Dark Star (1974)

This film, directed by John Carpenter, has all of the elements of an exquisitely-made, cheesy, outer space, science fiction film. It really reinforces the notion that just about ANYBODY can make a film, with pretty much any prop they have lying around the house, and have that film be distributed and cultified throughout the generations.

I’m a big fan of 2001: A Space Odyssey (the film and the series of books), and this parody of 2001 was a real treat. But the term parody is used quite loosely because the part of Dark Star that was trying to imitate 2001 was a very short segment that ended quite differently than the Kubrick/Clarke endeavor. 2001 had the super computer, Hal. Dark Star had, I guess we could call them, ’smart bombs.’  The crewmen would talk to the bombs (they were interstellar detonation devices), ask how they were doing, and ask them to arm themselves. Of course, one bomb developed a sort of self-awareness (due to none other than a human mistake) and ended up blasting the ship to bits along with one of the crewmen (oh, wait, two of the crewmen: one was in cryo-freeze).

Speaking of cryo-freeze, John Carpenter also capitalized on another theme from another SF great: Philip K. Dick’s 1969 novel, Ubik, in which talking to individuals in cryo-freeze was part of the narrative.

The absolute best part of the entire film, besides Lt. Doolittle surfing into the atmosphere of the planet they were going to blow up ontop of a surfboard of spacecraft debris, was the gas-bag alien that Sgt. Pinback had an extended scene with.

This gas-bag alien was just an orange beach ball, probably 2 feet in diameter, that someone airbrushed a bunch of brown spots onto, and attached monster feet to. The gas-bag alien was unusually nimble and dextrous, able to move around quickly and in tight quarters. It also was quite smart and led Sgt. Pinback almost to his own death.

It is props like this that make the not-so-special effects in this film remarkable. It’s pure. It’s unadulterated. It’s silly. It’s brilliant. It’s simple.

There isn’t much to say analytically about this film other than to point out that Carpenter appropriated elements from other successful SF texts into this one. As far as the plot and dialogue goes, it was a relatively simple film. But it induced a lot of laughs and stupefied moments of perplexity.

American Gigolo (1980)

This is a hard one. I debated whether to even post on it, actually, because it’s not that great of a film. But I suppose I can still glean a little something from it. If not, what am I doing here?

I’d like to start out with the absurdities of the characterization of Julian (Richard Gere). Julian is presented as a high-rolling gigolo, able to speak “five or six” languages (though he doesn’t even affect an accent when he’s speaking French), able to spend three hours bringing the aging Mrs. Represseds out of their sexual shells. He is someone who has all the right connections at all the classy L.A. restaurants and bars, and he is the “only one” who can get into the most exclusive country clubs in L.A.  That’s wonderful. Truly wonderful. But as I’m sitting there watching it unfold, I’m wondering to myself about a few things: why is prostitution being glamourized, why does Julian have so much credibility, and with so many “return-tricks” in high society, how is Julian not caught/ how are all the women he is hired by not shamed by their associations with him (they all seem to know who else he hooks up with)? He’s just that cool, I guess.

He’s also cool enough to school Detective Sunday (Hector Elizondo) in the art of dressing up for the ladies, and the Detective even listens to his advice. I’m just wondering about the reality of a high-class hooker maintaining his ethos with so many people in this way. My point is that it’s just not that believable. He’s a “whore,” as the Senator points out.

Speaking of the Senator, one of the scenes that really bothered me was the scene at the country club when Julian confronts the Senator (or vice versa). If you notice, it is the Senator who goes after Julian; it is the Senator who follows Julian around, not vice versa. One would think that a Senator wouldn’t be the one to go following a gigolo around like a puppy dog whining about his wife. I suppose this scene both disappointed me and reinforced the message being conveyed about Julian: that he has something about him that sets him “above” the norm. He even says to Detective Sunday at one point that there are some people who are “above the law.” I suppose he was referencing himself. But, as the narrative progressed to the climax of the story (I would categorize this as the scenes dealing with his realization that the jewels were planted in his car, leading up to the confrontation with Leon), the viewer is treated to a classic peripatetic moment.

Julian’s true reversal of fortune was when he actually kills someone. Up until that point, he hadn’t done anything wrong. He was being set up, and then it went terribly wrong.  Poor Julian.

I suppose the biggest let-down of this film was that in the final scene, when he is across the jailhouse glass from Michelle (Lauren Hutton), and she says she told the truth so she could be his alibi for the night of the murder, the film ends awkwardly with Julian’s sappy comment about not believing he had to come this far to get to her. Gag me with a spoon. Not only is there no resolution to the case itself, nor the general problems associated with a Senator’s wife dating a gigolo, but the viewer is left with the message that ‘love conquers all’ or something like that.

I’m too smart for that.

Rather than ‘love conquers all,’ this film says to me: it’s okay to be a whore if you’re public image portrays an air of higher class.  I mean, Julian technically ‘tricked’ in not only the “clean” environs of the country club ladies and the Senator’s wife, but also in the very bizarro worlds of Leon and Mr./Mrs. Rheiman (she did not look truly conscious to me when he had that encounter), and yet he did it anyway.  So, all the glamour of the suits and the stereos and the Mercedez Benz can’t possibly balance out against the sometimes gruesome service he is performing for money.

I guess I’m failing to see the overall point of this film. I think they were trying to say it’s hip to be a gigolo. But then I also think they were saying even gigolos get the blues. When all is said and done, I think Paul Schrader and Jerry Bruckheimer could’ve made a better film with what they had.

Though it does remind me of that old jazz standard, “Just a Gigolo”:  ”when the end comes I know they’ll say I’m just a gigolo…life goes on without me….” (I’m thinking of the Marty Grosz version).

There Will Be Blood (2007)

There are a few things to consider with this film: hard work (the bootstraps kind) that leads to a sense of entitlement,  a culture or mentality that allows megalomania to thrive unchecked (I might even call this Capitalism), and basic psychology.

The protagonist (and we know he’s the protagonist because he’s the first actor to appear onscreen), Daniel Plainview, is a loner. He has no one except the baby he claims as his own. But when the boy, H.W.,  loses his hearing, Plainview abandons him to a deaf school in San Francisco, and later when H.W. wants to go off to do his own thing, he admits the devastating truth to H.W. just to cause him pain. He is therefore selfish and seemingly heartless. He knows no compassion at all, except when it serves his selfish purposes (e.g. missing H.W., etc.). Plainview exhibits behavior, as the film progresses, that indicates he is also lonely, though he his surrounded by faithful friends (Fletcher, played by Ciaran Hinds….hail Caesar!) and his son.  At the arrival of his ‘brother,’ he is at first skeptical, but then takes him on like it were the natural thing to do, only to ultimately be disappointed and enraged by the man’s deception. His final treatment of his ‘brother’ shows how heartless he  is and how far away he is from having compassion for his fellow man. Same with the final scene with Eli at his home’s bowling lanes. He is heartless, and selfish, and out to make or keep whatever money he can.  He is also overly concerned with maintaining his perception of his dignity. Ironically, his seeming-antagonist, Eli, though the viewer might expect him to become Plainview’s nemesis, due to his own inability to deal with people on a truly human level, falls way short of keeping the force balanced.

Therefore, Daniel Plainview’s megalomaniacal personality goes unchecked. It was really disappointing to see Eli never really come through with any counter measures against Plainview. Perhaps this is what the director, Paul Thomas Anderson, wanted: to not be so predictable. Or perhaps it was of the utmost importance that Plainview be able to fully develop into the monster that he was.

I can’t help thinking of another great film with an ending and a protagonist very similar to this one: Patrick Bateman and American Psycho. These two films end very similarly, almost in a bizarre parallel universe sort of way: Patrick Bateman, after confessing his crimes, finds that his crimes are overlooked and his peers don’t seem to care that he is a psycho killer (though it is debatable as to whether Bateman really was a psycho killer, or whether it was all in his head, but that’s a topic for another day, right E.D.?!); Daniel Plainview, as the film draws to a close, after bashing Eli’s head in with a bowling pin, tells his assistant/butler, who DOES NOT register a shock at the sight of the crime, that he’s all done with his dinner. The viewer must surmise that the butler will merely clean up the body with the dishes and that will be the end of it. Yes? No?  The film ends with the viewer wondering how on earth this is not going to end badly for Plainview, in a going-to-prison sort of way. But then we think of Patrick Bateman and perhaps we know what will happen: nothing. Nothing because sometimes megalomania goes unchecked. Sometimes people want to keep their jobs.

If Plainview represents the American Dream (that pull yourself up from the bootstraps and drag your  mangled ass across miles of desert for the possibility of getting rich sort of thing), and if the American Dream requires you to do whatever it takes to make it to the top, including murder (and dragging your ass…) then it is reasonable to surmise that Plainview is representative of all of the Capitalist moguls and tycoons and robber barons who have exploited all the resources they could in order to grace the Society and Financial pages.

But I think that’s too simple. Honestly, the film can’t just be about how ridiculous it is that super rich capitalists can get away with anything and everything just because they worked hard to make their millions/billions. I mean, really?!  Could it be that simple?

I mean, Eli was an insufficient nemesis. There was no real nemesis to counter Plainview’s hubris. Even Standard Oil couldn’t give Plainview a tear in his stockings. There were NO checks or balances. Not even God, in this film, could really counteract Plainview. I mean, he’s in plain view! He’s right there. Somebody do something! But no. Nope. Everyone was weak.

I suppose we should consider the title: There Will Be Blood. Blood will be shed. Guaranteed. Not, There Might Be Blood.

As a viewer, I had higher hopes for Eli in terms of his nemesis potential, despite his inherent weakness as a human being.

Finally, the extradiegetic music in this film was very persistent in its setting of the mood as somber, dangerous, and high-anxiety. Even with a simple pan across a train station when no narrative action was presumed to be taking place, there would be music indicating impending danger. One must suppose that the point of this was to lead the viewer to believe that the whole scenario was fraught with danger.

Danger! There will be blood shed! Danger!

Hmmm…Thompson definitely tried to take this narrative and show us something. I’m just not sure it was something profound. Perhaps I haven’t thunk on it hard enough.

Lolita (1962)

What can I say? I’m severely behind in the times. And the worst part is that I feel my brain going to mush. So, I will, yet again, backlog myself beginning with Lolita!

I’m not sure what’s worse: the pedophiliac tendencies of Humbert Humbert (can’t help but think: Pervert Pervert) or the manipulative, woman-charms of Lolita. They’re both sick and liable in their joint and severable ways.

I think what is most disturbing about Kubrick’s depiction of these characters is how everyday it is presented. Humbert didn’t look like a pedophile; Lolita necessarily didn’t look like a girl who would be playing two much older men in the ways she did (she’s pretty but she isn’t a traditional Vamp).  Humbert didn’t have to do much to seduce Lolita, nor she him. It just naturally fell into place for the both of them. (Un)Lucky for her, she had that cuckoo mother to serve as a poor sexual role model, and due to her mother’s yip-yappy ways with men, poor ole Lolita didn’t have the wherewithal to keep herself out of the murky grime of adult relations.

But, clearly, Humbert was crazy.  As the framing scenes depict, he shows up to kill Clare Quilty, armed with a poem that Lolita supposedly had written about how Quilty stole her innocence. Well, no, Lolita didn’t write it. Humbert did. Talk about obsession: killing the man who led her away and destroyed it for him….  Well, it was always already over for Humbert.

Honestly, it’s this kind of film that gets you right in the pit of your stomach because of the way Humbert not only pursued Lolita, but also because of the ways in which his obsession progressed. It’s quite sick to think that the society around Humbert and Lolita (when they moved to Ohio) “knew” that something was going on between them (i.e. the neighbor told him), but it went on without any sort of intervention to speak of.  Even Quilty could have called the cops–he had inside information about a step-father and his incestuous step-daughter. But no!  Quilty was just as much of a pedophiliac Humbert was.  Just because Lolita was a willing participant in their relationship doesn’t mean she had all her wits about her–because she was so young. I say this knowing full well that she purposely manipulated Humbert with Quilty’s help. Clearly, Lolita had problems and a warped sense of reality, or she wouldn’t have played the masquerade.  But Humbert was too obsessed with possessing her to notice he never had gotten much of a real grip on her to begin with.

Kubrick presents a sick option here: one that is disturbing; one that reminds us that all kinds of things happen with people in this world; one that insists we look at the willingness of Lolita, the obsession of Humbert, and the manipulation of Quilty, all as facets of a world sick with sexual exploitation.  Humbert and Quilty get a major thumbs down.

Blue Velvet (1986)

So, I had to see some more David Lynch because we’ve been watching Twin Peaks.

I’m not quite sure what the point of Blue Velvet was, other than to show some secrets of small-town living, but I think Lynch must just like showing aberrant behavior on film.

What do I want to say about this film? It was interesting.  It was violent. It was kooky.  It was bizarre. 

Ultimately, it was “okay.”  I think film viewers and connoisseurs enjoy kooky.

One thing the viewer can see more readily by watching this film is Lynch’s style. It’s hard to be certain within a TV series like Twin Peaks, but there are certain elements in both texts that give the viewer a better glimpse at his style.

For instance, the night club/bar and strange singers, the color red (or blue), the innocence vs. experience trope, the mystery to be solved (ironically by Kyle MacLachlan), drug use, and the aberrant sexual behavior trope.

I’m still laughing about Dennis Hopper’s character, Frank Booth, and his bizarre, Freudian sexual fantasy.  …what on earth?!

The Grapes of Wrath (Novel, 1939)

As my faithful readers know (thank you!), this is a blog devoted entirely to analyzing film. And, I normally stick pretty closely to the unspoken tenets of only writing about films. But once before on this blog, I ventured into writing about Arthur C. Clarke’s Odyssey Tetralogy because of the corresponding films and my overpowering desire to write about the books in a place where I knew it would be read. So I suppose I justify my actions now in that same way.

Now, I haven’t watched the 1940  Henry Fonda/John Ford film version yet because I like to read the book first and then watch the film, but I did just add it to the top of my Netflix queue.  But, I feel compelled to write about the novel right now because I just finished reading it this morning and it evoked a particular reaction in me.

I don’t know if I had the same reaction as every one else who has read this novel or not. The older I get, the more I realize how similar we all react to things. So what I say about this, or anything else I write about on this blog, is just what comes out: untainted, unfiltered.  

I’ll get to my point in a bit but I’d like to build up to it by explaining that the reason I picked this novel up at the Library was because it’s a classic and I’d never read it. I’ve started to feel ashamed lately because of my lack of experience reading some of our great American classics.  I didn’t specifically pick the book up because I thought it had some relevance to today’s “economic hard times” as we keep hearing on the news…now, after reading The Grapes of Wrath, I know the real hard times is yet to come, folks!  (A side effect of reading this novel is that you want to write in Okie dialect too).

But as soon as the novel began, I started seeing the connection between the state of affairs in the novel and what we’re experiencing today: big businesses and banks taking the land and livelihoods away from the American people in order to turn a bigger profit.    But by the end of the novel, in the last paragraph actually, it really hit home for me that we’re not any where near the level of desperation and human suffering that Steinbeck was describing. I know this for a few reasons.

I know this because we’re still taking vacations and planning weddings; we’re still shopping online for iTunes; we’re still filing sexual harassment lawsuits; we’re still protesting gay marriage rights; we’re still having parties at our houses and inviting friends and feeding them all night long.  

We’re nowhere near the level of desperation Steinbeck describes. I agree with you that that is an obvious statement. But until you’ve gone through the novel and you’ve let your imagination run wild with the characters and their plight, I think it’s too easy to say to yourself as a reader in 2009: the same thing’s happening now!

No, the same thing isn’t happening now. We keep hearing “these tough economic times” every time we turn around. Yeah, we are experiencing tough economic times. Yeah, many of us don’t have jobs or have jobs that don’t come close to paying the bills. Yeah, I know. I’m living it too.  But the connotation that the media is trying to convey with “these tough economic times” is something much more grande than we can fathom in 2009.

I know this because I know what Rose of Sharon did in that last paragraph of the novel, and I know what the penultimate chapter was foreshadowing. Don’t worry, I won’t give it away. In the paragraphs leading up to the final paragraph of the novel, I didn’t realize what was happening. I stopped and re-read it a few times before I got to the end because I couldn’t figure it out. Then, I finished the last paragraph and I knew.  And I cried. I can’t remember the last time I cried reading a novel. 

I cried first because of the beauty of human nature. And the confusing part became clear.  Then I cried because of my confusion and I realized that’s the difference between us and them: we can’t fathom it, and Rose of Sharon and Ma both knew what had to be done. 

Despite the 4-5 weeks it took me to read this 450 page novel (I won’t lie:  it’s long and it’s depressing, and that makes it hard to read for long durations), I made it to the end and found it to be one of the most beautiful novels I’ve ever read. At first, the rotating descriptive chapters are tedious because the reader hasn’t been brought thoroughly enough into the Joad Family story line yet.  But as the novel progresses, the descriptive chapters provide much-needed details and foreshadowing about the general state of affairs for migrants.  And by the penultimate chapter, it’s clear that it’s foreshadowing beyond the last words of the novel. It’s a lot like reading The Odyssey:  the narrative seemingly just ends without giving the reader the satisfaction of a truly happily-ever-after for Odysseus, Penelope and Telemachus, but the reader has to recall the prophecies and the omens and then he or she will know what is to come for them, and the reader can take some peace from that because the end is known.

Steinbeck has done the same thing for his readers but his Odysseus and Penelope and Telemachus will not grow old on Ithaca, and that is part of the sadness and beauty of this novel. We do not know what will specifically happen with Tom, but we know what happened to Casy. We do not specifically know what will happen with the rest of the Joad family, but we know what the penultimate chapter foreshadows. And we do not know what will specifically become of Rose of Sharon but we know that she is the embodiment of all that is good and pure in the human soul. 

People relying on people who are in the same state of being as they are. People being good to others because they are good people, not because they’re being forced to for some ulterior motive.  People recognizing their own suffering in others and doing their best to assuage the pains of life.

This novel moralizes while also de-emphasizing the necessity for a fear of God. In fact, I think it is one of the best aspects of the book, and it is why Casy is in the narrative: to show that goodness and moral-ethical behavior do not have to be followed by God’s wrath. In fact, Steinbeck makes a point of showing that good judgment is just good judgment. (And there’s plenty of suffering for the living without having to worry about suffering after death).  And sometimes when wrong is being done to you, and you react in a way to protect yourself, bad things happen accidentally. I don’t think Steinbeck is justifying murder or violence; just the opposite. I think he’s justifying human behavior in the face of highly unethical treatment and oppression: the good, the bad, and the downright ugly.  I think he’s pointing out that if you push men to the brink, they will have no other choice (i.e. Tom) than to protect themselves, and at the same time, they will make the right choice (i.e. Rose of Sharon). When you’ve stripped man of his autonomy, you’ve opened up the can of worms on yourself; but when the can is empty, you’ll find the core of human nature. 

Steinbeck was writing about real people.  We’re not quite real yet.  Nope. Far from it.  But I know there are Roses of Sharon out there waiting in many of us.