MYST #3: Barton Fink

There's a scene in Barton Fink where the titular character walks in to the eerie Hotel Earle. A ray of light, shining somewhere from above, casts a thin glow on the dust swirling in the air. The grandiose main hall rests devoid of life and blanketed in silence; it seems as if it's been that way for a long time. When Barton rings a bell to summon a hotel employee, it seems that no one will come, until the bellhop emerges from a trapdoor hidden behind the desk. Suddenly, there are two human beings in this hall. It feels strange, and it begs questions. Why is this hall so empty? What makes it so deeply unsettling? Both questions seem to imply that there is a lot more to Barton Fink than it seems to offer at face value. And indeed, Barton's and the audience's confusion is only rewarded with layer upon layer of bizarre occurrences that make Barton Fink a fearsome and darkly comical journey into the anguish and frustration of a struggling writer's mind.
Directed by the Coen Brothers, Barton Fink follows the aforementioned Barton (John Turturro; neither his first nor his last Coen film), a neurotic and idealistic playwright who has recently been compelled into writing for the movies. After arriving in Hollywood and settling down in the Hotel Earle, Fink meets with Jack Lipnick (Michael Lerner), who confesses his unremitted adoration for the man and his talents. He assigns Fink the task of writing a boxing film, and despite Lipnick's apparent confidence in his talents, Fink himself seems to be succumbing to writer's block. He spends the next few days sitting in front of his typewriter, and stares at the same paragraph for what seems like hours. A mosquito buzzing around the room begins to bother him. Fink's neighbor, Charlie Meadows (John Goodman; not his only Coen film either), also proves bothersome, as he's making quite a bit of noise through the hotel's thin walls. However, through circumstance, Fink soon becomes acquainted with Charlie, who is Fink's symbol of the "struggling everyman", selling insurance and, as Charlie puts it, a "peace of mind", Finding that he's found one friend in unforgiving Hollywood, Fink shares his passion with Charlie, explaining that he doesn't write to separate himself from the "common man", but to support him (which ends up sounding thoroughly pretentious). However, despite his passion shining through more than ever, Fink finds he still cannot write. He consults one of his favorite writers (John Mahoney)- who turns out to be a hopeless drunk- and his wife, for advice, and yet he still can't bring himself to write. Only after Fink becomes inexplicably involved in a murder does he seem capable of writing anything, regardless of his rapidly deteriorating mental state.
Barton Fink is a film that flourishes off of subtle uneasiness and anxiety; it's tone consistently matches the increasingly disturbed mind of it's main character and the freakish occurrences around him. As Barton says himself, "I've always found that writing comes from a great inner pain." And it certainly seems that way. He pains at the writing in front of him while the mosquito flies around the room, dominating his thoughts, and the room's wallpaper slowly peels off from the astounding heat. His room becomes his prison, with the movie script as his charge, and as Fink slowly slips further inside himself, so too does the movie slip from a tale of Barton's writer's block to a tale of Barton's psychotic horror thriller excursion (really, I can't describe it any other way) into hell on Earth, a.k.a, his mind and his vision of Hollywood. So, I guess I'd say that Barton Fink is a film that focuses on subtleties... until it doesn't, and decides to dive further into the "life of the mind", as one character states it, than was initially assumed. However, I don't necessarily view this as a fault. This film is, and always has been, about Barton's mind, which has the infallible ability to create. It is Barton's gift, so to speak. It is exactly the influence that outside forces have on this gift that Barton Fink decides to provide commentary on, and if it's necessary to push the film into an even more bizarre realm than where it began to present such commentary, then so be it.
From the unsettling hallway of the Hotel Earle (which is shot in what seems to be a direct reference to Kubrick and The Shining, a film that's also about a writer losing his mind), with archways that seem to stretch on into infinity, to the colorful and atypical characters that surround Barton, and, of course, the incessantly peeling wallpaper, it becomes steadily apparent that the Coens have put a great amount of effort into sucking the audience into a world that is, at first, just left of normal. It features all the common elements of their greats: the slow, silent shots of nothingness featured in No Country for Old Men, the dark and parodical humor of Fargo, and even the stunning and disturbing bouts of violence in Blood Simple. Through the combination of these cinematic elements, Barton Fink becomes a film to give oneself to; to become enraptured within the oddball world the Coens have created. It's probably their most surreal creation, and I believe that it thoroughly paid off.

Acting is altogether exceptional. Turturro does a fantastic job as a snobbish and idealistic writer slowly being destroyed by Hollywood. Goodman, on the other hand, is more akin to something sublime. Portraying an innocent simplemindedness obscuring a terrifyingly psychotic personality, Goodman seems to make the scenes he's displayed in. Much like his character of Walter Sobchak in another Coen film, The Big Lebowski, Goodman's Charlie Meadows is loud-mouthed, proud, and in more ways than one, completely mental. Other great performances include Michael Lerner as Lipnick, who earned an Oscar nod for his performance (robbing Goodman of his, in my opinion), and, interestingly enough, Tony Shalhoub (known for Monk) as a scummy and disrespectful producer. Performances from Judy Davis and a very small role for Jon Polito are also added to the mix, and both do well with the script the Coens have given them. In fact, it seems, everyone does well with the script, which gives such zany life to all of the characters that all actors involved seem to be fully invested in their roles. They don't act them; they embody them. And just like Barton, with a little help from the Coens, we may slip inside some of their minds.

Barton Fink is a story of solitude, brought about by the things we love to do, no matter how much pain they may cause us. It's a cautionary tale about the perils of young and naive idealism, and the effects Hollywood may have on this mindset. It's a self-aware indictment of the writers who dream to change Hollywood with their works, and of those who stranglehold the writers into performing tasks that may be impossible. Barton may himself be a subtle poke at the Coens' own Hollywood underpinnings; and then, like him, they are guilty of having their own foolish ambitions. But then, so too is Hollywood guilty of driving Barton into a corner, crushing his ambitions and taking everything he has. He is mentally torn apart. And as his world falls apart, the wallpaper peeling away like the decaying of his mind, the viewer is slowly projected into a hellish dreamscape. Whether anything is real or not, it doesn't matter; by the end,  Barton Fink has made sure the audience is as scrambled and disturbed as Barton. Check in to the Hotel Earle again, and it will lead you into the world of the mind once more. Thoroughly introspective, thought-provoking, surrealistic, and including a deep wit, Barton Fink represents a profound success of cinema.

Four Creepy-as-Hell Hotel Hallways out of Four:

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Original Trailer:

MYST #2: American History X

American History X is an anomaly. It's a movie that demands to be controversial, to make its audiences squirm and recoil at its brutality. It wants a clear, defining message to carry it's viewers through to the end, and it has one. It wants to make a connection; to get film-goers to explore its characters and understand their nuances, if they happen to have any. So is such ambition met in driving for these goals? No. But it does come incredibly close, on occasion.
The story of American History X tells of Derek Vinyard (Edward Norton), a young man who, after his father is murdered by a black drug dealer, eventually transforms into a neo-nazi skinhead driven by hatred. As found out through various flashbacks, Derek spends his few years after high school building up his name, and his legacy, as a white supremacist. As Derek grows increasingly violent, so too does Derek's brother, Danny (Edward Furlong), who is often said to idolize him. When Derek is sent to prison for the manslaughter of three black men who had been attempting to steal the family car, Danny is left to fend for himself with the values his brother has instilled in him, leading to a variety of school-related issues. Three years later, when Derek is released, he has miraculously reformed and quickly finds out the extent to which his brother is following in his footsteps. Desperate to eliminate the legacy he has left on his family, Derek does what he can to reform his brother before the consequences of his actions become permanent.
I admire American History X simply for its bravery and good intentions; few films attack issues like Nazism and hate crimes unless they're based on true events. A movie like Schindler's List tackles human abomination like few other films can, but is also firmly cemented in reality. American History X is also cemented in reality, but it isn't real. Of course, the points at which the movie is most effective is when the audience realizes that, in a way, it is real. Derek is not merely the figment of a writer's imagination, but is a symbol of a problem that still unequivocally exists. And Derek's reformation, brought about by a reversal of his values through traumatic prison experiences, is what brings his character beyond just a symbol. His inevitable journey is what makes him into a human being, vulnerable to the problems that plague him and formerly destined to blame these problems on the wrong issues. In transforming a mere monster into a human being, the film is able to portray the startlingly real effect of Derek's legacy upon his brother and his family.
The issue is that a character like Derek, with a well-written arc and an amazing talent like Norton behind him (Norton got an Oscar nod for his role, deservedly), needs someone to reflect his amount of complexity. Furlong, of Terminator 2 fame, is in no way a bad actor. The issue is the script he's been given, which offers him no freedoms or depth of character. It's impossible to tell what Danny Vinyard actually believes in, whether he's hopelessly devoted to the white supremacy cause or simply stuck in the middle. He never gives opinions or exposes his psyche in any way; when he eventually provides a moral dilemma to the audience, in which he explains that he could have testified against his brother to put him away for life, the thought is thrown away in a millisecond. Similarly, after hearing Derek tell of his three years in prison and his moral transformation, Danny knows how to end a school essay he's writing about his brother, in which he defines his revelation about the world. But the odd part is that the audience doesn't know if this is actually a revelation for Danny, because essentially nothing is known about him. He hangs out with skinheads, but the viewer doesn't know if he is actually a skinhead. He writes a version of Mein Kampf for an English essay, but the viewer doesn't know if he actually meant it out of ill will. The only reason the viewer is aware, in any way, that Danny Vinyard is, in fact, following in the footsteps of his brother, is because it's directly told, several times, by other characters. He may be hanging out with the wrong people, but there seems to be no evidence, based on character alone, that points to his moral corruption. He merely exists off of the words of others.
In this way, some of American History X's exploration of the hollowness of hate becomes hollow itself, delivered by a character that we have no reason to believe came to some sort of epiphany about the human condition, especially when it comes a day after Derek's return. In a movie that seems so unafraid to chronicle events that might make audiences uncomfortable, it's a profound disappointment that the film can't achieve the raw power it was intending due to poor writing. What a viewer has to put up with, then, is a film that is altogether good, but full of great moments. Derek Vinyard's violent past, presented entirely in black in white, is unflinchingly brutal in its direction, giving some of the most chilling shots and close-ups I've seen in quite a while. After shooting the three black men who were attempting to break into his car, Derek is shown facing his brother on the lawn, waiting to be arrested. He spreads his arms like a triumphant eagle, gun still in hand, the victory on his face present and haughty, the Nazi tattoo on his chest seemingly growing larger within the frame . As he kneels down and puts his hands to his head, the camera finally zooms in on the telling smile. Derek opens his eyes wide for his brother and raises his eyebrows, as if he should look upon the glory of the acts just committed. Accompanied by a high-pitched choir that could very well be singing about the depths of hell, the scene seems to contrast a poetic subtext with the pure monstrosity that exists in front of it. But that monstrosity is, of course, a human being. We hate to acknowledge it. And I hate to call such a scene beautiful, but in a morbid, truly disgusting way, it really is.
American History X is full of these fantastic moments, unafraid to explore the nature of human brutality. There exists a very human desire in all of us to seek out the panacea to our problems. Often, we mistake the panacea as the blaming of others, taking the weight of the problem off of our shoulders in order to throw it on someone else. There is always a scapegoat, and always a reason to despise the origin of our problems, whether this origin actually exists or not. Sometimes it's easier to blame than to solve the problem. Derek was an incredibly intelligent high-schooler who couldn't find the answers behind his father's death. He needed someone to blame. And soon enough, his hatred became so immense that he needed entire races to blame. One person was not enough. And just like baggage, as the movie compares it to, the hatred only mounts until the ceaselessly large tower collapses an entire life.
Now, I know it sounded like I was trying my best to criticize the movie initially, but the fact of the matter is that the film's successes far outweigh it's shortcomings. I do think it's final message is a gross simplification of a complex issue, and many of it's characters feel secondary to the point of pointlessness, but the film's strengths come through in pieces. The film doesn't have an all-encompassing feeling of power (thanks to it's flaws), but instead is composed of singular pieces of fantastic film-making that don't necessarily comprise a whole. I suppose what I'm trying to say is: the individual pieces of the film that stand out create a much more complex picture of hatred and prejudice in America than the film's final statement does. The film doesn't need to condemn itself to one message like it so worthlessly decides to; viewers are intelligent, and they should be respected as such. Let each person pull out what they will from the film. As far as I know, painters don't plaster a sentence describing what their artwork is about across the canvas. So why should films be guilty of such a sin?

American History X is a film that either succeeds at being powerful, or succeeds at trying to be powerful. Only occasionally does it fail entirely. Whichever way one may see it, it's undeniably compelling and has some truly mind shattering moments; I guarantee that jaws will drop at one scene or another, no matter the person. Despite it's glaring flaws when viewing the larger picture, it's individual studies of American brutality and the legacy it leaves behind are stunning and beautifully directed. While I believe it should have been at least a half an hour longer to develop some of the messages it was clearly going for (and to explain, in a much less cursory fashion, why the ending even happens), I can't say I was never somewhat enthralled through those two hours. With that, I give American History X:

3 stars out of 4 (probably not appropriate to make a joke about this one... so I'm just not going to)

Original Trailer:

Formal Film Study: David Lynch- Dream Weaver (or, "I Believe You Can Get Me Through the Night")

WARNING (again): There are no plot spoilers in this study, because I don't think it's entirely possible to give spoilers for these movies. It just isn't. But I have given some of my interpretations of the films, so if you like figuring out abstract or confusing films on your own, I suggest you watch the films first. 

There's always a moment, upon waking up from a dream, when a dreamer raises their head from deep sleep, sees the familiar room around them and feels the solid bed beneath, and yet can't quite perceive when their reality began and their dream ended. There's no abrupt transition from dream to reality, but instead a steady grasping of the world around us, and a realization that what we had just dreamed was impossibly bizarre. Even the day following a dream can continue to feel strange as we struggle to comprehend the mysteries of our subconscious minds, and try to make sense of the experiences within that felt so real.

Often, the struggle is futile. After watching three David Lynch films and attempting to comprehend them plot wise, I've found that it's simply impossible. There are no definitive answers, no tidy resolutions, and in many cases, no coherence. I feel like I've woken up from three nightmares, each movie serving as a beautiful and simultaneously hideous excursion into raw subconscious, where there's a blurred line between normal and abnormal, between truth and fiction, between reality and imagination. Lynch's "Mulholland Drive", as well as "Lost Highway" and "Blue Velvet", embrace this veiled line, where nightmares clash with reality in swirling mysteries beyond comprehension, where the power comes from what is felt by the viewer, and not necessarily what is understood.

Pictured: The most terrifying cowboy in cinema history
(seriously, look up a clip if you don't believe me) from
Mulholland Drive

As a good starting example, I won't pretend I know what the hell's going on in Mulholland Drive, at least in a literal sense. The basic premise follows a young woman (Laura Harring) involved in a car crash who, rendered amnesiac, wanders into a random apartment and ends up meeting another young woman, Betty (Naomi Watts), who has just moved to Hollywood searching for fame and stardom. The amnesiac takes on the name of Rita (thanks to a Rita Hayworth poster), and eventually, her and Betty begin searching for clues to find out Rita's true identity. That is, until the movie decides to throw in several other story lines, and all logic or straightforwardness is lost. Cue: a director is threatened by mysterious executives, and the most terrifying cowboy in cinema history, to make a casting decision. A man tortured by his dreams tells of his worst nightmare, only to come face-to-face with it. A hit man blunders his way through an assassination. Plot lines appear and disappear without further explanation. And all the while, Betty and Rita search for answers as their situation slowly gets stranger by the minute.

Pictured: The alien old couple from
Mulholland Drive

Much like a dream, Mulholland Drive enthralls us with what we don't understand. The plot line veers in every direction imaginable, almost to the point of not having a "plot". Does the film have a beginning, middle, and end? It might, but it doesn't need them. Rather, it simply requires the audacity to polarize the audience with its strangeness. And it does, initially. Characters talk in stiff, awkward dialogues and seem to act like they're not even human beings. One character explains how a man lived in an apartment with a prize-fighting kangaroo. "You wouldn't believe what the kangaroo did to this courtyard!" she says. And if that wasn't strange enough, Betty's cohabitants on her flight to Hollywood are briefly shown grinning maniacally while taking a limo ride around town, like two aliens exploring a new planet. The viewer feels, in these initial scenes, as if they've been thrown into a world where they don't belong. But as the movie continues, the viewer begins to hesitate at questioning the bizarre quality of the film, as they have become too drawn in to it's mysteries. The polarizing effect becomes alluring. Possibly, it's because the film hits close to home, exploiting the part of our brains that we can't, and never will, understand. Only in the unconscious world do we become terrified of things in broad daylight: bums, old people, cowboys. Only in the unconscious world do we accept the spontaneous and haphazard "editing" of our thoughts and desires: it's primal, unformed, and illogical. But it fascinates us, makes us question exactly what's real, and horrifies us with the answers we attempt to provide ourselves. Why does a film have to tell us it takes place within a dream if it simply feels like a dream? It is my interpretation that the first half of Mulholland Drive is, in fact, completely a dream, a manifestation of the desires and fears of one very confused character. However, the whole movie is so surreal and twisting that it seems nothing can be definitively determined.

Pictured: Eh, no description required. From Lost Highway

Of course, Mulholland Drive is not the only film that forces a viewer to struggle in determining the nature of Lynch's impenetrable dream-like expeditions, disturbing in their closeness to reality and off-putting in their own indeterminable way. I would argue that Lynch's Lost Highway is possibly even more surreal than Mulholland Drive, telling the story of a saxophonist named Fred (Bill Pullman) who inexplicably murders his wife (Patricia Arquette), is put on death row, and then even more inexplicably transforms into another man entirely named Pete (Balthazar Getty). Pete lives an entirely different life, but falls in love with a woman who seems to be the same person that Fred murdered, except with a different name. Again, it's a movie where pretending to understand what's going on plot-wise is futile. Characters still speak to each other in bizarre dialogue and react to strange situations in unrealistic ways, disconnected from the typical Hollywood reactions of stunned surprise. What really differentiates Lost Highway from Mulholland Drive is its higher penchant for playfulness. Now, don't get me wrong, this movie is thoroughly disturbing, both in it's plain weirdness and in its plot, if picked apart. But Lost Highway, more so than Mulholland Drive, experiments with the darkest fears and desires of our minds, giving us shots of completely abyssal hallways that dwarf and threaten the main characters, all while a slow tracking camera carefully pans around corners to the expectant eye of the viewer. There's some definite Hitchcockian suspense within Lost Highway, a trait that is thoroughly shared within Mulholland Drive (which also has slow panning shots), and thanks to both having a heavy reliance on subtle, droning ambient noise, the suspense becomes particularly noteworthy and surreal. Also, both films seem to share in their explorations of covetous human minds, Mulholland Drive seemingly chronicling the life that a young Hollywood actress wishes she had, and Lost Highway doing the same, except with a murderer and a stronger devotion to making the movie as weird as possible. And with the addition of the "Mystery Man" pictured above, Lynch continues to prove that he can't make a movie without a character straight out of nightmares.

Pictured: Look Ma, I found me a caul-ee-flawher! (yeah, alright,
that was a bad touch) From Blue Velvet

Speaking of weird (really, this whole post is weird. Thanks Lynch!), Lynch's Blue Velvet delivers even more of the head-churning stuff that Lynch fans have learned to crave. The film tells the story of Jeffrey (Kyle MacLachlan), who comes upon a severed ear while looking through a field one day, albeit, there's a little more to it than that. Eager to investigate (due to a possible morbid curiosity), Jeffrey talks with the local detective, and with the help of the detective's daughter, the two begin investigating on their own, including breaking in to a suspect's home. In this way, the film is similar to Mulholland Drive, portraying a neo-noir-esque investigation story that is at times fascinating, at times funny, and at times pretty brutal. Lighting is really interesting here, either presenting the bright colors of a cliched suburban town or exposing the dark blues and blacks of a world where danger is ever present but lust and desire is the name of the game. As weird as it sounds, Blue Velvet is the only movie out of the three that has a literal plot that actually makes sense. Characters still, much like the other two films, seem to react to situations more emotionally rather than logically, but they never change identities, or have no eyebrows, or have enough powder on their face to take the lead role in Powder (yeah, I just referenced that movie. Oh, the places you'll go). They are, and seem to be, as they are presented. Of course, this doesn't mean that they can't still act in strange ways, and in fact, they still do act as if they are lost in a dream of sorts. The main character shares in the desires of the main characters of Mulholland Drive and Blue Velvet, but in a particularly interesting facet. As he witnesses the contrast between his plain suburban life and the colorful and seedy underworld, Jeffrey feels the compulsion to embrace the other world, and in doing so creates a hell on earth for himself and the woman he thinks he's protecting. Like the main characters of Mulholland Drive and Lost Highway, Jeffrey has a dream to live another life, but it doesn't seem to work out for him;  in the end, he's back in the boring suburban sphere he started in, but he suddenly seems content with it, unlike the characters in the other two films. It perhaps features the happiest story of the bunch, which is really saying something.

Pictured: Frank from Blue Velvet

But as is custom, Blue Velvet also features the psychopathic Frank, played by Dennis Hopper, a man who swears in every sentence and deals heavily in sadism. Again, it's hard to have a Lynch film without someone like him, but I do think it's for some sort of purpose.
 Not to sound too much like a broken record, but Lynch has himself stated, many times, that he believes feeling is more important than understanding. It's emotion that drives a motion picture. And so we get Mulholland Drive, a nightmarish and noirish expedition into the unconscious Hollywood, filled with queasy, uncertainly slow shots, flashing lights, and a feeling of fear that pervades beyond night; Lost Highway, an indescribable exploration of carnal desires and dissociative identities filled with dark corners, unsettling close-ups, shocking violence, and plenty of eroticism; and Blue Velvet, an intrepid delving into what lies beyond our sterile white fences, filled with muted lighting, tantalizing colors (mostly blue...), and one of the most disturbingly voyeuristic scenes I've ever seen. Really, though, the more I think about it, the more I realize that all three films share in these aforementioned details. All three are undoubtedly an exploration of their characters' desires and plays on memories, but they also all embrace the surrealism of their subject matter through their filming techniques. They all utilize unnerving lighting in some way, whether it be broad daylight or a darkness so impenetrable it seems ready to attack. All of them provide the subtle, but mounting, fear and suspense of a particular ambient soundtrack. And all of them, whether interpreted as taking place in dreams or not, discuss dreams constantly through meta commentary, probably some of my favorite parts from all three films. From Mulholland Drive, character Adam Kesher, the threatened director, responds to a comment remarking "It's been a strange day," by responding "And getting stranger," just as the movie begins to really throw the audience for loops. And from Blue Velvet, Jeffrey's surprisingly self-aware comment of "It's a strange world," is exactly what the audience is thinking, at least in terms of the movie. Considering these movies often don't have characters that react properly to strange situations, as in a dream, the moments when characters break out of this mold and make a comment about how strange things have become is an elegant declaration of reason amidst those lost in a nightmare. Perhaps it was Lynch's way of preventing us, too, from falling into a film from which we may never wake up.

1935 Movie: Lawless Rider

STUDIO:

20th Century Fox. Known for socially-conscious adventure films and “hokey cheesey ‘Americana’.” Worked with Ford and Wayne.   

CAST/CREW:

Director: John Ford

A well known Director working in the 30's, made a lot of westerns, frequently worked with John Wayne and worked with Bert Glennon on Stagecoach in 1939.

Cinematographer: Bert Glennon

Received the Academy Award for Best Cinematography (Black & White) for Stagecoach in 1939

Actors: John Wayne, Alice Faye

John Wayne is a quintessential Western movie star that works with John Ford and Fox.

Faye also worked with Fox and was considered very popular and attractive.

GENRE:

Western. Audience familiarity. Escapism from the 30's. Cultural critique against banks/wealth.

The idea of the rugged individual can comfort the poor conditions of the great depression. The themes of justice are of interest to a bank-hating public.

SYNOPSIS:

The movie begins with Charles (Wayne) and a group of five rugged bandits looking upon a fairly large mansion on a grassy knoll. As conversation begins to develop, it is learned that the group is there to ransack the mansion for all it’s worth, and it appears that Charles is the ringleader for tonight. Charles explains that the rich couple that owns the house is out for the night, and won’t be back until late in the evening. After a few more gloss overs of the plan, the band separates to get in through the three different entrances, each man at an entrance carefully picking a door open. Once the men are in the building, all is well, until Charles discovers a girl cowering in her closet in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Charles quickly notices that the girl has made a phone call and assumes that it was to the police; seconds later, law enforcement has arrived, and, not yet spotted, Wayne snatches the girl and bolts out of the building, riding off into the night on horseback. It is explained that the girl’s name is Margaret, (Faye) and Charles says the intention of the kidnapping was for some sort of ransom. He explains that he’s not going home without any money. After several escape attempts by Margaret, the two are attacked by a group of bandits looking for loot. Charles ends up fighting them off, and becomes a sort of protector to Margaret, no longer seeing her as a tool for money. As the relationship between the two grows as they continue journeying, Margaret expresses her desire to live in Sacramento. Charles agrees, and after a long and arduous journey, is met with law enforcement officials who know his face. After a solitary respite in a town shop, Margaret is alerted to the sound of gunshots. As she runs outside, she finds Charles dead on the ground, having killed two officers before being gunned down. *Note: it is never made clear whether Margaret loves Charles back or not, just that the hostility fades and she’s complacent with being with him/enjoys his company. It is possible that she loves him, but that’s up to viewer speculation.

HAYS CODE:

Considering the movie follows an anti-hero turned hero, it’s fairly hard to make judgement calls on what’s appropriate and what’s not. However, our character is initially portrayed as a morally detestable person, one that audiences will struggle to support or relate with. Until the point where Charles begins his change of character, the actions committed are frowned upon, due to the law winning in the end over the bandits.  As the relationship between Charles and Margaret develops and the audience begins to identify with Charles, his actions will have the audience rooting for good causes, like protecting someone special. However, in order to make the movie a real moral tale, Charles death informs the audience that a life of crime doesn't just fade away, no matter how much you do to wipe it clean. Charles will always be an enemy in the eyes of the law: his actions have already defined him.

TECHNOLOGY:

Black and White film. Common for 30's Westerns. Stagecoach was black and white and was made in 1939… received award for best cinematography.

IF I COULD HAVE DONE ANYTHING DIFFERENTLY:

I wouldn't have chosen the title we ended up with. I guess it's kind of cool to have the whole generic western thing turned on it's head by the end of the film, but it made me feel like I had to joke about it. It worked out though, didn't it? I'm still struggling to figure out how.

MYST #1: Side Effects

AN INITIAL WARNING: I tried my best to avoid any plot specific spoilers within this review; however, intuition could reveal anything. If plot is important to you, you've been warned.

So yeah, this movie kind of came out of nowhere. I think it's only fair, if I am going to judge this film, to disclose that I started it at one in the morning, pretty much grasping at straws in choosing it as an MYST due to the lateness of the hour. Reliable Netflix, of course, briefly informed me that the movie was actually directed by Steven Soderbergh and starred several A-List actors (including Rooney Mara and three Soderbergh film alums: Channing Tatum, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Jude Law) that provided an intriguing combination. With that, I suppose I was sold.
"Side Effects" is a slow-burning thriller centering around the story of Emily Taylor (Mara), a depressed, blank-faced twenty-something woman with a substantial history of emotional trauma. Emily's husband, Martin (Tatum), has just been released from prison, and, despite an initial joyous reunion and promises of future affluence, is surprised to find that his wife's mental condition hasn't improved; shortly after his arrival home, Emily has made an attempt on her life. While in the hospital, Emily meets the prolific and kind psychiatrist Dr. Jonathan Banks (Law), who works extra hours at the hospital and is designated to treat Emily for her depression issues. Immediately, Emily is put on anti-depressants, but these quickly prove to be ineffective as she once again tries to take her life. Banks, in consulting with Emily's former psychiatrist, Dr. Victoria Siebert (Zeta-Jones), for some help, is recommended to prescribe the experimental drug "Ablixa" for treating depression. Soon enough, and despite Banks' initial hesitation, Emily is on the drug and is feeling better than ever, until the drug's sleepwalking side effect causes her to commit an unconscious crime that throws both her and Banks under a spotlight that threatens to unravel their lives.

The movie shines when it's chronicling Emily's continuing path downwards, a spiral in which the drugs prescribed to help her instead throw her deeper into a world of confusion and grief. Mara turns out an excellent performance that, despite often requiring little emotion, opens a portal into a mindset of choking melancholy and confusion, with brilliant close-up work constantly creating a claustrophobic and surreal atmosphere for the first half of the film. It succeeds in lulling the viewer into a dream-like stupor where, much like Emily, the viewer is transfixed by the world presented to them, given in over-saturated hues and quick cuts between slow-moving, contemplative shots. Mara is definitely the star of the film for the first half, holding most of the attention as the victim of her own treatment.
This is not to say, however, that there are not other great performances. Jude Law is great as always, here driven to morally questionable actions as he desperately attempts to wipe away his guilt of having administered the drug (and falls into a little insanity himself). Catherine Zeta-Jones doesn't really get to show her stuff until the latter half of the film, which is unfortunate, considering she does a fantastic job as Banks' shifty peer. When she does gain center stage, ever so briefly, she steals the show.
This latter half that I've been mentioning is my (arbitrary) splitting of the movie in two parts,the first being the part heavily focused on Emily and her state of mind as she experiences her plight, and the second being more focused on Dr. Banks and his journey to expel his worries and clean his slate of responsibility, where the movie becomes too enamored in its own plot and subsequently stumbles. The first half doesn't have much of a plot, and is largely as I described: there are the two suicide attempts, followed by the prescription of Ablixa, and then the crime. It chooses to focus more largely on its criticism of the medicine industry and the heedlessness of medical prescriptions (often influenced by paid deals from drug manufacturers), and after the crime is committed, Banks' decision in choosing whether or not the crime is actually his fault is largely philosophical in nature, making the viewer question if a person can be convicted of a crime if their body committed it but their mind did not. It was this driving question and criticism that I found profoundly chilling halfway through the film, as the viewer realizes that Banks is letting this question drive him mad, anxious to prove his innocence in the whole affair. The actual plot that unfolds onscreen, including the actual event of the crime, is far-fetched enough to distract from the experience, but the first half of the film only uses the few plot points as a starting point for some fairly haunting character and moral explorations that I found to be thoroughly well done.

To clarify, I am not saying I don't like the second half, where the movie takes maybe a few too many twists for its own good. I simply found the moral quandaries that arose out of Banks' inner turmoil immediately following the crime to be a far more disturbing outlook on the psychiatric field than anything that came afterward; however, the second half adds a good deal of menace to all of the characters that allows every actor to more truly stand out in their roles. Unfortunately, it forces the viewer to accept the semi-ludicrous plot and less nuanced characters over the more haunting and relevant message, which is a resounding disappointment. Also, the movie ends by making it clear what character it wants you to root for, but I couldn't help but feel that this character, by the end of the movie, had made a great deal of questionable actions throughout the film, and seemed to be almost as nasty as the rest (maybe a little bit less so). It was a bittersweet moment; a happy ending for this character, and one that I didn't really want this character to have.
I'll end this off on a positive note: the score by Thomas Newman is still reverberating in my mind and  it's brilliant. I can at least guarantee that this movie wouldn't have been the same without it; it's simultaneously calming and chilling; it's haunting, cerebral, and in a subtle way, menacing. I still like "Side Effects" as a film, but this really is (excuse the clichè) the perfect cherry to top it off.

Despite the second half and its weaker plot moments, "Side Effects" is a haunting, extraordinarily directed piece of cinema that requires a good amount of thought for the best experience. It's success lies within the moments outside of plot specifics, when the film relies mostly on its directorial chops and restrained script to propel its characters' states of mind into a hauntingly surreal, and yet disturbingly accurate, portrait of the pharmaceutical industry. It's pretty easy to lose oneself in this film. So, with that,  I'll give "Side Effects" a resounding:

3 Sleepwalking Felonies out of 4 (see, doesn't that sound dumb?)

Original Trailer:

Review of the Reviews: Vincent Canby vs. Roger Ebert on "A Clockwork Orange"

Regardless of whether it's considered a good film or not, "A Clockwork Orange" undoubtedly succeeded in stirring up a controversy as big as the initial 'X' rating it garnered, dividing casual viewers and critics alike with its lurid subject matter. It's not really a shocking film by today's standards, but the uproar it caused upon release made me think it would be perfect for this post. So, after a little bit of searching, I was able to find a review from Roger Ebert of the Chicago Sun Times (linked here) and a review from Vincent Canby of the New York Times, (linked here) both men having very different opinions on the film.

Ebert
Ebert disliked it based on the tone of his criticisms alone, being generally disapproving of the main character, Alex, the setting of the film, and Stanley Kubrick's intentions in making the film. This is largely the focus of the review: Ebert is trying to understand why Kubrick spends so much time trying to make the despicable main character into a hero, especially when this "hero's" violent urges seem to be caused by nothing at all. The film, according to Ebert, is not about a fictional future society with a resounding statement, but instead is about Alex committing violent and horrible deeds because Kubrick wanted the movie to entertain in that way. The setting is merely a "trendy decor" with no purpose or valid criticism of modern society. Ebert also references "2001: A Space Odyssey" in the latter half of the review, explaining that near the end of "A Clockwork Orange", Kubrick manages to insert some overt references to "2001", including a shot of Alex that is strikingly similar to a shot of the Star Child, making it seem that Kubrick wants the audience to identify with twisted little Alex. And in the end, after all of that, Ebert concluded that the movie was simply boring.

Canby
On the far opposite end is Vincent Canby of the NY Times, who wrote a review that is quite the far cry from Ebert's.  Canby initially discusses the disorienting and dangerous feel of the movie, as it remains seemingly disconnected from the subject matter it discusses, and then goes on to discuss Alex, much like Ebert. Also much like Ebert, Canby is horrified by Alex; however, he sees this as a critical success. Canby believes that Alex allows the viewer to witness a character that they cannot, or should not, identify with, all in a world that's so repulsive, and yet so attractive thanks to Kubrick's directing chops. Because of this contrasting nature, Canby believes that the movie is a satire, and even an extremely dark comedy, in some respects. On commenting about the violent nature of the film, Canby believes that it's far too stylized for a mature audience to respond to it as literal in any way.

Personal Analysis
After reading Ebert's quote, "I don't know quite how to explain my disgust at Alex," I realize that I'm in exactly the same boat. While Alex may not be all that varied personality-wise, he has this overtly despicable nature that manages to trump a lot of other intentionally awful characters, with his song-like cadence contrasting his brutal deeds. Some viewers can't help but feel disgusted by his actions, but simultaneously enthralled by the actual freedoms he has within them. I definitely agree with Ebert here: Alex is horrible, but I do find him interesting.

As for a quote from Canby, I found the quote, "It is an almost perfect example of the kind of New Movie that is all the more disorienting--and thus, apparently, dangerous--because it seems to remain aloof from, and uninvolved with, the matters it's about," to be something I firmly agree with. I feel like the whole reason so many people dislike this movie (and there are many good reasons to not like it) is because it does feel so disconnected. This is a movie that revels in the repugnant nature of its characters, and yet it never directly addresses the violent acts occurring onscreen, or the despicable main character. It never seems to say to the viewer, "This violence, and these actions, are bad". And yet it never seems to support this violence either, all while making the viewer question what freedoms each and every one of us should be able to have in society if this type of violence exists.

Out of the two reviews, I would have to pick Canby's as the most convincing. Despite being a reasonably big Ebert fan, I thought that Canby's review covered most of the bases, discussing characters, a little bit of the plot, the filming style and overall tone, and even a little bit of the philosophy behind the film. Ebert seems to rant a little bit in his review, choosing to focus on Alex, and Kubrick's love for him, for the entire duration of the review. Ebert also flat out stated how the movie made him mad, and therefore he inserts a few sarcastic comments (such as, "weep, sob, we're making excuses") that loosen his credibility a bit, and made me feel like he wasn't really taking the movie seriously when he wrote the review, regardless of his overall opinion of it. He also manages to throw a jab at the New York Times (appropriately) because of their positive rating of the film, which seemed a bit unfair.

To say of my own review of the film, I would discuss the main plot to some length, followed by an analysis of the main character (especially for this film). I would then really like to discuss a lot of the stylistic choices, such as the quick editing cuts that correlate with the blasting classical music, all while chaos unfolds onscreen. What I'd most want to talk about, though, are the ideas behind freedom that the film discusses, like the question it poses on whether society can impose restrictions on a person simply because they have taken advantage of these freedoms, and therefore, their society. I would really want to try to delve into this movie's ideas.

Film Intro Survey

1. What is the first movie that really made a strong impression on you? The Shawshank Redemption. I saw it in fourth grade (can't say I recall why), and became so obsessed with it that I watched it once every week for the next several months. It was a pretty rude awakening from movies I had watched beforehand.

2. What are 3-4 of your favorite genres? Drama, Mystery/Thriller, Gangster/Crime, Comedy

3. What are 3-4 of your least favorite genres? Musical, Romance, Silent, Romantic Comedy

4. What are your five favorite films?  Pulp Fiction, Goodfellas, Fargo, Apocalypse Now, and the unfortunately titled Se7en (or "Sesevenen").

5. List three characteristics of what you consider to be a good movie. Riveting/intriguing/entertaining script, directing and cinematography that matches the film's tone and creates an atmosphere, good acting.

6. What are some of your least favorite movies? Are We There Yet? (and its sequel), Stuck On You, Pearl Harbor, The Last Mimzy.

7. List three characteristics of what you consider to be a bad movie. Lazy writing (especially in comedies), cash grabs/effects romps (with nothing else), most sequels and poor ripoffs.

8. If you have any favorite directors, list them. Martin Scorsese, David Fincher, Stanley Kubrick, The Coen Brothers, Darren Aronofsky.

9. If you have any favorite actors/actresses, list them. Kevin Spacey, Leonardo DiCaprio, Jeff Bridges, Jennifer Lawrence.

10. List 3 films that you consider important films for people to see. Schindler's List, Citizen Kane, American Beauty (more of an iffy one).

11. What's your oldest favorite film? Citizen Kane.

12. What's the best movie you've seen that's been released in the past 2 years? The Grand Budapest Hotel.

13. What are the next five films on your "queue"? Nightcrawler, Inherent Vice, Foxcatcher, Birdman, Whiplash (in other words, I've fallen behind on the Oscars).