Archive for September, 2015

Film Review: Selma

September 29, 2015 Leave a comment

Selma (2014; Directed by Ava DuVernay)

Two contrasting shot compositions at key moments in Ava DuVernay’s Selma visually convey the discrimination that motivated the struggles of the Civil Rights Movement in 1960s America and the achieved goals of that Movement. But these shots say more about DuVernay’s filmmaking methods as practiced in Selma, and how she marshals and sharpens the cinematic language to tell this vital American story with maximized impact.

The first shot frames the first attempt in March 1965 by 500+ African-American activists to march from the city of Selma, Alabama to the state capitol in Montgomery to protest the systematic denial of voting rights to African-Americans in the state, and indeed in much of the South, in the wake of President Lyndon B. Johnson’s 1964 Civil Rights Act which made it legal for all African-Americans to vote in the United States. DuVernay’s camera pans dramatically and high through the girders of Edmund Pettus Bridge at the edge of Selma on the highway to Montgomery. The marchers, led by Rev. Hosea Williams (Wendell Pierce) and (future Congressman) John Lewis (Stephan James), march down the right-hand lane of the two-lane highway towards the line of Southern lawmen and good ol’ boy vigilantes (the distinction between the two is not too keenly felt) arrayed to halt them. The left lane is empty, a stark metaphor for the separate and unequal system of segregation endured by every African-American at the time.

DuVernay lingers on the image just long enough for the audience to register its significance, but also enfolds it into a tense and galvanizing sequence that concludes with the brutally violent dispersal of the march by the local selma-movie-bridge-sceneauthorities. This composition is repeated for a later march attempt, which turns back at the bridge despite the state police standing aside to (apparently, but maybe not) allow the activists to pass. Its contrasting image comes near the end of the film, after Martin Luther King, Jr. (David Oyelowo) and the march’s organizers succeed in obtaining a court sanction to march and cross the bridge out of Selma in a great celebratory mass. Another crane shot, clear of the constricting visual tangle of the bridge girders, shows the marchers filling both lanes of the highway. Segregation, in the scope of this cinematic juxtaposition at least, has broken down. Freedom rings.

Selma in general is not nearly as forthright and triumphal about this key victory in the Civil Rights struggle, a direct catalyst for the Voting Rights Act of 1965 which struck down the byzantine voter registration regulations that stood between African-Americans and the ballot box in much of the South. As seen through the eyes and filtered through the perspective of Oyelowo’s steely but thoughtful and conflicted King, the Selma march was an effort of Herculean proportions and an ordeal of Job-like suffering undertaken in order to glimpse little more than a thin blaze of light from a mere crack in the door. Selma and its oft-sainted protagonist never lose sight of the hard truth that this door was propped open by dead and mutilated black bodies beyond all measure of grief.

Selma paints a superbly detailed portrait of a Martin Luther King who, yes, achieved great things by displaying tremendous bravery, moral magnitude, and oratorical acumen (Oyelowo nails the crescendoing preacher’s cadence to such an extent that most won’t even notice that he does not utter King’s historical speeches, the exact text of which his estate did not permit to be used in the film). But Selma is not a biopic of a man, it is a panorama of a movement in one particular place and time; not a solo portrait but a group one, not A Polish Nobleman but The Night WatchKing is at the still centre of a historic ferment that will move, with or without him; one lively sequence sees King and his largely male entourage of civil rights leaders descend, chattering and joking, on the home of a local supporter in Selma, rowdy travellers putting up for the night at a hospitable roadside inn of sorts. He directs when needed, like any other of its leaders, but he also listens to other opinions and viewpoints, considers other approaches, tactics and trajectories. It’s a picture of Martin Luther King as a conciliator, a mediator, the hub of a branching tree of competing interests and directions.

This position as a core negotiating figure involves King facing not merely the African-American church leaders and student protestors of his own side, nor indeed the antagonistic forces of segregation arranged athwart them (as represented by Tim Roth’s well-oiled Alabama Governor George Wallace, they do not deign to even meet with a mere “nigra”, Nobel Peace Prize or no). He also navigates treacherous waters with LBJ (Tom Wilkinson), who is reluctant to expend more political capital on “Negro issues” after the Civil Rights Act, and with his wife Coretta (Carmen Ejogo), who resents his frequent absences, his infidelities, and the mortal dangers that his activities expose him and his family to. Through struggles and obstacles, Oyelowo’s King is not certain of the correctness of his strategies or the loyalty of every one of his allies (especially the one seated in the Oval Office), but he never wavers in the righteousness of his divine mission.

The most prominent commentator on the African-American experience of the moment, Ta-Nehisi Coates, has viewed the non-violent resistance represented by Martin Luther King with a certain ambivalence, as did Coates’ major ideological influence, Malcolm X (who makes a brief appearance in Selma, played by Niger Thatch, meeting with Coretta Scott King in the interest of aiding a jailed King in Selma). Certainly, King’s unquestionably heroic dimensions for white Americans as well as for blacks has seen his transformation, a mere half-century since the events in Selma, into a mythic saint of justice.

This icon of King is stripped of the thorny and sometimes confrontational politics that kept him under FBI surveillance, in particular his insatiable desire to radically roll back structures of institutional discrimination and his open opposition to the Vietnam War. The sainted King is today frequently invoked rhetorically in order to defuse agitation for correction and change to the structures and tendencies of the American state and society that continue to exploit and dehumanize African-Americans. Why must black and liberal activists be so aggressive and sensitive about racial problems, which were fixed at such a high cost in the 1960s? Why can’t they be patient and visionary, trusting in hope and dreams like Dr. King? The meek shall inherit, remember?

Coates, like Malcolm X, mistrusts not merely King’s aim of changing White America’s mind about the plight of Black America, but his faith-based vision of multi-generational reform and improvement beyond his own violently-shortened lifetime. The portion of the 1963 “I Have a Dream” speech that has become the most moving in light of his subsequent assassination in 1968 is King’s reference to not getting to the envisioned Promised Land with us, and an exchange with a Justice Department lawyer who supported his efforts near the end of Selma echoes this faith-rooted acceptance of his mortality before his God and the continuation of the movement after he is gone.

Coates, however, is an atheist who understands our life on earth as the entirety of our existence, and as a result agitates for tangible material improvements (ie. reparations, which King himself supported) to make up for America’s historical wrongs against African-Americans sooner rather than a distant wished-for future of magical equality and justice later. Coates’ term for the airbrushed fantasy of innocent white-bread prosperity and safety, which is always already built on the destruction of the black body, in Between the World and Me is the Dream, and the nomenclature cannot help but feel like a direct shot at King’s most famous rhetoric device, an attempt to dispel an obscuring fog of fuzzy optimism around the aims that both men share.

Selma does not generally indulge this fog of optimism, even if DuVernay concludes with an archival-footage celebration of the final, successful Salem-to-Birmingham before staging King’s triumphant speech in front of the Alabama State Capitol as a victorious coda. Aside from a shocking and then abstractly floating depiction of the Birmingham church bombing, DuVernay utilizes the language of cinema with directness and power. Selma is not soft-focus. It drags a tense moment of conflict and resistance from the fog of history into the blazing light of now. Selma presents to us an important juncture in the Civil Rights Movement not as a Dream but as a vital, visceral reconstituted reality that is impossible to look away from.

Categories: Film, History, Politics, Reviews

Film Review: Calvary

September 27, 2015 1 comment

Calvary (2014; Directed by John Michael McDonagh)

Father James (Brendan Gleeson) is a good man and a good Catholic priest, but that seems to matter not at all. He ministers to the concerns and doubts of his parishoners in a small community in Ireland’s County Sligo. He attempts to discourage the domestic violence committed against a promiscuous local woman (Orla O’Rourke); tries to dissuade a bowtie-wearing odd bird (Killian Scott) from his murderous tendencies as well as from giving them a professional outlet by joining the army; susses out the sincerity of a wealthy financier (Dylan Moran) who offers to make a handsome donation to the Church to assuage his guilt and loneliness; maintains a fond yet prickly friendship with an elderly writer (M. Emmet Walsh) finishing a book in an isolated cottage; admonishes his only altar boy for nipping communion wine; and fights valiantly to avoid losing patience with his twit of a fellow priest (Domhnall Gleeson, son of Brendan). Closer to home, he also tries to reconnect with his daughter (Kelly Reilly) from his pre-ordainment marriage, who visits him from London after attempting suicide.

Above all, though, Father James struggles to overcome the widespread contempt for and distrust of the Catholic Church in Ireland following the revelations of rampant child abuse by its clergy, compounded by the Church leadership’s concerted cover-up efforts. The notorious scandal is employed by those he encounters as a persistent trump card to his well-meaning efforts to offer comfort, solace, or guidance. James scrambles doggedly for the moral high ground, but the barrages of disdain for his chosen religious vocation and its association with organized pedophilia put him in reluctant retreat every time.

But the abuse scandal has much more dire consequences for Father James. In Calvary‘s first scene, a man enters the confessional booth and promises to kill James in a week’s time, on a Sunday morning. The man reveals himself to have been sexually abused by a priest (now deceased), and will punish the Church for its crimes by murdering a good priest, to maximize the shock. The remainder of the film builds towards this fateful Sunday encounter, the identity of James’s assassin held secret until the ending and ably concealed by the consistent shabby treatment that he receives from every man in town.

Calvary is the second film by writer-director John Michael McDonagh, following the more freewheeling and comic The Guard, which also starred Brendan Gleeson. McDonagh possesses a secondhand grasp of the scabrously crude but frequently hilarious dialogue and conflicted engagement with historical Catholic guilt displayed by his better-known and more brilliant older brother Martin, auteur of In Bruges and Seven Psychopaths. There is much less meta-play and genre flexibility in the younger McDonagh’s films, but his visual sense has evolved quickly while his writing has sharpened and embraced the unsettling moral ambiguities inherent to the Catholic Church’s transformed role in Irish society and culture.

Calvary has some funny snatches of dialogue (the exchange between James and the bowtie-clad Milo is probably the high-water mark) but it does not ever rise to the level of black comedy, remaining as a simmering drama of one man’s accruing suffering for the sins of others. One would likely need a theological degree to properly parse the film’s Catholic symbolism, metaphors, and referrents, but the title alone (referring to the hill outside Jerusalem upon which Jesus is purported to have been crucified) makes its core association between this humble Irish priest and the divine Saviour in whose name he serves crystal clear. The Passion of Father James contains kernels of other biblical stories, too: the Book of Job, ever a favourite for dramatized explorations of the anguish of maintaining faith in a hostile world, is an obvious reference point.

But Calvary has no truck with self-aggrandizing Christ postures. The tremendous Gleeson allows James’s troubled humanity to fill the frame but never transcend its temporal bonds; his late career renaissance continues under the creative stewardship of the McDonagh brothers, who are at last giving this great actor roles worthy of his expansive ability. McDonagh punctuates James’s fateful, pained march towards judgement with sweeping, achingly gorgeous long shots of the County Sligo landscape. These shots function like god’s-eye views, as if the director strapped a camera to an angel sent to observe the trials of a mortal servant of its ineffable master.

It cannot be said that Calvary is exactly satisfying in its moral conclusions or thematic aims. But then neither is contemporary Catholicism, at least not in the unsettled hearts and minds of its increasingly numerous doubters. Calvary feels much more vital than The Guard, a resonant statement of the fallout of the Church’s perceived betrayal of its flock in Ireland, once one of its true strongholds. The sacrifices of Father James carry lingering hints of redemption, reconciliation, and resurrection: after all, he meets his fate not on a Friday, like Jesus, but on a Sunday, the day of the rise from death. But this is not a film about achieving salvation but struggling forever in search of it, to no avail. Calvary makes that struggle seem inherent noble but also sublimely painful and hopeless, and perhaps ultimately futile, though it seems to carry a prayer that this last judgement does not hold.

Categories: Film, Religion, Reviews

Ryan Adams’ Covers of Taylor Swift’s 1989 Album and Pop’s Distrust of Vulnerability

September 24, 2015 Leave a comment

Indie-roots-rock critical darling Ryan Adams released his latest album recently. It consists not of original compositions of his own but entirely of covers, indeed of covers of one album in its entirety: Taylor Swift’s megaselling powerhouse 1989. This is no mere gimmick (it’s more like flattery, if both Adams’s and Swift’s statements about the record’s sincere intent are any indication), though the album does clinch Swift’s ascendancy in indie music circle as music geeks’ superstar pop princess of choice.

I haven’t a particularly distinct or developed critical view of Adams’s 1989 to offer, seeing as such a perspective would require a closer familiarity with Swift’s original work than I can admit to having, despite previous musings on her oeuvre. I know that it’s worth a listen, and that generally speaking I prefer the Neil Young-ish dichotomy of “wooden music” ache and ragged glory rock anthems practiced by Ryan Adams to Taylor Swift’s polished pop production on every day of the week as a matter of personal inclination and taste. There may be deeper factors undergirding this aesthetic judgement, and I hope to untangle these a bit more below.

One particular contrasting feature of the Ryan Adams 1989 compared to the Taylor Swift 1989 that is impossible to miss is the more openly, nakedly emotional nature of these covers. Listeners with a good grounding in Adams’s songs know that he can muster exquisite, soulful heartache with prodigious and moving skill, and he wrings every ounce of available pain from Swift’s compositions, known more for their peppy radio-friendly joyousness. At Vox, Todd VanDerWerff considers this effect of the album, or rather considers how the reception of the Adams album emphasizes the sadness that he “finds” in Swift’s songs without recognizing that these notes of melancholy and vulnerability were always already present and evident from the original album’s release. VanDerWerff argues that the poppy and the darker elements of Swift’s songs create an “emotional tension” on 1989, and Adams’s cover versions eliminate that tension and go full-on sad, with occasional irruptions of anger.

There’s something to this, but I’m not sure it’s quite right. Many of pop music’s pinnacles are products of the tension of light and dark, hooks of delight connected to depths of doubt and despair: Michael Jackson’s “Billie Jean”, Outkast’s “Hey Ya”, and Fastball’s “The Way” come to mind, supremely catchy hits respectively about a thorny paternity controversy, the fragility of romance, and dead old people. You can see a definitely vulnerability in Taylor Swift’s lyrics, but Ryan Adams, with his traditionalist rock approach as the still barely-ascendant shorthand for authenticity (which VanDerWerff is right to be dubious about), is able to pull that vulnerable nature out more readily and evidently than Swift can in her glossier arrangements.

Look at “Shake It Off”, for example, the megahit lead single from Swift’s 1989. With the boppy sheen of the goofy video and the glare of cultural appropriations to distract and direct our attention, Swift’s original emphasizes her beefs with tabloid media speculation about her personal life and emphasizes her overwhelming sense of positivity, her ability to “shake off” the jibes and keep dancing. As it is presented for a mass audience, there’s nothing complicated or (it should be said) particular interesting about the tune (“Blank Space”, as I have discussed, is much more fascinating to think about).

But listen to Adams’s low-key cover of “Shake It Off” and different tones and meanings emerge from Swift’s words. When Swift repeats the criticisms of her intelligence and her worthiness as a romantic partner over the best state-of-the-art electronic beat that money can buy, it comes off as defiant and mocking, a confident kiss-off to the “haters” who are, after all, “gonna hate”. Adams draws out the hurt and sting in those epithets, though, as well as the low simmer of self-doubt that they create. Swift brushes off the hurtful words hurled at her, but Adams worries that they might just be true.

There are deep-rooted factors that condition this reading, that presage the transmission of these meanings. I mentioned, as VanDerWerff does, the lingering claim to authority of expression that rock claims over pop. One can also point, as VanDerWerff does, to the privilege of Adams as a male artist as opposed to Swift as a female artist, and how the underlying sexist norms of the still-patriarchal circle of music criticism construct the soulful, profound male singer-songwriter as superior to the frivolous, superficial pop queen. It is only through the prism of our prejudices that Adams’s versions are seen as deeper or truer or sadder than Swift’s, and any preference for the former over the latter is a sort of discrimination; the prism is a glass ceiling.

This is not exactly VanDerWerff’s point, but the thrust of the observation gets at the point that I wish to make about the duelling 1989s. Regardless of the web of preconditioned perspectives that make us understand the Ryan Adams 1989 as more emotional open and raw than the Taylor Swift 1989, it unquestionably presents that way. This element is not, as VanDerWerff has it, something that listeners of Swift’s songs have somehow “missed”. There’s a melancholy in the bones of Swift’s music, but how her music is composed, arranged, and especially presented betrays a lack of trust in the value of that melancholy.

We might interrogate whether this distrust is Swift’s own or that of the corporate entertainment machine arrayed behind her. Most likely it’s both, with Swift’s uncertainty about expressing the sort of vulnerability that a close reading of her lyrics betrays predetermined by marketing imperatives and focus-group research. Much of this effect has roots in assumptions about gender norms, as well, about how much vulnerability a female artist can safely display. The mainstream feminism attached to a figure like Taylor Swift privileges strength and agency and positivity in a progressive and liberated woman of the modern world. Vulnerability and emotional openness can be considered signs of weakness, and pop-feminism has not often displayed the subtlety and nuance to reconcile these characteristics with its valorization of “Girl Power”. The glossy pop of Swift’s music is an aesthetic (and commercial) choice, but it also serves to distance her pop star persona from the hurtful emotional consequences that underscore her basically happy songs. It can operate as a mask to hide the tears.

It’s instructive to recall that Swift began her recording career in country music, a genre that has annexed much of rock’s sphere of influence with white audiences when it comes to mediated expressions of emotional authenticity. Her early songs, naive high-school fantasies about princesses yearning from their imagined castles though they may be, carried a melancholy about them too, but you could say that it was a melancholy about the limits of their expressive breadth and depth. Pop star Taylor Swift has expanded and sharpened her emotional expressiveness while girding that precious expressiveness in layers of Top 40 sparkle to protect it from exposure. Ryan Adams removes that armour in his cover album of 1989 and lays bare wounded hearts, not only his own but that of the songs’ composer. The record tells us quite a bit about Ryan Adams, but it might just tell us even more about Taylor Swift and the culture that helped to shape her.

Categories: Culture, Music

Film Review: The Galapagos Affair – Satan Came to Eden

September 21, 2015 Leave a comment

The Galapagos Affair – Satan Came to Eden (2013; Directed by Dayna Goldfine & Dan Geller)

The remote Pacific archipelago of the Galapagos is one of the few corners of the planet with no history of permanent human habitation prior to the modern era. Though archaeological evidence suggests that the Galapagos were visited by South American peoples before an off-course Spanish navigator happened upon them in 1535, the islands were only settled at last in the 20th Century. A century after their eternal fame was assured by a young Charles Darwin’s visit on board the Beagle to make some important observations concerning its native finches, the Galapagos Islands played host to a much more sinister and mysterious episode of intrigue.

This episode, involving three sets of German colonists and an enigmatic, unsolved disappearance/murder in the 1930s, is the subject of The Galapagos Affair – Satan Came to Eden. The film’s unwieldy title gestures towards lurid true crime material, but the subtitle in particular has more Miltonian philosophical intentions in mind. A sort of modern case-study reboot of the original Fall of Man, Dayna Goldfine and Dan Geller’s involving documentary is a whodunit without a solution, indeed without the need for one because the guilty party is always already fallen, sinful, imperfect people. It’s a parable of perilous human geography in isolation, of the surface percolation of distrust and resentment of interpersonal coexistence in near-laboratory conditions.

Here’s the scenario, such as it is: in 1929, Dore Strauch and Friedrich Ritter abandon their marriages and late Weimar Germany altogether to run away together to Floreana, an uninhabited island in the Galapagos. Ritter is a physician with a self-righteous Nietzschean bent who wishes to live the untouched existence of the idealized Übermensch in the tropics. Strauch, in the thrall of Ritter’s intellect but of an overall more practical disposition, willingly goes along, although she soon finds their burro to be better company than her moody would-be philosopher lover. They scrape out a hard life for themselves in complete isolation for some time, their only outside human contact derived from an occasional visiting scientific expedition or pleasure yacht.

Their solitude was disrupted twice, and for good. First, a bourgeois Westphalian family called the Wittmers establish a homestead nearby, overcoming initial chilliness and Dr Ritter’s doctrinaire beliefs to become friendly neighbours, a self-styled Swiss Family Robinson to Ritter and Strauch’s Pacific Adam and Eve. But the relative harmony is shattered by a more intrusive and flamboyant resident, the also self-styled Baroness Eloise von Wagner and her two male Germanic acolytes. The Baroness (who is almost certainly nothing of the sort) treats Floreana with the arrogance of a sexualized conquistador, annexing edges of Ritter and Strauch’s “property” (nobody on the island seems to have anything beyond squatter’s rights to anything) and intending to develop a luxury hotel for wealthy travellers that will turn the remote Galapagos into a new vacation hot spot. Her demonstrative personality and hot-and-cold moods throw the fragile social balance on Floreana off kilter, and she is central to the dark and deadly drama that shatters this putative Eden.

Drawn extensively from the journals and memoirs of Strauch, Ritter, the Wittmers, and visiting scientist John Garth, The Galapagos Affair employs major thespianic talents like Cate Blanchett, Thomas Krestchmann, and Diane Kruger to provide voiceover readings of these accounts to dramatize them. The historical story is intercut with interviews with current Galapagos residents, many of them descended from the original inhabitants of neighbouring islands who encounters the Floreana cast of characters. These interviews attempt to contextualize the forces that drove people to move to these remote and inhospitable rocks in the ocean as well as those that keep people there today.

Like the murder mystery, the interviews don’t even approach a conclusive answer to any of the questions dogging the film. The philosophic Ritter might well agree, mind you, that location answers is infinitely less rewarding than asking the questions. The Galapagos Affair doesn’t wind up being quite as intriguing as it initially seems that it might be. The fits and starts of its real-life narrative frustrate the amateur sleuth viewer, seeking out telltales clues that would point to a culprit, and the modern-day contextual chats don’t really add much of interest. But The Galapagos Affair is about stretching the documentary form while simultaneously scribbling eccentric marginal notes for the oldest and most fundamental story of European Judeo-Christian civilization. It takes place at the unsettling crossroads where seminal Biblical morality plays meet harshly pragmatic natural selection, and neither explanatory paradigm offers full comfort from its troubling suggestions about human nature and social drives.

Categories: Film, History, Reviews

Film Review: I Am Legend

September 19, 2015 Leave a comment

I Am Legend (2007; Directed by Francis Lawrence)

The consensus critical opinion that Francis Lawrence’s post-apocalyptic survivor’s tale I Am Legend boasts a superb first hour that is then let down by an incongruous and ineffective closing act consisting of frantic action and heavy-handed Christian-esque self-sacrifice is no less accurate for its persistence. Frequently, such consensus opinions, especially common in the contemporary fandom groupthink enabled by the Internet, act as mechanisms of epistemic closure, preventing productive contrary readings from being voiced and received. Everybody knows what is happening with this movie, it implies, so who are you to say that anything else might possibly be happening?

On occasion, however, a film is structured in such a blindingly self-evident way that there can be little or no argument about how it is laid out and what the effect (and affect) of that structure tend to be. Agreeing with the general perspective on that structure and affect need not hinder a critical reading, which after all can only inhabit the space given to it, can only breathe the oxygen available.

I Am Legend is based on Richard Matheson’s influential 1954 dystopian horror novel of the same name, and was brought to the screen twice before: with Vincent Price in 1964 as The Last Man and with Charlton Heston in 1971 as The Omega Man. The 2007 version returns at last to the original title but transplants the emptied-out urban setting from one coast to another, from Los Angeles to New York City. Director Francis Lawrence (later to become the helmsman of The Hunger Games franchise) keenly observed that much of sprawling L.A. already resembles a nightmarish post-human wasteland, while imaginatively stripping tight-packed, constantly thrumming Manhattan of its thronging multitudes would carry a more potent visual punch.

Indeed it does, for an indelible opening hour at least. Robert Neville (Will Smith) appears to be the only (fully) human inhabitant of what was once the United States’ largest metropolis. Alone in abandoned Manhattan, which is frozen at the moment of panicked evacuation and is gradually returning to nature, Neville and his loyal German Shepherd dog Sam cruise through the deserted, haunted streets by day. Neville hunts herds of deer, works on his golf swing from the deck of an aircraft carrier, interacts half-delusionally with mannequins at a video store (he’s been on his own long enough to work his way through to the Gs on its alphabetized shelves), and returns for an evening dinner at his Washington Square townhouse with his pooch before barricading them both in for a sleepless nocturnal siege of tense terror. Something comes out at night, living but also not living, and Neville knows it and its deadly nature well enough not to hazard his life in its presence in the dark.

There’s a rare visual and visceral resonance to this opening two-thirds of I Am Legend, which mingles the apocalyptic shock of catastrophic collapse with the isolated sense of alienation among stacked millions that we choose to call modernity. Neville, once a famed military man and scientific genius with a loving wife and child as seen in flashbacks, has seen his psychology and personality altered as thoroughly as the decaying cityscape through which he passes like a forgotten ghost. Smith diverts Neville’s energies into his survivalism, into his ongoing efforts to cure the runaway pandemic that has dwindled away the vast majority of the human race, and into his fond, charming interactions with his dog Sam.

But there is always in his eyes the haunted distance from ongoing experience of a man who has, quite literally, lost nearly everything. Neville is perhaps the archetypal role for Smith, an actor whose appeal on the big screen is amplified when aligned not against other people but against forces greater than the mere human (alien invaders, the national security apparatus, robots, structural inequality, golf, and here, nocturnally active zombie-vampires). Like Price and Heston before him, Smith’s onscreen persona has been constructed as super-human, almost otherworldly, above the childish things of human interaction and connection. Smith’s fine work in I Am Legend brings that movie-star superiority down to earth, and to a highly fallible and tenuously held-together version of earth at that.

There’s a very strong argument to be made that if I Am Legend ended after about an hour, when this man who has lost nearly everything loses one of the most important things that he has left, it would be an infinitely better film. This galvanizing tragedy is the upper note of an exquisite crescendo by Lawrence (the screenplay is by Mark Protosevich and Akiva Goldsman) and would be a moving conclusion if its leitmotifs of solitude and sadness in a continuity of pain and loss could be trusted in such a blockbuster-budgeted movie instead of being considered as preludes in the narrative arc to rote redemption and self-sacrificing heroism. But Will Smith must save the world and, with the help of a woman (Alice Braga), a young boy (Charlie Tahan), and a vial of blood containing a cure to the zombifying infection, he verily does.

He does so with an act of Christ-like self-sacrifice inspired by portents of divine intervention that would make even M. Night Shyamalan blush in embarrassment. This ending is a miscalculated forfeiture of the resonance of I Am Legend‘s compelling ideas that manifests as an unforgivable betrayal. Even an alternate ending that grants the predatory hordes of infected “Darkseekers” a measure of quasi-humanity doesn’t improve matters much, coming straight out of left field given the characterization of the ravenous nocturnal hordes up to that point (though it is closer to Matheson’s original text, it must be acknowledged).

The themes marshalled and so memorably visualized in the first two-thirds of I Am Legend are not so easily resolved by selfless moral rectitude and benevolent deism. Lawrence’s indelible images of a post-human Manhattan (shot by the late, great cinematographer Andrew Lesnie) summon the looming spectre of not merely the incipient end of American imperium but the inherent fragility of human civilization itself. Lawrence fitfully sketches these roiling, repressed anxieties with the remarkable image of Neville casting a fishing line into the reflecting pool surrounding the Temple of Dendur in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This transplanted architecture of the ancients, meticulously arranged in the cultural epicentre of the pulsating heart of the modern world, becomes a metaphor for the transitory nature of human achievement in the face of history’s violent imperatives.

The inevitable collapse and gradual decomposition of even the grandest of ambitions is not an idea which the American psyche, ever ambitious and self-conceived as continually ascendant, is particularly well-equipped to handle. For the fantasy factory of Hollywood, the world can always be saved, no matter how dire its predicament. Lawrence’s rare but fleeting and ultimately dismantled achievement in I Am Legend consists of powerfully suggesting that the world is doomed as a matter of course. I Am Legend‘s title referred in its original literary form to Neville’s posthumous legacy as a faded myth to the culture of the infected who succeeded our human species in dominion over the planet. In this film, his “legend” is as a heroic avatar of mankind’s survival and regeneration. But this overlay of hope feels spurious, tacked on to a much more resonant text dominated by isolation and loss. Agreeing with the consensus view that I Am Legend is not as satisfying in its closing act as in its establishing ones does not divert us from this revealing observation. Indeed, it empowers it.

Categories: Film, Reviews

Ta-Nehisi Coates’ “Between the World and Me”: The Dream and the Pain of History

September 10, 2015 4 comments

Between the World and Me, the new book by The Atlantic‘s silver-penned editor Ta-Nehisi Coates, is a fast-detonating truth bomb in the hands of its readers. At once a deeply personal memoir, an incandescent sociopolitical essay, a tight-packed literary pamphlet, and a species of impassioned secular sermon on the African-American perspective in a supposedly “post-racial” society that is inherently anything but, Between the World and Me ought not to be as essential as it is. But a civil society such as that of the United States of America that continues to target black bodies for destruction and plunder, to echo Coates’ bluntly effective terminology, requires such a searing critique.

Coates’ first book, The Beautiful Struggle, was more of a proper memoir, albeit one that sought to make sense of the fearful but joyous everyday reality of growing into one’s black adult self in America, and Between the World and Me is also firmly grounded in personal experiences, in the galvanizing force of memory. Coates is a highly prolific writer, producing more traditional but still deeply powerful long-form journalism for the prestigious East Coast magazine that employs him (such as his mighty piece “The Case for Reparations” from last summer) while also blogging and tweeting about current events and politics but also classic hip-hop, basketball, video games, learning the French language, American and world history, and whatever else strikes his fancy. His many outlets for public writing seem to be admirably treated as blackboards or notebooks to scrawl down and refine his ideas, to focus and sharpen his prose for when he needs it the most.

Between the World and Me is packed with import, composed with a sort of careful forcefulness. Sentences land heavy body blows; a paragraph can leave a reader winded, staggering. Organized as a letter to his teenaged son (which Coates admitted in a recent Daily Show interview was a “literary conceit”), the book’s observations are cohered by this “advice to a son” organizational principle, like Polonius advising Laertes without the comic foolishness. It repeats key terms like mantras or leitmotifs, linking the way that Coates understands American society, politics and history with his own experiences and those of other African-Americabetweentheworldandmens around him and in the national news.

Coates writes of the concept of White America as a mass self-justifying fantasy, “the Dream” of “people who think they are white” (the phrase of James Baldwin, whose book-length essay The Fire Next Time is a strong influence on Between the World and Me). The Dream’s foundations for 400 years and into the present day are erected on the broken and economically exploited bodies of African-Americans and the internalized fear that the ever-present threat of that disembodiment creates in America’s seemingly perpetual underclass. Not merely slavery but the attacks on Reconstruction, the systemic exclusion of Jim Crow, segregation, housing policy, ghettos, and the prison system, the deadly terrorism of lynching and the KKK, and myriad other smaller and larger effects of the dehumanizing practices that have shaped the African-American experience in the United States are noted and discussed with clarity and wisdom.

Coates comprehends the “race problem” itself as a construction that intrinsically supports the Dream. “Race” is a construct and a malleable one at that; its boundaries shift, the compartments that it arranges around certain minorities and distinct groups frequently moved depending on the needs of the society. It is anything but immutable, is not even skin deep. And yet these racial distinctions have formed a tribal identity for African-Americans that Coates recognizes and values as well, and that he comes to understand as having much greater breadth and variety than is generally acknowledged upon attending Howard University, a historically black university that he refers to as “The Mecca”.

But as important and familiar as that identity is, as much beauty and truth as it imbues, Coates recognizes it as being the product of the eternal fear of imminent potential destruction for African-Americans. He wishes his son to understand and value the quotidian struggle with that inheritance of fear, but also to experience the wider world, such as Coates and his family glimpses in Paris (while also recognizing that this city’s romantic allure is built on a Dream as well). There is ever a note of sadness to Coates’ memories, to his words to his son about his own journey, the acknowledgement of progress but also of the tragedy of retained fear and of wasted days, months, years in its thrall.

Perhaps the most interesting and unique element of Between the World and Me is the atheist Coates’ rejection of the multi-generational narrative of progress and hope imparted by the African-American church. Without the belief in eternal life and an arc of history that bends towards justice, Coates is left feeling cold by the non-violent resistance of the beknighted Civil Rights movement and the continued exhortations for contemporary black activism to emulate it. “Allow us to break your bodies without resisting,” the gatekeepers of the Dream say with this insistence, “and perhaps those of us who believe themselves to be white might one day feel enough bad about it to put a stop to it.” To an atheist, as Coates says, the body is the soul. No expectation of becoming a shimmering ghost that gazes down beneficently from a cloud as ghettos improve for their black residents or the prisons empty and close or police are punished for shooting unarmed black men until they see no advantage in continuing to do so or, indeed, as a man with a black Kenyan father and a white Kansan mother becomes President is worth the destruction of the only vessel that will ever carry one’s consciousness. Fairy tales and myths are the tools of the Dream, and Coates rejects their easy comfort with admirable forcefulness and intellectual nuance.

Ta-Nehisi Coates writes at one point in Between the World and Me that he is no cynic, though that precise criticism has been levelled at him often in the reception of the book. In the New York Times opinion pages, David Brooks gave the book backhanded aesthetic praise while castigating Coates for displaying insufficient reverence for the Dream, that myth of inborn American benevolence and righteousness that confers an aura of blamelessness in any situation. The Dream is the only recourse for the Brookses of America, however, since the waking reality (what Brooks unreflectively calls Coates’ “excessive realism”) is one of fear and plunder for African-Americans, even in a supposedly tolerant modern nation.

Americans may wish – vaguely, amorphously, and perhaps disingenuously – for an end to this state of affairs, if they even allow themselves to acknowledge it. But Coates provides no simple political, social, or even emotional road map to the “healing” or “reconciliation” of the deep wounds that racism has inflicted on blacks and whites alike (the former with the wounds inflicted upon them, the latter with the inflicting of their wounds on their collective conscience). Indeed, healing is a lie, another aspect of the Dream, no less pernicious for its soft empathetic contours. Feeling the pain of history and experiencing the struggle with that feeling is the only path to progress between white and black in America, and Ta-Nehisi Coates’ lightning-strike of a book makes it even harder to contemplate taking any other.

Film Review: Hugo

September 6, 2015 Leave a comment

Hugo (2011; Directed by Martin Scorsese)

Old-fashioned but modern, creaky but oddly magical, Martin Scorsese’s Hugo is a lot like the clockwork boy-shaped automaton that features prominently in the film (and no, I don’t mean its young lead Asa Butterfield, who plays the eponymous orphan). Inherited from his late father (Jude Law), the automaton obsesses Hugo Cabret as he busies himself within the service-corridor bowels of Paris’ Gare Montparnasse, keeping the train station’s clocks running on time at some point in the 1930s (or perhaps earlier, if wink-nudge cameos by James Joyce and Django Reinhardt are any indication). He comes to believe that, if he can only get it working, the automaton will impart some legacy message from his father. Although it finally does (in a way), Hugo’s effort of tinkering, the attempt to fix the machine, brings him closer to the essence of his father, to whatever lessons about living and questions of his personal identity are linked to his departed patriarchal model.

The automaton’s secret proves to have meaning for Hugo, but if that secret belongs to anyone, it is Georges (Ben Kingsley), an older gentleman who runs a toy shop in the station. Georges catches Hugo trying to steal from him and confiscates a notebook of sketches of the automaton which is strangely familiar to him; neither the old man or the boy will reveal what the notebook means to them and so inaugurate a stand-off of plot conflict. Detente is accomplished gradually by George’s goddaughter and charge Isabelle (Chloë Grace Moretz), a ravenous reader with a precocious vocabulary who befriends Hugo and helps him to uncover the automaton’s meaning as well as Papa Georges’ bitterly hidden past.

This is a basic synopsis of Hugo, but it doesn’t come close to getting at the film’s enchanting design, its reverent romanticism, nor its inborn ungainliness. It isn’t that Scorsese puts a foot wrong, exactly; he’s far too capable and meticulous a cinematic craftsman for that. It’s just that Hugo, a family-oriented gilded fantasy with broad themes of generous humanism, isn’t the pair of shoes that he usually slips on, and he stumbles over the occasional curb as a result. It’s Martin Scorsese’s Spielberg picture, and if his studious observational approach allows him to evade Spielberg’s weakness for mawkish swells then it alienates him ever so slightly from a sense of earned wonder as well.

Scorsese’s approach trajectory is set in Hugo‘s earliest moments. Clockwork machine gears dissolve into a bird’s eye panorama of the Paris skyline, with a central cog superimposed in the cut with L’Arc de Triomphe with the boulevards running away from it like the spokes of a wheel. The whole city, indeed all of the human race, is a complex machine built with a specific purpose, a visual metaphor that is plainly stated later in the film. A long CGI-assisted 3D tracking shot pushes into Gare Montparnasse, along its platforms, through its concourse, settling at last upon Hugo, peering out through the number 4 in a clockface at the bustling life of the station. Scorsese cannot disguise his affection for this image of isolated voyeurism, be it through the clocks and grates of the station or in the seats of a movie theater, and returns to it often. This is almost certainly because it was his own introduction to the wider world, as a sickly asthmatic boy in Manhattan’s Little Italy of the 1950s, viewing the lively, often harsh action of the streets through his window as well as being inculcated into the transporting gloss of the movies.

Scorsese’s oeuvre is so intensely identified with the lyrically brutal realism of his seminal classics of the 1970s like Taxi Driver and Raging Bull and similarly-pitched later work like Goodfellas and The Departed that it’s easy to overlook the romantic streak that has crept into his mature work (and, really, has been there all along, in a highly sublimated form). That streak is impossible to overlook in Hugo, which is set in a twinkling bobble version of interwar Paris in which even the ridiculous but strict Station Inspector (an awkwardly loquacious Sacha Baron Cohen) who bundles unescorted urchins off to the orphanage is more of a figure of comic relief than of menace, and is clearly owed a telegraphed epiphany and redemption before the credits (his Doberman, Maximilian, steals most of his scenes from him anyway).

Scorsese retains much of the background colour of the station from the source material, Brian Selznick’s The Invention of Hugo Cabret, including a kindly bookseller (fondly embodied by Christopher Lee) who lends Isabelle books to read, the flower vendor (Emily Mortimer) that Cohen’s Inspector has a crush on, and a tentative potential older couple (Frances de la Tour and Richard Griffiths) seemingly kept apart only by the lady’s ornery Dachshund. Scorsese knows enough of filmmaking to stage these comic sideline vignettes perfectly competently, but some essential verve always seems to be missing. Again, the unfamiliar pair of shoes.

Really, though, Hugo is a fine example of that hoary old Hollywood auteur anachronism, A Love Letter to the Cinema. Although the film treats the revelation as a key twist because it must, it’s pretty clear early on that Kingsley’s toymaker is really George Méliès, the legendary French film trickster commonly considered the Hugofather of movie special effects as well as the science fiction and fantasy genres. Despite making over 500 films and innovating countless techniques that are now foundational to filmmaking (including dissolves, such as the one which opens the film), Méliès was forced by changing circumstances (and competitive pressure, much of it from Thomas Edison) to quit making films, close his studio, and even sell most of his film negatives to be melted down into chemicals to make the heels of shoes (our analogy comes full circle). Kingsley plays Méliès as bitter and repressed about this thwarted past of magic-making, and only Hugo’s love of his films and the automaton (also of Méliès’ making) in connection with the memory of his own father can draw the old master back to the world and to an appreciation of what he accomplished.

Scorsese shows Méliès’ famous film A Trip to the Moon in its broad strokes if not quite in its entirety, and shamelessly intercuts its fantastical trickery with the wonderstruck faces of Hugo and Isabelle as they view it. He lovingly recreates Méliès’ behind-the-scenes process of shooting his films, which he wrote, directed, set-designed, and starred in like a true silent-film jack-of-all-trades (and which he was used to doing in his previous career on the stage). In short, he gets religion as regards the wondrous enchatment of the cinema in a way that he’s never really allowed himself to do before.

This opening up to cinematic romanticism is clearly some species of important personal breakthrough for Scorsese, as noted by his longtime critical supporter and personal friend Roger Ebert in his review of Hugo. This emotional unlocking (one can picture Scorsese himself as the automaton, waiting for a heart-shaped key to release his secret self) is evident in the film, and is endearing and even touching in its way, which may go some way to explain Hugo‘s wildly disproportionate haul of Oscar nominations in its year of release. “He’s got heart, too!” gushed the older, more conservative, more sensitive Academy voters (who were then baffled and threatened by his incandescent satire of bootstraps-up American capitalism, The Wolf of Wall Street, immediately afterwards).

If Hugo is an important, personal work for Scorsese, it feels churlish to nitpick its foibles (like how unimportant it feels next to his more adult-themed other films). But he’s not wholly at home in this world, and he’s not the only one: some of the actors struggle to pinpoint the correct wistful glowing tone, and Moretz in particular turns in an arch and inelegant performance of off-putting terribleness. There’s also a strong note of cold determinism in the resolution of its key themes that betrays their distance from his experiences: Scorsese’s characters, often Italian-Americans and Roman Catholics, struggle with the guilt of things they never feel they deserve, and in Hugo, all that is deserved by anyone is already theirs by meticulous design, and all they must do is quest to discover it.

Scorsese emphasizes the clockwork elements of Hugo as well as of Méliès’ films because that’s what he sees in his own inclinations that is most common with them, a technical challenge that he feels comfortable with (many directors could claim to have been influenced by Méliès, but there are few I’d be less likely to believe were influence by him than Martin Scorsese). He understands just how to generate the enchanted dreams of Méliès (and the psychologically revealing dreams of Hugo, a metaphorical device that Scorsese has become quite adept at), but he can’t make us feel them in the same way because he himself doesn’t really feel them with anything beyond a film-school appreciativeness. It’s a ghost he can summon with alacrity, but knows not what to ask of. The heart-shaped key to this particular automaton doesn’t reveal as much as we thought it might, as it turns out.

Categories: Film, Reviews