There is no greater joy in the cinema than the feeling that a film was made uniquely for you. There is something to be said for films that create such an intense bond between subject and object regardless of their technical prowess. Some films may utilize great actors, others great writers, but only the select few are considered great. After a certain point, the acting cannot improve, the writing is superb, the music fits perfectly and it is difficult to distinguish in such quantitative terms between comparably well-made films. One must switch to the qualitative, the emotional, the gut, to determine which films are greater. This is why the great films are so personal, because without that connection they would be dull, lifeless imprints on celluloid.
Take, for example, the difference between Wes Anderson's Bottle Rocket and Rushmore. The former is a techinically crude meditation on innocence, lost and gained, about three friends who can't believe that it is acceptable to just be themselves, and instead turn to a life of crime, something they have picked up from other films. The latter is also a meditation on innocence and individuality, and although it doesnt delve as deeply into those issues, it has a better script and is more “professional,” less crude. Which of these is the better film? It is impossible to tell from any description. The films must connect to the viewer.
Now there are some films which surpass the basic need to affect one person, and affect the world entire. These select few, naturally endowed with a sort of beauty that one cannot help but have a personal connection to the film. Citizen Kane, often cited as the best film of all time, holds that title because of this very fact. It is the story of a man driven by the American Dream, only to find out that he has lost something vital in the twilight of his life. This is something many people connect to, as we have all had lost dreams and regrets.
So, it seems that there is some area between being technically excellent and personally significant, and in this area is where the great films lie. They capture the hearts and the minds of their viewers. Some of the films I personally consider great are Breathless, The Godfather, Raging Bull, The Grand Illusion, Rashomon, Sullivan's Travels, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Royal Tenenbaums, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, Pulp Fiction, and Short Cuts. This is by no means an extensive list, but these are all films that I go back and watch, time and time again. Each time my relationship with them is furthered, intensified. They become a part of my being, my experience, they elucidate my understanding of the world. And when I think of how good they are, I go soft in the gut. These are great films. And this is why.
4.21.2009
4.08.2009
Indiana Jones and the Significance of Cultural Art.
[I reject the new Indiana Jones movie from the discussion.]
Indiana Jones is an almost mythic figure in our modern cultural heritage. He seems a demigod, when it comes down to it. But despite his seemingly pulp status, he, through his actions, makes very astute aesthetic judgments. Though I will only refer specifically to the film trilogy, he even makes these choices in the Young Indiana Jones series. In fact, all of the films seem to be directed toward one thing: possession. The villains all want the artifact for some purpose or design, while Indiana Jones tries to give it to the world. Perhaps there is some degree of selfishness to this, but he prefers to share these culturally significant objects with that culture, instead of having the items locked away or hoarded by some greedy individual. He realizes the significance of cultural art.
In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy tries to obtain the Ark of the Covenant, but only after he discovers that the Nazi's are doing it, too. He knows that if they found an object of such magnitude, they would be unstoppable against all the armies of the world. So he sets out on his quest to beat them there. And he does beat them, but they expect him to do so, and lie in wait. The villains let him find the Ark, and then take it from him. After much fighting and whip lashing, Indy gets the Ark back only to have the US government take it from him to put in Area 51. He argues that it belongs in a museum, something that has already and will always escape from his lips.
In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy finds himself in India. A local tribe tells him of a great evil that has stolen their spiritual rock, which he discovers is one of the legendary Shankara Stones. They offer to help him if he will retrieve the stone from the clutches of a great evil man. He tracks down the location of the stone, only to discover that it is held inside a temple in which the menu is comprised of still living reptiles and human flesh. Every night, amidst child slavery and black magic, the high priest Mola Ram, sacrifices another human after ripping out his heart. The slaves are the children of the tribe that begged him for help. Mola Ram has also captured the other Shankara Stones from other neighboring villages, and is using the power that derives from their proximity to exert a certain control over the entire community. If you drink the “blood of Mola Ram” you are immediately under his control. Anyways, Indy saves the day, gets all of the stones back and frees the children. When asked why he doesnt take the stones back to a museum he responds that it would just become “another rock collecting dust.”
In Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, his goal is the quest of all quests: the search for the Holy Grail. The Nazi's are after this prize too, but that does not inspire him to chase as much as the fact that his father was recently lost looking for it. Indy finds all the signs, then finds his father, only to be stabbed in the back by his partner, a Nazi spy. He and his father, Henry, have a large abyss between them due to a falling out years ago. But they put that behind them to search for the greatest treasure of all time. Their biggest difference is not one of practice, but of belief. Indy, as a scientist professes no faith in God. Henry, though, is a devout Christian, something he claims is necessary to discovering the Grail. When they get to the end of the line, Henry is shot, and Indiana must proceed in order to save his life with water from the Grail. That is the only way to save him now. So Indiana takes the leap of faith, rather literally, and does discover the Grail. He saves his father, and is almost swept up by its magnetism, but in the end, lets the Grail go, leaving it behind never to be in a museum.
So, you might ask, how do these three endings have something in common? Well, he does what is right for each artifact. When a work of art becomes a part of a culture, is transcends its canvas,, its bronze, its unique fusion of colors, its workmanship. It transcends all of this. It shares a bond with the community that it is a part of. Quite recently it was discovered that the copy of the Thinker present at the University of Louisville was actually the original. It was believed to be a copy made by a student of Rodin's, but it has been tested and traced back, and the conclusion stands. It is the original Thinker. So the art professors and scientists decided to do a restoration of the work, given its significance. During this process, someone suggested that it be relocated to the Speed Museum, a museum that is practically on campus, so as to preserve it better. But they decided against this because there is a mutual symbiosis between the sculpture and the student body. To put it under a glass case would alienate them from each other. The Thinker no longer ponders the Underworld as he did 100 years ago. The Thinker is now an image of the student, constantly perusing books and rethinking ideas, fashioning new thoughts and contemplating its surroundings. It has rubbed off on the students, and the students have rubbed off on it. They share a bond, and to break it would be as wrong as destroying it.
A community that looks upon a work of art and collectively ascribes a certain meaning to it, based on their experiences changes that work of art. It is something new. It is forever changed. To take the Shankara Stone away from the Indian tribe that reveres it would be to remove that great cloak of meaning, to void in it all that is valuable. It would lose those magical properties and become “just another rock.” To not protest the relocation of the Ark of the Covenant would be akin to hiding a bit of someone's faith in the shadows. And to take the Holy Grail with you and show it to the world would be to remove the burden of the leap of faith. To prove God's existence is to remove the power of doubt.
All of these things are enhanced by a certain magical property. The Stones light up and imbue their owner with superhuman abilities. The Ark lets forth the Wrath of God for those who believe. And the Grail offers eternal life and health. As Indy professes, he does not believe in magic tricks like these, so we must take their significance to the next level. These objects are not powerful in and of themselves, they are not powerful because God made them that way, or Ganesh was particularly pleased, they are powerful because we make them that way. If we did not give the objects their power over us, they would just be rocks collecting dust, or boxes filled with the dust of age old tablets, or a cup made of clay. We give them the power to change our lives, and for one person to possess this and not share it with the world is one of the greatest injustices of all.
Indiana Jones is an almost mythic figure in our modern cultural heritage. He seems a demigod, when it comes down to it. But despite his seemingly pulp status, he, through his actions, makes very astute aesthetic judgments. Though I will only refer specifically to the film trilogy, he even makes these choices in the Young Indiana Jones series. In fact, all of the films seem to be directed toward one thing: possession. The villains all want the artifact for some purpose or design, while Indiana Jones tries to give it to the world. Perhaps there is some degree of selfishness to this, but he prefers to share these culturally significant objects with that culture, instead of having the items locked away or hoarded by some greedy individual. He realizes the significance of cultural art.
In Raiders of the Lost Ark, Indy tries to obtain the Ark of the Covenant, but only after he discovers that the Nazi's are doing it, too. He knows that if they found an object of such magnitude, they would be unstoppable against all the armies of the world. So he sets out on his quest to beat them there. And he does beat them, but they expect him to do so, and lie in wait. The villains let him find the Ark, and then take it from him. After much fighting and whip lashing, Indy gets the Ark back only to have the US government take it from him to put in Area 51. He argues that it belongs in a museum, something that has already and will always escape from his lips.
In Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, Indy finds himself in India. A local tribe tells him of a great evil that has stolen their spiritual rock, which he discovers is one of the legendary Shankara Stones. They offer to help him if he will retrieve the stone from the clutches of a great evil man. He tracks down the location of the stone, only to discover that it is held inside a temple in which the menu is comprised of still living reptiles and human flesh. Every night, amidst child slavery and black magic, the high priest Mola Ram, sacrifices another human after ripping out his heart. The slaves are the children of the tribe that begged him for help. Mola Ram has also captured the other Shankara Stones from other neighboring villages, and is using the power that derives from their proximity to exert a certain control over the entire community. If you drink the “blood of Mola Ram” you are immediately under his control. Anyways, Indy saves the day, gets all of the stones back and frees the children. When asked why he doesnt take the stones back to a museum he responds that it would just become “another rock collecting dust.”
In Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, his goal is the quest of all quests: the search for the Holy Grail. The Nazi's are after this prize too, but that does not inspire him to chase as much as the fact that his father was recently lost looking for it. Indy finds all the signs, then finds his father, only to be stabbed in the back by his partner, a Nazi spy. He and his father, Henry, have a large abyss between them due to a falling out years ago. But they put that behind them to search for the greatest treasure of all time. Their biggest difference is not one of practice, but of belief. Indy, as a scientist professes no faith in God. Henry, though, is a devout Christian, something he claims is necessary to discovering the Grail. When they get to the end of the line, Henry is shot, and Indiana must proceed in order to save his life with water from the Grail. That is the only way to save him now. So Indiana takes the leap of faith, rather literally, and does discover the Grail. He saves his father, and is almost swept up by its magnetism, but in the end, lets the Grail go, leaving it behind never to be in a museum.
So, you might ask, how do these three endings have something in common? Well, he does what is right for each artifact. When a work of art becomes a part of a culture, is transcends its canvas,, its bronze, its unique fusion of colors, its workmanship. It transcends all of this. It shares a bond with the community that it is a part of. Quite recently it was discovered that the copy of the Thinker present at the University of Louisville was actually the original. It was believed to be a copy made by a student of Rodin's, but it has been tested and traced back, and the conclusion stands. It is the original Thinker. So the art professors and scientists decided to do a restoration of the work, given its significance. During this process, someone suggested that it be relocated to the Speed Museum, a museum that is practically on campus, so as to preserve it better. But they decided against this because there is a mutual symbiosis between the sculpture and the student body. To put it under a glass case would alienate them from each other. The Thinker no longer ponders the Underworld as he did 100 years ago. The Thinker is now an image of the student, constantly perusing books and rethinking ideas, fashioning new thoughts and contemplating its surroundings. It has rubbed off on the students, and the students have rubbed off on it. They share a bond, and to break it would be as wrong as destroying it.
A community that looks upon a work of art and collectively ascribes a certain meaning to it, based on their experiences changes that work of art. It is something new. It is forever changed. To take the Shankara Stone away from the Indian tribe that reveres it would be to remove that great cloak of meaning, to void in it all that is valuable. It would lose those magical properties and become “just another rock.” To not protest the relocation of the Ark of the Covenant would be akin to hiding a bit of someone's faith in the shadows. And to take the Holy Grail with you and show it to the world would be to remove the burden of the leap of faith. To prove God's existence is to remove the power of doubt.
All of these things are enhanced by a certain magical property. The Stones light up and imbue their owner with superhuman abilities. The Ark lets forth the Wrath of God for those who believe. And the Grail offers eternal life and health. As Indy professes, he does not believe in magic tricks like these, so we must take their significance to the next level. These objects are not powerful in and of themselves, they are not powerful because God made them that way, or Ganesh was particularly pleased, they are powerful because we make them that way. If we did not give the objects their power over us, they would just be rocks collecting dust, or boxes filled with the dust of age old tablets, or a cup made of clay. We give them the power to change our lives, and for one person to possess this and not share it with the world is one of the greatest injustices of all.
Life is a Cabaret, Old Chum.
It seems hard to imagine a musical, of all things, taking place during 1930's Germany. And, in fact, if it had been about anything else, the film would have been tasteless, tactless, and morally void. However, when push came to shove, Bob Fosse created a film that was not only beautiful, but communicated something very core to the human experience. He showed us what it means to live, to die, to cope, and to understand great tragedy and injustice. His film illuminates the human response to travesty, something felt by everyone who walks this earth.
Cabaret, as its title suggests, revolves around the activities of a nightclub dancer named Sally Bowles. This American girl meets a British writer, named Brian, near the start of the film, and falls in love with him, something not impeded by his later confession of homosexuality. She continues to pursue him as he is sharing an apartment with her, though she makes sure to keep her advances low-key. Eventually he caves and begins a romantic and sexual relationship with her. They also befriend a rich man named Max von Heune, who, one evening, invites them both over for a party. Their relationships are all ambiguous, and we find out later that both Sally and Brian had sex with Max.
At first she and Brian quarrel over this, but then Sally discovers that she is pregnant. She is not sure, however, who the father is. Immediately Brian suggests that they get married and move back to England, but Sally realizes her need to toss caution to the wind would be suppressed there, and instead decides to have an abortion. When he discovers this, he goes back to England, she stays in Berlin, and their lives go on.
If it were not for the sad ending and the shroud of Nazism, this would almost be called a happy film. That is because the characters make their world happy. They are surrounded on all sides by death, torture, injustice and war. In effect, they are surrounded by death. And how can you live in that world? How can you eat, drink or be merry in a world where it is unusual to walk down the street and not see a bloody corpse? How can you stay in your home when people put dead dogs on your doorstep? These are destructive times, and everyone needs an escape.
So Sally, in her great bohemian wisdom, creates that escape. She creates life. Her getting pregnant is simply a metaphor for the German people at that time. She sings and dances on stage, she oozes sexuality from every pore. She is life, or as she puts it near the end, life is a cabaret. Because, you see, the very act of creation does something to stop the destruction. Eventually, this metaphorical love child will be aborted, but the fact that love was there is beautiful enough. It gives them a brief reprieve from the broken world in which they live.
The Cabaret is simply a microcosm for this phenomenon that exists in all times and all places. Whenever we are surrounded by death we create life, and when we are surround by life, we destroy. Look at the 60's, a time when the country was entrenched in the Vietnam War, and there was a romantic bohemian revolution, a sexual revolution, a musical revolution. It was a revolution of life. Look at Adam and Eve: when presented with creation, they had to disobey. It is as if our bodies need to keep the creative and destructive juices in equilibrium. We need to keep our homeostasis, and when presented with a world that is either too good or too bad, we have a psychological need to reduce it to the middle.
I leave you with a quote from another great film, The Third Man: “Don't be so gloomy. After all it's not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”
Cabaret, as its title suggests, revolves around the activities of a nightclub dancer named Sally Bowles. This American girl meets a British writer, named Brian, near the start of the film, and falls in love with him, something not impeded by his later confession of homosexuality. She continues to pursue him as he is sharing an apartment with her, though she makes sure to keep her advances low-key. Eventually he caves and begins a romantic and sexual relationship with her. They also befriend a rich man named Max von Heune, who, one evening, invites them both over for a party. Their relationships are all ambiguous, and we find out later that both Sally and Brian had sex with Max.
At first she and Brian quarrel over this, but then Sally discovers that she is pregnant. She is not sure, however, who the father is. Immediately Brian suggests that they get married and move back to England, but Sally realizes her need to toss caution to the wind would be suppressed there, and instead decides to have an abortion. When he discovers this, he goes back to England, she stays in Berlin, and their lives go on.
If it were not for the sad ending and the shroud of Nazism, this would almost be called a happy film. That is because the characters make their world happy. They are surrounded on all sides by death, torture, injustice and war. In effect, they are surrounded by death. And how can you live in that world? How can you eat, drink or be merry in a world where it is unusual to walk down the street and not see a bloody corpse? How can you stay in your home when people put dead dogs on your doorstep? These are destructive times, and everyone needs an escape.
So Sally, in her great bohemian wisdom, creates that escape. She creates life. Her getting pregnant is simply a metaphor for the German people at that time. She sings and dances on stage, she oozes sexuality from every pore. She is life, or as she puts it near the end, life is a cabaret. Because, you see, the very act of creation does something to stop the destruction. Eventually, this metaphorical love child will be aborted, but the fact that love was there is beautiful enough. It gives them a brief reprieve from the broken world in which they live.
The Cabaret is simply a microcosm for this phenomenon that exists in all times and all places. Whenever we are surrounded by death we create life, and when we are surround by life, we destroy. Look at the 60's, a time when the country was entrenched in the Vietnam War, and there was a romantic bohemian revolution, a sexual revolution, a musical revolution. It was a revolution of life. Look at Adam and Eve: when presented with creation, they had to disobey. It is as if our bodies need to keep the creative and destructive juices in equilibrium. We need to keep our homeostasis, and when presented with a world that is either too good or too bad, we have a psychological need to reduce it to the middle.
I leave you with a quote from another great film, The Third Man: “Don't be so gloomy. After all it's not that awful. Like the fella says, in Italy for 30 years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror, murder, and bloodshed, but they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, and the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly love - they had 500 years of democracy and peace, and what did that produce? The cuckoo clock.”
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