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by Ailín CrowleyMemento (2000, Christopher Nolan) is, in my opinion, still one of Christopher Nolan’s most inventive and compelling films to date. A riveting and imaginative crime thriller, Nolan has created a piece which raises the bar for directors in terms of cinematography, performances and, most certainly, narrative. For a relatively low budget of 9 million USD, Memento certainly pulls off extremely appealing aesthetics. Nolan uses his usual muted tones throughout, as seen his other works such as The Dark Knight (2008) and Interstellar (2008).One notable scene that is visually pleasing is the opening scene, in which we see Leonard shaking a polaroid photograph, but instead of the photograph developing, it fades to blank. The scene that follows, of Leonard shooting Teddy, is also played in reverse, an ingenious way to set the tone and prepare the audience for the fractured narrative that will follow. Nolan displays his use of ingenious and innovative cinematography in scenes such as this throughout the film, confirming his status as an avant-garde director. In terms of performance, Guy Pearce is most memorable as the protagonist, Leonard Shelby, and successfully conveys the bewildered nature one would associate with having short term memory loss. The audience empathises with Pearce’s portrayal of Leonard; who, despite the film not being over-emotional, evokes their interest in a moving display as he grapples with his condition. Perhaps the most interesting factor of the film, however, is its narrative. The premise is simple; it is the story of a man with anterograde amnesia attempting to find his wife’s murderer, and avenge her death. Certainly appealing as a psychological thriller, however, what makes this story so intriguing, however, is not the plot itself, but rather the way in which the story is conveyed to the audience. The ever-innovative Nolan disregards the typical three-act structure in favour of telling the story ‘backwards’, using what Andrew Dix describes as an ‘unruly time scheme’. (Dix, p.109) A bold decision, and yet he pulls off this feat seamlessly. As Jean Luc Godard said; “a story should have a beginning, middle and end, ‘but not necessarily in that order’. (Godard in Dix, p.110). Coloured scenes are used within the film to progress the present-day narrative as Leonard attempts to discern and locate his wife’s murderer. This narrative is expressed in reverse-chronological order, whereby the film’s opening scenes occur at the end of the narrative and its concluding scenes exist at the start of Leonard’s quest. The placement of reverse-chronological order coloured scenes against black-and-white chronological scenes propel the plot forwards, whilst encouraging the audience to actively watch and engage with the film the entire way through. This is a rare feat in this modern era of cinema; so few of us focus entirely on a film during its course nowadays, due to so many distractions around us. However, Nolan does not allow the audience to sit idle, or to passively enjoy his content. The viewer must remain fully alert during the film, lest they miss out on vital details. Nolan searched for a way to structure his film, so that the audience could experience the same feelings of disorientation and confusion as the main character. As he states in an interview in the Blu-Ray edition DVD of Memento; “How do you give the audience the experience of not being able to remember?” He uses the temporal organisation of the film to temporarily withhold crucial narrative information from the audience, simulating the disorientating experience Leonard endures with his condition. This structure is poignant in a particular scene in Memento, where Leonard wakes up in a bathroom, holding an empty bottle of alcohol. His internalised confusion is made apparent to the audience through the conventional neo-noir genre use of voiceover, yet the narrative truth only becomes evident through the repetition and overlap of each scene throughout the narrative, revealing that Leonard was hiding in the apartment in attempts to assassinate its inhabitant. We as an audience cannot attempt to predict how the narrative may advance as each scene concludes, but rather we are left to question the events that have taken place prior to each scene commencing. Each scene answers a question posed in the previous scene, and poses a question as to how our protagonist wound up there. We must piece the puzzle together with Leonard Shelby, and it is only at the end for all of us that the final question is answered – who is his wife’s murderer? The novelty of a story told in an unusual manner is appealing enough to the average audience member, however, the plot structure would grow tiring on its own, if the audience was left to do all the work. Nolan realised this, and so he eases the audience into the complex framework of the film; the use of scene repetition and internal echoes are first used to guide the audience through the events of the narrative, allowing them to simulate their own interpretations of the series of events. Then, as the narrative progresses, the use of repetition reduces in frequency and elisions between scenes are incorporated. Therefore, the audience becomes ‘conditioned’ to accept and process the non-linear narrative just as Leonard conditions himself throughout the film, using notes and polaroid pictures as reminders in order to ‘replicate’ his old memories. As well as this, Nolan cleverly crafts a plot that leaves us shocked with one final twist at the ‘beginning’, chronologically, despite us knowing all of the events that occur after. Even though we have been given the majority of the puzzle, Nolan still manages to surprise us at the last revelation, when he hands us the final piece, and it all clicks into place. To conclude, Christopher Nolan has created a stellar and masterful film, which both captivates an audience and subverts their expectations. It’s unsurprising, really, that this is a film which has gained such a large cult following. Nolan evidently values his audience’s intelligence, as he said in an interview with The Guardian; ‘I think people’s ability to absorb a fractured mise en scène is extraordinary compared to 40 years ago’. This is simply not just a film that one can watch and subsequently forget about – it is what John Truby describes as ‘the never ending story’, as he ‘creates an apparent’ equilibrium and then shatter[s] it with one more surprise’ (Truby, p.419). This is one of those rare films that garners multiple viewings in order to capture every clue – and I would personally recommend one to view it repeatedly anyways. Works Cited
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by David ParkinsonAmerican director George Cukor was approached by producer David O. Selznick in 1937 to direct a motion picture, one which would lampoon the very idea of making motion pictures, but turned it down – due to the fact that he had directed such a film, What Price Hollywood?, in 1932. The film, A Star is Born, would go on to be directed by William A. Wellman. However, Cukor was not yet finished with the idea of a movie examining Hollywood and stardom, and in 1954, his new version of A Star is Born, was released to the masses, shining a searing spotlight on the Hollywood studio system that fades as its 176-minute run-time lumbers on.
Cukor’s updated A Star Is Born closely follows the path set by its predecessor: a washed-up, alcoholic actor (James Mason taking the role of Norman Maine from Frederic March) encounters a young unknown one night (Judy Garland inhabiting the role of Esther Blodgett made famous by Janet Gaynor), and proceeds to bring her into stardom, as well as his own personal life. As her star rises, his diminishes. Cukor uses every minute of the almost-three-hour-runtime to explore the rise and fall of the husband-and-wife pairing, giving each an arc that, for the most part, continues steadily in opposite directions. There are moments – in particular a musical interlude so unnecessary in its execution and context that in its attempt to add spectacle it wholly detracts – where it feels as though Cukor and his creative team indulge too much in their epic scale, giving valuable minutes which could have been given to furthering the then-growing relationship between Norman and Vicki. Cukor’s first foray into Technicolor brings with it all the visual hallmarks of lavish classical colour cinema. Cukor and cinematographer Sam Leavitt embed their images with personality, with narrative service; shooting scenes at home with muted colours, as Norman’s domain, while Vicki’s musical numbers and Hollywood moments are drenched in glorious and rich colours and lavish tones, as well as the sweeping movements most associated with the Hollywood musical. Maine becomes more and more of an “ordinary” person as the plot progresses, his costume remaining a mix of dull earthy tones while Vicki becomes more and more extravagant; more of a star. Cukor’s direction mixes both the epic and the ordinary; romantic scenes often feel claustrophobic, intimate, with a particular musical number taking place entirely within a tight closeup of Vicki’s face, while the larger musical numbers feel as though they stretch on for eternity, Cukor making use of the Cinemascope stylings employed in the making of the film. Garland and Mason pitch their performances perfectly, as up-and-coming Vicki Lester (once Esther Blodgett) and down-and-out Norman Maine respectively. Mason conveys a sense of a man who knows his time is up, barrelling through scenes with outward charm, while his eyes bring out some semblance of inner pain. Garland, whose personal life mirrored in some ways that of both Vicki Lester and Norman Maine (she herself was born Frances Ethel Gumm, and saw her life brought to an untimely end after a decades-long struggle with alcohol and drug addiction) , brings vulnerability and emotion to her performance, commanding the screen and our sympathy whenever she is present in-frame. Mason shines in particular when he’s asked to portray his character’s descent into emotional wreck, betraying his recovery as a means of coping with a moment of cruel rejection at a horse race, while Garland shines in a heart-wrenching moment in which she breaks down in tears while speaking about Norman’s troubles, blaming herself for not stepping in. Supporting players, such as Jack Carson, whose performance as studio publicist Matt Libby seems a certain frame-of-reference for the later work of Alec Baldwin, and Charles Bickford as sympathetic studio head Oliver Niles, work their hardest to fully inhabit their roles, both featuring in heart-breaking scenes with James Mason. The audience is presented with a genre-mash-up that doesn’t quite land; it is at points a musical which hopes to be a drama, and at others it feels as though Cukor intends for the masses to ingest a drama with musical elements. Musical numbers play out for the most part as diegetic; we find Vicki – or as she is known then, Esther – singing to her bandmates while Norman watches on enthralled, we have Vicki sing to Norman in private on multiple occasions. However, as Dix notes, sound “may still migrate” from the diegetic model to non-diegetic within a motion picture (87). As previously mentioned, we are presented at almost the midway point of the film with a musical interlude, presented as Vicki’s silver-screen debut, which brings the film to a grinding halt, presenting us with fifteen minutes of repeated exposition, treating both audiences – those in the crowd within the movie itself, and those in cinemas or at home, as the same entity, using valuable minutes which may have been better served being used for non-musical relationship building earlier on in the film. It is unquestionable that Cukor’s take on A Star is Bornis a classic of Hollywood cinema, though what that term even equates to in a modern world, where “classic” has now become a buzzword for any motion picture made before the year 1981, is wholly questionable. It could be said that Cukor presents an idea of what Hollywood is, of what studios do to a person once they’re making money, and what they do to someone who is no longer seen as bankable, but it becomes clear that he can only bring this concept so far. The at once-downbeat, now suddenly upbeat, maudlin – and perhaps even self-defeatist and dismissive–conclusion, as Vicki embraces the role of Norman’s wife above the role of stardom, represents a typical Hollywood ending referred to by Dix as “equilibrium-restored” (125). It is quite obvious to the spectator, as the credits role, that any deep, pointed message suggested by the director or writer Moss Hart about the state of Hollywood and its star-making factory system, has been blunted by particular narrative choices, and genre hang-ups, with a Technicolor coat of paint slapped on for good measure. WORKS CITED A Star is Born, (1954). Directed by George Cukor, America: Transcona Enterprises. Dix, A. (2016). Beginning film studies. 2nd ed. Manchester: Manchester University Press, pp.8, 125. A Star is Born, (1937). Directed by William A. Wellman, America: Selznick International Pictures. by Toby Perini In his 1955 film All That Heaven Allows, Douglas Sirk enacts what is probably one of the most unsubtle, yet quite well hidden critiques to the American capitalist society that was rising from the ashes of the Second World War. Thanks to the veil of sentimentalism and idealization typical of the melodrama, Sirk was able to discuss themes that he could not have touched in other genres. In this point in his career, Sirk wasn't as celebrated as a genre-defining director; in fact, quite the opposite, his films were often disregarded as 'women's pictures' and rarely analysed in a deeper sense by the contemporary critics, perhaps this is the reason why Sirk's work was allowed a certain amount of radicalism, considering the context of the mid-century Hollywood industry, with all its restrictions and censorship.
Cary Scott (Jane Wyman), a middle-class widow from the Stoningham, a small town in New England, falls in love with the lower-class, younger gardener Ron Kirby (Rock Hudson) and subsequently a scandal within the community ensues. In a perfectly idyllic, carefully constructed and heavily saturated scenery we follow Cary as she struggles trying to balance her appearance within a close-knit, obnoxiously bourgeois community and her relationship with Ron, which threatens the stability of the former. Acting as a redeemer, Ron helps Cary to realise the truth of her condition, saving her from the misery that class-imposed conventions would have brought upon her otherwise. The critique is quite unsubtle throughout the film; in some significantly comparative scenes, Sirk delineates perfectly Cary's friends' attitude towards the slightest deviation from the norm, but most importantly, their inherently misogynist hypocrisy is shown, for example, in the engagement party scene, where Cary's friends do not object at all to a younger woman marrying an older man for money, all while Cary is being ostracised for being in the exact same situation, only that the gender is this inverted. Another apparently insurmountable obstacle to Cary's happiness are her children: from a completely different generation, yet just as attached to appearances as the rest of the community they grew up in, they selfishly and unreasonably refuse to accept Ron as their mother's companion because they fear the rumours might affect them as well. Sirk challenges with smartly contextualised key scenes the conservative concept of the woman as the selfless housekeeper who, after the death of her husband, should uphold her husband's reputation and have as her only focus her children and the house. The director affirms quite clearly that this society-imposed restrictions can only bring misery on all parties involved, demonstrating how an unhappy maternal figure forced to live by the same mentality that keeps her imprisoned, can only have as an outcome an egotistical, insensitive and often obtuse offspring, bound to perpetrate the same patriarchal values. In his review of All That Heaven Allows,Christopher Sharrett writes: “Douglas Sirk, as much as Nathaniel Hawthorne, Herman Melville, Mark Twain, Sinclair Lewis and F. Scott Fitzgerald, is a chronicler of America. The period of this chronicle- the neurotic fifties – was never pictured with more wit and understanding”. Personally, I think the comparison with F. Scott Fitzgerald is extremely fitting if we take into consideration Fitzgerald's masterpiece The Great Gatsby, which is too, a critique of post-war American capitalism, and it does so with a detailed description of the opulence in which the protagonist lives in, and that is where it is possible to draw the comparison: in All That Heaven Allowsone of the most striking aspects is certainly the mise en scène: vibrant, saturated and unnatural colours go along with placed frames within the frame and a general abundance of objects and décor, creating a visual clutter that in its artificiality denounces the materialism of the so-called American Dream that Sirk was probably well-acquainted with, being a German immigrant (or rather, political refugee). If we were to follow Auteur Theory and affirm that the director's personality, style and past influences emerge in each of his works, then it is necessary to mention Douglas Sirk's theatrical background as a producer in works of playwrights ranging from Sophocles to Shakespeare, but perhaps the biggest influence is the contemporary Bertolt Brecht: almost following Brecht's theories on theatre to the letter, Sirk does not try to fool us in a completely immersive filmic experience, but instead constructs a perfect, bright, shiny, romantic world that has no pretences of realism. With Brecht he also shares the same disdain for bourgeois entertainment, stemming from a political background too uncomfortably close to Marxism for '50s Hollywood, and that is why some inconsistencies are noticeable in All That Heaven Allowswhen lines like “She doesn't want to make up her own mind; no girl does. She wants you to make it up for her” are spoken. One might conclude that Cary has exchanged her middle-class suburban cage for a simply more rural (and good looking) one, and to some extent, she has, but Sirk was working under the strict limitation of the industry at the time. While remaining in a safe status quo, the director got away with more radical themes than other popular contemporary genres such as noir and musical. “The studios loved the title All That Heaven Allows. They thought it meant you could have everything you wanted. I meant it exactly the other way round. As far as I am concerned, heaven is stingy” Sirk said on about what is considered one of his most representative works, really exposing the duality of the relationship between the target audience of his pictures and the actual message behind them. Sirk has been given his due credit only after Jean-Luc Godard's piece on Cahiers du Cinema, before that, his films were disregarded as women's pictures, cheap melodrama for bored, frustrated housewives, and maybe this is the reason why they were allowed the amount of class analysis they presented the audience with. Like a snake that bites its own tail, Hollywood's own conservative views enabled Douglas Sirk to create films that spoke to the most radical part of the least radicalised viewer. Works Cited • Jon Halliday, Sirk on Sirk. Faber and Faber Ltd., London, 1997 • Christopher Sharrett, “All That Heaven Allows” in Cinéaste Vol. 39, No. 4. Cineaste Publishers, Inc., 2014 Bibliography • Barbara Klinger. Melodrama & Meaning, Indiana University Press, Bloomington, 1994 • Sonbert, Warren. "Douglas Sirk and the Melodrama."Framework: The Journal of Cinema and Media, vol. 56 no. 1, 2015, p. 214-219. Project MUSEmuse.jhu.edu/article/579227. |
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