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Film Theory

Vitriolic rants and raving recommendations of movies, as well as insights into filmmaking technique.

richardfleming
In Film Theory

“CATS” Is a Drug-Induced Nightmare

Cats Movie Poster
I have seen a lot of bad movies in my time. The Room is a catastrophic disaster. Birdemic: Shock and Terror is nearly unwatchable. I am now tasked with an almost impossible challenge: to write about all the stuff wrong with this movie. Obviously, this film was bad, atrocious even; but describing HOW it’s bad is an immense undertaking. I’ll start by saying that I’m under the strong assumption that this director 1) has never seen the Broadway play of Cats (or any other iteration) and 2) has likely never seen an actual cat. I’m going to break this up into sections: story structure, music, acting, visual effects, and random observations.
A dramatic premise is a pithy statement that summarises what a story is about. For example, “Othello” can be condensed to “jealousy destroys the object of its affection, and itself.” All scenes in a story/film/novel/etcetera should point to this premise. Even stories that fuck up, have superfluous scenes, or are just poorly made overall have some semblance of a dramatic premise – even if unintentional. NEVER, in my entire film viewing experience, have I ever found a movie that was completely devoid of a dramatic premise…and yet, here we are.
There is no story. There is no character arc. There is no plot. There is no point. If you don’t know the original story (which I don’t fucking remember), you’re hopelessly, recklessly lost. Characters show up, unannounced, and leave without any clue of who they are or why they’re there. Jennifer Hudson shows up as a crack-addicted bag lady, er, bag…cat…and starts bawling her sad music with enough snot in her nose to make another “Blair Witch” sequel. Then she slinks off and someone asks, “Who was that?” Read my goddamned mind, you weird fucking animals.
The whole movie is just song after song with zero context. The entire film was a series of inside jokes to an audience of outsiders.
The main actress playing “Victoria” has only one expression, and she stands like she’s going to piss herself. Like every other character, she was worthless to the “story.” Dame Judi Dench was the stuff of nightmares. She looked like Lon Chaney auditioning to play Garfield in a Sheba cat food advert. She and others wore attire that looked like skinned cats. Maybe that was the point: that she wore the corpses of her enemies, à la Buffalo Bill.
I can’t get over the Jennifer Hudson character! She was the most accurate depiction of a cat, in that her songs were just the painful yowling of felines suffering urinary tract infections. All of the other musicians were terrible and I hate them for being in it. Taylor Swift didn’t know what the fuck she was doing, yet she seemed the most invested. And poor Ian McKellan! He had one number that was an overt reference to him having a mental breakdown from being in this shit after such an illustrious career.
The visual effects made less sense than the movie and were deeply unnerving. While I get why you want to feature the beauty of ballet, it doesn’t work in this new medium. And why are you sexualising my goddamned cat, you cocksuckers?! I don’t need to see Idris Elba’s eunuch body; I genuinely feel entitled for remunerations from trauma. (It was funny how he never looked at any of the actors. His eyes, which constantly changed colour, were always off-axis – focussing on something else.) But if you ever show me Rebel Wilson spread-eagle, I will fucking hunt you down….
Why are some parts of the people anthropomorphised, yet others have cat features are intact – albeit not accurately? Guys, have you ever watched a cat or seen their ears? They don’t articulate like that. You made me not want a pet anymore, you donkey-punch assholes.
No one laughed or responded to the visual “gags,” all of which defied the very laws of physics. Objects would unnaturally swell or shrink to fit the gaping maw of mouths stretched across the screen. The editing lingered to the point of awkwardness, and I think the continuity person must’ve died midway through production. In addition to eyes changing, costumes fluctuated wildly. Sometimes there would be whiskers, sometimes not. And the set pieces were totally inconsistent. I feel like Marc Caro would have designed this set to give audiences panic attacks; the effects reminded me of a furry version of “City of Lost Children.” Surprisingly less rapey, though.
Also, like Jeunet’s haunting masterpiece, the music was unsettling. At times, it sounded like the boss fight music to an 8-bit horror game – an ersatz accordion screeching out repetitive notes that would make Philip Glass’s dick harder than a calcified stalagmite. Most of the time, however, it was just off-key singing backed by an Ed Van Fleet CD played at double-speed. (I’m thinking of “The Fire of Joy“…give it a listen.)
The dancing was mostly awful. The only redeeming routine was the tap-dance sequence, but it’s hardly redeemable since it resembled a bad acid trip while your uncle pressures you to look at the rash on his scrotum because his Medicaid ran out and he can’t afford a doctor. Uncle Mike, please, I dropped out of med-school!
The whole project feels like Tim Hooper’s nightmare experience of being a child forced to watch this play with his drunk dad – who later took him to a prostitute to lose his virginity by a woman dressed like the horrors he witnessed in the play. I’m just guessing, though…but like, a STRONG guess.
There was a scene in which Victoria meets up with some weird, swinger-cats, and a dog is trying to get in. But you never see the dog. I’m convinced that this wasn’t due to budget constraints; but more that if you saw the dog, you’d see the face of the Devil himself.
I feel like I should talk about the patrons who were there, but I won’t. I just can’t bring myself to drag them through the mud, but it definitely added a poignant dimension to the experience.
During the last half-hour, I started laughing uncontrollably. I couldn’t stop, and it was contagious – spreading to a group nearby. The movie felt like it was three hours long, but it was really the 11.5% beer I snuck in wearing off. I would not recommend this movie to anyone. Or to any cat. I wish I had put my money toward Ayahuasca, because it would have fucked me up less than this film.
I want to write more, as I took pages of notes that were distilled into this post. I think it’s enough. I’m sorry you’ve had to suffer by proxy; be thankful you didn’t undergo the hell that was my random Wednesday.
richardfleming
In Film Theory

“Dunkirk” and the Lack of Protagonist

Dunkirk movie still

Dunkirk

Back in 1915, David Wark Griffith made silent epics that helped to define the language and syntax of cinema. He himself claimed to have invented the close-up and scenes with restrained emotion, but his main contribution was actually the concept of parallel editing: the capacity to cut between separate narratives in order to extend the dramatic tension of an overall film.

And despite the fact that Griffith figured this out more than 100 years ago, Nolan seems to have missed a few essential steps to achieving potency with this technique. While I appreciate the attempt, cross-cutting between actors that have not been thoroughly established does not achieve the desired effect. We cycle back and forth between the fighter pilot (played by Tom Hardy), men on the beach trying to evacuate, and a “civilian” rescue boat on its way to Dunkirk to pick up soldiers.

But the transitions between each narrative are arbitrary, cutting on action that is ill-motivated to get us to the next perspective. Sometimes, the effect would produce an amnesic shaking of the head as you entered the new scene, other times it would be aggravatingly disjointed. I suppose these abrupt shifts could have been used to great effect in conveying the harshness of the soldiers’ experiences, except they were too inconsistent to be intentional.

There were plenty of things I liked, especially the costume design and their authenticity to maintaining the look and feel of the water and air craft. And there were a few scenes I found genuinely moving, such as the way the men treat the body of one particular character when he dies. It was familiar and delicate, and it helped connect you to these men struggling to save themselves and their comrades.

The natural tone and colour of the cinematography was also great, although I disagree with the notion that it was worth a 70mm viewing – it actually did little both to contributing to the story and their framing did not take full advantage of the format. You look a movie like “Lawrence of Arabia,” and it becomes obvious what the power of 70mm can do. While some people may have had a more immersive experience, that’s incumbent upon a number of conditions – least of which means sitting in a spot where it’s conducive to a large-format viewing.

Don’t get me wrong, the film was still tense, and I think most people had that experience watching it. But there was this obnoxious attempt to manipulate one’s subconscious that was distracting to the point of irritation. Namely, they played with a ticking stopwatch effect to the point where it went past being pedantic and just felt stupid and contrived. In being noticeable, it detracts from the true impact; it resembled the overwhelming violin you often hear in the “emotional” scenes of Spielberg films, letting the music do the heavy lifting instead of the narrative context.

And since we’re on about the narrative, there really wasn’t much. It felt like one logistical obstacle over another, without any regard to personal, individual investment. I liked the fact that they mostly used lesser known actors, but the narrative arc only superficially touched upon an event that is chock full of incredible details.

The events of Dunkirk are truly fantastic, and are not popularly revisited in history classes, and yet Nolan merely condenses the entire, nearly insurmountable obstacle into a five-minute verbal exchange between the executive brass. I mean, imagine watching Werner Herzog’s “Fitzcarraldo” without the perspective of Kinski’s character, whereby the movie is simply about pushing a boat over a mountain. You’d easily lose interest. …I lost interest.

Strangely enough, a YouTuber recut the film down to 8 minutes and made it a silent film, and it works! Compressing the action made it far more interesting, which begs the question, does Nolan’s interpretation of the story warrant a feature film? I say no, even though the actual story could easily fill that time slot. Check out the recut silent film here:

Should you go see this film? Eh. Is the 70mm amazing? Eh. Is it a tense and action-packed movie, one that’s hydrophobic as fuck? Sure, but while there is a lot I like about this movie, it felt too disordered to recommend. I neither liked nor disliked it, and I think that is a dangerous place to be for any art.

I have little opinion about it, but am only writing this review in contrast to a more capable film I saw earlier in the day called “Fires on the Plain,” for which I will soon write a review. Where that film actually shocked me, especially for its 1959 content, Nolan’s film merely watered down (quite literally) events that were fascinating in their own right.

Comments: I actually think Lee did a fantastic job cutting together each scene; a less capable editor would have cut too quickly with the large format, and it would have felt rushed. My critique is solely with the STRUCTURE, not the style of the editing. Unfortunately, our brains have not evolved commensurate with the technology, and I meant to make that distinction – between visual trends and the foundations of establishing clarity for transference of information.

Even though there are plenty of “modern” techniques exist in older films – such as Abel Gance’s editing style – they evolve over time; however, the way we perceive clarity of information by way of media is somewhat universal: you can alter the presentation and the tempo and the style, but the core process in how we collect and logically form conclusions follows a particular format unique to the human experience.

Different from the old Masters, Nolan’s choices to cut back to the different narratives does not feel chaotic, but simply arbitrary and it lacks a GEOMETRIC cohesion. Scholars and essayists can point out specific spots in, let’s say “Intolerance,” where the action demands a break and a shift to another perspective – both visually and thematically, according to the anchor of film. The event of Dunkirk was the anchor here, and the relationship between land, air, and sea did not gel in any way that seemed intentional or by design.

I mean, it is what it is, but I don’t typically think of him as a lazy filmmaker – and it just feels a bit lazy. Reminds me of Tony Zhou’s analysis of John Sturges’s commentary of “Meanwhile, back at the ranch….” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1GXv2C7vwX0

richardfleming
In Film Theory

“La La Land,” More Like “Blah Blah Land” Amirite?!

Night of the Hunter

An Anachronistic Nightmare

This film is an anachronistic fucking nightmare, best illustrated in its combination of having the protagonist driving an Oldsmobile with an 8-track tape player and the other a Prius. Oh, but Ryan Gosling’s character has *classic* style, just look at his pretentious wing-tip shoes.

In all honesty, at least he can act, which is more than I can say for Emma “Play To The Camera” Stone. She plays/is a hammy, dilettante hipster – the kind of insufferable theatre-folk who hang around community venues lamenting that we no longer live in the goddamned 1950s.

Grow the fuck up! As a whiny, tyro actress, she doesn’t seem to understand how filmmaking works – despite working as a barista on a production lot. (Psst, when you’re walking by set and an AD tells you they’re rolling, you fucking shut the fuck up!)

While watching Singin’ in the—, I mean La La Land, I couldn’t help notice that no one could dance – despite having a choreographer work through the numerous routines. Dance should be free and fun, expressive and physical; walking with a little gyrating hardly counts, turds. And despite Gosling being the ONLY redeeming quality in this film, the motherfucker can’t sing OR dance. Take your goddamned hands out of your pockets when you move, wang.

Who do you think you are, Gene Kelly? You forget, he’s actually good. I get that having a “oner” looks cool, but the camerawork was as maladroit as the clunky performers. Seriously, they move like crap! And a voice coach for everyone involved would’ve paid HUGE dividends. Stone’s singing was laughably poor, and I’m as fit to judge a singer’s performance as William Hung.

A quick word about the cinematography: it was largely UGLY. A friend asked me to review this film before they view it, and I think this alone is reason enough to abandon the attempt. I can count the number of interesting shots on one hand, which – coincidentally – is the same number of well-delivered lines in this picture (done solely by Gosling).

I know the DP has an ASC accreditation, but it warrants me giving this tip to him: don’t light an actor’s face with a full green key. They look fucking DEAD and putrid, like Emma Stone is a rotting corpse approaching her boyfriend for dinner. It isn’t clear if they just live adjacent to a 24-hour laundromat or if she’s been zombified and is after his brains.

Despite An American in P—, ahem, La La Land’s attempt to blend songs into the scenes, they do so terribly – awkwardly fading to silence as the mediocre, pre-recorded music track fills in as diegetic.

I mean it when I say that the references weren’t cute; they were borderline shit attempts to use features that made those movies great as a means to improve the garbage you’ve laid out. This movie was like Singin’ in the Rain, only if by “like” we mean imagined by a complete fucking moron.

During one scene in The Umbrellas of Cherbourg— dammit…La La Land, they show a very brief clip from Rebel Without A Cause, which both those twats don’t even finish because the Rialto’s projectionist DOESN’T DERSERVE TO FUCKING LIVE! Who the hell BURNS the fucking film!?! You stupid shitstain…this isn’t Cinema Paradiso for God’s sake!!! Your fucking theatre deserved to be shut down.

Anyway, the point I wanted to make is that, even though it was a brief shot, I found myself instantly wishing I were in THAT screening…or that this pile of maggot piss lit on fire. I don’t often wish for a movie to be over so early in the story.

This movie lacks style, completely. I know I’ve been making jokes about the thieving they did to pander to people that don’t even understand why they like musicals (and they FUCKING SHOULD BECAUSE THEY CAN BE AWESOME).

But the film is such a Frankenstein’d piece of shit that it actually has to include a scene where two of the actors discuss the evolution of jazz (and making it more accessible to younger audiences) as a metaphor for why this movie simply…doesn’t…work…. Hey bruh, let me finish your analogy: you say jazz is dying, perhaps. You know what else is dying? Original movie concepts…and you fuckers are operating the guillotine.

In the end, I’m not sure what this film was intended to be. It was unfunny, uncreative, musically inept, artistically bankrupt, visually bland (with terrible VFX in some places), and ultimately paced so poorly that it crawls to its own, slow, drawn-out death. Pass on this monstrosity. I’d rather chow through a fish-oil flavoured vat of Vaseline than sit through it again.

richardfleming
In Film Theory

“The Greasy Strangler” is a Surprising Gem

Big Brayden eating a sausage

The Greasy Strangler

“Bullshit artist!”
“Bullshit artist!”
“You’re a bullshit artist!”
“Bull-SHIT! Art-IST!”
“I call bullshit on that.”
“You’re a horse shit artist.”
“I call horse shit. You’re covered in horseshit.”
“B.U.L.L.S.H.I.T A.R.T.I.S.T. Bullshit Artist!”
“You’re the world’s biggest bullshit AND horseshit artist!”

This is some of the dialogue from a movie that is nearly impossible to describe. It goes on like this for almost 5 minutes, and there are similar scenes that defy logic in how long and repetitive they become. The film is garbage in the most beautiful way.

For almost 90 minutes, you wade through unending flashes of fake dongs that strain against inappropriately cut disco attire, enlarged scrotums that look like they were spawned from the nightmarish imagination of Matthew Barney, oversized pubic bushes that resemble fake afro wigs glued to the crotch, and copious amounts of grease trap fat – viscous and filthy –in which both food and people are submerged.

The film is disgusting and irreverent, but still fascinatingly entertaining. One look at Jim Hoskins, the director, kinda says it all. His image should accompany the dictionary definition of disturbed creep with a sex problem. He’s like Tim and Eric meets Quentin Dupieux (director of “Rubber”).

In one scene, three men stand by a motel vending machine, discussing their frustration over how a bag of paprika potato chips is lodged against the spiral dispenser. They are not significant characters, having just come from a disco tour (given by our protagonists) in which they demanded free drinks that were offered in the tour’s brochure. This infuriates the father, who abruptly ends the tour and, subsequently, the scene.

Here’s the scene that follows, as they stand at the vending machine: one of the men asks what the chips are made of, to which another man quickly replies “POtaTO,” making the syllables indistinguishable and the word unintelligible through his heavy Indian accent. The listener asks him to repeat the word over and over and over again, yet the Indian man enunciates it in exactly the same way each time.

There is a volley of question and predictable, nonsensical response – like an elaborate Meisner exercise of repetition. The scene mounts to a crescendo whereby no true resolve occurs, then it dramatically switches gears as the third man says, “I think he’s trying to say “poTAto.” The scene wraps up, as though the exchange never happened. This trend of nonsensical volley is repeated throughout film (as indicated at the very beginning of this review).

While on the subject of Meisner, I feel compelled to talk about the acting. A little research reveals that the cast was initially unwilling to participate in the film. They were so turned off by the script – and I’m not surprised – because it reads like gibberish. The language and character interactions are terribly forced and overly self-aware. The film reads like the worst kind of student film – one whose creator possesses the perfect storm of incredible stupidity with an overinflated ego, both of which obfuscate their ineptitude (there’s a name for this condition, known as the Dunning-Kruger effect).

Yet, because of the unwavering commitment of the acting talent, it totally works. They are transformed from a stilted troupe of Tommy-Wiseau-level amateurs to fascinating personae that keep you engaged. The horrendously delivered dialogue actually pulls you closer to them, not further away. This film works BECAUSE of the actors; it required their complete trust in the vision and their commitment to flawless execution.

There’s a scene where the father character exits a building wearing his signature disco outfit (fake penis exposed and all) and a spotlight flashes on him against a blank brick wall. He immediately begins a dance routine as the spotlight tracks alongside his lateral movements – à la Gene Kelly in “Singing in the Rain.” The spotlight suddenly cuts power, and the father resumes his normal walk off-screen in the darkness. There is NO overt motivation or explanation behind breaking the fourth wall in this way, yet it was important enough to elaborately draw attention to behind-the-scenes production elements.

The music is intriguing, like Kavinsky trying to craft a soundtrack for a Super Mario Bros 3 reboot. I can’t call it good because of its use, often set as a leitmotif that signifies a character shift into an altered state of mind. It grates on the nerves, enforcing an atmosphere of confusion and restlessness.

Of the thousands of films I’ve seen, this stands out as the most intentionally bizarre. There is an unbroken focus in its approach and directorial vision that warrants some level of respect – even though it often feels like unnecessary work to get the creative team where they want to go.

In the end, the film does touch on some relatively beautiful, touching points about passing the baton of family values and the nature of complex familial relationships, but first trudges through gallons of shit to get there. It’s doubtful they needed to go through the shit at all, but that’s partly what keeps you engaged – tirelessly investigating the purpose of and motive behind what unfolds onscreen.

You need to go to this film, but not because I think you’ll enjoy it. You may, in fact, loathe it. But it’s an experience you’ve never had and one you will likely never have again.

richardfleming
In Education, Film Theory, Storytelling

“The Goldfinch” (2019) is Unwatchable

The Goldfinch

The Goldfinch

The Goldfinch movie is like watching paint dry, but if the paint were REALLY trying to dry. Like, if the paint’s parents paid to have it attend a Drying School…and there’s enormous pressure for it to dry well, and it’s trying REALLY hard. But when people are watching, it gets shy and can’t exactly do it. There’s simply too much pressure.

The film is too much bullshit and too many clichés. I’m a pretentious New England cunt, and even I’m thinking, “Honey, please…I need more vapid bitch and less ‘I don’t know how to use my butter knife.'” Donna Tartt is friggin’ wonderful, but this adaptation is forced and poorly rendered. And it’s SO fucking BORING.

I felt nothing for anyone, and no plot ever develops. It’s a ridiculous amount of exposition covered through talking and voiceover.

Shit-eating Pointless Person #1: “In case you weren’t aware, Theo’s father left the family six months ago.”

Shit-eating Pointless Person #2: “I wasn’t aware.”

Right. Me neither, bitch. Who does fucking care? Oh, here’s more pointless information about a character you don’t care about at all. I mean, shit, I got more emotional from the trailer for “Honey Boy” than I did after 30 minutes of this garbage.

Hard pass, and may all of these people die horrible, pointless deaths…just like the mom in this movie…. OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

richardfleming
In Education, Film Theory, Storytelling

“The Notebook” (2004) is an Abuse Story in Disguise

The Notebook

The Notebook

Although “chick-flicks” generally get a bad rap, there are plenty of solidly romantic works that don’t need to be diminutive to women or psychotic in their portrayal of relationships. Try L’Atalante, for example; Roger Ebert gave that film 4 stars.

I’d heard good things about this film, it was something I hadn’t seen since it came out in 2004, and felt like I should see it because it’s referenced a lot in popular culture. The cinematography was incredible; I was immediately pulled into the film – even despite the pandering, drivel-spouting voiceover. But holy abusive relationship, Batman!

There’s a lot wrong with this film, and can speak to a bit of the technical pieces that drive me nuts, but mostly I’d like to focus on the nature of Alli’s dementia, as well as the saccharine sentimentality that disguises nefarious behaviours.

Identity as love-currency.

As someone who has personal experience dealing with a loved one suffering from dementia, it’s a goddamned terrible idea to forcibly plant your memories. Even though dementia patients may not remember you, it doesn’t invalidate their positive experiences with you. You can still have a great time while not ruining their fucking day by criss-crossing their wiring and trying to GET them to remember. Jesus, dude…you get all emotional in that scene when she has a fit, and has to be sedated; did you ever think of, I don’t know, NOT TAKING HER EMOTIONALLY HOSTAGE FOR YOUR OWN SELF INTEREST, you selfish piece of shit?

Obsession as infatuation.

One article describes that women, universally, see “a man in love with a woman, who carries a torch for her even though she has apparently forgotten all about him and moved on to some rich guy. They also see a guy who spends all of his money and time rebuilding a house which to them is a symbol of his everlasting love. Women also see a man who is carrying around in his heart a quiet but sure flame for his true love…” Let me tell you why that’s bullshit.

Is he in love or is he obsessed? If you can’t tell the difference, maybe that explains a lot about your relationships…. The scene where he threatens self harm on the Ferris wheel for a date isn’t clever and doesn’t paint him as innocently persistent. It’s psychotic, and inconsistent with the character development of someone who cares. “But he’s driven to act inconsistently BECAUSE of her–“–Shut the fuck up. Just stuff it. This movie isn’t “Twilight” for God’s sake…people should know better.

Tropes…tropes everywhere.

So the rich white people are evil because they are rich white people. Anything more archetypal and I would’ve shat myself unconscious. I mean, the father could be blood-related to fucking Dastardly Whiplash. “But their love was one that couldn’t–” Couldn’t what? Couldn’t work? Because he’s just a summer romance? Oh trust me, I know…they remind me every 10 minutes. But in what fucking world is that a thing?

Am I just supposed to assume it can’t work, like I’m supposed to just ignore time travel altogether when watching “Looper”…’cause the director certainly did…Bazinga! Heh heh heh, ahhhh, good times…. Anyway, he had a raging hard-on for her before she even spoke to her; so what is he basing her beautiful personality on?

We deserve better romance films.

Look, we all want love to some extent. But if dreaming about it must involve swallowing a vapid, tastelessly drafted story crafted by men and aimed predominantly at women, can we get one with far less misogyny and objectification? It’s the popularity of movies like this and the 50 Shades franchise that perpetuate destructive media schemas. Can we get some three-dimensional female leads up in here? Please? And preferably ones whose evaluations of worth don’t depend on the men to which they’re supposed to “belong.”

richardfleming
In Education, Film Theory, Storytelling

“Death Note” – Perfect Drama for Those That Dislike Anime

Death Note

Death Note

Although I’ve seen this show many times, I feel like it deserves a review in light of the American bastardisation that lives on Netflix – like a disease completely immune to “cerebral” antibiotics – and that the original show ALSO resides on Netflix in a quality, subtitled form with the better, Japanese voice acting. The original “Death Note” show represents near-perfect drama. If you haven’t seen it, carve out a few days to watch it. When I started it, I couldn’t stop: I spent the three, consecutively sleepless nights binging the entire series. I regret nothing.

The story is simple: a guy named Light finds a notebook that has instructions on the back. If you write someone’s name in it, while imaging their face, they will die. It’s ludicrous, and he dismisses the premise only to later test his morbid curiosity. The book works! From this moment, we already have a sense of who this character is, and he goes on a purge. It’s a believable shift and a tragic character flaw that plays itself out through the whole show. The sequence of him drafting names, followed by their subsequent deaths, is the most riveting rendition of handwriting I’ve ever seen.

Using a power like this is not without repercussions. Light is visited by a Shinigami (roughly, “god of death”) named Ryuk who tells him more about the power of the book. Ryuk also explains how Light came upon the book – by sheer chance. He had dropped the book from the realm of the dead just to see what happens…. What’s curious is that I think Ryuk is the actual protagonist, and he resembles us as the audience – he may have judgements, but he holds them close, and he merely wants to see where things go. He just wants to be entertained, as do we.

This is just the first episode. It is loaded with dramatic tension that links you to the next episode. You HAVE to watch, you HAVE to know. It’s an unstoppable force of dramaturgy.

What follows is a perfect relationship between anti-hero and antagonist that I’ve ever seen, in the form of Light’s nemesis and necessary other half: a genius crime consultant named L. I think they are so perfectly balanced that it often goes unappreciated. We take for granted the beauty of the mental and emotional weighting, and their cat-and-mouse interactions play like two chess masters exchanging pieces at rapid speed.

And unlike other anime that force us to assume ridiculous premises (like the Devil getting a part-time job at a burger joint to bide his time and recover from a battle in Heaven, or a 15-year-old high school student gaining access to a secret soul society where he amasses unimaginable power), the characters in “Death Note” are unassuming. The book isn’t mentioned, and despite hearing the phrase “shinigami,” they just think it’s code.

But they rationally and believably discern that something is happening, that people are dying en masse, and that some agent is responsible. They just don’t know how. For whatever reason, this fact is important to me because the writers have to lead themselves (and us) to solve the puzzle with the detectives that defies logic, yet logic is their only tool. It sucks you in and you are having your mind blown right alongside them.

One thing to note is that these shows are short (about 20 minutes), but the dramatic tools are similar to those of a movie or a long-form show. I saw a video where someone counted the dramatic beats throughout an episode; he came to 42 beats. That’s a major shift of character objective every 30 seconds. And you feel it.

The other piece of this is that you rarely experience a show where the stilted visuals are part of the point. There is endless inner dialogue, and it works because the entire point is what you show of your intent and to whom. The show is still visual – and exquisitely so – but it’s nuanced. In the first episode, where Light is visited by Ryuk, he is startled off of his chair. But he reaches out and there’s a shot of his hand gripping the edge of the chair to lift himself up.

It is a simple insert, but it tells the story of Light’s resolve – he was spooked, but not truly surprise. This is something the Netflix film completely misses and changes to cringeworthy comic effect. Light is a piece of shit, he isn’t a coward. He’s a version of Raskolnikov from “Crime and Punishment,” he’s a dictator, he’s a morally repugnant soul, but – just like Ryuk – we reserve our judgement. We just want to see where this goes….

Go watch it.

richardfleming
In Education, Film Theory, Storytelling

David Mamet’s On Directing Film

David Mamet's On Directing Film

David Mamet’s On Directing Film

What a marvelous breath of fresh air! I mean, Jesus, he goes through so many issues I have with modern, American movies and he does so with great humour and startling intellect.

This book is more of a transcript from a class Mamet taught at Columbia University, where he workshops the dramatic ideation process with students. It’s really helpful to read him work through film ideas with them on the fly; identifying generic troupes and pushing them past what is average, what he calls “inflected” visuals.

What’s great about his workflow is that it feels wonderfully organic but follows the logical syllogism of dramatic, dialectic story argumentation. Often, when dramatists talk about dramatic structure, students tend to get dogmatic – or they completely reject the notion that there is any order to the storytelling process (both of which are dangerous).

Mamet does a fantastic job of drawing an analogy to these “rules,” recounting a conversation with a ship captain and a passenger. The passenger asks, “With all the possible canals and twists and turns and pitfalls along this sea route, how is it that you can avoid crashing?” The captain replies, “The route is marked.” And that’s the question: why risk it haphazardly? While I think it’s important to question any rules, it’s helpful to know why they’re there to begin with.

I think the concept of juxtaposing images to compound meaning is lost on filmmakers today. They may know what the Kuleshov Effect is, but they don’t effectively use it over the entire course of their narrative. As you stack images together, the meaning gets magnified and the significance grows alongside your character. This is the first filmmaking book that has overtly stated that, in the concept of “uninflected” shots.

Most American movies, and other mainstream movies, are produced under a system that doesn’t understand how life works – and they have little perspective to offer that’s of value. Writers explain away nuance with ridiculous backstory: “Hey, I need to sit down because I just got back from Vietnam….” What the fuck? 

One example I liked in this book was the following exchange: a guy calls up a buddy to demand money back that he lent his friend. With the usual backstory approach, you’d have the guy answer the phone like, “Hello, Johnny, this is Cal. I’m calling to let you know that I’m coming over to get that money you owe me, so you better be there when I arrive.”

But dialogue isn’t supposed to just fill in the spots that the visuals can’t; the dialogue is what people use to get what they want. So a more accurate phone call would just have “Cal” bark into the phone, “Where the hell were you yesterday!?” It’s that simple.

Most American movies, and other mainstream movies, are produced under a system that doesn’t understand how life works – and they have little perspective to offer that’s of value. Writers explain away nuance with ridiculous backstory: “Hey, I need to sit down because I just got back from Vietnam….” What the fuck? 

What’s great about his workflow is that it feels wonderfully organic but follows the logical syllogism of dramatic, dialectic story argumentation. Often, when dramatists talk about dramatic structure, students tend to get dogmatic – or they completely reject the notion that there is any order to the storytelling process (both of which are dangerous).

Reading this was serendipitous, as David Mamet’s On Directing Film is actually coming out with his own Masterclass – in which I’ve already pre-enrolled. I’m absolutely thrilled about it, as I think he’s one of the few remaining artists that has a core philosophy about drama that is erudite, time-testing, and fascinating to witness.

richardfleming
In Education, Film Theory, Storytelling

“Mother” – A Gargantuan Waste

Mother

Mother

More appropriately titled “Take A Passive Journey Through A Privileged White Woman’s Struggle To Get Disadvantaged People Out of Her Suburban Home,” this quasi-Biblical, quasi-cautionary relationship and anti-fame tale drudges through an endless array of Snorricam shots and “Rosemary’s Baby” references that lead you to a forced conclusion that any rails-based game would envy. While there’s a lot this movie does very well, it was simply too vague to make the kind of impact it sought to make.

This is a well-known technique: make a movie whose premise and point are nebulous enough that anyone can assign meaning to it. No one is better at this than Sofia Coppola. The movie built tension, because nothing happened: you would sit on drawn-out compositions with a noticeably quiet soundtrack, and get pummeled by overused jump-scares that had the unintentional byproduct of distancing yourself from the plight of the main character.

And Jennifer Lawrence, for all she’s worth, pulled a major Keanu Reeves manoeuvre here, in that we are watching her be entirely knocked about by her environment – without any regard to her own will or sense of autonomy. It was like sitting inside of VR simulation where you don’t know the controls, and you’re getting pissed at your avatar for not moving in the direction you want but merely flops against the wall in an effort to do something as simple as enter a doorway.

I was curious how many pages of the script there’d be if we condensed all the times Jennifer Lawrence says, “Hey! Wait!” Her performance was still good, which may sound like a contradiction, but she emoted in masterful ways. But no amount of technique or turmeric water (you’ll get it if you see the film) was going to save her ass from a shoddy script.

I appreciate the symbolism within the film, but it was over the top – to the extent that it created immense boredom. However, by the end of the first shot, I knew this was going to be some mobius-strip kind of shit, and I’m terrible at predicting this stuff. By the end of the first 30 minutes, it was obvious we were being subjected to the heavy hand of religious stories – although I’m not sure WHICH stories.

The scenarios danced from Jesus to Adam and Eve to Joseph and Mary to Moses, etcetera…I’m assuming that Aranovsky thought rewriting Noah’s portion of “Genesis” wasn’t enough and he had to have a hand in bastardising the other portions of the Good Book.

There are definitely things that make people naturally squirm, and Hollywood has it down to a science. But that isn’t good filmmaking. I can have musical notes played that will force the hairs on your neck to stand up; that doesn’t make me a musician.

All-in-all, I don’t think the film was terrible, but I can’t think of much that was worth seeing. The cinematography was particularly ugly, and I found myself vacillating between leaving and trying to give it the benefit of the doubt. If I had this to do over, I would probably have left. See it at your own risk

richardfleming
In Education, Film Theory, Storytelling

“Bad Moms” Is Bad

Bad Moms

Bad Moms

Sometimes, I’ll treat myself to an absolutely shitty film. I mean the kind of rubbish that would send others to line up shots of bleach. But the world is a meaningless void of despair and anguish, and the only way I can fill the existential hole in my life is to reaffirm my mission through the sweltering rage that foments during these choice showings. I chose Bad Moms. Oh ho HOOOO, boy…you’re in for a treat.

Oddly enough, this pile of giraffe dung was penned by two men, not to mention all the Executive Producers were men. The only women in major, executive roles were the Production Designer and one of the two editors. Ay, fuck me Jerry!)

I’ve always thought that American comedy movies lacked any of the visual power of foreign films in the same genre – or even movies made here much earlier. This film depends almost exclusively on the dialogue, which in all fairness isn’t terribly sufferable – if you were to remove Mila Kunis’s hammy, wink-at-the-camera performances. There were a handful of funny moments, but the quality of performance embarrassed ME, and I didn’t even have a hand in this wangshaft shit-storm. I’m surprised Kunis’s career remained intact. This entire film was the acting equivalent of Harrison Ford’s voiceover in the Producer’s edition of “Blade Runner.” I’m not joking.

And while I get that this is a moooooovie, that it’s supposed to be unrealistic, there’s a limit. In theatres, I remember viewers who were unfamiliar with other wuxia-genre films (“Wire-Fu” action movies) laughing during Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon when the characters started flying through the air. It’s because they didn’t readily understand the story world, and Ang Lee didn’t set it up correctly (typical of that little bitch). He erroneously depended on the prior knowledge that a niche fan base would have (one familiar with the fantastic elements involved in this sect of Gung Fu movie lore). For some reason, he didn’t feel the need to address it to new, unfamiliar American audiences. It’s the reason that no one laughs when magic is cast during a Harry Potter film – they understand HOW MUCH belief to be suspended.

Bad Moms, however, boggles the mind, to the extent that you start asking odd, unrelated questions throughout – like, how the fuck are some of these broke-ass bitches paying for stuff? What do they and their husbands do for work? How many hours are in this day? What time is it that they having evening cocktails? Because it looked like they were watching a movie in afternoon (hopefully not some piece of shit like Bad Moms), then jumped to what looks like brunch. Fucking sunlight streaming in you sacks of fucking biowaste! If your marriage counsellor is telling you all marriages can be fixed, but then proceeds to tell you this one is hopeless after witnessing a single interaction, do you call out your therapist for being stupid and worthless at her job? (Please, Wonda Sykes, I never thought I’d say this, but if your only occupational options were therapist or comedian…puhhhlease go back to comedy!)

Ultimately, what this lack of realism does is make the relationship between everyone unbelievable and dumb. So, when the formulaic “drama” appears, you’re just like, “Eh, the dudes who wrote this will figure it out.” And, surprise, they fucking do, but not before long stretches of pointless, gratuitously overshot sequences of faces mobbing the camera – nearly winking at your stupid ass for having to sit through this mess – and an editing style that resembles a film student trying his hand at cutting his first music video.

I’ve heard about films that shoot excessive slow-motion footage to pad the runtime, and never fully believed the myth. Well, I’ve found my cinematic cryptid, and apparently this kind of crap flourishes within the chick-flick category. The Director of Photographer has an ASC credential (the equivalent of a cinematography PhD) and yet he shot a movie in the least-inventive way possible. There were even shots borrowed, inappropriately I’ll add, from movies like The Fast and The Furious. I get that there were references to this particular movie, but come on. You mix that shit in with greenscreen footage of the family in a muscle car pretending to swerve back and forth? Jesus.

One sequence of all the neighbourhood moms partying, which I thought was just to establish that they had a good time, went on for nearly 15 minutes. I’m not sure what the point was; we get it, it’s a fucking party scene. I gleaned that from the hordes flooding their oversized suburban home and dancing to loud music, what more would you like to add? Early in the sequence, they insert a couple quick visual jokes – unfunny, but clearly an attempt at joking: people pouring booze down their gullets (not really funny), a pair of women I’m presuming were straight but that started making out because they were inebriated (not really funny), and an occasionally goofy expression passed between characters. But what was the point of the LENGTH of this shit? And people give the driving scene in Solaris shit….

I don’t even need to tell you how the story ends. You know how it ends, because every movie like it ends in exactly the same way. So I’m not really sure what the point is in watching these films. Some critics compared this to Bridesmaids. This is no Bridesmaids. This is a sloppy, lazy, self-indulgent pile of shit that isn’t even intelligent enough to be called a “cash-grab.” It appeals to the lowest form of life and was so mundane that I had to pick up a book and read to keep my heart from slowing to the point of cessation due to the sheer boredom. The best part of my watching it was having the pleasure of writing about how fucking terrible it was.

AH! bad momsI feel refreshed! Life is now worth living again!!! Maybe I’ll take a walk. Maybe I’ll volunteer at an animal shelter. Maybe I’ll take up learning Japanese and do some travelling. Anything is possible; the world is my oyster! My day is brighter and clearer for this experience, like having a deep bad moms, emotional, artistic enema. Enjoy the day, beautiful people!

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