My Year in Film Studies (part 6)

If you missed part 5, you can find it here.

Stanley Kubrick Meets Alfred Hitchcock As We Stay Immersed in the Auteur Theory

And so now came the decision of whether or not the study of the auteur theory could be put to rest solely on the evidence of the ouevre of Kubrick. Much as I love SK, it felt like I would be short changing the students if his feature film work was the only evidence we had to go on. So the next decision had to be: Who's Next? And Why?

For a number of reasons, of which I will state the three most salient, I settled upon Alfred Hitchcock. One, there is a wealth of scholarship to draw on, including a lot of horse's mouth stuff as Hitch never seemed to tire of talking about his work. Two, he's very accessible, and after the challenges presented by some of Kubrick's work, I figured that might be welcome. And three, Psycho had been pretty well received, so his work had already been "broken in." Furthermore, there is something of a natural bridge between these two seemingly very different filmmakers. That is, both Hitch and Kubrick have been described as "cold" directors whose meticulous attention to detail is the stuff of renown. However, while their overlapping cool-ness relates almost entirely to the relative asexuality of each man's work, I will argue that there is much more that separates them than unites them.

While the two men's films share a common attention of detail borne out of type A need for complete control, that hardly distinguishes them from hundreds of other filmmakers. Furthermore, as I will show, there are ways that their approaches differ in this regard as well. For example, Hitchcock considered his work pretty much done by the time he set foot on a film set. He had worked the film out so thoroughly, from script to set and production design, from
storyboarding to casting, that the process of turning the film in his head into actual celluloid was almost tedious--an afterthought, if you will. Kubrick, on the other hand, while equally dedicated to the preparation process, being a notorious researcher who would spend years, if not decades, digging into subject matter that fascinated him, was not so rigid when it came to the making of film. Kubrick believed that the real art of film was in the editing process. Scriptwriting was borrowed from other arts (theatre, fiction writing), acting predated cinema by thousands of years, and even cinematography was a direct descendant of photography, whereas editing was the one are unique to film, and the one realm where filmmakers could exercise their artistic vision in unique and memorable ways. In order to give himself as many options as possible in this phase of the creative process, Kubrick would film scenes many different times, sometimes using multiple camera angles, and other times varying the instructions he gave to the actors.

Likewise, these two director's bloodlessness hints at types and levels of WASP-y repression that would be familiar to students of the work of many directors from this era. And even in this, they are not entirely alike. Hitchcock's coolness reflects his own behaviouralist approach to film, whereas the chill that falls upon Kubrick has much more to do with the sort of intellectual detachment that distinguishes his work. Put bluntly, for Hitchcock film is a Skinnerian box, wherein the audience is to be entertained through sensory manipulation. Rather than challenging us intellectually, Hitch is satisfied with pushing our metaphorical emotional buttons. Kubrick, on the other hand, is a product of an Enlightenment era-style rational curiousity about the universe and man's place in it. To state it perhaps a bit over simplistically, Kubrick ascribed "human" emotions to and applied "human" motivations a computer, whereas Hitchcock treated people like mice. Whereas Kubrick was interested in the social, political and ethical implications of a government employing the the Lodovico treatment in A Clockwork Orange, Hitchcock was simply interested in how the damned thing would work.









Stanley Kubrick aimed for relevance and insight in his films; sometimes his reach exceeded his grasp (Lolita, Eyes Wide Shut), but he would have never been content with merely entertaining his audience. Alfred Hitchcock, on the other hand, rarely strayed outside of his self-made Skinner's box, giving the audience exactly what they wanted on most occassions. This became a prison of sorts, as we will see, for when he did attempt to say something more personal, to challenge his audience's preconceptions, as he did in Vertigo, the films were not box office successes.













Vertigo (1958, USA, Alfred Hitchcock) and Rear Window (1954, USA, Hitchcock)

So, with all that as a weird kind of caveat, the Hitchcock movie I chose to study next as we wandered further down auteur lane was the nearly surreal psychological thriller Vertigo, which was followed immediately on the heels by the taut murder mystery/thriller Rear Window. Vertigo is probably Hitch's most personal and in many ways most psychologically disturbing film, but as we will see, there appear to be early hints of Vertigo's obsessions in Rear Window. Stylistically Vertigo and Rear Window are both very similar to most of Hitch's Hollywood-era films (which makes them a good choice for auteur study), while also continuing many of the themes that those familiar with Hitch's films will immediately recognize.









There is something startling and distinctive about Vertigo (in particular.) It is a film that makes many of Hitch's fans, who are legion, very uncomfortable. The protagonist, police detective John "Scotty" Ferguson, played by Hitch favourite Jimmy Stewart, is not terrible heroic (he fails to catch the bad guy in the opening scene, and his slip up costs the life of a colleague), and in the end not even terribly competent (he is easily duped by a former college buddy into becoming an unwitting accessory to murder, a crime made possible by his deep psychological and physiological defects.) Furthermore, by film's end, he's not even particularly likeable, as his obsession with the entirely fictional and self-made Madeleine (Kim Novak) leads him to slip into near-psychotic behaviour.









No, this man Scotty is certainly not your standard Hitchcockian hero, in either thought or action. So, what is he doing at the centre of this Hitchcock film? The answer must lie somewhere in the notion that this is a deeply personal film for Hitchcock, and that Scotty's neuroses and obsessions are intended to stand in for those of the master of suspense himself. Scotty becomes smitten with the sort of woman who can be seen in so many Hitchcock films. In keeping with the focus of this essay upon Vertigo and Rear Window, look at the similarities between the female leads in both films. The icy blonde. Cool. Distant. Detached. Aloof. Unattainable. Troubled. Sexy without being necessarily sexual. Further, add to this how both films provide evidence of Hitchcock's familiar obsessions with voyeurism (Rear Window, Psycho) and the male gaze (see: Laura Mulvey) as well as the attendant (Catholic) guilt and drive to violence and/or control that attends the resultant arousal. Also jumping to the fore, in the form of the character(s) of Madeleine/Judy are the topics of mistaken identity and the doppelganger effect, previously seen in The Wrong Man. They are also lurking around the edges of Rear Window in the film's casual examination of the dual nature of men and women (can Grace Kelly's Lisa, a bon vivant New York sophisticate, be at home in the rough and tumble world of photographer L.B. "Jeff" Jeffries, again played by Hitch favourite Jimmy Stewart?)










Both films also consider the impossibility of the male-female relationship, though Rear Window is considerably lighter in that regard, ending as it does on an ambiguously optimistic note. People, and women in particular, are not who they seem to be, and all that mask wearing makes permanent happiness between the sexes extremely unlikely. Further, the leads in both films are seen as emasculated in this brave new world. Jeff (broken leg) and Scotty (vertigo) are damaged goods, reliant upon and yet intimidated and confused by women. Here Hitch seems to be tapping into a familiar theme of the day, one which runs throughout most of the best noir of the period, gender confusion surrounding the role of men and women in this post-war era, which helped to create one of noir's most distinctive attributes, the femme fatale. The similarities between the treatment of women in these two films ends there, however, as Rear Window's Lisa finds a way to bridge the gap between genders as the film aims towards happy ending where the status quo in the form of the lead's coupling is affirmed, whereas Vertigo's tragic, open-ended finale refuses to allow the possibility of rapprochement of the sexes, and points to the male lead's desolation, not to mention permanent isolation and alientation. And it precisely in this that Vertigo distinguishes itself (in much the same way as Psycho would two years later) in Hitchcock's canon. In Hitch's estimation, there is no real hope for a happy solution to the gender question in a world where men are losing their masculinity to women.


What worked:

First off, I seem to have argued against myself here a bit, in that it appears that Hitchcock does have something to say about the world, however cynical and despairing it may be. But it is precisely because Vertigo is unique in the Hitchcock canon that I made the original argument. The film is an anomaly in a career primarily dedicated to entertaining the audience, rather than challenging them. There is little doubt that Hitchcock is a master technician, and we spent significant time over the course of the viewing of these two films examining the man's virtuosity with camera. His effortless manipulation of both montage and the extended take alone is worth significant study. And his films have an undeniable familiarity, and similarity of style and substance, that provides a ready entry into the study of the auteur theory. So, reasons aplenty to view the study of Hitchcock's films as a success.

What didn't:

And yet, I am unsatisfied with this choice. As much as I enjoy his films in a theme park ride kind of way, I feel Hitch's work lacks depth and significance. The students liked these films well enough, scoring a little below 4/5, they also sensed a lack of seriousness in the man, and given we had just watched two films by Kubrick this is not terribly surprising. The films rated in the lower quarter of the twenty films we watched over the course of the school year.

What I would do differently:
I will have to look closely at this unit next year to determine who might take the large man's place, for while I want to challenge students, I don't want to baffle them either (so, alas, Tarkovsky is unlikely to rear his head at this point.) Perhaps some crowd pleasing Kurosawa (some of his samurai films?) will do the trick. I'm happy to take suggestions.

Overall Grade: B minus

Next up in Part 7: Kurosawa's Rashomon and Truffault's 400 Blows

In the Loop (2009, UK, Armando Ianucci)

Shot in guerilla documentary style, with shaky handheld cameras and weird mid-scene jump cuts (that suggest editing that hints of coverup. Is the editor Richard Nixon's secretary?), In the Loop is one of the best written, most vicious, enthusiastically performed films of the year. It is also the best political satire since Bulworth or Wag the Dog, and is more pointed, more relentless and funnier than both of them.

Based on a BBC 4 TV series, The Thick of It, In the Loop details an international crisis that sees Britain and America attempting to manipulate the UN through spurious accusations and made up intelligence into supporting a declaration of war on some unnamed Mideastern country. Ridiculous you say? Couldn't happen?

Of course it couldn't.

On its surface In the Loop is about the sort of Machiavellian behind the scene political machinations that you might imagine in a particularly cut throat British version of West Wing. There are key differences, however. Here you do not witness the Sorkin-ian obsequeousness, that deference to power that suggests that our leaders are supermen (and women) functioning at entirely different level from we mere mortals. Instead, we witness all manner of incompetence, self-serving careerism and corruption at every level of government. Further, we are disturbed by the observation that seemingly everyone in the corridors of power seems afflicted with a particularly slippery set of ethics, which makes any battle for truth and justice an afterthought. Instead, we have people set in a pitched battle, using a war that will kill thousands of people in order to launch, make, or protect their careers. At points this conflict is represented, quiet literally, as a blood sport (someone's teeth quite literally bleed, for God's sake!)








Leading the way in a cast full of great performances is political Iago Peter Capaldi, who plays the Prime Minister's aide Malcolm Turner, and whose tart-tongued assault upon any who dare venture in his path is a terrifying marvel to behold. And in one of the film's best stare downs, James Gandolfini, playing a dove-ish Pentagon general, matches Capaldi slur for inglorious slur. If words are weapons, these men are bearing rocket launchers.

In the Loop is most entertaining when focusing upon the absurdity of the language of politics, where to say something is suicide, and finding new ways to say nothing the key to long term success. The political machinations, back stabbing, and deceipt that mark the action of the story consistently take a back seat to the words, which are almost invariably used to obfuscate and manipulate reality rather than reflect it. "I don't care if you heard him say it, he didn't say it." Somewhere, George Orwell is spinning in his grave and applauding at the same time.

The Brothers Bloom (2009, USA, Rian Johnson)

The Brothers Bloom is sassy, savvy, sexy, funny and surprisingly affecting. Adriotly written, expertly directed, amusing self-reflective, and filled with a capable and intelligent cast, this is one of the best Hollywood releases of the year.

Writer/director Rian Johnson tips his hand early on in The Brothers Bloom, when elder brother Stephen, played with pinache by the rakish Mark Ruffalo, describes the perfect con as being one where everyone, including the mark himself, gets exactly what he wants. As we shall see, as cinematic metaphors go, this one proves pretty astute. The film's protagonists are two lifelong fraternal scam artists, the aforementioned Stephen, the tandem's criminal and narrative mastermind, and his younger sibling Bloom, the eternal love interest, played expertly by the puppy-eyed Adrien Brody. The third wheel of this conspiratorial crew is the mostly mute Bang Bang (Rinko Kikuchi) an explosives expert who also happens to be master of the sarcastically cutting glare.







Things really get rolling in the film when we are introduced to the trio's latest mark, a reclusive, gifted, eccentric and beautiful heiress named Penelope Stamp (Rachel Weisz). Luring the talented and intelligent but socially awkward Stamp into their ruse proves challenging, but to risk a grizzly mixed metaphor, once she's on board, Penelope chomps down hard on the bit between her lips. Which is not to say Weisz is in any way equine, not at all. If fact, Weisz is stunning throughout, and appears to be having the time of her life in this film, her childlike enthusiasm for the life of smuggling that the brothers have in store for her evident in every squeal and joyful leap. And as Weisz is in many ways the audience's proxy for this narrative, it is fitting that her unrelenting excitement mirrors our own. This film is one helluva joyride.





Brody, on the other hand, is a melancholy soul looking for meaning in his all too well-scripted life. His innately doleful expressions are well-matched to the part, which aims to tap into everyman's existential crisis. Bloom has no sense of self because of a life spent acting out parts created in his brother's elaborate narratives, and yearns for the sort of meaning and purpose that can only be found in an unscripted life. Yet, when he is not working on a con, he becomes inert, passively passing time in a hammock on an island off the coast of Montenegro. He only becomes active in his life--quite literally, an actor in his life--when he is inside his brother's narratives. It is through action that the actor has purpose. And it is one of The Brother's Bloom's most impressive achievements that as it darts from one exotic locale to the next, the intricately woven plot never threatens to obliterate the nuances of this fascinating three-way character study.

While I enjoyed Johnson's debut exercise in neo-noir, Brick, he raises his game significantly in The Brothers Bloom. While Brick was fun in a film school assignment sort of way ("Imagine yourself using all the conventions of a film noir, but setting it in a seedy contemporary high school, with all the teenagers copping the requisite 40s era lingo") Johnson's has honed his skills as writer and director considerably in the four years between films. As Brick showed, Johnson is a well-versed student of film, and here he gives a holler out to some of the wittily plotted con man games of yesteryear, like The Sting or, more recently, The Grifters, as well showing off hstylistically and thematically referencing the efforts of contemporary filmmakers such as Wes Anderson. After all, the film is populated by a collection of oddball orphans whose connection allows them to form a wacky alternative to the family unit they missed out on. Further, Johnson's use of montage as humourous character exposition is taken straight out of the Anderson handbook, while his attention to detail in his meticulous set and shot designs recall a similar affinity in the work of Anderson. And while admitting that the comps to Anderson have merit, the filmmaker I am also reminded of here is Christopher Nolan. Like Johnson, he made his breakthrough with his sophomore effort, Memento, but more pertinently, in The Prestige he delved into the world of magic and scam artists in order to make some sly comments about these world's similarities to those of his chosen craft. The Brothers Bloom mines a similar vein, but in its own sassy way, and in Johnson's own distinctive and engaging way. The film is worthy of mention in the company of all these fine films.







In the end, despite a pacing problem in the film's protracted third act, The Brother's Bloom pulls it all together for an affecting and emotionally resonant finale. If it is Johnson's wish that he be seen as having pulled off the perfect con where everyone, from cast to crew, studio executives to critics, filmmaker to audience, gets exactly what they want out of this film, I am happy to report that he has pulled it off. The Brothers Bloom proves one terrific piece of cinematic legerdemain.

All That Jazz (1979, USA, Bob Fosse)

Bob Fosse's not-so-thinly veiled autobiographical film is a viciously honest portrayal of the central character, Joe Gideon, a brilliant but deeply troubled and self-absorbed director/choreographer who has ongoing problems with drugs, alcohol, and fidelity. All That Jazz is a Fellini-esque (circa 8 1/2) speed freak of a movie, flying by at breakneck pace, then screeching to a halt so the protagonist can indulge in some serious ruminations on death or make some ironic observations, a la The Producers, about the necrophiliacal nature of the business that is show. The film takes regular detours into the surreal, as Jessica Lange's appearance as the stunningly beautiful personification of death hints at Gideon's self-destructive impulses. As his name suggests, Gideon has a bit of a God complex, and he views his work as a struggle to create something as beautiful as one of God's creations. It is difficult to tell if Fosse is apologizing for his boorish behavior or explaining it. Perhaps the film's most revealing line of dialogue is delivered by Gideon as he faces death "If I die, I'm sorry for all the bad things I did to you. And if I live, I'm sorry for all the bad things I'm gonna do to you." The film is a dazzling piece of eye (and ear) candy, full of brilliant dance sequences (the AirRotica sequence stands out), great music, and bizarre flights into the fantasy world in Gideon's head. The fanciful near-death experiences at the climax are an adrenaline-soaked showstopper, and Roy Scheider does the best work of his career. The film was nominated for nine Academy Awards and won four of them.

12 Angry Men (1957, USA, Sidney Lumet)

12 Angry Men centres on a jury's attempts to come to a verdict in a first degree murder trial, back in the day when guilty verdicts brought a mandatory death sentence. Which is to say, the stakes in this situation are high. In what appears to be a slam dunk case, an unnamed or only briefly glimpsed 18-year-old boy is accused in the stabbing death of his father case. The evidence against the boy gradually emerges as the jury is forced by one belligerent member (juror number 8, played with stoic rectitude by Henry Fonda) to study the facts of the case. The kid has a terrible alibi, the knife he says he lost is at the murder scene, one witness claim to have heard the father and son fighting, another eye witness saw the boy flee the site while another is certain she saw the boy plunge the knife into his father's chest. Eleven of the jurors immediately vote guilty; only Juror No. 8 casts a not guilty vote, moreso he can continue to talk about the case than because he believes the boy is actually innocent. Over the course of the discussion, the film shifts from being an examination of the merits of the case to an exploration of the personalities of the men sequestered in the jury room. As the oppressive heat begins to wear people down, conflicts erupt and the film's true purpose begins to emerge.

Twelve Angry Men is a tightly wound top of a movie. Each scene ratchets up the tension another notch as Henry Fonda's character tries desperately to open the minds of his fellow jurors. The setting -- a claustrophobic jury room in the dog days of summer -- superbly augments the suspense. Operating within the constraints of a small budget, first-time director Sidney Lumet tightens the noose by accentuating the throbbing pulse of the ceiling fan and slowly narrowing his shots on his characters as the film approaches its climax. Based on Reginald Rose's well-known play, which had been adapted to the television screen three years earlier, Twelve Angry Men boasts a series of excellent performances by young actors who would soon become household names, including Jack Klugman, Jack Warden, and Martin Balsam. However, it is the film's established stars -- Lee J. Cobb, E. G. Marshall and most importantly Fonda -- who play the leads, delivering the goods like seasoned pros. The film has instructional value as a study of the inherent strengths and weaknesses of the jury system, but its real value is how it allows each member of the cultural mosaic of a jury to develop into distinct, damaged, and interesting characters. In a well-crafted metaphor for the broader outline of society, the jury members must confront their prejudices in order to see that justice prevails. Nominated for three Oscars, Twelve Angry Men ran into the juggernaut of Bridge on the River Kwai and came up empty handed.