By Drew Hinshaw
Like many Americans living in Africa, I expected the local reaction to Barack Obama’s election to be instantaneous and euphoric, but was surprised to note how much more gradual—and more meaningful—his election has played out in the culture. Election night passed without firecrackers or confetti, but in the four months since, the president’s exotic name has been woven into proverbs, placed on a pedestal, then incessantly dropped with awesome reverence by musicians and talk show hosts alike. Surely, in time that wave of hopeful re-examination will touch the lens of filmmakers–maybe even Nigerian filmmakers, who tend to exploit post-colonial pessimism as ruthlessly as Nigerian politicians. One positive sign: Nollywood tabloids report that the country’s studios are in a kind of moon race to produce the first (and therefore definitive) Obama biopic, although that pursuit seems to have been deferred by all following the realization that very little of our president’s life took place in a location that could pass for Nigeria. But still. Even if Nollywood’s film crews never manage the capital to ship their gear to Chicago, there are scattered signs across the continent—fair elections here, emerging private sectors there—that the usually vexed tone of African cinema has a corner to turn. One day, some day.
Yet one wouldn’t catch Hope Fever from FESPACO, Burkina Faso’s Pan-African Film Fest, where films are generally funded by and screened before wealthy foreigners; homegrown Nollywood videos, with their crude and jarring depictions of African distress are effectively disqualified on technical criteria. Strange that even without the input of trauma-mongering Nollywood directors, the 21st edition of FESPACO showcased a fairly gruesome set of films. Here’s how “The Seed” director, Joshua Bee Alafia sums up the prevailing mood: “It’s been brutal. I’m seeing prostitutes getting their faces cut. Stabbings. Beatings. I’ve been really struck by the nihilism of the films.”
As if to collaborate Alafia’s take on the atmosphere, the awards committee hands their Golden Stallion to Ethiopian Haile Gerima’s “Teza,” a movie about the powerlessness of common Ethiopians during the violent regime of Haile Mengistu—who was an asshole. Their Silver Stallion goes to “Nothing but the Truth,” an equally dour entry in which director John Kani explores the maddening moral ambiguities of post-apartheid South Africa, where freedom has by no means brought prosperity.
In a different, more stagnant or malaise-marked year, either film would have defined the historical moment–but this was 2009, a year whose memes of hope and change were not lost on African audiences, and this year only one film I experienced hinted at a grander and more coherent direction for African cinema: Tunde Kelani’s “Aurgba.” Kelani’s film tells the story of a corruption-bedeviled village that embarks on a magnificent and transformative cleansing ritual. And, true to the times, Obama b-roll is plastered all over it.
Kelani is a Nigerian filmmaker, of and yet above the Nollywood circuit. His themes, settings, elaborate wardrobes, and the grandiose theatrical performances he coaxes out of his actors all signify as Nollywood; so too, does the contemplative grammar of his films. Less Nollywood-esque is his resplendent attention to visual detail—he shoots in HD, either unaware or unconcerned that his films will likely be compressed and sold via poor-quality VCDs. His actors speak little English, mostly Yoruba—which intrigues academics–and his subtitles convey the euphemistic beauty of that language. In fact, he may be among the first Nollywood filmmakers to use subtitles—ever.
By itself, that approach to African cinema would be noteworthy, but it’s an even larger distinction in FESPACO, a film festival that has struggled for nearly half its existence on how or whether to acknowledge Nigerian home video. Founded in 1969 at a time when director Edward Rice Burrough’s Tarzan imagery was bouncing back onto African screens, the biennial film fest was an intended as a gathering ground for filmmakers in the newly-liberated continent. FESPACO was to be place where Africans could negotiate what images of themselves they wished to project, not only to the outside world, but across African borders as well. If colonialism had denigrated and divided Africans, film was seen as a redemptive medium, one on which black people could re-unite and re-discover their greatness. For a continent reeling from overpopulation and underdevelopment, it was an illogically hopeful and expensive medium to pursue.
“It was a revolutionary period,” film professor Fara Awindoor says. “Africans wanted to prove that we can do it, too.”
Unfortunately, by “ do it” we can assume Awindoor means “produce aesthetically pleasing films on 35 mm equipment.” But the high-costs of film production proved to be the tripping wire for FESPACO, as African directors found themselves dependent on foreign funders, primarily French. Naturally, that initial quest for artistic self-realization was compromised by investors who, however well-intended, tend to promote their own ideological agenda. African voices were obscured, if not actively marginalized in the process.
“Here we are,” Awindoor continues, “we want to produce films that show us for ourselves, and we have to seek foreign funding to produce them.”
And yet, while FESPACO was sputtering out, downplaying its radical aims for the sake of of foreign capital like so many African nations at the time, the world’s third largest movie industry was emerging by surprise from the sprawl of Lagos. Apocryphal tales surround the birth of Nollywood—it is often said that the genre was created by electronic storekeepers who needed a way to get rid of excess VHS cassettes–but those stories express a certain truism: In the early 1990s, as VCRs landed in Nigeria, aspiring and extremely business-minded filmmakers discovered an emerging market, and a cheap means through which to reach that market. Produced entirely on video equipment, then rapidly edited and dubbed to cassette, the costs of producing a Nollywood hit were entirely within the reach of Nigerian venture capitalists. With 140 million Nigerians to reach, it didn’t take long for the genre to grow by exponents.
Artistically, the fertile economics of Nollywood were reflected quite plainly in its brazen sense of self: Filmmakers relied upon and catered to nobody beyond the borders of Nigeria. Films dealt in recondite Nigerian mythology and equally cryptic Nigerian English—both of which were completely incomprehensible to most outside audiences. While the high-brow African cinema of Kwah Ansah and Souleymane Cissé strove to explore universally modern experiences of alienation and uncertainty, the Nigerian video industry tended to dive towards the lower of the two common denominators, earning the -ollywood in its Nollywood. Hallmarks of the cinema include drawn-out shouting matches that breach the limits of distortion, sight gags often against the disabled, and slapstick bordering on domestic abuse. In fact, the slap fight could be safely considered central to the entire art form: “A Nigerian flick without slaps is like a Bollywood movie without the dance,” Nigerian poet Tolu Ogunleshi writes, only half sarcastically.
Yet no matter how technically careless, base, and Nigeria-centric their work may been, the country’s filmmakers ultimately achieved a Pan-African audience that the continent’s high-brown filmmakers can only envy. Today, Nollywood’s distribution chains stretch throughout the Black diaspora, from Kenya to Crown Heights to the Caribbean; within Africa, the popularity of their work leaps over otherwise stubborn boundaries of class and ethnicity, extends through remote villages, as well as megalopolises. If the agonizing production values seem like the handiwork of thoughtless filmmakers, they could also be construed as a sensible response to the urban hell of Lagos—an attempt to replicate on camera the aesthetics of urban turmoil. Sound issues—unbearably loud arguments, inaudible mumblings—have their own unnerving and perhaps not unintentional effect: Women in Nollywood quite literally have a difficult time being heard amidst the loud belligerence of tyrannical “big men” characters.
And yet, how ever critically or popularly viable the art form has become, Nollywood movies are virtually disqualified from FESPACO, largely on the grounds that this is video—not cinema.
“Our festival is for films,” FESPACO organizer Baba Hamma told the BBC at the onset of FESPACO’s 20th edition, in 2007. “That means you have to bring films on 35mm and Nollywood usually makes movies on a video tape.”
Two years later, the 21st edition made an enormous half-step towards accommodating Nollywood: This time around, FESPACO accepted entries filmed on HD video. That would be fantastic and auspicious news, except for the fact that few Nigerian filmmakers have completed the transition to HD. Many, for example, shoot on HD, then edit on antiquated systems. For the film buffs who pack FESPACO’s bleachers, this is exactly the kind of heedlessness that should disqualify any filmmaker, Nigerian or not.
But even beyond the format hurdles, there is a pervasive sense among many Africans that FESPACO belongs to Francophone Africa, to French-speaking audiences, to the French. English-language films at the festival are commonly screened in distant and dilapidated theaters; Often, French-language films are subtitled in a second layer of French for clarity. At the 2009 festival, Nigerians, Ghanaians, and other Anglophone Africans complained in public and in print of feeling unwelcome; no doubt their feelings mirror the sentiments of Nollywood directors who rarely bother to submit their work.
“It’s technological, sure, but it’s also attitudinal,” Awindoor says, regarding FESPACO unofficial “ban” on Nollywood.
To get a grasp on these attitudinal issues, I sit down with a FESPACO panel of mixed Anglophone-Francophone film critics to explore their view on Nollywood, and its place in African cinema. Their grievances run the gamut: A drama student complains that Nigerian producers only cast light-skinned actresses, another complains that Nollywood’s glamor standards set an impossibly high bar for African women, and promotes artificial and superficial ideals of beauty. A Jamaican professor, living in Niger, complains that the filmmakers have an ahistorical attitude towards Africa’s problems, obsessing over social ills without contemplating their source. She, probably figuratively, encourages more filmmakers to make movies about the pyramids and other highlights of African history. The recklessness of the cinema is roundly mocked, in waves of laughter—the typecast actors, bombastic trailers, inane plots, all very humorous. Ghanaian cultural critic Kofi Anyidoho recounts that the purpose of FESPACO is to combat the Western World’s degrading, Joseph Conrad notions of Africa, but laments that “we [Nigerian filmmakers] are complacent in projecting some of these same images.”
However muddled the panel’s commentary may be, it’s not hard to miss the underlying and sensible objection FESPACO’s elite, academic audience has with Nollywood; that Nollywood, with its haphazard slap fights, crippled man gags, superstitious witchcraft plots, and sloppy approach to filmmaking depicts Africa in a bad light. Or, from the point of a discerning film buff, in a single cheap kino flo with the doors spread wide.
These awkward and seemingly irreconcilable differences between the world of FESPACO and that of Nollywood would be an easily compartmentalized predicament–an aesthetic issued buried in the obscure cinema of an under-reported segment of the globe—if the rivalry between FESPACO and Nollywood didn’t so uncannily mirror the fundamental political divide that has complicated Africa’s forward movement since independence. Across the continent, the end of colonialism opened up two great rivalries in African politics: strident mass politicians who attracted huge followings; and more conservative, pragmatic elites who endeavored to make Africa presentable to foreign investors. It’s the feud, to take Ghana as an example, between Ghana’s founding father J.B. Danquah, who spoke Oxford English about Oxford values, and its first president Kwame Nkrumah, who did things like stomp in sheep’s blood when he won elections. In Nigeria, that same pattern played out in the form of a civil war between radical secessionists and Nigeria’s foreign-backed federal forces, while in Burkina itself, that pattern pit Thomas Sankara—the theatrical military coup-leader who forced corrupt ministers into peasant’s work—against Blaise Compaoré, the French-friendly current president who had Sankara executed.
The fact that African cinema so closely mimics the divisions over which coups and civil wars have been launched suggests that cinema may be one of the world’s most inherently political art forms–and that in African cinema, there is even more at stake than usual.
What is both telling and inexplicable, then, is how films from both camps tend to arrive at the same fatalistic conclusions. Whether in the galleries of FESPACO or the Nigerian chop bar, I’ve come to see a lot of plots where well-intentioned yet tragically ordinary Africans are repeatedly overwhelmed by larger powers such as–in the case of FESPACO–economic forces, military regimes, pernicious social structures, or–in the case of Nollywood movies–hysterical mothers-in law, disease, some kind of witchcraft potion, mafias.
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Of course, not every film at the 21st edition could be safely pigeonholed as pessimistic, nor was every film stylistically divorced from the aesthetics of Nigerian movies, either. Abdoulaye Dao’s “Une Femme Pas Comme les Autres”—a women unlike the others—deservedly wins (NAME OF AWARD), for its perky satire on polygamy. The film posits a woman who repays her husbands infidelity by recruiting a second husband/partner-in-prankery. Aesthetically, the film employs harsh lighting, bourgeoisie settings, long-winded grammar, slick background muzak, predictable sight gags–all hallmarks of Nigerian home video that nonetheless bedazzle and amuse the theater’s largely European audience.
But it’s Kelani’s film that amplifies the stakes. It’s difficult to imagine a film that swings for an audience as broad as Kelani’s—he transmogrifies common Nollywood devices like the slapfight and the inexplicable illness into more dignified and universal devices—and yet the film is almost provincial in its concerns. When a central character’s infant falls horrifyingly ill, her far more levelheaded friend takes time to prescribe a series of thoughtful remedies, concluding in an AIDS test (a subject all too many Nollywood films would deal with deal with in a vocabulary of witchcraft). The ever vexed subject of rape—and how to depict it—is dealt with remarkable prudence, while corruption is transformed from an abstract evil, into a localized and relatable vice. Rather than sensationalize his character’s hardships, Kelani uses them as a chance to demystify African dilemmas, meticulously so–the film offers an extremely tailored response to a very particular set of agrarian, African concerns.
Yet “Arugba” contains glimpses of the village’s place in the wider world. The impetus of change for the village is a series of ex-pats who have returned home: the foreign-trained doctor who comes back to build her clinic despite a culture of corruption, the Nigerian “been-to’s” who bring money, ideas, and a certain can-do spirit, the quasi-Rasta mindful of a larger black consciousness that dwarfs ethnic or parochial ties–these characters bring hints of an outside world that is clamoring for this small village to achieve its greatness. Through them, and through other inklings of the world beyond, Kelani hammers his point relentlessly. At one point, the village chief flops down onto a living room couch in a state of despair, when who should come walking across the TV screen? The 44th president of the United States, striding on stage for his victory speech. The lesson is an unmistakable “yes, we can.”
But more than offering barefaced, pep-rally encouragement, Kelani’s film is about reaching a working medium between Nollywood cynicism and new century idealism. It is pragmatic, mindful of Nigeria’s unfortunate past, and respectful of it’s characters cynicism, but flush with ideas and confidence that even this troubled, sin-ridden community can transform itself through collective optimism. It honors a certain majesty latent in Yoruba culture that is often obscured not only by Nigerian cinema, but by foreign conceptions of Africa as a sufferable place. Almost incidentally, it bridges the broad and awkward gap between African and European audiences, and wraps FESPACO neatly into its fold. The festival-goers largely missed it—perhaps it was a language barrier thing—but there it was, a great film ghettoized into one of the city’s humblest theaters, suggesting that African cinema can be that common gathering and healing space FESPACO’s founders intended it to be. Hope and unity. Unity and hope.
Sunday, April 5, 2009 17:40 - by Drew Hinshaw
By Monica Sandler
Salvador Dali famously declared, “I’m in Hollywood where I’ve made contact with the three American Surrealists: Harpo Marx, Disney, and Cecil B. DeMille. I believe I’ve intoxicated them suitably and hope that the possibilities for Surrealism here will become a reality.” Dali believed that his own representations of chaos were also present in the Hollywood cinema of the period. Dali seemed particularly fascinated with the Marx Brothers (he collaborated with the trio on an unmade film script), but comedy subgenres - such as slapstick and screwball - also feature a fascination with the breakdown of narrative order.
The Marx Brothers’ Monkey Business (1931) features a series of gag sequences that piece together elements from earlier moments in the film. The plot’s main conflict occurs between Groucho and a boat passenger. Each of the brothers is hired as bodyguards, yet they flip from side to side as the plot moves forward. The purpose of the plot is to create an odd situation with humorous results; their comedies centered on a series of adventures, loosely tied together by a common theme or limited storyline.
The Marx Brothers weren’t the only comedians who made use of a chaotic, episodic film structure. Mae West films feature the quick-talking actresses, bouncing from one man to another as the plot twists and turns, usually ending in a world of crime. These comedies seem structure-less and function as a series of gags that are loosely tied together.
The screwball comedy featured a traditional cause and effect narrative in which each event and scene moves the plot forward. Each scene, however, lead the film into a more irrational situation. For example, in Bringing Up Baby (1938), a series of scenes bring Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn together. The plot climaxes in an erratic search for an escaped leopard; hunters try to kill the animal while others try to catch it. Soon, however, the characters are arrested and the animal remains at large. This scene reflects a moment of cinematic chaos, whereby rules and regulations collapse and the plot structure unfolds into disorder.
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The appearance of surrealism in the cinema indicates the threat of chaos within societies. In Europe, two seemingly opposite forms of government (in Germany and Russia, in particular) made attempts to control the masses and instill social order.
America, with its New Deal Policies and conservative film and radio regulations, seemed caught in the middle of the two ideologies. The American attempts to control mass media were encountered in Hollywood, with the development of a more strict regulation code in 1934. While stars whose personas revolved around sexuality were practically washed away, many of the comedic groups of the period underwent sharp restructuring. In the Marx Brothers’ A Night At the Opera (1935), for example, the characters again play stowaways; however, in this film, all of their actions move a romantic plot between a lovelorn couple forward. The film is no longer purely episodic.
Despite of these regulations, screwball comedy rose to prominence in the later half of the 1930s. By 1939, war broke out in Europe and its threats loomed over America. This threat, combined with the aftermath of the Great Depression, also revealed that government simply couldn’t control social order. The chaotic cinema of the period reflected these concerns, hinting at a future breakdown of order and the emergence of fighting and destruction.
Thursday, February 19, 2009 19:26 - by msandlerBy Monica Sandler
In 24 hours, Barack Obama will assume the office of the presidency and the Bush era will officially be over. Through the ups and down of the past eight years, a wave of new movies have captivated audiences while certain genres and styles have became more prominent than others. In a time of economic crisis, war, and threats of terrorist activities, two genres have reemerged: the superhero film and the musical. Both genres emphasize escapism into different worlds in a time of hardship.
In 2001 (the same year that Bush took office) Moulin Rouge was released. It was the first bankable musical in decades. On top of characters that burst into modern songs by Nirvana and Elton John, the film features unreal vibrant colors and singing moons. A year later, Chicago was released and films such as Momma Mia and Hairspray would follow. The popularity of this genre seemed to rise and much of the stresses of the government’s administration began to develop. Following 9/11 Chicago was released to much success. The musical creates a world outside of reality. The musical is the ultimate escapist film: the entire film centers on a plot of song and dance, with people bursting into song. The genre offers viewers an outlet from their hardships and an entryway into a world of magic and music.
The superhero film has also become one of the most bankable cinematic genres. The ideology of the superhero movie provides a representation of hope in hard times; the standard film features an ordinary man who gains superhuman powers and uses them to defeat evil. 2002’s Spider-Man helped re-launch the genre, at a time when the United States had deployed military force to Afghanistan after their alleged involvement in the attack on the twin towers. While the film did not directly address these issues, it did feature a mad man (the villain Green Goblin) who maliciously attacks New York City.
In Spider-Man (and the super hero film in general), the hero becomes a representation of good, which ultimately triumphs over evil. This has been a common rhetoric of the Bush administration which has encouraged Americans to view the home land as the all knowing correct way of life and foreign opposition or countries who do not agree with the government’s policy as the enemy. (For example this was seen in the war in Iraq where our military presence has attempted to impose a democratic government, or our way of life, on a country filled with national infighting between religious tribes. And now that citizens have tried to fight off the foreign presence in their country, the Bush government has continued to prolong fighting in Iraq.)
The super-hero film showcases those same good versus evil ideas. This was a common rhetoric of the Bush administration. Many more recent films have even featured social commentary and scenes that are relevant to the issues of the administration. In this year’s Iron Man the lead character is captured by a radical Islamic organization in the Middle East, where he is held hostage. It is only after he has been tortured by a threat to American values that he transforms into a superhero that is determined to take down evil.
The past eight years have been marked by hardships: beginning with 9/11 and ending with the current recession. In times of crisis, audiences generally flock to the theaters to escape from their troubles (i.e. the 1930s). Post 9/11 has seen the rise of a similar type of escapist film. Now that the Bush years are over, I look forward to the new cinematic trends that are bound to emerge in response to the policies and practices of the Obama administration.
Monday, January 19, 2009 18:55 - by msandlerBy Monica Sandler
On the cusp of a decade wherein a generation of young people protested the streets throughout the world, François Truffaut’s The 400 Blows was released. First appearing in 1959, Truffaut’s film and its lead character, Antoine Doinel, showcased the dynamic between generations; Antoine’s parents view him as a problem child whom they would rather get rid of than try to connect with. Young Doinel, however, is just searching for freedom in a world bound by rules he doesn’t understand. The teen-aged rebellion in the 1960s looms near - however, as we watch him grow in Truffaut’s later films (Stolen Kisses, Bed and Board, Love on the Run, and the short Antoine and Colette), Doinel doesn’t absorb the hippie rebellion ethic; disinterested and involved in other activities, he becomes a critique of an evolving movement, and a representation of an era’s problems. Today, these films remain engaging to audiences because they so strongly reflect the social turmoil of the 1960s.
In The 400 Blows, pre-teen Antoine Dionel constantly gets in trouble at school and at home. The character is frequently punished in class and singled out both as a problem child and poor academic. Doinel at one point declares that he is sure that his teacher doesn’t like him, and his problems in school cause him to frequently skip class and wander the streets during the day. At home, however, his mother and father constantly fight. Director François Truffaut features the problems of a child relating to an older generations rules and regulations; he is there searching for his own way in a society that does not understand him.
Truffaut’s film ends as Antoine escapes from a juvenile correctional facility and runs towards the sea. He looks out towards an abyss of scenery that symbolizes freedom. The 1960s were characterized by confused generations’ attempts to redefine the societal norms under their own terms. The conflicts that Antoine faces between his parents and teachers foreshadow this important cultural moment. Truffaut indicates that the other children in his protagonist’s life are facing similar problems; Antoine goes on many of his adventures with a friend from class, Rene. This is further seen in a moment where the gym teacher leads the student during a mid day run. The camera pans across the crowd of kids, each of them running farther and farther away from their instructor. Consistently, the children in the film are seeking their own paths away from the older generations.
Antoine’s third adventure, Stolen Kisses, was released in 1968, the height of the youth culture rebellion. While students were rebelling in the streets of Paris, Antoine seems disinterested and more involved in his own life. In one scene, he is on the phone with his girlfriend, who mentions that her friend recently attended a few student protests. Antoine, who watches the passing cars and people on the street, seems completely distracted and uninvolved.
The film, however, critiques the nature of surveillance and the desire to control others. In Stolen Kisses, Antoine works as a private detective. There the viewer sees creepy and odd characters that hire the PIs. One character oddly clutches his hands and twitches in excitement whenever he is told anything about the man he is paying to be watched. The film is told from the character’s perspective, and so the viewer sees the situations that he sees. Doinel, then, is just the lens through which Truffaut tells the story. Truffaut then shows the viewer a commentary on the wealthy society life, a world where people hire investigators so that they can control everyone around them.
Overall, these films are cinematic reflections on the social conflicts of the 1960s. In both films, Antoine Doinel remains an important character of the 1960s. He is misunderstood, looking out for himself, and ultimately a likable figure through which the problems of a turbulent era can be viewed. The 400 Blows, Antoine and Collette, and Stolen Kisses will play on Saturday January 17th at the Aero Theater in Santa Monica.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009 20:08 - by msandlerby Monica Sandler
Over the past several weeks, I have watched many of the competing Oscar-bait movies in theaters. These films (such as Milk, Slumdog Millionaire, The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, and Revolutionary Road) present stories that offer a social commentary, theme, or critique. Milk discusses gay rights, Button examines mortality, and Revolutionary Road shows the flaws with suburban life. However, while watching these films, I felt as though I was being hit over the head with a preachy message. This was seen in Slumdog where the characters kept repeating the phrase “it is written” rather than allowing to me understand the theme of fate myself. The following is a list of my suggestions to Oscar-bait filmmakers about how to more appropriately put forward their films’ themes.
Show Not Tell
Tom Gunning writes that cinema is naturally a showing device; the camera captures everything in front of it. However, remember that the camera can only perfectly capture scenery. It takes the film’s construction, story, cuts, and sound to show ideologies that cannot be visually represented. Films such as Milk and Revolutionary Road choose to discuss their themes by telling the viewer about them. This is seen in Road when the character April Wheeler (Kate Winslett) declares: “Look at us. We are just like everybody else, we bought into it, this ridiculous delusion this idea that you have to settle down a resign from life.” This line merely tells the viewer that the character is unhappy and thinks that she is supposed to be different from everyone else. Director Sam Mendes, however, never goes beyond this dialogue to address the film’s esoteric ideas. The characters tell the audience who they are supposed to be, rather than allowing the audience to decipher this on their own.
Remember Eisenstein’s Montage
Sergei Eisenstein describes intellectual montage as the combination of various images as a way of representing a common theme. In the Odessa steps sequence in Battleship Potemkin, the images of citizens running from Russian soldiers are intercut with shots of suffering men and women; this combination of images creates a pro-communist message. Jean-Luc Godard stated that Eisenstein’s ideas about montage were a model for his own filmmaking. Godard’s films would openly discuss a theme, which he would indicate at the start of film, and then explore scenes and imagery that linked back to that ideology in relation to the film’s plot. (This, of course, is seen in his film, Contempt, where Godard begins with a discussion about cinema and proceeds to tell a story about a fighting married couple. We examine their problem in relation to this opening theme).
Films such as Milk could have taken a hint from Eisenstein and Godard. Gus van Sant’s film makes its gay rights issue very apparent by showing Harvey Milk discussing the importance of sexuality equality. Yet, like Road, I feel it never moves beyond telling the audience its message. Within the text, however, the film builds up many supporting characters only to have them lead nowhere. I feel, that utilizing these supporting characters, who worked under the late politician, could have been a better way of showing different representations of gay inequality by showing how different gay character experienced injustice. Instead the film just focuses on one man’s political career.
Make Sure Your Commentary Leads Somewhere
Perhaps the biggest flaw with The Curious Case Benjamin Button is the storytelling that links the entire film together. Cate Blanchett’s character, Daisy, asks her daughter to read to her from an old lover’s diary while lying on her deathbed. In the background, reports of hurricane Katrina are heard from hospital attendants who are evacuating. However, it’s never apparent why Katrina is important to the rest of this film about a man who ages backward. Within the flashbacks, where the actually story in the film takes place, the film focuses on a theme of embracing life despite your predicament (in this instance, aging backwards). The Katrina imagery merely seems to situate this film within a particular time. But where is the link? Overall, Button trues to tie images that do not seem to go together (ala Godard style) into a common theme, but the film never makes that the theme completely apparent.
Create a World
The cinema of the 1930s and 40s featured some of the most powerful examples of social commentary. For instance, Frank Capra and Preston Sturges discussed their commentaries by painting a picture of the injustice they were discussing. Their films, such as Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (Capra) and Sullivan’s Travels (Sturges) begin with a likable protagonist, sucked into an awful world. A good example of this form of message storytelling was most recently seen this season in Slumdog Millionaire. Director Danny Boyle, through his flashback sequences, is able to vividly represent India’s poverty. The film presents the many stories and hardships of Boyle’s protagonist in ways that make him a character sympathetic to the audience.
This however, was the very problem in films such as Revolutionary Road. The film begins as the marriage of the Wheeler family (Winslett and DiCaprio) has already fallen apart. They are unhappy with their lives in the suburbs although the viewer is never shown just how this lifestyle has contributed to the couple’s problems. I think the film could have been much more effective if we first witnessed the effects of suburban conformity, the behaviors of that world, and then the respective emotional grappling that takes place through out the rest of the film.
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This list is merely my suggestion for a group of strong films that I felt ultimately paled in comparison to the social commentary films of the past. Perhaps, my initial annoyance is the product of watching too many movies at once. I however maintain that the films that receive nominations and awards should be trying to set new standards for film making. As I viewer, I felt as though the directors thought I was dumb and couldn’t comprehend subtlety. This years batch of contenders pale in comparison to filmmakers of the past, such as Capra, Sturges, Eisenstein, and Godard, and leave the viewer feeling as through the have been hit over the head with an unyielding message.
Monday, January 12, 2009 18:58 - by msandlerBy Monica Sandler
The climax of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington occurs when newly appointed senator Jefferson Smith (James Stewart) stands for hours on end in the crowded senate in an attempt to filibuster a contested bill. The scene cuts between Stewart, reading the words of the constitution, and the saddened reaction shots of his friends watching from above. Insistently, the scene preaches a message (about the problems of government corruption, the efforts to restore constitutional principles, etc.), yet it never becomes overbearing. In fact, it is moving.
The Aero Theater in Hollywood recently hosted a one-night screening of the American director’s timeless Mr. Smith Goes to Washington and Meet John Doe. These films, along with the rest of Capra’s oeuvre, bestow a sense of hopefulness about the world, whereby ordinary goodness has the potential to undermine injustice.
From 1936 onward, Capra established himself as a director who made films preoccupied first and foremost with social issues, presenting them in such a way that the viewer leaves the theater feeling warm and fuzzy. Throughout his career, Capra showcased dynamics that emphasize relationships between the rich and the poor, the good and the corrupt. In films such as Washington, Meet John Doe, You Can’t Take It with You, It’s a Wonderful Life, and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, the plot follows ordinary people struggling with the commands of big business. In It’s a Wonderful Life, Stewart’s character is always trying to help the disadvantaged, while Barrymore’s is only concerned with collecting more money. Thus, as viewers, we enter a sympathetic relationship with the ordinary man.
Capitalist society, and all of its problems, gives Capra’s work a context to work inside of - in all of these films, the character that pursues money loses touch with people. (Capra’s own populist leanings are apparent throughout: the common man is beatified, the American community is heralded). In almost all of Capra’s films, it is the hard working, lower class man who is glorified. The director organizes his messages by creating character-driven narratives. The protagonists are often naive, always honest, and utterly likable (in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, for example, Stewart plays a former Boy Scout leader-turned-United States senator). We care about these characters so heartily that, once they stumble upon hard times, we’re left grappling with feelings of moral outrage.
The ultimate resolution of Capra’s films emphasizes a faith in humanity and community. The problems in Capra’s storylines are resolved because the community comes together, causing a character to have a change of heart. In Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Stewart’s character exhausts himself during his filibuster so that he can stop the passage of a bill that was proposed by his other senator who is being controlled by a large business. Soon after, the compromised character changes his mind and steps down from the senate. In a time when Illinois governors are selling political seats, one cannot wish but for more of Capra’s breed of optimism. In this sense, these films remain timeless.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009 12:34 - by msandler
Sandler, Monica
It is ironic that a film titled Modern Times showcases an old fashioned film making technique. Film Forum just finished a several week retrospective featuring the Charlie Chaplin films Modern Times (1936) and City Lights (1931). As I sat in the theater watching the two classics, I couldn’t help but notice the role that sound had within the “films in pantomime.” Modern Times, specifically, is a hybrid of silent and sound cinema. The film utilizes sound and some dialogue in its gag sequences and to convey plot points. The film stars Charlie Chaplin’s Tramp in the midst of another new an exciting adventure: he deals with the hardships of working in a factory and having little money. The film’s topic resonated well with the millions of unemployed suffering during the great depression era but is still particularly relevant in today’s economic crisis; we are after all in the biggest recession since the great depression. Maybe audiences today could use some of the Tramp’s down on his luck charm and slap stick gags to help ease the pain we feel when the stock market drops another 100 points on a daily basis.
As I watched Modern Times in the theater I laughed out loud. Despite being made over 60s years ago the comedy remains hysterical and permanently resonates with audiences. The entire audience roared with laughter as well and it became apparent how timeless Times is despite being a silent film. I couldn’t help but think about how it was in fact made in the era of talkies. Sound film began to become the prominent form of film making in 1929. By 1936, when Times was made, a silent film was almost unheard of. Modern Times, however, does still utilize sound. The film begins by using both diagetic sound and silent acting. At the start, Chaplin’s Tramp does not speak but uses pantomime to convey his emotions and the plot line of the story. However, through out the first scenes in the factory the boss character frequently appears to speak to his workers. It is interesting to note that within these scenes it is only the authority figure who speaks. The boss character appears by screen and verbally tells his worker (Chaplin) to get back to work. Sound is also used to explain unusual plot points that might be confusing. This is seen when a company attempts to sell a machine that feeds the workers while they continue to do their job. Rather then showing a title card which explains that product, a voice over sets up the situation. As the storyline continues the film uses less and less spoken sound. This beginning with speaking then can be seen as a transition for viewers back into a mode for viewing a silent film. This format made watching Times all the more pleasant for a viewer today. The use of the sound at the beginning of the film helps transition the viewer into the silent pantomime format.
I think Modern Times continues to be engaging to audience today and was enjoyable as a silent film to audiences in the talkie era when it was first released because it is a slapstick comedy. This is a genre that centers on a series of gags that is tied together by a loose plotline. The spoken sound then sets up the situation for the film. The gags focus on physical humor where sound is no longer needed. Sound, however, does also play a large part in the film’s gags. The score accents the mood of the scene. Often ordinary piano or simple music compliments the tramps simple demeanor. When richer characters are around, however, a livelier orchestra plays. Within the gags, splattering sounds or sounds of things hitting things often correspond to the character’s movements. This is seen a scene were Chaplin is fighting off some robbers in a store where he is night watchman. The villains attempt to shoot at him and the viewer can hear both the sounds of the gun shots. These sounds, however, are apart of the musical score rather than recorded from the scene’s actions. This gives the feels that the score was recorded to match everything in the scene. The film also breaks from the silent storyline when it showcases musical numbers. These numbers in themselves are also gags. This is seen when Chaplin sings at a restaurant. Moments before going on he practices the number yet is totally silent. Yet when he is performing in front of the audience within the world of the film his voice is heard.
Times focuses on a theme of unemployment and poverty within industrial society. This is not an uncommon topic in Chaplin films, yet the films story seems more poignant when understood within the constraints of the 1930s Great Depression. Many Americans faced unemployment and extreme poverty because of the destroyed economy. Times offers both a commentary on modern industrial life and an escape from it. This commentary is splotlighted in the opening scenes of the film. Literally speaking, Chaplin’s character is so over worked that he has a nervous break down. This remarks on unfair conditions in factories seen in the time period. At the same time Times brightens moods through gags that feature Chaplin going inside of machine and attempting to tighten a woman’s buttons that remind him of his job. The ultimate point of the film addresses how life has become too complicated by industrialism and how people are left with nothing. The film ends with literally that situation the female character is forced to flee. She ran away from child custody but is not granted any sort of resolution to her situation. I think the film continues to be effective because of Chaplin’s down on his luck tramp and the tone of desperation and poverty the film addresses. Today we are dealing with a similar set of economic circumstances as they were in the 1930s. The economy is down and many people are losing their jobs. Back in the 1930s Chaplin’s Tramp was a character that people who had lost everything could relate to. Thus his personality still spoke to audiences despite never verbally speaking.
The resolution to Times is a message that is inspiring in today’s age. The final shot of the film ends with the tramp walking down a street towards his next adventure. This is an ending scene in many of Chaplin’s earlier works. However, in Times he walks away with the runaway girl. They move on to the next adventure together. To viewers in the 1930s the film hearkened back towards a simpler time before the great depression. The silent soundtrack then compliments this nostalgia. It uses the film format of the 1920s, an era of prosperity. Yet at the same time, the film offers hope for the future and shows a difference both within the tramp, Chaplin’s other films, and the time period. As they walk together it is seen how no one can go through their sort of poverty alone. Chaplin found someone suffering as much as he was and he had to stay with her and help her. This raises the idea in times of hardship people need to stick together and help each other. When written out that notion sounds kind of cheesy but with Chaplin’s awkward charm and adorable demeanor this message found in the Modern Times still leaves viewers inspired.
By Ricky D’Ambrose
It has another kind of power on the TV screen. And another kind of power when it’s shown theatrically. But there’s no doubt about it, when you see a film like Barry Lyndon or 2001 theatrically, they’re a hell of an experience. It’s an experience, that’s what it is.
LEON VITALI, in an interview
One statement common amongst cinephiles: “You must see it in the cinema.” The film incurs a different status; it fashions for itself a certain kind of viewing experience. I’d like to think about why this statement is a useful position and, specifically, why a recent screening of Chantal Akerman’s Jeanne Dielman: 23 Quai du commerce, 1080 Bruxells introduced me to certain attitudes and responses not initially disclosed during my first encounter with Akerman’s film.
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When Delphine Seyrig seemed unsatisfied with her coffee two hours into Akerman’s film, the audience chuckled. Similarly, Jeanne’s attempt to quiet a crying infant, her disorientation after discovering that the potatoes were overcooked, a minor conversation with her adolescent son about womanhood – all of these incidents seemed laughable upon being viewed (in fact, they were laughable, at a recent screening of Akerman’s three hour film at the Brooklyn Academy of Music).
The initial tendency is to not laugh at Akerman’s film, however. Nothing is markedly humorous aboutJeanne Dielman, and its banal serialization of the most mundane and uninteresting gestures of everyday experience is, structurally, an attempt against laughter. As such, Akerman levels the events of her narrative, makes them equivalent and inconsequential. It is this kind of handling of narrative events that prompts Ivone Margulies to identify Akerman’s cinema as an effort towards “democratizing reception.” She adds: “The hyperbolically homogenous texture of [Jeanne Dielman] makes it impossible to forget one’s condition as a spectator.
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If the BAM screening has provided an opportunity for anything, it has given me permission to make distinctions between the kinds of spaces available for film viewing (specifically, between private and public spaces of reception). If the increasing accessibility of film titles vis-à-vis home video and the Internet has not necessarily disciplined the desire to experience films in their intended setting (the movie house), it has certainly caused a new variety of sensations and modes of viewing that must clarified and made sense of.
Two kinds of viewing experiences are now being made more available, and becoming more important. The first: a closed, private encounter whereby the viewer is alone, the sole spectator of the screen. The second: a more open, public experience with the motion picture, accompanied by an audience. Both of these modes of spectatorship produce conditions that are specific to their respective spaces. They accomplish strategies for responding in this way as opposed to that way; each viewing environment teaches us how to engage with the film in ways that are exceptional to one another.
Identifying these kinds of conditions alone, however, seems insufficient, invaluable. The sensations experienced during the two, three, four-hour residency of a viewing space require newer (or reconsidered) ways of creating links between sites of spectatorship and the emotional, intellectual responses produced by that site.
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Viewing films in the company of others is an opportunity for collecting. It is of course, on the most obvious level, a collection of people (most of whom we are not acquainted with). But film viewing within an audience may also collect feelings. While viewing Akerman’s film in a movie house, amongst strangers, I could not help but try to anticipate how others would potentially respond to the events on screen. A frequent thought during the screening: “How are these people going to feel about what’s about to happen?”
Those stretches of duration and banality that I initially found to be wonderful (and I still do think they’re wonderful) upon viewing Akerman’s alone a television screen now seemed inadaptable. Watching this film with others prompted me to create hypotheses regarding the sentiments of those around me and, inevitably, to collect a variety of feelings I assumed to be true (“They must find this to be dull, they must be uninterested, there must be a few that feel unmoved.”). I am left questioning what to do with this collection, how it might be used.
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Laughter, then, returns not necessarily as question of viewer anticipation but as an issue of authenticity (if such a term can be used here, to suggest that some responses are more appropriate and more intentional than others). What was it that I found so funny about Jeanne’s disappointment with her coffee that I hadn’t found laughable while experiencing Akerman’s film alone? Why did I feel awkward, uncomfortable during Jeanne’s conversation with her son? Importantly, why do I not experience these kinds of responses while viewing the film alone?
The conditions of private and public viewing produce uncertainties regarding which responses to trust, which to consider more tenderly, and which to be skeptical of. What should be paid attention to are the moments of intersection that take place during the public viewing experience (the moments that produce agreement and unity within the audience as a whole).
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A final thought: it is commonly said that one views a film with an audience (a less common phrase is “within an audience;” lesser yet, “as part of an audience”). With an audience suggests unification, and a sharing of sentiments and convictions. Until we are able to add clarity to the variety of divergent sensations produced by the public viewing experience (as opposed to the more self-contained, determinable responses produced by private viewing), such a phrase remains incompatible. A different, more appropriate way of thinking about these experiences is required.
April 1, 2008
