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.”
3.27.2009
The Seventh Seal-The Point of the Game.
As a group of travelers settles down for the night, a man suffering the unimaginable terrors of the black plague appears just beyond their encampment and begs for something to quench his undying thirst. He, in intense agony, expresses his fear of death, a fear so human, we all sympathize with his troubles. But the more harrowing image presented to us in this scene is not this man on the verge of death, but rather the squire Jons as he comments on the futility of helping him. He refuses to give him water claiming, in effect, that the die is already cast. He has contracted the plague and is beyond help. This is a scene from one of the greatest foreign films of all time, The Seventh Seal. The films deals largely in metaphysical questions, the big questions of philosophy, but more importantly, the questions of dying men. Because when it comes down to it, we are all this dying man, we are all, in a manner of speaking, on the verge of death. It is, as they say, simply a matter of time before we check out, which in turn begs the question: Of what use is offering anyone help? We all stand with one foot out the door.
The film begins with a crusader, Antonius Block, and his squire, the aforementioned Jons, as they are on their journey home. The return to Sweden to find their homeland ravaged by the black plague, a constant reminder of the proximity of death. But Block is not reminded of death by the mottled corpses, it is the presence of Death itself. Death, a man in a black cloak without a sense of humor, approaches Block to tell him that his time is up, the die is cast. In a futile attempt to stall Death, to earn a few precious hours on earth, the knight challenges the reaper to a chess match. Block, riddled with doubt doesn't want to die until he can be sure of God's existence. As is the knightly norm, he embarks on a quest.
At first, this quest is a quest for knowledge. But he discovers soon that he will never be sure of God's existence. He will have to take the Kierkegaardian leap of faith. Reason and “knowledge” will just take him to the edge of the cliff. To truly understand he must jump. So he abandons this quest for knowledge and instead searches for some meaning. During one of their chess bouts (Death frequently leaves to go kill some people) Death asks about the knight's new traveling companions, suggesting that because he has brought them along, they too will expire.
To backtrack a little, this group that is traveling with Block is a portion of a troupe of actors. They make their living by going from town to town making people laugh. But when the masks come off, they somehow manage to stay above the grim cloud of despair that permeates everyone else's existence. Jof and his wife, Mia, and their son, Mikhail, brim with radiance at the world. They are joyous, despite every reason not to be. When one of their number leaves the troupe to pursue a woman, they are left alone. The knight stumbles upon their makeshift encampment and Mia offers him wild strawberries and fresh milk.
Jof somehow realizes that Block is playing chess with Death after a fateful glance from the knight, and realizes that if they wish to survive, they must leave at once. Block seizes the moment, knowing that Death will not notice their departure as he has checkmate in two moves. He knocks over the pieces. As Death places them back where they were, Jof and his family escape Death's clutches. Death, in his elitist drawl asks whether the knight gained anything by the delay. And he did. Meaning.
We are all playing chess with Death. We may not realize it, but we know that one day we will die. That is the nature of life. It enriches life, it empowers life. In fact, death is the only thing that makes life worth living. Yet somehow, when faced in the eye with our own mortality, we cower in fear, hoping it will pass. Death doesn't pass. Man never wins the game. Why then do we play? Because playing the game is winning. Playing the game circumvents Death. We live in troubled times: times of war, drought, AIDS, distrust, and an increasing state of alienation. It feels like the end of times, just as it did during the black plague. But to lay down and let Death take your queen is to let Death win. The outcome of the game does not determine the winners in this world or the next. It all comes down to the way you play the game.
Marcus Aurelius once said, “It is not death that a man should fear, he should fear never beginning to live.” He wants us to pick up the pieces and start a game that we will lose, for we are all mortal, just for the sake of the game. He wants us to look at Jof and his family, a group of people that represent a light in this world. To put out that light, or be responsible for its dousing, would be a nearly unforgivable sin. They give hope, they make people laugh, they offer a reprieve from this world of suffering.
Sullivan's Travels, one of my all-time favorite films, is a meditation on the need for comedy. At the end, Sullivan says “There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.” This is what Jof does: he makes people laugh. He gives them a raison d'être. He understands why you play the game. For him it's family, for others it is friends. But perhaps the link between all of these is the creation of something beautiful. We must proactively let Beauty into this world. If we don't, we have a Pandora's box full of despair without the grain of Hope. In the end, it is the game of life that we are involved in; as long as we pick up the pieces and play with dignity, we can never truly lose.
The film begins with a crusader, Antonius Block, and his squire, the aforementioned Jons, as they are on their journey home. The return to Sweden to find their homeland ravaged by the black plague, a constant reminder of the proximity of death. But Block is not reminded of death by the mottled corpses, it is the presence of Death itself. Death, a man in a black cloak without a sense of humor, approaches Block to tell him that his time is up, the die is cast. In a futile attempt to stall Death, to earn a few precious hours on earth, the knight challenges the reaper to a chess match. Block, riddled with doubt doesn't want to die until he can be sure of God's existence. As is the knightly norm, he embarks on a quest.
At first, this quest is a quest for knowledge. But he discovers soon that he will never be sure of God's existence. He will have to take the Kierkegaardian leap of faith. Reason and “knowledge” will just take him to the edge of the cliff. To truly understand he must jump. So he abandons this quest for knowledge and instead searches for some meaning. During one of their chess bouts (Death frequently leaves to go kill some people) Death asks about the knight's new traveling companions, suggesting that because he has brought them along, they too will expire.
To backtrack a little, this group that is traveling with Block is a portion of a troupe of actors. They make their living by going from town to town making people laugh. But when the masks come off, they somehow manage to stay above the grim cloud of despair that permeates everyone else's existence. Jof and his wife, Mia, and their son, Mikhail, brim with radiance at the world. They are joyous, despite every reason not to be. When one of their number leaves the troupe to pursue a woman, they are left alone. The knight stumbles upon their makeshift encampment and Mia offers him wild strawberries and fresh milk.
Jof somehow realizes that Block is playing chess with Death after a fateful glance from the knight, and realizes that if they wish to survive, they must leave at once. Block seizes the moment, knowing that Death will not notice their departure as he has checkmate in two moves. He knocks over the pieces. As Death places them back where they were, Jof and his family escape Death's clutches. Death, in his elitist drawl asks whether the knight gained anything by the delay. And he did. Meaning.
We are all playing chess with Death. We may not realize it, but we know that one day we will die. That is the nature of life. It enriches life, it empowers life. In fact, death is the only thing that makes life worth living. Yet somehow, when faced in the eye with our own mortality, we cower in fear, hoping it will pass. Death doesn't pass. Man never wins the game. Why then do we play? Because playing the game is winning. Playing the game circumvents Death. We live in troubled times: times of war, drought, AIDS, distrust, and an increasing state of alienation. It feels like the end of times, just as it did during the black plague. But to lay down and let Death take your queen is to let Death win. The outcome of the game does not determine the winners in this world or the next. It all comes down to the way you play the game.
Marcus Aurelius once said, “It is not death that a man should fear, he should fear never beginning to live.” He wants us to pick up the pieces and start a game that we will lose, for we are all mortal, just for the sake of the game. He wants us to look at Jof and his family, a group of people that represent a light in this world. To put out that light, or be responsible for its dousing, would be a nearly unforgivable sin. They give hope, they make people laugh, they offer a reprieve from this world of suffering.
Sullivan's Travels, one of my all-time favorite films, is a meditation on the need for comedy. At the end, Sullivan says “There's a lot to be said for making people laugh. Did you know that that's all some people have? It isn't much, but it's better than nothing in this cockeyed caravan.” This is what Jof does: he makes people laugh. He gives them a raison d'être. He understands why you play the game. For him it's family, for others it is friends. But perhaps the link between all of these is the creation of something beautiful. We must proactively let Beauty into this world. If we don't, we have a Pandora's box full of despair without the grain of Hope. In the end, it is the game of life that we are involved in; as long as we pick up the pieces and play with dignity, we can never truly lose.
3.26.2009
Death in Venice-The Art of Adaptation
Surrounding the adaptation of any successful novel is an implacable shroud of controversy. Ardent fans disappointed with even the most minute of changes riot and it is accepted as fact that the book is better than the film. What these fans fail to confront, though they must certainly realize it, is the necessity of change during the adaptation process. The filmmakers must include their own voice in the adaptation for it to be of any value as a film. Otherwise, the film lacks soul, lacks heart, lacks motivation, and is little more than banal. It must exist as a work on its own, capturing the director's and screenwriter's vision, while simultaneously remaining true to the original work.
Luchino Visconti illustrates his mastery of the cinema in maintaining this balance in one of his most well respected works, Death in Venice. Based on a German novella of the same name by Thomas Mann, they both revolve around the story of Gustav von Aschenbach, an artist who retreats to Venice and begins obsessing over true Beauty, as it is reflected in a young Polish boy. In the novella, Aschenbach, a famous writer, searches out new experiences and so travels to Venice confronting vicariously through passers-by his own insecurities about art and love, life and death. Much of the novella is spent in a narrated soliloquy, meditating on the aforementioned concepts. In Venice he discovers Tadzio, a boy whose androgynous beauty might be compared to the Mona Lisa. Gustav begins to obsess over the boy, telling himself it is all aesthetic appreciation, but it quickly develops into an increasingly intense infatuation. Gustav discovers that Venice is being plagued by cholera, something the officials are trying to hide, due to the booming tourist trade. In spite of this discovery, he decides to remain in Venice, so as to never be forced to leave the side of his beloved Tadzio. In the end, he deteriorates ferociously until his death, his body ravaged by the cholera, a disease not nearly as dangerous as his unconsummated love.
The changes made between the novella and the film are limited. In the film Aschenbach's retreat is for health reasons, not for a renewed zeal for travel. He is a musician instead of a writer, and specifically addresses this as an example during his heated conversations with a friend. These discussions replace the inner monologues by communicating the same ideas. Tadzio also behaves differently. In the novella, he is simply present, and may not even realize the feelings that Gustav has for him. In the film, there are times where it seems like he is almost posing for Gustav. The feelings of homosexuality are portrayed more in the film than the novella, which, in a way, debases the emotions evoked by a man proud of his intellectualism. Aschenbach can be frequently found pontificating on the virtues of reason, but his attachment to this boy is something that extends beyond any sort of rationale. The suggestion that it is a purely sexual attraction moves it from an aesthetic appreciation to something much more banal.
But these are all symptoms of the curse of adaptation. The major changes between the book and movie were not things of plot. Those changes matter little in the long run. The changes that result in any adaptation are changes in meaning. In this film, Visconti succeeded in translating the mood of the novella, a brooding work that seems to take place outside of the world of dialogue. This is a testament to his ability as a director, that he transfered this feeling of inconsolably intense need through the restrained actions of both Dirk Bogande and the camera. It takes its time, it hesitates, it pauses for reflection; all of this makes it a very patient film, one not rushed by typical conventions. The novella is written in much the same fashion. It is what we would now call a character study, relatively plotless, but diving into the soul of a man to discover the way in which he perceives the world.
However, there was one significant thing that Visconti left out during his translation: ambiguity. It is very difficult in film to be as ambiguous as a work of literature. When images accompany words, the images make concrete what might otherwise have been hallucinated or imagined. In the film Tadzio recognizes Aschenbach because Aschenbach wants him to. But if one has not read the book, it seems like a much more intentional tryst every time their eyes meet. It appears homosexual.
Another effect of the loss of ambiguity is the reduced array of possible interpretations. In the novella, a whole slough of things might have occurred within Aschenbach's head. As the film gives no indication that he might be imagining things, this leads to only one way in which to see the work. There is much more freedom within the novella to explore his particular psyche. The book hints, though never confirms, a possibility that many of the people he meets are simply extensions of himself and, as I said before, his insecurities. In the film, one might get that impression from his arguments with his friend from back home, but they still seem like simple disputes. In the end, Visconti has picked an interpretation of the book and moved forward based on that.
But there, as the bard says, there's the rub. The whole point of adaptation and the older art of retelling told tales, lies in their relevance to today, or altered meanings. When Shakespeare wrote Henry V, it was a retelling of an historical event that was relevant to the British defeating the Spanish Armada. And when Lawrence Olivier performed it in 1940's London, the British had just survived the Nazi's Blitz. When Kenneth Branaugh adapted it into film in the 80's it was about Vietnam. They each changed the story a bit to make it about something new. Not only is this alteration important, it is necessary for an adaptation to be worth anything. It must be recognizable as the old, and yet, at the same time be nakedly apparent as something new, something relevant. In the words of Gustav's filmic profession, it must be a variation on a theme. The theme exists in order for us to become intimate with the work. We recognize the story and allow ourselves to be submerged in this comforting realm of familiarity. But then the artist takes us deeper into something that shatters the veil between the illusion and the reality.
In fact, this moment is not unlike the moment that Nietzsche speaks of in the 21st chapter of The Birth of Tragedy. “The Apollonian illusion reveals its identity as the veil thrown over the Dionysiac meanings for the duration of the play, and yet the illusion is so potent that at its close the Apollonian drama is projected into a sphere where it begins to speak with Dionysiac wisdom, thereby denying itself and its Apollonian concreteness.” The Apollonian is the Mann novella, something we have come to see as a standard of great literature. But when Visconti changes some of the key moments in the book, he changes them intentionally, to make a statement about all of us today, and becomes the Dionysian. Perhaps he is commenting on our collective voyeurism, or the way in which we hold artists above everyone else. He may be saying any number of things.
But such is the nature of adaptation. We are lured into a story we know, only to see it changed ever so slightly. Sometimes this change is out of necessity, due to the book's inability to be translated into film. It could be like Ulysses or On the Road. Both of these have been said to be impossible to adapt. But every so often a great artist comes across a great work and makes it his own.
Luchino Visconti illustrates his mastery of the cinema in maintaining this balance in one of his most well respected works, Death in Venice. Based on a German novella of the same name by Thomas Mann, they both revolve around the story of Gustav von Aschenbach, an artist who retreats to Venice and begins obsessing over true Beauty, as it is reflected in a young Polish boy. In the novella, Aschenbach, a famous writer, searches out new experiences and so travels to Venice confronting vicariously through passers-by his own insecurities about art and love, life and death. Much of the novella is spent in a narrated soliloquy, meditating on the aforementioned concepts. In Venice he discovers Tadzio, a boy whose androgynous beauty might be compared to the Mona Lisa. Gustav begins to obsess over the boy, telling himself it is all aesthetic appreciation, but it quickly develops into an increasingly intense infatuation. Gustav discovers that Venice is being plagued by cholera, something the officials are trying to hide, due to the booming tourist trade. In spite of this discovery, he decides to remain in Venice, so as to never be forced to leave the side of his beloved Tadzio. In the end, he deteriorates ferociously until his death, his body ravaged by the cholera, a disease not nearly as dangerous as his unconsummated love.
The changes made between the novella and the film are limited. In the film Aschenbach's retreat is for health reasons, not for a renewed zeal for travel. He is a musician instead of a writer, and specifically addresses this as an example during his heated conversations with a friend. These discussions replace the inner monologues by communicating the same ideas. Tadzio also behaves differently. In the novella, he is simply present, and may not even realize the feelings that Gustav has for him. In the film, there are times where it seems like he is almost posing for Gustav. The feelings of homosexuality are portrayed more in the film than the novella, which, in a way, debases the emotions evoked by a man proud of his intellectualism. Aschenbach can be frequently found pontificating on the virtues of reason, but his attachment to this boy is something that extends beyond any sort of rationale. The suggestion that it is a purely sexual attraction moves it from an aesthetic appreciation to something much more banal.
But these are all symptoms of the curse of adaptation. The major changes between the book and movie were not things of plot. Those changes matter little in the long run. The changes that result in any adaptation are changes in meaning. In this film, Visconti succeeded in translating the mood of the novella, a brooding work that seems to take place outside of the world of dialogue. This is a testament to his ability as a director, that he transfered this feeling of inconsolably intense need through the restrained actions of both Dirk Bogande and the camera. It takes its time, it hesitates, it pauses for reflection; all of this makes it a very patient film, one not rushed by typical conventions. The novella is written in much the same fashion. It is what we would now call a character study, relatively plotless, but diving into the soul of a man to discover the way in which he perceives the world.
However, there was one significant thing that Visconti left out during his translation: ambiguity. It is very difficult in film to be as ambiguous as a work of literature. When images accompany words, the images make concrete what might otherwise have been hallucinated or imagined. In the film Tadzio recognizes Aschenbach because Aschenbach wants him to. But if one has not read the book, it seems like a much more intentional tryst every time their eyes meet. It appears homosexual.
Another effect of the loss of ambiguity is the reduced array of possible interpretations. In the novella, a whole slough of things might have occurred within Aschenbach's head. As the film gives no indication that he might be imagining things, this leads to only one way in which to see the work. There is much more freedom within the novella to explore his particular psyche. The book hints, though never confirms, a possibility that many of the people he meets are simply extensions of himself and, as I said before, his insecurities. In the film, one might get that impression from his arguments with his friend from back home, but they still seem like simple disputes. In the end, Visconti has picked an interpretation of the book and moved forward based on that.
But there, as the bard says, there's the rub. The whole point of adaptation and the older art of retelling told tales, lies in their relevance to today, or altered meanings. When Shakespeare wrote Henry V, it was a retelling of an historical event that was relevant to the British defeating the Spanish Armada. And when Lawrence Olivier performed it in 1940's London, the British had just survived the Nazi's Blitz. When Kenneth Branaugh adapted it into film in the 80's it was about Vietnam. They each changed the story a bit to make it about something new. Not only is this alteration important, it is necessary for an adaptation to be worth anything. It must be recognizable as the old, and yet, at the same time be nakedly apparent as something new, something relevant. In the words of Gustav's filmic profession, it must be a variation on a theme. The theme exists in order for us to become intimate with the work. We recognize the story and allow ourselves to be submerged in this comforting realm of familiarity. But then the artist takes us deeper into something that shatters the veil between the illusion and the reality.
In fact, this moment is not unlike the moment that Nietzsche speaks of in the 21st chapter of The Birth of Tragedy. “The Apollonian illusion reveals its identity as the veil thrown over the Dionysiac meanings for the duration of the play, and yet the illusion is so potent that at its close the Apollonian drama is projected into a sphere where it begins to speak with Dionysiac wisdom, thereby denying itself and its Apollonian concreteness.” The Apollonian is the Mann novella, something we have come to see as a standard of great literature. But when Visconti changes some of the key moments in the book, he changes them intentionally, to make a statement about all of us today, and becomes the Dionysian. Perhaps he is commenting on our collective voyeurism, or the way in which we hold artists above everyone else. He may be saying any number of things.
But such is the nature of adaptation. We are lured into a story we know, only to see it changed ever so slightly. Sometimes this change is out of necessity, due to the book's inability to be translated into film. It could be like Ulysses or On the Road. Both of these have been said to be impossible to adapt. But every so often a great artist comes across a great work and makes it his own.
3.24.2009
Nosferatu, Fantasy, and the Death of Horror
In the last 20 years, the horror films genre has gone out the window. Perhaps, to be more specific, I should say that it has changed immensely for the worse. Horror films were one time stylistically astounding, filled with utterly believable special effects, that endowed the audience with a series of particularly haunting images. Now, the horror genre is just an indication that at some point there will be buckets of gore and a strange creature that jumps at you from the darkness. Gone are the twisted angles of Wise’s The Haunting, the twisting head of Friedkin’s The Exorcist, or even the rotting Mrs. Bates in Hitchcock’s Psycho. The actual schism between what is good horror and bad, though, is not age, as many believe; rather, it has more to do with a sort of realism. The reason Psycho is more frightening than Saw, is because the amount of disbelief in need of suspension is greatly reduced. Even when it comes to the films of seemingly supernatural events, such as Nosferatu, the unauthorized adaptation of Dracula, the characters are portrayed so realistically to force the viewer to actually think about whether vampires could exist, and what this would entail. These great horror films are imbued with this realism that carries them past the guards at our brains so that they can secure a place in the depths of our souls.
When discussing these films and their relationship to the horror genre, it is first important to consider its macrocosmic genre, fantasy. In reality, all of these excellent films exist in the fantasy realm. In his book The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, Tzvetan Todorov defines fantasy as the “hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event.” He goes on to describe the uncanny and the marvelous as the two rational outcomes of a fantasy. Either we view the material as something that is surprising but not unheard of, or as supernatural, something we cannot understand with these laws of nature. The reason these great horror films, especially Nosferatu, are so great lies in their ability to prolong the fantastic hesitation.
In Nosferatu, we are presented with a story that is seemingly supernatural. The problem with viewing this film now, in the 21st century, is that we have seen everything that followed it. Count Dracula (or Orlok) has become a character that is exaggerated, devoid of moral capability, and lacking any ability to be believable. It is immediately discarded as a simple story, something “marvelous” that has ceased to marvel us. But in Nosferatu, we are presented with a physically, mentally, even sexually tormented creature, just to the left of human. There are times in the film where we can see his pain, though we never sympathize with him. He is utterly believable as a Count Dracula, and he more than any other, makes you question the possibility of vampires. It gives the audience a window through which we could imagine this world existing, we can’t tell yet if a vampire is uncanny or supernatural. With its relatively sober set design (compared to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, its contemporary) it suggests that even this place could exist.
Todorov also suggests in his work that two other conditions are necessary for a work to qualify as fantasy. The first is that a character in the work also must experience the same hesitation that the audience does. This requirement is fulfilled in the character of Thomas Hutter. Hutter rejects the possibility of Orlok at the onset of the film, but as it progresses he begins to believe that such a thing might, in fact be possible. His doubt propels our own doubt as we begin to accept the possibility. This very doubt is the making of the haunting resonance that great horror films possess. Nosferatu leaves you contemplating the presence of vampires outside, whereas Saw is completely unbelievable. You finish that movie and set it aside, knowing that such a thing would never actually happen. The last condition is that the audience must reject all sort of allegorical or metaphorical meaning in the work. It must be approached with a certain attitude. This attitude is the only attitude to take when watching any of the aforementioned great horror films, let alone Nosferatu. One is enveloped in the story of Hutter and Orlok, unable to even think if this film is about something else.
In effect, all of the great horror films fall into the category of fantasy, as they prolong the hesitation of the audience. In The Haunting we are utterly convinced that the house itself was built incorrectly and is partly evil. In Psycho, the twist boggles our mind, but we don’t make something special out of it. In The Shining, Nicholson’s performance as he slowly becomes more and more insane pushes us to care little about the issues we typically hear about this film. The reason modern horror is a defunct and broken genre is that it no longer chills us to the bone. In order for it o be frightening, we must respond to it in a fantastical way. We must be able to believe that it could be true. Otherwise, the film is simply a series of cheap gimmicks meant to catch us off guard.
When discussing these films and their relationship to the horror genre, it is first important to consider its macrocosmic genre, fantasy. In reality, all of these excellent films exist in the fantasy realm. In his book The Fantastic: A Structural Approach to a Literary Genre, Tzvetan Todorov defines fantasy as the “hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event.” He goes on to describe the uncanny and the marvelous as the two rational outcomes of a fantasy. Either we view the material as something that is surprising but not unheard of, or as supernatural, something we cannot understand with these laws of nature. The reason these great horror films, especially Nosferatu, are so great lies in their ability to prolong the fantastic hesitation.
In Nosferatu, we are presented with a story that is seemingly supernatural. The problem with viewing this film now, in the 21st century, is that we have seen everything that followed it. Count Dracula (or Orlok) has become a character that is exaggerated, devoid of moral capability, and lacking any ability to be believable. It is immediately discarded as a simple story, something “marvelous” that has ceased to marvel us. But in Nosferatu, we are presented with a physically, mentally, even sexually tormented creature, just to the left of human. There are times in the film where we can see his pain, though we never sympathize with him. He is utterly believable as a Count Dracula, and he more than any other, makes you question the possibility of vampires. It gives the audience a window through which we could imagine this world existing, we can’t tell yet if a vampire is uncanny or supernatural. With its relatively sober set design (compared to The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, its contemporary) it suggests that even this place could exist.
Todorov also suggests in his work that two other conditions are necessary for a work to qualify as fantasy. The first is that a character in the work also must experience the same hesitation that the audience does. This requirement is fulfilled in the character of Thomas Hutter. Hutter rejects the possibility of Orlok at the onset of the film, but as it progresses he begins to believe that such a thing might, in fact be possible. His doubt propels our own doubt as we begin to accept the possibility. This very doubt is the making of the haunting resonance that great horror films possess. Nosferatu leaves you contemplating the presence of vampires outside, whereas Saw is completely unbelievable. You finish that movie and set it aside, knowing that such a thing would never actually happen. The last condition is that the audience must reject all sort of allegorical or metaphorical meaning in the work. It must be approached with a certain attitude. This attitude is the only attitude to take when watching any of the aforementioned great horror films, let alone Nosferatu. One is enveloped in the story of Hutter and Orlok, unable to even think if this film is about something else.
In effect, all of the great horror films fall into the category of fantasy, as they prolong the hesitation of the audience. In The Haunting we are utterly convinced that the house itself was built incorrectly and is partly evil. In Psycho, the twist boggles our mind, but we don’t make something special out of it. In The Shining, Nicholson’s performance as he slowly becomes more and more insane pushes us to care little about the issues we typically hear about this film. The reason modern horror is a defunct and broken genre is that it no longer chills us to the bone. In order for it o be frightening, we must respond to it in a fantastical way. We must be able to believe that it could be true. Otherwise, the film is simply a series of cheap gimmicks meant to catch us off guard.
3.06.2009
Rashomon and the Postwar Burden
In recent times we have found it increasingly easy to assign blame to whomever we choose. We need not even know their level of responsibility in the situation to determine that they are, in fact, responsible. One particular example of note is the OJ Simpson trial. Many of us have somehow come to the conclusion that he is guilty, without actual basis for thinking so. This is part of a larger phenomenon that Akira Kurosawa was tapping into when he wrote and directed Rashomon. It is a film caught up in the nature of justice and truth, but also about blame. Following WW2, there began an onslaught of demonization by the American people, reducing the value of Germans, Communists and the Japanese. We blamed the German people for the actions of an elite minority, the Japanese for the actions of even less, and the Communists for the actions of Stalin. This, says Kurosawa, is not permissible.
Rashomon is about trying to determine actual events based on individual accounts. A samurai is dead, and we are trying to figure out exactly where everyone fits in. At the trial, the famous bandit Tajomaru (Toshiro Mifune) confesses to killing the samurai after having a heroic swordfight. Then his story is contradicted by the wife’s testimony who says that she accidentally did it, and Tajomaru ran away after raping her. Then we hear from the dead samurai, through a medium, and he tells us that it was he who killed himself out of a sense of samurai dignity. His wife had been raped and Hara Kiri was the only way to maintain his sense of honor. Then the woodcutter, who is relating the trial to us while keeping dry under the Rasho Gate, tells us that the samurai was anything but dignified, the bandit lacked any sword fighting ability, and the wife was a bit crazy. So we have all of these contradicting stories, and somehow we are supposed to assign blame to someone. One of them is responsible for the samurai’s death. But true justice is unattainable, and the ability of the court to decide is rather limited, so no one takes the rap.
After the woodcutter is done with his story, he and his audience hear a baby crying nearby. The commoner tries to take the things of value from its makeshift cradle, when the woodcutter stops him. After revealing a flaw in his story and showing the woodcutter is not as innocent as he would like to be seen, the commoner leaves Rashomon, taking his treasure with him. After the rain stops, the woodcutter tells the priest that he wan take care of the child, it wont make a lot of difference.
The commoner says about halfway through “But is there anyone who's really good? Maybe goodness is just make-believe. Man just wants to forget the bad stuff, and believe in the made-up good stuff. It's easier that way.” This is really a symptom of postwar America. We laid blame at the feet of the Japanese, whose sole crime was to be part of a nation that attacked Pearl Harbor and, as we later found out, executed the “Rape of Nanking.” The letter of these two is perhaps deserving of the repulsion in engenders, but the former is something that can be forgiven, at least in light of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. One would think we would be able to bury the hatchet, but the entire western world was against the Japanese. Moreover, we were punishing the sons for the crimes of the fathers. These wartime decisions were made by generals, not the populace, and to force the burden on them is even more repugnant than we made them out to be. In the film, they say that the demon of Rashomon flew in fear of the ferocity of man. This ferocity was not only the fact that we could commit 6 million murders, but that we could blame this horrendous crime on those who had no hand in it.
The truth is that you cannot place blame without fully understanding the circumstances. And when you understand the circumstances, typically there exists some rational explanation. With a rational explanation comes some form of redemption. The Japanese needed some form of redemption to avoid international persecution. They were like the child found at the gate: in need of a friendly hand from someone, a warm bed, a home. Those in charge of Japan during WW2 took away everything they had, and left them to die in the cold. We, the western world, were like the commoner. What little the Japanese had left we took from them. We robbed them of their innocence, stole their humanity, and turned our backs. We left them to die. As the film itself states, “In the end, you cannot understand the things men do.”
Rashomon is about trying to determine actual events based on individual accounts. A samurai is dead, and we are trying to figure out exactly where everyone fits in. At the trial, the famous bandit Tajomaru (Toshiro Mifune) confesses to killing the samurai after having a heroic swordfight. Then his story is contradicted by the wife’s testimony who says that she accidentally did it, and Tajomaru ran away after raping her. Then we hear from the dead samurai, through a medium, and he tells us that it was he who killed himself out of a sense of samurai dignity. His wife had been raped and Hara Kiri was the only way to maintain his sense of honor. Then the woodcutter, who is relating the trial to us while keeping dry under the Rasho Gate, tells us that the samurai was anything but dignified, the bandit lacked any sword fighting ability, and the wife was a bit crazy. So we have all of these contradicting stories, and somehow we are supposed to assign blame to someone. One of them is responsible for the samurai’s death. But true justice is unattainable, and the ability of the court to decide is rather limited, so no one takes the rap.
After the woodcutter is done with his story, he and his audience hear a baby crying nearby. The commoner tries to take the things of value from its makeshift cradle, when the woodcutter stops him. After revealing a flaw in his story and showing the woodcutter is not as innocent as he would like to be seen, the commoner leaves Rashomon, taking his treasure with him. After the rain stops, the woodcutter tells the priest that he wan take care of the child, it wont make a lot of difference.
The commoner says about halfway through “But is there anyone who's really good? Maybe goodness is just make-believe. Man just wants to forget the bad stuff, and believe in the made-up good stuff. It's easier that way.” This is really a symptom of postwar America. We laid blame at the feet of the Japanese, whose sole crime was to be part of a nation that attacked Pearl Harbor and, as we later found out, executed the “Rape of Nanking.” The letter of these two is perhaps deserving of the repulsion in engenders, but the former is something that can be forgiven, at least in light of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. One would think we would be able to bury the hatchet, but the entire western world was against the Japanese. Moreover, we were punishing the sons for the crimes of the fathers. These wartime decisions were made by generals, not the populace, and to force the burden on them is even more repugnant than we made them out to be. In the film, they say that the demon of Rashomon flew in fear of the ferocity of man. This ferocity was not only the fact that we could commit 6 million murders, but that we could blame this horrendous crime on those who had no hand in it.
The truth is that you cannot place blame without fully understanding the circumstances. And when you understand the circumstances, typically there exists some rational explanation. With a rational explanation comes some form of redemption. The Japanese needed some form of redemption to avoid international persecution. They were like the child found at the gate: in need of a friendly hand from someone, a warm bed, a home. Those in charge of Japan during WW2 took away everything they had, and left them to die in the cold. We, the western world, were like the commoner. What little the Japanese had left we took from them. We robbed them of their innocence, stole their humanity, and turned our backs. We left them to die. As the film itself states, “In the end, you cannot understand the things men do.”
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