Beck, B. (2010). Hail the conquering hero: Remembering the troops in the hurt locker, inglourious basterds and avatar. Multicultural Perspectives, 12(4), 213-216.

Benson-Allot, C. (2010). Undoing violence: Politics, genre, and duration in kathryn bigelow’s cinema. Film Quarterly, 64(2), 33-43.

A Crash Course in Editing

Editing can be an often overlooked attribute of a film. In fact, it is most often not even recognized except for when something remarkable happens. In 2006, something very remarkable happened as Crash won not only the Academy Award for Best Picture but also for Best Achievement in Editing.

The film itself takes place in only a 24 hour time period. With the sheer amount of plot development, dynamic character interaction, and significant social discourse, this alone makes the editing worthy of praise.  As Wallace Katz (2006) describes: “…everything happens in so many places simultaneously that, without necessarily losing context, it’s as if one were traveling in space from planets near the sun to those far away, and at the speed of light. It is the Los Angeles context, in fact, that accounts for and is reflected in the film’s extraordinary velocity from scene to scene…” (p. 122). So let’s take a look at some of the striking characteristics of the film’s editing that accomplished this.

The viewer’s eyes are dazzled right from the very start. Crash begins with a chilling and provocative opening sequence. We see blurry head lights moving on screen, old ones dissolving away while new ones appear in their place. The credits drift in and out ethereally, not drawing significant attention to themselves. Even as the film begins to unfold, the opening scene of a car accident fades in and out to black. This first scene appears unstable in this way, and we are soon tossed backward in time to the day before. This is the only flashback in the entire film, but it lasts for the entire duration of the film, and it is complete with a flash forward and denouement during the film’s final minutes.

The use of match cuts is prevalent early in Crash. As a whole, the film is a mosaic narrative- a seemingly disconnected series of stories that intersect at various parts, and not until you examine the whole do you see the entire picture or theme of the film. Along the same reasoning, film critic Hsuan Hsu (2006) refers to the film as an ensemble film, comparing it to Robert Altman’s Nashville and Steven Soderbergh’s Traffic.  Regardless of the terminology used to describe it, the match cuts in Crash help to maintain fluidity in an otherwise disjointed narrative, mosaic and/or ensemble, and they make the transition from one story to the next easier and more interesting to the viewer. According to Brian D. Johnson (2006), Crash makes an effort to unite all the pieces of it’s world, and it accomplishes this through the smooth editing. Some prominent examples include: the switch from Dorri pushing open the door to leave the gun shop becoming Anthony shoving open the door of a restaurant; a stolen Suburban driving through the screen becoming a cop car passing Don Cheadle’s detective character Graham Waters at another crime scene; and Matt Dillon angrily leaving an insurance agent’s office turning into a delivery boy at the locksmith office. These match cuts are especially important and common in the film’s exposition stages, setting up the trajectories of each individual story. After we have been introduced to the key players, more traditional editing styles are used.

However, there are still a few flares added in to keep things interesting. There is one identifiable example of an audio match cut, when a sound from the end of one take begins the action in the second take. As the door to detective Graham Waters house is slammed, we’re immediately transported to Matt Dillon’s bedroom, as police officer John Ryan. He was startled awake not necessarily by a slamming door but by some other sound made by his ill father, who is out of bed and struggling in the bathroom.

The film also provides an example of elliptical editing, a tactic used to make an action on screen appear shorter in duration than the amount of time it actually took in the story. As the Persian convenience store owner Farhad cleans up his business after a break-in, the camera slowly and inexplicably focuses in on a bag of trash tossed into the dumpster. Just when the viewer thinks this lingering moment must be a mistake in editing, Farhad reappears and begins hurriedly digging through the garbage. We see a few jump cuts as side-effects of the elliptical editing. Farhad continues to dig, and through the editing we know that it continued for longer than we are shown. However, the brevity is appreciated because we are nervously awaiting what he may be looking for inside the bag. He makes the discovery of the receipt from the locksmith, Daniel, providing the inciting incident for a powerful scene later in the film.

Finally, we reach out flash forward, back to present-day. The transition is marked by a dissolve, an effect not seen since the opening sequence of the film. To make sure we fully understand and are not overwhelmed by the two hours of footage to this point, editors provide us with an example of overlap editing. This style is recognized as the end of one shot is partially repeated at the beginning of a following shot. Despite the lengthy amount of film in between, our flashback is bookended by the same few seconds of a scene, Graham Waters at the location of a crime. We hear him ask a fellow office for a cigarette, again, walk down the hill to the body, again, and begin to examine evidence, again. It is a reflection of what we witnessed earlier, but the scene will continue on this time as the story continues to unfold.

Sometimes the editing in Crash is so seamless that as a viewer, I did not notice a change of scene until an unseen character makes a new appearance. As Farhad lurks outside a home in Daniel’s neighborhood, he looks out his car window. From the point of view of someone looking outside of a window, we see a Suburban drive down the street. The next shot puts us inside the Suburban, which just happens to be the one belonging to television producer Cameron, and suddenly, we have moved on to a different plot line without any such warning. This occurs again at the film’s ending when Matt Dillon, as Officer Ryan, drives his car out of the right side of the screen, and Ryan Phillipe, as Officer Hanson, drives his car into the left side of the screen. Until Hanson picks up a hitchhiker and we are shown that he is the driver, one is under the impression that it was the same car. But that just is not the case. What is the case is the kind of clever and understated editing that earns films an Oscar.

References:

Hsu, H. L. (2006). Racial privacy, the L.A. ensemble film, and paul haggis’s crash. Film Criticism, 31(1/2), 132-156.

Johnson, B. D. (2006). The collateral damage of crash. Maclean’s, 119(14), 56-57.

Katz, W. (2006). Crash: Film noir in post-modern LA. New Labor Forum (Routledge), 15(1), 121-125.

Plenty of Shooting in No Country For Old Men

The Coen Brothers’ No Country For Old Men was nominated for eight different categories at the Academy Awards in 2008. By night’s end, it had amassed four wins, Best Director, Best Supporting Actor for Javier Bardem, Best Adapted Screenplay, and the grand daddy of them all Best Picture.

The film hearkens back to a different age of movie making. A time when Westerns were the name of the game, with their allure of a new land known as the frontier: “…The frontier tests resources, not only against the harshness of nature, but also against the ruthlessness of others that emerges when law enforcement is weak or nonexistent. The Western appeals to American individualism. The triumph of good over evil justifies liberal politics, which rely on human self-reliance and independence” (Nichols 2008, p. 207).

No Country For Old Men is basically a contemporary Western film in style. However, in style, tone, and even storyline, the film took a divergent path. Even the camera did not always follow the typical track of Westerns as Americans have come to know them. Of course, the prevalent landscape shots common to all Westerns were there. Wide open deserts, establishing shots from miles away, and images of nature both beautiful and dangerous greets viewers from the very start, as the gravelly voice of Tommy Lee Jones gets the ball rolling. But from there, the shot list takes some interesting turns.

Low angle cinematography seemed to pervade the entire film. Whether we were watching Llewelyn Moss hesitantly walk into the scene of a desert shooting or Anton Chigurh walking sock-footed down the outside corridor of an old motel, the camera could often be found below the waist. Essentially, No Country For Old Men was a chase film- Anton tracking down Llewelyn, Llewelyn making an effort to track back, and Sheriff Ed Tom Bell trying to pinpoint the location of both of them without any more bloodshed. Therefore, the focus on the feet and movement on the ground was appropriate. The film takes viewers across a lot of West Texas territory, and where better to be seeing it from then where foot hits pavement and the movement gets started.

Uniquely to No Country, none of the three main characters ever share any screen time with each other. Although they are all keenly aware of the others, Anton, Moss, and Ed Tom are never seen within the same field of view. It becomes a modern interpretation of a stand-off. Walk slowly away, unseeing each other, before turning to shoot and see who survives. Interestingly enough, even when Llewelyn and the psychotic killer Chigurh were shooting at each other, they were never shown in the same screen or close enough to even get a good look at each other.

The big three- played by Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, and Josh Brolin- repeatedly follow in each others’ tracks. They do so almost exactly, while inside the trailer where Llewelyn and his young wife Carla Jean live. When Llewelyn returns home after a long day, we see him grab a drink, sit on the couch with his wife, and stare at the TV while telling her to mind her own business. Anton comes a few days later to find the trailer vacant. He grabs a drink of milk from the fridge, sits on the couch with his thoughts, and stares at the blank TV screen. Finally, and only minutes later, Sheriff Ed Tom arrives at the trailer, inspects the forced entry, grabs a drink of milk from the unreturned bottle, sits on the couch with his confusion, and stares at his reflection in the blank TV screen. The shot is repeated, but each time with a different effect. The shot of Llewelyn and Carla Jean seems to be merely exposition. But Anton’s couch time becomes eery, a first glimpse of how intrusive and unstoppable he seems to be. Then with the sheriff, we see a perplexed man, wanting justice but knowing the worse is yet to come.

Zooms are difficult to come by in this contemporary Western film, but two very noticeable ones do occur as another example of reflection. Josh Brolin’s character Llewelyn Moss finds himself mixed up in crime after stumbling across the scene of a desert shooting. He finds a survivor to the massacre but leaves anyway, only to be plagued by sleepless thoughts of the Mexican man later that night. Looking down on him in bed, the camera slowly moves in as Llewelyn realizes that he has to return and help the man. This is the inciting incident and the irreversible event that puts him in the path of Anton Chigurh. We return to the attempting to sleep Llewelyn later in the film as he stumbles across another important realization. He knows he is being followed, but he is not aware by whom. As we again look down on him in bed, staring up at the camera, we are brought closer to his face as he figures out the money he found at the crime scene must have a tracker. He gets out of bed to discover exactly that and realizes that he will soon be found and forced to fight for his life.

The shot-reverse shot pattern was heavily utilized in No Country For Old Men. Rarely were two faces shown on-screen at once, as cameras cut frequently throughout conversations. Most noticeably, as Anton Chigurh began talking to anyone, who usually became his next victim, he was almost never shown with that person within the confines of the screen. He was constantly annoyed by the Texans simple thoughts, colloquialisms, and stubbornness to mend to his wishes. Therefore, it was almost as if he himself commanded never to be shown on-screen alongside one of these people he believed to be below him. According to Christopher McClure (2010), “…He is solitary, and while this allows him to act efficiently, it is also a sign of his total lack of humanity. That Chigurh can control whether those around him live or die proves to him that mortality is the most important fact about human beings, but his strict materialism and isolation indicate that he has missed the most important fact about what it means to be human” (p. 48).

References:

McClure, C. (2010). No country for old gods. Perspectives On Political Science, 39(1), 46-51.

Nichols, M. P. (2008). Revisiting heroism and community in contemporary westerns: No country for old men and 3:10 to yuma. Perspectives On Political Science, 37(4), 207-216.

Mise-en-scene in The King’s Speech

2011’s Academy Award Winner for Best Picture was The Weinstein Company’s The King’s Speech. A period piece with a remarkably simple story, the improvement of King George VI’s stammer, the film garnered praise from almost everyone, critic to casual viewer and everything in between.

I’d like to specifically take a look at the scene about three-fourths of the way through the film, the preparation for Bertie’s, or King George VI’s- played by Colin Firth- coronation at Westminster Abbey.

As the scene opens and we follow Bertie into the grand hall of the Abbey, the entire shot is filled with a grey-blue hue. Much of the film appears this way, with minimal artificial lighting, heavy shadows, and an overall bleak tone. Symbolically, it reflects the seemingly impossible task of correcting the King’s speech impediment. The journey from Duke of York, pathetic speaker, to King of the United Kingdom, capable, yet still cautious, speaker, is never simplified in the film. It often seems hopeless, worthless, and bleak, like the color grey- lackluster and insufficient. But then the room opens up with a royal scarlet color. The carpets, the chair at center stage, and the viewing boxes where the family will sit provide drastic interruptions to the darkness of the scenes. Red has often served as a color of royalty, and it is no exception in this case. It represents the royal position that Bertie must fill, a daunting, intimidating task for a nervous individual who still feels stuck in the grey.

The grandeur of the Abbey adds to the formality of the scene. Geoffrey Rush, as Lionel Logue, and Colin Firth are both dressed in suits, as is customary of not only the entire film, but of the time period. Bertie as royalty and Logue as a professional almost never show variation in their costumes- suit after suit after suit. The presence of the Archbishop of the church elevates the tension and the necessity of a flawless event.

The scene within the hall of the Abbey is bisected into two time periods. At the king’s arrival to the preparation of the coronation, he and Logue are of one accord, despite the bishop’s discouragement. Bertie requests that his speech teacher even be seated in the scarlet viewing box with his family. It seems as if the friendship between the two has been firmly cemented, despite any earlier inconsistencies. However, only a few short minutes later, and we re-enter the same Abbey hall, later in the day. The room is now darker- more blues and greys than ever before. The deep red hues of the carpets and center chair now pop even more strongly than before. At the Archbishop’s request and effort, Bertie is now against Logue. The closeness of earlier in the day has all but dissolved. Logue’s past is recounted, in less impressive detail than originally thought, and Bertie believes to have been duped. He is seated as the speech teacher stands, but they appear to be equal in power over the conversation. The red of the chair popping behind Bertie as the ever-present reminder that he is still the King. Yet Logue stands over Bertie, not backing down in the face of accusations that he is a fraud.

The composition levels of the scene soon change. In sarcastic wit, Logue kneels before the King, requesting to be locked away. But Bertie soon stands, once again in a position of power over Logue, monarch status notwithstanding. But from the conversation, Bertie never has the upper hand. He never fully believes or stands behind what he is saying. Yet Logue exudes confidence and control. He recognizes that Bertie still needs him, and he uses one of the most daring teaching tactics yet in the film to prove it: “…Lionel, in full fool mode, sits in the traditional, even sacred, throne. It is a classical metaphor for the power of the fool and a classic technique of a voice coach as well: to be whatever is needed in the moment, no matter how irreverent or what the consequences might be…He is fully in his teaching powers in this moment in the film, as he is literally teaching from two archetypes: the fool and the sage. Apoplectic with fury at Lionel’s apparent disrespect, Bertie—soon to be crowned King George VI—spits out his own declaration of authority. The scene ends with Lionel’s assertion that Bertie does indeed have a voice, that he has found his voice. It is a beautiful depiction of a teacher’s love for his client. The sacrilege of disrespecting the throne is inconsequential in comparison with the scope of what Bertie, the man, has just discovered” (Cabot 2011, p. 242).

The entire scene is a struggle between extremes. We are in Westminster Abbey. THE Westminster Abbey. We see the high walls, gilded columns, few flickering candles, and the set-up fit for a King. Yet the conversations are heated, honest, bursting with emotion and unfitting for the formality. The discussion is tense and personal, between two characters who have gone from no relationship, to doctor-client, to friends, and now to king-subject. As Brian McFarlane (2011) explains “…behind its character drama there is palpable sense of tumultuous historical background” (p. 11). Without changes in setting and only a difference of a few hours, the first minute of the scene to the last minutes of the scene represent an entire spectrum of a relationship, a pivotal time in British history, and a deciding event in one man’s self-discovery, all aided by mise-en-scene.

References:

Cabot, A. (2011). A review of ‘the king’s speech’. Psychological Perspectives, 54(2), 239-243.

McFarlane, B. (2011). The king’s speech. Metro, (168), 8-12.

Best Picture Without Any Best Actors

In 2004, The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King was a shoe-in to take home Oscar statuettes. How much of a shoe-in? Well, it won every single category in which it was nominated, for a total of eleven Academy Awards. They range from the ultimate, Best Picture, to the technical, Best Sound Mixing; but a hole is easily detected. Despite eleven awards, The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King did not take home a single Oscar for acting achievement.

The same scenario occurred again in 2009, in a film already discussed, Slumdog Millionaire. Taking home the most coveted award for Best Picture, the Mumbai adventure story didn’t even receive a nomination in any acting categories. While Best Actor or Best Actress does not always go hand in hand with the respective film for Best Picture, the two are often decent indicators of each other. Or, to say the least, Best Picture nominees are those with Best Actor and Actress nominees.

One might assume that a film worthy of recognition as the year’s best would feature some of the year’s best acting performances. Yet within only a few years time, we can find two examples to the contrary. Assuming that the actors from such films were considered for the Academy Awards, there must have been some film component that weighed more heavily in voters’ minds than the individual artists’ efforts. This suggest the question: When is performance vital to the strength and success of a film?

According to Richard de Cordova (1986), certain genres rely more heavily on actors’ performance for their success than others. He claims such films like musicals and melodramas are those with vital acting performances.

Any film critic comfortable with placing The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King, or even Slumdog Millionaire, in with musicals or melodrama films would be a very unreliable critic. Therefore, Return of the King, an epic action/adventure film by genre, must offer a facet, or a multitude of facets rather, that make up for its less pivotal acting performances yet still move audience members to remember it forever.

According to Jeff Giles of Newsweek (2003), “Return of the King” has nothing to apologize for. It’s an epic. It tells a passionate, elemental story. It takes the principal filmmaking currency of our times, special effects, and makes them matter. Is it a fantasy? It’s a lot of people’s fantasy, yes.” In this quote alone, we can find the worthiness of Return of the King as a best picture winner.

The film is an epic in every sense of the word. Based on a trilogy of books that has had maybe more of an effect on all of literature than any other trilogy before or after it, simply adapting The Lord of the Rings was a giant challenge in and of itself. Not to mention that it was done on an exorbitant budget, with the majority of Hollywood’s support, and to nearly universal critical acclaim. It truly does represent the cusp of filmmaking at the time it was produced, reaching to the farthest boundaries of what was possible in the industry.

Therefore, in fact, acting was not essential to the film’s success. Even with decently convincing enough performances and a few dynamic characters, it’s the overall themes of the story that resonate- the good and evil struggle, even the allegory to Christian principles and beliefs.

Furthermore, as the epitome of a fantasy film, for the entire trilogy, it is all about the spectacle. The mountain ranges, the never-ending forests, the gruesome orcs, the all-seeing eye of Sauron, the talking trees…the list of mesmerizing and detailed special effects could go on. The dangerous stunts, the impressive battle choreography, and the stunning and complex cinematography require an entirely different discussion of their own as well. It is in these characteristics that this truly dazzling fantasy film makes it success and receives its judgment.

Even if greater attention were cast upon the performances of the film as opposed to the overall tone and style, the decision amongst which character were worthy of more attention would be a difficult one. Over nineteen actors are given star billing in this third installment, and nine of those had been followed in great detail from the trilogy’s first film. The story traces itself in and out of each character’s or group of characters’ current journey or task, making it appear almost as an anthology of scenes loosely tied together by one purpose. So The Lord of the Rings: Return of the King becomes easily understood and appreciated as a whole work instead of one or two stand alone breakout performances worthy of an Oscar.

References:

De Cordova, Richard. (1984). Genre & performance: An overview. Film Genre Reader III, 130-40.

Giles, J. (2003). Secrets of the king. Newsweek, 142(22), 50-62.

The Music of Slumdog Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire took home top prize at the Academy Awards in 2009, edging out fellow frontrunner The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. But practically all other films also suffered a beating at the hands of this Indian product, as it took home eight Oscars that night, including one for Best Original Score and one for Best Original Song. The song was “Jai Ho,” a powerful burst of Bollywood flair that helped the film’s soundtrack reach the top of the iTunes charts (Hermes 2009).

The man behind the genius of the song and the score is A.R. Rahman. He provided the film with a “kaleidoscope mix of classic Hindi pop, playful rap, techno bump and New Age balladry” (Hermes 2009). Couple that with a rising star like rapper M.I.A., and the film’s musical prowess blasted the competition out of the water in the music categories.  This was no easy feat to be sure, as competitors included Beyonce, Bruce Springsteen, Alicia Keys, and Jack White (Hermes 2009).

M.I.A.’s single “Paper Planes” provided a sliver of recognition for an American audience in a film reeking of unfamiliarity. In a time of history, a setting of discomfort, and at times a language unknown, the music of Slumdog Millionaire brought in the cathartic punch that ties audiences of any culture. “Paper Planes” comes at one of the film’s most iconic scenes. Brothers Jamal and Malik riding atop a railcar by night, peddling various items to the passengers inside by day, “taking money” as the song describes the same activity. But when the jig is up, and the boys are expelled from the train, “Paper Planes” works transitionally to propel the boys from childhood to adulthood, as a roll down a hill while the song plays out finds them as teenagers at the bottom. The song is reprised later as the slumdogs develop other moneymaking gimmicks and scams at the Taj Mahal.

According to Barry Walters (2009), the soundtrack to the film “…juxtaposes the folk sounds of Mumbai’s slums with the techno of its city streets.” This juxtaposition is apparent in one of the film’s many chase scenes. Early in the movie as Hindi vigilantes chase out the Muslim people of Jamal’s village, a montage of action is set off by traditional sound, simple music, and chanting. The camera winds through the slums with this song, before morphing into another song by M.I.A. unannounced.

The balladry Hermes spoke of is present for the film’s love story between Jamal and Latika. As he remembers her or reconnects with her again on their very divergent paths, the same ethereal woman’s voice appears and reappears. Even a simple repeating string of notes provides such a relieving, poignant moment from the violence and despair that so otherwise permeates the film.

The music functions diegetically in a few cases as well. Specifically, the song “Darshan Do Ghanshyam” provides a chilling example of just how bleak the youngsters’ lives had been. They are forced to sing the song as beggars, earning money for a gangster named Maman. Those children chosen as the best singers are then blinded so they will be more pitiable and earn more profits.

As the film’s premise revolves around Jamal’s participation in the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, the game show and it’s music plays a large role in the audience’s emotional response as well. Used repeatedly over montage, the game clock ticks as Jamal contemplates his responses and relives his life experiences that have led him to the answers. Reliving his memories for the sake of the game becomes tense and dramatic, just as his experiences had been when he first lived them.

The film closes with a further cultural example of the music of India, but in an entirely different fashion. As the end credits run the entire cast of the film is featured in a large-scale, highly choreographed dance number to the hit “Jai Ho.” Bollywood film is constantly making a name for itself in playful and elaborate dance numbers, with this one in particular being no exception, despite the production crew being from outside of India.

References:

Hermes, W. (2009). ‘Slumdog millionaire’ brings bollywood to the oscars. Rolling Stone, (1072), 16.

Walters, B. (2009). Slumdog millionaire: Music from the motion picture. Rolling Stone, (1071), 70.

Trends in Academy Award Best Picture Winners

While the Academy Awards are constantly heralded as the biggest night for film creators, actors, and fans, certain trends have developed in the ceremony’s allocation of awards, namely that of Best Picture. Best Picture separates one film from the pack, heralding it as the year’s most excellent and a classic to be remembered in film history. As of lately, certain patterns have developed among which movies get a precious and coveted nomination and an even more precious and coveted Oscar statuette for the category.

Since the revival of independent film in the early 1990’s, which many scholars attribute to the success of Pulp Fiction, Oscar winners for Best Picture are commonly those films made outside of the Hollywood mainframe, those movies that break the mold and do things their own way. Think of The King’s Speech, Slumdog Millionaire, and Crash, which won Best Picture in 2011, 2009, and 2006, respectively.  The first is a film wholly centered on the stuttering speech impediment of a monarch; the second an Indian game show and the life story of it’s contestant; and the third a puzzle narrative of converging storylines and racial tension. Not your typical multiplex fare.

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences is wont to praise films that premiere outside of standard theatre chains as well, and later achieved wider distribution. Speaking of this year’s 84th Academy Awards, honoring film achievements in the year 2011, six of the ten Best Picture nominees opened at independent film festivals before a wider release in the United States. For the 83rd Academy Awards, six was also the magic number for independent film nominees.

Often, the Best Picture winner is far from the highest-grossing film of the year.  A perfect example occurred in 2010 when the two frontrunners poised a David and Goliath-like match-up. Avatar was an imaginative, epic sci-fi film thrashing its competition at the box office for weeks, and eventually becoming the highest grossing film of not only the year but of all time. The Hurt Locker was a small studio, emotional war piece set in Iraq. Yet like a slingshot to the forehead of a giant, The Hurt Locker became the lowest grossing movie ever to win Best Picture (Corliss 2010). The following year, The King’s Speech, a British film, defeated more widely popular American pieces Inception, Toy Story 3, and The Social Network.  Numerous examples prove that box office receipts do not an Oscar statuette make.

The road to becoming a Best Picture winner has continued to narrow within the last year as the number of nominations in the category has been in a state of flux.  In 2011, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has declared that in order to be nominated for Best Picture a film must receive at least five percent of first-place votes out of the approximately 6,000 voting member population (Karger 2011).  Just two years prior the governing body decided to increase the nominations from five to ten in the category, hoping to include a larger number of films the American public would have seen and enjoyed (Karger 2009). Since then, the decision has been criticized and as previously stated, did not hold up.

Such voting changes, teamed up with past prejudices on the sanctity of the Oscars, have often prevented comedies from winning such a prestigious category. Shakespeare in Love (1998) is the last film in thirty years to have claimed such a feat. Comedies are seen as almost effortless, less feats of cinema than epically directed, choreographed, costumed, and edited productions (Rottenberg 2012). Even this year as Bridesmaids was championed by fans and industry professionals alike as worthy of note, it was shut out of the category to much chagrin.

References:

Corliss, R. (2010). Best picture, uncut. Time, 175(6), 59-61.

Karger, D. (2011). Oscar’s best picture shake-up. Entertainment Weekly, (1161), 14-15.

Karger, D., & Bell, C. (2009). The power of 10. Entertainment Weekly, (1055), 50-51.

Rottenberg, J., & Bell, C. (2012). Bridesmaids for best picture?. Entertainment Weekly, (1190), 10-11.