writing. photography. film criticism
Christopher Nolan’s Dunkirk begins an existential nightmare and ends as nihilistic commentary on time and fate. But really, what war film doesn’t? And what could Nolan’s Dunkirk stand to teach us that Patton didn’t? That Saving Private Ryan didn’t? Or The Longest Day? The Thin Red Line? Atonement?
Full disclosure: I’m a bit of a chess nerd. That might come as a shock considering how terrible of a chess player I am, but I can confidently say that the magnitude of my theoretical knowledge of the sport in comparison to my deficit of skill is quite large. (Although much of that is owed to a very, very wide deficit).
Black Mass is not the typical glorified gangster film of mob bosses living lives of splendor and decadence while wielding exceptional power. Rather, it is a cold and distant examination of violence and manipulative cruelty.
The world in P.D. James’ novel The Children of Men differs vastly from the onscreen realm that we see in the 2006 film adaptation. The basic premise remains the same: widespread infertility has halted the birth of human babies for nearly twenty-five years and Oxford professor Theo Faron, along with the rest of humanity, calmly and apathetically awaits the end of the world. With some minor changes in characterization, the screenplay and subsequent film build from the same starting point but enact one striking change. In the film, futuristic England is transformed from the wistful and nostalgic hills of peaceful Oxford to the chaotic and explosive streets of a xenophobic London.
But how can we talk about Birdman? It, like Raymond Carver’s elusive love, cannot be talked about but only around. It can only be seen in contrast to what is not seen, its presence detected by way of what it moves, and creates, like wind in the trees or antibodies in the blood. In contrast to the sticker taped on Riggan Thomson’s dressing room mirror (“A thing is a thing, not what is said about that thing”), sometimes a thing can only be understood by what is said about the thing. That’s why we say things about things in the first place!
In the closing moments of Bennett Miller’s 2005 film Capote, director Bennett Miller tells us that “More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones.” Foxcatcher tells a similar tale. It is cold in the same way that Miller’s Capote is cold, a pensive progression of events that will soon go awry in the pursuit of answering prayers. Miller abstains from the temptation of indulging in pity or judgement, but instead opts for a detached examination of the eddies created by circumstances of misfortune.
Like the title suggests, Whiplash is a jarring and explosive event, striking with a force and power that stuns and reverberates for moments to come. Director Damien Chazelle doesn’t direct a film so much as he conducts an orchestra, leading with a barrage of percussion and brass then, deftly, employs gentle finely-tuned writing to create a lasting spectacle whose final notes echo reverberantly among stunned viewers.
Dan Gilroy’s Nightcrawler wants to be noir in the same way that Lou Bloom wants to be a cinematic auteur, clinging with tight desperation to an idea that can never fully come to fruition. Instead it lurks in shadows and creates a quiet, pensive beauty grown from a horror that should deeply disturb us but instead only brings immense satisfaction. This is the paradox that Lou Bloom, thief-turned-handyman-turned-freelance videographer, finds himself caught in, to his slight annoyance and our sheer disgust.
In the beginning, God created Adam. Then, because Adam was lonely, God made Eve. When Eve fell, she led Adam to fall with her and God expelled them both from the garden of Eden. In the 17th Century, English poet John Milton provided his own take on the story of Adam and Eve in his epic poem Paradise Lost. Milton’s version contains moments of sympathy for God, for Eve, and even for Satan, but most poignantly for Adam.
Milton, in his own problematic, misogynist view of Original Sin, presents the idea that Adam chooses a life of companionship over a life of bliss. In other words, the idea of a lonely existence in paradise is worse than whatever could await outside the garden walls, and his decision has haunted us ever since.
[Spoilers Within]
In David Fincher’s Gone Girl, the media is a character in and of itself. It acts with considerable agency, guiding our thoughts and perceptions, casting autonomous judgement with an unquestioned air of authority. From an early point, the film wisely encourages us to ask “Whose story is this?” and as the tale unwinds we’re presented with a variety of answers, none of which feel complete without the others.
© 2024 Mariel Calloway
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