The Origins of Imagination in Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander
January 2, 2019 12:22 am
What do we need to procure a powerful imagination? A childhood steeped in traumatic events, emotionally supportive family members, being exposed to various quirky people, enriching early experiences, long hours of solitude…. Ingmar Bergman in Fanny and Alexander, his ode to the origins of imagination, suggests that all of the above is true. Bergman’s semi-autobiographical farewell gift to cinema is a reflection on what nourished his imagination to create decades of outstanding cinematic work.
The first half of Fanny and Alexander is a series of anecdotes told from the perspective of Alexander (Bertil Guve) and his sister Fanny (Pernilla Allwin), and depicts a childhood that is well protected and crowded with family on the one hand, and is also detached and chaotic on the other. Family routines are woven with religious themes; a wealthy, almost decadent upbringing is balanced with equal treatment of the staff; the chaos of a night of celebration is spotted with unexpected liaisons. Amidst all the joy and chaos Alexander hides under sheets and tables, playing make-believe games and seeing statues come alive in what we can only assume to be the fertile soil of a safe environment from which to dream.
The ideal of a childhood responsible for fuelling Alexander’s imagination is one filled with art. The rich colors and images of Alexander’s home and family life come from paintings, antiques and sculptures, furniture, rugs and tapestries. The scenes featuring various eccentric members of the family and the Christmas dinner they share are filmed in glorious wide angles as if desperate to encompass as much of the beauty and warmth as possible, still more goodness spilling out of the edges of the screen.
Fanny and Alexander’s father, Oscar (Allan Edwall), manages a theatre and both Oscar and their mother Emilie (Ewa Froling) act in the family’s stage plays. Alexander’s proximity to the most dramatic of arts of its time is another source from which he dreams. But the lifeline to his imagination is briskly cut off when Alexander witnesses his father’s quick decline and death in terror.
This event marks Bergman’s transition to the next half of the film. Oscar’s reappearing ghost is not enough to comfort Fanny and Alexander as they dread moving into the home of their mother’s new husband, Bishop Edvard Vergerus’s (Jan Malmsjo).
Vergerus’s home is barren, grey, cold and his family’s manner is stoic and void of any affection and love. Vergerus’ children from his previous wife drowned, a bad omen that influences Alexander’s darkening tales of isolation and death.
It is interesting that Vergerus’s objection to Alexander’s imagination increases as Alexander embellishes his tales with horror elements. And the harsher Vergerus’s punishments get the more Alexander’s magical thinking inspires the supernatural elements in the film. The innocent wonder of the moving statue and the friendly ghost of Oscar in the first half ripens into the kind of magic that influences the events in Alexander’s life, blurring the line between reality and fantasy.
Following Fanny and Alexander’s rescue from Vergerus’s house, Alexander re-enters a life of art and imagination, but this time that life and the characters that inhabit it school Alexander in the art of using his imagination. In conversation with a puppet that claims to be God, Alexander is told, “different realities surround us existing alongside each other.” Later, Ismael (Stina Ekblad), another strange character living in the house that hosts and protects Alexander and Fanny from their stepfather, tells Alexander that there are no boundaries between people, even people’s minds. “People flow seamlessly into each other.” This gives Alexander the permission to imagine and actualize Vergerus’s horrific death. With the power of his imagination he is not only freed from his stepfather but also from the clutches of a stale and deprived life where imagination is forbidden.
Alexander wants to punish God, if God does indeed exist. The question of the existence of God is a recurrent dilemma for Bergman and Fanny and Alexander elusively but tenderly reveals Bergman’s spiritual evolution, that there are no boundaries between things, and therefore all is possible, all is God. The film is told from the perspectives of generations of people, men and women, rich and poor, ghosts good and evil, angels and monsters. Fanny and Alexander stands as a fairy tale of sorts, and yet Alexander’s childhood feels starkly real, his imagination reflective of a child’s candid reality. We’re gifted with a hypnotic epic picture from Bergman, at once captivating and freeing.
— This article was published in Brattle Theatre Film Notes on December 19, 2018
Thirst: Marriage as Poison and Cure
October 21, 2018 9:38 pm
With Thirst (1949), Ingmar Bergman, a visionary master of cinema, made his first contribution to the exploration of marriage — a topic he would return to most memorably in Scenes from a Marriage (1974). It is often argued that Thirst’s imbalanced and loosely connected storylines and intermittent flashbacks muddle the overall effect of the film, but the individual scenes stand as brilliant musings on relationships between men and women. Pieced together from a collection of short stories, the disconnectedness of the narrative can be excused. As an early example of classic Bergman themes and aesthetics, Thirst is an interesting piece to analyze due to its raw examination of the nature of men and women as two emotionally distinct species.
The film’s opening shot is of a river abundantly flowing and swirling away from us. Raoul (Bengt Eklund) walks out of the water, followed by his lover Rut (Eva Henning) struggling to stand up. Raoul goes back to help her — the first of several man-rescues-woman moments in the film. Their romantic outing continues with Rut’s discovery of Raoul’s marriage. Raoul wisely points out, “a man my age who isn’t married with kids is a failure, but it’s nothing we can’t work out.” This opening sets the stage for a series of dialogues exploring men and women’s place in relationships. Thirst often portrays men as arrogantly dominant and women capable of seeing the absurd truth of how they’re treated but instead of asserting themselves are driven to hysteria.
After suffering an abortion that leaves her infertile, Rut feels embittered by her painful relationship with Raoul. She marries Bertil (Birger Malmsten) and swiftly develops a thirst for alcohol and insistence on stirring up trouble. Most of the film focuses on Rut and Bertil’s train journey across war-torn, poverty-stricken Europe (an apt backdrop to a tumultuous marriage) and her constant attacks on her husband.
As Rut’s nervous breakdown ebbs and flows, Bertil recounts the story of Arethusa. Arethusa turns into a freshwater spring after fleeing from the river god Alpheus and the lustful Alpheus pursues her despite the impossible union of their waters. Bertil concludes “Two sexes can never be united, separated by a sea of tears and misunderstandings.” Rut and Bertil’s marriage is a prime example of the impossible union of the two sexes. In Bergman’s imagery their waters never mingle. Rut is a jittery, cocky, provocative, depressive woman circling Bertil like a shark and Bertil, though steady and numb, dances around her fluctuations, unsure as to whether he should submit or dominate, embrace or leave, love or hate.
In another storyline, Viola (Birgit Tengroth), a recent widow, Bertil’s ex-lover and Rut’s old friend from ballet school, battles with depression in her psychiatrist’s office. The long dialogue between Viola and her psychiatrist Dr. Rosengren (Hasse Ekman) is a terribly on the nose but nevertheless incredibly revealing battle between the sexes. Rosengren denies Viola’s grief over her deceased husband and demands that she fall in love with him despite being married himself. He asserts, “Come away and break up a marriage. Do something worthwhile. Help yet another sleepwalking couple wake up from their illusions.” He also accuses Viola of never having loved her husband and sugarcoating her marriage now that it’s over.
In this unusual doctor-patient exchange Bergman suggests perhaps that a happy marriage is an illusion women cling to because they have a tendency to want things to survive rather than to perish. He also philosophizes on marriage as an institution based on an idealistic and unattainable union. This view may have some merit, but what’s interesting is his portrayal of Rosengren, which he uses to demonstrate the absurdity of men’s assumptions of what women need and how men can heal and rescue them. Unashamedly Rosengren expresses his own childish demands by attempting to persuade Viola of her presumed lacking: “Just be normal, don’t hold back… You need someone. Otherwise you’ll perish. Cry to me… Let go of your own self. Give yourself to me and I’ll deliver you.”
Increasingly comic in his desperation Rosengren continues, “I’ll carve out your real self. I’ll plow your virgin soil… I’m God’s representative on Earth.” Viola’s retort is equally hilarious: “You will not plow my soil!… You shouldn’t be treating people! I won’t be coming back. I’ve discovered I’m well.” Hopeless now, Rosengren delivers the final verdict on Viola: she will no doubt find herself in an asylum, as she is incurable. As heavy as this dialogue is and as much as it violates the rule of “show, not tell,” its over-the-top quality is what makes it work so well. Through dialogue, Bergman speaks to the tragic truth of how men viewed, and might still view, women and how it only makes sense that women were (and, perhaps, still often are) perceived to be destined for nervous breakdowns, depression, or at the very least loneliness.
Thirst’s exploration of loneliness is best personified in the character of Valborg (Mimi Nelson), who after suffering through relationships with men has become a lesbian and hopes to make a romantic connection with Viola, who rejects her coldly. Valborg is not only a loner as a woman surviving in a man’s world, but she’s also alienated as a lesbian. Her refusal to be associated with men is experienced as a solution to a problem, but it brings another layer of pain, a closing of doors in the search for love and comfort.
In his tri-layered tale of lonely women, Bergman presents a widowed woman, tormented and ridiculed; a gay woman, destined for misunderstanding and loneliness; and a married but unhappy woman, infertile, alcoholic, furious, unloved. In a harrowing scene Bertil knocks down Rut with a bottle, fulfilling Rut’s earlier prophetic judgment of men: “There isn’t a man who hasn’t brought ruin to a woman, one way or another.” A quiet relief comes to Bertil and the audience alike, until a new day begins and with regrets and longing they embrace. They are each other’s poison, but as aptly stated in the film, “hell in marriage is better than hell alone.” After what we have seen in Thirst, I predict it would be hard to agree with this statement, but for the famously melodramatic Bergman, a bad marriage still trumps loneliness.
— This article was published in Brattle Theatre Film Notes on October 3, 2018
The Fits: An Allegory for a Distinctly Feminine Metamorphosis
May 15, 2018 10:39 pm
Adolescence is a time of transition. Childhood slowly recoils in a cocoon and adulthood looms, almost threatening the child away. In Anna Rose Holmer’s The Fits, it is a transition so severe that it’s hard to know just what is about to emerge out of the cocoon and just what of the child will remain. The Fits is not only an allegorical poem about coming-of-age, but also a tale of becoming-a-woman. In the film, as in life, every girl goes through their own version of “the fits” to take their first step into adulthood (or more accurately, womanhood) seemingly unscathed, but forever changed.
From the perspective of Toni (Royalty Hightower), the film tirelessly juxtaposes the presence and gestures of boys and those of girls. Even Toni’s full name, Latonia, symbolizes her state of limbo between boyhood and girlhood. While “tomboy” Toni is partaking more actively in the boys’ world–wearing a sports bra, practicing boxing, training with her brother, surrounded by sweaty boys who eat pizza out of the box like hyenas–she’s intrigued by the girls’, perpetually lured into her nature as Latonia.
The world of girls is revealed evocatively. As Toni tests her feminine intuition, she observes an almost tribal dance-off among the girls–a sight she finds unsettling. The girls are fiercely competitive and daring, intimidating forces to be reckoned with. Toni drags her feet in her grey hoodie, while she’s practically showered by an army of bouncing girls explosive with loud shrieks and flashy outfits, boisterous laughter and chatter. Their abundant femininity is an onslaught.
The unique metamorphosis of girls becoming young women is brilliantly represented by an apparently contagious disease spreading like wildfire among a group of female dancers, who practice a powerful dance routine across the hall from an all-male, testosterone-pumping, tellingly disease-free boxing gym. The appearance of “the fits” evokes mass psychogenic illnesses where people mirror each other’s symptoms in a group. Numerous dance-off scenes where dancers mirror and outdo each other’s performance pepper the film to support such interpretation and help us make sense of the epidemic.
Beyond the fascinating connection between a psychogenic illness and girls growing into femininity, I can’t help but see the parallels between the seizures and the experience of menstruation that dominates the mood and behavior of girls in this age group.
When the seizures begin among the girls, it is clear that it’s an inevitable, distinctly feminine event that sets the boys and girls farther apart. Right after the first incidence of “the fits,” Toni’s brother warns her to not be like the girl who had the seizure: “she’s the craziest.” Then he goes on to boast about busting another athlete’s nose, showing off his opponent’s blood on a white towel, echoing the menstrual blood.
If the mysterious seizure symbolizes the sufferer’s inevitable transformation into womanhood, then the image of the bloody towel and the male warning that follows it suggest “the fits” is a metaphor for menstruation – an event traditionally associated with fear, shock and embarrassment. The male equivalent to this transformation is expressed as pride and achievement as evidenced by drawing of blood from an opponent. The interplay of what it’s like to be a girl as opposed to a boy is revealing.
As Toni nears her own version of “the fits,” she goes through other tribal rituals. She receives a tattoo from other girls, she finds her hands and nails smeared or painted with glittery nail polish, and she pierces her ears—another bloody tradition. These signs of transformation put more and more distance between Toni and her brother and the boys in general. One of them says in passing: “you’re one of them now.”
The scene on the bridge shows this shift beautifully. Toni runs up the stairs of a bridge where she often trains with her brother, but now she is alone. Her boxing moves soon give way to her dance routine, accompanied by the ritualistic sound of girls’ rhythmic clapping. Her familiar masculine way of being dissolves into an equally fierce but conversely feminine new persona. Her satisfied smile hints at where Toni feels she now belongs.
As Toni begins to feel more and more isolated from the other girls and weighed down by the imminence of “the fits,” her seizure-immune masculine side protests and resists. Her nail vanish chips away, her ears get infected, and she bounces basketballs off the wall and seeks solace in a punching bag. But by now she’s removed enough from the world of the boys that she can only watch them from afar. Much like the anticipation of menstruation among girls at this age, she begins to not only dread but also long for “the fits,” which she now realizes will be her key to finally and truly belong to her own tribe.
Once Toni also crosses that threshold into womanhood to the lyrics, “Must we choose to be slaves to gravity? Shouldn’t we be light, shouldn’t we be treasure,” the girls dressed in their sparkling costumes perform their dance routine with pride. They dance in all the major locations of the film as one body, one tribe, and one pride. Once “the fits” are behind them, and their femininity is no longer a source of fear but a source of joy, the girls glow with unprecedented power and light.
— This article was published in Brattle Theatre Film Notes on April 9, 2018
Catching a break on a Paper Moon
March 29, 2018 4:39 am
Hopes and dreams are a significant part of who we are as human beings. Peter Bogdanovich’s Depression era comedy/road movie Paper Moon artfully reflects that human need for dreaming. Ryan O’Neil’s Moses Pray and Tatum O’Neil’s Addie make a pair that brightens the sullen backdrop with their determined expectation of good things to come. Addie’s cunning ideas and sharp attitude are just what Moses needs to survive the hopelessness that surrounds them. Despite the comedic buddy-movie sensibility of the film, Paper Moon focuses our attention time and again on the melancholy symbolism of a paper moon the duo delicately balances on as they go through their adventures.
When Paper Moon opens, life feels bleak. The landscape is dismal. Addie’s mother has just died. Moses’s desperate attempts at conning widowers for small profits halt as he attends the funeral. The eagerness with which Addie’s relatives unburden themselves of the newly orphaned girl represents the dominant mood. This is a world where even a nine-year-old girl needs to fend for herself.
It is significant that a funeral opens the film, sending the message that nothing lasts. As Addie smokes away her troubles in motel rooms, we are merely in an intermission before the next thing runs out on the couple. Sometimes it’s money, sometimes it’s a car, and sometimes it’s a companion that is lost. The temporariness of everything else is ironically what gives birth to a bond between the two misfits—the only one that promises permanence. On the surface, what holds them together is Moses’s two hundred dollar debt to Addie, but in truth it is their reliance on each other to keep their hopes and dreams afloat.
Trixie Delight’s (Madeline Kahn) appearance in the film threatens the fine balance between Moses and Addie. A perfect match for them, Trixie means competition to Addie. She’s a prostitute also looking for her lucky break, which she hopes to be Moses. Just as Addie plots to get rid of her, Trixie opens up to Addie about her true intentions. Her submission to failure is heartbreaking as she begs Addie to give her a break: “…if you wait it out a little, it’ll be over, you know. I mean, even if I want a fella, somehow I manage to get it screwed up. Maybe I’ll get a new pair of shoes, a nice dress, a few laughs. Times are hard.” Addie recognizes Trixie’s implausible, paper-thin dreams and lets her enjoy her brief moment.
The deputy that catches the duo for bootlegging, their most profitable venture yet, begins his interrogation with “Just when ya think ya got it made… Just ain’t made, is it?” Despite Moses and Addie’s comic disputes and amusing getaways, Paper Moon is imbued with cynicism. It keeps circling back to the same message: However hard you try, you’ll never get it made.
László Kovács’s cinematography echoes the tentativeness of achievement of money and success in Paper Moon. The depth-of-field of Kovács’s black and white photography makes every corner of the frame look in focus. The flat and crisp images invite the audience to pay attention to everything. As a result, the main characters on the screen are just as important (or unimportant) as the supporting characters, the set design, and even the surrounding landscape. By projecting a glasslike, fragile world, the extreme depth-of-field not only reduces the characters’ significance, but also gives the visuals a paper-like quality that accentuates the vulnerability of the characters’ goals and emotions.
The actual image of the paper moon appears at a carnival scene where Addie badly wants a picture of herself and Moses seated on top of the moon. Moses is too busy to grant her wish. Addie walks away from the booth deeply disappointed, saying, “He’s not my father.” Addie’s photograph sitting on top of the paper moon alone becomes her emotionally charged parting gift to Moses in the finale. Having been dropped off at her aunt’s house, the gift represents her relinquishing her biggest dream, that of belonging to him as her father. It is the image of lonely Addie sitting on a paper moon that softens Moses’s resolve to leave her behind. That and the fact that his car won’t start, which makes a meaningful comic reference to the pattern of things falling apart around them, conversely working to their advantage at last.
Roads are natural staple images of road movies. In the final image of Paper Moon, the road that leads to nowhere on the infinite Kansas landscape is photographed statically from behind Moses and Addie’s car. It is one of the few occasions in the movie where the characters face away from us. The image of the winding road leading to the unknown is a fitting one that marks the unknowability of Addie and Moses’s future. But fortunately for them, they are armed with their dreams, even though we know those dreams are barely clinging to paper moons.
— This article was originally published in Brattle Theatre Film Notes on January 29, 2018
Beat Sheet: Screenplay Breakdown of Martin McDonagh’s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri
January 18, 2018 7:39 pm
Every year I deconstruct my favorite screenplay of the year in a beat sheet format developed by Blake Snyder. This year it happens to be Martin McDonagh’s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, which just won the Golden Globe for Best Screenplay and is a strong candidate for the Oscar in the original screenplay category among others. Enjoy!
Mildred (Frances McDormand) spots three deserted billboards as she drives along an empty road. A light bulb goes off in her head.
Mildred buys advertising space on all three billboards. This is the catalyst for action mainly for the police officials she’s targeting, but it also marks the start of Mildred’s journey into reaching out to the authorities and the public with her pain.
The billboards are unveiled, as is the story behind them. The various reactions to the billboards set up Mildred’s friends and foes as well as her personal motivation and goal. Her son Robbie (Lucas Hedges) is one of the few people whose opinion and feelings matter to Mildred, but even Robbie’s disapproval doesn’t stop her. While Mildred’s colleague from the gift shop (Amanda Warren) is her only supporter, her adversaries are many and furious. The main target for the billboards is Chief Willoughby (Woody Harrelson), whose terminal illness accentuates the conflict between the characters, but it is Dixon (phenomenally portrayed by Sam Rockwell) who takes it to heart and will have the longest distance to go in his transformation.
Throughout the film the biggest debate is about whether the billboards will stay up or not. Can Mildred be convinced to take them down, or not? First the legality of the billboards is questioned, and then Mildred’s resolve is tested by the police and the locals. Willoughby’s attempt at reasoning with her hits a dead-end when he figures that Mildred had already known about his cancer, but doesn’t care.
The billboards are the source of a battle of wills between Mildred and pretty much everyone else, and it looks like Mildred will win.
The last effort to get Mildred to take the billboards down comes from the moral beacon of the town, the priest. He says, ‘No one’s on your side about this.’ The central conflict of the story is alluded to: we will be exploring the possibilities of whether Mildred will succeed in pulling people to her side to bring justice to a now disregarded horrific crime. Will the police and the public get over their shame and discomfort to finally face the reality that such vile crimes are committed amongst them.
Mildred’s goal is not solely and simply forcing the police to solve the crime, but to remember it, face it, and do something about it, in their action and in their hearts.
Break into Two
Mildred coolly and beautifully reacts to the priest. The gist of it is ‘Get the f**k outta my kitchen.’ We now know that if this is Mildred’s response to a priest, the billboards are here to stay.
Willoughby on the other hand, having received his own ‘catalyst for action’ to solve the crime in his few remaining days, lashes out at his doctor for comforting him at Mildred’s expense. Willoughby is taking none of it, because he knows that as crazy as she is, Mildred is right and he now knows what to do. Both Mildred and her adversaries move into their second act of growth.
Fun & Games
Willoughby tries to make it right by giving the case another shot before he dies. Mildred responds to and deflates the increasing pressure against her and the billboards. In a beautiful and tragicomic one-two punch Mildred injures the town dentist and Willoughby coughs up blood into Mildred’s face during her interrogation. They may be on opposite sides of an argument but in this scene they share an intimate moment acknowledging each other’s suffering.
This is also the section where we go deeper into Mildred’s personal demons. Her guilt around what’s happened to her daughter (Kathryn Newton) and how her desperation for justice is mixed with her need to do right by her daughter. Her sense of failure crystalizes in her exchange with her ex-husband (John Hawkes). One more dimension is added to her guilt when she finds out her daughter wanted to move in with her father to get away from her and if she had she might have lived.
As Willoughby finds his own answer to his dilemma by plotting a premature but dignified exit, Mildred hits a peak point in her journey when she lets down her guard, addressing a fawn that symbolizes her daughter. We ask: Has she done the right thing by opening this can of worms when the case has little chance of being solved? Was it worth turning everyone’s lives upside down, letting the pains of the past resurface and dig deep into their hearts?
There is a dance that happens between Mildred and Willoughby and Dixon throughout the film. Willoughby fights her but he feels for her, even agrees with her. His parting gesture expresses his faith in the possibility of goodness in the world. He has manifestly joined Mildred in her quest for unification against rape and violence.
Mildred’s dance of compassion continues with a much different version of Willoughby in Dixon. Dixon, suffering from a slow-burning moral compass, questionable intelligence and typically male anger, is infuriated by Mildred’s position. It takes longer for him to unite with Mildred, but with Willoughby’s help he recognizes the goodness in himself that will move him closer to her.
It is in Dixon’s transformation that Mildred’s internal journey lies and it is in the B Story between Mildred and Dixon where the theme of the film is discussed.
Willoughby kills himself. As a result Mildred’s doubts and guilt about the billboards reach a new height. She now has to face a town outraged by Willoughby’s suicide, which they naturally view to be Mildred’s fault.
Bad Guys Close in
As a response to Willoughby’s suicide, problems escalate in Ebbing at a fast pace. The suicide has done no favors to Robbie’s already vulnerable position at his school. Dixon throws the ad agency guy Red (Caleb Landry Jones) out the window for putting up the billboards in the first place. On top of his grief over Willoughby Dixon loses his job, his one reason for leading a decent, lawful life. A creepy guy (Brendan Sexton III) threatens Mildred’s life when he walks into the gift shop claiming to be responsible for her daughter’s violent death. Willoughby’s widow (Abby Cornish) brings Mildred a letter from her late husband, further clenching Mildred’s heart.
Willoughby’s letter is a relief from the increasing tensions of the story, but it does nothing but further raise the stakes. Willoughby has done a good deed by renewing the monthly rent for the billboards, but this only results in somebody setting fire to them. The fire represents the culmination of conflict around the billboards, which will in turn give birth to Mildred’s most vengeful retribution yet.
All is Lost
Assuming it was the police that burnt down the billboards, Mildred sets fire to the police station. Little does she know that Dixon is in the building receiving words of wisdom from Willoughby’s letter, marking the beginning of a shift in his journey.
All is lost for Mildred as she realizes that in her rage against violence and injustice she almost killed Dixon and she now faces potential jail time and, most importantly, the loss of her battle.
Dark Night of the Soul
Thoroughly bandaged and imbued with Willoughby’s faith in him, Dixon makes amends with Red in the hospital. He’s no longer a brute, but a victim.
Mildred in her own way uncharacteristically softens when she goes out on a date with the town midget James (Peter Dinklage). She even shows signs of coming to terms with her ex-husband’s infidelity when she wishes well on his new relationship, advising him to treat her well – a common decency she herself didn’t receive.
Break into Three
The billboards go back up! The war is still on. In the meantime, as foretold by Willoughby, Dixon overhears the confession of a brutal crime against a woman. He may no longer be a cop, but he has a chance to make things right by Mildred after all.
Dixon’s potential offender turns out to be not the man who killed Mildred’s daughter. But, driven by the purposelessness of his life and his newly acquired taste for justice, he suggests to Mildred that they go after this guy anyway. He may not be the guy they’re looking for but he’s still a vile criminal, who’s ought to be punished. Mildred agrees.
Mildred drives along the billboard road with Dixon shotgun, going after revenge and justice. They know that neither of them is likely to pull the trigger on the guy, but that’s not the point. Mildred has succeeded in her feat: she drew attention to an unacceptable crime, fuelled the hearts and minds of the police and the public to stand against crime against women. And most importantly, she now has the support of Dixon, her unlikely partner in doing the right thing against all odds.
Second Rounder at Austin Film Festival! NOW On The Black List!
September 20, 2017 11:35 pm
IMPORTANT NEWS UPDATE!!
Magic of Story‘s founder, screenwriter and script analyst Selin Sevinc’s latest feature-length screenplay became a second rounder at Austin Film Festival‘s prestigious screenwriting contest – a recognition given to less than 20% of the entrants.
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Room for Cinema in Agnes Varda’s La Pointe Courte
July 29, 2017 11:02 pm
Influential French filmmaker Agnes Varda’s debut film La Pointe Courte (1956) is a great reminder to modern cinephiles what film-viewing experience can be. Following the footsteps of Italian Neorealism and in the wake of the French New Wave, La Pointe Courte serves as an amalgam of the kind of films that transformed our understanding and appreciation of film language and aesthetics. It not only represents a major step in cinema history, but is also a refreshing viewing experience for the modern moviegoer who is accustomed to conventional plot and character development and an easily discernable protagonist.
La Pointe Courte differs from most mainstream films in a few ways. First, it has two storylines that don’t connect by a cause-and-effect relationship. One storyline witnesses local fishermen’s struggle against the government inspectors who threaten their livelihood by placing restrictions on their fishing zones. The string of impersonal documentary-like scenes of fishing, sharing mishaps with inspectors and ordinary familial events is intercut with a more personal narrative where a married couple questions their love for each other. The couple has intimate dialogues that are specific to their innermost feelings and philosophical ruminations on love and marriage, using the fishing town as an agent of change, which first agitates their romance, then replenishes it.
The film is also inventive in that Varda uses entirely different visual styles for filming the two worlds. She evokes the Italian Neorealist tradition for the fishermen, where non-professional actors are filmed living their ordinary lives almost in real time with seemingly little manipulation from the filmmaker. This documentary-style allows these sections of the film an unsentimental reality. Even the death of a child becomes a commonplace event in an unchanging world that’s only marginally disturbed by government officials. Varda skillfully mirrors the Neorealist concern with social and economic issues of working class people.
On the other hand, the couple’s world is highly stylized. Varda’s choices of uncertain, downbeat music, meticulously composed mise-en-scenes, symbolic inserts of images that intensify the couple’s dialogue and the choice of expressive settings are the foreshadowing elements of the French New Wave’s way of experimentation with the film form.
For instance, the couple’s walk on the beach or through town in lengthy tracking shots are intercut with static shots of crabs, a dead cat, eels caught in a net, a fork in the road, train tracks to match the tone and content of their conversation. As they speak about their failing marriage and how difficult they find it to relate to their love for each other, they’re inside the skeleton of an old wooden boat as if inside a womb, out of which their relationship will be reborn. Another noteworthy aesthetic choice is the unnatural framing of the actors’ merging faces. Varda’s compositions precede that of Ingmar Bergman’s stylistically influential Persona, filmed a decade after La Pointe Courte. Varda’s visual style is clearly an inspiration for the developing aesthetics of European art house cinema.
Varda interlaces her seemingly disparate storylines and visual styles in a way that draws attention to a major distinction in social and behavioral norms in French society. In contrast with the slow, flowing scenes of townsfolk’s daily struggle and acceptance of what they have and have not, the couple dissect and question their thoughts and emotions in a cryptic language, in discord with each other and their environment’s rhythms. Varda depicts a modern, urban couple moving around in a world they don’t belong, while life flows around them free of existential crisis. Their landlady’s statement, “They’re always talking; they mustn’t be happy,” sums up this distinction.
The intellectual, overwritten dialogue, coupled with erratic editing and an expressive music score sets the couple’s scenes clearly apart from the townsfolk’s. Varda, without seeming to do so, elicits commentary on life’s ironic contrasts with images, sounds and editing –the great weapons of film language– while remaining equally distant from both of her storylines.
From a modern perspective it is a hard task to enjoy a film like La Pointe Courte. It is remarkably slow-paced; performances are blunt; the plot is hardly engaging and the structure is fragmented. However, Varda’s invitation to step in and feel the film, as opposed to merely consume it, is a priceless gift for the modern film lover. Simply observing the ebbs and flows of a slice of life in a town called La Pointe Courte, and absorbing Varda’s artistic vision through images and rhythms is enough to appreciate what cinema has to offer.
–This article was originally published in Brattle Theatre Film Notes on July 23, 2017
Beat Sheet: Screenplay Breakdown of Kenneth Lonergan’s Manchester by the Sea
February 17, 2017 5:41 pm
Kenneth Lonergan’s Best Picture and Best Original Screenplay Academy Award nominated Manchester by the Sea is the most compelling screenplay I’ve come across lately. I deeply enjoyed breaking it down to its parts to better understand how it was so effectively and economically put together.
This breakdown is based on Blake Snyder’s beat sheet method. Please read on if you’ve already seen the movie! Enjoy!
Three boys in one beloved boat, on one beloved ocean. Lee (Casey Affleck) kids around with his nephew Patrick as his big brother Joe (Kyle Chandler) helms the boat. They are connected through the ocean and their love for each other.
Lee works as a janitor, servicing the residents of four apartment buildings. His character is set up by its contrast to the people whose lives continue uninterrupted despite his presence in them. The residents have relatives, responsibilities, plans, schedules, worries, and preferences, whereas Lee is a blank page, as if without a past and a future, a socially inept bypasser, there to unclog and repair and nothing more. Lee is portrayed as someone who has picked a life of doing the dirty work of lives lived by others – a man outside of the rhythmic continuity of other people’s lives.
Lee has a temper, cause of which is yet unclear. When he is pushed or when he is alone, he stumbles into trouble. He cannot connect with people, except when he quenches his thirst for connection by needless violent outbursts.
When Lee heads back into Manchester following the Catalyst (see below) his past is slowly revealed, establishing what the ramifications of this ‘catalyst for action’ might mean for Lee, what’s at stake and what he must overcome to meet his challenge.
Following Lee’s unexpected indiscretion with one of the residents, his boss has a chat with him. He tells Lee that he can’t be so careless and unpleasant in life, implying that Lee simply doesn’t fit in a civilized world. This first challenge to Lee’s deep-seated attitude towards life shows us that we’re about to explore whether Lee will be able to re-enter the social, connected world. Will he make an effort to get along? Will he make room for others?
Lee gets a call from the hospital: Joe had another heart attack. He drives back to Manchester as he did so many times before, but this time Joe is dead. Manchester is calling for Lee to tend to Patrick and, in doing so, to pick up the pieces of his own life.
According to Joe’s will, Lee is to become Patrick’s (Lucas Hedges) legal guardian and look after him until he turns 18. So the central debate question is, ‘Will Lee accept the duty of being a guardian to Patrick?’ But, since Patrick has a lot to lose by leaving Manchester to live with Lee and Lee has no real excuse to stay in Boston, the real question is ‘Will Lee move back to Manchester?’ When Lee is hit with this question in the lawyer’s office, his tragic past is revealed to intensify what this move might mean for him. How near impossible a task is being asked of him. In light of his personal past, the guilt he feels for what happened to his family, will he be able to stomach living in Manchester again, let alone take responsibility for another person?
Break into Two
Lee doesn’t see sending Patrick to live with his mother as an option. So he decides to temporarily move to Manchester until he figures something out and move them both to Boston. But even before a clear moment of decision occurs, Manchester has already sucked Lee in. He is already engaged in the daily tasks, responsibilities and decisions for Patrick’s life; he has already assumed a parental position.
Fun & Games
Lee and Patrick’s life together. Patrick’s daily schedule, friends, girlfriends, school, sports teams, music band, his boat, his problems come at Lee with full force. Lee’s dull and subdued personality, and unwillingness to function as a giver of guidance, support and discipline, starkly contrasts Patrick’s ease in his social connections, and outspokenness about his desires, fears and goals. Lee’s callousness vs. Patrick’s liveliness provides an entertaining respite from the grief they are yet to process.
Despite their differences and the inconvenient circumstances they are brought together in, Lee and Patrick bond. Patrick is social, popular, pumped up with hormones and desires, love, humor and gusto. He is at the center of a web of connections, bubbling with life. He is the antithesis to Lee’s disconnected, unwilling, dispassioned shuffle through life. Their evolving connection becomes a point by which the theme of the film is discussed: will Lee integrate back into society with the help of his new role as a guardian to Patrick?
Patrick has an emotional breakdown – a rare occasion where he abandons his carefree attitude and falls into the claws of grief over his dad. When Patrick is confronted with stacks of frozen chicken and a sudden onslaught of grief overwhelms him, Lee does his work as a compassionate, loving guardian. This is a moment when we feel the transference of their shared suffering. We ask: could Patrick be the antidote to Lee’s deep feelings of guilt and sorrow?
Bad Guys Close in
Lee lays down what will happen to Patrick: temporary stay in Manchester and then move to Boston. Patrick is cross with Lee; the tension between them builds. On the other hand the boat is in bad shape and will require either selling or investing in, both of which don’t quite work for either of them. More pressure is introduced when Lee looks for jobs in Manchester but it’s clear the townsfolk still holds some grudge against him. Furthermore, despite Patrick’s hopeful attempt, Lee proves to be less than capable of making even small talk with another person.
A big blow comes when Patrick’s –and Lee’s– last hope for finding Patrick an appropriate guardian falls through. Patrick’s mum and her fiancé are clearly not the right match for him. Finally, it’s obvious that Lee and Patrick are stuck together. To counteract this disappointment, Lee finds a way for them to keep the boat and gives Patrick a break to enjoy his girlfriend – two sweet gestures that ease the tension between them. But soon Lee will encounter the biggest challenge of all…
All is Lost
Lee runs into his ex-wife Randi (Michelle Williams) pushing a stroller down a Manchester street. Randi’s confessional apology has a shattering effect; the love and pain between them are palpable. Lee is crushed under the weight of Randi’s compassion and the knowledge that it is too late to mend their unsalvageable, grief-stricken relationship.
Dark Night of the Soul
Lee’s self-destructive defense mechanism takes effect immediately. He starts a bar fight and gets damaged enough to prove to himself that’s exactly what he deserves. What’s more, in a heart-wrenching moment, he sees his dead children warning him of a fire he’s about to cause. Lee’s jolted out of his stupor to tend to the spaghetti sauce burning on the stove. This classic Dark Night of the Soul moment underlines the haunting nature of Lee’s grief.
Break into Three
Lee does the only thing that he can do under the circumstances. He arranges Joe’s best friend to adopt Patrick. He tells Patrick that he simply cannot stay in Manchester, because he’s too heartbroken, because he can’t beat his demons.
Joe is finally buried on a spring day. Lee has a job in the big city and is looking for a bigger place to live. When asked why that is, he explains the extra room is for Patrick to come visit. Lee and Patrick bounce a ball between them as they continue to bicker. Regardless of how happy or unhappy they are now, it is clear that Patrick continues to live the life he chooses to live, and Lee has picked a safe zone for himself to function and made room for another person.
Lee and Patrick are out fishing on their boat – the only common ground quiet and gentle enough to hold the connection between them.
An Exploration of Cinematic Expressions in Ben Wheatley’s A Field in England
February 1, 2017 3:04 am
A field suggests possibilities; its openness welcomes any old soul to seek his treasure; its terrain allows all sorts of physical or spiritual pursuits. The title, A Field in England, immediately brings to mind a vivid image, and gives away a carefree attitude about which field is the one in question, and what happens on it. The obscurity and infinite possibilities of the film’s narrative and style are hinted at first in the title.
Director Ben Wheatley and screenwriter Amy Jump’s field is a simple field adjacent to a battlefield. Theirs is one of possibilities for personal battles, discoveries, treasures, friendship and mind-altering mushrooms. Unsurprisingly, A Field in England cannot be contained in a single genre category, confined by one aesthetic style or another, or limited by the use of a distinct narrative device or two. It mishmashes a number of devices and forms, as well as lenses, sound effects, visual effects and music.
It is recognized as a historical psychological thriller, and while it has elements of all of these genres (and more), it also defies their conventions and expectations. Though clearly set in another century, we are not informed of its 17th century setting, as this information is not altogether relevant. The costumes and dialogues are perfectly naturalistic to the period, hence giving the film an air of realism, and yet it makes no effort to reveal its historic background and the culture in which the story takes place.
The film is more interested in the simple crevices of its four main characters’ psyches, but only as they succumb to the influence of the mushrooms they eat. Mostly, their goals and conflicts with each other are in plain sight, rather than obscured by some psychological dramatization.
As for the thriller/horror aspect, even though there is some gore involved in this classic tale of battle against evil, and unsettling events involving a skull, a smoky black sphere, and blood-curdling sounds of a witchcraft session do occur, these details are as humorous as they are disturbing.
A Field in England is more accurately an unexpected cross between (1) a British take on a classic Western in which hats, pistols, camaraderie and male bravado are the order of the day, with a characteristically British field taking the place of mountains and deserts, (2) a road movie, which has a singular goal, though it does shift from reaching an alehouse, to recovering some documents of alchemy, to finding a treasure, to outwitting the villain to save oneself, and (3) an allegorical comedy on the effects of mushroom circles, ruminations on occult mysticism and forming unlikely friendships along the way.
The shifts in genre are accompanied beautifully by the episodic changes in camerawork, editing, sound and music. The first quarter of the film is devoted to the chaotic impact of war on the bodily senses. The camera captures macro images of eyes, juxtaposed with frantic images of grass and weeds. Soon these settle into a rhythm of longer, calmer shots showing the characters getting to know one another. Tabloid images of the men uniquely invoke paintings in which characters theatrically enact a period we can no longer experience or even imagine. As we are plunged into the fake reality of this time, music remains more instrumental and sound design more realistic.
Once the mushrooms are introduced, there is a literal reenactment of the idea that it may take four men and a rope to pull one out of a mushroom circle. The fast-paced, cartoonish editing of this scene naturally gives birth to the warped images of the characters as they go deeper and deeper into their nightmarish, violently psychedelic state. Strobe effect, split screens where images fold and shift around, fast cuts between two simultaneous events that speedily convey information to the audience are a few of the radical methods Wheatley mixes together.
The relentless wind, the unnaturally quiet, echoing voices, increasingly electronic tones in the music, and the narrative genius of a reappearing dead man take the ever-escalating insanity of the story to new heights. By the time the wind dies down, the grass relaxes, the dirt settles, and our hero stands triumphant, Wheatley brings us full circle to the adjacent battlefield. Only now, the hero has achieved his goal; he is no longer the fearful, desperate, lonely man he was at fade in. Despite all the weirdness of its aesthetics, Wheatley manages to sustain a conventional tale of friendship, attainment of goals and personal change.
A Field in England is a refreshing modern specimen of the avant-garde movement, and a celebration of guerilla style filmmaking. Its professional amateurishness and elegant mixing of aesthetic expressions create an abstract beauty for modern cinema-goers to treasure for years to come.
— This article was originally published in Brattle Theatre Film Notes on January 16, 2017
John Cassavetes’ Husbands: An Elaborate Study on Manhood
August 23, 2016 12:56 am
One of the most accomplished auteurs of American cinema, John Cassavetes makes a subtle, honest and deeply sincere film about being a man in western society. In Husbands, his three suburban New Yorker husbands represent the traditional male status quo, that of the married man with children, a dull job, a house, a car, a garage, a debt, a receding hairline, and a few buddies who faithfully remind them they are still who they always were, namely, hopeful young boys.
Husbands is about what it’s like to have had a vision of himself as a young man and what it’s like to have lost it without having stopped once to notice it slipping by. Gus (John Cassavetes), Harry (Ben Gazzara) and Archie (Peter Falk) mourn the death of a close friend, whose sudden passing reduces them from a happily deluded quartet to a saddened and confused trio. Except, they don’t know how to mourn. Instead, they suddenly transition from middle-aged, middle class, professional family men to your average obnoxious, vagabond teenagers.
Stylistically radical, Husbands invites the audience to take an audaciously long and personal look at living the male bravado and the ultimate delusion of manhood – that man is free and immortal. The first half of the film is spent showing the three husbands drink, race each other, play ball, physically and verbally attack each other and their companions, display a scattered sense of self and life, and basically use up a day and a night in the pursuit of their lost youth and freedom. Only in the second half, prompted by Harry’s last of many fights with his wife, they all decide to go to London to take their depressed feelings to the next escapist level.
When you watch Husbands from a modern audience perspective, first thing to notice is its shocking freedom in exploring its subject matter. There seems to be no constraint on screen time, no stylistic limits on camerawork, lighting or acting, and seemingly almost no intention to make the movie fit in one category or other. It is simply and freely what it is. If this were a modern movie, the trio would be going to London by minute 25 of the picture, whereas Cassavetes shows us a phenomenal hour and 15 minutes of three guys mucking around, philosophizing in fragments, and getting nowhere… Husbands reminds us this is what movies could be, or perhaps should be, all about: life itself.
As the invisible onlookers and eavesdroppers, we get to experience life from the perspective of three husbands living out a bittersweet period of their lives in real time. The improvisational, fly-on-the-wall style of the film makes the occasional fleeting moments of subtle wisdom all the more poignant. We feel that we catch glimpses of raw truth about the male reality. Archie says at one point: “What do you prefer to do, if you had a preference?” Another time we hear from Harry, simply: “I’m confused,” and “There were four of us, now there are three of us, and you wanna be alone?” They utter uncensored expressions of contained passion, discontentment and frustration: “The legs, the breasts, the mouth”, “We have two lovely wives, the only problem is to go home and make love to them”, “Gotta be an individual.” In these lines, drama and deep emotions seep through between the lines without an ounce of sentimentality.
The most exquisite thing about Husbands is its finale. The men’s infantile romp is over, and they have not grown any wiser. Archie and Gus leave Harry, the more confused of the three, behind in London. On the sidewalk, they divide the toys they bought for their kids. It’s a solemn moment that screams with disappointment and perhaps relief from the unknowns of their great adventure in London. As they walk to their homes, Archie turns to Gus and repeats twice: “What is he going to do without us?” Never mind the childishness of assuming one grown man can’t do without the other two, the real meaning of this desperate remark is even more dramatic. It feels like Archie really means to say: “What are we going to do without each other? What are we going to do without us?” Just like they demand of the woman in the drawn-out singing contest early in the film, they are in search of ‘warmth, heart and soul’ and there is nothing else they can do to satiate their deep need to return to the basics but cling to each other.
The husbands in Husbands, just like most of us, are perpetually dissatisfied with and doubtful about life. By finale, we are not any wiser either, but we have faced our own delusion of freedom and immortality. Cassavetes’s portrayal of fragility of being a man in western society has captured the raw and painful side of a delusion we all share.
— This article was originally published in Brattle Theatre Film Notes on August 11, 2016