Hitchcock Close-Ups

Hitchcock worked with Hollywood's most glamorous stars and created many of their most iconic moments, often casting A-list players such as Cary Grant and James Stewart against type to reveal the darker underside of their star personas.  His mastery of the subjective camera crystallized in the 1950's and seduced us into absolute kinship with his leads, alternating between an objective and subjective camera in movies like Rear Window, Strangers on a Train and Vertigo among many others.

In Rear Window, we see Jimmy Stewart in a wheelchair, looking out the window onto his apartment complex.  These objective camera angles are then matched to Stewart's subjective point-of-view, looking through the window at his neighbors.  This subjective angle puts us in his shoes and also implicates us in his act of voyeurism; a technique that is repeated throughout Hitchcock's work.  We see an actor and then we see what he sees.  This becomes a structure by which we are trained to identify with the Hitchcock protagonist.  Apart from creating this identification, the Hitchcock style also makes it possible for us to comfortably observe people trapped in particularly queasy situations, guilt-free.

Occasionally however, Hitchcock also uses the objective-subjective camera to disrupt our voyeuristic comfort by cutting away from the protagonist to train our eyes on a new character, usually a stranger, observing a central character from outside his or her current situation.  We see this in To Catch A Thief when Cary Grant is lounging on the beach and suddenly we are made aware that a bodybuilder whom we've never met is watching him from a chin-up bar.  We also see it in The Man Who Knew Too Much, when Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day de-board after their flight and a woman in the crowd (with an alarming pair of wire-rimmed glasses) observes them from afar.  Perhaps the most audacious example is Psycho, which sets up Janet Leigh as the protagonist with whom we identify for the first 45 minutes of the film until she is stabbed to death in the shower.  This shocking break in continuity then forces us into identification with Norman Bates, as he proceeds to clean up his "mother's" mess.

Abrupt perspective changes are a classic Hitchcockian device that implicate us as voyeurs by introducing sinister characters who are watching the hero, just as we have been.  They also give us outside information which may be critical to the hero's survival and this knowledge generates suspense, as we wonder if the hero will clue into this hidden information and be able to make use of it before it's too late.  In memory of Hitchcock's birthday on August 13, 1899 it is fun to reflect on his sly entertainments.  He made it possible to walk a mile in Cary Grant's shoes and then he pulled out the red carpet from under them.

Some lesser-known Hitchcock films that are worth a look: Sabotage, Shadow of a Doubt, I Confess, The Trouble With Harry, The Wrong Man, Marnie, Topaz, Torn Curtain, Frenzy.

Cowboys & Aliens * 1/2

Although I haven't seen The Smurfs, first let me start by commending all those who chose little blue creatures over big slimy monsters on the weekend of July 29th.  I don't know you personally, but I would hazard a guess that if you spent ten-plus dollars on such nostalgic alternative programming you probably got your money's worth.  If however, like me, you were chomping at the bit over the prospect of gunsmoke and laser beams, send me a message and together we'll initiate an effort to reclaim our hard-earned money.

Cowboys & Aliens may satisfy you if you: (a) have never seen a movie before, (b) don't speak English and plan to watch the film without subtitles, or (c) enjoy going to the movies so that you can invent a better version of the story you are currently watching.  That being said, I'm afraid fans of Westerns and Alien invasion films would be well advised to stay away.  Although I tend to agree that there is 'strength in numbers' the rule typically does not apply to screenwriters of which Cowboys & Aliens has seven, not including the uncredited ones.

The story we're served is a gourmet platter analagous to the "snake surprise" in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, but without the surprise.  It all begins when Daniel Craig wakes up in the middle of the desert with a mysterious electronic cuff on his wrist, not knowing who he is or how he got there.  By the end of the movie, I'm not sure he finds the answer.  What he does find are lots of explosions, several alien attacks, a rivalry with the curmudgeonly Harrison Ford and romantic tension in the form of a woman who isn't really a woman and comes from a planet we never learn about.  Along the way there are triumphs, tribulations and unfortunate Native-American stereotypes, which compliment all of the cliches smashingly.    The aliens grow increasingly unfriendly but we never learn what it is they want and after a while it becomes unimportant.

 The most unpredictable aspect of the story is Craig's wrist-cuff which seems to have a mind of it's own (shades of my old Waring 7.5 amp blender) and knows exactly when to kill people without even being programmed.  We never learn how this is possible or why the cuff repeatedly rescues Craig from the very beings who designed it.  Add to this the fact that in spite of some dandy special effects and a stellar cast of actors, the movie completely loses its hold in the second half.   The end result feels more like a visit to a wax museum than the cinematic joy ride that could have been.  You can make out the familiar faces but there's something unsubstantial about it all.  Something that no measure of special effects can make up for.

I know it sounds jaded but believe me, I'm really not knocking the filmmakers here.  I'm actually reveling in the realization that I was naive enough to have expected more.  With each passing summer movie season it's becoming increasingly important to let go of one's lofty expectations; they interfere with the fun.  Yes, a concept can be more than the sum of its special effects but who am I to purport that one man alone could effect this change?  We're all in this together.  This is the kind of entertainment we'll all be paying for well into the 22nd century, unless of course we can learn as a civilization to appreciate the Smurfs.  At least then we might actually get our money's worth.

Super 8 **1/2

Super 8 is J.J. Abrams' weakest film because it lacks the imagination that allowed him to breathe new life into the Mission Impossible and Star Trek franchises.  The movie plays as a compendium of moments from vintage Spielberg films, including E.T., The Goonies and Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but it never breaks free from this reverence for its source material.  The first half is infectious for anyone who grew up loving these kinds of movies and the youthful cast is very good; from Elle Fanning all the way down to Gabriel Basso, whose character Martin bears an uncanny resemblance to Cory Haim in Lucas -- coincidence?  Eventually the thrill of identifying these allusions wears thin and the movie's hollow centre is revealed.  Like so many other recent mainstream movies, Super 8 plays like a movie about other movies, rather than a movie about real people facing real problems.  The brilliance of the early films was grounded in Spielberg's ability to use extraordinary situations to reveal something universal about ordinary lives and the choices each of us makes.  Abrams' film works hard to generate this connection, but it isn't emotionally moving.  Kids who are new to the genre will enjoy the film.  It's fun to watch and the action set-pieces don't assault you; they have a pace and structure that is sorely lacking in modern summer blockbusters.  I just can't bring myself to fully get behind a movie that "celebrates storytelling" by referencing somebody else's stories.  The script should have been better.

Shutter Island ***

Martin Scorsese's Shutter Island is the type of movie where red-herrings are seemingly piled on top of red-herrings and the actors seem to have an easier time shouting their lines than they do speaking them softly.  It is almost as if each character exists solely to get a rise out of the next and DiCaprio embodies this ethos with his explosive performance.  His moods change so quickly, it's almost like watching a master class in faking a panic attack and yet his performance anchors the movie firmly to the left of center.  It isn't until the end that all becomes clear and suddenly the rationale behind these theatrics takes on an entirely different meaning.  

As it is unfolding, much of the film is claptrap nonsense made legitimately engrossing by Scorsese's directorial energy.  Although the subject takes him far from home, there is a tangible sense of the fun he is having, bending different genres and juggling the atonal rythms of the story.  His effort is impossible to miss.  It isn't subtle, but his force as a storyteller is the real show here.  Critics were mixed when the picture was released earlier this year and it is easy to get sucked into appraising this as one of the director's minor works.  I believe it's one of his most interesting films.  In time, as he has wandered from his usual milieu of wiseguys and street hoods, Scorsese has emerged as a passionate narrator of American history.  Shutter Island can easily be viewed as his vision of post-war paranoia run amok.  But, it is also an exercise in storytelling form that allows him to push narrative boundaries, thanks to a superb climactic twist.  

The twist at the end of the film is also the key to the center of the film and we are treated to the rare surprise ending that amounts to more than the surprise itself.  Unlike other popular "puzzle narratives" such as The Sixth Sense or  Fight Club, Shutter Island rewards multiple viewings with more than a few sly winks and an "aha, I fooled you."  Watching Shutter Island for a second time is an entirely different experience than the initial viewing.  The tone is different, motivations are clearer, and it has a much deeper emotional resonance.  Only a director of Scorsese's caliber could pull off this high-wire act without sacrificing on either entertainment or substance.  Even once you know what's coming it is impossible to look away.  

There Will Be Blood ****

Paul Thomas Anderson's There Will Be Blood may be the finest film to come out of Hollywood in the last 10 years.  Surely no other American film has been filled with such unabashed anger, audacity and clarity in its point of view.  These qualities make it uncommonly provocative both in terms of its subject and in terms of how it is executed.  While a movie like The Social Network earns critical kudos for the spotlight that it shines on our current state of culture, There Will Be Blood traces the origins of our current state to meditate on the root of the world's biggest predicament.

The story is simple enough.  There is a man, Daniel Plainview (Daniel Day Lewis), who arrives in the town of Little Boston at the turn of the century to drill for oil.  He cons the townsfolk into adopting him as a savior of sorts and then gradually drains their land of its riches (both literally and figuratively) until there is nothing left for him to take.  In the process, Daniel forsakes his adopted son and comes up against the local minister, Eli Sunday (Paul Dano) who professes a desire to protect the community, and yet shares the oil man's mercenary talent for manipulation.  Both men know what they want and their every action is filled with an ambiguity, that forces us to question their motives.

Their personas are self-crafted and calculated to elicit a response that will advance their cause.  Scarcely a single word is uttered between them that we can be certain is sincere.  This is all the more disturbing in the case of the minister, who we would like to believe is doing what he's doing for a higher purpose, but the hypocrisy is undeniable.  When Daniel unveils the first oil derrick in Little Boston, does he bless the rig because he's superstitious?  To manipulate the town?  To spite the minister?  We never know.  When the minister baptizes Daniel (in one of the film's most harrowing scenes) are his methods just a little more vicious than they need to be?  Is it a purity of heart that leads him to bless Daniel, or is he merely stringing him along in the hopes of receiving a larger cash donation?

In their colossal clash of wills, the men come to represent the two most important pillars of modern life: faith and finance.  The film exposes the inverse connection between the two and suggests that there is a duality within every man that often cannot be resolved.  This duality is iterated from the very outset by the curious appearance of Paul Sunday (Eli's brother), who comes to bring the family's oil claim to Daniel.  Both brothers are played by Paul Dano and by the end of the film it is impossible to know whether they actually both exist.  By the time Eli comes crawling to Daniel begging for money, we wonder if he didn't masquerade as Paul in order to extricate himself from the guilt of his own greed.  Either way, this ambiguity is the heart and soul of the film in every respect.

The lingering camera hangs on the action, creeping forward eerily like the greed that slowly infects Daniel's soul.  As he continues to dig himself deeper, we want to believe he can still be redeemed.  Anderson's impartial camera forces us to study Daniel.  It forces us to project a humanity onto him that ultimately proves not to exist.  When he reflects on his relationship with his son in the film's penultimate scene, contempt overtakes his sense of nostalgia.   No one but Daniel Day Lewis could have played this part. His performance embodies both the loftiness and the grim humor of the movie's many themes. It is Daniel Day Lewis who makes the story so unpredictable, projecting a queasy blend of volatility and  mock tenderness.

The entire film teeters on the edge between wrath and restraint; between the Judeo-Christian ethic and a shadier, more complicated hierarchy of motivations.  Visually this is expressed in the inky saturation of the color palette and the murky blur of light and dark that frames the film.  Daniel's thirst for power is matched only by Eli's hunger for religious authority.  Both men use their status to manipulate people.  Both men aspire to absolute dominion over their kingdoms.  Both men become so consumed with defending their interests that they are willing to sacrifice their core ideals in order to pursue them.  The finale is all the more disturbing because of how senselessly it is resolved.  Daniel is seen emerging as the victor not because he has actually won something tangible, but rather because he has come full circle to embrace his true nature without pretense.  Eli is never given that chance.

There is a dogged sense of justice to all of the film's mysterious events.  Daniel abandons his son and gains what he thinks is a brother, only to learn that he is being conned.  Eli pretends to abandon his faith in order to save his church, only to realize that he has abandoned everything.  But what is it that we are ultimately left with?  Is Anderson blaming the absence of reason on the absence of god, or is he saying that god leaves us mortals to grapple with the questions?  Perhaps his vision has nothing to do with god.  Perhaps instead he is saying that his two pillars will continue to feed off one another for all of time until their inevitable destruction.  Still, there is something comforting in the power of ideas so expertly articulated.  Great art is filled with such ideas.  Maybe Anderson is actually telling us it isn't too late.  As long as there remains a debate we each have the power to resolve it.

Remaking One's Self: Hitchcock's The Man Who Knew Too Much

Hitchcock's 1956 remake of his own British thriller The Man Who Knew Too Much (1934) is one of the few cinematic examples on record of a director literally remaking their own film -- Leo McCarey's Love Affair (1939) and his remake An Affair to Remember (1957) is another notable example.  It is also one of the most fascinating projects in the director's oueuvre for many reasons.

There is the use of rich technicolor to identify different locales based on their emotional and geographic climate.  The use of dramatic fades to black to create an atmosphere of sinister foreboding.  The fluidity of the moving camera.  In the 56' version, Hitchcock uses the elegant mechanics of the original plot as a jumping off point to punctuate the humor and suspense (which he retains from the original) with a pointed look at the American nuclear family.  As part of this vision, he subverts the wholesome personas of stars Jimmy Stewart and Doris Day, by engaging them in a power struggle that aptly reflects the gender politics of the day.  She is a famous singer.  He is an Indianapolis doctor.  For reasons undisclosed, she gave up her career for him and now does nothing to conceal her bitterness over that fact.

We witness the mature Hitchcock working at the height of his powers; fascinated as much by the behavior of his characters as he is by his virtuoso set-pieces.  The clash between one's vocation and one's loyalty to family is used as both a theme and a device in the story.  Doris' song, the expression of her professional acumen, is ultimately the mechanism that restores the family unit and helps them to conquer an assassination plot.  It is easy to miss the intricacy with which Hitchcock interweaves his themes and thrills, but The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956) has always been one of his most watchable films for me.  Hitchcock was hailed as a master technician and his critics used this to dismiss his interest in actors.  This remake proves that as he grew older, he also grew more preoccupied with the social ambiguities between people.  This ambiguity is the principal value he adds to his re-telling.  There are dozens of small details that transcend enrich and deepen the message of the original picture.

For those who don't know: The Man Who Knew Too Much is the story of a young couple whose child is kidnapped to prevent them from trying to stop an assassination plot.   Watch it back-to-back with the (also entertaining) original version and delight in the work of a master storyteller, as he uncovers different layers of meaning within the same material.

Remembering The Shining

Stanley Kubrick's adaptation of the Stephen King novel builds a palpable sense of horror by discarding all the most obvious devices of the genre.  Whereas most horror films are constructed based on the principle of total audience immersion, The Shining works hard to keeps us at arm's length instead.  As with most of Kubrick's films, form mirrors content.   The story centers on the horror of isolation, in both the remote setting of the Overlook hotel and within the Torrance family unit.  Jack Torrance (Jack Nicholson) is rarely seen together with his wife Wendy (Shelley Duvall) and their son.  Stylistically, the film is composed largely of wide tracking shots that put distance between us and the characters.  When they are together, as in their initial drive to the hotel, Kubrick cleverly generates a greater sense of distance than when they are apart.   More often they are shown onscreen in pairs, but most of the time they are alone, exploring the haunted chambers of the hotel.  The book is more explicit about Jack's struggle with alcoholism and the demented exploits of the former hotel guests whose spirits haunt the grounds.  Kubrick favors something more ambiguous, forcing the audience to project their own fears onto the characters in order to make sense of them.  The shock images that remain from the book (like a man being phellated by someone in a bear costume) are deliberately stripped of their context.   Even during the broader comedic flourishes of Nicholson's performance, there is an air of foreboding that frightens by juxtaposing elements of the uncanny with more real aspects of the human psyche.  I chose The Shining for my annual scary movie night this year, and now I heartily recommend it to you (if you are someone who enjoys getting into the spirit of the Halloween season).