I love scary.
The problem with any student of horror, or at least is the case with me, is that one becomes hardened extremely rapidly. I remember the last three times a film scared me: 1- In 2008, I saw The Toolbox Murders (1978) for the first time, and although it was a beautiful mess of a film, the raw energy thrown into it made me listen closely in bed that night to every creak in the house. 2- Around the same time, I watched Suspiria, which I had seen at least 5 times before, repeatedly, and woke up in the middle of the night to hear a loud screeching coming from a room that was glowing green. Turns out, someone had left a green nightlight on in the room where a hamster was running in the wheel which was grinding against the side of the cage. Crisis averted. 3- In 2004- I watched Ju-On for the first time, after having initially seen the American version (The Grudge), and I had to turn the lights on mid-film.
Revisiting Ju-On last night, after a long period of absence, brought home exactly how important building suspense and atmosphere is to eliciting fear and horror. Although it uses identical rhythm and timing for its big scares, its juxtaposition of contrasting light and dark visuals (particularly cutting between shots [think about the internet meme in which you see a pretty standard location picture, and you notice, within a dark patch, that you can see somebodys face or something]) works incredibly effectively- the viewer's eyes become adjusted to the light image, so registering patterns in the dark shots immediately following them takes a moment longer than in an all-dark sequence. And although there's a nice little synth score incredibly reminiscent of the A Nightmare on Elm Street films, the music knows exactly when to shut up. I don't mean low, pulsing tones to build suspense. I mean long, protracted periods with no musical accompaniment whatsoever. The fact that we are not told how to feel renders the absence much more palpable, so that when something DOES appear, aurally or visually, it is much more potent. The point - which Ju-On highlights perfectly - is that while the Japanese can rely on Hollywood-rendered senses of rhythm and pacing, these films excel in reducing emotional information where it provides greater impact for the viewer. Create the atmosphere, then leave the audience in near-sensory deprivation, then hit them hard. They may not know WHY they feel the way they do, but rest assured, they feel it.
Similarly, The Name of the Rose works almost identically, but to different ends. Until the climax, the truly horrific set pieces cut long before the payoff, so the viewer is immersed in nearly two hours of unresolved, slowly bubbling tension. With this film Jean-Jacques Annaud proves to be a master of the establishing shot. The locations for the exteriors go a long way to help this. Extreme long shots of this isolated cloister in the mountains of Northern Italy render tangible the removal from the rest of the world. Indeed, it feels like this cloister itself is all that there is to civilization, and, for all intents and purposes, it is. The mist-shrouded mountains look beautiful, forbidding, and nearly impassable. The cloister itself stands as a monolith almost entirely seen in shadow. The slightest movement of the sun itself registers upon the dark, shadowy facade of the turrets.
Ok, forgive me waxing prosaic, but these are truly beautiful establishing shots. Include the wonderful James Horner score and I can really only compare this to the general sense of locational tension built around Roman Polanski's Macbeth. The singularly grotesque appearance of all characters, save Sean Connery's William of Baskerville and Christian Slater's Adso of Melk, are truly impressive visually. It doesn't matter that there are no moderate climaxes mid-narrative. All of the tension bubbles throughout, and is released in fantastic fashion in the final few moments. It is a masterclass in restraint, with an excessive payoff.
Though I haven't read Umberto Eco's original novel, I find this, as a film, an engaging experience. Although a few of the plot points, which are no doubt central to Eco's intent of developing a text steeped in his theories of semiotics, feel a bit silly and stilted within the film, it doesn't matter. In fact, the whole WHY of the film doesn't matter. In the end, it is all about what we experience, and the frustration created through delayed satisfaction.
Yes, this was a bit of a ramblesome and meandering meditation, if you will, but, I truly appreciate the skillful establishment of atmosphere where my tendency to be scared has diminished through increased exposure to horror films.
I still adore them though.
Tuesday 13 March 2012
Friday 2 March 2012
The Artist, or: Why Even A Mild-Mannered Sort Loses it Sometimes
My well-publicised francophobia aside (in cinematic terms at least; hey, I'm an eastern-seaboard American who has adopted Great Britain, neither of which has any love lost for the French [thank-you-very-much-Plantagenets-and-Freedom-Fries]), I found myself truly disgusted whilst viewing The Artist last night. Well, not disgusted. Miffed, say.
How can a film about an actor dog and his pet human that does fanciful tricks like funding and directing his own failed vanity project receive so much acclaim and esteem amongst the film industry, critical community, and viewers in general? I've met many people who enjoyed the film and still have retained use of their eyes, so the fact that the wonderfully reappropriated film scores for the soundtrack (including perfect usage of Bernard Herrmann's love theme from Vertigo- one of the most perfect pieces of film scoring ever written) does not fully account for their enjoyment.
To start, let me adapt a contemporary American TV slogan and say: What's my beef? (That was from the late 1920s, right?)
The use of the silent film format is regressive.
When was the last time you thought: Dude, when's the next document to be written in Egyptian heiroglyphs coming out? Knowing my friends, at least one or two of you will have thought that within the last month. But that's not enough by a long shot to warrant the need for such a text, nor for it to be universally lauded. Even if it finds a way to express the word "iPhone" in said form, or comes up with a new way to draw a duck. The fact is, it is an old, obsolete form, and even if it looks nice and pretty, it brings very little new to the table, and even if it is done, the author is challenged by the demand to consistently justify this aesthetic choice, both within and without the text.
This is a struggle the The Artist accepts, embraces, and ultimately fails at. This can be evinced through the similarly ambitious, but, I would consider failed, experiments in the silent film format by Guy Maddin in The Saddest Music in the World and Dracula. While I would argue that The Artist is far more entertaining and much less pretentious than Maddin's work, it is kind of like saying "Light green is more pretty and less green than dark green". Both of these films succumb to the same pitfalls- they both superficially justify this choice, but the intertextual interplay between contemporary sentiments and old aesthetics becomes tiresome.
This can, however, be set apart from Mel Brooks's Silent Movie, wherein, not only is the silent film formula played for laughs, but contemporary knowledge is central to deriving narrative meaning, and, most importantly, humour from the text. That in itself is the justification, and it is utilised perfectly (should Brooks prove your sort of humour-it's not particularly mine, but I appreciate his effort in this case) throughout to create the intended effect. If nothing else, Brooks can't be accused of appropriating old formulas to his advantage.
The Artist appears to use the silent film framework for three reasons: a) To palpably create a sense of historical positioning, b) To immerse the viewer into the world of its protagonist, c) To create a metaphor about, not only the protagonist's inability to express himself verbally, but aslo about the human condition. The film entirely succeeds with the first two, but with the third, The Artist bludgeons the viewer with this metaphor to the extent that all subtlety and nuance, hence, truly embedded meaning is thrown out the window. It no longer manages to be a film in its own right, it becomes a film about the metaphor, undercutting this aesthetic sensibility.
What is there to like?
It is kind of lovely, I guess.
In fairness, it is a nice diversion with a few laughs and has the potential for happymaking. There are some genuinely clever moments, which, unfortunately, feed the metaphor of inability to communicate. There is something beautiful about it, but only superficially.
In terms of the awards-season buzz, though, its success, to me, is more of a travesty than the great Crash of 2005.
Some might accuse me of being a bitter old cynic who fails to find pleasure in some of life's simplest joys.
Well, yeah. But I still think I'm right.
How can a film about an actor dog and his pet human that does fanciful tricks like funding and directing his own failed vanity project receive so much acclaim and esteem amongst the film industry, critical community, and viewers in general? I've met many people who enjoyed the film and still have retained use of their eyes, so the fact that the wonderfully reappropriated film scores for the soundtrack (including perfect usage of Bernard Herrmann's love theme from Vertigo- one of the most perfect pieces of film scoring ever written) does not fully account for their enjoyment.
To start, let me adapt a contemporary American TV slogan and say: What's my beef? (That was from the late 1920s, right?)
The use of the silent film format is regressive.
When was the last time you thought: Dude, when's the next document to be written in Egyptian heiroglyphs coming out? Knowing my friends, at least one or two of you will have thought that within the last month. But that's not enough by a long shot to warrant the need for such a text, nor for it to be universally lauded. Even if it finds a way to express the word "iPhone" in said form, or comes up with a new way to draw a duck. The fact is, it is an old, obsolete form, and even if it looks nice and pretty, it brings very little new to the table, and even if it is done, the author is challenged by the demand to consistently justify this aesthetic choice, both within and without the text.
This is a struggle the The Artist accepts, embraces, and ultimately fails at. This can be evinced through the similarly ambitious, but, I would consider failed, experiments in the silent film format by Guy Maddin in The Saddest Music in the World and Dracula. While I would argue that The Artist is far more entertaining and much less pretentious than Maddin's work, it is kind of like saying "Light green is more pretty and less green than dark green". Both of these films succumb to the same pitfalls- they both superficially justify this choice, but the intertextual interplay between contemporary sentiments and old aesthetics becomes tiresome.
This can, however, be set apart from Mel Brooks's Silent Movie, wherein, not only is the silent film formula played for laughs, but contemporary knowledge is central to deriving narrative meaning, and, most importantly, humour from the text. That in itself is the justification, and it is utilised perfectly (should Brooks prove your sort of humour-it's not particularly mine, but I appreciate his effort in this case) throughout to create the intended effect. If nothing else, Brooks can't be accused of appropriating old formulas to his advantage.
The Artist appears to use the silent film framework for three reasons: a) To palpably create a sense of historical positioning, b) To immerse the viewer into the world of its protagonist, c) To create a metaphor about, not only the protagonist's inability to express himself verbally, but aslo about the human condition. The film entirely succeeds with the first two, but with the third, The Artist bludgeons the viewer with this metaphor to the extent that all subtlety and nuance, hence, truly embedded meaning is thrown out the window. It no longer manages to be a film in its own right, it becomes a film about the metaphor, undercutting this aesthetic sensibility.
What is there to like?
It is kind of lovely, I guess.
In fairness, it is a nice diversion with a few laughs and has the potential for happymaking. There are some genuinely clever moments, which, unfortunately, feed the metaphor of inability to communicate. There is something beautiful about it, but only superficially.
In terms of the awards-season buzz, though, its success, to me, is more of a travesty than the great Crash of 2005.
Some might accuse me of being a bitter old cynic who fails to find pleasure in some of life's simplest joys.
Well, yeah. But I still think I'm right.
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