Traffic
TRAFFIC is not a bad film, although the only immediately apparent topic to discuss is its production – and any film that rests entirely on its production is hardly a film at all. TRAFFIC has three stories, each filmed with its own distinctive colour filter (though if you watch the bonus features on your Criterion Edition DVD, you will learn that there is much more to its colours than simple camera filters): the parts in Mexico are in overexposed, burnt-looking sepia, and Michael Douglas is filmed in blue. This sounds a lot more impressive than it really is: the effects are relatively subtle – too subtle, even. Soderbergh could really have benefited from watching Godard’s PIERROT LE FOU. The decision is a radical one, but its execution is not.
TRAFFIC is a political film, made in the year 2000, about the American war on drugs. Its story takes place on both sides of the border, and with what must be a dozen characters, quite expansive. Its characters are conveniently related, but cover most of the possible demographics: cops, politicians, criminals and victims, from Mexico and America both.
Despite its overtly political nature, Soderbergh attempts and, in my opinion, fails to make TRAFFIC a humanistic portrayal of the cause and effect of the war on drugs. However, because of its tone, which consists of many independent, self-motivated scenes from its various stories (par for the course when making an “epic” political film like this), the drama of TRAFFIC ends up wooden. This could be negligible, an unimportant side-effect, if not for the ending, which is moralistic and rests completely on the humanism built up over the course of the film; also, Soderbergh’s obvious attempts to make this more than a simple political movie.
Despite these flaws, which are interesting and debatable, the most important aspect of TRAFFIC is its criticism of the American government. I can not believe that this is the first film on the subject of a war that has been ongoing since the ‘70s, but it is certainly one of the highest profile, winning four Academy Awards®. There is nothing wrong with criticism: in fact, it is an absolute necessity. However, nonconstructive criticism is not worth its subject’s time. TRAFFIC is nonconstructive criticism: in its end, the war on drugs is being fought with complete ineffectiveness, and yet still taking the toll typical of any war – death, paranoia, families torn apart, etc. In his speech towards the end of the film, Michael Douglas’ character asks how we can fight a war when the enemy is our children. A poignant ending, to be sure, but so what? Where does that leave us? What do Steven Soderbergh and writer Steven Gaghan want us to do? End the war, or what?
Does nonconstructive criticism have any merit? I really don’t think it does: there is no excuse for being an asshole. But in the context of political fiction, what can one writer hope to bring to the table, especially when the table is worth many billions of dollars, and is 40 years old? Important questions that relate to fiction writing, and written criticism – i.e., this blog. I don’t have the answers, but I promise, dear reader, to give these subjects serious consideration.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid
Previously in this series, I spoke about how fantastic George Roy Hill’s THE STING was. Prior to this marvellous example of Hollywood production, the director worked with the acting duo of Paul Newman and Robert Redford on this film. While not quite reaching THE STING’s perfect standards of excellence, BUTCH CASSIDY excels in all aspects, just like THE STING. It is an artfully created, deceptively charming film, written and directed with the same amount of sly intelligence THE STING would be four years later.
BUTCH CASSIDY is a western, but it’s also a fantasy, and this fantastical aspect can be deceptive. Newman and Redford act out their roles with hilarious charm, denying death throughout the course of the plot, as if by refusing to admit to their perilous circumstances, it is impossible for them to die. This is the fantasy aspect: there is no real sense of danger until the final moments of the film; suspense is mixed with humour to fool us into believing these characters immortal.
In the end, however, by putting the characters in a situation where they believe escape is possible, but the viewer knows the end is inescapable, the charm is gone; previously loveable, Butch Cassidy (Paul Newman) and the Sundance Kid (Robert Redford) are now pathetic figures: our heart cries out to warn them. But we can not, and they are blown to bits. This jarring ending can be seen as immature in itself, a cheap shot at emotions made vulnerable, but it confirms that BUTCH CASSIDY is no fluff piece: like THE STING, it is written with a careful intelligence that belies its amiable fantasy-romance exterior.
This disorienting ending has the two leads blown to bits by what amounts to a “reverse” deus ex machina: instead of inexplicably arriving to save them, the battalion of soldiers’ presence confirms that they must die as they feared they would: two-bit outlaws in a land where no-one knows their name. This end confirms that the spell wrought throughout the course of the film is wrought with intention. By bringing what took two hours to build crashing down in about a minute of film, by smashing the fantastic illusion to bits, George Roy Hill and writer William Goldman are accomplishing a marvellous coup: using the vehicle of a friendly Hollywood blockbuster, they manage to bring Brechtian ideals of audience alienation to millions of unsuspecting film-goers.
Bertolt Brecht is a German playwright who completely revolutionized the stage in the first half of the 20th century. To my mind, he is the most important playwright since Shakespeare, and many of his theories have been applied to cinema (obvious examples include the films of Godard and Fassbinder). One of these concepts was the “verfremdungseffekt,” or the distancing effect, which sought to remove the audience from the drama on-stage so they would not become embroiled in the fantasy and lose sight of the work’s function (another important Brechtian concept). BUTCH CASSIDY can be interpreted in a Brechtian light in several ways, not the least of which is the ending, which absolutely destroys the feeling of escapism. Saving this potent blow for the ending is another self-conscious move on the part of the writer: obviously an entire film could not be produced in Hollywood’s studios in 1969 that sought single-mindedly to alienate the audience, so the fatal blow should be saved for the end in order to cause the most reaction.
The ending, however, is not the only aspect of BUTCH CASSIDY that removes us from its spell. The photographic montages and sepia-toned scenes are all artificial, conscious effects intended to produce a conscious reaction. By periodically disrupting the sense of reality film obtains, the director is subtly reminding us that we are watching a movie; subtly, he is distancing us from the action on-screen.
BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID is a fantastic film; it doesn’t reach the heights of production that THE STING obtained, but it is not necessarily a “lesser” film than that one. It is as charming, engaging, wonderful, and intelligent as THE STING. These two films represent possibly the highest standard Hollywood studios of the era have ever been able to achieve.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Days Of Heaven
DAYS OF HEAVEN is another film touted by many as brilliant, evidence of genius, a masterpiece, that I can’t seem to get. It’s not that I hate the thing – it undeniably has its moments, and its style certainly has presence, but it is overbearing: this is the key factor that keeps superstar director Terrence Malick from true greatness (to my mind, at least). Despite its image’s beauty, DAYS OF HEAVEN has no hold, no hooks; it is unaffecting.
The film suffers from two major flaws: the overbearing style, which is a hollow shell concealing its core, or, I should say, lack of core. The story is boring, unoriginal, and there are no truly dramatic scenes. It is for this reason that I call DAYS OF HEAVEN unaffecting: it passes before you, its drama, gripless; the only thing present on-screen are spare images, underscored by an unexciting score that is completely out of character for Ennio Morricone.
I am reluctant to lambaste DAYS OF HEAVEN because it is a near-perfect realization of style, that collapses under its own weight. Under its veneer of mood and atmosphere and beautiful, symbolic imagery, there is an absence of meaning. Malick displays impressive skill, and its production is the result of a formidable confidence, but it is a hollow film, and I can not award it any points. Points are not awarded for insubstantiability; a film can not be supported purely by its form. Without content to fill it, it is an empty structure; the sword is, of course, double-edged: formless content is not engaging, either.
The second great flaw, as stated, is contained in Malick’s writing: it is almost pathetically weak. The narration is its strongest point, but there is no great challenge in writing the monologue of an ignorant character. Malick’s directs his actors quietly; they are restrained, kept away from any real dramatic expression. In combination with the script, in effect with the visual style, the actors are as handsome as the shots they occupy, but as bland and insubstantial as the rest of the film.
The story is dramatic, archetypically so, but uninspired. Love triangles have provided dramatic fuel for an uncountable number of films and plays: off the top of my head, Francois Truffaut’s JULES ET JIM (1962) and Eugene O’Neill’s play “Desire Under the Elms,” published in 1924. There is no question that this plot element was first thought up hundreds of years B.C.E., but then, so were they all. No-one is blaming anyone for recycling dramatic archetypes, because they are generally re-used with some sort fresh inspiration, some colouring of the story’s times. In the case of DAYS OF HEAVEN, despite its being a period piece, the general atmosphere is one of timeless fantasy. The plot of a love triangle used herein is absolutely uninspired: there are no original elements to make it a compelling plot. This is no big deal, as the film is resting mostly on its stylistic framework, but as I’ve already said, this framework is overwrought and collapses in upon itself.
So despite its many positive and impressive elements, if I used a rating system on this blog, I would be forced, only somewhat reluctantly, to award it no points!
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Mishima A Life In Four Chapters
Once, a year or so ago, a friend of mine lent me a book called “The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea,” written in 1963 by Yukio Mishima, the subject of Paul Schrader’s opulent Lucas/Coppola-produced extravaganza. I never read it, but now feel compelled to seek it out amidst my teeming stacks.
The film balances Mishima’s last day on earth, flashbacks of his life and stylized adaptations of three of his novels: “The Temple of the Golden Pavillion,” “Kyoko’s House,” and “Runaway Horses.” As stated, I haven’t read anything by the author, but am familiar with the idea of fictional characters representing facets of the author, and imagery or symbolism that reflects psychological states through reading fantasy.
Mishima wrote 40 novels in his lifetime (1925 - 1970), and from these Paul and Leonard Schrader (the film’s writers) culled three to include in their film. These three novels match perfectly with the film’s themes and work well to develop their author; I can only assume that the research that went into this script was tremendous. The attention to detail is obvious, and that this film was made with great care and a respect for the subject is apparent. The issue that I find confusing, is that this is an American-made film, written and directed by Americans (although with the blessing of the caretaker of Mishima’s estate), and produced by two of the biggest names in Hollywood – George Lucas and Francis Ford Coppola. Not to imply that the film is unfaithful in any way: it succeeds exceptionally well at telling the subject’s life story, and impresses us with his seriousness, but it contains identifiable American traits in lieu of certain Japanese ones.
Mishima’s political ideology, which he believed in strongly enough to perform the ultimate demonstration (ritual suicide), is, as the film tells us, based on his traditionalist view of Japan. He wants to expunge his country of the evil influences of capitalism, and restore the army’s influence. It may be a medieval viewpoint, but has a long history: as long as Japan’s history of strife and constant warfare.
Although he raised an army and died for his beliefs, Yukio Mishima’s political self is of lesser interest to me than the artist; the writer that was nominated three times for the Nobel Prize of Literature. His quest for meaningful action, and his longing to give words the same level of importance as action; his realization that the body is a neglected work of art, and a tool of the ultimate necessity, that caused him to take up body-building; the reflections of and meditations on himself; all of these things express strength of spirit and faith that most 20th century human beings lack. Mishima towers over us all, impressing us with his charisma, his artistic soul, his dramatic, meaningful actions that are demonstrations of complete faith in himself.
The greatest thing Paul Schraders MISHIMA: A LIFE IN FOUR CHAPTERS accomplishes is to impress us with the grave reality of Yukio Mishima; his life, which was incredible, and his actions, which seem like works of fiction.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Sawdust And Tinsel
I just watched CRIES AND WHISPERS (1972) recently, another Bergman film, but from 20 years later. There isn’t any real change between the two, besides maybe a loss of optimism, but the primary difference is development. Every film I’ve seen from him reminds me of the theatre in the way the drama is structured. SAWDUST AND TINSEL does not fail in this respect, even going further and reminding me of the theatre literally, with its characters.
Bergman’s films are episodes focused around drama, rather than realism. The plot often consists entirely of a few carefully-timed actions that set the characters on the dramatic course he really wants to present to us. In this way Bergman’s films are like plays, focusing not on the story of his characters, but on the feelings that lie buried deep in their souls. Bergman is not constrained to one timeline, either: he will not hesitate to show through flashback, or dream, or symbolism, what lies in the deep pits of his characters’ psychologies. He is unhampered by any “movement,” standing alone in the cinematic landscape, though perhaps he could be compared to that other genius artist from a foreign land who made films until he died, Akira Kurosawa. Free, he is able to express himself completely: SAWDUST AND TINSEL, an early work, is experimental in many ways, but generally these experiments do not fail. From the start it can be seen that he has a total sense of his characters and his aesthetic: one of the first scenes is the over-exposed, muted flashback showing the humiliation of the clown “Frost’s” (Anders Ek) wife “Alma” (Gudrum Brost). The scene is beautiful and devastating; although they are only minor characters, Frost and his wife Alma express tragedy throughout the rest of the film.
The perfect realization of his characters can be seen in the writing, the natural, earthy dialogue that is full of feeling. Scenes, too, are filled with stories told subtly through gesture and slight expression, unrelated to the conversation, the result of careful attention on all levels. Writer, director, and actor working together in perfect unison to create layered, complex characters.
Plot-points that are minor, yet carefully wrought to set up drama that reveals character, rather than obscuring, is what theatre is based on; though Bergman writes strictly in this style (I haven’t seen a single film from him where the story is “important” in any real way), he is still a film-maker, using the form to his benefit in ways theatre can not (flashbacks and the like), and a great artist. The drama of SAWDUST AND TINSEL, while masterfully wrought, could be criticized for being minor, but Bergman’s style can not: it is as critical an aspect of the man’s work as his dramatic style of writing, from his insistent use of close-up to his lighting used in combination with framing, set and costume to create beautiful, resounding images as timeless as the films themselves. His actors are chosen with taste, also, each one talented enough to carry his demanding script and intricate direction, but also perfectly suited for their part.
Compared with CRIES AND WHISPERS, SAWDUST AND TINSEL is an optimistic film about characters struggling to escape their lives, but in the end, when they can’t, finding acceptance; his style may have developed into something more boldly expressionistic, but Bergman’s good taste is evident in all of the various pieces of SAWDUST AND TINSEL, proving to us that he may have come from the theatre and retained a large part of its tradition, but as a film-maker he is a unique voice and an unparalleled artist.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Fahrenheit 451
Its science-fiction look may have aged badly, but Truffaut’s first film in English is interesting, even though it fails in many ways. The story, taken from Ray Bradury’s 1953 novel, is well-suited to Truffaut’s general style. Science fiction stories, speculative in nature, are well suited to bold aesthetics, and FAHRENHEIT 451 delivers: the colours are bright, the costumes and set-pieces remind us that in the ’50s and ’60s the Nazi jackboots must have still been a fresh memory, influencing the speculative genre further towards symbolic, exaggerated imagery.
Of course it’s also known that in fantasy writing, everything can be interpreted as psychologically-revealing symbolism: in FAHRENHEIT 451, Truffaut wears his inclinations on his sleeve. We’ve always known he was a rebel, coming out of a movement in film based on brazenly bucking tradition; as well as literate and a lover of art, having shown himself as such with THE 400 BLOWS (1959), SHOOT THE PIANO PLAYER (1960), and JULES ET JIM (1962). FAHRENHEIT 451 was well chosen, its story of rebellion against an oppressive, illiterate dystopia fought by retreating into literature and adopting it as a part of one’s identity. The meeting of “Guy Montag” (played like a Frenchman by the wonderfully sour-looking Oskar Werner), and “Clarisse” (Julie Christie, who also plays Montag’s wife “Linda”) on the metro is a nice touch. I don’t know if that’s how the characters meet in the book, but Truffaut brings a poetry to their relationship, even though Christie is a terrible actor (though directed well), and Werner appears to almost refuse to act dramatically.
In the end, despite careful touches and a good story, FAHRENHEIT 451 is bogged down by its weaknesses. The dated aesthetic and special effects, although shot effectively, do not stand the test of time. The acting remains the biggest issue: for his first English-language production, it’s surprising to me that Truffaut chose to shoot in England rather than America, using international actors instead of Hollywood stars.
And yet it is impressive that this film still has worth 40 years on, when its special-effects would be “painful” to most of this generation, its costumes and sets laughable; and the acting is undeniably not-good. Despite working with all these inferior parts, Truffaut the artist’s touch is still apparent. His essentially French perspective is different from the English-language films of the time. There is romance, literariness, subtle artistic touches, and an attitude of proud, defiant rebellion that will always stand the test of time.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
The Bellboy
Jerry Lewis’ directorial debut THE BELLBOY predates Woody Allen’s first “real” film TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN (1969); both comedies draw influence from the slapstick of Charlie Chaplin and silent comedy, and both make well-crafted films with intelligent undertones. THE BELLBOY is the only thing I’ve seen from Lewis: I don’t know about his career before, or after 1960: I can only draw parallels, and there are many.
THE BELLBOY was written, directed and produced by Jerry Lewis; he also stars in a silent performance as “Stanley” that is the film’s most obvious homage to the tradition of silent comedy. Directing this type of comedy film could not have been any great challenge: the work lies in writing the gags and performing them. Jerry Lewis’ performance is good, but with the amount of homage the film is based on, the fact that his character is silent seems like his attempt to prove that he can make an audience laugh without speaking his jokes. This tradition was most famously typical of Charlie Chaplin, whose presence can be seen in the influence, but also in physical homage as a strange look-alike who appears recurringly to prank Stanley.
Many of the gags are simple, amusing fare, but certain of them resonate, particularly when Stanley conducts a stage full of instruments, but no musicians. The communication is aided by sound effects and Lewis’ expressive face. The liberal contortion of facial expression to communicate when words can not be used is a good example of the tradition this film is made in. I can’t think of anyone who uses that style of acting, besides the original practitioners themselves, and people like Jerry Lewis and Woody Allen, who adopted their influence as a key component of their own style. Woody Allen had tastes that ranged far wider than the silent comedy he grew up watching, namely to Sweden (Ingmar Bergman) and Japan (Akira Kurosawa). His broad and excellent taste becomes evident near the first end of his first phase of film-making (SLEEPER, 1973; LOVE AND DEATH, 1975) when he began to write more intelligent, dramatic characters. But his acting in films as late as HANNAH AND HER SISTERS (1986) is still based in a large way on Chaplin’s influence; this film also contains a joke making fun of Lewis.
I don’t know nearly as much about Jerry Lewis’ career as I do Woody Allen’s, but I’m confident that if his debut displays as much skill, intelligence and hilarious wit as it does, then his efforts probably evolve in a similar way to his peer, with whom he shares many inclinations and a common background.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
The French Connection
William Friedkin started out as an art-house filmmaker in the mid-60s, and was inspired to make THE FRENCH CONNECTION after Howard Hawks expressed dislike for his work, telling him to “[M]ake a good chase. Make one better than anyone’s done.” Coming out of art cinema, Friedkin had doubtless been exposed to European films, and the influence of the New Wave in France shows as a gritty realism typical of America, an influence manifesting itself in the style more and more films of the day were being made in as the America’s “new wave” took hold.
THE FRENCH CONNECTION is filmed typically of any realist film: in a documentary style, on location, with dark colours and a grainy quality to the film, using long tracking shots and hand-held cameras. These techniques are critical to the film’s greatest quality, its chase scenes, which feel wild, out-of-control. The most famous of all of them involves Gene Hackman (“Doyle”) following a subway train in his car. It feels absolutely chaotic: watching it, there is no sense that the driver is in any real control of his car, that he could die at any moment. Suddenly, we see a woman with her baby carriage, and in the instant before he veers away, it is certain that a horrible crime has been committed by this lunatic. He avoids her, crashing into some garbage as a result, but continuing the chase. At that moment, although the suspense of the rest of the chase is not broken, a weight has lifted: we now know that the director has been fooling us, tricking us into thinking that the character has no control. When he avoids the woman, Hackman reasserts himself, and since there is no worse that could be done in this chase, there are multiple small collisions. Friedkin has had us in the palm of his hand all the while, subtly manipulating us.
It is the combination of these two things what makes THE FRENCH CONNECTION one of the best action films I have ever seen: the cinematic elements of realism, and the director’s subtle and knowing manipulation of our perceptions to enhance suspense. They may not match philosophically, but in effect they can be seen to produce great works.
THE FRENCH CONNECTION won Best Picture; Friedkin, Best Director. Both of these awards make sense: THE FRENCH CONNECTION is a thrilling film that reflects its times and attitude in story and technique, and Friedkin directs it intelligently, and with great control.
What doesn’t make sense to me is Gene Hackman winning an award for Best Actor. Certainly the character is interesting, a (significantly) less extreme Harvey Keitel in BAD LIEUTENANT (1992), and a prototype for what feels like every action movie character to follow, but the character is not really much more than any of the vast series of knock-offs: the film has hardly any dialogue, and what Hackman is usually expressing can be summarized as “angry.” This is not to criticize the role: it’s a good one, played well, but the character is not complex (despite being based on a real person), and the portrayal of it does not seem to deserve a prestigious award.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
The Wild Bunch
Peckinpah’s existence is a mysterious one: how did he come to make films? Is he considered a laughing stock, or an embarrassment? I’m inclined to guess the latter, since many of his films are large period-pieces, obviously expensive to produce. So far I haven’t seen anything from Peckinpah that can be considered entertaining. His films have their place in history, certainly, but it is a entirely academic, and not altogether meritable. He was an undeniable innovator of the craft: key elements of his style have been adopted as standard in Hollywood action-suspense-thrillers (and television!) of the past 20 years. This will be seen as a good thing by fans, and maybe for these fans Peckinpah will entertain, but it is my opinion that Peckinpah and all those who imitate his style, are the jocks of the film world. Peckinpah is particularly crude, and, I’m fairly certain, stupid. Despite the banal, utterly insipid movement he spawned, the worst of these film-jocks has a producer to, presumably, keep him from embarrassing himself and the studio. THE WILD BUNCH was released by Warner Bros, and in it Peckinpah gives us a moronic, brutish view of the world that the worst of his imitators can not begin to rival. Where, I ask, was the producer on this film? It was shot on location – a prudent necessity taken by Peckinpah to get away from the studio’s watchful eye? Was there no-one around with enough aesthetic sense to realize that they were participating in a travesty?
I need to calm down. In THE WILD BUNCH, Sam Peckinpah uses long, lingering shots underscored by mournful, diagetic Mariachi music to show us his gang of brutal bandits. They are filmed with an obvious poetic vision glamorizing simplicity, indicating that Peckinpah is actually idealizing his characters, as though they were “real men;” and it is an unsophisticated vision that would fall flat even if its subjects were not idiots. His characters are completely unsubtle, unoriginal, absent of any interesting qualities. The one potentially meaningful was Robert Ryan’s “Deke Thornton,” the ex-gang member stalking behind “Pike” (William Holden’s) hardened gang with his own crew of gutter-rats. As he is virtually ignored for the entire film, the character remaining unexplored and only half-developed by the end, I can only assume that the potential for interest in Deke Thornton is entirely accidental, or was the actor’s attempt to take the character somewhere interesting, half-baked because of the director’s lack of involvement.
The single aspect of this film that I can see to justify its existence is Peckinpah’s method of filming action, which owes a lot to comic books: cutting quickly between point-of-view and wide-shots, action is shown sequentially, in the manner of comics, to present us with the character’s perspective and give the viewer a sense of “happening.”
Himself devoid of any sense of cool, hipness or style, his characters and their actors reflect this: they are thoughtless brutes, played blandly by boring-looking men, neither ugly nor attractive. Despite this, they are still filmed with a technique that has become (since Tarantino’s films of the ’90s, particularly RESERVOIR DOGS (1992)), the stereotypical technique to portray “cool.” Rather than take this as a sign that he was a stylistic innovator, it is my opinion that the “film jock” mentioned above takes from a collective aesthetic; that it was only a matter of time before they infiltrated cinema, which used to be a classy business; and that if it hadn’t been Peckinpah, it would have been someone else.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
The Sting
It’s incredible to me that films as magically, charmingly perfect as THE STING exist. Incredible as it is, it makes absolute sense that Hollywood was the exporter of films that concentrate on mass public appeal through the highest standard of quality, made real by the American film industry’s boundless coffers. While the international and independent cinema was defined by auteurs, talented individuals assembling crews to create their vision, the studio system was about the “production.” It was about producers assembling all-star crews to work together to create a vision. THE STING does not approach perfection because it is confidently, professionally directed by George Roy Hill; or because it has an exceptionally plotted, lyrical script by David S. Ward; or because its actors created archetypes exploited almost 40 years later; or because of its score, or the beauty of its sets: THE STING approaches perfection because it has all of these things: each aspect of the film, from the beautifully painted title cards to the theme (Scott Joplin’s classic piano rag “The Entertainer”) to the editing, are all produced with an attention to quality born of a multi-million dollar film industry, the biggest the world has seen since the beginning of the film industry.
And yet despite the pressure of history and the weight of its parts, THE STING not only achieved what all genre films set out to do (to be the best of its kind), it did so shockingly, drawing on the politics of American cinema now (I should say then) to create something new in the old style. By 1973 France’s nouvelle vague had come and gone, and films informed by this new aesthetic had been being produced in America since the mid-60s. Films like BONNIE AND CLYDE (1967), MCCABE & MRS. MILLER (1971), and the various films of Sam Peckinpah (particularly THE WILD BUNCH (1969) and STRAW DOGS (1971)) allowed George Roy Hill to violently draw blood and threaten characters with a death seemingly real in THE STING, by convincing the studios that an independent cinematic scene was emerging that could, eventually, prove a threat to their dominion. THE STING proved that in a shifting landscape, the studio system would be able to change, adapt, and stand tall.
THE STING presents itself as light, pop fare, buoyed along by beautiful illustrations, a catchy theme and charismatic leading men. Scenes showing Paul Newman (“Henry Gondorff”) and Robert Redford’s (“Johnny Hooker”) charming rapport and dramatic chops will not come as a surprise to anyone who has seen BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID (1969, and also directed by George Roy Hill). Despite this previous indication of style and talent, THE STING is still filled with surprising elements, particularly the final twist, which left me agape, and the action scenes. These scenes are edited together in a way that perfectly conveys a feeling of real-time urgency, where the characters are felt to be in genuine peril.
THE STING’s two stars, Paul Newman and Robert Redford (who, as stated, had worked together with the director four years previous) come out of the classic Hollywood tradition of leading men like Cary Grant and James Stewart. They are evolutions of “looks” that have existed for leading men since the first, familiar enough to work within the studio system, yet new enough to be appropriate for the new crop of stories being told by the American new wave. They represent archetypes the American public has come to expect from Hollywood, today filled by the likes of George Clooney and Brad Pitt. It is a sign that from the 70s to the golden days of Clooney and Pitt, the 21st century, film in America has hardly progressed. It is only now, with the new wave of leading men, generally affected “bros” or shy boy-men, that the public’s palate is starting to change. For better or for worse is arguable, but signs of change are increasingly evident.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Im Not There
How hard can it be to make a Bob Dylan biopic? Todd Haynes doesn’t try with I’M NOT THERE (2007): it’s fiction, with six separately-named characters representing “the various moods of Bob Dylan,” set in a world coloured by the same sort of subtle fantasy as Terry Gilliam’s BIG FISH (2003); but more absurd, in fitting with the stream-of-consciousness poems that are Dylan’s lyrics. It’s an inspired tribute to the man, but the blend of real details spoken of in song and memoir, with fiction, makes me uncomfortable. Is it not disrespectful to the man to show his accomplishments as celebrity and artist, as fiction? Does it not devalue the greatest claim a man can make – that he was real?
Besides this one glaring philosophical misstep on the part of Todd Haynes, I have to say again that I’M NOT THERE shows real inspiration on all parts, and may be the best piece of fanfic I’ve ever seen. With a project like this, that eschews convention in favour of artistic expression, the cast is put in what I would assume is the best position an actor can be in: to be able to draw on an individual aspect of a man as dynamic, original and captivating as Bob Dylan, free to interpret and dramatize to the extent of film’s ability to represent “cool.” Ben Whishaw, who plays “Arthur,” Dylan at 20, the nerdy folkster with grand ambitions of revolution, and Cate Blanchett playing “Jude,” Dylan at 24, sick of his niche in pop culture and carving his way out with an electric guitar, run with their roles (albeit in typical directions), ensuring that Dylan is remembered as the ultra-cool protopunk he was. Christian Bale plays a more dynamic role, of “Jack,” Dylan during his press-fighting years and subsequent religious conversion. Despite being typecast as an asshole, Bale is an accomplished actor and pulls off the emotion of his conversion well. Richard Gere communicates nothing as “Billy,” Dylan the old man, living in a cabin in the woods, while Marcus Carl Franklin does a good job playing Dylan the child, or “Woody Guthrie,” a train-hopping rambler who delivers meaningful speeches to dumbstruck hobos. Heath Ledger as “Robbie,” along with Gere’s “Billy,” is another nonsensical, useless character: his entire function appears to be to show Dylan as a romantic, through his relationship with “Claire” (Charlotte Gainsbourg, always rivetingly odd-looking). Predictably, their time on-screen is backed by songs like “I Want You” and “Visions of Johanna.”
Despite vision that sees well certain aspects of making a “tribute” film such as I’M NOT THERE is, while faltering in other spots; and despite a cast that is patchy and sometimes uninspired, I am bound to see this film as a mostly good thing that succeeds as a competent send-up to a man who proves that truth is greater than fiction, and that not even a gang of actors can accurately portray his multifaceted self.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Blast Of Silence
BLAST OF SILENCE is a comic-book film made in 1961, predating the hard-boiled grit of Allan Moore and Frank Miller by almost 30 years. The visual composition, the psychotic narrator and the general plot, are all elements taken from old Hollywood film noirs, and comic books, a medium actor/director/writer Allen Baron worked had worked in previous to this, his debut film. Classic elements are exagerrated and taken to cartoonish levels of violence and psychopathy, paralleling in a distinctly American way, the trends being developed in France’s cinema by, most notably, Godard, with BREATHLESS (1960). These two films share much in common, though Baron says it wasn’t for at least two more years that he had the opportunity to see it.
In BREATHLESS, Jean-Paul Belmondo plays a character that one can easily forget is a psychotic, cop-killing lunatic criminal. In BLAST OF SILENCE, it is impossible to forget: Lionel Stander’s narration is chillingly delivered, his voice almost grating on the ears, and a constant reminder that the main character is not one to sympathise with, that he is a demented killer. It is evident that he gets some sexual thrill from stalking his prey. This ritual of following his “hits,” ostensibly so he can murder them in peace, serves another purpose, one admitted to in the narration, but which the character can-not realize the full import of: he must bring himself to hate his targets before he can murder them, indicating that, despite a long career and a professional reputation, he is acting contrary to some base element of his conscience.
The hitman of BLAST OF SILENCE is a fairly deep character, riddled with complexes and subconscious desires. He is portrayed by his writer, and the director of the film, who has stated that he did not desire to play the role personally, but was forced to when he found that he was the most competent actor he could afford with his limited budget. Baron acts competently, but he misses some of the subtlety of the character: he communicates a lack of feeling well, but this is not a difficult feat to accomplish. What he fails to convey, is an expression of the character’s below-the-surface feelings and impulses. As I said above, the character is a psychologically complex character, but many of these layers are only expressed in the narration. This is no fault of Baron’s – in fact, it is to his credit that he recognized his own limitations, but was still able to create a complex character in combination of good writing, direction and competent, though limited, acting.
BLAST OF SILENCE is only comparable to BREATHLESS in a few ways: the treatment by the director of their respective cities, the basic plot centred around criminals, and an acute sense for visual composition. With BREATHLESS, however, Godard flouted basically every cinematic convention possible: the influence of Hollywood film noirs on plot and character is obvious, but in terms of style, BREATHLESS is avant-garde. BLAST OF SILENCE however, made by a complete newcomer to cinema, rather than someone steeped in its history (Godard), is filmed in a conventional style similar to most Hollywood films of the era BLAST drew its influence from. Its editing is instinctive, and the direction shines purely because of Baron’s artist’s sense for composition. For this reason, despite an exaggerated sense of demented psychopathy and violence, and many production traits that would become hallmarks of an emerging “new wave” in American cinema, I call BLAST OF SILENCE a “true” film noir, rather than some neo- revisitation.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Le Cercle Rouge
LE CERCLE ROUGE / JEAN-PIERRE MELVILLE / 1970
I have no real respect for Jean-Pierre Melville, and don’t understand how anyone could. I have more respect for Tarantino, whose 2009 film INGLORIOUS BASTERDS showed that he was evolving as a film-maker, trying to free himself from the constraints of genre. Of course he didn’t change enough to get past his exploitive “signature” style. Melville appears to work in the same genre throughout his career, recyling the same formula in the same style: from BOB LE FLAMBEUR (1956) to LE SAMOURAI (1967) to this film, LE CERCLE ROUGE, from 1970, all minimalist, hard-boiled films about men planning heists. With neat editing tricks, on-location filming, and a boiled-down precision of direction, Melville has an unmistakable style and his effect on the nouvelle vague is obvious, but Godard and Truffaut had the sense to change their methods, recognizing formula as the evil thing it is.
LE CERCLE ROUGE is about Corey (Alain Delon), a convict about to be released from prison on good behaviour. He is approached by a crooked cop and told about an easy heist. He meets Vogel (Gian-Maria Volonte), a criminal on the run, and they take a moment to bond in a muddy field: this is one of the few scenes in the film that develops a relationship between two characters. André Bourvil plays Commissaire Mattei, the policeman hunting Vogel, and Yves Montand plays Jansen, a sharpshooting ex-cop and the third member of the gang. We are shown certain habits and characteristics of characters, but for the most part they go unspoken, and occur separate from the others. This is the film’s most obvious flaw: the various threads of connecting stories never connect. The actors have no emotional relationships with each other, so how can I possibly feel for the outcome? In the end, the various stories have no connection, causing the moral to fall flat. “We’re all criminals, it’s just a matter of time,” has no meaning in a film populated entirely by characters introduced unabashedly as such. Yves Montand’s Jansen, the ex-cop now involved (but barely) in the heist, appears out of nowhere ⅔ of the way through the film and has no apparent motivation; he is apathetic, giving away his share of the loot, and casually killed off in the climax.
Despite the self-consciousness typical of French film-makers, LE CERCLE ROUGE is pop fare, populated by easily loveable “badassery,” the same casually violent schlock that’s been bouncing back and forth between France and America since the noir film was invented. Melville’s minimalism and subject formula was undeniably important in influencing others; there is also no denying his ability to direct precisely and well, but to me Jean-Pierre Melville is a footnote, a stepping-stone, worth reading about but whose films are worth hardly anything in themselves.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Husbands And Wives
HUSBANDS & WIVES (1992)
dir. WOODY ALLEN
with WOODY ALLEN, MIA FARROW, JUDY DAVIS
As Woody Allen grew older, so too did his onscreen persona, and, necessarily, so too did the characters inhabiting his films. Although HUSBANDS & WIVES is not the first of his films to explore the personal lives of the middle-aged (SEPTEMBER, CRIMES & MISDEMEANORS, ANOTHER WOMAN), it is certainly the best to do so, and probably his best film of the decade.
The story centres on two couples, expanding to include their various love interests: Sally (JUDY DAVIS) and Jack (SYDNEY POLLACK) appear to their friends to be happily married, and have been for 15 years, but in the first scene we learn that they’re unhappy together, and have decided to split. Their friends Gabe and Judy Roth (WOODY ALLEN and MIA FARROW) are shocked and upset, the split appearing for them completely out of the blue. Judy introduces Sally to a colleague of hers named Michael (LIAM NEESON); Jack begins to date his aerobics instructor Sam (LYSETTE ANTHONY), reveling in her unrefined simplicity of character, a sharp contrast to Sally’s detached coldness; and Woody Allen, in the guise of “Gabe Roth, university professor,” is his usual ineffably-charming self. He begins spending time with a student of his named Rain (JULIETTE LEWIS); he’s enamored with her writing, and she idolizes him.
All of these things are filmed as cinema verite, captured by a documentary crew that happened to be present at every moment in all of the characters’ lives. It’s not that difficult a stretch of the imagination, and through the device of interviews conducted after the events portrayed, Woody is able to psychoanalyze his characters to an extent unsurpassed in all his career. As they talk about the events set in motion by Jack and Sally’s separation, they recall more and more bahaviour of their partners, and themselves, that is indicative of unhappiness in their relationships. Woody also uses the same device to its full benefit as a structural aid: we are introduced to a new setting, and the character on focus free associates about how they feel about it, and then, knowing and understanding their thought process, we are taken through the scene. All of the nuances, from the observational camera to Rain and Sally’s sometimes snotty, brattish tones, are carefully inserted and serve the film’s purpose, which is to give as complete an insight into these made-up characters’ psychology. The resolution is predictable and recalls some of his earlier films (CRIMES & MISDEMEANORS, HANNAH AND HER SISTERS), but it’s justified, and satisfying in how much sense it makes after plumbing the depths of these peoples’ psychology.
As in everything he writes, the film is saturated in Woody Allen. Through the Woody Allen character, we are afforded glimpses of his neurotic tendencies: the story of Rain’s romantic history is utter, utter self-parody. What sets HUSBANDS & WIVES apart from his mileau, apart even from the three or four of his other films that are extremely similar to it, is the hand of a master, clearly evident in the completeness of the film’s execution, and the clarity of his vision in doing so.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Flesh
Hipsters never change, it seems. FLESH was made in 1968, and appears filled with clichés to my diluted cultural viewpoint. I feel like I’ve seen the same brand of Tennessee Williams-influenced kitchen sink drama a thousand times; I feel like I’ve heard a thousand liberal jackasses talking about sex and the body like it’s 380 B.C.E. FLESH’s sense of realism is largely the result of its independent aesthetic, with untrained actors appearing more comfortable posing nude than delivering lines; shots are often empty, meaningless, or uncomfortably filled with extreme close-ups; there is unconstrained nudity and the sexual politics harken back to Ancient Greece. All of these things have become standards for any sort of hipster “art” (cf. Xavier Dolan); to appreciate Paul Morrissey’s film requires the effort of putting it into context and ignoring the 21st century “free radical,” whom I hate.
In context, FLESH the film is still something I am inclined to dislike: it is an undeniably important piece of independent American film-making, but it is also an undeniably hip film: it came with Andy Warhol’s (as if you don’t know, the ultimate 60s underground tastemaker) name attached; its neo-Greecian attitude towards sex, and its unembarrassed glorification of the human body, are all reflective of the 60s counter-cultural attitude, where repression from previous ages was emphatically rejected and the young veered towards the opposite extreme. Sexual freedom is a trait visible in the modern hipster, but in the 60s it meant something; now, in the second decade of the 21st century, nothing means anything, everything new is an echo of something old, and youths talk the talk but can clearly be seen as unable to walk the walk.
The film’s aesthetic is deliberately wrought: Paul Morrissey’s has a keen talent for taking advantage of the ultra-independent, one-man production. That he was able to create a subtle and influential aesthetic out of nothing is the primary timeless aspect of this film. His ability is most prominently on display in the montage of Joe Dallesandro (“Joe”) playing with his child, which is beautiful, and reminds me (probably without intention of Morrissey) of Michaelangelo’s depiction of God and his son.
Dallesandro is a better actor than his “co-star” Geraldine Smith (“Geri”), who plays his wife, and his presence on-screen is probably the second timeless aspect of FLESH. He and his wife are both prostitutes in New York City, in the 60s, selling themselves to pay for friends’ abortions. Dallesandro spends most of his time on-screen posing naked, being caressed by men, or emaciated by his friends, and his casual un-self-consciousness is testament to ability, while the lines he and his wife deliver are not, sometimes sounding as though they come from the mouths of invalids.
It is not a bad thing that Paul Morrissey made FLESH, although I view it and its associated scene with contempt. It is a solid article demonstrating the attitudes of a certain group at a certain time, and it is always an honourable thing to speak well for one’s peers.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
Where The Wild Things Are
This review was originally written in 2009 for a blog I kept called Total Cinema.
Spike Jonze is 40 years old, a film-maker who garnered a reputation as an existential, slightly absurd, and very meta director after his first collaboration with writer Charlie Kaufman, Being John Malkovich (1999), and the film they made three years later, Adaptation. (2002). His latest, Where the Wild Things Are, a translation of Maurice Sendak’s classic eight-line picture book into film, is none of these heady things: it is a wholly realized adventure story where the clarity of vision comes from Jonze’s masterful depiction of the child character’s mind. All elements of film come together to convey perfectly the energy and emotion of youth, from the shaky camera to Karen O (of Yeah Yeah Yeahs) alternating gleeful whoops and cheers to mournful crooning throughout the soundtrack. Even at 40 the director still has a clear understanding of what it was to be a child.
Jonze takes all the necessary liberties in Where the Wild Things Are, stretching the plot and adding characters while staying true to the core of the original story. Max (Max Records) is a good kid, want of attention, who one night throws a tantrum and is sent to his room without dinner. Instead of obeying, he runs out into the streets and the forest, to the shore and sets sail on the boat he finds there. He is caught in a storm at night, but manages to land safely on a mysterious island where he comes across a camp of arguing monsters. The one with the shaggy head, the striped torso and feathery legs (Carol, voiced by James Gandolfini), is destroying their huts while the others look on. Max joins in with the destruction, and after a tense moment where the monsters consider eating him, he convinces them that he has magical powers that will bring harmony to the group. They elect him king, and he decides to begin construction on a humongous fort. Contention arises mainly between the jealous Carol and his crush K.W., and Judith (Catherine O’Hara), who nags Max constantly. It escalates until Carol discovers that Max is not, in fact, a viking conqueror, and nor does he have magic powers; he is crushed and throws a tantrum. After talking to K.W., Max comes to appreciate his mother’s position and decides that it is time to return home.
The monsters in Where the Wild Things Are are all children, just like Max, even though some of them are in relationships. Each one reflects a different facet of his psyche: Carol expresses himself the way Max would; K.W. fills the role of the wise older sister; Alex is the youngest and smallest monster whom the others, his family, mostly ignore, like Max’s family does to him. It feels insulting to say that Jonze’s talent can be seen in the immaturity of his characters’ conflicts, but it’s true. Max and the monsters’ emotional responses to conflicts are brilliantly authentic of children, as the rest of the film is.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
A Serious Man
This review was originally written in 2009 for a blog I kept called Total Cinema.
A Serious Man, the latest offering from film-making brothers Joel and Ethan Coen, presents us with their truest representation of the universe we live in: completely unpredictable, and occupied with exaggerated stereotypes of Jewish suburbanites that still manage to be compelling human characters. Alongside this theme of an ordered existence in a chaotic world, the Coens draw upon The Book of Job and their Jewish upbringing to create a darkly comic tragedy about physics professor Larry Gropnik (Michael Stuhlbarg), whose life and faith unravel over the course of the film.
Set in Minnesota during the ’60s, we are introduced to Larry ostensibly in the prime of his life: he has a wife, a daughter, a son whose bar mitzvah is approaching, and his brother Arthur (Richard Kind) sleeping on the couch; he has a house in the suburbs and his application for tenure is undergoing review. All of these things, however, are revealed as imperfect: Larry’s son Danny (Aaron Wolf) smokes marijuana and is being hounded by a classmate for money; his daughter Sarah (Jessica McManus) steals from his wallet, and is a generally unpleasant person; and his troubled brother is afflicted with a repulsive physical ailment that keeps him from socializing – or finding his own apartment. Larry lives in an inattentive bliss that is rudely interrupted when a student attempts to bribe him for a passing grade, and his wife Judith (Sari Lennick) tells him that she’s leaving him for family friend Sy Abbelman (Fred Melamed). Larry is put through the wringer, obviously manipulated by a malignant force (God, or the Coen brothers?) that tears down his comfortable world, piece by piece, causing Larry to seek counsel from three rabbis. Their advice is in turn inept, meaningless, and, in the wise old Marshak (Alan Mandell) refuses to even speak; he is forced by circumstances to make his own decisions concerning personal ethics and his faith in Hashem (“The Name”). Larry’s downward spiral continues, forcing the viewer into a sadistic role where he is forced by the script to take pleasure in his pain, and ending on a truly ominous note with no denouement in sight.
The Coens’ films share common concepts, of an unpredictable universe, the breaking point of personal ethics and faith, and the consequences thereof; all of the Coen brothers’ films use the core idea of a chaotic universe to propel their various plots (see: Burn After Reading, The Big Lebowski, Fargo). Despite being extrapolation on concepts that any fan of the Coen brothers is now familiar with, A Serious Man feels like the most personal film the brothers have made. The personal aspect comes from the setting of suburban Minnesota during the ’60s, and the Jewish tradition and folklore inundating the film’s entire mise-en-scene. The character Larry Gropnik is played with a simple, deadpan aplomb by theatre actor Stuhlbarg, and Joel and Ethan Coen’s humanistic handling of familiar concepts in their standard dark comedy format make A Serious Man their most mature film yet.
Last edited Oct 27 2025
The Lady Vanishes
This review was originally written in 2009 for a blog I kept called Total Cinema.
THE LADY VANISHES starts with a shot of a town constructed in miniature;it’s the same shot he would use two years later, in REBECCA (1940) and,I’m sure, many other of his early films. It’s a technique Hitchcock was obviously fond of, continuing the tradition after emigrating to America, when he was able to use cranes and helicopters to produce a more realistic version of the same thing. This film, as everything he made (that I’ve seen) is dominated by his presence; he films boldly, all aspects of style a signature, building mystery and suspense and delivering comedy with casual sureness, confident as only a publicly confirmed master can be.
Despite the mystery and suspense, the comedy is what I found to be most engaging, and the romance most confusing: the heroine (“Iris”) was played well by Margaret Lockwood, but in other respects terribly: Michael Redgrave plays “Gilbert,” whose introduction into Iris’ life is rude and shocking. Her early revulsion turns into a patronizing humour as she becomes embroiled in a mystery that seems to involve all the passengers on the train. For the rest of the film, because Lockwood performs so engagingly well as Iris, I assumed that Gilbert would turn out to be the villain. Confusion took full hold when, in fact, the opposite occurs and the two end up together. But even when they kissed in the carriage as Iris dodges her fiancee, it can be clearly observed that Gilbert makes the move to embrace her, and I say that there is reluctance in her return of it. Is this, then, an error in direction on Hitchcock’s part, or on the actress, Margaret Lockwood’s? One must assume neither, since, as I have already stated, Hitchcock is a master film-maker who, according to this filmography, had already directed twenty-six films! There is no cause to suspect a fault in Lockwood’s craft, either, having engaged us with charismatic aplomb from the beginning of THE LADY VANISHES, showing strong femininity (her legs, in what must have been a risque scene) and later, courage when she gets involved with a fist fight. So if director and actor can both be counted on to not overlook such a detail, we can only assume that Iris and Gilbert’s confusing relationship was crafted with subtle intent.
THE LADY VANISHES, then, displays all the technical innovation that Hitchcock made standard of his style, but it is also typical of Hitchcock’s forward-thinking attitude, his relentlessly rebellious spirit. Iris and Gilbert’s relationship is a complex, modern one, cast in almost unbelievably nuanced shades by Lockwood and Redgrave. They are not the only examples of unorthodox relationships and characters in Hitchcock films, of course: ROPE (1948) is about a homosexual couple, their relationship only alluded to for fear of censorship, and the psychologies of all the many killers are never simple, one-dimensional things (Norman Bates in PSYCHO (1960), and the “Necktie Murderer” of FRENZY (1972)), but studies of horrifying, twisted characters. There is no terror or other cause for horror in THE LADY VANISHES, but rather it is comedic in the unique British style, filled with captivating mystery and suspense; never aiming low, Hitchcock is also an artist, casually breaking rules and brushing aside taboo by presenting us with realistic, modern characters embroiled in a classic unassuming mystery.
Last edited Oct 27 2025