There are, specifically, two things I want to write about in regard to this film. The first one is the acting of Joan Fontaine. It was no surprise to me that she was nominated for an Academy Award for her performance, as this was an extremely difficult part to play. She’s a nameless protagonist (seriously, she is never addressed by name in the film), a shrinking violet weighted down by the shadow cast by the film’s absent-due-to-death main character, Rebecca. The pressures on her character are manifold, and all that she is not is reflected in what others tell her Rebecca was. Fontaine does an amazing job molding her posture, facial reactions and behavior to emphasize this dramatic tension. At heart though, her character is happy and eager to please, and each blow to her self-esteem so obviously wears down this basic goodness that the film becomes emotionally torturous in the style of the gothic novel. She walks to the very precipice of madness.

Secondly, I want to talk about the ways that Hitchcock thwarts the Hays Code; something he was apparently very fond of doing. The Hays Code (or Production Code) were basically a set of censorship rules about things you were allowed or not allowed to depict when making a movie. If you do show something like a murder, the murderers must be punished by the end of the film. Hitchcock manages to use the narrative structure of the mystery to hint at things that he can’t actually show. It’s an amazing use of psychology; viewers will try to figure out how the pieces fit together and reach conclusions based on the cues Hitchcock provides that are both incorrect and in violation of the Hays Code. If you read between the lines, there are implications of marital infidelity, suicide, homicide, homosexuality and incest. They mostly all evaporate by the denouement.

This, the first of Hitchcock’s American-made films, is a very good movie, It’s no surprise that it was nominated for 11 Academy Awards and picked up two of ‘em, including Best Picture. Like most Hitchcock films, there are a lot of balls in the air, but he’s a masterful juggler and ensure that each ball comes down at the right time, and in the right order.

At first watch, this film is more comedic and less compelling than Yojimbo. At its essence, this is a buddy flick, but Sanjuro has a double handful of impetuous idiots to wrangle instead of just one. Because of this, Sanjuro’s utmost capability stands out at all times. He comes across as an ubermensch ronin who’s so bored with being a badass that he helps out these bumblers just to enliven his day. This might actually turn the film from a comedy into a satire.

I would make the argument that there is an implicit critique of Japanese social structure here, all the mundane samurai are the medieval equivalent of modern salarymen and they all want to be like the bossman, Sanjuro. He, on the other hand, is self-priming and autonomous. Because of this, he is filled with a kind of whimsical contempt toward the other samurai who place worth on things external to themselves. This is a lonely place for Sanjuro, and would irrevocably darken the tone of the film if not for the presence of Mutsuta’s wife. She’s the only other non-villainous character who has the same sort of self-possession, and her peace with herself is a marked contrast to Sanjuro’s discontent. He recognizes this, and the refinement of her personality gives Sanjuro a foundation from which he can launch his fury.

The recipient of this ire, and the only other character Sanjuro instinctively respects, is the other autonomous actor: Hanbei Muroto. Though forced to kill him, Sanjuro has no desire to do so, and the film ends as he continues his search for a group of his equals.

I went to the Cleveland Cinematheque last night to watch Bill Plympton’s most recent animated feature: Idiots and Angels (2008). Mr. Plympton was in attendance and was kind enough to do free autographs and sketches for those who asked. (I asked.)

Before the feature, Bill introduced us to this short he made with students in an animation class he taught. It’s called The Cow Who Wanted to be a Hamburger (2010). I’ve always been very impressed at Plympton’s ability to tell a story in great depth, with no dialogue. This one is no exception. Here’s a clip.

Next up was the feature; Idiots and Angels. The whole thing was drawn in #2 pencil, so it has great depth and detail. The artistic style and a large chunk of the plot device reminded me very much of Koji Yamamura’s Atama Yama (2002). The entire short is available on YouTube, but embedding has been disabled, so you’ll just have to click through. It is definitely worth it. After you’ve watched it, take a look at the trailer for Idiots and Angels, right here:

Atama Yama is a story about a selfish, anti-social man who has a cherry tree grow out of his head. Idiots and Angels is a story about a selfish, anti-social man who has wings grow out of his back. That’s pretty much where the similarities end. In Atama Yama the antisocial man comes to no good end; the moral being that society is a greater good than an individual. The opposite is the case in Idiots and Angels; where no character is particularly likable, the individual rises above an (only somewhat exaggerated) antisocial society. I found it interesting to compare how two different cultures differ in their exposition when starting out with the same elements.

Idiots and Angels was good, but not great. I felt that the exposition dragged at some points and that the editing shift at the end derailed the story for a good 5-10 minutes. The art, sound design & music was all superb, and Plympton was a completely personable and gracious guy.

I think there is something not right about [psychotherapy]. It doesn’t do any good to anyone. I have a metaphor: If you illuminate your house with strong lights to the very last corner, the house becomes uninhabitable. And it’s the same thing if you try to illuminate a human being to the last crevices of his or her soul – these human beings become uninhabitable. I do not want to deal with it. It’s a little bit like – of the same magnitude as – the Spanish Inquisition. The Inquisition didn’t do much good, and it was a similar quest. It was a quest to search and to illuminate the last little corner and crevice of your faith – scrutinizing all the depth of your faith, whether you were within the doctrine of faith or not. It didn’t do much good. So I think psychoanalysis is a mistake of the same magnitude.

Werner Herzog, “Mad Bavarian Duke: Werner Herzog” STOPSMILING Issue 25

One very basic think that you learn as a psychologist is a respect for science, and always testing out what you think is a conclusion. You never come to a conclusion until you have full evidence for it. When you’re making a documentary, it’s important you don’t come to a judgment on people, but you go through an open-minded discovery process. People always say, “Are you objective? Are you subjective?” Those two extremes come together with empathy and love. It’s not cold scientific reporting, but there’s an objectivity there. At the same time you’re dealing with human emotions that require that the camera person have heart-to-heart contact. I believe that’s possible.

Albert Maysles, “Shooting From the Heart: Albert Maysles” STOPSMILING Issue 25

You do not consist of any of the elements — earth, water, fire, air, or even ether. To be liberated, know yourself as consisting of consciousness, the witness of these. If only you will remain resting in consciousness, seeing yourself as distinct from the body, then even now you will become happy, peaceful and free from bonds. You do not belong to the brahmin or any other caste, you are not at any stage, nor are you anything that the eye can see. You are unattached and formless, the witness of everything — so be happy.

Astavakra Gita as translated by John Richards

Great thanks go to Robert Millis & his documentary The World is Unreal like a Snake in a Rope, a trailer of which you can see below.

Much respect also to Matt Wascovich & Scarcity of Tanks for being the draw. Their newest album, Bleed Now, is fundamentally awesome.

A part of this viewing list: Criterion Collection Spine #40: Michael Bay’s Armageddon.

Despite the laughable fact that this movie is included in the Criterion Collection; and the almost certain financial & business-tactical reasons for its inclusion, I’m going to try to review this film in good faith. This Michael Bay blockbuster came out in 1998, and that’s important, because I can’t imagine a film like this being made at all post-9/11. Yeah, I went there. The film is a self-congratulatory projection of America at the height of its pride, but before it had gottenth to the fall; an America that fancied itself so invincible that it could kick a Texas-sized asteroid’s ass in 18 days. An America with no problems. This is a movie made in an America that had forgotten what it is like to be humbled. (And if you think it’s just coincidence that the asteroid is “Texas-sized”, you’re an idiot).

Despite the not-so-laughable fact that the entire world is threatened by the asteroid, the only ones who can save the day are Americans. Americans who are arrogant dicks. (Redundant, I know.) America is the theme of this movie, not cosmic annihilation. Most noticeably, there are flags draped everywhere, they are like sacred tapestries, and nearly every scene is constructed to honor or promote American-ness in some way. Plus, Bruce Willis; probably the most stereotypically “American” action hero. There’s nothing original here, the film is basically a HGH version of the played-out “can we disarm the bomb in time?” trope.

Armageddon might be the most quintessentially American movie of the post-WWII era. Its genius is that of an idiot savant, but because this movie lacks anything approaching self-awareness, the glory of its bravado & obvious tackiness capture what it means to be American in the purest of terms. Michael Bay set out to make a blockbuster about America’s big balls and succeeded, but in his quest to present us with two hours of subconscious masturbatory zeitgeist-stroking (thereby turning us into lab rats who don’t even have to hit the crack button) he managed to remove anything vaguely approaching a compelling narrative.  The movie is pablum; there is no there there, and that is the only reason it is possible to make the grandiose claims I’m making about this film. If you are a thoughtful person, letting the tits, explosions, & smart-mouthed dialogue flow through you is like sitting zazen and penetrating through the impenetrable mu of the American psyche through the force of sheer bafflement. You will grasp for any sort of meaning and come up empty, and at the uttermost depth of your despair, when you surrender to the idiocy; enlightenment. This film is the archetype.

A part of this viewing list: Criterion Collection Spine #28: Paul Morrissey’s Blood For Dracula.

Blood for Dracula is little different, in essence, from it’s partner, Flesh for Frankenstein. I guess if I had to pick, I’d say I enjoyed this movie better, mainly due to the ridiculously gratuitous nudity, hot lesbian make-out scenes and a scene that reminded me of the Black Knight from Monty Python & the Holy Grail. Shlock has its redeeming qualities, as long as you’re not concerned with maintaining a certain level of snobbery.

Blood for Dracula stars the same folks, in virtually the same roles. Udo Kier is Dracula instead of Baron Frankenstein, he still has the same creepy assistant (more kempt this time around), and Joe Dallesandro remains Joe Dallesandro, fucking anything with a pulse. This film was shot back-to-back with Flesh, so it probably wasn’t hard for any of these actors to stay in character. (If you can consider Dallesandro to be capable of acting. He doesn’t even try to feign an accent. Probably no point.)

There’s quite a bit of heavy-handed proletarian revolutionary talk in this film, and the fact that Dallesandro as stableboy cum stud ends up owning the manor with a harem of three nubile sisters who’d love nothing more than to spend their days shirtless outdoors and nights watching each other get porked by Dallesandro, and, well then.

The high aristocratic body count is Warhol-generation wish-fulfillment, only 36 years later, Joe Dallesandro’s character appears just as morally bankrupt as everyone else. The film remains as a good record of what a certain group of people thought about at a certain time, but with age has become no longer compelling.

Tangentially, all three films since I’ve started back in on watching the Criterion Collection have all had some messed up sexual politics going on. I’m ready for a change-up.

Supplemental Materials

• Criterion Collection essay by Maurice Yacowar
• Not Coming to a Theater Near You review
• Trailer:
• Opening Credits:
• First Bite Scene:

A part of this viewing list: Criterion Collection Spine #27: Paul Morrissey’s Flesh for Frankenstein.

Also known, for obvious marketing reasons, as Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein, this film only uses the name “Frankenstein” as a pop culture reference to go along with the other clichéd horror tropes; mad scientists, castle laboratories, sundry chunks of corpses, creepy assistant, etc. This film isn’t a horror film, it is gore-comedy, like Dead Alive (Braindead) with side helpings of nudity and sex fetishism. It is high-brow deliberately acting low-brow; an antithesis to Sam Fuller films, which are low-brow serendipitously becoming high-brow. The twisted Teutonic (even though he’s Serbian, are Serbians considered Teutonic? I couldn’t manage to find an answer…) sexual monomania present in the Baron is one large piece of the puzzle, and Nicholas, the nearly amoral stableboy cum stud (this could also be written as “stableboy cum-stud” for added flavor) is the other. The rest of the characters flesh out (I should stop with the puns already) additional angles on what clearly becomes the point of the film; we’re all violent, sexual sociopaths in one way or another. The Baron says: “To know death, Otto, you have to fuck life… in the gall bladder!” right after he has done just that.

Well, okay, but what then, or what else? There isn’t really an answer given, unless it is present in the voyeuristic incestuous offspring of the Baron and his sister/wife. The film begins and ends with them involved in torture, first at play, but fully realized at the last. If anything, the children are even less human than everyone else. They (almost?) never speak, and offer no justifications for their acts. No matter how debased or existentially dead any of the other characters are, they always speak their piece before contributing to a body count that would do a Shakespearean tragedy proud.

Like the tank of piranha that we see occasionally, the children have been reduced to bloodthirsty beasts, who act as their nature demands, and feel no need for sophistry to justify themselves. If there’s a moral here, it’s that the absence of empathy and altruism is compounded generationally. Your obsessions can become your childrens’ and more likely worse.

Supplemental Materials

• Criterion Collection essay by Maurice Yacowar
• Eccentric Cinema Review (with plenty of stills)
• 1000 Misspent Hours Review

A part of this viewing list: Criterion Collection Spine #17: Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom.

Chances are you won’t like this movie. Even if you do enjoy it for its cinematic and allegorical value, you won’t like it. If you do like it on anything approaching an emotionally satisfying level, please seek professional help immediately. This film is based on the Marquis de Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom, adapted to fit neatly into fascist Italy in 1944. Fascists kidnap some kids and brutalize them to death. The film is boring, disgusting and depraved throughout. Everything, everybody, and every body is dehumanized; both torturers and tortured.

This is the point.

Pasolini wants us to examine just what it means to be dehumanized. What’s the mechanism? What are the motivations? It boils down to something I can really only explain in a religious context. Hell is sometimes considered as the absence of God’s love; an emptiness. That’s sort of what’s going on in this film. The torturers are empty of all love, and thus perverted by all of their other desires. They hunger to strip love from everything that has it, the more innocent and pure, the more they want to corrupt.

The cinematography is the diegetic proxy of the audience in this film, and it wholly participates in this dehumanization. You know what that means? Yup, we viewers were willing participants in the torture. Sitting on our asses and letting the camera do the work makes it easy to be evil. The shot selection is predominantly front-and-center, alternating heavily between long shots and close-ups, and just about always at eye level. It’s almost like you’re there, man! (And it’s brilliant.) That’s why if you don’t come away from this film feeling unclean, you need some help.

The heavy use of cubist art also adds to the quiet violence of the film, and emphasizes the twisted-ness of what’s going on. You’re not supposed to like this film, and Pasolini has pulled out all the stops to make sure you don’t. He wants you to see evil, feel evil, and then wonder what that means and what you can do to make sure that you aren’t or won’t become evil.

Other Links

• Criterion Reviews (scroll down a bit)
• Fearful Symmetry
• A PDF of de Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom
• Salò at the British Film Institute
• Senses of Cinema
• Trailer at Dailymotion
• The final minute on YouTube

We finished up watching the Gormenghast miniseries last night. It’s based on a fantastic couple of books by Mervyn Peake (the third book, not so much), and the BBC did an admirable job translating the thick, dusty and sometimes deliberately turgid story into 4 hours on screen. Jonathan Rhys Davies is an impressive (if far too pretty-looking) Steerpike, and while Gormenghast castle is the main character in the books, something that is nearly impossible to translate on screen, whoever did the set design had a keen and innovative eye for communicating the age, immensity and decay of the castle. It appears that all of the actors in the miniseries had a blast portraying Peake’s caricature characters, who are silly gothic grotesques, one and all.

The bus routes changed over the weekend, so I have to leave the house 20 minutes earlier than usual. Hopefully my timing won’t be too far off, or else I’ll have to wait a half hour for the next bus.