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?
“I thought it was dystopian!”
“I thought it was modern?”
“I thought it was the past…”
The Millennials are confused, and understandably so. The Barbican Centre’s production of William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, directed by Lyndsey Turner and filmed before a live audience, presents a unique and refreshing perspective on the 400-year-old play. It is not the medieval Danish world of Shakespeare’s setting, and nor does it sit well within any of the centuries that have occurred since then. The buildings are Victorian, the uniforms modern, the clothing contemporary, but the weapons historic. Hamlet has traded in his doublet for a David Bowie shirt, but keeps a dagger by his side and listens to Nat King Cole albums on an old record player. And just wait until you see Horatio.
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.
[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.
Because they’re able to get away with it, British television seasons are usually much shorter than American ones, often resembling a typical cable air schedule. Seasons may contain anywhere from 6 to 12 episodes, with start dates unpredictable. Sherlock tortures its fans with three 90-minute episodes and an undetermined hiatus between seasons. So far we’re averaging at about 2 years.
Sherlock, as the title implies, is another Sherlock Holmes adaptation, this time set in modern-day London. Although it predates the American version Elementary by quite a few months, it remains somewhat obscure to American audiences, lost in the shuffle between Guy Ritchie’s recent cinematic adaptations starring Robert Downey Jr. and Jude Law. Which brings up a good point. In recent years we’ve seen no less than three mainstream adaptations of the familiar tale. Why is it that nearly 100 years after what would have been his death, modern entertainment seems determined to resurrect him?
When I was little, I used to watch the same movies over and over again. At one point during my eleventh consecutive viewing of The Lion King, I asked myself why. What was the point of watching a story when I already knew the ending? At first I thought that it might be because I hoped that I could influence the outcome — somehow guide the characters away from pitfalls and lead them to triumph. Perhaps on some level that is why I’ve become a writer, but it’s not the answer to the question. Instead, the real answer likely has more to do with the way that our minds engage with stories and what we expect from them in the moment. The best stories are rarely about the what, but the how, and it is precisely the how of how Argo crafted a historical event into a binding suspense thriller that won it the Oscar for Best Picture.
So yes, like most everyone else last week I did see the amazing premiere of The Dark Knight Rises and no, this will not be a post on that movie just yet. Expect one eventually, but not now. I prefer to hold off posting on new films until I can have a physical copy in my possession, and I loved that movie too much to settle for a grainy camrip for stills and analyses.
So instead I decided to take a look at another film I was reminded of while watching Christian Bale go about his metropolitan adventures in Armani suits — Mary Harron’s 2000 film, American Psycho.
© 2024 Mariel Calloway
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